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.