Monday, February 27, 2006

Meh, I'm bored

It's 2:40 AM. Here are all of the things I should be doing:

Studying for my "mid-term" in Natural Science tomorrow.
Dreaming about Natural Science facts (Biomes are too large to study, hence ECOSYSTEMS! I'm a film major, btw)
Sleeping to wake up early to study for my "mid-term" in Natty Sci tomorrow.

Instead, I am here, updating this blog, simply because it's a great way to kill time that I could be using being productive. It will also be read by people who see this as a great way to kill time that they could be using being productive. This thing causes a vicious cycle of worthlessness. I apologize in advance.

I was recently reminded of the time that I was almost borderline retarded. Yes, you read that right. In third grade I was first stung by the annoying (but useful for getting into college!) process of standardized testing. The CATs, which stands for...words, were given to see if children were keeping up with what professionals consider "healthy learning." They had a math and an english section, because no one gives a fuck about science or history in this country (not that I really mind that...except the history part...which just means that I hate science, I guess).

I dutifully took my exam, which was a test booklet that you wrote on--filling in bubbles inside the lines was far too advanced for my age. The test results came back some months later and then decided your fate for three years until you can take another test to try and pry your ass out of special help. In my case, I should have been one of those kids. It seems as though I failed the english section. I didn't just miss a few; no, I categorically failed answering no answer properly. My teacher was surprised by this, as I did speak English and didn't drool out of my mouth and scream "BANANA SANDWICHES!" in inopportune moments (the real question is, when is it opportune?).

My teacher called my mom in and told her the results of the tests. Instantly, she said something along the lines of "get the fuck outta here!" because she is a potty mouthed New Yorker. It seems as though the test was right, and that I did indeed get them all wrong. What happened was that I failed to read the directions of the test which said to underline the noun, then double underline the verb. I don't remember if I read that and said, "who double underlines? This must be wrong!" Or, if I just completely ignored them (I'd assume this option, cause it wasn't the first time, and surely not the last). I circled the nouns and underlined, only once, the verbs.

The moral of the story? Stupid instructions could doom children forever. I guess.

To wrap things up, I was talking to possible reader Erin Grande today and we were discussing relationships. Because I'm an ass, I came up with an analogy for good relationships using cereal and prizes. I think it actually makes sense, too. Here goes....

A good relationship doesn't put sex up front as the main attraction. Instead, sex is to be taken as a bonus part that compliments the relationship itself. If you put the sex up front, then you probably have nothing in common and just wanna fuck. That works for hook ups and the like, but not for relationships. Therefore, a good relationship is like a box of cereal you really like that has a prize at the bottom of the box. You eat and eat your cereal every day and at the end you get a prize! Sometimes that prize is crappy, sometimes it's awesome, but it's usually just cool to do something you like while getting a prize in the process.

Then there are times where you get really crappy cereal you don't like just to get the prize. You labor through the cereal day after day as you keep looking at that awesome looking prize on the box. Then, after suffering through all of that awful bran, you get the prize...and it's definitely not what it looks like on the box. It's either a sticker that fits only over a Lego guy's face or a plastic "action figure" which is dwarfed by larger ants. After all of that work all you got was a toy that you didn't really enjoy in the first place.

Another thing you can do is flip the box over, open the bottom first, and get your prize without laboring through the ordeal of eating all of that shit that you don't want to. This is either a one night stand or rape. I guess either or, really. There is also the smart cereal that puts the prize in the middle, so no matter how you open the box, you have to eat some. I think that's a rebound, since you throw out the other half anyway.

So what have we learned? I equate sex with eating cereal as a kid. I guess.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Get down with the sickness

I've had an interesting couple of days.

There were some problems back home that left my girlfriend Haley in a bad way, so I felt obliged to go back and try to make her feel better. She was sick, but I bravely said that I didn't mind, and we did relationship-related activities Friday and Saturday. Late Saturday night I was hanging around my house when I had a nose bleed. I figured it was odd, and hadn't had one in a while . Oh well, it was dry and cold outside, so I figured that was the reason.

After coming back to Boston that Sunday, I realized that it wasn't an isolated incident. I walked in to my dorm room and no longer than five minutes in, my left nostril started to bleed again. Now it's just getting annoying. I get into bed that night and make a startling observation after stretching my legs out - there is a giant hole in my bedding. After a careful examination, there are actually two holes and two more are ready to burst. I lament the fact that my awesome tan jersey sheets will be going the way of the dodo.

Cut to Tuesday morning when I wake up and roll over to check my clock radio. I look down and feel something run from my nose. Drip, drip. If my sheets weren't done before, they were dead now, as two large drops of blood come flowing out like a faucet. I grab some tissues and make the first words of the day "motherfucker!!" After inserting a ton of little rolled up pieces of tissue into my nose, I stop the flow and leave for class, confused as to why I keep bleeding.

While in my natural science lecture, my right nostril is running like it's in a marathon. I'm constantly wiping clear nose liquid with my hand because I don't know if I can risk any action that involves my nose for fear of another crime scene scenario. The whole class I'm sucking back this mystery sinus liquid with that lovely "getting the last bit of the Slurpee" sound as I feel it slowly fall down my throat. Yummy. Eventually, I just couldn't take being That Guy anymore (guy who won't blow his fucking nose guy) and completely blew off the nose bleed. I very easily blew out and cleared out my nose for the moment.

Then I looked at the tissue. Right side: clear, wet. Left side: a tad bit red. Uh oh.

It started immediately. I frantically stuck small, ripped off strips of my pocket tissues into my nose. I hoped it would only last about three or so 'plugs,' but I wasn't that lucky. I bled, heavily, for about twenty minutes in my 100+ person lecture. This isn't embarassing. So here I am, feeling like Carrie at prom, with no way to escape. I run out of strips on one piece of tissue, and have to go for a second, getting my desk, notes, and fingers coated in that pretty crimson. It finally stopped after just about was well aware at my attempt to keep this low key ("no one will see that I'm bleeding if I wrap the tissues up in a ball on my desk ! They can't see through a ball !). I then felt extremely light headed during my next lecture and was sure I'd pass out. Afterwards, before my third lecture of the day, I downed a Gatorade so as to not pass out from a pussy nose bleed.

I got back to my room and ate a sammich I picked up on the way home. Just after finishing the Pulled Chicken Sandwich on white bread, I went to blow my nose again, cause I don't fucking learn. Then there was the issue of replacing my bed sheets. I said goodbye to the old faithfuls, now ripped and bled on. It was time for the back-up Martha Stewart Living sheets that I've had for 7 years to get that call up from the bullpen. I went to wash the sheets downstairs and after the obligatory 30 minute wait, I went downstairs to throw them into the dryer.

Imagine my surprise when the washer was filled with suds. I have never screwed up the wash like that. Ever. I was a tad shocked at my blunder, until I looked down the row of washers and EVERY SINGLE ONE was overlfowing with bubbles. There is no credible reason I could think of that could explain this phenomenon, but, it is Boston University, where your money goes into a black hole. After another wash and a dry cycle, they came out fresh. I put them on and realized that there is no way they are the correct size, as they have as much sag as someone who had stomach stapling. "Oh well," I figured, "it's not a big deal." My nose started to run, so I blew my nose as I admired the new look of my sleeping center.

And then I remembered I should blow my nose.

Dammit.

Take a tissue, rip off a strip, roll, insert, repeat until you pass out....

Atonement.

The Catholic church believes that if you are truly sorry for your actions, you will be forgiven. I have a few regrets that have taken place over my life, and I feel like this thing offers enough of a catharsis for me to bring these out. Please, don't judge me too harshly.

First off, please forgive me for blatantly starting at Kristie's chest in freshman year of high school. She's a very pretty girl, and she had this one low-cut shirt. We were in computer applications and there was some boring "copy this directly" assignment out and I couldn't help it. There was no hiding it - unabashed starting at her breasts. She caught me, and I didn't know for like two seconds. I finally looked up, made eye contact with her, and had no idea what to do. She stared me down, used to it probably, with a look of "oh c'mon, you can do it better than that!" on her face. I shrank. I then looked to a computer to the left and saw my then girlfriend and thought "OMG I HOPE SHE DOESN'T FIND OUT!'

I would like to please apologize for being such a little bitch for eight years as well.

Please forgive me for dodging Tara during the 7th/8th grade dance when I was in eighth grade. There were a few problems with this dance. First, I was told by the people in my French class who were running the dance that it was a semi-formal, so as to avoid the thug gangster wigger invasion that was sure to happen (and the skanky ass girls in little skirts and spaghetti straps) . The problem was that no one was told of this semi-formal thing but me. Needless to say, I felt like a real asshole as my friends wore Rocawear while I was rocking a white button-down collared shirt. There was another kink, however, and its name was Tara.

It was the first time a girl really wanted me (except for my neighbor Kim, who at age three asked to see my pickle; I did not understand the subtle sexuality she had). The problem was that I was not really attracted to Tara. The most pressing hiccup was that I had no way how to tell her. I didn't want to be mean, and I didn't want to see her face when I told her that I wasn't interested in her womanly advances. So, I did what any reasonable person would do: I ran away from her every time I saw her. It worked for about two hours, but at the end of the night, my mom didn't pick me up in a timely manner and there was a final confrontation. She asked where I had been as she wanted to dance, I said something along the lines of "I didn't want to dance with you....or anything else, kinda." The romance died outside of the mini gym with La Bouche blasting out of the doors.

Please forgive me for getting uppity and threatening to call the cops on my mom. I had neglected to clean my room when I was around 11 years of age. Cathy got tired to asking me--then telling me--to clean, so she went in to do it herself. I tried to stop her, and was being a really mean li'l son of a gun. Eventually, I pushed her to the point where she was going to backhand me, and warned me before hand of the possiblity of the smack coming. I told her "go ahead, I dare you, I'll call the cops on you so fast and you'll be locked up." Yeah, that was really dick.

Please forgive me for treating my Uncle John poorly. My Uncle John was the youngest of the kids on my Mom's side, and was "the cool uncle" since he was always around my Grandma's house. We didn't learn until later it was because he was a recovering alcoholic and couldn't really be on his own, nor had the funds after living through a divorce (yes, living through) with his primary job as an NYC transit cop. One day, he gave me a gift of an Eric Clapton double-disc live cd. I promptly screamed "THANK YOU!!! right in his face to be funny. He recoiled, I got yelled at, and I still feel foolish.

The other thing to feel bad about was when my cousin Sue and I called him gay. It was a joke, and I don't think we even knew what being gay was (we were in like 7th and 5th grade, respectively). He took it to heart, and thought maybe the whole family thought he was gay as he hadn't brought a girlfriend around for a while. He then felt a need to bring a girl to my house as a date for Christmas. Unky John managed to bring the most annoying, unattractive woman he could have possibly found, as if to drive home the fact "not only am I not gay, but I'll show you how gay I'm not by bringing this mess around." I have never regretted a comment more, as it just led to nothing but pain.

Just recently, something occurred back home and I didn't really like it, but I never spoke out about it. The only way I can is by writing, being a scared asshole and hiding behind words on the internet. Instead, I'm writing a script loosely based on the experience because it's the only way I can try and get others to not do the same things. Please forgive me for being brave only through writings.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Mailroom day is a dangerous day

Getting mail at college is a dicey situation sometimes. Usually, I would prefer to not get anything, just out of inconvenience. The mail room is downstairs and I'm lazy. Also, if I get a package, they're usually closed and I can't retrieve said package until the next day. The wait for letters and packages also is rather delayed, including when I received an invitation to a basketball game 5 days after the game was played (we lost to Maine).

My friend's Mom has been good enough to send me a care package every so often which is a giant boost in morale. Her package always contains: Chewy Chips Ahoy, a Reese's product (be it cups or miniatures), and watermelon Bubblicious gum. It has been a tradition since freshman year (which sounds longer than it really is) and I enjoy it greatly.

Last year, for some reason, my mailbox would receive free Stuff, FHM and Maxim magazines, all addressed to a guy who lived there two years prior to me. In fact, a kid on my floor who I'm friends with lived in my room and goes "oh man, you still get the Maxims!?"

And that's about the only good mail I get.

My mom will send me letters for various holidays with money inside which I like and appreciate. She will also send me the ocassional package which happens to be a direct rip-off of the Mrs. Meyer staple package. In fact, this Valentine's Day, I got a package from my mom and Mrs. Meyer containing almost the exact same products. I cried shenanigans. There was one giant difference, however.

My mom sent up a package of condoms. This is odd for a few reasons. Obviously, I got condoms from my own mother, and that's weird on its own. I don't need them since I have a girlfriend back home, but I guess they're in preperation for Haley's visit in April? My mom also decided that she should check to make sure that she gets the right condoms. She went into my dresser draw, pulled a condom out, and went to the store to match it perfectly. It's that sort of hands-on quality that you want when receiving prophylactics from the person who thankfully didn't insist on using one, thereby creating you. Then that person gives you the technology and capability to not have a child. It's like the circle of life from the Lion King, just without the antelope. And with more condoms.

My two grandmas also give me interesting mail. My grandma on my mom's side once sent me the wrong card for the wrong holiday--Happy St. Patrick's Day! for my birthday--and it has now become a gimmick. It has been going on for a few years, including one patch where she decided to give me the correct cards for the correct holidays in an obvious attempt to not look senile (she isn't anyway). I yelled at her, expecting the usual, "Oh Grandma, you silly goose!" reaction each time I open an envelope from her address. For Valentine's Day, I received this:



It was originally a birthday card from my cousin Eddie to my grandma. But, with a little legal pad paper and scotch tape, it's a heartfelt Happy Valentine's Day card. The sad part is, I actually really enjoy this. Does that make me weird, or just appreciative of creativity? Or just an asshole who won't accept an old lady's simple card and makes her jump through hoops for my appeasement?

My other grandma is just simply a piece of work. She is a very loving, very caring woman who just doesn't get it sometimes. For example, each Christmas she would buy us a grab bag full of shirts that never fit (my dad got XL when he was XXL, I'd get child large) and flashlights that didn't work, etc. etc. etc. One time she went to Wildwood and got me 18 keychains for "me and my friends." She bought us a very strange statue lookin' chachi of a small dog superglued to a bed. Not only did it make my dog bark for 18 hours a day, but my dad tripped over it getting ready for work and screamed thinking it was a raccoon loose in the house. Needless to say, she's kind of eccentric.

She sent me a lot of letters last year, all of which were Saran-wrapped for my protection (with money, which she wrote on for good luck, inside). These weren't a problem to carry--or hide--as my mailbox was about 3 buildings away in an adjacent dorm about a thousand feet away. In the spring, though, there was a problem. On a nice day in April I see that I have a package slip in my mailbox. I go to the desk and out comes a GIGANTIC fruit basket. It's about 3 feet tall, wrapped with a very pink bow, and impossible to hide. I had the joy of walking with said basket through the busiest time at the second largest dorm complex on campus. Thankfully, the grapes were quite good.

The best was yet to come. A few weeks ago, I recieved a large, manilla envelope from her. Contained inside was a swimsuit calender she got free from some local business. Once again, there are a few queer things here. First, why the hell did my Grandma send me a swimsuit calender?! Secondly, why did she send me one full of trashy Jersey shore girls? Well, I guess it's better that they aren't attractive, because this way I don't have her analyzing the pictures for quality control (a quality control like buying condoms, for example).

I called my Grandma up to thank her for the gift and we had a nice conversation about it, but it also contained words that will haunt me forever. I asked her why she felt it necessary to send me such a callender, being my grandmother and all. She replied with, "well, ya know, I just sent it as a boner."

I will repeat.

I asked her why she sent it, and she said, "well, ya know, I just sent it as a boner." I pulled my phone away from my face and screamed. Just screamed until I could think of a better, more adult reaction to that line. It took a while to think of one. I then picked the phone up again and asked her to never use that terminology with me again. Never. She doesn't understand what's going on. I call up my mom directly after I hang up with my grandma and relay the story to her. My mom can't fathom her using the word boner and tries to use substitute words, like "loner" or "donor." I emphatically say that I know I heard the word "boner," as it just sorta sticks out sometimes. Then, I'm told that maybe I just thought I heard it, as if I fucking think of boners when talking to my grandma. I don't know what is worse: having your grandma use the word or have your mother make the accusation that you think of said word while talking to your grandma.

Postscript: My mom calls up my grandma and asked if she did indeed use the word "boner." Grandma proudly says yes, and says that she "keeps up with what the kids were saying." When asked what the word meant, she replied with "a joke, having a laugh." Mom then asked her to sit down, told her the real meaning, and got a stunned "oh" as a response. A few hours after hanging up, my grandma left a message asking for my mom to call her back so that they can go over all of the hip phrases that my grandma knows to make sure she knows the true meanings.




Just a little thing to end at the end here....

I just want to give my best to a few people who have gone through some personal losses over the last week. I am sorry for all of your losses and hope for nothing but the best for you and your's. If I prayed, I would do so. Instead, I'll throw in a "stay strong" at the end of my blog. Wordiness is next to godliness. Keep your heads up, as things will be easier in time.

Saturday, February 18, 2006

Retro: The Michael Anton Credo

When I was home I got a whole crapload of writings I did throughout high school. Most of them were terrible poems that will never see the light of day. Here, though, is probably the best and most well-known (saying nothing, really) of the things I have done. In a fit of not getting any, I wrote this up in my teenage angst. I put a link to it in my profile and got credit from a nice number of folks. Ironically, a lot of those people were the girls who I wanted who wanted nothing to do with me and were the reason for writing it in the first place. Oh my. Enjoy.

Here is my testament. This is my idea of how life should be. This is the manifesto in which live should forever be modeled. Societies should take this as law and make the changes to make it so. The Michael Anton Credo is so:

1. Nice guys should finish first. What the hell did we ever do to you people? Christ, is it so wrong to want to compliment someone? I was brought up to flatter in a way, to just be honest, to not say something mean. I will go up to a girl and talk to her for hours upon hours, but it’s the asshole who’s been smoking since 6th grade, who burned down his garage, who allegedly beats chicks, that will get this one? I’ve seen too many good girls taken by this monster called “the cool guy.” I should be the cool guy. Then again, that’s impossible cause I don’t drink.
2. People will stay out of other’s business. From a young age we were taught to not be nosy, to not gossip, to not try and look after someone or give advice or boss someone that just doesn’t want that. Some thing we do it out of rebelliousness for what we were taught, maybe we are just curious, or maybe because our country does it. We’re born in America, and we police the fucking world! You have nukes and could have a strong military capability? Well we have that, and you can’t, so stop it now! You go around to the local teen ‘hot spot’ and hear “Oh my god Becky did what with him? She can’t do that, I like him, and I’ll put a stop to that right now!” Influence comes from society, your surroundings, and HELLO your loving government.
3. Take away drinking laws, making everything legal. Here’s something that’ll get all the parents miffed, which is crap since they were the ones that brought up a whole drug revolution in the first place. Thanks, by the way. I just don’t get how when you’re 20 and 364 days of age, you can not consume alcohol, but someone one day older can. More so, if we’re brought up learning about how certain drugs can be, and how you should just say “no” and alcohol is bad, and smoking is bad, and you just shouldn’t do it, BUT if you’re this age it’s AOK to have! It’s bullshit. Why does the raging hypocrisy exist like that? A substance is either bad or good, regardless of when taken. Sure, we can go into how younger bodies shouldn’t be doing it, but you can go out to any party and get fucking shitfaced on various different products in Perfecttown USA, so who are we really kidding here, people? I say just fuck it, make everything legal, people will make their own choices on what they want to put in their bodies. Wait…isn’t that what free choice is about?
4. Disavow any knowledge of curse words. There is nothing wrong with curses. Nothing at all. Talk to one person, say “ass” and that could offend someone else as much as “fuck” or even “damn it.” Words are just words, and they are based on PERCEPTION. A student shouldn’t get points off for saying one of these nasty words, which have been uttered since 4th grade. You take an all new set of words, make “bubble” stand for “fuck” and “weeble” for “shit” and those old curses will fade and people will try and avoid having their kids say “bubble this” and “weeble that.” They are words, and words never hurt anyone. Well, except for when that billboard fell on a guy….
5. Take away all guns. Seriously, this one needs no explanation. We are a country where half the population is stupid or desperate. Plus, we have knives and boards with nails in them. Isn’t that enough for death? Guess not.
6. Lawyers are gone. Fuck the people who will sweet talk, save murders from the chair, put the unequivocally innocents 6 feet under. Just put the guy on trial, give all facts and evidence, let the jury figure it out. Eye for an eye is also true, because raping and killing a 5 year old and making someone sleep and never wake up again just ain’t the same kind of retribution, now is it?
7. That brings me to 7 – child rapists are to be immediately killed in the most harmful and cruelest way possible. It’s just so fucking disgusting…ugh, don’t even want to go into it, just kill’em harshly. Assholes.
8. The freedom of speech shall be upheld. People are so freaking touchy now. You say “fag” in a movie and some group is after you. Someone paints a picture that someone finds OFFENSIVE and they throw a shitfit. Once again, perception rears its ugly head again. We have a right as people in this county to say what we want without persecution. Has that just been forgotten about? Whenever some rapper says “ho” or “bitch” people are up in arms like said rapper assaulted some grandparents. If you feel that the country is so stupid and will say whatever popular singer dude will say, then why aren’t we a country of sappy love singers or Canadian chicks wearing ties for no apparent reason, or furthermore, all making our own li’l ghettos and talking like we’re big and black? Oh that’s right, we’re not, and we aren’t idiots, and we can make up our own minds. So even if you’re against that one guy pushing his HATE agenda on me, you’re pushing your OWN agenda on me at the same time. Moral of the story – shut up.
9. Patriotism shall be abolished in every form. Seriously folks, the only time you show your love for your country is one day a year or when buildings fall? Put away your 3 dollar car flag and either voice it all the time or never at all. God bless America.
10. Education will get more attention than the military. This is by far the greatest paradox that I have ever heard from one section of the government. The Army and other facets are upset that they are getting less educated people and don’t see why people from Harvard and Yale don’t join the military! Check any federal funding bill. Here’s the pie piece for education: > and here’s military: < [editor's note: think of that "<" as being really large] could that possibly be the problem here? Nah, fuck it, we have nukes, they can be smart for us as those Chinese will just use some calculators and never go after us. Look at our president and you tell me that the Cold War/Nuke race didn’t forever cripple our country. Also, everyone learn Chinese as they will own us in 20 years.
11. The line between “fact” and “opinion” will no longer be blurred, but will be made into 8 tons of metal, concrete and other heavy shit so that people will know what’s going on. News is no longer news. It is a souped up hour-long editorial with ‘news’ that is “THIS COUNTRY IS BAD AND WE SHOULD WAR WITH THEM GRAAAARRR!” or any of those sob stories. Fox news “reports, and then YOU decide.” Obviously there isn’t enough room on your screen for the rest of their little tagline. “We report, you decide…after we tell you what is good and bad, who to hate, who to love, and who you pledge allegiance to. Because, obviously, that man is Rupert Murdoch. Watch COPS on Saturday nights, too. Thanks.”
12. No more frivolous lawsuits. Things are just so fucking ridiculous, it’s god damned amazing. So, I have decided since American Idol was such a hit show and the plot for The Running Man was keen, I’d expand upon these two ideas, and incorporate them into a game show whose popularity will be unmatched by everything (but Millionaire, of course). I thought it’d be good to get the people who made the stupidest lawsuits of the week, because we all know that they do occur WEEKLY, have the kids at home vote, and whoever gets the most votes gets to be brutally eaten apart by lions, then the remains are fed to sharks. After a month, I would love to see those fat money grabbing assholes who want to sue fast food chains for making them this way pull that crap again. NOTE – I already abolished lawyers, so this rule will hardly ever be in effect. But then again, we can’t be TOO lax, now can we?
13. Here is now a short list of groups of people who should be outlawed and sent to the Antarctic: Rappers with Platinum teeth things, girls that are 80-100 pounds and bitch about being fat (considering they aren’t like, 2’3”), white people who wear doorags like their fucking Tupac’s cousin or something, anyone who says “omg” more than 5 times in an instant message conversation, the people who made AOL as well as their shitty product, and people who like Creed, as well as the band themselves.
14. If you have to be a certain age to drive in the first place, there should be one to say when you CAN’T drive. Or, more so, that there should be a mandatory test of any driver over the age of 65 (retirement, keeping it simple) to see if they just absolutely suck at driving or not. I have been on the road a great deal, and I have seen no older person ever driving the correct speed for the road, wearing anything in the sun but those huge sunglasses that you find in A&P that go over their glasses with the 5 inch thick lenses, or that can actually see more than 6 inches over the steering wheel.
15. Homework is abolished. It is crap work. I don’t feel the need to continue, cause we talked about it in class.
16. Girls won’t question what guys do, and girls won’t question what guys do. By this, I mean try to understand the other sex, because you know what, it will never happen. Girls will always “lack sense,” and boys will always be “silly and not definitive,” so stop bitching about it and just comprehend that you know absolutely dick, and will continue to know absolutely dick, about the other sex, for the rest of your life. You will save at least one ulcer this way; Dr. Anton guarantees it.
17. People are insane, and you have to know that. Seriously, some people are just born not all there. Whether it’s someone who will burn ants with a magnifying glass, go around shooting people in a school, taking pictures of you in the shower of your apartment, or blow up people for some religious crap, these people exist in our world. It isn’t like they became this way after playing a video game, or they were brought up without a stable father figure for 3 years in their life, or because they were breastfed. They’re just plainly fucking nuts. The sooner that everyone understands that someone could just be crazy based on their own accord and screwed up head, the world will just be a better place. Better until those crazy Halo-playing orphaned dope addicts blow it up, of course. Bastards.
18. There is one God for every religion really, so why not make it just the same guy? By this, I mean everyone can keep whatever religion they like. If they think Jesus was the son of God, cool. If they think he was a prophet, it’s quite possibly boss. Hell, if they think there was no Jesus and God’s only son is a sheep named Benny all the power to’em. But there’s really only one God, and I swear to you, he doesn’t want you to kill anyone in his name. Really! Just ask him sometime.
19. There are no aliens or life outside of this planet. We as a race should keep getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s try and learn everything we can about US before we ever start to think about something else. And really, do you think if we ever got in contact with a race that can fly across space would really care about what we’re doing? Shit, they’d either laugh at us or piss us off and we’d nuke them. Once again, god bless America.
20. There will be no more quizzes where you find out what song you are, what crazy character from Friends you are, or what fucking drink you are. If you don’t know what character you are from a TV show, ask your friends and they’ll give you the honest truth. Shit, I always thought I was chandler, but apparently I’m ross. Big friggin deal. And seriously, if you were an alcoholic drink, it would make the world a better place because you couldn’t think, talk, or spread that shit around like the fucking ebola virus of stupidity.

This is my coda of life. Leave me comments, cause I’m sure I pissed off more than a few people with this.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Valentine's Day and Urinals (similar subjects)

Valentine's Day is the worst holiday ever. Ever. That abomination of President's Day where two holidays were formed into one isn't even as bad as the ole' V-Day.

A lot of people are going to say because it's so commercialized, and because it's a Hallmark holiday, and those are good reasons to hate this disgrace on our calenders. But the real reason why Valentine's Day stinks is because it's a holiday where no one is ever happy.

Think about it: when's the last time you had a good Valentine's Day? If you're single, you hate it because you're lonely and you have no one to spend the holiday with. If you have a girlfriend and you're a guy, then you have to go out and buy her something like flowers ($70 for a dozen roses) or candies or jewelery. And you better make it good, because EVERYONE ELSE is getting something, too, and you'll be judged. Most girls have a pyramid structure where the one girl gets something great and everyone has to have a gift as good as that one. So...singles are lonely, men waste cash on products that could be dead in a week, and women are upset deep-down because their material item didn't match the love that they feel they deserve.

Moving on....

Recently I was in the bathroom in my school building here at BU and I realized that I have a fear and hatred for urinals. Everyone knows what one of those are, but for those who are not familiar, it is a urinary receptical placed on a wall for easy access peeing for males. I walked in and looked to the right at the row of five urinals, with one guy on the far left. I immediately turned and went into the stall and peed...only after the guy left. I was lamenting the fact that I can't pee at a urinal like everyone else, and then I recalled my past with urinals.

I was first introduced to one in first grade during elementary school. I had to go to the bathroom, but I couldn't go in our class room (looking back, how weird, yet convenient, is a toilet in your classroom? Imagine if you had the shits...how embarassing would that be? I'm happy that phenomenon ended in the second grade). I had never encountered a urinal before, and was confused by the mechanics of it. This one had a drain in the ground, and the porcelain behemoth both confused and horrified me. A boy was using it properly all the way to the left, and once he left, I decided to give it a try.

Usually when I was home, I'd pull down both my pants and underwear and pee into the toilet bowl. I do clearly remember being very confused as to why every pair of Underroos had a hole right in the middle of them. Thinking that it was just impractical stitchwork, I continued to urinate as per normal. I stood in front of the urinal, pulled down both my pants and my underwear, and went to town. Strangely, I felt relieved, like a big boy. Then someone walked into the room, saw my bear ass, and ran away to tell on me. Embarassed, I quickly pulled up my pants and ran away.

I went home later and confronted my mom about what the front flap was in my underpants. She informed me that when you're peeing, you put your penis through there. I didn't believe her at first, but after a try I learned proper urinal etiquette. A few years later I walked in to the same bathroom as a seasoned veteran (5th grade) and saw some young boy doing the same thing I did. I patted him on the back (bare ass) and said, "you'll learn, boy." Then we shared a lovely conversation over tea.

Ok I made everything up from the ass hit downwards.

When I was in 4th grade I attended my first hockey game and learned a whole new bathroom culture: one involving drunk older men. No, I wasn't raped. There were guys who were standing like 8"-10" back from the urinal itself and urinating. This creates two problems that left irreparable damage on my young, fragile mind. First, I was splashed with piss from a strange man, and because of my size, the rebound spray hit me in the chest. Terrible, terrible, terrible. Secondly, I was on eye-line with old man penis. There is nothing more freightning, and as a child, it is ridiculously large. So now I was feeling both insufficiently manish as well as degraded.

Now that I'm older I have run into new problems. I sometimes cannot pee with others around, especially if we're side by side pissing in a urinal. Last year in the dorms, they had these weird, old school models that protruded from the wall and left a part that actually ended underneath your crotch, showing your member to the world. I refused to use them, except for one time where I was peeing and a drunk dude came to my left and I literally froze, zipped up, and quickly exited. I'm almost a grown man, people.

Another fun development is that with my unusual height and leg length, I sometimes don't fit in urinals. Giants Stadium has unsually low urinals and a shelf a little higher above the tops of them that stretches across the wall and across all of the stalls. My crotch is ABOVE the top of the urinal, and it's impossible for me to hug into the urinal to not show my goods to others as the shelf is stabbing me in the chest. This leaves me no other option then to wait by the stall like a wierdo. I'm that guy. Again.

Finally, I would like to relate to you all a story that occurred at last night's Beanpot final. For those who don't know, there is a Boston tradition where the first two Mondays in February in whatever arena is up (the Boston Garden, then the Fleet Center, now the TD Banknorth Garden) there is a 4-team hockey tourney involving the four local Boston schools: Harvard, BC, Northeastern and BU. Last night, nationally ranked #5 BU faced off against #4 BC, two teams with what one Sports Illustrated writer described to be the best rivalry in all of sports. All sorts of ridiculous (BU won btw).

The way the fans of each school are split up is that the top level is split between the four schools, with BC and BU on opposite sides across the ice. Well, there was a kid next to me in the jammed upper section who had on a deep red pleather coat with a furry hood and a white t-shirt with a red-marker-scribbled "BU" inscribed on it, surrounded by a red diamond looking thing. The kid was either on coke or was drunk or both, as he would start his own chants like "HE'S A PUSSY! HE'S A PUSSY!" when a BC player got hurt and "BC SUCKS! BC SUCKS!" for seemingly no reason. The fucker creeped me out.

Eventually, he says mutters something along the lines of "I'm going to fuck with the BC fans" and leaves. The second period ends, he's gone, and I'm a happy guy. On the ice the two mascots start to bring in a table with solo cops glued on - our mascots are going to play beer pong. Fucking YES! All of a sudden, some dude jumps down from 10 rows above the concrete entrance for the mascots on the side of the arena and starts trying to rip the BC Eagle mascot's head off. Our section saw the kid's coat and immediately knew it was Fucked Up Guy. Security pummelled the hell out of him and he left in handcuffs, headless.

The final total? BU's Terrior Rhett won 4-1 in Beirut and the kid was released after the game. Ah, the Beanpot.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Have you?

You ever have one of those nights where you simply question everything? When you sit around and just wonder about everything you've been taught? Did we ever REALLY land on the moon? Do M&Ms really melt in your mouth and incredibly refuse to melt in your hand? Is there a God? If there is, is his middle name Pete or Hummerdinger? Why did Denzel win an Oscar when Don Cheadle is barely known by anyone? Once again, is there a God? Yeah, me too.

You ever have those days where nothing you do goes right? It is uncanny how many simple tasks fail you. When you get you bang your foot against the desk that has been there for six months. Or, when you forget your pen...and your ID card...and your book...and of course, your keys. What about when you're about to hand in your paper when you realize that page 5 is sitting in the printer, just waiting to be stapled with all of his buddies, but you forgot it? And then, on your way home, you step in that giant puddle that looks only like it's an inch deep as you're soaked to your kneecap. Yeah, me too.

You ever have those long nights where you just want to give up? Nothing you do makes sense anymore. There is no reason to go to college as you're just taking classes you never wanted to take in the first place to get a degree that doesn't even guarentee you a job. Why do I hang out with all of these people around me? Are they bringing me down? Shit, am I bringing THEM down just being around them? What's the point of going on? There are so many people in this world and not every one of them succeeds. A lot of them fail. No one aspires to be a janitor, or 35 and working in McDonalds. What if I come up short, too? What if everything i'm doing right now is just putting off the inevitable: I'm untalented and I'm going to be a failure, and I'll be in debt to boot. Yeah, me too.

You ever have those days when you're walking around on an unseasonably warm February night, just after dusk, and things just feel right? You can't justify it, there's nothing to put a finger on. There is just something beyond you, something better than you can understand. Something that you just humor for lack of a better explanation. As you walk, a cold breeze gently sweeps across you, and that sting hits your face, and you can't possibly feel more alive. All of the worries of the world go away. All of the baggage that you've been carrying around falls off of your back at once. For a moment, you're free. One splendid moment in your busy, hectic, anxiety-ridden life just completely takes over. Then the moment is over, you pick up your bags, and move back on your way. You ever have those days? Yeah, me too.

You ever just stop to think how lucky you are? Four limbs, no diseases, no problems other than a tricky way to go after speech, or a complete lack of self-confidence in front of the other sex, or just a bad hair day. Each little tick that you have overflows into this incredible crisis that consumes your life. How can anyone be happy when Johnny just dumped me after going out with me for two whole weeks? Why is everything around me going forward when I just lost my favorite pen? Honestly, how can you sleep knowing that Seattle just blew the Super Bowl?

You ever think about the people lying in hospital beds right now who crave mulling over those insignificant things? All the minutes you waste searching the web (even though there's nothing new there) or watching TV (even though there's nothing good on) or laying around aimlessly? Have you ever thought about all of the time that you're wasting that you would kill to have back later in life? All of this wasted youth doing nothing but listening to the clock tick away and acting like it doesn't affect you? You ever really take a moment to be thankful for what you have compared to others? You ever think about how spoiled you are, Have, while the Have-Nots of the world wish they could be you? You ever think that there is no heaven, and we better start making this life matter?

No, I don't either. I think we should....

Sunday, February 05, 2006

I wish I was the grounds for fifty million hands raised and open toward the sky

Pardon the overly sentimental and very obvious title for a blog entry. I'm listening to Pearl Jam and I needed a title, since "some more random shit" just doesn't have that good of a ring to it. So, instead, I took some lyrics from Wishlist. The title has absolutely nothing to do with what comes after it. Except for this right now.

What's that? Did I just blow your fucking mind?

There are many articles of clothing that we have on that we accept being wet. For example, if we get a wet t-shirt it could be blamed on a ride at a water park, hanging out by the pool, or trying to get fifty bucks from some horney college guys in Cancun so that they can get afford the plane ticket after they squandered it on those damned body shots. Wet boxers or panties are also acceptable as we've all gotten drenched in the summertime by a water balloon or the like...on top of other reasons why those would be a tad...moist.

The one article of clothing that we all refuse to have wet are socks. Socks were never meant to be wet. There is no justification to say that they should be. Tucked oh so comfortably into your shoes, they are meant to keep your foot warm while the shoe itself keeps the foot dry. The sock is simply not given the responsibility of being water resistant; just cozy. When the shoe fails, and the inside gets soaked, we're never really pissed that our feet themselves are wet. No, we get upset that we're walking around now with a sock that gladly sucks all that water up and squishes back and forth, making a complete mockery out of the "stay dry and warm" system of our shoes and socks. The worst, though, is when you're walking around in your socks and you get them wet on your own. Immediately, they are kicked off, discarded in anger and disgust, and you move on to a new pair. Socks are really bastards sometimes.

To go along with the theme of getting wet, one of the most disgusting things is when the toilet flushes and it splashes you on the hand. The worst part about the whole scenario is that you're trying to do the right thing. Your Mom always told you to put the seat down, and you do, and all you get out of it is a hand sprayed with water that was rushing to wipe away your fecal matter. While it can be said that the water is probably clean, as it has yet to be sullied by your waste...it comes from the place where you just took a shit or a piss. To think that it's wholly clean is impossible, possibly insane. If I got a brand new toilet and I did a test flush, and some got on my hand, I would still freak out. Anything that comes from a toilet is evil.

Have you ever been in a conversation with someone and they just drop the "I have a boyfriend/girlfriend" seemingly out of nowhere? Recently, I was buying The Aristocrats on DVD, and I was making minutely small talk with the girl behind the register. She was no more than a couple years older than me, and I wasn't doing anything other than being nice. She asked how I was, I answered, asked how she was, no big deal. Then she says, "yeah, this is a great flick...but my boyfriend didn't really understand it. So I had to explain it to my boyfriend." Dropping the boyfriend/girlfriend is clearly a defense mechanism, and I feel it was unfairly thrown upon me. I wasn't hitting on her, merely being polite, and what do I get to show for it? Having her beat me over the head that she's not single.

It's such an awkward point when a significant other is brought into the equation. A few times when I've been at parties or in class and I'm talking to girls, I eventually have to drop it. Not because they're coming on to me (ha!) but because it just seems natural that when they talk about a shitty band I'll say "oh, my girlfriend loves them." Then there's that pause. "....oh. Tell me about your girlfriend." Girls love acting like they care about it, when they're just being polite. They really don't care, but have to acknowledge you randomly dropping in that you have a girlfriend to try and steer it away from being incredibly awkward. I can't wait until I'm talking to some guy and I get 'oh, my boyfriend' so I can finally make that leap that I always wanted - accidentally hitting on a gay man.

Finally, I would like to tell you that recently, I was That Guy. There are many ways you can become That Guy, but recently I fell into the category for a few reasons. First, I knocked over my lab seat because I put my heavy ass coat on that thin amalgamation of metal. There was a huge crash, everyone looked at me, and they all knew: I was That Guy. Coming home from class on a rainy day, I was too close to the street, and also a giant puddle. I got splashed all over my pants. When I crossed the street, two girls crossing towards me giggled and looked. We all knew I was so That Guy.

Other reasons for getting That Guy qualification:
-Wearing a shirt from home of the band you're going to see in concert
-Wearing a shirt from home of the super hero whose movie you're going to see (I actually did this by accident. Fuckin' Spider-man).
-Making the obvious play-on-a-last-name joke that everyone has already made, but you think you're fresh and original
-Not liking a piece of music or film because "it's too popular" or "it sold out"
-Ruining the ending of a movie without proper SPOILER notification
-When you're in a fast-food place, or any sort of eatery really, and you drop your food or spill your drink. Bonus points for if your drink was in a glass bottle.

I know people don't like contributing, but here is your chance. So do it, god dammit. Are there any other times when you could be That Guy? Leave a comment and a scenario or two - give back to the drivel you currently read. It's like the Back to Africa campaign, except not racially driven. Or anywhere near the possibility of contracting AIDS.