Monorail

I was just recently at the health center (I had scurvy) and on the wall they had displayed the plans for the new health center they want to build as part of the campus makeover. It looked kind of cool, with a little pond in the front and a nice modern design. But then my eyes wandered to the tiny model they had constructed. And apparently the plans call for a monorail. A MONORAIL!
Texas A&M needs a monorail like the Death Star needs a roller coaster.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I thought maybe I was delirious from the fever, but I asked the nearest pregnant girl if she saw it too and she confirmed my fears. So, according to the map, this monorail is supposed to take you from the new health center way out on west campus to… closer on west campus. Awesome. Totally worth it. Not ridiculous at all.

And if I’m not mistaken the monorail is going to take you past the giant golf ball and the teacup ride on the way to the business building. People will know what I’m talking about when they’re late to class because the monorail had to make a stop at the new “It’s a Small World” boat ride and the roads are blocked for the daily parade of fantasy characters from all your favorite traditions. The last thing I need on my way to class is a guy in an oversized Reveille costume frolicking around me or an Animatronic Gig ‘Em thumb punching out from the Academic building.

And I don’t know about you, but it seems like a huge waste of money. If you’re coming to a college because the buildings don’t look old and “Oooh, it has a monorail” then you might be choosing for the wrong reasons. I dunno, just maybe. And if I recall correctly, there was a department on campus that is being cut due to lack of funds. I think it rhymes with journalism. But what the hell, they got the math and English part of the “reading, writing, arithmetic” formula, and two out of three ain’t bad.

But I think the monorail is just a very complicated design with a much easier solution. It’s called walking. Are people so lazy that the very idea of walking to the nearest BUS STOP is out of the question? Seriously, exercise out to the health center might help you shake that cold or STD you’ve contracted. But I guess I’m not one to talk since I religiously take the last handicapped spot. Even if I see a Buick as old as I am creeping towards it at 7 miles an hour and an elderly fist shaking vigorously just above the dashboard. Shut it gramps, I’m late.

Besides, everyone knows that with a passenger train comes crazy homeless people. Let’s face it, it’s inevitable. They’ll migrate to it like yesterday’s bakery trash, pushing their shopping carts, sleeping under the Battalion, muttering things about the end of the world... I mean, look at the history. A growing town, like this one, gets a fancy passenger train and before long, in come the homeless, smelling funny and peeing in public. I’ve seen it a thousand times.

And I won’t sit idly by why a monorail takes over our city. We’ve already got one train snaking its way through the center of campus, and I think that’s enough. This isn’t Grand Central Station… just College. And I’d like to go to that college without having to dodge trains on my way to class. I just want to be able to park unhealthily close and get inside so I can get to work on my crossword. Is that too much to ask?

It’s comforting to know, however, that a monorail does not exactly get built overnight (not in this town, the construction takes FOREVER), so I will have graduated and moved on by then. But I’d like to reiterate “bad idea” a few more times.
Though if it were some sort of super-sonic monorail that went 150 mph and pulled like 8 g’s, now that would be something to see. Like a roller coaster. On the Death Star.

Marriage Ban

A county in Oregon has banned all marriages, gay and straight. See here:
http://famulus.msnbc.com/famulusgen/reuters03-23-182738.asp?t=renew&vts=32320041850

All around the nation, couples are rushing to get married in protest of the ban on all marriages. Las Vegas has reported a sudden flood of couples eloping, including recently married Britney Spears, which lasted two and a half minutes. Couples are flocking to get legal marriage licenses before other counties ban all marriages too.

“This is an outrage,” said one woman as she waited in line to get her marriage license, “The very idea of not allowing marriages ruins the sanctity of marriage.”
Her fiancé said, “Marriage is an institution between two people. This decision violates that very principle. And we’re getting married here to protest that decision. This’ll teach those Oregonians.”

A leader of a pro-marriage group said, “It is up to the people to speak out against anti-marriage legislation. It is against our civil rights as Americans. Write your Congressman. That always works.”

Vermont, however, refers to them as civil unions, so they will continue to issue civil union licenses despite the Oregon county’s bold move towards non-marriage.

In response, Oregon officials had this to say: “Vermont isn’t even a real state.”

It is uncertain what the Bush administration will do during this time of turmoil. Some say it is likely he will ban all marriages, following Oregon’s lead. Others say he will stutter something nonsensical.

Either way, the nation is polarized on the issue of marriage. To have them, or to have one giant orgy.

Fondue

I was introduced to fondue last week. And I was frightened.

In case you don’t know what fondue is, it’s basically a mini version of a meal. Little pots are heated up and everyone stands around dipping finger foods into them. Each “fonduer” is assigned skewers to lessen the risk of someone catching on fire, but upping the chances of someone losing an eye. People are randomly stabbing meats, shrimps and veggies from all different directions making it into an all-out fencing melee for the next bite. Don’t reach across the table. You won’t get your hand slapped for bad manners; you’ll get impaled in a ravenous fondue frenzy.

Fondue was all the craze in the 70s, so we went old school for one night, putting aside our McDonalds fries and picking up a little pitchfork. But during all the stabbing chaos, I still felt like we should be wearing sweaters and discussing a rousing game of polo. So, in short, fondue is the most sophisticated way to poke and dip food.

And if you didn’t know what fondue was, then that’s ok, because I didn’t have a clue what the hell they were talking about either. I even had to look up how to spell the ridiculous thing so I could describe how ridiculous it is.

Other than the spelling, my immaturity wouldn’t even allow me to get past the utter absurdity of the word: fondue. It sounds like someone gave a fancy word to something basic, like manure.
So to sum up the night, you had a bunch of guys giggling about the word itself, holding sharp objects and fighting for food around open flames. Brilliant.

Groundhog Day

Forget the Doppler 2000, we once again had a little furry creature come predict absolutely nothing. I know your instincts would tell you to whack him on the head with a rubber mallet when he emerged, but this time we waited until he sauntered out for the most useless holiday ... ever.

I couldn't possibly type anything funnier than this though. Go here, you'll laugh, I promise.

Professors

This is usually a little rant I do at the beginning of every semester for my mom and brother showing them just how excited I am about my boring courses and even more boring professors. But here it is for you. Nothing spectacular, just a few character descriptions.

First there is my health teacher. Nine months pregnant. She comes in and starts teaching us about exercise and the observant forty year old in the front row raises her hand and says, "I couldn't help but notice that you're really pregnant." Brilliant.
So the professor finally addressed it, letting us know that we would have 5 weeks off while she was on maternity leave, but would continue to teach until she had the baby. So we could be learning about abstinence and contraception when her water breaks.

Then there is my journalism history professor. He looks like Michael J. Fox somewhere between being himself and the teen wolf. Sometime in the transformation process, that's my prof. But because of his scruff and height, he has a Abe Lincoln quality about him that makes me wonder about his intimate knowledge of history. But overall his enthusiasm for it all makes me look up from my crossword more than usual.

My english professor looks like Sigourney Weaver. Not the shaved head alien fighter Sigourney, but the pre-Gatekeeper Sigourney from Ghostbusters.
She is your typical liberal English feminist that thinks that books should consume our lives as much as TV. And with one crappy show after another taking over, like the Newlyweds or Friends, I can see her point. But there's something about plodding through Hemingway that reminds me that I'd rather be doing anything else.
And she wants everything to be a discussion, like we're sipping frappichinos in the nearest dimly lit smokey lounge discussing literature. But that doesn't work out so well when you have a lecture hall of 250 people and a kid in the back yelling out random interpretations that relate everything to sex.

Then there is my journalism technology prof. A young guy trying to be everyone's friend and reading from little powerpoint slides.

And last and definitely least, my finance teacher. I did not realize that there was such a thing as a finance nazi, but I have recently come face to face with that beast. For someone that has Joy in her name, she is the least fun person I have ever met. Drop the condescending tone and just teach me intro. to finance so I can get my minor and go home.

Another exciting semester.

Clubs

I'm not really one to go out to clubs. You could say I don't “frequent the club scene.” I don’t “go clubbin’.” Because I really “can’t dance.”

I don't think I'm extroverted enough to go up to a random girl I don't know and ask her to “cut a rug.” Maybe it’s because no one has said that since 1957, or maybe I'm a little weirded out by what that would actually mean.

I’m more of a stand-around-in-a-group kind of guy, maybe sitting if the mood is right. I wish clubs were more like junior high dances, where the genders are separated to opposite sides. And I’m just staring across trying to think of something clever to say to distract her from me stepping on her toes. (Oh, to be young again.) I am definitely not one to grind it out with the nearest girl to the newest rap song.
“Hey, I know you're a complete stranger, but could we go out on the dance floor and simulate sex?”
And then she says, “Sure, because I'm only basing this on looks alone any way and I would love it if someone I don’t know would hump me to a rhythmic beat.”
Great, that’s settled. Now I'm supposed to do the typical college guy dance, the only one any white guy has ever known... the crotch grind. This is the dance where I just move my hips every once in a while and just kind of… grind? Even my dog has more manners than that. She at least lets you pet her head or tries to lick your face before she goes at it with your leg.
Yeah, that's dancing. Anywhere else, it’s socially unacceptable to gyrate on someone to music. You're at a wedding and a five year old kid wants to dance on your shoes and instead you're a Tickle Me Elmo doll with a libido. But it’s ok at a club, because the techno music is on repeat and everyone else is dry humping around you.

And it’s difficult to start up a conversation based on the very short “relations” you just had out on the dance floor. After I get past the usual small talk (name, major, year), there's that awkward silence that follows.
I’m so uncomfortable I’m starting to become comfortable again, so I just spout something quickly. “So... you come here often?" Either response I get, I'm just going to be clueless as to where to go from there.
Her: "Yes. Yes, I do."
Me: “Oh... um... great. Welcome back.”
Or...
Her: “No. I’ve never been here before.”
Me: “Me either." (silence)
Smooth.

I have the most limited relationship with this girl, so the topics are... music... yeah, that's pretty much it. And oh-so-brilliant considering there’s music playing. But I can't tell her really how I feel because it would come out something like this: “Crap.”
And in a lot of the clubs, there is that DJ holding the headphones up to one ear and shouting out over-excited, over-rehearsed obnoxiousness into the microphone.
“This is dejaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay Slimmy Slam Slim Slammity Slim, bringing you the latest, the greatest, and the stuff that makes you shake it, baby. Spinnin' the discs and pumpin' the beats, I'll be up in here all this week.”
Sometimes I want to go up and request the Bunny Hop. (Let’s see them grind to that.) Yeah, songs with instructions, perfect. It makes it that much easier on me, leader of the uncoordinated.

So if you ever suggest to me, “Hey, let’s go out to a club.” Just remember, I hate you.

Wizard of Oz Characters

I was always a little scared of the characters in the Wizard of Oz. And not the usual scary ones like the witch or the flying monkeys or the midgets.

I was scared of the Scarecrow and the Tin Man. The Scarecrow was just crazy. He was unpredictable and that was frightening in itself.

But I was especially scared of the Tin Man. He had no heart and a big axe. He could have chopped Dorothy into bits and he wouldn't have cared.

They would have been like "What the hell, Tin Man?" And the Tin Man would have been like "Dude, I don't care. I don't have a heart."

And the Scarecrow would have been like "Huh?"

PETA Cracks Down on Party Games

A spokesman for PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) made a statement today concerning the depiction of cruelty to animals at children's parties.
"We at PETA believe that parents are promoting the ill treatment of animals at parties and gatherings with irresponsible games and activities. We feel that this has gone on long enough. We urge that our fanatics everywhere speak out."

PETA is speaking primarily of the tradition of "Pin the tail on the donkey." The kids are blindfolded, spun an indefinite amount of times, and then asked to pin the tail on a picture of a donkey. Just the thought of puncturing the donkey multiple times for sport has PETA up in arms yet again. But they are more concerned with the fact that rarely does the pin actually go on the ass's ass. One mother and member of PETA said, "I went with my daughter to a party once at her little friend's house and they were playing this awful game. A little boy put the pin right through the donkey's eye! And he laughed about it! I was horrified."
The spokesman added, "And don't even get us started on the petting zoos that sometimes pop up at these events."

PETA doesn't seem to stop, just making outrageous statements whenever their extreme liberalism is ignored. They simultaneously launched a Latin American campaign against the sale of pinatas. "Pinatas shaped like animals," according to PETA, "are beaten senselessly by children around the world not thinking of what it really means. And then they scramble and fight for their innards when the animal is destroyed. Disgusting."
I asked a nearby Mexican boy what he had to say about pinatas and he said, "Muy bien."
So there you have it. A time-honored tradition locked in a vicious battle with animal rights crazies.

It seems that with the crack down on using the copyrighted "Birthday Song," the removal of party games, and the recent concerns with the dangers of 'Ring Around the Rosies' that children will be left with only one option on their birthday... hookahs.

Being One-Legged

Man, it is weird sometimes being one-legged. All sorts of crazy stuff happens to you that doesn't really happen to other people.
A normal person messes up their knee, they need surgery. I just drop it off for 24 hours and its all tuned up when I come in the next morning.
A normal person breaks their leg and they need an ambulance and a cast. I break my leg and I need an Allen wrench and some brake grease.
A normal person puts their pants on one leg at a time. I put my pants on earlier in the week and then slide the other leg in whenever its time to go out.

And when I say normal person, I mean a bipod. Us monopods qualify as quasi-handicapped. The kind of handicapped where if I'm wearing long pants you're like "Is he limping? Or just that cool?" The answer is both.

I feel bad sometimes stealing the handicapped space, like I'm maybe not handicapped enough. Like the next guy that comes along is going to be missing both legs. But he shouldn't be driving any way, Crazy No Legs. What a silly guy.

But I can spot a handicapped spot from a mile away. It's like a sixth sense I have. Like when blind people's hearing gets better. "Whoa, we don't have to park out here. There's a handicapped spot on the first row, second from the end. A geriatric has been pulling out of it since we left the house."

Though sometimes when I get out of the car people don't believe I'm handicapped. They want to see some sort of identification or handicapped membership card. Check out the plates. See that wheelchair guy? Yeah, that's me. I'm just walking a little more these days.
I get the "tsk tsk" or the skeptical glance as I walk off from my car. Thank you for protecting the parking spaces, Mr. Disabled Security Officer. What would we do without you? Wait, where's your badge? Oh, you don't have one either.
Sometimes it takes a bold approach to reach the slow ones. A wrinkled, grey hair over 70 is giving me the old "stink eye" and I'm supposed to response in a language that she might possibly understand before next Tuesday. "Here Grandma." Then I rip off my leg and hand it to her. "You hold this while I get some eggs. I'll be right back" and I hop in the other direction. She's left cradling an appendage while I'm hopping around the grocery store like the friggin' Easter bunny.

And at sporting events I can move right up to the front of the parking lot. It's like having a backstage pass at a concert and I know the band. We pull up to the rent-a-cop, who sees the blue hang tag, gives us the wave, and the "move along, sir." Right up to the front. People making fake IDs that say they're 21 AND have a deformity. Growing facial hair and dragging a limb.
I guess this is to make up for security check points at airports and stuff that redefines paranoia. Everyone else is putting their keys and cell phone in the tray. I'm just strolling through because I know when I get to the other side they're going to think I'm Robocop. "Why don't you just save yourself the trouble, because that wand is gonna beep from here down, pal." And full cavity search is an understatement. I feel like I have to get the person's number afterwards. "I'll look you up next time I'm in town. I had fun. You were a real gentleman."

There's always controversy over what people should call 'us.' In this overly politically correct world, everyone wants to make sure I'm getting called the right thing. "What is it like being... Well, what do you like to be called? Disabled? Handicapped? Walking challenged?" Here's an idea. How about Jeff? I don't ask you if you want to be called "fat," "obese," or "gigantic." I start with your name and keep the judgments to myself. And you should too, unless you want rubber, carbon fiber, steel, and titanium up your huge ass. In that order.

Some might say I'm being kind of cynical about the whole thing. But you would be too if everything was referred to as "easy as riding a bike" and you never got off training wheels because pedaling is harder than it looks. Or when your leg falls asleep you're basically screwed for a few minutes.

Most people don't know how to deal with someone missing a leg. They don't know whether to say something or not. Because the only contact they've had with that is either:
A) pirates. Which there aren't a whole lot of. The only major booty around to plunder anymore is in J-Lo's pants. OHHHHHHHHHH SNAP!! I DID NOT JUST GO THERE!
or
B) Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump. So for the twenty-second time for all you uncomfortable people out there, yes I think he was a noble character. And thank you Gary Sinise for bringing the crippled to the masses. We salute you.

So, that information should help you next time you meet a one-legged person. You have a little insight into their barely different world. You don't have to run away in fear. Please don't. We can't keep up.


wow, two big ass jokes in one post. an unexpected bonus.

Quick Thoughts About the Dentist

Yeah, yeah. I know the dentist bit is overdone so I'll keep it brief.

After laying precariously in that chair under the interrogation light for enough time, making small talk like it was going out of style, it was time for the routine teeth cleaning.

This is where the hygenist takes a tiny circular sander to your teeth. This high-speed circular motion is supposed to make up for 6 months worth of crappy brushing.

But the best part is when she asks me what flavor I wanted. As if the flavor is going to change the fact that she is literally grinding a layer off of my enamel.

It was like Baskin Robbins' 31 flavors though! It was ridiculous how many flavors they had for cleaning my friggin teeth. She started out with the basics like mint or cherry. Then there was chocolate, chocolate mint, some orange crush one, cookie dough (no, seriously, there was), and on and on. But then I think she was just making them up after that, naming colors and shapes. It was early, so I may have misheard, but I could have sworn I heard a flavoring called "Fettuccini Alfredo." And when I stayed loyal to my roots (I know, bad pun, but its 9 in the morning) and chose mint, she realized she had to go get some more of them. Apparently no one ever picks mint, but usually pick something a little more fun from their extensive teeth-cleaning menu. People are so spoiled.