Category: Writings

Girls are a major topic of this site. An “AWAYKEN POWERED” search of the site, will garner quite the list of sites. I’m not sure how many, exactly, because I’m lazy(desert).

“AWAYKEN POWERED” does not mean “good” or “useful”.

Posts like Girls Are Evil

Girls Are Evil 2

En Terra Saunt Tay

I Love Heather, How Can You Not?

Step One : Sign

A Sophomoric Attitude on Blasphemy

and the unfortunate

I Shouldn|t Have To Post About This.

Why do I bring these painful, depression-laden posts back to the painful, hungover lime light? I have an announcement to make.

I have a girlfriend.

Her name is Megan Flynn and she has an awesome website. You might have noticed a slew of completely ambiguous comments from “megan” or “meggie.” That’s her. So far, the most she has had to say is “Way to go Miles” but she will soon learn the art of website commenting.

Ok. She’s a freshman here at DSU. She’s an English/Design major. I met her through tutoring. As in, I tutor Math 021, and she comes by to flirt with me. Her friend Jenny has also commented on the site. It’s so weird how many coincidences there are between me and Jenny and me and Megan. So weird, that, were I to post it here, all of you would claw your eyes from your faces.

Conclusions are for nerds.

It’s happened to all of us. There we are at our birthday party. As a treat to those gathered, we get up to perform a routine of some sort, one which we have done a thousand times before. We sing or dance or juggle or set fires (whatever we are good at) but then something goes horribly wrong. Next thing we know we are in the intensive care unit in a Las Vegas hospital fighting for life.

This was the story last Friday. While I was quietly sitting at home reading the bible, one of this countries most famous and loved duos of magic became almost an uno. I am talking about Siegfried and Roy. Yes, the very same ambiguous couple where one has a name you can spell and has tigers and the other has a name I have to look up every time I type it and does magic.

Siggy and Roy were performing at the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas for Roy’s 59th birthday party. During the midst of the show, at approximately 8:10 pm, Roy, whose real name is Roy Horn, walked on stage announcing that his tiger Montecore was about to make his first performance. This, however, was a lie (as most things in life are) since Montecore, whose real name is Jeremy Malchert, was a veteran of the stage. But then something went horribly wrong.

The 600 pound tiger sauntered on stage, acting drunk and unruly as his stage show requires, and stopped just within sight lines. Roy, having no magical ability, pulled the tiger to the center of the stage. The tiger, as his stage show does not require, head butted the entertainer. Roy, displeased with Montecore’s digression from the script, tapped him with his microphone. But then something went horribly wrong.

An eyewitness to the show reported that, “Then the tiger went like mad nuts. He stood up on his hind feet and decked that German guy. Then the tiger turned to the crowd and was all like ‘Now I will eat his soul’ and he chomped on his neck and carried him off. I was like, ‘Whoa! This show is awesome’ because I was sitting there for 40 minutes waiting for naked chicks to come out, and I get to gay guys with accents doing magic on tigers? What’s up with that?” Awayken.com was not able to validate this rendition of events.

The commonly held believe is that after Roy hit his tiger with his microphone (probably not a good idea), the tiger bit him in the arm. Roy, probably in a panic, started to beat the tiger with his microphone. Over and over the crowd could only hear the *thump* *thump* of microphone on fur, and the panicked screams of a German entertainer about to die. Then the tiger snatched Roy around the neck and carried him off “like a rag doll.” But then something went horribly wrong.

It was reported (by that same stoner above) that Siggy then “ran on stage, right, and floated that other guy’s body out into his space shuttle. It was unreal.” In reality, Roy was rushed to a hospital where his condition was reported as “critical”, and doctors were reported as being “cautiously optimistic.” The tiger was sent to his room with no internet privileges, and, as of yet, no charges have been filed. Montecore could not be reached for comment.

To be honest, readers, when I read the actual article, I laughed ROFL style, as befits the bad person I am. Honestly. How beautifully ironic can you get? He didn’t even do magic. All Roy did was find tigers and put them on stage. He was an animal trainer and his boyfriend did all the work. Still he is loved. Still he is written about.

The recent events have sparked a waterfall of interest in the general public. Everywhere on the street the words “Hi” and “Hello” are being spoken. If you replace those with “Roy” and “Dead” then you know how hard it is to have a conversation with people nowadays. But then something went horribly wrong.

Even the teenagers are getting into it. Being wholly responsible for making English more confusing, pre-teen/teen/only-slightly-post-teen students around America are coining the phrase “pull a Montecore” and “to Roy.” To “pull a Montecore” means to attack a friend as a 600 pound tiger might attack a gay German half-magician. Inversely, “to Roy” is to bear such an attack. “To Roy” is an infinitive so you could say, “Hey, Mom, quit Roying” or “President Bush just Royed that poem!”

The rest of the population is taking a more reverent approach, watching TV. The internet, too, has gained slight popularity as television strives to keep the nation abreast growing developments. It may one day be said that this event is what “made the internet”, but it is too soon to tell.

Despite the ordeal, Roy has still managed to communicate with doctors and family gathered in his room by a system of blinks and thumbs ups. Earlier today, he released this statement. “I have worked with these tigers for years. Montecore, himself, is one of my stage favorites. What has happened is a testament to the danger inherent in the field of fooling wild animals into not eating me. I do have this to say, though. I totally didn’t see that coming.”

Neither did us, Roy. Neither did us.

Ordinary people become extraordinary through their deaths. Two years ago on September 11th, just such a thing happened. A horrible tragedy brought courageous firemen and police officers to the same level as epic heroes.

Some people are extraordinary even before death, and this makes their death all the more important to society. These people are legends as men, but they become deities as corpses. Dirty, rotting corpses.

I’m talking about Johnny Cash’s death. I’m also talking about John Ritter. He was a great blah blah blah. For his outstanding services to cinema and television, John Ritter was given only a small sentence in Purgatory. Given recent attempts by Jehovah’s Witnesses to make it in, certain restrictions have been put on an entrance to Heaven.

As a measure of precaution, whenever someone graduates purgatory, they are made to interview with God, who questions them on their life. The following is an entrance interview between God and John Ritter.

God : [getting up to shake his hand] Hi John. How are you?
JR : I would pun one of the titles of my movies, but I really can’t remember anything I acted in.
God : [laughs] Yeah, I do. How was your stay in Purgatory?
JR : Uneventful, mostly. I didn’t mind it so much.
God : Let’s start. [rustles pages] Let’s discuss your movie career.
JR : Oh, God.
God : What was that?
JR : Umm… Oh, wait. Okay, I get it. Right. Uh… My movie career.
God : Right. I saw Problem Child. I liked it.
JR : Thank you.
God : What the hell were you thinking with sequels?
JR : Well, I didn’t write them. I just acted in them.
God : Just because you didn’t kill the kitten, doesn’t mean you didn’t rip the arms off of a smaller kitten and use those to beat the kitten.
JR : Oh My… I can’t believe you said that. That’s horrible!
God : Hey, you did it. You, Mr. Sick-Face. So… Three’s Company.
JR : Yeah.
God : [silence]
JR : Ok. I guess that wasn’t HTVs highest rated sitcom.
God : Lowest.
JR : Really?
God : Ever.
JR : It was funny.
God : [silence] [shrugs] Yeah, it was. And that Chrissy…
JR : Oh, no.
God : What?
JR : Please don’t.
God : I think we should talk about Chrissy.
JR: I don’t think we should.
God : I am God. [pause] Why shouldn’t we talk about Chrissy?
JR : Because I would feel uncomfortable getting an erection in Heaven.
God : Yeah, I would, too.
JR : You can… ?
God : [laughs] No. What are you? Stupid?
JR : Can we get to the issue at hand?
God : Allright. So, it says here that you crashed a burning bus of orphan children into a convent while screaming the foulest obsenities known in any language.
JR : What?
God : [frowning] That’s not true?
JR : No! I died of aortic dissection on the set of my new show.
God : No school bus?
JR : Of course not!
God : Oh. Well… good for you.
JR : [starts crying] This isn’t going well, is it?
God : You know what wasn’t going well?
JR : Please don’t ridicule me anymore. I just died. I’m still adjusting to that. You know how hard it is to go from being the top of the world to being six feet under it?
God : Do you know what it’s like to bury your son? No. You don’t. I do.
JR : I … I’m sorry.
God : I am God. [pause] Okay. That raps up our interview.
JR: Great. So, am I in?
God: We’ll let you know in 3 to 6 weeks.
JR: 3 to 6 weeks? Johnny Cash got to walk right in.
God: [silence] [raises eyebrow]
JR: 3 to 6 weeks. Got it.

In 1997, a man named Richard Shermin worked an interesting summer job for a friend of his. His friend, author Justin Laramy, was compiling a book of angel stories, a topic that both men had always had especial interest. Richard, for seven dollars an hour, helped his friend read through and find the most interesting angel stories sent to them.

They used Laramy’s house for this endeavor. Scattered about his living room were piles for ‘interesting’, ‘generic’, ‘boring’, and ‘made-up’. They would take turns reading aloud from the letters they received. One that Shermin picked up had no return address. It simply had the initials RS written in the upper left corner. Written in shaky penmanship, Shermin struggled to read the handwriting of the excited or upset correspondant.

“This is my angel. She is sent to me from above in the form of this statue. I recall the day it happened like yesterday. I have a route through these cities in the Birmingham Alabama area where I check on cemeteries for upkeep.
I was driving my truck past this cemetery one April evening. Well, I thought I saw something and got out to investigate. As it would happen, I saw this statue of an angel in the cemetery and nothing else. I found myself entranced with it. I couldn�t look away.

“I finally found the strength to move on. I got back in the truck and made for the next stop. When I got there the cemetery was in pieces. The town too was ripped apart as if someone had just mowed it down. I found out that a tornado had torn through there not 5 minutes previous. I would have been killed there.”

Enclosed was a picture of the cemetery and the statue. In a sort of shock, his friend noticed Richard drop the packet of both letter and photos. Laramy, concerned for his friend, asked what was wrong. Shermin could say nothing but instead showed the letter to Laramy. There at the bottom, signed in a familiar hand, was the name Richard Shermin.

It was obvious that Richard Shermin had not written this, as he had no angelic experiences, but the handwriting was indeed his. Neither of them could conceive how such a letter was possible. Deciding it was a hoax, Shermin himself disdainfully tossed the letter on top of the ‘made-up’ pile and didn’t give it another thought.

In March of 1998, Richard Shermin’s father died of cancer. Despite being well within retirement age, the old man was still responsible for the care of several cemeteries in north eastern Jefferson County, Alabama. The death, while evident before, came suddenly and Richard decided to continue his father’s work until a replacement could be found and hired. Every week he would drive from cemetery to cemetery checking the status.

On April 8th, a Wednesday, Richard was again on rounds. His mother begged him to wait until Thursday to do it, as she heard there was bad weather coming, but he disregarded her warning, wishing to spend his Thursday evening doing other things.

As his mother predicted, the weather turned stormy, but Richard continued his route. With the radio off, he was not aware that at 7:50 pm, central time, an F5 rated Tornado had crossed over into Jefferson County and was leaving little behind. While checking the water spickets in a Cemetery in Nolanville, he came upon a statue. It held his attention for the longest time. He knew it because he had seen it in that picture last summer.

Not wanting to believe the letter, but unable to look away, Richard stood there for the longest time trying to make sense of it. Finally he wrested himself from the angel’s gaze. It couldn’t be true. Still in doubt, he got into his truck and drove the path to Village Creek Junction. There he was shocked to find the town in shambles and the cemetery a mess. A category F5 tornado had just passed through the town.

Richard drove himself to a working phone, several miles away in Pratt City, and called Justin Laramy. The conversation was short. Laramy had heard of the tornadoes in the area but seemed satisfied that his friend was okay. “I didn’t really call to tell you I was okay, though,” said a slightly shaken Richard Shermin. “I think that maybe you should put that Richard Shermin letter into the interesting pile instead. Let’s just say, I finally believe the person who wrote it.”

There were three tornadoes that have been identified as being produced by one thunderstorm that moved across Central Alabama Wednesday evening. The first tornado affected Pickens and Tuscaloosa counties, the second affected Tuscaloosa and Jefferson counties, and the third affected St. Clair County.

That day there were three tornadoes, an F3, an F5, and an F2, that rocked the central Alabama area starting at roughly 7:00 pm and ending entirely at about 9:15 pm. More than 1 000 homes were destroyed, 250 people injured, and 32 lives lost. Thanks to an angel and a letter, one of those lives was not Richard Shermin.

Download it at deviantART.

by Ann Michelle Daniels, Extension family life, parenting, and child care specialist, Bill Epperson, Extension veterinarian

Summer is coming to an end. You want to go out and play. But you are scared. You have heard about mosquitoes and West Nile Virus. There are mosquitoes around your yard and you don�t want to get bit. End of summer or not, you decide to stay inside.

GUESS WHAT?!!! You can still go outside and play if you follow some simple rules. So go ahead!! Enjoy the rest of your summer!

By understanding the virus, we are able to protect ourselves from it. This information on the West Nile Virus will help you protect yourself.

What is West Nile Virus?
It is a virus that gets to people when they are bitten by infected mosquitoes. Not all mosquitoes are infected. In fact, only a very very small number of mosquitoes are actually infected.

Can the West Nile Virus make my family or me sick?
Remember, only a very; very, small number of mosquitoes are infected with the virus. So just because a mosquito bit you does not mean you will get sick. In fact, even if an infected mosquito bit you, the chances of you getting sick are still very, very small. Healthy kids don�t get the virus very often. But if they do get sick, they don�t usually get very sick.

How will I know if I�m sick?
It would feel a lot like the flu. There would be fever, headaches, muscle aches, tiredness, and joint pain, and perhaps a rash.

Does this mean that everyone who feels bad or has the symptoms has the West Nile Virus? NO!!

Most people don�t get sick at all. Remember, the chances are very; very small. But if you are feeling bad, it is always important to tell your parents or an adult.

What is West Nile Encephalitis?
Encephalitis (it sounds like in-sef-fah-lite-us) is a big word for swelling of the brain, and the West Nile Virus can cause it. Remember, healthy kids usually don�t get very sick. Encephalitis usually affects people who are old�over 50 years old�or who have been unhealthy in the past.

Can I get West Nile Virus from animals or other people?
No. But remember, it is still important not to play with strange animals or touch dead animals.

How can I keep my family and myself safe?
Start by learning a little about mosquitoes. Did you know that mosquitoes are more active in the early morning and right before the sun goes down? They like being around water. They really like water that is not moving.

For example, if you have an old wagon outside that is full of water, a mosquito might come along and lay her eggs in it. Older mosquitoes like to live in tall grass or weeds.

Other ways to keep safe are:
� Finish playing outside before it begins to get dark. This is when most mosquitoes are out.
� Wear long sleeve shirts and pants when playing outside. (Make sure you don�t get too hot. Drink lots of water).
� Don�t play near tall grasses or standing water.
� Make sure your toys are not holding water. For Example: Dump the water out of the old wagon and make sure the plastic swimming pool is empty when nobody is using it.
� Have your parents spray your clothes with insect repellent. (Ask them to use repellent that has DEET in it.) They can contact the Extension office if they need more information.
� Don�t use too much of the insect repellent. ALWAYS follow the directions on the insect repellent.
� Tell your parents or an adult when you have a mosquito bite.

Remember, the rest of the summer can still be fun and safe. You just have to follow some simple rules to protect yourself. Always talk to an adult or your parents if you are worried about something or if you have questions about your health. The more information you have, the safer you can be.

(Parents: This material is provided for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for medical care. Direct specific questions to your medical provider.)

Southwest Minnesota State University is a wonderful college. Thousands of people travel from all over the world to attend this university. Our college wins awards for its academics year after year thanks to wonderful facilities, resources and teachers. So why is it that at such a high class, technologically advanced, award winning college our internet access is so unreliable in the dorms? That doesn’t make any sense to me.

Chatting over MSN or AIM has become as frustrating as getting stuck behind an old lady in a no passing zone doing 40 in a 65 mph zone. It just makes you punch your monitor and then continue on with what you were doing.

Well I took it a little bit further, and I stress the “Little Bit.” I went to computer services. Computer services can be a little intimidating to the common folk. This place has more computers lying around than California has governor candidates. It made me quite nervous. I spoke to Shawn Headman about the disappointing internet connection in SMSU’s residence halls. He calmed me down and explained that the resident halls are using a cable modem which is five years old. That’s right – when we got this modem Mark McGuire hit seventy home runs in one season. Now he hits seventy miles per hour on his way to bingo. McGuire is retired now, and everyone agrees it’s time this modem is sent to the bench, too.

You may be wondering, “Hey Bryce, sure it’s five years old, but it should still be capable of going a little faster, right?” Well, you are right, it should. So why the slowness? The evil blaster worm, illegal file swapping applications and the amount of computers on campus are all to blame. Back when our modem was new, Napster had not even been created yet and if you had a computer at college you were a huge nerd.

So what are the techies in charge doing about our internet problem? They are tweaking it every few weeks and praying that our new modem is coming soon. Everyone thought the modem would be here before classes started. Now it is all up to leases and lawyers. Talk about fun.

So please, do not burn down computer services and do not leave SMSU because of the slow and unreliable internet. Blame the lawyers. They’re not here to defend themselves.

I am a new student to Southwest Minnesota State University, but, being a transfer student from South Dakota State University, I am not new to cafeteria-style food.

At SDSU the cafeteria was similar to the way I am sure heaven is designed. There were six different restaurants to choose from: Chinese food, grilled food, homemade foods, Mexican food, a java city and an ice cream parlor. Needless to say, I didn’t transfer for the food. I know it doesn’t matter what college you go to, the food is going to make you think, “Is this edible?”, but it really isn’t good here at SMSU. When I transferred here, I heard repeated warnings to watch out for the food by people I knew going in. I took their warnings too lightly.

First off, the lunch room is so small that it feels like a replica. Doll houses have more room than this. Have you ever eaten around noon? It gets packed tighter than a college student’s budget. So you have to wait and wait and what is your reward for waiting? Ribs burned to a crisp, hard mayonnaise for your sandwich and wilted lettuce. Can life get better? Well, only if you go to State Street Cafe. Please take that sentence with a school lunch helping of sarcasm.

They messed up my order. Last week I thought I ordered a pizza – but I must have said “pie crust soaked with grease” instead. I did not even see that on the menu; I must have been the lucky customer. I am not saying it’s the cook’s fault, I just get the feeling that all the students here are the proverbial red-headed stepchildren and SMSU is our parent. We don’t get all the care and love we deserve.

There is hope for the younger students here at SMSU – the new Student Center. After the old one was burned down they quit letting people go there and eat, who knows why? But rumor has it that the next Student Center will have two stories of Student Center goodness and almost one entire floor is to be dedicated to food. Things are looking up, but dinner isn’t going to taste any better thinking about the future. If it weren’t for the smiles and ice cream bars, great pizza and cereal I’d eat there less than everyday.

I’m a sucker for a pretty smile.

Hitchcock was a genius. To really understand this, though, you have to put him in context. Like anything, put into context, it makes more sense. Al was, among other things, a brilliant cinematic innovator. He was always testing his audience.

One of his best works was a movie called “Psycho.” Everyone knows this film. It has bound itself in pop culture for decades. I once saw a screening of “Psycho” where they talked to other prominent directors and writers and actors about their experiences with “Psycho.”

What I learned is that Vera Miles, who played Lila Crane, was a small actress. Janet Leigh, who played Marion Crane, was a big star. She was a name to be sure. The film, in fact, opens with her. We follow her as she steals money from her boss and drives off. We feel the panick as she narrowly escapes a couple police offices on her way.

Finally she stops at the Bates Motel run by a very well acted Norman Bates, Anthony Perkins. After getting her room and setting up her stuff, she decides to take a shower and wash away her inequity. Big mistake! Norman Bates slashes her in the shower. BAM. The biggest name in the picture is done. She’s out. No more Janet Leigh – she’s dead and not even flashbacks can bring her off screen.

One man said that, after seeing this movie, he felt raped. This blatant disregard for audience expectations had left a lot of people angry and hurt and confused. I never really had a movie that did that me. I’ve never felt raped, until now.

Math Modeling is a nice class. So far there is no homework, no book, and so far very little life-jarring new ideas. That is until yesterday. I was sitting in class, on time for once, thinking about how cool Fibonacci Numbers are. Dr Palmer came in, solemn faced and quiet.

“Remember last week that we were talking about Imaginary Numbers. You remember these from High School. They were written in the form (3 + 4i). i = square root of one, remember?”

We nodded in blind, innocent agreement.

“Remember when you had trigonometry. We had these things like cosine and sine and tangent. You punch a magical number on your calculator and got an answer?”

We nodded, less sure of the innocence of what we knew.

“Well, it’s all a lie. Trigonometry IS the Imaginary Numbers. Trigonometry was just a pretty face used to teach Imaginary Numbers to High School kids.”

What? Murmurs over took the class. We turned, furrowed brow, to our neighbor and discussed this. No trigonometry? There is no trig?

“But that’s not all. There are no Imaginary Numbers. That one should have been easy. How can a number be imaginary? It’s a number or it isn’t. Imaginary Numbers are just a pretty face put on Complex Numbers.”

What?? Not only is there no Trig, but there are no Imaginary Numbers! We’ve been lied to TWICE by the math community. Everyone who teaches this stuff must know this, right? There isn’t a chance that they save it for professors, is there?

How often did your math teacher have to keep a straight face when saying “cosine”? How often did your math teacher have to stifle giggles at the thought of teaching “trig”? Get paid to teach nothing. Sounds like a deal to me.

“There’s one more thing. Complex Numbers are made up. They are actually a pretty face put on points on a complex plain. They are just coordinates, dressed up in formals, to dance in front of you and mock you. Forever.”

Things are looking glum. There is outrage in the class. Justin Luitjens walked out in tears, screaming curses through his clenched jaw. Two or three students had to be revived for class to continue on. Dr Palmer, himself, looked a bit upset. It might be that his conscience was getting to him after all these years.

Just like the moment when a mother tells her son that he is adopted (and I can’t wait for that day), so was this moment. The sweet and sour truth was out there, on the board. There were feelings of betrayal and angst. No one looked Dr Palmer in the eye when we left.

Learning is a dangerous thing. It stung that guy at the beginning of this post, it stung the adopted son, and it stung me. They say, “The truth will set you free.” It’s hard to believe in that statement anymore. This all proves that there is never a good time for news like this.

Especially not junior year in college.

We’ve all done things that we are ashamed of. Most of these things happened in our past (I will let you think about that one). There are some things, though, that no matter how young you are, they are simply not acceptable.

Since I dont know all that much about a majority of peoples childhoods, I will have to do my own. This may be a long post, since I have done a lot of dumb things, ESPECIALLY as a kid.

I was born in the 80s. This isnt something to be overly proud of (case in point : Flock of Seagulls haircut) but it is something that we need to deal with. Starting now.

… you know what? I don’t know where I’m going with this. I apologize to those who read for my lack of content. This was due largely to not having anything funny to say and being to busy to pretend that I do. This was actually a post I started a long long time ago, but never finished.

Now that I look at it, I had no idea where I was going with this. I think I was going to highlight dumb things I’ve done. Perhaps it was a thinly veiled insult in search of sympathy, but if it was, I’ve given up on that sort of cheap self-esteem tetanus shot. Instead I will post my schedule. Because it’s different.

In the code this table looks double spaced. Why? Because I love whitespace. Did you ever wonder what the “B” in Susan B. Anthony stood for? It stands for Bitchin’. Thank you Brendon Small. Thank you.

drawn tight she lifted her bag and slung it over her shoulder. she looked around the terminal. this was hot it was every business trip every day. there seemed to be an answer. it was a nice bag. she loved it. he had given it to her, but she didn’t love it for that reason. it was the colors. they didn’t scream at her.

too many people too many places and all nonsense. walk with attitude and you will not get in any trouble ? the terminal was crowded with everything. bright as it was, sometimes her love wasn’t enough. it wasn’t anything. it was crazy, stupid, and gone in this terrible rush of things – with book, cd player, and other stuff.

she summed everything up in sighs now. like it was too much effort to talk out loud, she guessed. in her bag was her poem. in her poem was her love. it was too bad that he would never read it. it was, her life, bittersweet. if not exactly, then at least a suggestion to hold onto.

wasn’t this where they met ?

Download it at deviantART.

Well, college has begun again. With the onslaught of books and knowledge comes the onslaught of vomit and alcohol. It’s monsoon season. You can pick out what houses have parties going and which houses are actual people (not college students).

What if you don’t drink? A party is little fun if you are the only one sober and standing upright. What hope is there for people in AA? The drunks have their hand stands, their beer bongs, their lemon slices, their kegs, their tubes, their funnels, and their games.

Drinking games are a mystery among partygoers. Who came up with the first drinking game? Was it a person who was, indeed, drinking? Or did his sober friend, who wanted to mess him up quicker, come up with the idea, rules, and penalties? It is hard to believe the complexity of some of these games. Sober people couldn’t get this stuff right.

I have decided to cater to the minority. Are you a non-drinker but find yourself at parties anyway? Are you constantly pressured into playing their evil Satanic games? Then suggest your own drinking game.

How about a TV Show game? Try out “Gilligan’s Island.”

• Get your friends
• Get some alcohol (like beer or hooch)
• Turn the TV to ‘Gilligan’s Island’ (usually on Nick At Night)
• Drink whenever they get off the island!

Holy crap! I’m drunk just thinking about that game!

How about a musical version? Try the “Good Music, Bad Liver” game.

• Get your friends
• Get some alcohol (like whisky or vodka)
• Turn on the radio to the hottest pop station you can handle
• Drink whenever they play a good song!

That game was music to my ears!

Do you like to spell? Try “Alpha-better-get-out-of-the-way-I’m-gonna-hurl”.

• Get your friends (why haven’t you done this yet?)
• Get some alcohol (like brandy or gin)
• Get out a listing of the Alphabet

Um… that game needs work, yet.

Are you afraid about what your stuffy, old Roman-born religion has to say about what you do in your own home? Try “Massed Up” next Sunday.

• Get your friends and their parents
• You don’t even need your own alcohol
• Get up to the front of church
• Drink whenever the priest or Eucharistic minister says ‘Blood of Christ’!

Mmmm. Our Savior never tasted so refreshing. Get back in line for more!

There is even a drinking game for specific people!

• Get your rowdy friends on a Thursday night
• Get your alcohol (anything you care to swallow)
• Sit around Zimmermann hall
• Drink whenever you are Brian Rand!
• Optional: Destroy property!

Oh, boy. What fun! Now you can enjoy those parties just like a real lush. And if these don’t work, just leave. Then come back with the cops. You’ll never have to worry about those friends again.

Word of the Day for Monday September 8, 2003

defenestrate \dee-FEN-uh-strayt\, transitive verb:

Highlight for the answer –> To throw out of a window.

There is an angry lady who lives on the way back from China Moon. She seems to have the quintessential “attitude problem”, if you can’t my meaning. She seems to automatically hate people who walk on her sidewalk, with little reason.

My first run in with this wonderful harbinger of ill will was on the way to China Moon. I was with my brother, Bryce, Tony Rolfes, Heather, Chris, and the three girls. The old lady’s house is next to a crick of the saddest execution. Lining her side of the guard rail is a rock bed and a few flowers. Bryce, Brigid, and I had stopped to watch the sad little stream. The lady thought that Brigid was standing on one of her flowers and began to yell at the three year old child. So, I pulled Brigid up onto the sidewalk and apologized.

The lady kept yelling. She started to say, “If her parents had taught her any manners…” Then Heather starts yelling, and Chris starts yelling. Brigid gets upset and asks me to hold her. The lady, faced with a sudden onslaught of parental instinct, retracted her statement. She now claimed that she had been yelling at Bryce.

Heather yelled something at the lady. The lady yelled back, “Why don’t you come here and say that?” My heart dropped. That’s the last thing you say to Heather. Luckily no blood was shed and no further angry words were spilt. We walked to Chinese and walked back another route.

Well, you might think what I did. I thought, “Maybe she was having a bad day and maybe the flowers are all she has because she’s barren and angry at God.” I had no way to validate this belief, though, until Brenna, my cousin, came to Madison.

We had gone to China Moon sans accident. As we were leaving, Brenna grabbed me a cookie. It had coconut in it. Thanks, but no thanks, I don’t like coconut. So, when we reached aforementioned crick, I tossed the cookie. The antagonizing old lady happened to be sitting watch for said aquatic mediocrity.

She began to yell at me for tossing trash into it. It was just a cookie. Cookies dissolve, if correctly baked. Brenna came to my rescue and began to verbally spar with her. The best about this was that we just kept walking the whole time. We didn’t stop and confront her. She was just an obstacle on the way. I didn’t say a word to her, being confused by her constant hateful behavior and her apparent inability to be amiable.

It was from that day on that I’ve walked by that house every chance I get. Why, you ask? I want to confront this lady. I want to shatter her and see her core. I want to know why she’s always player hating. I have long had time to fantasize about such a meeting of minds. I would imagine it to go something like this.

I (AN) would be walking back from China Moon, probably alone, and said Mistress of Miff (MM) would be out of doors.

MM: You college students. Drunks and amorals! All of you!

AN: (just stares at her through sunglasses)

MM: Get away from my house! I don’t want to have to call the cops.

AN: (removes sunglasses) Your flowers are all dying, Madam, for flowers require love which you seem to have not.

MM: What?

AN: Need I repeat my biddings?

MM: (taken aback) You are drunk, aren’t you?

AN: Nay, Madam. Presently neither drink nor smoke am I affected by.

MM: Well… only a drunk would say that. Get off my sidewalk.

AN: Thou has words red in anger. Pray tell, why for such a predisposition?

MM: That is none of your business. And quit talking like that!

AN: Speaking such belies a mistrust of such babble. Or is it an unfamiliarity of language?

MM: Are you calling me stupid?

AN: Nay! Said I the words ‘stupid’ or ‘idiot’ or ‘imbecile’? Thou must be an author to put such words in myne mouth.

MM: Look, I’m barren and that’s why I’m bitter because I’m angry at God.

AN: That’s what I thought. Good day and get happy or get lost.

And it would be that easy! Maybe her dialogue was a little contrived at times. And maybe I wouldn’t exactly talk like that, but it remains the same that I would rule her.

It appears, however, I won’t be able to walk that way with lucid dreams of such confrontation. Jeff said that it appears that she’s leaving. Indeed, on my way back from China Moon today, alone, I saw a large assortment of trash bags and boxes on the curb. Could this be the end of her reign of terror? One can hope. I hope she leaves her flowers.

I’m not afraid to say that I’m a Potter Fan. I’m a Bolt Head. I’m a muggle, but my loves goes to Harry. I remember my first Harry experience. My cousin, Molly, was head over heels for the little magic maker, and she insisted that I read his books.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to be seen reading a Harry Potter book around High School, so I compromised. I bought the audio tape and listened to it in my Walkman (yes, I do own one of those) and pretended to be rocking out to Billy Joel instead.

“Some lovers just a hide up their hearts…”

I, too, fell head over heels. Since then I’ve read every book instead of listen to. I feel a bit sheepish at the compromise I’d made now. That is why my latest news is so exciting.

I happen to have an advance copy of Chapter One of the newest Harry Potter book. This is hot and new. Still in development, even this chapter is more of an idea of what the final is going to be. It’s terribly small and there is, as yet, no title for the book decided on.

I feel it is my duty to share this manuscript with my loyal readers. I hope you enjoy this somewhat edited version that I have typed out here for your perusal. Enjoy.

…

By J.K. Rowling

It was dark. It’s always dark. There was Mr. Dursely, Harry’s uncle, prattling on and on downstairs. Harry didn’t care anymore. Harry wasn’t there for anyone. Harry existed on the brink of everything these f@#$ing people understood. Bloody squatters.

“Harry. Come down here please,” croaked Mr. Dursely.

“I think I’ll stay where I am, thank you.” Harry was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had placed there a poster of the latest pop star in the Magic realm. Her name was Britney Spells. The Dursleys had not much liked the poster, for how racy an image it was, but they didn’t protest much when Harry pulled a knife on them.

Harry rolled to his side. There didn’t seem to be much point in staying here or in going back to Hogwarts. There didn’t seem much point in anything anymore. The Dursleys let him get his regular owl mail, but he didn’t bother responding to most of the mail he got. It seemed that everyone else was getting on rather fine. Why did they need him?

All he seemed to do was bring darkness. Lord Voldermort had simply followed him step by step. All his time and energy was put into stopping Voldermort one more time. Just one more time, Harry, they said. Just one more time.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. This was too much f@#$ing pressure. They didn’t understand the s#$% he saw in his dreams. They didn’t understand that he had nightmares so terrible that he woke up sweating blood. He couldn’t tell them, either, because they would only feel sorry for him.

He didn’t want that. God, he didn’t want that.

Harry got up soundlessly and walked into the bathroom. He closed the door as quietly as he could and stared at himself in the mirror. This was it, he thought. This was an end to a horrible thing, he told himself.

He ran the faucet and let the cold water wash over his wrists. God. He hadn’t seen his eyes for a long long time. They looked worn and old. He looked dead, for Ch#$%’s sake. It was fitting enough, to look dead.

“This will be the greatest thing I’ve ever done,” was the last thing he said.

…

Boy was that funny or what?! That J.K. Rowling gets me every time! I can’t wait until the book is completed. That having been said, I can’t hold onto this forever. It’ll be a short time and I’ll be selling this on eBay so I can buy crack. But remember, I gave it to you guys for free.