Marty Beckerman is an 18-year-old humor and opinion columnist living in tropical Anchorage, Alaska. His award-winning writing has appeared most frequently in The Anchorage Daily News, though occasionally manages to pop up in finer national publications.

It should be noted that Beckerman was forever banished from The Anchorage Daily News on July 25, 2000, after asking a cheerleader how it feels to be a urine stain on the toilet seat of America.

As it turns out, neither the cheerleader nor Beckerman's editor found that interview question particularly amusing.

Beckerman's first book, Death to All Cheerleaders: One Adolescent Journalist's Cheerful Diatribe Against Teenage Plasticity was published September 2000 on Infected Press.

"Is this the right house?" I ponder aloud, steering my oh-so-cool red 1984 Dodge minivan into the girl's driveway.

I've never been on a blind date before. I'm nervous, as one might expect, knowing tonight will be nothing more than a veritable test of my entire personality. Will the girl like me? Are we going to have adequate interpersonal chemistry? Or is this evening just going to be awkward for the both of us? Does she bite whilst giving head?

Questions for the inquiring mind. Sure enough, the girl soon walks out of her house's front door, heading toward my automobile. Jesus of Nazareth, those Firm Gazongas are plump! How can she even walk with those things? Wow! Good God! You'll be mine soon enough, little pretties. Just you wait. Just you fucking wait.

"Hi," Watermelon Tits says, after entering the Lovemobile.

"What's up?" I reply, cool as ever. "I'm Marty. Hey, you look hot."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Good. You look good."

Those rotund orbs of yours, that is.

"Oh," she says, "thanks."

"Have you heard much about this movie we're seeing?" I ask, backing out of the driveway and onto the street.

"Not really," she says.

The girl seems a little nervous as well. Perfectly understandable. Bitch best put out, if Bitch knows what's best for Bitch.

"This is a pretty cool ride you've got here," she quips.

"Isn't it?" I reply. "It's perfect for any aspiring soccer mom."

The girl laughs. Oh, the things I would do to her with an electric can-opener.

"This van is so crappy," I say. "I mean, my parents gave it to me for free, so I'm not complaining. But girls think it's creepy, and guys think it's lame, which it is."

"Why don't you buy your own car?" she inquires.

"Why don't you suck my cock?" I mutter.

"What?" she asks.

"I said it's six o'clock," I clarify. "We're going to miss the movie previews."

"Then hurry up."

I accelerate from fifty miles per hour to sixty-five. We soon arrive at the movie theater, proceeding to see a mediocre romance flick. Well, to be honest, she sees it. I, on the other hand, seize the synchronous opportunity to stare at those Monster Chi-Chis for ninety splendid minutes. Goodness gracious, I'm going to have fun licking those things until they start to erode.

"So how did you like the movie?" I ask, after the boring film has ended.

"I thought it was okay," the girl says.

"Do you want to go anywhere else now?"

"Not really."

"Come on, baby," I beseech. "The night is young."

"My parents want me home before curfew," she replies.

"I'm sure they'll already be asleep by then."

"I really need to get home."

Bah. Frigid whore.We return to the Lovemobile, and drive back to her neighborhood. Christ, those things are like flesh-covered basketballs.

"Which way do I turn?" I ask, approaching a four-way intersection.

"Right there," she says, pointing at a narrow road past the crossing.

"Hey," I spurt,"what would you say if I asked whether or not you wanted me to pull onto the side of the road so we could make out or whatever?"

Watermelon Tits laughs at the propitious proposition. Oh well, a guy can dream, can't he?

"You don't have to ask," she says, blushing.

Well shit, maybe some dreams do come true after all. I press my foot against the decelerator peddle, and proceed to pull over, a smile on my face wide with succulent expectation.

"You're going to love this," I say, leaning over to kiss her.

"Wait," she ruins the moment.

"Wait?" I ask. "We don't have time to fucking wait. My scrotum is about to burst!"

"This is my first kiss."

Oh crap.

"Maybe we shouldn't then," I say, backing away, my smile not quite so wide.

"I want to," she replies.

"It's your first kiss. You deserve better. Seriously."

"Oh, that's sweet," she says, her lips coming closer and closer.

Those Mondo Milk-Producers are mine. Mine, mine, mine, all mine. All mine! ALL FUCKING MINE!!

"That was different than I thought it would be," she says.

"You didn't like it?" I ask.

"I did like it," she confesses. "I just always thought it would feel different."

"Don't worry about it," I say, leaning in again, and - like any real man - wasting no time in slipping her the tongue. She seems a bit taken aback by this, and - unfortunately for my digestive system - doesn't quite understand her end of the bargain.

"You're supposed to move it around," I explain.

"What?" she asks.

"Your tongue," I elucidate. "You're supposed to move your tongue around. In circles."

"Oh," she says.

"You weren't moving it around," I continue. "That was disgusting."

"I didn't know."

"That's right, you didn't know, and maybe that's why you just let your tongue lay in my mouth like a wet shrimp or octopus tentacle or something. Christ."

"I didn't know," she repeats, seemingly on the verge of tears.

"It's okay," I console, suavely moving in once more.

The Meaty Jugamajiggies are right there, all but awaiting the gratifying grope of my sweaty Jewish palms. Now, how do I go about making The Move. Maybe I should say something romantic. Ah, that's it. I'm a genius!

"Can I touch your boobies?" I woo.

(Long, awkward silence.)

"Home," Watermelon Tits says.

"What?"

"Home," she repeats. "Home. Take me home."

No! No, no, no, Jesus Fucking Christ, NOOOOOOOO!!

"I was just joking," I lie.

"Home. Now."

"You know you don't really mean that."

"Didn't you hear me? Home."

And thus ends tonight's whorish exploit. The Meaty Jugamajiggies may as well have been off in deep space all along, for they shall never know the true glory of Marty Beckerman's lecherous squeeze. Oh well, her loss.

"Please?" I ask.

"No," she says.

"You shouldn't play with people's fucking emotions like that," I reply. "Shit, I cared about you, and all you did was use me. I have feelings too, you know. I'm not a piece of meat."