What the Bible would look like if Jesus was born in 1980: Luke Edition

And there were skateboarders loitering outside of a Food Lion nearby, keeping watch out for the police. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they took out their cameras and took numerous pictures. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people," but one skater interrupted him. "We already heard about Jesus on the news," he said to the angel. "We were going to drive up there tomorrow. Thanks, though." (Luke 2: 8-12)

Every other weekend his parents went to the movies in town. When he was twelve years old, they went to watch 'The Last of the Mohicans', because they had read some great reviews. After they left to watch the film, while his parents were in their Toyota Camry, the boy Jesus stayed behind at home, but they were unaware of it. Thinking he was in their company, they traveled on for a few minutes. Then they looked in the rear-view mirror and saw that he was not in their presence. When they did not find him in their car, they went back to their house to look for him. After some time they found him in the town arcade, playing Mortal Kombat, listening to the cries of his enemies and totally ripping some faces. Everyone who saw him was amazed at his skill and hand-eye coordination. When his parents saw him, they were astonished. His mother said to him, "Son, why have you treated - did you just tear his spine out!? Move over." (Luke 2: 41-48)

While a large crowd of reporters was gathering and people were coming to Jesus from town after town, he told this parable: "A person sent out all of his tweets from his BlackBerry. As he was sending the tweets, some fell upon the ignorant; it was hated on, because they did not understand his sense of humor. Some fell upon deaf ears and blind eyes, as they were not logged in at the time. Still others will never read the tweets, because the man only had five followers and his popularity was choked out by the more popular users. Still other tweets fell onto his friends. It was read and yielded re-tweets a hundred times more than was sown." (Luke 8: 4-8)

"Or suppose a guido is selected to go to Jersey Shore for a season of filming. Will he not first sit down and consider whether he is willing to give up his life back home to live with a group of idiots? If he is not able, he will send a disappointed e-mail informing the producers that he cannot be on the show. In the same way, any of you who does not give up everything he has cannot be my disciple." (Luke 14: 31-33)

I Want Candy

Ah, beautiful autumn. Leaves have turned to warmer colors as the air has grown cooler, the pumpkin population is rising, and The Green looks like a quickly decaying corpse. Fall brings back so many great memories; I remember of jumping into and being engulfed by gargantuan piles of leaves and emerging screaming because bits of twig and foliage had latched onto my cornea like some sort of leafy lamprey. It's just a wonderful time of year.

I've always felt that everything is tastier in the fall. Think about it - a hot bowl of chili is so much more comforting just when the weather gets a bit nippy, turkey is never as delicious as on that fourth Thursday of November, and that Twix bar with a razor blade hidden inside of it is totally worth it on Halloween night. Heck, some of our editors here at the Collegian even eat some of the crispier leaves. Fall food is good food.

I can imagine the feast waiting for me when I return home for fall break: Hungry Jack mashed potatoes fresh out of the box; a nice TLT sandwich where the turkey is nice and lean, and the tomato is ripe; and a large, shimmering ham on which someone thought it would be a good idea to place pineapples (haven't we had enough of these yet?). And who doesn't love the autumnal desserts? Cranberry sauce, yams, pumpkin pie - okay, I actually hate those. But there's banana pudding, Oreo pie, and any of the various candies still leftover from Halloween!

That's why a few weeks ago when I swore off sugar for a month, I made the biggest mistake of the season imaginable. One day after I had been inspired by a friend to take on the self-imposed challenge, I was informed that Halloween was this month (look, my calender called it "All Hallow's Eve," okay?). And imagine my surprise when I found out that soft drinks have sugar in them! Not only had I banned myself from the biggest candy night of the year, but I had also eliminated my primary source of fluids.

The next night was Trustees' open dorm. To keep myself from being tempted by the sugary delicacies that would no doubt be offered to entice unwitting females into our rooms, I went to an '80s party at UK (well, that's my excuse anyway). Sporting only the shortest of electric blue shorts, I arrived to find myself bombarded by so many forbidden fruits: Snickers and Kit-Kats and gummi bears, oh my! I sighed and grabbed a bottle of water.

After an exhausting three-hour session of not dancing, our group went to good ole Steak 'n Shake. I stood in all of my indecent glory as we waited to be seated (you ever feel like everyone in the room is staring at your... you know?), and remembered the pact I had made with myself as we made it to our table. "Yes, could I have a banana strawberry side-by-side shake without all the ice cream and stuff? Thanks." The waitress didn't seem to understand my needs. "You mean, like, just a banana and some strawberries? Sorry, I don't think we can do that," she informed me. Darn it. I really wanted that shake. "Do you have a steak-shake or something? Like just a blended up hamburger? Ooh! And some fries, too!"

After being declined my perfectly reasonable request, I had to sit complacently and watch everyone else slowly drink their delicious, creamy nectar. No one even finished their entire milkshake! Neither my tears nor saliva could quench my thirst for sugar. Will I even be sane when I receive that sweet release on November 7th? Only time will tell. But the road to Candy Land thus far has been paved with sweat and will power, not chocolate and caramel. After all, nobody said it would be a piece of cake.

Dynasaur

By Taio Rex

I-I-I-I-I-I
I came to eat-eat-eat-eat
I smash the ground with both my feet-feet-feet-feet
I'm looking for some tasty meat-meat-meat-meat
Give me some space for my big teeth-teeth-teeth-teeth.
Yeah, yeah.

And I go on and on and on.
And I go on and on and on.
Yeah.

I throw my small arms in the air sometimes
Saying 'oh no, I'm just too slow.'
I want to chase them down and end their life
Saying 'ay-oh, now watch me go"
Cause we gon' smash this club
Like never before
We gon' tear it up
Like a dinosaur.
Cause I told you once
I won't say no more
We gon' tear it up
Like a dinosaur.

I came to chew-chew-chew-chew
Get out the way or I'll eat you too-too-too-too
And what this club is gonna do-do-do-do
Is get turned into a zoo-zoo-zoo-zoo.
Yeah, yeah.

And it comes closer, closer now.
And then the comet hits the ground.
Yeah.

I throw my small arms in the air sometimes
Saying 'ay-oh, where'd my friends go?'
I wanna celebrate but they all died
Saying 'oh no, I'm on my own.'
Cause we gon' smash this club
Like never before
We gon' tear it up
Like a dinosaur.
Cause I told you once
I won't say no more
We gon' tear it up
Like a dinosaur.

I'm gonna be the king like
I'm gonna rule the late Cretaceous
I'm gonna eat them all like
Cause everyone is so delicious
Cause I-I-I will eat it
And I-I-I, I just want to maul, I just want to maul.
I'm gonna put my hands in the air
Two fingers in the air
Put your hands in the air-air-air-air-air-air-air-air

I throw my small arms in the air sometimes
Saying 'ay-oh, so long ago'
I'm living in the land before time
Saying 'ay-ooh, soon I'll be coal.'
Cause we gon' smash this club
Like never before
We gon' tear it up
Like a dinosaur.
'Cause I told you once
I won't say no more
We gon' tear it up
Like a dinosaur.

CMT: Country Music Torture

Being low on blood is not a good thing (if you ever find yourself bleeding profusely from several orifices, I suggest you get that looked at). Because this vital fluid is inimitable and donated blood is a life saving necessity for millions, I give away my primo blood as frequently as I can. Just imagine, if you ever cut your arm off or something, the doctors could potentially be placing my blood in your body. That's a neat thought, isn't it? You would be, like, 3% cooler.

Anyway, I was at a blood drive a few months ago where I intended to give a double red blood cell donation, which basically just means the process would be twice as long as usual. I walked into the room, becoming aware that there was a large screen on which something was being projected, and began filling out a questionnaire - one of those designed to ensure that your blood is free of viruses and disease, that asks stuff like, "Have you ever had sex with a hypodermic needle?" I couldn't recall that I had, so I checked "No".

The next step was generally a painless prick of the finger to test the iron of my blood. However, this time, I think the poor woman misread the direction of "gently press against finger" as "stab violently into bone, bruising finger for three days." At least she tried to make up for it with a compliment: "Your iron looks really good, sweety." Uh, thanks?

"It's a little piece of paradise," I heard being sung. "Way out here in the woods." I reclined in what would be my seat for the next hour or so. "There's always something going on," I cringe. "Down in the trailerhood." I squirm in my seat. Yes, country music videos - the bane of my existence, the ever-present mucus in my ears, the spoiled milk in the refrigerator of the music industry - were being displayed mockingly on a jumbo-tron screen worthy of Jerry Jones.

I grab the nurse violently by the collar and scream, "I meant to check 'yes'! I did it! My blood is unclean! Get me out of here, now! Please!" I snap back to reality. "Okay, looks good," the woman informs me politely. She had pierced my arm with a pencil-width needle without me even noticing. I sat silently and prayed for the vampiric machine to suck the life out of me before I was subjected to any more songs about abusive husbands, cowboys, or tractors. "God, I don't ask you for much, but if I could just pass out for like half-an-hour..." My prayer went unanswered.

Feeling as if I were being water-boarded, I began to meditate and focus solely on the changing color of my forearm, to keep my mind off the pain: tan to red, red to purple, purple to - is this Reba!? "Come on, think of a good song... 'Once upon a time there was light in my life, but now there's only love in the dark. Nothing I can say; total eclipse of my achy breaky heart, I just don't think it'd understand.'" I emitted a scream of ultimate suffering. The poison had overtaken my subconscious.

Upon finishing the donation, I walked numbly over to the refreshment area to to get a snack (if you don't fill up pretty quickly, you tend to get a little fainty).  As I gazed at the abomination before me, I gobbled down Nutty Bars like Snooki would pickles. I felt utterly desensitized, like a young soldier who returns home utterly broken by the horrors of war. No longer was I disgusted. No longer was I even human; I was a zombie.

I stammered out the door and to my car. The engine revved and the radio clicked into action. "I don't know how I can do without - I just need you now." I didn't change the station - in fact, I hummed the tune. I pulled out of the parking lot with a smile on my face. "Ya know, I could get used to this." I then drove off a cliff and died. The end.

"Seventy-Three Dollar Ticket," by The White Vans

From their new single:

I'm gonna write 'em up, a $73 ticket would ya look at her.
She's gonna huff and puff, because I'm a parking space saboteur.
And if I catch you parking here again, I'll give you one 'cause I can.
Typing in your information in my big, white van.

And the phone calls coming from the space right next to me…

You know I see you parking
Every single one is going to get the fine
But no one knows about it
‘cause we don’t let you know or even post up signs

And you’re cursing to yourself at night
Because I don’t relent
Back and forth through the garage
I’m going to get you yet.

And I’ll sit here booting cars and my, how those boots do shine

I'm goin' to Tolly Ho, far from this jerk hole in his big white van.
Not gonna pay the toll, no more giving money to The Man.
And I'm screamin' and I'm punchin' and I'm kickin' because of this scam.
But I will get revenge one day, oh yes that is my plan.

And when that time does come he's gonna get hit with a frying pan.

Practice makes perfect

Dinner in the Café is so much fun. There's food, friends, tables... uh, pizza, ice cream, chairs - okay, so maybe there's not a whole lot of entertainment to be found; I mean it is just a cafeteria. One thing that has never ceased to interest me, however, is the slew of student athletes who pour through the doors on crutches, in wheel chairs, and with 40 oz. bags of ice wrapped around their head with gauze bandages. "What's wrong with your face!?" I ask them in horror. "Practice," they respond.

Practice? What sport are you practicing for? I was totally unaware we had a bear wrestling team or a shin-kicking squad (and if we do someone needs to get me a schedule for those games ASAP). I picture them filing into the health services building one by one: "And how, exactly, did you dislocate your eyeball?" "Well, I was practicing my breaststroke, and..." "And your spinal column broken in two? How did that happen?" "Coach had us do wind sprints." "Sever your brain stem?" "Stretching." Man, practice must be tough.

When I was an ignorant child, I had dreams that one day I would play football in college and then in the NFL and also be an NBA all-star on the side (I am white and 5'9", just to let you know how that turned out). I wanted to go to a school with a storied gridiron tradition and an over-the-top stadium filled to the brim with drunk, overweight men that know who Lee Corso is. Even still, I often find myself wishing that Asbury had a football team to cheer on in big games, and to have somebody to root for that's not the stinkin' Cats. However, I imagine that if we did have one all of its players would have died back in Spring training. I am so glad I quickly abandoned that hope.

At this younger time in my life, I played on the line for my middle school football team. Weighing about as much as a small tractor (but only half as fast), I pretty easily defended the quarterback from the onslaught of pre-pubescent, Superman-undies-wearing defenders; but, boy, did I get banged up. I would come into school the next day bruised worse than my ego on report-card day (no wonder those social workers kept showing up at my house). Though, somehow, in my nine years of playing football I never once broke a bone, was concussed, or needed to fasten a ridiculously large bag of ice to my crotch.

Has anything in the history of Asbury athletics been more detrimental to signing prospective students than the terror of seeing the disemboweled, dismembered, and disfigured bodies of their future teammates scattered about the campus? From the looks of it, signing an athletic scholarship is tantamount to enlisting in the Marines. "The few. The proud. The martyrs." I won't even play intramural sports for fear of being killed; I would be the first person to ever be decapitated in a game of ultimate Frisbee.

Allen Iverson - one of the greatest small players in the history of basketball - in a moment of brilliance once said of the triviality of practice, "We're talking about practice, man. We're talking about practice. We're talking about practice. We're not talking about the game. We're talking about practice." So, there you go - not only is practice wholly unnecessary to become a superstar athlete, it will also get you KILLED. And you know what they say: "You can't be the sixth man if you're six feet under."

T.A.G. Masquerade: I Came to Dance

Transition and guidance. That's what our beloved T.A.G. leaders are here for. These hapless sophomores are trained for months in the fine art of baby-sitting us ignorant freshman. The noble students who take on this challenge are essentially the welcoming committee; they acquaint us with the rules, the campus, and each other... also, the art of the masquerade.

Our T.A.G. leaders: talk about blind leading the blind

Yes, after six danceless weeks, we were able to cut loose and unleash our inner dancing queen (interpret that however you will). Some groups performed skits, some gave dramatic interpretations of children's books, others made short videos mocking the school's occasionally strict guidelines. However, we danced. We sang. We conquered.

Gabe belting out the chorus as the rest of us do... that

Our group sang a parody of "What is Love?" (entitled "What is T.A.G.?", if you hadn't guessed) much to the surprise - and, in the case of my shorts, disgust - of the audience. As I mentioned, we won first place; we get Subway to ourselves for an entire evening and get to play games, eat free food, and don our gay apparel one last time within its hallowed walls. Mmm, meatball mozzarella.

Putting a crick in our necks one head bob at a time

Thanks to the dedication, creativity, and wardrobe of the entire team (and especially Alex and Brittainy, our poor, poor leaders), we snatched the blue ribbon away from thirteen other groups made up of our fellow freshmen. And most of us got to do it without bringing shame to our entire family, too!

Thriller in the Griller

If you want to see our dance in all of its humiliating glory, go here. Or don't - but just know you're missing out! Also check out the opening ceremony, which featured not one - but two! - drag queens and set the androgynous tone for the rest of the evening. Want to find out who the first losers were? That would be T.A.G. group #2 in their hilarious skit, which won them second place (and look, another guy in a dress). Third place went to this well-choreographed send-up to 'Glee' by my roommate's group.

Feels good, man

T.A.G. masquerade has certainly been the highlight of my brief college career, and - maybe, just maybe - I can be a part of it next year, too. But next time, I'll be leading the pack and I won't be the one wearing the dress-code-shattering clothing.

Not pictured: dignity

Probably.

                                                                                                                                                                   

                                                                                                                                         This post brought you by