Not About Girls of the ACC

I planned to write this Sandbox about the Girls of the ACC issue of Playboy. But I couldn’t. As such, I present why.

Raised in the Catholic Church, I’ve long carried a healthy sense of guilt. To qualify my rearing, my parents were no papists. My mother constantly complained of the Church’s mistreatment of nuns and general misogyny (don’t even try arguing with that one). She hates the Vatican (“They have millions of dollars of art and what about all those starving children in the world?”). I opted out of my confirmation with all this in mind and sort of fell out of the Church.

But I still feel guilty, my hand ever blood-stained. With the arrival of the magazine, and my editorship at the Chronicle requiring me to be up to date on the latest in arts and culture, I felt inclined to make my first foray into dirty magazines. It was a minor investment, investigating a bit of Duke culture—lower case ‘c.’

I concocted a scheme to synchronize the purchase of the dirty rag with alcohol, thereby eliminating disgraceful glances from store clerks when I pulled out my ID. But when I went to Kroger last Friday, no dice. Throughout the week, I found myself in bookstores, able to buy the magazine. I eyed it. Curious. Who are these girls of the ACC? Was Playboy just nipples and leggy blondes?

But I couldn’t bring myself to even touch it. It was too shameful. Already behind on my reconciliations, I needn’t add this to my resume. What would the priest say? Like a Kennedy democrat, I was too conservative to buy it (not quite like a Kennedy in this regard, but you get the idea).

As such, I apologize to you, reader. I’ll pray a rosary on your behalf.