I remember holding The List and thinking this is what Moses must have felt when God bestowed him with the Ten Commandments.

This is episode I of Assistant A&E Editor Tyler Gaskill’s allegorical exploration of the culture of American love life.

When my semester-long crush, Betty, open-palm slapped me in the middle of our JMC 101 lecture with the sweaty sausages she calls fingers, I was taken aback, to say the least. Love failed me, my heart failed me, but most of all, The List failed me.

What is The List? I asked that very same question 10 years ago when my pappy flung the crumpled chunk of paper into my then 13-year-old, retainer-clad and bespeckled face. I put down my “Magic” cards and opened the wadded paper. Pappy’s response was cool and simple, “Tyler, unless you wanna end up with a no good minx of a whore like your mother, you better wise up and cram that information up your mind.”

After his proclamation, I recall him taking a deep quenching swig from his bottle of rubbing alcohol, eyes rolling back in his head, and collapsing face-first into the dog dish.

Drunken scrawlings on the crinkled notebook page read: “Fine Fixin’s for a Fine ‘slave’ Wife. These are the five prerequisites listed in their divinely-created hierarchical order: Looks, Lack of Annoying Traits, Shared Interests, and lastly, Personality.”

A post-script at the bottom read, “You got two choices, kid. Use the list, or croak next to some ugly chick.” It was signed by my pappy, his pappy, and his pappy’s pappy. I hit it with my Jack Hancock and sensed the tracks of destiny shifting.

I remember holding The List and thinking this is what Moses must have felt when God bestowed him with the Ten Commandments. I wouldn’t let my father’s generosity spoil me. I vowed that day to always adhere to The List. For only within its narrow, disciplined confines can true love ever be discovered.

Fearing The List’s powers, I kept it in a lead safe, and avoided using its clout throughout adolescence.

Enter 8 a.m. Monday JMC 101 lectures. Freshmen zombies tried to pass themselves off as students — they would reanimate at a later hour. In this setting I fell for Betty Brigham.

She oozed soft, rosy flesh — literally. Often, students wouldn’t sit next to her due to her weight problem — and stench of waffles. She weighed a mind-boggling 94 pounds. Once, she ordered two entire ice cubes in the Sandburg cafeteria. Most people gawked in dismay. My brain attempted to crunch the inconceivable amount of calories she just stuffed down her gullet. I stopped, fearing a seizure may ensue from managing such colossal figures.

We waited for her to get up and sprint into the ladies room to refund the feast. She didn’t. Somehow, she managed to keep the entire banquet in her belly. The display caused most to dry heave. I thought it was charming, and giggled.

A day came where I could no longer hold back the floodgates of desire for this cherub. Sitting next to me in lecture was my dorm-mate, Ron. His harem of women made him the envy of North Tower. Girls buzzed around him like bees at their hive. I wanted to seek his approval for my diversion from his guide to “wooing chicks.”

Before I got a chance to ask Ron my pertinent question, he leaned over and said, “Dude, Dana used too much teeth last night.” He began readjusting himself.

“Ron,” I sheepishly spoke, “I’m gonna ask that Betty girl what she’s doing tonight.”

Un-popping his collar, ruffling his frosty tips and tearing his aviators from his face, he whispered harshly, “You crazy? Tyler, if you get seen with Big Betty you’ll be the campus virgin. Let me ask you this. Do you have …” he suspiciously peeked over his shoulder, “The List?”

The lights flickered from merely uttering its name.

Once I arrived in college, I felt the time was right to remove the list from its lead prison and keep it in my back pocket at all times.

So I pulled it out. Ron and I exchanged glances — words need not be spoken. I awkwardly gathered up my coat and books, and climbed down a row of seats to be next to Betty’s fleshy warmth.

I needed a good icebreaker. The last thing you want to do is just start talking to someone. Do that, and you’ll find yourself categorized under the “creep” file in the female mind.

Figuring I’d kill two birds with one stone, I used The List for my introduction.

“Looks,” I started, and gave her the up down. “Hmm, not so much. Your face isn’t quite skull-like enough. And your arms don’t have that brittle twig quality to them yet. I like my women, and my kindling to share physiques.”

Lack of annoying traits?

Her mortified look didn’t go unnoticed, so I pulled out the big guns. I started mouth breathing and salivating as I said, “I like the way you’re put together.”

It was at that point that the class was interrupted by the echoing crack of Betty’s hand across my face. Betty’s massive 94 pound-frame collected her things and lumbered toward the door.

I screamed out, “You can’t hide from The List! Accept its omniscient judgment! It’s all we have!”

Everyone in lecture stared back at me — including a fine-looking blonde. I checked off prerequisite No. 1.

Will Tyler get the blonde in the back of his Geo-Metro? Are Hefty Bags the new fad in fashion? Find out in next week’s sensual episode of Trouser Snake Diaries.

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