Reality Check. Underwear Check. Embarrassment: Check.

First and foremost, I would like to apologize for my last blog entry. I just read it, and it's really not that funny.

If you took the time to read it, check your mail this week, there should be a 50 dollar check made out to you for having to put up with that horseshit.

I've recently come to grips with some basic realities in my life.

The most important of them all is that flatulance and excessive sweating in the gym is not an accepted practice.

There's a reason Abs and IBS are only 1 letter different.

Every day, I spend roughly an hour in the gym, doing a pre-practice workouts. I'll do some core work, mainly ab's and I will shoot in the gym afterwards.

This past week, I was doing some particularly difficult ab workouts, and it just so happened to be right after lunch at our world-renowned cafeteria.

I was feeling a bit flatulent, but I was certain I could mask this urge by strategically letting out grunts, timed preisely with my release of gastric tension.

I figured I was a master at this by now, and I was sure nobody could even tell I was farting, cuz all they would hear is the "Ugh" or "Aaagh" between repititions.

As opposed to the "Pfffffft" and "Buuuuurrrgh" from my anal cavity.

Note to self: Not everyone in the gym is wearing headphones at full blast, and not everyone in the gym is a hairy 40 year old man using their whole body as momentum for bicep curls.

P.S.- The gym is also a hot-spot for attractive female college students. The same ones that stare at you when your hairy white legs are dangling in the air and you leave the floor-mats with a curious scent of pumpkin seeds upon departure.

I don't even eat pumpkin.

P.P.S.- Sean, you are an idiot.

As I move on to my next exercise, I am peering out of the corner of my eye, towards one particularly attractive lady.

I wish I could tell you I was looking at her to check her out, but the truth is I was looking at her to see if she picked up on the stench of asshole mysterically lingering near the ab-floor-mats.

Yes. Yes she did.

Her and her friend appear to find this quite comical.

As I am legally deaf, listening to my Ipod at full blast, my brain starts to wonder what they could be saying.

I could have sworn they were mouthing the lyrics to the Anberlin song attacking my eardrums.

Girl 1: "Was this over before/before it ever began?"

Girl 2" "Your lips/your lies/your lust, like the devils got your hands."

Wrong.

Turns out they were saying:

Girl 1: "Oh my god/do you smell that horrific stench?"

Girl 2: "It's singeing my nose hairs./ I can taste it."

I begin to panic, while I am trying to crank out the reps fifteen feet away, I decide to pretend like it wasn't me. I avoid eye contact at all costs, pretending that the east side of the Gym doesn't exist.

I press play on my Ipod and their choking and questioning is replaced by monster guitar riffs and drum solo's.

I'm off. Free. They'll never know.

But they caught me red-handed.

Like the chalk-outline of the victim at the murder scene, the sweat-soaked pad was accompanied by an outline that matched the build of...say a 6'7 210 pound Freshman who can't control his bodily functions in public?

The mat might as well have jumped up, hopped over to the girls and said, "Hey guys, you know that pumpkin seed smell? Mixed with a rotting corpse? Yeah, it's that goofy kid over there doing sit-ups."

Thankfully, the personified Mat decided to take the day off, so I'm thinking maybe they weren't sharp enough to put 2 and 2 together.

Just as I'm finishing my final reps, I'm a bit caught up in my imagination, and as I crank out the last few, I feel a huge rumble, like some of earth's tectonic plates are shifting beneath me.

I forgot to grunt.

I look around, and I swear 25 new people decided to start working out at that exact moment.

I make the biggest mistake of my life. I take my headphones out, subtlely look around, and the girls are laughing.

Not like the kind of laughing that's like "oh...that's a funny story."

It was more like the kind of laughing that's like "Oh...my god, somebody get that kid a diaper."

As i come back to reality, I begin to realize the magnitude of what just happened.

Roughly 30 people are being bombarded with traces of my flatulance, and most likely, are not happy about it.

I start to hear bits and pieces of the girls conversation, most of it whispers and snickers, but in a last ditch effort to preserve my dignity, I plug my Ipod, and switch to the song that could cure any situation.

Instead of the real life conversation between the girls:

Girl 1: "I can't tell if it's rude or if I'm just embarrassed for him."

Girl 2: "I can't tell if he ate six pounds of pig intestines, or if I have to transfer schools to escape the stench."

As far as I could tell, they were saying:

Girl 1: "He's too sexy for his shirt...too sexy for his shirt."

Girl 2: "He's so sexy it hurts..."

When Itunes meet's a willing imagination, dreams are made, and reputations are saved.

At least until Monday.

Muscles and Lunch Lady Miscues

Team pictures came out today.

And I still find myself asking the same question.

Why does EVERYONE flex in every team picture that is ever taken.

I'll tell you why.

It always starts with the first guy. And it always happens to be the skinniest dude on the team.

He lines up for his photo, and grips his hands tight enough to shatter a human skull, pokes his shoulders forward, and tenses up his neck as if to say "Yeah I'm 185. 185 pounds of STEEL."

So the next guy steps up to the camera, and thinks, "Shoot, if that guy is looking buff, if I don't flex, i won't look buff, and if I don't look buff, I won't look buff!"

So, guy #2 promptly flex's his little heart out, and indeed, he looks buff.

Then there's the guy who has mastered the art of picture-taking-flexing, where he flex's but does so subtlely, so people who look at the picture wonder "Is that guy flexing, or is he just buff?"

Don't be fooled. He flex's, just like all of us.

Then there's the guy who actually is buff, and he flex's and makes it totally obvious, because in the picture his veins are popping out, his face is beat red, and he accidently left his daily dose of 'roids in the background of the picture.

But dang he looks good.

Occasionally you'll have the guy who doesn't care. This guy has mastered the art. He just wears a T-shirt.

I'm sure there's some deeper meaning to this, like an alpha-male complex and the fear of being inferior to the fellow male population, but for now, I'm gonna blame the skinny kids for making everyone else feel pressured to look ripped.

When it's all said and done, everyone looks pretty stupid anyway, mostly because our uniforms weigh 10 pounds and have texture similar to cardboard.

No bulging bicep can cure a unie that runs 3 sizes too big.

As a side note, the lady who scans my card every morning is undoubtedly miserable.

I don't know her name, and I don't want to, but what I do want is for her to get fired, and stop complaining about how much of a dick her boss is.

Card lady: Um...did you just hear him?

Me: (eating cheerio's) No...

Card lady: He is SUCH a DICK!!!

Me: (Uninterested) Who?

Card Lady: My Boss! Did you hear him? I'm gonna quit. He already has 2 lawsuits against him from other people working here. Cuz he is such a DICK!

Me: I think i put too much brown sugar on these Cheerios. Do you agree?

Card lady: I hate my life.

Me: This table smells like chinese food.

Card lady: My son broke his arm playing football, so I'm late, and he is just such a DICK!

Me: This oatmeal is pretty good. You can't really mess up oatmeal though.

Card lady: You need to be more lively in the morning.

Me: You need to get a real job and stop complaining about your life to 18 year old kids. I'm trying to read the sports section, and right now, you, card lady, are making me want to gouge my eyes out with this spoon, and put my face in this scolding hot oatmeal.

Ok, so that last part didn't happen, but the moral of the story is...this lady told me she graduated from EOU.

So this is me officially announcing I am changing my major from Communications and Journalism, to Card Scanning.

She sometimes does it wrong-side-up, and sometimes she forgets entirely that I even have a card to be scanned, but it's a tough job, and somebody needs to do it.

It's getting late, my suitemate just came in while I was blogging and complained/bragged about the hickies on his neck, and asked me if I have any make-up.

He's dating dracula and he finds this hilarious. I, however, find it distruptive to my blogging.

Yeah dude, I'll hook you up with some cover up. Just don't take fucking 40 minutes in the shower tomorrow morning.

I need to go to bed, cuz I have to wake up at 7 tomorrow to get cardboard flavored eggs from some lady who can't scan a barcode, hates her life, but loves telling me about it.

"Enjoy it kid, this is the best time of your life."


Fuck.

The Washing Machine is Racist, and Please God Somebody get this man a Typing Lesson.

Monday, October 20, 7:15 a.m. my alarm goes off.

I toss the down comforter off my body, smash the OFF button on my ihome, only to find a lingering stench that was entrapped in my sheet all night.

Tereyaki Turkey Jerky and Protein Powder, a winning combination for mid-sleep-flatulance, or MSF.

Despite the peculiar stench now covering the mattress of my 10-inches-too-short-for-me-so-my-feet-hang-off-and-I-wake-up-with-no-circulation-in-my-feet dorm room, I was feeling ready for another Monday, ready for my classes from 8 to 3, ready for my practice from 5 to 8:30, ready for anything.

Then, at the asscrack of dawn, my short, hairy suitemate utters one of the most memorable phrases I have heard to date.

As the door to the hallway from my room creaks open, a small white figure appears at about the level of my abdominals.

It is my suitemate's bearded face, not peeking in to say good morning, ask if he can use the dishsoap, or ask me what question 10 is on the Bio homework.

No, none of those things.

Suitemate: "How come under the directions for cotton swabs, it says clean gently around the ear, when everybody just shoves it in there anyway?"

Me: "It's 7:15. Really?"

Followed by uncomfortable pause, and an equally uncomfortable forced laugh.

Everything else went reasonably normal that morning, that is, until I made my fateful trip to the Learning Center.

They call it the Learning Center, but what they should really call it is The Center for Everyone who Attends Eastern Oregon University, and is over the age of 40, and Some Athletes Come Here Because Their Coaches Make Them.

I would fall into the athlete category in this case.

Anyway, the CEAEOU40SACHBTCMT is usually useful, with math tutors, a computer lab, and complimentary Mike and Ike's.

But today, this was not the case.

There were no Mike and Ike's and the computer lab was full to the brim, with only one vacant spot.

I took the spot, and I wish I never had.

As i attempted to spend my 90 minutes studying, I couldn't help but notice a constant pitter-patter knock-knock-knocking every freaking 3 seconds.

I scanned the room to find the source of the annoyance, and I didn't need to look any further than 4 seats down, to see an older man, trying to type his paper.

If you call it typing.

It was more like him using exclusively his left pointer finger and right ring finger to punish each individual key as if they had just taken a shit on his newly landscaped lawn that he is frequently vocal and open about adoring.

Spending 180 minutes a week in there would cause you to listen in on grown men/college student conversations too.

He also owns an old red Ford pick-up, one that needs constant maintainence, and he doesn't have a girlfriend, but "I still have sex, dude," and his red headed friend who sits to the right of him at the writing tutor table reminds him, through his forest fire of a beard, that "Sex with your hand doesn't count, bro."

Someone should also remind him that there is a reason we no longer use typewriters.

It's called keyboards.

And they don't need to be punched in order to operate correctly, unlike this guys "girlfriend."

Did I mention we are in La Grande?

He continues to pound each painfully loud key of the poor keyboard, as he intently stares at the screen, squinting extra hard as though he might be able to transfer his thoughts telepathically, cuz that'd be way easier than the intensive labor that is now known as the "hunt, peck and DESTROY" method of typing a paper.

Somebody teach this guy the home row.

For a second, I could've sworn he was tapping the key's rythmically, to the tune of my favorite Hit The Lights song, teasing me, tempting me to sing along...

But I couldn't sing along, I was too busy grinding my teeth to the bottom of my chin, and biting a hole straight through my tongue, in an effort to not leap over 4 innocent people, and snap this mans keyboard turned punching bag over his skull.

Instead, i politely giggled in the corner, and searched the room desperately for eye contact, praying for someone to catch on to the obvious distraction in the silent room.

Nobody caught on.

Instead, I looked like the freshman in the corner of the computer lab laughing out loud to himself, while flipping through his media arts textbook, and checking his fantasy basketball team.

The entire female population at EOU collectively turned their heads, right after shaking them in disapproval, and decided to move on to bigger and better things.

Like 40 year old men who brag about their sex life in between trying to figure out the loudest way possible to type a term paper.

If he has a girlfriend, I'd like to see what she looks like.

And if she's not blind, I'd like her to teach him the home row.

In completely unrelated news, I am starting to give real life characteristics to inanimate objects.

For example, my cell phone, is gay.

I always find it, face down on top of my Men's Health magazine with Gerard Butler on the cover.

I noticed that my wallet is a prostitute, it always opens for money, and whenever i leave it in my back pocket, that specific cheek loses feeling.

Also, the Washing Machine is racist.

It has two seperate settings for wash labeled "Whites" and "Colors."

I couldn't help but feel an immense amount of awkwardness when a native american walked in, and they appeared very unsure as to what setting their laundry should be on.

Seriously, grow up, you narrow minded machine. Rosa Parks put an end to that a long time ago. Or was it Outkast? Didn't they sing a song about it or something?

Maybe Kanye West was right

If George Bush is the washing machine, I am Mike Meyers, wondering what the hell I'm gonna do with this gallon of Tide detergent and fabric softener.

Or maybe, I'm the cell phone, because I just publically admitted to subscribing to Men's Health.

Either way, it's midnight, and I get to wake up and do it all again tomorrow.

Goodnight America.

The benefits of being a 65 year old man.

Everyone remembers their first word. It's usually a telling factor to how the rest of your life will end up.

If your first word is "depression" or "Pre-nup," you should probaly see a shrink, and if your first word is "mama" or "dada," join the freaking club.

If you are top heavy, unathletic, and awkwardly proportioned, and your first word has anything to do with sports. Grab an Ice-bag, and be prepared for a rapid aging process.

My first word was "Ball."

It's so adorable right? College basketball player's first word is "Ball."

It's got to be fate.

Little did I know, the entirety of that phrase was, "Orange leather ball makes me have knee surgery and not able to bend over to change the shower mat."

Me no like Ball.

It's not all bad though, "ball" is getting me a college education, physical fitness, fun, and callouses on the bottom of my feet that resemble Egyptian Hieroglyphics.

In the life and times of a "learning" freshman 6 foot 7 210 pound NAIA college post, there are many perks to having joints that are 3 times my own age.

-I have a sweet line six inches above my ankle where my hair has just stopped growing. I pass it off as a bi-product of the time I saved a baby from a burning building. "The fire may have took my ankle hair, but I kept my dignity." In reality, it's really because i cant walk ten feet without rolling an ankle, consequently, I have a personal athletic trainer who tapes me every night before bed, just incase.

- You could circle the world six times with all the athletic tape i have used. Or make a lifesize tape-doll model of Shaquille O'neal. I always found it funny how it's called athletic tape. If I were athletic, I wouldn't be jamming a finger during lay-up lines. They should call it "un-coordinated white-kid tape."

- Ice packs are cool. Plus you get to know the athletic trainers really well. I have a theory that every athletic trainer secretly hates their job. If I had to touch sweaty feet all day, I'd be complaining too.

- Dwyane Wade wears knee sleeves.

- Advertisers love to market the Kurt Rambis re-incarnation. I have endorsements lined up from Donjoy and ACE all the way to Metamucil and Depends.

- Everyday events, like stubbing your toe, or tripping on the curb feel like full body massages compared to the thousands of needles penetrating my joints every step i take.

- Nobody expects you to dunk, so if you jump extra high on a layup, maybe double-clutch, or slap the backboard, the referee actually awards you 5 points, because the dude who's wearing zebra stripes, is 4 foot 6 and balding has better joints than you do, and he feels bad for you. Thanks, Joe

- Custom in-soles and ankle braces add inches to your roster height. I'm actually 6'2. But the Battle Armor i put on everyday leads people to believe I can actually play the post. I am awarded with a scholarship.

- Chicks dig the dropstep. Once you master the footwork fundamentals, the ladies can't get enough. No, thanks, I can't dance, but i could seal the hell out of you on the block.

Jump hook, 2 points Sean.

I could do this all day, but my dentures are done being cleaned, and I need to start stretching now, for my 6 o clock practice, cuz if I don't, that hip is poppin' straight out.

Ah, you caught me. I'm lying.

Matlock is on.

Go Mounties!

The cafeteria staff are all members of MadTV.

At approximately 1 p.m., every college student finds themselves asking the same collective question.

Is that an atomic bomb in my stomach, or just lunch?

Both.

So far, the cafeteria food has been nothing to complain about, nothing to be excited about, but now, it is something to blog about.

It started off as a normal day at good ol' Hoke (affectionately known as Choke) hall.

I opened the un-necessarily heavy front door that always closes too fast.

It closed too fast. Hitting me square in the left achilles. Which hurts. Bad.

Tripped up the stairs, twice, on the way to the cafeteria. It's literally like 30 stairs to go up 15 feet. It's borderline ridiculous.

The guy who scans the ID card forgot my name again, and in an effort to compensate for his insensitive act, had a 5 minute conversation with me about the ground beef in the Mexican Cassarole, or heart attack covered in cheese.

Oh, did I say conversation? I meant him talking and me thinking about things I'd rather be doing, like challenging Kimbo Slice to a street fight, or taking a cheese grater to my scrotum.

Cafeteria guy: (takes my student ID card, scans it the wrong way, twice, once with his thumb covering the barcode.)

Me: (Really though? Seriously? Do you want me to do it? You are getting paid for this.)

Cafeteria guy: (Looking off into space, as to not cheat the system by looking at my name on the student ID card)

Cafeteria guy: Paul!?

Me: No.

Cafeteria guy: Ace?

Me: No.

Cafeteria guy: Chris?

Me: Yep.

(Cafeteria guy looks at my student ID card, to see my name is definitely not Chris. He appears devastated. But mostly puzzled.)

Cafeteria guy: (Silence.)

Me: Have a good day! (Lunch should be interesting tomorrow.)

Cafeteria guy: (Still staring at the ceiling, trying to get my name right)

Cafeteria guy: Paul!?

Shrimp stir fry is for lunch today. Except they call it Japanese Shrimp Stir Fry, because they put baby corn in it, and want the international students to feel welcome.

Which by the way, if you were a foriegn exchange student, why the hell would you choose to come to La Grande, Oregon for your 'American cultural experience'?

Legally, La grande isn't even a member of the union.

It was voted out along with Cuba and Prince and was actually replaced by Hawaii in the 80's, because they have beaches, and we have chewing tobacco.

Anyway, I wait in line for what feels like fifteen minutes, and I can't help but notice the pound of butter the lady behind the pan puts on each dish.

It's literally, four times what any human would need to enjoy their Stir Fry. Japanese Stir Fry, mind you.

Just as I am preparing to politely ask for a reduced serving of butter, this woman looks at me, makes eye contact, as I am uttering the words "no butter please" and literally grabs the cow, milks it over the frying pan, and squeezes every ounce of animal fat in it, and starts cooking my liquid artery clogger.

Next, she stiffs me with only 3 pieces of shrimp, and at the brink of my culinary frusturation, she tops it all off and throws in the baby corn.

Alot of baby corn.

I hate baby corn.

Maybe I wanted a 'stir fry.'

Not a japanese stir fry.

Maybe I didn't feel like gaining 6 pounds in my lunchtime. Maybe you, lunchlady, should be more considerate of your paying customers requests.

Despite all of this, i forced a smile, and thanked her graciously, and 5 minutes later i shoved the stir fry under the table to let the local cafeteria creature take care of it.

Back home, we use our dogs, here at EOU, we take a different approach.

Every member of our cafeteria staff is actually a character on MadTV, and you can't tell me I'm wrong, cuz you are wrong.

Look around at your campus next time you get the munchies, and tell me you are not eerily reminded of moderately funny late night t.v.

I think I just realized why I sit alone at lunch.

That mexican cassarole is coming up.

Oh god, my roomate is going to hate me.

I'm going to do sit-ups.

Cafeteria guy: Paul!?

We put the crazy in democrazy.

The next time I hear the words "Have you registered to vote yet?" I will kick someone in the chest.

Yes, I've registered to vote.

All four times.

Registered, registered, registered, registered, yet you, local political activist, have managed to fack it up, every single time.

I appreciate the activism, and the effort. I really do.

I however do not appreciate you misplacing my form, telling me to put the wrong address in the wrong slot, and your lip hair that makes me forget if I am a member of the Democratic, Republican, Green, or Mach-3 gillete party.

That last part was insensitive, borderline inappropriate, and I apologize to my local activist. It's not your fault.

Anyway, incase you were wondering, after several calls to local offices, writing down my drivers liscense number too many times to count, and 50 pushups, I am now officially registered to vote in this glorious state of Oregon.

It has been said that I was actually the only other oregon resident to go through such a grueling voter registration process, apart from the members of the cast Little People, Big World, but I'm pretty sure, legally, their votes can only count as 1/2 a vote anyway.

The aftermath of my voting perdicament was a call to the voter hotline. This guy was less fortunate.

Now that I'm registered, and it was such intensive labor to get to this point, I can't help but to look around me, critically, and wonder if some of my peers deserve this right to vote that we so often take for granted.

Here's an example:

Person 1: Dude...are you gonna vote?

Person 2: No, man, but if I did, it would be for Obama.

Me: Yeah, I think I'm leaning that way too.

Person 1: Fuck you guys, you guys are idiots.

Person 2: Why dude? Mccain has been behind everything Bush has done, and I think Obama provides a nice change of pace.

Person 1: Let me send you a couple e-mails, that'll change your mind.

Me: (Thinking) E-mails? Your kidding right? E-mails?

Person 1: Obama is a racist. You didn't know that? He admittedly is a racist person. He's open about it. The E-mail tells all about it. It's in a book. You guys need to get informed if you're gonna vote.

Person 2: I dunno dude...

Me: (in an attempt to break the awkward political dispute) It's all good, I hate white people too.

Person 1&2: Silence.

Person 1: Obama wanted to send troops to Iran, and that's not even a NATO country.

Person 2: Well, I'm no math major, but last time I checked, both Iran and NATO have 4 letters in them. And 4+4=8

Person 2 & 1 in unisyn: Obama '08!

And this is the day they became members of the democratic party.

God Bless America.

My e-mail is currently filling up with all kinds of viable, concrete sources telling me how Obama hates different skin tones than his own, how Palin is a stripper, and John Mccain is involved in some sort of love triangle involving all of them.

Now that would be a political baby. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Well, me and Diddy are bringing back the Vote or Die campaign, cuz when you think about it, given the options of A.) Voting, or B.) Dying, I'd probaly rather vote.

The D the E the M the O The C the R the ACY

That's Democracy.

Hold up...

That's Democrazy.

Peace.

Stay 18 Forever? No thanks.

In my third week of collegiate education, I have come to a bold, perhaps brilliant conclusion.

Being 18 sucks.

I'm not trying to come across as a griping teenager here, I'm just acknowledging the fact that this stage of life, freshman in college in particular, is a set up for awkwardness.

Yes, awkward is the perfect way to describe it.

The same awkwardness that fills the room when your Math professor makes a lame joke, and the girl across the room laughs extra long hoping for 5 points extra credit.

A+ my lady, see me after class.

The same awkwardness that you feel wandering campus wide eyed, carrying your freshman-issued day-planner, tripping over cracks in the sidewalk trying to find room 231 already.

The same awkwarness you feel when you walk into room 231, only to find out this is the class that is required for your major, the only problem is this is the class that you absolutely despise.

It's supposed to be what you like.

It's your major.

You chose this.

But you hate it.

And you're not alone.

The concept of hating what we will supposedly be doing for the rest of our life is depressing, ironic, and awkward.

The kind of awkward that you feel when the alumni from your chosen university walks up to you, gives you an inappropriately forceful squeeze on the shoulder and utters the single most depressing phrase any human being can ever convey.

"Enjoy it, kid. It's the best years of your life."

This is, of course, right after your girlfriend dumps you, you realize you hate your major and the captain of the football team (Oh Pacman...) wants to kick your ass 'cuz you crashed his party and didn't bring enough booze for you and your buddy to play Beer Pong.

These are the best years of my life?

Really?

Living in a stinky dorm room across from kids who call squirrel hunting and Tuesday night drinking a hobby?

(This is my Humanities teacher. Ironic?)

Enduring page after page of tireless textbook studying only to wake up with the words "Biology: Concepts and Connections" pasted on your forehead.

Other than that, college life is like, totally cool. I get to go to bed whenever I want, eat candy for breakfast, and mommy doesn't even make me come in before dark.

These ARE the best years of my life, now escuse me, gummy worms are calling my name.

Good morning, freedom.