Saturday, April 30, 2011

Here Comes the Bride

So apparently somebody got married yesterday. That of course was sarcastic. All I’ve heard or seen on TV for the past week is wedding this, wedding that, and I’m just about sick and tired of it.

Now, I’m still not exactly sure what the big deal is with the royal family. I mean, they don’t even do anything, that I’m aware of. Their job is literally to sit there and be famous and rich for no reason. If we had a royal family here, it would probably be the Kardashians.

Now, I am going to say right off the bat I’m not the biggest fan of weddings, unless there is an open bar. You have to dress up and be very proper, two things I’m not good at, especially in the presence of open bars. Plus weddings are generally full of crazy women who are a little extra crazy because they’re all emotional (and don’t forget the open bar). So no, of course I did not watch the royal wedding.

Okay, so maybe I watched a little of it. All of the TVs at work were tuned to it, so I really had no choice. But let me just say that it wasn’t exactly pleasant. I mean, the royal wedding pretty much encompassed everything in this world I despise: weddings, fancy clothes, pompous British people, large churches and stupid hats. Then of course David and Victoria Beckham showed up embodying all of that and added soccer and the Spice Girls to that list.

And don’t even get me started on the dress. One girl asked me what kind of dress Kate would wear, and she got mad at me when I said “Probably a white one.” For weeks, all anybody could talk about was what the dress would look like, bringing in experts to give their predictions and insiders spreading rumors. Then they talked for hours that day, breaking down the possibilities.

Now, some women might point out that this is no different than the NFL draft that guys have been watching all weekend, to which I say… Okay you might have a point. Especially when you consider that ESPN draft expert Mel Kiper’s hair is stupider than any hat the Brits could have come up with.

The dress was finally revealed and, as always, I was right. It was white. And as usual it had a ridiculously huge train, but not nearly as big as Princess Diana’s. I just want to know how many other smaller, weaker dresses that dress ate to get that big. The only thing I liked about Kate’s train is that her sister, Pippa, was carrying it, and Pippa’s dress was awesome. Mainly because it hugged her body so close she had to get a restraining order on it.

Anyway, I finally lost interest at around the part when 70 million little children started singing and more people in stupid hats came out. It really is too bad, because as far as I can tell, Kate and William actually do like each other. As opposed to Diana and Charles, who had about as much chemistry as the plastic dolls on their wedding cake (and looked even less excited). She wanted to be a queen. He wanted to pretend he wasn’t gay.

I was too young for all that Princess Di stuff, but apparently it devastated England when their marriage fell apart and Diana died. And considering their weather sucks and their food is horrible and their favorite sport is soccer, the English can’t afford any more depressing events. Sure, it may sound pathetic that the mood of an entire nation rests upon the very unstable structure that is modern day marriage, but oh well.

I’m just worried that even if they love each other, the pressure will get to them. I mean, billions of people watched their wedding. Imagine how awkward it will be when they want to have 24/7 E! coverage of their first night as a married couple. Maybe they will bring in a team of experts to break down the tape:

Mel Kiper: “Decent stamina, but he needs to work on his hands and his movement in his hips. Not super talented, but he gets the most out of what he has.” (And yes, that was an actual quote from this year’s NFL draft coverage).

But never the less, I’m sure everything will work out. After all, what girl doesn’t want to be a princess? Judging by all the angry single women I see at weddings, I’m assuming it’s a lot.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Party and Party and Yeah!

In case you didn’t know somehow (like you are a responsible citizen), tomorrow is 4/20, which means thousands of stoners descend upon our campus to protest the injustice of current marijuana laws get ridiculously high. I’m not sure where the hell they come from, and I’m never sure where they go when they’re done. They should make some sort of Animal Planet documentary about it, with one of those British narrators.

British guy: "Sensing the time has come, the stoner manages to get up from sitting on his couch smoking cannabis and begins the long journey to go sit on the lawn and smoke cannabis. The stoner may pack bags of Cheetos as an energy source for the trek. It is a long and arduous journey, and many of the weaker stoners simply give up and smoke in the middle of their dorm lobby, where they are quickly picked off by preying campus security…"

Not that anybody will ever get busted for anything on 4/20. You are more likely to get arrested for shooting someone in Texas than for having pot on 4/20. But the school is starting to get pretty pissed. It’s never a good thing when you are a place of higher learning and you are nationally famous for the same reason Cheech and Chong are. So how did they respond? With a strongly worded letter.

The school is desperate for the event to stop because they’re getting some bad press. Because as if you needed another reason to be insanely jealous of me, Playboy recently announced that the University of Colorado is the biggest party school in the U.S. Haha, did you expect me to link you to Playboy? Pervert. If you want to see bunnies and pussy, click here.

Anyway we somehow managed to top all the new STDs that Arizona State comes up with weekly. It’s like a giant petri dish down there. But Playboy said that the copious amounts of weed and alcohol we ingest more than made us worthy of the top spot.

Now the pot thing is a little shameful, but I don’t see what is wrong with being known for having a lot of great local beers. The problem is when certain people drink several cases of great local beer on Tuesdays before their poetry class, and then try to rhyme “tuna” with “beluga.” Not that I would personally know anything about drinking unsafe amounts of alcohol. Depending on your definition of “unsafe.” Sure, I have the occasional drink. I just have occasions a lot. I also don’t do a great job of spacing out my occasions. But anybody who thinks that my drinking habits interfere with my ability to function in society have clearly never seen me try to function sober. It can’t get a whole lot worse.

Not that I haven’t done anything stupid while I was drunk before, and this is where I agree with Playboy. Boulder gives you a lot of opportunities to do very stupid things. For instance, on the street where most of the bars are, for some reason there are about ten different bronze statues of various animals and figures. I’m almost certain that there are pictures of me on the Internet doing inappropriate things to every single one of those statues.

There are also a lot of injury opportunities when you’ve been drinking in Boulder. I’ve gotten ripped toenails, sprained toes, cuts, burns, bites (from humans and birds) and have been forced several times to do something called a “stuntman shot.” (And by “forced” I mean “drunkenly volunteered”.) The one thing that is safer about Boulder is the fact that drivers are already on the lookout for stupid people on the sidewalks who refuse to walk in straight lines. I mean, even sober Boulder pedestrians tend to be very erratic in their routes.

But as much as I benefit from going to the top party school in the nation (I mean, strictly pride-wise), I can see how the faculty don’t see it as a positive. I mean, when tell people I go to CU, I don’t want to always have this conversation:

Them: “So, did you go to CU to party?”

Me: “No, I chose CU because of their excellent academic curriculum.”

Them: “Oh I see. So what is you major?”

Me: “I'm part of CU's first-rate journalism school.”

Them: "Their what?"

Me: "Oh yeah... Never mind, I came here to party."

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Prom Night

My younger sister recently had her senior prom. I know this because all of a sudden my Facebook feed has been clogged with her and her friends’ prom photos for the better part of a week now. This of course drudged up memories of my prom experiences, which I’ve tried very hard to bury deep within my memory, along with that whole boy band phase everybody went through in middle school.

But for most people, prom is the highlight of their high school lives. It gives high school kids the chance to wear fancy clothes, dance with their teen heartthrobs, and then try beer for the first time and throw up on both. It’s basically high school in a nutshell: teens trying to be as cool and grownup as they can considering their parents are chaperoning fifteen feet away.

Okay sorry I know that a lot of people loved their senior prom. I’m not one of them. Although when you think about it, it’s not that surprising. I hate dancing, wearing nice clothes, and staying up past 10. There is literally nothing about prom that would appeal to me except for the buffet and that part of the night where they always play the "Electric Slide" and "YMCA."

In fact, I very nearly did not even go to my own senior prom. After a bit of a faux pas trying to get a date to my junior prom, I was pretty content with saving some money and staying home. But because I was the senior class president, I somehow got lassoed into being on the prom committee. I objected, since there were probably starving children in Africa who cared more about this prom than I did.

But I ended up on the committee anyway. So now in addition to showing up to a prom I didn’t want to go to, I had to help set it up. Now, the year was 2007, so like 95% of the high schools in America that year, we had the whole 007 theme. And of course, the girls wanted a balloon arch.

Now, let’s just get something out of the way very quickly. Anybody who thinks that proms are about couples is na├»ve. Proms are society’s way of introducing women to the concept that the world revolves around them. Mess with prom and you will have hordes of angry, unstable teenage women very mad at you, as I would find out numerous times that year.

Women care very deeply about prom. They spend months looking for a dress, whereas the only thing I changed about my outfit from my junior to my senior prom was the color of my tie. They spend hours on their hair and makeup, whereas I woke up from a nap about an hour before the dance started.

So anyway, getting back to the balloon arch. The women wanted one, but about ten hours before the prom, they all left to go do their hair. Which means that me and five other guys were in charge of making a balloon arch. I think you can see where this is going. For one thing, none of us knew how the hell to make a balloon arch. Secondly, none of us gave a damn about the balloon arch. Third, the helium tank broke halfway through, which meant that we were using our breath to blow up about half of the balloons.

Needless to say, what resulted about five hours later was the most pathetic looking balloon structure since the Hindenburg crashed. It sort of sagged in the parts where we ran out of helium, so it looked more like the outline of a slug than an arch. The women of course were not happy, but then again, you should always expect failure when you assign a task to five men (unless that task involves drinking large amounts of beer).

After spending the entire day preparing for the prom, I spent most of the actual prom sitting at a table playing cards listening to our retarded DJ play Sean Paul’s “Temperature” every ten minutes. The best part was when the prom ended, and I got to pop every single one of those goddam balloons with a butter knife. After watching all the cool kids leave to go get thrown out at second base and get drunk off Zimas, a few of us suckers stayed behind to clean up everything and then headed back to the room to play Wii Tennis.

So you can see why senior prom was not exactly the highlight of my life. But thankfully it looks like my sister had a much better time than I did. Probably because their class never asked me to help with the balloon arch.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Blood Lust

So yesterday I gave blood again, and I know that many of you out have considered giving blood but have questions that you want answered by a trusted expert. Well, I have a blog and I used to be great at the game Operation, so I’m pretty sure that qualifies me to answer all of your questions.

Anyway, the first thing that will happen is the blood bank will call you at 6 in the morning. I’m assuming they do this because if you are capable of answering the phone at 6 in the morning, you are probably not hung-over. Also, it implies you are alive, which makes it easier to give blood.

Now, I’m not sure if they call everybody, but I made the mistake of being born with blood type O. For those of you who don’t know, there are four blood types, A, B, AB and O. Type A can receive A and O, B can receive B and O, and AB can receive all of them, and O can only get O.

Now, I’m assuming that they give the blood to people who need it, and not vampires or something. So I don’t get too upset about them wanting my blood. After all, I used to bottle it after nights of heavy drinking and sell it to liquor stores, so it’s not like I need all of it.

Anyway, once you actually go to the blood bank, you are asked to fill out a very long questionnaire. Believe it or not, they don’t let just anyone give blood. People who have diseases, use drugs, worked as a prostitute, have tattoos, might be pregnant, or have had sex with anybody who has done any of those things is frowned upon. They could probably save a lot of time by just putting the question “Is your name Charlie Sheen?” at the top of the form (although maybe that’s how they get Tiger’s Blood).

Once they are certain that your blood will not burn holes in the ground, they proceed to actually take your blood. Now at this point you are greeted by a phlebotomist, which is what they call the person who is about to drain you of half your blood. But it is an awesome sounding job name. It sounds like someone who shoves firecrackers up a frog’s butt for a living or something. They need to make a children’s show called “Phil the Phlebotomist.”

But the smile you have on your face from singing the theme song you’ve made up in your head for Phil the Phlebotomist will soon be wiped off of your face. Because at this point, the smiling phlebotomist puts a napkin over your shirt, “just in case some blood squirts out.” In case you couldn’t tell, phlebotomists are not as squeamish about blood as normal people. I’m pretty sure it excites them. Then they proceed to bring out a needle the size of a harpoon and says “you should probably look away.”

Now, I’m not that bad anymore, but I used to be terrified of needles. I used to scream out in pain before the needle even hit me. I was one of those kids who never pretended to be sick, because I was always worried that if I went to the doctor, they might try to stick me with random needles. That is why, to this day, I prefer cocaine to heroin (I mean, assuming I was forced to choose).

Luckily after that bit of discomfort, the rest is relatively painless. At least it is for some people. Apparently losing a ton of your blood can make some people lightheaded, but it’s funny how it affects only some people. Now, I’m used to operating without much blood flowing to my brain, so I have never had a problem. But I once saw a 245 pound man throw up while the 115 pound girl next to him had no problem (other than the fact there was a large man next to her throwing up).

What’s great is that they always insist on showing you the blood afterward, which probably doesn’t help. “Here is how much blood you no longer have flowing to your vital organs!” they cheerfully say. And that is not counting the blood that will continue to seep out of the various holes they’ve poked in your arm. Although they do give you several colorful options for the bandage.

Then of course, comes the great part. They give you lots of free snacks. Then they tell you that you should eat a lot of food and not do anything strenuous for the next day or so. I do that anyway, but it’s nice to do it under doctor’s orders for once. So I normally just put my feet up on the couch, eat a large meal and make people do things for me since I am not supposed to move my arm. I love giving back to the community.

Now, as usual I'm exaggerating, and giving blood is a relatively pain-free process and it saves lives. So give it a try.