Why they call me Rube, #2

Fall, 1988
Atlanta, GA

Trolling the Fall rush parties at Georgia Tech for free beer and women of easy virtue, I find myself in a conversation with a sweet-talking little Southern Belle.  The lights are low, the mood is right, and from the stereo come the melancholy strains of Johnny Horton's "Springtime in Alaska".

Turning to my blonde-haired, blue-eyed flower, I say, "40 below, huh?  You think he means Fahrenheit or Celsius?"  She rolls her eyes and, slowly but with purpose, walks to the muscular rugby player doing a headstand on the keg and strikes up a lively conversation.

Apparently she doesn't get the joke.