The Definition Of Wrong

I was in Coldstone Creamery today with a co-worker who, for the sake of his marriage, will remain nameless (cough-Marvin-cough). I had just consumed close to my body-weight in under-cooked meat and was searching for something to push me over the edge into an irreversible diabetic coma. You know, I think maybe that should be Coldstone’s new slogan:

Coldstone: home of irreversible diabetic comas.

It’s got a nice ring to it doesn’t it? Besides, from what I gather in recent health surveys, diabetes is really “in” this year.

I was standing in line, patiently waiting a cup of ice-cream that would have made eight pounds of sugar seem bland and just to my right there were three girls sitting at a table eating ice-cream. They were probably no older than 15. And considering how busted my radar is, if I thought they were 15, chances are they were closer to 4.

Honestly, if you took all three of their ages added it up, multiplied by three and added 50, they probably STILL would have been rediculously underage.

They were dressed in a way that made me want to hunt down their parents and knife them like the end fight from “The Hunted.” Obscenely tight shirts, stockings, skirts that barely covered their cootches…the whole deal. The real marvel of their outfits is that none of them had the word “cum dumpster” scrawled across the ass.

They were chatting the way school girls do about, I imagine, what's the coolest study hall activity: jacks, jump rope or statutory rape. Intermittently they'd emitting deafening bursts of giggles.

After one outburst that reached frequencies only meant for bats and dolphins, I turned to look at them. Just as I did so, the one on the far side of their table, leaned over to pick up her spoon, giving me a cleavage shot that almost completely justifies pedophilia. It was there and, to say the least, impressive. I’m human…so I looked.

It took perhaps two-tenths of a second for me to realize “16 will get you 20” and recover my self-control. With an almost superhuman display of willpower, I forced my gaze north, inwardly hearing every woman who'd said, “Excuse me, I’m up here.” That’s what women LIKE to think, isn’t?

Ms. Statutory was looking right at me.

There are few more socially awkward moments in a man’s life then when he’s busted looking at cleavage. Women know we look. But the agreement is this: men do it; women pretend not to notice and are secretly flattered. It’s an arrangement that’s served everybody well so far. The problem is that once in a while, someone fucks up. Either a woman will blatantly let us know she caught you or a man, like a fool gazing at the sun, will forget to avert his eyes and suffer the consequences.

It was one of those cases that was unfair. Just so COMPLETELY unfair. I’d been doing my best to ignore these girls since I walked in, and within the first two seconds of an involuntary glance in their direction, I’d been busted eying them up like I was auditioning the next Jonbenet Ramsey. Meanwhile, my co-worker, had been sizing them up with a gaze that could only be described as predatory. He spent more time studying them than the menu.

“Did you see those girls?" he asked as soon as our feet hit the pavement outside. "My GOD they were hot.”

“Yeah, and illegal.”

“Illegal and HOT. Come on, do you really think it would be wrong?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the definition of wrong” I replied.

“Oh yeah?" he retorted. "Whose definition?”

“Megan’s Law.”