Young Ryan Theriot

The name on Young Ryan Theriot’s fake ID reads, “Fraternity Paddle Made Man.”

“Are you the quarterback?” Angel Boudreux once asked Young Ryan Theriot. No, I play baseball, Young Ryan Theriot started to say. But he stopped himself. “Yes, I am the quarterback,” Young Ryan Theriot uttered instead. “I am the quarterback of your panties.” This simple statement of unassailable fact is now carved into courthouse edifices all over Louisiana.

Every time Young Ryan Theriot makes a band geek cry — usually by frog-punching him until he voluntarily climbs into the dumpster outside the cafeteria — his Eddie Bauer rugby grows a new stripe.

If Young Ryan Theriot isn’t under the bra by the fourth track of Better Than Ezra’s “Deluxe” LP, then Young Ryan Theriot knows he needs to try something different.

Young Ryan Theriot is not most alive when playing baseball. No, Young Ryan Theriot is most alive when he’s at the wheel of his Bronco II with a Bud Light freshly shoved into his Señor Frog’s coozie and doing donuts in some poindexter’s front yard.

Young Ryan Theriot derives momentary uplift from chucking his empties onto the stretch of highway that, in the service of avoiding double-secret probation, pledges have been volunteered to clean up for the remainder of history.

Young Ryan Theriot’s buddies know better than to mention that night on South Padre. If they do, he’ll frog the shit out of them.

At the outset of any party, Young Ryan Theriot picks out the exact patch of drywall that he will later punch when Melissa Arsenault’s Catholic boundaries prove stronger than his rituals of dirty suasion.

Every five weeks or so, Young Ryan Theriot goes to the Regis Salon at the mall. Once there, Young Ryan Theriot surveys the stylist’s rack, slackens himself into the chair and says, “Make me look like conformity veneered with trouble.” She does. She does because he is.

(HT: Our boy Kyle)