Monday, April 23, 2012

Dear Alumni from my College

This is the first year I have been able to go to Alumni weekend since I graduated seven years ago.  I work weekends.  Many of us that didn't just graduate from the school work for a living, in fact.  We aren't just dirty hipsters and hippies that don't know how to hack it in the real world like you.  That is why it is ridiculous that you have taken almost every bit of the on campus housing for alumni weekend.

48% of the rooms have been booked by people that graduated in the last two years.  These kids were freshman in high school when I graduated college and got a full time job.  Some of the rooms have been booked by people that have not even graduated yet.  That is like an eight year old getting a lap dance.  It isn't appropriate, it should never have been allowed, he has no money to afford it, and it is taking away an opportunity from someone that probably has earned it more.  Honestly, you graduate in May and by June you are going to need to go back?  Things have actually changed there since I last set foot on property.

Here's a list of things you should do instead of going to Alumni Weekend a month after you graduate:

1.  Get a damn job

So now, I am sharing a room with two other grown men that has only two twin beds, all because I foolishly thought I could wait to book a suite two months in advance.  I can hear you say "But Greg, isn't it that you just waited too long?"  No, I did not.  You asshats had so little to do you sprang on reservations the second they opened.  I was working 45 to 50 hours a week, writing a blog, and working on various other projects.  All my friends work jobs too, and trying to get that many people together that don't answer their damned phones or return emails is almost impossible.

Oh, so now you say, "But Greg, you just said you have a jobby-job.  Can't you afford a hotel?"  There is a simple answer to that- Get scabies.

I would like to be back on campus for one night and remember the good times I had there.  This is a precursor to my mid life crisis, and I intend to enjoy it.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Dear Slow Golfers

You aren't the only people that can have off at 1PM on a Tuesday.  I get sporadic days off, and I like to get some golf in when I can.  Ideally, playing golf means I get to play a round in around two hours.  That can't happen when I have to follow you poor excuses for golfers around the course.

You play golf like a man making love to a saxophone, and I do not mean like a man making love to a woman or another man while a saxophone is playing softly for ambiance.  I mean that when you play golf you look like a man that has greased himself up and violently taken the innocence of a woodwind instrument in some dark janitor's closet.  I don't need to watch your spastic flailing from the tee box as you hit your approach shot lying 14 for the hole.  Etiquette states that slow players allow faster players to go ahead, but like everyone else in this idiotic world, the rules don't apply to you. 

I worked at a golf course ten years ago with a former WWII Marine.  I ran into the now 88 year old man last Tuesday at the golf course, and we decided to take this war to the streets.  For the sake of anonymity I will call him Magnus Von LaserRifle.

Magnus and I played 9 holes of golf in 45 minutes.  We ran into a couple playing what seemed to be a six hour round of golf.  Magnus saw this, and decided that it shall not stand.  As the man in the couple went to hit, Magnus cleared his throat as loudly as possible.  The man stopped, looked at us, then tried again.  This time, Magnus made a noise that sounded roughly like a velociraptor strangling Chewbacca during an air raid.  They looked back in horror as Magnus smiled, spit on the ground, and uttered a phrase that started with "Fuc" and ended in "King A right."  He then asked me to hit my drive at the couple, because he was afraid they were too far away for his own shot to hurt them.

Understand this, golfers.  I was made to play the voice of reason to an 88 year old man who wanted nothing else than to use my brute strength as a weapon to harm you for his amusement.  I don't like to be the voice of reason, and I don't know how much longer I can do it convincingly.  So please, play ready golf.  Do not take more than two practice swings, and never sit around talking at a tee when you can see other golfers behind you.  You never know when one of those men could be Magnus Von LaserRifle.   The man survived Guadalcanal, and he feels no compunction with making you bleed.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Dear October Jones

When my friend Matt sent me your link, , several thoughts passed through my head as I read your blog.

My first thought was that perhaps I had gone into a fugue state and somehow started another blog.  I was still skeptical of this mainly because I have no idea how people get screen-shots of text messages onto the computer, or even if that is how your blog actually works.  Then I remembered that I am in fact a genius and would figure out how to do that even in a fugue state.  For instance, one time, in a Milwaukee's Beast Ice-induced fugue I was somehow dressed nicely and wearing a lai, and I was able to wander into a fancy wine party.  Not only that, I was able to reject the fancy cheese platters that dotted the party like pretentious land mines, and I found out where they had hidden their Doritos.   Another time I went into a fugue and cut up a bunch of pumpkins with a katana, then got my friend Jordan blamed for their slaughter.  Clearly, I have the capability of such black out awesomeness to write your blog and not realize it.  But it doesn't seem right.

Next I thought that this was a trick perpetrated by my friend Kurt.  Back when there was a thing called "AOL" and "Instant Messenger", I started a screen-name called "Mr. Chirples" for the sole purpose of terrorizing Kurt.  The reasoning was that Mr. Chirples was a canary, and as a Welshman Kurt was a filthy coal miner whose only friend could possibly be a canary.  Kurt was never really amused with the frantic messages that the air had gone bad in the mine, or that a canary had somehow had relations with his girlfriend.  Kurt, however, is destined for a "Falling Down" type meltdown, so this is not quite his style.

I am not English.  I pretended to be Scottish a few times, but never English.  I do not have a bulldog that texts me.  I have a racist orange tabby that bites everyone that isn't me, and yells until he is fed or given a fuzzy ball to play with.  I have also seen him literally bitch smack a border collie several times, straight across the face.

Not only have you you made my friends think that you are me, but you have gotten more recognition in a much shorter time than I have.  What deal with the devil have you sealed in blood to get a review from the Huffington Post?  What pictures do you hold that those in power don't want us to see?  If I eat your heart, will I gain your powers?  

I am not sure what sexy mind magic you have used to steal my brand of humor, and make it more popular than my blog, but I applaud you.  I now have a worthy opponent, a nemesis attuned to my intellect and wit.  You even have a good nemesis name.  October Jones.

The game is afoot, Mr. Jones.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Dear ZooBooks

Imagine, if you will, an eight year old version of me, enjoying some Nickelodeon before baseball practice in the summertime.  During the commercial breaks, I was regaled with toys and games, and commercials with those blue order screens, telling me to send away to Walla Walla, Washington for some special shrinky dinks that look like Alf eating the Aristocats.  There was one commercial, though, that everyone remembers, and it all started with a giraffe running in that giraffey way that makes you wonder why more people don't hunt them out of pure spite.

You, filtered through the guise of a seemingly over medicated mother, promised us children the wonders of nature.  You told us that we would learn magical things, like why a tiger would starve if it didn't have stripes.  All I had to do was pester my mother until she ordered me some ZooBooks.  You showed us amazing pictures, meant to shake us into a froth of buying frenzy.  What young boy wouldn't want a ZooBook when you show us pictures of lions in mortal combat, a zebra kicking a cheetah square in its smarmy face, and delicious looking parrots.  If that weren't enough, for a limited time offer, you were throwing in a sticker set, a free tiger poster, and an honest by-god-special edition dinosaur issue.

After I had stopped convulsing from pure ecstasy and was able to unswallow my tongue, I ran to find my mother, screaming "IneedboozookszoobooksGetthemIneedthemIwantthemIsweartoeverygodevermadethatIwouldkilleveryoneifitmeansIgetatigerposterTherewasaparrotanditlookedatmeandIcriedbutthenDINOSAURSandthestickerswouldlookawesomeonmywallandIneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeediiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttttttttttttttt."  Clearly, my mother did not stand a chance.

By later that afternoon, I had forgotten about your product.  Which is a shame, because you also forgot about me.  Somehow, twenty years later, you are still showing the same commercial, promising the same limited edition tiger poster that looks like it could have been on Scarface's wall.  And that's when, twenty years later, I realized I have never received my ZooBooks.

I can only imagine how different my life would be now had I gotten those books in the mail.  I never would have gotten that C in fourth grade for my apparently "sub par" and "surprisingly and confusingly racist against Laplanders" report on mountain lions.  My sense of self esteem would have reached the immense peak at which it currently resides years earlier.  With that in place, the world would have been mine.  Today, I could be sitting on a glorious throne, brushing the silken locks atop my head while my solid gold Catherine Dhavernas wife stroked my rippling muscles as we stared at my amazing tiger poster surrounded by animal stickers.

Instead, I've been slowly driven mad wondering just how a tiger would starve if it didn't have stripes.  Some days I stare at the tigers at the zoo and just scream "WHY?" until I crumble into a sobbing mess.  You could have prevented this.  You are the one with the answers.

Also, I blame you for the whole Furries thing, so you should know you have a special place in hell carved out for you.