After a Finals Week that consisted of no finals, too much fantasy basketball, and a lot of information on Tiger Woods' personal life, I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time on Facebook. While on this social networking machine, I started noticing different people all have different “Facebook Personalities.”
It should be noted that all of these findings came to be through a very scientific method that involved premature judgments, random spurts of anger, taking naps and sporadic results based on the current mood I was in.
In other words, take this very seriously. Or you could be next.
Here are a few of my observations that I made while I was stalking you on Facebook, while you were probably cramming, losing sleep, and pounding your face in between the pages of your biology book:
The Awkward Conversationalist-
This person may or may not be awkward in real life, but it doesn’t matter, because they have terrible Facebook Social etiquette. What’s that? You didn’t know there was a social etiquette on Facebook? That’s probably because YOU are an Awkward Conversationalist.
Are they dangerous?
Most likely. The AC attacks in many different forms. Most commonly, they will start up conversation with you over a photograph, which we all know is rule #217 in the Facebook user-handbook. Their conversation will look something like this.
“Hey. Nice pic. So…how r u?”
Of course, if you are a halfway decent human being, you don’t respond to this. If you are a full-way decent human being, you throw your laptop out of your window in a fit of rage and disgust.
How am I? Well…thanks to your impolite Facebooking…I am terrible. I have no computer, and you have awful social skills, you Awkward Conversationalist.
How to get rid of them:
There is an 80 percent chance that the AC will get very upset with the fact that when you threw your laptop out of your window, you actually hit the hood of their car, or a very young child. To this, you will reply, “God bless you,” cross your heart and pray to a higher being that this person permanently loses internet access, or the ability to move their fingers.
Note:
They may also get upset that you never replied to their comment. They might even go so far as to send you a MESSAGE. In which case, of course, you will report them to the local police station as an internet predator, and they will be banished from Facebook forever, then they will go to Myspace, where all the other pedophiles go. Do not feel bad. They did this to themselves.
The Personal Questioner-
This person seems very genuine, and appears to have only good intentions, but do not fall for their trap. They ask you personal questions on your wall, where everyone can read it, and their only reason for doing this is so they can leak information about you to gossip sites like TMZ. Pretty soon, you will crash your car into a tree outside of your Orlando mansion, and have sex with multiple cocktail waitresses. Also, Ed Werder and other sportscenter anchors will live in your front yard. Their facebook style will look something like this:
“Hey man, so I heard the doctor said its only contagious when its an open sore…how’s the inflammation?…and I guess that you might have got it from that girl that my brother introduced you to. I could have sworn she was clean man. Anyway, that lip-hair wasn’t helping anybody regardless. I hope you’re doing well. Get back to me.”
Are They Dangerous?
Of course. If you have a PQ who can’t mind their P’s and Q’s, delete them from your friend list. If you are unaware of how to do this, go to their house and steal their internet connection. If you can’t do this…politely ask them to send you a message, because you’d rather not discuss this given topic over such a public medium. Then steal their identity.
Your Friends Dad-
There are two distinct different parent facebook users. One of which will friend request you, and will never have any social connection with you. The other will friend request you, and leave random comments on your status updates, mostly using outdated internet lingo to sound hip. There is great potential for the parents to completely mess this up. Like…
“LOL! Really? Wow. I waz total-e thinkin tha same thing! NEwayz…y do ppl spell with Z’s so much on the internet? Is it bcuz I’m 45 and shuldn’t be on Facebook? Why am I friend requesting all ur friends? Do you h8 the fact I’m on here? Let’s talk POLITICS! I am just jk’ing. TTYLOL!”
Are they dangerous?
Not really. They are mostly harmless and mildly annoying if they keep their distance. I recently found out that my History teacher has a facebook. Of course, I friend requested her and threatened to send her a virus if I didn’t get an A. There are perks to having elder folks on Facebook.
How do you get rid of them?
There’s not much you can do. However, posing pictures of their son or daughter drinking, smoking, having sex, swearing, or publically urinating usually causes some sort of controversy/hilarity amongst the family. You will also notice your friend cusses a lot less than usual on Facebook. That is because your friend is a pussy.
Your Friend’s Mom-
She is equally dangerous, and less assuming. She forces you to watch your every move on facebook, because your mom is friends with her, and everyone knows mom’s talk shit about their son’s/daughter’s Facebook tendencies. There is nothing you can do to prevent Your Friend’s Mom from her devilish Facebook ways. Just curl into the fetal position, and don’t go outside ever again. It will be okay.
The Eavesdropper:
Eavesdropper is one of the hardest words to spell in the English language, and not surprisingly, eavesdroppers are some of the hardest to spot on Facebook. That’s because they could be eavesdropping on your Facebook conversations with other people, and not even COMMENT on your wall-to-wall or status updates. HOW DARE THEY! The only way you might catch an Eavesdropper is by them casually bringing something up months later, like, “Yeah I saw that your day last Wednesday was really rough. I mean, you had that Math class that you hate, then you tripped in front of that super cute girl.” Then you say…how do you know such specific details? Then they’d say, “Well I have cameras installed in your house.” Then you’d resume your day as if nothing happened. Then approximately 17 hours later, you wake up in a cold sweat and realize you are friends with an Eavesdropper.
How to get rid of them?
The Eavesdropper can only be caught in the act. It’s kind of like when you are staring at an attractive classmate, and they make eye-contact and you try to veer your attention elsewhere, making it look like you weren’t looking in the first place. As we all know, this never works. I suggest tracking devices, hand grenades, tomato sauce or a mix of all of the above.
Hyperactive Status Updater: The HSU by all accounts is a terrible person with too much time on their hands. Their too-frequent status updates will read something like this:
HSU: just did some dishes.
HSU: Just had some water. I love water!
HSU: Just got off Facebook. Then logged back on again. Lol.
HSU: Just realized it’s kinda cold in here!
HSU: Just realized I turned the heat up too much! I’m like…sweating.
HSU: Fuck guys. They r so dumb. And thermostats. They are dumb too. Ugh.
HSU: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND!
HSU: I’m kinda tired. It’s 3 a.m. and I haven’t gotten off my laptop yet. I should probably eat.
HSU: Just ate.
HSU: To all you guys out there, remember this one thing: Girls don’t like guys who are DICKS! So…BE NICE!
HSU: Fuck guys.
HSU: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND! Love ya baby!! Xoxoxo.
Are they Dangerous:
To your health and well being? Yes. Click the “hide all” icon next to their name, and you will add 10 years to your life.
Others:
The over-user of the Like Button: Why can’t you leave a comment or something? These people usually want people to think they are far too busy to actually type, but they are more than willing to click the thumbs up.
The Person That Doesn’t Know You But Friend Requested You: At first, you are honored, then flattered, then creeped out. The latter is appropriate. Call the police.
Closet Facebook Addict: This person is always leaving comments on people’s walls and status updates, but is “invisible,” and never seems to be online. You find yourself thinking, “gee, CFA must be really busy to NEVER be on Facebook.” But really, they are just as addicted as you, but they are worse because they disguise themselves. Wear your addiction proudly, FCA, or else you will be exposed. Or attacked by a pack of rabid coyotes.
The person who keeps saying “dislike”: That was funny last year. Stop it. Go hang out with your parents who are also on Facebook.
The Person Who Always Writes Facebook Notes and Blogs and Stuff and Expects People to Read it and Find it Humorous: Seriously man, give it up. You weren’t very funny to start with. Also, the way you walk is very feminine.
Ow.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Grocery Shopping
It was a Friday night in La Grande, Oregon, and I was grocery shopping. Grocery shopping you say? Ai, grocery shopping. Shopping for groceries. On a Friday night.
Every time I go grocery shopping, I am very systematic, and very detail oriented. I send myself a text message that is my grocery list, because paper and pen kills the planet, I use a re-usable grocery bag, because plastic kills the planet, if possible I walk or ride my bike because Toyota’s kill the planet, and I put my hear in dreadlocks, wear a tie-dye shirt and kiss the soil for good measure. This is all ordinary protocol for my weekly trip to Safeway.
However, things got off to a bit of a rocky start when I sent myself my text message that serves as a list. Or I thought it was myself. I have my phone number saved in my phone as “Me,” because it’s me. However, I also have a Melanie in my phone, who ironically also has the word ME in it. Weird, right?
Well, I accidentally sent Melanie my grocery list, which would be embarrassing enough if my list was something like…”Lettuce, Spinach, Chicken, Eggs.” Melanie would probably get the text message, laugh, wonder who’s number it is, then send a reply that would read something like; “?”
Um…well…luck would have it that this wasn’t a routine grocery list. I had been experiencing a lot of chap-lips and dry skin with the winter season in full affect, and I also needed some hardware for a repair in my apartment, so I had some extra odds and ends here and there to the otherwise normal grocery list.
Instead…my grocery list read more like this: “Vaseline, Ziploc Bag, Lotion, Cucumber, Milk, Rope, Sanitization wipes, Rubber Gloves, Tomatoes, Yogurt and Chicken.”
Looking back, it probably would have been appropriate if the end of the text message read, “Meet me in 15 minutes…you’re DEAD! MMMWWWUAAHAHAHAHAH!”
Then again, Chicken and tomatoes seem innocent enough.
But, according to Melanie (who I am still not entirely certain who that is), this text message error was highly offensive. At least I think that’s what she meant when she said, “delete me from your phone and never text this number again.” I complied with her request, and realized eliminating Melanie from my contacts would increase the likelihood of me NOT texting a random person my grocery list. By the same token…look out MEGAN! AHAHAHAHAAAAAAA.
But seriously, I am going to start just making lists. Or I am going to stop making friends with people whose names begin with ME. It’s really self centered when you think about it. Have you ever met anyone selfless whose name start with ME? Whatever happened to the first letters being YOU or PEACELOVEEQUALITY? I’d never send them creepy grocery list text messages, and if I did, they’d probably be really forgiving, because they are so selfless. I’m talking to YOU Melanie!
Anyway, once I made it to checkout without having any serious charges pressed against me, I got to read my favorite material of the day. National Enquirer.
“Obama confesses to gay-love-affair. Michele is outraged! Details inside.”
I glanced, giggled, assumed it to be true..duh, and heaved my gigantic Costco re-usable bag full of Vaseline, Ziploc bags, rope and other things to use when masturbating/trying to kill someone onto the conveyer belt.
The cashier gave me a dirty look, then sighed, then frowned and said, “You again?”
I said, “Yeah. Did you hear the president is gay?”
He said, “I always knew Clinton was a faggot.”
His tag read “Serving you since 1998.”
It should have read “Serving you since 1998, and I haven’t turned on my TV since. Oh, and I hate re-usable bags. They’re too heavy and hard to stack stuff back in.”
The couple behind me was a combined 150 years old at least, and they were adorable. I immediately judged them by their items on the conveyer belt, like any good grocery shopper would do.
Hm…brown rice, frozen vegetables, whole wheat bread, yogurt, skim milk, grapes, dry beans and peas. Cost effective, and healthy. They clearly know what they are doing.
I smiled, and decided we would be really good friends if we shared the same retirement home.
I glanced back, and saw the elderly women reading the National Enquirer. Not in the way that someone who is curious reads it, but in the way that someone who really BELIEVES it reads it.
I was immediately disappointed. This sweet looking woman with her sweet looking husband, buying health conscious food, reading the equivalent of human shit smeared across recycled paper.
She then put down the National Enquirer, folded it over her left hand, smacked it against the counter top, huffed, then broke out into laughter.
“Jeez, they’ll put anything in this to make a sale,”
Her husband replied, “I don’t believe a word of it.”
I laughed, and said, “Wait…you guys didn’t know…its all the truth! Believe EVERY word!”
We all shared a laugh, then the woman went on to explain that she has a daughter who is a newspaper editor on the East Coast, and every year she sends her a National Enquirer that is especially ridiculous to mock the so called “news coverage,” that continues to sell in check out lines across America.
I told her she has quite the sense of humor, and her husband said, “She’s always been that way.”
I asked them how long they’d been together and they said 43 years, and as my heart filled with joy, I was interrupted by a soft voice.
It was the woman. She said, “How many avocadoes do you have? Ya must be havin’ a party, makin’ a bunch of guacamole for some friends huh?”
I paused…I wanted to say, “Lady, it’s a Friday night, and I’m at Safeway. Do you really think I’m the type to make guacamole for a party? With friends?”
Instead, I said, “Nope. All for me!”
She laughed, said I was a growing boy, then suspiciously looked into my re-usable bag, obviously taking note of the Vaseline, Ziploc bags, lotion and rope.
I quickly shifted my bag to the side, exposing the cucumber, milk and sanitization wipes. Slightly less suspicious I suppose.
She smiled uncomfortably, and said, “That’s a really big bag.”
By saying that, she was really trying to say, “What the fuck are you doing with Vaseline, lotion, Ziploc bags and a rope, you creep?”
I almost blurted out my defense… “It’s not what you think! I have some stuff to take care of at my apartment. I mean…I need to fix something up. Uh…I mean…I have dry skin OKAY!?!?”
Fortunately, it did not reach this point, but I did stop and determine that I am probably their age at heart.
I wanted to exchange phone numbers or something, ask them what their plans are for the night. The conversation would undoubtedly go like this:
Me: So…what are you guys up to tonight?
Them: Well, we’ll probably put our groceries away tonight, watch some Matlock, maybe some Jeopardy, then read a book and fall asleep by 9:30.
Me: Wow. That sounds wonderful. Would you like some company? I make a MEAN split pea soup.
Them: Sean…that sounds absolutely wonderful.
Me: Okay, let me take a nap before I come over. I should probably walk too. I need the exercise. Oh, and I need to change my dentures. Can I get your cell phone number?
Them: Dear, we don’t have a cell phone. We still use the telegraph.
Me: Duuuh…me too. Okay, I’ll meet you guys in 45 minutes.
Cashier: Would you like help out to your car, sir?
Me: Uh…yeah…yeah I’d like that. And give me some more yogurt too. It keeps me regular.
I had a lot in common with the couple, and though we didn’t hang out, I did get her name. I’d like to say her name was Melanie, because that would tie this story together beautifully, but her name was something like Ethel or Betty. A very old person name. Have you ever met a young person named Ethel? NEVER. That’s because all old people, when they reach a certain age, have to get an old name. They have 3 choices…Ethel, Betty or Margaret. They choose whichever one they want, and then you must legally refer to them as such, or else you will be shot in the left foot. IT’S SCIENCE.
Anyway, maybe next time I’ll stick to my old-fashioned tendencies and use a paper and pen. Or maybe I should just buy chap-stick instead. Ya know, to avoid confusion.
Every time I go grocery shopping, I am very systematic, and very detail oriented. I send myself a text message that is my grocery list, because paper and pen kills the planet, I use a re-usable grocery bag, because plastic kills the planet, if possible I walk or ride my bike because Toyota’s kill the planet, and I put my hear in dreadlocks, wear a tie-dye shirt and kiss the soil for good measure. This is all ordinary protocol for my weekly trip to Safeway.
However, things got off to a bit of a rocky start when I sent myself my text message that serves as a list. Or I thought it was myself. I have my phone number saved in my phone as “Me,” because it’s me. However, I also have a Melanie in my phone, who ironically also has the word ME in it. Weird, right?
Well, I accidentally sent Melanie my grocery list, which would be embarrassing enough if my list was something like…”Lettuce, Spinach, Chicken, Eggs.” Melanie would probably get the text message, laugh, wonder who’s number it is, then send a reply that would read something like; “?”
Um…well…luck would have it that this wasn’t a routine grocery list. I had been experiencing a lot of chap-lips and dry skin with the winter season in full affect, and I also needed some hardware for a repair in my apartment, so I had some extra odds and ends here and there to the otherwise normal grocery list.
Instead…my grocery list read more like this: “Vaseline, Ziploc Bag, Lotion, Cucumber, Milk, Rope, Sanitization wipes, Rubber Gloves, Tomatoes, Yogurt and Chicken.”
Looking back, it probably would have been appropriate if the end of the text message read, “Meet me in 15 minutes…you’re DEAD! MMMWWWUAAHAHAHAHAH!”
Then again, Chicken and tomatoes seem innocent enough.
But, according to Melanie (who I am still not entirely certain who that is), this text message error was highly offensive. At least I think that’s what she meant when she said, “delete me from your phone and never text this number again.” I complied with her request, and realized eliminating Melanie from my contacts would increase the likelihood of me NOT texting a random person my grocery list. By the same token…look out MEGAN! AHAHAHAHAAAAAAA.
But seriously, I am going to start just making lists. Or I am going to stop making friends with people whose names begin with ME. It’s really self centered when you think about it. Have you ever met anyone selfless whose name start with ME? Whatever happened to the first letters being YOU or PEACELOVEEQUALITY? I’d never send them creepy grocery list text messages, and if I did, they’d probably be really forgiving, because they are so selfless. I’m talking to YOU Melanie!
Anyway, once I made it to checkout without having any serious charges pressed against me, I got to read my favorite material of the day. National Enquirer.
“Obama confesses to gay-love-affair. Michele is outraged! Details inside.”
I glanced, giggled, assumed it to be true..duh, and heaved my gigantic Costco re-usable bag full of Vaseline, Ziploc bags, rope and other things to use when masturbating/trying to kill someone onto the conveyer belt.
The cashier gave me a dirty look, then sighed, then frowned and said, “You again?”
I said, “Yeah. Did you hear the president is gay?”
He said, “I always knew Clinton was a faggot.”
His tag read “Serving you since 1998.”
It should have read “Serving you since 1998, and I haven’t turned on my TV since. Oh, and I hate re-usable bags. They’re too heavy and hard to stack stuff back in.”
The couple behind me was a combined 150 years old at least, and they were adorable. I immediately judged them by their items on the conveyer belt, like any good grocery shopper would do.
Hm…brown rice, frozen vegetables, whole wheat bread, yogurt, skim milk, grapes, dry beans and peas. Cost effective, and healthy. They clearly know what they are doing.
I smiled, and decided we would be really good friends if we shared the same retirement home.
I glanced back, and saw the elderly women reading the National Enquirer. Not in the way that someone who is curious reads it, but in the way that someone who really BELIEVES it reads it.
I was immediately disappointed. This sweet looking woman with her sweet looking husband, buying health conscious food, reading the equivalent of human shit smeared across recycled paper.
She then put down the National Enquirer, folded it over her left hand, smacked it against the counter top, huffed, then broke out into laughter.
“Jeez, they’ll put anything in this to make a sale,”
Her husband replied, “I don’t believe a word of it.”
I laughed, and said, “Wait…you guys didn’t know…its all the truth! Believe EVERY word!”
We all shared a laugh, then the woman went on to explain that she has a daughter who is a newspaper editor on the East Coast, and every year she sends her a National Enquirer that is especially ridiculous to mock the so called “news coverage,” that continues to sell in check out lines across America.
I told her she has quite the sense of humor, and her husband said, “She’s always been that way.”
I asked them how long they’d been together and they said 43 years, and as my heart filled with joy, I was interrupted by a soft voice.
It was the woman. She said, “How many avocadoes do you have? Ya must be havin’ a party, makin’ a bunch of guacamole for some friends huh?”
I paused…I wanted to say, “Lady, it’s a Friday night, and I’m at Safeway. Do you really think I’m the type to make guacamole for a party? With friends?”
Instead, I said, “Nope. All for me!”
She laughed, said I was a growing boy, then suspiciously looked into my re-usable bag, obviously taking note of the Vaseline, Ziploc bags, lotion and rope.
I quickly shifted my bag to the side, exposing the cucumber, milk and sanitization wipes. Slightly less suspicious I suppose.
She smiled uncomfortably, and said, “That’s a really big bag.”
By saying that, she was really trying to say, “What the fuck are you doing with Vaseline, lotion, Ziploc bags and a rope, you creep?”
I almost blurted out my defense… “It’s not what you think! I have some stuff to take care of at my apartment. I mean…I need to fix something up. Uh…I mean…I have dry skin OKAY!?!?”
Fortunately, it did not reach this point, but I did stop and determine that I am probably their age at heart.
I wanted to exchange phone numbers or something, ask them what their plans are for the night. The conversation would undoubtedly go like this:
Me: So…what are you guys up to tonight?
Them: Well, we’ll probably put our groceries away tonight, watch some Matlock, maybe some Jeopardy, then read a book and fall asleep by 9:30.
Me: Wow. That sounds wonderful. Would you like some company? I make a MEAN split pea soup.
Them: Sean…that sounds absolutely wonderful.
Me: Okay, let me take a nap before I come over. I should probably walk too. I need the exercise. Oh, and I need to change my dentures. Can I get your cell phone number?
Them: Dear, we don’t have a cell phone. We still use the telegraph.
Me: Duuuh…me too. Okay, I’ll meet you guys in 45 minutes.
Cashier: Would you like help out to your car, sir?
Me: Uh…yeah…yeah I’d like that. And give me some more yogurt too. It keeps me regular.
I had a lot in common with the couple, and though we didn’t hang out, I did get her name. I’d like to say her name was Melanie, because that would tie this story together beautifully, but her name was something like Ethel or Betty. A very old person name. Have you ever met a young person named Ethel? NEVER. That’s because all old people, when they reach a certain age, have to get an old name. They have 3 choices…Ethel, Betty or Margaret. They choose whichever one they want, and then you must legally refer to them as such, or else you will be shot in the left foot. IT’S SCIENCE.
Anyway, maybe next time I’ll stick to my old-fashioned tendencies and use a paper and pen. Or maybe I should just buy chap-stick instead. Ya know, to avoid confusion.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
You Wanna Know How I Know You're Gay?
It has become ever-apparent that college professors are nothing like the teacher’s I had from grades K-12.
I don’t remember my 4th grade teacher getting offended by me not calling her Doctor Palmer. I do recall her getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on the bottom of my seat.
10 years later, and my professors are getting angry when I don’t refer to them as “Doctor,” and STILL getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on my chair.
“I DO WHAT I WANT!” I would say. Then I would proceed to fart loudly and blow my burp breath all over the hooded sweatshirt of the girl who sits in front of me.
Such acts of rebellion are not tolerated in the college classroom…so I refrain. But apparently, what IS tolerated in the college classroom is having a teacher video tape himself.
Every morning, at 7, I roll out of bed and muster up the courage to attend a class whose teacher does not directly teach real people.
He does something called “Distance Ed,” and videotapes himself during class, then uploads it to something called “the internet,” and that way people living in New York who thought it’d be fun to take a PHILOSOPHY CLASS THROUGH EASTERN OREGON UNIVERSITY, can watch him repeat our textbook, word for word. Because god forbid they actually have to read. It should be noted here that our professor…excuse me DOCTOR…wrote the textbook himself, and you should kiss his feet.
I had an interaction today with my professor that went a little something like this.
Me: So…is this data table a recent study? Or was it done a few years ago?
Doctor: (Looks into the camera. Self consciously adjusts his jeans…the camera adds ten pounds…clears his throat…adjusts his pants again…and repeats my question very loudly, like he’s reading off of a teleprompter for the first time in his life.) The question is, “How recent is this graph?” This is a really good question. A question that I am going to answer right now.
I now realize that he is doing his best Bob Barker impression and failing miserably. I also now realize that he has successfully talked for 20 seconds without saying ANYTHING.
Doctor: The answer to this question is…this is an outdated graph. It was done in 1979. And that is the answer to the question. (Clears his throat, adjusts his shirt, adjusts his tie. Smiles into the camcorder.)
It should also be noted here that his wife wakes up at 7 every morning to sit in a chair and point the camcorder at him. I am still unsure as to why she does this, because the man never moves, and he never looks away from the camera…at the actual students who are physically present.
It’s the strangest thing because often times he will say things TO the camera, and not to the students. It will be an awkward whisper sort of thing, where he sort of leans in to the tripod, and says something like… “The tall kid in the back has NO idea what the hell he is doing. I’d pan over to him right now…but I think he’s watching me. He’s so WEIRD.”
My interesting experiences with professors doesn’t stop there. Oh no…it doesn’t.
A professor whom I am very fond of, who teaches my history class, evidently thinks I am a homosexual.
It should be stated that I have no problem with homosexual people, It just so happens that I am NOT a homosexual, but rather a heterosexual. Evidently, I don’t always give off this vibe.
It was an innocent class discussion, and we were talking about the history of sexuality, and whether or not time period has anything to do with sexual attraction. Nobody was saying ANYTHING so I decided to speak up, and say that I believe time and culture both have apparent effects on sexual attraction. I cited that I was not particularly attracted to supposedly “beautiful” people from the 1960’s. I found them to dress weird, I found their mannerisms odd, and in no way saw them to be sexually attractive.
The professor was elated with my response, told me I made great points, and went on to lecture a few minutes about how much culture influences our sexual desires.
She then paused…and said, “Sean makes a great point when he says that for SOME reason…he was not attracted to the…people of the 1980’s. Now, Sean. We hear you say you are not attracted to them, and I can’t help but ask…when you say THEM…what do you mean?”
At this point…I am genuinely confused as to what the hell she is asking me. You know how teachers often ask leading questions? Or questions to make a point? I thought this was one of those times. So I replied with the simplest of answers.
“The people in the 1960’s. It’s like they are so different than us, it is hard to be sexually attracted to them.”
The professor then replies, “Okay…so you are not attracted to the….uh….the…is it men or women of the 1960’s?” (Notice how she puts men first. Alphabetical? I think NOT!)
My face immediately turns to an oversized tomato, I hunch down in my seat and try to disappear as every individual in the class is now in a hysterical fit of laughter.
From here. It could go one of 2 ways. I could interpret the classes laughter as a “Oh my GOD she didn’t know he was straight? Duuuuh he’s straight…he’s like…the coolest babe magnet on campus!”
Or…it could be the much more likely, “Oh man we just outed a closet homosexual in class. I bet he feels really awkward. I feel really weird. I’m going to make sure to never change in the same room as him. Now I am going to laugh at him.”
After the earthquake of humiliation subsided, the professor tried to defend herself, and she said, “Well, Sean…you never specified if they were actors or actresses, men or women.”
“Um…actually I did. I said actresses.”
Several of my classmates nodded their head in agreement, which sparked more laughter, because everyone just realized my professor just assumed that I was a homosexual.
Humiliated, I stayed 30 minutes after class just to prove to my professor that I was indeed STRAIGHT. (Note: My professor is a women. Note: I did not really stay after class and make out with my professor.)
Later that night, I did that thing where you carry a practical joke for too long, and then when you try to tell the truth, the person doesn’t believe you.
Ironically, this ALSO had to do with sexuality. Yay!
I was text messaging a girl from one of my classes, and made an offhand comment about how a man approached me flirtatiously and it made me feel uncomfortable. She replied with the typical, “Whatever…you liked it!”
To which I replied….not so typically, “Well yeah. I’m gay.”
She then replied, “OMG NO WAY!? I have tons of gay friends! That’s so cool I could tell the whole time LOL!”
I then thought…wow…that was way too easy. I wonder if I give off a weird vibe or something.
Then I replied, “Just kidding. I’m straight as an arrow.”
Then she said, “Yeaaah right, you don’t have to lie to me lol! I have a gay friend that is lookin for a guy actually. He likes tall guys. You want his number?”
Now I think she’s just messing with me, so I start to kid back.
“Hahaha yeah totally! Only if he is a cutie. Hahahaha.”
She took it seriously.
“Okay his number is 503-849-1621” (note: that is not the real number. I apologize to whoever has this number. You might get a prank call from one of the 1000000000 people that read this.)
I reply, “Hahahha! Man…you’re good. I was just kidding though. I’m straight. As an arrow. Like I said before.”
She replies, “Yeah WHATEVER! Don’t be dumb.”
I reply, “No really. I’m not kidding. Not even a little. I like women. Females.”
She says, “Suuuure. That’s why I always catch you staring at that guys butt in Philosophy? And that’s why you walk the way you do. And your LAUGH! Are you kidding me? You might as well wear a bumper sticker that says ‘boys only’ and keep your playlist of Coldplay and Elton John on repeat!”
I reply…stunned, “Listen…I was KIDDING before. I am a heterosexual man. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
She says, “There’s nothing else to be said. I know how it is, Sean. I know. You don’t need to be ashamed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Well, class should be interesting.
I don’t remember my 4th grade teacher getting offended by me not calling her Doctor Palmer. I do recall her getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on the bottom of my seat.
10 years later, and my professors are getting angry when I don’t refer to them as “Doctor,” and STILL getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on my chair.
“I DO WHAT I WANT!” I would say. Then I would proceed to fart loudly and blow my burp breath all over the hooded sweatshirt of the girl who sits in front of me.
Such acts of rebellion are not tolerated in the college classroom…so I refrain. But apparently, what IS tolerated in the college classroom is having a teacher video tape himself.
Every morning, at 7, I roll out of bed and muster up the courage to attend a class whose teacher does not directly teach real people.
He does something called “Distance Ed,” and videotapes himself during class, then uploads it to something called “the internet,” and that way people living in New York who thought it’d be fun to take a PHILOSOPHY CLASS THROUGH EASTERN OREGON UNIVERSITY, can watch him repeat our textbook, word for word. Because god forbid they actually have to read. It should be noted here that our professor…excuse me DOCTOR…wrote the textbook himself, and you should kiss his feet.
I had an interaction today with my professor that went a little something like this.
Me: So…is this data table a recent study? Or was it done a few years ago?
Doctor: (Looks into the camera. Self consciously adjusts his jeans…the camera adds ten pounds…clears his throat…adjusts his pants again…and repeats my question very loudly, like he’s reading off of a teleprompter for the first time in his life.) The question is, “How recent is this graph?” This is a really good question. A question that I am going to answer right now.
I now realize that he is doing his best Bob Barker impression and failing miserably. I also now realize that he has successfully talked for 20 seconds without saying ANYTHING.
Doctor: The answer to this question is…this is an outdated graph. It was done in 1979. And that is the answer to the question. (Clears his throat, adjusts his shirt, adjusts his tie. Smiles into the camcorder.)
It should also be noted here that his wife wakes up at 7 every morning to sit in a chair and point the camcorder at him. I am still unsure as to why she does this, because the man never moves, and he never looks away from the camera…at the actual students who are physically present.
It’s the strangest thing because often times he will say things TO the camera, and not to the students. It will be an awkward whisper sort of thing, where he sort of leans in to the tripod, and says something like… “The tall kid in the back has NO idea what the hell he is doing. I’d pan over to him right now…but I think he’s watching me. He’s so WEIRD.”
My interesting experiences with professors doesn’t stop there. Oh no…it doesn’t.
A professor whom I am very fond of, who teaches my history class, evidently thinks I am a homosexual.
It should be stated that I have no problem with homosexual people, It just so happens that I am NOT a homosexual, but rather a heterosexual. Evidently, I don’t always give off this vibe.
It was an innocent class discussion, and we were talking about the history of sexuality, and whether or not time period has anything to do with sexual attraction. Nobody was saying ANYTHING so I decided to speak up, and say that I believe time and culture both have apparent effects on sexual attraction. I cited that I was not particularly attracted to supposedly “beautiful” people from the 1960’s. I found them to dress weird, I found their mannerisms odd, and in no way saw them to be sexually attractive.
The professor was elated with my response, told me I made great points, and went on to lecture a few minutes about how much culture influences our sexual desires.
She then paused…and said, “Sean makes a great point when he says that for SOME reason…he was not attracted to the…people of the 1980’s. Now, Sean. We hear you say you are not attracted to them, and I can’t help but ask…when you say THEM…what do you mean?”
At this point…I am genuinely confused as to what the hell she is asking me. You know how teachers often ask leading questions? Or questions to make a point? I thought this was one of those times. So I replied with the simplest of answers.
“The people in the 1960’s. It’s like they are so different than us, it is hard to be sexually attracted to them.”
The professor then replies, “Okay…so you are not attracted to the….uh….the…is it men or women of the 1960’s?” (Notice how she puts men first. Alphabetical? I think NOT!)
My face immediately turns to an oversized tomato, I hunch down in my seat and try to disappear as every individual in the class is now in a hysterical fit of laughter.
From here. It could go one of 2 ways. I could interpret the classes laughter as a “Oh my GOD she didn’t know he was straight? Duuuuh he’s straight…he’s like…the coolest babe magnet on campus!”
Or…it could be the much more likely, “Oh man we just outed a closet homosexual in class. I bet he feels really awkward. I feel really weird. I’m going to make sure to never change in the same room as him. Now I am going to laugh at him.”
After the earthquake of humiliation subsided, the professor tried to defend herself, and she said, “Well, Sean…you never specified if they were actors or actresses, men or women.”
“Um…actually I did. I said actresses.”
Several of my classmates nodded their head in agreement, which sparked more laughter, because everyone just realized my professor just assumed that I was a homosexual.
Humiliated, I stayed 30 minutes after class just to prove to my professor that I was indeed STRAIGHT. (Note: My professor is a women. Note: I did not really stay after class and make out with my professor.)
Later that night, I did that thing where you carry a practical joke for too long, and then when you try to tell the truth, the person doesn’t believe you.
Ironically, this ALSO had to do with sexuality. Yay!
I was text messaging a girl from one of my classes, and made an offhand comment about how a man approached me flirtatiously and it made me feel uncomfortable. She replied with the typical, “Whatever…you liked it!”
To which I replied….not so typically, “Well yeah. I’m gay.”
She then replied, “OMG NO WAY!? I have tons of gay friends! That’s so cool I could tell the whole time LOL!”
I then thought…wow…that was way too easy. I wonder if I give off a weird vibe or something.
Then I replied, “Just kidding. I’m straight as an arrow.”
Then she said, “Yeaaah right, you don’t have to lie to me lol! I have a gay friend that is lookin for a guy actually. He likes tall guys. You want his number?”
Now I think she’s just messing with me, so I start to kid back.
“Hahaha yeah totally! Only if he is a cutie. Hahahaha.”
She took it seriously.
“Okay his number is 503-849-1621” (note: that is not the real number. I apologize to whoever has this number. You might get a prank call from one of the 1000000000 people that read this.)
I reply, “Hahahha! Man…you’re good. I was just kidding though. I’m straight. As an arrow. Like I said before.”
She replies, “Yeah WHATEVER! Don’t be dumb.”
I reply, “No really. I’m not kidding. Not even a little. I like women. Females.”
She says, “Suuuure. That’s why I always catch you staring at that guys butt in Philosophy? And that’s why you walk the way you do. And your LAUGH! Are you kidding me? You might as well wear a bumper sticker that says ‘boys only’ and keep your playlist of Coldplay and Elton John on repeat!”
I reply…stunned, “Listen…I was KIDDING before. I am a heterosexual man. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
She says, “There’s nothing else to be said. I know how it is, Sean. I know. You don’t need to be ashamed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Well, class should be interesting.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
What My Madden 10 Players Are Thinking
Like any other 19 year old American, I spend a hideous amount of time on mind-numbing video games. Mainly, sports games involving my fantasy teams...which is another hideous waste of time on it's own.
I've always wondered how these virtual depictions of these players really FEEL when I'm playing with them. What's that? You don't think these virtual players HAVE feelings!? Well...someone should be expecting a sack of coal under their tree this year.
Me? I'll be expecting NBA 2k10. And possibly the newest Tony Hawk. And Tony Hawk himself. Or a virtual depiction.
Here's the dialogue that most likely occurs between my players in the huddle.
Reggie Bush: Donovan! That was a HORRIBLE throw, man. I was 10 yards away from where you put that ball!
Donovan Mcnabb: Reggie, your speed is a 97, which is pretty unrealistic, it should be a 99, and your agility is a 95...so why the HELL couldn't you catch up to that ball?
Reggie Bush: Look...I'm not even a reciever. This kid...that tall goofy lookin dude eating popcorn, and listening to music while I get repeatedly HITSTICKED, put ME at Wide Reciever. I'm a running back!
Mcnabb: Alright, just sprint to it next time alright? My shoulder's getting sore.
Matt Birk: Your shoulder is sore? My body feels like I've been run over by a semi-truck. This kid has called 17 consecutive pass plays! My icon has been red for the past 30 minutes, and this kid won't get me a sub!
Me: REST UP, BIRK! Your FAT ASS isn't getting ANY BREAK! MMWWAAHAHA!
Anquan Boldin: That's because he didn't draft any back-up offensive lineman. He instead decided to draft 12 recievers and 9 cornerbacks.
Darren McFadden: And 5 running backs. If this fool put's me at Center...I'm out.
LaDanian Tomlinson: He ran the wildcat the entire first quarter. Do you understand what that does to me? I don't even remember what it feels like to hit a hole. I just stand out there in no-man's land, pretend to play quarterback, then get my helmet knocked off by Ray Lewis. It hurts. Really, really bad.
Mcnabb: Alright guys, I understand you are upset, and rightfully so. I mean...this kid hasn't used a timeout all season. But still, we've got a game to win! Alright...it looks like...I-form...uh...Weak out's to you Dallas Clark. L.T.- I'll look for you on the checkdown. Ready....Break!
Clark: I've ran this route every play this game. This is going to be an interception. This kid doesn't get it.
Mcnabb: Ah SHIT! My bad Dallas...I thought you were open!
Clark: Well, your awareness is a 93, but unfortunately, the kid controlling it has the Madden IQ of a 7 year old.
Bush: Is he picking his nose right now?
Boldin: Oh god. He just wiped it on the couch. That's disgusting. Now...he's laughing.
Me: GOD DAMNET MCNABB! THROW THE F*&#ING PIGSKIN!
Torry Holt: He's yelling. Alot. If anyone should be yelling...it should be ME. I have 1 reception on the year. He sends me deep every play, but never looks for me.
Mcnabb: Alright guys, that was my bad last time. He pressed A, but I'm pretty sure he meant Y. It's 4th and 37...what should we do?
Bush: Let's ask Madden.
L.T.: No. Don't you guys get it!? He is never going to ASK MADDEN. He is always going to run whatever he wants.
Mcnabb: You guys are going to hate this...but he's running the wildcat. And Brady Quinn is your lead blocker, L.T.
L.T.: I'm not doing it. I won't go out there.
McFadden: Great. It's always me. I'm gonna get hit 4 yards behind the line of scrimmage by a dude that weights 200 lbs more than me.
(McFadden breaks it for 41 yards, gets his helmet knocked off, and an injury icon pops up)
Darren McFadden has a broken collarbone. Would you like to bench him, or would you like to play him? The re-injury risk is 87%.
Me: McFADDEN!!?!?!? More like...McWUSS! GET BACK IN THERE!
Mcnabb: I honestly wonder if this kid has a heart. At all.
Holt: Alright...Donovan...c'mon man...throw it to me...just this once.
Mcnabb: Honestly, Torry I would love to get you some touches, but he's making us run a Flea Flicker, and he just put McFadden in instead of you at the no. 2 reciever spot.
L.T.: Last time I ran a flea flicker, I tore my ACL. And he kept playing me...because he thought it was funny to watch me limp when you handed off to me. This is hell.
Me: Flea Flicker!? YES! Let's go L.T. Don't be a SALLY.
Ladanian Tomlinson flicks it to Mcnabb, Mcnabb throws it to Anquan Boldin for 13 yards.
Anquan Boldin: Nice throw, Donovan.
Donovan: Oh god. Are you guys seeing this? He's on top of his couch, and just tied his blanket around his body. He's wearing it like a cape, and he's calling himself "SuperMadden." Now he's dancing. Very poorly.
McFadden: Can we just get this over with? If you didn't notice, I was laying on the ground that entire time because I am in so much pain. God help us all.
McNabb: Alright guys. I've got some terrible, terrible news. We are running a fake punt pass.
Boldin: But...it's 1st and 10!
Mcnabb: I know, I know. It's awful. This is never going to work. And worst of all...McFadden...you are the punter.
McFadden: Awesome. So...I'm guaranteed to get messed up, and most likely I am going to throw an interception.
(Play is good for a 7 yard gain. Torry Holt catches the pass off of Anquan Boldin's helmet.)
Me: GOD DAMNET! TORRY WHY THE HELL DID YOU CATCH THAT!? YOU SELFISH *&^*. Taking away touches from ANQUAN!
Holt: Why is he crying? Look at him. He's in a cape. And he is crying.
Matt Birk: I need oxygen as soon as possible. We've been running the no huddle for 11 minutes straight.
McFadden: I no longer have a collarbone. He won't take me out.
Me: I'm bored. This game is dumb. I wonder who's on Facebook.
Bush: Oh god! Don't reach for that green button! No! Not again!
McNabb: Well...see you guys next life. Except for you Torry. You're getting traded cuz you are selfish.
Boldin: I need my touches. And a contract extenstion.
Brady Quinn: Why the hell did he draft me?
I've always wondered how these virtual depictions of these players really FEEL when I'm playing with them. What's that? You don't think these virtual players HAVE feelings!? Well...someone should be expecting a sack of coal under their tree this year.
Me? I'll be expecting NBA 2k10. And possibly the newest Tony Hawk. And Tony Hawk himself. Or a virtual depiction.
Here's the dialogue that most likely occurs between my players in the huddle.
Reggie Bush: Donovan! That was a HORRIBLE throw, man. I was 10 yards away from where you put that ball!
Donovan Mcnabb: Reggie, your speed is a 97, which is pretty unrealistic, it should be a 99, and your agility is a 95...so why the HELL couldn't you catch up to that ball?
Reggie Bush: Look...I'm not even a reciever. This kid...that tall goofy lookin dude eating popcorn, and listening to music while I get repeatedly HITSTICKED, put ME at Wide Reciever. I'm a running back!
Mcnabb: Alright, just sprint to it next time alright? My shoulder's getting sore.
Matt Birk: Your shoulder is sore? My body feels like I've been run over by a semi-truck. This kid has called 17 consecutive pass plays! My icon has been red for the past 30 minutes, and this kid won't get me a sub!
Me: REST UP, BIRK! Your FAT ASS isn't getting ANY BREAK! MMWWAAHAHA!
Anquan Boldin: That's because he didn't draft any back-up offensive lineman. He instead decided to draft 12 recievers and 9 cornerbacks.
Darren McFadden: And 5 running backs. If this fool put's me at Center...I'm out.
LaDanian Tomlinson: He ran the wildcat the entire first quarter. Do you understand what that does to me? I don't even remember what it feels like to hit a hole. I just stand out there in no-man's land, pretend to play quarterback, then get my helmet knocked off by Ray Lewis. It hurts. Really, really bad.
Mcnabb: Alright guys, I understand you are upset, and rightfully so. I mean...this kid hasn't used a timeout all season. But still, we've got a game to win! Alright...it looks like...I-form...uh...Weak out's to you Dallas Clark. L.T.- I'll look for you on the checkdown. Ready....Break!
Clark: I've ran this route every play this game. This is going to be an interception. This kid doesn't get it.
Mcnabb: Ah SHIT! My bad Dallas...I thought you were open!
Clark: Well, your awareness is a 93, but unfortunately, the kid controlling it has the Madden IQ of a 7 year old.
Bush: Is he picking his nose right now?
Boldin: Oh god. He just wiped it on the couch. That's disgusting. Now...he's laughing.
Me: GOD DAMNET MCNABB! THROW THE F*&#ING PIGSKIN!
Torry Holt: He's yelling. Alot. If anyone should be yelling...it should be ME. I have 1 reception on the year. He sends me deep every play, but never looks for me.
Mcnabb: Alright guys, that was my bad last time. He pressed A, but I'm pretty sure he meant Y. It's 4th and 37...what should we do?
Bush: Let's ask Madden.
L.T.: No. Don't you guys get it!? He is never going to ASK MADDEN. He is always going to run whatever he wants.
Mcnabb: You guys are going to hate this...but he's running the wildcat. And Brady Quinn is your lead blocker, L.T.
L.T.: I'm not doing it. I won't go out there.
McFadden: Great. It's always me. I'm gonna get hit 4 yards behind the line of scrimmage by a dude that weights 200 lbs more than me.
(McFadden breaks it for 41 yards, gets his helmet knocked off, and an injury icon pops up)
Darren McFadden has a broken collarbone. Would you like to bench him, or would you like to play him? The re-injury risk is 87%.
Me: McFADDEN!!?!?!? More like...McWUSS! GET BACK IN THERE!
Mcnabb: I honestly wonder if this kid has a heart. At all.
Holt: Alright...Donovan...c'mon man...throw it to me...just this once.
Mcnabb: Honestly, Torry I would love to get you some touches, but he's making us run a Flea Flicker, and he just put McFadden in instead of you at the no. 2 reciever spot.
L.T.: Last time I ran a flea flicker, I tore my ACL. And he kept playing me...because he thought it was funny to watch me limp when you handed off to me. This is hell.
Me: Flea Flicker!? YES! Let's go L.T. Don't be a SALLY.
Ladanian Tomlinson flicks it to Mcnabb, Mcnabb throws it to Anquan Boldin for 13 yards.
Anquan Boldin: Nice throw, Donovan.
Donovan: Oh god. Are you guys seeing this? He's on top of his couch, and just tied his blanket around his body. He's wearing it like a cape, and he's calling himself "SuperMadden." Now he's dancing. Very poorly.
McFadden: Can we just get this over with? If you didn't notice, I was laying on the ground that entire time because I am in so much pain. God help us all.
McNabb: Alright guys. I've got some terrible, terrible news. We are running a fake punt pass.
Boldin: But...it's 1st and 10!
Mcnabb: I know, I know. It's awful. This is never going to work. And worst of all...McFadden...you are the punter.
McFadden: Awesome. So...I'm guaranteed to get messed up, and most likely I am going to throw an interception.
(Play is good for a 7 yard gain. Torry Holt catches the pass off of Anquan Boldin's helmet.)
Me: GOD DAMNET! TORRY WHY THE HELL DID YOU CATCH THAT!? YOU SELFISH *&^*. Taking away touches from ANQUAN!
Holt: Why is he crying? Look at him. He's in a cape. And he is crying.
Matt Birk: I need oxygen as soon as possible. We've been running the no huddle for 11 minutes straight.
McFadden: I no longer have a collarbone. He won't take me out.
Me: I'm bored. This game is dumb. I wonder who's on Facebook.
Bush: Oh god! Don't reach for that green button! No! Not again!
McNabb: Well...see you guys next life. Except for you Torry. You're getting traded cuz you are selfish.
Boldin: I need my touches. And a contract extenstion.
Brady Quinn: Why the hell did he draft me?
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Final Destination.
If you breathe, and you claim to be a human being, I am assuming you have seen The Final Destination. 3D. If you haven’t, I assume that you have been living under a rock, and are saving a lot of money on rent and utilities. Whether or not this describes you, I am here to tell you that 3D glasses are NOT safe to protect your eyes from UV rays.
Anyway, I recently saw The Final Destination, which is technically Final Destination 18, but apparently when you put “THE” in front of a sequel, it’s Hollywood language for, “Look, we know we’ve done this over far too many times, but let’s be real: You are still paying money to see these movies. $13.50 to be exact. Unless you aren’t seeing the 3D version. In which case you are lame.”
Don’t believe me? See titles such as, The Fast and Furious. It’s the 4th installment, but because they put THE and Vin Diesel in the film, it makes it okay.
Upon viewing the Great American Classic known as The Final Destination 3D, and having survived various snake attacks, flying screwdrivers, and seeing a dude’s organs get sucked out from his butthole, I found myself feeling lucky to be alive after the film. Like maybe…I cheated death. But as everyone who sees these movies knows, you can’t cheat death. And if you do, you will be killed in a very unlikely chain of events most likely involving fire, a semi-truck, and an attractive looking woman. And a coffee shop. Always coffee shops.
Here’s a sneak peek inside the conference board meeting room when they decided the uh…plot for The Final Destination:
Director: Alright everybody, I know it’s been a while, but I think now that a few years have past, we can all attack this film from the right angle…do what FINAL DESTINATION has never done BEFORE! Are we excited or WHAT!?
Actor 1: Um…yeah…I mean…nothing personal, but these situations aren’t exactly like…everyday things, you know? Like…does anyone actually go to NASCAR Races?
Director: The last thing I need from you is your negativity, Actor 1…Now go do some sit-ups, and work on delivering lines, and not sounding mentally challenged, then come back to me.
Actor 2: I think the death’s are cool and everything, but the script here says one of us is going to die crossing the street. Come on…that’s far too practical. People die like that all the time.
Director 2: Yeah…but do they die like that in 3D!!!!?!?!?!?!?
Actor 1: Well, it’s real life…so yes. It is a 3 dimensional death. I think if you are gonna start killing people off by way of car accident’s…you’ve really lost your touch.
Director 1: THAT’S IT! Actor 1…You are dying from getting your organs sucked out through your butthole. It’s going to happen.
Actor 1: Oh, god. Not this again. You told me last time I was gonna be the guy who got dragged down the street while being lit on fire because I am a racist.
Director 2: Yes. That was your PRIVLEDGE. Now…you get your guts sucked out through your ass. How’s that feel?
Actor 1: I cannot seriously answer that question because that is literally too absurd to begin to comprehend.
Actor 2: Yeah, that’s pretty messed up.
Director 2: Hey…um, that ceiling fan is going kinda fast. Do you think we could turn it down a bit?
Actor 1: Why? Are you cold?
Director 2: No it’s just…uh—
Actor 2: What…SAY IT!
Director 2: It’s just…well…in the movie, the ceiling fan spins out of control, while simultaneously someone slips on a puddle of hair gel, then as they are falling, the ceiling fan has irresponsibly sharp blades, and it decapitates the person. In several pieces. Aaand…I just don’t want that to happen.
(Silence)
Actor 1: THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I AM SAYING! This kind of shit is NOT believable! Why would a ceiling fan be so damn sharp? And why would there be a puddle of hair-gel on the FLOOR!?
Director 1: The gel is on the floor because the wind spilled it there. Happens all the time.
Actor 3: That did almost happen to me the other day.
Actor 1: You were on set. That’s why it happened. You were filming a movie. That is not real life.
Actor 3: I’m gonna go do sit-ups.
Director 2: Someone turn off that damn ceiling fan. And mop up the hair gel for god’s sake.
Actor 2: I think this meeting needs to be re-scheduled. Plus…I’ve gotta go get my car washed.
Director 2: Make sure to have a bird shit on your window, then get yourself locked in the car, then have the sunroof open while you’re in the car, then stick your head out the sunroof only to get decapitated by the soft, spinny thing that cleans your roof.
(Silence)
Actor 1: Is this how you live your life? Constantly looking for inconspicuous ways for people to die?
Actor 4: This meeting is Horseshit. I am going downstairs, and to do so…I am going to use an escalator.
Director 1: Make sure to not get your shoelace caught in the escalator, then cause the escalator to break, then get dragged in to the gears and motor of the escalator and turned into a slice of cheese with clothes on because you didn’t have the presence of mind to just remove your shoes and jump off the escalator.
Actor 2: Jesus Christ.
Actor 3: That is IT! I am going to a Nascar Race.
Director 3: Make sure that you don’t sit down and have a vision of everyone dying, then get your head chopped off by a flying wheel, but then realize it was just a vision, then get your body crushed by a flying engine, because let’s face it…flying engines are all over at NASCAR races.
Actor 1: Nobody is going to see this movie. And if they do…there will be a very humorous blog written about us by some kid on Facebook.
Anyway, I recently saw The Final Destination, which is technically Final Destination 18, but apparently when you put “THE” in front of a sequel, it’s Hollywood language for, “Look, we know we’ve done this over far too many times, but let’s be real: You are still paying money to see these movies. $13.50 to be exact. Unless you aren’t seeing the 3D version. In which case you are lame.”
Don’t believe me? See titles such as, The Fast and Furious. It’s the 4th installment, but because they put THE and Vin Diesel in the film, it makes it okay.
Upon viewing the Great American Classic known as The Final Destination 3D, and having survived various snake attacks, flying screwdrivers, and seeing a dude’s organs get sucked out from his butthole, I found myself feeling lucky to be alive after the film. Like maybe…I cheated death. But as everyone who sees these movies knows, you can’t cheat death. And if you do, you will be killed in a very unlikely chain of events most likely involving fire, a semi-truck, and an attractive looking woman. And a coffee shop. Always coffee shops.
Here’s a sneak peek inside the conference board meeting room when they decided the uh…plot for The Final Destination:
Director: Alright everybody, I know it’s been a while, but I think now that a few years have past, we can all attack this film from the right angle…do what FINAL DESTINATION has never done BEFORE! Are we excited or WHAT!?
Actor 1: Um…yeah…I mean…nothing personal, but these situations aren’t exactly like…everyday things, you know? Like…does anyone actually go to NASCAR Races?
Director: The last thing I need from you is your negativity, Actor 1…Now go do some sit-ups, and work on delivering lines, and not sounding mentally challenged, then come back to me.
Actor 2: I think the death’s are cool and everything, but the script here says one of us is going to die crossing the street. Come on…that’s far too practical. People die like that all the time.
Director 2: Yeah…but do they die like that in 3D!!!!?!?!?!?!?
Actor 1: Well, it’s real life…so yes. It is a 3 dimensional death. I think if you are gonna start killing people off by way of car accident’s…you’ve really lost your touch.
Director 1: THAT’S IT! Actor 1…You are dying from getting your organs sucked out through your butthole. It’s going to happen.
Actor 1: Oh, god. Not this again. You told me last time I was gonna be the guy who got dragged down the street while being lit on fire because I am a racist.
Director 2: Yes. That was your PRIVLEDGE. Now…you get your guts sucked out through your ass. How’s that feel?
Actor 1: I cannot seriously answer that question because that is literally too absurd to begin to comprehend.
Actor 2: Yeah, that’s pretty messed up.
Director 2: Hey…um, that ceiling fan is going kinda fast. Do you think we could turn it down a bit?
Actor 1: Why? Are you cold?
Director 2: No it’s just…uh—
Actor 2: What…SAY IT!
Director 2: It’s just…well…in the movie, the ceiling fan spins out of control, while simultaneously someone slips on a puddle of hair gel, then as they are falling, the ceiling fan has irresponsibly sharp blades, and it decapitates the person. In several pieces. Aaand…I just don’t want that to happen.
(Silence)
Actor 1: THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I AM SAYING! This kind of shit is NOT believable! Why would a ceiling fan be so damn sharp? And why would there be a puddle of hair-gel on the FLOOR!?
Director 1: The gel is on the floor because the wind spilled it there. Happens all the time.
Actor 3: That did almost happen to me the other day.
Actor 1: You were on set. That’s why it happened. You were filming a movie. That is not real life.
Actor 3: I’m gonna go do sit-ups.
Director 2: Someone turn off that damn ceiling fan. And mop up the hair gel for god’s sake.
Actor 2: I think this meeting needs to be re-scheduled. Plus…I’ve gotta go get my car washed.
Director 2: Make sure to have a bird shit on your window, then get yourself locked in the car, then have the sunroof open while you’re in the car, then stick your head out the sunroof only to get decapitated by the soft, spinny thing that cleans your roof.
(Silence)
Actor 1: Is this how you live your life? Constantly looking for inconspicuous ways for people to die?
Actor 4: This meeting is Horseshit. I am going downstairs, and to do so…I am going to use an escalator.
Director 1: Make sure to not get your shoelace caught in the escalator, then cause the escalator to break, then get dragged in to the gears and motor of the escalator and turned into a slice of cheese with clothes on because you didn’t have the presence of mind to just remove your shoes and jump off the escalator.
Actor 2: Jesus Christ.
Actor 3: That is IT! I am going to a Nascar Race.
Director 3: Make sure that you don’t sit down and have a vision of everyone dying, then get your head chopped off by a flying wheel, but then realize it was just a vision, then get your body crushed by a flying engine, because let’s face it…flying engines are all over at NASCAR races.
Actor 1: Nobody is going to see this movie. And if they do…there will be a very humorous blog written about us by some kid on Facebook.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Brett Favre's Wife's Viewpoint.
Brett: Ah, I am so relieved to put away the ol' helmet and pads. I am SO ready to be done honey!
Ms. Favre: You know...I really want to believe you. Really, I do. But--
Brett: Babe, come on. That was the past. Please, just believe me now. The shoulder is done, my legs are mush, I am hanging it up. I'm serious this time.
Ms. Favre: Well you know, as much fun as packing up our home, children and overall life from Green Bay, Wisconsin to New York City was, I'd like to stay put this summer, and possibly for longer than one NFL season.
Brett: Oh...you're telling ME! Football is the LAST thing I even want to think about right now. I mean, I am SOO done!
Ms. Favre: Well good, that whole changing your mind, reporting to the media, changing your mind, and reporting to the media again thing was getting really old.
Brett: Yeah. I told Ed Werder I was "unequivcolly," done playing football. Looking back on it, I don't even know what unequivocal means. But boy do I miss tossin' around the ol' pigskin.
Ms. Favre: Are you serious?
Brett: Babe, just because I love the game, doesn't mean I can't walk away from it. One thing you can always count on with me is that I will always be honest and up front. You know that, babe.
Ms. Favre: No. Really, I don't. I don't know that at all.
Brett Jr.: Daddy, can you make up your mind so I don't have to move again? I hate losing friends. Kids at school are taunting me calling me a "flip-flopper," and they tell me I'm too old to be a quarterback in gym class. I'm 8!
Brett: Son, let me tell you. We are not going ANYWHERE, and next time those punk kids tell you you can't play for them, go and play for another school in the division. Especially if that school has Adrian Peterson. That kid's unreal. God I would kill to play with him. It would help if the school had a strong defense and a familiar offensive playbook. Also, a dome would be ideal. Purple and Yellow team colors only. But this is nothing suggestive. At all.
Ms. Favre: Oh god. Here we go again.
Brett Jr.: But the thing is...there's this other younger boy. His name is Aaron, and he's really good. I keep trying to compete with him, and keep up with my younger days, but I think he's just better than me! It's terrible daddy!
Brett: Oh, I know son, I know. All you need to do is change your mind 17 times. Trust me, you don't want to do training camp, because lets face it...training camp is dumb. Then you should have a minor tear in your rotator cuff, leak some information to a fox reporter, and fly to Minnesota in the morning. Hand off to Adrian, stick it to Aaron, change your mind, change it back, sign 25 million dollar deal for 2 years, and repeat.
(Silence.)
Brett: Everyone will love you.
Ms. Favre: 2 years? That's awfully permanent, don't ya think?
Brett Jr.: Wow. That actually sounds like a horrible idea. I don't like Minnesota. I like going to school HERE. And Aaron is just better than me. I can deal with that. Move on to other things, you know?
Ms. Favre: What a mature, well thought out response. Great point Brett Jr!
Brett: Yeah you guys are right! Screw this whole football thing. I had my time in the spotlight. I am totally and completely ready to hang up the ol' shoulder pads. Yep. My time here is through. Totally done. Not even wanting to play anymore. I'm not healthy enough. All good things must come to an end.
(Tears.)
Ms. Favre: I am glad you are finally coming to your senses, Brett. I honestly thought for a second you were thinking about coming back AGAIN. I don't think the family could handle that.
Brett Jr.: Thanks alot daddy! I am so glad you will be home all the time now! Maybe you could help me with my homework!? Coach my little league team!?
Brett Jr.: Daddy?
Ms. Favre: Brett?
Brett: I am headin' to the High School to throw some passes to the high school kids. There may or may not be ESPN cameras there. Totally nothing football related at all. Community service. That's all it is. Then I am flying to Minneapolis in the morning. Nothing to do with the football team that plays there. I'm going to see Ryan Longwell. Great guy. Don't wait up for me! Seeya guys.
(Door shuts.)
Brett Jr.: Sage Rosenfels is pretty bad.
Ms. Favre: Mall of America, here we come!
Ms. Favre: You know...I really want to believe you. Really, I do. But--
Brett: Babe, come on. That was the past. Please, just believe me now. The shoulder is done, my legs are mush, I am hanging it up. I'm serious this time.
Ms. Favre: Well you know, as much fun as packing up our home, children and overall life from Green Bay, Wisconsin to New York City was, I'd like to stay put this summer, and possibly for longer than one NFL season.
Brett: Oh...you're telling ME! Football is the LAST thing I even want to think about right now. I mean, I am SOO done!
Ms. Favre: Well good, that whole changing your mind, reporting to the media, changing your mind, and reporting to the media again thing was getting really old.
Brett: Yeah. I told Ed Werder I was "unequivcolly," done playing football. Looking back on it, I don't even know what unequivocal means. But boy do I miss tossin' around the ol' pigskin.
Ms. Favre: Are you serious?
Brett: Babe, just because I love the game, doesn't mean I can't walk away from it. One thing you can always count on with me is that I will always be honest and up front. You know that, babe.
Ms. Favre: No. Really, I don't. I don't know that at all.
Brett Jr.: Daddy, can you make up your mind so I don't have to move again? I hate losing friends. Kids at school are taunting me calling me a "flip-flopper," and they tell me I'm too old to be a quarterback in gym class. I'm 8!
Brett: Son, let me tell you. We are not going ANYWHERE, and next time those punk kids tell you you can't play for them, go and play for another school in the division. Especially if that school has Adrian Peterson. That kid's unreal. God I would kill to play with him. It would help if the school had a strong defense and a familiar offensive playbook. Also, a dome would be ideal. Purple and Yellow team colors only. But this is nothing suggestive. At all.
Ms. Favre: Oh god. Here we go again.
Brett Jr.: But the thing is...there's this other younger boy. His name is Aaron, and he's really good. I keep trying to compete with him, and keep up with my younger days, but I think he's just better than me! It's terrible daddy!
Brett: Oh, I know son, I know. All you need to do is change your mind 17 times. Trust me, you don't want to do training camp, because lets face it...training camp is dumb. Then you should have a minor tear in your rotator cuff, leak some information to a fox reporter, and fly to Minnesota in the morning. Hand off to Adrian, stick it to Aaron, change your mind, change it back, sign 25 million dollar deal for 2 years, and repeat.
(Silence.)
Brett: Everyone will love you.
Ms. Favre: 2 years? That's awfully permanent, don't ya think?
Brett Jr.: Wow. That actually sounds like a horrible idea. I don't like Minnesota. I like going to school HERE. And Aaron is just better than me. I can deal with that. Move on to other things, you know?
Ms. Favre: What a mature, well thought out response. Great point Brett Jr!
Brett: Yeah you guys are right! Screw this whole football thing. I had my time in the spotlight. I am totally and completely ready to hang up the ol' shoulder pads. Yep. My time here is through. Totally done. Not even wanting to play anymore. I'm not healthy enough. All good things must come to an end.
(Tears.)
Ms. Favre: I am glad you are finally coming to your senses, Brett. I honestly thought for a second you were thinking about coming back AGAIN. I don't think the family could handle that.
Brett Jr.: Thanks alot daddy! I am so glad you will be home all the time now! Maybe you could help me with my homework!? Coach my little league team!?
Brett Jr.: Daddy?
Ms. Favre: Brett?
Brett: I am headin' to the High School to throw some passes to the high school kids. There may or may not be ESPN cameras there. Totally nothing football related at all. Community service. That's all it is. Then I am flying to Minneapolis in the morning. Nothing to do with the football team that plays there. I'm going to see Ryan Longwell. Great guy. Don't wait up for me! Seeya guys.
(Door shuts.)
Brett Jr.: Sage Rosenfels is pretty bad.
Ms. Favre: Mall of America, here we come!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
A day in the life of someone in those Smirnoff Ice Commercials
I am assuming you have seen these on television.
If not, you are missing out.
And again.
This is how I picture a sequence of days for the typical Smirnoff Ice drinker, according to the commercials.
Smirnoff Guy: (cracks open a Smirnoff Ice after rolling out of bed.)
Smirnoff Girl: I'm having so much fun because we had an excellent night of sexual relations last night. Thanks to Smirnoff Ice. Which you are drinking. At 8 in the morning.
Smirnoff Guy: If by "Sexual Relations," you mean we painted a random warehouse purple and wore light fixtures on our heads while dancing around in a rave-like fashion...yes our sexual relations were enjoyable.
Smirnoff Guy 2: (Walks into the bedroom) Hey guys...say...don't you think it's weird we had the money to buy that entire warehouse, and several gallons of purple paint...just to throw a makeshift Rave with enough Smirnoff Ice to quench the thirst of a thousand Alcoholics Anonymous members?
Girl: Well...I never thought of it that way. The 37 un-used fire extinguishers sure were convenient though.
Guy 1: I am just glad we are good enough friends with 75 people to invite them to our random warehouse rave. With alot of purple paint.
Girl: I can't believe I was there.
Guy 2: Alright guys, good talk, but I have to go to work now.
Guy 1: WORK!? What do you mean WORK!?
Guy 2: It's the place I go to make money. To pay off these ridiculous random parties we keep throwing.
Guy 1: What do you mean!? We drink SMIRNOFF ICE. When you drink smirnoff Ice, you don't work. You find empty pools on the top of buildings that you fill with used mattresses and cube-shaped foam pads.
Girl: Then you invite 130 of your closest, 23 year-old attractive looking male and female friends, and you jump into the pool over and over, doing various tricks, like backflips and corkscrews.
Guy 1: Don't forget the woodchipper that we own, and the fact that there will be NO problems with security, or the tedious task of carrying used cushions and foam pads up several flights of stairs.
Guy 2: It's like you guys think of this shit on your couch...sitting on your ASS all day, drinking Smirnoff Ice, then you just go and do it. Like it's that easy.
Guy 1: One minute we were sitting on the couch talking about it.
Girl: Then all of a sudden....it was insane. We Were There. (Trademark.)
Guy 2: Did you just say trademark?
Guy 1: I am so glad I have such a mass quantity of friends, who are racially diverse and all very attractive people, because racially predictable ugly people do NOT drink Smirnoff Ice.
Girl: I cannot wait to fill a vacant pool on a rooftop with foam and jump in it. Then I will probably have sex with alot of men, because Smirnoff Ice makes my Panties Drop.
Guy 2: Nothing makes your panties drop. You are the only one who makes your panties drop. Because you are a slut.
Guy 1: That's my girl. Now let's go get our woodchipper and pillows.
Girl: I love Smirnoff.
(Next Morning)
Guy 2: I am never drinking Smirnoff Ice again. My neck hurts from doing various acrobatic moves onto piles of foam, and I got fired from my job because all I do is drink Smirnoff Ice and plan parties that are ridiculously un-realistic.
Guy 1: Dude, chill out. I have this great idea for tonight.
Guy 2: You know what? No. I don't care how cool it is. I don't care how awesome your idea is. I don't care if it's "Insane," or "You can't believe you were there," all of these slogans are getting on my NERVES. You need to grow up.
Guy 1: But dude...I promise you. This is gonna be INSANE. And you're going to BE THERE.
Guy 2: No. I don't care if you find a random hill, wheelbarrows full of ice to keep our Smirnoff's cold, a 100 yard roll of plastic sheet, and sprinklers that go off at 10:30 every night.
Girl: What if we invite 46 of our best-looking, culturally diverse, physically fit 23 year old friends?
Guy 2: I don't even HAVE 23 friends. I don't even know where the hell you find all these people. I don't even care if you make the worlds greatest SLIP N SLIDE in the sweltering summer night heat. I have to wake up early to get the JOB that I LOST because of these outrageous PARTIES.
Girl: I know. It's insane. We were THERE.
Guy 1: Wait...did you just say SLIP N SLIDE!? DUDE!!! That's just what I was thinking! It's HOT.
Girl: It was hot. We had to do something. We're gonna do WHAT!? It was Crazy. And we were THERE.
Guy 2: Smirnoff Girl...you are consistently speaking in the incorrect tense, and I would appreciate it if something came out of your mouth that was NOT a slogan for Smirnoff Ice.
Girl: Sex.
Guy 2: I can't take you people anymore. I'm going to start drinking Bud-Light Lime so I can listen to MIA and get a Summer State Of Mind just to spite you guys.
Girl: Drinkability.
Guy 1: It's not summer until you bring out the Bud Light Lime.
If not, you are missing out.
And again.
This is how I picture a sequence of days for the typical Smirnoff Ice drinker, according to the commercials.
Smirnoff Guy: (cracks open a Smirnoff Ice after rolling out of bed.)
Smirnoff Girl: I'm having so much fun because we had an excellent night of sexual relations last night. Thanks to Smirnoff Ice. Which you are drinking. At 8 in the morning.
Smirnoff Guy: If by "Sexual Relations," you mean we painted a random warehouse purple and wore light fixtures on our heads while dancing around in a rave-like fashion...yes our sexual relations were enjoyable.
Smirnoff Guy 2: (Walks into the bedroom) Hey guys...say...don't you think it's weird we had the money to buy that entire warehouse, and several gallons of purple paint...just to throw a makeshift Rave with enough Smirnoff Ice to quench the thirst of a thousand Alcoholics Anonymous members?
Girl: Well...I never thought of it that way. The 37 un-used fire extinguishers sure were convenient though.
Guy 1: I am just glad we are good enough friends with 75 people to invite them to our random warehouse rave. With alot of purple paint.
Girl: I can't believe I was there.
Guy 2: Alright guys, good talk, but I have to go to work now.
Guy 1: WORK!? What do you mean WORK!?
Guy 2: It's the place I go to make money. To pay off these ridiculous random parties we keep throwing.
Guy 1: What do you mean!? We drink SMIRNOFF ICE. When you drink smirnoff Ice, you don't work. You find empty pools on the top of buildings that you fill with used mattresses and cube-shaped foam pads.
Girl: Then you invite 130 of your closest, 23 year-old attractive looking male and female friends, and you jump into the pool over and over, doing various tricks, like backflips and corkscrews.
Guy 1: Don't forget the woodchipper that we own, and the fact that there will be NO problems with security, or the tedious task of carrying used cushions and foam pads up several flights of stairs.
Guy 2: It's like you guys think of this shit on your couch...sitting on your ASS all day, drinking Smirnoff Ice, then you just go and do it. Like it's that easy.
Guy 1: One minute we were sitting on the couch talking about it.
Girl: Then all of a sudden....it was insane. We Were There. (Trademark.)
Guy 2: Did you just say trademark?
Guy 1: I am so glad I have such a mass quantity of friends, who are racially diverse and all very attractive people, because racially predictable ugly people do NOT drink Smirnoff Ice.
Girl: I cannot wait to fill a vacant pool on a rooftop with foam and jump in it. Then I will probably have sex with alot of men, because Smirnoff Ice makes my Panties Drop.
Guy 2: Nothing makes your panties drop. You are the only one who makes your panties drop. Because you are a slut.
Guy 1: That's my girl. Now let's go get our woodchipper and pillows.
Girl: I love Smirnoff.
(Next Morning)
Guy 2: I am never drinking Smirnoff Ice again. My neck hurts from doing various acrobatic moves onto piles of foam, and I got fired from my job because all I do is drink Smirnoff Ice and plan parties that are ridiculously un-realistic.
Guy 1: Dude, chill out. I have this great idea for tonight.
Guy 2: You know what? No. I don't care how cool it is. I don't care how awesome your idea is. I don't care if it's "Insane," or "You can't believe you were there," all of these slogans are getting on my NERVES. You need to grow up.
Guy 1: But dude...I promise you. This is gonna be INSANE. And you're going to BE THERE.
Guy 2: No. I don't care if you find a random hill, wheelbarrows full of ice to keep our Smirnoff's cold, a 100 yard roll of plastic sheet, and sprinklers that go off at 10:30 every night.
Girl: What if we invite 46 of our best-looking, culturally diverse, physically fit 23 year old friends?
Guy 2: I don't even HAVE 23 friends. I don't even know where the hell you find all these people. I don't even care if you make the worlds greatest SLIP N SLIDE in the sweltering summer night heat. I have to wake up early to get the JOB that I LOST because of these outrageous PARTIES.
Girl: I know. It's insane. We were THERE.
Guy 1: Wait...did you just say SLIP N SLIDE!? DUDE!!! That's just what I was thinking! It's HOT.
Girl: It was hot. We had to do something. We're gonna do WHAT!? It was Crazy. And we were THERE.
Guy 2: Smirnoff Girl...you are consistently speaking in the incorrect tense, and I would appreciate it if something came out of your mouth that was NOT a slogan for Smirnoff Ice.
Girl: Sex.
Guy 2: I can't take you people anymore. I'm going to start drinking Bud-Light Lime so I can listen to MIA and get a Summer State Of Mind just to spite you guys.
Girl: Drinkability.
Guy 1: It's not summer until you bring out the Bud Light Lime.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Conversations Between Hot Treadmill Girls and Buff Guys as Imagined by the Average Person in the Gym.
Buff Guy: I'm not even wearing this spaghetti-strap tank top to get looks from those hot girls on the treadmills. I'm wearing it for comfort purposes. I feel so free in it, you know?
Buff Guy 2: No. I have no idea what you are talking about, because I find any clothing to be ridiculously uncomfortable, and I just want to be naked all the time. I want to do curls all the time, naked. I want to do naked curls.
Treadmill Girl 1: Those buff guys are so hott. I say it with 2 t's to emphasize how hot they are and how much sex I want to have with them. Seeing their biceps makes me want to have alot of sex with them. All of the buff men.
Treadmill Girl 2: I love buff men.
Treadmill Girl 3: Buff men are hot and I want to have sex with them.
Treadmill Girl 2: Hey look at that buff guy wearing his shirt. What does it say?
Treadmill Girl 1: I can't read, which makes me attractive to buff guys.
Treadmill Girl 3: I love that buff man because he is wearing a shirt that says, "No, I'm not on steroids, but thanks for asking."
Treadmill Girl 1: That's so cool. I was actually thinking about asking him if he is on 'roids. But now I don't have to, because his shirt answered the question that I never actually asked.
Treadmill Girl 3: That's so sweet of him. I want him to "bench-press" me.
Treadmill Girl 2: I hope the buff men stare at me alot and like the way my butt looks when I run.
Buff Guy 1: I like staring at Treadmill Girl when she runs because I like the way her butt looks. Now watch my bicep when I lift heavy weights. Now watch me grunt.
Buff Guy 2: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHH. Oh....OH YEAH!
Treadmill Girl 3: I love when the men with big muscles lift large weights and grunt loudly so everyone in the gym looks at them and thinks about how much sex they want to have with them. I want to have so much sex with the men with big muscles.
Buff Guy 1: I am going to wipe my sweat off of my brow in front of the mirror to expose my 6-pack so the treadmill girls want to have sex with me.
Treadmill Girl 1: I love when he pulls his spaghetti strap shirt up so I can see his stomach, which I want to have sex with.
Treadmill Girl 2: Oh look, they are lifting heavy weights and grunting! Let's watch.
Treadmill Girls: (Watching attentively.)
Buff Guy 2: I love lifting large amounts of weight. The hot girls at the cardio-machines love it also. AAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGGH...OH YEAH!
Treadmill Girl 3: I really wish they would flex their muscles and pose in front of the mirror.
Treadmill Girl 2: I wish the buff men would kiss their arm muscles, then blow kisses to themself in the mirror, whilst simultaneously flexing.
Buff Guy 1: Did treadmill girl 2 just say "Whilst?"
Buff Guy 2: (Flexing in the mirror and kissing his bicep.)
Treadmill Girl 1: I hope they go tanning on a frequent basis, then come over here and say things to us, like "Nice Ass," and then give us pointless unsolicited advice on how we have improper form on our lifts, because we are women, and we are incapable of understanding the basic principles of fundamental resistance training.
Treadmill Girl 1&2: (Silence)
Treadmill Girl 1: I apologize for using big words. How unattractive of me. I should go ask that strong man what a "bench-press," is.
Buff Guys: (Saying at the exact same time): I hate girls who can read.
Treadmill Girl 2: I like to stare at this Cosmo mag while I run, because the way the letters are arranged look like puzzles, or a maze, and I like to run my finger through it.
Treadmill Girl 3: I like that too, but not as much as I like thinking about having sex with those hott strong men.
Buff Guy 2: I love when the hot treadmill girls think about having sex with me. The more weight I lift, the more badly they want to have sex with me.
Buff Guy 1: Are you on steiroids?
Treadmill Girl 1: Steiroids are attractive to me. I love steiroids. What's a benchpress?
Buff Guy 2: I'm going to go up to buff guy 3, and punch him and ask him how he's doing. After that, I am going to start humping him, in a mocking fashion, and stick my tongue out to the hot treadmill girls.
Treadmill Girl 3: Is that strong man making a sexual gesture with his hips? Why yes he is. How attractive.
Treadmill Girl 1: When he sticks his tongue out, it makes me fantasize sexually about him having sex with me. Sexually.
Treadmill Girl 2: The only reason I come to the gym is to watch these strong men lift weights. I don't care about my personal fitness. All I want to do is stare at their muscles.
Treadmill Girl 3: I don't find it weird, or off-putting when they blatently stare at our chests bouncing, and start drooling when we begin to sweat. It is my favorite thing that I like the most in the world.
Treadmill Girl 1 and 2: Let's go get a drink of water, and bend over so the muscle men interpret it as a sexual invitation, and hope they say something offensive when we are hydrating our bodies.
Buff Guy 1: Nice ass.
Buff Guy 2: Get some water for those tit-ay's too
(Buff Guy's High Five)
Treadmill Girl 1: Thank you. What is a "Bench-Press?"
Treadmill Girl 2: Will you curl me?
Treadmill Girl 3: My ass is good.
Buff Guy 2: No. I have no idea what you are talking about, because I find any clothing to be ridiculously uncomfortable, and I just want to be naked all the time. I want to do curls all the time, naked. I want to do naked curls.
Treadmill Girl 1: Those buff guys are so hott. I say it with 2 t's to emphasize how hot they are and how much sex I want to have with them. Seeing their biceps makes me want to have alot of sex with them. All of the buff men.
Treadmill Girl 2: I love buff men.
Treadmill Girl 3: Buff men are hot and I want to have sex with them.
Treadmill Girl 2: Hey look at that buff guy wearing his shirt. What does it say?
Treadmill Girl 1: I can't read, which makes me attractive to buff guys.
Treadmill Girl 3: I love that buff man because he is wearing a shirt that says, "No, I'm not on steroids, but thanks for asking."
Treadmill Girl 1: That's so cool. I was actually thinking about asking him if he is on 'roids. But now I don't have to, because his shirt answered the question that I never actually asked.
Treadmill Girl 3: That's so sweet of him. I want him to "bench-press" me.
Treadmill Girl 2: I hope the buff men stare at me alot and like the way my butt looks when I run.
Buff Guy 1: I like staring at Treadmill Girl when she runs because I like the way her butt looks. Now watch my bicep when I lift heavy weights. Now watch me grunt.
Buff Guy 2: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHH. Oh....OH YEAH!
Treadmill Girl 3: I love when the men with big muscles lift large weights and grunt loudly so everyone in the gym looks at them and thinks about how much sex they want to have with them. I want to have so much sex with the men with big muscles.
Buff Guy 1: I am going to wipe my sweat off of my brow in front of the mirror to expose my 6-pack so the treadmill girls want to have sex with me.
Treadmill Girl 1: I love when he pulls his spaghetti strap shirt up so I can see his stomach, which I want to have sex with.
Treadmill Girl 2: Oh look, they are lifting heavy weights and grunting! Let's watch.
Treadmill Girls: (Watching attentively.)
Buff Guy 2: I love lifting large amounts of weight. The hot girls at the cardio-machines love it also. AAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGGH...OH YEAH!
Treadmill Girl 3: I really wish they would flex their muscles and pose in front of the mirror.
Treadmill Girl 2: I wish the buff men would kiss their arm muscles, then blow kisses to themself in the mirror, whilst simultaneously flexing.
Buff Guy 1: Did treadmill girl 2 just say "Whilst?"
Buff Guy 2: (Flexing in the mirror and kissing his bicep.)
Treadmill Girl 1: I hope they go tanning on a frequent basis, then come over here and say things to us, like "Nice Ass," and then give us pointless unsolicited advice on how we have improper form on our lifts, because we are women, and we are incapable of understanding the basic principles of fundamental resistance training.
Treadmill Girl 1&2: (Silence)
Treadmill Girl 1: I apologize for using big words. How unattractive of me. I should go ask that strong man what a "bench-press," is.
Buff Guys: (Saying at the exact same time): I hate girls who can read.
Treadmill Girl 2: I like to stare at this Cosmo mag while I run, because the way the letters are arranged look like puzzles, or a maze, and I like to run my finger through it.
Treadmill Girl 3: I like that too, but not as much as I like thinking about having sex with those hott strong men.
Buff Guy 2: I love when the hot treadmill girls think about having sex with me. The more weight I lift, the more badly they want to have sex with me.
Buff Guy 1: Are you on steiroids?
Treadmill Girl 1: Steiroids are attractive to me. I love steiroids. What's a benchpress?
Buff Guy 2: I'm going to go up to buff guy 3, and punch him and ask him how he's doing. After that, I am going to start humping him, in a mocking fashion, and stick my tongue out to the hot treadmill girls.
Treadmill Girl 3: Is that strong man making a sexual gesture with his hips? Why yes he is. How attractive.
Treadmill Girl 1: When he sticks his tongue out, it makes me fantasize sexually about him having sex with me. Sexually.
Treadmill Girl 2: The only reason I come to the gym is to watch these strong men lift weights. I don't care about my personal fitness. All I want to do is stare at their muscles.
Treadmill Girl 3: I don't find it weird, or off-putting when they blatently stare at our chests bouncing, and start drooling when we begin to sweat. It is my favorite thing that I like the most in the world.
Treadmill Girl 1 and 2: Let's go get a drink of water, and bend over so the muscle men interpret it as a sexual invitation, and hope they say something offensive when we are hydrating our bodies.
Buff Guy 1: Nice ass.
Buff Guy 2: Get some water for those tit-ay's too
(Buff Guy's High Five)
Treadmill Girl 1: Thank you. What is a "Bench-Press?"
Treadmill Girl 2: Will you curl me?
Treadmill Girl 3: My ass is good.
True Life: I Am A Door To Door Marketer.
As I walked up the spiraling driveway, tapping my toes with precise delicacy to not make the dogs bark louder than they normally do, I started thinking about how badly my job sucks.
Then, I put my best foot forward, which is evidently ALWAYS the right one, because right is correct. I whispered to myself over and over again my script that I have PERFECTED. So far...it hasn't got me anywhere, but damn do I sound good.
"Hi, my name is Sean from College Works painting, how are you doing?"
"We are in the neighborhood offering free estimates, and I was wondering if you are looking to get any exterior work done."
"Why are you holding a gun?"
"Are you drooling?"
"I noticed you are stepping toward me in an angry fashion."
"Oh god. Will you please just take this flyer?"
"Ouch. Oh well, I never liked my right arm anyway. Have a nice day."
Before I could get to "arm," an attractive woman opens her door to see a 6'7 kid with a peculiarly shaved head, and a way-too-tightly fitting Sherwin Williams t-shirt.
As you might imagine, it was an extremely awkward encounter, and I tried to raise the awkwardness by letting out an uncomfortable laugh, like I do in most strange social situations.
Then me and the attractive woman did that thing where you move to your right, she moves to her left, you move to your left, she moves to her right, and you seem to dance in an intertwined inconvenience for what feels like 30 seconds, but is more like 3. Possibly the most flawed social encounter mechanism in the history of human civilization. At least I didn't headbutt her.
"How may I help you?"
"Hi. I'm Sean from College Works Painti--"
"We just got our house painted. Thanks."
She continues walking around the corner, and I glance back as I walk away shamefully to see her in her boyfriends python-arms that could suffocate my very existance in a matter of seconds.
He has several tattoo's, a boat with a wakeboard tower, and I have 300 flyers, and a Sherwin Williams T-shirt. With a hat to match.
As I heard the laughter in the distance, I tripped on a pebble, inviting more laughter and went on to drop alot of flyers and get really used to the phrase "No thanks, please never come back. Ever."
Onto the next house. I am hardly optimistic.
But this one seemed different. It seemed promising. Fading trim? Check. Car in the driveway? Check. No animals that want to take my head off? Check. No NRA sign on the front of the house? Check.
I knock my customary 4 times. At this point, I have it down to a science, really. It's 4 quick knocks, purposeful, but not overly agressive, demanding...but inviting. It's my fingers way of saying, "Hey...hear me out real quick. And let me paint your house. Thanks."
No answer. Surely they heard me. Right?
I try the fool-proof-4-knocks again. Nothing.
Then I hear some tiny footsteps approaching the front door.
Clank-clank-clank, it's a Black Lab...looks to be about 9 or 10 years old.
It's deep brown eyes peer into mine, looking as disappointed as I was. I thought the dog was the promising home-owner. He thought I was his owner. I was a door-to-door marketer, and he was a Black Lab.
In a delirious state of frusturation, I started giving my sales pitch to the Black Lab.
"Hey, I know you are a dog and all, but your fur looks like it's fading, and the trim on this house sucks. Let's be real. I'll dye your hair and paint your trim for 300 bucks."
"NO I will not give you a BATH."
"No. Playing fetch is not part of the contract. Besides, aren't you a bit old for that?"
I could tell by it's eyes that he thought I was crazy. Or maybe he really wanted to play fetch.
"I know bud, I'm disappointed too. I'll leave you this flyer so you can call me sometime if you wanna hang out."
Then I started barking and scratching the front door in a feeble attempt to get the home-owners attention. Instead, the neighbors looked at me weird and said they would call the police if I pee on the firehydrant in front of their lawn again.
To that...I said RAWRF!
They say after tasting defeat so many times, success tastes a little sweeter.
Or maybe they say after tasting defeat so many times, success has a lingering taste of failure, so no matter how decodent the meal you are enjoying, it will always have a slight hint of SHIT, even if it is Calimari at a gourmet restaurant, which may or may not taste like feces regardless.
Anyway, 3 houses later I came to the front door of a nice looking house that had a really inviting sign posted on the front door. Some people have little catch phrases that say "God Bless This Home," or "Please Take Off Your Shoes," or "Welcome."
Instead, this house said, "If we do not know you, or you haven't been invited, you have 20 seconds to leave, or take the consequences."
After I wiped the piss from my left thigh, I started to wonder what these consequences are, while simultaneously counting down from 20 to see if these people were for real. I got to 17 before I heard an intimidating grunt from the other side of the door, and then a high pitched scream that made me want to run in a bush and never say the word "house-paint," again.
I made my way out of there as fast as I could, screaming, "YOUR TRIM COULD USE SOME WORK...AND YOUR DECK NEEDS TO BE RE-STAINED."
4 missed gunshots and 3 houses later, a nice middle aged man opened his door with a welcoming smile, and no handguns or intimidating notes in sight.
I gave him my speech that has garnered zero dollars so far, and after everything I said, he said "yeah."
He was increadibly agreeable, and an easy sell who ended up agreeing to a free estimate, which is the ultimate goal, and I walked away with a genuine sense of accomplishment and no apparent gun-shot-wounds.
Success was tasted, and devoured. Even though there was an aftertaste of dog-bone, and a hint of "NO TRESPASSING...OR ELSE," it was still sweet, sweet nectar.
Then, I put my best foot forward, which is evidently ALWAYS the right one, because right is correct. I whispered to myself over and over again my script that I have PERFECTED. So far...it hasn't got me anywhere, but damn do I sound good.
"Hi, my name is Sean from College Works painting, how are you doing?"
"We are in the neighborhood offering free estimates, and I was wondering if you are looking to get any exterior work done."
"Why are you holding a gun?"
"Are you drooling?"
"I noticed you are stepping toward me in an angry fashion."
"Oh god. Will you please just take this flyer?"
"Ouch. Oh well, I never liked my right arm anyway. Have a nice day."
Before I could get to "arm," an attractive woman opens her door to see a 6'7 kid with a peculiarly shaved head, and a way-too-tightly fitting Sherwin Williams t-shirt.
As you might imagine, it was an extremely awkward encounter, and I tried to raise the awkwardness by letting out an uncomfortable laugh, like I do in most strange social situations.
Then me and the attractive woman did that thing where you move to your right, she moves to her left, you move to your left, she moves to her right, and you seem to dance in an intertwined inconvenience for what feels like 30 seconds, but is more like 3. Possibly the most flawed social encounter mechanism in the history of human civilization. At least I didn't headbutt her.
"How may I help you?"
"Hi. I'm Sean from College Works Painti--"
"We just got our house painted. Thanks."
She continues walking around the corner, and I glance back as I walk away shamefully to see her in her boyfriends python-arms that could suffocate my very existance in a matter of seconds.
He has several tattoo's, a boat with a wakeboard tower, and I have 300 flyers, and a Sherwin Williams T-shirt. With a hat to match.
As I heard the laughter in the distance, I tripped on a pebble, inviting more laughter and went on to drop alot of flyers and get really used to the phrase "No thanks, please never come back. Ever."
Onto the next house. I am hardly optimistic.
But this one seemed different. It seemed promising. Fading trim? Check. Car in the driveway? Check. No animals that want to take my head off? Check. No NRA sign on the front of the house? Check.
I knock my customary 4 times. At this point, I have it down to a science, really. It's 4 quick knocks, purposeful, but not overly agressive, demanding...but inviting. It's my fingers way of saying, "Hey...hear me out real quick. And let me paint your house. Thanks."
No answer. Surely they heard me. Right?
I try the fool-proof-4-knocks again. Nothing.
Then I hear some tiny footsteps approaching the front door.
Clank-clank-clank, it's a Black Lab...looks to be about 9 or 10 years old.
It's deep brown eyes peer into mine, looking as disappointed as I was. I thought the dog was the promising home-owner. He thought I was his owner. I was a door-to-door marketer, and he was a Black Lab.
In a delirious state of frusturation, I started giving my sales pitch to the Black Lab.
"Hey, I know you are a dog and all, but your fur looks like it's fading, and the trim on this house sucks. Let's be real. I'll dye your hair and paint your trim for 300 bucks."
"NO I will not give you a BATH."
"No. Playing fetch is not part of the contract. Besides, aren't you a bit old for that?"
I could tell by it's eyes that he thought I was crazy. Or maybe he really wanted to play fetch.
"I know bud, I'm disappointed too. I'll leave you this flyer so you can call me sometime if you wanna hang out."
Then I started barking and scratching the front door in a feeble attempt to get the home-owners attention. Instead, the neighbors looked at me weird and said they would call the police if I pee on the firehydrant in front of their lawn again.
To that...I said RAWRF!
They say after tasting defeat so many times, success tastes a little sweeter.
Or maybe they say after tasting defeat so many times, success has a lingering taste of failure, so no matter how decodent the meal you are enjoying, it will always have a slight hint of SHIT, even if it is Calimari at a gourmet restaurant, which may or may not taste like feces regardless.
Anyway, 3 houses later I came to the front door of a nice looking house that had a really inviting sign posted on the front door. Some people have little catch phrases that say "God Bless This Home," or "Please Take Off Your Shoes," or "Welcome."
Instead, this house said, "If we do not know you, or you haven't been invited, you have 20 seconds to leave, or take the consequences."
After I wiped the piss from my left thigh, I started to wonder what these consequences are, while simultaneously counting down from 20 to see if these people were for real. I got to 17 before I heard an intimidating grunt from the other side of the door, and then a high pitched scream that made me want to run in a bush and never say the word "house-paint," again.
I made my way out of there as fast as I could, screaming, "YOUR TRIM COULD USE SOME WORK...AND YOUR DECK NEEDS TO BE RE-STAINED."
4 missed gunshots and 3 houses later, a nice middle aged man opened his door with a welcoming smile, and no handguns or intimidating notes in sight.
I gave him my speech that has garnered zero dollars so far, and after everything I said, he said "yeah."
He was increadibly agreeable, and an easy sell who ended up agreeing to a free estimate, which is the ultimate goal, and I walked away with a genuine sense of accomplishment and no apparent gun-shot-wounds.
Success was tasted, and devoured. Even though there was an aftertaste of dog-bone, and a hint of "NO TRESPASSING...OR ELSE," it was still sweet, sweet nectar.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
The rock that sits in my stomach.
"Hi my name is Linda, and while she asks you questions, I am going to shave you!"
I should have known that this random sequence of words being uttered to me was the start of a really, really bad day.
Then again, that patch of hair on my right knee was really starting to bug me...
The worst part about getting surgery is the repetitive questions that are asked to you, mostly being, "So, Sean...what do you do? How did you do this?"
"Yeah, random nurse...sometimes I just plant awkwardly with my full body weight on my right leg to see how MUCH of my Meniscus I can tear at one time. I then repeat the process over and over, until I am lucky enough to see people like you who can ask me repetitive questions. My name is Sean, and tearing meniscuses is what I DO!"
Then I realized answering sarcastically to someone that is basically in charge of your life, while you are unconscious for the next 3 hours is probably not a great idea.
As annoying as some of these questions were, my favorite by far was, "What side are we operating on today?"
"Um...shouldn't you KNOW that? Pardon me for feeling a little un-easy...but you're getting paid for this. I think it's the least you can do to know the correct knee you are going to be cutting open."
Yeah, the side we are operating on today is GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE.
After a brief tyraid involving me, the BearClaws robe that they make you wear, and some elderly people as casualties to my brief manic streak, peace was restored and they were able to operate on my RIGHT knee...which was also my correct one, thank allah.
Before that, the nurses made a comment on my resting heart-rate. It was 40, and basically what they said was if I were an elderley person, they would be fearing for my life. I couldn't tell if that meant I was in really good shape, or if that meant I was wearing adult diapers. Turns out it was a little bit of both. I guess it just DEPENDS. GET IT!?
Next, a very short man was my anasthesiologist, and the nurse kept dropping hints and jokes about our very apparent height differential.
"It's nice to have a TALL man around here for once," she would say, and jokingly punch him in the arm.
"Pardon him for being a little SHORT with you...he's just having a bad day."
"Hopefully this isn't a TALL order for you to administer drugs to this young man on such SHORT notice."
I decided now would be a good time to stop laughing, as I looked at this man and he appeared that he just wanted to absolutely tear the IV's out of my arm and challenge me to a right-legged-hopping contest that he would UNDOUBTEDLY win because his right leg is healthy and able, but he was obviously also a Leprechaun, and everyone knows leprechauns are excellent when it comes to jumping contests.
The rest of this story gets a little fuzzy because I was under the influence of anasthesia gases, which ALWAYS smells like a mix of carrots and Sprite. Don't believe me? TRY IT.
Anyway, the leprechaun man proceeded to ask me what side they are operating on, and I told him, "Hearts, Stars and Horseshoes, Clovers and Blue Moons, Pots of Gold and Rainbows..."
Instead of saying "And me Red Balloons," in his undoubtedly thick Irish accent, he instead looked at me, and gave me the finger.
That's the last thing I remember before I woke up in the recovery room, and the truth of that story is debatable but if you ask ANYONE who was there, I bet they will recall it just like I did, because anasthesia is awesome.
As awesome as anasthesia might be, knee surgery in itself is actually the OPPOSITE of awesome.
I never knew this before, but getting a knee surgery actually advances your age by at least 50 years. I went into the operating room as a 19 year old with a resting heart rate of 40, and I left as a 69 year old grumpy man who cant walk on his own or control his bowel movements.
It has now been about 60 hours since my surgery itself, and I have yet to have a successful bowel movement, and just about 20 minutes ago, my mother came into the room and uttered the most depressing phrase I have heard in a while.
"You get one yet?"
"No, Mom."
"Well...you want some prunes?"
"No, Mom. I ate 17 this morning."
"Well, do you want me to take you for a walk?"
Good. Now I was not only feeling like I was 70 years old, but I was also feeling like a DOG.
A DOG WHO CAN NOT SHIT.
After about 13 prunes, and a half-mile walk that took about 15 minutes, I still feel like all the food I have eaten in the past 2 days is sitting like a rock in my stomach. A rock that will eventually be pushed out in a very, very painful fashion. A rock that may or may not be being pushed out AS I WRITE THIS. MMMWAAHAHAHAHA.
Seriously though. That would be awesome. I am currently flipping back and forth between little rascals and Man v.s. Wild, I am feeling terribly intimidated by Alfalfa's masculinity and Bear Gryll's mobility and ability to survive through ANYTHING.
I would like to see how he would do nearing 72 hours without a bowel movement, and being force-fed prunes, and crutching for distances up to ONE HALF MILE. ON CRUTCHES!? You're right, he'd probably do fine. But I am taller than him, and my right knee has less hair on it than his.
I should have known that this random sequence of words being uttered to me was the start of a really, really bad day.
Then again, that patch of hair on my right knee was really starting to bug me...
The worst part about getting surgery is the repetitive questions that are asked to you, mostly being, "So, Sean...what do you do? How did you do this?"
"Yeah, random nurse...sometimes I just plant awkwardly with my full body weight on my right leg to see how MUCH of my Meniscus I can tear at one time. I then repeat the process over and over, until I am lucky enough to see people like you who can ask me repetitive questions. My name is Sean, and tearing meniscuses is what I DO!"
Then I realized answering sarcastically to someone that is basically in charge of your life, while you are unconscious for the next 3 hours is probably not a great idea.
As annoying as some of these questions were, my favorite by far was, "What side are we operating on today?"
"Um...shouldn't you KNOW that? Pardon me for feeling a little un-easy...but you're getting paid for this. I think it's the least you can do to know the correct knee you are going to be cutting open."
Yeah, the side we are operating on today is GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE.
After a brief tyraid involving me, the BearClaws robe that they make you wear, and some elderly people as casualties to my brief manic streak, peace was restored and they were able to operate on my RIGHT knee...which was also my correct one, thank allah.
Before that, the nurses made a comment on my resting heart-rate. It was 40, and basically what they said was if I were an elderley person, they would be fearing for my life. I couldn't tell if that meant I was in really good shape, or if that meant I was wearing adult diapers. Turns out it was a little bit of both. I guess it just DEPENDS. GET IT!?
Next, a very short man was my anasthesiologist, and the nurse kept dropping hints and jokes about our very apparent height differential.
"It's nice to have a TALL man around here for once," she would say, and jokingly punch him in the arm.
"Pardon him for being a little SHORT with you...he's just having a bad day."
"Hopefully this isn't a TALL order for you to administer drugs to this young man on such SHORT notice."
I decided now would be a good time to stop laughing, as I looked at this man and he appeared that he just wanted to absolutely tear the IV's out of my arm and challenge me to a right-legged-hopping contest that he would UNDOUBTEDLY win because his right leg is healthy and able, but he was obviously also a Leprechaun, and everyone knows leprechauns are excellent when it comes to jumping contests.
The rest of this story gets a little fuzzy because I was under the influence of anasthesia gases, which ALWAYS smells like a mix of carrots and Sprite. Don't believe me? TRY IT.
Anyway, the leprechaun man proceeded to ask me what side they are operating on, and I told him, "Hearts, Stars and Horseshoes, Clovers and Blue Moons, Pots of Gold and Rainbows..."
Instead of saying "And me Red Balloons," in his undoubtedly thick Irish accent, he instead looked at me, and gave me the finger.
That's the last thing I remember before I woke up in the recovery room, and the truth of that story is debatable but if you ask ANYONE who was there, I bet they will recall it just like I did, because anasthesia is awesome.
As awesome as anasthesia might be, knee surgery in itself is actually the OPPOSITE of awesome.
I never knew this before, but getting a knee surgery actually advances your age by at least 50 years. I went into the operating room as a 19 year old with a resting heart rate of 40, and I left as a 69 year old grumpy man who cant walk on his own or control his bowel movements.
It has now been about 60 hours since my surgery itself, and I have yet to have a successful bowel movement, and just about 20 minutes ago, my mother came into the room and uttered the most depressing phrase I have heard in a while.
"You get one yet?"
"No, Mom."
"Well...you want some prunes?"
"No, Mom. I ate 17 this morning."
"Well, do you want me to take you for a walk?"
Good. Now I was not only feeling like I was 70 years old, but I was also feeling like a DOG.
A DOG WHO CAN NOT SHIT.
After about 13 prunes, and a half-mile walk that took about 15 minutes, I still feel like all the food I have eaten in the past 2 days is sitting like a rock in my stomach. A rock that will eventually be pushed out in a very, very painful fashion. A rock that may or may not be being pushed out AS I WRITE THIS. MMMWAAHAHAHAHA.
Seriously though. That would be awesome. I am currently flipping back and forth between little rascals and Man v.s. Wild, I am feeling terribly intimidated by Alfalfa's masculinity and Bear Gryll's mobility and ability to survive through ANYTHING.
I would like to see how he would do nearing 72 hours without a bowel movement, and being force-fed prunes, and crutching for distances up to ONE HALF MILE. ON CRUTCHES!? You're right, he'd probably do fine. But I am taller than him, and my right knee has less hair on it than his.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The House That Bent Me Over
What do you get when you combine three 14-hour-days, a handle-bar moustache, and 17 tubes of caulking!?
A really fuckin' good time!
I have started painting houses lately, in an effort to make money in this shit-show of an economy. Work isn't exactly easy to come by, so I have officially decided to essentially be a sweatshop worker for the summer. The only difference is that those lucky bastards probably don't have to see a paintbrush. Right now, using my bloody fingers to construct a sneaker sounds awfully appealing.
Ok, you're right. It's not THAT bad. I am getting paid, and as far as I know, I am not the subject of any broken labor-laws...yet.
As Bob Marley blasted from the iHome, and assured me to "Not worry about a thing, because every little thing is gonna be alright," I had to turn the corner around the re-painted, and re-painted, and re-painted side of the house with way too many nail-holes to stare that iPod straight in the face and say, "Thanks, but no thanks Bob. I beg to differ."
Turns out every little thing was not going to be alright, but it got me to thinking about the last time I heard that song, it was the part in "I Am Legend," and the dog dies in Will Smith's arms before it becomes a Zombie-Dog. Then I remembered I cried during that part. Alot.
And for those of you who have not seen I Am Legend, sorry for ruining it for you, and welcome to 2009.
The contrast between the peaceful reggae, and the sheer exhaustion experienced from over 40 hours of work in 3 days was too damn ironic to even acknowledge at the time.
Perhaps fittingly, the iHome was on shuffle, yet insisted on playing this damn song over and over, mocking me in the 85 degree summer heat, as the dust clouds clogged my nostrils, and the sun blistered my newly-shaved head.
Standing a sure 18 inches off of the ground with the aid of an A-frame ladder, with my knees wobbling like I was staring down the slope of Mt. Everest, a tiny voice catches my attention.
"I like to catch Caterpillars. I caught a Caterpillar. These Caterpillars are big, are they? I have good balance, do I? Look at my Caterpillars, will you? I have big feet, do I? It's hot out here, is it?"
Without looking, I was wondering if it was Yoda talking to me, with such peculiar grammatical habits, but it turns out it was a young girl. The daughter of our client with an affinity for caterpillar's, and a callous disregard for using conjunctions properly.
She was 4, I am a writing major, and it was a long, long, long day(s).
It all sort of clouded into one long day, and I lost all concept of time, and all patience regarding...EVERYTHING.
I knew that I had hit rock bottom when their adorable daugters were telling me about the grasshoppers they caught, and the only verbal reply I could think of was, "I....DON'T....CARE!!!!"
I was able to supress my anger, and then their father strolled along, like he always had done, standing a strapping 6'4, 235 and a handle-bar moustache that would make Tom Selleck jealous.
"This nail-hole needs to be re-caulked," he said.
"Yeah? That's weird, because I went over that. 3 times. You're house was poorly constructed, and you are asking me to do the work of the contractors. I am sorry, wood cracks. Splits happen. Imperfections are a part of life, just look at your moustache. Now, I appreciate your suggestion, but I am going to continue working. Oh, and if you spent as much time inspecting your house for nail-holes as you did teaching your daugter grammar lessons, we would all be better off. Good day."
Ok, I didn't actually say that. I just bit my tongue as I thought about how I looked in the garage and saw that this man had enough guns and ammunition to win a war for a third-world country. This is not to mention the fact that he could easily snap my neck into 6 different pieces.
So, I said, "Okay, I'll go over it."
It was the strangest contrast of things. This man was easily one of the most intimidating people I have ever come across, but he was also genuinely nice. Just a very cool, nice guy. A very cool, nice guy who happened to be paying thousands of dollars for his paint-job, and wanted it done right.
He also HATED nail-holes, but who doesn't, really?
"These nail-holes need to be caulked."
Yeah, I got that the first 3 times.
"Mommy doesn't like the paint," said the 4-year-old un-filtered truth teller. Kids say the darndest things.
I found myself in a familiar position, on a ladder, scared to death, with a 4-year-old barking orders to me, telling me about how she likes to make mud-pies, and the fact that, "truthfully Sean, you are doing a SHITTY job on this house."
She never said those exact words, but she may as well have.
My co-worker asked the girl if she likes the paint.
"Yeah. But mommy doesn't. Nope, nope she doesn't."
Too bad mommy writes the checks, not her daugter.
"I write the checks, do I?"
Don't worry, about a thing...
Throughout the job, I disregarded the song, and chose to worry, more often than not, about every little thing. Because every little thing was the farthest thing from alright that I could comprehend.
"Mommy say's the Bob Marley song is misleading."
Seaney agrees.
We ran out of paint. We spilled. I spilled. I painted, sometimes on places that shouldn't have been. Sometimes too much, sometimes too little.
We caulked, until our fingers turned blue, or white, or green, or whatever paint was around.
I can't count on my fingers and toes how many bugs just sat in the pool of fresh paint brushed against the face of the house, dying in the toxic substance, but even worse...I can't count how many bugs died by drowning in the pool of my own sweat on my chest from the longest 3 days of my life.
I watched the bugs withering away in my bodies natural air-conditioning, and again, I found myself envious of their current state.
"You missed a nail-hole up here," said the man that could end my life with his left index finger...without the assistance of his small army of weapons.
"I'll get it."
It was so hard to hate the customer. The customer was always right. The Customer was always picky, and the customer always hated nail-holes. He HATED nail-holes.
It would have been easy to hate the customer, but he really was nice. They were all nice. Very nice people.
He would come outside while we caulked, and painted, and he would talk to us like a fellow college student.
He would have been so EASY to hate, but he made himself likeable, accessable to our 19 year old sense of humor.
He periodically threw out words like "fag, pussy, shit, fuck and cock," that made him seem alot more hip than he probably was.
"College is for pussies," he would say.
"You missed a nail-hole," he would say. Far too often.
He made jokes about our bosses sexuality, we laughed, we disagreed with the Bob Marley song.
"Mommy can't believe you guys are still here. Aren't there some sort of labor laws being broken?"
We genuinely hoped so.
All in all, we wrapped it up last night, as the sun had set, and porch-lights were our only guidance.
Porch-lights from the deck that we didn't get around to staining. Not enough time.
"Mommy says we are just going to do the deck ourselves. Because you guys are taking so damn long, are you?"
As we packed up the last of our undoubtedly insufficient supplies, 3 bodies piled into a small red-pickup. One of them about 8 inches taller than the rest, and undoubtedly less qualified, we shook hands with the handle-bar moustache. Partly excited that we finally finished, completely exhausted and overwhelmingly estatic that we never got to see the ammunition up close, I recieved that HARDEST handshake of my life.
It's like he thought about every nail-hole we missed, every sploch of white we had to re-touch, every year of college education we were about to get, that he never will have, and transferred that sheer agression into one handshake.
As I heard the bones crack in my right hand, and my knuckles shift to a whole new position, I couldn't help but hear an eerily soothing sound in the background.
Don't worry, about a thing. Because every little thing, is gonna be alright.
As we rode off into the sunset, I realized what we just did wasn't quite the Holocaust, but at the time, it felt damn close.
But hey...we're getting paid.
"Mommy says she's glad those painters are gone, is she?"
A really fuckin' good time!
I have started painting houses lately, in an effort to make money in this shit-show of an economy. Work isn't exactly easy to come by, so I have officially decided to essentially be a sweatshop worker for the summer. The only difference is that those lucky bastards probably don't have to see a paintbrush. Right now, using my bloody fingers to construct a sneaker sounds awfully appealing.
Ok, you're right. It's not THAT bad. I am getting paid, and as far as I know, I am not the subject of any broken labor-laws...yet.
As Bob Marley blasted from the iHome, and assured me to "Not worry about a thing, because every little thing is gonna be alright," I had to turn the corner around the re-painted, and re-painted, and re-painted side of the house with way too many nail-holes to stare that iPod straight in the face and say, "Thanks, but no thanks Bob. I beg to differ."
Turns out every little thing was not going to be alright, but it got me to thinking about the last time I heard that song, it was the part in "I Am Legend," and the dog dies in Will Smith's arms before it becomes a Zombie-Dog. Then I remembered I cried during that part. Alot.
And for those of you who have not seen I Am Legend, sorry for ruining it for you, and welcome to 2009.
The contrast between the peaceful reggae, and the sheer exhaustion experienced from over 40 hours of work in 3 days was too damn ironic to even acknowledge at the time.
Perhaps fittingly, the iHome was on shuffle, yet insisted on playing this damn song over and over, mocking me in the 85 degree summer heat, as the dust clouds clogged my nostrils, and the sun blistered my newly-shaved head.
Standing a sure 18 inches off of the ground with the aid of an A-frame ladder, with my knees wobbling like I was staring down the slope of Mt. Everest, a tiny voice catches my attention.
"I like to catch Caterpillars. I caught a Caterpillar. These Caterpillars are big, are they? I have good balance, do I? Look at my Caterpillars, will you? I have big feet, do I? It's hot out here, is it?"
Without looking, I was wondering if it was Yoda talking to me, with such peculiar grammatical habits, but it turns out it was a young girl. The daughter of our client with an affinity for caterpillar's, and a callous disregard for using conjunctions properly.
She was 4, I am a writing major, and it was a long, long, long day(s).
It all sort of clouded into one long day, and I lost all concept of time, and all patience regarding...EVERYTHING.
I knew that I had hit rock bottom when their adorable daugters were telling me about the grasshoppers they caught, and the only verbal reply I could think of was, "I....DON'T....CARE!!!!"
I was able to supress my anger, and then their father strolled along, like he always had done, standing a strapping 6'4, 235 and a handle-bar moustache that would make Tom Selleck jealous.
"This nail-hole needs to be re-caulked," he said.
"Yeah? That's weird, because I went over that. 3 times. You're house was poorly constructed, and you are asking me to do the work of the contractors. I am sorry, wood cracks. Splits happen. Imperfections are a part of life, just look at your moustache. Now, I appreciate your suggestion, but I am going to continue working. Oh, and if you spent as much time inspecting your house for nail-holes as you did teaching your daugter grammar lessons, we would all be better off. Good day."
Ok, I didn't actually say that. I just bit my tongue as I thought about how I looked in the garage and saw that this man had enough guns and ammunition to win a war for a third-world country. This is not to mention the fact that he could easily snap my neck into 6 different pieces.
So, I said, "Okay, I'll go over it."
It was the strangest contrast of things. This man was easily one of the most intimidating people I have ever come across, but he was also genuinely nice. Just a very cool, nice guy. A very cool, nice guy who happened to be paying thousands of dollars for his paint-job, and wanted it done right.
He also HATED nail-holes, but who doesn't, really?
"These nail-holes need to be caulked."
Yeah, I got that the first 3 times.
"Mommy doesn't like the paint," said the 4-year-old un-filtered truth teller. Kids say the darndest things.
I found myself in a familiar position, on a ladder, scared to death, with a 4-year-old barking orders to me, telling me about how she likes to make mud-pies, and the fact that, "truthfully Sean, you are doing a SHITTY job on this house."
She never said those exact words, but she may as well have.
My co-worker asked the girl if she likes the paint.
"Yeah. But mommy doesn't. Nope, nope she doesn't."
Too bad mommy writes the checks, not her daugter.
"I write the checks, do I?"
Don't worry, about a thing...
Throughout the job, I disregarded the song, and chose to worry, more often than not, about every little thing. Because every little thing was the farthest thing from alright that I could comprehend.
"Mommy say's the Bob Marley song is misleading."
Seaney agrees.
We ran out of paint. We spilled. I spilled. I painted, sometimes on places that shouldn't have been. Sometimes too much, sometimes too little.
We caulked, until our fingers turned blue, or white, or green, or whatever paint was around.
I can't count on my fingers and toes how many bugs just sat in the pool of fresh paint brushed against the face of the house, dying in the toxic substance, but even worse...I can't count how many bugs died by drowning in the pool of my own sweat on my chest from the longest 3 days of my life.
I watched the bugs withering away in my bodies natural air-conditioning, and again, I found myself envious of their current state.
"You missed a nail-hole up here," said the man that could end my life with his left index finger...without the assistance of his small army of weapons.
"I'll get it."
It was so hard to hate the customer. The customer was always right. The Customer was always picky, and the customer always hated nail-holes. He HATED nail-holes.
It would have been easy to hate the customer, but he really was nice. They were all nice. Very nice people.
He would come outside while we caulked, and painted, and he would talk to us like a fellow college student.
He would have been so EASY to hate, but he made himself likeable, accessable to our 19 year old sense of humor.
He periodically threw out words like "fag, pussy, shit, fuck and cock," that made him seem alot more hip than he probably was.
"College is for pussies," he would say.
"You missed a nail-hole," he would say. Far too often.
He made jokes about our bosses sexuality, we laughed, we disagreed with the Bob Marley song.
"Mommy can't believe you guys are still here. Aren't there some sort of labor laws being broken?"
We genuinely hoped so.
All in all, we wrapped it up last night, as the sun had set, and porch-lights were our only guidance.
Porch-lights from the deck that we didn't get around to staining. Not enough time.
"Mommy says we are just going to do the deck ourselves. Because you guys are taking so damn long, are you?"
As we packed up the last of our undoubtedly insufficient supplies, 3 bodies piled into a small red-pickup. One of them about 8 inches taller than the rest, and undoubtedly less qualified, we shook hands with the handle-bar moustache. Partly excited that we finally finished, completely exhausted and overwhelmingly estatic that we never got to see the ammunition up close, I recieved that HARDEST handshake of my life.
It's like he thought about every nail-hole we missed, every sploch of white we had to re-touch, every year of college education we were about to get, that he never will have, and transferred that sheer agression into one handshake.
As I heard the bones crack in my right hand, and my knuckles shift to a whole new position, I couldn't help but hear an eerily soothing sound in the background.
Don't worry, about a thing. Because every little thing, is gonna be alright.
As we rode off into the sunset, I realized what we just did wasn't quite the Holocaust, but at the time, it felt damn close.
But hey...we're getting paid.
"Mommy says she's glad those painters are gone, is she?"
Saturday, June 13, 2009
If you PRETEND to like this blog, you WILL!
Two days after I finished my first year of college, I checked my student E-mail to have a new message sent to every student regarding graduation.
The message was titled "Safe Rides Being Offered Graduation Night."
I read into it, and saw that the community was reaching out to make sure there was no drinking and driving on the night of graduation, and everyone gets home safe. What they failed to mention was the peculiar nature of the ride home:
"The service will be running from approximately 9pm and then continue throught the night. To contact the ride service, call 962-5022. Please note that this is the Loveland's Funeral Home answering service but if you tell them you need a ride, they will dispatch a vehicle to pick you up."
That's right.
A funeral home service giving rides to drunken college kids.
Allegedly* in an effort to retain business in this slouching economy, Loveland Funeral Home actually charged 10$ per decimal point that the graduate was above the .08 legal limit.
As some would expect, this led to some problems.
College Graduate: Yeah, um, I'm gonna need a safe ride home...This is Loveland Funeral Home Service right?
Grim Reaper: Yes...yes it is. Just exactly how many have you had tonight?
College Graduate: Oh, I've only had a few. I'm fine really...I was just playing it safe, ya know?
Grim Reaper: (Disappointed sigh)
CG: Well, I mean...I'm pretty tipsy. Um...one more thing, are you guys gonna send a Hearse or what? I mean it's kinda weird that this is a funeral service turned taxi-cab for drunk college kids, ya know?
Grim Reaper: Look, KID, don't question our process. Now get back to drinking, and call us when you have a REAL PROBLEM. MMMMWWWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
(Silence)
This conversation may or may not have ACTUALLY taken place, but if you can't find the humor in it, then you have no pulse, and you are most likely the Grim Reaper...in which case I would like to apologize for patronizing you on my internet-diary. Please don't steal my bones.
In the last 3 days, I have come to the conclusion that packing isn't that fun, and that re-packing, and packing again is less fun.
However, there is something relatively joyous about leaving college. Reflecting fondly of the times shared, the annoyances, the laughter, it all comes together in one fabulous collective memory.
Everyone is much nicer in the last 2 days of college, mostly because everyone is elated to not see eachother anymore, so subsequentially, everyone is nice to eachother.
Everyone is nice to eachother, because they hate eachother, and don't want to see eachother for the whole summer...so they're nice to eachother.
Once this starts making sense, that's how I know I've officially become a bad person.
I promised myself that I would not fall into this trap, but in the home-stretch of my first college year, I found myself being NICE to people.
PEOPLE who I do not LIKE.
But I was nice to them...because I didn't have to SEE them anymore...which makes me a BASTARD!
Then I took a step back and realized that all great friendships are started by PRETENDING to like the person that will soon become your "friend".
Once you pretend for so long, you can actually fool yourself to like the person, even though you DESPISE THEIR VERY EXISTENCE.
If you are reading this, shaking your head, rolling your eyes, and rubbing your tummy, stop rubbing your tummy, cuz that's weird. And stop rolling your eyes because YOU KNOW THAT YOU DO IT TOO...SO STOP PRETENDING...YOU PRETENDER!
This is not to say that we do not genuinely like our friends, this is just to say that at first impression, we are all cynical assholes who write internet-blogs, so we must pretend to like eachother, in order to eventually ACTUALLY like eachother.
It's science, really.
And if you refute science, you are Satan, and you should stop reading this blog right now, because if you are satan, and you are sitting at a lap-top, chances are it is a Mac, and you are burning and cursing it, because you are hot, and you are satan, and Mac's are very expensive...so stop that. Stop that right now.
In hindsight, I am now successfully moved out of "heaven," AKA "the dorms," and in an odd way, I miss the lingering stench, the Rockband at 4 a.m. and the pestering from the RA's.
Oh, did I say "miss?" Weird...cuz I meant I am sincerely elated that I never have to live in the communal toilet known as North Hall ever again.
But, in the event that I have to...I will PRETEND to like it for the first 2 months, until I successfully brain-wash myself to actually liking it, and then when I need a ride home, I WILL NOT call the funeral home service, because I will live on campus. Which is convenient, and assures NO confrontation with the Grim Reaper.
Because that guy is a money-hungry, blood-thirsty asshole.
"Loveland's Funeral Service do you plan to die today? How may I help you?"
The message was titled "Safe Rides Being Offered Graduation Night."
I read into it, and saw that the community was reaching out to make sure there was no drinking and driving on the night of graduation, and everyone gets home safe. What they failed to mention was the peculiar nature of the ride home:
"The service will be running from approximately 9pm and then continue throught the night. To contact the ride service, call 962-5022. Please note that this is the Loveland's Funeral Home answering service but if you tell them you need a ride, they will dispatch a vehicle to pick you up."
That's right.
A funeral home service giving rides to drunken college kids.
Allegedly* in an effort to retain business in this slouching economy, Loveland Funeral Home actually charged 10$ per decimal point that the graduate was above the .08 legal limit.
As some would expect, this led to some problems.
College Graduate: Yeah, um, I'm gonna need a safe ride home...This is Loveland Funeral Home Service right?
Grim Reaper: Yes...yes it is. Just exactly how many have you had tonight?
College Graduate: Oh, I've only had a few. I'm fine really...I was just playing it safe, ya know?
Grim Reaper: (Disappointed sigh)
CG: Well, I mean...I'm pretty tipsy. Um...one more thing, are you guys gonna send a Hearse or what? I mean it's kinda weird that this is a funeral service turned taxi-cab for drunk college kids, ya know?
Grim Reaper: Look, KID, don't question our process. Now get back to drinking, and call us when you have a REAL PROBLEM. MMMMWWWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
(Silence)
This conversation may or may not have ACTUALLY taken place, but if you can't find the humor in it, then you have no pulse, and you are most likely the Grim Reaper...in which case I would like to apologize for patronizing you on my internet-diary. Please don't steal my bones.
In the last 3 days, I have come to the conclusion that packing isn't that fun, and that re-packing, and packing again is less fun.
However, there is something relatively joyous about leaving college. Reflecting fondly of the times shared, the annoyances, the laughter, it all comes together in one fabulous collective memory.
Everyone is much nicer in the last 2 days of college, mostly because everyone is elated to not see eachother anymore, so subsequentially, everyone is nice to eachother.
Everyone is nice to eachother, because they hate eachother, and don't want to see eachother for the whole summer...so they're nice to eachother.
Once this starts making sense, that's how I know I've officially become a bad person.
I promised myself that I would not fall into this trap, but in the home-stretch of my first college year, I found myself being NICE to people.
PEOPLE who I do not LIKE.
But I was nice to them...because I didn't have to SEE them anymore...which makes me a BASTARD!
Then I took a step back and realized that all great friendships are started by PRETENDING to like the person that will soon become your "friend".
Once you pretend for so long, you can actually fool yourself to like the person, even though you DESPISE THEIR VERY EXISTENCE.
If you are reading this, shaking your head, rolling your eyes, and rubbing your tummy, stop rubbing your tummy, cuz that's weird. And stop rolling your eyes because YOU KNOW THAT YOU DO IT TOO...SO STOP PRETENDING...YOU PRETENDER!
This is not to say that we do not genuinely like our friends, this is just to say that at first impression, we are all cynical assholes who write internet-blogs, so we must pretend to like eachother, in order to eventually ACTUALLY like eachother.
It's science, really.
And if you refute science, you are Satan, and you should stop reading this blog right now, because if you are satan, and you are sitting at a lap-top, chances are it is a Mac, and you are burning and cursing it, because you are hot, and you are satan, and Mac's are very expensive...so stop that. Stop that right now.
In hindsight, I am now successfully moved out of "heaven," AKA "the dorms," and in an odd way, I miss the lingering stench, the Rockband at 4 a.m. and the pestering from the RA's.
Oh, did I say "miss?" Weird...cuz I meant I am sincerely elated that I never have to live in the communal toilet known as North Hall ever again.
But, in the event that I have to...I will PRETEND to like it for the first 2 months, until I successfully brain-wash myself to actually liking it, and then when I need a ride home, I WILL NOT call the funeral home service, because I will live on campus. Which is convenient, and assures NO confrontation with the Grim Reaper.
Because that guy is a money-hungry, blood-thirsty asshole.
"Loveland's Funeral Service do you plan to die today? How may I help you?"
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Every year, the porn industry makes more than the NFL, NBA and MLB combined.
The two words you would least like to hear repeated from your roommate before getting ready for bed:
"Red Bull, Red Bull, Red Bull," except he was doing it in the accent from the commercials, but it is impossible to communicate that via text, so bare with me and stop demanding so much.
The last thing you want to do during a thunderstorm:
A feminism/gender-roles/sexism protest.
The thing that I hate:
A feminism/gender-roles/sexism protest sponsored by Red Bull.
Well, today there was a protest being held in the campus courtyard, and I am still not certain as to what exactly they were protesting, and I'm pretty sure the protestors had no idea what they were protesting either.
I looked down at the sidewalk, and written in chalk was a stunning statement.
"The pornography industry makes more money on a yearly basis than the MLB, NBA and NFL combined."
So, I stopped staring at the girls butt in front of me, and decided to let this annoying fat woman holding index cards and a Kazoo talk to me about some pointless protest she has.
Without asking to be spoken to, this lady walks up to me, very intrusively, and says "Did you know that sexual harassment didn't even have a definition until the mid-80's?"
After I picked my jaw up off the concrete, I was able to relay to this woman how genuinely disinterested I was by saying, "Nope. Weird."
Apparently to her that meant, "NO WAY!!!?? Please, do go on!"
She rambled off several other sentences involving the words "gender," "sex," and "apple," and after I was done pretending to listen, I asked her if the statement written in sidewalk chalk was true.
"Yes it is true! The porn industry is a huge money-maker! It's disgusting, really."
I concurred with her statement, and I was genuinely puzzled, thinking either America really likes watching people have sex, or commissioner Goodell and Stern have some serious work to do. I think it is probably a combination of both.
After the lady thanked me for my time, I continued to walk back to the dorm's, but I couldn't help but notice the random Kazoo's being played by the protestors. Some were talking to students, some were writing on the sidewalk, some were just standing there, blowing their Kazoo's.
Over, and over, and over, and in-between Kazoo blows, they would spout random words like "Pornography!" (Kazoo) "Women's rights!" (Kazoo) "Sexism!" (Kazoo).
This was my first protest on a college campus that I had involuntarily been a part of, and I have to say I am sincerely hoping it is the last.
To put the cherry on top of this wonderful protest, I walked into the Snack Bar, when two young children strolled in, holding a series of balloon art, unmistakably resembling a penis. The innocent children were thrilled to have found such a multi-colored, fun toy, but it was unmistakably...a penis.
Many people in the snack bar seemed stunned that this young boy was proudly carrying such a phallic toy, but in my head, I just thought it was hilarious.
Obviously, a protestor must have walked up to the child and said, "Hey little boy, do you want some balloons?"
Then the little boy said, "Sure."
Then the protestor said, "Okay, but first you have to promise me you will never view pornography, or ever use the word bitch, and you must accept Hilary Clinton as the second coming of christ."
This kid was obviously wise beyond his years, as he replied, "It's funny you say that, because I have a poster of Oprah Winfrey hanging in my room right now. Now give me the fucking balloons."
As I was observing this child's innocence being ripped from his grasp with every bounce of the balloons against his un-knowing palms, I realized it was pouring rain outside.
The sidewalk chalk slowly dripped away, the Kazoo's were drowned out, the protestors fled for shelter and everyone went back to not caring about gender-roles.
Suddenly, everything was right in the world.
In Honor of the NBA finals tipping off tomorrow, I would like to post this video again, and remind you that the Lakers will win in 6 games.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Rodent's, Potions, and other things that embarrass me
http://video.yahoo.com/network/100000086?v=5017561&l=100000085
Please watch this video before reading this blog. If you are like me, you are in college, with an abundance of spare time, no homework and internet access.
These 3 things add up to equal one common denominator: INTERNET VIDEOS.
I have become mildly addicted to them in the last few weeks of my college experience, as my classes are less and less demanding, and my time is more and more free to do pointless things.
I wouldn't consider it a waste of time, but I would consider it most often hilarious, and at times, utterly excellent.
I am assuming by now you have watched the above video in it's entirety and you are probably wiping away tears of laughter, compassion and love.
BUT hold on...don't get too squirrel friendly just yet. I have made that mistake. Allow me to explain.
Last week, I was walking to class, and as I left the dorms, I saw a squirrel much like the one in the video. Except it was more brown than grey. That is completely irrelevent.
Anyway, this squirrel was staring into the glass reflection created by the door that is the main entrance to the dorms, and this little guy was repeatedly hurdling himself into the glass barrier, over and over, falling on it's back, squirming, jerking, and repeating the process.
Dozens of students looked on, myself included, and the genereal response was "What the fuck is that squirrel doing?"
The squirrel then replied, "I am insane," and went on to jump into the glass more.
Before any of us could comprehend what the hell was exactly happening, I took a step forward to attempt to discourage the squirrel from eventually killing itself by this repeated act, and it looked up, looked terrified, and ran off.
Mission accomplished. Squirrel saved.
As I strolled off into the distance, I recieved a couple dirty looks, and a few bottles of chew-spit thrown at me...but I knew PETA would be proud.
This was...until about 200 yards later, outside of Loso Hall.
I came to an encounter with another squirrel. Brown, with a tail, and other squirrel-like features. Perhaps the crazy squirrels brother. Perhaps it's sister. Perhaps it was my sister. Perhaps this squirrel wasn't even a squirrel, but a robot-squirrel that could evaporate my body-matter with it's lazer vizion. Most likely all of these things, this adorable little fella was staring at me for a good 20 feet before I started to approach it gradually.
I got about 15 feet from it...on the sidewalk...making DIRECT eye contact with me.
I don't know if you have ever made eye contact with a squirrel before, but it's kind of like walking in on your parents having sex, and then getting your eyeballs pierced and slit with razor blades in front of 10 of your closest friends.
Okay...it's nothing like that...but it's definitely weird.
I am now standing 8 feet away from this little booger, and he continues to stare at me. I stop in my tracks, feeling like Mark Wahlberg in "The Happening," but probably less good looking and better at acting...and I started looking around to people to see if they saw what was happening.
Nobody cared to pay attention, so I remained still, and then the squirrel started walking towards me. Which is when the urine started dripping down my left thigh.
I was scared. Terrified. Mostly confused.
Now that the squirrel was inches from my Sanuk Slip-on's, people started paying attention. A couple female humans that I hadn't made acquiantance with yet started laughing at me, probably mistaking me for Mark Wahlberg and expected me to start rapping.
Then I looked at the girls, and said, "Aren't they supposed to be afraid of us?" Then I started laughing.
They exchanged a polite smile, but were most likely thinking, "shut up...you pussy."
Now the squirrel starts sniffing my shoes, and I started wondering if I had forgotten to take my slice of swiss cheese out of my shoes. I NEVER forget to take that damn cheese out. How could I have failed this ONE time? What are the odds?
Turns out I didn't have swiss cheese in my shoe, or a rare toe-fungus, or squirrel feed in my sock...but I did scream like a pre-pubescent girl when this little critter touched my ankles.
Much to the delight of the on-looking peers, and their brutal laughter, the squirrel finally ran off after I gave it an ever intimidating "OH MY GOD...LIKE....OMG! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" and strolled into the palpable embarrassment created by that little bastard.
Since then, I haven't exposed my body to sunlight, or exchanged verbal communication with anyone besides my pet squirrel that will eventually be dinner, and I am emotionally scarred to say the least.
It was later reported on campus that someone had supplied a select few squirrels a potion that consisted of:
-Dragon Scales
-Peach Vodka
-The ear of one unfortunate EOU student
-Steamed Gypsy Blood
-Cured Ham Slices
-The urine of 1,000 fertile kittens
OBVIOUSLY, I met the 2 squirrels that were most impacted by this potion, and that's why they smelled my ankles and ruined my social life.
I have since obtained this potion, and posess it to use WHENEVER I PLEASE.
So think of that next time you are reading my blog and think "god this kid is a faggot," because I WILL FIND YOU and I will syphon this mixture into your morning glass of Orange Juice.
Please watch this video before reading this blog. If you are like me, you are in college, with an abundance of spare time, no homework and internet access.
These 3 things add up to equal one common denominator: INTERNET VIDEOS.
I have become mildly addicted to them in the last few weeks of my college experience, as my classes are less and less demanding, and my time is more and more free to do pointless things.
I wouldn't consider it a waste of time, but I would consider it most often hilarious, and at times, utterly excellent.
I am assuming by now you have watched the above video in it's entirety and you are probably wiping away tears of laughter, compassion and love.
BUT hold on...don't get too squirrel friendly just yet. I have made that mistake. Allow me to explain.
Last week, I was walking to class, and as I left the dorms, I saw a squirrel much like the one in the video. Except it was more brown than grey. That is completely irrelevent.
Anyway, this squirrel was staring into the glass reflection created by the door that is the main entrance to the dorms, and this little guy was repeatedly hurdling himself into the glass barrier, over and over, falling on it's back, squirming, jerking, and repeating the process.
Dozens of students looked on, myself included, and the genereal response was "What the fuck is that squirrel doing?"
The squirrel then replied, "I am insane," and went on to jump into the glass more.
Before any of us could comprehend what the hell was exactly happening, I took a step forward to attempt to discourage the squirrel from eventually killing itself by this repeated act, and it looked up, looked terrified, and ran off.
Mission accomplished. Squirrel saved.
As I strolled off into the distance, I recieved a couple dirty looks, and a few bottles of chew-spit thrown at me...but I knew PETA would be proud.
This was...until about 200 yards later, outside of Loso Hall.
I came to an encounter with another squirrel. Brown, with a tail, and other squirrel-like features. Perhaps the crazy squirrels brother. Perhaps it's sister. Perhaps it was my sister. Perhaps this squirrel wasn't even a squirrel, but a robot-squirrel that could evaporate my body-matter with it's lazer vizion. Most likely all of these things, this adorable little fella was staring at me for a good 20 feet before I started to approach it gradually.
I got about 15 feet from it...on the sidewalk...making DIRECT eye contact with me.
I don't know if you have ever made eye contact with a squirrel before, but it's kind of like walking in on your parents having sex, and then getting your eyeballs pierced and slit with razor blades in front of 10 of your closest friends.
Okay...it's nothing like that...but it's definitely weird.
I am now standing 8 feet away from this little booger, and he continues to stare at me. I stop in my tracks, feeling like Mark Wahlberg in "The Happening," but probably less good looking and better at acting...and I started looking around to people to see if they saw what was happening.
Nobody cared to pay attention, so I remained still, and then the squirrel started walking towards me. Which is when the urine started dripping down my left thigh.
I was scared. Terrified. Mostly confused.
Now that the squirrel was inches from my Sanuk Slip-on's, people started paying attention. A couple female humans that I hadn't made acquiantance with yet started laughing at me, probably mistaking me for Mark Wahlberg and expected me to start rapping.
Then I looked at the girls, and said, "Aren't they supposed to be afraid of us?" Then I started laughing.
They exchanged a polite smile, but were most likely thinking, "shut up...you pussy."
Now the squirrel starts sniffing my shoes, and I started wondering if I had forgotten to take my slice of swiss cheese out of my shoes. I NEVER forget to take that damn cheese out. How could I have failed this ONE time? What are the odds?
Turns out I didn't have swiss cheese in my shoe, or a rare toe-fungus, or squirrel feed in my sock...but I did scream like a pre-pubescent girl when this little critter touched my ankles.
Much to the delight of the on-looking peers, and their brutal laughter, the squirrel finally ran off after I gave it an ever intimidating "OH MY GOD...LIKE....OMG! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" and strolled into the palpable embarrassment created by that little bastard.
Since then, I haven't exposed my body to sunlight, or exchanged verbal communication with anyone besides my pet squirrel that will eventually be dinner, and I am emotionally scarred to say the least.
It was later reported on campus that someone had supplied a select few squirrels a potion that consisted of:
-Dragon Scales
-Peach Vodka
-The ear of one unfortunate EOU student
-Steamed Gypsy Blood
-Cured Ham Slices
-The urine of 1,000 fertile kittens
OBVIOUSLY, I met the 2 squirrels that were most impacted by this potion, and that's why they smelled my ankles and ruined my social life.
I have since obtained this potion, and posess it to use WHENEVER I PLEASE.
So think of that next time you are reading my blog and think "god this kid is a faggot," because I WILL FIND YOU and I will syphon this mixture into your morning glass of Orange Juice.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Hump Day!
I've been thinking alot lately about the reasons people go to college. Most people go to college to further their academic success, and open gateways to bigger, better things. Some people come to college to be social, play sports, get drunk and hook up with chicks. Others come to play Rockband, drink tang, and write internet-based diaries about their day to day adventures.
I, however, came to college for one reason, and one reason only. To hand-write assignments in an illegible fashion SOLELY to PISS my teachers off.
Today, I got an assignment back from my Health teacher, whom I am convinced is a convicted pedophile, so he automatically has a vendetta against me because I am not 16 or female. I recieved the assignment, i got a 40 out of 50, which isn't terribly bad, but it was the comment at the end of the paper that really made me smile.
Let it be known that I have turned in 2! research papers in this class, and the most extensive comment I recieved was "good."
But no...not today. Today, I recieved an actual SENTENCE from my beloved educator, as he wrote next to my score, "Your answers were good, some were too short. The syllabus clearly states that this assignment was supposed to be typed---it was painful to read."
P.S.- "Fuck you, you inconsiderate adolescent non-female. How dare you not wear revealing clothing to my class and flirt with me. Your actions are almost as selfish and inconsiderate as your handwriting, you bastard. Also, I hate you, but if you find a female counterpart to replace you, prefferably one that has a similar face to you, but is more slightly built, I will change your grade to an A." Love, your pedo-professor.
That last part may or may not have ACTUALLY happened, but the principle remains. The last time I was told my work was "painful" to look at, was in 3rd grade I brought a kidney stone to show and tell, and my teacher was just short of impressed. I'd like to think I have learned from my calcium deposits, er, mistakes, but apparently not.
Next, it was time for lunch, where I would venture to the beloved Mac's Snacks, where I am always going to find 2 of 3 things, awkward social interaction with the cashier, delicious food, and sexual inuendos on the chalkboard behind the register. Today, the food was terrible as always.
The cashier, who has awkwardly made comments to me all year, continued to do so when she called me handsome repeatedly and maybe threw in the term 'good-looking' a few times, then slipped me her phone number after making my purchase. Turns out it was a reciept, and she was actually saying 'good-cooking,' but I like to make up stories to improve my self esteem.
Either way, I took the awkward flirtatious interaction to be just another day in Mac's, until I looked up at the chalkboard, which read "Today is...WEDNESDAY! Hump Day!"
I thought this was normal enough, until I saw the writing to the side that read, "Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah."
Maybe it was because I was just verbally molested by the cashier, but I couldn't help but take that chalkboard to be remarkably sexually suggestive. The only thing that was missing was an extra line of text that read "GET IT!!!??? HUMP! HUMP DAY! OH YEAH! OHHH YEAAAH!!!"
Did I mention that the chalkboard was shaped in form of a GIGANTIC VAGINA?
Need I say more?
Today I was taking a test, and it became obvious to me the reason I am at college. And it isn't to play Rockband. It is to FLUNK tests!
Unfortunately, this can be nobody's fault but my own, because I went to the computer lab 30 minutes prior to my test with all the best intentions to study for the test, but instead of doing THAT, I went to the LAtimes website, and read about sports to numb my mind.
Then, once I actually got to the test, I proceeded to stare at the keyboard for a solid 5 minutes, looking at the various stains, wondering how they got there, and trying to formulate a strategy to take this test, but never actually touch the keyboard.
That task proved impossible, and despite the 5 minutes space-out, I finished the test first, and glanced around the room in a very uncomfortable fashion, wondering why the hell I finished before everyone.
Probably because I have no idea what I am doing.
I accidentaly made eye contact with the professor, the one who wiped his ass with my index cards, and his eyes pierced through my soul, into my heart, and out of my asshole as I was sure he was planning a plot on how to kill me.
I felt an immense amount of guilt, like I just basically said to my teacher, "Hey faggot, this test was too easy. Look at me, it's just been 10 minutes and I am already done. Yeah, I read about the Laker game instead of studying, and I stared at the keyboard for a good 5 minutes, but I WIN. I WIN!"
He looked at me like he was saying, "Just wait 'til you get your grade, you aarogant freshman."
Let it be known that NO WORDS were actually exchanged, but as far as I am concerned, we had a full conversation through our 2 seconds of awkward eye contact.
The test results are pending, but I will be sure to post them online once I find out, because I am sure you cannot wait.
Or maybe I will Twitter it. Which, for the record, might be the worst thing to happen to America since the Lakers loss in game 4 v.s. the Houston Rockets.
But the good news is...today was HUMP day, so that means the rest of the week is easy. Or it means the rest of the week wants to hump you. And by "rest of the week" I mean "lady working behind the cash register."
To college.
I, however, came to college for one reason, and one reason only. To hand-write assignments in an illegible fashion SOLELY to PISS my teachers off.
Today, I got an assignment back from my Health teacher, whom I am convinced is a convicted pedophile, so he automatically has a vendetta against me because I am not 16 or female. I recieved the assignment, i got a 40 out of 50, which isn't terribly bad, but it was the comment at the end of the paper that really made me smile.
Let it be known that I have turned in 2! research papers in this class, and the most extensive comment I recieved was "good."
But no...not today. Today, I recieved an actual SENTENCE from my beloved educator, as he wrote next to my score, "Your answers were good, some were too short. The syllabus clearly states that this assignment was supposed to be typed---it was painful to read."
P.S.- "Fuck you, you inconsiderate adolescent non-female. How dare you not wear revealing clothing to my class and flirt with me. Your actions are almost as selfish and inconsiderate as your handwriting, you bastard. Also, I hate you, but if you find a female counterpart to replace you, prefferably one that has a similar face to you, but is more slightly built, I will change your grade to an A." Love, your pedo-professor.
That last part may or may not have ACTUALLY happened, but the principle remains. The last time I was told my work was "painful" to look at, was in 3rd grade I brought a kidney stone to show and tell, and my teacher was just short of impressed. I'd like to think I have learned from my calcium deposits, er, mistakes, but apparently not.
Next, it was time for lunch, where I would venture to the beloved Mac's Snacks, where I am always going to find 2 of 3 things, awkward social interaction with the cashier, delicious food, and sexual inuendos on the chalkboard behind the register. Today, the food was terrible as always.
The cashier, who has awkwardly made comments to me all year, continued to do so when she called me handsome repeatedly and maybe threw in the term 'good-looking' a few times, then slipped me her phone number after making my purchase. Turns out it was a reciept, and she was actually saying 'good-cooking,' but I like to make up stories to improve my self esteem.
Either way, I took the awkward flirtatious interaction to be just another day in Mac's, until I looked up at the chalkboard, which read "Today is...WEDNESDAY! Hump Day!"
I thought this was normal enough, until I saw the writing to the side that read, "Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah."
Maybe it was because I was just verbally molested by the cashier, but I couldn't help but take that chalkboard to be remarkably sexually suggestive. The only thing that was missing was an extra line of text that read "GET IT!!!??? HUMP! HUMP DAY! OH YEAH! OHHH YEAAAH!!!"
Did I mention that the chalkboard was shaped in form of a GIGANTIC VAGINA?
Need I say more?
Today I was taking a test, and it became obvious to me the reason I am at college. And it isn't to play Rockband. It is to FLUNK tests!
Unfortunately, this can be nobody's fault but my own, because I went to the computer lab 30 minutes prior to my test with all the best intentions to study for the test, but instead of doing THAT, I went to the LAtimes website, and read about sports to numb my mind.
Then, once I actually got to the test, I proceeded to stare at the keyboard for a solid 5 minutes, looking at the various stains, wondering how they got there, and trying to formulate a strategy to take this test, but never actually touch the keyboard.
That task proved impossible, and despite the 5 minutes space-out, I finished the test first, and glanced around the room in a very uncomfortable fashion, wondering why the hell I finished before everyone.
Probably because I have no idea what I am doing.
I accidentaly made eye contact with the professor, the one who wiped his ass with my index cards, and his eyes pierced through my soul, into my heart, and out of my asshole as I was sure he was planning a plot on how to kill me.
I felt an immense amount of guilt, like I just basically said to my teacher, "Hey faggot, this test was too easy. Look at me, it's just been 10 minutes and I am already done. Yeah, I read about the Laker game instead of studying, and I stared at the keyboard for a good 5 minutes, but I WIN. I WIN!"
He looked at me like he was saying, "Just wait 'til you get your grade, you aarogant freshman."
Let it be known that NO WORDS were actually exchanged, but as far as I am concerned, we had a full conversation through our 2 seconds of awkward eye contact.
The test results are pending, but I will be sure to post them online once I find out, because I am sure you cannot wait.
Or maybe I will Twitter it. Which, for the record, might be the worst thing to happen to America since the Lakers loss in game 4 v.s. the Houston Rockets.
But the good news is...today was HUMP day, so that means the rest of the week is easy. Or it means the rest of the week wants to hump you. And by "rest of the week" I mean "lady working behind the cash register."
To college.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Things I am good at...
I have become increasingly good at several pointless things during my ''light'' spring schedule in college.
For example, I have recently tried this concept called ''shaving,'' which apparently people do once they reach something called "puberty," all terms that I am not yet familiar with.
I decided "manual-shaving" was the best way to go, because I heard it's a great way to get razor burns and cut yourself so it becomes embarrasingly apparent that I suck at shaving. I have gotten really good at both the former, and the latter.
Some of you reading this might say...well Sean, maybe it's because you don't have facial hair, and you are simply just skimming off layers of skin to make yourself feel more masculine than you are, you pussy.
To that, I would say, get your camera out of my lap-top, and stop spying on me.
Another skill I have acquired is how to deal with RA's who are automatically better than me because they have the ability to close the communal kitchen and write on white-boards.
I've had a couple run-in's with my RA's recently. And when I say run-in, I mean I charged as fast as I could into their wall, and they got really upset about it. It was weird.
Actually...I have become REALLY good at locking myself out of my room. It's always an excellent feeling slamming your door shut, going to class and realizing that you have no way of getting back in. Awesome.
So, everytime it happens, I pull out my Blow-Torch, and try to melt the door handle off, so I can get in, but then the RA comes in and they are like...um...Sean...blow torches are NOT allowed in the dorms. This is the last time I will tell you this.
To that, I respond, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH," and run at them with my blow-torch, because I don't like it when I am interrputed whilst Blow-Torching.
Getting locked out of your own room is always like a puzzle, or a game of chess, or a puzzle-chess game, and instead of using Pawns and Kings, you are using dog-feces, and if you win, you get an unfriendly scowl, depending on what RA you beg to let you into your room.
I have decided to rotate between a few nice RA's and try to avoid the 'un-nice' RA's at all costs...except for one time I forgot my key INTO the building, and an un-nice RA greeted me, briefly mocked me as I knocked on the glass window while it was hailing outside, and a Tornado was approaching.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! LET ME IN! IT'S COLD. AND TORNADOES ARE VERY RARE, BUT DEVASTATING!"
"I HATE YOU. I will let you in. But I will do so in a very un-welcoming fashion, while I hold a clipboard and I will ask for your name and room number and name, and pretend to write down important stuff, but I will really be drawing an immensly detailed sketch of my kicking the shit out of you, you stupid freshman."
"Also, I will not open this door, because I am an ass. And you must go around and use the door 20 feet to the left, because I hate my life and it's your fault. Also, I will proceed to blame you for everytime the Kitchen smells bad, you faggot."
"Harsh words, but thank you very much all-mighty-royal RA...please...may I kiss your feet?"
"Yes, yes you may, but first...promise me you will never use a blow-torch again."
"NEVER! I ran off into the distance, and there was later a mysterious pile of dog-feces reported in her hall the next day. Somebody must have been playing chess.
MWWWWAAHAHAHAHAHA!
All joking aside, 2 kids were arrested from my dorms this week for stealing Xbox games, DVD's controllers, and my baby from the storage closet. Upon being caught red-handed, the guys turned back the Xbox games and electronics, but insisted that the baby was in-fact not a REAL human, but a cabbage-patch-kid. Obviously, they were heavily under the influence of gasoline, alcohol and kleptomania, so I took a step back, showed them my Angelina-Jolie cut-out, AKA MOMMY, and they apologized for the mis-understanding.
But seriously...these kids seriously stole alot of shit and are now in jail. I would love to give some more completely inaccurate details about this REAL event, but this is a LEGAL matter, so I cannot further comment, other than to say I love my cabbage patch son, and he needs to clean his room or else I am going to hit him and never feed him again.
For example, I have recently tried this concept called ''shaving,'' which apparently people do once they reach something called "puberty," all terms that I am not yet familiar with.
I decided "manual-shaving" was the best way to go, because I heard it's a great way to get razor burns and cut yourself so it becomes embarrasingly apparent that I suck at shaving. I have gotten really good at both the former, and the latter.
Some of you reading this might say...well Sean, maybe it's because you don't have facial hair, and you are simply just skimming off layers of skin to make yourself feel more masculine than you are, you pussy.
To that, I would say, get your camera out of my lap-top, and stop spying on me.
Another skill I have acquired is how to deal with RA's who are automatically better than me because they have the ability to close the communal kitchen and write on white-boards.
I've had a couple run-in's with my RA's recently. And when I say run-in, I mean I charged as fast as I could into their wall, and they got really upset about it. It was weird.
Actually...I have become REALLY good at locking myself out of my room. It's always an excellent feeling slamming your door shut, going to class and realizing that you have no way of getting back in. Awesome.
So, everytime it happens, I pull out my Blow-Torch, and try to melt the door handle off, so I can get in, but then the RA comes in and they are like...um...Sean...blow torches are NOT allowed in the dorms. This is the last time I will tell you this.
To that, I respond, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH," and run at them with my blow-torch, because I don't like it when I am interrputed whilst Blow-Torching.
Getting locked out of your own room is always like a puzzle, or a game of chess, or a puzzle-chess game, and instead of using Pawns and Kings, you are using dog-feces, and if you win, you get an unfriendly scowl, depending on what RA you beg to let you into your room.
I have decided to rotate between a few nice RA's and try to avoid the 'un-nice' RA's at all costs...except for one time I forgot my key INTO the building, and an un-nice RA greeted me, briefly mocked me as I knocked on the glass window while it was hailing outside, and a Tornado was approaching.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! LET ME IN! IT'S COLD. AND TORNADOES ARE VERY RARE, BUT DEVASTATING!"
"I HATE YOU. I will let you in. But I will do so in a very un-welcoming fashion, while I hold a clipboard and I will ask for your name and room number and name, and pretend to write down important stuff, but I will really be drawing an immensly detailed sketch of my kicking the shit out of you, you stupid freshman."
"Also, I will not open this door, because I am an ass. And you must go around and use the door 20 feet to the left, because I hate my life and it's your fault. Also, I will proceed to blame you for everytime the Kitchen smells bad, you faggot."
"Harsh words, but thank you very much all-mighty-royal RA...please...may I kiss your feet?"
"Yes, yes you may, but first...promise me you will never use a blow-torch again."
"NEVER! I ran off into the distance, and there was later a mysterious pile of dog-feces reported in her hall the next day. Somebody must have been playing chess.
MWWWWAAHAHAHAHAHA!
All joking aside, 2 kids were arrested from my dorms this week for stealing Xbox games, DVD's controllers, and my baby from the storage closet. Upon being caught red-handed, the guys turned back the Xbox games and electronics, but insisted that the baby was in-fact not a REAL human, but a cabbage-patch-kid. Obviously, they were heavily under the influence of gasoline, alcohol and kleptomania, so I took a step back, showed them my Angelina-Jolie cut-out, AKA MOMMY, and they apologized for the mis-understanding.
But seriously...these kids seriously stole alot of shit and are now in jail. I would love to give some more completely inaccurate details about this REAL event, but this is a LEGAL matter, so I cannot further comment, other than to say I love my cabbage patch son, and he needs to clean his room or else I am going to hit him and never feed him again.
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