I Have a Rolling Backpack and I Still Pull More Bitches Than You

by Kylie Charney-Harrington

I know you’ve seen me around. The swagger in my walk, the tucked-in polo, the cuffed jeans. More importantly, I know you’ve seen The Pack. The High Sierra Freewheel, my baby, my angel, navy blue. She trails behind me like a trusty steed, the corner-mounted wheels gliding across the pavement, as I part crowds like Moses parting the rolling tides of nubile ladies. That’s right, I have a rolling backpack and I still pull more bitches than you.

I know you suckers have seen the soaking wet flood of females staring at me. They’re exhilarated by my confidence, by the blinding white of my Asics running shoes and the capacity of my front-load main compartment. A computer, two large textbooks, my paperback copy of The Art of Seduction, three notebooks and a pencil case ain’t no thing for dear old Sierra here. Can your pitiful Patagonia handle that, you goof? Didn’t think so

Chumps like you often ask me why I don’t just put my backpack on my back like a “regular” person. You wonder why I need a large zippered front compartment with deluxe organizer and key fob on top of an easy access zippered accessory compartment with headphone port and matching lunch bag. The answer? Unlike you normies, I can’t go throwing out my back left and right with a heavy JanSport or Herschel. My body is for one thing and one thing only: making sweet love.

Sierra may be the #1 woman in my life, but I have no problem with side chicks, if you know what I mean, you sap, you boob, you dolt. In fact, she’s the only thing that keeps me from bedding every female that gets in the way of my magnetic eye-beams. I’d be lying if I said that women weren’t entranced by the flush-mounted, single-tube telescoping handle and mesh padded grab piece. These 18 inches of reinforced supreme polyester are my ultimate wingwoman. Pitiful pieces of pond scum like you can’t even hope to compete, you horrible shambling mess.

And yeah, maybe my mom did buy my sweet Sierra for me, but last night while you fools were re-watching Golden Girls and seeing how many Cheetos you can stuff in your mouth at once, me and Sierra were crashing the ol’ custard truck with Brenda. That’s right, Brenda Sherrell, the hot one with the mole from Biology. The reflective accents for night safety sure do help when you’re walking a lady to her abode at 3 am. How does that feel, you oaf?