Chillin with your favorite sports stars

Sometimes, I’ll watch Kobe Bryant play basketball and turn to my roommates, and say “Dude. He is so cool. Seriously. Just watch him. Look how cool he is. Did you see that jumper? What a guy.”

I’m obsessed with sports, and even more obsessed with sports stars. If you’re good at the sport you play, you’re automatically a great person, and I want to hang out with you. I’d like to get ice cream with you. I would like to see a movie with you, and talk about music with you. Do you like Fall Out Boy, Michael Jordan? What’s that? You think they’re a ‘hand-full of soft-backed p***ies, and want to play them 1-on-1, loser dies?’ You’re so cool, Michael Jordan.

I’m so obsessed with sports, that I fantasize about what it’d be like to hang out with my favorite sports stars. Here are my fantasies:

Tim Tebow:

Tim Tebow and I would walk to class, and everyone would be like, “hey, Tim, what’s up man?” Then he’d be like “God bless you” and touch them, then they’d turn to gold, or chocolate, or a football. I’d be a little jealous at first, because everyone likes Tim more, and all my friends are now golden chocolate footballs, but then he’d say turn to me, make direct eye contact in a very purposeful manner and say “thank you” when I pass him a worksheet in class. You’re the best, Tim.

Ray Lewis:

In reality, being Ray Lewis’s friend would get old really fast. Sure, the first time he face-punches you and calls you a ‘wet-noodle’ when you’re curling 20’s in the weight room would be sort of endearing. But, when he tackles you in Goudy after you grab a cinnamon roll, while screaming “POISON! POISON!” you’d be like, alright Ray. Enough. Chill, bro.

LeBron James:

You and LeBron would form a really great, lifelong relationship. But, LeBron would meet another friend with higher social status and a greater chance of winning a championship. This friends name will probably be South Beach, or Heat. At first, you wonder who is named “South Beach,” but then, there will be a humiliating TV special detailing why you aren’t as cool as Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh still looks like a dinosaur. Peace, LeBron.

Blake Griffin:

Do you want to live in fear? You’re a masochist? Blake’s the guy for you. Watch your head.

Eli Manning:

Most. Boring. Friend. Ever.

Steve Nash:

Have you seen the Vitamin Water commercials? Numerous times, I have searched the inter-webs, in pursuit of Steve Nash’s personal email. I want him to come over so badly, and eat whole grain crackers with humus while we talk about the solar system. I feel like Steve Nash would be down to talk about the Solar System.

Tom Brady:

Would seem cool, until your girlfriend leaves you for him, and you go through a weird “being a Jets fan” phase. You’ll overcome.

Kobe Bryant:

He’d probably do that weird sniffle thing he does where he looks like he’s trying to itch his nose without using his hands. You’d look past that, but when he makes the “Kobe-Face” and scores 81 points on you, it’d become embarrassing to walk around campus with him. If he buys you a diamond-plated friendship bracelet, resume friendship. We want pre-nup!

Shaq:

If Shaq did not eat you, he would be an awesome friend. If he ate you, he’d probably still be hungry afterwards.

Any Portland Trail Blazer:

They’re not as fun as you think, Oregon Sports Fans. My friend saw Gerald Wallace at a Taco Bell one time, and he was like, “thanks, it was a good win” before he ordered a Mexican Pizza. Who does that? Also, if I hear another person say Raymond Felton doesn’t look like a big-toe, or that they think Jamal Crawford’s weird alien head is cute, and that he’s the best 4th quarter-closer in the game, I am going to vomit. Go Lakers.

You Know You're a D3 Athlete When:

The life of a Division 3 athlete isn’t a glorious one. And by “isn’t glorious,” I mean “pretty shitty.” We don’t get athletic scholarships, we are, by most accounts, less athletic than our sport requires, making the whole running, jumping, moving-quickly-thing kind of difficult. We get hardly any fans, and even our friends and family aren’t sure they want to come to our games. When your mom tells you that you’re slow and boring, you know you’re a D3 athlete. It’s not all bad, though. . . we get a really good education, and get funny articles written about us in the newspaper. Check it out.

You know you’re a division 3 athlete when:

-You weren’t the best player on your high school team.

-You were the best player on your high school team. That won 3 games in the 1A classification of Montana’s Cowboy Hat League.

-The trainers keep a running tab for all the athletic tape you’ve used over the years.

-Your total is $57.50

-Tuition is $57,000

-A year.

-You:”Sorry I was late to practice, Coach, dissecting an armadillo is far more time consuming and intricate than I had previously assumed!”

Coach: “No problem, did you ever calculate the velocity at which you need to throw the ball in order to get us a god-damn touchdown this weekend?”

You: “Why, yes. Yes I did. I’ll give you the spreadsheet.”

-''W-ill-a-mette? That sounds like a mountain. Is it a mountain? I'm pretty sure that's a mountain.''

- You still sort of operate under the assumption that you’re a big time athlete. This is evident by your incessant Facebook posting about your game tonight, and your Twitter feed. Insert hash-tag-joke here.

- You listen to Bon Iver on your warm-up mix. Or Childish Gambino, because he’s the only rapper “intellectual enough” to pump you up.

- You play in an intramural league in the offseason, and you aren’t that much better than the other students playing.

- This doesn’t stop you from being overly competitive, sweaty, probably having some sort of offensive chest hair, insisting on being “skins” every time, and yelling at everyone. “HELPSIDE! D! BALL, BALL, BALL! WHO’S GOT SHOOTER?”

- People don’t want to be on your intramural team.

- Everyone has this story: “In high school, I played against “_____” and held my own. We got destroyed, but I played really well. “____” is overrated. I am underrated.”

- That one time you get to play against a big D1 school, you always walk away from it saying “they’re not that good” and “we could have competed with them.”

-Your mom might agree.

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.