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An Ode To Merrylegs

2002-12-06 - 6:27 p.m.

I was going to type something here and now I don't remember what it was going to be. Strange. Very Strange. Doctor Strange even.

This is the first thing I heard when I got up this morning: "Complaints about the complaint box? Delicious." I ask you, is there any better way to start your day? I shouldn't think so.

We had to do our oral presentations in French this morning. My partners, Hekyl and Jekyl, could not have fucked it up more. All we had to do was talk about our imaginary trip to Montreal and where we would stay, what we would do, and what the weather would be like. We were the 5th group to present. As the first group was concluding, Jekyl turns to me and whispers, "Wait, so . . . wait. We're supposed to do it in French?" Argh. It's my own fault. I never want to pair up with the eggheads in class because they're no fun. No fun at all. Let's back up a bit. Automatically, whenever I start a new class I gravitate towards the back of the room. This is for two reasons. One: When I was younger, and they sat the rooms by height, I always ended up in the back row, ignoring the fact that I was blind as a bat and couldn't see the board to save my life. Granted, glasses fixed this problem come 5th grade, but it still didn't solve the problem of Tim Curtis's wandering hands. (Get it? Tim was tall then too, so he would have sat near me? Get it? Oh fuck you. Now I'm not even gonna try for the Brian Livingston joke. Assholes.) Two: The wiseass fucks always sit in the back and if there's one group I'll go to my grave pledging allegiance to it's the cult of the wiseass fucks. Indeed. The culmination of 18 years of practice resulted in the Lords of the Wiseass Fucks my senior year of high school. In the back of Senior English, 1st period every day, the collective, nay corrupted, brain trust of Jon, Peter, Curtis, McLaughlin, Jimbo, Me, and our official mascot, Mark Hughes would reign over the boobery that was Crockford's attempts to instill us with the ideas of Waugh, Chaucer, Orwell, Dickens, and Maugham. Ahhh, good times, good times. And whenever we'd ask Mark to comment on some sort of inanity that had just taken place (i.e. - Courtney sexing her way out of yet another test) he'd invariably answer with the same response of, "Well . . . I'm hungry." Why Rick and Randall decided to distance themselves I'll never know. Although, it's probably for the best. If they had joined us, our egos probably would have crushed under the enormous weight. Oh Merrylegs, if we knew then what we know now. . . ANYWAY, (so my Dad says), my want to stay in the back of classrooms is for the combined reason of habit due to my height and my overwhelming need to sarcastically critique my class opposed to learning from it. The largest drawback, as I have learned time and time again, is I get paired up with some funny, distracting, sarcastic, but Grade A Meatheads. That has to be one of the largest differences I've found in college compared to high school. The funny kids in high school were usually the smart kids, whereas the funny college kids are usually the dim bulbs that are here on a full Rugby/Gym Teacher Scholarship. So yeah, my partners dans la crime tried to furiously scribble out the translations to what they had done in English no doubt 15 minutes before class started. It's bad enough that after I explained how to get from Durham to Montreal and how much it would cost, and what was included at the hotel (the swank Chateau Versailles - Oh la la!) that one of them presented our trip as if it took place en l'ete and the other as if it was en l'hiver. Fools! FOOLS! The class liked it though. They laughed. And isn't that what's important?

Well, now it seems up in the air whether Peter will be coming up here after Christmas or not. Ben and I are pretty sure he won't be. But he says it's still a possibility. But we still think that's a No. But I will still hold on to the slim hope that he will be flying up. Nothing says fun like listening to new CDs with Peter while playing Estimation and getting totally shit-faced. Ok, that sounded very 17-years-old of me. I supposed that 24-year-old's shouldn't be getting "shit-faced". I think I need to take a break on the drinking anyway. Not because I don't like it or anything (ha), it's just that I'm tired enough lately as it is, and the firewater certainly isn't helping me stay more alert. But if Peter DOES come up then all bets are off. I will, without a doubt, get schnockered. See? Isn't that a much better word for a 24-year-old to describe drinking? I think so.

Yeah, so guess what this SATURDAY IS?!?! I'll give you a hint: BRING ON THE BREADSTICKS!!! Yippie-aye-kye-ay Motherfucker! We gonna be eatin' us some O.G. I don't mean no Oriental Gardens neither. No siree, I'm talkin' that Jardin de Kalamtas itself, Olive Garden! Yee-haw! Ain't no Starlight Lounge pollutin' the waters in these parts! Remember that contest that Kate and I (with computer assistance from Andrea) went koo-koo crazy bonkers over back in early October? And remember that they announced we won at the meeting? Remember that we made sweet sweet love to Mr. Blick? Ok, well I don't really remember that last part either, that was all Kate. Well now we are taking her gift certificate to Olive Garden and we ain't leavin' until they cart us out of there on a dolly. A dolly I say!

Soon my sweet breadsticks, soon. . .

I will say that I feel bad for all those that got royally shafted by Ben Folds getting pneumonia, or spina bifida, or whatever the fuck he came down with. He cancelled the Boston show. The show that I was *supposed* to go to, and that Justin WAS going to, and that I hated him for. But now I feel bad that neither of us got to see his Foldness this time around. And even worse was Brett and Monique. They got screwed LAST time when Ben's piano busted 2 songs in, and were getting to go to a make-up concert this time around, which got cancelled when he fell ill. Yeah. So that - that super sucks.

I'm such a dork. After my Shakespeare class today I walked down to the Brooks and bought a disposable camera so I could take pictures around campus. Why? Because it was snowing. And. And. And . . . I thought it was pretty. Whatever. Trust me, it will be worth it when they're developed and Ben goes crazy and makes a little tea cozy display with them or something. I don't even know what the fuck a tea cozy is.

Yeah, so I have to memorize a scene from Much Ado About Nothing and perform it for my class for my final presentation. My role? Beatrice. I'm performing with this kid in my class who will be playing Benedict. And my professor said, "Oh great, now the class will get to see what it was like when the men had to dress as woman. Excellent idea." Except, that WASN'T the plan. We were just going to memorize and perform the lines - sans costumes. But now we need to wear costumes. And I need to dress up as a woman. Something I haven't done (with the exception of some *really* dead nights at the Wallakers) since our 9th Grade Video. Whoo-ee do I make one UG-ly woman. Yeah, so as if performing Shakespearean soliloquies wasn't going to be hard enough, now I have to do it in drag. Radical. I'll try for pictures, but it's pretty unlikely.

I'm tired. And I have to go finish my laundry. And I want to go play Buster Brothers. Or, then again, I could say Je veux aller jouer les Buster Brothers. Even further still, I COULD say J'ai choisi des tacos. But that would just be silly now wouldn't it?

It's been real,

Caliban

"Waheee! Nous adorons éclater les bulles!"

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