By John "Mr. Gullible" Chandler

I still can't believe I bought into this 4-dot hogwash. I guess it seemed reasonable at the time, or perhaps I just wasn't a very bright child.

The story was handed down from Cousin Bill. He was a worldly-wise 16, and I was a mere lunkhead of 12. I didn't have a chance. My little brother, also in attendance, was only 10, but the subject of getting girls to "go to bed with you" hadn't taken a vulture's perch on his little brain yet. Mine either, really, but when someone as learned and scholarly as Cousin Bill confided in you, it was a good idea to take notes.

Here's the story according to Bill: There is a brand of beer called Olympia. On each bottle of Olympia, there is a label. Somewhere on the label, for whatever reason, are little asterisks. They look like this *. Here's where things get a tad far-fetched.

Bill told my brother and I that if you were lucky enough to find an Oly label with four asterisks on it, you could then present this document to the girl of your choice and she would have to go to bed with you. Behold the awesome power of the "4-dot."

Yes, I know this doesn't make any sense. Why in the name of all creation would a living, breathing woman (if that's what you wanted) consent to have sexual relations with a drip-lipped, snot-nosed kid just because he happened to be in possession of a certain beer label? I don't know! I don't know! I don't know!

But it sounded legitimate coming from Cousin Bill. I was caught up in a delusion, an early example of idee fixe.

Bill opened up his wallet and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I got mine," he said proudly. Sure enough, he had an Olympia label with four asterisks on it.

We looked at it as if it were a $20 bill, a Playboy centerfold and a Reggie Jackson baseball card all rolled into one exquisite parchment. I asked Bill if one was enough. Could he re-use it over and over? Would one label guarantee the bearer a lifetime of sexual delights?

"Nope, it's just a one-time thing," he said. Bill went on to explain that he hadn't found a girl worthy of his 4-dot yet. Well, sure, that made sense. You don't want to waste something that valuable on the town strumpet. After all, these damn things are hard to come by, as I was soon to find out.

I probably should have talked to someone more reliable than Cousin Bill. After all, this was the same guy who claimed he once saw Barbara Eden naked ("She was over visiting my friend Nick's mom! I walked in on her in the shower!").

Even if Ms. Eden was, in fact, an acquaintance of his friend's mother, I still should have had my goddamn head examined.

What act of congress or sacred papal decree compelled women to go to bed with the bearer of the Oly label? I never thought to ask why. Instead I became a scavenger.

A little bum. A bottle boy. I picked through garbage cans; I went to the houses of friends and strangers alike, claiming I needed "beer bottles for a school project." It didn't bring me any closer to the elusive 4-dot. Instead, I got a taste of how "the other half lived," living off the refuse and detritus of those privileged enough to afford and consume premium brew.

My parents didn't drink beer. I tried plying them with pretzels and singing the praises of a certain Northwest brand, in hopes that it would awaken a thirst for hops and barley, but it was hopeless.

It gradually dawned on me that there were no shortcuts to seduction. If ever I was to induce a comely lass to knock boots with me, I would have to rely on my own charm, wit and charisma. Like I said, hopeless.

Damn you, Cousin Bill!