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(12/11/02 5:42am)
It's not like I want to hate my ex-girlfriend.\nI believe it's wrong to hate anybody, including poopie doo doo head people who just happen to be my ex-girlfriend and ex-friend.\nBut now she's asking for her stuff back in extremely tacky and brief emails that could very well be haikus.\nI just want to say\nI want my poop deck shirt back\nNext time your in town\nThe audacity! The nerve! The grammatical error!\nUnfortunately, she technically does own the shirt, so I have to give it back. But, oh, the possibilities!\nScenario 1: "Joe Was Here" mysteriously ends up on the front of the returned shirt in permanent marker. The private investigator hired to find the perpetrator blames lawn gnomes.\nScenario 2: The ex in question receives a box containing miniature cut-outs of my profile. The cut-outs are made of one hundred percent cotton. Watch out! They may shrink in the dryer! The shirt has inexplicably disappeared. Maybe it's in Tokyo.\nIn fact, I came up with an entire list of scenarios, one of which includes a band of swashbuckling pirates. But there are more important things to discuss.\nLike why on Earth did I not give the shirt back before now anyway? You'd think I'd want it out of my closet asap to get rid of any leftover cooties. Is there something more to this? To delve into this potentially deep psychological problem, we'll turn to Freud.\nFreud: Vell, zee shirt iz zuper kool! Za girl bought it at Zee Poop Deck in zee Bahamaz. Who vouldn't vant a shirt like zat?\nThank you Freud for that completely pointless and unfunny aside. The real problem, of course, stems from the fact I'm still angry with her. If she would've sent an apology with the email, I'd have no problem with the request. Instead, she gets yet another column written about her.\nI shouldn't even be wasting my precious column space on her. The healthiest thing to do would be to send the shirt back and just pretend the entire incident never happened. Many of us are completely unable to do that, though. We want closure. Or at least an admittance that our ex's lives without us are arid deserts full of cactuses, poisonous lizards and Carrot Top.\nIs that so much to ask for? I hardly think so. But what would I do if I were in her shoes, which incidentally still have little pieces of my heart caught between the treads.\nWould I be nice and apologize for the misdeeds my slightly off-kilter ex-boyfriend columnist is accusing me of, while asking for my shirt back? Or would I just dread the day I ever started dating a humor columnist, while asking for my shirt back? Or would I just forget about the stupid shirt and go play Putt-Putt or something equally productive?\nI have no idea what I would do. I don't think my feet would fit in her shoes anyway, and even if they did, she'd more than likely immediately send me an email asking for them back.\nIs all this reason to hate my ex?\nOf course it isn't, and I don't hate her (nothing wrong with extreme dislike, though.) But I would like to have my column space back, please.
(12/04/02 4:15am)
(A letter composed by the columnist to his nephew who just celebrated his third birthday.)\nDear Timmy, \nAt the age of six, I believed everything I was told. Everything! Even when my mother told me the reason the tooth fairy wanted my teeth was to make a giant sculpture of herself. Being older, I now know the tooth fairy uses the teeth in her quest to take over the world. Fortunately, she is stupid and collects teeth instead of nuclear missiles. To make sure you are not ensnared in the lies of youth, I have prepared a list of the most important things you are going to need to know as you grow up. \nJust because some Ethiopian is starving, does not mean you have to finish your food. Your mother just doesn't want to have to deal with all the leftovers. I feel your pain. Peas, asparagus, broccoli…all foods that an Ethiopian wouldn't eat, either. One time I even offered to Fed Ex my leftovers to Ethiopia, but my mother told me that was ridiculous and that nobody likes a smart alek. She then sent me to my seat in the corner. This leads me to my next piece of advice.\nNever, ever try to do something nice at a young age. It will backfire every time. Once I tried to help my mother by putting some of my clothes in the washer. I figured my crayons could use a cleaning so I put them in too. I, for one, thought the clothes looked better than ever before. My mother did not agree with me. And, as usual, whenever we had differences of opinion, I was sent to the corner. The corner and I were close friends growing up. \nSimon is an evil being who delights in the torture of young children. Simon says stand. Simon says jump up and down while bobbing your head and spinning. Simon says throw your body violently against a wall while clucking like a chicken. Go to the emergency room. Simon didn't say. I really hated that game. I would've just quit, but if I did, I would have to take a nap. And to a six-year-old, a nap is worse than catching cooties (which look something like boogers with an imprint of Christina Aguilera on them). \nNothing will bite your finger if you stick it up your nose. But being your uncle and all, I must say that nose picking is quite gross and that I highly suggest you stop that before middle school. And for goodness sake, don't eat anything you find in there. Ewww.\nNot all girls have cooties. Some of them have STDs instead. And no, STD does not stand for Super Tonka Dump truck. You do not want an STD for Christmas, and asking Santa for that is most certainly not a good idea.\nThere is no such thing as the Bogey Man. Unfortunately, there is such a thing as the Boogie Man, which is what people call me when I attempt to dance. It's kind of like calling a tall man Shorty or a funny man Bob Sagat. Maybe you'll understand when you're older. Let's just hope you aren't called the Boogie Man as well.\nAnd most importantly…that picture you let your mother take of you in your He-Man underwear will haunt you for the rest of your life.
(11/22/02 4:37am)
They say that God has a sense of humor, and I hope this is true.\nWhy? Because a Pennsylvania-based environmental group will soon be rolling out a group of ads that asks the all-important question: "What Would Jesus Drive?" According to their campaign, Jesus would just say no to polluting SUVs, while giving a big thumbs up to nature-friendly Volkswagen Beetles and Ford Escorts.\n"We think he is Lord of our transportation choices as well as all our other choices," said the Rev. Jim Ball, executive director of the Evangelical Environmental Network, the group sponsoring the campaign.\nI'll admit that SUVs cause more pollution than other vehicles, and that it's very hard to imagine Jesus behind the wheel of a Ford Explorer chugging up a muddy wilderness road. Especially when the Explorer reaches the top, and Jesus calmly steps out, views the expanse and exclaims, "Way to go Dad!" But I won't admit that using a religious icon who is worshiped by many, including myself, is the best way to go about dissuading the use of SUVs.\nFirst, there is the fact that not everybody in America worships Jesus. Are the commercials also going to feature Mohammed and Buddha standing alongside Jesus shaking their heads contemptuously at a row of Ford Excursions? Maybe we should throw in Zeus just for good measure. He can throw a lightning bolt at a Chevy Tahoe while shouting, "HOW'S THAT FOR ADVENTURE?"\nSecond, it forces us to answer "What Would Jesus Drive?" How is anyone supposed to know that? If I had to guess, I'd say Jesus would probably use public transportation. And I greatly fear the day when I'm walking across campus and come across a sign that reads, "Take Bloomington Transit! Jesus would!" The point is, we have no idea what Jesus would drive, and we're only going to get stupid answers by asking that question.\nThird, where is this going to stop? Is the next ad campaign going to be called "What Would Jesus Drink?"\nNarrator: \nDrink Gatorade! Its thirst-quenching attributes and super-cool variety of colors make it the beverage of choice of your Lord and Savior!\nIt's tough enough to be a Christian today with the likes of Jerry Falwell unjustly calling Mohammed a terrorist and Preacher Jim condemning your fellow students as whores for wearing a skirt that is shin length. The Christian community should not degrade itself further with an ad campaign that is just begging to be on David Letterman's Top Ten List. \nI see nothing wrong with appealing to the moral sense of people in the fight against SUVs. But to use Jesus, or any religious icon, in such a crass way demeans the meaning of the icon itself. I'd like to think Jesus wouldn't really care whether I drive a Chevy Lumina or a Chevy Trailblazer.\nA far better commercial would focus on how SUVs are polluting the air or using up our natural resources and then let the audience decide whether they want to continue purchasing such an environmentally abusing product. We all know that wouldn't work, though.\n"People want power. Consumers want power," said Eron Shosteck, a spokesman for the Alliance of Automobile Manufacturers. And no matter who goes up there to speak against SUVs, from Barry Bonds to President Bush to Jesus, people are going to continue to buy them.\nSo let's just keep Jesus out of motor vehicles altogether. I try to live my life by "What Would Jesus Do," but that concept shouldn't be thrust upon others, especially in something as ridiculous as modes of transportation.
(11/13/02 8:17pm)
Imagine this if you will:\nYou're Joe Student. You're walking around the IU campus without a care in the world. Let's say you're fluttering around campus. You see a cute little squirrel standing on its hind legs practically begging for a rodent hug. You flutter in for a closer look. Suddenly, the delightful ball of fur jumps on you and unleashes its fury upon your forehead. You can do nothing but spin around madly and curse the day you trusted a squirrel.\nYou think this could never happen to you?\nThink again.\nAccording to a Reuters report, a solitary squirrel terrorized an entire town in England before being shot by the grandfather of one of its victims. "Its a shame he went nuts, but I couldn't let this little beggar hold the town to ransom," said Geoff Horth, the local hero.\nThis brings up two very important questions:\n1. How long have people in England been calling squirrels "little beggars?"\n2. What was the ransom? A lifetime supply of nuts? A sheep? What do "little beggars" really want?\nAnimal rights activists may be angered by Mr. Horth's actions, but the squirrel simply had to be sent to that giant oak tree in the sky. The people in the town were afraid to send their children to school because the terrorist squirrel may have beat them up and stolen their lunch money on the way. "Everyone round here is living in fear ... it's a vicious little thing. I'll never trust squirrels again," said one of the local residents of the town.\nSquirrel attacks aren't limited to England, though. Here in America, the malignant rodents are growing in numbers and becoming more aggressive. Supposedly, upset that they are no longer able to travel from Maine to Texas completely by tree.\nLuckily, we have the Squirrel Defamation League (www.deadsquirrel.com) here to warn us about the impending menace. In fact, the SDL defines a squirrel as "the most dangerous threat known to the world." Take that Saddam Hussein. Second-rate once again.\nWe are most certainly not safe here on campus. Squirrels have been known to attack colleges. At the University of Alabama and the University of South Florida, kamikaze squirrels periodically attack transformers and other things necessary for electricity in a desperate attempt to rid humans of their MTV.\nBut the bigger threat may be in our most populous cities.\n"Are you kidding? Squirrels on college campuses are tame compared to the ones we have here in New York City," said SDL reader Mark from New York City. "These little beasts are brazen to say the least. On a summer day in Central Park, the little bustards will grab a hot dog straight out of your hand while you're eating. They've even been known to abscond with small children."\n Once again, I have two questions:\n 1. How long have people in America been calling squirrels "little bustards?"\n 2. What does abscond mean and is it a trait "little bustards" share with certain Catholic priests?\nAre you still not convinced that squirrels need to be destroyed? Then take a look at reason number 10 on the SDL's Top Ten Reasons All Squirrels Must Die.\n"Naturalists that have studied squirrels have discovered many alarming behaviors among them. Squirrels fight even among themselves. A male squirrel will invade the tree of an enemy squirrel and bite off the testicles of the young in the nest."\nI don't care how cute and cuddly you are. That's just wrong.
(11/06/02 6:00am)
I'm becoming my mother.\nI never thought this could happen to me. I always thought the old adage that you become your parents was an elaborate ruse to scare kids into teenage rebellion thus leading to an extreme loss of brain cells and ensuring the dominance of the old folks. \nTeenage rebellion. Sigh. Those were the good old days. Coming home 15 minutes after curfew. Skipping Sunday night church. Eating my dessert before my dinner. Okay, so maybe I wasn't much of a rebel. But, I am definitely doing a good job at becoming my parents, especially my mother.\nIt doesn't even make sense. I'm not even that much like my parents. They are both extremely personable, while I would have trouble starting a conversation with an inanimate object like flip flops. Not that I converse with flip flops, but I just wouldn't feel comfortable starting the conversation. "So, what's your major? Really. How interesting. Don't hear about shoes majoring in Anthropology too often."\nAll of this is quickly changing, though.\nI first noticed it the other day when I was in line at K-Mart and the elderly woman behind me asked me where I found the soap. Some genetic mutant inside of me, let's call him Steve, decides that now would be a wonderful time to start explaining to this woman the extreme hazards of anti-bacterial soap. \nThis is something my mother would do. You cannot make a comment about anything in her grocery cart unless you want to be dragged into a thirty-minute conversation. I still remember the time we went to buy my first razor. My mother insisted that the woman behind us inspect my peach fuzz. And all I could do was stand there and curse the day puberty was invented by a Gregorian monk named Willard.\nSo, I'm chiding this poor woman for not knowing that anti-bacterial soap is almost as bad as anthrax. I try to stop myself, but I can't. This woman MUST know the dangers of anti-bacterial soap!\nAnd this isn't even the worst thing.\nI am now talking to people from my car -- with the windows down. So I'm actually talking to a window, which is just slightly above flip flops on the creepy ladder. My mother does this all the time, and there is nothing that drives me more insane than to be stuck at a four-way stop with my mother. She won't use hand signals. She'll just yell, "YOU HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY!" to the people in the car across from us. As far as they can tell, my mother is mouthing, "ROOS SAVE THE KITE OF MAY!" and then they call the police. And since she insists on calling the police "popo" (I really need to figure out a way to ban MTV at my house), I am petrified of being in the car when she greets an officer with a "What up popo?"\n There has got to be a way to stop this. I don't want to spend the rest of my life warning people outside my car who can't even hear me because the windows are rolled up about the dangers of anti-bacterial soap. That is no way to live.\nBut I'm powerless to stop it. We are all powerless to stop it. I guarantee that one of these days you'll be out with your significant other at a nice restaurant when you'll suddenly develop a terrible urge to start talking about those dang teenagers and their dang loud music. And I'll be at the next table warning you about the dangers of anti-bacterial soap.
(10/30/02 8:42pm)
This is a story about one man's search for a pair of dark green tights. A story filled with horror, more horror and a befuddled store clerk named Marge. In other words, the perfect Halloween story.\nThis story began when I decided to be Peter Pan for Halloween and to be Peter Pan for the entire day, including through class. This says two things about me:\n1. I'm just a big kid who doesn't want to grow up.\n2. I'm just a big kid who doesn't realize that going to class as Peter Pan is kind of creepy no matter what day it is.\nBut I feel that any day in which it is almost socially acceptable to run around carefree as a Disney character should be fully taken advantage of. I don't understand why more people don't get dressed up. Halloween is basically Casual Day on a mind-enhancing drug (Vanilla Coke).\nI have most of the outfit ready. I sewed the booties together using the age-old technique known as tape. I created the shirt using the age-old technique known as shopping. And the hat was made using the age-old technique known as calling my mother and begging her to make if for me.\nNow if I can only find those dark green tights.\nUnfortunately, I don't think I have the will power to ask one more store clerk to help me. Especially since every single store clerk who works in the women's section of a department store in Bloomington is a little white haired old lady named Marge. I am not even beginning to joke here. If I didn't know any better, I would say K-Mart, Wal-Mart and Target all hired the same little white haired old lady named Marge with an uncanny ability to teleport herself from one store to another.\nAnd Marge is really starting to get annoyed with me.\nFirst, there is a natural suspicion of any young male haphazardly walking through the undergarment section of the women's department. Second, this suspicion is highly increased when the young male is asking around for a pair of dark green tights.\nMe: I was kind of wondering if you knew where I could find a pair of ummm ... you know ... leggings ... or tights ... but I would take leggings ... or anything tight ... not that I like tight clothes ... this is for a costume ... and they have to be green ... I mean dark green ... why are you staring at me that way?\nMarge does the only reasonable thing she can think of at this point and teleports herself to Target. This sudden disappearance makes it seem like I am asking the pair of polka dotted panties that were behind Marge to help me find a pair of dark green tights in the middle of the lingerie department. I have to wonder what the guys who are watching the security cameras are thinking.\nSecurity Camera Guy 1: Dude, is that guy talking to a pair of panties?\nSecurity Camera Guy 2: Hey, we all have our kinks.\nThis happened at least nine times over the course of two days, which makes me ponder: Where did Peter Pan find his pair of dark green tights?\nDid Tinkerbell make them? If so, how does one go about asking a fairy to make a pair of dark green tights? Are fairies in the yellow pages? If a fairy leaves Detroit traveling at a speed of 55 mph and runs into a pair of dark green tights from New York traveling at a speed of 65 mph, will the ensuing collision be reported by Geraldo Riviera?\nI have no idea. Happy Halloween.
(10/23/02 10:06pm)
I went home last weekend to Evansville hoping to rediscover my roots, which I apparently lost somewhere on a "C" bus in my time here at Bloomington.\nThis first came to my attention last week when I was having a conversation with a friend from home and she oh-so-casually remarked that I had a northern accent. There is no possible way, I told her. A person probably cannot forget a manner of living in a matter of a couple of weeks. Wrong, she replied. That should be, "People prolly can't fuhget a manna of livin' ina madda uva couple uh weeks."\nCrap. I had obviously forgotten how to say "y'all."\nSo, I went home.\nEvery time I go home everything changes. This time was no exception. Target is turning into a Super Target. McDonald's is turning into a McDonald's Diner. And most importantly, my room has turned into my mother's work room. There is now a Barbie calendar up in what used to be my room. Oh, the humanity!\nEverything changes.\nExcept for the Fall Festival. During the first full week of October, everyone in Evansville and their food crowds into one street resulting in a smell that can only be referred to as "odorrific." This is known as the Fall Festival and if any place could help me find my roots this would be it.\nBut first, I went to Engelbrecht Orchards to see if I could find my roots in a giant corn maze. Having never been to a corn maze before, I was in for quite a shock when I reached the entrance.\nThe current rate for walking through a bunch of corn is two dollars. Terry Bradshaw would literally explode if he ever found TWO WHOLE DOLLARS. I know the economy isn't doing so hot, but I think it is a telling sign of things to come when people are charged to walk through vegetation.\nBut, I couldn't resist the temptation to do something completely pathetic, so I ended up paying the entrance fee anyway. And let me tell you something. That was the best two dollars I have ever spent in my life.\nForget collect calls. Put that dollar you find on a ranch while riding a horse with Terry Bradshaw toward your "I'm Going to a Corn Maze!" fund. I actually got lost. You wouldn't think being completely disoriented in a field of corn was much fun, but don't knock it till you try it. Plus, the theme of the corn maze was the Wizard of Oz, which just helps you realize all the more that "I am definitely in Southern Indiana and I just got robbed by some farmer who is laughing his head off."\nUnfortunately, I was still saying "you all," though. The Fall Festival was going to be my last chance.\nThe best part of the Fall Festival is the food. There are about a hundred different food booths offering such delicacies as brain sandwiches, haystacks, gator gumbo and elephant ears. Also, you can get fried anything. Among the favorites, however, are fried Twinkies, fried apples, fried Slim Fast bars and fried air. You can literally hear arteries screaming for mercy as you walk by a person eating a fried Twinkie.\nSadly, you can't buy your roots anywhere at the Fall Festival. Not even fried roots. So, I was walking with some friends along the street when I spied a booth offering a previously unknown luxury known as chocolate covered fried crickets.\n"Y'all gotta check this out," I screamed.\nI had found my roots.
(10/16/02 11:08pm)
Indiana University needs a new president.\nAnd the IUSA (I Usually Smell like Armpits) has a solution to this pressing dilemma. In the vein of "Work Hard, Play Hard" and "Vote Hard," IUSA will soon announce plans for a new initiative tentatively entitled, "Preside Hard." \nThat's right. IUSA is going to hold a raffle to see who gets to be the next president of Indiana University. You could be the next president of our college!\nBilly Bob the Buckaroo, the totally imaginary spokesperson for IUSA President Bill Gray, said "Preside Hard" will get students to "at least stop thinking about the Corvette disaster. That was such a bad idea. Woo boy. That's probably one of the dumbest things we've ever done. Man, we must have been really drunk. Heck, I don't remember. What was your question again?"\nThe raffle will be open to all students except those whose last name start with the letter "G" or "P." "We feel that anybody whose last name could be possibly silent (i.e. gnu, pneumonia) should not be allowed to be president," justified the Buckaroo. A few students have pointed out that the letters "H" and "W" could also be construed as being silent (i.e. hour, whole), but the IUSA could not hear their complaints over the revving of a nearby Corvette engine.\nMany students are excited about the possibility of becoming president.\n"I would make a great president," said imaginary student (bet you didn't know there were this many imaginary people on campus) Georgie Porgie. "The first thing I'd do would be to launch a pre-emptive attack on any nearby college that may pose a threat to us. Doesn't Purdue University have some nuclear stuff? Do Boilermakers constitute an imminent threat?"\nOther students are not so sure.\n"I just don't know," said Winnie the Pooh Bear. "Is there an adequate supply of honey near the president's house?"\nThis comment made the Buckaroo furious. "I don't know what the Pooh Bear is talking about. Who wouldn't want to live in a house named after some guy called Bryan. Bryan is a good name. My uncle's name is Bryan."\nIUSA realizes that someone may attempt to steal or damage the Bryan House, so it is taking precautionary steps to assure that won't happen. They will be posting a team of elite spy chipmunks around the house to keep guard. Anyone who steps within 10 feet of the Bryan House will be immediately and recklessly nibbled to death. IUSA has no comment on whether these will be "real" elite spy chipmunks, though.\n There are a few fears that random selection is not the best way to go about choosing a new president.\n "I don't see why not," said the Buckaroo. "It's totally democratic, and being totally democratic is what IUSA is all about. Plus we're hoping to recoup some of the money we spent on the Corvette and that sweet party we threw the other day, that was, um, thrown to encourage student voting. Go Kirkwood!"\nPresident Brand had absolutely nothing to say about any of this because frankly there is no way I'm going to call that man and ask him questions about stuff I am totally making up. He is still the president of the University, and I don't feel like having a $25,000 dollar Idiot Fee added to my bursar account.\n"In conclusion," said the Buckaroo, "we're just hoping that every student here realizes that they too have the ability to 'Preside Hard.' Has anyone seen my beer bong"
(10/09/02 4:32am)
They are now giving out awards for studying ostrich sex. ("They" referring to people with way too much time on their hands.)\nThis amazes me, but not as much as the fact that there are jobs out there where one is able to study ostrich sex. I didn't even know that ostriches had sex. Have any of you ever seen a baby ostrich? Of course not! That's because ostriches are the result of a mad scientist having fun with a flamingo and a mop.\nBut thanks to four brave and curious souls from the U.K. who wrote the Nobel Prize winning article, "Courtship Behavior of Ostriches Towards Humans Under Farming Conditions in Britain," we now know that ostriches are able to perform the hanky-panky, the horizontal mambo and the electric slide.\nThey're also pretty good at having sex. Especially when they're around humans.\nWhoa! Say what?\nIt's true. Humans are a total turn-on to our feathery friends. We're like kinky lingerie, chocolate and Old Spice all rolled up into one giant burrito of wild crazy ostrich sex.\nAt zoos across England, keepers are forced to Febreeze the ostrich pens so the following doesn't occur:\nOstrich 1: Henry, darling, what is that smell?\nOstrich 2: Why Eliza, I do believe that is Eau de Human Sweat.\nOstrich 1: I do believe you are right Oswald. Ooh, baby. Ooh, baby.\nMarvin Gaye: Let's get it on.\nThis astounding discovery was first published in an issue of the 39th volume of British Poultry Magazine, which makes the average person wonder two things: "How is one able to create 39 volumes of British Poultry Magazine?" and "Shouldn't ostriches be in the British Mops Magazine?" \nI actually searched the Internet in hopes of finding the elusive British Poultry Magazine. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find a Web site, but on the bright side, I'm now on the FBI list of people who seriously should be considered for deportation. Maybe they'll send me to England. I can wander from ostrich farm to ostrich farm offering my services as a human aphrodisiac.\nOn second thought, that's kind of gross. Maybe I'll invent a washing machine for cats and dogs instead.\nOh wait. That's already been done. Eduardo Segura won the Ig Nobel Prize in Hygiene for that ingenious contraption also known as, "The Really Fun Machine That Would Be Considered Animal Cruelty Here in the States, But Luckily Was Built in Spain Where They Run From Angry Bulls For a Good Time."\nI wish I could come up with something cool that would win an Ig Noble Prize. It doesn't matter that the Ig Noble Prizes are the scientific equivalent of giving a trophy to the baseball player who hit the foul ball that killed the adorable team mascot, Oscar the Sex-Crazed Ostrich. What's important is that it's still an award, and thus I want one too.\nHowever, I'm not a scientist. I'm just a mere college student trying to earn my living through torrid tales of wild crazy ostrich sex. (Sorry, wild crazy ostrich sex is my new favorite phrase and I had to write it again.) Wild crazy ostrich sex. Ooh, that is so much fun. You have to try it. Just say it aloud. Don't mind the person next to you. They'll understand. They're probably thinking it anyway.\nCould I win an Ig Nobel Prize for starting a new catch phrase? Hmmm. Probably not, but just in case ...Wild crazy ostrich sex.
(10/02/02 4:51am)
Friday's IDS yelled this headline in the top right corner of the front page: "Friends remember IU music student."\nAfter looking at the student's picture, I softly realized that I too remember Georgia Marriot, the IU senior who tragically died last Wednesday after a biking accident the previous day.\nI wasn't one of Georgia's friends, though. I don't know what her favorite color was. I don't know what she liked to do on rainy afternoons. I don't even know her middle name. I was just another guy in her ballroom dancing class last spring.\nThe only two things I remember saying to her on the few occasions we danced together were, "Hi" and "Sorry I stepped on your toes." I may have asked how her day was going once or twice.\nLooking back, I wish I had said more.\nHindsight is 20/20.\nI remember that she had a great smile and an infectious laugh. But so do a lot of other people, many of whom were also in our class. I don't remember saying much to any of them either.\nThere are over 30,000 people on this campus. It's ridiculous to think that one should get to know every single person here, but when we limit ourselves to the small circle of friends we've known since freshman year, we take the risk of missing out on the Georgia Marriots of this world.\nWe don't always have another day to get to know someone.\n"But what if they laugh at what I have to say and think I'm a complete dork?"\n"But what if they aren't alive tomorrow?"\nI remember Georgia never seemed embarrassed at the prospect of having to dance with one of the more uncoordinated guys. Some of the girls did. I remember the slight grimace on their faces when they learned that the older man with two left feet was going to be their partner for the Waltz.\nGeorgia always seemed genuinely pleased with any partner. She probably learned a bit about him or her as well. I'd like to think so, at least.\nThere are hundreds of people from my past who I wish I would've had the courage to talk to. Maybe even thousands. I'll never get that second chance to talk with Georgia. But hopefully when I walk by one of the other people from ballroom dancing, I'll ask them about their day. \nThat would be a start.\nToo many of us are afraid of being hurt by people we've never even met. I know I'm not going to change in a day. I know none of the people reading this are going to change that quickly either. But, I think it is worth the effort if it enables us to expand the group of people we know. There are thousands of people in this community, and chances are, at least one or two of them would enrich your life.\nSo, talk to someone new today. Give a friendly hello to the person you're sharing an elevator with. If you feel daring, ask them about their favorite color. "We've been reading her journals, and after reading, I'm so inspired to do better. I want to be more like Georgia," said Marriot's roommate, Shanna Davis in the article. \nSounds like someone I wish I would have known a little better.
(09/25/02 5:28pm)
This would be a lot simpler if someone would just tell me if the alternator is the round, shiny thing or the square, shiny thing.\nAs it is, my car remains lifeless, surrounded by mean-spirited vehicles that actually have power. When nobody is looking, these vehicles use their headlights and knowledge of Morse Code to tell my car that it's a complete loser.\nWhich, to be truthful, it is. The tape player is broken, the seat belts don't protect, and every once in awhile, I discover that someone has put a hot dog on my antenna. That's just wrong.\nCars have feelings, too. Unfortunately, cars require power to have feelings, so Lumi (my car) is dead out of luck. It's not her fault, though. Her stupid owner (that would be me) left the interior lights on, draining the battery, thus turning Lumi into the equivalent of a giant cardboard box with wheels.\nQ: So why don't you just get a jump?\nA: Because Lumi's hood release doesn't work.\nQ: So why don't you try to fix it?\nA: Because that would require me knowing the difference between an engine and refried beans.\nQ: Don't be stupid. You know the difference between an engine and refried beans.\nA: Okay, so maybe I do. One giveth gas, and the other taketh away.\nBut I don't believe that little factoid is going to get Lumi running any time soon. So, I do the only logical thing I can think of and call my parents who express their sympathy in the form of, "I guess this means we have to come up there."\nLuckily, my step-dad knows how to fix cars.\nUnluckily, Lumi is a skilled masochist which proceeds to break herself the second after my stepdad fixes the hood release and gives her a jump.\n"Seems like the alternator's not working."\n"Where's the alternator?"\n"Take a guess."\nI hate the "Find the Random Part" game. For all I know, the alternator could be in Cleveland watching the football game. I take an extremely long, thoughtful look at the many different things surrounding the engine, any of which could be the elusive alternator, and discover that I've gained a whole new respect for the profession of auto mechanic.\nOf course, the object I point to is something completely not the alternator. \n"In fact, that thing could possibly blow your hand off."\nThat's reassuring. My already angst-ridden car has the ability to dismember me. This is information I really wish I didn't know.\n Well, it's now time to go to an auto parts store to buy a replacement. Wandering around an auto parts store has always made me feel kind of like Busta Rhymes at a Peter, Paul and Mary concert. Any second, I fear that someone wearing a Harley shirt is going to walk up to me and ask if I know what a carburetor is. And I know with all my heart that the second I tell Mr. Harley a carburetor is a protein drink, is the exact same second God will strip my masculinity away from me.\nI realize that knowing absolutely nothing about cars doesn't make me less of a man, but unfortunately someone failed to send that memo to the other millions of men in this country. Luckily, I was able to avoid Mr. Harley and the harrowing experience that was sure to follow. \nPlus, Lumi is now fixed, which should give me a few months to learn where the alternator is. Maybe I'll buy a plane ticket to Cleveland.
(09/18/02 4:57am)
I may be 21, but I can still miss my mommy. And I'm sure that there are many other college students here who have also felt the pinch of homesickness during these first few weeks of school.\nJoe Freshman is sitting in class attempting to figure out what human beings did wrong to deserve Finite Math, when suddenly he'll realize that he now has to do his own laundry and that he doesn't know the difference between detergent and anthrax. \nMeanwhile, Jane Freshman is talking to her boyfriend back home over instant messenger when suddenly she'll realize that she could be dating that hilarious columnist from the IDS instead. Unfortunately, Rory Starks will then wake up. (You all thought I was going to refer to myself, didn't you? Got you on that one. Apologies to Rory Starks.)\nBoth students will then develop an insatiable desire to pick up the phone and call Pizza Express. Oh, and they'll also miss home and want to see their family. \nThe only problem is that they have no way home. If they're lucky, however, Joe and Jane Freshman will run into each other and discover that they are the long lost separated twins of Ulysses Freshman, the inventor of the cream pie, and he will come up for a campus visit.\nThat's sort of like what happened to me this weekend, except for the cream pie part. It is always an experience when my mother decides to grace IU with her presence.\nExample 1: We're walking through the woods near Franklin Hall when we come across the disrobed statues of Adam and Eve.\nMom: "How disgraceful! Those people don't have any clothes on!" (Everything my mother says is pre-packaged with an exclamation point.)\nMe: "They're Adam and Eve."\nMom: (takes a closer look) "Oh my goodness! Adam has a little dinky!" (She also has an incredible gift for pointing out the obvious, especially when it involves statuary genitalia.)\nExample 2: We're in a cramped elevator on the way to my floor. Beside me is my best friend who also happens to have the distinct privilege of being my ex-girlfriend. Beside my mother is IU basketball fan favorite, A.J. Moye, without his shirt on. This has bad sitcom written all over it. "My Mom, My Ex, and Moye." Coming this fall to UPN.\nThere has to be a more sane way to overcome homesickness.\nHelping me in this endeavor is a wonderful list from the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire Counseling Services titled, "Ten Ways to Combat Homesick-ness on a College Campus." Some of the suggestions include examining your expectations, seeking new opportunities, familiarizing yourself with your new surrounding and talking about it with friends. All of which makes one wonder: Does the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire realize that nobody on earth knows how to pronounce Eau?\nSeriously, though, homesickness is a major problem for many students away from home for the first time and the first step toward conquering it is admitting that you have it.\nThere is no reason to be ashamed that you miss having your mom kiss your forehead goodnight. There is a reason to be ashamed if you insist that she also kiss your stuffed bear on the forehead goodnight, but we won't go there. \nThe most important thing to remember is that your family wants you to be happy and will always be with you in your heart. The second most important thing to remember is that Adam has a little dinky. Keep those two facts in your mind and you should be fine.
(09/11/02 4:11am)
Today is the one-year anniversary of a terrible tragedy that happened to America.\nFriday is the one-year anniversary of my first-ever date, a not-so terrible tragedy except if you happen to be said date.\nA look at how America and I have changed since:\nAmericans of all races, creed and cartoon preference are now more firmly united than ever in the belief that the U.S. should launch a pre-emptive strike on any nation that poses a threat to our security. This should serve as a warning to you Argentineans, Yugoslavians and Spaniards. We will not forget the World Basketball Championships so easily. Let's see how good you are at setting a pick against a cruise missile.\nI am now more firmly united than ever in the belief that juggling nine cats and Al Roker is far easier than dating.\nAmerica has become more cautious as evidenced by Airport Security. I got searched, not once, not twice but three times by security at the Evansville Regional Airport this summer. Obviously the first gander through my backpack at my CD Walkman and Spongebob Squarepants coloring book was not enough.\nI have become more cautious as evidenced by the fact that I cringe at the phrase, "You can take me home now."\nAmericans now better realize there are more important things than money, power and chocolate éclairs as baseball players proved this summer by settling for just being "I can swim in a pool full of Jell-O" filthy rich rather than being "I can swim in a pool full of caviar" filthy rich. That's a big difference, and I'm proud of the guys. Who really wants to swim in caviar anyway? Ewww.\nI now better realize there are more important things than finding your one true love such as the tremendous joy of using Jell-O, baseball and ewww in the same paragraph.\nAmericans are spending more time with their loved ones, even that crazy aunt who just sits and mumbles at family reunions unless she is spoken to and then she hisses in a menacing manner. Okay, maybe Americans are still avoiding her like the West Nile.\nI am spending more time watching George Clooney movies while wondering, "What does he have that I don't?" The answer, of course, being facial hair.\nAmerica has become fascinated by 24-hour news networks, which are constantly updating what is going on around the world through quick-moving ticker lines at the bottom of the screen that let Americans know important happenings like, "Andorran Man Realizes That Country Could Be Defeated By a Flock of Angry Sheep" and "Yasser Arafat Has Just Finished Using the Little Boys Room".\nI have become fascinated by the MTV show DISmissed, which proves that if you put three single and attractive young people in a room one of them will say the word "booty".\nAmerica has become a slightly better country since Sept. 11, though there is definitely more work that needs to be done in areas such as generosity and honesty (Corporate America's New Slogan: "It's only lying if you're a wooden puppet and your nose grows exactly 3.7 inches in length afterwards.")\nI have become a slightly more dateable person since Sept. 13, though there is definitely more work that needs to be done in areas such as getting a second date.\nOverall, it seems like America and I have learned quite a bit in the past year. Hopefully, this trend continues.
(09/04/02 5:43am)
Never date a humor columnist.\nBecause if you do date a humor columnist and you do break up with said columnist, he will immediately proceed to write a nasty column about you the first chance he gets.\nHopefully, you have learned your lesson Miss Amy.\nWhat jilted boyfriend wouldn't love to call his ex everything from a putrid ball of slime to a paramecium brained koala gremlin (my personal favorite) in front of 30,000 people? What guy who has just been thrown out like Fat Albert trying to steal second base wouldn't drown in his own saliva at the opportunity to embarrass his former girlfriend in what Shakespeare would refer to as "revenge sweeter than a coffee creamer filled with three sweet n' lows"? That guy would be me.\nSo far the worst insult I've been able to come up with is that she is a poopie doo doo head and unfortunately I don't even really mean that. \nThe Idiot's Guide to Surviving Your First Break Up states that I should at least have her picture posted on my dart board, but I just can't bring myself to do it. Well, that and I don't own a dart board. It's not fair. All of my friends have at least one ex whom they hate passionately. I would settle for mild dislike. Maybe it's because we were officially boyfriend/girlfriend for only four days. I don't have any bad experiences to bring up. "Remember that one time you didn't laugh at my joke? You better believe I do!" I just realized that I am 21 years old and have only had one girlfriend, which lasted a grand total of four days. Wow! I wonder if guys can become old maids? I can already see myself in a retirement home playing shuffleboard by myself because all the hot, single eighty year old women, even the bald ones, are "washing their hair".\nBut at least the grandmas didn't ruin pop songs for me. Here are a few verses from Vertical Horizon's "Grey Sky Morning." \n"So you stole my world. Now I'm just a phony. Remembering the girl leaves me down and lonely ... But it's not so bad. You're only the best I ever had. You don't want me back. You're just the best I ever had. It may take some time to patch me up inside. But I can't take it so I run away and hide." \nThe disc jockey who played that on my way to work deserves a slow death at the hands of lawn gnomes. I had no idea pop music was so depressing until now. And there are millions of songs just like that. The entire genre of soft pop has been destroyed for me because of her. And what makes it worse is that I know deep inside she has done me a great favor. I now have a legitimate excuse for never listening to the Backstreet Boys again. At this rate I'm never going to be allowed back in the He-Man Woman Hater's Club. Which is sad because they throw really great parties. And after re-reading that paragraph, I believe I'd break up with me too.\nWhy can't I be furious like normal guys? I should be storming around screaming, "She had no right! I'm the best thing that ever happened to her! Who ate the last Hot Pocket?!" Instead, I'm calmly sitting at my computer making a rubber band ball why trying to think of the perfect ending. It seems you lucked out this time, Miss Amy.
(08/28/02 3:53am)
Freshmen are like puppies.\nAt first, they are soooo cute! They're tiny and stumble around completely confused. They chew on desk legs and you just want to walk up to one and give him or her a great big hug. However, you must resist this temptation because nobody wants to start a semester being known as the "hugger."\nIt's hard, though, because they are soooo innocent and you think that maybe, just maybe if you touch one, some of that will rub off. \nBut it won't. All you'll get is the mystified stare of a kid, trying to figure out how they can possibly look cool with their parents, who have yet to tell their little one goodbye.\nSome freshmen have trouble adjusting. They seem fine at first, but then they pee on the floor and all you can do is shake your head and say to a fellow upperclassman, "We should have bought a hamster."\nEventually, they'll get used to their new surroundings and the "accidents" won't happen as frequently. After about two weeks, some of them may even know where they're going in more specific terms than "that big brick building over there," but you won't want to give them a congratulatory hug because it's been two weeks and you KNOW that a few of them have refused to warm up to the concept of a community shower.\nFreshman Fact No. 1: You cannot appropriately clean yourself with a water bottle.\nFreshman Fact No. 2: That funky smell is you. Get over it and take a shower.\nIt's just soooo cool watching freshmen experience college life for the first time. Exploring their new territory, playing catch with Frisbees and tumbling over each other in that playful manner only freshmen can manage. And it's just soooo sad to know, in about a month, they'll all be grown-up college students and you'll be thinking, "Where did the time go?"\nSo, treasure the first few weeks of freshmen. If you see one spinning around in circles, take him or her by the shoulders and gently point out which way is straight. If you see one looking a little depressed, tell a funny anecdote too about when you were a college puppy and couldn't figure out why the squirrels around here are so small (turns out they're chipmunks…that perplexed me for weeks). If you see one sniffing a fire hydrant, immediately call the IU Police Department and keep a safe distance because they could very well be rabid.\nFinally, a bit of advice for all freshmen: Don't be afraid to ask for help during the first few days of college. Not all of us once rookie students are crazies who like to hug random people. There may actually be some who know what they're talking about. I'm not one of course, but I've heard they exist. Good luck!
(07/29/02 3:41am)
I was planning on writing a serious column this week, but unfortunately I have no idea what has gone on in the world lately since I stopped using the Internet and watching the O'Reilly Factor a couple of weeks ago. \nOne can assume the Israelis and Palestinians are still killing each other and that Saddam has said something to the effect of "I hate America. I don't even know what a nuclear weapon is, is it a kind of cheese? Does anyone know where I can get a decent mustache trimmer?"\nOne can also assume that the War on Terror is still going on and that Osama is still in the unnatural state of being unsure of whether he is dead or not. I almost feel sorry for the guy. It must suck not being able to buy a decent roll of toilet paper. But then I remember that he's responsible for thousands of deaths, and I don't feel so bad anymore.\nSpeaking of responsibility, more than tens of thousands of Africans have probably died needless deaths since I last read a newspaper sometime around the Fourth of July. And the funny thing is (I'm a humor columnist and thus supposed to know funny things) that it seems no one cares and that no one ever will. Not that I can say much. The most I've ever done for Africa is finishing my meal so as to not hurt the feelings of some poor Ethiopian.\nIt's not my job to write serious anyway, so I'm not sure why I even wanted to. For the most part, I think the student body would prefer to read about an embarrassing incident involving Cheese Whiz and a Dalmatian (Just wait. One day I will write a column on that topic) over a piece blasting campaign finance reform. I know I would. How important is it to be informed anyway?\nSadly, I'm proof that it is very important. Could you imagine a world filled with Joe Graces? Nothing would ever get done because everybody would be outside watching chipmunks. \nSeriously, I have the utmost respect for my fellow columnists at the IDS. One, it seems they have the unnatural ability to complete a thought and write a cohesive article (to tell the truth, I no longer remember what my opening sentence is). Second, it always brings a smile to my face to look into the opinion page and read an article slamming our government and culture. Not so much because I agree with them, but it's nice to know we live in a country where making fun of our leaders is completely acceptable and even approved. \nWhy did George W. Bush cross the road? Because an advisor told him to. And that right there is proof that I should never be a political humorist. A funnier punch line would have involved Jell-O and a runaway mannequin and probably wouldn't have anything to do with our president. But I don't feel like thinking of it right now.\nSometimes, I wish I could write like the other columnists and make grandiose claims concerning current events. I would have great headlines like "Joe Grace Attacks the Toilet Industry" and would be feared by the local government. But I have to accept the fact that I'm best at writing about things that really aren't important unless for some odd reason you own stock in Joe Grace's Life. And I hope that none of you do.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
It's 11 o'clock on a Friday night, and I'm sitting on a stone wall waiting for a bus to take me to Wal-Mart.\nThere is something very wrong with this.\nAll around me are hundreds of fellow college students eagerly anticipating transport to a giant retail store. Somehow, I didn't think my first weekend night at IU would turn out like this.\nI'm not even sure why I'm waiting for the bus. \nFor one, Wal-Mart is a little intimidating to me.\nIt's not because of the size of the place or the overcrowding. No. Far from it.\nIt's because I know that somewhere in that gargantuan store, a giant bouncing smiley face is lurking around rolling back prices at its own discretion. I swear that if I ever catch a glimpse of that horrid thing, I'm running straight to the sporting goods department and buying the biggest rifle they have.\nI don't care if giant Wal-Mart bouncing smiley faces are on the endangered species list. Wal-Mart just isn't big enough for the both of us. And that's saying something. What, I don't know.\nI've missed the first bus to Wal-Mart. I was standing on the street corner with about 50 other students when the bus pulled right beside us and stopped.\nIt was just teasing us, though, because as soon as the first few people started walking up to the bus, it started up again and turned the street toward the front of the dorm. Suddenly, almost everyone on that corner bolted after that bus like it was a one-way trip to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory where Oompah-Loompahs are actually the secret ingredient to Runts candy.\nAnother way of putting it is that they ran after that bus like a peanut butter sandwich after jelly. Peanut butter just doesn't taste right without jelly.\nYet another way of putting it is that they chased that bus like a deer after grass.\nOK, I'm going to stop that. \nWell, there's no way on Oprah Winfrey's green earth I'm going to run after a bus heading to Wal-Mart. There are just some things I won't do. So, I missed the first bus and found myself waiting for the second bus to come by.\nAnd waiting and waiting. Wal-Mart just isn't worth that kind of time. All I need is a pair of scissors and some loose-leaf paper.\nBut there was some force compelling me to go to Wal-Mart. I believe it was the ghost of Sam Walton, who if still alive, would be rich enough to buy a country and rename it Wal-Mart. \nA place where giant smiley faces roam free amid the beautiful landscape of vast parking lots and fast-food restaurants. A place where food, furniture and frying pans live happily together only aisles apart.\nFinally, I just got bored waiting, stood up, and walked back to my giant smiley face-free dorm room knowing that at least there I would be safe.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
I can now officially add "knows the Hoochie Mama" to my resume. If that can't get me a job in the journalism world, I just don't know what will.\nI learned the "Hoochie Mama" along with other various moves at hip-hop class Monday night in the SRSC (Senators Really Scare Children).\nNow, bear in mind that I'm using the word "learn" in the vaguest sense here. Basically, it means I was able to get through the dance steps without seriously injuring myself or the others around me.\nThe problem is that I have about at much rhythm as Gary Coleman has height. \nAnyway, I walked into the gym to discover that about 200 people were taking the same class. Good to know I'll be embarrassing myself in front of an audience. I'd hate to think my performance would be wasted.\nThe first move was called Run, Run, Run. You run, run, run one way, then run, run, run the other way, and there are way too many commas in that sentence. It wasn't the hardest thing to do and even a lead foot like me could catch on to that one.\nWe then moved on to moving our hips. The class went pretty much straight downhill for me after that. My hips don't understand rhythm.\nIt's like Cyrillic to them. I tried hula dancing once, and in response, Hawaii created a law requiring that I be mercilessly destroyed if I step one foot onto one of its islands. I think the "mercilessly" part is a little overdoing it, if you ask me.\nSo, I'm stumbling around struggling to get my body to follow the simple instructions my mind is sending it. \n"Right foot forward," the instructor yells. Inexplicably, my left foot goes forward instead. I have come to the terrible realization that my body does not know it's left side from it's right side. This is horribly disconcerting.\nBut I keep on moving praying that I don't collide with one of the people next to me. They were smart, though. As the class went on, I noticed that the distance between me and them kept slowly increasing. I can't blame them. I didn't even know where I was heading most the time.\nThen came the "Hoochie Mama." As part of this particular dance, the participants are supposed to thrust their hips forward in a way in which I'm sure my mother wouldn't approve of me doing surrounded by about 30 members of the opposite sex. That, and the potential embarrassment factor of this particular move for me, is too high to even be charted. \nI do the only thing I can think of and stand perfectly still while the others in the room perform a group act which I'm sure would have killed the Pope had he for some extremely odd reason been in the room at the time. Luckily, I'm not the only one doing an impression of a statue, so I don't feel too bad for not doing that move.\nMaybe next time.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
I went home to Evansville last weekend to attend the wedding of two friends I went to high school with.\nIt was a very nice wedding overall. But my favorite part is when you get to throw rice at the bride and groom as they're leaving the church. I never take the rice out of the little bag before I throw it directly at the groom. I do this because I'm kind. I know how much of a mess it is to get rice out of the hair.\nThe reception was a lot of fun, too. I even got to be the kind of, sort of, semi-official video camera guy for the first half of it because the guy who was supposed to do it mysteriously disappeared. I blame the dingoes.\nThese are a few of the things I learned while holding the camera:\nFor some strange reason, people don't like it when you film them eating. Especially if they're sinking their teeth into a big piece of juicy fried chicken and you zoom in on the grease floating down their cheek. And then you comment to them how disgusting this looks on videotape. They really hate that. I just don't get it.\nNo matter how cool you may think it will look on screen, putting the camera directly in the way of a cork about to be popped from a champagne bottle is a very bad idea. Trust me on this.\nAnother seemingly cool shot that can have disastrous results is holding the camera in the middle of a bunch of single women right before the bride tosses her bouquet into the group. This can be devastating if the bouquet falls on the camera. Luckily, this didn't happen to me, but I could imagine what would happen if it did, and more than likely, I wouldn't be alive to write this column anymore. I swear I've never seen that many females with bared teeth at the same time before.\nIt's really hard to see little kids while walking around with a camera, but I'm pretty sure I didn't cause any permanent damage to any of the tiny tykes. Little kids are tough. When my brother and I were little, we used to stuff each other in sleeping bags, tie some ropes around the bags, and then put the bagged body in a closet and see how long it took before the trapped one would scream for mercy. My brother became claustrophobic around the age of 10. My parents could never figure out why.\nThe kind of, sort of, semi-official video camera guy (me, in this case) can really annoy the official photographer guy. Particularly when he keeps on wandering in and out of the photographer's shots on accident. He also didn't appreciate it when I made goofy faces at the wedding party while he was trying to take their picture. \nThe camera was finally taken away from me following the first dance. The powers that be thought my dancing with the camera was just a bit too much of a hazard to be allowed to go on. Oh well.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
After 16 hours of pretending to be a chimpanzee, I've decided that I don't like being one very much. \nIn fact, I believe I hate being a chimp.\nUnfortunately, I'm stuck in this farce for the next eight hours because the professor of my chimpanzee class assigned us to eat like a chimp for 24 straight hours and I'm dumb enough not to think of a way out of it.\nI know what everyone is thinking. What is a journalism major doing in a class on monkeys?\nI have no idea. Next question, please.\nAnyway, for the last 16 hours, I have eaten three apples, one orange, eight pieces of celery, and the best two chicken tenders I have ever had in my entire life. I probably ate more chicken than I was supposed to, but I'm just going to pretend a chicken fell out of the sky into the jungle into my lap and I just happened to have a stove and frying pan.\nIt's 2 a.m. and I am so craving a McDonald's cheeseburger right now. But a cow falling out of the sky into the jungle is just a bit too wild even for my imagination. \nMy stomach is quite irked for good reason. I can hear it rumbling as I type. "What is going on here? I demand some beef or milk or even bread. If I had arms, I would kill for a slice of bread right now. But I don't have arms because I'm an internal organ. Aarrgghh."\nI'm also allowed to eat raw spinach and unsalted peanuts, but it seems the Wright C-Store doesn't stock up on those two items. Popeye would be quite irate if he found out the Wright C-Store was not keeping a good supply of his testosterone-laced spinach. I have never eaten spinach before because of his cartoons. I was always afraid my muscles would get confused and all the spinach would go to my finger and it would explode and I wouldn't have my finger anymore. I'd miss that finger.\nI think writing this column at 2 a.m. after a full day of eating like a chimp is a very bad idea. I'm going to read this thing Thursday and be like, "Aw man...my mom is gonna read this crazy thing and is gonna start worrying that I'm doing drugs, and my only defense is gonna be that my professor asked me to eat like a chimp for a day and then I know she's gonna start crying after that." That was a lot of "gonnas." That's one more gonna than I've had apples today.\n I don't even want to see an apple anymore. Try eating three apples in a row and see how much you like the evil little red fruits. I plan on going to an applesauce factory sometime this month just to see them suffer.\nIt's pretty obvious to me now that I'd make a horrible chimpanzee. It's sad, but true. Yet another dream of mine destroyed by reality. Oh well, maybe next week I'll try to be a koala bear.