Posts Tagged ‘college’

Pretty strong words from an insufferable wiseass like myself, right?  It’s true.  I despise April Fools Day with a hatred that is well beyond the vocabulary of the Westboro Baptist Church.  Kind of ironic when I used to love this holiday– almost as much as Halloween.  Well as the song goes–  I used to love her, but I had to kill her…. or in this case, me.

If you’re scratching your head with confusion, that’s perfectly ok.

There are also some of you pointing your fingers and screaming, “Serves you right, you bastard!”

That’s also ok– except I know my father and you should reconsider your insults accordingly.

But I do love Adam West...

Hold your shit, boy wonder, I think he’s about to explain…

You see, only I could destroy a holiday I love by doing it too well.  After all, I am that guy.  Some of you are still scratching your head trying to figure out what the penultimate prank would be… and those same people mistakenly insulting my parentage are further wishing that I’d be on the receiving end of sex with a cactus.

Figured it out yet?  How ’bout another riddle–  what has two thumbs and faked their own death?

If you answered, “You’re an asshole,” you’d be 100% correct– and you should reward yourself with a cookie.  That’s right, 12 years ago today– I became the hood ornament for a Mack Truck and died at ECMC in Buffalo.  The details of the story and execution are about as mundane as they are despicably brilliant– but needless to say, it worked.  When I say worked, I mean like using a napalm strike to light a cigarette.

Yeah yeah, I've already been rebuked over this 1000x.

I haven’t even got to the best part yet!

Now, see, if it had merely been a successful act of social engineering and misinformation– I might have continued with my fantastic fuckery.  However, here’s where it backfired–  I killed me off so well, I had people coming up to me three days later just astounded that I was alive.  Let’s put aside the fact that apparently nobody knew how to internet in 2002, and ignore all other logical debunking methods– I was still no-selling my own death all the way to April 4, well beyond the point where I could still be impressed with my act of gratuitous assholery.

In fact, it only served to drive the nail home that I will never be able to pull off something like that again.  Ever since, the joke’s been on me– not for every time I happen to get suckered by a savvy troll (or George Takei posting that he may host SNL)– but because I remember that on this day:  I killed something I loved because I decided it wouldn’t hurt to turn it to 11.  Not only that, but I can’t do it again.

So yeah…  Go on with your fake life events and deliberate misinformation.  Carry on like you’re being clever.
You, and this holiday, officially suck– and I have nobody to blame but myself.



A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, there was a cadre of ageless demigods of debauchery… and they were localized in a quasi-remote corner of Pennsyltucky because unleashing them anywhere else would have caused riotous libations on a Roman scale.  We several, we proud remnants of that unforgotten era dust off our war faces from time to time– just because people need to remember why nobody ever gave us all indefinite full rides to our alma mater.


Scrap that.

If Edinboro wanted to alleviate their enrollment issues, they’d make us all tenured professors of toxicology, sarcasm, and general awesomeness.  Their *ahem* myopically landmark-oriented budgeting follies will be left for another day.  You can’t put a name on a reputation.  Unless, of course, you are the fucking reputation.

Dionysus was proud of him that night, for he kicked off the shoes while still asleep--  because he couldn't cross his legs.  True story.

Some of you understand this image, and others do not. If you do not, close the window now and kindly fuck off– because the rest of this article is not for you.

Cortana and I were at Dearborn Hall no more than 15 minutes before I ran into someone from yesterbeers past.  I really can’t remember her name, and no she didn’t remember me from some naked shenanigans.  As it turns out, it was from an errant beer pong running riot from 2010.  That was secondary to the recognition of the shirts I wore.  Firstly, congratulations to the Iota Delta chapter of Delta Zeta for having this year’s queen.  Damned if I have any idea who she is, but fuck it–  I know she can’t roll like the girls who made me proud to wear the shirt.  Now, noticing that I was just getting revved up (probably around 11:30ish on Friday), and having been given a situationally epic offer by one of my sisters… well… the games really began, and my body remembered how to switch on the drunkopilot.

Now, the details are intentionally blank here because I have a job that might frown upon my revelries…  however, I’ll leave it here:  muscle memory is the shit.  I triumphantly acquired John’s, made it back to the dorms, and still had the presence of mind to want to break a ukulele off in some douche’s ass.  Yes, there’s a story in here somewhere, but Cortana tells it better…  It ended with her saying something about, “that motherfucking ukulele” and I wrapped my belt around my fist like I was going to be tough or something.

She shook her head, scoffing something along the lines of, “Are you serious?” and continued to enjoy the bevvy of legendary snackage.  Considering that it’s freaking John’s— and I damn near fell over while trying to be all Johnny Badass– I ceded the point and apparently went to bed.

Believe you me, even though the body remembered how to party like a 23 year old (and did so in classic form), apparently it forgot how to shrug that shit off.  Did I mention that I did a fuzzy recollection of my drunken wanderings and clocked over 11 fucking miles during the weekend?  Welcome to my level, bitches, I full-out Mudder-ed Homecoming.

That, however, wasn’t the high point.  The high point was watching some broad get a fucking DUI on goddamn Ontario St.  Those of you who are unfamiliar for that which is Edinboro will not get the joke– but you have to be ten kinds of retarded, five kinds of drunk, and twenty shades of unlucky to get nailed there.

This wouldn't have saved her.  Dumbass.

All of Edinboro would have been a huge-ass “checkpoint.” All weekend, all I could do was smell bacon– even when knocking back shotskies.

Seriously, how fucking stupid can you be to drive during Edinboro HoCo?   You can’t go five minutes without seeing a different cop car during the daytime— and we lucky bunch got to drink on the porch of my buddy’s place with front row seats.  Oh yeah, we can drink in public, flout open container laws in front of the po-po, but we’re not stupid enough to grab keys…

… unless, of course, it was to pop the trunk bar and do shots– in plain sight– on a “dry campus.”

All this talk of classic awesomeness reminds me of how I can’t wait for OHNO IV:  Title Yet to be Decided.


Some of you may notice a foreboding stillness in the air, like the world itself unconsciously gasped and forgot to exhale.  Verily, ‘tis that fabled time of year, where once legendary livers are brought out of mothballs to again crack errant walnuts with reckless abandon.  A time, if you will, where freshmen shall cry out to the gods and goddesses of old, “Are you not entertained?!”

… and we shall whisper in pitiless reply, “No.”

Do work!!!

Sound the vetted war cry of old! “TO THE BARS!!!!”

This year is going to be unlike the blurred litany of the past decade, because for the first time… my chapter of TKE will no longer be there.  Missing will be the beer pong tournaments and afterparties, and gone will be the guaranteed amusement brought by watching hammered undergrads vainly attempt to keep up.  I won’t be introduced to a new class of pledges who, upon mention of my name, need forklifts to pick up their jaws before they can say, “Oh shit… you’re him.”

If you will all join me in a reverent moment of internet silence.
Seriously, close the other window with the porn.
I can hear that shit.
This is a serious moment here.
Show some fucking respect.

Thank you.

Now while I’m on this wistful nostalgic kick, this year will make up for the amalgamated fuckpile of fail that was HC2012.  I can’t even spell it out completely, it was so… lame.  I blame the old job, which kept me from a two day running riot, but not this year.  Hell no.  Not only has my awesome boss arranged for me to be off, I’m also getting paid to get fucked-in-half shitfaced with the old guard.

Pile on top of that guaranteed wasted weekend this little fact: we’re staying in the dorms, because enrollment is down to the point where campus is renting them out on the cheap to alumni.  That’s right, no driving.

This is the best worst idea ever… or worst best… something like that, jury’s still out.

Karen Allen... what happened to you?

I’m sure Cortana’s thought this MANY times… especially when I get this giddy over going full booztafarian….

Some of you already see the spray paint on the walls… because relieving professional lushes of their driving responsibilities equals one thing— there’s gonna be a gagglefuck of thirty-somethings pretending to be undergrads.  Who is going to turn down drinks when they can crawl back to the dorms as in days of yore?  If this wasn’t a call to party harder than the last homecoming before I met Cortana— there’s another ace in the hole.

Not only will I have my usual war party of TKE brothers and other collected awesome, this year is special.  My girls will be there—that’s right—the ladies who taught me the true meaning of “drink while you think” will be in attendance.  Not only will my generation of ladies be there (don’t judge us, we rule), they’ll be doing this thing in force.  That’s right, this is a Delta Zeta year.  Awwwww Delta!  Awwwww Zeta!  If I could jump up and down in text form, I would be right about… now….

Did I also mention that most of them, as well as the usual suspects, are staying in the dorms too?  Did I also forget to mention that the infamous “trunk bar” is not only requested—but open to party?

This can only end one way…


I thought, in the middle of this political fecal typhoon called “election year,” I had seen the epitome of stupid.  We’ve got window-licking assjacks trying to assert that rape is a gift from God, or that a woman can’t get pregnant from rape.  We’ve got other cadres of idiots trying to equate Romney (and his supporters) to Hitler and those people constantly waving “hi” to him.  Oh yeah, those were Nazis.  Apparently the aura of stupid surrounding every media outlet is rubbing off on even me.  Couldn’t remember they were Nazis.  Anyway, they couldn’t possibly be Nazis, because those guys knew how to organize and motivate.  Feel me?

However, just when I thought I couldn’t be exposed to any more stupid, Florida reared its cancer-riddled head and decided to step up its game.  Florida, you should have just stuck to what you’re good at– reeking of formaldehyde.

From the state that brought us Casey Anthony....

NO! NO! Bad state! Bad! Bring Daytona Beach back to its former glory and MAYBE we’ll talk.

That’s right, Florida– the land of recounts and hanging chads– has done it again and proven why we should have let the Spanish keep it.   Let me be one of the many to say this, “Governor Scott, please find the nearest fire and feel free to die in it.”  For those of you unaware– read this.  I’ll wait.

Now don’t try and scream out, “But it’s the task force that said it, not the governor!”  Who do you think appointed the damn task force?  That’s right, it was Scott.  If you don’t think that he hasn’t appointed those with like opinions/views– you’re probably a fan of Rick Santorum.  In fact, close this right now– because it’ll probably be above your intellectual level.

Now that we’ve cleared out the idiots– this kind of thinking may seem fiscally responsible on the surface.  But yeah, let’s see where this leads.  Penalize students that want to learn about history, the arts, psychology, or anthropology.  You think that YOLO is some seriously annoying bullshit now?  Yeah let’s see what happens a few years down the road.

Fail Fail Fail Fail Fail.

These will be considered “highbrow” entertainment– instead of being pointed out for the mind-numbing piles of fail that they are. Go ahead, minimize history, art, and thought. See what happens, assjacks.

If you lack the brains to realize what this is, let me stop right here and tell you to shoot yourself in the face. Flooding the workforce with “desired” professions is going to give you a lot of unemployed scientists.  Are you guys in Florida complete jacktards?  Supply and demand.  You don’t have an even balance of jobs, wow… that’s precious, what state does?  However, to have a student pay more to get a degree in a field that has fewer opportunities is… well reactionary and stupid.  Yes, let’s profit from someone who will have less of a chance of putting money back in the system.  That makes sense.

If you want more scientists, mathematicians, teachers, and doctors– how about incentives instead of penalties?  Do you really want more technically-educated dipshits who can’t string together a coherent sentence?  Do we really want to facilitate our society’s progress towards textspeak?

They do in Florida– you know, where you can kill your kid and get away with it.

Flood the market, kill the opportunities.  Strangle the humanities, and welcome in a new definition of cultural backslide.  Here’s to hoping their recommendations end up like a homeless man on a bypass– chewed up by a tweaker on bath salts.



Apparently I was not the only one that decided to set Homecoming on cruise control this year.  I take it back, if I had it on cruise control, everyone else was out cold in the back seat…  since I usually lead them to awesomeness.  The operant, overtly abused, and justifiably overused term for this year was “Lamesauce“– to the point where even Cortana wanted to beat my skull in with extreme prejudice.  Well excuse me if I’m annoyed by self-imposed sobriety, and not being able to congeal a cohesively badass time out of thin air.

Until this year, I never realized how integral I have been in conducting epic levels of Homecoming shenanigans.  In previous years, I guess my child-like exuberance for excess and libation (more importantly, both in conjunction) overshadowed my administrative duties of rounding up the troops.  Either that, or I forgot two key points from the boozohol-occluded past.

  • Point numero uno:  Organization (social or otherwise) with these friends has changed little over the past X amount of years.  (You solve for X!  I could have had tenure at my alma mater… don’t judge me!)
  • Point numero dos:  Even as a tri-term VP of my TKE chapter (Kappa Mu), getting everyone to one locale involved ridonculous amounts of premeditation.  Yes, that goes for even back when all we had to do was attend class, do homework, and test our limits of insobriety.  We were good at that.

Now that we’re all that much older, with presumably that many more responsibilities, things got that much more difficult.  I shouldn’t have been surprised that without the guiding hand of The Godfather– well the annual liver decathlon wasn’t going to be nearly as cool for everyone else.  Not to mention, I usually serve as the lightning rod that ends up collecting everybody into a mob of bad role models and awesome.   In a moment of naivete, or would that be obliviousness due to overwork, I didn’t realize that nobody else would handle the legwork.  Silly.  Silly me.  In retrospect, that kind of oversight is akin to me not expecting that every one of my friends turns into political experts/pundits/analysts during any election year.

In other news, eat a dick.

Yeah… Just went there… But that’s another rant entirely.  So shut the hell up already.

These things said, Cortana and I were lucky enough to catch up with Zig, Baloo, Bowser, Nemo, Razz, Wozzy, Viv, and Buddy Christ among others.  I was ecstatic to catch up with my Delta Zeta grandbig, whose blog is just over on the right…  yeah, right over there.  If it weren’t for this cadre of multiple generations, I probably would have lost my shit in a non-legendary fashion.

Out in out, I didn’t rock a hangover this year.  This fact wasn’t a surprise, it was all but predestined.  Although I’d planned to take it easy due to work—  I sure as Hell didn’t get much of that done.  Sure, it was a great idea in concept…

Never the Hell again...

Yeah, but screw those guys.

Next year?  Yeah.  Doubletime.

Then again, there’s also our version of Homecoming….  We call it “Old Heads Night Out.”


Over the past three days of not touching this running work-in-progress of mine, I’ve still been glued to the keyboard.  That feat, in and of itself, is comparable to achieving peace in the Middle freaking East using insult comedy.  I’ve got one of those short-circuited brains that can be easily distracted by a shiny object.

Damn.  Maybe typing this up in the kitchen was a bad idea in the first place.  Anyway, back to the whole plugged in marathon of mine.  I’m desperately trying to get my foot in the door for a master’s program– because this B.A. in creative writing cost me a chunk of change the size of Kirstie Alley’s ass in full-out binge mode.  That coveted piece of paper isn’t helping me cover the tab either.  This means scrounging up application materials and dropping lines to professors for letters of recommendation.  I feel like a circus monkey, but I’m undaunted.  I’d ride a unicycle across a burning tightrope, juggling hand grenades, with a honey badger in my pants– just to land a slot in a MFA program.

No witty OnMouseOver Easter Egg here.

Yeah, this is how I excelled my last year or so at college. Common wisdom is for people with senses of self-preservation.

Anyway, one of the items required for the application packet is a ~10 page analytic writing example.  I figured that this’d be a cakewalk, so I ran to my backup directory to recycle a research paper, just like back in the day.  At this point, I realized that the only thing I had to work with (that wouldn’t require an unholy shitton of filler) was my old English 523 final.  I figured that hey, it was a linguistic analysis of Pittsburghese, it’d work just perfectly (totally flouting the fact that I’m applying to Cleveland State University).  How much work could a 500-level paper warrant, especially since it landed me a B on the final?

So much for the whole dust-off routine.  I spent the better part of two days and nights revamping the entire botched abortion.  I’m embarrassed that I even submitted this abomination unto God and Man as my work.  The grammar was more awkward than Hollywood stereotypes of foreigners, if it was even correct at all.  Not to mention, I hadn’t touched the freaking subject in… oh… almost nine freaking years.  Go figure, I can write better completely shithoused hammered than I could when I had a masochistic fetish for 50+ hour final paper binges.  Makes me happy to know that the professor in question skimmed the pile of shit, threw it up a flight of stairs, and graded it upon where it landed.

Ladies and gentlemen...  Stephen Colbert.

Only in my case, it was my coffee table.

I’m just glad I had the foresight to read it over… you know, before I attempted to use it to get into a freaking master’s program.  It actually felt good to do work again, and after I finished rebuilding that sucker– I found the inspiration to finish the accompanying short story that also needs to get into the packet.

You know the real world blows goats when you want to go back to college– especially when you’ve put in the torturous length of time that I did to grind out a measly B.A…. one that looks pretty on my wall, and collects more dust than steak knife in a vegan kitchen.  Screw it, nothing risked, nothing gained.

If this doesn’t work… well that whole sentiment goes out the window.


What do you get when you add copious amounts of alcohol, alumni professionals, hardcore undergrads, and cops that clearly couldn’t give a shit?  You get Edinboro Homecoming, and no amount of words can convey the level of intoxicated shenanigans that occur– every freaking year.   Sure, go ahead, compare it to a larger school’s homecoming, or one held in a large municipality.  When it comes down to brass tacks, we see everyone, and it’s easy to hit all the bars multiple times– in addition to house parties, all while on foot.   You can lose half of your running crew, find another, and then regroup by pure accident within a few hours if you’re a dedicated badass.  Let’s see you do that at WVU or UCLA.  That’s right, back off, you have to experience this to believe it.

Informational crapola aside, let’s see, where do I start?  I know, to properly set the stage, maybe I should go into the fact that I was driving in a freaking rolling bar.  I do not condone drinking and driving, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t park my car somewhere convenient– and serve drinks out of the trunk with complete impunity.  Sometimes I want to have conversations that don’t involve shouting over music.  Remember, this is Homecoming.  Open container laws are a secondary offense only to be tagged on if you’re guilty of doing other extraordinarily dumb shit.  So yeah, one small road trip to pick up my little sister (fraternity wise, not biological), her friend, and my girlfriend later– we ended up at the “country club” where all the oldhead alumni show up.  This is a tradition of mine, for one, because catching up with the silver-haired sultans of smooth is always a damn good idea.  Besides those guys being a great time, it’s also the hub where my running crew can meet up.  It’s a logistical must, and a mixological imperative.

After rounding up the first half of the crew, and touching base with my favorite alums, it was time to get this party rolling in turbo.  I parked behind my buddy’s apartment, in plain sight of the police station.  This should tell you how few damns the 5-0 give about drinking as long as you’re not being a complete assjack.  We had flasks and mixed bottles on us most of the time, and this year was unique.  My undergrad brethren lack a house to party at.  We could either speed-drink at my buddy’s place… or do work at the bar.  This is a crucial point– seeing how there was no daytime (or post last call) base of operations.  My trunk was the place to be, but more on that later.

My girlfriend rapidly came to the realization of why Homecoming is kind of like my un-birthday of choice.  Due to many little factors, some beyond my control, rolling with me is not something done incognito.  I couldn’t go five minutes (quite literally) without running into (and subsequently collecting) another drinking buddy from years past.  It was hilarious, every single time I’d wander to a bar– or stumble out of a bar– I’d either get grabbed, or hear my name being called.  I could describe the feeling, but it’d make me sound like an egomaniac akin to something you’d find on Capitol Hill.  Now, we cue the shenanigans.

My running crew, comprised of friends I’m close to– all the way to friends I haven’t seen in over a decade, ended up at one of the undergrads’ apartment.  He’s in possession of a classic beer pong table that was made about seven years ago.  Of course, I had to play– I’ve had many years of memories on that table.  After losing, thanks to Jill deciding to be a whiny bitch–  I got a phone call from my little.  She didn’t go into detail, but shit had apparently hit the fan to the point that she wouldn’t give me any further info besides that she was upset.  Here, I’m at gross point tanked– so I do the only thing a good big does.  I took care that my girlfriend was with people she knew, then made like Forrest Drunk and ran like all Hell.

Rule #14 of Homecoming, dumb shit always happens.  In this case, it was me assuming the worst, running about six blocks while utterly obliterated, just to find out that they had been locked out of a party.  I was none too pleased.  After the run, the coughing, and the ongoing adrenaline surge, I pretty much arrived sober– and got a bit salty as a result.  So there came the realization that without a standard base of ops (like in prior years), it was time for “bed.”  This meant relocating the vehicle and converting the rolling bar into a rolling hotel room.  Which culminated (the next morning) in two words:  trunk sex.  You can’t get on my level without some DIY kickassery, and a backache from sleeping in places that no mortal should.

"The Breakfast Your Mother Warned You About"

And thus began Day 2, as God ordained, and hath been dutifully carried out for over a decade. Oh shit, I'm getting old.

Every year, we dredge our booze-soaked corpses from wherever we landed to go to Kegs ‘n’ Eggs.  Milling about are silver-generation alumni, down to red-eyed undergrads, and everything in between.  Like at Culbertson’s the night before, this serves as a hub to gather the troops.  Unfortunately, all good plans go to shit, and only the hardcore of my bunch end up bumbling their way down to the “Breakfast of Champions.”  Of course, when you’re asshole-to-elbow with a shit ton of people– waiting for food, beer, or Bloody Mary’s gets old.  Cue the old war cry, “To the bars!!!”

While we were en route to the next destination, hangover still lingering like a grim reminder that I’m no longer in my early twenties, I got the news that my buddy’s boss was a clutch dude– and let him off from working the kitchen at The Empty Keg.  It was better than a Christmas Miracle.  With half of the running crew put back together, we imported the rest (albeit with plenty of logistical stupidity) and met up with the legends from the night before.  At this point, there’s the parade– an altogether forgettable occasion that even the undergrads don’t give a flying damn about after they’ve finished putting together their floats.   Shortly after remembering why I usually opt to party instead of attend the parade, my girlfriend and I slipped away from Edinboro to go shower (among other things).

We returned a little bit later, with the hangover dead and stashed in the trunk.  The running riot began again, and apparently on day two– more alumni come out of the woodwork.  It was a damn good thing that we were back on the booze bandwagon, because every few minutes– there was another familiar face.  At this point, I started to wonder if this is what it feels like to be an icon, a legend, or a celebrity.  I checked my ego with another healthy drought of my flask, and then she walked up.

Since my other letters are that of a Delta Zeta sweetheart, that’s a whole other sect of alumni that I actively seek out.  My generation of DZ’s are the best of the best, and there was even a year that I opted to hang out with them as opposed to my own freaking brothers.  An alumni sister, one of the generation that immediately preceded my own, strolled up to me in my TKE letters– and somehow knew my name, and that I was a little brother.   No, there were no other alumni sisters in The Boro (that I saw, and believe you me, I saw everyone).  She noticed my girlfriend, and without missing a beat– introduced herself, then inexplicably retreated.  According to my better half, she was getting ready to make a pass at me until she noticed that I wasn’t single– and made a remarkably graceful exit.  The mischievous looks I saw, every freaking time I saw her for the rest of the evening, corroborated this one.  There were no death looks from my girlfriend, shit, I had to do some research post-haste to figure out who the Hell she is– and to this day, I really don’t know why she looked familiar, or how she knew me– but not my big sister.   At this point, I wonder how I never realized I was this much of a brofessional when I was an undergrad.

Maybe awesome is like wine, and has to be properly aged to the right potency.

I don't remember this picture being taken.

Distilled awesome results in this kind of happy. In other news, it took almost a full hour to figure out where and when this picture was taken.

For some reason, everyone I know was tossing their cookies at some point during the weekend.  This included while we were relaxing at another Boro tradition–  John’s.  We’re sitting there, drunkenly minding our own business, and then three cops roll into the joint like stormtroopers.  While we speculated from a booth that’s as old as I am, they led some belligerently wasted female example of middle-aged failed life from the place.  The employees of this place are getting their asses handed to them on the busiest business day of their year– and she started giving the counter girl shit.  I don’t blame her for calling the bacon, but what happened next utterly floored my ass.

The broad tossed her cookies outside the front door, right in front of the cops, right on top of where one of my buddies puked not five minutes before.  Not only did the cops clean up the puke, they let her stumble off into the night like nothing even happened– no public intox, nothing.  Considering how many friends of mine have had their lives anally fisted by these Keystone Cops, I was truly astounded.   So here we are, full circle– even the cops don’t care unless you’re driving or fighting.

Homecoming.  Get on our level, and try to keep up.  Otherwise, you’re gonna get left in the dust.