Folks, gather ‘round, ‘cause I got a tale from way back that’ll make you laugh harder than a than a Vanderbilt fan thinking they’ve got a shot at beating my Wildcats.
Took a trip down to Tampa, Florida one off-season, figuring I’d cut loose for a bit and try my hand at salsa dancing. Found this redhead, Sally, with a smile brighter than the lights at Memorial Coliseum. She was game to twirl with old Rupp, so we hit the dance floor, moving like my Wildcats running the fast break—smooth, confident, unstoppable.
Well, I got to sipping on Old Forester, that fine Kentucky bourbon, and let’s just say I had one too many shots. My feet were still moving, but my big hairy ***? It had a mind of its own. I spun around, trying to show Sally some fancy footwork, and—WHAM—bumped her square with that humongous rear end of mine. Poor gal went down like a team facing my ’48 champs, out cold on the floor. The whole place froze, staring at me like I’d just fouled out in a championship game.
I scooped Sally up, rushed her to the ER, my face redder than a Louisville jersey. Sat by her side, feeling lower than a snake’s belly, and when she came to, I handed her a rose to ease the sting. She was a sport about it, but Lord, was I embarrassed.
Swore off chasing dames for a whole month after that—the longest month of my life, let me tell you. Felt like a season without a single win. Never did go back to salsa dancing, but I’ll be darned if I don’t tip my hat to Sally for taking that hit from the legendary Rupp rump. Keep the bourbon light and the dance floor clear, folks!
Took a trip down to Tampa, Florida one off-season, figuring I’d cut loose for a bit and try my hand at salsa dancing. Found this redhead, Sally, with a smile brighter than the lights at Memorial Coliseum. She was game to twirl with old Rupp, so we hit the dance floor, moving like my Wildcats running the fast break—smooth, confident, unstoppable.
Well, I got to sipping on Old Forester, that fine Kentucky bourbon, and let’s just say I had one too many shots. My feet were still moving, but my big hairy ***? It had a mind of its own. I spun around, trying to show Sally some fancy footwork, and—WHAM—bumped her square with that humongous rear end of mine. Poor gal went down like a team facing my ’48 champs, out cold on the floor. The whole place froze, staring at me like I’d just fouled out in a championship game.
I scooped Sally up, rushed her to the ER, my face redder than a Louisville jersey. Sat by her side, feeling lower than a snake’s belly, and when she came to, I handed her a rose to ease the sting. She was a sport about it, but Lord, was I embarrassed.
Swore off chasing dames for a whole month after that—the longest month of my life, let me tell you. Felt like a season without a single win. Never did go back to salsa dancing, but I’ll be darned if I don’t tip my hat to Sally for taking that hit from the legendary Rupp rump. Keep the bourbon light and the dance floor clear, folks!
