The Magic of a Protein Bottle

"Protein," he said.

And that was it. That was all that needed to be said. Everyone nodded, understanding everything that single statement implied, not just about the matter at hand, but about all those like them.


That's an excerpt from my next book, now in the works. It's estimated to be finished never, which I found absolutely invigorating. But the matter at hand is protein, or the finer points of it.

I like protein, especially after a workout, when I mix it with what's basically a milkshake; think of a rich person stirring caviar into his '43 Pinot Noir just because he CAN, y'know? and it works. The funniest part though, is that for all the overcontrived attacks on powdered protein, it has less ingredients than your average Hot Pocket or breakfast waffle. Think about that. Your favorite breakfast food, Slobberin-Waffle-Strawberry-Mouthsplosion flavored Pancakes or whatever, have more ingredients than a powder which injects itself into your bloodstream and turns billions of cells into miniature Hulks for short amounts of time; later metabolizing into actual muscle fibers that are tinted green with rage and power (my science is a bit iffy here, but that's the jist of it, probably).

Science and this picture can't be wrong!

At the same time, though, there's another, more sinister biological process occurring in the container used to harness such powdered Hulk-power: the workout bottle.

They came in many shapes and sizes, and contain many different body-altering MEGA POWER BODY FUEL INTENSE MEGA SMASH WORKOUT BOOSTER XXXPLOOOOSIONNNN pills and liquids, but all suffer the same malady: swamp bottle.

Yum!

What happens is all of this small Hulks which empower you to jump tall buildings and strangle large bears need somewhere to, hm, evacuate their waste, in order that they better sprint through your blood vessels and shake your puny heart into overdrive. That waste, as it would happen, seems to contain at least 300 kinds of mold and bacteria- 298 are poisonous; the other 2 can eat you. And if you turn your back on that bottle for a second, it'll malodorously transform into a veritable petri-dish of death and bacteria-warfare viable Hulk poop spores. 

The solution?

... drink more Hulks?

the best I've got is hot water and baking soda, which turns it into a racially pure volcano that obliterates everything, much like... nevermind. Too soon, Vesuvius. (what were YOU thinking? geez.)

Haven't tried washing it, though. Nah.

4 Tips on Avoiding Responsibility

The Art of Shirking Responsibility: practiced by most, mastered by few. Those who fail to make it past the stage of successfully lying about flatulence in an elevator with their crush ("Something must've died in the elevator shaft") are constantly reminded of their failures with withering glances, death threats, and a dearth of invitations to Aunt Ella's Bi-annual BBQ Bash. So let's face it. Over the course of a year, thousands of occasions pop up where the investment of our time, presence, or money (even worse, combinations of those) is required. And really, who wants to invest time in anything but eating fruit salads on tropical beaches?... other than albinos with fruit allergies? Anyway, sometimes an event will simply be inconvenient or that girl whose butt you grabbed "on accident"- totally not kosher, bro- will be there. Even worse, there might be that gang of wild possums that follows you like a caravan of gypsies and bites everyones' ankles for some arcane, mystic reason only the possum shamans will ever understand.

Pictured: Possum shaman during [Spring] break.

Whatever the case is, you'll be facing a situation like this (sans the possums, probably) sooner or later, and with college around the corner, replete with awkward elevator rides, you need to get on top of mastering laziness and conniving. This helpful guide will introduce, nay, refine the skills you should have honed insofar by avoiding possum posses and pretending to have amnesia in school..

1. The Art of Preemptive Avoidance

Certain positions and people in life cry out to responsibility to come and carry them away in a dreadful carriage of obligation and duty, much like you and your first shotgun wedding. If you can't take the heat, just lower it. Better yet, turn the sucker off. Natural gas costs money, and if you're just busy burning yourself with it, you need help, aaaaand lots of it. In the case you're not a masochistic schizophrenic, don't seek help, ignore that little voice telling you to eat a human rib just to see how it tastes and read on. This stuff is important.

But just in case you were wondering, delicious.

What needs to happen is nipping the proverbial bud in the context of putting oneself in a position of liability. Ever. In college, these opportunities stalk the accursed shadows as well as prowl open squares in hopes of finding naive prey who want to change the world... it starts with signing a petition; it ends with ax murdering a Commie general in Laos. Well, most of the time.
Lesson to be learned: develop tunnel vision like a miner whose male coworkers wear tight blouses. This will aid you in ignoring and/or subconsciously suppressing those around you, especially those trying to get you to join or sign something. At worst, you'll be able to cry at will after recalling your memories as a miner. So avoid those traps 'normal' people call "opportunities." They're traps, and quite devious ones at that- like a treadmill without mileage markers, you keep running and perpetually stay in the same place, kind of like your brother before he realized running underwater is really confusing and breathing water isn't an acquired skill.

Pictured: Fun. Not pictured: Drowning horrifically.

2. The Art of Invention

They say if you never lie, you don't need to keep your stories straight. Well, whoever said that is right, which remains the sole reason why everyone who loves themself should carry around a notebook filled with the different stories. Think of it as writing a book where all the stories are fiction and act as a get-out-of-responsibility-free card. The only problem is forgetting your notebook somewhere... once I got into a sticky situation at school involving a bearded koala and an angry custodian, so I had to think of an excuse to get my notebook, which twelve miles and three freeway bypasses away.  I'm not an awfully good runner. When I was 12, I thought about joining the track team because of how skinny and funny all the other runners looked, except for that one fat kid that's always on sports teams so everyone feels better about how skinny they are, and the kid always has a funny nickname like "Chunky" or "Beefstew," or maybe those were both the same person and he was so fat I mistook him for twins or something. Anyways, the tryouts didn't go well because the other sports teams were crowding the same field, so we had to dodge soccer balls and football pucks and hockey balls, all of which are not conducive to running speed and focus. The kid to my left was hit in the left calf with a throwing javelin and the kid to my right, who smelled funny and had green socks, fell after a rogue shoe flew through the air and knocked him right in the gut. I fell over laughing and threw up because of how funny it was. The coach didn't think it was funny and I didn't make the team. That's why I'm not a good runner. Anyway, after running there and back and writing down the excuse I used to get it, I realized the sweat from my convulsing, exhausted body had turned the contents of the notebook into literal alphabet soup. No, really, I use alphabet noodles to write and they were soupy. With sweat water. It was disgusting; gave 'em all to my friend Len. He deserves it for having such a stupid name anyway...

Not this hungry...

3. Keep their Expectations Low

Never perform to your fullest potential. That way, whoever's watching never quite knows when you're giving 110%. Above all, never finish any task, chore, favor, or article so well that they always

The End of Ivy and Death of the Future

In response to the rash of Ivy League acceptances and hash of Ivy League rejections, this will be a belated exhortation to those who have found themselves on the receiving end of, not even a depressing letter, but an email notifying you of your rejection to the world of influence, fame, and money. It turns out that perhaps you're not so special after all, and maybe all of that entitlement you thought you had just hit the fan like a cubic ton of horse manure- that is to say, in a messy, smelly, and not-too-pretty fashion. But of course, words of encouragement beckon from the rest of the page- read on, poor soul, and you'll find out that you're toaster than matzo left in the Mojave Desert. So strap in, gear up, and prepare for some poor analogies and inappropriate metaphors!

But first, an illustration of your situation: a burning desert.

No Chance for a Proper Education
Sad to say, but out of the approximately 4,146 colleges in the United States, your rejection from three-quarters of a dozen of them will bring about horrific, terrible consequences for the rest of your entire life. These eight colleges signify all that radiates academic excellence, social elitism, and wealthy snobbery in the world of higher education. As such, nary a soul would find it disagreeable to say a short prayer. Why? Well, bub, it's the end of the line for you. Your quest for academic excellence ends here, and you'll never find it anywhere else. The other 4,138 colleges just won't cut it. They all lack any opportunity to make a name for yourself and learn about the ins and outs of elitism, professional football, lacrosse, and social discrimination. To those rejected from these prestigious institutions, now is the time to hand in your Macbook and golf clubs and start picking a bridge to sleep under. The college quest has definitively ended, and no hope remains.

Also, this chimp represents your level of intelligence.

No Opportunity for Crippling Debt
The first thing that crosses a student's mind as he receives a rejection letter: "I knew I would need those razorblades eventually. TO KILL MYSELF."
Oh my, what a horrific, self-destructive mindset! Think of it in terms of economics: the average Ivy education costs about 250,000$ over four years. Ladies and gentlemen, a quarter of a million dollars to stay in a building and go to classes with extremely intelligent people. It goes without saying, obviously, that noone in any other institution in America can even remotely compare, in terms of intelligence and insight, to the glorious professors at the Ivies, so this money presents itself as an investment. Instead of slashing your wrists, think about the dollars slashed off of college funds! Eschewing financial aid and scholarship opportunities, that quarter million flat can be an opportunity for other things, and since the only other viable option is living under a bridge and eating sinewy sewer rats for sustenance, let's take a sampling. Some options: buy 625 iPads to read the HarvardReview and dream about what you could have aspired to; an armored Humvee to rampage away the indignation of rejection; or 250,000 Arizona Iced tea cans to quench your righteous fury at the evil adcoms. Regardless, that lump sum of cash would've been an investment in your life- an investment to see how much debt you could collect in four years without using your mob connections to get loans; the interest rates would probably come out about even: 400% a day or so. That means a month after you finish college, you'll owe pretty much everyone in the world approximately 25,982,547$, as proved by this graph.

No Chance for a Decent Job
At best, it would be a difficult task to conceal the struggling job market. At worst, Swift's Modest Proposal will come true and Americans across the States will soon begin looting McDonald's for ketchup to flavor baby carcasses veal (nothing but the best!) New statistics show that 98.3% of college graduates who fail to qualify for or otherwise finish an Ivy League education will become one of three jobs: professional anarchist, Blimpie Rat-Killer, or amateur cigarette butt picker-upper. McDonald's will require a BA or a BS from an Ivy to even consider your application in a few years. As saddening as it is, the 4,000 college in the United States who have not been considered worthy of having their most driven students thrash each over a pigskin do not measure up to such impressive standards as the Ivies. A small sampling of the deficiencies in these schools that result in job incompetence: no elitist social clubs, no life-threatening hazing to enter frats, not enough liberal professors, and a gross lack of distinguished sounding accents. Actually, in the future, the only humans on earth who will be able to find employment are Ivy-Leaguers and Oxford graduates, on account of sounding more educated than everyone else. As if all of this news wasn't sobering enough, statistics from the DOL, CFO, and the AFL indicate that 99.82% of college-educated Americans will lack enough discretionary income to purchase a new car every year, as well as a truckload of premium Angel-Soft 8 ply toilet paper. God help America.

The poo bag is a metaphor for your job security.

The truth of the matter is, all of your efforts have come to naught. Turns out that some of the other 30,000 people that applied to Harvard were better than you. How much better? Don't ask, for thor's sake, spare yourself the embarrassment. The fact that you don't know already shows how pathetic you are. People like you come a dime a dozen. You're cheaper than dirt, which is about 3.04 cents a pound. Think about that. Dirt is better than you, and very well stands a better chance of surviving the crisis of rejection from all that is noble, good, and elitist in the world. Poor you.

Pictured: A metaphor for your parents' sadness, somehow.

QUADRUPLE Your Efficiency, Bro!

Four Ways to Increase your Efficiency and Stop Making Inappropriate References to TV Shows (But mostly the first one, really)
Up until now, most of my posts have been ardently devoted to wasting time, whether through procrastination or relaxation- it wholly depends on which posts you read. If you’ve read all them, then the Lordy bless your little soul, sirrah! These tips will help you get to college faster, because you'll be sleeping more and working less- an ideal deal, to be sure! Read on, adventurer, and behold the secrets of the cave of, uh, time-saving secrets. (There was no better way to say that…)

1. Go ColdTurkey!

Defying initial expectiations, ColdTurkey is not your regional football team mascot- because first off a turkey isn’t threatening, and how would a turkey mascot be "cold?" Paper mache ice cubes taped to its butt? Anyway, ColdTurkey denotes a computer program which blocks selected websites for a certain period of time. If you don’t have enough discipline to block websites which slurp up your time like you do a moldy month-old slurpee (with gusto and a smile!),then you never stood a chance. All you need to do is install a program and tell it to destroy your imaginary social life by blocking websites. So scram, bum! Go and ColdTurkey your evil, time-slurping websites with the power of ice-cold turkey butt! NOW. Destroy procrastination with the bowling ball of coldturkey! Wait...

Turkey bowling: actually a thing?

2. Change your HomePage

If you walked home one day and found out the entrance to your homely abode was through a walk-in refrigerator, imagine how cool it would be! (pun intended, unfortunately) For those of you who live inside restaurant walk-in refrigerators, just imagine returning home normally and then chastise yourself for making me add this inconvenient scenario addendum. But refrigerator. Enough of us mindlessly amble over to the refrigerator every few minutes to see whether new food has magically appeared and if the soda is cold enough yet, I mean seriously it’s been in there for at least two minutes and should already be cold. But on the internets, you have a homepage. That’s your entrance to the internet. If your homepage is yahoo, you’ll end up seeing those retarded articles about some completely trivial topic no one really ever cared about. “Madonna’s 5 craziest shoe decals!” or “Three Things about Liechtenstein You Never Knew!” Stop right there, buster. Don’t even look at that article. I see you eyeing it like a skinny kid eyes an entire baker's dozen of donuts (it's the skinny kids you gotta look out for with donuts)! Grab your webhammer (internet sledgehammer) and slam a new wall of a homepage into your figurative house. Voila! Say goodbye, Yahoo! articles about 'Hottest Cranberry Sauces This Season'!

Lemme hear a 'SPLAT'!.... gross.

3. Set a Sleep Clock

Most of us set alarm clocks to wake up. Those who don’t probably just live under bridges and wake up when they're too hungry to sleep. But as effective as waking up earlier is going to sleep earlier. Really, though, this is a no-nonsense approach. It requires serious discipline, which presents a problem to 99.99% of students (a conservative estimate, mind you). Chances are, just to wake up in the morning, you set three alarms, and those only begin to wake you up. After three different housemaids try to wake you up and your mother pours orange juice on your face, you begin to budge. This is the opposite- all of those people throwing stuff at you, except to go to sleep. Knowing that you need to get a bed a certain time will do several things, but the best two are: making you perform faster to meet your sleep deadline and, pending the success of step one, sleeping longer. That’s more efficient than the time I outsourced my homework to India! Haha, who am I kidding, that happens every night. 

Pictured: living hell

4. LEAVE. Just leave, and don’t come back… well, until later, that is.

After a certain number of hours transfixed by the zombifying, unceasing glow of a computer screen, your work output increases by a function of 1/log(hours)*% work complete/1, to put it into terms no one can understand because that’s not a real function. But after about two or so hours in front of the computer, the rate of your productivity must have fallen from writing three words of your essay every minute to accidentally deleting your system.exe twice and tweeting 8.4 times every 2.4 minutes, shattering several Guiness World Records… no? Just me? Hm, okay. Anyways, turns out that your facebook, twitter, and tumblr turn into a social media refrigerator: you open it over and over expecting something exciting and new (Whoooo!), but instead, all you get is leftovers and recycled junk (booo…). The solution is to leave the house- go for a bike ride, go hang out, go mutter to yourself and knock over pedestrians while wearing nothing but stockings, go walk your dog or sleep on your front porch or start an international smuggling ring. Anything, really, as long as it gets you away from your computer.  And if you’re fortunate, you might just come back and find something new in the refrigerator… who am I kidding, you’ll eat that month-old spinach pie anyway, even without being truly hungry.

After the first bite, your face will stay like that forever.

The Trifecta of Relaxation

Depending on the where you’re headin’ to, you’ll either encounter a serious drinking problem with a college nearby or a series of buildings where science zombies congregate. Sure, a few options exist few and far between those two extremes, but that’s exactly what they are- few and far in between. Either way, zombies and alco… college students need to figure out how to relax from the tedious, stress inducing tasks related to binge drinking, memorizing encyclopedias of formulas, and lounging on the beach. So sit down, lean back, and take a sip of that pina colada while I fill you in on the methodology behind chilling out- no gimmicks. Alright, maybe a few. But they’re totally rad, dude. Check it out!

The Noble Resting Place: Hammocks

Say what you will, the key to relaxing is location and method. By far, the most ideal method of relaxing remains hammocking, an activity which embodies all notions deemed noble, restful, and delightful by all humans.  First off, you need a hammock. A hammock can be hung anywhere: in the rafters of a moldy barn, above the mouth of a raging volcano, between the bars of street signs, and of course the epitome of relaxation: between two sun scorched palm trees, inches away from clear blue oceans. Second, you need a hammockupation- a combination of hammocking and occupation; any recreational activity possible. Want to listen to voodoo chants? Sure. Enjoy sipping strawberry molasses flavored apple juice? Um, fine? Sit back and stare at the sky while not thinking… at all? (this option only available for men, sorry women.) With a hammock and hammockupation, you’re well on your way to relaxation nirvana and a body so relaxed hippies got nothin’ on ya.

"At least a hammock, yah?.."

The Joyful Philosophy: Daily

One of the main reasons people get their knickers in a twist and have other terrible things happen to their undergarments is a perpetual cycle of worrying. When Monday begins, they fret about Tuesday. Tuesday, fret about Wednesday. Wednesday, they’re dead; murdered by their own concern. It happens, people. Beware. The Bible even tackles this topic, telling us to live one day at a time relying on God. That’s right, Christians should be practicing a doctrine of divine YOLO. But really, what does worrying do? A significant difference splits apathy and competence. Without worrying, you can do everything normally, fairly, adequately. Worrying, you can poop your pants, get gray hair at 20, and cry into your pillow, which takes so much abuse you had to glue a bunch of Shamwows into a ad hoc pillow so as not to flood your room every night. Seriously, spend your time wisely and stop worrying. Another step towards relaxation nirvana.

This is what google images thinks relaxation nirvana is...

The Gentlemen’s Perspective: Gratitude

School bugs me, I’ll be the first to admit it. But it’s always a matter of perspective. If there’s one thing that the Mexican Police Chief from that one episode of Monk taught me, it’s that “It’s all about de drugs.” While that may prove true south of the border, a hammockitude requires an open, breezy, welcoming mind, as warm as Pacific shores and as joyful as a cluster of chocolate-producing palm trees. But hammockitude. The Mexican Police Chief things the world revolves around drugs. Normal people have nary a clue what the world revolves around, but I digress. Lying there in a gently swaying hammock, the fuzzy breeze tickling your skin and retiring sun comforting your mind, reexamine your perspective. Do you feel entitled to anything you have? Get over it. Get over yourself. You don’t deserve a hammock, the breeze, or the sun. Nope, in this revolutionary perspective, ya little ingrate, nothing belongs to you. That chocolate bar you found? Be thankful, even though it was sandy and probably had possum poop on it. That textbook for chemistry class? Be thankful you can one day figure out why your toes smell so terrible, though that might just be personal hygiene. Be thankful you have toes! Be thankful hygiene is a thing, even though you’re clearly unfamiliar with it. Point is, being thankful mitigates the negative and makes everything look better. I mean, it is better. While every single Asian child is simultaneously smarter, more talented, and better-looking than you, at least you’re parents don’t bludgeon you with laptops and abacuses to make you even smarter… do they? Because that’s horrible. I mean, be thankful you have parents, ingrate.

I thought combining "grateful" and "attitude" would make a new word "gratitude," but that's already a word. Nearly as bad as the time I took out my cellphone to call my cellphone."

 

Now, much of this information might strike the average human as odd. Well, you strike the average human as repulsive and off-putting, so shut up. I’m grateful I have fingers to type that at you. See how practical this is?

‘But the rest isn’t practical,’ you whine. ‘ I don’t have chocolate coconut trees and breezes and Pacific beaches, waaaa.’ Yeah, whatever. Excuses. When worse comes to worse and the, uh, hammock hits the… fram…sock… All you need is a hammock. Even a bed will do fine. Man up, college will be over soon, unless you’re a med student, in which case, forget everything you just read because school ends for people like you at the age of, hmm, 50? And that’s if you get lucky and the Medical gods deem you fit of wielding the snake-staff that heals all and knows all… but my knowledge of the medical field and practice is limited, except that the human body needs two substances to work: duct tape and aloe vera. Try it. Drink aloe vera for a month. See how swell you feel. Be thankful you have aloe vera.

*Disclaimer: Drinking aloe vera in large quantities may not be a brilliant idea.

It changes weather patterns, according to lunarists. That's why!  Look at all those coldfronts! Stop drinking it!

School Clubs: An Exercise in French Bureaucracy

The door stands open before you. With a long, heavy-hearted sigh you cross the threshold, and the effects are immediate. In an attempt to protect itself, the brain shuts down all thinking functions and your eyes glaze over to prevent the overflow of senseless occipital information. Welcome to a generic school club meeting, hell to thinkers and doers alike. In fact, you have stumbled into the only aboveground circle of hell; one which that bastard Alighieri never warned us about, and one you must conquer on the way to college: clubs.

"I apologize, but this rock drew my attention. Warnings are so mainstream."

The Club

Let’s distinguish right off the bat my nefarious intentions: to mock and lampoon every single school club that ever existed and currently exists. This will be achieved with a vague, easily convicted “straw” club- one which commits most imaginable lame school club violations (a comprehensive list of these exists).  The purpose of this generic club remains amorphous: at one point, someone wrote up a mission statement purely by accident or as a gag, and it was adopted. Since then, someone once took up an initiative to rewrite it (2/3 vote required to approve it, nonconsent counts as an affirmative vote… Unanimously passed) and rechristened it as the Club Constitution! But, a week later, they lost it and forgot about it. The formation of the club advented after a poor judgement call: that boring kid had a lot of free time and/or thought someone else likes Manchurain flower power anime. (They don’t.)

Imagine this, but Manchurian. And anime.

The Officers

Since a minority of the majority of the students in your school know your exist, and everyone else stares at you dumbfounded when you mention it (this is why that weird kid Dale is your only friend. Who names their son Dale, anyway?) But this widespread dearth of knowledge about your club results in a minimal nucleus of the club. Your officers, much like the French Army, were pulled out of the nearest byway and ceremonially inducted. They’re still not sure what’s going on, compounded by the fact that they can’t speak English. The club officers are disorganized, misinformed, and generally lost. The information for meetings (hosted once a month) spreads like burning oil on top of water: haphazardly, randomly, and somehow you’ll burn your hand off… trust me, it happens. In movies, ragtag bunches of losers coming together show off their cuteness and handiness together. For your club, the reality remains much harsher: a complete disaster. It’s worse than a train wreck because you have to look away.

Still more clear than the difference between code yellow and code orange.

The Meetings

Rewind to the first few sentences of the intro: eyes glazing over, fly open (you didn’t notice it all day, haha, loser) and brain malfunctioning like it always does. Everyone, or all three people present,  sit down at a single table, marooned in a forlorn sea of dusty tables and, antique chairs, and grimy instruments. Who gave you the key to the basement’s dungeon’s storage closet, anyway? The illy dresses officers give their reports: the plantain sale generated twelve ducats, emails were sent to the Albanian administration, and someone else couldn’t find their shoes this morning. Where’d that fizzled dud of a president go, anyway? After the perfunctory reports, everyone generally grumbles and complains about how everything could be better. “We didn’t have any lira to refund ducats.” “C’mon guys, I know one of you stole my shoes.” “Ou suis-je? Comment est-que je me trouve la?... Messieurs?” “If only he wasn’t French…”

Just standard procedure at our meetings. Move along.

The Moderator

In this particular school, every club requires a moderator. Since not very many educators seem interested in Manchurian Flower-Power Anime (they’re missing out) , the bottom of the barrel was the only place to go. This can go either way: in movies, the quirky teachers and/or janitors end up being super cool and teaching everyone to kick butt (We’re looking at you, Karate Kid). In the real world, quirky teachers and janitors are washout pedophiles and failed gold prospectors who fell off waterfalls. They’re the last chapter of Indiana Jones incarnate. When this moderator bothers coming to the club, he either gets lost or walks in right after  you managed to put that fire out. Who knew that Purell-soaked clothing was flammable?... or inflammable. Either way, Petey probably got rid of any microbes and bacteria stupid enough to live on his (charred) skin. 

"Fire? That looks like fun. Let me try."

Why are you in this club? And why is Manchurian Flower-Power Anime a thing? Do this many varieties of anime truly exist? I’ll be back later. I need to find out what happens to Gyoo-kaiy-sankuro-jojojojoma as he soars through the valley of dandelion crystals.

You may not see Gyoo-kaiy, but he's there. Believe me.

Student Council Speech

One of the steps to getting to college is pretending you're goodhearted and help other people. Guys, I'm too lazy to do many things unless I'm personally benefited or I enjoy doing that thing (does napping help the less fortunate?... No? Crap.)
But one of the steps to pretending to be useful with student council would be giving a hilarious student council speech just because I could. This speech, a gem of oratory literature, demonstrates that a man who wants to win public office can do so solely with a speech. Well, and because noone really cares about that public office (homeroom rep). That's like being elected, "executive pizza transportation manager." You're still a deliveryman, ya dope. I fell for that one too, don't feel too bad. They even convinced me to accept a lower wage for the "good of the company." But in the meantime, my 2010 Student Council Speech. This weekend, a post about stupid, pointless clubs will be affixed upon this glorious blog.

(General Patterson Accent)    Mornin’, everybody. For those of you who don’t know me, ‘ts too bad, I’m not tellin you my name cause it’s been two years since we’ve been going to this here fine ‘stablishment.

As a candidate for the prestigious position of representative, I am definitely overqualified. MORE than just qualified, ladies and gentlemen-  because not only am I good at math and bein’ organized and all that stuff, just kidding, actually, I’m not too swell at math and my room is messy, but I don’t believe that reflects on my real traits. As an American, I am qualified for any office. As an American who lives in America, I am even moreso qualified.

         Now, trained monkeys are the thing of the future. One day, instead of homeroom representatives, trained monkeys might be running around and getting class dues. 

Might be some unforeseen consequences with that, though.

Unfortunately, that day is not yet here. You have to deal with overqualified people such as myself, because I like to believe I’m at least a tad smarter than a trained monkey.

            Soon, you will be faced with the most important decision of your entire life. That decision is to vote for me. That decision, in fact, is not a decision, because you want to vote for me. As an American, you should vote for me.

  Now, as is the custom for cookie cutter student council speeches, this is the part where I tell you I can’t promise you things. I can’t promise you motion sensor sinks, cause we already got those. I can’t promise you toilets that flush, cause they usually do! I can promise you, I might think about considering being the best homeroom representative on the face of this planet!!!!

       Y’all have a nice summer. In America. If you’re not spending the summer in America, I tell ya, you’re missing out.

Vote fer me, Jeffrey, because I live in America.

Thank you for making believe you were paying attention.

Current protocol for electing school officials: Electing at random. Mine: elect the best speechwriter, and if you tell me you like math so you'll be a good treasurer I swear on Thor's beard I'll rip your legs off and ask you how many legs I'm holding... capische?

So Where's Your College?

Let's face it, there's alot more than academics and cost to consider when choosing a college- proximity to an ice cream parlor, whether or not they serve pizza everyday, the general attractiveness of the female and male students (it would really be a shame if I had to attend a school where I was once again the best-looking guy; such a heavy burden to bear...). But there's something more important than that- as these formative years shape you, so will the geography of those years. Imagine if you were attending college...

In the Heart of the City
Some people live for the city, and don't sleep because of the city. Those are those insane individuals who believe that "being social defines you" or some other inane and blathering nonsense; something about "needing people to survive" and "no man is an island." Well, let me tell ya, perhaps no man is an island, but no man can possibly see the need to surround yourself with 14 million other small islands and/or miniature geographic features at all times, stranded within a bigger geographic feature.

In simpler words: no sane man willingly consigns himself to be in the company of millions of other men without some kinda catch, especially in college. Maybe you're in it for the ladies. Maybe you're in it for the 13$ a gallon gas or the 4$ a pizza slice pizza, but you'll regret it. Oh, yes you will. After finding out that my number 1 college was at the heart of a college town, surrounded by 7 or so other colleges, I retreated under my desk and curled up into a ball, sobbing and rocking back and forth. Save yourself.

Prime real estate: you can barely touch both walls at the same time!

In the Heart of the Cornfields
At the other extreme end of the spectrum is the "hole in the ground" college. Once upon a time, back when Manifest Destiny gripped the hearts of pioneers and shook them until they staggered out Westward, a lone caravan decided to settle in the single most desolate and abandonded spot possible. This is the town founded by complete loons for no good reason, and their descendants, continuing in the tradition of their mindless forefathers, have destined to lure other people into a town where the cows outnumber the people 3:1. Their bait: a modest college that looks nice and is inhabited by generally genial and amiable people.

Don't fall for this one, either. The only supermarket in town is Wally's Mart, and the nearest actual town is somehow 200 miles away, something you once thought geographically impossible in the United States. It's a shame that living in the cornfields is what finally forced you to learn how to use a map and figure out just how stranded you are. One day, the corn will rise up and destroy the town and the college.

"I forgot what hills look life..."

Abroad in the Jungles of the Amazon
"Gee, this is a neat brochure. Everyone in other countries is so blindingly good looking and happy all the time." The first step towards your timely decision to escape America, this brochure proves to have lied right into your face about everything. At the same time, it has collectively saved you more money than a fleet of dump trucks can transport in a week. No, really. It's cheap. The downsides, depending on your specific locale, range from living in a thatched hut with twelve villagers to living in a slum tenement with twelve other international students, and from eating purple earthworm larvae to drinking camel poop juice. Little did you ever suspect that camel poop juice denotes a delicious concoction of coconut juice and the blood of unicorns along with lime shavings, and it's surprisingly fecal-less. Enjoy!

Exactly like I... imagined it?... um...

Next Door, You Wuss
There's several reasons you didn't leave your house. For some reason or other, be it parents or tuition or something similarly absurd and lame, you figured that going too far from home might kill you- whether it's over-nutrition or homesickness, there are a thousand different maladies that can strike you dead pending your setting foot outside of state lines, according to their odd taste of logic.
There are some decent explanations for several of these phenomenons, such as helicopter parents or an irrational fear of being further than five minutes away from home, but I would personally like to reach out and say that perhaps you should accept the alternative that leaving home would help your health and be mentally healthy for your parents. Probably. This doesn't even deserve a picture. You're pathetic. Just kidding, please love me and my blog. You're beautiful. And scared of open spaces, that's kinda ok too (not really).

On the Beach in Suburbia
Either in a stilted hut or in a hammock between two palm trees, gorging yourself on the sunshine, this is the place to be. Even vampires can't resist- being in the beautiful sun is worth every cell in their body being scorched by the sun. When the sand is too hot and you burn your feet, that actually means you have vampire feet. Weirdo. Anyways. The Beach is the best place to live- better than cornfields, the Amazon, or two doors over from your house in a dorm.

"Class will be held at low tide." 

Right Now, I'd Rather Be...

It's been a traumatic night. I spent 7 nonconsecutive hours reading a 210 page book that I received three weeks ago. This kind of reckless literary abandon is nothing new; and besides, I relish the opportunity to ketchup on my reading sometimes. (Condiment joke!)
But as of now, the my stultified mind has succumbed to the wiles of the a-ccursed Internet, the bane of all humans and even slightly sentient beings. If frogs were useful for something other than shoe sole lubricant, they would also enjoy using computers. But right now, my mind rebels with every keystroke as it imagines several wonderful scenarios in which I am not being vaporized by the light emitted from a computer screen, such as...

Going for a Bike Ride : The Story
Biking is supremely supreme- supremerific, if you will. As a sport and as a method of transportation, it holds so much more promise than such foolhardy pursuits such as this "walking" people keep telling me about. In my heyday, I would glide through the streets and backroads of Bayonne, hair fluttering from under an only slightly ill fitting helmet and my eyes watering from the intense 12 mph's of velocitative movement the bicycle was sustaining... so like, fastish.

Height*Speed=Total Velocity, I think?

A Dam Bike Ride - The Hill
When I was a kid (summer 2011) and in Poland, I found myself in a similar situation. Luckily, the family hosting me lived in the mountains. No, really, you had to switch gears on the bike and all to get up to their house, perched precariously there like a tree jutting out of the side of a mountain. Why do trees do that? Anyway, I might've sustained several heart-attacks biking up to their house, and several more on the way back down. But this one morning, I was feelin' lucky. My friend, Piotr, told me about gorgeous hills and an active sawmill directly above a dam-caused lake not far from his house... who was I to resist this invitation? Wheeling a bike out and riding the few kilometers (that's right, Europe, baby) there, my front wheel finally began enjoying its true offroad environment by sinking several feet down into a swamp that was four inches wide and thirty feet deep (official estimates vary). As I looked up, my spine was thrashed by more than a chill- an icy freight train ran through it, rattling each vertebrae while stopping for fuel around my T4, then continuing on its hellish way. Before me stood not a hill- nay!; that description doesn't do it justice. Imagine a rocky, jagged precipice that giants jokingly chopped off the top of a mountain and plopped unceremoniously on a random hillside. Welcome to Poland.

The name of the town I was in. Why is it in English? Shutup.

The Ascent
In a fit of daring, imagine attempting to climb a skyscraper using thumb tacks as picks and toilet plungers as foot suction cups. Transpose this ridiculous scenario to Poland 2011, Wisla, and you would alight on a scene of me billowing full speed, wheel bouncing in and out of cavernous puddles, heading straight for a rock-studded wall. Okay, rock-studded hill. At a 89 degree angle. After the bike decided it wasn't feeling going vertical and started sliding down the rocky, muddy hill (I didn't mention it rained, did I? Because it rained the night before. Alot.), disembarking seemed the wisest course of action. At the top of the hill, the hill had another hill on top of it. This hill was barely on a 45-degree angle; might as well have been downhill for all I cared, and this hill was covered with tall grass and fallen tree branches, which was confusing because there was tall grass and no trees; yet there were tree branches. Poland. After 30 minutes of switching between riding my bike three feet and then getting it either stalled in water or stuck in mud, I just biked across the hill, because screw it, there was a third hill on top of the hill on top of the hill, and screw everyone, the bike was now sporting a brown coat of mud. Later, I would find out that the "trails" I thought I was using were actually just where the rain had worn ruts into the hill... but how did they wear ruts running horizontally across the hill?... Eh. Poland.

When I looked behind me on the road to the hill, casually passing by...

The Suici, er, Descent
There I was. Actually, that statement is definitively false, because I had no idea where I was in a geographic sense, but more of a local intuition. I was at the top of Suicide Hill. At a sporting 40 degree descent, this hill features a 8-inch gash running through the middle of the road until the bottom, where it crosses the left side of the division, forming a moat filled halfway up with rocks. The top half was empty space. After staring at this road for the span of 12 prayers to God to give me a sign whether I would survive the descent, I decided that signs are for wussies. But I waited an extra minute just in case, cause, y'know. DOWN I SPED, gripping the handlebars tighter than a fat kid defending a pastry. The wheels shook and grumbled, moaning for a sudden and violent release from their bicycle-frame prison, but the unruly rocks shattered them back into place with each new bump. Traveling at an estimated ten bagillion MPH (once again, official estimates vary, though consensus pegs it between 8 and 12 bagillion), I realized that the gash in the road had turned into a smirking mouth which was anticipating a delicious meal in the form of my entire front tire. In the most single daring moment of my life, I loosened my grip on the handlebars and hopped the voracious rock filled moat of doom only to land in a rocky road (not the ice cream, although that would've been nice) with the front tire swerving more erratically than a Batmobile with an entire birthday party inside. Forty feet later, the bike ground to a halt.

At this point, I decided to do something safer for the rest of the hour, like navigating through an active sawmill with logs rolling to and fro. And hour later, I went down suicide hill again, offering another baker's dozen of perfunctory prayers. After coming back to my host family's house and talking to Piotr Blazowski, who introduced me to that area, he told me he only goes down it with a helmet... when it doesn't rain.

.....................

According to the logbook (I never called it a diary) which I kept in Poland, this is how I introduced this entry: "I found out I can be declared clinically retarded today, and let me tell you why."

A Case Study in Absorbed Humor

I write this in the moments before the entire house collapses onto my head, I actually hear the groaning and creaking now. You see, everyone else in the three story building has fallen victim to my shovel-gunpowder-trampoline trap on the front stairs and is rather permanently incapacitated, I am afraid. On the plus side, the money and credit cards looted off of the slightly perforated bodies were put to good use growing an entire jungle and a half on the second and third floors of my house. Among palm trees, beach vistas, and masses of tropical birds and feral monkeys is a perpetual creek of water created with a superglue and styrofoam riverbank. I am afraid that the water has leaked out and leeched into the support structure of the entire house, rendering it similar to a large rectangular jello blob. Whenever I sneeze, I drop to the floor for fear of another wall socking me right in the jaw. Unfortunately, the feral monkeys have found the jello house rather appetizing and have been tucking in rather voraciously. The house will fall in moments.

Why was I able to google "jello house" and find something?

This is a passage loosely based on 27\6, an uproarious humour website featuring an Australian writer and designer who just loves being a butthead to everyone. I was demonstrating (mainly to myself) how easy it is to absorb humor from authors and works that you read. Some of my strongest influences? Bill Bryson, Cracked, Artemis Fowl, and now 27\6.

Era of Procrastination

A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.--Charles Darwin

Anyone can tell you about procrastination. It is a universal conundrum, affecting drooling toddlers and drooling seniors alike, and striking down young high schoolers. It is the bane of all workers even slightly at risk to distractions... And like anything else universally affecting the entire human population, like a ludicrous love for peanut butter and ham waffles, procrastination can be broken down into a few different time frames...

A national dish of all 900 countries.

General Overview

Next time your parents try to convince you that sorting dominoes according to the number of dots on each side is less important than homework, try this: Ask them about their childhood and their own school procrastination. Chances are they'll tell you an interesting story and help you procrastinate at the same time; you just bought yourself some time to figure out how to arrange those two blocks with a 5-2 pattern on each side. Just don't glance at the domino box too often or they'll catch on. My mum recalled living across the street from the school, and as she went every morning her own mother would watch her... so my mum went in the front of the school and waltzed right out the back whenever she felt like it. But the point is, procrastination convinces you that an infinite number of things are more desirable than homework: smelling that stain on your ceiling, staring at dust floating in your room, even gazing slack-jawed at a pencil for three hours will suffice. But let me indulge you with a few slightly more specific and thoroughly incapacitating examples of procrastination that you're all too familiar with...

"Good habits start now!"

Sunday Night Blues

"Man, this was one great weekend. From Friday night hanging out behind 7-11 and getting yelled at by the Indian owner to Sunday afternoon having one-handed shoelace tying competitions with your friends, the excitement just kept on comin'!" Well, guess what, it's now Sunday night, 9:00, and it turns out your backpack hasn't even been opened. Hell, you can't bring yourself to recall where you put it. After an hour of digging  through layers of dirty clothes, food wrappers, and fruit husks, you successfully excavate your academic portmanteau and begin to peruse your papers. Time to get to work.

Three hours later, you wake up. Seriously, time to get to work... right after I check my email.

It's now 2:45am, and you're knee deep in three sentences of literary wisdom. The essay due needs to fill five pages. Single-spaced. Dude, just go to sleep at this point. Tell the teacher your backpack got buried in a landslide, it's basically the truth.

Except that's not homework. He's researching sandpit backpack removal techniques.

Day-Before Deadline

As you receive the assignment, you vow, "This time, it'll be done a WEEK before deadline. I swear, my work will overflow with grace, beauty, and education, and my teacher will deferentially bow before me for the rest of the year in awe of such a masterpiece."

This is what you said a month ago. You told yourself it would get done next week every weekend, and guess what, the deadline is tomorrow and the empty word doc is mocking you with a grin while it shakes its private parts at your auntie (Holy Grail ref). In other words, yep, you're screwed. Once again, the only option is to sit down and power through it... or you could go and raid the fridge for the ninth time today. Is there even a question which one you pick?

Too hungry to sleep. Too tired to eat. Still better than doing homework.

Period Before Class

Well, this time, the teacher assigned some asinine form of homework yesterday. But, once again, you had much better things to do after school like skipping rocks on the street and planking on top of moving cars dressed as a gorilla. When you got back home, between eating and eating, there was no time to pause your frenzied chewing and do 800 math problems. The next day, in school, you're too lazy to even copy the work. C'mon, even Ben copies his work in a timely manner, you lazy, poo-sniffing, no good yellabelly bum. But you have class next period, and it's now or never, buster... but your friends are playing cards, and they only do this the entire day, so it would be like a sin to miss out! At this point, just... just drop out of high school and become a Walmart greeter or something. But you'd probably suck at that, too.

A synopsis of the next five years of your life.

High School: The Way too Longest Yard

Back in 8th grade, our teachers would threaten us with tales of high school, telling us we were "unprepared" and "stop chewing your desk, they don't do that in high school," among other gems of advice. And in 8th grade, as the end of the year came faster than a rocket-powered cheetah, we hunkered down and prayed that somehow, our graduation would be delayed by that Jell-O factory across the street flooding our school, trapping us in blissful middle school-dom forever.

But not anymore. We're big boys and girls in high school. Much to the chagrin of any living thing that crosses the street once in awhile, many high school students can drive. We've taken our tests, finished our classes, did what we had to do... and the end of the year is still just a speck on the horizon. Why?

An adequate summation of how every high school senior feels

Midterms Loom Like Bucktoothed Giants

For some reason, college students have their finals in our third month of school, something which makes a startlingly small amount of sense to me. We, on the other hand, have midterms (spoiler alert) at the end of January. Besides a late-night cram session or two, midterms signify the academic middle of the year for us. These midterms will be the last where most teachers have taught at least 45%+ of the material actually on the midterm and some teachers literally just hand out old tests hastily stapled together... In other words, midterms remind us that we're nearly done with our school year. But even those are so far away...

Pictured: A recurring theme of all education

Senioritis Strikes Fast and Furiously. Jk, *struck

As seniors vie and plot towards the end of senior year, teachers haven't come to grips with the fact that senioritis is no longer an innocent flu strain or benign academic tumor; au contraire, it's a contagion and pandemic long come and gone that has shattered what little work ethic and discipline anyone might've had in high school. Some survivors have made it this far; some succumbed during a period of relative calm known as "Stage Freshmania," but noone will manage to retain their virility after midterms, when senioritis spreads faster than a fire in a gasoline and heating oil shop... that is to say, very quickly.

Welcome to senioritis.

Teachers Demand And Assign As if We Cared

It's not that we're not motivated... it's just that we don't really care anymore. With palm trees and college dorms glistening in the distance like beautiful, rapturing dewdrops, who can blame us? Teachers can. Many of us, persisting with what little of our work ethic has been spared from senioritis, have delved into a world of AP classes and all of the courses we previously weren't able to take because of our "inability to do algebra" or "lack of basic reading and writing skills," whatever those are supposed to mean. And so, our fine educators see fit to give us work, and boy, do they give us work. See my previous post on unruly teachers for more details on this one.

After Christmas break, every teacher starts acting like this.

The Destination Outshines the Road

Though that line reads much like the slovenly poetry of a disgruntled english major in college, it rings true nonetheless. We want high school to end, well, because every end is the beginning of another... beginning? What? Huh? That's definitely not how that quote goes... anyway, 99% of seniors plan on going to college. Applications, interviews, FAFSA, and 200,000$ of student debt... nevermind all of that. It's college, an impending era of independence and stupidity which holds a universal appeal to high schoolers. College: High school 3.0. If you want to party for a week straight with only a loincloth on, you can. If staying in your dorm room for an entire semester and avoiding sunlight altogether is your thing, go for it. Eating only microwaved ramen and peeing only in empty ramen containers floats your boat? Float on, 'cap. Only when we get there will we all realize that college will be nothing like the advertisements of smiling chicks and professors that have a sense of humanity about them. In fact, safe to say that college will be more hellish than high school: more work, less free time, more jerks, less home food, ad infinitum. 

entering college after high school:
also like this

But that's when we get there. Imagine seeing a beautiful island glistening in the sun far, far away and instinctively moving towards it as fast as humanly possible, only to realize you've hit the Pacific Garbage Rift once there. Welcome to College Introduction 101!

THOSE Teachers

Foiled : The Tragic Stories of 4 Teachers You Know

Y'know, I'm a nonconfrontational kind of guy. Authority figures and domineering teachers are totally cool with me, so long as they don't interfere with my lunchtime. Ms. Hoppersnap still hasn't recovered from giving me lunchtime detention. But you see, sometimes- sometimes, teachers aren't so simple and manageable as to be dealt with according to modern conventions of "sanity" and "social tact." Some teachers, simply put, exhibit similar traits to those of an infuriated honey badger with pens duct taped to it, yet strikingly less awesome. And you've had to fight him and put him down with nothing but a broken stapler and three Post-its.

RRghhhgrrgh. KILL. RGghgirrriri!

The Eternally Disorganized Teacher: Amateur Spelunker

    We've all been here. You proudly hand in your essay, head high and chest puffed out, after thrashing it out of your brain after an early-morning panic attack finishing it. The teacher, eyes glazed over and hair disheveled, tie leaning tiredly to one side, smiles weakly. "Oh.. an, ahem... essay..." Aforementioned educator then slumps over into a deep "meditation" session among caves of paper, mountains of reports, stapler fortresses, folder valleys, and somewhere deep in there- a dusty computer screen. Hopefully, the teacher wakes up and finds your essay. More often than not, 80%+ of the papers and assignments he/she receives will never see the light of day again, much like the teacher's computer and deodorant.

Damn. Where did I leave that keybo*mumblemumble..*

The Deadline Stickler  (all teachers now to be deferred to as males for expedited pronounage)

    High school students are busy, let's face it. Between procrastinating, parties, and pretending to play sports when the coach isn't watching, you're really all booked. But that doesn't matter to the deadline stickler. Oh, no. Lateness will NOT be tolerated, he says. I assigned this assignment in a timely manner (during the weekend) and I expect you guys to hold up your end of the sacrosanct high school homework social agreement and hand this assignment in a timely manner (two days after it was due; assignment is three essays). Once again, more often than not, the deadline stickler will finally give you back your tests and essays during graduation with all 90's- because there wasn't enough time to grade it. Well pooh-paah, looks as if I might not ever have enough time to do your homework again! (Just kidding, again implies I did some at one point.)

Just kidding, I'll move it up a week if you want!

The Homework-Bulldozer Hybrid

   Mr. Bull[dozer] has clearly never been a student. A permutation of the deadline stickler, Mr. Bull is worse for the fact that he does not even know which class he's teaching at any point in time. Usually, he will assign projects and presentations to students whilst in the process of trying to figure out whether he's a literature or physics teacher- all based on the assignments he gets back. Students do him no such courtesy, mixing all subjects in to throw him off the scent. As backlash, he sits at his desk brooding, and will call up a student.  "Bradley.."    "My name is Raj."   "Ah, yes, Richard."     "Raj."    "Okay there, student, I have some papers for this class in this stack of papers. Hand out 12 copies, three form types each, to your classmates.

They're near the top somewhere, Richard. See you next week.

The Lieutenant Captain of the SS Obvious

      In order to properly emphasize what a complete nincompoopy, tubby-gutted moron this kind of teacher is, an imaginary rank must be assigned to elevate him far above the average Captain Obvious. With a sporting IQ of 19 (takes an IQ of 8 to grunt), this teacher has no will to teach. He probably went to a community college, and hell, the only reason he's a teacher is because he's now eligible for discounted lunch at the cafeteria. Lt. Admiral Captain Obvious does not know a thing about his subject, though he might happen to remember which one he teaches. Instead of offering pithy insight and relevant information, Lt. Captain Lameface will regurgitate facts found in your textbook, occasionally muddling them yet still boring the pants off of everyone in class.

And then the Japanese submarines torpedoed, uh, Carl Columbus' caravel in... 18, hm, 33. Sounds good, students?

Luckily for myself, I've managed to avoid most of these toxic teachers of the years. Many of my past teachers have given me an academic edge through the things and methods they have taught me, though many a pair of pants have indeed been bored right off of me. Thanks to Amr Tawfik for helping me brainstorm a few of these.