A Million Inches Delicious

Working in the library today, I noticed a little icon on the Mac desktop advertising the presence of a flash drive named “Patriot.” I am a nosy person. I consider it a preferential evolutionary trait. I clicked on “Patriot.” Inside this tiny flash drive were five folders discretely labeled with the month, day, and year. I opened the folder labeled “OctFive2009,” and what magically appeared were about 30 images of fat-bottomed women—black and white alike—bent over and, well, putting that round thing in my face. I was sprung. Clicked on “NovFOUR2009.” Six images of a single derriere perched atop a pair of thigh-high boots like a giant jaundiced cloud. If imagination isn’t your thing, here she is. Clicked “NovFirst2009.” Still images and one video clip of a bountifully-buttocksed black woman and a well-endowed black man, doing the ugh, double-up, ugh, ugh. Till the break of dawn. Five folders of this stuff. And one folder, “scanfotos,” full of 32 pictures like these:

And it gets weirder. I logged into Gmail to check my account, and guess who forgot to sign out of his? KABIR DAYA. Is this the same fellow who forgot to take his plastic piece of posteriors and posterity along with him? I’ll never be sure, but I can tell you that THIS was the email at the front of his inbox:

Followed by this:

And then this:

Who is this person? Based on what I’ve seen, some grit-eating, allergy-suffering, butt-loving fraternity brother. And that’s what makes this all so tremendous. Without paying any dues, without tapping any kegs, without throwing a single theme party, I have become closer to this person than any frat boy. And perhaps that’s just what this Kabir Daya wants, to establish a connection with others by leaving his flash drive behind and his inbox wide open. We now share a bond, him and I, and I’d bet money that tonight, after a good hot shower to wash away all those allergens and tears, this mystery Kabir Daya will think of me, his new secret friend, and fall asleep in his fucking garbage-filled rat hole with a smile on his face.

Kabir Daya, if you somehow come across this post, your “Patriot” awaits you at the front desk of Memorial Library, and your inbox is now securely closed. No more friends for you today, little one.