(Ed. Note: Mr. Holt has a well-documented drinking problem. He turned 21 three weeks ago, and now he just sits at his desk with a scotch bottle glued to his lips cursing Georgetown for beating GW in some obscure 1960s baseball game. He pounded out this column sometime Saturday night before passing out in The Crotch-Itch bathroom because he couldn’t remember where he lived. We here at The Crotch-Itch feel that no one can be cured until they recognize that they have a problem, so we chose to run his column as is. We warn you that this column may not be suitable for children.)
Enough about you people, let’s talk about me. Oh hell, did I just say that in the headline? Shit. Do you know how hard this crap is to write? I mean, you’ve got to be more creative than GW’s Joe Holup was vs. West Virginia in 1955. Or was it ’56? Where’s my Goddamn intern!
Look, all I’m saying is I sit here and type and type and type, and what do I get for it? A bunch of letters from the men’s crew team. Well, you know what? I used to row on the novice crew team. Yeah, that’s right. I coulda been a big star, instead of a bum, which is what I am – a bum.
Now, I’m just a sportswriter. A damn good one. A DAMN GOOD ONE! Oh, hell, who am I kidding? I’m a hack. I write sports at GW. Who gives a rat’s ass? Oh sure, I’ve got the fan club (see David Holt Fan Club report, p. 18 – Ed.), and they’re great girls. No really, I love `em. Looooooove `em. But where would they be if I wrote a shitty column? Would they love me without the naked photo? Hells no.
Ahhh, that’s better. Sweeeeeeet liquor. Damn, it’s hot in here. I’m getting out of this Colonial costume. What the hell?! Why am I wearing a Colonial costume?. There, now I’m really In the Buff. Yeah, you like that, ladies? I’m writing this column completely naked. Oh, yeah, I’m reakjhtsldkvfndlfghjrqfzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz