Masullo’s Review of the “Root & Woot”
Christmas Party
(A Gay Old Time Was Had By All)
December 8, 2001
The Root & Woot Running Club Christmas Party was
everything it was cracked up to be, and more. As advertised, there were plenty
of “ribald stories” accompanied by “licentious behavior and mild
debauchery.” The London Broil was pretty good too. These are the reasons I
connived myself an invitation to be amongst this select group of rabble-rousers
and party animals.
At first, the host of the party, Anthony Patsky, was
of the opinion that I was not bawdy enough to deserve an invite. So I bribed
Steve Ritter and he was able to finagle a seat for me. The price: one beer plus
one pair of used gloves.
I think Ritter told the guys I would make a good
whipping boy. I suspect that is the reason they let me in. All night long I was
taunted and harassed as the newest member of the club. They told me I would now
have to undergo some kind of ritualistic “hazing.” You should have seen
Barry Hopkins’ eyes light up as he described the tortuous endeavor I would now
be compelled to embark upon. Among other humiliations and indignities, I would
have to streak (i.e., run without clothes) from bar to bar and consume massive
quantities of pure alcohol. They told me the motto of the club is “Let’s
hurry up and get this run over, so we can start drinking.” I thought to
myself, “What kind of club is this? These crazy people are serious!” Then,
an elder-statesman, Mike Roccio, interceded on my behalf. Like F. Lee Bailey, he
pointed out that this club has no rules.
“If there are no rules you cannot be forced to undergo Mr. Hopkins’
hazing.”
Incidentally, I now understand why Messrs. Roccio,
Henck, and Burke are such happily married men. I had the privilege of meeting
their better halves.
Now for the debauchery. It is hard to describe. I
don’t think I’ve ever been in the company of such a loud and raucous group
in my life. At the same time, these were the friendliest people you could meet.
Each and every one of them made me feel welcome, despite the fact that I refused
to dance. I used to dance a little (with my hands) but now I’m too old.
Besides, there was some guy there with more moves than Astair, Travolta, and
Michael Jackson combined. That didn’t seem to impress the rest of the group.
Half of the time this guy was dancing with himself.
He was a great dancer though. The others weren’t.
It reminded me of my days as a youth when I inadvertently wandered into a bar on
Note that I grew up in
Ritter and I did share a bottle of wine. We had deep
metaphysical conversations. We exchanged secrets and some of our innermost
thoughts. Then we discovered we are both in love with the same girl.
Poor me. I don’t stand a chance against that guy.
Lately, my luck with women has been as good as my luck picking internet stocks.
Has anyone else noticed that the market for these stocks collapsed right after
our running club’s e-group was taken over by an industry leader? That’s when
I bought. Yahoo for me! Anyway, farewell sweet lady, my angel queen of running!
There will be no duel. I concede. Besides, Ritter is much bigger than I am and,
as I said before, I’m too old to dance.
Despite my heartache, and all the insults, I had a
splendid time. Thank all of you Root and Wooters. My only regret is that I did
not get to see Teresa’s ring.
