Tales From The Crypt

Kine Bud and Roller Coasters, Very Different or Remarkably Similar?

2007-08-07T11:47:00.001-07:00

If you know your Cedar Point roller-coasters/smoking apparati, these are self-explanatory.

Three-foot Bong = Millenium Force

Bong = Magnum

Piece = Gemini

Vaporizer = Top-Thrill Dragster

Blunt = Raptor

Joint = Mantis

One-Hitter = Blue Streak

Steam-roller = Mean Streak

Resin Bowl = Iron Dragon

Smoking seeds and stems = Gemini Jr.

Any others i forgot?

Farewell Blogville

2006-11-06T22:23:00.001-08:00

i remember the good ole' days when you could pass out with a colored folk and take a leak in the bed.

I might do a post soon about my life as an involved man. I've begun to realize that when you can't just disappear into the morning mist and actually have to deal with the ramifications of your actions, the carelessness and lack of respect tends to dissipate, so do all the good stories.

If you guys are interested I could tell you all about the great dinner we had on sweetest day, or perhaps you'd like to hear about nights spent spooning and talking about "feelings".

No, you want piss, sex, blowjobs, and tag-teams, and I'm not about to become some faggy romance novel author.

My point? Following suit with Fishman I think it's time to hang up the keyboard and call it a day for this bloggist too. One day if I decide kissing and telling would benefit my relationship in some manner, you'll get to hear some fantastic things, until then I join Fishman as an observer.

Legends were made on this blog, and the stories contained within will remain for a while I'm sure, until the blog goes idle and it gets wiped out, then there's nothing, except a girl who got eiffel towered, one who got pissed on, and one who took it in the butt. They can't delete it unfortunately.

-Cummins

Happy Anniversary

2006-10-15T18:12:00.000-07:00

A lot of people don't have a brain like mine, that, despite being bombarded with alcohol, marijuana and other substances for the past couple years, still remembers it was a year ago this weekend that this blog was founded by myself, Fishmang and Sanders.

In the past year, this blog has seen a lot of action, as it waxed and waned in interest according to our schedules, work load and, of course, the stories that were posted. We saw our peak in late October as Cummins posted "Have You Ever Seen Paris", which is the front-runner for best post of the year. That same week i posted a highly controversial account of my Halloween weekend at Michigan State. Then, as midterms approached and the weather got colder, there was simultaneously less to write about and less time to write it. So the blog, like a 91 Lincoln Continental, sputtered for awhile, until after New Years i had the inspiration to fish out an old alcohol-related story from the summer, which revived reader and writer interest. I then posted something or other about the future and a couple of stories about male nudity at the cottage. I soon followed that up with a riveting two-part saga documenting our high school spring break trip. But then i got tired. Everything i wrote all started to sound the same, and i realized that actually being drunk was way more funny than reading about being drunk. I realized Tucker Max's stories--if they're even true--are funny because he's an asshole and purposely does dumb shit so he can write about it and frat boys all over the country can drink beer and yuk it up while reading it. But i wasn't about to go out of my way to provide material for something that just wasn't that important to begin with.

As the blog continued to lose ground this summer, our team made the poor decision of signing matthew schultz, who had not yet mastered the shift key and wrote all his stories in one big paragraph. This summer and early fall, Sandhop tried to revive the blog with several nonsensical posts, including song lyrics and documentations of excessive sleeping. It was time to face the truth. The blog was dead. And it still is. Truth be told, i would probably still post on here but for one of the first times in my life i am truly busy. I have no idea why college is so much more work this year than last, but it is. So, tonight, when i would normally be writing something amusing, instead you get this half-ass shit, because i have to write a seven-page paper on Moses due in three days that i haven't started yet. I'm not kidding, i'm actually writing a paper on Moses. So, i'm just about done with this thing, at least for this year, if anyone out there reading wants to join our team talk to me and i'll give you the account password.

One last thing, it is an anniversary, so we should celebrate by choosing the best post of the year. I will list four options, one from each major writer, and you can vote for your favorite in the comments section. The winner gets a free round of bong hits at 1105 White Street.

1. "Have You Ever Seen Paris?" (Aaron Cummins)

2. "Fuck You, Detroit Lions" (part 1) Michael E. Sandhop

3. "Political Commentary for the College Freshmang" Jeff Fishmang

4. "Mandrain Oranges" Eric Blogenbloom

My trip to the bay

2006-09-26T13:49:00.000-07:00

cutthoatish kine young beezy keekin sup wit it cut what it do mang/womang go dumm like chad johnson hyphe mang. went dumm nd kine dumm peepin beezies chad johnson rlly hyphe womang. kine cutt womang. dummy juice hyphe mang wit womang 2gether chad mang johnson.

get at me.

New Record

2006-07-21T12:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I slept 19.5 hours, which blew away all previous records [closest was 17]. Just thought I'd let you know.

-Anonymous [apparently it's embarrasing to be associated with this blog]

Death of A Mandrain

2006-07-21T10:36:00.000-07:00

It is with a heavy heart that i inform the three or so loyal viewers of this blog that 'Mandrain Oranges' are no longer an item available on Wendy's' menu. Last year, and in previous years, Mandrain Oranges were available as a healthy substitute for fries in any combo meal, or of course by themselves. However, starting recently, 'Mandrain Oranges' were either replaced by baked Lay's potato chips, or just taken off altogether, i am not sure which.

Either way, this truly marks the end of an era in blogging. I never ordered 'Mandrain Oranges' instead of fries, or even considered it, but most of us by now are aware of a classic ERunplugged post by the name of 'Mandrain Oranges'. This post describes a visit by the titular chracter 'ER' to Wendy's, where he must choose between ordering 'Mandrain Oranges' or fries with his combo. In the end, he cannot make up his mind, and he and his friend 'James the Greek' commit suicide by driving their car off a cliff, Thelma and Louise-style.

It seems that a lack of 'Mandrain Oranges' on Wendy's menu tells us that blogs will never be the same again, that we have passed the renaissance of blogging, a short but recognizable period where every subject seemed interesting to write about. The oranges, you see, were not just delicious fruit, but a symbol of the blogging days of the past, which are now gone forever. Let us lament their passing.

-Anonymous

Torn

2006-07-18T23:04:00.000-07:00

I was listening to the radio today and I heard a song that brought me back to the days of elementary school. I just wanted to share it with you. I hope it takes you back to the good old days as well.

"Torn" By: Natlie Imbruglia

I thought I saw a man brought to life
He was warm, he came around like he was dignified
He showed me what it was to cry

Well you couldn't be that man I adored
You don't seem to know, don't seem to care what your heart is for
But I don't know him anymore

There's nothing where he used to lie
My conversation has run dry
That's whats going on, nothing's fine I'm torn
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel
I'm cold and I am shamed lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed into something real
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
You're a little late, I'm already torn

So I guess the fortune teller's tell us right
Should have seen just what was there and not some holy light
But you crawled beneath my veins and now
I don't care, I have no luck, I don't miss it all that much

There's just so many things that I can't touch, I'm torn
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel
I'm cold and I am shamed lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed into something real
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
You're a little late, I'm already torn. Torn.

There's nothing where he used to lie
My inspiration has run dry
That's what's going on, nothings right, I'm torn
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel
I'm cold and I am shamed lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed into something real
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel
I'm cold and I'm ashamed bound and broken on the floor
You're a little late, I'm already torn

Well, I hope that was worthwhile. I miss the 90's.

???

2006-07-07T14:39:00.000-07:00

Oh.

Here's to my sweet Satan.

The one who's little path will make you sad, whose power is Satan.

He'll give you, give you 666.

There was a little toolshead where he made us suffer, sad Satan.

It comes with the territory (the saturday chronicles)

2006-06-12T23:06:00.000-07:00

"Obviously you don't know me well enough." Is what I should have said. I honestly feel like at this point in my life I should offer some kind of disclaimer, or carry a cigarette package "surgeon's general'esque" type of warning. Issue it to every female I encounter, sexually, or otherwise. Obviously this one didn't know it.

Rewind to the night before, I meet up with Fishman. We wander over to some random frat in Ann Arbor, both of us already heavily intoxicated, he probably was twice as intoxicated at this point because I was still sure-footed enough to pull a Jack-Be-Nimble leap off a porch and over a bush that had to be at least 5 feet long. I don't understand the physics of how it happened but I think the equation basically is:

Number of Drinks / Athletic Ability (while sober) = ability to perform such feats while drunk

Completely irrelevent to the rest of the story I just thought I'd throw that one in there.

So, we leave his frat, after taking me to see someone who was really excited to see me.

It's a typical frat party, scantily clad underclassmen, clearly intoxicated overly horny frat boys, loud music, a plethora of beer, and multiple games of beer pong being carried out. Shift your focus to the opposite side of the table, a knockout brunette with great tits is busy in her game, I remark to Fishman "yo, that girl is pretty cute let's go over there." You know, she had a friend, let's do this wingman style basically. I didn't really consider Jeff's intoxication when saying this, and he abruptly responded to my suggestion by slurelling (slurring + yelling) across the table "HEY YOU!" To which she responded with a classic "who me?" point to her chest (me staring at what I described as "hypnotizing boobs"), to which Fishman throws out a "YEAH YOU! YOU'RE REALLY HOT!" Clearly this wasn't her first interaction with a hollering drunk cat call, she laughed and continued her game. Strike one.

So the party continues, we play beer pong, Fishman's missing more than Natalee Holloway (oh snap!), so I pick up the slack. No problem, but as I watch the prospects slowly slip away into the night (including the brunette Fishman so appropriately harassed), I began to feel a bit of desperation forming. I don't know if it was planned by some higher power, but a girl I had hooked up with a week prior just so happened to show up at the same party I was at, at the same time I began to realize my own sex drive growing. I wasn't really too keen on repeating the scene from last weekend, she was. She was what I would liken to a younger cougar, out there waiting for you, when you're drunk, at the end of the party, ready to pounce and take you back to their den to feast.

Enter game killer. Her gay best friend. They're dangerous. She and I start making out, I don't think we even talked prior to that. This is where the warning label comes in to effect. That split second moment when you decide whether you're committed to a full night with this person, or are just going to go your seperate ways. Listen to your instincts, I could have told you that. Her gay best friend passes along the message that I'm "not a good guy", of course I am, I'm a good guy, just read the "Have you seen paris" post if you have any questions. What girl says "he said you're not a good guy", then asks my opinion on it, I told you, I need a warning label, but until it's government mandated, no dice. So suffice to say I did not confirm his assessment of me.

She played it perfectly, I give her a 10/10. She insisted that Fishman was going to come back to her house, because well, walking a stumbling drunk kid to his house directly across the street to go to sleep is just way too safe and convenient for it to even be considerable. We couldn't avoid it, we committed ourselves a while ago, or at least I committed myself, and dragged Fishman down with me.

This is where things get blurry, and boring, so I'll skip it. We go back to her house, and we go to her bed, shit happens, we pass out.

I kind of half-wake up around 6 O'clock. You know, that first wake up from a night of drinking after you black out, like, the first shot of consciousness. I snap out of the black out. Now, this is a bit of an awkward wake up, not unfamiliar to me, but awkward nonetheless. I feel around my crotch area, and my pants are half way pulled up, drenched in my own piss. On the bed, on my shirt, on the sheets, everywhere. I peed my pants in my sleep, with a young lady sleeping right next to me.

What do I do at this point? Run out of the room half naked and have Fishman gather my goods? I was planning an escape, when I decided it wasn't worth it, I don't know this girl, who is she? So I say fuck it and go back to sleep. Yeah, I sleep in my own pee, whatever, I'm drunk, and hell, she's sleeping in it too, so I mean if a stranger is willing to sleep in my pee, I guess I'm kind of obligated, after all, I made the mess.

This is where things got a little weird. She woke up. Now I'm in survival mode, how about I find a blunt object and run out of the house, pour some water on her so she thinks she just blacked out and peed herself. I'm not like that though, this is beginning to get too funny to not keep dragging out. So it's about 8am, and she wakes up, feels around, and now you'd think at this point she'd wake up and give me hell, after all, some random dude she invited to her house just pissed in her bed. No, she gets up, gets a towel, comes back, puts it on the guy who is fake sleeping, climbs back in next to him in her fully saturated bed, and goes back to sleep.

I decide to put off the inevitable for a little longer, go back to sleep Aaron. I was hoping she'd go take a shower or something so I could dissapear into the morning mist without any confrontation. Unfortunately she doesn't appreciate personal hygiene as much as I would have hoped.

I wake up at 10am and decide that it is go time. I wake up and make sure she acknowledges it. I sit up, and give an "oh shit!" like I had just noticed it. She follows suit and drops a line on me "did you pee the bed?" Honestly, I hate questions like that in life, why do people insist on asking questions they know the answer to just so they can confirm the other person's stupidity in a given situation. How do I respond to that question in any other way than "uhh yeah guess so." To which she responds with "ew that's so gross." No, what is gross is the fact that you've been willingly laying in it for the past 2 hours. If a girl did that in my bed she would be outside faster than she could get her clothes on. She's pulling off the sheets when I respond to her delcaration of my grossness with a "Yeah, it comes with the territory."

I walked off and disapeared into the crisp morning air, pants and shirt drenched in piss, still wasted, laughing my ass off the entire way back.

I still haven't confirmed her request to be my Facebook friend.

-Cummins

Messin with Texas

2006-06-11T17:35:00.000-07:00

Tales From The Crypt

Im messing with texas, i know its long, but i just hate em, i wrote this right after Texas beat UCS

I sat there watching the slack-jawed yokels of texas sing "i've been working on the railroad" in celebration and i could only think of how much i hate texas, not the team, but the state. The state and all those you reside in it. Now dont go discounting this because you think i hate everyone. If you really look at it, you hate Texas too. Start with the first things you think of when you think of Texas; the chair, the Bushes, cattle, etc. Are any of those really good things? They affectionatly nicknamed the electric chair. How charming of them to give their machine of death the name "sparky." Isnt that fucking cute. The crying families of the condemned must feel better knowing their husbands, brothers, sons, and better believe sisters are getting the kiss of death from such a damn cute thing. They gave it the stereotypical dog name, its the fucking pet for the entire inbred state. Texas executed the first woman, thanks for the equal opportunity punishment. They love that equality so much they were trying to make it legal to execute mentally retarded people. I get the feeling they weren't referring to prisoners, they just wanna fry 'em some 'tards. If in texas feel good that drunk driving wont get you the sparky treatment, that shit is legal, possesion of drugs is a whole other story. Justice system aside they all deserve to die. They just love those catchy slogans. Apparently, and this was news to me, everything is bigger in texas. Is it that fish in a bowl theory, big state, big shit. Texas being a state supposedly allows everything in it to expand to fit its vast landscape. If everythings bigger in texas, shit in Canada must be ridiculous. I better watch out though because i've heard you dont mess with Texas. I really dont know what to say about that. What sort of messing are the talking about? Do the little things bother Texas, or just the biggies? Further more, whats Texas going to do to me? Texas has been personified in this slogan to be the bad ass kid on the playground who steals your lunch money, well you cant get my lunch money texas, or i'll tell teacher. Why is Texas so proud of its self anyway? They tried to be their own country for a while and the U.S. had to bail their ass out. I mean they must have been fighting a worthy opponent, cuz nobody fucking messes with texas. Mexico. Since when does mexico have an army? That is neither here nor there. So we help them out and now they think they are the mightiest of all states. Now one of their finest is our president, and in true Texas spirit has gone and got us in a fight where we need someone to bail out. One thing i learned aobut texans is that they just cant win fights.

Texans wallow in their lack of intelligence, and love of beer. State sport, if i had to throw out a guess id say bull riding. Where else are rodeo's socially acceptable? They are the fat, oil drillin, steak eatin, ten-gallon hat wearin wastes of life that, i personally, would like to send in to the sun. I hate you texas, almost as much as you hate minorities.

Enter Matt Schultz

2006-06-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

I would like to present to the world Matt Schultz. And while it would be more appropriate to introduce him in an entirely seperate post, I'm just too damn lazy. Plus blogging in its entirety is dead anyways. Matt is Mark's younger brother. If you know anything about Mark, then you can understand why Matt is the way he is. That about sums things up. Here's Matt.

Polizei

I guess I'll take a certain Mike Sanders advice and write about something more interesting. I know already this wont live up to any "Tales From the Crypt" post, mostly because i dont really have the freedom of college for my indiscretions to take place under. I do my best to be up to no good, but you have to understand theres only so much i can do.

The following story took place over Memorial Day weekend, a weekend where my normal "crew" was scattered to different parts of the united states. I'll use cute nicknames for the players in this weekend action flick. So of the normal hooligans it was myself and the magic. The first two nights of the weekend were pretty uneventful, really just the same old nonsense with interchangable characters. Sunday night was the only really memorable night, i suppose it all started because we arent used to being out on a Sunday, proper etiquet is still not learned.

We go to 7-11 to buy marijuana and are accosted by an african american fellow who wants us to have his number, i take it, his friend wants me to have his number, i decline, he gets angry, we leave. We head up to the highest point. After a couple good rounds a vehicle comes up the drive and we have to run, this being private property patroled by the condimium czar. So it was in our best interest to avoid confrontation and book it. We make it to our two cars, for five people, at speed away. Now we have two cars because Sven refuses to "nigger pack" his car, whatever that means. So in the scramble we get seperated, but no worries, we can communicate. We decide to meet up to finish the rest of our drugs.

The decided location is a certain elementary school in my friends neighborhood, i cant think of a name for him so lets call him Friend, with the capitalization. We go there and as we drive in we notice a car parked by a stop sign in the lot. Friend dismisses this to be some chick who reads in that spot regularly, I'm not sure how this is supposed to reassure me as to our safety, but hey, i was high. Our next fantastic idea is to smoke on the roof instead of any other perfectly acceptable location on the grounds. This goes way against the horror movie survival technique of dont go upstairs. It appears the simplest way to gain access to the roof is a spot in the front of the school with an intermiate wall to climb to on the way to the top. When i treversed this middle wall i froze with fear of falling to my death, after being called a pussy, pansy, wuss, and so forth im testosteroned into making it to the roof. I'll admit that at first it was very peaceful on that roof, but my serenity would not last. We put more THC in our systems and then are enjoying ourselves when Sven tells us he has to leave, Sven's 16, and gets up and leaves down the front of the building. We soon desire the confectionary goodness of dunkin donuts and prepare to depart. I say to my friend "Dadandmom" that im worried about my ability to get down from our current position, i am ridiculed by him for my lack of understanding the simplicity of jumping from the roof. I say sucks to that and walk to the front of the school to make and easy exit. Its at this point that i see the first officer of the law, i stand like a deer in headlights, then look over my shoulder to see Friend and Ballzack darting across the grass towards the woods that reside 50 yards from the back of the school. At this point i had the decison to make, i could either stay and walk down carefully and hope the cop doesnt assume the worst, even if it is the case, or i can run. So it was the old be a pussy or flight battle. I start running towards the back of the school at which time the cop car spotlight is shone on me. I feel like the convict in some silent film. I make it to the edge and make the leap and hit the ground running. Im filled with drugs and endorphins as i sprint the yard and enter the dense woods.

I hit the woods with no hesitation and am hit in the face, among other places, with tree branch after tree branch. I have no way of avoiding any such shrubery in the thick darkness, made even darker by my panic. I lose my shoe and when i bend to pick it i see a light shining near behind me, so i abandon the idea of putting the shoe on and keep running with it in my hand. I find a low spot and hide, put the shoe on, and wait. I still see the light, which is now calling out names. I'm thinking that someone got caught, gave names, and now we're all fucked. Luckily i calm down and realize its Ballzack, but hes just shing around a light and yelling names, this is not a good idea. I get a hold of him and find Friend. We cant find Magic or Dadandmom, fuck em, survival of the fittest. We decide we have to keep moving and worry about those two later. We find the back of the forest, guarded with a 5 foot tall fence, we hop it into a completely fenced in yard, we find the gate and get out as fast as we can. Fortunatly Friend's house wasnt far and words do not describe the relief i felt when i made it to his porch. After catching our respective breaths we call up Magic. He and Dadandmom are still on the roof. NOw this caught me as quite the suprise, especially considering Dadandmom's baughty remarks on the simplicity of our escape. We go on a recon mission and see two squad cars parked in the middle of the lot. We go on several such missions and see the same thing repeatedly. We really dont have anything to do for them. We cant make a distracton because we were just being chased by the same officers, we cant drive up and have the dash for the car because that leaves too much of a possibility of a high speed pursuit. So we wait and after an hour the cops leave. I dont think they had any intention of taking actions to get Magic and Dadandmom, cops wont really do that much to catch a few pot smoking teenagers. That would involve calling in a ladder, my theory is they drank beer and talked about beating their wives, but im a romantic. The three of us who escaped walk back to the school and give the two roofers assurance that its clear. They struggle their way down from the roof, i find this really funny considering how easy its supposed to be, and we live happily ever after. I dont know i thought the whole thing was pretty amusing. Mayber Sanders will be happy, probably not, i just realized how ridiculously long this is, sorry.

LOL WAY TO TRUMP THE "GAMECUBE"

2006-05-02T01:25:00.000-07:00

In a bold and (let's face it) somewhat expected move, Nintendo has changed the name of their Revolution console to the worst possible choice imaginable.

By popular demand, the company decided to continue their tradition of dumb-ass-ness and name the system something that's sure to turn off everyone from playing it.

Introducing Nintendo Wii.

Pronounced "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," the name claims the #1 position of "Worst Nintendo Move of All Time."

The games may be great, but good luck telling your friends you're running home to play with you Wii before your parents get off work.

C'mon Nintendo... there's still a reason to live. If not for yourself... for the rest of us.

-IGN

The Real Proficiency

2006-04-27T22:32:00.000-07:00

Recently Eric Rosenbloom posted a comprehensive, two-part end-of–the-year summation. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be outdone by him. As usual, I’m going to forego sounding philosophical or trying to extract deeper meaning out of getting wasted, because there really is no deeper meaning. With all these motherloving intellectual classes I’m taking, where the idea seems to be to hone in on every little point, analyze every little pissant detail until you just hate yourself and Thomas Hobbes, sometimes it’s better to say this is what happened, and that’s all. Some times saying, Roberto got an MIP last night and it made me think about how pointless my life is and how all experiences are fleeting, no longer works. Sometimes it’s good to say Roberto never drank in highschool and yet he got an MIP a month into college how fucking hilarious is that let’s all have a good laugh the end. Sometimes we want to just read something and then brush it off our clothing like a stray ladybug. So take this and read it and then please, just shit it out. It’s summer for God’s sake, stop thinking already.

But in case you’re yearning for some little brain activity, you can do a little compare-and-contrast here. I will give you a short anecdote from the beginning of the year, and then one from the end. Then, if you want, you can decide, did this year end as good as it started? As usual, the stories will be about rampant drunkenness and debauchery, because that’s what flies as the barometer for quality of experience these days.

Story 1: Edward Forty-Hands (redux)

This story took place not exactly at the beginning of college, but close enough, I think it was sometime in early November. The first time this was written it was kind of rushed out in order to be timely, so I thought I’d put my rassodock to good use and give it real horrorshow synopsis.

So Jeff talked to me early in the week about playing Edward Forty-Hands, something we had been talking about since actually before college started, but never got around to doing. It was going to just be us and Charlie and Matteo originally, but quickly the number ballooned to 6 then 8 then 12 as Charlie’s friends and one of Jeff’s friends (tagged as “Shady guy” in the Facebook album “Edward Forty Hands) hopped on for the latest express train out of Sobriety-town. So our resident lord of false identification took a car out to the local liquor store, went up to the counter, and asked for 24 forties.

As you could imagine, this many bottles of alcohol made things confusing, and once we got all the forties into the dorm and tried to figure whose was whose, it was easy to see why this game is usually done with a population numbering less than a baseball team. Somehow, Charlie’s friend from MSU ended up forty-ounces to the hands of eleven college students, and then somehow taping his own.

There were no girls, which was not surprising because I could really never envision a girl playing this game, so this room was basically a testoterone-laden, sweaty, dismal place to be. The best thing to do is to stake out a seat, because if you don’t get a seat your hands get tired and the sweat from your arms starts to mess up the tape. No matter if you’re sitting or standing you still have to deal with guy’s asses bouncing in your face every four seconds or someone trying to get through and smacking you in the face with one of their forties. One kid finished in seven minutes, but he was at the high end of the curve; after him there was a radical dropoff, the next person finished in about half an hour. All in all I’d say the mean time was about fifty minutes, with a standard deviation of about ten minutes.

Jeff compared finishing forty-hands to finishing a marathon. I’ve never finished a marathon, or even cleared a hurdle in high school track, but by the end I was holding my hips and puking just like Steve Prefontaine post-Olympics. I didn’t actually finish, and I attribute this to the fact that I saw the need to take four shots before we started. I thought maybe the licker would loosen me up and help the beer go down better, but all it did was create another layer of toxin that settled in my stomach and was ultimately passed into the trash can.

Later that night I ended up at Michigan Stadium. It was about three AM. I had gone to a party with Jeff’s shady friend, but it sucked and I decided to go outside and call some of my droogs to go maybe perform some of the old in-out in-out on some weepy young devotchkas. But then my phone died and I also realized I had walked about a half mile from where the party was while I was trying to drunkenly navigate through my phone book. There was no one in a sight, and I was on a residential street that did not seem to be on the University of Michigan’s campus. I walked for probably a good hour and a half until I reached Michigan Stadium. I took seeing this landmark as a good sign because it meant I was only about half an hour from my dorm. I took some pictures of myself in front of the stadium gates and statues—unfortunately they were all on my old phone—and made it back at the ripe hour of 4:30 AM.

Story 2- Edward Champagne Hands or The Day the South Quad Died

Story 2 takes place starting an hour after my last final. I had been thinking for a while about an appropriate way to top off the last day of finals and my last day as a college freshman. Getting drunk—especially on champagne—seemed so cliché for a celebrating college student, but I suppose some things are cliché for a reason, because they work, damn it.

The game was Edward Champagne Hands. The players were Sandhop, Matteo, Arvind, Graham and myself. The concept is identical to Forty-Hands, except performing the feat is based on stomaching an awful lot of carbonation and sugar instead of an awful lot of bad beer.

Champagne might sound tempting because, you say, Champagne tastes like grape juice, and grape juice is good. Well, asshole, try drinking fifty ounces of grape juice that is getting warm at an exponential rate, and then come talk to me. Truth be told, it wasn’t too hard of a game. That’s probably because I didn’t finish. I didn’t even get a chance to finish.

We started taping eachother at about nine, each of us opting to leave the second bottle corked to preserve carbonation. If anyone is thinking of playing this game, please uncork both bottles before you get taped. If you ask why, I would say because about ten minutes into the game we were sitting around drinking the sweet Hebrew vino when Graham’s second cork popped out and hit the ceiling at an astounding velocity. We all laughed until we realized he hadn’t tried to pop it. The fucking thing had popped itself. Probably the warmth of his hand, which was tightly gripped around the bottleneck, caused some sort of chemical or physical reaction I wouldn’t know how to explain if my life depended on it. I think I remember heat molecules expand and cold ones contract, so maybe that’s it. Tell us Sandhop.

Case and point is don’t leave your second bottle corked, and also don’t hit your bottle against crappy dormitory walls. Because that’s what Arvind did, at the cajoling of P Sandhop, and he put a nice chip in the wall the first time. Then the second time a huge chunk fell out, leaving a sizeable dent. Then he went to the bathroom, and we could hear him banging the champagne bottles on the floor. And I peed in the sink. It was liberating.

So why don’t you hit champagne bottles against walls during twenty-two hour quiet hours? Well, because it destroys property (about a 150 dollar damage bill) and it is also very loud, which invites attention from nearby police officers. Like the one who came in our room. I was astounded when this female-Dennis Franz barged on our open door to see what was going on. I had just taken a swig of champagne, and I turned to see this manly policewoman in the doorway with her arms crossed. I immediately ducked behind the bed and ripped the champagne bottles off my hands as fast I could.

But the damage was done. As soon as she said, “Whose alcohol is this?” I knew the jig was up. Sandhop, who already had three writeups and was heading for expulsion country in a worse case-scenario, was surely freaked out of his mind at the possibility of another writeup. I was just really bothered by the fact that I knew, I just knew I was going to finish Champagne Hands, but I wouldn’t even get the chance.

Arvind was very distressed, and he decided to snuff it and jump out the window, but he was detained by Sandhop and Matteo. Everyone was freaked out except me, I was just dejected and upset at my own sobriety, my own sobriety which still loomed with me like an annoying younger cousin even after one and a half bottles of champagne.

She told us to pour out the alc, and as my half bottle of champagne swirled down the bathroom sink, a small tear formed in my eye. Was this how we were going to go out? Was this going to be my last drunken memory of South Quad?

No. While Matteo and Sandhop took Arvind, who was out in the courtyard hitting himself over and over again for his stupidity, back home I stayed to viddy the action in other rooms. At midnight a bunch of people decided to go paint the rock, no not the North rock silly, the one by Washtenaw and Hill. I didn’t think this was a real horrorshow idea, but I was “in the land” as they say, at the time, so I went along with them. I got a lot of paint on my hands and I don’t remember much of it because I was blackout drunk. Ah. Black out drunk. So all goes well that ends well. Eric had his ballroom dancing and radio-hosting, and I had my drunkenness and near-death experiences. The year couldn’t have been written better by Chuck Palahniuk himself.

Oh and Jeff, we do need to write that post about the lovely “women” of 47 Taylor South Quad. I think a good tentative title is “Maureen Turned Me gay,” by James Kornacki.

I got nothing less to say. Myrtle beach get drunk whoo. Peace out til next time

Ad For www.urbandictionary.com

2006-04-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

In case you're not truly familiar with the site urbandictionary.com, I just want to give a little shout out to it just for my recent discovery of the greatest 100 words ive ever found on the internet.

Here is one of the definitions for the word "chickenhead", which unlike Cummins (probably) I did not really know of. Anyways I don't realyl know where I'm going with this, and the Tigers are in the process of blowing a 5 run lead in the 8th inning, so I'll just show you what I found and find some intravenous drugs.

5. chickenhead:
138 up, 116 down [this is just the rating of the definition]

a head bobbin skank hoe who be swallowin cum and mucus membrane for the simple reason of there being nuthing bettter to do or to get a crack hit or some extasy or some g or just to swallow some cum just for the good taste of it and the goood feeeling of the wind blowing through her hair when her head be bobbbin like a wild rooster fucking chicken

shaniquiqua snappped her vertibre when her chicken bobbin glass dick smokin ass was riding the pooonanie like a wild boar rooster fucker

LIKE A WILD BOAR ROOSTER FUCKER.
-SANDHOP

INSPIRATION (aka at least you're not this guy)

2006-04-20T13:14:00.000-07:00

[A piece of mail I will receive sometime in the near future...]

Dear Sandhop,

We are pleased to announce that our son, Bodgan [bobby] Buzel, has finally completed the eighth grade. In honor of his Warner Middle School graduation, my husband Bodgan Sr. and I have decided to throw him a celebration featuring dinner, dancing, and laser tag.
We know my beautiful boy had some difficulties dealing with the growing up process, mainly failing band class with Mr. hawkings twice, but that is neither here nor there. What is important are the memories. Remember back in 1993 when Bodgan took the SAT's for the first time, and against all odds, he spelled his name correctly for the gimmie points? Remember when he was the only kid in the 6th grade with his driver's liscense? What about the time Bodgan was seated right behind his son, Bodgan III, in his pre-algebra class?
Bobby's finest moments are countless, his memories are priceless, and in the words of John Mayer, I'd like to think the best of him his still hiding up his sleeve.

We hope to see you there!

With love,
Francine and Bodgan Sr.

The Beer Slut/ Constable Story a.k.a Blast from the Past Part 2

2006-04-18T21:43:00.000-07:00

The climax of our four agonizing years of high school was spring break, more or less. Trapped for four or more years in frigid Michigan, never seeing enough sun to get a real tan, in March seniors had the chance to break out of their shells and break out the sunblock in a tropical, possibly foreign locale. My spring break vacay was in South Padre Island, Texas; not exactly exotic, but filled with as many non-english speaking Hispanics as your Cancun’s or Bahama’s.

This trip was before everything; before I knew how to drink, before I knew how to spit game. Okay, well I still don’t know how to spit game, but that’s another, more depressing story. The point is that no alcohol tolerance + no pick-up abilities= boring vacation. Mostly boring, until the last two days. Then the real purpose of Spring Break--to see what happens when young, inexperienced drinkers have access to large amounts of alcohol for the first time, finally became apparent.

It’s Sunday morning; Easter Sunday, and instead of going to church I’m getting drunk. My friend Aaron (all pseudonyms are used) is obsessed with finding these two girls we met in the pool last night; one of them was tan and skinny, another medium-weight and pale. You can guess he already called the hot one. We’re sitting by the pool, and oh my goodness, they walk right by us. I gesture to Aaron that we have found our target. Aaron goes over to initiate conversation; I closely follow. We are on a trip with five other guys; all of them are too scared to approach women they don’t know, so they all follow us. In all fairness, while in a sober state I didn’t approach too many women either.

We talk a little; we get names (Taylor and Amanda, yes those are their actual names, because who the fuck cares about them?) and we make plans to get Mexican food and then drink. Dwayne, one of my other friends, attempts to leave with the girls by himself. I thwart his attempt, and soon we are sitting in the back of one of South Padre’s drunk-driving-preventative-cabs, going to eat.

Dinner is uneventful, but when we get back to the hotel all hell breaks loose. People seem to be coming in our room with beer every two seconds. Kids are rolling joints on our tables and smoking cigarettes and doing beer bongs on our balcony. One of the kids, Jake or Jordan, I forgot, breaks the glass balcony door. He doesn’t break the glass, but he throws the door off its hinges and it collapses on the floor. This is only a short time after Dwayne has broken the door off of our fridge for about the tenth time. He also broke the doorknob the night before.

Sometime later Jake, Jordan Aaron and I decide the room is getting a little crowded and filled with penis, so we leave to go bong some beers in the stairwell. I am still afraid of the almighty beer bong—which I now believe is both the most amazing and destructive drinking-related invention ever—so I watch Jacob and Jordan and Aaron go around in a circle taking beers out of a 24-pack and skillfully bonging them. Aaron is about to bong his second beer I think; he is in the ready position (hose up, funnel down) when a hotel security guard bursts through the door. Aaron freezes like a deer in headlights, and we all think the same thing. Busted. This is still America, after all, and we’re a good three or four Spring Breaks from being able to drink legally. But all the security guard does is say “You gonna hit that or what?” Of course, Aaron hits it.

After the security guard leaves Aaron bongs a third beer and pukes. He pukes down the stairwell, down four or five flights of stairs, creating a dense puke rain that coats all the stairrails like gravy on mashed potatoes. At this moment Dwayne happens to be walking up the stairs. We hear him cry out as he realizes his friend has puked on him.

The beer is gone and we figure it’s time to hit the narcotics. Jake pulls out a prerolled joint and we light it in the stairwell. We’re doing the old puff puff pass when the same hotel security guy comes in again. Jordan, who is holding the J, panics and eats the whole thing, while it still lit. The guard says:

“What are you guys doing?”

Jordan: Chillin’.

Guard: It doesn’t smell like chillin’.

I don’t know what smells more like chilling than marijuana, but anyway we take this as a hint to get out of the stairwell and head back to the room.

It was about this time, or maybe later, when our chaperone Dave enters our hotel room. Dave is a pretty cool guy; he’s only 21, old enough to buy us beer, yet young enough to have little to no sense of responsibility. That lack of responsibility is clearly demonstrated when he starts making moves on Amanda. Now, I am pretty sure these girls are both only sixteen, which is no big deal for me. I wasn’t even 18 at the time, so, if it bleeds, it breeds, as Aaron would say. Amanda is sitting in Dave’s lap, and I’m pretty drunk, so I suggest to Taylor and Dave and Amanda that the four of us go to our other room—the one without fifty dudes in it—and get more comfortable. They all agree, except somehow I end up sitting on the balcony sipping a beer five minutes later. My friend Josh has taken my spot. I’m not really sure how.

Anyway, Taylor comes back about ten minutes later almost in tears. Everyone asks her what’s wrong and she responds, “We went into the room and Dave… he…he put his hand down my pants.” Well, what the fuck were you expecting, a game of Candy Land? I resist the urge to call her a cocktease and rub her back, consoling her. I figure drunken sex is out of the question, but I can definitely procure a consolation prize if I play the sympathy card right. Unfortunately, I play the sympathy card wrong. Ultimately, I get too drunk and spill beer everywhere. I take the funnel part of a beer bong and start yelling at everyone. Dwayne tells me to sing the Michigan State fight song, in honor of our friend Wally, who is going to MSU and couldn’t make the trip. I of course oblige, but my inebriated state causes me to forget the melody. While I am trying to remember I sing the Notre Dame fight song to pass the time. Later Aaron pours an entire jar of peanuts on my head; I don’t know why my mom sent a jar of peanuts in my luggage, my guess is she prophesized I would have the urge to take a shower in them.

So Taylor is a cocktease but Amanda is not; she’s just a slut. She comes back an hour after she leaves with tousled hair, smeared makeup and a generally-disheveled, drunken appearance. Jacob or Jordan immediately cusses her out, pointing his finger at her and calling her a “beer slut”. This is a term I’ve never heard before, but it is now part of my regular vocabulary, right next to the insults “slut face” and “hoe bag”. Amanda is almost in tears, and for good reason too. Soon the ten or so guys in the room are all chanting in chorus “Beer slut! beer slut!” To save face she begins to kiss all her detractors; of course my sex-starved friends can’t say no.

From there it all gets hazy; I go to the hot tub to drown but I am at that magical too-drunk stage where one loses their energy and just gets sleepy and ready to pass the fuck out. Aaron and I go back up to the room by means of the elevator, but when the door opens our other friend BigDoucheBag is standing there. He says, “You guys gotta chill out, there are cops all over this floor. They’re responding to a noise complaint about us.” I stick my head out of the elevator and, sure enough, three cops are walking down the hallway to our room. I am so drunk I can barely walk. I had already blacked out on the elevator ride. “What should I do?” I ask. He shrugs and says, “My advice to you would be to go downstairs and wait.”

So we go downstairs but I am too tired. I fall asleep in a deck chair by the pool. I am woken up by a hotel employee at 8:30 in the morning. I’m still drunk. He says, “I think you better get to bed.” Good call.

I go back to the room and sleep. I wake up at about noon and realize our room is a complete fucking disaster area. It looks like the three of us just dumped the contents of our suitcase on the floor, if our suitcases only contained alcohol and food. There are peanuts everywhere; and I mean everywhere. In the bed, in the bathroom, all over the floor, in the hallway. More floor space is occupied by beer cans than actual carpet. Dwayne is passed out in his bed holding an empty fifth. The fridge and balcony doors are still broken, and all the blankets and linens have been thrown off all the beds.

The kicker is one of the sofa cushions lying in a puddle of beer two feet wide and an inch deep. The whole place looks like the stereotypical “morning-after” scene of a frat party in one of those crappy teen movies. Except this is real life, and we have to clean it up. Okay, we have to leave the room for two hours so the maid can clean it up. Same thing.

Today is Monday, the last day of our trip, and Dwayne decides we need to get trashed, fucked-up hardcore. The plan is White Russians and screwdrivers til we puke. File the end of that sentence under “obvious foreshadowing”. Dwayne, Jacob, Jordan and I get a couple 21 year-olds to buy us Kahlua and two fifths of vodka. The two hoes from last night left today, but, fortunately there are many more hoes arriving today from all over the country.

Project Blackout begins, and after a couple mixed drinks we go to McDonald’s. There appear to be several latino gangs circling around the drive-thru, so we eat quickly and go back to the hotel. At that point it seems appropriate that Dwayne and I break off from the group and go in search of the elusive skank-ass hoe. We find a couple in the hot tub; they are not too talkative, but Dwayne is aggressive, offering to bring them hand-mixed Screwdrivers. We go back to the room to procure the beverages, but when we get back the girls have left. Dwayne is clearly disappointed, but at least we get to double-fist screwdrivers.

Dwayne exits the hot tub to find more chicks, leaving me alone. I strike up a conversation with the only person in the hot tub, or, within a 500 yard radius, it seems. Unfortunately, he has a penis and testicles and facial hair. Out of generosity I give him one of my screwdrivers.

Soon two girls join us in the hot tub. They are both about fourteen years old; one is fat and pretty ugly, and the other looks like she might be hot in a couple years, after she develops breasts. We start up a conversation, and soon the fat one invites me and the other guy back to her room. I look around and realize my friends have all deserted me, plus I don’t have a room key or a cell phone on me. So it’s go with the jailbait girls or sit alone in the hot tub all night. Jail bait girls win by a narrow margin.

On the way to fatty’s room I talk to the “hotter” girl. She’s nice, and she seems pretty interested in me, which is cool yet kind of weird. We get to fatty’s floor and the guy and fatty walk down the hall to her room, but the other girl stays behind. All of a sudden out of nowhere she asks me to come to her room. With her. Alone.

Now, I don’t have very high standards for women, this has been established by the events of last night, when I tried to hook up with a pale sixteen year-old. Some would say Aaron’s adage “If it bleeds, it breeds”, works here too. But not me. I just couldn’t see myself hooking up with this girl who is barely out of puberty. It would just be too weird, and I doubt if I could look myself in the mirror again without thinking “YOU SICK FUCK YOU DEFLOWERED A GIRL BORN IN 1991! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU BURN IN HELL.” And so on. Seriously, this girl is too young to have remembered the Oklahoma City bombing, and I just can’t follow through. Which sucks because I don’t get a lot of ass. But sometimes, as my dad says whenever we catch a 3-inch fish in my lake, “you just have to let the small ones go”.

So I make up some bullshit story about needing to meet my parents for dinner and book it. Unfortunately, remember I have nowhere to go. I figure I’ll go back to my hotel room and try to break down the door. As luck would have it, I get back to the room just as Dwayne is returning. He sees me, opens the door, then says, “dude, I have six girls coming back here soon, you gotta be out of here.” I’m still a little shocked from my “Lolita” incident, so I just nod and call Aaron. Aaron has met a girl that he says is his soul mate, and her, himself and the rest of our crew is going to the club in fifteen. Aaron says meet me in the lobby then. Can do. I put on my only clean shirt--which isn’t really club attire, I think it was a Planet Hollywood shirt—spray too much cologne all over myself, and make another drink.

At this point, Dwayne, who has been chugging Kahlua since he got back, throws me out of the room suddenly. I feel like a rowdy drunk getting tossed out of a bar, except I’m not the rowdy one. I land on my face on the hallway carpet. I go back in the room, saying “I’m just getting my drink,” and am promptly thrown out again. This time I hit the opposite hallway wall, and look up to see that four of the six girls Dwayne was raving about have made it down. These girls are an interesting mix- they are all decently hot, but they each have one flaw. They are all like tragic heroes, the Achilles’ and Hamlet’s of South Padre. One girl has nice legs and a nice face but teeth like a British dentist. Another girl is pretty good-looking but has a loud, raucous voice like Fran Drescher. And so on. Before I even really get a chance to say anything they disappear into Dwayne’s room and he shuts the door. I am still without a room key, so I can do nothing but go down to the lobby and wait for Aaron.

Aaron and his girl and the rest of our group arrive, and we all get in a cab and head to the club. There is a thong contest there, and we all try to squeeze onto the bar mitzvah-sized dance floor for a close look. It’s a bunch of girls shaking their asses, which is good, but I decide I’d rather have a closer experience with our better halves. I walk around and at the bar who do I see but Dwayne, surrounded by the four girls from before. He is buying them shots, despite the fact that this is the United States and he is not 21 and he also does not have a fake ID. I approach him but he seems reluctant to part with any of his four girls, so I decide to just keep moving.

Then I approach a table with three decent-looking girls and start up a conversation. I don’t really remember what was said, who the fuck cares anyway, the point is they said do you wanna dance. But they had to use the bathroom first. So I stand outside the bathroom for a couple of minutes, but I am then distracted by some noise behind me. I turn around to locate the source of this noise, only to find that it is no other than Dwayne getting escorted out of the club by a policeman.

However, this is no ordinary policeman. He is wearing a blue shirt and hat that say “Constable” on them. Now, a Constable is generally known as a law enforcement officer from the Middle Ages, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t wear a shirt and hat advertising his rank. So that probably precludes the possibility that the man arresting Dwayne is a time traveler from the past. The only thing I can think of is that this man is a constable just like there are twenty producers on any given television show- most of them aren’t actually producers, but it sounds cool saying you’re a producer. So anyone who works on a show asks to be a producer, and what the hell, as long as the network doesn’t have to pay a bigger salary, they don’t care. Same idea with the constable. He is just a regular, lowly police officer who has been put on the shitty beat of having to deal with drunken teenagers on Spring Break. This guy is just one level above mall security. He advertises himself as “Spring Break security”, which is closer to his true title, and he gets laughed at. But “constable” commands respect. Just say it to yourself. Constable. You can’t help but shudder in fear. Dwayne must have been terrified. You get arrested by a policemen, you spend the night in jail, get a ticket. But you live. You get arrested by a constable, then what happens? The stocks? Torture? Death by Catapult? As Dwayne was escorted out, I could see him as Mel Gibson in “Braveheart”, being disemboweled by the vicious constable, who, grinning a sweaty, sick grin, would say, “I guess this will teach you to drink underage, eh?!”

Case and point, as I saw Dwayne being forced out of the club, I was fairly sure that was the last time I would see him. I silently waved goodbye, told the rest of the guys what had happened, and then I remembered, oh crap, I was supposed to dance with those girls. They were long gone. I look for them on the dance floor, though I could barely remember what they looked like. No dice. I look out the window of the club to see them outside, getting in to a cab. One of them sees me and waves.

Well, nuts to that. My night sucks from here, so it’s time to take you directly into Dwayne’s eye-view. After Dwayne was kicked out of the club, luckily for him the girls followed. They decided to go to a bar. Dwayne orders shots again, but he is kicked out of the bar for being underage, again. How these girls are still with him I don’t know, but somehow they make it back to the hotel, Dwayne staggeringly drunk with four girls surrounding him. They decide to go back to Dwayne’s room. On the way up the elevator Dwayne blacks out, and when he comes to he is all alone in the elevator, which has stopped at his floor.

Dwayne doesn’t feel so good. He retreats to his room and starts puking in the toilet. A little while later Aaron, I and the rest come back. We see Dwayne with his head in the toilet, not looking happy. He has a long night ahead of him, as he will be puking until about five am, when we finally all go to bed. Dwayne spends the night not sleeping much, with his head next to a garbage can just in case the alcohol wants to visit him again.

The whole time Dwayne was muttering about the Constable, and how he was screwed by this faux authority figure. And of course the next morning he gets a hangover nearly equivocal to being drawn and quartered.

So on Tuesday we leave South Padre Island maybe forever, leaving in our wake several promiscuous young girls, a couple of coke-addled sixteen year-old guys heading down the path to destruction, and of course the famous Constable, who will not be soon forgotten.

The Constable has left a mark on me, and likely Dwayne, that has shaped how I look at all law enforcement officials. Never again—in a situation of public drunkenness, driving under the influence, possession of controlled substances, or any other drug-and-alcohol lawbreaking I might be caught for-will I have respect for anyone the way I had respect for the Constable. The man has arrested my heart and thrown away the keys. If there was a constable in every city I would never, ever break the law, for any reason. The last thing I need is a red-hot poker stuffed up my anal cavity, or whatever kind of sick medieval torture this sick bastard uses. The next time I get an MIP I will put out my hands and say “Cuff me, copper!”, knowing full well that, here in America, barbaric torture is reserved for only our most devious political prisoners.

Are You Experienced?

2006-04-04T15:28:00.000-07:00

Yo, I’m a anonymous guest writer who wanted to document his drug experience for others to hear about. I won’t say my name, or any of my friends name, I’m just going to tell my story and yeah, it will be good.

At about 3 PM on Saturday I and four others took this illegal drug. The person’s names were 1,2,3 and 4. Person 1, person 2 and I take this drug along with some Cottage Inn pizza. It usually takes about forty minutes to kick in; while we wait it seems like a good idea to play video games. After about half an hour I notice a poster in the room I’m in is kind of looking funny; then I notice a bunch of shapes have formed on the part of the door not covered by the poster. Forming in the air are very vague, semi-visible shapes, almost like ghosts. They are translucent images; one of them I described as looking like an Etch-a-sketch.

Now 3 and 4 took the drug in question about 20 minutes after us, so they are a little behind, not really seeing anything yet. Meanwhile I am playing the video game Mega Man and getting incredibly involved, yelling at person 2 for going to the wrong level. I am mesmerized by the screen, and soon I realize I’m not really sure if I’m playing or not. I proclaim this, and I see the sober people in the room talking to eachother in a concerned way, saying something about “Is that normal?” Person 1, who is sitting on the floor, jumps up and says, “I just saw a snake!”

Everyone starts laughing, but person 1 is pretty freaked out. He looks sweaty and nervous, and a few minutes later he says “I can’t stop thinking about amphibians!”, being in a mesmerized enough state to confuse reptiles with amphibians. By this time I am about into the experience which is like being really high but more confused, so I mistakenly think instead of saying “Amphibian” he said “Aunt Vivian.” You know, Aunt Vivian from the “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” I had been reading an article on her about a week earlier, about how she was played by two different women during the course of the show, but no one really notices. I guess this useless bit of pop culture bubbled back to the top of my brain, and I spouted it out, probably seeming insane to all those around.

The next few hours are hard to describe, which is why I didn’t really want to write this story, and I only did at the insistence of several people. First the hair on my arms started growing, which was cool, but then I started getting sweaty and a little panicky. I was already pretty messed-up, and there were about five hours left before I was supposed to return to normal. I briefly debated asking the sober people to take me to the hospital, that’s how freakd out I was. That was about the time I started to totally lose my sense of place and time. I was on a couch and it felt like I was on a King-size bed covered in blankets. It seemed like I could keep moving and moving and I would always be in relatively the same place on this same bed-couch. I was barely noticing the other people in the room. Then I felt my head kind of drift away from my body; I could see my body from a high-angle, as if I was watching a camera in the corner of the room.

By this time I was almost completely out of it; someone suggested going to walk in a forest, which is supposed to be cool, but I didn’t really think I could move. I tried to stand up and it didn’t work too well; try standing up when you’re not attached to your body, it’s pretty hard, man. Someone had brought a movie called “2001: A Space Odyssey”, which is supposed to be excellent for this drug. Or wait, maybe they played Pink Floyd first. I don’t know, I totally lost sense of time. I would have a long-ass conversation with person 1, and when it ended I would look over and see that about one minute had elapsed off the clock. I kept telling him to change his ringtone because I was tired of it; at one point I was convinced that Will Smith was the meaning of life because he seemed to be the only thing I could think about. I held person 1’s phone in my hands for ten minutes without realizing it. I journeyed through voyages of introspective thought so complex and twisted that I thought I would never emerge; but “looped thinking” is a symptom of this drug, and I would always think I was on the verge of a revalation just to end up back on the couch more confused than ever.

Sometime someone played a song by Pink Floyd called Pigs I think actually I think it was the whole Animals album but this is the song I remember. I remember it had a thick drumbeat and the walls and seemingly the whole world was moving to the beat of the drums. It was extremely cool. At this time someone came in and looked like an alien. He had orange skin, flaming hair and one green eye. Actually, everyone who wasn’t doing the drug all looked like aliens with flaming hair and orange skin and green eyes. Person 1 looked like a cat with an orange face and long wiskers.

The people who didn’t go to the forest watched 2001. The movie starts with five minutes of blank screen, meant to symbolize the dawn of man ,the big bang and all that. This time span felt like approximately fifty years. I thought I was lost in an eternal blackness, because all I could watch was the blank screen. It captivated me. The movie started and there was a desert; the sand all became very wavy, like quicksand, though I knew it wasn’t actually quicksand. That’s what kept me from going insane the whole time, knowing none of this shit was real. They showed some monkeys, and these monkeys looked really human. /I was still pretty nervous and anxious.

At one point in the movie an astronaut is talking to his daughter. As they showed the daughter, she started rapidly getting older until she was an old man with a beard. Then the “Blue Danube Waltz” started. I was moved to tears by this piece of beautiful music. My entire life; mental, physical, emotional, rose and fell with the energy of the music. I felt like I was inside the waltz, something that someone who has never taken this drug won’t understand and really shouldn’t even try to.

Later in the movie an alarm went off and I was sure the alarm was in my head and I was going insane. I stood up and started freaking out. The others told me to calm down, it was just a movie. But it didn’t seem like a movie. It seemed like more. I could feel like the entire point of my life was to finish this movie. I remembered the ending scene where the astronaut is reborn as a baby; I felt if I got to the end I would be reborn as well.

That’s why I decided not to go to dinner with my friend, cuz I didn’t want to miss my spiritual rebirthening.
There was more beautiful music and I started crying again; it was just so beautiful, I dunoo. I could tell I was kind of weirding everyone out, because most of the people had left and I was alone in the infiniteness of outer space just like the astronuts.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention; you know the famous scene with the monkey learning to use tools and it plays the Dvorak song “New World Symphony” I think its’ called? Well, as the opening notes of that song play this alien-looking kid walks in, and he exits as the song ends. I thought this was one of the most amazing things I have ever witnessed. It was like the movie was going with the events of the time.

There was an intermission in the movie and once again the silence freaked me out. I was left alone with my intricate cobwebs of endless thought that seemed to cycle over and over again. This intermission lasted another fifty years. Just to clarify, the time span of this movie is from 3 million years BC to 2001 AD. The movie felt like it took approximately that long to watch. No exaggeration. I could hardly remember my name by the time it was over.

The movie ends, and I am reborn, but now I must die. My skin starts getting hairy and wrinkly. I am becoming an old man. My hands become soft and small like child’s, then wrinkly and coarse like old man’s. The hair on my arms is jumping back and forth on my arm. My fingernails are growing. Everyone is still an alien. I look at a poster that has fire on it. The fire comes alive and engulfs the people on another poster. I look at my hands and notice I have grown another finger. I am evolving.

But in the end I am just a wrinkly, dying old man, so I sit down and reflect on my life. It has been a good life, but there is room for changes. As I lay dying, the Neil Young song “Heart of Gold” by Neil Young plays; this is kind of a depressing-sounding song that is perfect for a dying old-codger like myself. The couch is swirling and moving in patterns. I look at my wrinkled hands and notice a pattern of dots dancing around my wrist area.

As I am about to die, I think about my parents and my friends, and I want to say goodbye to them. But I can’t because I am old; too old to even get off my ass. I lie on the couch for maybe sixty, seventy years and then I finally die. I am reborn for the last time as a kid again. I sit up and feel as good as new. Well, maybe not. Remnants of my experience still hang in my head. I feel slightly insane and very tired. I go home and sleep long time. I wake up refreshed and pensive.

The moral of the story is, do this drug if you want to
1. Not understand the concept of time
2. Have ten thousand year long conversations with yourself
3. See yourself simultaneously as an old and young man
4. See aliens and other weird shit

If I had to describe the experience to an unknowing person, I would say the best example is Slaughterhouse five, where Billy Pilgrim travels through time with no conception of time, being young and old at the same time, all at once. That is what it is like. So do it or don’t. I don’t care.

Philosophy from God Himself

2006-03-28T15:30:00.000-08:00

So today I went grocery shopping with my mother, but more importantly I learned a valuable life lesson. After we had packed all my comestibles into the car my mom--who had previously been planning to take me out to a nice sit-down lunch—informed me that due to time constraints we would have to settle for getting fast-food to-go. I was pretty disappointed. I honestly haven’t eaten in a restaurant besides Buffalo Wild Wings, Jimmy John’s, Subway or Wendy’s at U of M this year, and I was looking forward, for once, to real food that wouldn’t wreck havoc with my colon and intestines.

And the worst part of this is that we were at the Meijer in Ypsilanti, so the only fast-food restaurant in sight was McDonald’s. I hate McDonald’s. As we approached the golden arches my mom told me I had a choice. We could stop at McDonald’s or we could keep driving for a couple minutes. I didn’t know if there were any fast food places up ahead. So I was faced with a dilemma. Do I want guaranteed food that might not be all that good, but at least it’s free, and it’s something I haven’t had in awhile? Or do I want the possibility of something delicious, something I can really savor, that will make my day the way good food can make a day, something that I will look back on after eating and say, “Wow, that was great!” However, if this fast food didn’t even exist, which it certainly might not, I would have to go home with a pit in my stomach caused both by hunger and by the realization that I have wasted the opportunity of guaranteed food.

At the moment of truth I panicked and went with my gut instinct. My gut instinct, sadly, has always been to do what I can count on and rely on, even if it isn’t always what is the most pleasing. So I got McDonald’s. I got a chicken bacon ranch sandwich or something and let me tell you, it was not very good. The bacon tasted like it was made of wallet leather and they dumped about four cups of ranch dressing on the chicken. But that’s not even the point.

The point is that not two minutes after we had driven away from McDonald’s and I was just digging into my fries, we passed a White Castle. Yes, you heard me right. White Castle. The most delicious, cheap, greasy, dirty, orgasmic hamburgers ever created in a civilized society could have been mine. I could have eaten at White Castle, a place where even back home we have to make a seven mile schlep over to Eight and Middlebelt in order to enjoy. I could have enjoyed a hamburger packed with more grease per cubic inch than actual meat, slathered in mysterious but delectable sauce and straddled by a bun so small that the grease, bacon fat and sauce of the burger seep through it like water in a sponge. And the pickles. Holy God, the pickles. I could have had it all. But no, I had to go for the easy exit. The quick fix.

If you don’t see the moral by now, here it is. Sometimes it pays to wait for what may not exist, but will be better. Sometimes it’s better not to settle for the crappy minimum-wage job, or the ugly girlfriend, or the third-rate maintenance man who will break your chimney and cause a carbon monoxide leak (true story). If you see the light at the end of the tunnel, even if you’re not sure what that light is or if it’s even there, keep going. Because when you lick your fingers at the end of the meal of life you want to be satisfied, not trying to forget the memories of your disappointments and remember the opportunities you once had.

He said it first

2006-03-22T20:24:00.000-08:00

So in his most recent post, Blogrose said he looked like Adam Morrison, and I think we all agreed with that. So to prove it, I used my photoshop abilities to prove once and for all, I present to you:

Good luck in the Elite 8 Blogenbloom!!

-Cummins

EMO HAIKUS

2006-03-19T11:43:00.000-08:00

So last night my friend Dave and I were bored as fuck and decided to write some Emo haikus. "Some" turned into close to an hour of writing, and our sorrow still will not end:

deep cuts, bleeding fast
rusty razor, increase pain
booster up to date?

my blood is crying
i must cut to release pain
the cut feels so good...

repeating chorus,
lame, cliche, emo lyrics
this song must conform

met cute emo boy
i am such a myspace slut
jk, its pretend

demons haunt my dreams
sadness while i am awake
depression won't break

look at my new pic
camera at extreme angle
everyone does it

mirror, "cool" angles
don't clean it, leave the smudges
dirty mirror. trendy

camera through mirror
look away, its poetic
deep, sad, and unique

camera, don't look
at the lens, look at the wall
scene-ster myspace pic

loud music, drip tears
you will not understand me,
sadness, lasts for years

i type in small font
nospacesismoreunique
and.the.period.

girl pants, bulge is huge
on my face, eye-liner, rouge
make-up? what the fuck

met a myspace girl
too cute and too scene for me
i want to love you...

see my wrists, they bleed
only for you, why do this
one day, you will see

cut my wrist
slice my fucking throat
fuck you world

glass, razor, or knife
gun, over-dose, or building
decisions are tough

the floor, crimson red
eyes soaked in tears, shed for her
please make it end soon

fuck that skinny whore
she took me off her top 8
why is the world cruel

comment on my page
if you don't, myself I'll kill
comment back, promise.

myspace is so gay
only conformists blog there
live journal is scene

i am an outcast
i am alone in this world
all friends from myspace

i think i am gay
i wear girl pants; and jerked to:
Adam Lazzara

just updated page,
sweet new background, check it out
it makes me feel cool

myspace, social life
have not been outside in months
pale skin, like a ghost

i want to stab him
but i will get my ass kicked
i'll write poems instead

all i want is her
she will not accept my love,
fucks that stupid jock

TBS sold out
MTV stole good music
I switched to Indie

bullet in chamber
cheeks soaked in saline of tears
pull it, make it end

wearing saucony's
dickie pants, black shirt and belt
someone kick my ass

locked in the bathroom
water in tub; toaster oven
you should have loved me

bleed, silly wrists, bleed
deep cuts, inside i have died
i bleed just for her

i cry to music
i want to kiss Gerard Way
and i am a dude

will not sleep at night
emo, soundtrack of my life
scream, yell, sing and bleed

high pitched girl sounding
i listen to scene music
chicks or dudes? your call.

staring at my knife
should i plunge it in my heart?
or make you bleed first

cutting wrists with rage
stabbing at my soft pink flesh
blood is orgasmic

salvation army
i need to stock my wardrobe
25 cents? all done.

now will be the end
i just want to die right here
to your beating heart

my girlfriend dumped me
listnin' to Adams Song
i want to leave life

can't pull the trigger
one bullet, make it all end
nobody will care

staring down the gun
i am an emo kid though
too pussy to shoot

pics are breathtaking
myspace girl, will you be mine?
no, 'cause i am scene

update my myspace
just put up some new pictures
comment or i'll die

slit my wrist, bleed bleed
painting the walls with my blood
my sorrow won't end

everything is black
my soul is an empty shell
i cant wait to die

watch my tears fall down
to the sound of sad music
where is my razor

i can not fit in
they do not understand me
i should kill myself

dark hardcore music
straightedge is the only scene
fuck the conformist

letting my wrists bleed
stupid emo myspace whore
look what you have done

-Cummins (and my friend Dave Crechiolo)

God Bless Google Image Search

2006-03-18T18:15:00.000-08:00

Blast from the Past

2006-03-16T21:28:00.000-08:00

In my Political Science class I am learning about conservatism, and one principle of conservatism, actually a big principle of conservatism, is that we should look to the success of the past in order to avoid mistakes in the future. It’s just like the old adage “those who don’t learn history are doomed to repeat it”. You may say fine, but what does this have to do with my life, or anyone else’s. Well, that’s a good question.

Everyone has their qualms about conservatism, especially at liberal fucking-ban-Coke-protest-rally-whiny-fuck-a-tree University of Michigan, but it seems like we can learn something from history. I know I can. As you may have gathered from “The Experiment”, or just from knowing me in general, I have been spending entirely too much time lately around our friend alcohol. Especially his close cousins pass-out and vomit. There was a time when alcohol used to be fun for me, and I could enjoy it in moderation, greatly enhancing my social abilities and enhancing the attractiveness of horse-faced U of M women. Those days seem to have passed, and the fact that I have phone numbers in my phone book that I don’t remember getting might suggest I need to slow down. But I can’t give up drinking, so what do I do?

Let’s look to the past, my friends, to when drinking was used to its greatest effectiveness. Where alcohol truly became a powerful tool for enhancing social experiences. This time was spring break senior year. Oh yes. I’m going there. Certain people involved were probably hoping some of these stories would never surface again, and, because I respect them, I am using all pseudonyms, no real names. Some of these stories really incriminate the hell out of some of the parties involved, so, I am going to protect their privacy. We are not going to have a repeat of “MSU Weekend Part 1”, where no pseudonyms were used and many parties were embarrassed. You’re just going to have to guess who is who; I don’t have that many friends so you’ll probably be able to do guess accurately, but I’ll never give away anything intentionally.

The point is these stories might be old to some people, but they need to be recorded for posterity. I think everyone who was with me would agree these stories need to be written down before they are forgotten, and then of course we are doomed to repeat ourselves again.

Much to the surprise of most people, I didn’t drink a lot in high school. In hindsight, this may be the reason why I drink so much now, as I try to play a sort of fuck-up-my-liver catch up game with those who were sneaking rum from their Dad’s liquor cabinet at age 15. So, because I didn’t drink a lot in high school, spring break senior year was really the first time I was going to indulge myself in alcohol for an extended period of time. It was the first time for many drinking milestones; first time with a really shitty head-pounding hangover, first time puking my guts out, etc. But before these milestones I didn’t really know what to expect; I basically only knew that alcohol=fun, and there were no parents and nice weather, which would enhance my fun.

That being said, here’s the cast, and then I’ll get right into the stories

For the pseudonyms, I’m pulling out characters from Degrassi: The Next Generation. Fuck yes.

The group

Me
Spinner
Jimmy
Craig
Marc
Rick
Jay

Other Characters of note

Toby
Liberty
JT
Dylan
Emma
Manny
Darcy

Day 1

One of the most exciting days in my life occurs as I roll out of bed at seven in the morning and I don’t have to look at Ms. Avant’s ugly-monkey face. Instead, I get to take a plane to San Antonio with a bunch of my friends. We will then get on a smaller plane which takes us to Brownsville, a real hick part of Texas that is a short bus ride from South Padre Island, where we are staying on Spring Break.

We arrive in three cars driven by our parents; they basically give us our luggage, tell us not to go to Mexico under any circumstances, and leave. And we are all alone. Independent. Well, not exactly. We have two, maybe two and a half chaperones. A man about 30 years old named Toby, and his girlfriend Liberty. Also, there is Peter, a twenty one year-old guy everyone seems to know except me. I don’t really care if he’s a pedophile and is waiting for us to get drunk so he can coax us into a gigantic gay love-in, as long as he is 21 and able to buy alcohol.

We arrive at the Sheraton and the woman at the desk doesn’t exactly speak English, so it takes us awhile to check in. About three hours. All this time we are doe-eyed young highschoolers craving alcohol like our mother’s milk. We check in, but there are some stipulations. Gay ones. Like, we have to wear pink wristbands all week that proves we are staying at this hotel. Also, there is a twenty dollar fee for bringing anyone back to the hotel after nine o’clock, if they are not staying here of course. This could lead to an awkward situation, under the somewhat unlikely circumstances of one of us coaxing a girl into coming back to our room.

Hotel Clerk: You have to pay 20 dollars to get her in
Me: Okay. (To girl) You better be putting out for this.

Also, it’s pretty cold out and kind of gloomy. And, it seems like about eight percent of the people in this hotel speak English. I’m pretty sure more people at a hotel in Cancun would be speaking English. My theory is, since Padre is so close to Mexico, this is where Mexicans go to get away from the oppressive government of Vicente Fox and breathe the sweet air of freedom that is so close, yet so far.

Down to business. We make gigantic liquor orders—relatively speaking—to of age Peter. Spinner, Jimmy and Craig and Peter all head to the liquor store with backpacks. They don’t want to walk all the way back from the store with all the provisions, so they decide to hitch a ride with some guy they meet. Spinner thinks this ride will result in rape and death, so he doesn’t go. Most times taking a ride from a strange man in a strange town would have ended in Peter, Jimmy and Craig becoming part of a suit of human skin this guy keeps in his basement, but the fates were with them, and they made it back safely.

They come back with a twenty-four pack of Bud Light, a six-pack of Miller Lite, and two liters(everything’s bigger in Texas) of Smirnoff Raspberry (we drank so much of this I can’t smell it now without thinking about Spring Break). This doesn’t sound like a lot for seven people, but keep in mind none of us can drink. I’m talking real high-school, five shots and puke, can’t at all hold your liquor stuff here.

As an example of the true amateur status of our drinking, Marco takes one shot, then sits down shaking his head. He says “I don’t feel so good.” Then it happens. A red rashlike substance journeys up Marco’s neck and onto his face. His entire face is turning red. We all stare at him like he is a creature from outer space. He says “I don’t think hard liquor is good for me.”

We are doing shots and beer bongs off the balcony, laughing at all the sober people down at the pool. Down by the pool we are startled by the sight of a naked young Mexican boy, his swimsuit around his ankles, his father next to him. We realize his father is changing him. What the fuck?! We all think this is ridiculous, of course. We laugh and yell and throw beer cans down at them.

We all get wasted and decide to walk to dinner. It’s a total disaster. Imagine the first time a fifteen year-old girl drinks times seven. Everyone is wobbling, walking in zigzags, walking in the street. Toby and Liberty are fortunately there for supervision; I feel like they should have a leash for each of us.

We eat dinner and I commit the common drunken mistake of making very poor trade decisions. Spinner and I both get chicken fingers; Spinner’s comes with ranch dressing and mine doesn’t. I am jealous, so I tell him I’ll give him one of my three chicken fingers for his ranch dressing. He agrees, then asks the waitress for another ranch dressing for himself. Damn Spinner and his deceptive ways.

Jimmy and Jay go to the club with limited success; I think they got in a fight with some guy over a pool game. The rest of us go back to the hotel to check out the social life. There is not much social life. More shots are taken, and we go to the hot tub. Bad idea. Spinner is pretty drunk, and he is kind of rolling his head, leaning on that metal bar thing old people use to get in without hurting their hips. I make a mental note to watch him. But then two good-looking girls get in. I am too much of a wuss at this stage in my life to make conversation, but, like a bad car crash, my vision is inexplicably drawn to them.

I stare at these girls and fantasize about what I am going to say to make them instantly fall in love with me, so I can take them both back to my hotel room and have freaky sex. Unfortunately, nothing comes to mind, so I just keep staring and raising my eyebrows, trying to be suave.

Then I remember about Spinner. I turn around and he is lying on the steps, face in the water. He is not drowning, but he is close. Uh-oh. I grab Spinner, slap some sense into him, and lift him out of the water.

Well, the hot tub and pool sucks, so Jimmy and I decide to get some cigars. We walk to a nearby convenience store, and, on the way there we meet two kids who end up being some of the most fucked-up people I’ve ever met. Their names are JT and Dylan, and basically, they are more rampant alcoholics than me, at the age of 16. Imagine a more laidback Matthew Schultz. Since I don’t feel like doing a lot of description to develop their personalities, I’ll just give a list of what they have done/did on the trip

-Tried Cocaine ( apparently it’s overrated)

-Tried shrooms

-Tried ecstacy

-Drank after swallowing aspirin, even though they knew it would make them puke, and then puking white stuff

-Made bongs out of various objects including a toilet paper roll and a 2-liter pop bottle

-Did a backflip

-Beer bonged a total of probably 30 beers in two days

-Insulted skanky hoes to their faces

-Crossed the street without looking both ways

And so on. These kids seem pretty cool, so we decide to hang out with them, even though they’re sixteen and don’t have vaginas. The cigar store refuses to sell cigars to Jimmy and I even though we’re seventeen, almost eighteen. That says something about the possibility of us buying without our chaperones help, but it also says something for the gayness of this town. Everyone seems either uptight or Mexican. It’s like everyone in this town knew a bunch of rich asshole kids were coming for Spring Break, so they either decided to treat us like dicks or replaced themselves with their non English-speaking Mexican equivalents. Like in “The Simpsons” episode where Mr. Burns, who can’t get Steven Spielberg to direct his independent film, gets his Mexican equivalent, Senor Spielbergo. That’s what I feel like the whole city of South Padre did.

Anyway, we go back and drink a little more, everyone is pretty tired from the long day of travelling. We’ve been up since seven without much sleep, seeing as how we were all too pumped and spazzed to sleep on the plane.

We wake up at noon and Jimmy does five quick shots.

And that’s all for the first installment. Posting every day in one post would just be too fucking long. If this is well-received, and, hell, even if it isn’t, I’ll post days 2-5. Peace.

Plagiarism

2006-03-16T14:02:00.000-08:00

Spring is here, and an air of excitement is everywhere. Flowers are blooming, March Madness, warm weather, etc, etc. So people are happy. Well, stop being happy. Being happy is unhealthy, because then you will never change your life, and you'll end up getting abducted by aliens. Maybe if you all stop being happy, you can start functioning normally again. So, to significantly depress you, i'd like to read to you a little piece of literature by Matthew Schultz. Posted at the end is a quick survey. Please take it and post the results in the comments section. Thank you for your time.

"Drinking out of spite is really about the worst thing you can do when your angry. I will take my weekly pilgrimmage to detroit to the land where age means nothing. The land where alcohol flows like water into the hands of minors every where. I will buy the absolute cheapest alcohol i can find, something in the 5 bucks a fifth range. Im not going for quality here, just quantity. With cheap alcohol you dont feel as bad when you puke, because its really no waste at all, at least not of anything worth saving. Ill buy that and ill buy a couple beers, something to fill the stomach up after i puke my small intestines out. I will drive home and drink in the woods behind my local elementary school. As i drink my rubbing alcohol mixed with water mixed with orange juice i will realize a few things. I will realize that this vodka im drinking is cheap not only for its acrid taste, but probably because it eats you alive from the inside out. Ill also realize, not so much that as i will remember, that i really have no more reason for restraint, that i should drink the rest of that drink, that i should smoke the rest of that pack of cigarettes. When a man finds himself with nothing holding him back, its quite the volatile situation. I will think to myself about how i honestly have no reason to drink until i lose all control of my bodily functions. So i will drink my drink and leave bottles and cups and cigarette butts behind me as i leave the playground. Maybe ill find a party, and if so i will find the ugliest girl there and make her self-esteem even lower by tricking her into performing oral sex on me. Ugly chicks are so easy to get that its really unfair, i think if i had any emotions left i would feel bad. After i demean her my welcome will be worn out, friends of ugly chicks are damn protective, i will leave in a blaze of glory, that or shouts about peoples mothers. At some point i will vomit, most likely at an inapprotune time. Then ill crack open my beers. Throwing up is your body's way of rejecting the immense amount of toxins your forcing into it in the name of annebriation. I will not heed this warning, the warning that if i intake any more alcohol my liver may just shut down, thereby being inable to filter all that poison im pouring down my throat. Alcohol poisoning doesnt sound so bad, id rather feel my self dry heaving up lungs and kidneys then feel nothing at all. Ill curse all those who didnt call me that night as i wipe vomit from the side of my mouth. Friends, at least those with me, will talk me down from attempting man slaughter on those people and get me in the car. I will get shotgun, anyone about to puke gets shotgun, and we will head home. No matter what i will be ther first dropped off, gotta get me out of that car, no one wants to wash spew of the side of their car before they go home. They question if ill be alright, i say something entirely incoherant. I will stumble into the house, fall down on the way up stairs, parents ask if im ok, i say yes. I look at obscene amount of asian porn. I go to sleep, i dont drink water or gatorade first, i think i want a hangover tomorrow. Once again ill say that feeling pain or sickness is better than feeling nothing at all"

Survey

1. Does this child need therapy? (yes/no)

2. Do you ever drink just because you're pissed off (yes/no)

3. Have you ever looked at asian porn for more than 3 consecutive hours? (yes/no)

4. Is "meatspin.com" or "mudfall.com" one of your most frequently viewed sites? (yes/no)

5. Do you like oral sex from ugly girls? (yes/no)

6. What is your age? (#,0-120)

The Experiment

2006-03-11T08:12:00.000-08:00

Alcohol is a powerful thing. With the possession of alcohol, we give ourselves a godlike power. More or less, we give ourselves more control over ourselves than we should. I just said ourselves like five times, and it sounds stupid, but oh well. With alcohol, we can launch our conscious into a new stratosphere of ridiculousness, of speech, of action, of everything. We can morph our personalities into inscrutable identities barely resembling our former selves. Basically, with alcohol, we have power that no one else except G-d himself has.

So, is this a good thing or bad? That’s a matter of opinion. It can be. Let’s put all the moral and legal issues of drinking alcohol before the age of 21 aside for a moment. When alcohol increases our friendliness, outgoingness, and other positive social qualities, which it does, then it can be useful. When it causes us to fall down, throw up or endangers our lives, or if it adversely affects the lives of our families, then it is time to stop. For good? Nah, probably not. But when you take an introspective look at your life and see that alcohol has done more harm than good, then maybe it’s time to take a break.

This is a slight ripoff of Chuck Palahniuk’s novel Diary, but let’s play the reverse drinking game.

When you feel like people don’t know you well because you are drunk every time you see them, then put the bottle down.

When you only look forward to the weekend because you’re going to get drunk, not because you’re going to see your friends, then put the bottle down.

When you sometimes value getting drunk over spending time with your friends, or other wholesome activities, then put the bottle down.

And so on. And when you realize that alcohol is killing your personality, because you are under the influence of it so much that people only know you as an extension of your drunkenness, this is bad. Alcohol can turn you into something you do not like, and one day you might look back and realize you have created an image of yourself that is not only unfavorable, but not even you. Because most personality theorists say your personality is only how people see you, not how you see yourself. So, if you’re drunk a lot, you have destroyed your true, inner personality. You have made yourself into a monster. If this keeps happening your true personality and how people see you will continue to drift apart, and soon they will barely be related to eachother. Then, who knows what will happen. You may spontaneously combust, who knows?

That being said, The Experiment begins tonight. The Experiment has started at a bad time, right before St. Patrick’s Day, and that day will probably have to be an exception. The Experiment will probably not be permanent, unless the effects are pleasurable to you. In that case, friendships and money and other things can be saved. And, like a smoker’s lung after they quit, your personality will heal and become healthy again. The natural state of your life will be destroyed. Alcohol will no longer run your life. You can run your own life again, which is good. Because you should be running it, after all.

BLOGENBERGENROSENBLOGULABLOGTASTICBLOGZILLABLOOM

2006-03-07T15:24:00.000-08:00

Dear Blogenbloom:

It all started a few months ago, your little teaser, you know exactly what I'm talking about. You wouldn't go into detail, insisting that your ability to tell the story was simply not up to par with the delivery another writer (whom I believe remained unnamed). I was fine with this, it's cool, stalling isn't bad, everyone does it, but you took this one too far.

I was curious, I just wanted to know, what was the story? Did blogrose finally get laid? Did you finally find out santa isn't real? Was it finally revealed to you that girls, in fact, do not have cooties?

Then you committed the ultimate foul. See, there are certain things you have to honor when teasing a story, it's actually just simple math.

The absolute hilarity/quality of the story is directly proportional to the amount of time you are allowed to stall out the story. So, for example, if I had a story about me eiffel towering a girl, I have a fair amount of time to build up and deliver the story, but you on the other hand, probably building up a story about how you lost in Jenga to your grandma and it was "just so totally terrible", is only worth 1 day maximum stall time. In fact, telling a story like that might lead to our (blog) camp kicking your ass.

I really thought it was still on its way. You led me on. See that's when I usually want to dissapear, you know, not wait around. But for you I did, I saw something different in you, I thought you were a different kind of guy, but obviously you're just like all the rest, all you want to do is tease, but never do what you say. UCH GUYS ARE ALL THE SAME.

So I guess I'm finally getting over it, this is my breakup letter with the story I've wanted to know so bad. So fuck your story, fuck you, I don't even care anymore.

Sincerely,

Aaron Cummins

p.s. if I ever see you when I'm drunk you're probably going to lose a nipple

Lonely Dark Cock

2006-02-22T15:58:00.000-08:00

I know that all of our faithful readers understand that I think this society is backwards, stupid, and hopeless. This assessment goes double for the youth in our population (oh, God, he's not talking about me, is he?). I've been chewing on some ideas with which I could vent my disappointment, but nothing I could think of really encompassed how I felt about the way society, especially pop culture and music, is going. Perhaps that says something about my writing and creativity, I don't know. But fortunately I have stumbled upon something that really says what I'm trying to say. I know we have moved away from our previous habit of posting links, but this really deserves a place in our fine blog:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-4435593179243241083

This is one of the most popular songs by one of the most popular "artists" (which one of these fucks today can actually call themselves musicians) of our day. All I can say is, if you didn't laugh, and you said, "Hey, I like that song!", then I hate you. And your family. Sorry if I come across harsh, that's the way I feel. And I believe more than one of my blogging partners feel the same way (Schultz this one was for you). Where do we go from here? Can we possibly go any lower? I think not. The reason I believe that this might be the lowest of lows as far as music and art goes is because I refuse to believe that people will buy a cd with the sounds of a man saying "Fuck you, you stupid asshole! You just wasted your fucking money, and now I'm going to be rich!" That is the only thing I could possibly envision being more of a slap in the face than hearing that horrible, horrible song coming out of your stereo.

Another thing. If you're sitting there, thinking, oh that's not me, Fallout Boy is for tools, I listen to Dave and O.A.R., well, you're a fucking tool also. I refuse to stand for this kind of music. I don't know how to combat it quite yet, but I think the first step is assassinating all of the head executives of MTV and all emo kids. Especially the emo kids. That would solve so many problems. I'm going down swinging.

(If you want my opinion on music, go with Dylan. You will instantly know where everything went wrong, and there need be no more explanation)

-Fish-er-man

Blocked

2006-02-20T19:30:00.000-08:00

So it turns out Schultz and I have both been blocked by one Mr. Deltoid and his girlfriend on facebook. I wasn't friends with them on facebook before, but Schultz was, so now they are no longer friends. And, unfortunately, this means I cannot look up pictures of Mr. Deltoid's girlfriend and jack off to them anymore. ;-(

-Fish

Weekend Update

2006-02-19T21:27:00.000-08:00

Hola, fellow blog-readers, your captain and cruise director Mark Schultz is back again to send you on a collision course directly into the chaotic mess that has become my life. Not a lot of significance happened this weekend, but I’m pretty bored and I like to keep my readers satisfied by posting consistently about once a week, so you get a new post. I’ll just come out right now and say this won’t be as interesting as my previous posts, but hey it’s something to do, it’s winter so everyone just stays inside and goes online. You know it’s true. So sit back and read, it will only take a couple minutes.

So Thursday I don’t do anything except smoke and stand in the rain coming to the gradual realization my tolerance for marijuana is even higher than my tolerance for alcohol. Friday hopes to be better, as a moment of perfect timing occurs when I arrive at South Quad just as Bob is leaving for his run to the liquor store. Matteo and I split a handle of Smirnoff—I’m off hundred proof now, that stuff is too potent, even for me—and we drink and watch “The Forty Year-old Virgin or, as Matteo’s bootleg Spanish DVD calls it, “Virgen de los 40”.

Oh, I almost forgot, as I’m waiting for Bob outside the liquor store a homeless guy comes up to me. I used to freak out when these denizens of the streets asked me for change, but it happens with such consistency in Ann Arbor it has just become part of my routine. So he asks me for change, but I have nothing but paper money which he is not getting to buy another bottle of Scotch. Anyway, he tells me a little fact about the ice cream store I’m standing in front of. Apparently they used to sell weed out of this store, sort of like how barbershops are often fronts for drug dealings, but it got shut down. This guy is probably insane, especially since he followed Bob for like five minutes after he came out of the store, but this is an interesting fact. Apparently AA may be shadier than even I could have imagined.

So we drink in the dorms and no one is going out, it’s fucking twenty below zero. That’s okay, I’ve had some fun nights just drinking in the dorms. Some guys from Central Michigan—who were apparently in Scouts with Jeff—kind of come out of nowhere and want alcohol. They somehow wrangle up two twenty-four packs and we play beer pong in Jeff’s room using a makeshift table made out of one of the doors of his closet set up on two chairs. Once again, Matteo and I played sweet and got screwed at the end. Too bad close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, as they say.

Nothing else really happens, except for later I make my fifth or so drink in Duke’s room, then leave the room. Five minutes later Matteo asks me where our handle went. Assuming it’s still in Duke’s room where I left it, I tell him to look there. He goes and then comes back and tells me the handle is gone. We look in just about every room in the hallway and this ¾ full handle is still AWOL. I’m freaking out, Matteo’s freaking out, it is looking like our liquor supply for the week has disappeared, which means on Saturday I might as well strap myself to a chair and give myself electroshock therapy, because that’s about how much fun going to parties without pregaming is. At least for me.

Well, I take Zitter’s (I think) Cubs hat and go home with it for some reason, and I forget to drink water so I wake up feeling like absolute shit. To quote David Snyder “My mouth was drier than the Sahara desert”. This is going to be a long day, especially cuz I have to watch an entire season of Grey’s Anatomy and write a review by Sunday morning, which for me means by tonight at 8 o’clock. Fortunately, my editor gives me an extension until Sunday night on the article, which is a good call because anything I wrote Saturday would have been basically incoherent. I basically sleep all day, then Passman, using some sort of logic I am not familiar with, decides we should get food all the way on North Campus. I am still a little hungover, and I actually haven’t eaten anything all day except some candy, but I figure I have to get off my ass sometime, and plus I assumedly don’t have liquor at this point, so my starting point for the night is pretty immaterial.

So North Campus it is. The bus ride sucks, not only do I just miss the first bus and have to wait for the next one in weather that would freeze the balls off a penguin, but on the bus I have to sit in one of those sideways-facing seats, which always makes me nauseous, plus I’m still a bit hungover, so once we get off I’m feeling ten times worse than before.
We get Chinese food with Sanders and Rusty, and Passman and I split a two-liter of Rock ‘n Rye with the intention to use it dually as a quencher for the spicy General Tsao’s chicken and as a mixer for my possibly non-existent alcohol.

This next part is weird. We sit down to eat and I take one bite of food, and I know I’m going to throw up. I don’t know why, I can’t really explain it. I’m not that hungover, and Chinese food, or any food for that matter, doesn’t usually make me nauseous. But it is what it is, and I sprint to a conveniently proximal bathroom and puke in the trash. Well, first I dry heave, and I look like I’m doing some new dance, which would be funny if I didn’t feel like I was going to die. I finish puking and climb upstairs and lay on a couch with the solid opinion that this is possibly how I will end my night.

Fortunately I feel better in a few minutes, and go back to my food to inform everyone at my table of the mess that is becoming my Saturday night. Everyone laughs at me, and I drink directly from the 2-liter, and now Passman doesn’t want any because he thinks I have the Ebola virus or something. It’s starting to look like one of those nights where I piss everyone off again, and I consider just burying myself in the snow until morning, until I call Matteo and he informs me he has locating our handle. Apparently in my drunken stupor I saw Jeff’s laundry basket as a good place to put thirty dollars worth of liquor, and he found it recently. I’m feeling pretty much normal now, and I decide the night is back on. Lock up your women and children, Mark Schultz is going out on the town.

After a few formalities Passman and myself get on the bus again and voyage to South Quad, leaving a lazy Russell and Sanders in our wake. They say they’re coming down later, but I think there’s a better chance of me contracting a sexually-transmitted disease on the bus ride. Oh well, I do imagine it must be hard to get on that bus and go down every night.

Anyway, as I said it’s colder than hell, and there’s no way anyone would be going out except there is a crew party very close to South Quad, and allegedly it will have nine kegs. This excites me; I don’t really like beer that much but the idea, the concept of nine kegs is just interesting, and it’s something I would like to see. So we drink vodka with Rock and Rye in Matteo’s room while watching diminutive Nate Robinson dunk over Spudd Webb in the NBA Slam Dunk contest.

We go to this crew party, but Matteo and Passman decide to leave within ten minutes to attend a party thrown by one of the editors of the Michigan Daily. Matteo has already pretended to be a writer there to get into a party once, so certainly he can get in this time. I kind of like the crew party, mostly because I know about half the people there, and I do believe there is actually nine kegs, so I declare in slurred speech that I am staying. This is where the night kind of degrades into a giant blur, where I probably did and said regrettable things, but anyway before I know it it’s about 2:30 in the morning and I’m back at South Quad.

For some reason I’m in Adam’s room, and him and James are for some reason trying to convince me to pull the fire alarm in West Quad. They are telling to me about the rivalry between their dorm and West, and how it would be awesome because everyone would freak out, and so on. I am pretty drunk, just under the blackout stage, and even now I don’t think this is a good idea. They spend a good twenty minutes trying to convince me, and, inevitably, as if anyone couldn’t see it coming, I agree to do it. However, my mind is kind of going in and out at this point, and ideas are not really registering. There is a translucent but powerful alcohol goo wrapped around my cerebellum, and this makes it almost impossible for me to perform logical activities or think in a rational vein.

The purpose of this descriptive set-up was to prelude why, instead of pulling the West Quad fire alarm, I pulled the South Quad fire alarm, the one in Jeff’s hallway, to be specific. I pull it and run outside, but then decide to go back and see how my actions have affected others. This is unlike most times, where I would just do something stupid or mean and then leave before the consequences of my actions register.

So I go back into Jeff’s hallway, pretending like I’m just coming to investigate the noise, and the RA is standing there, along with a few other people, wondering what the hell is going on. I figure this is a good time to leave and I soon acquiesce back to fucking Oxford.

The next day I spend finally getting down to watching “Grey’s Anatomy” for The Daily , and, I have to admit, it’s not too bad. I watched half of the episodes for the review, and I’m actually planning on watching the rest. I also found out my stupidity on Saturday had more far-reaching consequences than intended. Apparently a kid in Jeff’s hallway has mono, and he was trying to sleep when the fire alarm woke him up. So he sent an angry email to everyone in his hall, which isn’t fair because it was no one’s fault but mine, and maybe a little James’s.

Therefore, if you extrapolate and exaggerate Saturday night a bit, this would make three weekends straight where I’ve had a serious negative impact on someone’s life. I doubt I need to recount these events to anyone, but if for some reason you don’t know, just ask me. Let’s just say after the last two weekends I’m lucky I have any friends at all. Hell, if I didn’t write this blog I doubt anyone would like me.

In conclusion, I think everyone’s looking forward to Spring Break next week, whether you’re getting drunk in Switzerland or Mexico, or just sitting on your couch playing video games and sleeping a lot. Shouldn’t be anything to post about, but who knows maybe I’ll accidentally stab my brother or something, and then I can recount it here.

"The Cottage Chronicles Part II" or "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Dangerous Weaponry"

2006-02-14T22:53:00.000-08:00

A wise man, Leonard Nimoy, once said “The more we share, the more we have”. This idea can apply to a lot of things, and certainly writing for a blog is one of them. Every time I can brighten someone’s day, or make them question their own life, or just take them into the magical world of my life, it greatly enhances my own life. With that being said, I will enhance your life and mine, yet again, by posting part two of “The Cottage Chronicles”.

Certainly after the hilarity and hijinks of our first trip to my cottage in early June a return trip was in order. Conflicting work schedules, my summer schooling and a general lack of initiative by everybody involved made a trip hard to coordinate, but we finally planned to go back during July. We had lost our liquor source—namely, Pete’s brother—since then because of unplanned circumstances. Pete and his brother, before embarking to the liquor store, told Pete’s father they were “going on an errand”. Since Pete and his brother pretty much hate eachother and would certainly never go on any kind of “errand”, the father figured it out and the jig was up. The father wasn’t mad, but Pete’s brother just laughed in his face when Pete asked him to buy again.

Fortunately, I had another liquor source, a kid who lived in my Markley hallway during summer. We took a trip to Meijer with six guys and bought almost 300 dollars of liquor. I bought a 48 pack and a sixer for our trip, and about ten more fifths of various liquors were bought. And yes, Selwan was there. The great part was the kid who bought didn’t even get carded, because hey, who the hell buys 300 dollars worth of liquor without a real ID?

Anyway, this time we were going for two days to wholly maximize our drunken outdoors experience. The famous Dim was planning on leaving after one day to buy Piston’s tickets, but we knew, especially after last time, that the lure of alcohol would bait him like one of the many fish I had caught on the point of the peninsula. Dim and I arrive early-ish, about four-thirty, and Dim wants to fish. He wants to fish, but he doesn’t want to touch the worms, so he settles on using an olive. He has limited, actually no success with the olive, and as the beer chills in my freezer I marvel at how sometimes Dim can be as ridiculous sober as he was drunk.

The rest of the crew; Pete, Georgie, and our new friend, whom we’ll call Billy Boy, arrive at about dinnertime. Dim tries a second attempt at cooking hotdogs and fails even more miserably. He gets the coals to light evenly at least, unlike last time, but the hot dogs are horribly, horribly burned. They look like the penises of African-americans. I can’t eat them without thinking of the shower scene in “Any Given Sunday”. Then Dim tries to cook burgers, which is an even worse idea, because poorly-cooked hot dogs are just gross, but poorly-cooked burgers can require a trip to the hospital. From what the others said, the burgers were decent, though I don’t dare try them for fear of contracting salmonella. I peel the burnt-part of hot dogs the way I used to do when I was a kid, so all that’s left is the fleshy, really-phallic looking innards that are packed inside the intestinal casing. Needless to say this is the worst dinner ever, and I’m ready to drink.

Georgie breaks out a bottle of Smir smuggled from his parent’s liquor cabinet. I take a few shots, then move to beer. This time the beer of choice is Coors Light, a good choice because you can drink this shit like water. I plan on knocking back a considerable amount of beers and seeing where the night takes me.

We somehow start a fire even though it’s wet outside and we have little wood. The fire is a piece of shit, not even enough to roast marshmallows on, so I just ignore reality and continue drinking. Georgie is knocking down brews just as fast as me, and as Dim—probably nervous about drinking too much again after last time—Pete and Billy sit there soberly Georgie and I begin an informal contest to see who will pass out last.

At 1:00 AM Georgie and I are inside my cabin playing a game I recently invented called “War: The drinking game”. This game is easy to learn, hard to play without throwing up. The rules are simple: standard “War” rules (each person flips a card, highest card wins), but the loser each time takes a drink. In the event of a “War” situation, the loser shotguns a beer. (Note: the rules have since been amended to decree the loser must finish their beer eventually, to avoid situations like the one that occurred this night). We play this game for about half an hour, probably drinking at least a beer every ten minutes. No one has lost a war yet. I am pretty nervous, because I am pretty drunk and my stomach isn’t great with beer, so I figure there’s a good chance I’ll throw up if I have to do a shotgun. Georgie loses a war, and he is already noticeably drunk, but he is a good man, and will abide by the rules of the game.

At this point, though I highly doubt anyone reading this doesn’t know what shotgunning a beer means, I will direct you to this website http://www.xmag.com/archives/12-01-jul04/feature1.html for thorough directions on shotgunning a beer that I am too lazy to write out. Anyway, Georgie takes the whole thing and doesn’t look so good. But he doesn’t puke, so we sit back down and continue playing. About a minute later Georgie loses another war, and must shotgun another beer. This time, after the beer is shotgunned into his mouth, Georgie shotguns it back into the sink. “War” the drinking game has unofficially ended. Our night, however, is just starting.

Pete, who is weird and has this habit of getting tired at inopportune times and going to bed early, goes to bed at one o’clock. Now, for most adults this is a reasonable time to go to bed, maybe even a little too late. But for unsupervised eighteen year-old kids, one o’clock is not even close to reasonable. One o’clock would be just about the time one starts really getting into the meat of their drinking. And Pete is going to sleep. Of
Course, there’s no way he’s getting a minute of sleep until Georgie—who is basically nocturnal—and I are ready to let him.

Pete goes in another room and sets up his sleeping bag, with false hopes that his night is ending and he can get some shuteye. As soon as he closes his eyes Georgie and I immediately stumble drunkenly into his room and start bugging the hell out of him. He is really annoyed and tells us to leave him alone. We leave the room, and then Georgie runs back in about thirty seconds later, this time holding the plate of uneaten, cold burned hot dogs. He throws the plate on Pete’s pillow, next to his head, then sprints out.

Pete comes out ten seconds later and starts yelling at us, he’s really tired, blah blah blah. We apologize half-assedly and Pete accepts it and goes back to bed.

Two minutes later the hot dogs are back on his pillow. Pete starts yelling again, this time we just burst out in drunken laughter. He’s starting to get pissed, he actually looks tired.

The hot dogs are getting old. As a change of pace, Georgie and I get a can of salsa. Georgie sneaks into the room and drops some salsa on Pete’s pillow. Pete flips out and jumps up, almost able to grab Georgie before he escapes. Pete is pissed. He tells us to go to hell, and that we’re shitty friends and so forth. Then he goes to the bathroom. Big mistake.

Georgie takes both the hot dogs and the salsa, and a bag of burnt popcorn for good measure, and places them on his pillow. Actually, the hot dogs go in his actual sleeping bag. We go back in the living room and wait. Pete comes out of the bathroom, stares at us in disgust for a couple seconds, then goes in his room and closes the door.

A minute later Pete comes out and starts going insane, thrashing at Pete and myself. Now, in my altered state of mind, I am a little afraid Pete might up and kill us. To counteract this, in the midst of the battle I suggest to Georgie that we sufficiently arm ourselves. This is guerrilla warfare, hand-to-hand intense stuff, so nothing is too radical. I remember there are some BB guns in the room Pete is sleeping in. While Pete is still out in the living room attacking Georgie, whom he is blaming for most of what happened, I slip into the bedroom, grab two BB guns and get back out.

I toss Georgie a BB gun and stick the nose of my gun in Pete’s face.

“I think you better step off,” I say.

Pete’s eyes grow as wide as dinner plates. He is not drunk, so he is logically thinking what happens when drunk kids play with guns, and he’s probably thinking how this could turn into one of those scare-tactic dangers of alcohol commercials. Everything is set up perfectly. Kids alone in a cabin. Drunk. Loaded guns kept within reach. One false move and BAM! Pete goes through the rest of his life with a fashionable but gawky eyepatch on his right eye.

So who would they blame? The parents, of course? “Tsk, tsk”, they’ll say. “Those Schultz parents always were lax on discipline and safety”. And, at Pete’s funeral, after he crashes his car because of his impaired depth-perception from only having one eye, accusing glares will be pointed at the Schultz’s like bayonets. You did this. You bastards.

Pete tells us to put the guns down. We refuse, and Pete decides it might be safest to move himself into an outdoor area, where he will be a harder target to hit.

So now I’m standing in the middle of my living room with a loaded gun, looking at Georgie, wondering what to do.

“Let’s go huntin’” I say in a southern hillbilly accent.

Problem solved. We go outside and agree to split up in order to cover more ground. Right before we split up, Georgie cocks his gun into the loaded position. I ask him why he did that, and he shrugs and starts running off. I figure this might be the end of my friendship with Pete.

So we split up, taking opposite sides of the property, calling Pete’s name and waving our guns. Georgie may have fired a shot, I’m not sure. After about five minutes I hear a door slam and realize that Pete has locked us out. Shit. I run back to the front door. I put my ear to the door and hear him turning the lock. I don’t have the key. After what we’ve done to Pete, Georgie is pretty much planning on sleeping outside, but I decide to try negotiations. Actually, it isn’t really negotiations. It’s more like:

“Pete! Let us in you asshole! We weren’t going to shoot you. I’m serious.” Pete presses his face against the window and gives us the middle finger. Then he moons us. This isn’t looking good. I look at Georgie, who is swinging his gun around like a golf club, and then I remember a door that isn’t locked.

I direct Georgie to the back and we locate a window about eighteen inches tall that is unlocked. “This might be our only option,” I say.

“Let’s just shoot the windows out,” Georgie says.

Neither of these ideas are good, so the compromise is we pound on the door for twenty minutes until Pete breaks down and lets us in. We apologize profusely and tell him he can go to sleep in safety.

If you think we let him sleep you probably haven’t read many other stories on this blog.

We wait until he’s fast asleep, about fifteen minutes, and then Pete tiptoes in ever-so-softly and dumps the plate of hot dogs on Pete’s head.

Pete doesn’t rise for about five minutes, so we figure this is too subtle of a move to wake him up. Georgie breaks out the salsa again and pours it on his pillow. A minute late Pete comes barging in for the tenth time, this time going berserk. He notices Georgie’s gun, which he has left on the ground, and he picks it up. He has a devilish look in his eyes.

Pete is between my gun—which is also resting on the floor—and I. In my panic I search for weapons. I settle on a fishing pole. I wave it around like a sword, making sure Pete can’t get too close. The fishing pole is a flop, and now Pete is chasing me around the room. I run to the kitchen and grab a butcher’s knife out of a drawer. I brandish it, probably momentarily resembling Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” and tell Pete to give me his best shot.

Georgie, who has been ignored this whole time, tackles Pete and takes the gun from him. We are safe. I am getting kind of tired myself, so we decide to call a truce. Pete is still pissed. We go to bed, and, five minutes later Pete tries to get into our room. Georgie and I are scared for our lives. Both of us together are able to throw him—still wielding the BB gun—out of our room.

After that we decide to barricade the door. I take a couple lawn chairs, a cot, some pool noodles and other various crap and lodge them against the door. That should hold him.

Sometime later I hear Pete trying to knock the door down to get in. No luck. The barricade is a success. It’s almost five in the morning; time to get some rest, tomorrow’s another busy day.

The next day everyone’s old favorite Mr. Deltoid is scheduled to come. This isn’t especially exciting, especially with our diminishing alcohol supply, but he is our friend so oh well.

The day starts out appropriately, with my speed boat going absolutely nuts at the most inopportune time. Billy Boy, who is driving because I’m too lazy, is taking us into a low-hanging, narrow tunnel when suddenly the boat starts going backwards. We crash into a low tree hanging over the river. We see another boat heading towards us. Uh-oh.

Fortunately, we weren’t going too fast, so the other boat could just drive around us. We fix the boat and go back to see that Mr. Deltoid has arrived. We also see it is about dinner time. Everyone hops in Dim’s car and we’re off to the Zukey Lake Tavern, which is apparently a world-famous pizzeria about ten minutes from my cottage.

On the way to dinner Georgie, Pete and I discuss the very real crisis of our diminishing alcohol supply. We have about half our beer, which is 24 beers, but only four or five shots of Smirnoff. We have six people though, and it feels like pretty much everyone wants to get drunk. There have been pretty bad situations when only a portion of us get drunk, so I don’t know if this is a good thing. But, as I said, we are a little short. Do the math, and each of us get less than five shots for the night.

This is pretty much all we talk about during dinner. By the time dinner ends Pete decides he is going to make a running attempt at buying without an ID. With excessive facial hair, Pete is the oldest-looking one of us, which is like being the fastest kid in the Special Olympics, but still, this town is pretty shady, he might have a chance.

We park in front of a liquor store, Pete goes in and comes back thirty seconds later empty-handed. Either he bought the fifth and chugged it already, or he didn’t get it. Pete shakes his head and explains. Apparently he grabbed two fifths, walked up to the register and when the man asked if he had ID, he said he forgot it and then walked out.

Yeah. I can’t believe that didn’t work.

So we try Plan B, which is to sit outside the general store near my house, looking for some motorcyclers of questionable morality who will buy for us. This probably would have worked, but unfortunately none of us are brave enough to talk to members of a motorcycle gang.

So we go back empty-handed, and at least play some Beirut on my picnic table, which is fun. Dim takes a flat, mixed drink that he had forgot about the night before and chugs it. Then Dim and I split the rest of the Smirnoff. We both take a shot, then I turn to chase mine with an Arnold Palmer, and when I turn back to Dim he is already taking another shot. Now, we all know what sorts of things happen when Dim drinks at the cottage (See Cottage Chronicles 1 for reference). Hilarious things. I can’t wait. I pray to the liquor gods he gets tanked and sails his kayak into the ocean or something.

Turns out I wasn’t far off. We play some more Beirut and Dim is stumbling around, missing shots terribly; my back hurts from carrying the team. Then we break out the beer, make sure all firearms are safely out of reach of Georgie and I, and try to start a fire. It had rained the night before, so our already meager wood supply is wet and the fire is not lighting.

Mr. Deltoid, who always seems to take charge, tells me to grab a gas can. We are pouring gasoline on the fire, literally. I grab the oil can by accident and pour sticky, black goop all over the wood. Then I go back and get the gas can. We pour a lot of gas on the wood, but it doesn’t light. However, there are more pressing matters at hand, because, at the moment, Dim has gained control of a kayak and is paddling his way away from our property.

We call out to Dim but he doesn’t hear us. Georgie and I start cracking up, and if it was just us there, I know we would have let him see how far he could get before he passed out. I’ve woken up in some pretty weird places after drinking, but I think a kayak in the middle of a random lake would definitely be tops.

But of course, Deltoid and Pete go out in the paddleboat and bring Dim back to safety. Damn. Looks like it’s going to be another boring night. Dim gets out of the kayak once on land and stumbles and falls in the sand.

Deltoid and I have the exact same Dim conversation as last trip.

Deltoid: He has to go to bed.”

Me: No way. He’ll have the worst hangover ever.

We settle on sitting Dim inside and having him watch tv. Georgie is in there too, drinking beer and playing NCAA Football ’05. We discuss what to do about the fire. Pete has the best idea, which is to drive into town and buy firewood, and then maybe take another potshot at buying liquor.

We drive for about ten miles before we realize we don’t know where the hell we’re going. We turn onto a dirt road, figure this is surely not the way to the downtown area, and turn around and head in the opposite direction. In about ten minutes we arrive at Busch’s market. We buy firewood and stare at the liquor bottles on display with gaping, drooling mouths.

Back to the cottage. We get the fire started after some difficulty, but it sucks. It’s just a bunch of glowing embers, and the sun has set, so we can’t see anything. Billy Boy drives his car up to the fire pit and puts the lights on, which solves or dark problem.

From that point it gets kind of hazy, which is a phrase I use a lot I know. I grab my own personal six pack I have brought and start chugging. Georgie asks for a bottle in exchange for a can, but I am hesitant. Bottles taste better and look cooler. I don’t want to part with any. We compromise on pouring his can of Coors’ into one of my empty bottles, therefore giving him the feel of drinking bottled beer at no expense to me.

It is around 4th of July, so one of my neighbors has a fireworks show. The fireworks are actually launched off a boat, which is pretty cool. Georgie and I go to see, and I feel very grown-up drinking a beer in a public place in front of adults. Georgie steals some kids ball and brings it back with him.

I get incredibly drunk and mistake a couple of cans of my dad’s Labatt Blue for my Coors’ Light. Down the hatch.

I smoke an entire of Black-n-Mild’s in one night. Those things are the best when you’re drunk. I blow profuse amounts of smoke in Dim’s face.

I wish this trip had ended better, but that was about the extent of interesting things, and the events at the end weren’t actually that interesting. I wake up feeling like balls and sleep through the gang going on my speedboat. Apparently they saw a pirate ship or something.

We drive back and Dim plays “Abbey Road” by The Beatles at too high of a volume and my head is pounding, an invisible hand squeezing it like a ripe peach. The trip ends well, with myself getting about six dollars from recycling all our beer cans, plus the ones my parents had left in the trash.

I go back to Ann Arbor to begin my week of summer classes. As I am walking down my dorm hallway one kid I know calls out, “Hey Schultz, how was your cottage this weekend?” I give him the big thumbs-up and keep walking. A weekend expressed in quality with hand-signals instead of words is truly the best, and I don’t have to tell you this summer will be 18374846 times more ridiculous, assuming my parents have the suspension of common sense needed to allow me back up.

The Plan:
1. Every episode of “Degrassi: the Next Generation” on DVD
2. 30 bags of popcorn
3. One pound of marijuana

See you there

-Mark

MSU Second Semester Part 2

2006-02-06T21:48:00.000-08:00

This is part two of my and Schultz's weekend at MSU. In case you didn't read it, there was a part 1 that had to be removed for administrative purposes. If you want to know about it, ask myself (Fishman) or Mark (Schultz).

Second night begins with the same pact Schultz and I had before: get recklessly and irresponsibly drunk, and cause damage. I think we passed the test.

The night begins with various assortments of mixed drinks, including, but not limited to: vodka red bull, vodka sprite, and bacardi big apple. Yum. We all get fairly inebriated, enough to go out, so we head off to our first party on "rape lane," or "rape alley" or something. I hope Schultz gets raped on our walk. He does not.

I'm with my old buddy Keith from like 3rd grade and we're chatting and watching Schultz stumble around. He's certainly drunk, but nothing like last night. We arrive at the party, and pay our five bucks for the cup (fuck this stupid MSU practice) and go to find the keg. I'm not quite loose enough to approach girls who are out of my leage yet, so I slam a few beers back while watching this kid play beer pong. He's awful, I give him some advice: don't throw it, toss it. It's all in the arc. He is immediately better. I should run a beer-pong summer camp program or something.

I go find Schultz, I need some air and a few minutes to go let the beer kick in. We go upstairs and hockey night in Canada is on. Vancouver versus who gives a fuck. We are watching, and for some reason Schultz thinks we're watching curling. He's getting to that point again, but luckily there is no liquor in sight and he can't drink beer that fast anyways. He'll be fine. We're sitting there, enjoying our beer and our conversation, when this real tall, lanky blonde chick walks up and starts mercilessly hitting on us. I'm not interested, she's not hot, and I am unreceptive to her advances. Schultz has no idea what's going on, so I excuse myself to leave them some alone time and head back downstairs. He follows, because he is afraid of the girl who is at least a head taller than him.

Starting to feel things, I decide it's time to find some chaste, responsible State girl to go have a conversation about being proper, and not slutty, and how much I care about her feelings, and not about having sex. I look over to Schultz. He's the worst partner for picking up ass. Not only can he barely stand and speak, he is wearing a t-shirt that says "Protect Your Nuts" and has a picture of an angry squirrel with a club protecting his nuts on it. I'm not sure where Todd is, so I decide to go alone. Having spotted the three hottest girls at the party, standing in a circle, not talking to any guys, I decide this is my best shot. I'm going in alone, no Schultz, no Todd. Going alone at the party is kind of like going alone in euchre; it's tough, and you only do it when you have a fucking amazing hand. Well, I had a pretty shitty hand, so:
Me: "Hey, how's it going?"
Girls: "Hey, what's your name?"
We exchange names.
Girls: "So you go here?"
Me: (fucking idiot that I am, I learn nothing) "No, I go to U of M."

They all give me this look. One says she hates U of M, the other agrees, the third doesn't care, but I feel like my shot is ruined. Why couldn't I have taken my cue from last night? From now on I'm from Eastern or Western when I'm at State. Fine, I tell the girls I'm just gonna walk away, and I go talk to Keith about striking out with some of the sluttiest girls on the planet two nights in a row. I go to the keg to relieve my sorrows and keep drinking.

Meanwhile, I see Todd and Schultz have picked up where I left off. Todd is now hitting on those same girls, and Schultz is swaying back and forth next to him trying to remain standing. Fuck, Todd has swooped and even Schultz might get a piece. Needless to say, I'm frustrated, but I'm not ready to act on it until another beer goes down. I'm slightly belligerent and pissed off and frustrated. Time to ruin things, I can't let Schultz get in on this action, he fucking goes to U of M too, he just can't speak too well. I saunter over there, and the girls are still giving me dirty looks.
Me: "What the fuck Todd, I can't believe you are talking to these fucking slutbags, goddamn whores is all they are."
Todd looks bewildered, Schultz doesn't seem to care.
Girl: "Who are you calling whores?"
Me: "You."

I walk away, still pissed that Todd remains talking to them. He comes over in a bit, and I explain what happened. I'm ready to go because I just called the only attractive females at the party whores. Todd is pissed and wants to represent for his boy Fishman. He goes up to the girls as we are about to leave and yells that they can suck his dick. Bounce.

I decide it's time to visit Sachs in his crazy hall at Akers. This is kind of far, but we can't feel cold anymore, but we can feel wet as the blizzard drenches us. Finally we arrive, go upstairs, and Sachs fixes me a screwdriver. It's delicious, and officially my new drink. The trick is a little coca cola on top, trust me. I'm getting more drunk, and it's kind of fun to see a few old high school friends. Shultz wanders off to go to the bathroom, even though there is one in the dorm room (it's a suite). He comes back, and proudly exclaims that he has pissed on the window in a lounge room. I am angry at MSU for it's unreceptive (to me) women, and go off to piss in the same place. I feel like MSU and I are even on the weekend.

When I get back it's probably around 3:30, and Chas suggests we all go to Denny's. Despite the fact it's snowing like hell, this sounds like a great plan. A half mile later, we're all there. We see some kid passed out on a table. We go sit down, and look at the menu. We all ask for kid's menus, and they give them to us, but they aren't paper and we can't color on them. Oh well. I get the All American Slam. It was a great choice. Satiated, Schultz, Todd, and I bid Sachs and Chas goodbye and make our way through the blizzard back to Todd's dorm, about a 20 minute walk away. As we are walking back, Todd asks Schultz if he has any id on him, because you need it to get into the dorms at State. Schultz yells that he doesn't need any id, and that he's above the law. Just as these words leave his mouth, a car drives by and splashes water and dirt and shit up from the street all over him. Oh the irony. It's 4:30 when we get back. We have some conversation and pass out around 5.

Next day we wish Todd goodbye and good luck with Stoller, we have no idea what's going to happen about the pictures (see MSU part one). We get back to Ann Arbor alive, happy, and only slightly hungover. We learn later that Todd has been kicked out of his dorm for the picture incident. I feel awful, but it turns out that he only has to move dorms. Oh well, he and Stoller weren't exactly a match made in heaven anyways (Stoller is taken, sorry Todd).

That wraps up MSU very neatly. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Good night and God bless.

Administration Reasons

2006-02-05T20:22:00.000-08:00

This blog has been altered for administration reasons. Thank you for your understanding and cooperation

-Fishman

"I Know This Guy"

2006-02-03T12:23:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile, but I'm back to post. I know you miss me; your yearning for a Fishman post will make this even sweeter for you. The reason I've been away is, well, I'm lazy, and not too much interesting shit has gone down lately. Schultz and I are going to state this weekend with a full handle of hundo, which always equals fundo or something along those lines.

Last night was interesting on several counts. Unfortunately I missed out on some of the action that went down, but I played a part in a good share of the stories. It starts, as all these things do, with some pregaming in the room. A little vodka-red bull and vodka-sprite, and I'm feeling loose. I decide to head over to Chi Psi to chill with some of the brothers for a bit.

When I get there I'm ushered upstairs to jam with this kid, but I haven't played guitar in months and I'm kind of drunk. I sound like shit as I try and keep up with his chord progression and jam with him. Because of this I've decided to bring up my guitar to get back into things. Anyways, we finish up, and I go downstairs for some mudslides or something and some Pabst Light which I did not even know they made. Delicious. I'm pretty wasted at this point, but I'm still at that point where I'm needlessly searching for more alcohol, because I know I don't NEED anymore. But want and need are two different things, and fuck it, I wanted to get belligerent and throw up in an alley somewhere. Trying to sound cool, I suggest that a few of us head over to Scorekeepers, our local bar with lenient Id standards, for a pitcher or three.

We head over there, and the two brothers show me their Id's, which are pretty damn shitty. They are some fake-ass international bullshit Id's that say they are from Canada or something, and look like they cost about 10 bucks. I feel like I'm going to get in no problem, but these guys are gonna have trouble, especially seeing that one looks real young.

Finally we get to the bar, a little wet and cold from the shitty Michigan weather we all know and love, and the first guy gets in fine. I guess the international Id is good enough. I should be fine. I hand my Id to the guy, and he looks at me. We exchange a short conversation:
Bouncer: "This isn't you."
Me: "What the fuck do you mean? Of course it is. I don't know what you're talking about."
Bouncer: "No, this isn't you. I know this guy."
Me: "Fuck. Thank you sir."
At least he gives me the Id back, but I feel like shit. This is a very embarassing situation. Getting rejected by Scorekeepers is like paying a prostitute up front and then not getting laid. It's like if you're a semi-ugly girl who tells Cummins you will let him and his sketchy friend with red hair eiffel tower you, and when you get back to his futon or whatever, they just laugh at you and leave. My self-esteem is lying in the gutter. I pick it up and go back to Chi Psi for more beer, then decide it's high time to return to the dorm.

Two brothers follow, and we decide to watch Clockwork Orange. A good ending to an embarassing night. We're watching when James comes back. Someone runs in our room, I don't remember who.
Random kid from hall: "Dude, James got beat up!"
Me: "Holy shit, no way!"
Random kid: "Yeah, these kids kicked his ass."
Me: "Why?"
Random kid: "I guess he threw a newspaper on their porch while they were sitting there and refused to pick it up, and they beat his ass."
So I go to ask James about it, and his face is kind of messed up. He's definitely gonna have a few nice shiners. So I ask him what happened, and he claims that he thought they were joking fighting, but then the kid starting hitting James, and James couldn't recover in time to really fight. My personal theory is he just got housed a few times cuz the other kid fought better, but I leave him with his self-esteem despite my current lack of it. I'm semi-belligerent, so of course I'm looking for a decent brawl. I tell him we should go find those kids and kick their asses, but James clearly wants no part in this. I give up and finish the movie.

Some things are going on behind closed doors right now that I won't learn of until I wake up the next day. When I do, I throw on my robe and head to the bathroom. I notice a bunch of people outside Matteo's room. I figure it's his family, but then I realize it's a tour for campus day. I look around for hot high school seniors. There is one, I give her the eye, walk by, decide it's best not to hit on her with her dad right there. Pointless. As I'm pissing I decide that it would be sweet to fuck with these groups as they come through, as they come by regularly.

When I go back outside, I see Sluis or James or someone talking to John Paul. I go over there, cuz they seem excited about something. Sluis or James tells me that I have to hear what John Paul did last night, cuz it's so ridiculous. Keep in mind this kid gets so black-out drunk sometimes that one time he took a shit in his trash can in the middle of the night. Another time he climbed up into his bed, threw up all over himself, and slept in it. I ask about what happened, and he's reluctant to tell me. I drag it out of him:
Me: "Dude, it's me, come on, I have to know."
John Paul: "Okay. I blacked out, and I took a knife to my laptop."
Me: "No fucking way, don't bullshit me."
John Paul: "Yeah, it's broken. I'm telling the truth."
Me: "Holy shit. I have to see this."
He opens up his backpack, and, sure enough, the laptop is real fucked up. The screen still works, but there are knife marks all over the fucking thing, and he claims that most of the keys don't work. Someday I'm convinced that he's going to kill someone while blacked out, maybe Lipshaw or Levy or something.

Maybe this was a good story, maybe not. The night seemed eventful enough to write about. Don't worry though, our loyal readership, Schultz and myself are at State for the weekend, and we promised each other to get recklessly, irresponsibly, belligerently drunk and then destroy things and just overall act as total assholes. Great stories to come.

Love,
Fish

"The Cottage Chronicles Part 1" or "Oh What a Night"

2006-01-30T21:55:00.000-08:00

I recently read a comment under my last post proclaiming the official death of this blog. This hurt me deeply, not because I have worked hard (well, not really) to produce some quality posts and it is being buried, and not because, after all this blog has meant to the four people who write for it and the five or so outside people who read it, the “official” burial lacked a certain reverence, awe or even warmth towards the deceased. No, it hurt me because yesterday I was talking to a little boy, a boy who has recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and this little boy said something that moved me. He said, “Your blog is the only thing I live for. Without that blog, I hardly see why I should go on fighting”. The name of that little boy, of course, is Matteo. And his words so inspired me that instead of continuing to let this blog lie stagnant while I think of anything of possible entertainment value to post, I am just going to throw together some crap in hopes that maybe, just maybe, our dear friend will live another day.

I’ve felt for a while like a man’s character can be greatly judged by his behavior when he is intoxicated. It is my opinion that the man who acts like a complete jackass, or a raging homosexual, when under the influence is a brave man. He throws caution to the wind, well knowing he will not remember his actions enough to defend himself, well knowing that video or camera footage of his actions is very likely to be passed through the hands of friends and acquaintances. Well knowing that his actions will be encoded in someone’s memory well enough for that person to write a blog post about it almost a year later. Certainly most people who have imbibed enough alcohol (and attended enough social gatherings after drinking said alcohol) have a skeleton that is lodged not too far in their closet: a girl of questionable attractiveness or morals, various marker drawings or a pair of testicles on their face, perhaps even an unfortunate encounter with an officer of the law. Perhaps even an encounter so unfortunate that one ends up spending a certain amount of time in a police holding cell writing a letter of confession, after they have been forced into the back of a police car in front of friends and onlookers. But that is a story for another time. The story I will tell to you now, my friends, needs no exaggerating, for exaggeration is seldom necessary when a truthful event of this magnitude has occurred. All names have been changed to protect the innocent, but, to embarrass the guilty, the story has not.

I, your humble narrator, one Alex de Large, own a lake house in a small burg called Hell, Michigan. Despite its sinister name, the town contains little evil besides a few harmless motorcycle gangs and one or two crocodiles that have made their way into the lakes through sewer systems. During the summer of 2005 the hot topic of discussion among my droogs and I was a trip to the cottage, sans parents. Certainly we needed to make this trip. Certainly, alcohol would be drank, watercraft would be operated under the influence and S’mores would be roasted over an open fire. It took a couple days to fool my parents into thinking I was responsible enough to have friends up without their presence, but I finally did it, and a date was set.

Ok. I thought i was going to write an entire post sounding like Alex in "A Clockwork Orange", but there are limits even to my powers. So fuck it, you get a normal post from here.

So, it was me then, and my four droogs, Dim, Georgie, Pete and of course the affable Mr. Deltoid. We drove up in Dim’s motorcar, carrying with us a bit of the old drink, a 24 pack of Labatt Blue and a fifth of Smirnoff, to be specific. Back then we were all novice drinkers, and though this amount may sound small for five people, as you will see it was more than enough. Anyway, we arrive at about six and immediately try, with limited success, to grill hot dogs. None of us know anything about grilling; Dim thought he knew, but he turns out to be wrong. The instructions for grilling are to light the coals on fire, and then cover them for about half an hour. However, these instructions omitted the detail that you are supposed to leave a vent-hole in the top, so the fire doesn’t go out. This may seem like common sense, but we all grew up in big houses microwaving everything, so what would we know about grilling.

So the end result is we have a bunch of hot dogs that were burned on the outside and cold on the inside. I say the same thing I say whenever there is alcohol within a mile radius of me, which is “fuck it let’s start drinking”. We break out some Batty’s, as I call Labatt Blue, and pretend we’re 40 year-old men who sit around drinking beer.

Basically for the next two hours we careen around in various watercraft narrowly avoiding accidents; Dim falls out of his kayak and spends half an hour to get back in, the nervous Mr. Deltoid whining the whole time about everyone “being careful”. Hours later it is dark and we’ve made a fire; S’mores are eaten and more Batty’s are drunk. Pete has the marvelous idea to break out our fifth of Smirnoff to make some mixed drinks. Now, this was last summer, remember, before I was a full-blown class 5 alcoholic, so this particular night I didn’t really care to get drunk. These were the days where I used to actually be content being with friends and enjoying the company of others. These were the days where I could have fun without drinking. Imagine that. What innocent days.

Anyway, Dim beckons for the Smirnoff to head his way, calling that he wants a strong mixed drink. When I ask him how much, he says “Ah, it takes me about five shots to get drunk.” I say okay and pour him five shots and then about twelve ounces of cranberry juice. I have a two minute conversation with Georgie and turn back to Dim to see him holding out an empty cup. He says “Actually, it really takes me about ten shots, you know, to really get drunk.” He’s already swaying in his chair and slurring his words. Now, when someone is already visibly drunk and asks you for another strong mixed drink, what do you do? If you said cut him off, now see you have common sense. You’re lucky. I wasn’t born with common sense, that part of my brain was underdeveloped due to malnourishment and intense molestation as a child.

So I pour Dim another vodka-cranberry with five shots. I’m comfortable just roasting S’mores and drinking beer with my friends. I think to myself this will probably be a nice laidback night. Turns out I was wrong. The next time I look over to Dim he isn’t in his chair. He is off in the trees urinating. Maybe at this time it would be beneficial to paint you a picture of what my land looks like. Basically it’s a long driveway which curves around a very small, foul-smelling house. This house is nestled in a way that, from the top of the driveway you can climb onto the first story roof. As the driveway curves around it also takes a steep decline and turns into the front yard. This bit of property sounds unimpressive as of now, I will admit, but the front yard is the key. The front yard is a peninsula probably two hundred yards long; the edges are bordered with trees and rocks, and there are several manmade beaches where you can walk in and go swimming. Between two beaches there is a dock which holds a couple boats and a jet-ski. About halfway to the end of the peninsula is the fireplace where we sat.

Moving on. As we all know, public urination is one of the telltale signs that one has had too much to drink. When common decency and modesty take a backseat to having to take a piss as quick as possible, then one is officially under the influence. Now, everyone urinates in public when drunk, but not everyone pulls their pants all the way down to their ankles, exposing their inexplicably ash-white buttocks and hairless legs. However, Dim seemed to forget that when you drop your pants to urinate, at a certain point you stop dropping them. So Dim is standing there mooning the four of us and the fire. I call attention to this, which causes the other three droogs to laugh hysterically. Dim gets distracted by this and falls down.

Dim is rolling around in the grass, still with no pants on, for a few minutes before he gets back in his chair. He then proceeds to get out his cell phone. As you can see, he has reached another phase of drunkenness, the “I have to call everyone in my phone book I’ve been too afraid to call when sober and confess my love to them” phase. He dials some numbers and begins to ruin more than a few formerly healthy relationships. Oh, I may have forgotten to mention his pants never did make it back on.

I stand up and push Dim’s chair over, so the back of his chair is on the ground and his legs are flailing in the air. He basically looks like a chair turtle. He is so pale his naked lower torso sticks out in the summer night like a full moon, and grass has stuck to his bare legs.

Somehow he manages to escort himself back inside. Mr. Deltoid says for his safety we should put him to bed. I disagree, saying if he goes to bed now, this drunk, he’ll have the worst hangover of his life. Dim has different ideas anyway. These ideas include removing the rest of his clothes and running back outside. We all watch in awe—from the safety of the cottage—as Dim runs butt-ass naked towards the water.

Mr. Deltoid: Someone should go out there and watch him. I mean, he’s near a lot of water. He could drown.

Me: Yeah, but he’s naked.

Mr. Deltoid: Dude. Do you want him to drown?

Me: But what if he touches me or something?

Me and Georgie go outside anyway, just in time to hear Dim trip over a bunch of logs and fall into the water. Fortunately, the water around the peninsula is shallow, so Dim, besides being wet and drunk and naked and stupid, is fine. Dim gets out of the water like nothing has happened and starts running towards us. Georgie grabs a towel, grabs Dim by the part of his body farthest from his genitalia, and wraps the towel around him. The towel stays on for two seconds, then Dim is off again.

Me: I say we just call it a night. He’ll tire himself out.

We can still see Dim’s naked form running in circles around the peninsula. He is getting awfully close to the fire, which is still going strong. This is enough to worry even me, because with his impaired coordination I really believe he stands a good chance of falling in and becoming a delicious roast Dim dinner. Georgie and I run out towards Dim, who has finally settled by the fireplace. He is standing about two feet from the ring of rocks that make up the firepit. I can hear a vague slapping sound.

Dim: You know what that sound is?

Me: I’m afraid to ask.

Dim: That’s the sound of my dick smacking against my chest.

So Dim is, in effect, masturbating in front of a fireplace at one in the morning, in front of a group of his friends.

Me: Dim, maybe you should come in.

Dim: Not yet!

Somehow we convince him to come back in, and he spends the next hour or so throwing up. While throwing up he entertains his onlookers by singing “December ‘63 (Oh What a Night)” by The Four Seasons. Actually, the only part he sings is the only part of the song anyone knows.

Dim: Oh what a night!

After the concert, the all-male nude revue continues. Apparently, puking for an hour into a dirty toilet bowl with no clothes on isn’t quite demeaning enough for Dim, and he goes on to assume several seductive poses on my couch, while still in the buff.

Me: Well, I guess I’m throwing that couch away.

Dim proceeds to be naked for the next hour or so, almost forcing his way into Pete’s bed, stopping only when Pete threatens, in all seriousness, to stop being Dim’s friend if he does so.

Of course, the next day Dim gets ripped apart by us for his scandalous behavior. He has the worst hangover of his life and barely remembers anything. He barely remembers being naked, and he was naked for about three hours straight. We basically tell him the story I just told, and he is embarrassed. The drunken phone calls he made have forever wrecked whatever preceding reputation he had with the ladies, and folks, there is still concrete evidence that this night existed, for anyone who might doubt it. I almost doubted it myself, for my exact words at one point were

“I do not believe the events that I have witnessed tonight”.

If this is well-received, watch next week for part 2 of The Cottage Chronicles. This will include such events as drunk kayaking, pirate ships, burnt hot dogs in sleeping bags and drunk people playing with loaded guns. Don’t miss it.

December '63 (Oh What A Night)
( The Four Seasons )

Oh, what a night, late December back in '63
What a very special time for me
As I remember what a night!

Oh, what a night!
You know I didn't even know her name
But I was never gonna be the same
What a lady, what a night!

Oh, I got a funny feeling when she walked in the room
And I, as I recall it ended much too soon

Oh, what a night!
Hypnotizing, mesmerizing me
She was everything I dreamed she'd be
Sweet surrender, what a night!

I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder
Spinnin' my head around and taking my body under

Oh, what a night!

Why'd it take so long to see the light?
Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right
What a lady, what a night!

Oh, I got a funny feeling when she walked in the room
And I, as I recall it ended much too soon

Oh, what a night!
Hypnotizing, mesmerizing me
She was everything I dreamed she'd be
Sweet surrender, what a night!

I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder
Spinnin' my head around and taking my body under
Oh, what a night!
(Oh, what a night!)
Oh, what a night!
(Oh, what a night!)
Oh, what a night!
(Oh, what a night!)

"The Future Today" with Mark Schultz

2006-01-15T16:26:00.000-08:00

Greetings fellow blog-readers, well-wishers and acquaintances. Today I will take you on a fantastic voyage into the future; not only the future, but the future today. So sit back with a cold beverage and alternate between reading this, going on Facebook, checking your fantasy football league and watching hardcore pornography.

We are now in the year 2006, the highest-numbered year so far, and a lot of you are probably thinking about the one “Back to the Future” where they actually went to the future, to the year 2015. And you’re thinking, “Shit that’s only nine years away. But I don’t see any hoverboards, flying cars, and I sure don’t see virtual-reality Ronald Reagan’s and Michael Jackson’s taking your order at an 80’s nostalgia diner. Also, all food does not yet come in pre-compacted cubes, and no one is fired from their job by Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist Flea with a fax saying ‘You’re Fired!’ in giant letters.”

I digress, but the point is that the present is fast becoming the future; 2006, or anything after 2000, just sounds futuristic. But where is our future? Where are the robots? Where are the cures for every disease? Where are the fucking moon colonies and voyages to Jupiter, things that, according to “2001: A Space Odyssey”, we should have done five years ago? Well, the fact is that now is becoming the future, but, like the growth of your toenails, it is happening too gradually to notice. There are some little items and inventions that seem to be representative of a futuristic, technologically-advanced society. They mostly fall under three categories.

1. Shit we don’t need
2. Shit to make Americans even fatter
3. Shit that would look futuristic to past civilizations but is really just stupid

That pretty much covers it. In the “shit we don’t need” section, the best bet for an example would be to open a catalog from The Sharper Image or that Skymall catalog you get on airplanes and flip to a random page. Not only are most things in there not needed, they are utterly useless and only lazy idiots would buy them. Not surprisingly, many of these objects sell very well.

Exhibit A: Anakin Skywalker lightsaber.

Now nerds everywhere who have 120 dollars but can’t distinguish fantasy from reality enough to know they will not be able to cut off that bully’s hand with this thing can own an “authentic” Anakin Skywalker lightsaber. This invention does not have much application for the future besides starting an infinite number of pathetic lightsaber fights pitting fanboy against fanboy, while they each make lightsaber sound effects with their mouth while fighting.

Americans are getting fatter, and they will continue to get fatter, because why the fuck even move your finger to change the channel when you can get this little baby

(Exhibit B)

for the low price of only 29.99 to make sure your hand muscles become as shriveled and atrophied as a piece of old fruit.

Here’s another piece from the Sharper Image, this one under the “shit that looks futuristic” category. That would be a scary-looking robot thing called “Robosapien”.

Robo Sapien c/o Jay Leno

I’m assuming this thing is only a couple feet tall, because if it’s lifesize it looks like we’re on the first step of a Matrix-esque man vs. machine battle once these things get out of control.

Of course one of the staples of any futuristic society is the robot; the problem is this one doesn’t do anything. But a robot like this that brings you the paper, massages your feet and sucks your dick can’t be too far off.

Now, we turn from our Sharper Image glimpses-of-future to the futuristic inventions that we may be far from enjoying. But there’s a good reason many of these inventions will maybe never be fully operational.

Like a teleport. No. I don’t think teleportation is physically possible, but do you know how fucking lazy people are already? When college students—in the prime of their years and boundless with energy—take the fucking bus to their class five minutes away we don’t need to make things any more convenient. If teleports were invented we would just have a bunch of 300 pound whales floating from place to place in disassembled molecules that would still be heavy because your wide ass hasn’t moved more than ten feet in the last month. Though inventions and technology are drawing America closer and closer to being a bunch of fatasses surrounded with a lot of cool electronics, the teleport is a catalyst for immobility and lethargy we just don’t need.

Flying cars. This is a cool-sounding idea, until you think it over. First, you think, hey, less traffic, it would be fun to fly, etc. Then you think it over some more, and you realize as much as that whiplash hurt when your Civic rear-ended that minivan last winter, it would hurt more if, after hitting the other car, you flew thru the windshield and then fell 100 feet to your death. And then the totaled car, not able to fly anymore because of its damaged batteries, would fall from the sky, killing pedestrians. Drunk drivers would plow through billboards and office buildings and try to race jet planes. Old people and Asian women would drive too low instead of too slow, puttering four feet above the ground, knocking off street signs and decapitating pedestrians.

Disease cures. Nah. The New York subway is crowded enough without adding the 50,000 people a year that die from cancer. AIDS is good because we have enough sex perverts anyway without bringing back the ones who weren’t smart enough to wrap it up when visiting that hooker in Atlantic City. Most of the other diseases are pretty bad, but just call it “God’s Roulette” and be happy, because without diseases, the whole world would be miserable instead of just the percentage that suffer from them. And, as Royal Raymond Rife knows, sickness and diseases are big moneymakers; pharmacies and hospitals are billion dollar industries. So, you wanna kill the economy by saving some people with Tuberchlorosis? What are you, a commie? Get outta here, commie!

Space exploration. Like colonies on the moon and stuff. Fly to each planet collecting artifacts like Janet on “The Magic School Bus”. Sounds fun, but, sadly we are in a pretty lame solar system, maybe the worst ever. There really isn’t a chance in hell any of the other eight planets are populated. They are mostly either filled with more gas than the Fourth Annual Texas Chili Cookout or they are ten thousand degrees below zero. Anyway, there is probably intelligence life out there in another galaxy, but to ever get there requires technology so advanced that if you thought about it, blood would shoot your ears. Sure, we can have colonies on the moon, but why? The moon sucks. We have a hard enough time with cultural biases against people who live in other countries without facing the aspect of lunar discrimination, or lunism. If we discriminate against Mexicans because their country is poorer and smells worse than ours, how do you think we’d treat people who live on a planet that orbits us? How much of a power trip would we get saying to lunar inhabitants: “If it wasn’t for us, you would just spin off into infinite space”? And, yes we can probably go to Mars, just Mars, but there’s nothing to see, there’s been a Mars Rover thing there for like fifty years and it hasn’t found shit. So, while infinitely powerful beings in other universes look down at us with their omniscient vision and laugh at our inability to reach a planet more than one away from us, we’ll probably just be sitting around twiddling our thumbs and playing with our new authentic Star Wars lightsaber.

In conclusion, friends, look triumphantly forward to the future, and go with confidence to whatever overpopulated, machine-controlled, fatty-infested future existence we may have created for ourselves. And remember, the future is here today, the past was yesterday, and today doesn’t exist.

The Incredible Hulk

2006-01-09T19:42:00.000-08:00

Ugh. This blog is like the Terri Schiavo of blogs. It might look like it’s alive, but it really isn’t, and most people who care about it just want it to die, so they can remember the good old days of Eiffel towers and MSU weekends. The only people who want it to keep living are those who benefit off of it, like me cuz I’m sitting in my dorm room with no homework and nothing to do. So I, the Michael Schiavo of blogging America, will resurrect this brain-dead and paralyzed institution with a little story about my summer. It’s a little long and somewhat entertaining, although it might just be funny to me. Everyone knows the experience of being really wasted, or being well under the influence of any drug, is an almost possible thing to describe in writing, though Hunter S. Thompson did a pretty good job. But i tried to make it as close to real-life as i could. So, without further delay, if you’ve seen the movie, you must read the story about the drink, the one, the only, The Incredible Hulk.

Most times during my summer classes at the University of Michigan I would start drinking at about ten PM and stop when my internal body monitor told me I was going to puke in ten minutes if I drank that last beer. So far my body and I had worked out a decent agreement; I treat it like shit by drinking and polluting my liver, and then it fucks me back the next day by giving me a bad-ass hangover proportional to the amount I fuck up my liver. Then we are cool, until a few hours later when I start drinking again. Such is the cycle of life.

However, one night my body and I got into somewhat of an argument over the appropriate level of alcohol I should consume. I thought I could take what I took, but I couldn’t. I guess I figured out my body knows a lot more than I thought.

In the summer I roomed with Selwan Barbat; the best way to describe him is to say he is extreme in everything he does. When he parties, he pounds shots like a marathon runner chugging water post-race. When he studies for tests, he ignores all distractions and eats through books and math problems for hours on end. Selwan is the master of the double-life. Most people in college can manage some combination of drinking and studying, but Selwan tackles them both with amazing balance and precision. Many nights Selwan will literally be holding a shotglass in one hand and a calculator in the other; as soon as he finishes his problems at about 9:30 he will bring out his supply of liquor and people will come flocking to his room like he just sounded a dinner bell at fat camp.

Despite the notoriety that goes along with summer school, taking summer classes is surprisingly laidback and fun. It might be a coincidence that most of the kids taking summer classes are some of the most hardcore alcoholics I have ever seen, but I think most of the kids who decided to take summer classes figured them not as an opportunity to engage in three more months of learning but to engage in three months more of partying at college.

Selwan is the most hardcore alcoholic of them all; most weekends I would leave and return back to Ann Arbor to find a drunken story or two as well as anywhere from one to five new fifths of various alcohol. Selwan being a vodka man, our tiny freezer was usually stuffed with juxtaposed bottles of Skyy, Grey Goose and Absolut. However, one week I came back to find an evil-looking half-full bottle of Hennessy, a liquor notorious for its use among African-Americans and apparently, Chaldeans. Selwan had already told me all of his Arabic uncles and cousins have gotten fat because of sitting around all day drinking Hennessy and smoking hookahs. He had already told me Hennessy was a drink naturally made to taste like sweet goodness to anyone of Arabic descent. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that brown bottle sitting in the freezer.

Apparently, over the weekend Selwan had been in a conversation with our friend Zach from across the hall. Zach was a professional working bartender, another testament to the rampant alcoholism among the summer students at Markley. They were talking about various mixed drinks when one particularly unique drink came up, one of the only drinks named after a comic book character, The Incredible Hulk. The Incredible Hulk derived its namesake from the green color that Hennessy and Hpnotiq, the two liquors used to make it, took on when they were mixed together. The creamy brown of the Hennessy combined with the soft teal of the fruity Hpnotiq to form a murky green not unlike the scaly exterior or Bruce Banner’s angry alter-ego. This was probably the first practical application of that color-mixing shit we learned in third grade that I know of.

Anyway, Zach and Selwan became deadset on mixing and then, logically, consuming these drinks; by the time I arrived they had already built the foundation by buying the Hennessy. We were just one trip to the liquor store with our friend who had a fake ID from collecting the rest of the ingredients.

Indeed, that very night there was an air of excitement among our group of summer friends; we were more drinking acquaintances than actual friends, held together by the bond of loving to get fucked-up, go to a party, or, failing that, wander around aimlessly and get food. Besides Selwan, Zach and I, most of our summer friends were plain-old alcoholics who shot twelve dollars a fifth lighter fluid and had no appreciation for fine liquors. These kids were always interested whenever Selwan brought classy liquor into the dorm, and an exotic mixed-drink was even more interesting. So, everybody finished their homework by nine and at nine fifteen we gathered in Selwan’s room, Zach attaching bartender pouring spouts to the bottles for a more exact flow, and Selwan passing out plastic cups.

As the first drink was poured, the several kids in the room went silent and stared in awe at the phantasmal coloration change that was occurring before our very eyes. The end result of this experiment—an experiment likely used in the Michigan State class Drinking Chemistry 101--was a modest five-ounce glass of dark green, sludgy-looking liquid which looked like it was scooped right out of a swamp.

I took a drink, and it tasted not bad, not great. It tasted, basically, like it was fucking powerful and full of alcohol, and could cause dire, possibly fatal consequences if not consumed properly. I think I sipped it and said something along the lines of “This could really fuck you up if you drink enough.” File this in your records as one of the most obvious examples of foreshadowing of all time.

I drank one in about five minutes and, my tolerance then not being at the Herculean level it is now, started feeling buzzed already. Selwan suggested another, and of course I was along for the ride.

I drank a third Hulk and was very nicely drunk. I have pinpointed the scene that occurred shortly after this as when the night began to go horribly wrong. Emilio, another kid who lived in our hall, came back from studying or something wanting to drink. Seeing that it was already 10:30, he wanted to get started fast with a shot of Hennessey and a Hulk. He invited me to join him. I can’t really explain why I agreed to a shot and a 4th Hulk, all I know is that I did.

A few minutes after my fourth Hulk, I had obviously lost anything that could be mistaken for logic or motor coordination. I was stumbling down 3400 Markley, barging into rooms of people I didn’t know, starting an argument with a bunch of kids playing poker and trying to use my room card to buy a Coke out of a vending machine.

Somehow I made it down to the first floor, which means I actually went down stairs without falling down them. I don’t know how I did this, but it’s done. I met Emilio again in his friend’s room, he reported to me he was going to a party, but it was a private affair and he couldn’t bring any friends. I was disappointed at the time, but the fact that there wasn’t another venue for me to go to drink probably saved my life.

I’ve set the scene pretty nicely here. Small, unbearably hot dorm in July. Lots of heavy drinkers. Selwan. Henessy and Hpnotiq. It’s like you’re back at Markley with me, isn’t it? However, I have omitted one little detail, which is that this was Tuesday night. Tuesday night. Now, no one who reads this blog attended Summer classes with me, but your idea of summer social life on Tuesday night at U of M is probably pretty accurate. Basically, not jack-shit except lame orientation parties where fifty kids in shorts and t-shirts stand on the porch of frat houses drinking warm beer and waiting triple-digit minutes for a game of beer pong. Oh, and these are the only parties at U of M where you have to pay for the privilege of drinking Busch or Natty Light out of Solo cups.

This Tuesday, however, the Markley summer students didn’t even have the honor of being grace by shitty porch parties. There was nothing, except the party Emilio told me about, which was probably him and four other guys in a circle jerk or something. Selwan, who has moderate superpowers, of course already knew at least a week in advance there would be no parties that night. So after his requisite two Hulks he settled down to watch the movie Snatch in our room with a few other people. Having nothing to do, I initially decided to chill out for the night, figuring there were worse things than watching a weird movie drunk and probably ordering Jimmy John’s later.

But when I sat down to watch the movie it immediately felt like I was on one of those bad rides at Cedar Point, you know the ones where it just spins the shit out of you and you can feel your brains and organs scrambling around in your body like beads in a maraca. The room was rotating very slowly, faces were turning into blurred and stretched ghost-like images and the floor was rotating up and down like a small boat in a big storm. I realized I could not stand to sit (no pun intended) anymore, so I announced to no one in particular I was going to find a party.

I can’t imagine a party that would even have let me in looking like I was, but I didn’t find anything except Palmer Field, the big field next to the CCRB (that’s where we had the Maize Craze UM students) which all of a sudden looked like an inviting place to lay down. I took a nice seat next to a tree, contemplating whatever someone of my infinite drunkenness would comprehend at this moment. I lay in the grass looking at the stars for a little while, maybe half an hour, then I realized I needed to take a crap. My logical train of thought being so far off the tracks it had crashed and burned with multiple fatalities hours ago, I figured why not take this crap in the field. The fact that there were many, many reasons why not didn’t really cross my mind. So there I was with my pants down, looking at the stars, crapping in the middle of an open area, where any children or disabled people could just walk into it and unknowingly expose themselves to numerous viruses and bacteria. I was so out of it at that point there could have been people walking by and I wouldn’t have known. In fact, there probably were people walking by, wondering what a disheveled-looking kid was doing with his pants down in the middle of a field.

After this odd incident I trekked down State Street, admiring the man-made landmarks of Ann Arbor--the State Theatre, various Jimmy John’s, that weird spinning cube thing by the Union—in a new drunken light, marveling at the bright colors and vivid images all around me. Somehow I ended up back in my dorm room--don’t ask me how—and I came down with a case of drunk munchies just as Selwan was finishing the movie and getting ready to call it a night. I cured these munchies by eating an entire bag of Selwan’s Doritos. I fell asleep fully-clothed with the bag in my hand and Doritos crumbs all over me.

This would appear to be where the story ends, but no, it keeps going. I woke up the next day at nine, which is always a bad sign, because when i wake up this early it usually means I am so hungover my body can’t even sleep anymore. Being hungover is of course worse when it’s three hundred and forty degrees and your room is the dimensions of a jail cell. The best way to describe it is to say I felt like I was lying in a frying pan while midgets ran around me screaming in high-pitched voices beating my head and stomach incessantly. I had committed the cardinal sin of drinking, which was to fall asleep incredibly drunk, without having a glass of water or anything. And oh lord would I pay for it.

I’m not gonna say it was the worst hangover ever, because I actually believe my physical state the day after The Incredible Hulk’s was beyond anything that could be considered a hangover. Actually, it felt like the Incredible Hulk had come alive inside me and was trying to get out. To clarify, I was too hungover to attend a three o’clock class. I had a paper due that day; I had to e-mail it to my instructor, pretending I was sick. I ate one meal that day, a lunch at 1 PM, and threw it up ten minutes before my three o ‘clock class. I lay on my bed with my pillow over my head making groaning and gurgling sounds until about six, when I tried to eat dinner. The dinner seemed about as appetizing as a plate of my shit from Palmer Field the night before. At ten o’clock I still had a headache, and Selwan was starting to make Hulk’s again. This night went on record as the only time I’ve ever heard Selwan tell anyone they weren’t drinking; this is exactly what he told me, and of course I enthusiastically agreed. The Hulk’s have a very distinct, putrid smell, and this smell was to me what Ludwig Van’s Ninth was to Alex De Large ( if you don’t get this reference, see A Clockwork Orange; fucking amazing movie).

You may have been reading this, and it’s kinda long, you realize, and what exactly am I getting out of this? Now that we are college students learning to think critically and analyze texts, you might want to search for the underlying theme or moral in this post. Well, the moral is that I’m an idiot, because a few months later, sometime during fall semester, I made Hulks again, with different people, and got almost as drunk, although that time I managed to use an actually toilet instead of a field.

I don’t know how to end this, so I’ll just post a picture of the drink, and a picture of basically how I looked the day after.

holy shit

2006-01-05T07:01:00.000-08:00

Eat your heart out, Roberto.

This is not human

-Cummins

Happy New Year!!

2006-01-02T03:50:00.000-08:00

I hope all of your dreams come true.

ps- My new years resolution is to stop drawing on Schultz when he passes out at a party....which is starting to seem like every chance he gets...

Political Commentary For The College Freshman

2005-12-29T11:10:00.000-08:00

What could be better to revive an ailing blog than a double-post! Congrats kids, it's time for Fishman's political commentary. Note: If you are very serious about politics and you take yourself too seriously, don't read this post. Additionally, if you are a Democrat and get angry during the first part of the post, keep reading. I'm fair to all parties.

The entire college world is home for Christmas. People have changed. We're more mature, we look older, some of us have beards, and we think we know about the world now that we've gone out and taken one semester of classes. Newsflash, kiddies. You still don't know shit, and even though a professor told you that communism is the way of the future, he doesn't know shit either, and communism sucks dick.

This part is for the Democrats:
Wow. You're a Democrat. You're just like everyone else on the college campus. Congratulations, conformist. Despite the fact that you think like everyone else, you feel like you're a real difference maker, like you have all the answers, and goddammit, why won't the world just listen to you? Here's why: just because you feel superior to Republicans doesn't mean you are. You're stupid and greedy too. You think you are all brilliant, yet you nominate for president just about the only person in America who doesn't have enough sense to beat one of the worst presidents of all time. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm talking about that political disaster John Kerry. I criticize you not because I like Bush; on the contrary, I criticize you because he COULD HAVE BEEN BEATEN BY A MONKEY. You suck.

Your policy is fantastic as well. Let's think about this argument over whether or not to teach intelligent design in schools in Kansas or Oklahoma or whatever fuck-hick state wants to teach it along with evolution as a scientific explanation for creation. Yes, Democrats, you are correct, intelligent design is really stupid. There is no science behind it, and the evidence supporting evolution is overwhelming. But who cares if a bunch of hicks want to teach it in school? It's not like they're pushing this shit in New York, or Michigan, or California. So the people who object to it have nothing to do with the argument. Let the stupid buck-toothed hicks teach stupid buck-tooth hick subjects. It's only going to keep them poor and ignorant and living in stupid buck-toothed hick states, so they will be less likely to move into your wonderful, enlightened states and bother you.

What about those stupid bumper stickers that say "George W. Bush is not my president"? I didn't look at that too long, because I didn't want my head to explode (thanks, Lewis Black). Yes he is you stupid fucks. It doesn't matter how much you don't like him. You don't have to support him, and we know you didn't vote for him (which by the way absolves you of ALL sins and makes you a fucking awesome person), but HE IS YOUR FUCKING PRESIDENT. Get used to it. It says so in the Constitution, and guess what, even Democrats have to abide by the rules of the Constitution. Even you are not above that.

I love it when you Democrats talk about economics like you know shit about it. Well, from everything I've heard, you don't know shit. Oh, we should be more socialist, we should provide more services for everyone, you exlaim. Some of you get so liberal you go right off the end of the spectrum into communism. We should all care about each other, you exclaim, and forget about materialism! Well guess what? You're stupid. Switching over to communism doesn't make people generous and non-materialistic all of a sudden. It isn't magical and doesn't work, and neither does socialism. If you want to know what communism and socialism are like, go outside today. Go outside and scoop up a big piece of shit that your neighbor's dog dropped on your lawn, and shove it in your mouth. That is what communism and socialism taste like. You and your family will be so poor you will have to eat shit. There will be no expensive college, no more hard liquor paid for using your fake id and your daddy's money, no more spring break, no more Christmas (or Hannukah) presents. You will sit at home and eat shit. So the next time you hear your dumbass ivory tower professor spewing ignorant shit about the virtues of communism and socialism, stand up, tell him to go fuck himself, and walk out of the lecture. Everyone will think you're really cool (if they don't already just because you're a cool Democrat like everyone else).

If any of you Democrats think I've been unfair, keep reading. You will enjoy the next part.

This part is for the Republicans:
If you are a Democrat, you suck. If you are a Republican, go kill yourself. Nobody fucking likes you and it's obvious why. You brag about how rich you are and how poor everyone else is, and you burn crosses on minorities' front lawns. Not cool Republicans, not cool. And what's more, nobody gives a fuck about your religion. Just because you dig Jesus doesn't mean anyone else has to. So stop telling everybody they need to be Christian or they're going to burn forever. You're probably wrong anyways, and when God finds out you've been spreading evil lies about Him YOU'RE going to be the ones who burn. God loves irony, and so do I.

Republican policy is almost as shitty as Democratic policy. Let's see. Abortion. Well I think I already partially covered this one in my rant about your silly religion. Just because you think abortion is wrong doesn't make it wrong. It just means you personally shouldn't get an abortion. So fucking stop telling other people who get them they're going to hell, they don't care, they are probably already dead inside anyways. And they are whores, for the most part. So if you really think they are going to burn in hell, let them. When you're partying in heaven with God and Jesus and Moses, you can all laugh about the blasphemers in hell. Everyone loves a good laugh. So stop trying to turn your religion into law, nobody cares what you hear every Sunday at church. Assholes.

You also try to keep horrible drugs illegal, like marijuana and mushrooms and all sorts of other shit, because when you were kids you saw this chilling documentary about marijuana. It was called Reefer Madness, and it was totally nonfiction, and it gave you nightmares. It told you about how marijuana makes people go insane and get violent and how it completely ruins people's lives. And you bought it you dumbasses! The whole movie was bullshit. Nobody believes that shit. You have to be incredibly gullible to buy into it, and you should all be very embarassed. The fact is, we should let people do drugs. Let them fuck themselves up if they really want to. You Republicans are so concerned about money and shit, so how come you can't realize that the war on drugs is one of the most costly things the government has ever done. Putting people in jail for harmless crimes is costly. Maybe if you spent less time throwing those people in jail and spent your money on something else, you could have that third yacht you've been craving for months. Not only that, keeping drugs illegal increases crime. We know this because of history. Remember the Prohibition in the 20's? It created organized crime. You Republicans claim that minorities are the problem with our country, and that they are all criminals. The irony of this is that you are the ones who create all this crime by waging this ridiculous war and giving gangs a way to control the drug market. You are douchebags.

And the war in Iraq. Do I even have to comment on this, or is it self-evident how fucking stupid this idea was? I'm tired of writing, so I will just trust that all of you know why this was really fucked up.

That about wraps things up. I'm tired of all of you little bitches spewing garbage about this or that political philosophy without thinking about it. Just because your mom or dad said it, or your priest said it, or your brilliant professor said it, doesn't make your argument true or correct or even interesting. You idiots are the cause of tragedies like the Holocaust. It's time for all of us to stop following and start thinking for ourselves.

-Fishman

The Alamo Bowl

2005-12-29T10:43:00.000-08:00

Well this blog has been in a downward spiral for a few weeks now, largely in part due to the fact that none of the writers have been up at college for awhile (it turns out that Ann Arbor is a little more exciting than Farmington Hills, how fucking crazy is that?). I am here to save it with a real live post, with writing and everything. No link, no picture, no AIM conversation. Just pure, unadulterated commentary.

The Alamo Bowl took place yesterday. As many of you know, three out of the four authors of this blog attend the University of Michigan, so I'm sure some of you know what's coming. Michigan stumbled this year. Let's all admit it, they fucking sucked. They had a shitty offense, combined with a defense that knew almost exactly when it had to quit to just barely give up that double-digit lead in the fourth quarter. It was almost as if Lloyd had some sort of system worked out to blow each and every game.

It was the first season in almost 20 years that Michigan has lost five games. 20 years goes by without a five-loss season, I start going there, and the team is in the toilet. What the fuck, right? Most of us around Ann Arbor believe Lloyd Carr to be a senile old man. Most believe that when he is on the football field, he is confused and disoriented. It is possible that he doesn't even know he's coaching a football game.

This Alamo Bowl game was supposed to be a walk. Nebraska hasn't been good in years, and they came into the game unranked and beaten by teams much worse than Michigan. Michigan was supposed to walk all over them, just like they were supposed to walk over Minnesota and Wisconsin. But they always find a way to fuck things up.

Manningham was dropping balls, Carr kept having to call timeouts to get replays, Henne would fumble or throw an interception, and the defense gave up those crucial big plays at the very end of the game, just enought to evaporate an 11-point lead in under 10 minutes. And during this time, Kaufman would call me up, just as distraught as anyone else, asking me to gouge his eyes out with a spoon, or shove a pencil up his ass, to distract him from the pain of watching the game. I told him it wouldn't help; as soon as he stopped bleeding from the anus, Kaufman would just look back up at the score and the pain would rush back.

So we lost five games. I'm sure a lot of people were glad to watch the giants fall, especially our readers who go to that little school in East Lansing. Now all we're going to hear for the next few months is how we don't have a football or a basketball team. But I say that is fine. It took 20 years since the last five-loss season for there to be another one, and it's pretty likely with the kind of recruiting old senile Lloyd does that it will be another 20 before there is another five-loss season. So to all you naysayers, buckeye fans, irish fans, spartan fans, and any other detractors of the Michigan Football Program (the greatest of all time, by the way), I say go fuck yourselves. We will be back to kick your sorry asses next year. So get used to hearing our fight song and having Maize and Blue nightmares; Michigan may be down, but we're not out.

-Fishman

right before i went broke

2005-12-29T01:33:00.000-08:00

PokerStars Game #3467886111: Hold'em Limit ($5/$10) - 2005/12/29 - 03:54:00 (ET)
Table 'Thyra' Seat #5 is the button
Seat 1: k345 ($151 in chips)
Seat 2: tweedx ($387.50 in chips)
Seat 3: Drug Addict ($50 in chips)
Seat 4: Arnie 27 ($105 in chips)
Seat 5: Sandhop ($119 in chips)
Seat 6: dkmoneyman ($175 in chips)
dkmoneyman: posts small blind $2
k345: posts big blind $5
*** HOLE CARDS ***
Dealt to Sandhop [5h 5s]
tweedx: folds
Drug Addict: raises $5 to $10
Arnie 27: folds
Sandhop: calls $10
dkmoneyman: raises $5 to $15
k345: folds
Drug Addict: calls $5
Sandhop: calls $5
*** FLOP *** [8d 9s 5d]
dkmoneyman: checks
Drug Addict: checks
Sandhop: bets $5
dkmoneyman: raises $5 to $10
Drug Addict: folds
Sandhop: raises $5 to $15
dkmoneyman: raises $5 to $20
Betting is capped
Sandhop: calls $5
*** TURN *** [8d 9s 5d] [As]
dkmoneyman: bets $10
Sandhop: calls $10
*** RIVER *** [8d 9s 5d As] [9h]
dkmoneyman: bets $10
Sandhop: raises $10 to $20
dkmoneyman: calls $10
*** SHOW DOWN ***
Sandhop: shows [5h 5s] (a full house, Fives full of Nines)
dkmoneyman: mucks hand
Sandhop collected $147 from pot
dkmoneyman said, "nh"
*** SUMMARY ***
Total pot $150 | Rake $3
Board [8d 9s 5d As 9h]
Seat 1: k345 (big blind) folded before Flop
Seat 2: tweedx folded before Flop (didn't bet)
Seat 3: Drug Addict folded on the Flop
Seat 4: Arnie 27 folded before Flop (didn't bet)
Seat 5: Sandhop (button) showed [5h 5s] and won ($147) with a full house, Fives full of Nines
Seat 6: dkmoneyman (small blind) mucked [Qc Qh]

2005-12-28T01:06:00.000-08:00

LOOK AT ME I LOOK JUST LIKE THE FROG PRINCE LOOK AT MY NEW PIC I LOOK LIKE A SMILEY FROG AHAHA HAHAHAH AHA HA HAHA HAH HA HA

-the "colonel"

On A Lighter Note...

2005-12-25T14:22:00.000-08:00

I lost $150 dollars at the casino and also contracted emphysema.

-Mike

2005-12-25T14:01:00.000-08:00

An important scientific discovery was made by me today. Blogrose is a blogbot:

-Cummins

Association for the Advancement of Retired Persons

2005-12-24T14:50:00.000-08:00

I received an AARP card in the mail today. Too bad I can't cash in on it for 31 years.

-Cummins

yep

2005-12-19T11:16:00.000-08:00

Contents

Signs You Are Obsessed With Titanic Updated Jan 3, 1999
Twelve Step Program For Overcoming Titanic Addiction
Confessions of a Titaniholic

Signs You Are Obsessed With Titanic

When you go on a cruise, you complain that lifeboats take away the excitement from your journey.
You demand a seat in first class on the Staten Island Ferry.
While cruising through the Carribean Sea, you are watching out for icebergs.
You: "There are 300 people waiting to buy tickets, and only 150 seats!! Do you know what this means? Half of these people are going to die!" Your friend: "Not the half that's been standing on line for three hours."
You print out all 185 pages of the Titanic script from the internet. (true story)
You buy $200,000,000 worth of movie tickets (in New York City, that will get you about three tickets + popcorn)
You flush all your diamonds down the toilet.
Your favorite erotic toys are handcuffs and an axe.
When your parents have important guests over, you fart at the dinner table because you "saw it on Nickelodeon and always wanted to do it."
You dedicate Puffy's "I'll Be Missing You" to Jack Dawson on the radio.
You spend months trying to find out how many salt shakers were on board the Titanic. (true story)
You only shower in 28 degree water.
You made up a website called "TwinkTanic."
You actually like a website named "TwinkTanic."
You organize your magazine collection into "Titanic" and "non-Titanic."
You freak out every time you see the word "Rose" in the cosmetics department.
You collect Titanic ticket stubs.
You cry at the movies- during the commercials.
Why pay $5 when you can recite the entire movie from memory?
You look up whenever someone says "Satanic."
When your boss gives you a huge raise, you automatically calculate how many tickets that money will buy you.
You buy a cake to celebrate the 2 month anniversary of Titanic's release.
-by Lyuba
You practice "hocking it up" whenever possible.
You act out scenes in your head and many people think you are crazy when you burst out laughing thinking about the glob of spit on Leo's chin.
You stand on your bed and yell "I'm the king of the world!" to your stuffed dolphins.
You actually read the entire script and are extremely relived that certain parts were changed to the perfection they appear to be in the movie rather than the corny way they are in the script.
Your number one excuse for doing anything wrong is "I saw that in a Nickelodeon once and always wanted to do it".
When you see an airplane, you begin to sing, "Come Josephine in my flying machine going up she goes, up she goes".
You search endlessly for James Cameron's address so you can send him a plea to release all 16 hours of the film as a miniseries or even just on tape.
You wake everyone up in the morning by yelling "Put your lifebelts on!"
-by Jessica
You know when you're obsessed with Titanic when you rewrite the origional screenplay to match the movie from memory (true story!)
You sign your letters "Titanically Yours."
You comission Harry Winston to recreate your very own Heart of the ocean.
You second mortgage your house so you and your daughter can spend $60,000 to dive the actual wreck of the Titanic.
You make plans to see the movie again on April 14th at midnite so the ship sinking in the movie happens @2:20 a.m. to syncronize with the actual sinking.
You make black armbands to wear every April 14th and 15th. -Kathi
When you ask your boyfriend to draw you naked tellin' him you don't wanna look like a china doll...
When you enter the kitchen, your mom is preparing dinner, you tell her "Mother you're stupid? Don't u understand? The water is freezing and there aren't enough boats. Half the people on this ship are going to die!" -true stories from Aurelia
You keep asking your bus driver if there are enough lifeboats.
You just released a rap album under the name "Ice Berg."
Your typical diary entry: "Another day without drownin'."
Your Jurassic Park pajamas now seem horribly outdated.
You just had water-tight compartments installed in your pants.
On passport, you list occupation as "Titanic-Lovin' Fool."
There's uring on your dress.
After 1000th viewing, you finally realize the ship's gonna sink every damn time.
According to your wife, lately you've had a little trouble "keeping your dinghy inflated."
You're always damp. -David Letterman
You write angry letters to Kate for not letting Leo on to the piece of wood.
You stop putting ice in your drink's,cause they bring back bad memories - or you think that Kate and Leo would hate you for evan thinking about it.
You get two new fish and name them Rose and Jack, and put a sunken ship on the bottom of the tank.
by Meagan C.
You tip over a basket, put Barbie and Ken dolls on it ,and make Barbie say, "Jack, it's sinking Jack!" and then make Ken turn his head around and say, "Duh." -from Elena
You learn how to play the saxaphone just to be able to play "My Heart Will Go On"
You find yourself listening to your mom's radio station to hear if they'll play the sax version
You buy the Kenny G. cd just to hear him playing it.
You buy the piano book for Titanic music.
You see the musical.
You've seen all the Titanic movies made.
You will not watch any movie but Titanic.
When you realize no other theater is playing it you sit down and cry.
You get grounded for Titanic obsession and you yell at your parents "This is absurd."
In band you recieved the Titanic music to play at the last concert and the 8th grade graduation. Yourfriend recieved the 1st clarinet part which includes the theme for My Heart Will Go On and Southampton while you get the second which isn't good because you don't have melody. So you yell absurd words at your friend, say you are better than her and that you should have the first. You also kick your clarinet and yell absurd words. This jeopardizes your chance of getting the 1st copied from her. So you bug the band director for days until he has no choice but to hand it to you.
You kiss your Leonardo DiCaprio posters every day.
You and the ticket guy for Titanic are on a first name basis.
You ask everyone you talk to if they have seen Titanic. If they didn't you think they are nuts.
After every rude comment or dumb thing you yell at the top of your lungs, "This is absurd" and absurd has become your favorite word.
You try to find fabric to make the dresses Rose wore.
You get flashbacks every time you are on a water ride at Great America. Just before you go down you tell everybody to watch out for the iceberg right ahead.
You write a note to Mattel asking them to make dolls from the characters in Titanic.
You buy the dolls if they make them.
If not, you act out scenes from Titanic with your Barbie dolls named Leonardo and Kate and pretend Leo and Kate are dating. -Jennifer
You stand outside in the pouring rain looking at nothing in particular. Only you think you are seeing the statue of liberty.
When you go swimming, you bring along your HOTO. You stand on the deck, and throw it into the pool, watching it float to the bottom. -Kristy
You call your boss and tell him that you won't be able to work your part-time job because you are ill. When he excuses you, you go to the theatre and watch Titanic for the 16th time. -ElodieW
You start avoiding the "ICE" machine at the local Quik-E-Mart !
You start mailing water balloons in sealed boxes marked "First Class"
You find yourself wandering around in the worst part of your city, just because you were "following the rats."
You begin entering (and winning) your county fair's tobacco spitting contests! -Indyex
You name your home page TitanicObsessed (See Titanic Obsessed.)
You travel 2000 miles through 7 states in 3 days just to spend a total of 3 hours looking at Titanic props from the movie
When your friends (who haven't even seen the movie - the tragedy of it!), can quote parts of the movie just because they have heard it over and over again on your computer.
When you print the list from your page out to show everyone just how Titanic Obsessed you really are.
When you drive 1 hr from where you live just to pick up some displays that a store is giving you.
When you write letters to your local theaters begging for their displays - and actually getting them too.
When your friends tell you they are looking for Titanic's Anonymous just for you!
When you will need a Titanic Room in your house just to display all the things you have bought.
When you find something related to Titanic and you lose your breath.
When your friends see something related to Titanic and they tell you to "breathe!"
When you belong to so many mailing lists related to Titanic that people on the mailing lists comment on the fact (I am at 16 mailing lists right now - I think).
You had to buy a bigger screen TV to watch Titanic in all its glory.
You had to set your computer up with different users per desktop because your husband was sick of hearing Titanic quotes everytime he clicked on something.
When you go canoeing with your friends they all start hollering "Iceberg, Right ahead!"
When you bought 4 copies of the video (2 pan and scan, 2 widescreen- one of each to save and one of each to watch) and then one a free one for answering a trivia question correctly.
Someone mentions Titanic and an hour later you realize you have been talking nonstop since then.
You want to get your dream job - with RMS Titanic, Inc. or the Paramount Titanic Tour - even though you would never get any work done. You would be too busy looking at everything!
You have a category on Quicken called Titanic Stuff.
You have read this list at least twice.
You had way too much fun coming up with your own obsession signs to send in to this list. HEHE!! -Susan
Back To Contents

Overcoming the Obsession: A 12-Step Guide to Beating Titanic Addiction

by Lisa & Melissa
Step 1: Admit the problem.

Step 2: See another movie, any movie, that's playing in a theater where Titanic isn't. If the other movie is playing in the same theater as Titanic, though, it doesn't count if you poke your head in to see what scene Titanic is on.

Step 3: Physically remove your "Titanic" CD from your CD player. If you stop after you remove it and lay it on top of your CD player without putting it back in it's case, it doesn't count. You must take out the CD and put it back in it's case. If you don't put the case away with the rest of your CDs, it also doesn't count. You actually have to TAKE THE CD OUT OF YOUR CD PLAYER FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE YOU BOUGHT IT, PUT THE CD IN IT'S CASE, THEN PUT THE CASE (WITH CD ENCLOSED) AWAY WITH THE REST OF YOUR CDs.

Step 4: Take your MHWGO remix tape out of your car stereo. You should apply all of the above to removing the tape from your car...remove tape, put tape in case, put case (with tape enclosed) away, at least in your glove box!

Step 5: Have an entire conversation with someone who has not seen the movie (doesn't count if you ask "How can you live with yourself?" or invite them to see it with you).

Step 6: Not THINKING about TITANIC while having an entire conversation with someone who hasn't seen the film...breathe deeply several times throughout the conversation and try to really concentrate on understanding what the person is saying to you. Try not to answer with any quotes from "Titanic"...for example, if they ask "What do you want to do Saturday night?" DON'T blurt out "Are you ready to go back to TITANIC?"

Step 7: This one applies only if you own a copy of a TITANIC book, preferably "James Cameron's 'TITANIC,'" which every Titaniac either does own or plans to own. You must let someone (ANYONE) else HANDLE THIS BOOK!!!! Yes, that's right, let them pick it up and turn the pages and read it, hold it, close it, open it...you get the picture. And it doesn't count if you "inspect" it after they put it down, you have to just let it lie where they put it without checking for creases and smudges...

Step 8: Take your tape with the Titanic episode of Oprah, the Fox special, the Titanic episode of Hollywood & Vinyl, ET, all the talk shows that had Kate, Leo, and/or Billy on, and assorted newscasts about Titanic on it out of your VCR (doesn't count if you simply eject the tape and leave it in the VCR; it must be removed in the manner described in steps 3 & 4).

Step 9: You must learn to walk away from your computer without watching your TITANIC screensaver from start to finish and you must relinquish the guilt you feel once you are able to do this. Probably the best way to accomplish this is to repeat to yourself..."I can quit any time I want" every time the screensaver starts. Breathing deeply, close your eyes, stand up and turn away from your PC. Continue breathing and repeating to yourself, "I can quit any time I want" while walking away from the screen, no matter which part the screensaver is on. Practice walking further away from your PC each time the screensaver comes on, breathing and chanting and facing away from the computer until you are eventually able to actually leave the room while the screensaver is running. Once you have come this far, design a mantra to help alleviate the guilt caused by not watching the screensaver from start to finish. A good mantra might be "I'm a good person...I love my screensaver...we have a wonderful loving relationship, my screensaver and I...but I deserve time to myself" or something along those lines...

Step 10: You must learn not to check all your bookmarked Titanic pages every time you get online. Or (gasp!) even delete a few of them. In both cases, you must learn to do so without feeling extremely guilty and e-mailing the webmaster, telling them it is nothing personal.

Step 11: Learn to read the newspaper all over again and not just the box office figures on Friday!!!!!!!!! Since you are on the eleventh step of recovery now, many obstacles have been removed from your path and you should be able to slowly and tentatively re-enter the "real world" and learn what is going on it all over again!!!

Step 12: Admit it's only a movie.
Back To Contents

CONFESSIONS OF A TITANIHOLIC
(Or "Why, Week After Week, Titanic Still Floats My Boat") By Cheryl Gochnauer

My local theater ticket-taker knows me by name. Concession stand attendants grin and fill my order without me saying anything but "I'm back." The last time I saw Titanic, an acquaintance spotted me in the lobby and asked, "What is this, your 4th time?" I just smiled. Actually, it was my 14th.

Is there something wrong with me? (Don't say it.) It's not Leo. Well, it was...until I did the math and realized I really WAS old enough to be his mother. But more likely, it's the magnetic force of a resonating blend of tragedy, history, love and destiny. Who knows for sure? A 40-year-oldwoman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets. I know. It doesn't make any sense. That's why I trust it.

I used to watch late night TV to wind down after a tough day, but now it's more fun to pop into an on-line Titanic chatroom and trade thoughts with other Titaniacs. Sometimes, one of the international chatters will suggest we all meet someplace in the script, say at the clock -- or the first-class dining room -- or the Renault. Everyone picks a character, then lines start flying as we relive each scene in cyberspace. Things get crazy when people start blending "Titanic" with another famous flick, like "Star Wars": "It was a dreadful, hairy thing. I only wore the Wookie this once." ROFL! (For you non-techies, that's cybertalk for "rolling on the floor laughing!")

As a responsible parent, I haven't taken my young children to Titanic, a film that found me wide-eyed in the middle of the night the first five times I saw it. I actually had to have my kids come sleep with ME, while visions of the not-quite fictional Irish Mother and her two tots swirled in my head. I have been able to hone my child-rearing skills, though, gleaning Titanicwords of wisdom, like "Son, do you have the slightest comprehension what you're doing?" and "You find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?" Unfortunately, my nine-year-old already knows enough of the script to retort, "Oh stop it, Mother. You'll give yourself a nosebleed.

Life Lessons Learned from Titanic, The Movie- Don't leave the water running.- Look for Leo before you leap.- Shining up like a new penny is infinitely more fun than looking like a million bucks.- You can learn some cool stuff on Nickelodeon. - Iron sinks. It is a mathematical certainty.- You can smell ice, you know, when it's near. Are you ready to go back to Titanic? I know I am. Let's see...where's my seat? Oh, there it is. How extraordinary! And it looks the same as the last time I saw it.

Copyright 1998 Cheryl Gochnauer

Robot

2005-12-18T19:23:00.000-08:00

http://www.eugenemirman.com/videos/Robot.mov

worthy of a post.

-sanders

drunken update

2005-12-17T01:28:00.001-08:00

whats up world?

I know i don't update this thing as often as I should, half because im lazy, half becaus i have nothing to write, half because i cant take blogfuckereric's criticism, half because i like to remain mysterious. ok thats a lie, im not mysterious at all. anyways im hammered and i felt like writing in this blog of all blogs. to start off, id like to post a transcript of an aIM conversation i had with a friend. I know this guy through poker, hes a pretty cool cat, but i didnt expect to hear what i did...

A Straight Ryda: I'm blowing my poker winnings on a $5 hooker
Jeterball2: i would
A Straight Ryda: lol
A Straight Ryda: oh i'll confess. i read your blog thing. funny shit
Jeterball2: for real
Jeterball2: haha no way howd you find it
A Straight Ryda: aim profile?
Jeterball2: oo
Jeterball2: haha
A Straight Ryda: facebook maybe?
Jeterball2: i rarely post
A Straight Ryda: yeah I had to hunt for something about a physics test
Jeterball2: i just make fun of people in the comments
A Straight Ryda: The eifell tower though. I was on the floor

PEOPLE LOVE THE BLOG!!!

IMO, thats pretty cool. Random people read this. That means im famous i guess. Whatever. Anyways some funny shit has been going down on the northern campus exposure. So- lets see....

The shenanigans never see to stop in this hallway. Some say that our hall is the closest thing to a central campus hallway as anything, others say we're just crazy.

This is a picture of our hallway christmas tree, and our favorite arab. Basically, the town lunatic, steve, bought an axe for 30 dollars at a local tool place. 30 dollars for an axe. Thats hardcore, plus i mean hes the last person in the world you want owning a weapon of mass destruction. The only thing north campus has that central doesnt is a whole lot of wilderness, so we went out back in the snow and cut down several trees. im not talking your average run of the mill trees. Im talking 30 foot redwoods. We cut down several trees just for fun, and we decide we should find a christmas tree for the hall. We found a 30 foot tree, cut it down, trimmed the top, put it in the bathroom, and decorated it. It was awesome, it had beer cans and condoms. Even the Ra liked it, but unfortunately the resident director found a line in the housing code that read exactly as followed: no trees in the bathroom. We had to get rid of it, but for that time we were gods.

With the massive amount of snow on the ground, coupled with boredome and a lot of scenery, we decided to steal a bunch of lunch treys and go sledding. It was a lot of fun, but nothing compared to what we did next.

Yes. That is a stolen shopping cart, and that is also a bunch of lunch treys. With the power invested in the engineers in my hall plus the fearlessness of everyone, we built a shopping cart sled, to go down the big hills in the back of my dorm. Everyone thought that it wouldnt work, that it would fall over and people would be seriously injured, but I had faith. I was even willing to put money on the prop that the sled wouldnt fall over, but no one would take. oh well, it was fun none the less.

Sweet.

Thats about it. Tonight the guys wandered drunk through the woods and came back with a 4 foot construction cone. It ended up in the bathroom, and will probably be there for the next 8 hours before my RA sees it and goes bananas. oh well. Life is good.

-Sanders

PS- I hate motherfucking rookie poker players who go all in with bullshit draws. If you understand what Im saying, then more power to you. Peace. BTW- if my drunken words suck and you think i shouldnt post ever again, let me know. Thanks.

Oha!

2005-12-13T08:34:00.000-08:00

I hope Aaron doesn't flip a shit on me for "bumping his post," but these links beg to be posted.

Japanese Music Video
This one made me laugh for a solid 3 minutes 17 seconds.

In my personal opinion, everyone should own at least one article of clothing from this collection:
www.shockergear.com

Oha!!!!

-Fish

2 paragraphs

2005-12-12T20:34:00.000-08:00

I haven't updated in a while. It's not like I had anything worthwhile that I was pursuing, or I had some great endeavor to conquer. I was lazy, and I'm good at being lazy. You can't touch my kind of lazy, I'm a lazy aficionado. Spend an hour on your couch and call yourself lazy, I'll put your ass to shame. I once peed in a water bottle that was on my night stand, and poured it out the window because I was too lazy to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. You just can't, and won't ever be on my level.

The only thing I'm aggressive about is my TV watching. I've been called lame on many occasions for this, but fuck you, I'm a proactive TV watcher. Basically, I log onto my yahoo account and check the next 3 or 4 hours of TV listings, and basically figure out how I am going to navigate my way through the mess of Emeril Live and Infomercials. You'd be surprised at the amount of great shows you're missing because you're too lazy to check the TV listings. Ironic, me calling you lazy?

That's all you get for now, what do you expect, I'm lazy, anyway I have some serious TV watching to get done.

-Cummins

Puke Update

2005-12-11T22:55:00.000-08:00

I know what our loyal readers are all probably asking themselves: What the fuck Jeff, why haven't you updated your puke tally lately? Has everyone cut back on the drinking and partying and coming back to your room to puke later? Are you guys turning into those little bitches that the university talks about, where they're like, "65% of all kids who go to parties here only consume 1-4 drinks"?

No, we're not. In fact, we probably drink more than ever before. However, Schultz has picked up a little thing I like to call tolerance. This means he can down 17 shots during the pregame and still be able to walk. Not only that, he can make it to a party, drink beer, and come back, not puking once. So clearly the puke tally is not going to be receiving contributions from Schultz any time soon.

But there has been one recent incident. My roommate threw up in the middle of the room after consuming a drug too illegal to talk about in a public forum, getting puke on some of my nice shirts and ramen noodles. It was cool though, he cleaned it up, but the room smelled like Jimmy Johns and the things he was saying scared the hell out of me so I slept in Bob's roommate's bed (no, Jake was not there sorry to disappoint you all).

Tally = 10

FLISHMAN

(As Sanders informs me, I have left out his incident in which he puked in my trash can. I was not in the room at the time and thus did not count this instance. New tally: 11 pukes)

Matt Schultz Part II

2005-12-10T21:28:00.000-08:00

I don't plan on posting personal stuff that people tell me online all the time, or even very often, but I think a lesson can be learned from matt's tirade.

Freakish10: sanders
Jeterball2: yo
Freakish10: sanders
Freakish10: dude i saw what you wrote about me
Jeterball2: uh oh
Freakish10: ignoring all my indiscretions the amount of good ive done is unparrallelles by any norht farmington student

********************************************************************************

LiLOzzie33: thats like oj simpson saying, except for killing that white bitch iv done many more positive things than most former nfl players

********************************************************************************

Jeterball2: what does that even mean
Freakish10: i do so much communtiy service strictly for the benefit of others
Freakish10: but some how this cruel exuse for a god decides for vengence
Jeterball2: ??
Jeterball2: do you want me to delete the post?
Freakish10: no
Freakish10: im just sayin its not karma
Freakish10: its luck
Freakish10: god has a vendetta agianst me
Jeterball2: isnt that karma?
Freakish10: if there is a god
Jeterball2: a past life?
Freakish10: no
Freakish10: its just that god it a bully
Jeterball2: are you under the influence
Freakish10: yes sir
Freakish10: but this is the truth
Jeterball2: this is excellent blog material
Freakish10: im dealt the losing hand more that any other
Jeterball2: no your brother is
Freakish10: yes many have it wores
Jeterball2: you're tall, that counts for something
Freakish10: but i reciev e the most consitsant punishment
Jeterball2: how else are you punished sir?
Freakish10: all the little things
Jeterball2: tell meeeee
Freakish10: just the small misfortunes that i cannot recall repeatle
Jeterball2: did a girl b reak your heart?
Freakish10: repeatly
Freakish10: but thats not even the issure
Freakish10: the small things that happen along my little road of life that thrwo me completly off cours
Jeterball2: they happen to everyone man
Freakish10: but i ffeel its me especeitally
Jeterball2: you're still alive, you have your health, you have a good head on your shoulders, with that being said you cant be too much worse off than anyone else
Freakish10: right but most that have misfortune have been dealt one big thing to acustom to but i am dealt random misfortunes to deal with on a regual occasion
Jeterball2: i lost my glasses and my graphing calculator
Jeterball2: i cannot see nor can i compute arithmatic
Freakish10: ha
Freakish10: its the random things that etch my path up to the final horrible dance with the deveil
Freakish10: which i feel is coming real soon

Oh and mark - sorry for posting right after you posted, even though i dont think its a big deal.

Read Mike Sander's Post Below Before You Read This One

2005-12-10T13:10:00.000-08:00

by Mark Schultz

Because there have been complaints in the past about posting too soon after a fellow blogger. With four people on one blog, there can be a lot of overlap, so it seems fair to tell u Sanders' post was funny, and plus he like never posts, so u should read his.
Anyway, i passed out last nite on a beanbag, which seemed like a good location when i was wasted. However, i might as well have slept on a bed of nails, because that's what it felt like when i woke up. Then i was walking home and i slipped on rough patch of ice in the street and fell on my ass, and a car passing by filled with kids laughed at me.
All this is immaterial though, because i've finally found a specific event i can post on that everyone involved with this blog hasn't witnessed or heard about already. This event is the great South Quad- East Quad snowball fight. For those uninformed, South Quad and West Quad are two dorms fairly close to eachother on the central campus of the University of Michigan-Ann Arbor. South Quad is filled with honors students (Jeff lives there, i might as well live there), West Quad is filled with the football team and sophomores. Seems to make for a lopsided fight, kind of like the basis for the ending of a bad "Revenge of the Nerds"-type movie, but apparently the win-loss for squad has been fairly balanced. The snowball fight is an annual event, usually around the first snowfall of the year good enough to produce decent packing snow. I didn't know any of this until James Liadis told me on Thursday night.
Now, this snowball fight is probably the reason i'm going to get substandard grades this semester, because i was about to settle in for a night of studying in jeff's room when james told us about the snowball fight. Obviously, any plans to do anything besides predrink and discuss strategy were scrapped. Jon Pat, Charlie and decided we were going to go shirtless. This was dumb, and if u can't figure out why now, you'll see later. James told us the kids form west quad were going to pull our fire alarm at 11:30, forcing everyone to exit the dorm, thus starting the fight. Good, that gave me some time to study, but i was way too excited to be thrilled by the utilitarian philosophies of John Stuart Mill, so i just started drinking. Yep, i sure have self-control.
Anyway, 11:30 comes and goes, i'm getting a little boisterous, losing my buzz, yelling at james because he's made me waste a night of studying. Finally, at like midnight i say fuck it and sit down dejected to study. Not two seconds after i open my book a screeching fills the hallway. Kids bust out of doors like jack-in-the-boxes. By now, everyone knows what's up. Buckets are grabbed. Gloves are distributed. In some cases, shirts are removed.
We go outside and there are probably 150 people from south quad, 300 from west quad all throwing snowballs. It is pandemonium. i had never seen pandemonium before, but i'm sure this is what it looks like. Snowballs fly through the air, people slip and fall like bad figure skaters. Bob told us oftentimes the snowball fight just turns into a bunch of people kicking eachother's asses, and he seems to be right, because i soon witness various pummeling, punching, kicking, forced-snow-eating, etc.
Then i learn about the violence firsthand when i'm tackled by a black guy who i'm about 75% sure was Mike Hart, the running back for Michigan. Five more guys dogpile on top of me. He is smashing my face into the snow, forcing me to eat snow. I am in misery. I wonder if i'll die from asphyxiating on the snow or hypothermia first. Finally, Matteo, my hereafter dubbed "knight in shining armor" comes up from behind Hart and pushes him off. Hart is momentarily distracted enough to allow me to escape. I get the fuck out of there. Then i find a hat on the ground. I needed a new winter hat, having lost my last one due to drunkenness, so this is a fortunate find. The owner should have known better to take anything of value into a no holds-barred snowball fight.
I get hit by a few snowballs, throw a few snowballs. Now, remember this whole time i'm not wearing a shirt. It's one of the coldest nights of the year so far, probably 20 degrees at the warmest. Snow covers my sexy body like a coat, but a coat that does not keep me warm. I have snow in my hair and in my pants. I wasn't actually too cold before, but after getting pummeled into snow by half the football team, i realize touching snow makes one's body 100 times colder. When i pick up a snowball, it burns in my hand like a hot coal. I can hardly bear to leave the action, but i am legitimately afraid of getting hypothermia. I go inside and run hot water form the bathroom sink over my half-naked body. It takes about three minutes to get feeling back.
Of course then i'm back out. I'm a trooper. Two girls ask me if i want their coats and i shrug them off. I am a warrior, unscathed by the elements. Charlie feels the same way. We form a five-person chain composed of us two and three others whom i can't remember, and run into the melee, knocking down many west quadders. We get bombarded by snowballs. I get snow stuck in both ears, and a snowball goes down my throat. it was like swallowing an entire bowl of ice cream in two seconds. I thought i was going to die for the brief time before it melted.
We are losing the battle. I have no affiliation with south quad--i am not an honors student, i barely got into michigan--but i have been drunk in pretty much every room of 47 Taylor, and i think that counts for something. I feel a sense of camraderie with these boys, and i will defend them like members of my own family, at least when it comes to throwing and receiving snow.
James, Charlie and i think of a new strategy: flanker attack. This is brilliant--we go around and attack from the side. Several unsuspecting bystanders get pummeled with snow. They may or may not have been from west quad, but that doesn't really matter. Unfortunately, we're still losing. A girl runs into me and knocks me over. I'm as cold as i've ever been in my life, but i'm having fun. I'm about to unleash a fresh barrage of snowballs when some guy throws an entire bucket of snow on me and Charlie. My response: "What the fuck, are you fucking kidding me? You didn't just do that! Holy crap, this sucks!" I was too cold at that point to do anything except complain, so i just ran inside. I was done.
According to the final tally, we lost and lost big. But that's ok. We took some pictures of all the stupid kids who had thrown common sense to the wind and gone out without a shirt. Charlie was as red as a lobster, literally. I was cold the entire night; i think my body temperature probably dropped twenty degrees. I was so happy i didn't die of pneumonia i didn't care, though.
The next day i saw a quote in the michigan daily, U of M's student newspaper. A police officer supervising the fight was overheard saying "I got big money on south quad." Sorry, officer, but you're going to have to go back to making money the old-fashioned way: taking bribes from crooked gangsters.

Bad Luck, or Bad Karma?

2005-12-09T13:51:00.000-08:00

Freakish10 = Mark's brother, who has had numerous altercations with the his family, and the law. He once did something innapropriate (nobody really knows what happend) on the bus and got suspended for a week. He's been to hell and back, and now hell again, but did he get what he deserved?

Freakish10: all of my bindery blood money has been stolen by a cleaning lady whore
Jeterball2: no way.....
Jeterball2: haha
Freakish10: my life is shattered
Jeterball2: how much
Freakish10: 1000
Freakish10: at least
Jeterball2: siohwfeoihwf09ht4ahiwroihwpji ghoiga3hiogr
Freakish10: yep
Jeterball2: what did ur rents say
Freakish10: most of that being bindery money
Freakish10: we filed a police report
Freakish10: but i will not see a dime ever again
Jeterball2: did she leave the country
Freakish10: no
Freakish10: but i have no faith in the justice system
Jeterball2: why did you have a grand lying around your room
Freakish10: i odnt care aobu the money as much as what it all represents
Jeterball2: with foreign women cleaning it and what not
Freakish10: no it was in a lock box
Freakish10: and the box disappeared and was found empty in the basement
Jeterball2: jeese wow
Freakish10: that money was how much my soul cost
Freakish10: and its gone
Jeterball2: so what now
Freakish10: death
Freakish10: most certainly
Freakish10: that woman owns my soul
Jeterball2: your dads gonna coax you into working at the shop again
Freakish10: i guess i have no choice now

He doesn't care about the money, he cares about what it represents. What a cute kid. More on him in the future.

-Sanders

The Troll

2005-12-07T09:46:00.001-08:00

I in no way endorse this story as being true, nor am I in any way involved in the events. It is simply the most ridiculous story I've ever heard. That said, here is the troll story.

It all began with Zitter's friends driving down the highway toward Las Vegas, tripping on shrooms. Apparently our travelers saw something or someone on the side of the road and decided to pull over. Upon closer examination, they found that what they had found was a real life troll. They attempted to communicate with the troll, but found that it spoke a language of its own, troll speak they called it, completely different from any human language.

Somewhat frightened and concerned also for the safety of the other travelers on the highway, the boys took the troll and stashed it in the trunk of their car. A very socially-conscious thing to do, in my opinion. After all, we don't need trolls wandering our fine highways and streets in this great nation.

Satisfied that all would be well, our travelers continued on to their destination in Vegas. When they arrived at the hotel, they removed the troll from the trunk and took it upstairs to their hotel room. How they got it past all of the people in the hotel with no one realizing that they were transporting a troll is a testament to their cleverness and ingenuity. Still high, our boys stashed the troll in their closet for safe keeping and passed out in their hotel room.

They woke the next day, sober, to the sounds of scratching from the closet. They realized that their troll was still in there. They opened the closet, only to find an 8-year-old girl in place of their troll. Not only that, the girl had down syndrome and had trouble speaking. Confused about where their troll had gone and how it was replaced with a little girl, and also concerned for the welfare of the girl, the boys took the girl to the local police station.

It turns out that the girl had been reported missing some days before in the area of Las Vegas, and a $100,000 reward was out for her safe return. Ecstatic, the four boys split the money into $25,000 each and went on their way to Los Angeles.

That, my friends, is the troll story.

-El Fish

Keep Things Flowing

2005-12-04T21:07:00.000-08:00

Schultz, that was a fantastic post. Thanks for the effort. For the record, I hope this great project of ours never dies, and to keep things moving along, I've decided to post as well.

On December 3rd, 2005, the world as we know it ended. Up is now down. Down is now up. Right is now wrong. And Roberto is now God himself.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you guessed it: Roberto finished the gallon challenge. We have been goading him for months to try it. He is large and in charge, and if anyone could complete such a ridiculous, biologically impossible/improbable task, it was him. In addition to that, Roberto is a milk-fiend. He drinks it like it's going to run out some day, like all of a sudden there could be a cow strike and there could be no more milk. In fact, he drinks so much milk that he and Zitter (his roommate) have to buy milk separately, because for the first month of school Roberto kept drinking all of Zitter's. The fucker drinks it when he's happy, he drinks it when he's sad, he drinks it when you beat him at blitz, he drinks it before he goes to bed. He's the only man who could ever accomplish the gallon challenge.

For those of you unfamiliar with the gallon challenge, it is this: you have one hour to drink a gallon of milk. There is no puking for the whole hour, and you are not allowed to puke until an hour after you have finished the gallon. Myself and several other people thought this feat was completely impossible. No human being should be able to do such a thing; by Matteo's calculations, the human stomach should only be able to hold about half that amount. Furthermore, in a world with a God, this should not be possible. But God did not count on Roberto (because he is God).

Matt Schultz (the illustrious brother of Mark Schultz) was in Ann Arbor this weekend, and challenged Roberto to the gallon challenge. Matt puked after about 6 minutes, but Roberto stayed the course. He finished about a half gallon in 5 minutes and slowed down, only taking gulps every 5 more minutes or so. At 42 minutes, Roberto finished his gallon of milk. He did not puke, he did not "spit up," as Mark would say, he did not even sit down. For fun, we didn't let him go piss. That's not part of the rules, but it was funny. He held it down for the requisite hour, and became king of the whole universe, throwing all laws of physics and human anatomy out the window.

I hope this instills in all of you a newfound respect for Roberto and his physical prowess.

Mark's post reminded me of something I have been thinking about, when I read about participation grades. Mark is entirely correct; whether or not you participate has nothing to do with how much you know about chemical reactions or differential equations or fucking Platonic dialogues. I have the same opinion about college applications.

They all ask you what your extracurriculars are. Marching band, high school football, cheerleading, student government, national honors society, all that shit that nobody wants to do but their mom and dad makes them so they can get into Michigan or Michigan State or Oakland University or whatever fuck else school they have to get into in order to be a worthwhile person. None of it fucking matters, and nobody learns a goddamn thing from them. How many instruments you played or whatever you learned in poms squad has NOTHING TO DO WITH HOW GOOD OF A DOCTOR, LAWYER, ACCOUNTANT, BIOLOGIST, WRITER, OR WHATEVER ELSE YOU BECOME. When I am in the dentist's office, high as a fuckin kite on happy gas, and completely powerless over what the dentist does to me, I don't give a flying fuck about the fact that he was all state quarterback in high school. In fact, I want the geeky-ass loser who never left his fucking room BUT READ GODDAMN BOOKS ABOUT DENTISTRY ALL DAY LONG! THAT'S WHO I FUCKING WANT! So don't give me this bullshit about, "we want a well-rounded, culturally diverse student who is active in a wide variety of activities." We should want people who are not engaged in a wide variety of activities, we should want people who are engaged in ONE activity, and THAT should be their job. FUCK.

-Jeff Fishman

Blogger's Last Stand

2005-12-04T07:06:00.000-08:00

Everyone involved with this blog just wants this thing to die, but i am not going down without a fight. Writing is one of the few things i enjoy in life that isn't bad for me, and having a forum where i know people will actually be reading my writing is very empowering. So, i'm not letting this thing die. It will probably die anyway, but i'm at least going to give it a good send-off. Imagine this post is like the ending scene of "Kill Bill Volume 2" where Bill walks away from Beatrix Kiddo, knowing after he takes five steps he will die. Well, this post is the first step. I don't have anything to write about, but it's ten in the morning and i cant get back to sleep for some reason, so im just going to spew out what seems appropriate.
Faithful readers of this blog know i've had some problems with my roommates, but yesterday was the most ridiculous roommate-related event yet. My one roommate (the loud one, whom i dont actually share a room with) has been taking a lot of my food; i know i mooch, everyone mooches, but this kid really mooches in excess. Por ejemplo, he ate literally an entire jar of my pickles in two days. This i just don't understand. To take an entire jar of pickles from somebody in two days you really have to be consciously trying to piss them off. Before this happened, i wasn't sure if it was physically possible to eat a jar of pickles in just two nights. But, as we've seen with roberto, pretty much anything involving consumption in some way is possible.
Anyway, the best part of this was his "defense" when i confronted him about the issue, saying some mooching was fine, but he was really indulging himself. His response was "well, you don't take out the trash very often, and i do". To quote Lewis Black, don't think about that sentence for more than five seconds, or blood will shoot out of your ears. Unbelievable. This is what assholes with big egos do, and i hate it. Whenever someone questions their greatness, or tries to point out a flaw in them, they either attack the other person, or start an entirely new subject. I guess this guy did both. God forbid he actually grows some balls and apologizes to me. I think Jeff and i both agree there is something to be said for candor, just saying what you think, no matter what it sounds like. If he had said something like "Yeah i have been eating your food, and i'm going to keep doing it cuz im a poor hick and i have no money, now what are you going to do about it" i would have been way more satisfied. Hell, i probably would have bought him his own jar of pickles.
Anyway, we here at U of M are getting into the beginnings of finals, which is great because i was really getting tired of sitting on my ass watching TV and getting drunk all weekend. For the last month, i have been thinking "Hey, getting wasted is fun, but you know what, i really wanna crack open my psych book and learn about how people interact with their fucking environment." And when i'm in the middle of a marathon session of Mario or TV, i'm really thinking "I'm enjoying this, but what i would enjoy even more is writing various essays in spanish."
The worst part is it's hard to complain, because anyone going to U of M knew what they were getting into beforehand. I don't even have too hard of a schedule; i don't have nine chemistry classes like Sanders, but i'm still pissed.
To close with a personal rant related to my last subject, i think the idea of participation as part of a grade is bullshit. If grades in my classes were based solely on comprehension of material, i would be getting all A's except Spanish, which we won't talk about here. However, just because i'm "lazy" and have "multiple unexcused absences" and "frequently disrupt Spanish class by talking in English" my grades might suffer. I think participation seems to both hurt the smart people and help the stupid ones. Stupid ones can inflate their grade just by coming to class everyday and saying a bunch of bullshit, and people who understand the material so well they don't feel the need to come to class suffer. A lot of overachievers won't like me saying participation isn't important, because, no matter how dumb a person is, their involvement in a class is something they can control. However, as we all know, the real world doesn't really give two shits if u try or not. The real world cares about results.
All in all, no matter how bleak Michigan is, i can just think about the fact i'm going on a trip to San diego in mid-January to warm me up. San Diego, where it is without hyperbole sunny and between 70 and 80 degrees 365 days a year. I'm going to be surfing in the Pacific while all you losers are stacking ten layers of clothes on your body just to go to class. Ha ha.

-Mark

My New Hero

2005-11-22T21:57:00.000-08:00

This cartoon character is my new hero.

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y31/flsurfkarma/dirtysanchez119nr.gif

Scenes from the Ox

2005-11-18T09:21:00.000-08:00

This is the first of two posts I’m making today. I’m also working on a film review and a TV review for the Daily. I’m doing a lot of writing this weekend, which is better than doing a lot of fat chicks.

My second post will be on the OSU-UM rivalry. It will be good. This one: not so much. What I’m doing here is kind of an Erose “Scenes from East Quad”-type rant.
This post will involve a lot of different subjects tackled in separate paragraphs, and when you finish reading it, you will be no better than when you started.

1. I’m poor. I need to stop spending money. Just like quitting an addictive substance, there are two ways to cut ones spending. One method is to go cold turkey, and another one is to taper off. Well, cold turkey would mean ceasing to spend money on liquor, which just isn’t gonna happen. So I have some ideas.

A. For now on, I will maximize the drunkenness I get from my liquor. This means buying only high-proof bad-ass liquor. I’m thinking only 100-proof or higher, although I might make an exception for 99 Apples or Banana. That’s close enough.

B. Since they don’t charge for beer at parties at U of M, I’m going to stop carrying my wallet when I go out. Seriously, I spend money on the stupidest shit when I’m drunk. Last week I bought ten dollars of weed, and I don’t like smoking at all. They should change that drunk-driving adage to “Friends don’t let friend give a stranger ten bucks when that friend needs to somehow get the money to pay for a 6,000 house next year.” Not as catchy, but more realistic.

C. No more BDub’s, Jimmy John’s, etc. This food is fucking good, but food is like sex; you will do anything to get it at the time, especially when intoxicated, but an hour later you're wiping your mouth saying "that was good, but i like money more."

2. Michigan fall/winter sucks. Balls. You walk outside and bitter winds slap you around like Ike beat Tina. Going out now involves more than just getting drunk; it also involves putting on five layers of clothes and a hat. Of course, you have to take all this shit off when you get to a party, and good luck not having your winter gear get lost/stolen. Honestly, the highlight of last night was that I remembered to get my winter coat before I left the frat house, thus avoiding awkward morning-after situation.

3. I hate winter. It’s killing the spirit of everyone at this university. Fuck! If there’s not three feet of snow, and if I’m not skiing down a huge mountain, I’m not interested in winter.

4. Thanksgiving is silly; does anybody know the real purpose of this holiday? Oh, to give thanks. Honestly, what the fuck does that mean? According to my past experiences, I guess you say “Shit, thank God I don’t live in Afghanistan” and then you eat a lot of turkey and watch the Lions lose.

5. I’m seeing the Nutcracker ballet in two weeks. Call me gay, but I love plays and musicals. Musicals have some of the best music ever, and the satisfaction from a really well-done play is way better than the satisfaction from a movie or oral sex.

6. On that note, Christmas is amazing. You probably think i only like this season because im selfish and i like getting things, and, yes, that's part of it, but there's more. It's impossible to be in a bad mood for the two weeks before and after Christmas. The Media pumps so much holiday goodness down our throats that all you have to do is turn on a TV anytime after Thanksgiving to remind yourself why Christmas is so great. Because commercialism ties us together as a country, because
everyone, i don't care who u are, everyone loves getting shit. I might post more on this later.

7. I just got the best job ever. I’m working for the Daily arts and entertainment section, and I’m reviewing TV shows. Basically, they give me a DVD of a whole season of any TV show I want to review, and then I write a review. Oh, and I get to keep the DVD. And I get paid. And, my editor said if there’s anyone I want to interview they can try to get them. I think I want to interview the Pope. I want to ask him if he thinks naming a kid God Shamgod is sacrilegious or not.

8. I played some sweet beer pong last night; ironically my partners let me down instead of vice-versa. Aaron had a very rare off-game, and later I played with this big fat guy. Long story short, he comes in midgame after my first partner leaves and knocks over one of our cups, claiming we don’t need the advantage. And then we lose by one cup. During the game he kept telling me to stop being so tense; he even went over to some attractive girls and asked them if they thought I looked too tense. People who know me would probably agree I’m about the most laid-back person ever, so this guy was obviously under the influence of some hallucinogenic drug, a drug that coincidentally also seemed to make him shitty at beer pong. My last partner was an Indian guy, and he was pretty good, but during the game I was distracted by Aaron and Matteo being kicked out of the party, so I was a little off. Then I was about to go dance with some girls on this techno dance-floor they had, but decided against it; no good has ever come from me dancing.

9. I’m realizing more and more I don’t really like my roommates. The one guy is okay, but he’s too stereotypical frat-boy. He listens to Fallout Boy and Guster, and all he talks about is “how hot this fucking girl is”. Oh really, girls are hot? No fucking kidding, huh? Also, he got mad at me for taking one of his waters, and then ate an entire bag of my chips. Honestly, who gets mad at someone for taking the most available and abundant resource on earth?

The second roommate is just annoying; he’s really loud, often for no reason, and it seems like he won’t talk to me unless he’s telling me to “clean up my shit”. The third guy just won’t talk at all. Yup, I’m really looking forward to four months of winter bleakness with these guys. I might have to see if there’s space in the storage closet of South Quad for me to move into.

10. As a final thought, the UM-OSU game tomorrow is gonna be amazing. I usually don’t get sexually excited by football games, but this is an exception. If Michigan wins I will, in fact, orgasm where I’m standing.

-Mark

"Can I Explain Why I Didn't Comment?"

2005-11-17T10:23:00.000-08:00

I was in ABC warehouse today looking for carpet for my sub box.

I saw the breaking news, another suicide bombing. They showed the bus, it was torn to pieces, and just the look on peoples faces was pretty bad.

What if you were a suicide bomber and you got up, screamed OMG ALLAH OWNS YOU!! and you pressed the button to explode yourself, and the bomb failed to go off. I'm sure there'd be an awkward silence. You know, everyone would be whispering and saying stuff like:

-"The guy who wired his bomb must really be an amateur"
-someone turning to their kid, "See what happens when you drop out of high school and don't get your degree in extreme islamic fundamentalism?"
-"Explode already you retard"

I'd feel like a real asshole.

I'd calmly sit down and pretend like nothing happened. If someone tried to ask me about it, or accuse me about it, I'd just play it off as if it were no big deal:

-"Hey Ramid so what was that whole thing with you trying to blow yourself up a second ago?"
-"WHAT? SOMEONE TRIED TO BLOW HIMSELF UP? I must have dozed off"

Or maybe I'd yell BOOOM! really loud to trick the people on the bus into thinking it exploded and just run off the bus during the confusion.

Being a suicide bomber would be stupid, I prefer 10-ton laser guided bombs from stealth bombers.

-Cummins

BEST CLIP ON THE INTERNET, PERIOD.

2005-11-16T00:23:00.001-08:00

I know its bullshit when we update the blog with something stupid we found online, but this is the real deal.

I dont care who you are, what country you're from, or even if you're racist or not, but this shit is the real deal.

http://www.hrtwrk.com/video/gooddoctor.mov

courtesy of michael passman :)

The Female Clique Examined

2005-11-15T23:03:00.000-08:00

There are few things more prevalent on the college scene than the female clique. Like a pack of blood hungry wolves, they provide protection and security to one another, quick to attack anyone who might threaten the pack. The irony of the whole situation is, they all secretly hate at least one other member of the clique, but choose to stick along. I guess quantity is better than quality. The reason being that not every girl can be in a clique with their best friends. Cliques all have certain required positions that must be filled, and we will examine them.

Amidst the AIM profile quotes expressing love for one another, and little acronyms with all of the first names used. You'll also notice they usually end up shortening each others name's to single-syllable nicknames. Appearing to be a form of comradery, it is in fact used to streamline the shit talking, because sometimes there is not much time to get the shit talking done (i.e. when one member leaves to use the bathroom).

A certain hierarchy exists among these groups of females, and the pecking order is most often based upon social standing. The ugly girl is rarely the ring leader, and concurrently the female of high social standing is rarely the "loser" of the group. If you are a female, we're going to figure out where you stand.

The females of a clique are usually without boyfriends, because everyone should already know "boys suck". The members will inevitably find a boyfriend however (except the ugly one usually, but shit happens when you're drunk), and are swiftly dropped from said clique and replaced in due time.

The cliques usually are composed of 4-6 females, depending on necessity. You may realize at some points these cliques merge to form "Super-Cliques" which usually occur at large gatherings. When these forces combine, the result is a dangerous and volatile group which oozes estrogen. Approach these super-cliques with caution, as they may explode in a violent storm of ugg stomping and purse bashing.

Member #1 "The Fantastic One" The highest ranking member of the group. Her shit does not stink. In fact, it smells like the finest french eau de toilette. If you beg to differ, you'll have a discussion with her Daddy's lawyer. Her closet is envied, her makeup is "the same stuff Britney Spears' stylist uses!!", her perfume is distilled from water found in the Himalayan Mountains. Her purses are worth more than your average family sedan, and as you can tell, she is basically the coolest girl in the world! AIM screen name must have the word "sweet/sexy/cute/hot/baby/pink" or a combination of "x's and o's". The hottest thing since the sun, this one calls the shots. Any decision must be run by her, unless an impeachment is proposed. She is as dumb as a pile of bricks, but to the astonishment of many somehow manages to perform well in school. Whatever plays on the radio that week is her "lyKe favorite band EVER!" She's your best friend to your face, worst enemy when you turn around. Be careful with this one.

Member(s) #2 "The Average Girl" The clique uses these girls as filler. They're the gas in your car. You don't need it to have a car, but if you want it to work, completely necessary. They're "that girl", the most accurate description. There's nothing outstanding about her. She has an average wardrobe, average everything. She's the girl the drunk frat guy picks out because her hot best friend is already giving a blowjob to his friend Nick. The average one tends to do her own thing and try to defy cliques, she'll commonly deny her membership in one, but there's no denying this, she's a card-carrying member of said clique.

Member #3 "The Ugly One" The clique can not be complete without the ugly friend. She is a very strange and dynamic player in the whole scheme of the clique. Scientists have long pondered her reason for placement in said clique, and why the group accepts her in lieu of banishment to the land of the ugly (London, England). She's kept around because she makes the rest of the group feel better about themselves. Also, this one is usually the friend who has been around since elementary school, but as the other girls grew boobs and pretty faces, she remained ugly. She is not the girl your mom said to be nice to because she was going to "be a pretty girl when she grew up." She was the ugly baby, toddler, preteen, teenager, and now college student. She has never been cute and never will be. She will however get married to her male equivalent, or a blind man. To everyone's shock and horror, this girl somehow still manages to get ass. It's simple. Evolution has brought the ugly girl's brain to more closely resemble the actions of the male brain then that of the female brain. It's a matter of survival for their species, and this new evolution has led to a rash of many males being harassed by their friends for "hooking up with the ugly chick." We all know that guy. That is because this girl will take advantage of the male, because she understands the mentality of a male, and that while drunk, sex is a top priority. She claims to regret these moves the next morning, but she has ulterior motives. She bleeds emo music. She wears excessive amounts of makeup and thrives off of solicited comments about her appearence. "No Louise, you're not ugly," says the pretty girl, holding back her vomit. I raise my glass to you, ugly girl, keep on truckin'. As technology progresses, plastic surgery keeps going down in price, and your hopes of being "the pretty girl" may some day be fulfilled.

Understand that not all cliques will fit this description exactly, existing in rare form are hybrid cliques which mix and match combinations of the above profiles. These hybrid cliques are highly unstable, and should be avoided at all costs.

When the clique breaks up, it is messy, rarely deadly, but messy nonetheless. It is inevitable, boyfriends are found, new friendships are forged, upgrades are made.

One thing remains true, as long as college exists, and females are allowed to attend them, cliques will exist, and they will reign supreme.

-Cummins

"Aaron's Field Guide to Identifying and Avoiding Terrorism."

2005-11-15T21:40:00.000-08:00

The root of terrorism's effectiveness is the fact that it is unpredictable. We have no clue when the next Osama bin Laden will come and work his Jihad on our sorry American asses. But I have found a way to free ourselves from the terrorist's dirty arab clutches. What follows, is:

"Aaron's Field Guide to Identifying and Avoiding Terrorism."

Welcome to my anti-terrorism training unit, I, Aaron, am your instructor. The number one rule, which all americans must know, and live by, is as follows:

Assume every person of arab descent, or someone whom even appears to be remotely arab, is a terrorist, accuse them, make them know you know they are a terrorist, scare them, use reverse terrorism on them. Racism, and racial profiling are the best forms of prevention.

Yes my friends, every arab is a terrorist. And every arab is stockpiling weapons of mass destruction in their basement in some form. The trick is knowing when they will use them, and the problem is, you can never know exactly when. So you must hound them, and tell them you know they are planning terrorist activities. This will discourage them from carrying out such deeds for that punk Allah.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, and you are on the look out for them, you must assemble your terrorism response kit. If you get lazy, and start letting arab people get by without calling them out on terrorism, and they happen to strike when you least expect it, your response kit will be your last line of defense. These items are usually accessible at civilian stores.

1). A bag. Yes dumbass, you need something to hold all of your items.

2). Condoms, lots of them. In a time of great despair, when women think they're going to die, the only thing running through their head is, "I can't die a virgin!", be prepared to fulfill this wish, many times, do not share your condoms, men will get desperate for them, but condoms give you a leg up on the competition, in a terrorist attack, there is no better pick up line than, "Hey baby, I've got rubbers, let's go behind that dumpster and do it."

3). A flashlight. In case you are terrorized at night, you need to be able to identify the virgins you've selected to grant a dying wish, to make sure they're not hideous bitches.

4). A first aid kit. In case you get injured. Don't help anyone else unless they are hot. Ugly people don't deserve your kit, its their fault for not being a conscious citizen and being prepared. If you do find a hot girl, request sex in return for the use of your first aid kit. Being a greedy asshole is important in responding properly to a terrorism attack, you should probably practice your techniques beforehand so you are ready to do so when the time calls for it. For example: If your bother/mom/dad/sister/friend asks you to clean up your room, use the bathroom, or something else that involves appeasing them, try this line: "Fuck you asshole, in this time of terror and despair, anything goes." They won't understand it, and will be confused and probably just walk away.

5). Several grenades, a rifle, and a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. Depending on where the attack on America occurs, a coup of the government may be possible. Of course, you are just doing this to install some order to the panic of the country, and to get some things for yourself, like women, money, and general respect of your peers.

One can not also deny the importance of the classic, duct tape and plastic window covers. Because in a day and age where chemical and biological weapons are prevalent, sealing off your windows so as to not lose heat to the outdoors, thus increasing your heating bill, is a must.

As said before in this field guide, there are a few key elements to either avoiding, or surviving a terrorist attack. Racism is key, know that everyone arab around you is a potential terrorist, and give them dirty looks, go as far as to mouth the word terrorist, just let them know you're on to them. Next, you must be an asshole to everyone, do not give in to anyone, unless they are hot, if they are ugly, pretend like they do not exist, because they shouldn't exist to you. Always have this field manual on you, and your terrorism response kit in the trunk of your car. Finally, repeat this in your head, all the time, live by these words:

"I am an anti-terrorist professional. I know that every arab around me is a terrorist, and every ugly girl is out to get me. I will only respond positively to hot girls, because ugly girls do not exist to me, I am a terrorism fighter, and I will be offensive, racist, and an asshole to the best of my abilities."

2005-11-15T12:54:00.000-08:00

"Did I just say Radaman?"

Family Guy clip, the osama bin laden gag, an instant classic.

151 + Fire

2005-11-14T12:40:00.000-08:00

Click on the picture, it's a video. I blew a fireball.

-Cummins

yeahhhhhh

2005-11-12T23:13:00.000-08:00

So this night warrants a fucking post, especially if you happen to be a michigan football fan.

The night starts with beer pong tournament, me and schultz on a team (I'm Fishman, in case you haven't guessed). So Schultz sucks balls, we fucking lose, what else is new. At least i get pretty drunk on the beer at the party, fucking fantastic.

So. Me, Schultz, Selwan, and Cummins roll out, to Schumer's party. And it's cool, nothing special, we have some beer, everyone is cool.

About half an hour into the party, two people roll up, who change the entire face of the night. Two U of M running backs. Mike Hart. And Kevin Grady. Interesting. So I'm really drunk. Me: "What up Grady? You fucked up them hoosiers." Grady: "Yo, my name is Mike Jones." Me: "Ok, number three, don't fuck with me man." Me: "Yo Hart, you gotta promise me to sign my jersey, you're my favorite wolverine." Hart: "Ok man, just send me a message on facebook, I swear I'll hit you up." Me: "Ok, I'm gonna fuckin hold you to that." Hart: "Ok bro."

Yeah, this story is a lot of sell-serving bullshit, but fuck you, I met Mike Hart and Kevin Grady and you didn't, so go fuck yourselves.

Bitches.

Homeless People in Ann Arbor

2005-11-12T12:35:00.000-08:00

Homeless people in Ann Arbor are just better than anywhere else. They are so unique and different; you will hardly ever see the standard wino with a scraggly beard and bag of cans. It will always be something different. Sometimes there will be a guy asking for five dollars because his son is sick. Okay, first of all, i dont think i would give most of my friends five dollars, let alone some stranger. Second of all, youre obviously going to use this money to buy liquor, because your right outside the liquor store. Also, i don't know what kind of operation your son needs, but i know of very few operations that cost only five dollars. I think five dollars gets you about 20 seconds in a hospital bed.

So there's that guy, and then there's this guy who you've probably seen while youre walking to Michigan football games. He plays the bongos and makes up songs about people who walk by. This guy is really talented; he should be the last act on the Tonight Show or something instead of sitting in the street. He will make up really funny rhymes on the spot about random people; as a veteran rap-battler i will tell u this is hard to do. Of course, his rhymes all work in the fact that he needs money. I told this guy he should perform on "Star Search" or something. He is the next generation of musician.

Other homeless people of note i've seen include a guy dressed in a nice suit asking for cash, a guy with a bag of cans bigger than him, a very ugly woman who walks around the union loooking for free food, and a homeless guy with a dog. A dog! You can't feed yourself because you have no money, and you get a pet? Do you really think you can afford luxuries like that? Shouldn't you be using the money youre spending to feed this dog to, i don't know, buy yourself a house?

However, today i saw the best homeless guy ever. I was walking back from the UM-Indiana game with Jeff when i saw a homeless guy pushing a shopping cart full of cans. Nothing out of the ordinary, but the clincher is that this guy was riding a unicycle. Okay. Two things are funny here. One, like the aforementioned hobo with a dog, thjis guy is wastying money on a luxury he does not need. When you need to collect cans off the street to feed yourself, youre probably not in much of a place to afford leisrue transportation. Second, there seemed to be no practical reason for this unicycle. Not only did the unicycle not appear to be helping him move faster, it seemed to actually be hindering his movement. How can pushing a shopping catrt be easier when you're balancing on one wheel? This guy was just so ridiculous i burst out laughing and couldn't stop.

U of M is so sweet; even the homeless people ride in style.

-Mark

2005-11-10T19:04:00.000-08:00

Ginger kids have no soul.

healthy exercise

2005-11-09T10:03:00.000-08:00

I don't mean for this blog to become some sort of preachy, moralistic thing, but it seems to be turning out that way. That said, I have to now point out the value of diet and exercise (actually I'm pointing out what could happen to you if you do not exercise, and become disgustingly obese):

http://www.wftv.com/news/3643877/detail.html

Nothing more even needs to be said.

-Fishman

Am I Fucked or am I Fucked?????

2005-11-08T12:57:00.000-08:00

So -

I have a midterm on my chem lab in 2 hours.

For the past 2 months I've been fucking around through the duration of the labs.

Did I mention I haven't reviewed the material at all?

I'm in the SLC right now staring at an Indian girl draw what looks like a penis on the giant dry erase board while I could be cramming last second for my inevitable disaster. But I'd rather watch the foreigner finish her masterpiece.
-sanders

YES!

2005-11-08T09:10:00.000-08:00

I think I speak for everyone when I say that I am ecstatic that Ugg season is in again. I, like many others, thought this fantastic fad would die out after its first year (people are so quick to dismiss good taste), but alas, I was wrong and Uggs are back. And the old tradition of tucking your pants into them is back too. I love this country.

-Fishman

2005-11-07T18:53:00.000-08:00

Tonight I had a dilemma. I have a chem midterm tomorrow on god knows what, I have a flag football game I can participate in, and I promised myself I would update the blog tonight. I say fuck school and fuck the blog (I don't actually mean that, forgive me Eric), I'm gonna go score a touchdown and hump the ball in the endzone.

More to come.
-sanders

The Lineup

2005-11-06T18:54:00.000-08:00

I thought it was appropriate to put some pictures up on this website to show our faithful readers (probably people who already know what we look like), what the faces behind the terror truly look like, and we are all in our most commmonly seen form of course.

Fish

Schultz

Cummins

Sanders

HOLY SHIT

2005-11-06T00:44:00.000-08:00

Holy fucking shit, Schultz got laid tonight. Yeah, that's right, he fucking fucked the shit out of this really hot girl he met at the frat. Fucking great.

Fishman + Cummins

puuuuuke

2005-11-05T11:19:00.000-08:00

Charley puked in the room last night, tally is now 9. Wow.
Fisher

E40's Part 2

2005-11-05T00:52:00.000-08:00

Well, i consider it my prerogative, in the words of Bobby Brown, to write the other half of the infamous Forty-Hands nite. First off, this was a terrible idea; pre-gaming with beer makes you almost as drunk as it makes you nauseous. Honestly, i had never seen full grown-men squirm in protest of drinking before i saw the cold, oppressive grip of Edward. They'll say the last quarter of the bottle is the hardest, but it was never easy; i honestly felt like puking from about ten minutes into the contest. Imagine choking back unpleasant vomit every gulp of beer, then smiling at your friends saying "this is fun!" Oh, college.
I think most of our players would admit it's just the amount of liquid that drives us crazy; not the alcohol content. Everyone knows me or Charlie or Bob can handle seven shots, but having us drink seven beers in a short period of time is another deal. It's alcohol plus stomach content. I think it's unfair, because it doesn't test who is truly the toughest drinker. No joke, our friend from 4721 Jon Pat finished E40’s in about 10 minutes, and there's definitely something to be said for that, but it still says little if he could truly compete with the heaviest drinkers we know.
As Jeff already mentioned, i puked during this event.
For the third time in my life, I puked after drinking. I drank a little of the tail end of my second forty, which was getting more stale and more flat, and realized my stomach had not appreciated the nutrients beer could give me. Well, maybe it did, but only in limitation. My stomach was being logical, using the idea of moderation. After six, why do I need more of this shit? My stomach asked. There was obviously no legitimate argument against my stomach, so I just puked my guts into the trashcan with an aggression which I hope expressed this message: “Fuck you, Edward Forty-Hands”.
I only had about half a beer left, but i'm not making excuses; i puked, i lost. I couldn't stand the taste of Anheuser-Busch's so-called light-flavor, and if i had tasted any more, i probably would have thrown up on anybody else I had seen. After triumphantly puking in Duke’s trash can, I, at the chagrin of others, took four more shots of Captain Morgan's, securing hard liquor a place as my obvious go-to for getting drunk.
Hey, i always knew i could go to hard liquor. I tried something else once, it was stupid, and that's the end of that. Now I’ll stick to what I’m good at; taking shots of anything from lighter fluid to the finest imported vodka. I think everyone should just stick to their own specialty of drinking. My friend I know only drinks cans of beer to pre-game. Whatever. Go with what works. And doesn’t upset your stomach. Hell, in the last day I've seen more grown men puke from E40's than from any major stomach virus. I’ve seen grown men topple on the floor, covered in duct tape, beer, and tears, crying “I was almost there.” I’ve seen too many too many nights ruined by duct-taped stupidity. God bless it, let's put this silly tradition to rest.

-Mark

E40s

2005-11-04T23:07:00.000-08:00

Tonight warrants a post, simply because of the gravity of the situation.

It began with a plan. Everyone in the hall (just about) was supposed to play Edward 40 hands. If you don't know what this mens, go fuck yourself. So anyways, we have about 20 40s (800 ounces of beer, if you don't understand multiplication). Each person has two, fantastic, this is ridiculous. Never have 10 people been in the same room playing Edward 40 hands at the same time. I am awed. We take some fucking awesome pictures, have some laughs, and when we're all done, we go out for the night.

So I'm with Said, this kid I know from middle school, and Bob, and we roll out to a few parties, decent, but nothing to go crazy about. Me and Bob decide this shit's overrated and we're bored, so we head back to South Quad. I get back, and everyone is tanked. And puking. I chase Duke up a few flights of stairs, but he's too fast, so he loses me. I go back down, and go to the bathroom. Charlie is there, puking his guts out and passing out on the toilet. I'm taking care of my roomie when Duke walks in, big fucking smile on his face, and he starts puking worse than Charlie. Nate, Duke's roommate, walks in with some chick, who starts puking herself. Three at once. A possible record. Not only that, there is a little puke in one of the sinks, and a shitload of puke in another. Oh, and I forgot, Schultz had previously puked while playing E40s. That's a lot of puke if you ask me. In fact, I think more people puked tonight than have ever puked before in a single night.

In addition to the puke, I find that I have two very large bruises on two of my knuckles. I have no idea where they came from, I don't remember punching anybody, but they are very suspicious and very purple. I don't know what to think anymore.

Goodnight and God bless.

Fishman

More Puke

2005-11-04T15:52:00.000-08:00

Remember that puke tally I started a while back? Well, I meant what I said, and I'm keeping up with the puking that occurs in 4717 South Quad. Here's the back-story for the latest puke.

Cummins comes down for some thirsty Thursday action. Not too out-of-the-ordinary. He says he wants to get black out drunk, I mean really fuckin hammered. So I get him a fifth of Bacardi Big Apple. He wants to chug. He chugs a half of the fifth in about 10 minutes, what a hardcore baller. He wants to go out, but I have probably the worst headache I've ever had in my life. Honestly, I'm dying, and the drinking I've been doing (kamikaze shots, best invention ever) does not help, surprisingly. I lay down on the floor and start moaning, and he leaves with Liadis to go play pong at DIK. I go to sleep, expecting Cummins to go fuck that girl he eiffel towered before (she is at DIK, I'm convinced that's why he wanted to go there.

I wake up and check my phone for missed calls. I have 18. After 11:30 at night. One from Jason, 17 from Cummins. Hmmmm....I'm starting to think Cummins didn't have a great night. Turns out he bounced out of DIK at like 2:30 in the morning, leaving eiffel tower girl with no one to have sex with (though she probably found a decent substitute). I guess he called me (claims he was blacked out) wanting to pass out in my room, but I was asleep, so he bit the bullet and passed out in his back seat. What a trooper. Calls me again at 1:45 in the afternoon: "Dude, I'm still so wasted. I'm totally tanked right now." To be totally wasted at 1:45 the next day, you have to have drank a shitload.

He comes back, his car won't start, so he can't go home. I let him pass out on the futon. But he has to puke first. I hear those aforementioned satanic sounds issue forth from my room (I'm chilling with Zitter) and leave him alone. Bob tells me that Cummins could barely walk last night. Surprise. He also tells me that Cummins was fucking with this Stacey girl on the porch of DIK, and she punched him in the face. Yeah, in the face. He was so drunk he barely felt it, doesn't remember this, and didn't fight back. Poor bastard.

Tally stands at 8.

P.S. He pissed himself while in the backseat of the car. He was just that drunk.

2005-11-02T16:44:00.000-08:00

I don't really want to use words to describe my halloween costume. Pictures are the only thing that can do justice.

Tyrone Biggums.

I like this

2005-11-01T12:38:00.000-08:00

This made me laugh because I'm immature.
Fishman

http://www.collegehumor.com/pictures/113197/

MSU Weekend Part 1

2005-10-30T18:11:00.000-08:00

This weekend I visited my friends at Michigan State for an anticipated Halloween extravaganza. This was my first time visiting the banks of the Red Cedar (according to MSU’s fight song this is a river close to the school), and I think that in itself warrants a post. I scrapped initial plans to give readers a play-by-play of my weekend, because, sadly, the weekend as a whole was not incredibly interesting. There are only a couple events that stick out in my mind, and I’ll talk about those. These events all happened on Saturday; don’t even ask about Friday, the best thing that happened is that David Snyder passed out in a bathroom stall in his costume at 11:00. See, Sanders, you’re not the only one who can’t always make it out the door.

Anyway, I call this part 1 not because I have anything else to say about the weekend, but because two other writers on this blog also visited MSU this weekend, and they might have some interesting stories to report as well.

I’ll do this post in the form of a book, so if anyone asks you when the last time you read a book for pleasure was, you no longer have to sheepishly admit your last book was “Sideways Stories from Wayside School” in fifth grade.

Before we begin, here’s the cast of characters

Me= Indian
Todd= Cowboy
Snyder= keg
Stoller= sitting in his dorm room
Priest
Napoleon Dynamite
Shrek
Dominatrix
Cop
Construction worker
Moses

Chapter 1 Male Nudity/ Wall of Shame

Saturday night my friend Cowboy whom I was visiting, several others from Cowboy’s hallway and I were all slated to attend a huge costume party at the frat Cowboy’s friend Shrek was pledging. This party was BYOB, which struck me as ridiculous- so everyone was drinking pretty hard before we went out. Starting at 8:00, Cowboy was taking shots of perhaps the shadiest-looking rum I have ever encountered. It is only appropriate this liquor was procured by someone with the nickname “Shady”, because it looked so old that I could imagine pirates swigging it on their way to plundering or looking for buried treasure. It smelled like it could be used to strip paint or wallpaper. Anyway, Cowboy takes five shots of this rum and throws up because it was so rank, then proceeds to learn nothing from his mistake and start drinking the same stuff as soon as his stomach settles. After a few more shizzies Cowboy takes a shower and Moses steals his towel. Cowboy gets out of the shower, is drunk and confused, and starts wandering the halls naked looking for a towel or possibly some sort of hole to stick his penis in. Anyway, this nudity predictably caused a bit of ruckus in Cowboy’s hallway, which attracted attention from the resident advisor (RA). The RA happened to walk down the hall to check out the rhubarb at the same time Cowboy was pouring another shot of antifreeze with the door open. So Cowboy got written up. For those of who don’t live in dorms, getting written up means nothing, it’s more of a badge of pride than anything. At this point I’ll digress a bit and say Cowboy, for someone who goes to a school chock-full of hot girls, has some pretty low standards. For some reason, he keeps a religious count of all the ugly girls he gets with; before Saturday the count stood at six. Also, Cowboy informed me of the “Wall of Shame” in his hall reserved for those who, in temporary lapses of mental and moral judgment, take home the girl on the southern side of the attractiveness scale. He also informed me with undeserved pride he stood tall as the most decorated member of the “Wall of Shame”. However, last Saturday he seemed to be intent on changing his ways, proclaiming pre-party that “Tonite I’m getting with a girl who’s actually good-looking!” We all cheered him on, knowing in fact he would go for the first girl he saw with a double chin and questionable morals. To the surprise of no one, Cowboy spent the majority of his night making out on the couch with a girl with a face resembling that of a dog or other small animal. He even ended the night sexually unsatisified; he was in media res of a sexual act with said skank when the RA started knocking on the girl’s door, prompting Cowboy, with his newfound fear of RA’s after getting written up, to flee the scene of the crime in so many words. Of course, the next day we all had our own words to express to Cowboy our disappointment over his feeble attempt to shake off the ghosts of ugly girls past and try to get a nice, respectable woman. Cowboy didn’t seem to care, and the count now stands at seven, as Cowboy has assured himself a place in “Wall of Shame” history.

Chapter 2
Lost in East Lansing/Black guys in Escalades

About 2 in the morning on Saturday Cop, Construction worker, Dominatrix and I left the big frat party to look for a place with actual alcohol, when Dominatrix realized he had forgotten his backpack which he had used to carry in our liquor. Cop, construction worker and I waited a couple minutes for him, then we got unreasonably impatient and headed back in to look for him. Somehow, once we got back in I immediately lost Cop and construction worker, which was bad because I don’t go to MSU, so basically I had no idea where the fuck I was. I walked around looking for them awhile, which was very difficult because I was drunk, and then bit the bullet and decided to end my night and just ask for directions back to the dorm. I walked a little ways to a convenience store and asked the proprietor for directions to Snyder-Phillips. The guy gave me basically the worst directions ever; this is what they sounded like.

Me: Hey man, how do I get back to Snyder-Phillips.

Guy: You go there (points hand in ambiguous direction) for awhile, and then you’ll be there.

Me: Ok, thanks a lot.

I stopped at a 7-11 two minutes later only to find Moses, here to lead me out of the desert into the promised land. I was so happy I got down on my knees and thanked God. Anyway, I left 7-11 with him and some other people; as we walked outside we encountered a group of African-american men in an Escalade. For short, skinny white people, this is usually a “run like hell” situation, especially at two thirty in the morning, but these guys were pretty nice. They asked us where the party was; Moses told them about the frat but proclaimed there was no “ghetto booty” there, admitting it was just skinny white girls. The guys thought this was funny, they seemed nice so we gave them our wristbands which got us into the party; one guy asked me for “some bubble gum” to tape the band back together, but my costume contained no pockets so I was not packing gum or any other adhesive substance. In gratitude, the guys gave us two bottles of beer out of their car; I immediately used this beer to flirt with MIP-ness by drinking it as we walked down the street. We got back to the dorm, which was actually like three minutes from the frat, and this segues us nicely into the final chapter of the MSU weekend.

Chapter 3 Napoleon Dynamite/Jimmy John’s

Well, hopefully Napoleon doesn’t read this, because he never found out what happened. So we got back to the dorm around 2:45, which was actually 1:45 because of Daylight Savings Time. Napoleon and another kid ordered Jimmy John’s to Shrek’s room. We were sitting in Shrek’s room conversing about this and that when the sandwiches arrived. At this point we all noticed that Napoleon had passed out on Shrek’s futon. I also noticed that I was extremely hungry. I eyed Napoleon’s delicious sandwich, which he had already paid for. I said “Boy that looks good.” Upon hearing this Shrek said “Hey, eat it. If you pass out before your food gets here, we can’t be held responsible if it gets eaten or stolen.” This seemed like sound logic to me, so I ate about three quarters of the sandwich. Then I believe it was Moses who had the great idea to put the remaining sandwich back in Napoleon’s hand, thus preserving the illusion to Napoleon’s drunken ass that he had actually blacked out while eating the sandwich. So I carefully placed the two inches of sub in Napoleon’s outstretched comatose hand, and Shrek had the idea to make the charade even more believable by scattering the tomato I hadn’t eaten on Napoleon’s shirt. Ten minutes later Napoleon woke up dazed and confused by the fact he was holding a sandwich he could not possibly have had a memory of eating. He looked at the bit of sandwich and said “Did I really eat that?” Of course we all assured him that he had in fact eaten it.

Napoleon: Oh man, I’m not even hungry anymore.

Me: Hey, if you’re not gonna eat that last part, I’ll eat it. Don’t let it go to waste.

And yes, I proceeded to eat the rest of his sandwich. The next day when I talked to him he was still in disbelief about the whole sandwich event.

Napoleon: Dude, did I really eat that sandwich? I have no memory of eating it.

Me: Yea man. You ate it fast, too. You were hungry.

Napoleon: When did I pass out?

Me: I dunno. One minute you were eating the sandwich, then I looked back and you were asleep holding it. I think you actually fell asleep as you were about to take a bite because some tomato fell out.

Anyway, in retrospect I feel bad about the whole thing, and the next time I’m at State, I’ll probably buy Napoleon a sandwich, especially if he happens to read this post and find out about it.

In conclusion, I think this photo adequately sums up the weekend.

-Mark

Guys Like These

2005-10-25T05:44:00.000-07:00

It's guys like these who really make me want to finish college. Them, plus all the drunken partying and every week watching schultz come within an inch of his life.

http://www.viceland.com/issues/v11n3/htdocs/the_world.php

-Fishman

Have you ever seen Paris?

2005-10-23T23:46:00.000-07:00

I edited this post, basically deleting the entire middle section, so it might jump around a little bit, just read it. PEACE

My name is Aaron Cummins and I am an alcoholic. Brief introduction: 19 year old male, sexy as hell, virgo, and willing to have sex with the not-so-hot chick, I'm a heartless bastard with no conscience and nothing to lose, that's all the introduction I need.

I guess the first thing I should note is the fact that though I don't go to school at U of M (I am a golden grizzly), I am there every single weekend, and partake in basically every story that will be mentioned herein.

My life is one big sexual conquest. I have no regard for the feelings for the girls, because I am what some could consider a "sexaholic". But it's not even the pleasure derived from sexual intercourse that I'm after, it's more the chase, and knowing that I convinced a girl that having sex with me was a good idea.

When you have a lot of sexual encounters, you're bound to have a few good stories. Sure you'll have the girl every once in a while who is what I dub "dead-weight" and liken to having sex with a blowup doll. They don't move, speak, and show facial expression sparingly.

But every once in a while you'll find the unicorn, that girl who sticks out in your mind as the crazy ass girl who you fucked the first night you met her, and was down for some wicked ass freaky acts. I'm not talking about getting inanimate objects, it's just they have that twinkle in their eye and the grimace on their face when you "pop-it-in".

Eazy-E said it best when he said "College Girls Are Easy". Something enters their psyche the day they move into that dorm room, perhaps there are male pherimones pumped into the air ducts that makes them crave sex and nothing else.

I have a knack for picking the freak out of the crowd, it's like my gaydar (Blogrose Entry 6, Section 2) [yeah I put a reference in here, fuck you.] I just have it in me. Enough with incessant ramblings, I'll highlight one or two little experiences I have.

2 weeks later I bit the bullet and called her up. She came to the party I was at, we made out at the party, went back to her dorm, and had sex, with her roomate not 4 feet away, sleeping.
The next weekend I'm at a party and decide to call her, she plays the "maybe" card but of course shows up at the party. We hang around the party for a little bit, then go to the back seat of my car and have sex to the melodic tune of "maroon 5" (a great sex CD by the way). She proposes the dorm room, and like before mentions her roomate is gone for the night. This time I got to keep my 500$ and didn't get raped, in fact I kept getting 500$ over and over through various acts which will be mentioned.

I hate condoms. Absolutely abhore them, and I will get an STD because of this. I convince this girl not to make me use a condom contingent on the fact that, in her words, "if I get pregnant, you're paying for the abortion." I have no issue with this. I should mention my friend Dylan at this point because he's an important player in the story to follow. My best friend from home, as bad and dirtier than me (Claims 18 girls to my 10).

So we make the trek back to her dorm (which I realize is DIRECTLY below girl #1's dorm), and we cut the small talk and get to sex. She's an animal, from the front, from the back, on top, on bottom, she's down for anything. Future pornstar of america quality. If I had an award to give her, I would have, she was an all-star. I was slamming the bed against the wall for effect, and trying to fuck her as hard as possible to make her feel as dirty as possible. I like to say weird things during sex, it's just something I do, because I think it's funny as hell. Just things like "ooh you like that? you like that?", and usually they're non-responsive (probably thinking what the fuck?), but this one got into it, screaming back. I felt tempted to give her a high-five during sex.

I wouldn't have mentioned this one if the following didn't happen. It actually follows a pretty simple chain of events. Dylan calls me, I don't answer, but I text him the dorm number. We continue having animalistic sex. I tell her he's probably just going to show up. She doesn't understand what this means.

Dylan knocks on the door, she answers the door half naked, and he just bursts in the room and immediately starts tearing her room apart in a search for food in a drunken stupor. "Where the fuck are your menus I want to order some food." Immediately followed by, "Oh holy shit fuck yes," when he finds her leftover pizza in her mini. Dylan lays down in her friend's bed, she and I continue making out and fondling various sexual organs. I look at Dylan, Dylan looks at me, and the operation is initiated.

Every best friend wants to have a threesome with his best friend and some random slut, and this one seemed like a willing candidate. Dylan remarks "So, Aaron are you going to share?"
This was the test, easy to play off as a joke, easy to lead into a threesome, it's our sexual silver bullet. I gauge her response, and say, "what's mine is yours." And I ask her if she's ever seen "paris". I feel like a viking. So she says "would you guys want to do that? isn't it weird?" And without missing a beat, Dylan is out of his bed and standing next to the one containing me and this girl. Towering over us, I drag her over and invite Dylan to join us in bed. Within 20 seconds they're making out. I'm fingering her while they make out. She begins giving Dylan a blowjob.

After getting him up, I tell him to have sex with her first and I lay back.
I'm getting a blowjob from a girl while my friend is having sex with her from behind. I'm choking back laughter because this is possibly the funniest thing I have ever experienced. She asked me why I was laughing and I just reply, "quiet, I'm not laughing." We performed the eiffel tower.

For the un-initiated, it is:
"A threesome with two guys and a girl, where one guy is hitting it from behind, and the other guy is getting a blow job. The guys are high-fiving over the girl to make the eiffel tower shape."

Mid-blowjob, while our hands are linked in the eiffel position, she looks up and catches Dylan with his hands extended and says "What are you doing?" Without missing a beat I say "he's just stretching," her face returns to my crotch.

A few vagina and mouth swaps later, we're done after about 25 minutes. Dylan gets up and starts asking questions like "where is your key, I need to get to the bathroom," while searching for his various articles of clothing. Then, without warning looks at us still in bed and says, "hahhaha PEAAACE!" And runs out of the room. I bust out laughing.
She and I had sex 1 more time, and then go to sleep.

-Cummins

p.s. this post has been edited, so you're not getting the whole thing, sorry.

Never Hop Fences When You're Drunk

2005-10-23T06:33:00.000-07:00

Well, I've been under considerable pressure from my blogger cohorts to make my maiden post, so here it is. It's not going to be very good, but, as Jeff says, it's not the quality but the quantity. That's a terrible maxim to live by but whatever. It's hard to figure out what to post about. I have a lot of stories but they're probably just variations of shit everyone's heard forty times. Guy gets drunk, gets into arguments with inanimate objects, falls down in the street, etc., etc. So, instead of boring you in that way, I figure instead i'll bore you by divulging my thoughts and feelings, or, what we in the literary world call the "inner dialogue". Except it is no longer inner. Okay. Well, every week I look forward to thirsty Thursday's, which is nothing rare, but i've been thinking more and more how my life is dependent on our good friend alcohol. Most people seem to like going out to parties and getting drunk to meet people, have fun, hook up. I don't. I couldn't care less about meeting new people. I can only stand a select amount of people, and I've already met most of them. Therefore, every Thursday thru Saturday my agenda consists of drinking a lot before i go out and drinking more after i go out. This of course entails me in a drunken stupor most of the night. Sounds fun, right? Well, it is, but I've recently been thinking. I guess i had what alcoholics call a "moment of clarity". I just started thinking about how impermanent everything seems to be, especially involving drinking. Obviously, getting drunk leads me nowhere. Gettin wasted on Smirnoff and having philosophical discussions with Charlie about Led Zeppelin while playing Aladdin on Super Nintendo is fun, but i'm starting to think more and more about my future. I can't get drunk forever. One day i'm going to have to a) get a job b) win the lottery or c) die. B is the only option that really leaves me with space to continue with my current lifestyle, unfortunately it is also the most unlikely. So, either i will die, which i guess is worse than having to take responsibility, or i will have to actually get a job in order to supply myself and my life partner with a big screen tv and enough varieties of wine to host a formal dinner party. Fuck. Why does drunkeness have to become so taboo when you get older? I think we should do away with our old-fashioned capitalist economy, and the government should just distribute fifths to every American citizen each week. Then, we would all drink, we would all be in better moods, everyone would look more attractive, and no one would give a fuck about Saddam Hussein or Hurricane Katrina or all of our world's silly problems. Well, that's my plan. It's probably not economically feasible, so I guess you'll still find me thursday thru Saturday sitting in jeff's room clutching a fifth like it's my firstborn child, yelling at the tv, hitting on ugly girls, biting people, peeing off balconies. It's all funnier than it sounds. I guess the implied point of my post is that there's no use bitching about the inevitable. All you can do is take advantage of the delicious present. Basically, you can sit around waiting for the government to distribute alcohol to everyone, waiting to get old and have to drink wine and then spit it out, or you can just say fuck it and start drinking. I say i'm not gonna stop drinking when i'm older; i'll just be the only blisteringly drunk jackass at the formal cocktail party. And i'll hit on seventy year-old women and throw up all over the host's elegant persian rug. so there. i posted. And if you didn't like it, go out and drink some more, then come back and read it again. Then i'm sure my musings will sound as genius as fucking Mitch Albom.

P.S. The title did have nothing to do with my post. It was just an attention-grabber. It did have something to do with my nite, maybe if you're nice i'll tell you later.

-Mark

Cummins

2005-10-22T23:47:00.000-07:00

We signed Cummins. You're in for a treat.
-Fish-Man

Fuck you, Detroit Lions (pt 1)

2005-10-22T02:39:00.000-07:00

I remember when word on the street was -

"OMG. Roy Williams! Charles Rogers! Mike Williams! Kevin Jones! Even I could play qb for the lions, fuck the superbowl, theyre gonna challege the 72' dolphins for a perfect season!!!"

Are you fucking kidding me. Right now ESPN.com claims the lions to be the sorriest franchise in the NFL. I think they're closer to the most pathetic franchise in all of sports, maybe all time. No, deffinitely not all time, but pretty fucking close.

The fact that they're tied for first place in the division with 2 wins is absolutely disgusting. Roy Williams has pretty good natural abilities, but he's consistently running the wrong routes (see bears game), dropping passes, and hardly getting open. Charles rogers is an overrated piece of selfish shit who should be lynched by the city after getting suspended for 4 games for smoking pot. It wasn't the first time he tested positive either, because I'm fairly certain under the current drug policy after you test positive once you are put in a drug program and you have to fail a second test at a later date to be dealt a 4 game suspension. Four fucking games. That's a fucking quarter of a season. Not only are you not half the player you're supposed to be, but you're contributing to the burial of the organization by smoking fucking marijuana. At least use something that has a real effect on you. Perhaps you should be smoking crack or shootin' up some H. I bet you'd get pretty high, you might even OD, and nobody would give a shit because you're a worthless fuck to the team. Mike Williams probably has the most potential of the "big three", but it's gonna be a while before he learns how to become a pro football player, considering he's a rookie with only Kevin Johnson to look up to.

The only thing the lions have to look forward to is the acquisition of Leinart. Too bad there's still 10 weeks left in the season and it doesn't look like the Houston Texans will win a single game.

In part two I will divulge upon the psyche of the quarterback named Joey, why mooch is a shitty coach, and why they'll never be a winning team while playing at Ford Field.

ouch

2005-10-21T23:54:00.000-07:00

Do not let girls handle your legs when youre doing a keg stand. I was doing my keg stand, when Jamie, Whitney, and Felicia all let go of my legs. I came crashing down to the ground, and my neck fucking hurts, and I bit the fuck oiut of my tongue. Thank you very much. Front flip keg stands are not fun
-fishman

Puke

2005-10-19T14:30:00.000-07:00

Ok here's a fun little thing to start. I have no idea why, but it seems like when people want to drink til they can't feel their faces anymore, throw up in a garbage can/on the floor, and pass out on a futon, they come to my room. Keep in mind, the people who have puked in my room are not pussies. They just have no self-restraint. When Schultz pukes in my room, it is usually after drinking 7 shots of hard liquor, bonging a few beers, and then taking 3 or 4 more shots.

So I have decided to start keeping a tally of people who have puked in my room. If i leave any of you who have puked in my room out, feel free to correct me.

Schultz has puked twice, in the way I already described, usually following a beer bong or two. Cummins has puked once. When Cummins pukes, it sounds like devils and children being brutally murdered. He puked right in front of himself while running, slipped in it, and did a fucking major league baseball slide into the garbage can. It was funny. He also did it at 8 in the morning the next morning, while my roommate and I were both hungover. Not only that, he woke up and puked more at every half hour interval just so we could hear what death sounds like just as we would begin to fall back asleep. Cummins puked again at a later date, but this time he stuck his hand down his throat and puked in the bathroom of South Quad. He has wonderful manners. I puked once because I was sick, another time because I drank wayyyyyy too much. I won't count the sick time for the sake of keeping the puke tally to alcohol related incidents only. Charlie has puked twice I think, once because he blazed while super drunk, and again because he took on Bob on a wednesday night. Don't go shot for shot with Bob, you will lose. Sanders puked once and passed out on my futon. Congrats Sanders, you are so hardcore you sometimes don't even make it past pregame.

It seems to me that those are the only instances that people have puked in my room. If any more come to mind I'll let you know. The tally stands at 7.
-Fishman