Confession

This summer, I clogged the Gold Center toilet. It made much of the first floor of the building smell like sewage. I'm sorry.

The truth is, I owe a lot to that toilet. Freshman year, when my bathroom was so disgusting that it won Jess and Amelia's coveted Stink Box award, I frequently would go to this toilet to poop, because a public restroom was preferable to the one at home.

Many apologies to the custodians.

Strike Down Evil

In bowling class, Preston and I, also known as Team Boner Patrol, were up against this asshole kid. As Preston says, the kid is such a douche that he wants to clean his vagina with him, even though his gynecologist warns against it. The kid is extremely competitive, which is fine in some situations, but, come on, we're bowling. While Preston and I high-five when we stay out of the gutter, he acts like he's about to commit suicide each time one pin is left standing. He has a funny haircut, the kind you'd expect to see at the malt shoppe in the 50's; nowadays, only Lyle Lovett maintains that crop. Normally, I ignore him, but today he crossed the line, and I don't mean in the way that earns you a foot fault.

Apparently, he hooked up with some "hot" freshman this weekend and asked a mutual friend "how slutty" she is. Since the friend did not know, he asked him to investigate for him and find out whether she's just kinda slutty or "way slutty," because he's not going to be interested in her anymore if she's way slutty. Frankly, I think it says a lot if you automatically assume that someone who hooks up with you is a slut.

During this exchange, Preston and I exchanged glances and continued bowling as if we weren't competing against an asshat. Then said asshat proceeded to moan about the sexual harassment email that got sent out to students at his school. Evidently, you can't whistle at a woman, compliment her body parts, or ask her on a date more than once. He concludes, "Fortunately, that's just at school and not the real world!" I don't know what real world I'm missing out on, but I highly doubt whistling is going to earn him a date, especially not on the fourth time he's asking.

Soon, the whole class, minus team Boner Patrol, was ranting about women. They complain too much! Women need to get over themselves! Someone needs to just go to a women's class and ask what their problem is! Even the teacher, who we call "Professor Bowling" got in on the locker room conversation. It's lame, chauvinistic conversations like this that always turned me off of organized sports in the past, and now they're ruining bowling, too!

As much as everyone agreed they hated women, they still manage to objectify them. Avril Lavigne? "Hot." Kelly Clarkson? "Hot." Jessica Simpson? "So hot." "Don't you think?" the asshat asked me. "And dumb," I said. "Huh?" he asks. "She's dumb," I said. He gives me a funny look that indicates he's thinking the word "fag" in his head. Whatever, I'm not the one so obsessed with bowling I'd shove a pin up my ass. It doesn't matter, though, because Boner Patrol beat his team. I wouldn't have even noticed, but he made such a big deal out of losing that it felt like a huge victory for feminists or just everyone that's not an utter asshole.

"I can't believe we let you beat us last time," says the asshat. "It won't happen again, you can write it down."

"Okay," I respond blankly. "I'm going to go write that down."

Previously, I cheered for everyone just to do well. Now he made it personal, so I was determined to beat him. With this mentality, I psyched myself out and ruined my streak of eight spares (for which Preston nicknamed me Tire) and inevitably lost the match. Alas, next week, Boner will rise again, better prepared to avenge these wrongs!

Reader Survey

Recently, out of curiosity, I added a hit counter to this page. A surprising number of people are actually reading it, most of whom don't acknowledge it to me, which is fine, because I also wouldn't be forthright about it. The point is, I know you're out there.

Anyway, because I aim to please, I'd like to conduct my first reader survey. Feel free to remain anonymous and answer whatever questions strike your fancy.

1. Which of the following would you like to see more of on this blog?

a) Stories about my sibling, Alison
b) Incest (also possibly about Alison)
c) Racial slurs
d) Poop
e) Gay birds
f) Meth
g) Other (please specify)

2. How many adjectives would you like to see used in any given post?

3. Fill in the blank: Shoelace : Melissa Joan Hart :: __________ : Seabiscuit

4. Even though I keep this blog fairly gossip-free, which mutual friends of ours do you keep coming back to see if I've written any incriminating shit about them?

5. Kevin interpretive dancing: Is the blogger world ready?

6. Critique this blog... in haiku form.

Anatomy 101

I just saw my professor having sex.

In class today, the professor warned us that his film that he would be screening tonight would depict him in a way we weren’t accustomed to seeing, and to keep in mind that he is an artist and this video is art. With that warning, I immediately knew we’d be watching him in a graphic situation since this “Media and Sexuality” class has quickly become “Let’s Watch Gay Porn.”

The anticipation of this evening was nerve wracking. Amelia noted that she gets nervous just from having to read a book her professor wrote. Still, this screening was not one to be missed.

“It’s a chance to see him in a different element. How many students have the opportunity to see their professor in a porn?” I asked.

“My second grade teacher came to my birthday party once,” Lindsay offered. Yeah, that’s practically the same thing. As it turns out, Lindsay has the same professor as her advisor, so I convinced her to come out of morbid curiosity. Because I brought her, I felt the extra pressure of having subjected someone else to this visual madness. When we inevitably marry, however, it will make a great first date story.

Truthfully, I don’t have much to say about the video itself. Diplomatically, it was unique, personal, graphic, and interesting. Bluntly, it was bizarre. My parents might not be happy to know they’re paying thousands of dollars for me to see something I could rent for a few bucks from the behind-the-curtain section at the local video store, though.

A Defetus Question

Hypothetical situation, here:

Oops, you're pregnant. (Not again!) You go to the abortion clinic for some groceries, some pleasant conversation, and, heck, to get an abortion. As you prepare yourself for the procedure, the doctor comes in and, doing an Arnold Schwarzenegger impression, refers to emself as "The Terminator."

The Question: Would you let this individual proceed with the procedure?

Highlight for the correct answer below:
It's a hypothetical, so there is no correct answer. But of course you would, baby killer!

It's Going Swimmingly

I'm hot. Sweaty to be precise. Returning to my apartment by bike is a chore, legitimate exercise. If I wanted a work out, I'd join the football team or get off the couch or something. Anyway, because I'm drenched, I decide to take a two minute dip in the pool. I have no intention of swimming (again, exercise), rather this plan is purely for cooling measures.

There's a family in the adjacent hot tub. A girl of about five is staring at me as I jump in the pool. Her hairy father announces, "Look, it's a boy for you." I hate him. Not because he's hairy, but because apparently he thinks I'm deaf. My middle finger does not signify that I know sign language, sir. He's talking about me loudly from no more than ten feet away. "Go see if he likes you," he encourages his child. Excuse me, but she's at least a decade and a half younger than me, of course I'm interested in her, especially in that age-appropriate bikini he's dressed her in. I've never understood why parents encourage their young children's crushes on older people of the opposite sex: is it an effort to nourish heterosexuality or to sadistically watch the inevitable heartbreak?

Now I face a dilemma: if I hop out now, as originally planned, they'll think they scared me away, and if I don't, I could wind up with a child bride, and ideally, a few cows as dowry. I opt to stay longer, not for the cows, but to show them that they can talk about me all they want - it won't make me uncomfortable. Except that I am uncomfortable, mainly because I'm having to exercise in this pool. I don't have the stamina for her, I mean, this, so I get out and leave.

As I exit, the father says, "Oh no, honey, you scared him away." I take it back. I do hate him because he's hairy. Also, I think maybe I will start dating his daughter: that'll show him.

A Wake Up Call

It's 12:24. Crap, I have to run to the cafeteria or I'll miss brunch. I fling myself from bed, yawning. I shuffle to brunch, still in yesterday's outfit, yawning. I greet my friends, already in the dining hall, still yawning.

Joan greets me back. "Kevin, we were just planning how we're going to put my Mom in a home and kill your grandparents."

My mouth falls open. This time, though, it's not a yawn.

Laughter at My Expense

Tonight I went to a comedy show for charity and Mike wanted to sit in the front row. At Sea World, if you sit in the front row, you will get wet; at comedy shows, if you sit in the front row, you will get insulted.

Of the nine comedians to perform, eight singled me out at some point during their routine. Among the things I was identified for: being cute, liking foreskin, dating my cousin, being high, masturbating with my roommate, frequenting Asian massage parlors, not getting laid, and looking thirteen.

Since I have a good sense of humor, and must begrudgingly admit that all of those comments are true, I still had a good time. I loudly applauded when three of my favorite topics were referenced: incest, meth, and the 99 Cent store. These cheers were met with stares from the crowd, but I didn't mind those at all: I like to embarrass myself on my own terms.

Comedy shows are a unique experience. Where else are racial stereotypes not only accepted but cheered for? Where else can you see a dwarf smash a microphone? How about someone putting a hand down her pants and having a conversation with her vagina?

If you answered my family reunion, you are correct.

Where's Waldo?

Maybe I'm naive, but does Waldo really need to be looked after? Everyone's always out there trying to find him, but he seems to do all right for himself. He frequently travels to exotic locales, is well read, has a unique sense of style, and maintains a friendship with a wizard. Already, he's more successful than me.

He explores; it is others, not Waldo, who are lost. Those who search for Waldo are really just searching for themselves. Let Waldo go. Just let Waldo go.

Tender Emotions

Watching the movie Boys Don't Cry is intense. After seeing graphic portrayals of rape and murder, I head toward lunch, muttering to Lacey about how there's no way I'm going to be able to eat anything. With my head full of thoughts, looking at the cafeteria food makes me even queasier until... OH MY GOSH! CHICKEN TENDERS! Suddenly, my appetite returns, and I shovel five onto my plate, finishing one before I reach my seat. Though Lacey continues to grumble (about the film), my stomach does not, as I am stuffing it with chicken goodness. I get up for seconds, grabbing four more, deciding that nothing in the world can possibly be that bad if you have chicken tenders. Seriously, they should serve this shit at funerals.

Hay, Don't Eat That

Having a bicycle is awesome, except in cases of thunderstorms. Riding on my way to lunch, I became drenched by the rain and covered in spots of mud that flew up at me as my tires rotated. Already I looked like a disaster, having chosen to wear my American flag pajama pants, which I also call my “fuck-it” pants. That’s not meant as a political statement, rather it’s just my term for pants I wear when it’s gloomy and I especially don’t care what I look like. Then again, by showing up in patriotic apparel that’s soaking wet, covered in dirt, and features a big tear down the leg, I can’t imagine anyone would not take it as an indictment of my country.

At the cafeteria, a strange display of produce inexplicably appeared in the center of the floor. Intrigued by the attractive arrangement of crates, students tried to take the lush peaches, cauliflower, and the like, but were stopped by guards who said the food was not for taking. Apparently, fruits and vegetables are like strippers: you can look, but you can’t touch. Teases! According to the guards, the stand was supposed to serve as an announcement that more organic produce is being served in the cafeteria. Well, technically, they weren’t serving it today, but sometime in the future, we hope. For crying out loud, it’s a cafeteria, not a museum; people were coming to eat the food, not enjoy its aesthetic values.

Bails of hay sat alongside the exhibit. RJ and Amelia suggested I ask if the hay was off-limits for taking as well. Rather than asking, I just took a piece of straw and put it in my mouth, confounding the guards. Suddenly, I was face to face with the dining hall manager, who gave the oddest look to me, this hick in wet, dirty clothes.

Returning to the cafeteria an hour later, I was somewhat apprehensive because some of the employees would surely recognize me as the “kid who eats hay.” Much to my embarrassment, they had already addressed that problem. Though the display was still there, the hay had been removed. Seems like we’re not allowed to eat that either.

Truck You, Kid!

Michael Michael's speech went well at the ground breaking ceremony yesterday. I stood in the back and watched proudly as he delivered a speech that sagely excluded all of my input. The whole event was lovely: Even the cranes and bulldozers were strategically positioned in the backdrop in an aesthetically-pleasing manner; I can only imagine whose job it was to make the construction site look prettier.

Because it's me, I still have a gripe: kids. Kids ruin everything: diapers, quiet movie theater experiences, and otherwise blissful marriages. Now I'm not saying that I blame two-year-olds for not caring that our new dorms will be more eco-friendly than on any other campus in the country, but I do blame their parents for thinking they'd be well-behaved enough to attend. If they can't afford a babysitter, that's why people own cages.

Okay, truthfully, none of the kids were that poorly behaved; my animosity stems from embittered jealousy. While we get emails reminding us we are not allowed in the construction area and will face certain death if we do, apparently it's just "cute" if a kid does the same. One kid kept fleeing from his parent and going through the gate to play. There's nothing I wanted more than to follow suit, but you know if I did, someone would yell and everyone would think I'm crazy. I just want to play in the dirt! And unlike a certain toddler, I'd be more responsible and not eat the dirt. Well, not as much, anyway. Then the kid starts climbing on the bulldozer, and it looks legitimately dangerous, but no one cares, they just snap photographs and declare "adorable," and you just know it'll be in the newspaper captioned "Future Pitzer Student Helps with the New Dorms," while there will be no mention of me, the rule-abiding legitimate student who desperately wants to play on the big truck, too, but he never gets to have any fun anymore because society tells him he's too old. Harumph.

Twice As Fun As a Unicycle

I have a new pair of wheels. Every semester, Pitzer raffles off bicycles on loan, and after five unsuccessful tries in the past three years, I am the proud temporary owner of a used bike.

What's funny is that at The Price Is Right, I didn't even flinch when some other "Kevin" was told to come on down, but I trembled with excitement just from hearing the "K" sound when "Katherine" was called for a bike, because, truthfully, the bike meant so much more to me than a crystal chandelier. Once my name was called for real, I hooted, hollered, and got weak at the knees. Hopefully, those knees will be strengthened from my intense bike riding.

Quick, which bike do I choose? This one has flames painted on it, but I need gears since I have a hilly ride. This one doesn't have a kickstand. This one looks like it might mangle my testicles if I go over a bump. This one is red, which used to be my favorite color when I was younger and stupider, but it lacks a cushiony seat to provide the support I need should I accidentally swallow a staple again. This one is green and I have no snippy comment to make about it. Green it is!

Speech! Speech!

Tonight I'm helping Michael Michael with his speech for tomorrow's ground breaking ceremony. And by helping, I really mean distracting. That's not to say none of my ideas are constructive, (see, that's a pun on the construction project in play), but he seems to think my material might be too controversial. I'll readily admit that my golden line "this erecting is giving me an erection" might be risky, but you have to make yourself vulnerable to the audience in order to win them over. Come on - this is a three minute speech by the student body president at a small liberal arts college's PR photo opportunity, so if it's not as memorable as "I have a dream" or "Four score and twenty years ago," you're going to have a lot of disappointed people.

Starting the speech is difficult; we debate the merits of beginning with "Good afternoon, everyone" and "How y'all feeling?" My compromise is to say, "Good afternoon, everyone" and follow it by an awkward pause before finally saying angrily, "I said, 'How y'all feeling?'" to make everyone think they aren't paying attention. Gotta keep 'em on their toes, you know?

Since the administration stressed he must acknowledge the donors in this speech, we develop an audience participation section that will ask each of the rich families "which one wants these new dorms the most?" The old stiffs that holla back the loudest, as judged by the applause-o-meter, will have the building named after them be the place where all the cool kids want to live. And it's not just any applause-o-meter: Michael Michael will lift his shirt according to the amount of volume each donor produces, so if anyone wants to see his nipples, they're gonna have to be loud.

This speech'll be awesome.

Are You There, God? It's Me, Kevin

I still have yet to menstruate.

Get a Room!... at the Nursing Home

Don't confide in me that you're dating someone eight years older unless you're prepared to face my wrath. Having learned this tidbit about someone, I spent a good deal of a party tonight using every opportunity I had to take a swipe at her, my generation's Anna Nicole Smith, relationship with an elderly guy. While sitting on the couch, I told her it must be nice to sit on furniture not covered in plastic. Next, we discussed the benefits of receiving senior citizen discounts on dates. When the music picked up and dancing began, I inquired whether her boyfriend taught her how to do the Charleston. She hadn't learned yet, but she did bust some newer moves when a song by M.I.A came on.

"Your man's so old, he thinks M.I.A. stands for Missing in Action."
"Heeee! I love it. That's my number two favorite."
"Only number two? What's number one?"
"I don't know."
"You just have number two on the brain, 'cause your old man's incontinent!"
"Ahh! See that's it, that's number one!"

At least she's enjoying my teasing. Then again, she also enjoys old man wrinkles, so what does that say about her taste?

Mongolian Cow Sour Yogurt Super Girl Contest

There's this show in China that's just like "American Idol," but cooler. How so? Well, for one, it's called "Mongolian Cow Sour Yogurt Super Girl Contest," which is the most beautiful mouthful since chocolate chip cookie dough on a spoon.

To say the show is popular is an understatement. Last week, the finale was watched by 400 million people, which if my math is correct, means that 6% of the world population tuned in. Can you imagine what you could accomplish if you had that kind of audience at your disposal? If given the opportunity, I'd use my time to lecture about social agendas important to me like world peace, human rights, and the beauty of incest. And to think, all this show does is feature twenty-something-year-old females that sing and hawk some mysterious dairy product. Although the winner did sing "Zombie" by the Cranberries, which is almost as wonderful as incest. Almost.

Apparently, the Chinese government is a bit concerned because this show ushered in the country's first large-scale exercise in voting, albeit via text messaging. How cool would it be if something known as "Mongolian Cow Sour Yogurt Super Girl Contest" was responsible for bringing democracy to China? Yes: almost as cool as incest. Democracy in the name of Sour Yogurt!

Celine Dion - an American Hero

Celine Dion - an American Hero
By Kevin
U.S. History Report

Celine Dion is a good singer. She can sing loud. She does many notes. Also, Celine Dion had a rough life. She was the youngest of 14 kids. She was malnerished. She grew up in Canada. Because of these misforchins, when she was 12 her Mom and Dad had to either sell her into slavory or marry her to a 70 year old man. She chose the grandpa husband. Everyday she had to either practise singing or do phelachio on the old man penis. Soon she was the greatest singer in the world. She lives in Las Vegas. Also she got pregnant by a senior citicen. That is why Celine Dion is my American hero. As you can see, Celine Dion is my American hero for all these reasons and more.

Miss Mary Mack

Last night, we reminisced about dumb songs we used to sing as kids. "When you're sitting in a Chevy/And you're feeling something heavy/Diarrhea!" "Joy to the world/The teacher's dead/I barbecued her head." Bathroom humor can be expected; hella, I still sing about poop. Likewise, songs about killing our nation's educators are certainly not a positive thing, but given how violence pervades our media and at that age homework, even though it consisted of little more than connecting the dots to create the Mayflower, seemed like torture, it's not all that surprising . What appalled me was the racism. Jess recalled a song about a naked dark-skinned man chasing kids. We also remembered "Me Chinese/Me play joke/Me pour pee pee in your Coke" and "Chinese [pull eyelids upwards]/Japanese [pull eyelids downwards]/Dirty knees [an oral sex reference, perhaps?]/Look at these [gesture towards nonexistent, prepubescent breasts.]"

It's amazing how quickly these ditties rolled off my tongue and how I don't remember the obvious racism ever being an issue when I was young. I remember from a young age knowing that "racism is bad," but somehow I didn't connect these songs as having such content. My second family is Chinese and I don't recall that ever being an issue to me. I accepted many a soda from them without worrying about urine contamination, that's for sure. If anything, they had to worry about me, what with my propensity to forego a toilet for a tree outdoors or my sibling who would put off tinkling as long as possible until she inevitably laughed and wet herself while sitting on the couch. Come to think of it, there should really be songs about "dumb Irish kids" who do stuff like that.

A Meth-od to My Madness

Tonight was the second time I heard a reference to a freshman named "Meth Jeff." In less than two weeks, this kid has earned himself a bitching nickname; it reminds me how uninvolved I was during my first year at school: it wasn't until sophomore year that I earned the monicker "Cockslap Kevin." But Meth Jeff, that's a name to hang your hat on. And do meth with. Meth Jeff! Some people just have it... and by it, I mean meth.

According to Lacey, meth is also known as "Tina." Well, it was at some lame gay bar (sounds like an oxymoron to me) she went to in West Hollywood. Apparently, homosexuals (or "the gays" as someone in my class referred to them as) named it after icon Tina Turner. So Tina is just gay meth; if you do Tina and are straight, you might as well be taking a placebo. I don't know whether Meth Jeff has been to this particular bar, but I presume not because then he'd be called Tina Jeff and have two first names like Tiffany-Amber Thiessen, who also loves meth. Actually, that's just hearsay, but I do know for a fact that her friend Jesse Spano was addicted to caffeine pills.

Anyway, Meth Jeff's name inspired us to add to Jessica's time-tested "Hand Job Jess." "Hand Job Junky Jess" has a nicer ring to it, not to mention that it includes a mission statement of sorts and 50% more alliteration. Meth Jeff wishes he had a name as cool as that. He also wishes he were cool enough to support his drug habit with sexual favors.

Not only did Jess give up her straight-edge status for meth, she's recently, after a life of refusing to swear, began to say the word "hell" -- gone are the days of H-E-double hockey sticks. I decided that with this transition, she should adopt the slang term "hella" into her vocabulary, which is funny because even the bleachiest blonde Californian has now stopped saying "hella." Suddenly, Jess is "hella hungry" and has "hella reading to do." And if you withhold on your meth payment, she'll tell you to "go to hella."

Cruel to Be Kind

Eavesdropping on the table next to mine at dinner, I heard a socially awkward person come to a table full of people she was probably only acquaintances with (as evidenced by the "how was your summer" questions) and proceed to list all of the many social events (parties, concerts, movies) she had attended in the past few weeks, as well as those she intended to attend in the near future. Afterwards, the listeners feigned interest with "wows," though they were clearly just annoyed by her bragging and awkward way of making conversation.

Once the person left, I waited to hear the snippy comments that would follow. To my astonishment, not one person at the table made a single comment, let alone tear her a new one. Do other people really have that kind of self-restraint? My urge to badmouth that individual was so strong I wanted to turn to the table and ridicule her for them.

Sigh. Clearly, something was wrong with them.

Long and Hard

After borrowing Mike's skateboard, Ted tells Preston, "I'm not used to short ones." Quickly picking up on the phallic allusion, they exchange "Yeah, I'm used to long ones!" and "I like mine long and hard!" and the like back and forth. Jumping in, I add, "And black!" Uproarious laughter turns to nervous chuckling.

Too far? Yeah, I get that a lot.

Katrina and the Wave of Positive Thinking

While everyone is upset about Hurricane Katrina, I can think of one positive thing that came from this storm. Before the hurricane hit, I was watching CNN. A news reporter was standing on a posh commercial neighborhood explaining that wind gusts were already picking up. Almost on cue, a naked mannequin standing outside a store in the distance blew over and onto its back. As the reporter continued to talk, a teenager proceeded to feel up the mannequin's breasts for the camera's benefit. Because I'm immature, I laughed -- a lot.

And look! US Weekly also came up with something positive:

Pitzer: No TA's But Plenty of T&A!

Currently, my college is undergoing massive construction. Being a poorer school, it’s a pretty big deal that we’ve scraped together the funds to finance this overhaul. To display pride in its project, the school has decided to use a 24-hour live webcam to show its progress.

The whole thing is a bad idea. I’m not sure who thought this camera thing was worth including in the budget, and I’m certainly not sure who actually spends the time watching large trucks move dirt in real time. That’s not why it’s a bad idea, though; it’s a bad idea because the webcam prominently features a shot of the swimming pool. Anyone who uses the school’s swimming pool is now subject to being seen on the internet. Yesterday, out of morbid curiosity I logged on twice. The first time, I saw a bikini-clad student floating on her back. The second time, I watched a lifeguard strut around the perimeter of the pool, finally taking his shirt off in what might as well have been a strip tease fashion, before doing laps.

Maybe I'm wrong, but I believe Pitzer College is the only school crazy enough to broadcast unwitting half-naked teens and young twenty-somethings for the perverts of the world to see. Why subscribe to the Barely Legal Webcam when Pitzer offers it for free? I’m picturing several skuzzy millionaires sitting at their computers watching the “construction” cam all day with their hands down their pants -- that's probably why this entire project got funded in the first place.

Writing for Dummies

Reading a text book tonight, I become enraged. The crap I’m reading is the most trite bullshit ever to be printed about “Rules of Writing;” each one of the “101 unconventional lessons” contained within are absolute rubbish, ranging from ideas that are obvious, pretentious, or flat-out wrong. Deciding to make the assignment fun in my own way, I fill the margins with my witty criticisms that include “Fuck that!” and “I want to poop in your head.”

On the eleventh page, I read the following gem:

If there’s one question successful writers get asked at virtually every public event they attend, it’s “Where do you get your ideas?” –as if they could tell you, “Oh, yeah, there’s this great little shop on the corner of Lexington and Twenty-Third. But go early, because the fresh ideas are gone by ten. Would that there were such a shop. The line would be around the block.

Not only is this snippet not funny, but I’ve heard it said before – by my professor in class last week! Did my professor plagiarize? Glancing at the cover, I discover that no plagiary occurred: my professor wrote this book.

Great. I had been looking forward to openly trashing this book in class tomorrow. Now what can I expect to learn from a person who suggests the key to good writing is to “stop reading?” Furthermore, what poor form for this imbecile to assign his own paperback, the most unhelpful book since How to Draw Stick Figures; I’m certain his students account for his only sales.

Tomorrow, I’m going to try to get a refund for this book at the bookstore, which may be difficult considering that I bought it new and it now features a giant drawing of me decapitating my professor on the inside cover.

Come on Down!

I went to The Price Is Right today. The show is for crazies. To get your spot on the show, you have to line up by 3 am, thus guaranteeing that the sane do not even bother to show up.

At the front of the line was Ben, who showed up at 7:30 the night before. It was Ben’s seventh time doing this, and this time was going to be his big chance! But Ben will never be chosen. You see, he’s ill in the head. They screen people ahead of time, and it’s not difficult to determine that he’s deranged. He kept demanding an $80 fee from us for reasons we couldn’t determine.

There were many young women wearing hoochie shirts with messages to Bob on them. Only old women proved to be more distasteful, as one group wore pink shirts declaring, “Mom’s with Rod, I’m with Bob.” (Rod Roddy was the sequenced announcer who recently passed away from being too flamboyant.)

In line, we met a guy with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome who explained that he’s already been on TV before for some medical segment on his condition on the news. His friend from church had some eye disfigurement going on, but was excited to sit in the front row because he came with his crippled grandmother. Unsurprisingly, all three were ultimately seated in the back row.

People who have won the show before are ineligible to play again, but seem to show up anyway. One woman previously won a skateboard package, and decided this made her a “Price Is Right” expert, so she gave advice to other wannabe-contests on the ins and outs while bragging excessively. She was too fat to even ride a skateboard. Another previous winner, some guy still disturbed after being in Iraq, seemed to get his sole validation in life from sharing that he won a living room set.

You’d think with an audience full of these people, we’d have an easy time getting chosen as contestants. Alas, “The Price Is Right” rewards the wrong people in life. The people they pick are the same you meet every day that are just so damn perky you want to slap them across their smiling faces. The people who randomly scream words during normal conversation. The people who will jump with the same enthusiasm for a box of snack cakes as they would a car. The people who want to appear on TV to boost their DOA acting career. The people who claim they not only want to act, but direct!

After making everyone stay awake in line for nearly twelve hours by the time the taping starts, the people who can still maintain this level of perkiness are clearly on speed. Or retarded. And I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say a good twenty percent of people in line had some form of mild retardation. For one long night/morning, I was one of them.

Saturday Night Quote

"Screw condoms. Pre-teens are the new contraceptive.” - Allison

How Did I Eat That?

Yesterday, my asshole was feeling raw, for which I had no explanation. In time, I had to poop, where upon I discovered the problem: I had passed a staple. When the poop landed in the toilet, a small piece containing the staple broke apart from the larger poop mass, revealing it to me in an intentional manner, as if it were a sign from god announcing, “Hey, dumby, you digested a staple.”

I don’t know when I swallowed a staple or how it went unnoticed, especially since I can’t even swallow pills. In elementary school we made fun of the Down’s syndrome kids who’d eat paste in art class, but at least they weren’t dumb enough to snack on something sharp that undoubtedly tore up my innards while passing through my body.

While the problem was now understood, it was not yet solved, as my hole still hurt. Alice offered up her prescription butt medicine that we will agree not to make fun of her for having since she came to my aid. It was a steroid gel that needed to be inserted into my hole and squirted.

Being afraid, I asked Raumene for help. He put a condom over his hand for protection, and went about ramming that thing up my butt. It was an awkward sensation; I have the weirdest life ever.

The only problem is that the steroid gel didn’t want to stay in there. When I pooped shortly after, it emptied out, so I had to refill. Again, ahhhh. An hour after that, I farted: those boxers needed to be washed. Let’s try this one more… eeeeehhhhh… time.

This morning I woke up feeling fine; the steroids worked. Also, you wouldn’t believe the things I’m able to clench between my cheeks: I now have the strongest ass in town.

Euphemisms Should Buy the Farm

Not all euphemisms are better than their counterparts. How does “choking the chicken” create a better mental image than “masturbating?” All it does is make me think about animal cruelty and contemplate becoming a vegetarian in addition to picturing masturbation.

Growing up in my house, you couldn’t say “fart.” Mind you, you could fart all day long (thanks, Dad,) but saying the word was out of the question. Instead, it was referred to as a “diaper burp,” which is disturbing in so many ways. Besides, by the time we were using the term, we were out of diapers and on to soiling our Days-of-the-Week underwear.

At dinner, Katie, in a very serious manner, posed a question to those at the table: “Does anyone ever get creepy in the butthole?”

There’s a lot of nervous laughter as no expected the conversation to arrive at that topic, at least not so suddenly. It takes a while to discover she’s actually referring to some sensation she gets when she gets scared and a nerve travels down her back to her butthole. “Creepy in the butthole” is just a term she coined to describe this phenomenon.

Naturally, I was embarrassed when I had to retract my admission of having gotten creepy in the butthole.

Jamaican Me Uncomfortable

Tonight, I attended a lecture by Jamaica Kincaid. Tickets were five dollars at the door, but free if you stole them. Yeah, I stole tickets to a lecture, but it was out of principle: I feel that everyone should be entitled to a free education. And cable. And music downloads. Hey, at least I’m not one of those douches stealing food from Walmart in New Orleans.

Kincaid was a wreck: she fell at the podium, couldn’t complete a thought, and complained about hearing herself echo over the sound system nearly every two minutes. Everyone in the audience was uncomfortable because she was clearly bombing on stage; a couple of times I legitimately winced at the awkwardness. I’m glad I didn’t pay for the ticket; I think the only people who must willingly do so are the same people who go to NASCAR races for the crashes. But we already knew that Jamaica Kincaid and NASCAR appeal to the same audience.

Damn, is she a great writer though; writers are rarely verbally articulate – or at least that’s what I try to tell myself when I tend to foul up everything I say. During the Q&A session, people threw her pity softballs. “Do you have children?” for example, is not typically what you’d ask of an intellectual if given the opportunity, unless you’re senile. When asked how her life experiences influence her writing, she said she had nothing to say on the subject. Jigga? I wonder what she thought she was brought to speak about. That’s a rhetorical question (actually, a rhetorical sentence, as that clause ends with a period,) because I found out after the last question was asked. “You like gardening: can you describe how that relates to your dead mother and colonial imperialism?” The question was out of left field and I snickered wondering how she’d handle that one, but to my surprise, she was finally in her comfort zone and able to string sentences together, and proceeded to, for twenty minutes, describe her favorite plants and their relationships with colonial settlements. She did leave her dead mother out of it, though, much to the disappointment of Jeff Gordon fans everywhere.