Gentlemen prefer blondes. At least, that’s what they say. Now, I am certainly no gentleman, but, I always adhered to this statement anyway. At least, I did until August 6, 2006. Throughout my long and not particularly illustrious dating career, most the gals I went with (went with? good hell? who am I, Jimmy Freaking Stewart?) were cut from a certain cloth. A thin, blonde cloth. I eyeballed blondes like Brian Gutekunst eyeballs offensive linemen from Power 5 conferences (ie–lustily). Then, on a scorching hot Sunday evening in the August of aught six, I came across a scorching hot brunette in a tight black shirt and gold stripper shoes standing in the gutter outside of a log cabin.
Four Draft Sleepers The Packers Should Consider
