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Over one’s time spent in college, particularly here at Ole Miss, one grows accustomed to seeing college students. Particularly, young and attractive college students. Several times during my tenure here, friends from other colleges or parts of the south will visit and ask me, “Good lord, how are there so many hot girls at this school?”

When surrounded by such an environment, it can be easy to overlook the great excess in which we live. And while I could wax poetic for 700 more words on how privileged I am to live in a town filled hot young sorority sisters with alcohol addictions, I’d actually like to comment on the other side of the coin.

The Mid-South Fair in Southhaven, Mississippi. Never will you find a more wretched hive of loathsome and horribly unattractive people. While local writer Neil White may have written in his new book of his time at a Louisiana lepper colony, who knew the parking lot of the DeSoto Civic center could give it a run for it’s money?

Upon entering the gates I’m greeted by a sea of universally sad and defeated faces. While I don’t consider myself anywhere close to the slender and suspiciously homoerotic models of Abercrombie and Fitch, here in DeSoto I’m at least an A-. Particularly considering my teeth are correctly aligned, I can breath through my nose, and I’m not wearing a shirt depict a wolf howling at the moon I got from the Chevron.

In a way it’s even a sort of ego boost.

Now in defense of the Mid-South Fair, to most people it would seem like a fairly average place. But I am from Oxford, and thus fall victim to a condition known as EHIS, or Excessive Hotness Isolation Syndrome. Ask any student who’s taken a trip back to their hometown or anywhere near Starkville and you’ll hear the exact same thing.

So I salute you, girl running down Jackson avenue at 6:30 in the morning as I drive to work eating a McGriddle, for keeping this town beautiful.

-BLAKEBUCK

Sunset. Mike's black SUV tears down the backroads of DC along the Potomac river.

"I'm not telling you who I'm fuckin' Tony. It's someone at the office. You'd squeal under the lights." Mike said as he angrily swerved into an oncoming lane to get around a car waiting to go straight in the right-hand lane. "Learn your fuckin' lanes asshole!"

We arrived at the club. A small irish pub with a parking lot full of extremely expensive cars.

"Shit! Look at that Tesla! Parked right by the door so I've got to stare at it as I walk in" Mike said as Tony leaned into the convertable for closer look. "Get out of there Tony! You don't touch a man's car. It's a rule of life"

The bar was dimly lit, and packed with unremarkably dressed dad-types in their late 40s. As we entered the bar, the quiet murmur of conversation was broken with several 'Hey Mike!'s and shoulder-slap greetings.

"Two Guinesses for my intern friends Paul!" Mike shouted as he became wrapped in conversation with a small group of guys. Tony and I grabbed our drinks and spotted a table in the back of the bar.

It's a strange thing to observe society's financial and political elite mingle with one another. Conversations filled with nothing - talks about your favorite boat-accessible restaurant and how the new landscaping is shaping up. Somehow this group of society's best managed to end up less remarkable than my idiot friends at the bar.

After a few moments Mike strolled over with a group of guys, one of which he introduced as "Johnny".

"Johnny, these are my interns. We treat them like shit and pay them nothing - it's awesome. Guys this is Johnny - he's a cool dude. He was one of the arresting officers in the Watergate scandal", Mike said.

After a few moments of talking, Mike was right, Johnny was a cool dude - a bit older and slower, but with a fire in his eyes.

"You know, they say the Japs bombed us in Pearl Harbor. Was I there? No, but I believe it because that's what I'm told. When we arrested those burglars in 1972, I found a key in one of their back pockets that belonged to a well-connected call girl we found at the scene. But nobody every wanted to hear about the key or the girl, especially those two reporter assholes. Woodward and Bernstein - they would have sold their mothers to make a story. 30 years later, everyone accepts their stories as fact", Jonny said.

My limited knowledge of Watergate left me somewhat confused - I'd never heard anything about a key or a call girl. But Johnny was on a roll.

"Because that's who makes history. The papers and the assholes that run them. Now that I think about it, I really don't know if the Japs did bomb Pearl Harbor. I wasn't there - it's just what I'm told."

I wasn't quite sold on Johnny's story, but his message spoke the truth. My only connections to the entire global political scene were quite possibly sitting around this very bar, reminiscing about the time they passed out drunk and Mike charged them twenty bucks to drive them home.

4AM. Tony and I stagger into the small 24 hour bodega across the street from his apartment. The cashier stares at me blankly through bullet-proof glass as Tony walks over to the freezer.

"Jesus Christ I need a diet coke!"

A small newspaper stand sits next to the cashier's booth.

"So what do you think. Did the Japs really bomb Pearl Harbor?", I ask as Tony begins to check out.

"I just walked for 4 hours across all of DC. I really don't give a shit"

"Yeah. Me neither"

-BLAKEBUCK

The streets of DC were completely empty. Not another soul in sight for miles.

"I mean, does it not seem just a little weird I'm less than a thousand feet from Obama and nobody's inspected this bag? I don't know much about nuclear warheads, but fuck man, it's 2009. I'm sure you could fit one in here", I said as I inspected the size and volume of my messenger bag. "Then boom! No more executive branch"

Tony didn't seem to notice or care for my critique of Whitehouse security. Perhaps it was because we were approaching a security station, or because I was drunk. Maybe it was just getting late. Jesus! Two-oh-nine?

"Well shit! Where are those communists protestors now?", I shouted.

"They weren't communists - they were chinese citizens trying to stop the violence of Xinjiang", Tony muttered in a tired voice. I was in pretty decent shape this summer, being unemployed is amazing for your workout schedule. I couldn't say the same for Tony - he'd been steadily slowing for the past 8 blocks or so.

"Communist insurgents, Xinjiang protestors, what's the difference?" I thought back to a few hours before, when Mike introduced us to Johnny at a place he affectionately referred to as "the club".

"The club? It's where DC's millionaires go to show off their new Mercedes' and get fucked up", Mike shouted from the other room. Mike's house was fairly large, yet every area still resembled a dorm room.

I was still sorting through his massive collections of hats collected from dozens of news stations. Though Mike was Tony's boss and news director at XXX Washington for over 10 ears, he'd worked at almost every other national news organization in the DC area.

"Check this out" Mike said as he walked into the room holding a picture. "Me and Tom Arnold back when I used to work at XXX. And her on the right is this Fox News producer chick I used to fuck" Mike paused. "We don't fuck no more though"

Mike isn't what you'd call a classically handsome guy; out of shape and over 50 - and looks to have lived all those years pretty hard. Yet it came as no surprise to me that he was involved with this attractive young Fox producer. It's like he was from another world - where everyone is a rockstar from birth.

"Alright, enough lookin' at my trophies. I'm gonna smoke a bowl then we're going to the club. Oh wait! I forgot to show you guys my motorcycle!", Mike said as he hurried off to the garage.

"So what do you think of Mike?", Tony asked as we continued the 25 block voyage back to his apartment.

"I think that that's going to be me in 30 years. And I'm not sure if I like it or not", I said.

(Continued in part two...)

-BLAKEBUCK

“I just wanted to say, ever since I was born, Daddy has been the best father you could ever imagine. And I just wanted to say, I love him so much”

As touching of a sentiment as this may have been, little Paris' speech had lost it's luster the 13th goddamn time I'd seen Michael Jackson's funeral recapped. The four o'clock news, the five o'clock news, the six o'clock news. Then national recaps via NBC Nightly News and Access Hollywood.

Daddy has been the best father you could ever imagine? Really? Don't you think your perspective is a bit limited, seeing as how he's the only father you've ever had? Surely someone else is more qualified, say a troubled youth who's bounced from foster home to foster home? You know, like the kid from Terminator 2. And he ended up saving the world. From the machines.

"So turns out you've got acute food poisoning. Possibly from the pepperonis on the pizza. We're gonna prescribe you some antibiotics and send you on your way"

The doctor is a young indian guy with a stylish haircut and a no-nonsense attitude. If it weren't for the searing stomach pain, I'd say I was on the set of the latest hospital drama. Soon he'd be telling me about the hard call he had to make between the burn victim and the suffocating child.

"Up next, Michael's estranged wife was absent from the funeral, find out more in an uncovered lost interview"

Once something is past the prime of it's life, it's easy to throw rocks. Pick apart it's flaws. Become poisoned by unhealthy thoughts.

"If you have anymore nausea or vomiting take one pill every four hours"

But once something is truly gone, all that seems to go away. You only remember the good times. The moments that made you smile.

Then again, iGame Radio just redesigned their website. Yup. Mac gaming still sucks cock. Perhaps more now than ever. But hey,

Omaha is lookin' hot.

-BLAKEBUCK

There she is. In all her glory. After talking about getting a full-blown mullet for years I've finally done the impossible.

Behold! MULLET PERFECTION!

-BLAKEBUCK

“I’m a Toys-r-us kid” I can still hear the jingle in my head to this day. As I sit in this lavish apartment in Baltimore, I can only think to myself, is it time to grow up? Will playing videogames, shotgunning beers, and meeting girls in bars soon become a thing of the past? Am I too old to be a Toys-r-us kid?

“I’m telling you Blake Buck, you’ve got to start investing now. You’re young, and you have plenty of time not only to save, but diversify your portfolio with riskier stocks. Sure, there isn’t a guarantee for success, but the profit margins on high risk stocks can really put you in a better...”, William continued to drone on. I stared blankly out the window of Nikki’s black SUV traveling along Interstate 95. I tried to feign interest, but I knew it was no use. My mind trapped in a tailspin of dangerous thought.

My best friend William is now a grown-up. No longer a Toys-r-us kid.

A steady job that he loves, a great apartment downtown, a fantastic long-term girlfriend, and even a plan for his early retirement. Life - wrapped up with a nice little bow on top. In a way, it’s the American Dream. William is an extremely talented, hard-working, and amazing person and deserves every last drop of it.

Why is it then, that I feel like I’ve lost my friend? Or at least, been left behind?

Could this be disguised jealousy? A secret anger that he has, in a way, the things I’ve strived for and still don’t have? Has he himself become more distant because of his work and new life? Does the horse and buggy always have to turn into Knight Rider?

Is it wrong to look at this picture of the American Dream and ask, is that it? Now what happens? Where’s the excitement?

As I grew more concerned with this “grown-up” lifestyle, perhaps fearing I’d never make it there myself, I asked William’s roommate and co-worker Dave what he thought about living the American Dream as we walked out of Sears - Dave having just bought a garment bag. His answer surprised me in one sense, and in another, I already knew what he was going to say.

“Well, I live half the American Dream. Going to work and making money doing what you love is great and all. But figuring out what to do with yourself once you get off work is the real question”

Perhaps Dave is right. Or maybe it’s just the growing pains of moving to a new city and starting a new life. Or is this disconnect I feel now a sign that I was never meant to grow up?

I suppose only time will tell.

-BLAKEBUCK

"These virgin checks suck ass" I moped as three of us ran past Abner's on the square. It wasn't looking good: we'd found two hash marks but couldn't locate the third. I was still in high spirits though - the alcohol seemed to give my legs a fluidity about them that made the running sleeker.

"Ah crap!", my virgin companion suddenly exclaimed as he pointed behind us. Back at the check, the rest of the group was heading off in the opposite direction - meaning we'd run 3 blocks the wrong way.

"Well it could be worse - god only knows what happened to that guy we sent down the -" Tires squealed. The car, which seemed to have appeared out of thin air, groaned to swerve into the left lane. My hasher friend just stood there, in the middle of the street, still barely aware of what was happening. Yet in less than a second, we were back.

"Woooo! Awesome man! Let's hurry and catch back up!", he shouted as we ran across the street. Somewhere, perhaps in deep space, I could feel my reasoning self screaming protests at the top of his lungs. 'Go home! Your drunk! That dude almost died!' - all nonsense quickly dismissed by a lust for the next beer stop.

"Good afternoon Doctor Worth!"

My english professor from two semesters ago simply nodded at me. He was on a walk with his wife, and she wasn't exactly what I expected. A shorter woman with long dark hair and an orange shaw that screamed 'I never grew out of the love generation'. Then again, I'm sure we weren't quite what she was expecting of his students either - a pack of twenty hyenas under a full moon running towards the cliff.

"Shit! Double blowjob!", someone towards the front of the group screamed. This meant we'd have to run two check's back to find the true trail. In frustration, people began shouting, "Double blowjob!" at the top of their lungs as we ran through the quiet high-class southern neighborhood. A father, mother, and two kids working in their yard simply stared back at this horrific spectacle unraveling in front of their home.

"Tuesday is three fingers day! Monday is a wanking day!", the crowd belted from the back of some university building. Was it the Ford Center? Was it the Alumni building? The school of journalism? I couldn't really tell, but this loading dock provided all the shelter we needed from University Police as we pounded Kool-Aid vodka shots from the trunk of our Mercedes beer wagon.

For 18 years this traditional meeting of athleticism and alcoholism had inspired generations of students. 18 years of using a log as a beer holster while you tie your shoes. 18 years of excited guys shoving their hand down a girl's jeans. 18 years of being able to feel your bones, but not your skin.

"Saturday is a hashing day!" The crowd continued to sing as I glanced around the group. Hair was matted against sweaty foreheads. Deodorant had evaporated hours ago. Makeup was virtually gone. This was humanity with no reservations - no tricks. People in their purest form.

"Saturday is a hashing day!" And perhaps that's all there is.

"Drink it down, down, down, down!", the cries echoed into the darkening twilight sky. I hadn't realized how late it was until just now, the group's curious eyes and inviting grins had been replaced by dark, angry shadows. I was surrounded by creatures less than human - raw animalistic instinct gone mad within God's most sophisticated form.

The virgin next to me was already halfway through the "holy vessel" - a glistening silver bedpan filled to the brim will every poison known to man. I wasn't sure if I would make it - my body and mind clocked out a long time ago. I was in a dim tunnel that kept sharply curving - never letting me see the end.

"Why are we waiting? Could be masturbating! Oh why, are we waiting so God! Damn! Long!" The head Hare, or 'religious advisor' as they're sometimes called, shoved the foul bedpan into my face. My nose recoiled at the smell of Natural Light, Keystone, High Life, tequila, Wild Turkey, and something similar to Tabasco mixed together to form the eighth deadly sin.

But you'd be surprised what physical exhaustion, excessive drinking, and extreme peer pressure can force one to do. I tilted my head back and drank this evil elixir like some sort of unholy baptism of fire.

I had become a hasher.

Saturday, 2:40 pm. Being in the middle of the runner pack is a larger responsibility than it seems. Get too far ahead, and the folks behind you could easily lose the trail - get too far behind and you lose the trail yourself. I was beginning to regret my decision to do this so called, "Hash Run" - all it'd gotten me was 3 miles of running and a red solo cup of beer. I thought it was a drinking club with a running problem, not vice versa.

Hell, at this point, I was pretty close to my house. I could pull this plug on this ludicrous adventure right now if I wanted; turn back to cultured society and do my taxes early. But that's when I saw two large letters scrawled on the concrete beneath my wary feet: BN. Beer Near.

Following the waving pirate flag, I made my way into Jubilee, where several six-packs of High Life were waiting for us at the bar. Something about a strong thirst and tired legs makes beer taste like the mana of the gods. I had just begun to enjoy myself when I learned it was time for the 'virgin sacrifice'.

"Does she have the rug-burned knees? Yes she has the rug-burned knees!", the crowd of mostly college-aged guys shouted as they spun in circles holding their beers high above their heads. "Does she have the swinging tits? Yes she has the swinging tits! Does she have the blowjob lips? Yes she has the blowjob lips!" The howling and dancing continued as the virgin sacrifice, a new female member stood atop a chair being jeered by the crowd.

Her expression was a mixture of laughter and self-conscious meekness. But there was something beautiful in that, something strong. Maybe it was just the two bottles High Life quickly absorbing into my blood stream. But as illogical, insensitive, and cruel it seemed...

Once you start hashing, it all starts to make sense. Sort of.

No time to figure it out, the head of the pack was already out the door on the way to the next 'check'. And I'm feeling it now.

Continued in Part Two...

-BLAKEBUCK

People, I have been a lot of places and seen a lot of things.  And, being of that age, I have seen many-a-girl that like to enjoy their drinks in a responsible fashion.  Of course, to these girls, enjoying this aspect of life responsibly means downing six glasses of the finest boxed wine and calling Travis on the phone and saying, "Why the fuck did you hang up on me earlier!?" in a loud tone of about 120 dB (that's drunk bitches, not decibels).

That makes a nice segue, because before I go any further, I need to define something that I will continuously refer back to in many coming articles on BIG HOT SHO:  DB.  What is a DB?  In short, a DB is that girl at the bar/party/game that has had a few too many nips of Southern Comfort and has now thrown her arms up in the air and shouted Woooooooooo!!!  In the Oxford, Mississippi scene, this is sometimes followed by a rousing Gosh-a-mighty.  But being a DB doesn't mean you just drink a whole lot and shout really loud.  Being a DB is more about lifestyle.  Let's list some common attributes:  out every night, poor grades, permanently hoarse voice, permanent cigarette smell, and probably walking on a newly repaired broken heel.

Today, however, I would like to focus on one specific aspect of the DB lifestyle rather than discuss their wide behavior.  What I want to talk about is the Casual Homosexual Encounter Story (or CHES) and how unfair it is to men.

Rather than explain endlessly, allow me illustrate my topic by giving you a snippet of conversation I heard at a party a few nights ago:

These girls are pros, and when they're hungry for dick, they know that all they have to do is regale some derivative of that story and the men will hound them all evening, hoping to get the private version of the tale.  Did your nips fill the entire nose orifice?  Could you fit them in both nostrils at once?  I need to know exactly what song was playing when you started the grinding process.  These are all details that the guy needs to know so that he can make a mental deposit in the SpankBank for later.

Now, let's turn the tables on that story to demonstrate my point.  Imagine now that Blake and I tell the same story with the same hopes of filling the girls attention with images of us:

BLAKEBUCK : I want a new site.
William Miller: Ok.  What is the most awesome thing you can think of?
BLAKEBUCK: Trucks.  And America.
William Miller: Done.

Welcome to BIG HOT SHO!  We finally got off our asses and made a new site.  Fear not, good listeners of the Best Damn Podcast Ever!  BDPE will still exist in its original form, but will now be complimented by the many other media endeavors of its hosts.

Not only is BIG HOT SHO a clever repackaging of our old content aimed at placating you while we get busy not putting out shows, but it's a brand new tool for exploiting our most precious asset: You!  That's right.  BHS is one of those new-fangled socially centric media platform.. things.  Make a blog!  Post pictures! Bitch on the forum!  Eat this shit up.  We're couting on it.

Now, one word of caution before we start crowd-sourcing the shit out of you guys.  The site is still under construction.  Do a full reload or clear your cache every once and a while to get the latest visual updates.  Also, for the tech-savvy out there, we are using the Drupal content management platform.  If you have any experience with it, please let us know.

Enjoy!