CHAPTER EIGHT – The Survey Says…
Knute looked at the thick pile of papers Gunther had slapped down in front of him. They were filled with computer generated charts, graphs and columns of statistics.
“Well, there it is, Knute. “The results of our survey to find out what attracts girls. And one type stood far above the rest.”
Gunther took a sip of his orange soda. The boys were sitting at the kitchen table in Gunther’s house on Sunday evening.
Knute leaned back in his chair, took a swig of his Coke and said, “Lemme guess: Class President.”
“Guys in rock bands.”
“Guys with hot cars?”
Knute smirked. “Psh. Right.”
“Look!” said Gunther, flipping pages. “Statistical data based on our empirical studies clearly show that the guys who get the most attention are crude creeps. In every category, the highest scores went to the lowest level of grooming, attire and general attitude. Girls are drawn to barbarians!”
Knute glanced at the incomprehensible charts. “I dunno, man.
Seems like somethin’s missing here.”
“Nothing’s missing, Knute. It’s all there: 72 field studies taken over 5 days, verified with mathematical calculations, compiled into a database and formatted into pie charts and bar graphs.”
“No, I mean… it just seems off somehow. Like there’s more to it than stuff you can show on a chart.”
“Knute, the scientific method is based on observable, measurable –”
“There’s more to life than science, Gunther.”
Gunther looked at Knute, thinking he must be joking. “Do you have a conclusion that more accurately fits the evidence?”
“I dunno… what about all the jocks? They’re not bar-bellians, but they have babes.”
“Barbarians. Knute, don’t you remember the football players we observed at the mall?”
Knute did remember. Several of them were congregated in the food court, horsing around, blowing straw wrappers, stomping on mayonnaise packets, throwing ice cubes at passing girls who ducked and shrieked — and ended up sitting with them.
It seemed Gunther was right.
“So now what?”
Gunther stood up and headed down the hall. “We go get slobby.”
Knute got to his feet and followed Gunther. “We? Hey, I’m happy how I am, thanks.”
Gunther flipped on the light in his bedroom. “Well, I’m not. Besides, this is science and I need to verify the survey results. So I’ll be getting slobby.”
Knute looked around Gunther’s room. It was like a hospital, perfectly tidy and spotlessly clean. “How ya gonna get slobby in here?”
Gunther opened dresser drawers and carefully removed piles of neatly folded clothes. “I’m not the neatnik you think I am, Knute,” he said. “Hey, you know what? This is kind of like the Nutty Professor in reverse.”
Knute sat on the crisply made bed. “Except Klump was a nerd who became a stud. You’re a nerd becoming a slob. But the nutty part is right.”
Gunther turned around. He beamed and held up a t- shirt. “Tada!”
Knute looked at the shirt. It was yellow and had a cartoon of the Tasmanian Devil on it. “Ta- da what?”
“Is this not slobby? What’s slobbier than the Tasmanian Devil?”
Gunther poked his pinky through a tiny hole in the sleeve. “And look– a hole!”
Knute grinned. “Yeah, Gunth, that’s some bad tee. You’ll wow the girls wearin’ that!”
Gunther folded the shirt and carefully set it on top of his dresser. “And how about this!” Gunther bent over and dug in the back of his closet. Triumphantly, he held up a pair of scuffed old dress shoes. “These don’t even have laces!”
Knute jumped to his feet, his eyes wide. “Gunther!! You’re not gonna wear those bad boys AND the shirt at the same time are you? The girls will go insane with lust!”
Gunther lowered the shoes and glared at Knute.
Knute laughed. “Gunth, you noogie! You know as much about slobby as I know about vercaberlary.”
“You’re never gonna get there, man. I mean, look at your room!” He waved his hand at the sanitary space. “I’m like, dry cleaned just standin’ here.”
Gunther clenched his teeth. “Well, maybe if you’d help instead of making flippant remarks.”
Knute slapped his cheek and assumed a serious expression. “Right. Gotta be serious about bein’ slobby.” He pointed a finger in the air. “After all, this is science! No flippy remarks!”
Gunther took hold of Knute’s arm and led him to the door. “Okay, you can go home now. If all you can be is stupid, then I don’t need your help.”
“What, you can be stupid without me?”
Knute walked away down the hall. “Hey, listen, if you’ve got a Homer Simpson shirt, I think he has a higher slob rating than the Jazz Mania Devil.”
“Tasmanian!” Gunther slammed the door and went back to his closet.
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