Why I Don't Date my Professors.

The fifteen minutes I spend in the training room everyday is easily the best fifteen minutes ever.

I can't tell if it's because I'm having pulsating electric waves being sent through my right leg, or if it's because I get to hear athletes debate what is better for you: Nutri-Grain bars, or Honey Nut Cheerios.

After weeks of examination, I found out it is NEITHER of those things.

The real reason that the athletic training room is a sanctuary is I get to watch 40+ year old males have intimate relationships with college students.

And when I say intimate, I mean romantic.

And when i say romantic, I mean I just spewed stomach acid all over my keyboard.

As fun as it is to listen to a man who is old enough to be the girls father flirt with her, and sometimes, even FIGHT like a real couple, there are several things I would rather be doing.

Like...gouge my eyes out with a melon-baller.

Since there were no melon-ballers readily available, I settled for eavesdropping on the conversations between college student and guy that is way older than college student but is dating college student. Which makes this college student feel very uncomfortable. And it's not just the electric pulses being sent through my joints.

I picture their fights going something like this.

(Please note: I am technically* an expert in lip-reading, so this conversation is 100% accurate and 0% hypothetical.)

*Not technically.


"So....I saw that you were rubbing her legs EXTRA long. That was annoying to watch. I mean...right in front of me!?"

"Babe, she has muscle cramps, and it wasn't a she...that was the starting defensive tackle for the football team..."

"Oh BULLSHIT don't give me that. If that was a football player, that was the most feminine lower body I have ever seen! I'm leaving...I'll leave...I'll find another 45 year old to date, I promise."

"Babe you know I wouldn't lie to you. You are the only 21-year-old for me!"

"Oh you're so sweet! Meet me at 3 for a private ankle-taping session. I'll bring the pre-wrap."

Me: "Um....excuse me...could I, uh, get some ice please?"

If you have read up to this point, you can probaly guess that I am making this entire thing up. EOU doesn't have an athletic training room, much less the technology of "ice."

However, this does not take away from the fact that I have implimented this "flirtation" strategy into many of my classes, in the interest of getting good grades.

Turns out, in order for this to be effective, you have to be attractive to middle aged woman. I think the fact that I look like an oversized 12-year-old is a slight turn off to college professors.

"Heeey....so...that test was kinda hard. Do you think I could stay after class for some extra-credit?"

"Sean, I have sons that are older than you. 2 of them. And you are drooling all over my desk. Take your C+, and please, never, ever look at me like that again."

Turns out the professor was male, and I lit some candles, and there were rose-pedals laid out on the desk, and my shirt was off, and the president of the university was watching the whole thing, but the moral of the story is....Math 105 sucks.

I've become very involved in Fantasy Basketball lately. Something I am not man enough to admit in person, so I write it impersonally over the internet.

I have been known to waste at least an hour of my day checking box scores, proposing trades, telling my roommate my team is better than his, and attempting to ACTUALLY own Kobe Bryant and Pau Gasol in real life. But everytime I call the NBA players office, they assure me that fantasy basketball is just that: Fantasy, and I cannot legally purchase another human being; even if they are from Spain, and I offer to pay in black beans and yarn.

I assure them that they are widely considered insane, and to not wreck my dreams of having Baron Davis walk around campus with me, and do my dishes when I ask him to.

Um....you missed a spot B-Diddy!

Whose fantasy NOW!?

Aside from that, I have recently been informed that congress is passing a law that REQUIRES everyone to have a subscription to Men's Health.

As I have been reading this for 6 months now, I can understand their reasoning.

How ELSE are you supposed to know that the Omega-3's in Salmon improve your eyesight? And that eating Pistachio's 2 times a day decreases your chance of heart disease!

And eating an apple a day actually makes you grow 3 inches taller, makes your biceps bigger, and actually makes you overall immortal, and bulletproofs your skin, like Lance Armstrong.

Thanks Men's Health!

Anyway, when you get older, make sure to eat your salmon, dont succumb to the temptations offered by your young students, and think twice before flirting with 20-year-olds. It could lead to a long term relationship. Or even worse...a mandatory Men's Health subscription.

Until next time, keep eating pistachios, and I will keep thinking of reasons as to why this blog, much like gravity, should not exist.

Peas.

President of the United Status

With all of the hope and optimism surrounding this big thing everyone keeps talking about, something about egg-noguration, having something to do with the decline of racism in America, and the steady increase of hope and free will to a generation of youth, I find myself cautiously optimistic, sitting in my dorm room, farting, and blogging.

Now I did not see this so called "Thick-Holiday-Beverage-Uration," but from what I understand, Barack Obama took a stance in front of millions of people, looked all of them dead in the eye, and simultaneously started throwing money at all in attendance, hoping this would solve the current economic crisis.

Turns out, he ended up throwing some rolled change in addition to the bills, and as a result, 3/4 of the attendee's are blind, but they are 100 pennies richer.

As far as I'm concerned, he's got my vote. Free money? Who can complain. Inflation? Isn't that what a beach ball does when you blow air into it?

What's that you say? He has already been elected? My bad. La Grande has yet to get electricity, so I am a little behind in all the current events.

...But did you SEE that Superbowl Halftime show? Janet's got some explaining to do! Justin can cry all the rivers he wants for that one!

And I can't believe that Bill Clinton fellow. Ms. Lewinski was such a nice girl.

All jokes aside, this is a wonderful moment for America. I think it might be the second greatest thing to happen in our country, just past the Chia Pet.

Man, that thing is cool.

But not everybody can grow a full head of grass, so we can settle for second-best.

In the aftermath of the Eggnoguration, I have decided that Facebook updates are stupid and should only be used to tell people you have a new blog posted. A blog that is one hundred percent entirely about your life, and some people read it, because you are a sarcastic, tall, human male.

After seeing "Matt Obamalover is "GO OBAMA! WOOH"

And seeing "Matt Obamahater is "Buck Ofama"

And seeing "Matt Whogivesafuck is "Soooo tired of school...Like...why is life so HARD!?"

And "Matt I-am-now-not-so-depressed-and-for-some-reason-i-feel-like-everyone-should-know-this-now is Soooo glad I got an A on my English exam! YES!"

And "Thomas I-dont-know-why-my-space-bar-doesnt-work-and-who-the-hell-has-such-a-long-hard-to-pronounce-last-name is I hate my family heritage."

I decided, Facebook status updates are stupid.

Yet, I look at them. Everyday. And think...WHO CARES? The answer to that question is YOU. YOU care. And so do I. So what do we do to change this unforunate phenomenon?

You give me 20 dollars. Within the next week. I will then change my Facebook status to:

Sean Dart is: Really happy he just earned 300 dollars through persuading people to pay me 20 dollars each over the internet to get rid of Facebook status updates. This is a Facebook status update...Suckers.

Another useful thing to do is to look at your own Facebook profile, and click "view photos of me."

If you are like me, and don't believe in flash photography, you have 48 pictures of yourself on Facebook.

If you are a girl, you have 1 million pictures on Facebook.

And if you are ugly, you do not have a Facebook, because ugly people are poor, and cannot afford the Internet.

Look through the pictures, and take tabs off of unflattering photo's. Then your friend will re-tag you, and you will promptly plant a bomb in their house, as this is the only sufficient way to retaliate.

When you aren't making fun of inaugurations, sending me money, or Facebook-ing, you should study, cuz that's what college is for. That, and having professors that could quite possibly be legally mentally challenged, or maybe a kitten. Kitten professors. Retarted kitten professors. But that's for another blog. If you read this far, I am sorry. It is bedtime. And you should be studying.


To eggnog.

No Running in the Halls.

Upon the start of Winter term 2009, I am confident in saying that college is awesome, for one reason, and one reason only.

30+ year old classmates.

It's cool to know that someone can be a decade older than you, and still be in the same class you are.

In my public speaking class, there are several older students, most of which can remember when gasoline was under a dollar per gallon, and the earth was still flat. (Which it may be. Research is still pending.)

Today, one of my over-30-years-old classmates gave a speech on her life thus far, and the whole thing was pretty good, and pretty normal, until the end, when she concluded her speech by saying "So yeah, my name is Lisa. I like bullshitting with random people, and I hope by the end of this year, I can finally get divorced."

After the whole class collectively shit themselves, we were all able to re-group, and I let out a little chuckle, but nobody else thought it was that funny. I thought it was hilarious.

Something that is completely un-related is a girl in my speech class named Anya Tedbra.

I don't know her, but she gave a speech about her name, talking about how it is so disgusting and perverted. Everyone in the class thought her name was hillarious, and I did not understand.

So, I turned around and asked the people behind me why exactly her name is so hilarious.

"Her name is Anya! Like...ON YA! Get it?"

"And then it's Tedbra...like B-R-A. Like...BRA!!! Get it?"

"Oh, i get it."

I did get it. But the problem was I was having a hard time 'getting' why it is so perverted. Maybe because my initials are STD, I was having a hard time finding this girls 'unfortunate' naming situation humorous.

Try being named "dick warts" your entire life...then come back to me.

Then in my writing 222 class, a lady with a baby was sitting in the back row, and I'm going to assume she was either the mother, or a really bad baby sitter.

The teacher would frequently ask, "any more thoughts on this topic?"

And the room was silent. Until the little baby said "bah." "nana." "Bahaaaaha."

Everyone smiled or let out a little laugh, admiring the baby's cute-ness, but I wasn't buying it. Not for a second.

I immediately turned around, and criticized the baby for improper grammar, and I told it to take the Binkie out of it's mouth when it's speaking to me.

The baby then replied "Bah."

Rude.

I then told the mom/terrible baby sitter that she should find another class to take her and her baby to, because I am tired of having standard classroom awkward silences RUINED by random burps, farts, and baby talk.

"If anyone is going to ruin the silence with flatulence, and random baby noises...It's going to be ME!"

"Sean, see me after class."

"Bah."

The last 2 weeks of my life have been, more or less, spent in a charter bus and/or a dorm room. So this got me to thinking, that a dorm room on wheels might very well be the best possible living condition for ANYONE.

The blueprint is still in the works, and I'm having a hard time getting it pattented, because it is a terrible idea, but I think it could really sell to...say, mentally challenged 19 year old college students.

The other day, my roommate (who will remain anonymous, because he is a gigantic, flamingly open homo-sexual) and I were running through the halls, most likely making animal noises, and undoubtedly giggling like small children.

Everything was going great, until I hear in the distance, a commanding, slightly bitchy, mostly whiny, and one hundred percent annoying voice say "No running in the halls."

I stopped dead in my tracks, feeling like i was in 2nd grade again, and found it very hard to believe that I really just got told to not run in the halls. By an RA!

I went back to the room, and she made me and my anonymously homosexual roomate walk back to our room in single file, with hall passes and a dunce cap on. She then bent me over and spanked me with a ruler. Which was actually entirely my idea. In a completely non-sexual sense. Cuz that would be weird.

In conclusion, buy your dorm-on-wheels today, available at Wal-Mart, and other major corporations that offer little to no benefits to their employees everywhere.

Oh, and if at all possible, in the next year, turn 30, enroll in a public speaking class, and get divorced.

Things Overheard in the Lunch-line

Standing in line for lunch at Hoke is usually such a pleasent experience, but today, this was not quite the case.

An older man and woman, husband and wife, or old dude wearing cowboy boots, and old lady that looks most likely lesbian, but is married just to throw us off, were standing in the line, being old, and complain-y.

Normally, I am quick to criticize the cafeteria workers, but this couple were taking it to a new level.

I realize most of my blogs include gross overstatements and exaggeration, but everything that i say these people said ACTUALLY HAPPENED*, even though I kinda wish it didn't.

*Mostly.

Old guy turns directly to me, makes eye contact and says in a very angry tone, "Do the students run this fuckin' thing or what?"

Half-asleep, and half wondering if his wife was a male, female, or Hillary Clinton, I didnt respond quickly.

He looked at me again, and said in a much angrier tone, "Do the fuckin' students run this fuckin' thing or what?"

Me, being 19 and awkward and partially retarted due to a tragic knitting accident in my youth, I replied with a giggle, and a shrug of the shoulders.

Little does he know, in my language that means, "Fuck you, and your oddly intimidating masculine partner."

He went on to roll his eyes stomp his cowboy boots, and literally* shit his pants in the lunchline.

*Not literally.

His Husband/wife/designated ass-slapper then turned to him and said "Do you want to go somewhere else for lunch?"

To that, the guy stared her dead in the eye, mostly looking like he wanted to kill her, and part of him looking like he wanted to find out what kind of genetalia she actually posesses and he said, "I want to have sex with you. In front of all these college students. Especially that tall fucker that smiled at me. Then I want to eat some rubber meat and have a salad and discuss our sex session. Right after these RETARDS figure out how to move the line quicker!"

He didn't really say that. His eyes said that, and the fact that his hands had a vice death grip around her waist, but he really said "No, It's fine."

I capitalized RETARDS because it is a COUNTRY in South America, and because he said it very loudy. I capitalize COUNTRY because my Caps lock gets stuck sometimes.

Anyway, the couple was now clearly sexually aroused by this slow moving lunch-line, because Hillary Clinton started slapping this man in the bottom every fifteen seconds or so, whispering things in his ear.

I'm going to assume she was saying "I'm going to make this wait worthwhile. Then im going to show you what LOVE is. Then I'm going to go to the Taco Bar. That was in no way a sexual reference, because I am not Lesbian, even though the kid behind me thinks I am and will probaly write a blog about us in a few hours. Anyway, your butt feels nice in those jeans."

Who knows what was actually said, but whatever it was, it wasn't helping because this guy was still very upset and once he got to the head of the lunchline, the worker at the desk took literally 5 minutes to count out 8 dollars in change.

Thats a 5, and 3 1's.

Or 800 pennies.

Now, the guy turns to his wife, and says "He should fuckin' work at mcdonalds."

She replies to this in the only socially acceptable way, slapping him un-necessarily hard on the posterior and saying "I'd like you to put your meat inbetween my buns. That was also not a sexual reference. I just like the way you build hamburgers. And I am hungry. For your meat. Sorry."

Baffled by the events that just occured, I found myself sending a mass text to all of the cafeteria workers, that read "SPIT in the food of the cowboy-boots man, and his carpet munching wife."

I capitalize SPIT, because the lower case means loogie, and I didn't want it to go that far.

I then turned my attention to another spot in line, to a very fat student proclaiming how much weight he can lift in various different exercises.

Student: I can leg-press 1,000 pounds.

Girl: Oh...

Student: 12 times


I was expecting the next line to be "blindfolded" or "And...I invented gravity."

He then went into great detail about his benchpress and how he crossed the pacific ocean with nothing but a toothpick and an innate ability to tell really exaggerated stories.

I had to intervene, so I leapt to the front of the line, stood between him and this girl, pointed my finger at him, and said "LIAR!"

I capitalize LIAR because it is actually an acronym.

Listen, I Am Reallyhavingahardtimebelievingyourbullshitstories.

I then looked down to realize the old man was not the only person sexually aroused in the lunchline, as I had apparently gotten excited myself, not from the couple's interaction, but from the word "Leg-press."

It's an involuntary thing, and I would appreciate it if you refrain from using that word when around me. Thanks.

I have to go to class, and make up some new acronyms, and get my leg-press going.


Oops.