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The balloting was fierce in the hamlet’s annual April Fools’ Day contest for this prized title.  To commemorate this honor, Justin received a $100 gift certificate redeemable at The Still—the tiny tavern in the basement of the Story Inn.  You can read about it—and LYAO!!!—at this link:

The Story voters had five pages of Justin’s follies to consider before voting.  Justin’s folly presented in the following excerpt from Chapter Seven of Rallies, Fests, & Hot Tubs:  Having Fun Can Be HELL on Relationships II wasn’t even included in Justin’s “Village Idiot” campaigning . . .

Justin’s then-wife was not thrilled when he woke up the next morning and walked . . . to the motel room bathroom.  “What’s that on your ass?”

“Uhh, a hickey, I’m hoping?  Hell, don’t ask me.  I wasn’t even there when it happened—whatever it is . . . or was.  What is it?  Do we have any coffee?”

“It looks like somebody wrote something on your ass, in red.  To me, it looks like an e-mail address?  Is it?  Was that your idea?  Are you going to use it?”

“Hell, I don’t know.  If it is, I can’t even read it from here.  Was she cute?”

“You tell me.  I wasn’t there, didn’t you notice?”

The bathroom didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

The likelihood and synchronicity of someone at Fantasy Fest carrying a Sharpie and also being just close enough—among fifteen thousand revelers on a Tuesday night—at the precise moment and exact spot on Duval Street at which a third person—nude and body-painted—wants to write her e-mail address on a butt cheek is so implausible . . . and yet it happened.  We don’t know what any of this means . . .

Or thought we didn’t, until Reverend Sharpie Night at Justina’s third Boogie.

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