"Let's Embarrass Him in Front of His Girlfriend"

Went to Soaring Eagle casino last night. Things did not go well for the Wangman. When playing NL live, I like to race as much as I can early, because of the structure of these games and the absolutely terrible play of some of the players with big stacks. The only NL game they had was 1/2 max $100, and a $6 table-share every half-hour. (ugh)

The third hand I played, the Hijack open-raised (shocker) to $12, the cutoff called, and I reraised to $34 (or thereabouts) straight when I saw AhKh. The hijack folded, and the cutoff thought for a few moments before pushing for my last 60ish dollars. I made the easy call, and he turned over two black queens. The board bricked, and I rebought.

A short while later I'm sitting with about $120. A young kid who's been getting his teeth kicked in over the last few orbits calls a raise to $10. I call on the button or cutoff with sevens. 5 people see a flop, which is 4d 5c 8d. I have the seven of diamonds. Everyone checks to me, and I bet $35 into the $50 pot. A few players fold to the young kid who pushes instantly for about $80 more. Looks like a frustrated guy on a draw, so I call reasonably quickly, happy about my hand since I hold a diamond and 2 sevens, possibly jamming up some of his outs. Sure enough, he turns over a black 3c6c. Turn deuce, and no six on the river means I'm toast.

About half an hour later, 5 people see a flop, and I hold 7s8s on the button. The flop comes As Ks 8x. An MP player leads for $10. I have $~60 left, and there will be 70$ in the pot if I call. I decide I'll get bombed off the hand on the turn, and I can't afford not to gamble here, so I reraise to $40 straight, hoping he can fold A/rag. He pushes and I call, and he shows me AK. King on the turn, and I'm drawing dead.

I was playing okay another hour later, but a couple missed flops and I'm down from a highwater mark to about $125. I raise to $10 from MP with KhJh, and get 2 callers, including the BB. The Flop is a dream: Qh Th 6x. To my surprise, the BB open pushes for about $70. He's terrible, and I don't think he'd play Ahxh this way, or a set. It smells like a bad two pair, or something like Q-rag, hoping I whiffed, or something equally stupid. I have 15 outs vs. a set, and 18 outs unless he has 2 pair or exactly QK. I call, and get all my money in against Q5 as about a 62-38 (off the top of my head, here) favorite. When I call almost instantly and turn my cards over, he pumps his fist and says, "I knew I had the best hand," to which I replied, "You're a pretty significant dog, sir." He had no idea what I was talking about, and patronizingly explained that he had a pair, and I ONLY had a draw. When I told him had "18 outs twice, which means I'll spike a heart, king, Ace or 9 significantly more than half the time," his only response was, "But I have the best hand."

The board bricked, and I licked my wounds at a limit table. I picked up aces twice in 2 orbits, and apart from losing a big pot to a weirdo/misplayed backdoor flush draw, I ran pretty well. Even though I bought at least 15-20 vodka shots, I left up about 15 bets in 3 hours. (shrug) I put it all on black, and promptly lost.


Okay, enough poker bitching; it's time for a fun poker story. I went to Soaring Eagle with my friend Chris, who is leaving with me on Thursday so he can play in the Main Event in Vegas. There are a few things you need to know about Chris:

1) He is a very good NLHE player. He is better than you. He is pretty much better than anyone you know. He routinely kills any game he plays. If he weren't such a lazy sack, he'd be playing 5K+ games online by now, but just gets incredibly hammered and picks up a few buyins between 2AM and 8AM playing 10/20 NLHE, shorthanded or headsup. Many people on his site of choice won't play him.

2) He, like me, is just a fucking confrontational asshole.

3) His biggest pet peeve is braggarts and boasters. And people who think they're better than they are. (As an aside, it's quite shocking we're such good friends...)

4) He loves teaching lessons.


So we were hanging out, getting all drunk, playing poker and some hotshot 25-28 year old strolls in like he owns the place and starts singing his own praises. "I take more money out of this game than anybody, guys." I swear to God, he says that, to which I promptly replied, "No, I'm pretty sure SHE does" and I pointed to the dealer. He glared and me, and said something like, "Whatever, hotshot." Hey. Asshole. You're bragging about how you can beat the 1/2 game on an Indian reservation? I come here to get drunk, and say mean shit to people like you.

So he was going on, and on, and on, and Chris and I were just shooting each other glances. Finally, we both heard him whisper to someone next to him, "Yeah, I just talk all this shit to get people riled up, make 'em come after me, put 'em on tilt, you know?" And this point Chris is near exploding.

Chris: "Sir? Excuse me, sir? Hey, man?"

Chris: "Hey buddy. Hey!" (taps Asshole on the arm) "Hey. I'll play you heads up for $1,000 right now."

Asshole: (laughs) "Haha..."

Chris: "I'm not kidding. I'll play you for any amount you want, right now. I'll get a hotel room, we'll hire an off-duty dealer, buy some checks, and play as long as you want."

Asshole: "Dude, what's your problem?"

Chris: "Well, you seem to think quite a bit of yourself, so I'm giving you a chance to make some money. How about it?"

At this point, the guy is torn. He doesn't want to back down, but he quite obviously doesn't want to play this guy, either. So he formulates a plan: Act like a motherfucking moron.

Asshole: "So you're inviting me up to your hotel room? Like I'm not gonna get robbed the second I step in there."

Chris: "There'll be a dealer there to protect you. Feel free to bring a friend, too, since I've got my buddy here with me."

Asshole: (stammering) "Sure man, I'll play you. I feel like I'm getting hustled, though, so I have to deal every time. Screw the dealer, I hold the cards."

Chris: "Now that's pretty stupid. If you don't want to play, just say so."

Now the whole table's watching in interest and whispering.

Asshole: (gulps) "Dude, if I say yes, you're just going to back out immediately. You're going to feel like a little bitch, then."

Chris: "Is that a no?"

Asshole: "Let's play for 3 grand. Not worth my time otherwise."

Chris: (shrugs) "Okay. Wanna go right now, or wait until your half-hour is up?"

Asshole: "What? Show me the fucking money and I'll play you."

So, Chris whipped a huge fat roll of 100s out of his pocket. He had to have at least 5K there.

Chris: "I should be able to reload if I get low, too..."

Asshole's just speechless. He tried everything he could think of to make Chris back down, but none of it worked. He tried intimidation, he tried raising the stakes, he tried claiming we would cheat him, and eventually he tried calling Chris's bluff. Ooops. He was serious.

Chris needled him for the next 2 hours- and won about a buy-in and a half when he snapped off a bluff with K-hi and proceeded to bluff his ass off the very next hand- until we moved tables. The Asshole didn't say a WORD the rest of the time. 2 dealsers came to our table and mentioned that they'd never seen him so quiet.

His girlfriend showed up a while later. 3 hours drunker, Chris wandered over again.

Chris: "Hey. You never said you didn't want to play. I'm pretty drunk. You want to play now?"

Asshole: "Dude, what's your beef?"

Chris: "You're my beef. You said you didn't want to play me for 1,000, only for 3,000. You were obviously bluffing, and full of shit. So either tell me you don't want to play me heads-up for any amount of money or I'm going to come over here and keep embarrassing you in front of your girl here until I pass out or you leave."

Asshole: "What? What do you want me to say, that you're better than me?"

Chris: "Yes. That's exactly what I want."

Asshole: "Fine then."

Chris: "No, you still haven't said it. Say you don't want to play me because I'm better than you."

Asshole: "Fine, Jesus. Sure. You're better than me."


The kid was just dejected. He walked into the casino on the top of the world, and a few hours later he'd lost his manhood in front of the people he played against 5 nights a week AND his (sadly kinda hot) girlfriend. Sources say he eventually lost about 4 buy-ins and slunk away.

Chris probably said 10 words the rest of the night.

Poison

I watched my second-favorite ESPN WSOP broadcast tonight. I think it's the 1000K no rebuy event from 2005. Fischman won in 2004, and Cunningham wins it in 2005. ESPN does one of their random [insert ESPN WSOP riff] segments when Cunningham and Fischman get heads-up.

Anyway, it's my favorite because Cunninghan, Juanda, Negreanu and Ivey talk about their "crew" from the late 90s. Except it's basically just Negreanu babbling, and the other 3 guys posing for a few photographs wearing Full-Tilt hats and looking uncomfortable. I feel like Negreanu might have made the whole thing up, because the ESPN production crew just had to cobble together random soundbytes from Juanda and Ivey. Cunningham's parts could pretty much mean anything, as I'm sure they had him for like a 20 minute interview at some point, and ESPN's WSOP coverage is:

a) NOTORIOUS and

b) SHITTY


Well, in one of the clips, they show Phil Ivey turning from like the 8 seat, looking into the camera. And he says, "I wanna gamble wit-cha." It's hard to summarize why I love Phil Ivey so fucking much, but that might be the one thing I could point to.

Phil Ivey: (deadpan) "I wanna gamble withcha."

I've thought about this alot, and there's absolutely NO celebrity I like more than Phil Ivey. If I could be any man, it would be him. Most white guys I know would choose somebody like Wally Sczerbiak or Tom Brady, but give my cracker-ass Phil Ivey's gambling-ass any day.

On Charm....

Once, in highschool, I volunteered that in some cultures, eating a newborn's placenta is common practice.The girl next to me was very disgusted, so every few minutes- when the teacher wasn't looking- I would whisper "pla-cen-ta" and make a disgusting slurping sound. Eventually, she had to raise her hand and whine, "Mrs. Stevens, Derek keeps whispering 'placenta' to me!" That might be the hardest I have ever laughed.

Days later, I spilled some rootbeer in class. She said something incredibly biting like, "Spilled some rootbeer, eh? Sucks to be you!" So I whirled around and declared, in a clear, commanding tone, "Yeah, well, you're ugly and stupid and no man will ever love you." She actually SCURRIED out of class. My teacher glared at me, and her ex-boyfriend chimed in, demonstrating perfect comedic timing, "But it's true."

I made out with her at a party a few years after graduation.

My parents are so proud...

DMoneyxx (11:26:34 PM): happy birthday your away message is disturbing. love mom

Auto response from WastMcWasted (11:26:34 PM): Someday I want my nickname to be "The Philandering Flounder."


What would be funnier? If she sent that half an hour BEFORE it was my birthday? Or if she sent it 23 and a half hours INTO my birthday?

It's Not Even Noon Yet....

I've been feeling pretty awful the past few days: nausea, aching, general malaise and the like. I mistook it for a hangover originally, before I realized that I hadn't even had anything to drink the night before. (As an aside, it's a pretty sobering moment when you have to "realize" that you hadn't boozed yesterday.)

But I awoke this morning just before 11 feeling great. I was still feeling the residual effects of being sick, the slight achiness and fuzzy-headedness, but it was nothing when compared to the last 48ish hours. So I popped a caffeine pill, checked my email, and grabbed a fresh towel from my shelf as concious decision to start my day off fresh and clean. When I pulled the blue bath towel from its place a few feet above my head, something green fluttered to the ground. Upon further examination, it was actually 2 green somethings. Well hot damn, $25 bucks! I don't know why the hell I hid 25 dollars in my bath towel, but screw it; this day probably can't get any better. I soaped myself up, dried myself off, and put on my standard afternoon outfit consisting of gym shorts, a cutoff, and my trusted sweat-soaked Party Poker hat.

I tossed on my iPod, flipped it to shuffle, and- after skipping a few depressing tracks I was uncharacteristically in no mood for ("Bulletproof... I wish I was", "No Surprises" and "Let Down"- Radiohead; "I'm Ready to Die"- The Unicorns; "Been Smoking too Long"- Nick Drake; "I Can't Seem to Make you Mine"- The Clientele), I was rewarded with some upbeat pop music. I don't know if there's a happier song to listen to on a beautiful day than Architecture in Helsinki's kid-pop anthem "It's 5." I headed off to Oak Street's Bum Market, planning on getting a newspaper so I could finish the Tuesday crossword and soduku to feel great about myself, and maybe a pack of smokes to reward myself for the last 2 days of monkish living.

When I got to the counter, I paid with my newly found $5 spot, and took my fifteen cents change. "Hey, you guys got any matchbooks?" Damn, they're all out. Most days, this would be enough to set me on a downward spiral that's likely to end in a 3-day bender and the failed pursuit of anonymous sex. But today I was not to be deterred. There was a pretty young ghetto-looking kid buying a pack of Newport 100s in the box in line behind me, so I waited for him outside.

Wang: "Hey, man. You mind if I borow a lighter? I'd really enjoy a smoke on the walk home today."

Newport: (produces Bic) "Sup. I'll sell it to you for a dolla."

Wang: (confused, laughs uncomfortably) "Haha, yeah."

Newport: (raises eyebrows)

Wang: "Yeah, but they sell those for a buck inside."

Newport: "Yeah, but you gotta pay taxes inside. I'm'a save you sixpence." (Here I've got to call attention to the fact that he really said "sixpence." I'm afriad if I don't point this out, it'll slip by. It's probably the only amusing part of this anecdote, and it completely floored me at the time.)

Wang: (pauses for a few moments, utterly astonished) "Naw, that's alright. I just wanted to get a light for the walk home. I've got a ton of lighters around the corner. Thanks anyway." (slips headphones back in and starts to walk away)

Newport: "Yo yo , wait. I'll let you borrow my lighter if you gimme 'dat fifteen cents change you got inside..."

Wang: (slightly disappointed he didn't use the British vernacular for change again, but in a generous mood) "Yeah, sure man. Whatever. Here."

Newport: "Tight."

Click. No flame. Click. No flame. CLICK! No flame... click, click, CLICK!

Wang: (raises eyebrows)

Newport: (shrugs) "I didn't say it'd work, man."

Wang: (stares, makes nonplussed face)

Newport: "You see me wearing a sign that says 'Motherfucking Refunds?'"

Wang: "No, but you're not wearing a sign that says, 'No Refunds' either."

Newport: (looks around) "Fine, call the Better Business Bureau, then."

At this point I'm unable to even get angry. So far this thuggish guy has surprised me twice. He used the phrase "sixpence" and then referred ironically to the Better Business Bureau. Anybody who exceeds my usually accurate expectations almost always gains my respect. I'd usually make an issue of getting ripped off- even if it's just 15 pence- out of principle, but I liked this guy. A lot. So fuck it, right? I just smile, roll my eyes genially, and nod with an abashed look on my face.

Newport: (laughs) "What can I say? I'm a hustla, baby!"

Wang: (nods again) "Yeah, I dig." (<---- yes, I said "I dig.") "Take it easy, brother." (<---- yes, I called him "brother.")

Newport: "Hey, yo. What'choo listening to on that thing?"

The song had changed a few times, and I wasn't even really listening.

Wang: "Actually, uh. I'm listening to Dr. Octagon right now. 'No Awar-"

Newport: (excitedly) "No shit?! Whiteboy? Not John Tesh? Kool Keith can spit, man."

Wang: "Yeah, I'm a fan. I think the next song on the playlist is either something by Bon Jovi or Michael Bolton, though."

Newport: (laughs) "You straight, kid. Gimme those headphones, let's see if you lyin' to a nigga."

Wang: (shrug) "Sure man. Check it out."

I hold tight to my iPod nano, and let him slip the headphones on. He listens for about 30 seconds, satisfied, and hands the earphones back.

Newport: "Yeah, nigga. This disc was my mothafuckin JAM like 6 years ago. What else you got on here?"

Wang: "Yeah, it's the jumpoff. I dunno, lots of stuff. Lots of Kool Keith, some Doom, some Blackalicious. Edan. Mrs. Jackson, by Outkast. Deltron 3030. Tons of Ghostface. ODB, RZA. The rest is probably white-boy music."

Newport: "Yeah, you a nigga, nigga! Straight-up MY nigga!" (awkward handshake chest bump) "Who the fuck is Edan, though?"

So at this point I fiddled with my iPod, and let him listen to a few minutes of "Torture Chamber." He seemed to enjot it quite a bit.

Newport: "Eden? E-d-e-n?"

Wang: "Naw, E-d-A-n."

Newport: "You got good taste in music. How about you show me some white-boy music? None of that boring shit. Something with some go in it..."

Wang: (shrugs) "Sure. You ever heard of Radiohead? Here, listen to this. It's called 'National Anthem.' It's got a pretty good beat, and it's pretty trippy."

Newport: (Listens to the first 3 and a half minutes, and gets visibly excited when the jazz trumpets kick in hardcore just before the 3 minute mark) "Man, you ever get high and listen to this?"



So, for the next few minutes we just talked about music. He was pretty interested in finding some "white-boy" music he might download and listen to during those "late-night BLAZE sessions" with his buddies. I was happy to oblige. He handed me a pen and some paper, and I wrote down some Radiohead, Flaming Lips, Pink Floyd, and M83 suggestions I thought he'd be sure to enjoy. In return he told me to be sure to listen to the New DJ Drama/Lil' Wayne and T.I. releases.

When I turned to walk away, he stopped me again.

Newport: "Hey, yo! I don't usually do this, but... Here you go."

He reached into his pocket, dug around for a bit, then pulled out another lighter.

Wang: (raises eyebrow) "Thanks man."

Click. Flame. Burn. Inhale.

Newport: "Oh, here." (flips me a dime)

Wang: (laughs)

Newport: (cryptically) "Hey man. Time's money."


(shrug) He can keep the nickel. This story alone's worth 1000 times that.

Musings

I've been doing some pretty aggressive link-click-based web-navigating the last 24 hours, and I've come to a few conclusions. In typical Wang form, I shall prepare a list:

1) My blog kinda sucks. Instead of rehashing old stories like your friend's pathetic dad who never got out of town and wishes he didn't botch that play in in the regional quarters football game some 25 years ago, I should probably keep the blog a little more current. And when I DO tak about current-events, I should probably challenge myself a little by gravitating away from my anecdotal style of writing. I'm slightly concerned that nobody gives a fuck what I have to say, however. Wait, who am I kidding? Of course nobody gives a fuck what I have to say, but when has that stopped me?

2) Some old friends of mine, with whom I have no contact anymore (it's a long story even I can't explain, but I'm sure the lesson contained therein closely resembles "Derek is an idiot"), are doing some pretty incredible things with their lives.

-A kid I went to highschool with is, get this, in the Peace Corps. I lived with him in college for a few years, and he's always been pretty near the top of "People for whom I have an unbelieveable amount of respect" list. He's always been altruistic to the bone, which is pretty impressive for anyone, let alone someone in his late-teens through early-twenties. I've been growing less and less cynical lately (maybe), and I'm increasingly floored by the rare GoodPerson. This guy was a FantasticPerson, in all respects. Now he's in a 3rd world country for 2 years, virtually alone, teaching in a language he doesn't have full command of. And I pat myself on the back when I give the Bums outside BumMarket 2 quarters instead of one.

- Two former friends who I once vainly considered my intellectual equals are at law school at Emory. Brilliant guys both, though in different respects. There's no doubt that they'll both be mega-successful in whatever fields they choose to enter. I consider my day a success when I make a few thin value bets on the river.

- Another former friend is attending some stupid-impressive GradProgram at Vanderbilt, pursuing the path he set off on years ago. I can't book my ticket to Vegas on time, and he's fulfilling promises he made to himself years and years in advance.

- The PartyMonster just got a job in Houston, Texas. Nobody I've ever met lived to even half the level of excess that this guy did. Gregarious in every sense of the word, he didn't miss a single iota of the college experience, but still managed to fly through Michigan's engineering school and get an Electrical Engineering and Computer Science (EECS) degree. The Wangman pretty much flunked out of school because he was too lazy to go to is 11AM classes. Advantage? PartyMonster.

- The smartest kid I know signed a contract for some businessy-type-firm in Chicago. Like me, he rarely turned down a drink when I knew him. Unlike me, he rolled out of bed and beat the living shit out of his Michigan B-School classes. If he wants to, he'll parlay his charm, razor-sharp mind, and dashing good looks into an high-executive (and I do mean hiiiiiigh) position someday, wherever he wants. If he doesn't, he'll just do something else and be equally successful.

- One of my former neighbors is about to move to San Diego to go to law-school. Fucking San Diego, man.

I could go on, but it would really just be more of the same. Pretty much everyone I called friend as of 2 or 3 years ago would be considered by any standard wildly successful. It's a real testament to my quality as a human being that I had to find out about all of this via the public record, reading old friends' blogs, slinking around anonymously like a fucking thief. I used to wonder why each and every one of these people cut bait, but when I thought about it objectively, it's really not much of a mystery at all. I hate to use the same tired metaphor, but it's pretty appropriate in this instance: in order to be successful, you've got to know when to release your dog hands. If anything, most of these people gave me one-too-many chances to improve.

3) I suppose this could be (2a), but the thought arrived wholly separately: I am an awful human being. I joke about that alot, but many a truth is hidden in jest. I don't think I'm willing to delve too deeply into my admittedly fragile psyche right now- and if I were, I don't think I'd share it here (- but I'm certain of what I'd find if I stripped away the countless layers of lame rhetoric: incomparable weakness, cowardice, and hypocrisy. I've lied to myself too long about my character. Maybe it seems backwards, but I feel like the first step towards being honest with myself is being unflinchingly honest with the others. Maybe if I have to work that much harder to convince others of my worth, instead of falling back on glibness and an ability to manipulate peoples' opinions of me until it is too late, I'll end up unwittingly convincing myself of the same.

So, how's that for a Shimmering Wang blog entry? That entire thing was pretty much 100% stream of conciousness, and I'm not going to go back and read it before I publish it. Sorry if it's completely off the wall compared to my usual lighthearted shit, but sometimes you have to write things for yourself. I don't expect anyone to appreciate anything written in this entry, but if there's some slim chance it affects me, I'm willing to roll the dice.

I'll have something funny tomorrow...

Is that "Riding Dirty" I hear in the background? I quit if this doesn't earn me some Anti-Cool Points.

Gross Disrespect? I'll say!

I've been putting writing this one up. It's going to be pretty long, and- like most of my entires- incredibly boring. I usually don't make a point of stipulating to the veracity of my anecdotes, but this one is pretty far-fetched, so I feel compelled: This story is 100% true, and I haven't exaggerated at all, as none is necessary.


BACKGROUND

The state of Michigan uses a test called the Michigan Educational Assesment Program, or the MEAP (pronounced "meep") for short, to evaulate and accredit school districts within the state. The state puts a huge emphasis on the results, and every 7th grade and 11th grader must take the test. In short, it's a fucking joke. The emphasis the state places on the exam has some incredibly disturbing consequences, most of which I'll be sussing out here.

The school I went to, Grand Blanc High School, perfectly illustrates the pitfalls of such an irresponsible system. For one thing, our entire curriculum revolves around the MEAP. The English department is easily the worst. English teachers are pressure to spend inordinate amounts of time on developing "Reflective Writing" and "Personal Narrative" writing skills. Instead of keeping the focus where it belongs- on literary analysis, argument construction, and persuasive writing, etc.- months of the year are dedicated solely to the 2 styles of writing upon which students will be tested on the MEAP. GBHS takes an inordinate level of pride in their MEAP results, which are typically near the top, if not at THE top, of all schools in the entire state.


This is problematic for myriad reasons, the foremost of which are:

1) Forcing students to develop skils which don't help them (a) get into college or (b) succeed in college or the real world is negligent. Luckily, I had a teacher my sophomore year who was so infuriated with the process that she rebelled, rightly refusing to gear her lessons towards the MEAP test, and instead towars the SAT and ACT English sections. Most students were not so lucky. Thankfully I was prepared for the reading and english sections of the ACT because of Mrs. Bernstein, who also ruthlessly forced her students to develop PROPER writing skills.

2) Teaching to a test almost completely invalidates the ends of evaluation the test was designed as a means to. If your curriculum revolves completely around a single test, and that test is not 100% comprehensive, the test does nothing but lower the quality of education.

The longterm results of the MEAP test run completely antithetically to the explicit goals. This is horrendously sad.

The actually testing itself takes place in 2-3 hour blocks over a period of 2 weeks. This waste of time is compounded when you take into account the additional loss of class time due to the hodge-podge rearrangement of student schedules. Teachers are incredibly inneficient when temporarily forced into a "block scheduling" system they are unused to. Without fail, every class ends up having a "study time" of 15-30 minutes appended to the end, leading to much lost teaching time.

I absolutely hated the MEAP test, and made my feelings well known. My 11th grade Honors English teacher drank the Kool-Aid with gusto, and we had a few spats. I told her very publicly how I felt, and she brushed me aside, implying that I was a troublemaking whiner. I've always been a very good student, especially in the reading and writing domains, so this was frustrating. Completely apart from my feelings about our wasted "MEAP time," I felt Mrs. Thomas was a poor teacher. She was narrow-minded, and reacted poorly when someone, usually me, challenged a standard interpretation of a literary passage. I wrote countless papers in which I took a difficult position, but defended it well with textual evidence and responded properly to counterarguments, but was nonetheless met with poorish grades. Most papers I wrote came back with something like, "Weak interpretation. We discussed this in class. Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. B-/C+."

Once I got so mad that I raised my hand and said, "Mrs. Thomas, why did you call me a Hobgoblin? That's pretty mean, don't you think? What will the principal think when I tell him you called me a Hobgoblin. I really think I'm more of a Dr. Octopus, or even a Captain America. You really should be more polite. How would you feel if I called you, like, an Ogre or an Uruk-Hai or something?" She was furious, but this was pretty much what our relationship was like. I hated the idea that a very good student who worked his ass off and took pride in his writing could just be brushed aside for silly reasons.

So when it came time for the Writing portion of the MEAP, I decided there would be no holds barred. You absolutely had to pass the MEAP to graduate (a rule GBHS instituted themselves, in order to artificially ensure high scores with countles retakes by mediocre students), so I couldn't tank the test, but I could sabatoge it, and make my point. I did so, resoundingly.

Part I was Reflective Writing.

In this section, you had to take some piece of writing you'd done before and reflect on its strengths and weaknesses. We were encouraged, if we had no adequate pieces in our portfolio, to simply pull something out of our collective asses.

Here are some excerpts from my essay:

- I claimed my biggest weakness was my handwriting. "Like an uneducated Kindergartener, I still have trouble with the lowercase letter 'e' In the paper I'm analyzing, I notice now that most of my e's are backwards, and some are upside down, resembling the 'schwa,' a character used to represent unstressed neutral vowels."

- A second weakness I'd since overcome was my propensity to use inappropriate, and at times obscene language, in my writing. I invented this example: "It's not my fault! The devils made me do it, damn bitchass devils."

- My final weakness was getting chocolate on the papers I turned in. I claimed I love candy bars so much that I often got chocolate smudges on my finished products. I also suggested I still struggle with this. To emphasize, smudged part of a 3 Musketeers bar in more than one place on my MEAP essay. That'll teach the school to hand out little treats to people taking the exam. "For energy and proper brain function" they claimed. Fucking morons.

The next day was going to be spent writing a personal narrative. The school emphasized repeatedly, with a despicably obvious wink, that we were not to turn our booklets to the next page, because the specific topic of the personal narrative was written there. I turned the page to prepare my attack, and saw that we were to "Write about a personal relationship that has shaped your life."

I went home that night, and narrowed my possible essay topics down to "My Experiences in the Trenches of Vietnam" and "My 'Special Relationship' with My English Teacher, Susan B. Thomas." I'm sure you can guess what I chose...

The next day my pen flew like a madman's. I constructed an account of my sexual affair with Mrs. Thomas. It was was written like a bad romance novel version of Mrs. Robinson. I took great care never to be graphic or obscene, and fulfilled all the requirements perfectly. The story was epic and expansive, and I absolutely used my arch-enemy's full name, including her middle initial. I also made sure to clue any reader in to the obviously satirical nature of the story with melodrama and silly language. The sex passages were full of Romance Novel style language, complete with words like "bosom" and "yearning." I can say with 100% confidence that whomever eventually evaluated this Narrative would surely see it as a joke, and not an honest confession.

When I was done, I showed it to my friends at the table. One person even had enough time to read the entire thing, and laughed all the way through. By the end of the day, slightly concerned about the administration hearing, I'd quietly told about 10 people. Unfortunately, those 10 people told 10 other people, and by lunch I was getting high-fives in the hallway from people I'd never met and hearing catcalls everywhere I went. By 6th hour everyone knew, and after 7th hour I was a legend.

After school, more than one person told me they'd overheard teachers and adminstrators discussing the scandal. The test was supposed to be completely confidential, but I knew the fascist administration would find some way to open the seal and read it. It was only a matter of time. I was fucked. I had a baseball game that day and, spurned on by the knowledge that I might miss some time in the near future, had a great double header, going 6-7 with 3 doubles and my first homerun of the season. (As an aside, a newscrew was there to film part of the game for a piece the local news was doing on our state-ranked baseball team, and my mammoth blast was part of the highlight montage, complete with some awesome play-by-play from the sports anchor.)

When I got to school that day, I was promtly told to see the principal. Like the asshole he is, he made me wait in his exterior office for about an hour before escorting me into the office. Justice was swift and harsh. The principal told me this was the most abhorrent thing he'd seen in his years as an administrator. I was forced to listen while he called my mother at home, referred to me as a pervert, and explained I needed serious psychological counseling. He was imposing the maximum penalty. 2 weeks out of school suspension, and a reccomendation to the school board for my expulsion from the district. I was also told that I would be banished to the In School Suspension room for the duration of the year during Mrs. Thomas's class if I was allowed back at all, and I'd be unable to take AP English the next year with Mrs. Thomas, the only teacher who ran the course. He also said Mrs. Thomas was threatening legal action. Supposedly she was talking to a lawyer to ascertain whether my actions were libelous (<--- of course I knew this was bullshit, and there was no way what I did constituted libel... I'm protected because my writing was so obviously satirical).

EPILOGUE:

In the end, I told the principal that his actions were probably illegal, and that expulsion was out of the question. I also told him that I wouldn't contact any newspapers or newsmedia if he could keep the suspension off my permanent record. He relented, all the while furious.

Mrs. Thomas, aware that I'd be receiving zeroes on all the work she assigned while I was gone, gave the bulk of the Marking Period's work during my absence, completely out of spite. Even though I was on course for a 93% in the class until now, I received a D+ for the marking period, and a C+ or B- (I can't remember which) for the semester. This was the only black mark on my transcript, and likely kept me of the 2001 Top Ten GPA list.

I missed 2 weeks of baseball, and didn't make the all-conference team, though I surely would have been a 2nd teamer otherwise.

My friends in Mrs. Thomas's class passed around a sympathy card that said, "We Love and Miss You Buddy!" for everyone in class to sign, and left it standing on my empty desk in silent protest. Everyone signed it, with the exception of 3 girls who had always hated me. When they told me about this, I actually started crying a little bit. It remains one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.

The school, hostage to their own perverted desire for validation from the state, had no choice but to send my writing in, unadulterated except for a note on the bottom explaining my situation. When the results came, I opened them with dread.

My fears were unfounded, as I received a 4.0 on both essays, which was a perfect score. I made copies, and anonymously stapled one on Mrs. Thomas's chalkboard. I slipped one into our principal Mr. Newton's mailbox. There was silence from both.

I became a sort of legend, a cautionary tale that still gets told today. My MEAP story has become like an Urban Myth, except it's true. People still hear my name there, and before she retired Mrs. Thomas wouldn't suffer my name to be mentioned in her class. Years later she would still fly into a rage if someone so much as BREATHED the name "Derek Birch" in her presence.

The story spread even further. A handful of kids transferred to other districts, and told the story there. Once, in Ann Arbor, someone started telling the story in my presence, and even mentioned that he "was pretty sure it's made up." He went to highschool on the opposite side of the state.

People still ask my brother, soon to be a senior, if he's related to me. He usually replies with pride that he absolutely is.

I swear on my Dog's and mother's lives that this is 100% true, and that I've taken creative liberty with none of it. I also apologize for the length, but I wasn't leaving anything out.

"...sticky, alone, and without capital."

The summer after my Freshman year of college, I started running it back with a girl I kinda "dated" off an on in highschool, and a few times the year prior. She was a super-popular highschool girl, and we'd always had a really STRANGE relationship. She was probably the most awkward person I've met to date, even 4 years later. She was always fidgeting, was the Queen of the Awkward Silence, and had this nervous laugh that drove everyone who knew her fucking crazy. It's very hard to be pretty, popular, and awkward all at once, but this girl pretty much had a monopoly on that trifecta. For the sake of her anonymity, we'll call her Angela. Anyone who went to highschool- or college for that matter- with me will know who she is anyway, but it's best to maintain some superfiscial degree of plausible deniability.

Here's some brief background. I've written about most of this before in other arenas, so feel free to skip if you think you've heard this before. Or if you were present when it happened. Or if I've gotten all bombed on a Friday and told portions of this story to a crowd half-filled with cringing mutual acquaintances.

- For our first real date in highschool, she demanded I take her to a movie. She shot down all my suggestions and made me take her to see "The Others," that piece of crap movie starring Nicole Kidman. I ruined the movie for everyone when I pointed out that Nicole Kidman was obviously dead, and proceeded to fall asleep less than halfway through. She was furious, and when I denied that I'd been sleeping, she said that I was snoring softly. Whoops. She told me to call her again "when I decided I wanted to be a gentleman."

- Some time later, we were again on speaking terms. I was drunk at a party, standing around a keg talking to a bunch of mostly HER friends, and I started referring to her as "Meathocks" a nickname I gave her because, as an incredibly dedicated and gifted downhill skier, she had gigantic and muscular thighs. I then started joking about what it would be like to go down on her. "What if she squeezed her legs together? It'd be like poppin' the flower off the stem of a dandelion. Or like when Gallagher gets crazy with a Watermelon." This was complete with pantomines and some play acting. She found out (duh), confronted me (understandably furious), and didn't speak to me for some time. The nickname stuck, though.

- Throughout the following summer, we kinda dated. Among other things (some of which I will NOT be publishing here, due to the fact that I still might have a soul), I (a) forgot her birthday, which was very close to our 1 month anniversary, which I also forgot; (b) called her by her friend's name more than once in the same night while we were hooking up in her basement; (c) showed up to my own "special birthday dinner" drunk as a skunk when she explicitly told me not to, lied about it, then skipped out early because my friends were waiting in the parking lot to pick me up; (d) lied about not being a virgin, then slipped and gave myself away, making her so furious she finally stopped talking to me. Again. For like the 4th time.


Okay, so during Freshman year we tried dating a few times, but I kept screwing it up, she kept losing patience, and I repeatedly got tired of dealing with her crazy-chick schizo moodswingy bullshit. She implored me to give it one more shot the summer after Freshman year, and I really did care about her quite a bit, so I agreed readily.

Things were actually going great for once. She was living about an hour away, so we didn't spend TOO much time together, and when we were around each other it was pretty fun. Not too much pressure, not too serious. Just two hormonally charged 19-year olds enjoying their responsibility-free youths. Then she sent me this e-mail, out of the blue. It was a touchy-feely thing, telling me how much I meant to her, how glad she was that things were working out. She told me when she saw her roommate's loving relationship, she was happy because she imagined us at that point sometime down the road. It was kinda sappy, but I wasn't unhappy or anything. It's always nice to know somebody cares, and I wasn't wholly against a romantic relationship. I had to get to work, so I fired off a quick email in response:

"Ang-

Thanks for the email. I gotta run, but are you gonna be in town this weekend? Gimme a call, babes.

Wang"

Big. Mistake.

Right before my shift ended, she called me crying.

Her: "Please please please when you get home please don't read the email I sent you."
Me: "What?"

Her: "I was mad after I read your email and I sent you a response but I want to take it back so please don't read it it's not now I feel I'm sorry please I overreacted...."

And on and on. I told her to calm down, and the first thing I did when I got back was read the email.

"Dear Insensitive Jerk-

I sent you this beautiful email, pouring my heart out to you, and your response is to just say 'thanks?' You're such a jerk, like always. I thought we had a future together, but not if you keep blowing me off like that. I take back every thing I said, because you're evil. What, you just want to hook up with me? Is that it? I'm just some whore to you? I thought I was falling in love with you, but now I know I was falling in love with a fraud. That's all you are. You pretend to be this nice guy, but when I tell you what you mean to me, you just come right out and say that you want a booty call this weekend.

Don't call me,

Angie"


What. A psycho. I had no idea what to do, and since she was totally off base and crazy, I sent both emails- along with a synopsis of the whole situation- to one of my best friends and trusted advisors, Tenacious Grizz. The whole reason I am telling this boring story is so I can find a way to get Grizz's response into evidence. The final line of his email probably stands as one of the funniest things I've ever read. Grizz is a pretty conservative, standup guy. Not a huge partier, never one to treat a serious situation lightly, but here's his entire email, verbatim:

"Derek-

Wow, what a crazy bitch. I always knew she was a psycho, but this time she's just completely lost her mind. I could probably sit here and fill page after page with serious counsel, but you and I know it's not what you're looking for. It won't do any good. You wanna know what I think? What the only reasonable solution is?

Next time she's in town, pretend nothing's wrong. Then fuck her doggy style, knock her out with a blow to the head, come on her back, and steal her wallet. She will awake sticky, alone, and without capital.

Love,

T.Grizz"

When I read that, I laughed so hard I woke my entire family up, and had to make up a lame story for why I was doubled over on the floor, tears streaming down my face. "Sticky, alone, and without capital."

There's no better way to be.

Wang's Proudest Sober Moment

I'm not proud of much, or anything, but this is probably the greatest moment of my life:


Okay, so I'm not sure how familiar anybody is with Higschool Policy Debate. It's not as relaxed or argument-based as it sounds. It's highly structrued, highly specific, requires a sick level of organizational skill (both in preparing, and during the round), and the most important is arguably "being able to talk so fucking fast that nobody but the people in the room have any fucking idea what you're saying." The last one is usually the most disconcerting for newcomers, or people who casually step-in on rounds. Each 2-man team has to get SO much information into such a short period of time (8 minutes or 5 minutes) that the result resembles complete gobbledegook. You have to train yourself to speed through your evidence, and make yourself as clear as possible without sacrificing a single second of your clock.

Policy Debate teams are pretty starkly divided into Haves and Havenots. The amount of specific research that's necessary is mind-boggling.

The Haves send their charges to week-long and month-long summer Debate Camps where everyone competes, but eventually shares all the research they've been doing for 8 hours a day, 6 days a week.

The Havenots try to steal this evidence from their opponents. It's unethical, but I rationalize such behavior by telling myself that I'm a terrible person. I realize that's not much of a justification, but you have to understand that I gave up at a very early age.

The Haves have access to expensive research tools, like Lexis-Nexis and the like.

The Havenots read "The Flint Journal" and "USA Today" in the vain hope that SOMETHING on topic will come up. Otherwise, we make shit up and hope we don't get caught (<--- more effective than one would think).

Anyway, my squad was a Havenot squad. My senior year, I ponied up the dough and took my partner to MSU's renowned debate camp. I was a badass debater, but I was sick of having to rely on only sound logic. Basically, I had to force judges to vote for my team based on my acerbic wit, ruthless cross-examinations, and charisma. At some point, that's just not enough, skill advantages aside. So I bit the bullet, spent the CAISH, and went to NerdCamp. It paid off, and my partner and I qualified for the State Tournament for the first time in the history of the school. We had a decent run, but really couldn't compete with the hardcore schools. We didn't break to the elimination rounds, but the final round of Group Play was against the best squad in the state, and the eventual repeat State Champs.

We were getting blitzed. We couldn't keep up, didn't have enough text to effectively combat the waves and waves of evidence they threw at us. They were just mopping the floor with us. Until they got cocky and made a mistake. They tied almost their ENTIRE Negative position to how Warren Rehnquist would rule 4 years down the line on a Hypothetical Supreme Court case. (I told you policy debate is anal as fuck.)

During my 2AR (our team's final speech, and the 7th of 8 in the entire match), I stood up with no notes, and a single piece of evidence. It was pulled out of my ass, tracked down from my pathetically small filebox of bullshit. Here's my entire 2AR, in its entirety (with some technical jargon left out):

Wang: "We're getting killed in this round, and everyone here knows it. They're the best team in the state, and whether they take these ballots or not, they're probably going to end up winning the Tournament.

"But they can't win. Rehnquist is probably going to kick the bucket, and soon."

I then proceeded to read a selection from a random newspaper article I'd tagged and tossed into my evidence box two weeks prior. It detailed Rehnquist's increasingly troublesome health, and speculated on whether he'd step down.

"You see, their entire Counterplan- their ONLY remaining position, because they kicked out of everything else knowing we had no way to deal with it- depends on Rehnquist being alive in 4 years. He probably won't be. He's going to die, and even though they kicked our asses all round, you have no choice but to slide your ballots in our direction here, unless they have incredibly compelling evidence to the contrary.

"I know it sucks, and I know you want to vote for them because they're obviously the much superior team. But you can't. You're compelled. Because Rehnquist is going to be dead soon. I'm sorry for leaving you no choice but to justify your ballot based on the Chief Justice's impending death, but you have to. Otherwise you're both terrible judges. Thank you."

The entire 2AR, of a possible 5 minutes, lasted exactly 64 seconds. When I sat down, our opponents used their remaining prep time, and launched a massive counter-attack, reading scores of dense evidence, spouting theoretical arguments, and generally being very good at what they do.

But they didn't have a SINGLE piece of evidence that suggested Rehnquist WOULD be alive in 4 years.


When we got the ballots back, we'd stolen both. I was ranked 4th out of 4 speakers on each, and the scorekeeping methods Debate Judges used reflected their utter disgust with me. One judge wrote that she'd "never been more disgusted with a round, or a decision." She also said that my "ultimately winning argument was crass, disrespectful, but too compelling to ignore. I have never been more ashamed to vote for any team during my entire judging tenure."

The other judge simply wrote, "The round came down to whether or not the NEGs could prove Rehnquist would live another 4 years. They couldn't. 2ARs delivery was arrogant and incredibly unprofessional, but he's right and I have no choice. Round goes to the AFFs. Rehnquist is going to 'kick the bucket?' Real classy."

Like I said, we ended up eliminated from the tournament in the early stages, but I can proudly say I beat one of the best pairs of debaters in the entire country with the argument: "Supreme Court Justice Warren Rehnquist is going to kick the bucket, soon."

I still keep the ballots with me, and had them up on my wall for years.

"Real Classy."

...damn right, motherfucker.

Refreshing

What the Hell is a Jubilee, Anyway?

I was cruising around Wikipedia earlier today, trying to figure out the worldwide obsession with soccer- trying to figure out how the hell a bald guy could be the greatest European Footballer of the last half century, and how the second greatest player of all time could have a coke problem, yet need fucking Gastric Bypass Surgery only 10 years removed from his playing days- and I stumbled upon The 100 Greatest Sporting Moments, originally aired by Channel 4 in Britain, and voted upon by fans.

Here are the sports featured in British Sports Fans' Top 10 Sporting Moments. Keep in mind this is an "of all time" list. Which means "ever." Greatest Sporting Moments. Ever.

1) Olympic Rowing
2) Soccer
3) Soccer
4) Soccer
5) Cricket
6) Soccer
7) Boxing
8) Olympic Ice Dancing
9) Snooker
10) Tennis

I supposer I can fade soccer's pluralism on this list. I can appreciate it's worldwide appeal, and accept the fact that America is just behind the rest of the world on this one. I played the game for years at a relatively competitive level at a younger age, and can appreciate the splendor of the game. So, 40% soccer in the top ten? Fine. I actually expected it to be closer to twice that.

But I knew there was something incredibly wrong with my ancestors across the pond when I had to click on the hyperlink in the #1 Greatest Sporting Moment of All-Time just to figure out who the bloody hell he was. Maybe I'm alone, but I couldn't have told you who Steve Redgrave was. Turns out he rows. He won 3 gold medals in the Coxless Pair, as well as one each in the Coxed Four and the Coxless 4. Coxless pair: Sounds a little like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes (Bad-um Dum Ching!)

The Wikipedia article I read about Redgrave had this to say:

"But what set Redgrave and his compatriots apart from their international bretheren was not their dominance, but their consistency. They were exceptionally talented, but so were their competitors. Redgrave's boats did not win their races easily: Most were hard fought and won by small margins."

Typical, guys. The man who you consider to have accomplished more in sport than anyone else is known NOT for dominance., but consistency. Way to keep grinding out those golds, Redgrave. But I bet if I gave a 26 year-old Ray Lewis 2 paddles, some protein shakes, and a year to train he'd beat you like a Murder rap (which is to say "much to everyone's disgust, but to my excessive glee, borne of my desire to see good things happen to bad people, and vice versa").

I'd like to comment on the inclusion of a Cricket accomplishment at #5, but even after reading a few Wikipedia articles on featured batsman (bowler? Cricketeer?) Ian Botham, I still have no idea what "Botham turns around the Ashes for England in 1981" means. Though he did score 399 runs and take 34 wickets, so he must have been doing something right. Right? Anyone?

(crickets chirping)

(Bad-um Dum Ching!)

Nos. 8 and 9 are where things just get completely out of hand. If until this point one could make the argument that this list merely reflected the eccentric nature of the British SportsFan, then any rational human being would have no choice but to throw his hands in the air and loudly declare, "Fuck It" once reaching #8. Or, as I chose to do, fire off a series of anonymous pieces of hate email to every British person I know.

Dear British Fucker:

You should be ashamed of your heritage. I wish I'd lived in your American Colonies in 1775-1783 so I could stab your Uber-GreatGrandfather in the face with a bayonet. I hope you are unable to find Vitamin C, contract Scurvy, and then get run over by one of those incredibly stupid Double Decker busses. And for Christ's Sake: BRUSH YOUR GODDAMNED TEETH.

Also, the Queen is a whore.

Slag off,

Wang

According to nutjob Brits, the 8th greatest accomplishment in the entire history of all sports, everywhere, is two chumps from Nottingham winning a a gold medal at the 1984 Winter Olympics. Jessee Owens winning 4 Golds at the Nazi Olympics? #11. Mark Spitz winning 7 Golds in '72? #38. Carl Lewis winning 4 Golds in '84? #53. Your 8th best accomplishment of all-time is not only not the best OLYMPICS sporting achievement ever, it's not even the greatest Olympics achievement in 1984!

Which brings us to #9. Somebody won a Snooker match? Are you for real? I'd be pissed if this were #100 on the list. If Snooker's a sport, I've got a 12 inch trouser snake. And one conversation with any of my unsatisfied ex-girlfriends or one night stands will disabuse anyone of the latter notion, forthwith. Snooker is as much a sport as beer pong is. Or poker for that matter. What's #21 going to be? "Ram Vaswani snaps off a Joe Beevers bluff with only King high, to win the 2002 European Poker Champiionship."

Eat a dick, England. Eat my unremarkable and unimpressive dick.


And now I'm off to burn the Union Jack while drinking a 4 pack of overpriced Boddingtons.

Wang

Shimmering Wang Gets Hit by a Car

This blog entry shall be in 2 parts, in reverse chronological order.

PART I-

Okay, so I officially live in the most ghetto part of Western Michigan. Here's the most recent example.

I was walking back from the Oak Street market (aka, America's Top Bum Destination), carrying a recently procured Diet Mountain Dew, listening to The Hold Steady, when I approached the intersection a block from my house at the same time a Deuce and a Quarter rolled up, its turn signal indicating it was going to make a right turn in front of me. It paused for a moment, so- assuming the delay was an acquiesence to the "Pedestrians Have the RIGHT OF WAY" standard- I raised my hand in the universal gesture of "I acknowledge and appreciate."

As I usually do in these situations, I put my head down and started trotting across the street as a sign of respect and gratitude. Why be a dick and walk when you can be polite and speed the process up for all involved? Right?

Suddenly, a headphone bud recently pulled from my ear, I hear an engine that sounds suspiciously like it had been given a little gas. I look up and towards the sound, when: WHAM. I'm clipped in the right thigh, knocked off balance, and nearly spun to the ground.

When I looked up in complete disbelief, the tinted window rolls down.

Passenger: (laughing) "Yo, Bra. You aight?"

Wang: (not laughing, and confused) "You hit me."

Passenger: (suppressing smile) "My bad, G. You aight?"

Wang: "You... You hit me. With your car."

Passenger: "You're aight." Not a question this time.

Wang: "But... Motherfucker. I just got clipped by a car."

At this point the driver opened his door and stepped out. The car was blocking much of his body, but my conservative estimate was about 6'2" 240. He was a very large man. He was wearing a doorag and had a blunt hanging from his lip. I'd say the odds are 2-1 against that the blunt was packed with its original tobacco contents.

Driver: "Why you in the intersection, bro?"

Wang: "Because... you stopped, an-"

Driver: "'Course I stopped. Whatchoo do at a mothafuckin' STOP SIGN?"

Passenger: (laughing hysterically) "He said, 'You stopped.'" When he got to the part where he was quoting me, he did it in the Dave Chappelle "White Guy" voice. It was a pretty good impression of my admittedly uptight/stilted speech pattern.

Wang: "Yeah, but.... you didn't have to, like, hit me. With... with your car."

Driver: "We cool." Again, not a question.

Wang: "Yeah, I think I'm okay. I'm just... I'm a little confused, and my leg hurts."

Passenger: " 'My leg hurts.' " Laughter from both parties.

Driver: "Get your ass out of the intersection, nigga."

The passenger then highfived his partner as they both got into the car before driving away.

The whole exchange probably lasted a minute. Maybe less. I stood on the street corner in complete bafflement for at least twice that long before I shrugged and limped home. At least nobody was getting assaulted in my parking lot like a month ago. Or robbed in broad daylight across the street like 2 weeks ago. Or leaning on my car and puking in front of 3 police cruisers after being arrested for Driving Under the Influence while Drug Dogs were searching his car and flipping out at what was likely a few bricks of coke/crack/meth/whatever 3 nights ago.

Kalamazoo: I love this town!

Part II-

My other housemate was reading my blog recently and approached me. "Derek, I'm a little offended. Are my antics not hilarious enough to warrant an entry of mine own?" It was either that or "Bitch, put me in your blog! I'm wasted!"

So, without further ado, meet my trusted friend and accomplice, the legendarily sweet "Jeremiah Crunkington" (JC).

Sir Crunkington has what we in the industry refer to as a "Blackout Problem." It happens to me, I'll admit, occassionally. Usually I just pull a Gray Davis, Fmr. CA gov. (D) and brown out a little, forgetting portions of the evening until I'm reminded the next day. Well, Jeremiah Crunkington blacks out nearly 100% of the time he drinks. He's not a lightweight by any stretch. Quite the contrary. He can booze with the best of them (us?), he just happens to lose conciousness relatively easily. It's my working theory that he's developed a very sophisticated defense mechanism of which I'm very envious.

I stayed in the other night to get a little work done (read: drink alone and play poker), but I heard about the man's antics from Greg, housemate #3. Usually I don't stoop to hearsay, opting instead, unlike some bloggers (I'm looking at you, Matt Drudge) to protect the integrity of my blog. I did some research, though, and have multiple sources for almost all of this, however, and feel comfortable publishing it.

Well, Jerry drank some absurd amount of liquor in a disgustingly short period of time (SOP) and headed with Greg to a party. Here's a brief synopsis of his relatively uneventful evening:

- He made out on the dance floor with a girl yours truly, ahem, recently did the same with. If you're a regular reader, you may remember her from the Mustache Makeout incident.

- The next day, he readily admitted that he had flashes of making out with somebody. After a few minutes of interrogation, it came to light that he believed it was a DIFFERENT girl, who just happens to be Greg's ex-girlfriend. Nobody is sure if he made out with BOTH girls, or was just too bombed to know who he was locking lips with. It should be noted that MustacheLover happens to be at least 3 inches taller than Jeremiah Crunkington.

- When he returned to the house that night, he demanded that he be driven to McDonald's. Nobody else wanted to go, so he made the logical decision to walk to McDonald's. The nearest McD's is probably 1.5 miles away, conservatively.

- When he reached his destination, he was promptly told that it's company policy not to serve walkthroughs.

- JC then proceeded to stake out the drivethrough window and solicit a ride through the drivethrough. He offered the first car that came up a free meal if he'd just take him through the window. Shockingly, the330AM customer agreed.

- JC then proceeded to request a ride home. Equally as shocking, the driver agreed.

- Mr. Crunkington, feeling grateful and happy to have made a new friend, invited his new pal inside for a drink or two. Completely unshockingly, his new buddy declined.

- Jeremiah Crunkington scarfed down 5 breakfast burritos and proceeded to sleep for 3 hours until he had to get up for his morning class. Unshowered, he rode his bike to class "reeking of booze" (his words). Upon arrival, he saw that class had been cancelled. Undaunted by the public location of the classroom, he unsaddled his backpack and took a 30 minute nap. In the hallway. Of a major university. He's 23.


My friends, ladies and gentlemen.