Entering the unassuming britches of Hannah Peterberg ’10, one finely put together lass from the sandy shores of eastern North Carolina, I was greeted with the warm aromas of welcoming femininity, coupled with a dash of pine tree bark and a sprinkle of autumnal breeze. It was like strolling through the Appalachians on a brisk October morn, with old Mother Nature thanking you for waking her up, but still slapping back at you as if you were some ambulatory snooze button. Yet just as the ground of those mountain paths has been trodden before me — and will be trodden for years after — one look at Hannah’s flimsily flopping labias, softly swaying like the fall foliage outside my dorm window, and I realized that I wasn’t the first customer through the doors of this greasy poon, and I sure as shoot wasn’t going to be the last.

Now of all the greasy poons that I have had the distinct pleasure of stumbling upon, this humble eatery outpooned the lot of them. The outer façade was prominent without being pretentious, pleasing without being placid. As the subtle aromas of vagination beckoned me to summit the peaks of Mons Pubis, I was welcomed with a startling display of hedge-clipping not seen since “Edward Scissorhands.” Shining above Hannah’s clitoris, like a star beaming atop a Christmas tree, was what appeared to be a lightning bolt in the form of pubic accoutrement. On closer examination, Hannah’s vagina was neither exceedingly fast nor a hockey team from Tampa Bay, but rather she suffers from serious muscle spasms and has never been too deft with a lady Bic. Nevertheless, the effort was apparent.

While the exterior decorating of Hannah’s ham wallet was something to write home about, the interior of her tiny front butt made me say “tiny front WHAT?!?” as in “What?!? This is one spectacular place to put my penis and also other stuff!” For one, Hannah definitely picked out her meat curtains from the “Beyond” section of Bed, Bath, & Beyond, meaning they’re beyond this world! And one mere glance at the outer lips of her lovely lady lumps, and I knew that I’d have enough oil in me to light that labia menora for eight crazy nights. (In this instance, “eight crazy nights” means approximately fourteen seconds).

Now, I’m no gynocologist, and I slept through most of “The Miracle of Life” in health class, and the next morning I found out that what I thought was Hannah’s vagina was actually her belly button. But if you’re in the mood for light-hearted, down-home, slow-roasted home cooking, and also vagina, stop by Hannah’s shame dent. There’s nothing to be ashamed about it.

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The Lowdown:

Located at 1108 Hewitt.
7 minutes past Usdan.
Phone for erections: (860) 685-6969
Open Thursday-Saturday 1:12 a.m. – 2:34 a.m.

Essential menu items:

Reverse cowgirl
The O’Hare layover
Froggy style
The space time cunt-tinuum