On Rapping

I was never one of those kids who demanded attention for completing menial tasks, like peeing in the toilet without hitting the seat, or drinking water without it spilling down my chest, or even standing on one foot, demanding my mother, father, neighbor or brother drop what they’re doing and “look what I can do!” I was typically reserved, and if I peed in the toilet, I was privately proud of myself, while slightly disappointed that my brother wouldn’t be sitting in my urine.

I was, however, extremely bothered when I didn’t garner immediate recognition. For example, if my mother didn’t come in and pat me on the back for successfully putting my Legos back in the proper order, I would subtly hint at my notable accomplishment, and her calloused oversight.

“Soooo….uh, I, personally, noticed that the uh, Legos are noticeably absent this afternoon. I mean, not even a hint of Lego is happening in this living room right now. You know how annoying it is when you walk around barefoot, and step on one of those pointy rectangles, Mom? It’s atrocious. You’re welcome, and I forgive you in advance for your insensitivity.”

I would then demand Eggos with “the butter showing” and soaked in syrup, and my mom would ask me how I know what atrocious means. To that, I would reply, “Mooooooooooom! Could you come in here and help me wipe my bottom?” From the bathroom.

Anyway, the point is, I’ve never been one to toot my own horn. But only if you toot it for me. And if you don’t toot it for me, I am going to put my horn so close to your face, that you will either toot it out of annoyance, or because you finally think “you know what, this horn is pretty cool. I think I’ll toot it now.”

This is where I run into my biggest problems. I am really good at rapping. Like, really good. Not even just in the sense that I am better than the average person (which I am), or even better than your friend that raps (which I am) but, like, really good. This problem is further complicated by two things:

1.) Nobody will take me seriously. Ever.

2.) It is not yet verified, besides the select few people that have actually seen me rap, that I am, actually good.

I always wonder what the context is when Kanye or Childish Gambino come up with the next great line. You know, like, what was Kanye doing when he said “Killin y’all n***as on that lyrical shit/ mayonnaise colored Benz, I push Miracle Whips.

Was he making a sandwich? Driving his car? Both? Maybe he was running. My best ideas for raps come either when I am exercising, extremely excited about something, or, often times, both.

Three weeks ago, I got an iphone. It was, without question, one of the best things that have happened to me. After driving back from Sprint, I was in a state of sheer jubilation. My brother was driving, then it happened.

I spit flames for about two minutes—free-styling—one punch-line after the next. At one point, I think I started convulsing and drooling a little bit, but kept going, like any true rapper would, pushing through the adversity of my own saliva. I blacked out, but I think I remember my voice sounding kind of like my own, but a little deeper with a weird twang so if I said “dude” it would sound more like “Deuuuuwd.” I also did this weird thing with my hands where it looked like I was doing karate while mincing garlic. After my concluding line, which was undoubtedly something awesome, deep and clever at the same time, my brother looked at me like he’d just seen a ghost.

Thirty seconds of silence passed before he turned to me.

“It seriously bothers me that you’re so good at that,” he said.

I guess this most effectively sums up my ability to rap. I liken it to the general perception of body-builders. It’s impressive, and enticing enough to look for a bit, but your ability to respect them is impeded by the fact that they’re self-obsessed, fake-tanning assholes. In the same way that I am a 6’6 white kid under the illusion that he is the next Childish Gambino.

It must be noted, however, that although most people who’ve heard me rap insist that I am skilled, not everyone comes to this notion. For example, a few weeks ago, I rapped in front of about 10 people. It wasn’t a random free-style, but rather 20 minutes of random-off the top of my head free-association with anything and everything around me, in a somewhat paced, rhythmic fashion.

I was pretty sure I was awesome that night, but the next morning, I saw one of the people who listened to me, and she said:

“Last night you were ridiculous. Ridiculous.”

And it wasn’t the kind of ridiculous that people say when something is ridiculously awesome, but rather the ridiculous that people use to say you are ridiculous.

I shook this off pretty easily, though. Which isn’t an entirely good thing; now I take every opportunity to rap, in order to prove to myself and others that I am, indeed, a really good rapper. You can catch me rapping in class, on the toilet, to my friends, to my mom, to my brother, and mostly when I drive. Alone. If you have the chance, maybe you’ll hear me sometime. If not, wait till my album drops, and tell all your friends. Duh.

Slice

Every bite was an interruption. An unwelcome one at that—at least—to everyone but me.

The apple was the size of her head. And it was louder than the thoughts bouncing around in it. Thoughts that, when shared with the class, sliced her apple, pulverized it, smoldered it, sugar coated it and served a god-damn wholesome pie to the entire class. I ate it up.

“In act II, Scene III, I noticed Bosola really—“

“Crrrrrrrrrrrrrruuuck Pffffft Criiissssk,” said the Apple. Rude, but eloquent.

“Fuck,” I thought to myself, chuckling. That was the best thing I’ve heard in class today.

She was smiling. She wasn’t smiling, though. She was in convulsions of happiness. She smiled with her entire body. Her eyes widened, her shoulders popped, and her teeth burst. Her head didn’t even work hard, but it made yours hurt to just laugh along.

But you couldn’t NOT laugh along. The apple was hilarious.

“Crrrrrrck, Fffffffft, Slurrrrrrrrrrrrp” the Apple added.

“God damnit,” I said. This time, aloud.

I immediately reverted back to 7^th grade. That time my friend put a “kick me” post it on the girl he liked. We couldn’t stop laughing. The funniest part was that it wasn’t funny, but our efforts to hold in the laughter were so intense, I began tearing up while letting out incremental suffocated cries of “tee hee” “eeek” and “aaaah!”

“Fffffffft, Slurrrp, Gulllllp,” she said, to nobody in particular, but I felt like it was at least meant for me.

Meant for me, but received by the man sitting next to me. He was falling asleep. The apple on his Mac even dimmed. She took a bite straight out of it, and he felt it like a knuckle to the temple.

ESPN.com darkened into a black screen, and the skin between his nose and his cheek was in a state of perpetual twitch.

That is, until he intercepted my message. It was mine.

The stars of his dreams: rainbows, puppies, touchdowns and turnovers, the gorgeous girl five seats from him, chomping at the apple with reserved relentlessness that would make you blush. It was a pistol with a silencer in a dark alley. I’d had a rough day, and this Shakespeare shit was boring. The man next to me had a great dream, and probably wanted to keep it.

“Crack slurrrp craccck sluurrp gulpppp” The Apple shouted.

His neck jolted. He was ashamed. The apple paid more attention than he did. He woke to a stumbling stupor of himself, nearly losing his balance in his own seat.

“Eh, uh, uh, uhhh,” he stammered.

He raised his hand a few seconds later. A community service act that was done to fill out his time sheet.

“Yes?” The professor said.

“Eh, uh, um, mum, eh, aah,” he started.

“Uegh, ah, eh, the thing I thought was interesting—,” he continued.

“Creeeeeeick Fttttfttt slurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp, caaaaaaaaaaaaaaah,” The Apple said, in the most deliberate boast of its career. The bite was calculated. Orchestrated, even. She maintained eye contact with him for the duration of the bite, and nothing in life had ever been so demanding of laughter.

It was the lonely elevated red platform—a lifeguard tower on a crisp, sweet white-sand beach. It was the last patch of red-hot skin of a residing blush on an alabaster face. A face that, for now, had reason to blush—but only in the mind of her own.

It was the tip of the matchstick, and she bit it with such force—such friction that her teeth skated upwards, igniting the flame. She just burned the whole fucking classroom down.

Her eyes reflected the shocked faces of those observing the classroom, engulfed in fruitful flames. I’d imagine, at least, but I don’t need to. I saw it. They were glazed. Thoughtful, aware, all the while not giving a shit. She had an apple to eat, and this class just took another 90 minutes.

I took off my shoes. The apple made itself at home. She resigned herself to another circular class discussion, I figured I’d be in for the long haul.

I cited the season. It’s autumn. The leaves on the balcony are the color that the apple once was. The apple that now rests idly at the far corner of her desk, pale and exiled from the drips of condensed moisture it left, like footprints in a foggy field.

I cited the time. I did my body well today. It was time for some nourishment. And not those obnoxious Halloween ads.

“There’s no wrong way to eat a Reeses.”

“There’s no right way to consume a protein shake in an Early Modern Drama class. Or maybe anywhere besides a tanning salon.”

If her apple said “hearing my own skin tear itself is better than hearing you assholes make another idiotic point,” mine said “Biceps, biceps biceps, iron, steel, my pecs are stronger than your brain.”

“Clank clank clank clank swish. . “ The metallic shaker knocked obnoxiously at the walls.

“Gulp gulp gulp gulp . . .” my typically loud throat groaned.

“ Growl growwwwwwwwwl euuugh” my stomach grumbled, angry that the apple belonged to the digestive tract three seats down. I heard her tummy feel sorry for itself, too. Our stomachs groaned in unison. One pitch a tad higher than the other. We were synchronized, both in boredom, pain and digestion.

Meanwhile, people were audacious enough to interrupt us, raising hands, citing quotes, and saying ‘um’.

I cracked a smile from the side of my mouth. There was no use hiding. I exhaled a perfectly silent outburst of laughter. My inhale was a kid choking on an apple core. Half the room turned around, the other half were used to it by now.

Her mouth opened, and her lips peeled back, exposing a hue of white that shamed the meat of her apple. The part you don’t understand, the part nobody understands is that it did. The apple just sat there, idle. It said no words; it didn’t dress itself up in a pie, or a container with high fructose corn-syrup. It admitted defeat.

It rotted in the crackling autumn cross-wind.

The breeze tickled my left ear. I turned from The Apple’s peripherals, and her gaze that enticed me to laugh again. I smiled as quietly as I could.

I put my shoes back on. He fell back asleep. Nobody knew.

Inside The NBA Lockout Meetings

As many of you probably know, the NBA isn’t happening right now. Two weeks ago, training camp was supposed to start, which usually gives me a good reason to watch NBATV for hours on end for the “EXCLUSIVE PRACTICE SESSIONS 24 HOUR ACCESS” and “HOW DID PAU GASOL LET US PUT A CAMERA IN HIS SHOWER!? DO YOU REALLY WANT TO EVEN SEE THAT!??,” episodes, where I watched Phil Jackson sit on a big chair last year, Kobe Bryant shoot on the side kind of, all the while wondering why I couldn’t at least have the athleticism of Luke Walton, or the mind of Ron Artest.

But nope, that isn’t happening this year, because David Stern decided to take a sizable shit on all of my dreams. Instead, I am watching “Cupcake Wars” and wondering why I have no social life.

I keep reading articles and blog-posts about the lockout, and the forecast is grim. It looks, as of right now, no matter how much the two sides negotiate, there is no progress. Why? Is it because the owners are greedy money-grabbers? Is it because like 4 teams actually made profit this year? Is it because of Lebron James? He seems to ruin everything.

No. The reason no progress is being made is because the negotiations go like this. Word for word, duh:

Derek Fisher: Greetings, all. I know this has been quite an ordeal, and we all just want to get back to doing what we love. Hopefully, this afternoon will bring about some clarity to our increasingly complex labor negotiations. I will pass it off to Ray Allen to explain our stance, in detail.

Ray Allen: Thanks Derek. As many of you know, we, as players feel like we should not be punished for the careless contracts issued out by the owners. For example, why should I, the all time leader in 3pt makes in NBA history, be punished because some idiot gave Rashard Lewis 80 million to be overrated?

Rashard Lewis: That’s cold, Ray.

Ray Allen: Sorry, man. Seattle was your prime, you kinda suck now.

Rashard Lewis: I do kind of suck now, huh. What team am I even on anyway? Am I relevant to anyone anymore?

JJ Redick: No. You’re pretty unimportant. And that’s coming from me, JJ Redick. I wear gel in my hair, like Sasha Vujacic, minus the whole “dating a hot tennis player” thing. But I went to Duke. And we’re totally not racist. Elton Brand is an asshole.

Elton Brand: Hoooold up, man. What’s up with that? So not fair. I was just sitting here, minding my own business, getting rebounds and stuff, not being good past the year 2007, and you’re going to just come at me like that?

David Stern: Gentlemen, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to intervene. Can we get to the point? Derek, please re-direct this discussion

(Derek Fisher distracted by Luis Scola, and his ugly face, and sick savvy post game. Scola enters.)

Derek Fisher: LUIS SCOLA!!?!?!?!?!? WHAT THE F**K!?? Oh, HELL NO! Who invited this guy!??

(Derek Fisher lowers his shoulder, offends everyone from Southern America, and obliterates Luis Scola, ala the playoffs that one year when he f****d him up.)

Tim Donaghy enters

(Blows his whistle aggressively)

Tim Donaghy: That was a foul. On Luis Scola. Excessive hair, and wearing the wrong jersey. The Lakers win. Everything. All things, the Lakers win all things, always.

Kobe Bryant: Nice.

David Stern: Seriously, guys? Tim Donaghy?

(Enter Chris Bosh)

Chris Bosh: Look, guys. This seems to be a bit of a tense situation. To ease the tension, I am now going to stand up, and start parading around the room, like the ostrich/raptor that I am.

(Chris Bosh starts running around the room)

David Stern: This is ridiculous. I seriously WANT to be mad right now, but just look at him. He looks like an ostrich, or a dinosaur, or a very overrated power forward.

(Bosh stops in his tracks.)

Bosh: Whoa, whoa whooooaaa…I am NOT overrated. Didn’t you see me on ESPN First Take?

David Stern: Alright, let’s get back to the point, Ray Allen, could you please start us off?

J.R. Smith enters, and predictably, will probably ruin everything, or shoot some really ill-advised 3’s, or maybe dunk on somebody.

J.R. Smith: HOOOO!!!! Is that…JESUS SHUTTLESWORTH!?!?!? (starts doing that stupid chicken dance that he does)

Billy Hunter: Okay, guys. Seriously? Do you want to play this season, or NOT!??

Josh Selby: I’m not tryin to go through a lockout, but I’m just curious, breh

(Silence)

….

Chris Andersen: I have a neck tattoo…

Kobe Bryant: God-damnit, Chris.

(Michael Jordan enters)

MJ: Hey, just to let all you pussies know, I could beat the shit out of all of you in 1 on 1. Don’t you ever forget it, you punk b****es.

(MJ leaves)

Nick Collison: That was rather rude.

All: Nick Collison!? You’re still in the NBA?

Nick Collison: Guys, I’ve been here the whole time. I took seven hundred charges last year.

Billy Hunter: Listen, guys. If we don’t get this done now, the first 2 weeks of the NBA season will be CANCELLED. You hear me? Cancelled!

Paul Pierce: How is that possible? That’s not fair! How is that POSSIBLE!??

Kevin Garnett (who has been in the scene the whole time, he’s just been busy talking shit to Jose Calderon, and banging his head against the backboard stanchion the entire time)

Kevin Garnett: ANYTHIING IS POSSIBLE!

John Salmons: Look at my beard.

(silence)

John Salmons: Look at my beard.

(silence)

John Salmons: My last name is a fish.

(silence)

(Stephen Jackson starts rapping)

Stephen Jackson: I get bucks/like the team that I play for

(Enter Kareem Abdul Jabbar)

Kareem: Where’s my fucking statue?

Andrew Bynum: You don’t even deserve one. I don’t need you here. Nobody needs you here. I am fine without you.

(Andrew Bynum tears his meniscus)

Dirk Nowitzki: TAKE DAT WITCH YEW! (pointing to Kareem’s water bottle, which he left on the table)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBeWB1yg-G4

Dirk Nowitzki: No, seriously. Take dat witch yew.

(silence)

Dirk: Whatever, I’m going to go shoot some one-footed jumpers. Suckers.

David Stern: That’s it. I’m done. First 2 weeks, cancelled. And Kareem, you’re not getting a statue if you keep asking for it. The whole point is flattery, not entitlement, you selfish jerk.

Lebron James: Hold up everyone. Commissioner Stern, just hear me out. Okay, so we have this lockout, right?

Lebron’s Yes-men: Right

Lebron: And it totally sucks, right?

LYM: Right.

Lebron: And everyone hates it, right?

LYM: Right!

Lebron: So, we run this, like, hour long telecast of our debate, right. The revenue it generates will be AT LEAST enough to pay off Rashard Lewis, Joe Johnson AND Anderson Varejao’s terrible contracts.

LYM: RIGHT!

Lebron: Then, at the end, we’ll announce whether I am going to wear number 6 next year, or number 100, because no other player in history has ever done that. Then, it can end with a close-up of my tattoos, or something, then maybe I could throw in a couple self-depreciating jokes, because apparently I do that now. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=48qzZT4Rj24

David Stern: That sounds stupid. Are you going to wear that awful checkered button down shirt again?

LYM: Let’s invite Jim Grey!

Kobe: That sounds awful. How about we do that same thing, but with me, and I wear jersey number 101, because I have to be one better than everyone, always. We can just have highlights of my 81 point game streaming over and over and over again. It will make people miss the NBA so much that the lockout will have no choice but to end.

(silence)

Kobe: Fine. We can photo-shop Kwame Brown out of every clip.

Kwame Brown: Hey! I made 3 million this last year!

David Stern: Oh, God.

(Enter Mark Cuban)

Mark Cuban: Sup, Commish. Our earnings were way down this year, I mean, yeah, we won the title, or whatever. But I need some more cashflow. Brian Cardinal needs like 3 more frozen-body massage treatments, or he is going to disintegrate.

Brian Cardinal: I made 4 million last year.

Billy Hunter: This is hopeless.

(John Wall starts doing the dougie.)

(Blake Griffin gets naked http://a.espncdn.com/photo/2011/1005/111005blakegriffin.jpg Jumps over a car)

David Stern: Alright, alright. Lockout is over.

(Everyone joins hands, sings “Basketball” by Bow Wow, and nobody ever has to pretend to care about the start of the NHL season ever again.)

What REALLY Happens in Sorority Houses?

My palms were sweating as I nervously stood at the porch of a sorority on Willamette University's campus. I did that thing where you pull-up to a place you've never been before, and text the person inside to notify them of your arrival, because it's way too difficult and or humiliating to knock on the door.

"I'm here" I texted.

"Kk" she replied.

I took roughly 45 seconds to ponder why the hell people feel the need to write "Kk" and why it can't just be "okay" or "alright" or "sounds good" or any other sort of affirmation.

After 3 minutes, it appeared that 3 minutes was at least 2 times the appropriate amount of time that it would take a human being to reply to a text message, get up from the couch, and come greet me in the driveway.

So, I acted as any rational human would have acted, and I started panicking. A lot.

'Oh god, this is an elaborate prank. She told me to come over, but really she is with all of her sisters, and they are all talking about how that tall idiot looks like such an idiot right now.'

So, yeah. I stood up. I walked to the porch.

There was a god-damn buzzer. A BUZZER. Who the hell has a house with a buzzer? It's the least inviting way to say, "hey, house full of seventy girls, I am here. Don't believe me? Okay, BZZZZZZZZZT!"

So, I buzzed, then in the following moments, I decided to let go of my anxiety, and create a completely imaginary situation that is OBVIOUSLY how the rest of my night would go. This is that situation.

“What’s the word?” she asked me, once she FINALLY opened the door.

“Um, Trampoline?” I said.

“Holy shit, come on in,” she said.

I got six steps into the house before the inevitable happened.

“MAN ON!” She screamed at the top of her lungs.

I immediately retreated, sure that the Ninja-Sister would drop down from the attic, judo-chop my neck, and drag my body off to be fed to the cannibal-sisters. Before this could happen, I sprinted towards the door I had just entered through, and was tripped up by something.

It was obviously the infiltrating-sister. The one who makes sure guests stay for as long as they are welcomed, no longer, no less.

“Now, just what the HELL do you think you’re doing?” Infiltrating sister said, with her heel pressed on my cheek.

“Um I am leaving. Because I don’t want to get killed by ninja-sister, and then eaten by the sisters that like to eat humans,” I said turning my head upwards.

“Oh, guys, wait. It’s just Sean. He’s barely a man. Actually, he’s legally a woman in 32 states,” she said.

"Sean, are you okay?" Reality sister asked me. It was at this point that I steeped even further into my fantasy. Nobody could ruin this for me now, not even consciousness.

Let's try this again:

Me: BZZZZZZZT

Girl1: Hey, do I know you?

Me: Hey, I'm here to see Katherine

Girl 1: Okay, sure, come on in.

Girl 1: "MAN ON!"

Girls 4-12: "MAN ON...SORT OF!"

Me: You already said that.

Girl 1: Sorry, house protocall. We have to yell man on, just so the ladies know there is a man present. You know, in-case they are prancing around in scandalous bunny outfits, or having sexually experimental interactions with eachother.

Me: Oh, totally. Wouldn't want any of that.

Girl 3: Hey Sean. I was wondering if you noticed that I am wearing only underwear, and an oversized vintage T-shirt. Did you notice that?

Me: (drooling)

Girl 3: Are you okay?

Me: Yes. I am okay.

Girl 3: Okay, did you notice that I am now giving you a back massage?

Girl 5: Hey Sean, did you notice that I am also giving you a back massage?

Girl 2: Hey Sean, did you also notice that I am feeding you grapes, and just told you that I think your blog is funny?

Me: I noticed all of those things, sorority sisters. I also noticed that there is a smell of fresh baked cookies coming from the kitchen.

Girl 1: Hey Sean, do you mind that I made you a dozen cookies, with white chocolate chips and macadamia nuts? Do you mind that I spelled your name with vanilla-almond frosting on each one?

Me: Hey girls, I don't mind any of these things. These are all things that I do not mind!

Girl 4: More grapes?

Girl 8: Hey Sean, I just got done doing yoga. How's my flexibility?

Me: Your flexibility looks like something that is good. Oh, oh God, are you okay? You are contorting your body in a manner that appears very painful.

Girl 8: I'm a PRETZEL!

Girl 2: Sean, do you mind that I made you some delicious chocolate covered pretzels? Here, have them! And if you could, eat them off of my stomach, please. That's the only way I like to serve pretzels. Is on my stomach. So, do it. Now.

Me: Okay, that is kind of weird, but you are very demanding, and I will do what you just asked me to do.

Girl 5: Guys, I love pillow-fights. But do you know the only thing I love more than pillow-fights?

Girl 2: Sean?

Girl 5: Well, that too.

Girl 4: Sean again?

Girl 5: Yes. But what I was getting at, is the only thing I like more than pillow fights are pillow fights in my underwear. Because that allows for the most range of motion, and I feel like I can beat the shit out of you easier when wearing lingerie. Extremely sexy lingerie.

Girl 2: I totally get that.

Me: I am nervous, girls. I haven't pillow-fought in 2 years, and the last time I did it, I got a cut on my eyebrow, and broke my index finger. Will you please take it easy on me?

Girl 4: No prisoners, BITCH!

(She jumps, puts me in a choke-hold, and steps on my head)

Me: This is more painful and less pleasant than the part of the night where you were making me cookies and telling me how funny I am. Ouch, that's my ear.

Girl 3: Sorority pillow fights are things that we take very seriously. Don't fuck with us. Or we will fuck you up.

Me: I am sorry. Can we go back to feeding grapes?

Girl 1: The only grapes you will eat are the grapes in hell. And I heard the grapes in hell taste nothing like grapes at all, and more like SHIT FROM A VERY SICK DONKEYS ASSHOLE! ! !

(BLAAULAAAULAAH)

(Girl 1 is now salivating, and attempting to bite me. My night in the sorority is quickly becoming less fun.)

Girl 4: You chauvinistic ASSHOLE! You seriously thought we just sit around in our underwear all day, baking cookies, and talking about how badly we want to bone guys like you? Congrats, you play a sport. Go wear your cut-off and join a fraternity, you self-obsessed asshole.

Girl 2: HAHAHA, I SHIT IN THE MACADAMIA NUT COOKIES!

Girl 3: (removes mask) MUUAHAHA I AM ACTUALLY A MAN. Yes, I realize a very beautiful man, with feminine qualities, but a MAN NONETHELESS. How insecure do you feel about your sexuality NOW!? You told me I was a good kisser! ! ! !

Girl 7: Your blogs are fuckin' dumb!

Girl 9: Except for the one you're going to write about that one time you got FUCKED UP by those sorority girls!

Girl 11: Those grapes I mentioned before were actually DEER DROPPINGS COATED IN SUGAR, YOU DEER-SHIT-EATER!

Then, they all castrated me. It was a rather beautiful ceremony, minus the blood and screaming. There were candles lit, I remember that.

It was at this point that I snapped out of it, and my friend opened the door. We spent the evening watching reality television, and talking about school. It was extremely ordinary, pretty fun, and I walked out of there with my balls intact.

In short, stop being so stereotypical, you assholes. Sorority sisters are just like you and me. Just way prettier.

That College Party

It’s everyone’s favorite time of year! The time of year where you go to college parties, with college students, and do college things.

In this instance, college things include, but are not limited to:

-Binge drinking

-Playing very loud rap music, in which the chorus repeats “swag” or “paper” or “b****es” repeatedly.

-Being extremely hot in a crowded room.

-Saying “how was your summer” as many times as you can.

-Only farting next to the one open window in the house, which almost always turns out to be a bad idea, because, contrary to your initial belief, relieving your intestinal waste next to the window actually blows the smell IN, not OUT.

-You are reminded this by the pretty girl who you just asked “how was your summer?” “It smelled like rotten eggs? Weird, I’m pretty sure these homeowners have spoiled produce in their fridge. Football players—so irresponsible.” Then you fart again and make a comment about how the wood floor is creaky. Works every time.

But seriously, you know the party. THAT party. The one where you didn’t even know you went to school with as many people that are in the house. You show up with friends, of course, because nobody goes to that party alone. You also make sure that your friends are pretty girls, because if they are not, you will be castrated at the door.

Then you walk in, and there’s the standard awkward 90 second period where you are convinced you’ve come to the wrong party. You don’t recognize anyone, you’re sweating, and some tall idiot just farted next to the window.

But THEN, in the moment that everyone lives for, you make eye contact with a familiar face, and proceed to lose your mind momentarily.

“OH MY GOD! HOW ARE YOU!??!!? It’s been TOO long!” You’ll say, to that person you had English 101 with Freshman year and can’t quite remember their name.

Moving at this party is impossible. In fact, it is non-existent. Everyone there has resigned to the fact that if they want to get to the other side of the room, it is going to take 30 minutes.

Surprisingly, this does not deter ANYONE from trying to move. We all continue to scoot our feet, inch by swelteringly uncomfortable inch, until our backs are as moist as the walls of the party, coated with sweat, saliva, and condensation from everyone’s favorite bodily fluids.
It’s not the destination, though. It’s the journey, and on this journey, you will encounter the following things:

That Girl:

“Oh my god, we haven’t talked in so long! How was your summer? We should totally hang out sometime! Get some coffee or something, I know of this cool new place!”

That Guy:

“Bro, it’s been too long, man. Let’s kick it sometime, drink some beer and s**t. Watch sporting events, and eat hamburgers. “

That Person You Made Out With That One Time:

“(awkward momentary eye contact)”

(moment where you realize you have nothing to say to this person)

(moment where they realize they have nothing to say to you, and making out with you was a lapse in judgement)

“Hey,” in unison.

“How are you?” in unison.

(silence, because neither one of you knows who is answering the question, because you said it at the same time)

“I’m good,” in unison.

(You both go your own way, because you just found out that you are both doing good, and that is good enough. Good. )

The Far Too Loud Conversation:

The best and worst part of parties like this is the volume at which everything is happening. Literally, everything is amplified by ten. It’s something about the acoustics of the room, the volume of the music, and the fact that there are ten thousand people present.

This can make for extremely entertaining conversations. For example, someone can ask you a perfectly reasonable question, and you can reply ANY WAY you want to, because all they hear is “I put on for my city” by Young Jeezy.

Someone might ask you, “how was your being home for the summer?”

“Home was a shoebox, it was wintry, but my favorite color is blue! How many chickens have you had?” You reply.

“That’s awesome! Where are you from, again?” They ask, because they are either not listening to you, or genuinely do not give a s**t about anything you have to say.

“Well, I was born in a cave once, but I am a learned man. Usually, the Tara-dactyls soar high above, and one time, there was clouds!” You say.

“Ah, yeah, how could I forget! What are you studying, again?” They’ll ask.

“Right now, I am trying to think of coffee tables, and a homeless man urinating on my sidewalk. But for certain, it appears I have a gigantic back-zit. Do you want to have dinner at lunch-time before you die?” You’ll say.

“That’s super interesting. What do you want to do with that, in terms of a career?” They’ll ask.

“I’d like to plant a kangaroo tree, that way, every time you talk to me, I can be like, ‘hey, I have to go water my kangaroo tree, they get super upset when I forget to water them.’ Also, I really have to poop right now. Can you tell by the weird way that I am standing?” You reply.

“What?” They will eventually say. This is a problem. They have caught onto the fact that you are talking about dinosaurs and trees made of animals. You must evacuate as soon as possible, because if anyone finds out the random stuff you were just saying, they are going to think you are so weird. Just write it down. Then it becomes funny, and less weird.

Party Ends:

The inevitable “S**t, the cops are here” always comes about 45 minutes after you arrive. This 45 minute time window is convenient, though. It gives you just enough time to cover your back in a palpable layer of sweat, and stand still while people yell loud things at you.

Things that can be yelled at a party:
-“Bro, you’re such a P***Y! Why are you wearing purple!? Are you some kind of non-heterosexual non-athlete? I bet you don’t even pick heavy things up, then put them down. I bet while I am doing those things, you read books, you sensitive piece of dog s**t!”

This usually happens before a large, emphatic ‘bro-hug’ where the two men collide bodies with such force that they ricochet off of each other. Initially, it looks like they are going to fight because that one guy called the other guy a p***y for being literate. But the other guy is totally chill, and doesn’t even like purple, it’s his sisters shirt. So they just do this cool bro-hug that you make fun of but secretly wish you knew how to do without looking like you’re having a full body seizure.

-“Oh my God, come here you F***ING SLUT!”
“…Hey Christina. How was your summer?”

“ Oh my God, you WHORE, it’s been so long. Seriously, you SKANK, where the hell have you been?”
“…um, I was just at home. For the summer. Working…”

“Goodness, you prostitute, what were you doing all my life, selling your body to men in exchange for sexual intercourse, you hooker!?
“No, no, um, actually, I was just working. For my parents’ café. I was bussing tables, it was pretty modest work, but I really enjoyed being home.”

“O M G, you F*****g slooze, I bet you were shakin’ you’re a** and getting all the tips, you F****ng mixed bag of assorted prostitutes and sluts and hookers and other people who accept things of monetary value for sexual things that they can do with their body! O M G!”

“Actually, we did this thing where we split tips, where, like, if I made a 5 dollar tip, it goes to the chefs and everyone in back, like the dishwashers and stuff. Then, at the end of the day, we all…

“MAKE OUT, you f***ing skeez, oh my gosh it’s been so long you SLUT! Oh mygossshhh!”

“No, Christina. That’s not what I was getting at. At all. Why do you keep calling me a slut and insinuating that I sell my body for money? I really don’t understand. I worked in a restaurant all summer. With my family. There was no prostitution. At all.”

“AAAH, so ya did it for FREE, you WHORE! Oh my gosh, come here, you SLUT, it’s been so LONG!”
(Realizes it is hopeless. Rolls eyes. Participates in similar embrace to ‘bro-hug’ except for girls, where they hold their embrace for longer. During the embrace, girl thinks ‘I need to find smarter friends. Ones that are less fond of prostitution, and have more appropriate nicknames.)

Party Ends. Go home, you sweaty idiots.

Game: Not Having It, And The Hilarious Repercussions

The concept of “game” has always been a foreign one to me. That could very well be because my experiences of meeting female humans have been carried out in the traditional sense. You know, the one where you meet them, talk to them about important things, like FEELINGS and $HIT, then invite them over to watch Harry Potter, even though you secretly hate Harry Potter, then try to hold their hand.

Next time, you will ask them to make dinner with you, because your mom went out of town for business, then you make a $hitty stir fry, and get a Jamba Juice afterwards and laugh about how Strawberries Wild is way better than a** flavored homemade teriyaki sauce. It is at this point that you tell the girl that you think she is “super cool” and would like to “hang out more.”

Then of course, you make-out, and if you are anything like me, you lick her face off like you’ve left chocolate sauce at the bottom of that bowl that is so deep that you get drippings of delicious ice-cream smeared on your chin. That is how everyone makes out when they are 14. Then you realize being 14 sucks, because you just tried to grab the girl of your dreams boob, and she gave you a look of disgust that rivaled her expression when you told her that “Razzmatazz is actually way worse than Strawberries Wild, and Mango Madness sucks.”

Yeah, those were the simple days. Also known as the days when I could actually get a female human being’s phone number.

I recently went out “clubbing” in Bend, Oregon, which should totally not be called “clubbing,” it should be called “going out and seeing women who probably look at you and think ‘you probably went to high school with my son.’

Okay, so middle aged women, no problem, right? 30, 35, 40, cool. They should be willing, even EAGER to pay attention to 21-year-old’s, right? RIGHT?

The night started off normal enough, dancing at a semi-crowded bar with creaky wood floors to “Get Low” and “Yeah” which are officially the two most overplayed songs of all time, but simultaneously the best songs to listen to when trying to seduce women with your killer dance moves, DUH.

It is a very unfortunate predicament that I find myself in at dance clubs. Firstly, God clearly wanted some entertainment when he assembled my body. My quadriceps are the length of a twin sized bed. My feet are the size of the room in which that bed resides. And my dance moves are the sweaty, hairy overweight man that hangs off the side of it while eating a Sub-Sandwich and mayonnaise drips down his naked, exposed fur coat of a chest.

To compound this problem, I also happen to be extremely fond of lyrics. All lyrics. And in some demented way, in my mind, I think knowing the lyrics to these awful early 2000’s rap songs somehow makes up for the fact that when I move my body, the women around me on the dance floor become instantly attracted to things like: other women, that barstool, and the other side of the dance floor.

The result is me, all 79 inches of me, mouthing every single lyric, to every single song, all the while trying to make creepy eye contact with any girl that will look at me. I know it’s weird, I know it’s borderline socially unacceptable, but it makes me feel in my element on the dance floor, and I never, ever, stop. Ever.

Oddly enough, mouthing the words “till the sweat drop off ma ballz/ all these b****es crawl/ aw, skeet skeet mother-f***er/ aw, skeet skeet God D***” to your dancing partner is apparently a worn out strategy in the ever-complicated “game.”

APPARENTLY, chanting a word that is slang for female sexual secretion, and advertising the perspiration that falls from your baby-bag while dancing is “unappealing” and “offensive” to the women that probably made me and their sons frozen pizza after my high school basketball games, when I spent the night at their house. WHATEVER.

I guess that trick wore off in the 8th grade, which was coincidentally also the last time anyone had listened to those songs on purpose.

From the beginning, I was probably wearing a sign on my head that said “don’t acknowledge me as a heterosexual, single, possibly above mediocre-looking man.”
I walked into the bar with a fellow 6’7 basketball player, and a 6’10 friend of ours. To make matters worse, despite my height, I was stopped for a good 3 minutes at the entry, facing all sorts of super-original, ever-entertaining harassment for being tall, awkward, and having the facial features of a pre-pubescent boy.

“Man, you look about a day past 16. Did you just get your license?” The security guard with more hair on his neck than I have on my head asked.

“Yeah, my mom just dropped me off actually. Learners permit,” I say, trying to show this guy I have a good humor about how I look like an less-handsome Shia Lebouff on stilts, Even Stevens era.

“I wouldn’t joke about it, when it’s true, man,” he says, effectively telling me what is funny and what is not.

“Look, I seriously don’t believe that you are 21,” he says.

“I mean, you look just like your ID picture. It’s not like I think this wasn’t you when you were 16. I just think this picture was taken yesterday,” he added.

“Yeah, I know, I look young.” I say, growing irritated and embarrassed.

“What are ya, a basketball player?” He asked.

“No, water-polo,” my friend responded.

I laughed.

“S**t’s not funny man. Water polo is hard. Except it probably wouldn’t be for you, you could touch the bottom. You’d just be standing the whole time. You’d be great at it!” Security-a** said.

It was at this point that the other people in line started getting into it, trading various “how’s the weather” comments, before he let me in to the club.

Once in the club, I managed to dance with two girls. One for ten seconds before she said she “has to pee, but will be RIGHT back” and the other who probably said “I wish I had to pee, so that could give me an excuse to get away from you. Also, why are you sweating so much?”

I never saw either of these girls again. Oh wait, that isn’t true. I saw both of them, five minutes later, dancing happily with other guys.

“Probably just a bad club. Everyone has a bad club. I just wasn’t feeling the vibes there, you know? The dance floor was too hot. My feet hurt. That DJ sucked. Those girls were ugly anyway,” I blurted to anyone who would listen.

“Totally, man. You’ll get ‘em next time,” my friend said.

But when my friend said “you’ll get ‘em next time,” I think he meant “never try to speak to a female human again. They hate you. Deal with it.”

Dancefloor #2:

The problem with me and dancing is not so much the fact that women at clubs don’t find it appealing. The problem with me dancing is that I dance.

Think of all of the things that you are not very good at. They are probably also the things that you stay away from. Snakes. Are you a snake handler? Do you play with snakes? Do you run around with a pile of snakes, just hanging out, doing snake stuff? Do you hate snakes? I don’t like snakes. I stay away from snakes.

Country music. I can’t sing like Garth Brooks. I am not as confusingly attractive as the 15-year-old Miley Cyrus (I said it, you were thinking it). Country music is awful. I don’t have country music on my ipod.

Dancing. Are you good at dancing? If the answer is yes, you do it all the time.

Dancing. Are you AWFUL at dancing? When you dance, does it look like your pant-legs and the sleeves of your t-shirt are on fire, and you are trying to fan them out when you dance? Do people swarm to your rescue? Does it look like you are in pain when you move your body? Even if the answer is yes, YOU STILL DO IT. Much to the dismay of everyone around you, YOU STILL DO IT. Because it is socially unacceptable to stand still in the middle of the dance floor.

“Are you okay?” This reasonably attractive woman said to me. I was so excited that a woman was speaking to me, I went to my go-to reply line, even though I had no idea what she said.

“I know, right?” I replied. I figure it’s a solid line, because it’s impartial. It works for most everything, because, really, I am just agreeing with what you said. Unless the preceding statement was “my grandmother just died, I am really sad. Also, you are ugly, and the way you dance makes me want to leave the country.”

“I KNOW, RIGHT!?”

“Um, I asked if you are okay,” she said, louder this time.

“I’m not gay!” I replied.

“Are you OKAY!?” She screamed.

“OH! Um, yeah, why?” I said.

“The way you were dancing. It looked like you were hurt,” she replied.

It was at this moment that I laughed, and figured this was a start to a really sweet romance. Like, the spunky, sassy girl who calls you out for being tall and awkward, but ends up being totally into you, and you stay at the club until 3 AM dancing your blistered toes to the bone.

“Haha! Yeah, duh. Does it LOOK like I am fine?” I said, most likely before a poorly executed spin move of some sort that involved way too much finger-pointing, and probably a wink or maybe an eyebrow raise. My confidence was undoubtedly ill-conceived, considering how the earlier part of the night went.

“Alright, my friends wanted me to ask you, because we thought it looked like you twisted an ankle earlier, or something. It looks like you are in pain,” she replied.

It’s cool though, because when the music is so loud at clubs, you can pretend she’s saying something else. Obviously, in an attempt to salvage my ego, I read her lips, and she definitely said “I just wanted to let you know that you don’t look injured at all when you dance, and I actually need to go get new underwear because of the way your body moves. I pissed myself at the very thought of you and I dancing together. If you were any sexier, I would call the fire department, because your attractiveness could burn this mother effer down, you filty beast of masculine sex appeal.”

Actually, I didn’t picture her saying that at all. I pictured her saying the words to the song being played, which was far less offensive than asking if I was in pain while dancing.

“Party Rock is in the house tonight,” she SAID.

“Everybody, just have a good time,” she added. And I did. I had a great time. A GREAT TIME, okay?

Then we got Jamba Juice, and watched Harry Potter. Game? Psch. Who needs game?

First Strip Club: Part 2

What we got, for 20 dollars a person, was not the world. It was access to a shady strip-club (redundant?) and a ride in a 12-seater bus that had one woman in the corner puking into a paper-bag, and 4 other people, having a logistically-improbable 4-way make-out session that was not so much interesting to observe, but more perplexing to try and wrap one’s head around.

Things went from bad to worse on the ‘party-bus,’ as the middle-aged woman next to me put her hand on my leg, winked at me, then proceeded to spill her vat of margarita all over my lap. Talk about moment ruined.

It wasn’t the cool spill that you see in movies, either. You know, the one where the attractive woman ‘accidently’ splashes some red-wine on your khakis, then dabs gently around your lap so it won’t stain, meanwhile she seduces you with her beautiful eyes and smile.

No, this was more like, “Oh F***!” then a gallon of margarita soaked through my shorts. Before even pretending to make an effort to clean up the Atlantic ocean of alcohol that now saturated my lap, she tried to save what was left of her drink, scooping up the ice off of the floor of the party bus, and dumping it back into her gigantic cup.
“Sorry, sweets,” she said.

It was at this point that I realized this woman was old enough to be my mother.

It was 2 minutes later when I realized she was taking off her top, twirling it above her head, and standing on the seat, incoherently shouting “Wha’ happen’ in Vega’, stayed there, okay? F**k! Now, guys got wet-lap! S**t!”

And the fun was just beginning. Once we got into the stripclub, I was horrified. A large man with facial hair asked me for 20 dollars to get in. I politely handed the large man my money, and calmly said, “here’s your money, don’t beat the s**t out of me.”

To which he replied, “you look like you are 12 in your license photo.”

To which I replied, “You look like you’ve never looked like a 12-year-old in your life. Even when you were twelve. Please let me go.”

Finally, we pick a spot in a dark corner. A strip club is a physically impossible structure. It’s like that never-ending staircase in “Inception.” Normal rooms have four corners. Strip clubs have an infinite amount of corners, constructed for the sole purpose of doing sexual things, and consequentially, making me feel really uncomfortable.

“One for the big man!” My friend incoherently slurs.

I look up, and there is a petite Asian woman walking up to me, sliding her bra strap off of her shoulder. It reminds me of the start to a really bad porno-flick.

“Um…” I stammer.

“It’s fine sweetie,” she says, in a way that makes me believe it really is fine.

“I’ve never done this before,” I blurt, like that nervous seventh-grader that got flashed a vagina for the first time.

“Oh, you funny!” She laughs.

It is at this moment that my mind clears, and I become extremely offended. The stripper-lady doesn’t believe that this is my first strip club. She thinks I am a pervert. Do I look like a pervert? Do I look like someone who would go to strip clubs often?

She is now giving me a lap-dance, and I have no idea what to do. She keeps asking me “are you okay?” and I keep saying, “I have no idea. This is weird.”

Now, she starts lifting up my shirt, and I am pulling it down feverishly, like a prude prom-night date, refusing to let her date get to second base.

“This is MY body, and you’re not TOUCHING IT!” I envision myself squealing.
“Eeeuukk. Hah, eh…um, er…hah,” I say, in reality.

“Ooooh, baby. You work out?” She asks me.

I then go into a detailed explanation that, yes indeed I do workout, and my desire to do so if fueled by the fact that I am a collegiate athlete, and play basketball for a small private school in Salem, Oregon. I use words like “training to prevent injury,” and “core strength.” Before I could get to my problems with my free-throw stroke, it appears that she wants to murder me.

This random unveiling of information to small-Asian-stripper-lady is met with little enthusiasm.

“Your friend pay for conversation, or dance?” she asks me, which in stripper language means, “Listen, kid. You’re a bit of a p***y. Stop talking, let me rub on your body and call you muscular. It is my job. Odds are, I don’t even think it. Just put your hands back or something. Or touch my butt, I really don’t care, because the reality of it is…I just made 40 dollars in the time it took Ludacris to say ‘We want a lady in the streets, but a freak in the bed,’ so, good for you for playing a sport or whatever, but please, never try to make conversation with me again. Unless you have more money, you idiot.”

It is at this point that I stop talking, and begin brainstorming things I would rather be doing than having this small Asian woman rubbing her bottom all over my lap. This list included, but was not limited to; knitting, P90X, dipping my head in hot-lava, watching “Blue Crush,” eating cinnamon toast crunch, and memorizing the entire first verse of Jay-Z’s “Hard Knock Life.”

Finally, the dance is over, and I wish the woman a good night. To which she replies, “(hair flip, butt shake, walk away.)”

I caught my breath for not even a minute before my drunken friend returns.

“Two for the big man!” he spits.

That’s right. Two. For the big man. That’s me. Instead of one attractive woman, this time I get two sort-of cute girls, who ambush me from left and right.

They are not as conversational as little-Asian-woman. This causes quite an inconvenience for me, as my natural reaction to nervousness and anxiety is to run my mouth.

“So, is this, like…your job?” I say to the woman on my left. Not only is she intimidating because there are two of her, she’s also intimidating because she is mounting my left leg, and is build like a linebacker.

“No, sweetie. I have two master degrees. I drive here from LA on the weekends,” she said.

“Oh, nice,” I say, as her bare breast is grazing against my cheek.

“What are your degrees in?” I say.

It really sounds more like “Mut mare mour megrees min?” as my voice is entirely muffled by her cleavage.

There are a few seconds of silence, as “Party Rock Anthem” plays in the background. I sheepishly admit to my new stripper-best-friends that I secretly enjoy this song.

“It’s like my guilty pleasure,” I say, oblivious to the irony of admitting a pop-song is my guilty pleasure, at a gentleman’s club.

More silence proceeds my imbecilic comments. I decide to let them know why I am a walking stick of awkwardness.

As they are rubbing their privates all over my lap and body, I ask them to take a second.

“Hey! Hey…” I manage.

They stop dancing for a moment, to stare at the virginal idiot who keeps asking them questions.

“So…I don’t really know what to do with my hands,” I say.

“What?” They reply, in unison.

“Like, while you are dancing, I have no idea what to do with my hands,” I explain.
More silence.

“Like, do I fold them? Do I put them on the small of your back? Do I sit on them?” I continue.

“Baby, it’s Vegas. You can do whatever you want,” she says.

“See, now, that’s not specific, I still have no idea what to do” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Look, there’s not an instruction manual, okay? Just let it happen,” she says.

“I am not a pervert. Just because it is Vegas doesn’t make it okay,” I challenge the woman that is basically telling me to touch her body.

As I am having this moral dilemma, wondering if I am a bad person for sitting here, refusing to touch this stripper-lady, the awkwardness is gladly interrupted.

“What is your cup size?” my friend barges in and slurs, spilling his whiskey on my lap. The color compliments the margarita spill from before.

“Excuse me?” She says, visibly offended.

Just as things were beginning to be increasingly testy, my other friend barges in.

“F**k this S**t, F**k Keith, F**k these cheap-a$$ girls, we are OUT of here, boys. This girl just tried to charge me 80 bucks for a CONVERSATION,” He says, to nobody in particular, but loud enough to make a few heads turn.

The intimidating women gets up, and looks even more like a linebacker. She is now no longer using the sexy, stripper voice, but the Ray Lewis, I am going to obliterate your very existence in less than three seconds, then bench-press you, you girly-man who wants to talk about my education voice.

“Give me 80 dollars,” she growls.

“Um, what?” I say, pissing myself.

“Give. Me. Eighty. Dollars.” She says, in a deeper, more purposeful voice.

“Um, I didn’t pay. Like, I didn’t even ask for you to dance on me. My friend did…”
“OH, I F***IN PAID! I F***IN PAID THEM!” My friend shouts.

“No. You owe me 80 dollars. 40 for me, 40 for her.” She explains.

A few feet from my table, my good friend is undergoing a similar debate. The nice stripper lady was asking for her money, and my friend, who has a hard time paying full price for Old Navy V-Neck Tees, insisted he owed less than she demanded.

“Eighty dollars,” she demands, which is apparently the going rate for all strippers.

“No. I am not giving you 80 dollars. Are you KIDDING me?” My friend says, after one dance.

“80 dollars,” she says.

“Look, I’ll give you 10,” my friend says. “That’s enough for 2 Old Navy V-Necks,” he probably added.

“No,” she replied.

“Lady, do you want the money, or not!?” My friend responds.

The woman takes my friends 10 dollar bill, and rips it in half. Right in front of his face.

As this back-and-forth is going on, my other friends are managing to get in a skirmish with security guards who could eat me. It is at this point that I realize I am in over my head.

“Okay. Um. Here’s 20 dollars. I am really sorry I don’t have your 80, but at the same time, you are ridiculous, and trying to scam me. I am going to leave now, because, honestly, there’s a good chance I just messed myself. Sorry about the smell,” I say. One of the strippers laughs. The other one contemplates how she is going to bury my body tonight. I run.

We are now sprinting out of the strip club, in the middle of Vegas, as shouts are being exchanged between my friends, myself, and large strip club bouncers in suits.

Between shattered glasses, obscenities and “oh my god I am never going to a strip club ever, ever again,” we eventually escape, and walk a couple miles back to our hotel, at 5 in the morning.

The night concludes with me and my good friend swimming in the shallow end of our hotel pool. It was closed, because it was being chlorinated and cleaned, but it seemed like a good idea, and I was convinced the yetis posing as security guards couldn’t find us underwater.

We watched the sun come up, and I floated on my back, ears submerged in the overly-chlorinated water, drowning out the bright lights and noisy traffic. I take a second to reflect on the madness that occurred that night. I can’t tell if it’s extraordinary, or just another night in Vegas. All I know is, lying there, suspended in water that probably wasn’t safe to swim in, I felt much cleaner than I did in that god-forsaken strip joint.

My First Strip Club: Part 1

My first experience where a woman was naked in front of me was that one time I walked in on my parents when I was 3. That was pretty awkward, but at least I walked out of there convinced that my mom was looking for her earring, and my dad was just helping her. Naked.

My next experience with the naked female body came in 7th grade, when one of my classmates asked me, “have you ever seen a vagina?” To which I replied, “What?” Then I looked up, and he was flashing me a card of an attractive blonde woman spread eagle on top of a mustang. “America,” I thought. The only thing covering up her genitals was a big white star, with text running over it that said “Ooh!” I immediately started blushing, and reported this misbehavior to the teacher.

Ooh was right.

After being forced pornography at the tender age of 12, my next encounter with the female body was in my awkward, pubescent youth that involved playing games like “nervous,” where you asked questions like “are you nervous?” while your hand slid up some girls knee-cap, towards her mid-thigh. I always lost “nervous” because I always ended up asking the girl if she felt violated. To which she replied, “No, why are you such a p***y?” Then went to make out with the dude that slapped her butt between every passing period, before high-fiving all of his friends.

Then, we got to high school and you got to ask different questions, instead of “are you nervous?” you got to say things like, “will you give me a handjob?” and “what size cup do you wear?” And by “ask questions” I mean “questions I heard my friends ask, because I was way too terrified to even pretend like I knew cup size was not a reference to what I drank my lemonade out of, and handjob sounds as weird as it looks when it is typed up.”

Fast forward 8 years, and I had my first experience where women were dancing on a pole, getting paid to show their private parts to perverts. I got dragged to “amateur strip night” in wholesome Bend, Oregon at Boonedocks. I think it sucked. I say “I think” because I was staring at the wall the entire time, cracking my knuckles, counting ceiling tiles, wondering if refusing to look at mediocre naked women made me any less hetero-sexual. My nervous racing thoughts were soon interrupted by the emcee, who was speaking some of the vilest, most putrid, appalling, coarse play-by-play I’ve heard in my life.

As the girl was dancing:

“Check out that cornnhole!,” he shouted, as our entire table turned to each other, wondering two things: 1.) what the hell is he talking about? And 2.) Did he just say ‘corn-hole?’

“She wants your dollar bill in her kiester, say hello to the brown eye!”

It is at this point that I start blushing, and contemplating the location of the nearest exit.

Finally, the home-run-ball, “I bet he’s got a real log-jam goin on!” The Emcee screams over the PA system, in-between slugs of his Keystone Light.

I still have yet to assign meaning to that last one, but hearing the words “corn-hole” and “logjam” make me want to simultaneously vomit, die, and stay away from any place that you are supposed to pay money to see girls take their clothes off.

And stay away I did. That is, until I met Keith. Fast forward to Las Vegas, 6 months later.

Keith seemed nice enough. And when I say “Keith seemed nice enough,” I mean, he was wearing a suit on the Las Vegas Strip, and it was at the very least debatable whether or not he was a member of the Mafia and would steal my kidneys that night.

“Aye, boys, you tryna’ go ta tha strip-club?” He asks me and four of my friends. He was not asking for my liver. This was encouraging.

I get flashes of “corn-holes,” and “log-jam’s” and reply for the entire group.
“Absolutely not,” I say.

“Ah, cam’an. Why not? D’ja somekinda’ girl?” Keith replied, in literally one word.
“No. I am a man. I am also fairly confident that there are at least 20 girls in this casino that would enjoy a strip-club more than I would. Maybe you should try them.” I say, relatively proud of my retort.

“Ah, so youz some kindaGay, eh? Understood, have a nice night,” Keith replied. Such a sly dog.

It is at this moment that I pause momentarily between the bright lights of The Strip, the constant traffic of drunken 20-somethings, and the girls blowing kisses on the tables to whoever will receive them, and I wonder, “How many people does Keith get with this “so, you must be GAY” bit, every night? Because, obviously, gay people are the only people in this world that wouldn’t want to blow $100 for lap-dances.”

Before I can come up with a solid estimate, my drunken friend barges in, spilling his whiskey mixed drink on my right shoulder, infuriated, before he says, “Ah, no NO F***that, Keith! We are SO not gay!”

“Ah, yeah? Well, djawanna go toda strip club then, if youz so straight?” Keith replied.

It has now turned into a masculine-off. You’ve seen it before. It’s not as rare as we’d like it to be, but it’s still a sight to behold. You know, the guy at the party who refuses to let you drive him home because “F***that p***y s**t, I feel FINE,” or the guy who arbitrarily seeks out fights at any given party, “Alright, who’s down to BRAWL!?!?”

I was half-expecting my friend to reply, “you wanna know HOW gay I am NOT? Let’s go to TEN strip clubs. And watch A MILLION girls dance and shake their privates at us! That’s how gay we are not, Keith! I’m talking THOUSANDS OF VAGINAS!”

Then Keith would say something like, “I knew ya had it inya, ya p***ies! Now, come hop in my van, and I’ll sell your eyeballs on da Black Market!”

Then there’d be that weird moment of silent tension like in the movies, before he let out a bellowing laugh that shakes the sidewalk, to show us that Keith is really just a cool dude in a cheap tuxedo.

“Aaaah, I’m just messin witcha! Come on, we already called da party-bus!” Keith said, promising us the world.

(PART 2 TO FOLLOW. CAN YOU EVEN WAIT!?!?!? I CAN'T! LAS VEGAS STRIP CLUBS! I MEAN...HOW COOL IS THAT!??!?!?!?!??)

S****ing in the Woods

Alright, it’s not what it looks like. It’s not another blog post dedicated entirely to; pooping, farting, boogers, or other things that made you laugh when you were twelve. I swear I am way more mature than that.

First, I would like to ask you a question, dear reader. Have you ever relieved yourself in the wilderness? I am not talking about drunkenly peeing in the yard at your friend’s house during last weekend’s party, because the line for the bathroom was too long. No, I am talking about executing a perfect bowel movement in all of its glory in front of birds, trees, fellow hikers, woman, children, and Mother Nature herself.

This weekend, I hiked South Sister, which was sweet. It’s a mountain, and I walked up it. To do this, I used only my legs, two water bottles, a ham sandwich and some homemade trail mix. On the way up, I got to see those super outdoorsy people, decked out in Patagonia, hiking boots, and walking poles.

These people would say things to each other like “Oh, jeez! Great boots! Where’d ya get those?”

Then their fellow outdoorsy people would say “REI, for 90 bucks!”

Then I would stand there in my cutoff and basketball shorts and feel increasingly bad about myself.

You need to be careful around outdoorsy people. They are mostly harmless, but if you do things like dump motor oil at the summit of a beautiful mountain, or say things like “Target is more affordable than REI,” they can get really vicious.

For example, I discarded a grape stem in front of some of my fellow hikers, figuring it would obviously be bio-degradable, or something. For the record, I am not clear what the hell ‘bio-degradable’ means. Nonetheless, I tossed the grape-stem.

“What are you doing?” one of my fellow hikers who owns more North Face clothing than I remarked.

“It’s biodegradable.” I retorted.

“Leave no trace, man,” one of the male outdoorsy men said.

“That will totally be a grape-tree by next year,” I said, trying to introduce them to a thing called humor.

“Pack it up,” the man demanded.

“Seriously?” I said.

“Gosh, I got it,” the woman said, swooping in to pick up my grape-stem, as if I had just taken the most violent, carnal, hideous s**t right in front of her, at her favorite water-stop on the South Sister Trail and refused to clean it up. Which I may or may not end up doing by the end of this cheap-bathroom-humor-inspired-blog-post.

Once we reached the summit, we did the typical outdoorsy photo shoot, and ate our extremely stereotypical lunch consisting of spinach, quinoa muffins, dried fruits that you didn’t even know existed, and almond butter and honey sandwiches with honey organically extracted from bee’s that the owner named and cared for daily, taking them on walks and enrolling them in bee school, where they learn to s**t a viscous, tasty liquid that eventually ends up in the mouths of hairy-under-armed woman everywhere.

“I hope these bees were treated well in the process of making this honey,” they probably said.

“Bees are so cute. And innocent,” someone would support the previous ridiculous statement, while I sat quietly, wondering why the hell, of ALL things, I brought a ham sandwich to this organic-gourmet-picnic.

“Oh, what’s that, a ham sandwich?” they would ask me.

“Yeah. My mom made it for me. She got the ham from Costco.” I would reply.

This would be the part where they throw me off of the cliff and condemn me for wearing a cut-off and killing pigs.

“No, this is actually ham-tofu,” I said, trying to make up ground.

“ It’s made to look just like it, but it tastes like an a**hole, so you know it’s vegan, organic, and all those other fancy words you guys use to describe the taste of cardboard!” I would reply.




After another failed attempt at humor in front of the hikers around me, I decided it would be best to keep to myself for the remainder of the hike. My choices were: roll-up into a ball, and hope to not hit rocks on the way down, use my size 15 Saucony’s as ski’s on the snowy slopes, or be in the defensive stance the entire time walking downhill, and pulverize my knees to the point that they start yelling at me.

I decided skiing would be cool because my feet are practically the size of skis anyway, and if nothing else, speed would be to my advantage.

This was the best idea I’ve had since that one line about ham-sandwiches and tofu, as I made it to the flatter portion of the hike significantly faster than during our ascent.

The bad news, however, was that ‘skiing’ involved a lot of bouncing. Lots and lots of bouncing.

You know what bouncing + ham sandwich equals? In almost all cases, it equals abhorrent diarrhea. This time was no different.

I spent a good 5-10 minutes convincing myself I didn’t have to go. I thought about the wildflowers. The rocks on the trail. That cute girl we just passed. The sloshing in my shoes from their waterlogged soles.

Pretty soon, the rocks turned into exact replicas of the pebbles of poop sitting in my stomach, and the sloshing of my shoes might as well have been a written invitation to lose my load in the middle of the trail.

So, I did what any reasonable person would do. I started biting down on my lower lip as hard as I could, to take my mind off of the World War that was occurring inside of my rectum.

When I nearly bit a hole through my lip, I decided it was time to call a time-out.
“SO…” I said. I realized this was the first time I had spoken in nearly 3 hours. It was one of those times that you’ve been so quiet, that you are startled by the sound of your own voice. The surprise in itself almost forced me to spill my guts.

“…say, if one, had to, um…relieve themselves in the woods, how would you guys recommend, um, taking care of that situation?” I ask to these people who hardly know me, and one person that knows me well enough to understand there is a decent chance that I have feces trickling down my thigh as we speak.

“Bro, we’re like a mile and a half from the base,” one of my hiking partners says.

“Yeah. No way I am making that. If we are being totally honest, there’s an extremely high likelihood that my a** might explode right now, and spew like a geyser over you and your lovely girlfriends head,” I said, losing all concept of humility, common sense, and decency all in the same breath.

“Dig a hole. Use snow to wipe. And a smooth, clean rock. It’s refreshing, and efficient,” my friend suggests.

I am already halfway up the hill, searching for the nearest closed off area.
“Catch up with you guys later!” I yelp, running up the hill, feeling my trail-mix, ready to bounce out of me.

I find a relatively hidden spot, and when I say ‘relatively hidden spot,’ I mean some trees I can hide behind about 10 feet off from the highly-populated trail. I dig my hole, shredding my cuticles in a feverish rush to empty out the most epic load of waste my body has ever housed.

I was foaming at the mouth, cringing, trying to keep my composure. By the time I had stripped my shirt off (felt necessary) and dropped my shorts, my bottom was making sounds that undoubtedly forced a dozen hikers to turn back, while simultaneously causing a landslide at the base of the mountain.

The birds, 40 feet above me in their nest, were chirping violently, as if to say “stop doing what you are doing. That is disgusting.” It was rather unsettling.

“I didn’t ask for an AUD…uuugggh…IENCE!” I squealed.

“CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP! Stop S****ING IN MY HOME, YOU A**HOLE!” They replied.

But nothing could stop me now. Not even pissed off birds high up in a juniper tree.
As the city of Bend grumbled, and Mt. St. Helens erupted from the aftershock, I stared at my excrement, partly in amazement, and party wondering, “how the hell am I going to cover this up? A bulldozer?”

I then proceeded to use a snowball in a way that snowballs should never be used, and found the nearest rock, that was neither smooth, nor clean, nor pleasant to repeatedly grind against the soft tissue of my out-hole, but I made do.

I called in a forklift, and buried my trace, thinking of that damn “leave no trace” hiker, and as I stood up, I was overwhelmed with the greatest feeling of accomplishment since I was first potty trained, three years ago.

I was greeted by my fellow hikers with hugs, high-fives, and “dude, that was so inappropriate, you were hardly off from the trail,” and “why did you feel the need to take your shirt off?”

But none of that mattered. What mattered was, I was now 10 lbs lighter, and I just had one of the most successful bowel-movements of my 21 years on this planet.

As I neared back to the trail, I looked at my hiking group, and the numerous yuppies just embarking on their South Sister journey in the early-afternoon. I smiled and waved to each and every one of them, half of me hoping to God they stay away from those trees, and the other half hoping they have the exact same experience I just did, at some point in their life. I left a part of myself on that mountain that day. A part I will never get back. And I couldn’t be happier.

The Time I Hiked 16 Miles and Didn't Wear Underwear

Okay, so this summer I have been doing a lot of "outdoor" things. You know, things outside that don't involve Facebook, Texting, Ipods, and other electronics that make life worth living. It has taken a tremendous amount of discipline to distance myself from the convenience of having a screen to stare at, but I must admit, getting outside, breathing fresh air, rolling my ankle on uneven surfaces, blistering my toes, and chafing in the area right next to my ball-sack and my inner thigh has been really therapeutic.

People operate under the false pretense that they are adequate in nature. I am one of those people. Though I admittedly have no sense of direction and often turn 20 minute trips to Safeway into 2 hour expeditions to find the goddamn strawberry jelly already, I have this impression of myself as an above average navigator. Like if I REALLY needed to, I could locate the North Star, meet Sacagawea and discover some new land. It's just I haven't been confronted with that situation yet.

Through the combination of a few confidence-building hikes, and recently watching "127 Hours," I was feeling relatively confident. 127 hours made me wonder two things. One... why is James Franco so much better looking than every other male on the planet? And two...after watching him hack through his right arm, I thought to myself, "so what? I could do that. Give me a pocket knife and a handsome face like that, and I will saw all of my limbs off. For FUN."

I never got around to decapitating myself, but I did decide to play Lewis And Clark and lead two of my friends into a nature-walk from hell.

Hart's Cove trail-head is just East of Lincoln City, and is supposed to be one of the most beautiful coastal hikes Oregon has to offer. It is also open seasonally from July 15th to January 15th. If you go in the fall, you can hear Sea Lions barking, if you go in the Summer, there's a beautiful waterfall and breathtaking view of the oceanfront, if you go during the Winter, you're an idiot, and if you go on July 4th, you are an unpatriotic asshole who doesn't wear underwear and will get fucked up by thorn bushes, sent by Uncle Sam himself.

We decided to brave the warning sign that read "This trail is closed from January 15th to July 15th, you idiots. Go home. Seriously. Or find a different hike, you dumbasses. Violation of this is punishable by 6 months in prison, a ton of annoying little cuts on your arms from those thorn-bushes, and fines up to $30,000." And by "we," I mean, "me," decided that we drove all this way, and might as well have a horrific nature-walk to write blogs about.

OBVIOUSLY, we decided to proceed, park our car at a turn-off down the road, and walk on the road until we hit the trail-head.

Throughout the 16 miles of walking with good friends, we said things like, "I fucking hate you," "whose god-damn idea was this?" "Sean is such an asshole," "Sean is such an idiot," "Sean is so ugly," and "Why does Octaviano have such nice calves?" and "is it CALFS or CALVES?" We debated this for a solid 20 minutes, which served as a nice distraction from how much we all hated each other for pretty much the entire hike.

Other complaints that surfaced were various joint pains. Knees, hips, and backs "Fucking hurt," and emotions like pride, ability to navigate, and a general feeling of competence were completely obliterated. However, above all of these things, one underlying fact remains:

I was not wearing underwear.

This is a horribly ironic fact. The reason I was going commando was NOT because I enjoy the freedom of having my privates throw a parade in my boardshorts. No, I do not derive some weird joy from the absence of friction. Yes, I may receive unbridled joy from the feeling of air circulating around my MAN PARTS, but that is BESIDES THE POINT.

The point is, I was wearing boardshorts in hopes of finding this so called "ocean" that the sketchy paragraph write-up I read online promised me. The write-up also promised the hike to be about 5 miles round trip. Not 3 times that amount.

DO YOU GET IT? There was supposed to be an OCEAN that I could SWIM IN, but we never got to it, because the trail was overgrown and ugly and hurty and pokey and dumb, so instead, we just got to walk in mud for 16 miles and talk about who the biggest idiot in the group was, which was both unfair and true because I not only ruined the 4th of July, I also happen to be considerably larger than most human beings.

The strangest part of the whole ordeal was not the time where I admitted to my hiking partners that "this chafing is seriously going to make my tinky fall off," or the time Laura said, "You guys are seriously so fucking dumb, why am I friends with such idiots?" Or when we got to the end of the trail that was supposed to be a beautiful waterfall, and Octaviano said "I would literally rather be dead right now than walk back. I am serious. I never want to see another tree, a fucking fox-glove, or a shitty blade of grass for as long as I live."

No, the strangest part of the excursion was the fact that we were all in extremely high spirits at the end. On the drive back to Salem, cool breeze streaming through my fingers, salty trail mix crumbs coating the sun-soaked leather seats, hot air steaming off to remind us there's much more summer to come.

We made it back to Salem barely in time to see our fellow Americans light shit on fire to show how much they love their country, but amidst all the joy of fireworks, glow-sticks, and crushed keystone light cans, I found my return to civilization bittersweet.

Besides the fact that you can fart in nature and blame it on a weird plant or the rotting raccoon you just passed, I really missed the beauty of the random forest service trail that seemed to never end.

A small part of me missed my bleeding arms, sweat dripping into the cuts like wounds salted twice-over. A tiny bit of my soul missed the collective misery shared between new friends...blazing trails and wondering why the hell we didn't just stay home and check our Facebooks.

There's a unique adhesion that takes place when you can all hate something together. Which sounds awful, but is true. For the day, mother nature was our enemy. For the night, she was our best and most missed friend. Undoubtedly, we will meet her again...hopefully this time with underwear, and an in-season trail. But if not, it's all part of the adventure, right? Even the chafing thighs, random insults, and abundance of cuss words. Fuck that trail, but the experience was fucking cool. Fuck yeah.

Being Dumb, Sweaty, and Unemployed: Pretentious People and Their Motives.

Going to a private university is pretty cool. People are always willing to help you, professors are completely open for communication, and there's a real community feel to the whole on campus experience. All for an affordable price of $47,000 a year.

The problem is, because Willamette is a private university, everyone is smarter than you. And if you don't ACT like you are smarter than them, they will smell blood, and devour you at their first chance. This can make for some very interesting interactions. I like to call them pretentious-offs, or smart-offs, for my non-private university readers. Aka mere mortals, aka idiots. Pretentious-offs are kind of like face-offs in hockey, except more teeth, no sticks, and the loser goes to state school.

I am 0 for 7 in pretentious-offs. Here's my latest defeat:

I am looking for a job. You know this because you read every one of my blog-posts, and have a deep interest in what I do with my life. Always.

I decided it would be best to go to the "Willamette Career Center" to find work, because it has the word "Willamette" in it, which is French for "Expensive education," and "Career" in it, which is English for "Find Me a F***ing Job K?"

APPARENTLY, the direct translation of "Willamette Career Center" is "You don't have a job? Or a resume? Or a 4.0 GPA? Why are you dumb? Get out of my office, you tall athlete who is inferior to me because you didn't use 7 big words in the first sentence we spoke."

I walked in to the "I am better than you, you mere mortal Career Center," and my conversation with the "Counselor," AKA "A$$hole" went like this:

"Hey, so I got promised a work-study job this summer, but now I don't have one, because I got screwed over. But I need money, and I have available work-study funds. Who should I speak with to get some advice?"

"What's your name?"

"Sean."

"Sean what?"

"Sean Dart."

(Other woman counselor-lady who looks to not want to devour my face opens her door)

"Do you have a resume?" she asks.

"No."

(eye-roll so loud that it hurt my ears.)

"Come in," she said, in the least inviting way possible. Kind of like the way that you answer the door when a door-to-door feces-salesman swears that it will only be 10 minutes, but 15 minutes later, you have poop all over your carpet, and you just bought a bag of $hit for $39.99. Kinda like that.

"Thanks for your help," I say, before I have received any actual help.

"Have a seat," she says.

I am reluctant to do so, because I just got done working out, and was water-logged in every sense. My shorts were literally dripping. I realized the seat was black-leather, and looked like it didn't want to be touched by Sweaty Sean Butt.

"I'm fine, thanks." I say.

"Sean. Sit." She demanded.

"Okay."

"How do you expect to get a job if you don't have a resume?" She asks.

"I don't know. Work for people that know me? Painting fences and shoveling can't require too much of a background, right?" I say, thinking 'check-mate, ass-lady.

"Cute. You know, Sean. You need to wake up. It's time to wake up" She says, preparing to breathe fire all over her poorly decorated office.

It is at this point that I realize my sweaty bottom is sticking to her nice leather chair, and the plaque next to me says "The only thing better than a good friend, is a good friend with chocolate."

Never trust these people. Anyone with clever stitched-pillows or welcome-mats are to be immediately be dismissed as insane, extremely rude, or at the very least, dragons. It is extremely weird to feel a need to purchase a decorative plate that advertises your fondness of chocolate. Everyone likes chocolate. Get over it, mean-career lady.

"Um...I mean. I am awake. I had a job all year, I just was promised work this summer, and they decided they didn't need me just this last week," I said, reiterating the fact that I am the one getting screwed here, and shouldn't be getting yelled at.

"Don't put your eggs all in one basket, Sean." Butt-head lady says, in that weird way that people use your name 2 minutes after learning it.

Example:

"Hi, I'm Sean."

"Nice to meet you, I am a$$hole career lady, and I look forward to belittling you for the next 15 minutes. This is my job. How do you like my horrible plaque, commemorating my love for chocolate, Sean?"

See? See what she did there? She used my name. Prematurely. This should have been the first red-flag. The second should have been when she asked if I smelled rotten eggs.

I wanted to reply, "No, that's just my body," but I decided leaving an over-sized bottom-stain of sweat on her seat was enough.

She then asked me what my skills are. Sitting here, I could type out my skills relatively easily. I am tall, sometimes I can spell words correctly, and I can tell you all there is to know about every single player on the Los Angeles Lakers' roster. See? Those are my skills. (Insert Napoleon Dynamite Outdated Joke Here.)

However, doing this in person, in front of someone that looks like they want to destroy you, is much harder.

"What are your skills?"

"Uh. Um....uggh, uh,"

"Public speaking? Hahaha," she joked, but she really meant, "why are you a blabbering idiot?"

She went on to use some words with a lot of letters in them to explain why it is important to have a resume.

"Look, it's like you're a product. And you want people to want your services. You need to promote. You need to advertise. You need to sell yourself," she said.

It is at this point that I went into an extremely inappropriate day-dream, in which this career-lady suggested prostitution as a Summer job for myself, then licked her lips, wiped her table-top clean, and offered to be my first customer.

I woke up from my daytime wet-dream to her snapping fingers, and trademark death-stare.

"Look, Shane. I think what your skills would be best suited for manual labor," she decided, which could, and should have been translated to, "you seem big and dumb. So big and dumb that I can't remember your stupid name."

At the conclusion of our extremely constructive meeting, I mean, once she was done passively-aggressively demolishing my fading self esteem, I walked out of there with 2 phone numbers, and a dampened sense of self-worth.

Also, she handed me a packet that read "Your Resume And You: Building Skills to Market Yourself...you IDIOT."

I considered this whole ordeal to be a draw. Sure, she tore me apart, but as I felt my shorts peel off of the leather, and as my dried sweat left the lingering stench of salty gym socks, I felt a sense of accomplishment.

I left my mark in that room. And by 'left my mark' I mean, I literally left a full-sized damp imprint of my gigantic bottom on her black leather seat.

I may be dumb with no resume, but I have a sweaty bottom. That'll show em.

Yeah...yeah it will.

Refereeing a 4-Square Game, and Other Reasons 8-Year-Olds Suck

"Pffffffttttt." The sound of the end of a duct-tape roll being stretched over a recycled cardboard box. It was packing time at Richmond Elementary, and I was soon to be reminded that, indeed, 8-year-olds will liken anything to the sound of flatulence.

"Ppppffffffftttt," I sealed another cardboard box full of posters and math supplies. I labeled it "miscellaneous," which was an abbreviated way of saying "this classroom has no organization, and in all reality, this box contains random $hit that should probably be thrown away. You own 700 plastic triangle cut-outs. And we're in a budget crisis." Miscellaneous.

"Pfffftttttt," I snapped the tape after it overlapped the top of the box, only to hear a couple muffled giggles.

Then, it happened.

An onslaught of high pitched yelps, coupled with hearty "HA-HA-HA-HA's!" before a slew of accusations:

"Sean farted!"

"He farted!"

"Eeeewww! Sean!"

"Oh my gosh it smells like eggs, you guys!"

I have to admit, it was pretty funny. I started laughing, but apparently, that was a bad move. The fill-in teacher of the classroom decided packing was a distraction and informed me, "Sean, your packing duties are postponed for the day."

Rats...what can I possibly do, if I can't make fart-noises with duct-tape? Looking back on it, I should not have asked this question, because the answer was one of my darkest fears:

Referee a four-square game.

If you've ever played four-square, you remember it either as the game you loved because you kicked everyone's a$$ when you were 8, or you remember it as the game that scarred your competitive confidence for the rest of your life.

For a tall, lanky kid who sometimes (always) cried if he got out, getting a red rubber ball smacked at me as hard as the opposition could propel it was not exactly a fond memory of mine.

Regardless, I tried my best to, you know, watch the kids, make sure they don't kill eachother, and always, ALWAYS call out the "Liner's."

"LINER!" The short, chubby 3rd grader screamed to me, on the verge of tears.

"What?" I replied.

"It was a LINER!" He said.

"SEAN! LINER!" He said, his lips quivering as his body was preparing to go into total and complete shock if I called him out.

"Liner? What the hell is a liner?" I said.

"Adult word! Adult word!" Some kid yelled, running through mud-puddles in the distance, flicking boogers on his classmate.

"It hit the LI-yinnnnE! So it's Ooooowwwt!" He said, in that whiny, awful 8-year-old voice that only 3rd graders can manage.

"Okay, Jesus. Fine. Liner!?" I said.

"WHAT!?!?!?" The 2nd grader who just got called out said, as if he just found out Spongebob Squarepants got cancelled.

He then proceeded to protest my call. It was really hard to take him seriously, because he was as tall as my shin, and sounded like John Mcenroe with a lisp.

"Youw can't be sewious! Wewre you evun watching? That's WEALLY WEALLY BAD!" He said, grinding his teeth, contemplating ways he could climb my body to destory me.

Another key element to 4-square is establishing whether "over-handers" are allowed or not. If you play with the "over-hand" rule, you can hit the ball a lot harder. Since there were 2nd graders in line, I decided under-hand only would be best for everyone.

This was a seamless transition for most kids, except for one little girl, who had some sort of thick European accent that I couldn't decipher.

"Soo, like deez?" She said, motioning her hands forward, with her palms facing down.

"No, sweetheart, you have to do it with your palms facing up. Under-hand only," I said.

"Oooog, ooog, so, like deez?" she said, her palms now facing outward, her elbows turned outside.

"No, no sweetheart," I said.

I reached out to turn her hands so that her palms would face upwards. She would not allow it. She provided an immense amout of resistance, and was not letting me rotate her wrists, or move her arms at all, for that matter.

"Hehe," she said, as she stared directly into my eyes with a weirdly menacing grin.

"I vey strong!" she said, in a voice that sounded like she hadn't swallowed her saliva for ten minutes.

"Haha, oh yeah? Have you been lifting?" I said, jokingly, expecting a blank stare in response.

To my surprise, she had been lifting.

"Yez. Mother make me lift milk jug. Over and over. Father have strong arm also!" She said.

"Pushups? Wan see?" She asked.

"No, it's fine...just remember to hit only under-hand, we don't want anyone to get hurt." I said.

Naturally, as soon as she steps foot on the court, she uses her mammoth arms to smack the ball with such force directly at the 2nd grader who is about the same size as the ball, and hits him square in the chest. The force of the ball nearly picked him up off of the pavement, and he started crying on his way to get an ice-pack from the office.

"I did eet!" She yelped, extremely proud of herself.

"No, you are out. You have to hit it under-hand." I said.

"Buh...wha...I...? Ugh...i hit? But...I Hit! I heet ze bol!" She said, in an utter state of confusion.

"You're out." I said.

She looked at me with such confusion and rage, it was unlike any malice I had seen from an 8 year old. She was envisioning me as the milk jug, and I was about to get lifted.

That is, until her friend came along.

"Wanna play house?" Her friend asked.

"Sure," she replied.

Off into the distance she scampered away, laughing about threatening the 4-square referee, and undoubtedly preparing to challenge her friend to a push-up contest.