A quick postscript to yesterday’s post, which detailed some of the more outrageous moments I experienced in college. I heard from some of my friends who have heard me retell these stories ad nauseam (which is Latin for “Shut the fuck up, already, Greg!”) They generally wanted to know why I left out my psychotic lesbian roommate who thought cigarette smoke was radioactive and could travel through walls, or why I didn’t talk about the asshole who wouldn’t stop hitting on my girlfriend, whom I later found passed out in the bushes and for whom I managed to arrange an unconscious lingerie photo-shoot, or any one of a hundred other fucked up things that happened while I was supposed to be getting an education.
I quickly responded that most of the things they brought up happened outside the time that I lived in that insane asylum in 1991. But there was one thing I forgot to include that sums up partying in that house perfectly. One night we were throwing a typical large bash: Tons of booze, open drug use, and low IQ’s on display everywhere you looked. A friend of mine named Leslie walked up to me and asked, “What’s with the goobers in the corner?” I looked over and sure enough, there were two guys standing there, apart from everyone else, and if there was a word in the English language to describe them, “goober” was certainly it.
I walked over, said hi to them, and introduced myself. They introduced themselves as Jacob and John and they seemed ill at ease. When I invited them to make themselves at home, one of them said, “We really appreciate you letting us into your home.” This, regarding the flaming riot going on all around them. “This shitpile? Ha! Where are you guys from, Mars?” The answer, it turned out, was much more interesting. “We’re Mennonites. We’re on rumspringa.”
For those of you who don’t know, the Mennonites are an offshoot of the Amish. We had several communities of them South of the University. Rumspringa is a period in a youth’s life when they are allowed to experience the outside world and ultimately decide to either rejoin the community, or, I dunno, smoke dope and have fun, I guess. I shouldn’t judge, but if I got out into the world and learned about blowjobs and nitrous-bongs, I certainly wouldn’t be in a hurry to go back to a life of churning butter or raising barns.
Jacob and John were very polite, and seemed much more at ease explaining what rumpsringa was, and how their experience had been so far. This, I’m guessing, is exactly how I would feel if I was asked to explain a cell phone while in a four-dimensional world full of poly-headed beings made of dark matter who were in the middle of constructing a life size replica of the universe: I’d still be freaked out, but it would be nice to focus on the familiar for a while.
Once I understood the situation, I’m ashamed to say, my willingness to make them feel at home was overwhelmed by the need to give them an experience to remember. “Say, you guys ever listen to Black Sabbath?” And within minutes, we were all back in my room listening to Children of the Grave at full volume. They stayed for a polite amount of time, which for them must have seemed a lifetime, and left only after they’d watched everyone get stoned, answered some truly asinine questions (this one sticks out: “Do you guys get laid in the back of those buggies?”), and weathered the storm when Leslie and her friend Sandy decided to take their tops off, just to see what Jacob and John would do (mega-blushing is what they opted for, and it suited them very well).
After we segued into some stoned off-topic rambling, they muttered something about needing air, and they were gone. After we left my room, I asked someone else at the party if he’d seen the Mennonite dudes around. “Is that the deal with those guys? Man, I saw them leave a while back. They were fucking sprinting for the door.”
This is why I’m not popular with the Mennonites.
On to our weekly hypothetical, which was delayed a day because I was too busy admitting criminal behavior after the statute of limitations had expired. Yes! The justice system works! (bong hit)
Our question comes from Kattk3, who apparently has parents that did more drugs in college than I did. Nice spelling. He/she asks:
If these things disappeared off the face of the planet which would be the biggest deal? Least biggest deal? Computers/the internet, TV, radio, phones, condoms, toilets, toilet paper, cars, planes, trains, air conditioning, heating and clocks.
First of all, I’m going to take condoms off the list. The Vatican considers the million plus deaths each year in Africa due to AIDS a tragedy, but still preferable to letting people wrap their junk. Think about that for a while. What a collection of fucking assholes. Condoms will not disappear off the face of the Earth, if only to piss those dickweeds off.
The rest of that list? Here we go:
- The first thing to go would be phones. Phones are dying anyway, as more and more communication goes through the internet. Plus, they’re the favored method of communication for telemarketers, bill collectors, and other sub-humans. I’ll miss prank phone calls, but not that much.
- Up next: The radio. It pains me to say it, but radio is dead. It gives you nothing you can’t get anywhere else except fucking static, and that’s not much of a selling point. “WLUP, The Loop, Chicago, playing more kkkkrkkrkrkrkkkkkkkksshsshhhhhhhssssshhhh than anyone else!”
- TV would go next. I know a lot of you would complain about not seeing the Bachelor, but that show is fucking retarded beyond belief. You want to make that shit watchable? Have one of the women be HIV positive, and half of the condoms be defective. I would watch that. Besides, any show worth watching would just migrate to the internet anyway. TV and, sadly, infomercials, are gone.
- And since TV is gone, now we have no need to know what time it is. I will show up to work sometime when the sun is shining, and go home before it stops. Fuck you, clocks.
- The next thing to go would be heating. I live in Arizona. Fuck the rest of you. You’ve heard of fire? Sweaters? Coats? I thought so.
- And since heating is gone, bye-bye A/C! I’ll just move to California which, as I understand it, is easy-livin’! Yessir, the streets are paved with the gold you just pull right out of them hills! It’ll be great, Lennie! C’mon, let’s have some more stew, and I’ll tell you about the rabbits again.
- I’d really like to keep toilet paper around, but at this point I’ve got to give it up in favor of using other things, such as the Twilight series of books which is ideally suited for that purpose.
- Planes would go next. I fucking hate flying, and this is the perfect opportunity to not have to sit on a fucking 12 hour flight to Jerksburgh to attend some asshole’s wedding. If I wanted to attend your wedding, asswipe, I wouldn’t have moved half way across the Earth from you.
- Cars would go next. It’d be a pain in the ass for those of us that don’t live in cities like New York, but I’d be stoked to get a horse at least. When they break down, you don’t get some greasy fuck lying through his teeth in an effort to part you from $1,500. You just shoot the fucking thing. And since Obama made it legal, you can then eat it!
- Toilets would lose out at this point. I’m not crazy about shitting outdoors or (gag) in a privy, but at least you’d have funny stories to tell like the following: My dad knew some guys when he was young that lived on a lake in the far suburban Toronto area. They lacked indoor plumbing. In the winter, instead of running all the way to the outhouse, they’d pop out the back door, take a shit, and put a stick in it. Later on, when the shit froze, they’d use the stick to fling the whole thing far away from the house. One warm spring day, they had some ladies over who wanted to know why there were all those two foot long sticks floating in the lake. Awesome.
- Trains lasted surprisingly long, but really, they’re the last mode of transportation for crucial goods like ball gags, fake vomit, and artificial dog testicles. Once trains are gone, you have to rely on local talent to provide you sex swings, and that’s amateur hour and a recipe for disaster.
- That leaves the internet, which will never go away because if it did, how the fuck are we supposed to know what Lindsay Lohan’s twat looks like? Sure, you can make a rough facsimile using a waffle iron, rubber cement, and canned ham, but it’s just not the same!
So there you go, Kattk3: Lindsay Lohan’s poon > Automobiles.