Return to Hulkdom

After criticizing someone else’s blog for too many wrestling references, I figured the most hypocritical thing I could possibly do is post my dissertation on wrestling! Here’s an article on Hulk I wrote a while ago. It’s 11:30 on a Friday and I’m going to bed. Sad? Hulk would not be proud…

Children are screwed up! As I aimlessly meandered through my local mall last week, I observed the deplorable role models children are growing up with these days. Eyesores like Sponge Bob Anal Probe, or that little geek Harry Potter are the probable reasons for this modern day predicament of today’s youth. These lackluster excuses for positive icons are a constant reminder to how blessed our generation was to have a personality like Hulk Hogan to grow up with.

Better known as “The Hulkster”, he emerged from the era of the 80s, a period that spawned so many affirmative paradigms. Who could forget Pee Wee Herman, the endearing sex offender with his own Saturday morning cartoon show? Or He-Man: Masters of the Universe, a cartoon that provided children with the archetype for a male chauvinist mentality at such a young age. All though, pale in comparison to the prestige that was “Hulk-a-mania”.

The “Hulk-a-mania” trend, easily discernable by its flamboyant yellow and red colors, swept Americans off their feet then body slammed them for the count. The Hulkster with his wild and lovable antics left children mesmerized. The shirt tearing, trash-talking fury of Hulk Hogan stole the hearts of little boys and girls everywhere. To many this bellwether of the late twentieth century served not only as an idol, but as a psuedo-father figure as well.

The “Hulk-a-mania” life style that Hogan exemplified has received some gratuitous flak over the years and needs clarification. Hogan not only led, what some seem to believe is, a barbaric existence of grabbing other sweaty men in tights; but he also had a more sophisticated side which included hanging out with chicks in bikinis and perusing a music career with his “Wrestling Boots Band”.

While his stint as a musician never truly received the accolades it deserved, the themes his songs suggest manifest the positive ideals that Hulk put forth for his stable of young fans. I would highly recommend downloading Hulk’s musical masterpieces such as “Hulkster in Heaven”, “Hulkster in the House (Check Him Out, Check Him Out)”, and cult-classic “Beach Patrol”; all of which embody Hulks’ underlining theme of “Eat your vitamins and say your prayers”. Lyrics like “When the going gets rough, the rough get tough” personify in melodic ecstasy his devotion to his fans, and setting the example for youngsters: “Get tough!”

Unfortunately, time has caught up with Hulk. As his career slowly spiraled downward beginning with his movie debut in “Mr. Nanny”, then a failed UPN series “Thunder In Paradise”, with the eventual creation of a new Hulk persona known as “Hollywood Hogan”. This new “Hollywood Hogan” personality is mere shadow the old Hulk, and his sagging man breasts along with his flabby physique are a testament to how a decade of the fast paced “Hulk-a-mania” lifestyle have impinged on Hogan.

Regardless of how Hulk intends to live out his now dismal existence, it should not hinder his prior contribution to society. As Hulkster connoisseur my BFF Daniel J. McGrath phrased it: “When you see Hollywood Hogan, please don't think about how desperate and pathetic Hulk Hogan has become. Instead, remember the good times you shared with Hulk: body-slamming Andre the Giant, his epic battle with the Ultimate Warrior, and jamming out on the bass on his album: “Hulk Rules”".

The low academic standard, social conflicts, and inability to conquer even the simple task of “looking cute” are all present day quandaries that plague America's children. Parents, educators, and sociologists perplexed by these problems, scramble to find the answers so their children will not grow up worthless. The problem though does not lay within the children themselves, but rather the lack of Hulk in society.

In conclusion, obviously it will be eons before a bench pressing, bicep curling vanguard of Hulk Hogan’s’ caliber will return to grace civilization, but there are possible alternatives which can still salvage Americas children. For example, we could clone the Hulkster repeatedly, so Hulk Hogan could directly raise America’s children. If that would be too costly, the government could simply require fathers to spend four hours a day lifting weights and when “disciplining” their children they could frenziedly tear off their shirts in trademark Hulk fashion.

Getting children guidance must be our chief concern. For if this problem persists we, as a country, may be exposed to more sonic abortions similar to P.O.D.’s wretched commentary on adolescent society: “Youth of the Nation”. I Personally, refuse to bring a child into a Hulk-a-manialess world. There will be no Bobberous juniors propagating the earth until Hulk Hogan puts horrific contemporary ideals down for the count.

Also this rant inspired my self-reflective memoir you can read here:

http://www.pikerpress.com/article.cfm?form.id=1551

On the Genealogy of IM

Real quick: I wanted to get in a post before going to bed. I had an awful day at work, my “fun” screenwriting class was cancelled, then T-Bone bailed on evening drinks. Horrible, horrible, horrible. In any case, I was working on some short fiction and didn’t get a chance to write any new material for this blog. So I thought I’d post an essay I wrote a while ago about AIM. Keep in mind, when I wrote this (4 years ago!), AIM jokes were still funny, whereas now I think they’ve run their course. You make the call....

There is a plague spreading to college campuses all across the country. No it's not some new whore infested STD - it's the AIM outbreak. In case you've been living in a garbage can for the past few years, AIM stands for America-On Line Instant Messenger. It sounds playful enough, maybe even patriotic, but make no mistake: it will ruin your life. I am writing this article to educate us all on the possible warning signs, some of the more severe cases, and what can be done to save a close one or even yourself from the mouth of this ravenous beast.

The basic symptoms of this communiqué malady range from annoying letter abbreviations of common catch phrases, and prolonged periods of time thinking up witty "away messages", all the way to attempting to express one's innermost sentiments with smiley faces and a sudden loss of acquaintances and close friends due to on-line debacles. Yes, this apparently harmless "service" can be that devastating. All you naysayers out there, here me out.

The primary stages of instant messenger fever begin with the dreaded "LOL". This abbreviation for "laughing out loud", used in context to convey hilarity, doesn't even make sense. Tell me, how else does someone laugh but out loud? Could I find myself "LIS"ing (laughing in silence)? Forgive me for trying to turn the Instant Messenger into a philosophical enigma, because that it is not. I dare say it is the beginning of a globally warped sense of reality.

From my own observations, I've found that this suspension of reality, serves as a gateway to other, more serious textual abbreviations. One day you'll be innocently "LOL"ing, only to find yourself suddenly expressing affection with a nonsensical series of numbers (i.e. 143). Next, you'll be using a more potent, vulgar form of "LOL": the infamous "LMAO". You might even begin to invent your own spellings of words, changing "cool" to the obnoxious "kewl" or "okay" to the lazy man's "k". Keep this strenuous, ever-changing lifestyle up, and eventually you'll find yourself face down in a gutter, absent-mindedly typing "WTF".

The next warning sign that you've been infected is when you begin to invest countless hours crafting the always-elusive perfect away message. Admittedly, there is a lot at stake in terms of away messages. It will be read numerous times over by an incalculable amount of people. But regardless of how many people you don't know are checking your away messages, this is no excuse to let this inane brainstorming inhibit your daily agenda.

Types of away messages usually differ from person to person: some people go for a favorite movie or music quote, while others take a more informative approach such as, "At the library, getting my study on". Some people even go for absolutely ridiculous and outrageous scenarios like: "Getting molested by aliens, leave one". While the types of away messages may vary depending on personality, one thing remains constant: away messages cannot run your life.

As instant message users spiral downward as a result of this sickness, they soon might find themselves relying on a gang of no-good hoodlums to communicate their emotions. This "dirty dozen" I speak of are the band of circle-faced smilies that appear to be taking over the world. These smug punks have a face for your every mood. The old-school versions of being happy :-) or giving a wink ;-) just don't compensate any more. If you're feeling debonair maybe the guy wearing the sunglasses fits your fancy; a wacky mood deserves none other than the dude with his tongue flaying out like Gene Simmons. And as for the screaming face, look out! Someone is pissed!

Now I'm not trying to preach from the proverbial soapbox. I'll admit that I've been known to use my fair share of smiley faces - all I suggest is that we all show some restraint. An indicator that you've gone to smiley hell is when you're engaged in verbal conversation, away from the wretched Instant Messenger, and you attempt to contort your own face to match that of an online smiley face. I'll never forget the extreme (though real) example of a AIM user we'll refer to as "Larry", who took his smiley face obsession too far. “Larry” was conversing with some friends in McDonalds, when he said something rather mean-spirited about another student who, unbeknownst to Larry, was sitting right behind him. Upon realizing his folly, Larry actually removed his own shoe and stuck it in his mouth. It's a sickness, folks.

In the final stages of this heinous disease, Instant Messenger altercations are inevitable. As friends and family plead with you to abandon your online chat quirks, they actually just fuel your temper and pump up your online muscles. In an outraged fit of finger-flying frenzy, the gloves come off, and sensitivity for other's feelings are cast aside. No restraints exist as each IM noise echoes like a bell in a boxing match, ringing to mark the beginning of another gut wrenching round. Tirelessly typing in hopes of backing your nemesis into the checkmate of signing off, possibly increasing your warning level, or ultimately blocking your screen name. Which friend is at fault, which person should shoulder the blame, is not important. Getting help is.

Sadly, at this point though, there is nothing anyone can do for this online junkie but silently watch as their hopes and dreams go down in a fit of typo gibberish. Despite steady research, computer scientists and psychologists from around the world haven't figured out how to reverse the trend when people become this detached from reality. The Instant Messenger epidemic is no "j/k" matter; it's been the downfall of many college students and has severed myriad relationships.

All I ask is that you don't look the other way when you see someone break into convulsions and start foaming at the mouth when the dreaded "you're connection has been lost" window pops up. This is a serious modern day predicament that must be addressed, not “LOL”ed at and cast aside. I'm not telling you to stop chatting it up, but please make sure you and your loved ones do it responsibly. After all, TDNCWGC (technology does not come without great cost).

My summer with Eddie Money: A lyric memoir experience

To begin, here’s one of my old AIM profile. I made this one after I walked in on my computer whoring it up on cyberspace:

Note: In the past I know my computer had a reputation. I'm well aware some "casual downloading" went on, persisted with a few lascivious file transfers and culminated in a myriad website gangbang. But that is an epoch of my computer's life that's over now. My computer has changed. If you want to send a file you better get to know my computer first. What music does it listen to? When's its birthday? If you think that you're going to just waltz right on up to my computer and start inserting your goddamn filthy, virus ridden files in my computers hardware you are going to have to goddamn answer to me. Please AIM community, treat my computer right, I don't want it to end up on some street corner sucking down MP3s for loose change.

Anyway, a few thoughts for today….

First, I went back to work after being out two weeks for jury duty. Obviously the hilarious details of jury duty require a post in itself, but, for now, I’ll say jury duty is basically the real world’s equivalent of spring break (waking up at 10 a.m., two hour lunch breaks, dismissed at 4:30, getting to watch outrageous lawyers battle each other). In any case, I spent about half of today telling my co-workers about the trial, and the other half staring into space; glad to see nothing’s changed…

Anyway, fast forward to tonight.

Place: Classroom of my 17^th Century Lit seminar.

The event: I’ve answered two consecutive questions correctly.

At this point, I knew it; my professor knew it; the other people in the class knew it (even the kid who feels compelled to say “mm-hmm” after every fucking thing the professor says knew it): I was heating up. Then, like Stockton to the Mailman, the profess turns to me, throws me the L.A. Oop:

“So Bobby, do you think the first stanza of Crashaw’s ‘The Flaming Heart’ echoes anything in Book I of Paradise Lost?”

I closed my eyes, took a long chew of my gum, and went up for the tomahawk slam:

“Now that you mention it, there is a similarity in the amalgamation of conventional religious themes with a sensual, almost blasphemous, subject matter handled by both poets. Furthermore, the invocation to the muses in Book I of Paradise Lost carries the same hubristic tone as Crashaw’s opening stanza to ‘The Flaming Heart.’”

The profess looks at me. He should have just said it: He’s on fire! Instead he nodded. You know the nod. The ‘We’re-obviously-humoring-ourselves- with-this-simplistic-subject- matter-for-the-sake- of-these-simpletons’ sort of nod.

Okay.

If I were a pretentious prick, I’d end this post here. If I really wanted you to believe I actually said the statement I attributed to myself above, I wouldn’t still be writing. But I am. Because:

a.) that statement is totally fabricated; and

b.) after slightly acknowledging me, I let the professor down when he called on me again, but I was so busy day-dreaming that, in order to bring me back to earth, he had to say, “Bobby…Bobby…where’d you go on us now, Bobby?”

Though, when I tell you my day-dream, you’ll totally understand why:

So I was thinking back to a summer. A summer I went to an Eddie Money/REO Speedwagon/Styx concert at Jones Beach. A summer I got my face absolutely rocked off my body by Mr. Edward Money. “Btw” when I reference Eddie Money, I’m pronouncing his last name ‘Monet’ like the Impressionist painter, since I believe it better conveys Mr. Money’s serious commitment to art. (Also I’m going to have to change my writing style to convey the frenzy of this concert.)

Okay…so like Eddie Money is the opening act…all the 40-somethings are in the parking lot….smoking their kid’s weed…it’s me, Dan, and Hogan…fucking wilding the fuck out…Hogan spots a dude…front and center….not ten feet from the Money-man…the dude is disgustingly overweight, sweating profusely, and wearing an oversized sports jersey with a number 78 on the back….then the amps explode with the opening chords to ‘Two Tickets’…Eddie and the boys are taking us to paradise…number 78 starts dancing…not even dancing, that mother fucker was grooving….Eddie is telling me to pack my bags…we've waited so long, waited SO long…I’m screaming…I’m screaming like a girl…I want to leave TONIGHT…I have a boner….suddenly the music lulls…Eddie walks up to number 78…but number 78 doesn’t miss a beat, he's still grooving, still flappin’ his money-maker…fat is flappin’ everywhere, also…Eddie doesn’t care…he’s talking right to number 78, but, at the same time, we all know Eddie is talking directly to all of us…he’s shaking his head…we all know something profound is about to happen….I’m ready to ejaculate in pants…Eddie is smiling at number 78…and I gotta believe number 78 is beaming right back at Eddie…Eddie opens his mouth, proclaims these wise words of wisdom…words I’ll never forget…words I want on the epitaph of my tomb stone…he said:

“Michael Jackson, he may have a lot of fans, but me, Eddie Money, I got a lot of friends.”

Then he took me home. Tonight.

Blogging about blogs

The word blog is funny. It sounds like a word to describe either a.) a really wet fart, b.) a BJ from a really slutty chick who actually turns out to be an alien (from outer space, not an impoverished 3^rd world country), c.) a verb to describe an obese person sitting on a midget.

Regardless, blogs are fun. I want to mention two blogs I would recommend reading. Please finish reading both blogs by next Wednesday, at which time I will be giving you a handout on paper (8-10 pages) topics for aforementioned blogs.

“Btw” quick sidenote: Why do professors say “8-10 pages.” Why don’t they just say “7 pages with 2 lines on the 8^th page?”

Anyway, the first blog comes from my writer friend Heather. She absolutely blows me away with her diction. The way she captures growing up on Long Island, or any suburban area for that matter, is uncanny. I drink her words greedily like I do coffee. Except, after I drink coffee, I don’t feel guilty as if I just fooled around with some slut (who’s been in love with me since like sophomore year, though, I don’t give a shit. Whateva) in the backseat of my dad’s car, then dropped the slut off to meet my friend at the diner to tell him all the lustful details. THAT’S how good her writing is. It makes you want to shower and think of an alibi for your parents. She’s blogging her first novel (and tricking people pretending she’s actually the characters, so don’t be fooled). Here’s her blog:

http://promiscuities.blogspot.com/

The second blog is interesting. I have to preface by explaining how I know the blog author.

Back in high school I had an acquaintance, very nondescript, with this dude everyone called “Parker.” Overall, he didn’t strike me as much different than me: sideburns, actually enjoyed English class, romanticized his crushes with elaborate ploys as if each attempt was the final scene of a bad teen movie. (What I referred to in my own experiences as my Wile E. Coyote stunts.) Through college his screen name remained on my buddy list as one of those “away message check only” buddies. Sometimes, when I was particularly bored, I’d scroll down and read profiles, hence where I learned of his Livejournal. I have to say, I was pretty impressed.

Like something I try (and usually fail) to capture in my serious fiction, Parker has this way of throwing himself into his sentences. The kid holds nothing back. Literally what you’re reading is what he’s thinking. He doesn’t cheat you or hide. Anything. Sometimes I feel he can get a little carried away, being overly hard on himself, lamenting constantly that he’s a “loser” or “he’s looking for the one.” On the one hand, I want to pat him on the back, and be like, “Dude, I don’t remember you being such a loser” but, on the other hand, I think it’s when he’s lamenting that he writes most lucidly. Also, to use a “critical” term, his diction, in its absolute bare-bone simplicity, counterpoints his basic conceits and quests.

In any case, I want to get your impressions on his Myspace blog. What I recommend reading for: whenever he’s looking for a girl or at a bar. When at the bar, I feel as if I’m sitting on the stool next to him, silently cheering him on. However, whenever he talks about music (he refers to it as “the scene”) or wrestling, I find myself saying, “Dude, lets go back to the bar.” Here’s the address:

http://www.myspace.com/parkerman

The 'holler' back

It’s over. The seminar paper that almost ruined my life has been handed in. It was as if my life was a Nintendo game (say, for argument’s sake, Super Mario Bros. 1), and, as I was about to jump on the axe to save the Princess, someone hit pause and told me, midjump, to write a 15 page research paper on sonnets (in MLA format). Sorry Mario but heterosexuality is in another castle (because that paper was mad Brokeback).

Anyway, now that my life is back to normal, I’ll try to get some more memoir pieces on here. First though, I want to respond to the comments I got over the past few days:

“i dont really like to read, but im actually "lol" as i read this, mind if i put yur link on some stuff?....um well im gunna wether or not its ok.” From Livi

Livi-

Linking my blog is totally cool with me. In fact, I don’t even care if you steal my jokes, and, if you do, you don’t even have to cite me (but, if you insist, make sure it’s MLA style).

“Holy Crap I think you are my new favorite writer not that I had one before except maybe Maddox that guy is awesome you know what your the next Maddox well Maddox2 because he is still here” From Man with the Double-Hawk

Man with the Double-

First, I want to commend you on a great use of ‘Holy Crap’. The last time I heard a sweet, euphemistic term like that, I think was when I was in third grade and prohibited from using the S curse. You know what…fuck the S curse. Anyway, thanks for calling me Maddox2. I’m a big fan of his writing, and, for a while, I think I tried to mimic his disgruntled tone. (See my diatribe on babies below.)

“Hilarious...dude I wish I could write with the same insight and sparkling wordplay that I bet your stools are composed of.” From Josh

Josh-

Thanks man. My stools actually stink like the S curse. But I appreciate the comment.

“your an absolute idiot. its a shame only because you have the literacy skills and audacity to convince a league of online geeks otherwise. good luck in your search for further stupidity.” From peel101

Peel101-

Obviously you convinced me of my idiocy with your incisive opening statement: ‘your an absolute idiot.’ Dude, it’s YOU’RE as in YOU ARE, not the second person personal possessive. Learn how to use a fucking contraction before you criticize someone on their ‘stupidity’. It’s a good thing the rest of your erudite dissertation sparkles with wit. Thanks for commending me on my ‘literacy skills’. I most certainly am literate! Enough so that I know the difference between a contraction and personal possessive (still can’t get over that). Hopefully my search for future stupidity will turn up some great results. Thanks for the comment Bonerbiter.

And finally:

“Dude, your article on small liberal arts colleges is awesomely true. This one kid has the nickname "Ben the Brontosaurus," because he has a big nose... not to be confused with that bastard down the hall, "Jimmy the Jew." You have taken a place in my heart as my favorite CH writer, congrats!” From Tyler

First, tell Jimmy the Jew I said what’s up but I’m still pissed about not being invited to his Bar Mitzvah...

Secondly, I wanted to use this post to go into detail about my small liberal arts college article. Now while I’m sure you probably don’t care about my creative process in coming up with articles, that article has a story with hilarious consequences. Augmenting the hilarity, I’ll preface that story saying that exactly one year ago from today, the circumstances leading up to that article were (for me) extremely NOT FUNNY; in fact, I was as miserable as a severed limb.

Tomorrow I’ll write that story, which will end with the other story I promised on pudding wrestling. Very classy combo.

I Hate Babies

Dudes…thanks for the comments. I plan to formally address them all in my next post as well as recall a pretty sweet story involving a pudding wrestling party I went to in college (complete with sex, shenanigans, and hilarity). For now though I really want to make sure to keep this blog updated every few days, so I figured I’d throw this article up. I wrote this one about hating babies. Pretty standard. I’m not sure if this article even makes sense (as I was VERY angry when I was writing it because I really do fucking hate babies); in any case, I’m about 90 percent done with this paper on sonnets, it’s 1 o’clock in the morning, I have black circles under my eyes, this paper is due at 6:30 pm tomorrow. If you were me would you care?

Let me reword that title: I HATE babies. People claim babies come from a stork and I vehemently disagree; babies look like they stepped right out of Middle Earth. Humongous heads! Little bodies! How the fuck can anyone think a baby is “cute?” Babies stink, both figuratively and literally. If you don’t already agree that babies are creepy critters, this essay will surely make you card-carrying member of the Baby-Hater Club.

My baby hating began a few years back, when I took a second to stop being a bitter jerk, to be an even bigger bitter jerk, thus allowing me to realize babies are really ugly mammals. Let me reword that: UGLY-ASS mammals. Surprisingly, voicing this vehement affirmation turned indignant matrons wild, as I usually found myself on the wrong end of some flailing female fisticuffs.

To this day I haven't let this stop me as I feel personally compelled to deliver my infantile diatribes whenever possible, and, of course, critical flak is always sure to accumulate. Sucky people (who were probably extra ugly babies) are quick to point out I was once a baby. To which I respond, yes, I acknowledge that, at one time, I was, in fact, a baby, and subsequently hate myself for it.

Next, critics and “haters” alike question how I ever intend to become a father with such a fervent hatred of babies. If by father, they’re referring to someone with a baby, I’ll pass. I’ll get a hobby instead.

Think about how time consuming a baby is. You have to do everything for a baby while they just lay around and cry. I tried that over winter break and my parents made me get a job. Speaking of getting a job, that brings me to another gripe I have with babies. Babies can’t hold jobs; they can’t even hold in a burp. A puppy is more self sufficient than a baby (and puppies can do cool tricks, babies cannot do A trick, let alone a cool trick).

What has a baby done for you lately, anyway? Babies won’t hold doors for you, buy you drinks at the bar, or even have a conversation with you. What nerve! Babies sit around, soil themselves, and eat baby-food (Sidenote: Baby-food is repulsive, the fact babies eat baby-food is reason enough to loath them). Oh, and if you answered “all babies have to do is look cute” read the next paragraph.

Babies are not cute. They’re not even “Seth Green cute”. They’re hideous. Already I’ve pointed out their huge noggins and dwarf bodies, but, did you also know, babies wear diapers? Is a diaper cute? Diapers aren’t so cute when strapped on your grandparents, so why would it be cute on a baby? Babies look like something out of a science fiction movie; better yet, a horror movie.

To sum it up, babies are appalling. I abhor people that dress babies up in “wacky” outfits, like tuxedos or leather jackets. Movies featuring talking babies are sick. And if you thought that video on the internet of the CGI animated baby dancing to classic rock was funny, reevaluate your existence.

In conclusion, because babies can’t beat the first level of Super Mario Brothers, play the guitar, or even go to community college, they should be boycotted. I know Valentines Day is a great excuse for guys to give their girlfriends a surprise gift of a baby, but please, for the good of humanity, resist. If we as a global community strike against the evil baby empire, we may put some mutagenic pressure on fetuses to evolve into a more symbiotic organism, benefiting all and preserving my mental health.

Babies suck and San-Dimas High School Football Rules!

Remember that time Eddie gave all those old people heart attacks? (I took a study break, dudes)

Man, I need a study break. Like that malignant bully from grammar school this paper is not only kicking my ass but also robbing me of my dignity as it gives me wedgies and steals my lunch money. On a side note, did anyone ever actually have their lunch money stolen by a bully? I mean bullies, in a lot of ways, are like mythical dragons or sea monsters. Everyone’s afraid of them, but do they really exist? I guess I knew kids growing up who were dickheads (and now most of them are in drug rehab/jail/leading white trash existences) but I’m not sure if there was ever a ‘clear-cut bully’ I grew up.

One thing I do remember as a kid: when I was in fifth grade, everyone pulled this one kid’s pants down. In retrospect, it was pretty dick of the kids who planned it, but, at the same time, there is something absolutely hysterical about the concept. I sorta wish people still did shit like this to adults. I don’t think you can honestly look me in the eye and tell me with a straight face you wouldn’t pee your pants laughing if you were walking down the street and saw some dude being held down by a gang of hooligans as they tore off his neatly pressed Dockers, ripped his tiddy whiteys, leaving him sans clothing from the waist down.

In any case, I wanted to recollect a story I thought of recently. So I saw this video on Collegehumor and have been circulating to Eddie and the guys. Everyone obviously finds it hilarious, as some old cooter busts his ass and probably dies of a heart attack shortly thereafter. For me, it resonates with a heightened sense of hilariousness as it reminds me of this time, in the spring of our senior year of high school, when Eddie heckled this old person home.

Well, we were driving around in my mom’s purple Town and Country minivan (formally known on the streets of Queens as ‘The Mommy Mobile’), obviously looking for old people to terrorize. At that time, terrorizing old people (the technical terms we used to denote geriatrics was ‘grannies’, ‘Beatrices’, ‘grampas’, or ‘Rooneys’) was, not only one of our collective hobbies, but also something we felt obligated to carry out (much like religious extremists who blow themselves up).

Anyway, we were cruising one lazy afternoon in early spring. I remember the weather being particularly warm, as the sidewalks and parks were filled with people, both young and old. Observing this, I knew immediately to steer the minivan toward the old person home that constituted one of our most ‘visited’ stops.

My instincts were rewarded upon discovering the hordes of old coots mingling around the home, complete with canes and wheelchairs. Eddie, the most resourceful and cunning heckler I’ve ever had to pleasure to work with, said nothing, threw the van door open, and darted ecstatically toward a group relaxing on a bench.

Eddie's hands were fastened around the waistband of his pants as he approached the now petrified gaggle of grannies and gramps. Once within 20 feet of the group, in one fluid motion he shoved his pants (and underwear) down to his ankles and turned his body 180 degrees, landing perfectly on a circular wire trashcan.

For a solid 30 seconds no one moved.

Eddie sat there, feet dangling from the trashcan, staring contemplatively into space. No one knew what to make of this. Eddie reaching behind himself, dug into the trashcan for a newspaper. Upon finding one, he threw the paper open, making it obvious he was dropping a huge dump spitting distance from the old people.

Suddenly one old intrepid stood up indignantly, pointed his quivering finger at Eddie, and with pride in his voice exclaimed, “Hey you! This isn’t a bathroom!” Having broken the ice, a chorus of grannies piped in a cheerful refrain of “Yeah!” Another old man, even more brazen, meandered with his cane toward Eddie, pausing every few steps to catch his breath and shake his fist in disgust.

You see, this is why Eddie was such a master. Anyone else would have simply gotten the cheap laugh, pulled their pants up, and gotten back into the minivan for a round of high fives.

Not Eddie.

He was so in character, so in tune with the absurdity of the moment, he simply looked over his shoulder, scrunched his face up as if smelling something foul and kept sitting/shitting.

When the cane-crawling old man finally reached Eddie, he swung his decrepit arm at him with hopes of knocking Eddie off the can. That was a bad game-time call, old man. While it did nothing to “knock” Eddie off, it did incite him to stand up, with pants still around his ankles. When Eddie turned to address the already offended audience of geezers, they got a full frontal shot of Eddie’s package.

Responding to the exclamations and confusion that confronted him, Eddie bewilderedly reasoned,“Oh? Woah, woah, this isn’t a bathroom? Sir, I believe it is. Wait, so I can’t take a shit here? Can I at least wipe my ass? No?”

By the time Eddie finally ran back to the minivan (moving awkwardly, since his legs were cackled by his dropped draws), no less than four angry old men were pursuing him. I remember hearing a perfusion of “Hoodlums” and “Get outta here ya little bastids”.

Then we drove away and the old people died. The End.

We're bloggin' and you know I wanna blog it with you

Here are some observations:

1.) The popular hairstyle of obnoxious guidos known as ‘The Blowup’ will be our generation’s mullet.

(I know I’ve been saying this for a while, but before someone steals it (and takes credit for it), I want it recorded in (hyper)textual form.)

2.) If I die while AIM is still a prevalent means of communication, please don’t put a “RIP shoutout” in your profile to me. Seriously, I would appreciate the thought, but I just don’t know how I feel having my legacy remembered by an epithet such as this:

3.) Why is it a law of the universe that, after a night of heavy drinking and blacking out, there are ALWAYS two crumpled dollars and an ATM withdrawal receipt for 40-80 dollars in your wallet?

Once this seminar paper on sonnets is done, I’ll get some sweet stories on here.

More old CH articles

Here’s another article I wrote for Collegehumor that is no longer in their archives. It’s funny (and scary) how I wrote this when I was a junior in college and it's still relevant today….

Dudes, we should totally send Zack Morris to Iraq

This war is about as cool as detention with Mr. Belding but with Zack's help he’ll turn that sand pit around and have Iraq bumping like the Max during a KKTY Bayside radio fundraiser!

Reasons why Zack should be sent to Iraq:

Advanced Military Logistics – When Zack was forced by Mr. Belding (what a prick) to join ROTC; cadet Morris met the challenge by beating the pants off the “jocks” in a physical competition, despite the fact he was on a team of complete nerds (i.e. Screech). Zack accomplished this by boasting the teams’ morale and decisive strategizing.

Superior Intelligence – Um, we’re talking about a guy who got a 1502 on the SATs, which beat the pants off of Jessie Spano and her weak 1200. (Side note: Jessie was a pill popping hussy. Had she lain off the sauce maybe she would’ve made it the College Years.)

Psychological Warfare – When looking to snare Kelly as his date in an upcoming Bayside pageant, Zack employed the tactical method of subliminal messaging; infecting Bayside with a serious case of “Zack Fever”.

Athletic Prowess – Two words: “Running Zack”.

Technologically Advanced – His cell phone could launch Patriot Missiles while answering calls to his 900 number advice line.

Reinforcements – Zack Attack wasn’t just a band, folks. And “Friends Forever” wasn’t just a hit single; it was a way of life.

In conclusion, let the facts speak for themselves. Zack is the kind of guy who can walk into a suck-a-mongus situation and leave it sparkling. Look at what he did for the Malibu Sand Beach Club! Even with a feces-eating boss like Mr. Carosi up in Zack’s grill, he STILL turned that bozac beach club into a summer hotspot. Just imagine what he could do for Iraq?!?! Imagine the hilarity, which would ensue as he confronts Sadam!!! I smell detention!! The only way to find out is to DEPLOY CADET MORRIS!!!!

Oh, and on a related note, check out this link. I love it. See how many times you can let it play before it freaks you out. My record is 26 times.

Part II: Recalling the Wicked Dudes

As promised here is Part II of my subpar week. Thinking my week over, my Tuesday commute to night class provided a memorable “blog” experience.

Warning: This post will begin as a recollection of what happened during Tuesday of this week and will then modulate into a sweet flashback sequence, effectively making this post a flashback of a flashback.

Sweetness. Okay, so it’s Tuesday and you’re me.

You’ve effectively been yelled at for 7 straight hours. You take your one-hour lunch break and spend that hour staring out the window at Starbucks feeling sorry for yourself. As you’re reading this, you’re not thinking to yourself, “Man, why am I such a pussy?” because you are, in fact, awesome. So you get up to go back to work, and leave behind your cell phone. (You don’t know that tomorrow, when you return to Starbucks for some more self pity and overly bitter coffee, your cell phone will be waiting for you.) So you leave work not knowing if should look for your phone or go to your night class on The Drama: Theory and Practice. You like your old professor who looks like Bob Barker so you decide to go. You’re sort of hoping that when Professor Barker is lecturing on the thematic elements operating in the Tudor drama that he will call people up to play Plinko. You think too hard about this and end up running late getting to class. Your car is speeding, radio blasting. Suddenly the song ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’ by the great Thin Lizzy comes on. Your body goes into a psuedo-epileptic seizure as you have a stellar flashback sequence.

Okay, lets switch roles here. I’m me again and you’re you.

‘The Boys Are Back In Town’ is a song I associate with, not one of my own memories, but with this fat fuck I went to college with named Mark.

I met Mark in my freshmen year because he lived in my wing. For the most part, all the guys in the wing were freshmen, but Mark lived with the RA so he was like two years older than everyone. At first, he seemed cool. Since I had to be up a week early for XC training he was one of the first people I met.

My first impression of Mark was ‘Man, this guy is HUGE.’ That impression never changed. But at first Mark also seemed like one of those ‘cool college guys.’ The type that would be the ‘crazy fatso’ at parties, pulling absurd moves and not afraid of embarrassing himself completely.

Man was I wrong.

As it turned out, Mark had this romanticized image of himself that he was some huge hunk, who was not fat but ‘built.’ He was always asking people to grab his biceps and shit like that. One night my roommate walked into Mark’s room, and seeing that Mark was watching the movie Heavyweights, commented, “Hey Mark, this is a movie for fat kids like us, eh?”

Mark’s face turned beat red and he angrily responded, “I’m not fat. You might be, but I’m not. I ain’t fat.”

I felt like screaming into his double-chinned face, “Yeah Mark, you’re not fat…you’re FUCKIN’ HUGE.” But I didn’t.

So anyway, the song ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’ factors into this story in 4 paragraphs. Well, since Mark was a little older than us, and thought we idolized him, he was always telling these ridiculous stories about his fat life. So this one day, we’re all watching TV and he comes barging into the room, turns off the TV and exclaims, “Guys! Big announcement!”

Someone (sarcastically) asked, “Oh do tell.”

Mark, nodding with a big grin on his face, begins, “The Wicked Dudes are comin’ to town!”

“The Wicked Dudes? What the fuck is that Mark?”

“Oh man! I gotta tell you shrimps about The Dudes! The Wicked Dudes! Okay…so me and my friends from home…we call ourselves The Wicked Dudes. We get together, and go on road trips! It’s always awesome. We hit bars in all different cities huntin’ for sweet tail. It’s great, we score A LOT. And get this one…”

Mark looks around, making sure we’re all playing attention and continues, “…when all of us are home from college, we all go to this bar called Fallons and play ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’ like 5 times in a row! On the jukebox! Man…we’re awesome…”

At this point, Mark expected us all to be in awe and begin a Q n A session pertaining to the inherent awesomeness of The Wicked Dudes. Instead, much to Mark’s chubby chagrin, we all started cracking up. For the rest of the year, we all patronized Mark with inquiries into the way of The Dude(s).

My part in this was to ask Mark twice a day how I could apply for a Dude membership. I was determined to infiltrate the Wicked Dudes as a mock member. I constantly felt obligated to ask, “So Mark, what is the mission statement of the Dude order, and how do my credentials fit into the collective Dude vision.”

He would always flip out, shake his head, and exclaim, “Sorry, you can’t be in the Dudes.”

My roommate probably annoyed him the most, as every time he passed him in the hall, he’d scream, “Hey Mark!” Then drop down on his knees, throw up a ‘W’ with his hands, and simply bellow, “Wickedddddddddddddddddddd.”

God, I still hate Mark and The Dudes.

Updated: As I was writing this post, I was simultaneously having an AIM conversation with my roommate about Mark.

RoyalTenennbaum: i bet hes doing NOTHING

BobberOrzXC: what job could he do?

BobberOrzXC: be fat?

RoyalTenennbaum: well, thats a job hes the fuckin CEO of

BobberOrzXC: hahahaha

RoyalTenennbaum: mark, he WILL probably eat himself

My weak week: Part I

Now that this week is finally in the rearview I want to recollect on it. To begin, here are some aphoristic observations I made:

1.) Mac computers owners are the lefties of the computer world. Think about it, you look kinda artsy and you can do some things better like baseball and using an iPod, but at the same time the world was designed for right handed people and their IBMs. I’m a lefty and I take offense to my last comment.

2.) The other day this homeless guy I’ve been seeing more often than I'd like asked me for a bone. “A what?” I asked. To which he responded: “A bone, man. You know…a smoke.” Interesting. If you call a cigarette a “smoke” and you “smoke it”, you’re a “smoker” THEREFORE if you call a cigarette a “boner” and you “bone it” does that make you…a boner?

3.) I’m not sure why the word ‘boner’ is so funny. Of course the obvious reference to a throbbing erect penis is funny, but I think it’s also in the way the word sounds. Do you think if we called a carrot a boner or a pot of coffee a boner it would still be funny? I kinda do.

Anyway, my week was awful. The horrendousness began on like Tuesday when I was walking down to the publicity department, descending the flight of stairs from the twenty-eighth floor to the twenty-seventh. Once I opened the staircase door I smelt it. Shit. This wasn’t one of those situations where the stairwell smelled like shit, no, this stairwell smelled of shit. Actually ‘shit’ is a euphemism. The feces-rich stench pelting my nasal passage possessed a particular reek of poop known only to toilets of the perennially diarrhea plagued. ‘Okay,’ I thought to myself, ‘I’ll be professional about this.’ I’ll just pick up my pace, get out of here as quick as possible, and…there it was. Splattered in a scatter pattern that would rival a Jackson Pollock painting. A brownish-green mass was smeared across three steps with a drip that went down to the landing. Aside from being obviously disgusting, the implications this shit brought had an enormity in itself. The fact, that someonehobo brought his defecating-ready bowels up TWENTY-SEVEN FLIGHTS of stairs just to let a squirter rip is absurd. That’s when I knew bad luck was chasing me this week.

As for the rest of the week, I don’t want to get into all the specifics of what happened so I’ll give you the Sportcenter highlights.

1.) boss yelled at me everyday

2.) lost cell phone

3.) got no sleep, but for no good reason as I did not write a single page for the paper on sonnets I have due next week

4.) I was making a list of how awful my week was and got to reason number 4 and realized it actually wasn’t such a bad week after all

5.) Man, I’m a whinny bitch sometimes

Whatever. Oh…and uh…I found my cell phone. I’ll be back for more details on this post later, for now though I have a paper on sonnets to write. A-latazzzzz

Cut out my heart Joey Gladstone (Alternate title: Joey Ungratefulstone)

I’m pissed. Last week I was perusing the “net”, and, in the midst of surfing some sweet homepages, I found Dave Coulier’s Joey Gladstone’s website! Sounds cool, right? Right. Even cooler, Joey “claimed” to love getting e-mails from fans, and, subsequently, “loves” answering ALL e-mails. So I write him an “e-mail”. Keep in mind, humor wasn’t my main intention for writing this e-mail, as I sent this a full week ago, predating this blog by like 3 days. As you’ll read in my e-mail, most of my points were in sober seriousness and demanded honest answers. Here’s the e-mail:

“Joey -
You're the shit man. No joke...You practically raised me (well you and that sweet woodchuck whose hand you had up its butt about 90 percent of the time ((the other 10 percent of the time I had a weiner up his butt, 'but' that's neither here or now))) So anyway about that double parenthetical, I just wanted to shout you (as the hip hop people say) a 'holler'. How many times a day do people ask you to Cut it out (quit it!). I won't ask. But I'm thinking it. Seriously Joey, you were the man. Uncle Jessie's best friend! Dude and that radio show! Remember when you guys jumped out of that plane on his wedding day...listen, I'm getting married next month..you thinking what I'm thinking?! I'll get the parachutes…But hey, this time, let's stay out of the trees, okay? Listen, I know uncle Jessie is probably pretty busy touring with the Rippers (Yeah right! Hes probably playing a sold out show at DJ's high school that faggot) but anyway, I was hoping maybe, since you don't have best friend anymore, maybe me and you could hit it off as BFFs. It doesnt have to be serious at first..Maybe just hanging out a little...slap around Stephanie for running your car through the fucking front door (how you didn't strangle that little bitch for pulling a move like that is really beyond me)...But in any case, you were pimp juice in that house and the rest of the Tanners were keeping you down, hardcore. Sure you might have been a freeloader. But God, Jessie raised his fucking family in their ATTIC...Talk about white trash! I'm surprised Becky went along with it but she was a floozy anyway...Seriously, did you hit that? I'm sure you did...I'll bet at least one of those twins were yours. Hey, by the way, IF (notice the if is in caps to emphasize that this proclamation is PURELY theoretical) but IF one of those little wavy haired shits was your kid, how did you restrain yourself from beating his little ass? Seriously those kids were out of fucking control. You know what I think you should have done (and if you want to take this advice, you have to give me a shout out for it) I think you should have the woodchuck beat those little shits asses and then you "technically" can't be held responsible...okay I'm babbling now like Danny Tanner with a penis pump...Hit me back Joey..a-latazzzzzz”

I can’t believe I didn’t get a response.

Nightcap

Trying to be cool as I left work this afternoon, I nonchalantly tossed a manuscript I have to proof tomorrow onto my desk, and, as the stack left my hand, my palm caught the searing edge of the pages, leaving me the most gruesome paper cut I’ve ever experienced. Because I work in a publishing house, people are always making retarded jokes like ‘Oh, do you get worker’s comp for paper cuts? Hahaha! I’m so fucking funny.” You know what: you’re not funny. That paper cut hurt. Bad. Furthermore, making my situation worse, I was leaving, which means I had to get on the subway. I don’t think I have to tell you that the New York City subway system is about the last place you want to be with an open flesh wound. So I ended up making a bandagelike concoction from tissue paper and a wad of Big Red I was chewing. Then I got on the subway. Bad call? Only an HIV test will tell…

Anyway, I’ve been noticing how people use unnecessary sentences in conversation. The most obvious example was today, my dad, upon looking in my brother’s mess-of-a room (which, at an earlier time, he referred to as a ‘sewer’), declared “You’re not gonna live like this, mister! You’re gonna clean this room up! This isn’t the frat house, buster!” Lets analyze that three-part proclamation:

“We’re not gonna live like this, mister!” Okay dad, I’ll give you this one. Nice thesis statement. Active negated verbs. Personalized with a “mister” tagged at the end. Message effectively sent.

“You’re gonna clean this room up!” Here we’re starting to get a bit superlative. I think it was more or less understood in the last sentence that “we’re not gonna live like this”, hence the only logical solution would be to “clean [the] room up.” But you know what, I’m feeling generous, so I’ll let this one slide.

“This isn’t the frat house, buster!” Now I gotta draw the line. Dad, do you really deem it necessary to further remind Chris that this is in fact not the frat house. Do you really think he came home, bags and keg in tow, convinced, “Hey I’m at the frat house, no rules!” Moreover, I agree dad, frats are infamous for their flophouse disregard of order and cleanliness, but do you really think that was the most apt metaphor? Wouldn’t pointing that “This isn’t a shantytown for hobos” worked a little better to convey your take-home "slob reform” message? I want you to work on this in the future dad.

In other dad related news, I just finished writing a Collegehumor article where I referenced my dad as being an avid flaunter of tiddy whiteys and V-neck undershirts (with V-neck undershirt tucked into tiddys). Well, before he was going to bed, I caught him walking around WITHOUT the V-neck tucked in, so I felt obliged to ask, “Dad, what happened to tucking the undershirt into the underpants.” He just looked at me, shook his head, walked past me, and, in his wake, shot back, “Styles change.”

Bin Laden: Would make a great character in a “Weekend at Bernie’s" Movie

First, the 1987 silver screen tour de force “Weekend At Bernie’s” was a genre-defining epic that set the standard for all other “dead guy paraded around by live guy(s) to do comically ridiculous stunts” types of films. For those culturally deprived cretins whom are unfamiliar with “Weekend At Bernie’s” I’ll provide you with a short synopsis: “Bernie (Terry Kiser) awards two of his goofball employees a weekend stay at his lavish beachfront mansion. To the duos dismay, upon arrival, they find Bernie dead, which sets the stage for wacky escapades to follow, in hopes to convince Bernie’s weekend guests he is still alive. During those 95 magical minutes Kiser delivers one of the gutsiest dead guy performances this side of Hollywood has every seen.”

This is where Bin Laden and the whole “War On Terror” factors in. Who does Al Qaeda think they’re fooling? Everyone knows that old coot Bin Laden packed it in years ago. Therefore, when I watch tapes of MC Bin Laden rappin’ into a mic, it reminds me of the scene where Bernie goes water skiing. Why? BECAUSE THEY’RE BOTH DEAD!

So, Al Qaeda, I ask you: why are you attempting to promote terror and uprising with those Bin Laden tapes when they could be put toward a greater good of knee-slapping comedy. To date, pretending Bin Laden is alive has yet to produce a funny moment of “Bernie’s” caliber; but with a little creative muse, Bin Laden can keep up his “I’m still alive” charade with hilarious consequences.

For instance, think of the tumultuous laugher that would be heard straight across Afghanistan when someone, interupting one of Bin Laden's admonishing speeches about carrying on the jahad, suggests he does the chicken dance! Thus forcing a zany (but loveable!) masked Taliban member to contort his limbs and shake his little tush to that adorable little song! Maybe do a scene where, at next year’s MTV music awards, a dead Bin Laden has to make out with Kevin Federline (following in his gutter slut of a wife’s footsteps). So MTV and the terrorists have to team up to think up a wacky plan that’ll fool MTV's audience into believing Bin Laden is alive (and horny!!!). On second thought, it’s not really hard to fool MTV's audience; I mean they fooled people into thinking The Real World is actually a good show.

In conclusion, if you don’t know what I’m talking about you need to open your eyes and ears. Horrific outcomes are a product of social ignorance. How do you think the Nazi regime rose to power? It was people turning a blind eye to the world. Therefore arm your brain and rent “Weekend at Bernie’s” re-released on DVD with never before seen scenes!

My absurd life

Today was my cousin’s Conformation party, and me, acting as his sponsor, felt a responsibility to write him a card with more than just “Hey, here’s some money…From, Bobby” Well, as I was writing out my card to him I was simultaneously carrying on an AIM conversation with one of my outrageous friends, "G". I think posting the message I wrote in the card juxtaposed with the IM conversation with "G", will give you a sense of the absurdity my life assumes.

The card: “It was such an honor to be your Conformation sponsor. More importantly, it’s been so exciting for me to watch you grow up over the years. While I’m old enough to remember when you were born, I’m still young enough to recall how I felt when I was your age. Where you are now, on the brink of high school, truly is one of biggest crossroads of your life. Never again will have you the chance to decide for yourself what your future will be. I know you’ll make the right decisions and mature into a distinguished and accomplished young man.

All my best,

Bobby”

Exert from AIM convo (note: screennames have been edited)

G: i want a WWJMD braclet

Auto response from Bobby: shower

G: what would jim morrison do

Bobby: lovin the WWJM

G: bobby!

G: hahah

G: wwjmd

Bobby: u need to make that bracelet

Bobby: hahahaha

G: sersouly

G: i dont know how tho...i dont know a braclet maker

Bobby: haha it would be great

Bobby: so irreverent i love it

G: hahahah

G: im sitting in the library w. a sweet sweet case of ADD

G: i changed my profile, checked everybody's away message 10 times and stalked hot girls on facebook but have yet to read about Parmenides theory of what comes from something

G: and since i havent done a thing, Parmenides says I cannot exist

G: hahah

Bobby: HAHAHAHA that is classic...i might have copy that exert and use it for my new blog

Bobby: amazing

Bobby: hahahha

Bobby: how was the weekend?

G: not bad not bad... mad river and the townhouses

Then the climax of the conversation (which is also the epitome of my ridiculousness):

(After telling me about hooking up with a very hot chick)

Bobby: she's hot dude..that's a big hookup

G: she was the first person i saw at dapps and the first words she says is 'you're sleeping in my bed tonight'

G: i was like aight!

G: hahahah

Bobby: hahahahahaha probably about the best start to a night i've ever heard

G: sersouly

G: a few shots later..

G: bada bing!

Old CH Material: Re-reading this Article is More Fun than Getting Your Stomach Pumped

Foreword: In my last post I threw around some words like ‘existential’ and ‘ethereal’. I realize this can be frightening to some people. Lets get something straight: this blog is not school. This blog is not Philosophy 101. Nor will this blog try to be The Matrix. The posts on this blog will be as random and unpredictable as a whimsical gay man throwing a diva fit. Therefore, I want to switch gears and post this article that originally appeared on Collegehumor back in my junior year of college. Because I was a junior in college a long, long time ago in a galaxy far away, many of the articles I wrote during that time are not archived on Collegehumor’s site. Instead, these articles are floating around the internet like an unflushed turd. And that turd stinks. In any case, here is where the article originally appeared (you gotta scroll down a bit). But I’m going to repost because that seems like a nice thing to do.

Reading this Article is More Fun than Getting Your Stomach Pumped

As I was stalking a group of freshmen girls the other day I over heard a comment to the effect of “I hate my life, there’s nothing to do here.” Like a pack of dogs barking Christmas carols this was sweet music to my ears. Why? Because people’s misery is funny. Funny like pushing a 90-year-old woman down a flight of stairs funny. Sorry JAP-pack but you picked a college in the boondocks, not Long Island, so get used to getting down and dirty, higher education style (with emphasis on the dirty).

Or take these highfalutin freshmen dudes, strutting around like they’re cool guys of some sort, when I know full well their weekends consist of sitting in their room, riding the red eye express with a box of Kleenex in one hand and a high school year book in the other. Worse still are these girls who have “boyfriends” back home. Newsflash toots: As you read these words Prince Charming is in flagrant delicto with some 800 pound hungry, hungry hippo he met in his Community College “Spelling101” class. Truth hurts, but don’t look so down, you have one sarcastic humor writer here for emotional support.

For the remainder of the non-mutants out there, you may find yourself wondering if there’s more to college than sucking the alcohol out of sewers passed off as bars. Maybe you’re waiting for that gigantic Kool-Aid jug to suddenly break through your dorm room wall screaming “Oh yea, oh yea!” and then escort you to a good frat party. Perhaps you’re attempting to meet “that someone” on the Internet. Sure, plenty of people make that special connection online, and they’re called pedophiles.

The sad reality of your life to come in these upcoming months will consist of taking cabs driven by psychotic hobos to the filthiest dumps known to mankind, where you will then partake in chugging stale beer with the decay of society (this being a 50 year old man named Carl, who’s collection of “Girls Gone Wild” videos has inspired him to think that even he, an obese unemployed construction worker, can get his freak on with a “crazy” college chick). That run-on sentence isn’t meant to sound condescending; in fact, we’ve all found our social lives approaching “dismal stasis” including your humble narrator. Below is a personal anecdote of my freshmen year.

It started when I decided it was high time for a good bender, which entails me being ripped to the tits by sundown. Wasting no time, I began shootin’ shots like it was the Wild West and soon, like the greatest Western of all time, my hookup standards dropped from “good” to “bad” to “ugly”. Thus, the evening was progressing auspiciously as my last conscious memory was of my roommate gluing assorted lunchmeat to his body. Upon waking the next morning, naked as a jaybird I might add, elated I asked my friends “So guys, last night was got pretty wild. Fill me in on all the crazy things I did,” and the response to my dismay was “Sorry to break it to you dude, but you passed out at 8 o’clock.”

Ouch.

Hey, maybe I’m being too judgmental. Maybe freshmen’s attitudes have changed in the past two years. Possibly you guys like partying with the homeless. Maybe the ever-popular Rave scene puts the “roof” in your “roofie” for all you date-rapists out there. Like the saying goes “different strokes for different folks” or more fitting in this situation “different bums for different chums (who date rape people).” I just hope the freshmen know that this wasn’t always the situation.

While the story I’m about to tell may seem like a fallacy, you must believe every word I write; for I swear on the garbage can I came from that it’s the truth. It all began with a group of men with a single dream; that dream being: to get underage kids inebriated. So, they opened magical places where the “You must prove you’re 21” sign on the door was like a big inside joke amongst friends. No one cared how old or how young you were, how much class you lacked, or even if you were wearing pants; the only thing that mattered was you loosing the ability to walk by the time you left.

Then the unthinkable happened. In the past nothing could shatter these institutions of inebriation missions to intoxicate the local youth who came with intents to leave in stretchers. Police, health inspectors, not even Al-Qaeda could deter the savageness. Than the Liquor Authority, or as I refer to them the “Hatabators”, started cracking down. Probably tipped off by the hordes of Power Wheels and tricycles parked out front, they staked these places out and busted in like the Gestapo. Sadly, drunks sang to them like Bono with a bad case of genital warts, and thus the doors of these glorious pubs closed forever.

I’m really too lazy to write out a conclusion paragraph, so um send me E-Mail or I’ll eat your face. Rock on 80s VH1 Flashback style!

Verbal exfoliation is good for your soul

Tonight, with a marble notebook spread on a table in a Dunkin Doughnuts, I realized I should be keeping a blog for a strange array of reasons – all of which are vain, none of which are good. I sip French Vanilla coffee, stare out the enormous fishbowl windows, and watch the traffic move in waves of headlights and tailpipe exhaust, vanishing into the frost air.

“And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking,” wails Pink Floyd into the depths of my inner ear (thanks iPod headphones).

“You’re much too existential, Mr. Pink,” I think with a smug smile, and add, “Much too loud, as well.”

Actually, that’s a lie. Pink Floyd is not playing on my iPod. “Wordless Chorus” by My Morning Jacket has been played three consecutive times, and I anticipate it’s good for at least another three more. The line about “running to catch up with the sun” is a stilted ploy to contrast the opening image of writing, passing cars and ethereal clouds of exhaust. With Mr. Pink and his lyrical existentialism I hoped to suggest this blog will concern itself with capturing a web of somethings. Moments? Fleeing sentiments? The attention of a bored internet reader? (Hi, by the way.)

So I’m still waiting for these obnoxious high school kids to leave. They’re crowded like a knot around two tables pushed together with their football jerseys, acne, unrealistic aspirations, black North Face jackets, insecure babble, and communal sexual ambiguity. They’re making me very anxious. And the group is growing. The glass door snaps open, brining more in. Always in groups of odd numbers. Gaggles of threes and fives. Sometimes a hapless one, a lone nightwalker acquainted with the night. They pull up screeching chair, collecting like a tumor. None ever leave.

But, as for me, it’s either very late or very early. So I’m just going home. To hell with these kids.