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.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
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!”
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!”
Sunday, January 17, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Facebook Personalities
After a Finals Week that consisted of no finals, too much fantasy basketball, and a lot of information on Tiger Woods' personal life, I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time on Facebook. While on this social networking machine, I started noticing different people all have different “Facebook Personalities.”
It should be noted that all of these findings came to be through a very scientific method that involved premature judgments, random spurts of anger, taking naps and sporadic results based on the current mood I was in.
In other words, take this very seriously. Or you could be next.
Here are a few of my observations that I made while I was stalking you on Facebook, while you were probably cramming, losing sleep, and pounding your face in between the pages of your biology book:
The Awkward Conversationalist-
This person may or may not be awkward in real life, but it doesn’t matter, because they have terrible Facebook Social etiquette. What’s that? You didn’t know there was a social etiquette on Facebook? That’s probably because YOU are an Awkward Conversationalist.
Are they dangerous?
Most likely. The AC attacks in many different forms. Most commonly, they will start up conversation with you over a photograph, which we all know is rule #217 in the Facebook user-handbook. Their conversation will look something like this.
“Hey. Nice pic. So…how r u?”
Of course, if you are a halfway decent human being, you don’t respond to this. If you are a full-way decent human being, you throw your laptop out of your window in a fit of rage and disgust.
How am I? Well…thanks to your impolite Facebooking…I am terrible. I have no computer, and you have awful social skills, you Awkward Conversationalist.
How to get rid of them:
There is an 80 percent chance that the AC will get very upset with the fact that when you threw your laptop out of your window, you actually hit the hood of their car, or a very young child. To this, you will reply, “God bless you,” cross your heart and pray to a higher being that this person permanently loses internet access, or the ability to move their fingers.
Note:
They may also get upset that you never replied to their comment. They might even go so far as to send you a MESSAGE. In which case, of course, you will report them to the local police station as an internet predator, and they will be banished from Facebook forever, then they will go to Myspace, where all the other pedophiles go. Do not feel bad. They did this to themselves.
The Personal Questioner-
This person seems very genuine, and appears to have only good intentions, but do not fall for their trap. They ask you personal questions on your wall, where everyone can read it, and their only reason for doing this is so they can leak information about you to gossip sites like TMZ. Pretty soon, you will crash your car into a tree outside of your Orlando mansion, and have sex with multiple cocktail waitresses. Also, Ed Werder and other sportscenter anchors will live in your front yard. Their facebook style will look something like this:
“Hey man, so I heard the doctor said its only contagious when its an open sore…how’s the inflammation?…and I guess that you might have got it from that girl that my brother introduced you to. I could have sworn she was clean man. Anyway, that lip-hair wasn’t helping anybody regardless. I hope you’re doing well. Get back to me.”
Are They Dangerous?
Of course. If you have a PQ who can’t mind their P’s and Q’s, delete them from your friend list. If you are unaware of how to do this, go to their house and steal their internet connection. If you can’t do this…politely ask them to send you a message, because you’d rather not discuss this given topic over such a public medium. Then steal their identity.
Your Friends Dad-
There are two distinct different parent facebook users. One of which will friend request you, and will never have any social connection with you. The other will friend request you, and leave random comments on your status updates, mostly using outdated internet lingo to sound hip. There is great potential for the parents to completely mess this up. Like…
“LOL! Really? Wow. I waz total-e thinkin tha same thing! NEwayz…y do ppl spell with Z’s so much on the internet? Is it bcuz I’m 45 and shuldn’t be on Facebook? Why am I friend requesting all ur friends? Do you h8 the fact I’m on here? Let’s talk POLITICS! I am just jk’ing. TTYLOL!”
Are they dangerous?
Not really. They are mostly harmless and mildly annoying if they keep their distance. I recently found out that my History teacher has a facebook. Of course, I friend requested her and threatened to send her a virus if I didn’t get an A. There are perks to having elder folks on Facebook.
How do you get rid of them?
There’s not much you can do. However, posing pictures of their son or daughter drinking, smoking, having sex, swearing, or publically urinating usually causes some sort of controversy/hilarity amongst the family. You will also notice your friend cusses a lot less than usual on Facebook. That is because your friend is a pussy.
Your Friend’s Mom-
She is equally dangerous, and less assuming. She forces you to watch your every move on facebook, because your mom is friends with her, and everyone knows mom’s talk shit about their son’s/daughter’s Facebook tendencies. There is nothing you can do to prevent Your Friend’s Mom from her devilish Facebook ways. Just curl into the fetal position, and don’t go outside ever again. It will be okay.
The Eavesdropper:
Eavesdropper is one of the hardest words to spell in the English language, and not surprisingly, eavesdroppers are some of the hardest to spot on Facebook. That’s because they could be eavesdropping on your Facebook conversations with other people, and not even COMMENT on your wall-to-wall or status updates. HOW DARE THEY! The only way you might catch an Eavesdropper is by them casually bringing something up months later, like, “Yeah I saw that your day last Wednesday was really rough. I mean, you had that Math class that you hate, then you tripped in front of that super cute girl.” Then you say…how do you know such specific details? Then they’d say, “Well I have cameras installed in your house.” Then you’d resume your day as if nothing happened. Then approximately 17 hours later, you wake up in a cold sweat and realize you are friends with an Eavesdropper.
How to get rid of them?
The Eavesdropper can only be caught in the act. It’s kind of like when you are staring at an attractive classmate, and they make eye-contact and you try to veer your attention elsewhere, making it look like you weren’t looking in the first place. As we all know, this never works. I suggest tracking devices, hand grenades, tomato sauce or a mix of all of the above.
Hyperactive Status Updater: The HSU by all accounts is a terrible person with too much time on their hands. Their too-frequent status updates will read something like this:
HSU: just did some dishes.
HSU: Just had some water. I love water!
HSU: Just got off Facebook. Then logged back on again. Lol.
HSU: Just realized it’s kinda cold in here!
HSU: Just realized I turned the heat up too much! I’m like…sweating.
HSU: Fuck guys. They r so dumb. And thermostats. They are dumb too. Ugh.
HSU: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND!
HSU: I’m kinda tired. It’s 3 a.m. and I haven’t gotten off my laptop yet. I should probably eat.
HSU: Just ate.
HSU: To all you guys out there, remember this one thing: Girls don’t like guys who are DICKS! So…BE NICE!
HSU: Fuck guys.
HSU: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND! Love ya baby!! Xoxoxo.
Are they Dangerous:
To your health and well being? Yes. Click the “hide all” icon next to their name, and you will add 10 years to your life.
Others:
The over-user of the Like Button: Why can’t you leave a comment or something? These people usually want people to think they are far too busy to actually type, but they are more than willing to click the thumbs up.
The Person That Doesn’t Know You But Friend Requested You: At first, you are honored, then flattered, then creeped out. The latter is appropriate. Call the police.
Closet Facebook Addict: This person is always leaving comments on people’s walls and status updates, but is “invisible,” and never seems to be online. You find yourself thinking, “gee, CFA must be really busy to NEVER be on Facebook.” But really, they are just as addicted as you, but they are worse because they disguise themselves. Wear your addiction proudly, FCA, or else you will be exposed. Or attacked by a pack of rabid coyotes.
The person who keeps saying “dislike”: That was funny last year. Stop it. Go hang out with your parents who are also on Facebook.
The Person Who Always Writes Facebook Notes and Blogs and Stuff and Expects People to Read it and Find it Humorous: Seriously man, give it up. You weren’t very funny to start with. Also, the way you walk is very feminine.
Ow.
It should be noted that all of these findings came to be through a very scientific method that involved premature judgments, random spurts of anger, taking naps and sporadic results based on the current mood I was in.
In other words, take this very seriously. Or you could be next.
Here are a few of my observations that I made while I was stalking you on Facebook, while you were probably cramming, losing sleep, and pounding your face in between the pages of your biology book:
The Awkward Conversationalist-
This person may or may not be awkward in real life, but it doesn’t matter, because they have terrible Facebook Social etiquette. What’s that? You didn’t know there was a social etiquette on Facebook? That’s probably because YOU are an Awkward Conversationalist.
Are they dangerous?
Most likely. The AC attacks in many different forms. Most commonly, they will start up conversation with you over a photograph, which we all know is rule #217 in the Facebook user-handbook. Their conversation will look something like this.
“Hey. Nice pic. So…how r u?”
Of course, if you are a halfway decent human being, you don’t respond to this. If you are a full-way decent human being, you throw your laptop out of your window in a fit of rage and disgust.
How am I? Well…thanks to your impolite Facebooking…I am terrible. I have no computer, and you have awful social skills, you Awkward Conversationalist.
How to get rid of them:
There is an 80 percent chance that the AC will get very upset with the fact that when you threw your laptop out of your window, you actually hit the hood of their car, or a very young child. To this, you will reply, “God bless you,” cross your heart and pray to a higher being that this person permanently loses internet access, or the ability to move their fingers.
Note:
They may also get upset that you never replied to their comment. They might even go so far as to send you a MESSAGE. In which case, of course, you will report them to the local police station as an internet predator, and they will be banished from Facebook forever, then they will go to Myspace, where all the other pedophiles go. Do not feel bad. They did this to themselves.
The Personal Questioner-
This person seems very genuine, and appears to have only good intentions, but do not fall for their trap. They ask you personal questions on your wall, where everyone can read it, and their only reason for doing this is so they can leak information about you to gossip sites like TMZ. Pretty soon, you will crash your car into a tree outside of your Orlando mansion, and have sex with multiple cocktail waitresses. Also, Ed Werder and other sportscenter anchors will live in your front yard. Their facebook style will look something like this:
“Hey man, so I heard the doctor said its only contagious when its an open sore…how’s the inflammation?…and I guess that you might have got it from that girl that my brother introduced you to. I could have sworn she was clean man. Anyway, that lip-hair wasn’t helping anybody regardless. I hope you’re doing well. Get back to me.”
Are They Dangerous?
Of course. If you have a PQ who can’t mind their P’s and Q’s, delete them from your friend list. If you are unaware of how to do this, go to their house and steal their internet connection. If you can’t do this…politely ask them to send you a message, because you’d rather not discuss this given topic over such a public medium. Then steal their identity.
Your Friends Dad-
There are two distinct different parent facebook users. One of which will friend request you, and will never have any social connection with you. The other will friend request you, and leave random comments on your status updates, mostly using outdated internet lingo to sound hip. There is great potential for the parents to completely mess this up. Like…
“LOL! Really? Wow. I waz total-e thinkin tha same thing! NEwayz…y do ppl spell with Z’s so much on the internet? Is it bcuz I’m 45 and shuldn’t be on Facebook? Why am I friend requesting all ur friends? Do you h8 the fact I’m on here? Let’s talk POLITICS! I am just jk’ing. TTYLOL!”
Are they dangerous?
Not really. They are mostly harmless and mildly annoying if they keep their distance. I recently found out that my History teacher has a facebook. Of course, I friend requested her and threatened to send her a virus if I didn’t get an A. There are perks to having elder folks on Facebook.
How do you get rid of them?
There’s not much you can do. However, posing pictures of their son or daughter drinking, smoking, having sex, swearing, or publically urinating usually causes some sort of controversy/hilarity amongst the family. You will also notice your friend cusses a lot less than usual on Facebook. That is because your friend is a pussy.
Your Friend’s Mom-
She is equally dangerous, and less assuming. She forces you to watch your every move on facebook, because your mom is friends with her, and everyone knows mom’s talk shit about their son’s/daughter’s Facebook tendencies. There is nothing you can do to prevent Your Friend’s Mom from her devilish Facebook ways. Just curl into the fetal position, and don’t go outside ever again. It will be okay.
The Eavesdropper:
Eavesdropper is one of the hardest words to spell in the English language, and not surprisingly, eavesdroppers are some of the hardest to spot on Facebook. That’s because they could be eavesdropping on your Facebook conversations with other people, and not even COMMENT on your wall-to-wall or status updates. HOW DARE THEY! The only way you might catch an Eavesdropper is by them casually bringing something up months later, like, “Yeah I saw that your day last Wednesday was really rough. I mean, you had that Math class that you hate, then you tripped in front of that super cute girl.” Then you say…how do you know such specific details? Then they’d say, “Well I have cameras installed in your house.” Then you’d resume your day as if nothing happened. Then approximately 17 hours later, you wake up in a cold sweat and realize you are friends with an Eavesdropper.
How to get rid of them?
The Eavesdropper can only be caught in the act. It’s kind of like when you are staring at an attractive classmate, and they make eye-contact and you try to veer your attention elsewhere, making it look like you weren’t looking in the first place. As we all know, this never works. I suggest tracking devices, hand grenades, tomato sauce or a mix of all of the above.
Hyperactive Status Updater: The HSU by all accounts is a terrible person with too much time on their hands. Their too-frequent status updates will read something like this:
HSU: just did some dishes.
HSU: Just had some water. I love water!
HSU: Just got off Facebook. Then logged back on again. Lol.
HSU: Just realized it’s kinda cold in here!
HSU: Just realized I turned the heat up too much! I’m like…sweating.
HSU: Fuck guys. They r so dumb. And thermostats. They are dumb too. Ugh.
HSU: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND!
HSU: I’m kinda tired. It’s 3 a.m. and I haven’t gotten off my laptop yet. I should probably eat.
HSU: Just ate.
HSU: To all you guys out there, remember this one thing: Girls don’t like guys who are DICKS! So…BE NICE!
HSU: Fuck guys.
HSU: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND! Love ya baby!! Xoxoxo.
Are they Dangerous:
To your health and well being? Yes. Click the “hide all” icon next to their name, and you will add 10 years to your life.
Others:
The over-user of the Like Button: Why can’t you leave a comment or something? These people usually want people to think they are far too busy to actually type, but they are more than willing to click the thumbs up.
The Person That Doesn’t Know You But Friend Requested You: At first, you are honored, then flattered, then creeped out. The latter is appropriate. Call the police.
Closet Facebook Addict: This person is always leaving comments on people’s walls and status updates, but is “invisible,” and never seems to be online. You find yourself thinking, “gee, CFA must be really busy to NEVER be on Facebook.” But really, they are just as addicted as you, but they are worse because they disguise themselves. Wear your addiction proudly, FCA, or else you will be exposed. Or attacked by a pack of rabid coyotes.
The person who keeps saying “dislike”: That was funny last year. Stop it. Go hang out with your parents who are also on Facebook.
The Person Who Always Writes Facebook Notes and Blogs and Stuff and Expects People to Read it and Find it Humorous: Seriously man, give it up. You weren’t very funny to start with. Also, the way you walk is very feminine.
Ow.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Grocery Shopping
It was a Friday night in La Grande, Oregon, and I was grocery shopping. Grocery shopping you say? Ai, grocery shopping. Shopping for groceries. On a Friday night.
Every time I go grocery shopping, I am very systematic, and very detail oriented. I send myself a text message that is my grocery list, because paper and pen kills the planet, I use a re-usable grocery bag, because plastic kills the planet, if possible I walk or ride my bike because Toyota’s kill the planet, and I put my hear in dreadlocks, wear a tie-dye shirt and kiss the soil for good measure. This is all ordinary protocol for my weekly trip to Safeway.
However, things got off to a bit of a rocky start when I sent myself my text message that serves as a list. Or I thought it was myself. I have my phone number saved in my phone as “Me,” because it’s me. However, I also have a Melanie in my phone, who ironically also has the word ME in it. Weird, right?
Well, I accidentally sent Melanie my grocery list, which would be embarrassing enough if my list was something like…”Lettuce, Spinach, Chicken, Eggs.” Melanie would probably get the text message, laugh, wonder who’s number it is, then send a reply that would read something like; “?”
Um…well…luck would have it that this wasn’t a routine grocery list. I had been experiencing a lot of chap-lips and dry skin with the winter season in full affect, and I also needed some hardware for a repair in my apartment, so I had some extra odds and ends here and there to the otherwise normal grocery list.
Instead…my grocery list read more like this: “Vaseline, Ziploc Bag, Lotion, Cucumber, Milk, Rope, Sanitization wipes, Rubber Gloves, Tomatoes, Yogurt and Chicken.”
Looking back, it probably would have been appropriate if the end of the text message read, “Meet me in 15 minutes…you’re DEAD! MMMWWWUAAHAHAHAHAH!”
Then again, Chicken and tomatoes seem innocent enough.
But, according to Melanie (who I am still not entirely certain who that is), this text message error was highly offensive. At least I think that’s what she meant when she said, “delete me from your phone and never text this number again.” I complied with her request, and realized eliminating Melanie from my contacts would increase the likelihood of me NOT texting a random person my grocery list. By the same token…look out MEGAN! AHAHAHAHAAAAAAA.
But seriously, I am going to start just making lists. Or I am going to stop making friends with people whose names begin with ME. It’s really self centered when you think about it. Have you ever met anyone selfless whose name start with ME? Whatever happened to the first letters being YOU or PEACELOVEEQUALITY? I’d never send them creepy grocery list text messages, and if I did, they’d probably be really forgiving, because they are so selfless. I’m talking to YOU Melanie!
Anyway, once I made it to checkout without having any serious charges pressed against me, I got to read my favorite material of the day. National Enquirer.
“Obama confesses to gay-love-affair. Michele is outraged! Details inside.”
I glanced, giggled, assumed it to be true..duh, and heaved my gigantic Costco re-usable bag full of Vaseline, Ziploc bags, rope and other things to use when masturbating/trying to kill someone onto the conveyer belt.
The cashier gave me a dirty look, then sighed, then frowned and said, “You again?”
I said, “Yeah. Did you hear the president is gay?”
He said, “I always knew Clinton was a faggot.”
His tag read “Serving you since 1998.”
It should have read “Serving you since 1998, and I haven’t turned on my TV since. Oh, and I hate re-usable bags. They’re too heavy and hard to stack stuff back in.”
The couple behind me was a combined 150 years old at least, and they were adorable. I immediately judged them by their items on the conveyer belt, like any good grocery shopper would do.
Hm…brown rice, frozen vegetables, whole wheat bread, yogurt, skim milk, grapes, dry beans and peas. Cost effective, and healthy. They clearly know what they are doing.
I smiled, and decided we would be really good friends if we shared the same retirement home.
I glanced back, and saw the elderly women reading the National Enquirer. Not in the way that someone who is curious reads it, but in the way that someone who really BELIEVES it reads it.
I was immediately disappointed. This sweet looking woman with her sweet looking husband, buying health conscious food, reading the equivalent of human shit smeared across recycled paper.
She then put down the National Enquirer, folded it over her left hand, smacked it against the counter top, huffed, then broke out into laughter.
“Jeez, they’ll put anything in this to make a sale,”
Her husband replied, “I don’t believe a word of it.”
I laughed, and said, “Wait…you guys didn’t know…its all the truth! Believe EVERY word!”
We all shared a laugh, then the woman went on to explain that she has a daughter who is a newspaper editor on the East Coast, and every year she sends her a National Enquirer that is especially ridiculous to mock the so called “news coverage,” that continues to sell in check out lines across America.
I told her she has quite the sense of humor, and her husband said, “She’s always been that way.”
I asked them how long they’d been together and they said 43 years, and as my heart filled with joy, I was interrupted by a soft voice.
It was the woman. She said, “How many avocadoes do you have? Ya must be havin’ a party, makin’ a bunch of guacamole for some friends huh?”
I paused…I wanted to say, “Lady, it’s a Friday night, and I’m at Safeway. Do you really think I’m the type to make guacamole for a party? With friends?”
Instead, I said, “Nope. All for me!”
She laughed, said I was a growing boy, then suspiciously looked into my re-usable bag, obviously taking note of the Vaseline, Ziploc bags, lotion and rope.
I quickly shifted my bag to the side, exposing the cucumber, milk and sanitization wipes. Slightly less suspicious I suppose.
She smiled uncomfortably, and said, “That’s a really big bag.”
By saying that, she was really trying to say, “What the fuck are you doing with Vaseline, lotion, Ziploc bags and a rope, you creep?”
I almost blurted out my defense… “It’s not what you think! I have some stuff to take care of at my apartment. I mean…I need to fix something up. Uh…I mean…I have dry skin OKAY!?!?”
Fortunately, it did not reach this point, but I did stop and determine that I am probably their age at heart.
I wanted to exchange phone numbers or something, ask them what their plans are for the night. The conversation would undoubtedly go like this:
Me: So…what are you guys up to tonight?
Them: Well, we’ll probably put our groceries away tonight, watch some Matlock, maybe some Jeopardy, then read a book and fall asleep by 9:30.
Me: Wow. That sounds wonderful. Would you like some company? I make a MEAN split pea soup.
Them: Sean…that sounds absolutely wonderful.
Me: Okay, let me take a nap before I come over. I should probably walk too. I need the exercise. Oh, and I need to change my dentures. Can I get your cell phone number?
Them: Dear, we don’t have a cell phone. We still use the telegraph.
Me: Duuuh…me too. Okay, I’ll meet you guys in 45 minutes.
Cashier: Would you like help out to your car, sir?
Me: Uh…yeah…yeah I’d like that. And give me some more yogurt too. It keeps me regular.
I had a lot in common with the couple, and though we didn’t hang out, I did get her name. I’d like to say her name was Melanie, because that would tie this story together beautifully, but her name was something like Ethel or Betty. A very old person name. Have you ever met a young person named Ethel? NEVER. That’s because all old people, when they reach a certain age, have to get an old name. They have 3 choices…Ethel, Betty or Margaret. They choose whichever one they want, and then you must legally refer to them as such, or else you will be shot in the left foot. IT’S SCIENCE.
Anyway, maybe next time I’ll stick to my old-fashioned tendencies and use a paper and pen. Or maybe I should just buy chap-stick instead. Ya know, to avoid confusion.
Every time I go grocery shopping, I am very systematic, and very detail oriented. I send myself a text message that is my grocery list, because paper and pen kills the planet, I use a re-usable grocery bag, because plastic kills the planet, if possible I walk or ride my bike because Toyota’s kill the planet, and I put my hear in dreadlocks, wear a tie-dye shirt and kiss the soil for good measure. This is all ordinary protocol for my weekly trip to Safeway.
However, things got off to a bit of a rocky start when I sent myself my text message that serves as a list. Or I thought it was myself. I have my phone number saved in my phone as “Me,” because it’s me. However, I also have a Melanie in my phone, who ironically also has the word ME in it. Weird, right?
Well, I accidentally sent Melanie my grocery list, which would be embarrassing enough if my list was something like…”Lettuce, Spinach, Chicken, Eggs.” Melanie would probably get the text message, laugh, wonder who’s number it is, then send a reply that would read something like; “?”
Um…well…luck would have it that this wasn’t a routine grocery list. I had been experiencing a lot of chap-lips and dry skin with the winter season in full affect, and I also needed some hardware for a repair in my apartment, so I had some extra odds and ends here and there to the otherwise normal grocery list.
Instead…my grocery list read more like this: “Vaseline, Ziploc Bag, Lotion, Cucumber, Milk, Rope, Sanitization wipes, Rubber Gloves, Tomatoes, Yogurt and Chicken.”
Looking back, it probably would have been appropriate if the end of the text message read, “Meet me in 15 minutes…you’re DEAD! MMMWWWUAAHAHAHAHAH!”
Then again, Chicken and tomatoes seem innocent enough.
But, according to Melanie (who I am still not entirely certain who that is), this text message error was highly offensive. At least I think that’s what she meant when she said, “delete me from your phone and never text this number again.” I complied with her request, and realized eliminating Melanie from my contacts would increase the likelihood of me NOT texting a random person my grocery list. By the same token…look out MEGAN! AHAHAHAHAAAAAAA.
But seriously, I am going to start just making lists. Or I am going to stop making friends with people whose names begin with ME. It’s really self centered when you think about it. Have you ever met anyone selfless whose name start with ME? Whatever happened to the first letters being YOU or PEACELOVEEQUALITY? I’d never send them creepy grocery list text messages, and if I did, they’d probably be really forgiving, because they are so selfless. I’m talking to YOU Melanie!
Anyway, once I made it to checkout without having any serious charges pressed against me, I got to read my favorite material of the day. National Enquirer.
“Obama confesses to gay-love-affair. Michele is outraged! Details inside.”
I glanced, giggled, assumed it to be true..duh, and heaved my gigantic Costco re-usable bag full of Vaseline, Ziploc bags, rope and other things to use when masturbating/trying to kill someone onto the conveyer belt.
The cashier gave me a dirty look, then sighed, then frowned and said, “You again?”
I said, “Yeah. Did you hear the president is gay?”
He said, “I always knew Clinton was a faggot.”
His tag read “Serving you since 1998.”
It should have read “Serving you since 1998, and I haven’t turned on my TV since. Oh, and I hate re-usable bags. They’re too heavy and hard to stack stuff back in.”
The couple behind me was a combined 150 years old at least, and they were adorable. I immediately judged them by their items on the conveyer belt, like any good grocery shopper would do.
Hm…brown rice, frozen vegetables, whole wheat bread, yogurt, skim milk, grapes, dry beans and peas. Cost effective, and healthy. They clearly know what they are doing.
I smiled, and decided we would be really good friends if we shared the same retirement home.
I glanced back, and saw the elderly women reading the National Enquirer. Not in the way that someone who is curious reads it, but in the way that someone who really BELIEVES it reads it.
I was immediately disappointed. This sweet looking woman with her sweet looking husband, buying health conscious food, reading the equivalent of human shit smeared across recycled paper.
She then put down the National Enquirer, folded it over her left hand, smacked it against the counter top, huffed, then broke out into laughter.
“Jeez, they’ll put anything in this to make a sale,”
Her husband replied, “I don’t believe a word of it.”
I laughed, and said, “Wait…you guys didn’t know…its all the truth! Believe EVERY word!”
We all shared a laugh, then the woman went on to explain that she has a daughter who is a newspaper editor on the East Coast, and every year she sends her a National Enquirer that is especially ridiculous to mock the so called “news coverage,” that continues to sell in check out lines across America.
I told her she has quite the sense of humor, and her husband said, “She’s always been that way.”
I asked them how long they’d been together and they said 43 years, and as my heart filled with joy, I was interrupted by a soft voice.
It was the woman. She said, “How many avocadoes do you have? Ya must be havin’ a party, makin’ a bunch of guacamole for some friends huh?”
I paused…I wanted to say, “Lady, it’s a Friday night, and I’m at Safeway. Do you really think I’m the type to make guacamole for a party? With friends?”
Instead, I said, “Nope. All for me!”
She laughed, said I was a growing boy, then suspiciously looked into my re-usable bag, obviously taking note of the Vaseline, Ziploc bags, lotion and rope.
I quickly shifted my bag to the side, exposing the cucumber, milk and sanitization wipes. Slightly less suspicious I suppose.
She smiled uncomfortably, and said, “That’s a really big bag.”
By saying that, she was really trying to say, “What the fuck are you doing with Vaseline, lotion, Ziploc bags and a rope, you creep?”
I almost blurted out my defense… “It’s not what you think! I have some stuff to take care of at my apartment. I mean…I need to fix something up. Uh…I mean…I have dry skin OKAY!?!?”
Fortunately, it did not reach this point, but I did stop and determine that I am probably their age at heart.
I wanted to exchange phone numbers or something, ask them what their plans are for the night. The conversation would undoubtedly go like this:
Me: So…what are you guys up to tonight?
Them: Well, we’ll probably put our groceries away tonight, watch some Matlock, maybe some Jeopardy, then read a book and fall asleep by 9:30.
Me: Wow. That sounds wonderful. Would you like some company? I make a MEAN split pea soup.
Them: Sean…that sounds absolutely wonderful.
Me: Okay, let me take a nap before I come over. I should probably walk too. I need the exercise. Oh, and I need to change my dentures. Can I get your cell phone number?
Them: Dear, we don’t have a cell phone. We still use the telegraph.
Me: Duuuh…me too. Okay, I’ll meet you guys in 45 minutes.
Cashier: Would you like help out to your car, sir?
Me: Uh…yeah…yeah I’d like that. And give me some more yogurt too. It keeps me regular.
I had a lot in common with the couple, and though we didn’t hang out, I did get her name. I’d like to say her name was Melanie, because that would tie this story together beautifully, but her name was something like Ethel or Betty. A very old person name. Have you ever met a young person named Ethel? NEVER. That’s because all old people, when they reach a certain age, have to get an old name. They have 3 choices…Ethel, Betty or Margaret. They choose whichever one they want, and then you must legally refer to them as such, or else you will be shot in the left foot. IT’S SCIENCE.
Anyway, maybe next time I’ll stick to my old-fashioned tendencies and use a paper and pen. Or maybe I should just buy chap-stick instead. Ya know, to avoid confusion.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
You Wanna Know How I Know You're Gay?
It has become ever-apparent that college professors are nothing like the teacher’s I had from grades K-12.
I don’t remember my 4th grade teacher getting offended by me not calling her Doctor Palmer. I do recall her getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on the bottom of my seat.
10 years later, and my professors are getting angry when I don’t refer to them as “Doctor,” and STILL getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on my chair.
“I DO WHAT I WANT!” I would say. Then I would proceed to fart loudly and blow my burp breath all over the hooded sweatshirt of the girl who sits in front of me.
Such acts of rebellion are not tolerated in the college classroom…so I refrain. But apparently, what IS tolerated in the college classroom is having a teacher video tape himself.
Every morning, at 7, I roll out of bed and muster up the courage to attend a class whose teacher does not directly teach real people.
He does something called “Distance Ed,” and videotapes himself during class, then uploads it to something called “the internet,” and that way people living in New York who thought it’d be fun to take a PHILOSOPHY CLASS THROUGH EASTERN OREGON UNIVERSITY, can watch him repeat our textbook, word for word. Because god forbid they actually have to read. It should be noted here that our professor…excuse me DOCTOR…wrote the textbook himself, and you should kiss his feet.
I had an interaction today with my professor that went a little something like this.
Me: So…is this data table a recent study? Or was it done a few years ago?
Doctor: (Looks into the camera. Self consciously adjusts his jeans…the camera adds ten pounds…clears his throat…adjusts his pants again…and repeats my question very loudly, like he’s reading off of a teleprompter for the first time in his life.) The question is, “How recent is this graph?” This is a really good question. A question that I am going to answer right now.
I now realize that he is doing his best Bob Barker impression and failing miserably. I also now realize that he has successfully talked for 20 seconds without saying ANYTHING.
Doctor: The answer to this question is…this is an outdated graph. It was done in 1979. And that is the answer to the question. (Clears his throat, adjusts his shirt, adjusts his tie. Smiles into the camcorder.)
It should also be noted here that his wife wakes up at 7 every morning to sit in a chair and point the camcorder at him. I am still unsure as to why she does this, because the man never moves, and he never looks away from the camera…at the actual students who are physically present.
It’s the strangest thing because often times he will say things TO the camera, and not to the students. It will be an awkward whisper sort of thing, where he sort of leans in to the tripod, and says something like… “The tall kid in the back has NO idea what the hell he is doing. I’d pan over to him right now…but I think he’s watching me. He’s so WEIRD.”
My interesting experiences with professors doesn’t stop there. Oh no…it doesn’t.
A professor whom I am very fond of, who teaches my history class, evidently thinks I am a homosexual.
It should be stated that I have no problem with homosexual people, It just so happens that I am NOT a homosexual, but rather a heterosexual. Evidently, I don’t always give off this vibe.
It was an innocent class discussion, and we were talking about the history of sexuality, and whether or not time period has anything to do with sexual attraction. Nobody was saying ANYTHING so I decided to speak up, and say that I believe time and culture both have apparent effects on sexual attraction. I cited that I was not particularly attracted to supposedly “beautiful” people from the 1960’s. I found them to dress weird, I found their mannerisms odd, and in no way saw them to be sexually attractive.
The professor was elated with my response, told me I made great points, and went on to lecture a few minutes about how much culture influences our sexual desires.
She then paused…and said, “Sean makes a great point when he says that for SOME reason…he was not attracted to the…people of the 1980’s. Now, Sean. We hear you say you are not attracted to them, and I can’t help but ask…when you say THEM…what do you mean?”
At this point…I am genuinely confused as to what the hell she is asking me. You know how teachers often ask leading questions? Or questions to make a point? I thought this was one of those times. So I replied with the simplest of answers.
“The people in the 1960’s. It’s like they are so different than us, it is hard to be sexually attracted to them.”
The professor then replies, “Okay…so you are not attracted to the….uh….the…is it men or women of the 1960’s?” (Notice how she puts men first. Alphabetical? I think NOT!)
My face immediately turns to an oversized tomato, I hunch down in my seat and try to disappear as every individual in the class is now in a hysterical fit of laughter.
From here. It could go one of 2 ways. I could interpret the classes laughter as a “Oh my GOD she didn’t know he was straight? Duuuuh he’s straight…he’s like…the coolest babe magnet on campus!”
Or…it could be the much more likely, “Oh man we just outed a closet homosexual in class. I bet he feels really awkward. I feel really weird. I’m going to make sure to never change in the same room as him. Now I am going to laugh at him.”
After the earthquake of humiliation subsided, the professor tried to defend herself, and she said, “Well, Sean…you never specified if they were actors or actresses, men or women.”
“Um…actually I did. I said actresses.”
Several of my classmates nodded their head in agreement, which sparked more laughter, because everyone just realized my professor just assumed that I was a homosexual.
Humiliated, I stayed 30 minutes after class just to prove to my professor that I was indeed STRAIGHT. (Note: My professor is a women. Note: I did not really stay after class and make out with my professor.)
Later that night, I did that thing where you carry a practical joke for too long, and then when you try to tell the truth, the person doesn’t believe you.
Ironically, this ALSO had to do with sexuality. Yay!
I was text messaging a girl from one of my classes, and made an offhand comment about how a man approached me flirtatiously and it made me feel uncomfortable. She replied with the typical, “Whatever…you liked it!”
To which I replied….not so typically, “Well yeah. I’m gay.”
She then replied, “OMG NO WAY!? I have tons of gay friends! That’s so cool I could tell the whole time LOL!”
I then thought…wow…that was way too easy. I wonder if I give off a weird vibe or something.
Then I replied, “Just kidding. I’m straight as an arrow.”
Then she said, “Yeaaah right, you don’t have to lie to me lol! I have a gay friend that is lookin for a guy actually. He likes tall guys. You want his number?”
Now I think she’s just messing with me, so I start to kid back.
“Hahaha yeah totally! Only if he is a cutie. Hahahaha.”
She took it seriously.
“Okay his number is 503-849-1621” (note: that is not the real number. I apologize to whoever has this number. You might get a prank call from one of the 1000000000 people that read this.)
I reply, “Hahahha! Man…you’re good. I was just kidding though. I’m straight. As an arrow. Like I said before.”
She replies, “Yeah WHATEVER! Don’t be dumb.”
I reply, “No really. I’m not kidding. Not even a little. I like women. Females.”
She says, “Suuuure. That’s why I always catch you staring at that guys butt in Philosophy? And that’s why you walk the way you do. And your LAUGH! Are you kidding me? You might as well wear a bumper sticker that says ‘boys only’ and keep your playlist of Coldplay and Elton John on repeat!”
I reply…stunned, “Listen…I was KIDDING before. I am a heterosexual man. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
She says, “There’s nothing else to be said. I know how it is, Sean. I know. You don’t need to be ashamed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Well, class should be interesting.
I don’t remember my 4th grade teacher getting offended by me not calling her Doctor Palmer. I do recall her getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on the bottom of my seat.
10 years later, and my professors are getting angry when I don’t refer to them as “Doctor,” and STILL getting mad at me for wiping my boogers on my chair.
“I DO WHAT I WANT!” I would say. Then I would proceed to fart loudly and blow my burp breath all over the hooded sweatshirt of the girl who sits in front of me.
Such acts of rebellion are not tolerated in the college classroom…so I refrain. But apparently, what IS tolerated in the college classroom is having a teacher video tape himself.
Every morning, at 7, I roll out of bed and muster up the courage to attend a class whose teacher does not directly teach real people.
He does something called “Distance Ed,” and videotapes himself during class, then uploads it to something called “the internet,” and that way people living in New York who thought it’d be fun to take a PHILOSOPHY CLASS THROUGH EASTERN OREGON UNIVERSITY, can watch him repeat our textbook, word for word. Because god forbid they actually have to read. It should be noted here that our professor…excuse me DOCTOR…wrote the textbook himself, and you should kiss his feet.
I had an interaction today with my professor that went a little something like this.
Me: So…is this data table a recent study? Or was it done a few years ago?
Doctor: (Looks into the camera. Self consciously adjusts his jeans…the camera adds ten pounds…clears his throat…adjusts his pants again…and repeats my question very loudly, like he’s reading off of a teleprompter for the first time in his life.) The question is, “How recent is this graph?” This is a really good question. A question that I am going to answer right now.
I now realize that he is doing his best Bob Barker impression and failing miserably. I also now realize that he has successfully talked for 20 seconds without saying ANYTHING.
Doctor: The answer to this question is…this is an outdated graph. It was done in 1979. And that is the answer to the question. (Clears his throat, adjusts his shirt, adjusts his tie. Smiles into the camcorder.)
It should also be noted here that his wife wakes up at 7 every morning to sit in a chair and point the camcorder at him. I am still unsure as to why she does this, because the man never moves, and he never looks away from the camera…at the actual students who are physically present.
It’s the strangest thing because often times he will say things TO the camera, and not to the students. It will be an awkward whisper sort of thing, where he sort of leans in to the tripod, and says something like… “The tall kid in the back has NO idea what the hell he is doing. I’d pan over to him right now…but I think he’s watching me. He’s so WEIRD.”
My interesting experiences with professors doesn’t stop there. Oh no…it doesn’t.
A professor whom I am very fond of, who teaches my history class, evidently thinks I am a homosexual.
It should be stated that I have no problem with homosexual people, It just so happens that I am NOT a homosexual, but rather a heterosexual. Evidently, I don’t always give off this vibe.
It was an innocent class discussion, and we were talking about the history of sexuality, and whether or not time period has anything to do with sexual attraction. Nobody was saying ANYTHING so I decided to speak up, and say that I believe time and culture both have apparent effects on sexual attraction. I cited that I was not particularly attracted to supposedly “beautiful” people from the 1960’s. I found them to dress weird, I found their mannerisms odd, and in no way saw them to be sexually attractive.
The professor was elated with my response, told me I made great points, and went on to lecture a few minutes about how much culture influences our sexual desires.
She then paused…and said, “Sean makes a great point when he says that for SOME reason…he was not attracted to the…people of the 1980’s. Now, Sean. We hear you say you are not attracted to them, and I can’t help but ask…when you say THEM…what do you mean?”
At this point…I am genuinely confused as to what the hell she is asking me. You know how teachers often ask leading questions? Or questions to make a point? I thought this was one of those times. So I replied with the simplest of answers.
“The people in the 1960’s. It’s like they are so different than us, it is hard to be sexually attracted to them.”
The professor then replies, “Okay…so you are not attracted to the….uh….the…is it men or women of the 1960’s?” (Notice how she puts men first. Alphabetical? I think NOT!)
My face immediately turns to an oversized tomato, I hunch down in my seat and try to disappear as every individual in the class is now in a hysterical fit of laughter.
From here. It could go one of 2 ways. I could interpret the classes laughter as a “Oh my GOD she didn’t know he was straight? Duuuuh he’s straight…he’s like…the coolest babe magnet on campus!”
Or…it could be the much more likely, “Oh man we just outed a closet homosexual in class. I bet he feels really awkward. I feel really weird. I’m going to make sure to never change in the same room as him. Now I am going to laugh at him.”
After the earthquake of humiliation subsided, the professor tried to defend herself, and she said, “Well, Sean…you never specified if they were actors or actresses, men or women.”
“Um…actually I did. I said actresses.”
Several of my classmates nodded their head in agreement, which sparked more laughter, because everyone just realized my professor just assumed that I was a homosexual.
Humiliated, I stayed 30 minutes after class just to prove to my professor that I was indeed STRAIGHT. (Note: My professor is a women. Note: I did not really stay after class and make out with my professor.)
Later that night, I did that thing where you carry a practical joke for too long, and then when you try to tell the truth, the person doesn’t believe you.
Ironically, this ALSO had to do with sexuality. Yay!
I was text messaging a girl from one of my classes, and made an offhand comment about how a man approached me flirtatiously and it made me feel uncomfortable. She replied with the typical, “Whatever…you liked it!”
To which I replied….not so typically, “Well yeah. I’m gay.”
She then replied, “OMG NO WAY!? I have tons of gay friends! That’s so cool I could tell the whole time LOL!”
I then thought…wow…that was way too easy. I wonder if I give off a weird vibe or something.
Then I replied, “Just kidding. I’m straight as an arrow.”
Then she said, “Yeaaah right, you don’t have to lie to me lol! I have a gay friend that is lookin for a guy actually. He likes tall guys. You want his number?”
Now I think she’s just messing with me, so I start to kid back.
“Hahaha yeah totally! Only if he is a cutie. Hahahaha.”
She took it seriously.
“Okay his number is 503-849-1621” (note: that is not the real number. I apologize to whoever has this number. You might get a prank call from one of the 1000000000 people that read this.)
I reply, “Hahahha! Man…you’re good. I was just kidding though. I’m straight. As an arrow. Like I said before.”
She replies, “Yeah WHATEVER! Don’t be dumb.”
I reply, “No really. I’m not kidding. Not even a little. I like women. Females.”
She says, “Suuuure. That’s why I always catch you staring at that guys butt in Philosophy? And that’s why you walk the way you do. And your LAUGH! Are you kidding me? You might as well wear a bumper sticker that says ‘boys only’ and keep your playlist of Coldplay and Elton John on repeat!”
I reply…stunned, “Listen…I was KIDDING before. I am a heterosexual man. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
She says, “There’s nothing else to be said. I know how it is, Sean. I know. You don’t need to be ashamed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Well, class should be interesting.
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