The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum is a quaint, abandoned sanatorium nestled in the quiet town of Weston, West Virginia. Among its many esteemed former guests are Marilyn Manson and yours truly! That's right, for Halloween weekend I ventured with three fellow Asburians to meet some ghosts at the mother of all loony bins.
We arrived in the afternoon to the sight of the gargantuan fortress towering over a dead courtyard. The structure, which conveniently rests upon exactly 666 acres of land, seemed at first very intimidating. Its menacing Gothic architecture complemented the decaying foliage, piercing wind and overcast sky. Who knew what secrets this labyrinth held, how many poor souls took their last breath in this tomb. And then I saw the parade of kids dressed up as aliens, princesses and their favorite Jersey Shore characters, and it made it kind of hard to take seriously—there was also a Philly cheesesteak stand set up right in front of the entrance. What happened to the good old days when ghosts haunted the crap out of people who made light of their death?
Disappointingly, after perusing the lobby of the main building for a few minutes, I hadn't seen a single spirit, phantasm or creepy blood-covered child. Maybe the gift shop stocked some sort of ghost repellent (I may have seen a can of "Ghoul-Be-Gone" on the counter). After performing our first round of ghost busting, we made our way back to the hotel to prepare for the "Witch's Ball" (which is entirely unlike the Philosopher's Stone) and "Ward 24," a haunted house which takes place within the storied walls of the asylum's most notorious site.
Because I had not planned on dressing up and since I am very unoriginal, I went as the most generic Thriller zombie imaginable. Whatever—better than going as Broke College Student. As darkness fell upon the land, the most horrifying part of the night had come at last: waiting in line for tickets alongside all of the overweight women who had dressed up as French maids and "hot" nurses. After signing a waiver stating that we cannot legally sue if we were to become physically ill due to the event (nausea, headache, death, etc.), we took our places at the front door while we received further instructions. No touching the 'patients,' no going off the path and something about cameras that I was too busy filming to hear. Thankfully, screaming like a newly spanked five-year-old was not discouraged.
The building was dark. And nasty. And inhabited with creepy kids covered in blood (I finally got my wish!). It began as a series of somewhat predictable jump-scares (after which they would hiss in your face and mutter stuff about green jelly beans or "the voices"), but it quickly evolved into the manifestation of every nightmare I've ever had. We hesitantly entered one foggy corridor in which a dripping, dilapidated body hung from the ceiling. Because the thought of someone being murdered fifteen feet away just wasn't eerie enough for these jerks, a grotesque and slender creature rose out of the mist wielding a freshly-used axe. Standing with its head mere inches from the ceiling, he strode proudly across the moist floor towards us as if to say, "Do you guys like what I did with this one? I quite enjoy the contrast between the tearing cuts on his right leg and the clean lacerations on the left. What do you guys think? And remember, this is for posterity, so be honest." This was the first time I wet myself.
The second, third and fourth times came in a pitch black hallway literally crawling with monstrosities and lit solely by the red silhouette of the far door and pulsating lights. Flickering on and off, the strobes were our only beacon of hope. We would inch our way closer and closer to the door, the lights would go off and we would wait. Lights on. "That kid was not there earlier!" Lights off. "Just gotta wait for them to come back on ... still off ... still off!" Luminescence never returned, and panic set in as I came to the realization that no longer would I see the light of day. The darkness suffocated my eyes, and madness overcame my soul. I was never heard from again.
And now they say on the night of a full moon, if you hold your ear to a newspaper and listen closely, you can hear the clitter-clatter of dirty fingernails on a keyboard.
Check out footage from my trip here.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Writer's Block Party: With dorms wide open
ZACK: What gets the campus in a buzz almost as much as a new engagement or a weird chapel speaker? Open dorms. Guys and girls hanging out in each others’ rooms, watching movies, playing various board games, not dancing to music—sounds like a party, all right. A party that happens every other blue moon. A party that will surely be scheduled at the same time as that thing you love. Who doesn't plan their weekends around the chance to potentially talk to a member of the opposite sex? Well, everyone else in the world, because it’s something that should be an everyday occurrence.
COURTNEY: Let's face it, there are some serious problems with open dorm. And not just the "eww, these guys smell bad" kind of problems, either.
Z: There are so many problems, in fact, we needed two writers to cover them all! That's right, ladies and gentlemen, Courtney LeMay, who normally writes for those other boring sections, has chosen to join me for the first ever Writer's Block Party!
C: Wait, I had a choice?
Z: No! That's what makes it so great. Now, back to open dorms. If there was one word you could use to describe your typical open dorm, what would it be? Mine would be "uncomfortable" or "I'd-rather-be-doing-something-else-but-I-feel-obligated-to-be-here-ing."
C: "Awkward." And I'm not the only one who feels that way. Brandon Reinhardt, RA of Trustees 2nd East, used the word when summarizing his feelings of the current nature of open dorms (except he added, "And I just leave whenever I can." Ouch).
Z: I equate open dorms to visiting your kids, but only under your ex-wife's supervision. It's like, "look, honey, I just want to take the kids to the circus one day, alright? I want to see my daughter's sweet smile and hear my son's laugh this month. Please." That's how depressing open dorms are.
C: Open dorms have the potential to be fun, don't get me wrong--I love being invited to Johnson to play Rock Band as much as the next girl; it's common knowledge that the room acoustics are better on that side of campus. But, the fact is, open dorms are so infrequent that half of the time there is spent in finding the rooms you were supposed to hang out in an hour ago (3/4s of the time and even longer for the labyrinth commonly referred to as Kresge, if you count the extra time necessary to escape from the minotaur). That's only for finding one room, and staying in just one room for the entire open dorm is one of the quickest ways to make enemies with pretty much the rest of campus. "Why didn't you come see me while you were visiting her? Is my room not good enough? I thought we were friends!"
Z: The problems are only exacerbated by the fact that more introverted students tend to be reduced to quivering, jelly-boned wimps when just thinking about talking to a... a... a girl! But can you really blame them? Men and women are treated like two disagreeable beta fish who need to be eternally separated lest they kill each other (or worse). This fosters unhealthy and inorganic growth in relationships with the opposite sex. Perhaps this is the cause of the "Ring by Spring" phenomenon--the distorted view we have of how relationships should work leads us to believe we've fallen in love with someone because we enjoyed playing Yahtzee or charades together, so we should get married! Now! And then things don't work out because they realize they don't really have all that much in common and get divorced, which leads to the aforementioned divorce scenario. Don't you see what you're doing, Asbury? You're tearing families apart and preventing little Johnny and Samantha from going to the circus with their loving father!
C: Little Johnny Simmons, when interviewed about the problems with open dorms, said, "I don't know what that is, but I just want to see my daddy again." Samantha was not available for comment.
Z: And the only thing that's more of a travesty than these children growing up in a broken home? The scheduling of open dorms. On literally every occasion, open dorms have conflicted with campus-wide events. All three of Glide-Crawford's open dorms - yes, three, before either men's dorm gets two - have been on weeknights (I don't feel it needs to be explained why this was a mistake) and Trustees' open dorm coincided with an artist series. Kresge's first occurred at the same time as the significantly more fun TAG Masquerade, and "Candyland" took place on a Tuesday, a night reserved exclusively for Glee and finishing up my articles.
C: And Johnson's Shocktoberfest '010 doesn't even count as an open dorm because, well, the rooms weren't open. But don't think we're only complaining, here; we feel we have a solution! Originally, we intended to propose a system which would have an open dorm every weekday, which would alternate (e.g., Kresge gets open dorm Monday, and then Tuesday the following week) so that no dorm had a fixed day of the week, and then on Friday have all dorms open, or something to that effect.
Z: But that sounds a little complicated, doesn't it? And it doesn't really solve the whole problem of having to schedule where you're going to go on what night (what if it's Kresge's night but you want to hang out with some of those fine GC babes?). It increases the quantity of open dorms, but not necessarily the quality.
C: That's why Reinhardt's simple proposal (and I don't mean the "hide the ring in her chocolate cake" kind) of open hours is the obvious answer. Every weekday from 7 to10 all dorms are open. Is that really so unreasonable? It eliminates virtually every possible complaint concerning open dorms, and seemingly the only downside is for the resident assistants. When asked about the potential extra work, Reinhardt admitted, "If I were solely looking at my personal wants, I would say 'I'd rather not,' but I feel that part of being an RA is laying down my wants for the good of the community." Whoa, somebody sacrificing their time for others? Egads! "An RA has to be on duty anyways," he continued, "and it wouldn't be much different than right now." Except, you know, people would actually be satisfied with open dorms.
Z: Perhaps the only other disadvantage is that of students' privacy, or if you're one of those people who clean exclusively for open dorms (and your room is in constant state of petrifying filth otherwise). But it's not like someone is going to be in your room every single night anyway; there may be heavy traffic for the first week or two, but how many are coming daily once this becomes standard procedure? Fifteen? Besides, that's why our doors have locks on them; keeping people out when you need to study (or because your room looks like Ke$ha spent the night) is as easy as the push of a button, literally.
C: And it seems just as easy to improve open dorms. Aldersgate has had open hours for years with no major problems; why couldn't this apply to the other dorms as well?
Z: But regardless of how silly or impractical you may feel our ideas sound, I think we can all agree that something needs to change. Please, think of the children!
COURTNEY: Let's face it, there are some serious problems with open dorm. And not just the "eww, these guys smell bad" kind of problems, either.
Z: There are so many problems, in fact, we needed two writers to cover them all! That's right, ladies and gentlemen, Courtney LeMay, who normally writes for those other boring sections, has chosen to join me for the first ever Writer's Block Party!
C: Wait, I had a choice?
Z: No! That's what makes it so great. Now, back to open dorms. If there was one word you could use to describe your typical open dorm, what would it be? Mine would be "uncomfortable" or "I'd-rather-be-doing-something-else-but-I-feel-obligated-to-be-here-ing."
C: "Awkward." And I'm not the only one who feels that way. Brandon Reinhardt, RA of Trustees 2nd East, used the word when summarizing his feelings of the current nature of open dorms (except he added, "And I just leave whenever I can." Ouch).
Z: I equate open dorms to visiting your kids, but only under your ex-wife's supervision. It's like, "look, honey, I just want to take the kids to the circus one day, alright? I want to see my daughter's sweet smile and hear my son's laugh this month. Please." That's how depressing open dorms are.
C: Open dorms have the potential to be fun, don't get me wrong--I love being invited to Johnson to play Rock Band as much as the next girl; it's common knowledge that the room acoustics are better on that side of campus. But, the fact is, open dorms are so infrequent that half of the time there is spent in finding the rooms you were supposed to hang out in an hour ago (3/4s of the time and even longer for the labyrinth commonly referred to as Kresge, if you count the extra time necessary to escape from the minotaur). That's only for finding one room, and staying in just one room for the entire open dorm is one of the quickest ways to make enemies with pretty much the rest of campus. "Why didn't you come see me while you were visiting her? Is my room not good enough? I thought we were friends!"
Z: The problems are only exacerbated by the fact that more introverted students tend to be reduced to quivering, jelly-boned wimps when just thinking about talking to a... a... a girl! But can you really blame them? Men and women are treated like two disagreeable beta fish who need to be eternally separated lest they kill each other (or worse). This fosters unhealthy and inorganic growth in relationships with the opposite sex. Perhaps this is the cause of the "Ring by Spring" phenomenon--the distorted view we have of how relationships should work leads us to believe we've fallen in love with someone because we enjoyed playing Yahtzee or charades together, so we should get married! Now! And then things don't work out because they realize they don't really have all that much in common and get divorced, which leads to the aforementioned divorce scenario. Don't you see what you're doing, Asbury? You're tearing families apart and preventing little Johnny and Samantha from going to the circus with their loving father!
C: Little Johnny Simmons, when interviewed about the problems with open dorms, said, "I don't know what that is, but I just want to see my daddy again." Samantha was not available for comment.
Z: And the only thing that's more of a travesty than these children growing up in a broken home? The scheduling of open dorms. On literally every occasion, open dorms have conflicted with campus-wide events. All three of Glide-Crawford's open dorms - yes, three, before either men's dorm gets two - have been on weeknights (I don't feel it needs to be explained why this was a mistake) and Trustees' open dorm coincided with an artist series. Kresge's first occurred at the same time as the significantly more fun TAG Masquerade, and "Candyland" took place on a Tuesday, a night reserved exclusively for Glee and finishing up my articles.
C: And Johnson's Shocktoberfest '010 doesn't even count as an open dorm because, well, the rooms weren't open. But don't think we're only complaining, here; we feel we have a solution! Originally, we intended to propose a system which would have an open dorm every weekday, which would alternate (e.g., Kresge gets open dorm Monday, and then Tuesday the following week) so that no dorm had a fixed day of the week, and then on Friday have all dorms open, or something to that effect.
Z: But that sounds a little complicated, doesn't it? And it doesn't really solve the whole problem of having to schedule where you're going to go on what night (what if it's Kresge's night but you want to hang out with some of those fine GC babes?). It increases the quantity of open dorms, but not necessarily the quality.
C: That's why Reinhardt's simple proposal (and I don't mean the "hide the ring in her chocolate cake" kind) of open hours is the obvious answer. Every weekday from 7 to10 all dorms are open. Is that really so unreasonable? It eliminates virtually every possible complaint concerning open dorms, and seemingly the only downside is for the resident assistants. When asked about the potential extra work, Reinhardt admitted, "If I were solely looking at my personal wants, I would say 'I'd rather not,' but I feel that part of being an RA is laying down my wants for the good of the community." Whoa, somebody sacrificing their time for others? Egads! "An RA has to be on duty anyways," he continued, "and it wouldn't be much different than right now." Except, you know, people would actually be satisfied with open dorms.
Z: Perhaps the only other disadvantage is that of students' privacy, or if you're one of those people who clean exclusively for open dorms (and your room is in constant state of petrifying filth otherwise). But it's not like someone is going to be in your room every single night anyway; there may be heavy traffic for the first week or two, but how many are coming daily once this becomes standard procedure? Fifteen? Besides, that's why our doors have locks on them; keeping people out when you need to study (or because your room looks like Ke$ha spent the night) is as easy as the push of a button, literally.
C: And it seems just as easy to improve open dorms. Aldersgate has had open hours for years with no major problems; why couldn't this apply to the other dorms as well?
Z: But regardless of how silly or impractical you may feel our ideas sound, I think we can all agree that something needs to change. Please, think of the children!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
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)
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)
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
"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.
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.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
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."
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."
Friday, October 1, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
This post brought you by
 |
| 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 |
This post brought you by
Thursday, September 30, 2010
You Scream, I Scream: The Ice Cream Oscars
The cafeteria here at Asbury generally offers up a wide selection of ice creams, from pineapple sherbet, to mint chocolate chip, to pineapple sherbet. Thanks to supplier Blue Bell Creameries, the Café features as many as three different flavors of ice cream daily. "But how do we choose from all of these ice creams," many cry out, "it all just looks so good!" Well, that's why I'm here, ladies and gents.
Yes, for the benefit of you, the reader, I ventured into the dark underworld of ice creams over the past week; the best flavors, the ones you want to stay far away from. It's all here thanks to science and hard-hitting, objective journalism. I gained four pounds this week - you're welcome.
Before we begin, however, it should be noted that I only judged flavors which have made an appearance in the cafeteria over a given week (my apologies to strawberry cheesecake) and based my decisions upon several criteria: flavor, texture, creaminess, how good it tastes, iciness, appearance, deliciousness, bouquet, and taste bud pleasingness. I then plugged my quantified scores into a sophisticated and nondisclosable formula, yielding our winners which will be awarded with an ice cream cone statuette, called an "Icee", in a ceremony appearing on Food Network.
Let us start off with The C-Student Award, for "The Best Average Flavor of Ice Cream"; this includes such normal flavors as vanilla and chocolate - you know, the real plain Janes of the ice cream world. There were only a pair of contenders this week as, in a head-to-head duel with strawberry, French vanilla emerged victorious. Both flavors were delicious, but the loser was just a little too excellent to take home the honor this time.
Next up is the Golden Pecan Award for "The Best Potentially Lethal Ice Cream." This category, admittedly, was a bit hard to judge considering I am allergic to pecans. This was made even worse by the fact that ice creams and their ingredients frequently go unlabeled, so on more than one occasion I didn't have my EpiPen handy when trying a new flavor housing a hidden pecan and almost died. Unfortunately for me, this category boasted the most entrants and was the most consistently featured on the show floor. Among the candidates were fudge brownie nut, buttered pecan, and numerous other hostile creations. Many were surprisingly good, many were not, but all gave me that familiar itch in my throat that assured me I was tasting a true pecan. That being said, Southern Hospitality is delicious and made my esophagus swell up the least, so this ensemble cast of ingredients takes home the gold. For medical reasons, however, this will be the first and last time I judge this category.
The Delsym Cough Syrup Award for "The Ice Cream Which Best Exhibits the Taste of Grape-Flavored Medication" goes to Rum Raisin! One spoonful of this evil concoction, this indescribably putrid substance was enough to make me want to give up living; I had flashbacks of choking down that purple crap when I was sick - oh, lord... I can't even think about it. Moving on...
The Pretty Pineapple Award for "Best Ice Cream Featuring Pineapple in a Supporting Role" - this seemingly small niche in the ice cream world gets a ridiculously disproportionate amount of room in the freezer, and, just as in the battle for the Pecan, this too was hotly contested. However, one ice cream stood a cone above the rest, as no other contestant containing the tropical fruit could stand up to, once again, the might of Southern Hospitality.
The Sure-Bet Sherbet Award for "Best Sherbet" goes to Rainbow Sherbet, because, well, it shouldn't be pineapple.
Finally, the coveted Yoko Ono Award for "Lifetime Achievement in Being Hated" goes to... drumroll, please... pineapple sherbet! Believe it or not, some people gagged down Rum Raisin, but I think the collective might of the hundreds of students who frequent the Café could hardly stomach one gallon of this ridiculous flavor (let alone the two that are customarily offered). Congratulations, your hard work in consistently breaking the hearts of sweet-toothed students desiring real ice cream has finally removed from us all hope for a better tomorrow. Thank you, pineapple sherbet!
Yes, for the benefit of you, the reader, I ventured into the dark underworld of ice creams over the past week; the best flavors, the ones you want to stay far away from. It's all here thanks to science and hard-hitting, objective journalism. I gained four pounds this week - you're welcome.
Before we begin, however, it should be noted that I only judged flavors which have made an appearance in the cafeteria over a given week (my apologies to strawberry cheesecake) and based my decisions upon several criteria: flavor, texture, creaminess, how good it tastes, iciness, appearance, deliciousness, bouquet, and taste bud pleasingness. I then plugged my quantified scores into a sophisticated and nondisclosable formula, yielding our winners which will be awarded with an ice cream cone statuette, called an "Icee", in a ceremony appearing on Food Network.
Let us start off with The C-Student Award, for "The Best Average Flavor of Ice Cream"; this includes such normal flavors as vanilla and chocolate - you know, the real plain Janes of the ice cream world. There were only a pair of contenders this week as, in a head-to-head duel with strawberry, French vanilla emerged victorious. Both flavors were delicious, but the loser was just a little too excellent to take home the honor this time.
Next up is the Golden Pecan Award for "The Best Potentially Lethal Ice Cream." This category, admittedly, was a bit hard to judge considering I am allergic to pecans. This was made even worse by the fact that ice creams and their ingredients frequently go unlabeled, so on more than one occasion I didn't have my EpiPen handy when trying a new flavor housing a hidden pecan and almost died. Unfortunately for me, this category boasted the most entrants and was the most consistently featured on the show floor. Among the candidates were fudge brownie nut, buttered pecan, and numerous other hostile creations. Many were surprisingly good, many were not, but all gave me that familiar itch in my throat that assured me I was tasting a true pecan. That being said, Southern Hospitality is delicious and made my esophagus swell up the least, so this ensemble cast of ingredients takes home the gold. For medical reasons, however, this will be the first and last time I judge this category.
The Delsym Cough Syrup Award for "The Ice Cream Which Best Exhibits the Taste of Grape-Flavored Medication" goes to Rum Raisin! One spoonful of this evil concoction, this indescribably putrid substance was enough to make me want to give up living; I had flashbacks of choking down that purple crap when I was sick - oh, lord... I can't even think about it. Moving on...
The Pretty Pineapple Award for "Best Ice Cream Featuring Pineapple in a Supporting Role" - this seemingly small niche in the ice cream world gets a ridiculously disproportionate amount of room in the freezer, and, just as in the battle for the Pecan, this too was hotly contested. However, one ice cream stood a cone above the rest, as no other contestant containing the tropical fruit could stand up to, once again, the might of Southern Hospitality.
The Sure-Bet Sherbet Award for "Best Sherbet" goes to Rainbow Sherbet, because, well, it shouldn't be pineapple.
Finally, the coveted Yoko Ono Award for "Lifetime Achievement in Being Hated" goes to... drumroll, please... pineapple sherbet! Believe it or not, some people gagged down Rum Raisin, but I think the collective might of the hundreds of students who frequent the Café could hardly stomach one gallon of this ridiculous flavor (let alone the two that are customarily offered). Congratulations, your hard work in consistently breaking the hearts of sweet-toothed students desiring real ice cream has finally removed from us all hope for a better tomorrow. Thank you, pineapple sherbet!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Halo, Goodbye: Deleted Scenes
The "stinky chicken incident" concerns the slow and unnoticed rotting of a chicken breast in the mini-fridge of my dorm room. On one of my first few days here at Asbury, I was greeted by someone holding a bowl full of chicken. "If you guys want some, there's like forty pieces downstairs in the kitchen." Literally, too, as I would find out. He offered me a morsel. "Well, it's not terrible, and I am in college so I can't be too picky."
I made my way to the kitchen, opened the fridge and saw chicken as far as the arm could reach. There was a large aluminum pan (the kind you bake like half a dozen turkeys in) filled to the brim with white, unseasoned meat, swimming in their own fluids. Yum. Why did I even take this stuff in the first place?
As you may have guessed, I didn't exactly gobble up the four delectable blobs I took back to the room with me. After a few days, only one solitary breast remained... and it sat there undisturbed for three weeks. My roommate and I had discussed throwing the amorphous lump (and whatever was growing on it) out for days, but I finally gave in when he offhandedly mentioned that the fridge smelled. Now, keep in mind we are freshmen guys living together; when something noticeably stinks to us, that is a terrible sign.
I peeled back the Tupperware lid ever so gently - I wanted a good whiff before I threw its contents into the trash. "Whoa." My roommate begged me to get that junk out of the room and to never open that around another human being again. "Dude, smell this," I demanded others on my hall. After making everyone around me nauseous, I went to apologize to the person from whom I had borrowed the container. "Uh, I don't think you want this back." He didn't.
I tossed the container (now with the label "HAZARDOUS MATERIALS") some distance into the garbage can and the lid popped right off. "No, no, no, no, no!" I took a deep breath and ran over to lock the stench into its resting place, but, alas, the chicken had poured out into the trash. "God, I will never do a bad thing for as long as I live if you miracle this chicken back into that box." I waited a moment and nothing. I was already clothed in the reek of farty, rotten eggs and had to take action; I shoved my hand into the bag and placed the foul thing back where it belonged, snapping the lid shut as fast as my greasy hands could muster. All I remember afterwards is alternating between washing my hands til they pruned, dry heaving, and holding a fragrant candle under my nose. I'll never look at a chicken or a breast the same way again.
I made my way to the kitchen, opened the fridge and saw chicken as far as the arm could reach. There was a large aluminum pan (the kind you bake like half a dozen turkeys in) filled to the brim with white, unseasoned meat, swimming in their own fluids. Yum. Why did I even take this stuff in the first place?
As you may have guessed, I didn't exactly gobble up the four delectable blobs I took back to the room with me. After a few days, only one solitary breast remained... and it sat there undisturbed for three weeks. My roommate and I had discussed throwing the amorphous lump (and whatever was growing on it) out for days, but I finally gave in when he offhandedly mentioned that the fridge smelled. Now, keep in mind we are freshmen guys living together; when something noticeably stinks to us, that is a terrible sign.
I peeled back the Tupperware lid ever so gently - I wanted a good whiff before I threw its contents into the trash. "Whoa." My roommate begged me to get that junk out of the room and to never open that around another human being again. "Dude, smell this," I demanded others on my hall. After making everyone around me nauseous, I went to apologize to the person from whom I had borrowed the container. "Uh, I don't think you want this back." He didn't.
I tossed the container (now with the label "HAZARDOUS MATERIALS") some distance into the garbage can and the lid popped right off. "No, no, no, no, no!" I took a deep breath and ran over to lock the stench into its resting place, but, alas, the chicken had poured out into the trash. "God, I will never do a bad thing for as long as I live if you miracle this chicken back into that box." I waited a moment and nothing. I was already clothed in the reek of farty, rotten eggs and had to take action; I shoved my hand into the bag and placed the foul thing back where it belonged, snapping the lid shut as fast as my greasy hands could muster. All I remember afterwards is alternating between washing my hands til they pruned, dry heaving, and holding a fragrant candle under my nose. I'll never look at a chicken or a breast the same way again.
Halo, Goodbye
After writing my first column for the Collegian, I was asked by my editor if I wanted to continue contributing to the paper on a weekly basis (this will forever be known as "Bruner's Folly"). "Wow, these guys must be in some dire straits," I thought. "But I really like this, so why not?" Upon accepting, I cemented my place as whatever the heck I am for the rest of... eternity? I don't know; not really sure on the timeframe. However, afterwards, I did have an unnerving thought: what if I run out of ideas? Would I be fired? Dumped in a drainage ditch and left for dead? "Nah, that'll never happen," I reassured myself. Well, I am now out of ideas, and may God have mercy on my soul.
I mean, I could have written about getting thrown out of two dressing rooms this past weekend or the stinky chicken incident, but who would want to read that? No one, that's who - and certainly not a respectable college student like you, who only reads hard news and the obituaries. After all, this is a humor column, not a place to be silly.
I need some inspiration, something interesting, something... Oh, I give up. "God, please help me to think of something funny to write about; I don't want everyone to realize what a fraud I am, not yet," I would plead. "I am willing to be the butt of your divine joke, just let me live to write about it." Well, uh, I guess I got my wish.
As many of my readers of the male persuasion likely know, Halo: Reach was released last week to critical acclaim, financial success and much hullabaloo from dorks like myself. I pre-ordered the final addition to the franchise and ensured that it would arrive in my CPO box on the day of release, Tuesday the 14th.
This day finally came and was greeted with much excitement; finally, a real excuse to skip class. I waited ever so patiently until my courses were finished for the day, and headed back to the dorm to put away my books (I wouldn't be seeing them for a while). "Man the battle stations!" I bellowed down the dark hallway. Wait, dark hallway? Yep, the power was out. That's right, a no-Halo, Facebook-offline, peeing-in-the-dark power outage.
I went to sulk at a piano in McCreless, thinking of all the fun being had by 12-year-olds across the world that I was being denied because some guy at Kentucky Utilities didn't quite get the whole "don't put your finger in a light bulb socket" thing. I raced through the five stages of grieving half a dozen times as I choked back thoughts of the Covenant armada laying waste to so many Spartans.
After I came back around to "acceptance" for the seventh time, I left the poorly-lit room to find that electricity had been restored! I squealed with ecstasy as I marched - nay, paraded! - gleefully to CPO. I glance at the clock on my cell phone: "Ah, half-past four, that's more than enough time to beat the first level before dinner! Look out world, I'm a man on a mission! I've got a plasma rifle and I'm not af - wait, 4:30... But, but CPO closes at four. No."
A cloud hung in the air above me for just a few moments before releasing a torrent of self-loathing and depression squarely onto my head. I literally held in my hand the golden ticket, and Willy Wonka just shut down the choclate factory. Well, until tomorrow that is, but who has time for patience nowadays? Not me, that's for sure.
Anyway, to make a long conclusion short - I may or may not have broken into CPO (spoiler: I didn't) and Reach may be the worst thing to happen to my GPA since the invention of the pop quiz. So, what's the moral of the story? You guessed it: don't leave an old chicken breast in your refrigerator for three weeks. Seriously, it smells like rotten eggs.
I mean, I could have written about getting thrown out of two dressing rooms this past weekend or the stinky chicken incident, but who would want to read that? No one, that's who - and certainly not a respectable college student like you, who only reads hard news and the obituaries. After all, this is a humor column, not a place to be silly.
I need some inspiration, something interesting, something... Oh, I give up. "God, please help me to think of something funny to write about; I don't want everyone to realize what a fraud I am, not yet," I would plead. "I am willing to be the butt of your divine joke, just let me live to write about it." Well, uh, I guess I got my wish.
As many of my readers of the male persuasion likely know, Halo: Reach was released last week to critical acclaim, financial success and much hullabaloo from dorks like myself. I pre-ordered the final addition to the franchise and ensured that it would arrive in my CPO box on the day of release, Tuesday the 14th.
This day finally came and was greeted with much excitement; finally, a real excuse to skip class. I waited ever so patiently until my courses were finished for the day, and headed back to the dorm to put away my books (I wouldn't be seeing them for a while). "Man the battle stations!" I bellowed down the dark hallway. Wait, dark hallway? Yep, the power was out. That's right, a no-Halo, Facebook-offline, peeing-in-the-dark power outage.
I went to sulk at a piano in McCreless, thinking of all the fun being had by 12-year-olds across the world that I was being denied because some guy at Kentucky Utilities didn't quite get the whole "don't put your finger in a light bulb socket" thing. I raced through the five stages of grieving half a dozen times as I choked back thoughts of the Covenant armada laying waste to so many Spartans.
After I came back around to "acceptance" for the seventh time, I left the poorly-lit room to find that electricity had been restored! I squealed with ecstasy as I marched - nay, paraded! - gleefully to CPO. I glance at the clock on my cell phone: "Ah, half-past four, that's more than enough time to beat the first level before dinner! Look out world, I'm a man on a mission! I've got a plasma rifle and I'm not af - wait, 4:30... But, but CPO closes at four. No."
A cloud hung in the air above me for just a few moments before releasing a torrent of self-loathing and depression squarely onto my head. I literally held in my hand the golden ticket, and Willy Wonka just shut down the choclate factory. Well, until tomorrow that is, but who has time for patience nowadays? Not me, that's for sure.
Anyway, to make a long conclusion short - I may or may not have broken into CPO (spoiler: I didn't) and Reach may be the worst thing to happen to my GPA since the invention of the pop quiz. So, what's the moral of the story? You guessed it: don't leave an old chicken breast in your refrigerator for three weeks. Seriously, it smells like rotten eggs.
Merciless: TellMeWhy We Use TellMeMore
A foreign language is something everyone should learn; you know, just in case you find yourself stranded in Latin or if you want to graduate or whatever. Heck, some people learn a new language just for the fun of it, like to expand their horizons or something (these people are called nerds). Anyway, here at Asbury most of the classes in this field utilize TellMeMore, an "award-winning language learning software". TellMeMore is a splendid program for anyone looking to learn and use a new language... until you get to the speech recognition activities. The objective of these lessons is to assist users in pronunciation; in theory, this should leave the student with a better understanding of the general flow, sound, and cadence of foreign phrases. In practice, however, the student leaves with intracranial bleeding, homicidal tendencies, and low self-esteem.
I began my first TellMeMore lesson in the computer lab, stationed between two unfortunate students probably working on something very important. After much downloading, installation, and shouting, I was allowed to access the speech "recognition" portions of the lesson. "Thank God", I thought naively, "now that the hard part is over, I can finally begin learning!" The activity started out easy enough: say the ABC's in French. "Ah, bay, say..." Oh, yea, I got this! I'm king of the world - I'm Napoléon Bonaparte, baby! I make my way through the entire lesson with only four or five bits of trouble, and proceed to finish the rest of the assignment with the intention of coming back at the end. I returned first to "E-F-G", apparently an initialism for "Everyone Fails Gruseomely." After dozens of fruitless attempts, I give up and move on to the next set, "H-I-J-K-L". No luck. "T-U-V"? Apparently my hillbilly accent wasn't quite getting through, as the program wasn't even registering that I was saying the right letters. Then, somewhere in my tiny brain, I thought a thought that was so good I almost imploded with thoughtfulness: I was going to turn TellMeMore against itself!
I drew out a blueprint of how everything was going to go down, it was so simple: I would start TellMeMore on an additional computer and open up my current assignment; then I would simply click record on one computer and play on the other. The program would say the words to itself through the other headset and into my microphone. Genius! I cracked my knuckles and readied my things to head back to the dorm; it was all going to be over soon. Wait... what's this? "I don't understand you," you say? How can this be? You're the one saying it! The situation seemed hopeless, but, as Napoléon said, "impossible is a word to be found only in the dictionary of fools."
I grew weary over the next few hours; stubble had spread across my manly chin and my eyes were bloodshot. "Tay, eww, vay..." I whimpered into the mic - incorrect. "Why have you forsaken me?" After exhausting all possible French pronunciations, I sarcastically say it in English: "tee, you, vee," and I hear quite an unfamiliar sound. "Correct"? And it works for "E-F-G", too? Oh, somebody pinch me! I get to "H-I-J-K-L" and begin in English, but mess up at the end: "Aitch, eye, jay, kah - ahh, crap." Ding! (Yep, that's right - "crap" is the proper pronunciation of the French "L".) Now it was time for the final boss of the activity: I had to answer an apparently dim-witted Frenchman's question of how to spell "merci". "M-E-R-C-I, merci," I responded with enthusiasm. Alas, my strategy did not work here; it didn't matter if I said it in English, French, or screamed. Other students wanting to shut me up and get me out of the lab pitched in to no avail. I repeated the phrase literally over one hundred times in as many accents as I could think of (Schwarzenegger? Brando? Barney the dinosaur? None of them worked) before I finally heard the blessed ding. And there was much rejoicing. "TellMeMore," the official website claims, "is the most effective way to learn a language." Yea, if you're not driven to suicide by the end of lesson one.
I began my first TellMeMore lesson in the computer lab, stationed between two unfortunate students probably working on something very important. After much downloading, installation, and shouting, I was allowed to access the speech "recognition" portions of the lesson. "Thank God", I thought naively, "now that the hard part is over, I can finally begin learning!" The activity started out easy enough: say the ABC's in French. "Ah, bay, say..." Oh, yea, I got this! I'm king of the world - I'm Napoléon Bonaparte, baby! I make my way through the entire lesson with only four or five bits of trouble, and proceed to finish the rest of the assignment with the intention of coming back at the end. I returned first to "E-F-G", apparently an initialism for "Everyone Fails Gruseomely." After dozens of fruitless attempts, I give up and move on to the next set, "H-I-J-K-L". No luck. "T-U-V"? Apparently my hillbilly accent wasn't quite getting through, as the program wasn't even registering that I was saying the right letters. Then, somewhere in my tiny brain, I thought a thought that was so good I almost imploded with thoughtfulness: I was going to turn TellMeMore against itself!
I drew out a blueprint of how everything was going to go down, it was so simple: I would start TellMeMore on an additional computer and open up my current assignment; then I would simply click record on one computer and play on the other. The program would say the words to itself through the other headset and into my microphone. Genius! I cracked my knuckles and readied my things to head back to the dorm; it was all going to be over soon. Wait... what's this? "I don't understand you," you say? How can this be? You're the one saying it! The situation seemed hopeless, but, as Napoléon said, "impossible is a word to be found only in the dictionary of fools."
I grew weary over the next few hours; stubble had spread across my manly chin and my eyes were bloodshot. "Tay, eww, vay..." I whimpered into the mic - incorrect. "Why have you forsaken me?" After exhausting all possible French pronunciations, I sarcastically say it in English: "tee, you, vee," and I hear quite an unfamiliar sound. "Correct"? And it works for "E-F-G", too? Oh, somebody pinch me! I get to "H-I-J-K-L" and begin in English, but mess up at the end: "Aitch, eye, jay, kah - ahh, crap." Ding! (Yep, that's right - "crap" is the proper pronunciation of the French "L".) Now it was time for the final boss of the activity: I had to answer an apparently dim-witted Frenchman's question of how to spell "merci". "M-E-R-C-I, merci," I responded with enthusiasm. Alas, my strategy did not work here; it didn't matter if I said it in English, French, or screamed. Other students wanting to shut me up and get me out of the lab pitched in to no avail. I repeated the phrase literally over one hundred times in as many accents as I could think of (Schwarzenegger? Brando? Barney the dinosaur? None of them worked) before I finally heard the blessed ding. And there was much rejoicing. "TellMeMore," the official website claims, "is the most effective way to learn a language." Yea, if you're not driven to suicide by the end of lesson one.
Welcome to the Writer's Block
An alarm clock screams across the halls of Johnson, waking an anxious young man from his slumber. He wipes the sleep from his eyes and is filled with a sudden excitement, knowing that today is the day he begins college classes... This is not his story.
Over on Second Naked (a name I am beginning to understand more and more), I am jolted awake by a sudden fear, almost as if my body sensed imminent death and tried kicking itself awake. I glance over at my phone, barely making out the time of 7:46. Having an 8 o' clock class, this concerned me a bit. How I remember the following sequence of events: feet meet the floor; brush teeth; heart palpitations; pants; belt; shirt... does this one match? Will this make me look fat? Oh, why was I cursed with a sense of style!? This is no time to match, I'm about to be late for French - sacrebleu!
Upon finalizing my T-shirt decision, I make my way to my first ever big boy class. It was uneventful enough; however, I was so out of it I could barely speak English, let alone French. "Je m'appelle Zack! Ho, ho, ho!" I whisper to myself in a thick accent on the way back to the dorm. I swipe my student ID, and... denied. Once more, denied. Banging on the door produces no results, no help from inside. Fantastic, now I'll probably have to pay a fine to get my card replaced; that combined with the $83 I just spent on a workbook - that I won't be able to return! - ensures that I'll be eating nothing but Top Ramen this semester. Oh, my aching wallet. I peer around for a kind soul to ferry me into the dorm when I realize I am not where I thought I was. Trustees has a big wooden swing in front of it, this building did not. I begin to slowly back away. "Ha ha, whoops!" I say to no one. With as much machismo as I can muster, I casually strut to my actual housing and, upon shutting the door, collapse in a pile of embarrassment. It's gonna be some year, huh?
A fly latches its tiny mandibles delicately onto my hotdog, probably excreting some disgusting insect vomit onto my once promising bratwurst. "Get off," I tell the vile beast. He probably didn't hear me, so I shout again, "Go away!" Still no movement. "Okay, fine, just eat it, eat all of it; it's yours." Promptly, the bug takes flight never to be seen again. First, he spits on my hotdog and then in my face - what a jerk. I finish my dinner and rise up from my grassy seat to continue the adventure that is the co-curricular fair. (I really needed a break after doing all that walking and candy eating.) Oh, look, an educational tour of Greece! Sign me up! Men's glee club? Absolutely! Mentoring underprivileged youth in inner-city Lexington? You bet. What's that? "Feed the pygmy elephants"? I love pygmy elephants! By the end of the event I had registered for sixteen mission trips, thirty-three clubs, something called "The Collegian", and I'm actually pretty sure I adopted a third-world child. Okay, so maybe I got into a little too much, but that's what college is all about, right? Experiencing new things, venturing outside your comfort zone, and just plain having fun. Plus, I'm only taking seventeen credit hours, so what could it hurt?
I am now in my third week of "higher education" and, having already lost my roommate to bedbugs, I find myself alone in my room wondering just how in the world I'm going to juggle everything: all of my classes, my Zimbabwean son Chamakomo (who, oddly, refuses to eat the Café food), and being this ridiculously good-looking. But, somehow, I'll make it. After all, there will always be a job waiting for me at McDonald's.
Over on Second Naked (a name I am beginning to understand more and more), I am jolted awake by a sudden fear, almost as if my body sensed imminent death and tried kicking itself awake. I glance over at my phone, barely making out the time of 7:46. Having an 8 o' clock class, this concerned me a bit. How I remember the following sequence of events: feet meet the floor; brush teeth; heart palpitations; pants; belt; shirt... does this one match? Will this make me look fat? Oh, why was I cursed with a sense of style!? This is no time to match, I'm about to be late for French - sacrebleu!
Upon finalizing my T-shirt decision, I make my way to my first ever big boy class. It was uneventful enough; however, I was so out of it I could barely speak English, let alone French. "Je m'appelle Zack! Ho, ho, ho!" I whisper to myself in a thick accent on the way back to the dorm. I swipe my student ID, and... denied. Once more, denied. Banging on the door produces no results, no help from inside. Fantastic, now I'll probably have to pay a fine to get my card replaced; that combined with the $83 I just spent on a workbook - that I won't be able to return! - ensures that I'll be eating nothing but Top Ramen this semester. Oh, my aching wallet. I peer around for a kind soul to ferry me into the dorm when I realize I am not where I thought I was. Trustees has a big wooden swing in front of it, this building did not. I begin to slowly back away. "Ha ha, whoops!" I say to no one. With as much machismo as I can muster, I casually strut to my actual housing and, upon shutting the door, collapse in a pile of embarrassment. It's gonna be some year, huh?
A fly latches its tiny mandibles delicately onto my hotdog, probably excreting some disgusting insect vomit onto my once promising bratwurst. "Get off," I tell the vile beast. He probably didn't hear me, so I shout again, "Go away!" Still no movement. "Okay, fine, just eat it, eat all of it; it's yours." Promptly, the bug takes flight never to be seen again. First, he spits on my hotdog and then in my face - what a jerk. I finish my dinner and rise up from my grassy seat to continue the adventure that is the co-curricular fair. (I really needed a break after doing all that walking and candy eating.) Oh, look, an educational tour of Greece! Sign me up! Men's glee club? Absolutely! Mentoring underprivileged youth in inner-city Lexington? You bet. What's that? "Feed the pygmy elephants"? I love pygmy elephants! By the end of the event I had registered for sixteen mission trips, thirty-three clubs, something called "The Collegian", and I'm actually pretty sure I adopted a third-world child. Okay, so maybe I got into a little too much, but that's what college is all about, right? Experiencing new things, venturing outside your comfort zone, and just plain having fun. Plus, I'm only taking seventeen credit hours, so what could it hurt?
I am now in my third week of "higher education" and, having already lost my roommate to bedbugs, I find myself alone in my room wondering just how in the world I'm going to juggle everything: all of my classes, my Zimbabwean son Chamakomo (who, oddly, refuses to eat the Café food), and being this ridiculously good-looking. But, somehow, I'll make it. After all, there will always be a job waiting for me at McDonald's.
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