The Horse-Child

It was one of those games, where you are playing in a town that smells like cow manure.



It was one of those games where all of the fans were over 60 years old.



It was one of those games where your bus driver said really odd off hand comments all the time, and it all kind of sounded like slurred words, or some variation of "Don't slip on the ice outside blalahahahahalalaghahaahhaahagahahg."



It was one of those games, where you wish it would have lasted forever.



And by last forever, I mean "never happened."



The worst part about not playing "alot" and by "alot" I mean "ever," is that if you know someone at the game, it can become mildly embarrasing, especially when after the game they ask you if you need any assistance pulling the splinters out of your ass.



No, thank you. I am fine.



In an attempt to foil the spectators of the game into THINKING i might actually be a contributer to the team, I decided to take OFF my warmup.



This way, if someone strolls into the gym, say, 10 minutes late, they will see me, with my warm up off, and be like, "Oh, that kid probaly plays."



Or maybe it's like, "Oh, that kid probaly starts, and dunked on somebody, but hung on the rim for too long, so the coach benched him, cuz he doens't want him in foul trouble for crunch time. That's probaly it."



But unfortunately, this spectator is sharp, and they realize I am not sweating. At all. This is when I decide to ask my teammate to "hold the rope" and splash some water on my arm.



"Hey, dude...this is gonna sound weird, but could you splash some water on my arm?"



"Fuck you Dart."



I then decide to do it myself, but then the spectator again showcases their wit and observational talents.

The conversation would go as follows.

"Um...i noticed you didn't play. But your warm-up is off, and you appear to have a collection of moisture on your left arm, and your left arm only."

"Um...yeah I actually started, and I had this dunk, and i hung on the rim for too long, and coach pulled me out, cuz he didn't want me in foul trouble for crunch time. You showed up late."

"So, you sat for the remaining 38 minutes?"

"Yeah, and I have a rare condition where i make up stories to make it seem like I am better at Basketball than I am, and whenever I sweat, it only happens in an 8-inch radius on my left bicep."

"Wow. I honestly don't believe anything you just said."

"You shouldn't."

Thankfully, this conversation never happened, but I had time to think about this on the bench, in between flexing my buttcheeks to the beat of "Don't stop believing" and "Sandstorm" (Which is really difficult, by the way) and staring at the half-horse-half-4-year-old towel boy on the baseline.

Rarely do I get distracted watching adolescent boys watch collegiate basketball games, but this was without a doubt one of those times.

The boy literally looked like a horse. There was no discrepency there.

He had oversized teeth, a head that was disproportionately large compared to his body, and a tail and saddle on his back.

During time-outs, he would gallop out onto the court, get up on his hind legs and go "NNNYEEEEEAAAHHHAHHAAH"

Then the athletic director would chase him out of the gym, because his hooves were ruining the gym floor.

Then it was off to the glue factory.

Actually, during actual play, he was constantly scarfing down on a seemingly endless vat of popcorn. The best part about it was he was unable to chew with his mouth closed, which is understandable, as his lips flared out like the half-boy-half-horse that he is.

When the popcorn fell onto the floor beneath him, AKA "playing surface" AKA "The fucking basketball court, where a game is going on." He would eat the popcorn on the ground, directly resembling a horse grazing on grass, and the popcorn pieces he missed, he would drag ONTO the floor with his broom that he never used correctly or at the proper times.

Some of you might be saying, "Sean, why are you so critical about this horse-child? He is young, and you should cut him some slack."

To that, I would say, "NNYYYYEEEEEEEHAAAAHHAHHAHA."

Some might argue that an animal noise is not a valid response to a question. I would argue that it is the ONLY response to a valid question.

I'd love to stay and chat, but the Kentucky Derby is tomorrow, and "Horsechild" needs a good nights sleep so we can win the big bucks, and more importantly, a moral victory for all the half human-half animal children across the world.

To liberation, and to shitty basketball games.

What's That Funky Smell? Steal my Things.

Returning to North Hall from your family, friends and comfort of your own bed is like taking a vacation to Hawaii, staying for a night, just long enough to un-pack your bags, then hopping back on the plane to return to shitsville, USA.

Except on your way home to shitsville, your plane crashes in a fiery tragedy, and you die a slow painful death in the abyss of the Pacific Ocean.

Hands down, the best part about returning to La Grande and North Hall at EOU is the mysterious stench that is now permanently lingering througout the halls.

I liken it to a dead animal, mixed with rotting cheese. It has officially overtaken all of North Hall and I am assuming by the end of the week, I will no longer have walls, as the stench will most likely descinegrate the drywall, and singe off the paint, and my eyebrows.

December 26th may very likely be the most depressing day ever.

It's the day that every person who didn't get every single thing they wanted for christmas go out to the stores, take back their shitty gifts, and exchange them for cooler things.

Because that is what Christmas is all about.

I had the terrible misfortune of shopping on the 26th of December, AKA yesterday, because I was purchasing some gifts for some friends. Belated christmas gifts, if you will.

Anyway, if I had a dollar for every spoiled little brat I saw in the store throwing a fit because they didn't have the right XBOX 360 game available, I would have multiple dollars. Because this happened multiple times.

So, I did what any good semeritan would do. I delivered forceful clothes-line's to every little punk-ass complaining about their christmas (mis)fortune.

You wanna see some holiday cheer?

Apparently, it's not socially acceptable to impose your will on small children in public forums, so the manager at EB Games was totally pissed, and told me I had to leave, or he was never accepting one of my game trade-in's again.

To this, I said "Fine, 15 bucks for the new Grand Theft Auto is a rip-off anyway."

I then proceeded to body slam him while the little punks watched, and to prove my final point, I distributed one copy of "Smackdown: WWE v.s. Raw" to all the children.

Some would call is modern day Santa, some would call it illegal. I would call it holiday cheer.

I've also decided the best way to spend your birthday is in a car, on icy roads for 7 hours.

I've also concluded that the single best part about your birthday is Facebook comments that say "Happy Birthday."

It's a great day when you can get 9, count 'em, 9 wall posts that say happy birthday. It's only 7:30 right now, so i figure I've got 4 and a half more hours to go, if i can get...say...15 wall posts by the end of my birthday, I'm thinkin' that's probaly a world record or something.

As the proverbial cherry on top of my exquisite winter break, I traveled 7 hours to get to La Grande today, and I forgot my keys. My RA had to let me in, and i can no longer lock my room, because I have no way of unlocking it. Due to my lack of keys.

So now I have a laptop, an Ipod, a digital camera, some Men's Health Magazines and a framed picture of Mark Wahlberg that can all be stolen at any given time.

So, to any readers, this is an open invitation, room 215 is having a yard sale. Except they are all my belongings, and you are NOT welcome to take them. But after saying this, technically, there is nothing I can do to stop you.

Unless on the off chance I hired a guard dog named Spot who stands 8 feet tall, breathes fire and has an incurable craving for college-student flesh.

But that'd be weird.

Zoo-Key-Knee Muffins. Floor Licker.

It's a Friday night, and in my typical pre-bedtime web surfing, I found a very interesting video on oregonlive.com.

It is a video of a 5 year old chef who has his own cooking show.

This kid is unreal, check out the link.

He's making Zucchini Chocolate Chip Muffins, which doesn't even sound that great, but considering the fact that I didn't even know what a Zucchini was until Junior year of high school, and the fact I still can't spell Zucchini correctly, this kid is pretty damn impressive.

Arguably the best part of the show is it's title. Kitchen With Food. It's straight forward. Gets to the point. Doesn't mess around.

Probaly the most adorable thing is when he keeps asking his mom for directions while on camera. It is so cute. No Michael Jackson.

"This is...uh...one tablespoon of...uh...salt? Mom what is it? Oh, yeah sugar."

This got me to thinking about childhood in general.

What were you doing when you were 5 years old?

Playing with toys, watching Barney?

As I recall, I had just taken my first steps, I said my first word, "Zucchini" and I was still breast feeding.

Meanwhile, this little punk is a miniature Bobby Flay, hosting his own food channel, and making food with ingredients that I can't even spell.

When I was 5, I was watching Power Ranger episodes, and i got my foot stuck in a Ninja Turtle toy car, because I was trying to Rollerblade like the people in the Power Rangers episode. All I got was alot of soap on my foot, and a lasting experience. Since then, I have yet to put my foot in any toy cars of any kind.

Thanks Power Rangers.

Anyway, I have decided I am going to marry very young, and find an ideal breeding partner also known as 'wife' and hopefully she is masterful in the kitchen, because my new goal in life is to raise a mini chef that will make me lots and lots of money.

Rachel Ray seems ideal, but I could possibly settle for Paula Dean, or maybe Candace Parker. You can teach cooking. You can't teach 6'4.


Anyway, throughout this time in the vacant dorms at EOU i have discovered several things about myself.

I am really good at keeping myself company. If you give me Facebook, a good NBA game, a guitar, and some rubber gloves, I can make a good time for a good 3-4 hour period of complete lonlienss.

Also, I discovered i am terrible at grocery shopping. I spend way too much money, and buy way too much food.

It's kind of like the Y2K scare, where everyone stocked up on food, cuz they thought the world was ending. That's what I did, except there was no Y2K scare, there was just a week without Hoke Cafeteria. God save us all.

The best part about grocery shopping is the different kind of people you have encounters with. And oddly enough, it seems like you find certain people in certain aisles.

For example, I was for some odd reason in the "Hamburger Helper Aisle" and there was a mother with two children. One 3 year old and one that looked to be about 11 or 12. The 12 year old was on her cell phone, and the 3 year old was licking the ground of the undoubtedly squeaky clean Safeway floor. The mother was enfuriated that her 3 year old would do such a thing, cuz he would totally know better.

Then right as she was about to repremand him, her attention drifted elsewhere.

"Hey! Get away from th....oooooh, 5 cheese pasta-roni!? With Meatballs!"

Then the most classic part about it all, was that the mother then assigned her 11 year old daughter to have the responsability of keeping the 3 year old from licking the floor.

"Hey, would you take care of him?"

Then the daughter, half asleep texting on her cell phone says yes, only to stop what she is doing halfway through, because her phone vibrated.

I can't imagine what this 3 year old floor licker will end up being.

My first guess is he will either be a drug dealer, or a box of hamburger helper.

I hope for all our sakes, he becomes a dealer.

Now that I have all this downtime, I think I will brush up on my cooking skills, so I can give this 5 year old a run for his money. However, I don't think audiences would find a 6'7 18 year old mispronouncing Zucchini and mistaking sugar for salt quite as adorable.

But I am really good at baby talk, and with all the technology out there, I figure you could easily take 10-15 years off my life, especially if I am on my knees.

No Michael Jackson.

Who Throws a Shoe? Eastern Oregon Penitentiary.

Winter break is here, as is the snow, and naturally, so is the boredom.

According to an RA on my floor, there are 12-18 kids in the dorms, which means I am 12-18 times more likely to go insane.

Thankfully, pissed off Iraqi journalists keep me entertained.

If you haven't seen this, watch it.

After studying this carefully, and many many times over, it is clear President Bush was at one time a Ninja with cat-like reflexes.

Or a cat, with Ninja-like reflexes.

Also, apparently he used to be a comedian, saying in the aftermath of the shoe-chucking incident that he thinks the shoes were size 10.

But he also certainly must be a liar, because those shoes were coming at him at a rapid pace, and there's no way one could decipher the difference between a size 8 and a size 10.

Also, it is apparent that the whole thing was just a big misunderstanding.

Just prior to the shoe being thrown, Bush said a phrase in Arabic. He was trying to say, "First off, let me say It's an honor to be here, and I wish for great things and a prosporous future for Iraq and it's people."

Turns out, he said, "I will give one hundred dollars to the person who can hit me the hardest with a random object. "

The Iraqi journalist later went on to say "I noticed his dress shoes when he walked into the room. They looked uncomfortable, and perhaps a little tight on him. I wear size 10, so I was just trying to help him out. Looking back on it, I probaly shouldn't have violently threw them at him. Maybe next time, a gentle toss, or perhaps a hand-off would be more appropriate. My apologies. Obama '08"

That was completely sattirical and sarcastic, so don't take it seriously.

I like to compare being stuck on campus during winter break to serving a 2 week prison sentence.

We have to put up a piece of paper on our doors that says "OCCUPIED," cuz the RA's ran out of printer ink to say "THESE KIDS DON'T GET TO SEE THEIR FAMILIES AND HAVE TO STAY IN LA GRANDE FOR 2 WEEKS. ALL OF US ARE SORRY. REALLY, REALLY SORRY."

You get your mandatory physical exercise with 2 hours of basketball practice, and an hour of weight lifting. Whether you like it or not. And for the next few weeks, coach is applying a 'bitch' rule, where if you lose in any games in practice, the person who beat you has ownership over you for 24 hours.

The cafeteria is closed, so we are forced to provide food for ourselves. As a poor college student, desperate times call for desperate measures. So, I decided to live on Iams and Puppy Chow for 2 weeks. I have already developed a healthy coat of fur, I've been licking myself alot lately, and I was recently put on a leash and shock-collar because I bit the kid across the hall.

Woof.

My roommate takes the whole prison thing a little too literally. La Grande can get mighty lonely in the cold winter months. Ouch.

Someone gave our RA a night-stick, and I think she is taking it too far, because if I turn my music up too loud, or slam a door, or breathe too loud, I am immediately put in my place. Yes maam.

And to top it all off, I am paying 120 dollars to do all of this. Prisoners at least get to stay for free.

Or for our tax dollars.

Hm...I'm feeling awfully rebellious.

I think I'll go throw a shoe.

Until next time, my shock collar tells me it's time for dinner. Or maybe i just stepped out of my 20 foot radius. Or maybe my roomie is feelin' frisky.

Woof.

The wheels on the bus go round and round.

There's the old logic that says no matter how bad things are for someone, there's always someone out there who has it worse.

Your dog will die of cancer, then somebody will come up to you and say, "Dude, there are kids starving in Africa."

Your parents will get a divorce, and someone will enlighten you, saying "Dude, there are people who's dogs die of cancer."

Then you will find yourself in Kenya, scrapping for a bite to eat, and somebody will come up to you and say, "Dude, there are people whose parents are getting divorced right now. And some of those people also happen to have dogs. Dogs that die of cancer."

As if this is supposed to make ANYONE feel better?

Yeah, my dog just died, but at least I have a full stomach.

I've decided to apply this logic to my own life.

After a weekend that was just short of spectacular, finals week on deck and 3 weeks in the vacant dorms to look forward to, I've decided to compile a list to make myself feel better.

Let's call it...

"Things worse than a ten hour bus ride to get your ass kicked by the #1 team in the nation after being ahead at the half, and also losing to a team that your high school's JV team could put up a fight with...List"

1. Your suitemate deciding to move the drum set from "Rockband" into his room. The walls are very thin, and my patience is consistently tested in the form of "BANG BANG BANG BANG" in a rhythmic pattern, forced to listen to songs like Lit's "Own Worst Enemy." I actually used to like the song. Until it was completely ruined by Rockband and plastic drum sets.

"God Damnet. This song is fuckin' hard. Shit! I guess I'll do it again. Even louder and more obnoxiously loud. Oh, it's 2 a.m.? I bet my suitemate isn't sleeping. He's probaly at basketball practice or something." BANG BANG BANG.

2. Drew Gooden's facial hair.

3. Getting made fun of by OIT's fans, especially when you don't even play. I was literally just listening to Coach Looney give out instructions to the team, and I looked up, to see an older lady staring me directy in the eyes.

I stared back.

"Hey 42!"

Me: "Oh god...what? I'm just standing here. What could this elderly woman possibly have against me? My poor posture on the bench? Was I slouching? Did I forget to grab a towel for the starters when they came in?"

"Hey! Hey 42! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Me: "Really? Boooooo? Who does that?"

Her kids started to join in. All 5 of them.

"HEY! 42! BOOOO!!! BOOOOOO!!!"

Later in the game, i was gazing off behind the bench, only to find a kid who couldn't have been a day over 14 tap his friend on the shoulder, and whisper "Hey, doesn't 42 remind you of..."

As soon as he said "of," I immediately shifted my eyes from him to back on the court, in fear of more embarrassment.

So, for now, I am going to assume the next word uttered out of this kids mouth was "Brad Pitt."

Why yes. Yes he does remind me of Brad Pitt.

"BOOOOOOOOO!"

4. The Holocaust. That was pretty bad.

5. Staying in the dorms for 2 of the 3 weeks of winter break. And having to pay 120 dollars to do so.

6. Nickelback.

I feel better already.

Shifting gears, I have started to pick up on some of the slang that many of my teammates use on a regular basis.

For example, this weekend, I was accused of "clowning."

I believe the context was "Yo', I went to dis circus, and dey waz Clownin'!"

I was later informed that I had made a humorous statement, and i was indeed, "clowning."

I was also told that I am someone's "guy."

Last I checked, I am not romantically involved with anyone.

"Dart, fuck you man. But...you're my guy."

Thanks?

"Man, Chamillionaire is the Hottest in the GAME!"

"No man, it's gotta be Lil' Wayne. He's my guy. But he's clownin' on his tracks, na meen?"

"Why did you go and buy that jewelry/and waste your scrill/ when I buy green diamonds/ It's a baseball field."

If this keeps up, pretty soon I will be everyone's guy, I will be clowning all the time, and I will be the proud owner of a major league baseball stadium. If that lofty dream is good enough for Chamillitary Maine, it's good enough for me."

Until then, I'm gonna work on getting my body clock back on track after 6 a.m. bedtimes, and hopefully pass some finals.

There are things in this world...That I don't understand.

In college, there is an overabundance of down time. Particularly in the dorm life.

If you are picturing a-bun-dancing right now...we are on the same page.

Sorry that was cheap word play. I'm really Punny.

K promise that was the last one.

Anyway, after living in the dorms for what feels like 6 years, I've concluded there are several types of people that find ways to pass times in our luxurious, lavish living areas.

One of these kind of people are the people who live across the hall from me. I am convinced they live off of Tang and Assasins Creed. Except for one time, the kid across the hall told me all about this one time he played beer pong mixed with tang and it was "totally disgusting dude!"

My response to this was, "Get out of my dorm room. You smell like a sweaty Xbox controller."

The other night I was in my living room watching a Blazers game on a Thursday night, right after practice. I like to call this "me" time.

The kids across the call like to call this "It's almost Friday, which is almost the weekend, which means LETS GET DRUNK time."

One of the kids across the hall came in, obnoxiously drunk, accusing me of stealing his beer.

"Dude...they...dude...they told me YOU STOLED IT! Where is it? Where is my...beer...dude...you stoled it!"

(Before I could muster up a response worthy of his intellect.)

"I like your haircut. Sean...I like your haircut!"

He became very easily distracted, I told him there is a shiny object in the hallway, he turned around and out of the room like a kid with ADHD trying to catch snowflakes in a blizzard.

Point: Sean.

I locked the door as to not deal with him the rest of the night.

Silly me.

Five minutes later, I hear a rhythmic banging on my door, only to realize it is my drunken hall-mate, sitting at the foot of my door, facing away from the room, banging the back of his head on the wall of my dorm room. Over, and over and over, repeating the words:

"SEAAAN!!! I LIKE YOUR HAIRCUT! SEAN! I LIKE YOUR HAIRCUT! YOU GOT A HAIRCUT! I LIKE IT!"

Eventually, the sound stopped, and I assumed he either gave up, or went to bed.

Turns out he did both, right in the middle of the hallway, directly in front of my living room, in a puddle of his own drool.

As i stepped over his hung over head, with a trashbag in hand, I was ready to toss him in it. Instead, I took the high road, smiled, looked down at him and said, "Good for you!"

Good for you.

About a week later, he and his suitemates find that they are evidently now welcome to walk into my room whenever they want, only to ask the same question EVERY TIME.

The door opens, without a knock, they walk in, stare at me for a second, then ask me if Ryan or Dustin (my suitemates) are here.

Cuz they couldn't walk ten feet to figure out themselves.

And they wouldnt wanna be rude by, say, not knocking.

Then, yesterday, I was just hanging out, watching some T.V. eating some cereal, and another kid from across the hall barges into my living room, stares at me for a good 5 seconds. Stares at the TV for another 10 seconds. Then looks back at me and says:

"Hey man. What are you eating?"

Cereal. What the hell does it look like. It's cereal.

"Dude...that looks REALLY good."

"Yeah its this new thing. It's milk. And Grape Nuts. Thanks?"

Yeah man. Thats cool dude. So is Ryan here?

Instead of responding to his question like a normal person, I actually closed my eyes, held my breath, thought about how much I despise him and his suitemates, and I actually just blew up right there.

Like literally, spontaneously combusted, into flames, on the spot. Like that one incubus song.

Now there's a hole burned in my couch, but at least I don't have to listen to the Tang Kids bullshit anymore.

P.S. If I hear another South Park line, I am going to shoot my dick off.


Happy Thanksgiving.


Bah Humbug.

Potatoes and Annoying Teacher Tendencies

Sorry about the delay of blog entries. Unfortunately, the past 2 weekends, I have been in the shit-stain state, aka Idaho.

Last weekend we lost by 5 to Division 1 Idaho State University, and all you really need to know about that game is that one of their players looked like a hybrid of Frankenstein, Darko Millicic and that big Russian boxer in one of the Rocky movies.

I got to play, for like a minute, and in that span of time, I managed to get scored on by this 6’10 Russian man, almost turn the ball over, and twist an ankle.

Freshman year is awesome.

This past weekend, we were in Idaho for the Golden Rule Shootout, at the College of Idaho. We went 1-1 and I found out that there is a magnet taped to the hands of defenders and the ball, but only when I am in possession of it.

I think I played 50 seconds before seeing the opposite color jersey of mine, and essentially giftwrapping the ball, and gently handing it to the other team. Twice.

Here…have a lay-up!

I didn’t play much that game, or the rest of the weekend, and I can’t complain.

That’s the worst. Every player would like to think the coach is out to get them, and you are really really really good, but coach just doesn’t give you a chance. Then there’s times when you get a chance, and you take that chance, and take a shit on it.

That’s what I did, but then I decided to start thinking of sport clichés to make me feel better.
Kevin Garnett’s “NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE” didn’t quite do it for me. Allen Iversons “PRACTICE!!!??” made me wanna throw up. And Shaq’s “BLUUGUGHGUGHUGHGUGHHHGUGHG BLUUUGGHUUUDY GLUB BLUG GULBB BLUG I’m the diesel, baby,” wasn’t exactly applicable.

So, I adopted my own modern day sports quote.

“Wow, I really blew it tonight. I mean…I played terrible. I think I will write a blog dedicated to my sucking. BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.”

But the truth is, if you have read this far, you probably don’t give a s-word about how many turnovers I have.

But you know what you do want to know?

Every town in Idaho smells like a condiment you put on a baked potato.

One town we drove through smelled EXCLUSIVELY like bacon. Last time I checked, bacon on a baked potato is good.

Then, the next town we stopped in smelled like cheese. Cheddar cheese. Cheddar cheese on a baked potato is good.

During the rest of the weekend, I caught whiffs of ranch, butter, chives, and sour cream, depending on what town we were in.

It makes sense really. Idaho is known as the Potato state, right? So the cities of the potato state should be known as accessories to the baked potato.

So, like Florida, the sunshine state, probably has a lot of towns that smell like sunscreen, towels, sand, and UV rays.

mmmmm…smells warm.

This has nothing to do with anything, but I have recently started paying attention to all of my teachers annoying tendencies. The most apparent of them all is that my Biology teacher talks with her eyes closed.

Who does that???

She literally stands in front of class, puts on a power-point, and sleep-talks the whole period.

Sometimes I want to throw my pen at her just to make sure she’s awake.

But the weirdest part about it is she is never dosing off or anything. She is always SUPER energetic. But she never has her eyes open.
It doesn’t seem to bother anyone else, but it disrupts my learning process, and I would like to blame her eye-shutting techniques for the D I received on the last test.

My math teacher is awesome, but he possesses no control over the volume of his voice.

We will be doing a problem, and one moment, he will be quietly muttering to himself, turned away from the class, then the next, he turns his body, and basically starts yelling at the class.

“The x’s cancel, foil out the parentheses…AND SOLVE FOR X! SOLVE FOR X! THE X’s CANCEL! SO SOLVE FOR X!”

Mr. Gregersen, I would love to solve for x, but my eardrums are bleeding.
We had a fire drill last week, and I was shocked, because I thought those ended in high school along with lunch detentions and hall passes, but what I was more surprised at was the fact it took a good 3 unbearably loud BEEP BEEP BEEP’s for my math teacher to catch on to the fact we were indeed having a fire drill.

Turns out he thought it was someone’s cell phone.

No, professor, the building is on fire.

“SOLVE FOR X!!!!”

I don’t want to think about what would happen if my Science teacher AND my Math teacher were in a fire drill.

Together, they make one severely disabled person.

My biology teacher would think, “Golly, whoever is blowing their nose sure is being loud about it! I hope that tissue is Bio-degradable!”

Meanwhile my math teacher would say “Who’s getting a B grade in my class? Hmmmm…cancel the twommmhhmmm, divide by threemhmmmmhhmmm. Wow is it hot in here, or is it just this chalkboard that I sometimes drag my fingernails across to drive my students insane? Oh wait, it appears there is a fire. I can tell by the intensely bright light strobing across the room. Thankfully, I have a good set of eyes to make up for my lack of hearing.”


Biology teacher: I also have capable eyes, I just choose to shut them, because it reduces energy, therefore reducing my carbon footprint!

Don't Forget to Bring a Towel.

Every year in the NBA, they ask a few of the top rookies what their 'welcome to the NBA' moment is.

Some say, getting picked by Chris Paul, some say getting dunked on by Kevin Garnett, and some say, get me the hell out of here.

I'd fall into the third category.

Every college freshman has their 'welcome to college' moment.

And if your like me, you've had several 'welcome to college' moments.

Like...5.

I think after the first few, they should stop calling it 'welcome to college' moment, and call it 'you are a dumbass, get it right' moment.

The D+'s on midterms, the farts in the weight room, the other D+ on the midterm, more farts, and now...this.

Watch this clip.

And picture me, as Dwight Howard, and Kobe as...say, college.

Now take away the broad shoulders and jumping ability, and replace it with knee sleeves and a naturally born inept-ness for standardized tests of any kind.

Your end result: Sean getting shitted on by those around him in this awkward phase of life that is Freshman year.

It didn't really hit me, until this weekend, when we had our kickoff tournament here at EOU.

We were playing one of the best NAIA schools in the nation, and we beat them by 10 in overtime. It was a great game.

Except for one part.

Midway through the second half, it was a dead ball, and a large, bald, middle aged male in a zebra suit came stomping towards the bench.

He was a referee, and he was sweating excessively.

He looked eerily similar to the referee in the "Celebrity Deathmatch" series, Mills Lane and I was expecting him to saunter over and say "Let's get it on!"

Then decapitate my play-dough made limbs, while Weird Al versus Al Gore, the "main event" are up next.

Turns out he wanted a towel.

He literally ran over to the bench and asked for a towel. Not to wipe a wet spot on the floor, not to waive in the air while we were shooting free throws, not to lay down on a sandy white beach.

No, he wanted a towel to wipe the sweat off of his glistening bald dome.

I found this rather hilarious that an official in an intense game took a break to ask the home team for a sweat-sopping device.

Big smile on my face, gleeful as can be, the referee makes eye contact with me, and he wasn't happy I was laughing at him.

Sweat-head: "What are you laughing at?"

Me: Uh....hard work out there eh?

Sweat-head: At least I've worked a sweat up. At least I've been out here long enough to get a sweat going. Shouldn't you still have your warm-up on?

Me: I feel like Dwight Howard. Minus the broad shoulders and jumping ability. Plus the knee sleeves. Minus the playing time.

This bald man has just shit on me.

Now, I didn't catch it word for word, but I didn't play at all in this game, and I know he was making a wise crack at my playing time, because I looked down the bench to see several of my older teammates cracking up.

Not only was it degrading to no end to get made fun of by a Claymation referee, it was salt in the wounds when my teammates found it equally hilarious that I wasn't playing.

So, I did what any normal 18 year old kid would do. I got up, picked up my chair, and broke it over the top of the referee's head, and drop-kicked every single teammate that has ever wronged me.

Wait, no, that's not what happened at all. I believe i started to smile, jumped over the first row of people, and curled up into my grandmothers arms, and started sucking my thumb.

You win this time, bald referee guy. Until we meet again.


Then maybe I will have the presence of mind to stick my foot out subtlely while you are running the baseline, and send you skidding across the baseline on your chest.

Next time you need a towel, don't ask me, I need it for extra padding to keep my ass comfortable on the bench, right where it belongs.

Grrrrrr. Ape Nuts.

I've been thinking about that one Grape Nuts commercial alot lately.

The one where the guy is at the breakfast table, listening to his family complain about this and that, and the guy just takes a few spoonfulls of Grape Nuts and pretty soon, instead of hearing "I don't wanna go to school. Who's turn is it to take the garbage out?"

He hears, "Crunch, Crunch, Crunch, Crunch."

To me, this is a brilliant strategy, and should be implimented into everyday life.

For example, today during practice, i completely messed up one of the plays, and as one of two freshman on the team, I heard it from all of my teammates.

"Dart, pay attention. Did that new haircut affect your ability to think with your head, not your ass? Do it right!"

At that moment, I reached for my grape nuts.

I didn't have any whole grain breakfast cereal readily available, so I just started chomping my teeth together with great force, so it just made a big clicking sound, so pretty soon, instead of hearing about how terrible of a person I am for forgetting one of our 100,086 plays, I just heard

"Click, click, click"

Then, I bit my tongue, literally, and everyone started looking at me funny.

Damn you, Karma.

In Biology, it was one of those moments when a teacher asks a question, and NOBODY says anything, so the teacher gets really mad, and keeps asking the question, getting progressively louder everytime, so I blurted out an answer, that was evidently hilarious to my overly-environmentally-concious biology teacher, and all of my classmates.

Me: "Hydration Synthesis!"

Everyone within a one mile radius: (Pause to register exactly how retarted my answer was)...HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!!!!! IDIOT!!!!

My teacher was even laughing at me...

The lady who uses organic "doggy poopy bags" made of recycled grass and biodegradable something-or-another to clean up after her "children" when she takes them on walks.

Embarrased to no end, I sunk into my seat, and reached for my Grape Nuts.

Pretty soon, I was gnawing on the corner of my Biology text book, and instead of hearing "Wow, that tall kid who sits in the front row is a real dumb-ass," I heard "Wow, that tall kid who sits in the front row is actually chewing on his text book, and there is now a puddle of drool at his feet."

"I think he's teething."

Damnet.

I think i might just start carrying around pebbles, which are much more inexpensive than Grape Nuts, so next time I'm confronted with an awkward situation, I can just reach in my pocket for salvation.

"Hey dude...uh...your fly is down."

"Excuse me, I'd love to listen to what you are saying, but I have these pebbles in my pocket that must be chewed on."

"Crunch Crunch Crunch Crunch."

In completely unrelated news, I've concluded that Daylight Savings Time is stupid.

I have done no research to support my views, but all I know is I don't like feeling like it's ten, when it's really eleven, and vice versa.

Consequentially, Allen Iverson was traded to the Pistons, Sarah Palin will have authority in the whitehouse, and the couple from The Bachlorette just broke up.

Also, Jason Campbell threw his first interception of the season, and I'm pretty sure if the universe wasn't in total chaos, and it was an hour earlier, he wouldn't have thrown it, cuz it still would have been the pregame show.

"Sean, stop blogging, you're not funny, and it pains me to read your entries."

"Crunch Crunch Crunch"

Here's to hoping you don't chip a tooth. Goodnight.

They call me dishsoap because I'm so concentrated.

A great philospoher once asked: "are people naturally good, or are they naturally evil?"

"Must man continue to be motivated to do good? Or is it in our nature to do good?"

"If we had the choice, would we sit on our collective asses and play xbox 360 all day? Or would we go out and cure world hunger?"

It's an interesting debate, and in my Media Arts class, we discussed it, and I decided to take the side of man having naturally good intentions.

For the record, everyone in the class besides me concluded that overall, man are naturally bad.

As a population, man naturally know right from wrong, and act accordingly. They have good intentions, they want to do good.

No man WANTS to mess things up for everyone, no man WANTS to waste their life away. Man knows whats good and whats bad.

Right?

Then the girl behind me got mad because I kept saying "Man" instead of a more politically correct "People."

Then the kid in the corner of the class who spits chewing tobacco residue in his used gatorade bottle everyday thought it was "gay" of me to have such a hopeful outlook on fellow man. Err...fellow "people."

"That fag is optomistic...how gay."

Then it was halloween night, at the EOU volleyball game, and this kid next to me reeked of dog piss and whiskey, and was telling his friend all about his fantastic night.

Dog Piss kid: What up man?

Other kid: Nothin' man, just watchin' the game how are you?

Dog Piss kid: I'm fuckin' wasted! I'm Barack Obama! I'm Shit-Housed! This is awesome!

I figured this man who was smelling of domestic pet-waste was either having an identity crisis,
or maybe he was an avid John McCain supporter, as I have never heard the words "Obama" and "Shithoused" in the same sentence.

That is mostly probaly because Shithouse is not technically a word.

The kid put on a Barack Obama mask after sharing his drunkeness with everyone, and suddenly the world made sense again.

I started thinking about the discussion in class. Maybe I was wrong, maybe man is naturally bad.

The girl in the row behind me in the crowd rolled her eyes.

excuse me..."people."

Then I proceeded to laugh hysterically at a certain Jay Leno joke directed towards a certain person with a rather 'outstanding' facial feature.

I took a proverbial step back, and really started thinking about the discussion again.

Then some athletic girls started bouncing around in spandex, and I kinda lost my train of thought.

Where were we again?

Oh yeah. Man. Man are good. Good man. People. People are good.

Then I walked back to my dorm room seriously wondering why we call it halloween anymore, when it should be called "Girls get to dress up as total sluts and not get shit-talked about them by other girls, cuz it's like halloween, and it's like, just a costume day."

I decided that title wasn't really catchy, and as soon as I was about to write a letter to the national holiday-naming-association, some girl walked past me, and her clevage literally jumped out of her shirt and punched me square in the face.

Dizzied by the hormones, my mind traveled elsewhere.

I envisioned our conversation going something like this:

Me: What are you supposed to be?

Clevage girl: I'm a whore.

Me: I appreciate your honesty.

The cool part about this particular costume was she was ACTUALLY a hooker. Like some girls dress up as cops or school girls or slutty construction workers, but this girl wasn't playing any games.

She was just coming right out and saying it.

I'm a prostitute.

She even had handcuffs, fishnets, and Herpes to compliment the dollar bills hanging out of her buttcrack.

What were we talking about again?

Oh yeah, man is good. People are great!

Then the kid across the hall accused me of stealing his beer, and I was able to kick him out of my room before he spewed stomach acid all over the walls of his own suite.

I'm really starting to second guess this whole "man are naturally good" thing.

Then my suitemate walked into the room with a big bag of what looked like groceries.

Before I could even ask him what it is, he said "This is food for my picnic today. I am going to be nice to my girlfriend, and feed her food so she is happy, so she will have more sex with me"

Me: I appreciate your honesty.

Seeking some guidance and enlightenment, I took a stroll down the hall, only to find Ghandi, Jesus, Lance Armstrong, Oprah and Allah.

Suddenly, everything was ok. Man is good. Sure, we have our moments, but for the most part, we are good.

Then i cleared my eyes, blinked a few times, and found it wasn't really spiritual icons I was seeing, it was a whiteboard, with the words "Allison is a HOE!" and some more random explitives scribbled on the Resident Assistants "suggestions" section.

But I think the people living across the hall were named Jesus (Hey-zoos) Gabriella (which sounds like Ghandi kinda.) and their roomate owns a bike, and only one testicle, so I figured it was close enough to Lance.

Allison was Allah, and I was convinced this is the closest thing to salvation the dorm life at EOU would give me.
It's no judgement day, but who's counting?

Reality Check. Underwear Check. Embarrassment: Check.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't even eat pumpkin.

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

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

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

Yes. Yes she did.

Her and her friend appear to find this quite comical.

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

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

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

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

Wrong.

Turns out they were saying:

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

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

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

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

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

But they caught me red-handed.

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

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

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

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

I forgot to grunt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead of the real life conversation between the girls:

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

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

As far as I could tell, they were saying:

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

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

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

At least until Monday.

Muscles and Lunch Lady Miscues

Team pictures came out today.

And I still find myself asking the same question.

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

I'll tell you why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But dang he looks good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Card lady: He is SUCH a DICK!!!

Me: (Uninterested) Who?

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

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

Card lady: I hate my life.

Me: This table smells like chinese food.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, none of those things.

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

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

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

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

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

I would fall into the athlete category in this case.

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

But today, this was not the case.

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

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

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

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

If you call it typing.

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

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

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

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

It's called keyboards.

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

Did I mention we are in La Grande?

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

Somebody teach this guy the home row.

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

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

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

Nobody caught on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For example, my cell phone, is gay.

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

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

Also, the Washing Machine is racist.

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

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

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

Maybe Kanye West was right

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

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

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

Goodnight America.

The benefits of being a 65 year old man.

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

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

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

My first word was "Ball."

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

It's got to be fate.

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

Me no like Ball.

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

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

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

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

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

- Dwyane Wade wears knee sleeves.

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

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

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

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

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

Jump hook, 2 points Sean.

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

Ah, you caught me. I'm lying.

Matlock is on.

Go Mounties!

The cafeteria staff are all members of MadTV.

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

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

Both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cafeteria guy: Paul!?

Me: No.

Cafeteria guy: Ace?

Me: No.

Cafeteria guy: Chris?

Me: Yep.

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

Cafeteria guy: (Silence.)

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

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

Cafeteria guy: Paul!?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alot of baby corn.

I hate baby corn.

Maybe I wanted a 'stir fry.'

Not a japanese stir fry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That mexican cassarole is coming up.

Oh god, my roomate is going to hate me.

I'm going to do sit-ups.

Cafeteria guy: Paul!?

We put the crazy in democrazy.

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

Yes, I've registered to vote.

All four times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's an example:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Person 2: I dunno dude...

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

Person 1&2: Silence.

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

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

Person 2 & 1 in unisyn: Obama '08!

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

God Bless America.

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

Now that would be a political baby. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

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

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

That's Democracy.

Hold up...

That's Democrazy.

Peace.

Stay 18 Forever? No thanks.

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

Being 18 sucks.

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

Yes, awkward is the perfect way to describe it.

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

A+ my lady, see me after class.

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

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

It's supposed to be what you like.

It's your major.

You chose this.

But you hate it.

And you're not alone.

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

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

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

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

These are the best years of my life?

Really?

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

(This is my Humanities teacher. Ironic?)

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

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

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

Good morning, freedom.