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October 12, 2002 golden girl It was 27 years ago when I got the bright idea to make a "cold call" and ask a Golden Girl out on a date.  I'm not talking about Bea Arthur or Betty White.  I'm referring to the scantily clad girls who dance at halftime of LSU football games. The girl's name was Honeycutt.  Debbie Honeycutt.  Her hair was golden and her skin was like honey.  She was a golden girl among Golden Girls.  We had never met, but I had spied her on campus and at games.  I knew a guy who knew her and that was my opening gambit.  I called her, introduced myself, and tried to engage her in small talk.  I was successful.  The talk from her end was quite small.  It was more a soliloquy than an actual conversation.  Anyway, I finally popped the question. "Would you like to go out Saturday night?" "With who?"  She was a Golden Girl, not a girl from The Golden Age; a majorette, not an English major. "With me, of course." There was a long pause.  "Just a minute," she said.  I could hear her put down the phone and walk across her room and back.  Then I heard the unmistakable sound of yearbook pages turning. "Uh... no."  Death was less certain than her reply. I hung up.

©  2002 by the beastmaster