Gather 'round kiddies it's story time

This is a story about a party, hence the picture, although this party has absolutely nothing to do with dogs, balloons or streamers. Before I start the story let me say that if you perform a "girls drinking" in google images search with the filters turned off, you get some seriously messed up photos.

This is the story of why Mike Lorello is the patron saint of our site. You see I lived in an apartment in Morgantown for a few years and O.S. was one of my roommates during this time. The place was your typical college apartment in Morgantown. In case you have never been there, the town has three types of housing for students: Adequate, which is unaffordable and not in town. Houses looking like they are going to fall off the side of a hill and the millions of cookie cutter apartments with all the architectural originality of 1970s sporting complexes in St. Louis, Pittsburgh, and Cincinatti. We lived in the third type of housing in the area by the football stadium that resembles Mexico City a little more each passing year with the deteriorating roads and continual housing additions. I won't mention the place we lived, along with my dogs and the future Mrs., but it does have a French sounding name which I believe is translated to House with Cheese.

Now living there was like a box of chocolates, you were never sure what you were going to get but it would probably suck. There was never parking and if it snowed or iced at all the slanted parking areas became death rinks. The walls were paper thin so if you had "active" neighbors it was fun for a few days, then you prayed for a mono outbreak. While we lived there, the entire floor we lived on flooded and we had to evacuate for a almost a month. But on the positive side, there were copious amounts of hot women running around that place. And our neighbors across the street didn't wear anything but underwear (if that) during the day. Which reminds me. Some day if you're real good I'll tell you a little story about the "Sandy Crab." Anyway we had three extraordinarily hot neighbors living above us for a year. During that time I believe O.S. spent all of his waking hours planning ways to "accidentally" bump into them. Well it paid off and one night he got invited to a house party they were throwing. I had shit to do, so I did not join in this party. When I got home he wasn't in the house yet which I took as a good sign. Well the next day I saw him and asked how it went and he didn't respond. He just kept watching t.v. with a Jack Nicholson in The Shining glaze on his face. Finally, after much cajoling, he told me what happened.

He had spent the entire night working that party like an assassin waiting to find his mark and make the kill. During most of the night he was holding court for a group of about four girls. They had waiting with baited breath on every word he spoke. His only decision was which of these lovely ladies would he buying breakfast for or could he afford to spring for four. As he is in his charming best the door opens and in walks a guy he has never met. He doesn't pay any attention, but continues to talk to the ladies, only as he turns around they have sprinted to the door in a shrieking usually only heard in Beatles clips. This handsome stranger walked in to say hello and every girl in the place ran like a moth to the flame. Even after he left, all the girls only wanted to talk about him. O.S. continued to try to work his magic, but this stranger had broken the spell that he had cast earlier. O.S. spent the next 45 minutes trying to recover working every angle in the apartment only to retire alone and the girls he previously had charmed like the Pied Piper never even noticed his exit. "Who the hell was he?" I asked. "Dunno, some football player. Loredo or Ladello, something." "Was it Mike Lorello?" I asked. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

I explained that Mike was now a starting safety for the football team despite only being a sophomore. Unimpressed, O.S. told me he wasn't that big and probably not that good. Well for the next three years every tackle/play Lorello made, and there were a lot of them, O.S. had to hear from me, "That's your boy Lorello." O.S. grew to hate the name, but then as he saw play after play being made, he too grew to love Lorello, though I don't think in the same way as the ladies. At least I hope not. For Mike's sake. So to you Mike Lorello, for being on all accounts a great guy, but an accidental cock-block and for providing me with years of happiness and while watching O.S. begrudgingly admit your abilities you are the Patron Saint of The Bastard Sons of Pinfall Marks. My only wish was that you were 4 inches taller and could be dominating the NFL right now so I could call up O.S. every Sunday to ask him about "our boy."