Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Why I went to college...for like...10 years

(note: originally posted to my MySpace account)

For those of you who don't know, I have spent a lot of time and money in college. I'm behind the eight ball on student loans to the tune of 70 grand. I did manage to get two pieces of paper out of the deal, however (a B.S. in "bs", and a M.S. in ICS, in case you were wondering).

When I was in high school, I didn't think I wanted to go to college. I was a sophomore then, and I thought somehow I was going to find my way out of obscurity with my own special blend of awkwardness and social ignorance. I guess I figured I'd be some kind of guitar-wielding, cancer-curing, Statue of David-like, millionaire-about-town; without a great deal of training of course (after all, Pauley Shore could land a paycheck!).

Oddly, it wasn't the realization that being extraordinary means actually offering something extraordinary that made me change my mind on college. I didn't have an Epiphany at a frat party when I was a junior in high school (although, I wish I had, she was hot!). It wasn't even some sort of "Scared Straight" situation at the county jail (I was nary the troublemaker at that stage that I have become).
Post script: did you notice the cool use of the word "nary" in the previous sentence. Yeah. You're rockin' "nary", baby. I know you are.

Anyway, the thing that caused the "one-eighty" on academia and all the such was McDonald's. Yeah. A Quarter Pounder with Cheese Extra-Value meal ("Super-Sized", of course because I was young and I could double that order three times a day and still not top a buck fifty soaking wet!)

You see, back in the day they had ridiculous cash registers at the Sturgis Michigan Mickey D's. Instead of having a normal keypad like you would have on a calculator or a cell phone…(which are actually not the same as a calculator has the one at the bottom row of three keys and the cell phone has it at the top of the keyboard. ….Go ahead, go check. I'll wait….Ok, you ready to continue? OK)….

These cash registers had the numbers in a row, from top to bottom, on the right side of the device. The rest of the keyboard must have had some sort of "U-571", ultra-super-secret code on it. The McDonald's operatives were well trained in this code. So I placed my order. …I did. …Trust me. And the total for the order came to something like $4.95 (I SAID, "back in the day"!!!). I handed the polyester-clad, 20-something cashier a twenty. I could tell that his rudimentary grasp of fundamental math had kicked in; as a slow motion replay of the moment in my mind has him slowly scratching his temple before his eyes gain saucer-like diameter and a smile broadens his face in a moment of absolute clarity. He knew it. He owned it. "A ten, a five, and the 'nick'. I don't need to punch that in. As long as I give the right amount of change and punch it in as cash, the drawer will balance at the end of my reign. I could simply dink that cash button and run my finger aggressively down the numbers on the right hand side of this keyboard, give this strikingly-handsome young man his well-deserved change and continue on with my existence until finally the alcohol and hookers take their ultimate toll, exacting their vengeance and claiming my final breath."

He did just that…..the part about hitting cash and draggin' his hand down the right side of the keyboard…but pretty much that was it. I think. Just the keyboard.



Swiped it again. "THHHHHHRRRRRPP!!"


Dirty-pissed. Swipes again. "T…THHHHHHRRRPPPPP!!!"


Presses individual keys like he's trying to fashion a horse-shoe out of almost molten iron, knowing that had he done this in the first place he could have had that change in my hand about a month ago.

"DOUSH!!" ..."2"

"DOUSH!!!" ..."0"

"DOUSH!!!!" ..."0"

"DOUSH!!!!" ..."0"

"KADOUSH!!!!" ..."enter"

The drawer popped out as if attacking this ex-jock's groin. He quickly shuffled through the cash and handed me my change with an exacerbated, defeated look on his face.

"Go to college, kid."

Wise words, you sage old spirit. Wise words.

I followed that advice. I followed the fuck out of it.

My guys won't tackle

Note: Originally published on my old MySpace account

I am afflicted. I have "electronics rage".

Don't know what that is? You're not alone. But nearly two in 10 Americans are afflicted with this disease (*I made that number up).

I break electronic devices and accessories. I get angry and something electronic has to pay the price. It could be because I get frustrated way too easily by video games that don't seem to make a lot of sense (like Madden, for instance, where every time you try to switch to the defender closest to the ball, the guy starts running the opposite way of the ball carrier! WTF?!). Sometimes I just get angry and the closest thing I can find to break ('cuz you gotta break SOMETHING!) is a remote control.

A short list of some of the electronic items I've destroyed because of this illness:

multiple remote controls
multiple video game controllers
2 car stereos
Desktop computer
2 Laptop computers
multiple keyboards and mice
Palm PDA
MP3 Player
DVD player
3 TV antenna
2 cell phones

Obviously I won't go into details on all of these. Suffice it to say, they started it! Maybe it's reflective of some deeper issue. Maybe I'm just an insufferable jack-ass with WAY too short a fuse and probably too much room on my credit cards.

So here is what I've done to try to curb this desire to lash out against Japan's wares. I bought a universal remote that is so cool I just can't imagine what I would do if I went back to 5 remotes. Logitec Harmony. Check it out, you won't be disappointed.

I also made a decision that I will never own another gaming console. Do I love the racing games? Affirmative. Do I get bent-assed mad at sports games and crazy-pissed at fighting games? Roger. I've just decided that it isn't worth it. $300 for the system and I end up with bloody feet after stomping the living sh!t out it after I fail for the 42nd time to get my C license on Gran Tourismo? Not cool, PS. Not cool.

Here's what you can do to help: don't piss me off. Don't be a dick, don't be a moron, don't be a jackhole. If you're my girlfriend, don't break up with me or cheat on me.

And if you see me coming your way with a scowl on my face, for God's sake, hide your laptop!

Here endith the lesson.


When did ESPN stop meaning Eastern Sports Programming Network and start meaning Endless Speculation, Prognostication, and Nonsense? They spend 19 hours a day reporting on where LeBron James is going to sign without any insight, any first hand knowledge (nor second, third or even 8th hand knowledge), nor any facts whatsoever.

LeBron wore a Yankees cap? Off to the Big Apple, without a doubt..

Changing his number from 23? He was a huge Jordan fan, must have done it so he can go to Chi-town!

King James knows Jay Z? Wave to him on the New Jersey turnpike kids, he’s headed your way!

Really, you know what that tells me? He’s a Yankees fan who liked the Bulls when they were winning championships. LBJ is a FRONTRUNNER!!! …And, honestly, who wouldn’t want to be a couple feet away from Beyonce?

It also tells me that ESPN has gotten so far away from what made it great that if they aren’t showing a live event, then they really aren’t worth watching. I’ll get my scores and highlights online, since you can’t be bothered, ESPN. Thank you. I’m sick to death of stories in April that proclaim “We’ll tell you who’s going to win this year’s Super Bowl! Coming up on Sportcenter.” Wait. Whaaaaaa…. They haven’t even had practices yet and you’re crowning the champs? Seems a tad ambitious, yeah? “We’ll tell you why LA is going to win tomorrow night’s game 7.” Oh, thanks, man. That clears up my schedule to get blotto on Rumplemints and rub a couple out to reruns of Hannah Montanna! Are you a sports network or the Psychic Friends Network? Seriously, you scamps, where are you hiding Dionne Warwick?

Oh, but please, slurp on the Yanks and Sox just a little harder, guys. It’s not like NY doesn’t already have THEIR OWN FRIGGIN’ NETWORK!! And who gives a crap and a half about Boston fans? Could they be any more annoying? Talk about obnoxious band-wagoners! Big Papi? Really? Yeah, let’s all stand back and watch that obese pony do his one un-athletic trick. Great home run, fatty, now try and round the bases in a fortnight and get back to your feedbag.

Well, that last part is bound to get me in some trouble, but that's the fun, so let it rip.

Later folks, thanks for reading.