Drunk And Hot Girls

Kanye West said it best—“La la la lalaaaah that’s how the F*#K you sound, you drunk and hot girl.” Not saying all drunk and hot girls are tone deaf, worth of lyrical dedication, or even particularly unpleasant—but undoubtedly, they do exist, and by golly, it’s about time they got some recognition.

You’ve seen them, you’ve talked to them, you might have been one, you might have taken one home with you—though probably, not to meet mom. Nope, drunk and hot girls aren’t prototypical girlfriend material, or even good for a 3 minute conversation…but you know what they are really good for? RIDICULE ! And public embarrassment on the internet! That and they do tend to have excellent fashion sense, and/or extremely large, extravagant sunglasses and handbags.

In the typical college scene, depending on the size of your school, you will meet 3-5 Drunk And Hot Girls per weekend. They tend to come out on Fridays more than Saturdays, as Drunk And Hot Girls don’t like waiting until Saturday to get publically, inhumanly, disgustingly, borderline addiction—inebriated.

In some cases—you know this Drunk And Hot Girl. She’s in your chemistry class—she’s actually your lab partner! And you see her at the party, and she slips out of her very modern slip on gold shoe, with those tiny adorable bows on the toe.

Next, she spills a little bit of her drink on you, but you don’t mind cuz beer compliments the cologne you are wearing, and finally you guys make eye contact.

(Note: Drunk and Hot Girls do not…I repeat, DO NOT traverse the party scene alone. Partly because they are unable to stand up straight, but also because her friends remember last weekend when she went home with that guy on the football team who wears pink polo’s with the collar popped. Um..”EEEW! Fashion Police!” They will most likely say.)

You want to talk to Drunk and Hot Girl, because she is your lab partner, and that drool on her chin really accentuates her facial features, and you want to tell her, but you are first assaulted by her group of Less Drunk and Hot Girls, who can actually physically put together articulate sentences.

“Um…our friend Rachael (most common DAHG name)is really sorry, but she can’t talk to you right now!”

“YA YA YA SHUT YER TRAP DENISE! I’LL TALK to ALLEN all I want! He did my lab once! Hi Allen…”

“Hey Rachel. We are lab partners. My name is Sean. You invited me to this party…I actually just got a text from you—and it’s even makes a little sense, it says “hey Allen, the party is at 24th and ;-). I looked really hard for a street called “;-)” and I even mapquested ‘winky-face lane’ and ‘smiley drive’ but those are in Eugene…we are in Salem. But anyway...I am here.

Rachel: I have no idea what you talking to…(briefly turns to vomit, then upon turning around, thinks you are someone else.)

Rachel: S’yer name Jason? I swear really seen you. You are my English class. You are tall and have hot. A Jeans can’t reach damn ankles though shop big tall S**T!

Nooope! Still Sean..actually…and these are capris. Thanks though.

Rachel: I think friend has BALLS!

“Um…what?” You think my friend has balls?”

Rachel: I can’t see you.

“Um…I am literally 18 inches from you.”

Rachel: You need help.

“I need help?”

Rachel: You can help me once.

“Are you okay?”

Rachel: I am black out. I think chemistry teacher good though kindly cute.

“Our chemistry teacher is a woman.”

Rachel: Wanna hear sing?
“I really don't. But have you heard that Kanye West song?”

Rachel: Yeah…I sayin gold diggey—but she can’t f**kin hold alcohol! Love favorite ones! Door jam my toe though! Selfish d**ks…

“Listen, Rachel, I think I should probably go…”

Rachel: I think friend has BALLS!

“I have no idea what that means.”

Rachel: You take home kay?

“I’m going to go get your friends.”

At this point, you are entirely confused as to what has just transpired between yourself and Drunk and Hot Girl, so you walk back to your group of friends.

“Bro, that girl is ON POINT! Were you spittin game Dart? (insert last name here.)”
Next, in an attempt to regain your pride and understanding of what just happened, you say, “Yeah bro, it was weird she is totally sober and remembered me from Chemistry class. She called me tall and hot and stuff. I got her number, man…I’m stoked!”

Then you get a bunch of hi-5’s from all your buddies and they say things like “You’d better hit that,” and “BOOTY call for Dart later!” and “She’s a really nice girl, I am happy for you. I bet her family is very kind, and she had a sound upbringing. Have an intelligent conversation with her, then hold hands while you watch “Garden State.”

See? Drunk and Hot Girls aren’t that bad…they’ve gained you false respect amongst your peers, and the vomit on your pant-leg will wash out in a few tries…she even might regain consciousness to help you do the lab on Monday. Until then, here’s to you, Drunk and Hot Girls, keep making everyone around you seem that much more appealing, and wipe up that drool on your chin—saliva makes you look fat.

Spin Class: A Love Story

As the running beat of that one horrible techno song nobody likes blared through my eardrums, the overly-peppy, chipper extrovert of a spin instructor started talking. Very loudly, I might add, into her headset that was programmed ten decibels too high.

“OKAY GANG! LISTEN! I KNOW IT’S ONLY 5:30 AND THE SUN HASN’T COME UP YET…BUT, TODAY WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A GREAT SPIN CLASS!” She said.

I turned to the woman to the left of me, and she looked like her alarm just went off. That look everyone gets when one second they are deep in their REM cycle, and the next, BEEP BEEP BEEP invades their slumber for a rude, abrupt awakening.

The woman jolted her eyes towards me, realized how miserable I was on this rigid bike seat that was now protruding its way into crevices I’d rather not mention, and shot me a look as if to say, “I know how you’re feeling, kid. I don’t like techno either.”

Regardless, I was drug to this torture chamber at this ungodly hour, so I was determined to at least survive the 60 minutes of torture/exercise commonly known as “Spin Class.”

From the start, it was one of the most emasculating events I have ever experienced. Not only is the instructor four decades older than me, but she is cranking her quadriceps at a pace that would make Lance Armstrong envious. As I am cranking the bike’s resistance down three notches, she is screaming at me through an amplified microphone to “CRANK IT UP!” Because we just finished the “WARM UP!”

In fear of getting my head sawed off by her chiseled hamstrings, I elected to obey her caps-lock orders, but as soon as I turned the knob, it felt like one thousand daggers were inserted directly into my quadriceps’ muscle fibers. The burn was so excruciating, I was biting my lip in an effort to not combust right then and there.

Obviously struggling, I looked around the room to see if anyone else found this so-called “pedaling” to be as impossible as it was for me.

To my left, a 50-60-year-old male with thinning hair and a stained tan tank top…and exercise shorts that didn’t fit him as an adolescent. His hands are tucked behind his back, eyes closed and face tranquil as he seems to have created some bond between his pedal strokes and that stupid “Firefly” song by Owl City. I hate Owl City.

To my right, an adult female, a few years older than myself, bouncing up and down like a gosh darn bottle of sunshine. She smiled at me in a way that you smile at the big, slow kid in gym class who gets out first in dodgeball. I mustered up what I felt like was a smile back, but apparently was more of a grimace, or I am just very unfortunate looking, as she jolted her head backwards in fright, and reached for her Dutch Bros latte’ in the bike’s cupholder.

Sipping her sugary delight ever so slowly, her legs were creating an effortless tornado of pedal strokes, she turned her head to the side and just observed the pain I was going through.

Her face said to me, “This is the only thing I am going to eat the rest of the day. I weight 90 lbs, and am making you look like a helpless ant right now. And yes, this is a Peach Smoothie. With whipped cream. Enjoy your last 40 minutes alive.”
It was official, I was surrounded by people who were a lot better at this than I was, and I contemplated leaving then and there. 20 minutes into class, the instructor FINALLY asked me the least flattering question I have ever heard.

“HEY…HAVE YOU DONE THIS BEFORE?” she asked, barely audible above the terrifying German-Hardcore song, “Du Haste.”

“Guess,” I said, in-between breaths that were barely sending my brain enough oxygen to speak.

She took a good 5 seconds to scope out my form, check my alignment, and analyze my pace, before she came to the ridiculously obvious conclusion.

“Nope,” she said, with a wry smile, as she was undoubtedly planning how to make me terrified of bicycles for the rest of my life.

“Oh really? Did you guest-star in that Sherlock Holmes movie? Or was that inspired by your life? Yeah…hey…instructor lady, that is really AWESOME you were able to conclude that the kid in tears in the back row, with the Atlantic Ocean of sweat underneath his bicycle has never DONE THIS BEFORE. Awesome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bleed out my ears, because if I hear another T-Pain Techno Remix, I am going to kill myself.”

I muttered all of that in my head, but there was no way I could get out a complete sentence without passing out, so the most I could muster was, “Kay,” as I bowed my head, contemplating suicide.

To make matters worse, after this demeaning interaction, the instructor became ridiculously kind and encouraging, and before I knew it, I was actually pedaling without tearing every muscle fiber in my lower body. Before I knew it, she stopped playing Owl City and German Hardcore Rap, and the Atlantic Ocean of sweat beneath my feet resembled something more like the Mediterranean on a hot afternoon in August.

The sun started to come up, and the feeling in my legs returned briefly. In a matter of minutes, the endorphins kicked in, and for some insane, incomprehensible reason, a smile cracked on my face. Dutch Brothers girl fled for the bathroom, the old guy next to me opened his eyes for the first time all class, and that 12-year-old girl in the front that was making fun of me for almost falling off the stationary bike, looked a lot more friendly.

“GOOD JOB SHANE!” The instructor screamed, butchering my name.

“Thanks,” I said, in a voice that didn’t sound like I was drowning.

We finished the class with some hills and intervals that would make World War II seem pleasant, but when all was said and done, she handed out “Tangerine-Scented Moist Towels,” and gave everyone a hand-sanitizer-high-five, wishing us a great rest of our day. The twelve-year-old girl looked at me and said I “don’t suck as bad as I did at first,” and the old guy behind me with overly revealing cycling shorts was like, “hey hey…now we can eat the food at the fair this weekend!”

“Yeah,” I stood up, smelling like a mix of tangerine and cheese, and with every step I took, my shoes “squished” and “squashed” like I just jumped into a pool with all of my clothes on.

“Will you be back Shane?” Instructor lady asked.

“Never again, you terrible, terrible person. Thanks for the towel.” I thought in my mind.

“SURE!” I said in reality, wondering why anyone would ever go through his torture again. Only time will tell. And by time, I mean if I can walk within the next week, and if I get a peach smoothie before every class.

Kids Say The Darndest Things

“It’s too hot in here. Get some fans so I don’t sweat,” said Akayla, every basketball camp-counselor’s worst nightmare.

“Akayla, you’re at a basketball camp. You are going to sweat…I’m sorry,” I replied sheepishly.

“I don’t like sweating. When I sweat, I crave meat,” She said.

“What? You crave meat when you sweat?” I replied, baffled.

“Yes. I want like, ribs or chicken or steak when I sweat. So get some fans, because I am not even that hungry. Also, my fingernail just broke. I need to go to the bathroom,” Akayla replied.

From this point on I should have known a summer full of working with children at a basketball camp would bring some surprises, but nothing could have prepared me for the events that occurred in the summer of 2010.

Then again, how could anyone be prepared for a fire drill? I mean, really, fire drills are made to catch you off guard—to test how you would REALLY react if the place actually went up in flames. But at camp, it’s standard safety protocol, so everyone was pretty well prepared to get the little boogers out of their rooms, and evacuated safely into the parking lot to take roll, and go back to bed.

This was all and well until we came to the name of “Logo,” one of the most notable campers for his seemingly endless supply of NBA gear, and equally impressive ability to have zero idea of what is happening around him at any given time.

After minutes of panic, and the realization that, “Oh shit, where is Logo?” set in, we decided to ask his roommate if he had seen him. Last he saw Logo, he was sniffing a cologne sample from a magazine ad in the chair in his room. This didn’t really happen, but it gives you a feel for how different Logo is.

Anyway, once the coaches scrambled up to Logo’s room, they found him in a panic amidst the chaos of the “BEEP RING BEEP BEEN RING BEEP!!!” of the fire-alarm, frazzled in his room, repeatedly pounding his alarm clock, exclaiming, “Why won’t my alarm TURN OFF!!?!?? I didn’t even SET IT!!!”

The coaches calmly explained to Logo that it was the fire-alarm making the noise, not his alarm. Relieved, Logo laid down on his bed, and was again reminded to please put down the cologne-sampler and please join the rest of the camp in the parking lot.

The fun doesn’t stop there. Not only are some of these kids extremely hilarious because of their evident shortcomings, but some of them are ridiculously smart, and make you feel exceedingly inadequate at any given time. Like when they tell you that when you run it looks like your feet are in cement blocks. Or when they say, “I used to think dunking was cool. Then I saw you do it,” or refuse to listen to your shooting demonstration because, “I haven’t seen you make a jump shot all camp.”

Ordinarily, being a 20-year-old college basketball player with 2 feet of height and 10 years of experience on your campers assures an authoritative position. That is, until you meet a camper who will probably be better than you one day, and knows it.

“Is D3 even hard to play?” Said this little shit that will most likely one day be a college athlete.

“I mean…a lot of people want to play a college sport, but you have to be pretty good to make any school’s roster,” I said, politically correct.

“Oh. Cuz I saw you air-ball a 6-foot-jump shot today. I don’t do that ever,” he said.

“Well…I mean…that happens to everyone once in a while. Keep working hard and I am sure you can be a college player somewhere someday, bud,” I said, grinding my teeth, trying to not kick him in the chest.

“No I know. I’ll play D1 or at least dominate D2. My dad has already been talking to some coaches,” he said.

“You’re 12. Seriously? Look, stay humble. You have talent but you need to work hard to realize your potential, okay? And as your camp-counselor, I’ve gotta tell you, your outside shot really needs some work. Your form is way off,” I said.

“Oh, yeah? I’m sure you know. Is that why you didn’t even make a 3 during the coaches shooting contest?” He said.

Fed up, I let his 12-year-old wit and audacity get the best of me, so I challenged him to a 3-point-contest right then and there. He annhialated me, with awful form, but didn’t miss, then told me he never had to listen to me for the rest of camp. He didn’t.

He proceeded to correct MY form, and explained to me I wasn’t following through. I shot 10 more 3-pointers, with him at my side, double checking my form. I made 8 of them…6 more than in my contest with him…and he smiled, walked off, then told everyone of his peers that he beat the tall guy. Some might call this inspirational..but the way I look at it, there is nothing more demoralizing than losing to an arrogant 12-year-old who thinks you suck at basketball.

Looking to break even, I found the worst 9-year-old at camp, and beat him in HORSE. I may or may not have pounded my chest and asked him “How defeat tastes?” while screaming in his face. I was about par for the day, so I called it good.

That last part was a joke. He was 10, and I said “Tell your parents to get their money back. You are an awful shooter. Punk.”

Things That Make Me Feel Little

"We are all just grains of sand in the beach of life." I remember hearing that once in Kindergarten and it has really stuck with me since. I've always identified with sand...you know...it's grainy, you can make castles out of it, and even though it may LOOK tasty, indeed, it is not very fun to eat.

We are all grains of sand, which is basically a round-about way of saying, "Hey, no matter how important you think you are, odds are, in the grand scheme of things, you are pretty INSIGNIFICANT! Now go fingerpaint!" Then, just incase you think you are the speck of sand that is kinda shiny and significant (See: Bono, Martin Luther King Jr. and Andrew W.K.) the repetitive crashing, violent waves remind us just how little we are. Little, grainy pieces of unappetizing sand.

Here, in bullet lists to cater to all of your feeble-minded short attention spans are a list of things that make everyone feel insignificant, helpless and/or little.

-That person you introduced yourself to seven times, and each time they meet you, they refer to you as "dude," "man," "girl," or, "YOU!" Then after several interactions, when it becomes obvious that this person has no idea what your name is, they say, "What was your first name again?" Like they remember your last name, or maybe middle initial in the first place.

To this, obviously, you will reply, "Your Worst Nightmare," then light them on fire with your eyes. Next time, they will remember your name before they are burnt to a crisp. "HEY YOU!!!"

-Random social interactions.

Like...when you are walking around town and you make eye contact with a seemingly friendly fellow citizen. Next, you might decide it is appropriate to, ya know, smile at them, nod your head, or maybe, if you are a winker, you wink. Of course, this person does not even acknowledge your presence, and as soon as they realize you are smiling at them, they look like they have seen a ghost, and become immediately enamored with the cement at their feet. Next, you realize your attempt at friendliness has been shut down, so you react like any cool-headed human being would.

"HEY! YOU! YOU LOOK AT ME! YEAH! I'M TALKING TO YOU!"

If they still ignore you, insert operation light-enemy-on-fire-with-eyes and hope for the best.

-Unresponsive pets.

Nothing is worse than when the domestic animal that you supposedly control is entirely unresponsive. For example, you call your cat over to sit on your lap. You impliment operation higher-pitch-than-normal-voice, rub your fingers together, and make that weird "tuch-tuch-tuch" sound with your tongue smacking against your pursed up lips. Of course, this cat is either deaf or doesn't care, so the feline ignores you completely, and resumes licking their privates on your couch. YOUR COUCH! In an attempt to re-gain your significance, you say, "OKAY FEE-FEE, that's IT! OFF THE COUCH you little HIGH MAINTAINENCE KITTEN!" Then you take away the cat-nip, and make them chase a laser-pointer, which is actually adorable, and EMPOWERING because you know they can never catch that damn red light. You sit back, eat popcorn, and think about how nice it is to not have a tail. Then you realize you have a tail. Dang. Operation Stare-at-domestic-pet-and-ignite-them-with-fire is in full effect. Just kidding. Don't hurt cats. They are cute.

-Watching Sporting Events, and Being Overly Emotionally Involved

Contrary to popular belief, staring at your High Definition Television, while in the defensive stance does not make your favorite team play better. Nor does wearing your matching outfit, making signs, and eating your "lucky chips and dip" at halftime. Not that I've tried ANY OF THESE THINGS, ya know? I mean...that'd be weird. But yeah, screaming at Ray Allen, encouraging him to miss his 3 pointer usually doesn't work. However! There is hope. I have experienced some success with standing on one foot, reciting an ancient Sioux Indian Tribe hymnal backwards USUALLY results in either a Los Angeles Lakers victory or a thunderstorm.

-Lingering Pubescent Tendencies

You know, that one time you asked an attractive female for their phone number and your voice cracked? And you're 20? Yeah. Those make you feel pretty little. Or maybe it was the time you went to bed with clear, unclogged pores, and you wake up with a city of acne on your chin. What is this, 2003!?!?!? Or maybe it's the fact that your feet and hands are still disproprtionately large compared to your body, you've been having that recurring dream about Jennifer Lopez a lot lately, and you are still the only one of your friends that can hit the high note in that Mariah Carey song.

-Hulk Hands

You are not gigantic, green and capable of destroying buildings. The Hulk Hands are simply teases that maybe you could harness the power of The Hulk for once in your life. It's not going to happen, so please sit down and stop ripping your shirt.

-John Mayer

The combination of his voice and guitar playing skills are a constant reminder to everyone on earth that they are not anywhere as close to as talented as him, and cannot lull a pack of ravenous wolves to sleep by singing. Because he can. Seriously.

Anything else that belittles you? Please do share below! Leave some comments, and let's talk about how inferior we feel!

Do you REALLY wish you were a little bit taller?

We all know the song that goes, "I wish I were a little bit taller, I wish I were a baller, I wish I had jeans that can't reach my feet, size 16, and my nickname was String Bean."

Those were the original lyrics, until Shaquille O’neal took offense to the lyrics and promised to eat everyone’s children if the lyrics were not changed. We all know tall people have an irregular appetite for tasty children, so the National Committee of Lyrics decided to change it.

In general, being “above average height,” is traditionally a positive attribute. You never hear girls say, “I like him…but I just wish he were shorter than me!” And you never hear people long to be just a little bit shorter. Get it? LONG!? Anyway—my point is most people would prefer to be at, or above average height.

I have been tall my entire life—contrary to popular belief, I actually emerged from the womb in the exact state that I am today—6’7 and 210 lbs. My mother is a champ, and has hated me from day one.

However, I do not age, so I do not let this deter my ability to write random internet postings about why you might SAY you wish you were taller—but in reality, you are fine just how you are, lil guy. Or girl.

Here are ten reasons you are glad that you are not six feet seven inches tall, and ten reasons why I just sawed off my shins before writing this.

1. People try to hang clothes on you when walking around town and or campus-

Please stop laughing. This is not a joke. You take for granted that people’s greeting to you is, “Hey _____ how are you doing?”

The greeting I receive from people is typically, “Oh GOD it just got warm all of a sudden! Love the warm weather! Oh—how convenient. A walking, breathing coat rack. This one is uglier than the other ones I’ve seen. But…it’ll have to do!” (person sets coat on top of my head, walks away) “Remind me to get that later! K bye!”


2. Everyone in Movie Theatres Hates You-

Unless you are the person that says out loud, “I WANT TO SEE THAT MOVIE!” after every preview that pleases you, you have no idea what it is like to be above 6’5 and sit down at a movie theatre. As if sitting down weren’t hard enough for my gigantic legs, once I plop onto the cushion, and my knees are stabbing me in the chest from lack of legroom, the person behind me usually, and almost always says, “Who is this freak?”


Next, I get their coat hung on top of my head, and their children ask them when the Zoo let out the Giraffes. Then the previews come on, and I announce to everyone my opinion on the given film, which causes the person in front of me to turn around. They also now hate me because my bony kneecaps are knocking against their backrest, causing multiple contusions in their spine.

I am investing in a Netflix subscription.

3. Basic Household Chores Cause Extreme Discomfort-

Seriously. I just did my dishes and I now have Scoliosis. Reaching down to pick up things is an insurmountable task. Which is why I have acquired Monkey Feet. I can pick things up with my feet, throw them away—even fold my laundry with my toes. I am typing this with my pinkie and middle toes.

4. If You Have an Average Sized Friend That You Sometimes Stand Next To—You Will Inevitably Be Referred To As “Jack and the Beanstock” by Complete Strangers-

This actually happened to me at a concert last summer. I do not want to talk about it.

5. You Receive Random Requests for Piggy Back Rides-

This will happen among friends, which is okay—except it actually hurts sometimes—but it is not okay when people you do not know request piggy-backs just to “be as high up as you.”

Buy a step-stool and stop ridiculing me in public. I am not an animal. Though I do usually comply when asked to supply piggy-backs. I do draw a line when they ask me to gallop and snarl like a horse. I have some integrity.

6. All of your Pants are Capri’s and you aren’t that Trendy-

Growing out of pants that my mom bought me stopped being fun once I turned 12. Now it is an entire annoyance because people shout, “WHEN’S THE FLOOD COMING!?” when they notice my pants are four inches from my ankles. I calmly explain to them that it is extremely hard to find length 38 pants. They then say, “THIRTY EIGHT!?” very loudly, which every time, results in extreme and total embarrassment.

Do not be mistaken that this could be avoided by wearing shorts. Wearing shorts guarantees five to six inches of lower thigh exposure, which has been known to cause nausea and vomiting among anyone with half-decent eyesight.

7. You don’t get to Ride Roller Coasters—not for the Reasons you’d Imagine-


There have been multiple occasions where I have been too tall to ride roller coasters. Of course, like any 18 year-old kid would do, I cried and threw a fit until my mother bought me cotton candy and explained to the people operating the ride that I was a very nice young man. I finally got to ride it. The next summer, I found out that someone died on that same roller-coaster. It had nothing to do with height, but I have been mad at my mom ever since and refuse to eat cotton candy.

8. It is Horrible Irony to be Afraid of Heights and to be Tall-


It is statistically proven that fear of heights is more common among tall people than normal-height-people. I sometimes scream if I stand up too fast.

Other Things:

-The “weather up here” is not any different than at your level. Unless you are an ant, there is little to no significant climatic difference between short people and tall people. Please stop using this joke. I can’t remember the last time it was actually funny.

-“How did you get so tall?” I have no idea. My dad was tall. My mom was tall. They got married and had a tall baby. What’s that? No. It has nothing to do with eating my vegetables. Stop taking pictures of me.

-“Are those ski’s or shoes?” They are shoes. It would be terribly inconvenient to wear skis around town. Unless you lived in a town that was always snowy and had large hills.

-“Do you shop at Baby Gap?” No. I shop at normal Gap. Which would be like you shopping at Baby Gap because of the very significant difference between our body sizes.

10 Things That Make Me Never Want to Exercise Again

Anyone that has ever exercised in a public venue is aware that a gym is, in all reality, a horrendous, awful place. It always smells like hand sanitizer and onions, the bacteria on the equipment is enough to melt your skin off, and—if we are being completely honest, nobody actually enjoys exercising.

So, here we are, trapped in a stinky compound where dude’s kiss their biceps and girls talk about, “Oh MA GAWD I had a Snickers today. I am…like..sooo bad! Ten extra minutes on the treadmill for me!” pretending like we want to be there, when in all reality we are miserable. Sounds like a recipe for disaster, right? Here, in no particular order, are 10 things that make me never want to exercise again.

1. Ipod straps worn on male biceps-

If you are one of these people, stop reading right now. The Ipod Bicep Strap is a phenomenon that has been around since the beginning of time when Cavemen were tanning and drinking protein shakes—and everyone knows Cavemen evolved into Regular Men, and the only trait they carried over, besides chronic drooling, is the Ipod Bicep Strap.

These people are very dangerous, and you should stay away from them and publically humiliate them as frequently as possible. For example, as a fellow gym-goer, you are obligated to announce that the man in the onesie staring at his bicep, trying to bust the elastic had an Ipod touch, which allows us all to know he is listening to Miley Cyrus. And not “Party In The USA,” because that song is actually good and okay to listen to. No. He listens to old Miley Cyrus and you must announce this immediately. Godspeed.


2. Really Sweaty People who do not use Sanitizer Spray

Excuse me sir, you look like you just took a shower with all of your clothes on. Could you please clean up Lake Michigan on the Leg Press machine? No. I do not want to fight. Fine.

3. Wife Beaters In General

These can be potentially volatile if coupled with chest hair, or fake tan, or, god forbid, BOTH. Some people like to buy tank tops that barely reach their waist line, exposing two inches of their midriff. They do pull-ups in front of the mirror and stare at their bellybutton. They itch their bellybutton then do not use hand sanitizer. It is your right, and duty as a fellow human being to pinch their midriff and make a derogatory comment somewhere along the lines of, “Not workin’ hard enough, eh?” Or “Lose 10 lbs…then come back and wear that shirt, okay?”

Of course, you are not serious because you are not an awful person, but they are because they wear wife beaters to the gym, so don’t feel bad. DISCLAIMER: Do not actually do this. That is really mean. Just write anonymous internet posts badmouthing them.


4. Unsolicited Advice

Stop telling me how to bench press correctly. If I want to tear my rotator cuff and ruin my life, let me do it. Also, I just had to take an earphone out. Leave me alone. You smell like feet.

5. Attractive Women Who Purposely Wear A Small Amount of Clothing

It is not the women’s fault that they happen to be physically attractive and want to exercise. It is, however, their fault for wearing spandex and a shirt that fit them when they were 6. Consequentially, every male in the gym stops staring at themselves for ten seconds to watch this women exercise. That is the men’s fault, but it doesn’t help that this woman is making humping motions in the air, and letting out periodic grunts.

6. Synchronized Grunting

If you are unlucky enough to have witnessed something I call “Synchronized Grunting,” between an attractive male wearing little clothing and an attractive female wearing little clothing, you know it is a mating ritual that involves the man lifting large amounts of weight and going “Ugh!” and the women doing some sort of sexually suggestive movement and going “Ooh!” It is comparable to mating calls in the wild, but much more primitive because these people have the collective IQ of a Banana-Nut-Muffin. Which are delicious...but VERY HIGH IN FAT! 10 minutes on the treadmill for me!

7. Elderly Men Who Lift More Weight Than Me

Why are you exercising? You actually look like you might be 70. Why are you laughing at me? Is it because you can snap me in half and are lifting twice the weight I am hoisting? What’s that? You have a walker? Oh. Okay. You can’t walk and you live in a retirement home, but you are doing pushups with a piano on your back. Okay. This is me being emasculated.


8. Elderly Women Who Lift More Weight Than Me
(See Above)


9. Groups of People Exercising Together

Stop pretending that exercising is a social event to be enjoyed by you and your friends. If I hear you ask your buddy if your quads look more toned than last week, I will set your tanning bed to an extra ten minutes, creating a very uneven skin tone.


10. It Is Common Courtesy To Wear Deodorant Prior To Exercising In Public

“Dude…what is that SMELL?”

“I don’t know, but that goofy kid in the corner has a green fog surrounding him.”

“Yes. He appears to be very tall. And radioactive. Wife-beater, bicep band, staring at women, drooling, gelled hair, even tan skin, blowing kisses to himself in the mirror, offering advice to everyone, changing his voice to a pitch deeper than it actually is.”

"Hey man...maybe like...lose 10 lbs. THEN wear that shirt, okay?

Okay. I have learned my lesson. Nobody’s perfect.

Just kidding. Seriously. I am. Kidding.

Springtime Out The Van Window

People whose mood is affected by the weather terrify me. I can understand how sunshine makes one feel like, ya know, going outside and enjoying the warm weather, but I cannot wrap my head around people who feel the need to: A.) Announce this on Facebook. B.) Let it determine how the rest of their day will go. C.) Write blogs about it. And D.) Bake me cookies.

FOR EXAMPLE…Once upon a time I read a status update from one of my 17,000 Facebook friends that read:

“It is such a sunny day out…and I am stuck working…today SUCKS!”

This was then followed by a Facebook Frowney Face, which I refuse to re-enact. Dear random Facebook friend, please get over your make-believe Seasonal-Anxiety-Disorder, which is just a fancy way of saying you sometimes wish it would rain less, and get off of Facebook at work, or I am going to FIRE YOU.

FOR ANOTHER EXAMPLE…Another random Facebook friend mentioned they were:
“Sooooo happy Spring is here! Blue skies, birds chirping and flowers blooming! Today’s going to be a great day!”

Because Eastern Oregon University has an enrollment of 15 students, I inevitably saw this person walking on campus and thought I would offer a friendly “Hey, we are not really friends in real-life but I friend requested you on the internet, so I am going to acknowledge your existence today” head-nod. I made eye contact, locked on for a few seconds, and gave the upward chin tilt like someone just tugged at the back of my hair, and I was greeted by a large smile and waive. It was a rather pleasant exchange, considering my head-nod gesture to warm smile received ratio is somewhere in the negatives, which is a fancy way of saying when people see an awkward 6’7 person smile at them they automatically assume I am hungry. Which I am.
THEN…days later, the same person updated their Facebook status to something like—or exactly like, this:

“Where’d the sun go? DAMN WEATHER! Make up your mind! Everything is gray. Like my soul.”

Of course, like any oxygen-breathing human, I laughed hysterically at this, assuming it was made to be a joke. That day, I saw this person walking on campus, and EVERYONE knows that if you head-nod at someone the day prior, and see them again within 4 days, you have no choice but to head-nod at them. If you do not acknowledge their presence, it’s like beating up their younger sister and blaming it on the family dog.

I don’t beat up young children, and I have a fondness for dogs, so I head nodded, like anyone ever does, awkwardly, exaggeratedly, and in a way that makes you look like you are trying to be a lot cooler than you actually are.

Except, this time my head nod was not received by a courteous smile. I thought I’d be in for a friendly waive, as I saw this persons hand creep up just past waist level, and I was preparing myself to waive back—until I realized the hand they were raising was grasping an empty Mountain Dew bottle, full of a dark brown, foamy liquid.

Facebook Friend had a wad of chewing tobacco the size of Rhode Island wedged between their lower gums and bottom lip, and loudly spat down the Mountain Dew spout, adding another drop to the festering pool of saliva and warm tobacco residue. Politely, this person’s friend decided to spit their tobacco saliva a few feet away from my immediate path.

I considered nodding to him to thank him for his courtesy, but then I realized he was wearing camouflage and I couldn’t find him, and if people saw me nodding at invisible people, they would never nod at me again. Then, I looked up in the sky and realized it was a bit overcast, the sun was nowhere to be found and it felt a bit more like Fall than Springtime. Damn you weather gods. There was also a cloud that vaguely resembled a middle finger in the sky, then another formation that looked like a man getting decapitated, so this could have just been a bad Omen. Either way, people that are nice when the weather is should be removed from Facebook, or at the very least carry around signs that say, “Don’t talk to me, I am incapable of determining my mood, so I let Al Roker do it for me.”

In other related news, I have decided carrying a re-usable bag to Safeway is apparently an open invitation to fellow shoppers to please publically critique the items in my bag.

I was in the check-out line yesterday, and a middle aged woman began talking to me…which usually ends in an exchange of phone numbers and a rendezvous, seeing a movie like “Julie and Julia.”

BUT NOT TODAY! Today, the middle-aged-women, MAW for sake of brevity, told me that the broccoli I bought was only 50 cents more expensive than asparagus, a far superior vegetable in her opinion.

I laughed…because that is HILARIOUS. Everyone knows asparagus makes your pee smell funny and broccoli makes you grow chest hair.

She didn’t appreciate the laughter and responded in a way that made me feel both awkward and like I might have just broken some unwritten grocery-shopping-code of conduct.

“I am just trying to help you save money. If you shopped smarter, you’d save money. I notice you also only got one jug of milk when it is two for $3.”

“That’s cuz I only needed one jug. But thanks…I’ll remember that for next time,” I responded, trying to be diplomatic and not a sarcastic jerk.

“Well…these deals don’t stick around forever. Next time they will be much more expensive,” said the pessimistic, nosy, MAW.

“Okay,” I said, staring at the tabloids. Oprah is pregnant with a Martains baby.
“So…are you making a stir fry?” MAW was not done.

I took a deep breath as to restrict myself from exploding, but I turned green, jumped on the cashier counter, and started beating her relentlessly with a sack of yams.

Just kidding. After examining my bag of carrots, broccoli, celery, water-chestnuts and snap peas, I just made a mute smile towards her, winked with my left eye and said, “Nope…I am making pancakes.”

She didn’t find it as humorous as I had anticipated, so she stared at me straight faced, which presented a potentially awkward remaining three minutes in the check-out line.

Thankfully, being entirely socially savvy, I scrambled for more material.

“Hey…did you know Oprah is giving birth to a Martian baby?” I said.

“Is she REALLY!? I heard about that somewhere,” MAW said.
Problem solved.

Neighbors.

Living in the luxurious estates of Cimmaron Manner in La Grande, Oregon offers many exquisite benefits. For example, it is located within walking distance of a cemetery. It is also right across from the campus of EOU…AND we have a swimming pool. Did I say swimming pool? I meant we have a large cement bowl filled with rain run-off, leaves and some empty milk cartons.

As part of being a citizen of the heralded Cimmaron Manner, you must have several mandatory meetings with the head of Cimmaron—Ken. Ken has a small chiuaua that smells like Top Ramen and he drives a golf cart around Cimmaron to pick up trash, and make sure people aren’t taking shits in the dumpster, because that is the only thing that is regularly monitored at our wonderful complex.

My interactions with Ken have been few, but memorable. One time, I locked myself out of my apartment and Ken let me in with his master key…only if I promised to run to Wal-Mart tomorrow and make a spare key.

“Ok…I’ll let you in…but you have to PROMISE me that you will make a copy tomorrow first thing in the morning. I don’t want you getting locked out and being stranded out in the cold, okay?”

Okay Ken…will do. I never did it, but it was nice to know he was looking out for me.
Last week, I woke up to some conversation occurring far too loudly for 8 A.M. outside of my window. I live on the second floor, but I was convinced Ken was laying in my bed and the crazy lady talking to him was screaming in my ear.

“I WOKE UP….AND I SAW SOMEBODY OUT HERE…AND I’M NOT DUMB…SO I GRABBED MY FLASHLIGHT….THEN I CAME OUT HERE, AND THEY WERE GONE!” The crazy lady who lives below me said incoherently and unnecessarily loudly.

Ken replied, “Yeah…this looks like a child’s work. It looks like a child did this.”

“WELL WHATEVER IT IS…I WANT IT GONE,” crazy lady said, while most likely drooling.

“I don’t think I can do that for you, because I don’t know who did this, or if anything even happened. There’s just some marks on your ground next to your window. It could have been from an animal for all I know.” Ken said.

“Oh…Okay. Um…I woke up last night and there was a shadow standing over my bed.” Crazy lady said.

(Silence from Ken. And me…but I was trying to sleep.)

“THEN I TURNED ON THE LIGHT AND IT WAS FUCKING GONE!” Crazy lady yelled, probably running in circles with her hands up.

Turns out crazy lady has kids. How do I know this? Because crazy lady and her husband and 4 kids all moved in beneath my apartment earlier this month, and every day, I have a new present waiting for me at the front door. It’s like a treasure hunt, except I don’t have to follow a map. I just open my door…and there it is! An empty can of Mountain Dew!

Next, I hear an orchestra of laughter by small children, then the door shut beneath me. I took the can and put it in my recycling.

After that, my roommate opened the door and there was a gigantic tumbleweed on our welcome mat.

“Sean…did you put this here?”

“No…why would I do that?”

“I dunno.”

Then my roommate dropped the tumble weed, and it kicked off in the distance, floating into the abyss of our parking lot. 30 minutes later, I went to take the trash out and tripped on the tumbleweed, which was now littered with random shoestrings and pinned down by a large rock. I was able to catch myself and not break every bone in my body while falling down 15 stairs, but the emotional pain of toddlers pointing and laughing far exceeded a broken arm.

A few days ago, I rode my bike home from practice to find a pint-sized girl standing at my doorway. As I pressed on my hand-break and slowly crept towards the stairs, as to not scare this little imposter, I stepped on a twig and her head snapped back like a deer that just realized it was in the crosshairs.

“DEY HOME DEY HOME! DEY HOME!” The little girl yelped, and stormed down the stairs. A little part of me was wishing she would tumble down the stairs, in an ultimate show of cosmic balance, but she just ran down, and her mom opened the door.

“You know better than to do that.” Crazy lady said, in the way that you say something and don’t mean it at all.

I walked inside and locked the deadbolt on our door, imagining my apartment raided and all my Barbie Dolls gone.

The next morning, around 10, her brother knocked on our door. My roommate answered, and the little boy asked, “Do you have 4 eggs?”
“Um…no. Sorry. I don’t have any eggs.”

The kid stood there for a few seconds, realized he wasn’t going to get any eggs, and ran downstairs.

I am still puzzled by these events…and I still think 4 eggs is an awfully peculiar thing to ask for from a neighbor. Lending sugar? Sure. Maybe 1 egg…or 2. Maybe they needed a couple eggs to make a cake or something. But 4 eggs? I don’t understand.

Other things that have changed since our new neighbors moved in:

-I cannot take a shower without getting high. The parents smoke an incessantly large amount of marijuana, and they do it in their bathroom, and turn on their fan 24 hours a day. It works great for them, but it really just blows the smell up to our bathroom, which is fragrant and gives me a headache.

-I wake up every morning to a dull roar of Alice Cooper songs. I really, really, really hate Alice Cooper.

-Ken knocked on our door with a loaf of bread in his hand and asked if we wanted it. We took it, but found out it spoiled last week. Thanks Ken. You smell like Top Ramen.

Things that have stayed the same since our new neighbors moved in:

-Kens little Chiuaua is still very fat. Also, she has like 12 nipples. Do all dogs have that? Or is she some sort of super-milker? I am sorry for using the term “Super-Milker.”

-Speaking of feet…Ken doesn’t wear socks.

-There is still a 90% chance of getting Malaria upon entering Cimmaron’s pool.

- 98% of Cimmaron residents are chain smokers. Yesterday, I was walking to the laundry room, coughed a few times because I have a cold, and was asked by the people across the lot if I needed a light. I shook my head…wondering what an extremely odd question to ask, as I was obviously holding a laundry basket and detergent, not a pack of heaters.

-Everyone has grocery carts outside their doors. This angers Ken, he is always asking people to take their carts elsewhere. They never do. Ken has the worst job ever.

-The change machine at the laundry room still doesn’t work.

But other than that…it’s pretty nice. Update: As I was writing this, the little boy from downstairs asked for a stick of butter. I tried to explain to him that I didn’t have any butter because I cook with Olive Oil.

“Sorry, I only use Omega-3-Heart-Healthy cooking oils. Butter clogs your arteries and KILLS YOU! Tell your mommy and daddy that we aren’t a grocery store, and it’d be neat if they could only smoke weed once a day instead of 4 times, K? Alright, run off little guy!”

Update #2: The rear window of my roommates Isuzu Trooper is no longer there. However, there is no evident damage done by way of rock, or a really really strong fist. Also, I don’t think those little boogers could reach that high. Unless they stacked on top of each-other, and I have heard that they like to attack in packs.

Worst. Neighbors. Ever.

“DEY HOME DEY HOME DEY HOME!”

Dirty Laundry

Back when you were a kid, you probably always complained about various chores to do…picking up the dog poop, cleaning your room, picking up the dog poop in your room, cleaning your pet rat’s cage, washing your dad’s nice sports car with a toothbrush and dial soap even though it’s negative 15 degrees out, you know…typical childhood stuff.

But then…when you’re OLDER and ON YOUR OWN, whatever the hell THAT means, you are supposed to welcome these chores. Like…okay, I’m on my own now…these things have to be done, so I am going to do it. Because I am responsible, and it is not responsible to let that dead cat just fester in my living room. I should pick it up.

Other things you are expected to do as an adult: Change your own clothes, be potty-trained, speak articulate sentences (as in…pronounce your R’s and don’t refer to your parents as mommy and daddy,) and worst of all…DO YOUR OWN LAUNDRY.

Don’t stop reading yet. Are you reading? You’re reading!!?!? Thanks. Okay. But seriously…laundry is the notorious chore that everyone hates, and if you know someone that says things like, “But…I LOVE LAUNDRY!” You should find that person and hurt them severely, or immediately inspect them to reveal their identity as a washing machine, not a person. In which case, you are weird because you make friends with robots.

The laundry room in my apartment complex is approximately a 40 foot walk from my apartment, but that can often feel like a 40,000 foot walk if you do it in severe wind, wearing a t-shirt and flip flops. So, to speed up the walk today, I decided to run.

So, there I was, carrying my large teal basket of laundry, sauntering down to the laundry room when I spot several kids playing on the jungle-gym on the way to the laundry room. I stop, feeling slightly embarrassed, mostly because the kids are laughing loudly and pointing fingers at me. I realize I look funny when I run, but I didn’t realize that 5 year olds believe so too.

I continued to walk shamefully with my head down, when I feel a slight poke on my left hip.

“Mister,” says the small child who is one of those kids that has an adult face on a toddler-body. I almost did a double-take to see if he was a cast member from “little people big world,” but he wasn’t. He was just a creepy little kid poking my hip while I ran to do my laundry.

“Oh, hey. How are you doing?” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to say, like “Don’t touch me, you creepy little midget child.”

“Why are you running?” his gigantic head says to me.

“Because it is really cold outside. I don’t have a jacket on like you do.” I say.
“Well…where are you running to?”

“The laundry room,” You little creep. Why are you asking me so many questions?
“I’ll run there too! It’s warm there!”

To the kid’s credit, it is warm there. It is really warm there. A lot warmer than outside.

So he and his little children of the corn friends follow me to the laundry room as I continue my apparently hilarious jog to get out of the god awful weather.

I proceed to do my laundry, while they punch against the vending machine, stare at me in a highly terrifying fashion, fog up the window pane and draw designs on it, and ask me the occasional question like, “Where did you get all the quarters from?”

Your mother.

I didn’t say that. That would be terrible. I told them the tooth fairy gave them to me…because I eat lots of candy and never brush my teeth so they fall out! If you guys do the same…you can do overpriced coin-operated laundry too!

Then I hear a tiny voice say, “I put my tooth under my pillow one time, and I woke up and there was chap-stick under it instead.”

I felt sort of bad, but I figured these little tykes knew I was just kidding. Cavities are bad.

I went back to the laundry room an hour or so later, to find no vacant driers, but one load was done drying, so I took the liberty of emptying it into a basket and putting my clothes into the dryer.

Then I hear another tiny, more-midgety voice say, “Are those your clothes?”

“No…they aren’t. But I need to use a dryer.”

“Well, what if that person wants their clothes to stay in there?”

“Um…if they really wanted them…they would have come to get their clothes by now. Besides, I’m putting them in this basket they can get them from there when they want to.”

“Those are my daddy’s clothes!” The little midgetman says.

“Really? Well…I’m sorry but you can go tell your daddy his clothes are done, but I’m going to use this dryer.”

“It’s not really my daddy’s clothes. My daddy doesn’t live here. He lives in jail.”

There was a few seconds of silence, then the far door opened and one of his little friends comes storming through the backdoor, looks up at me and says…

“You RUN FUNNY!”

I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t think of any words to say as I felt humiliated, embarrassed and really terrible for the little kid all in one. Instead, I just put my laundry in the dryer and walked away.

I came back about an hour later…30 minutes after the drying was done to find my clothes carelessly sprawled across the floor, and my dryer being used. I have no idea who was behind this, but I can only imagine it was those pesky kids, or maybe a really bitter adult who was upset that I moved their laundry. Into a basket. Not the floor.

Anyway, this simply proves that nobody likes laundry, and everyone hates the tooth fairy. I’m going to wash my clothes in the sink from now on.