November 12, 2009

It has come to my realization that in six months – that’s half a year (or 1,048,320 quarter-minutes) – it will be May 12, 2010. The number of us graduating from college that month will be, well, a lot… minus Juan. For many, this will mean entering the workforce, and for all, it means parting with the independent and subsidized existence that is undergraduate college. Do not, however, mistake my tone for nostalgia as I have no intention of mourning graduation as the end of life’s best. I hope and expect the future will bring novel and fulfilling experiences along with, or perhaps because of, life’s greater responsibilities. No, my tone, rather, is one of urgency: urgency because there is work to be done before we are finished. There are six months left of college and I still haven’t:

- Done a keg-stand

- Gone Streaking

- Participated in an Elephant Walk

- Bent a spoon with my mind

- Bent a mind with my spoon

- Kicked a goose’s beak off

- Sported a Wakwom (on my head or my pubes)

- Slipped a girl a ruffie

- Assassinated a black president

- Fought Noonan

- Played Griffey with twenty other guys arranged in a circular formation around Wendy

- Gone to Cortaca!

But that will soon change. Tomorrow night, I shall waltz my brown ass on up to the State University of New York: Cortland for festivities, the imbibement of drink, and general good times. Here is my rendition of what will happen when we invade SUNY Cortland tomorrow Friday November 13, 2009:


November 13, 1400 hours: As I finish class and rush to Grand Central to board a Metro-North train back to Somers, a certain Big John is only now awakening from the previous night’s alcohol induced slumber. For some reason he can’t remember, Nick Saperi is passed out naked on the floor next to his bed. In fact, the only thing he does remember is that Nick Saperi was not invited to his party. Warren G knocks at the door, but before the said Big John grants him entrance, he covers Saperi’s Olmetti-esque pee-pee with a few sheets of Bounty quilted, quicker-picker-upper paper towels to make him decent. Two hundred clicks northeast, and not a moment later, a Lion driving south on I-87 forms a face of sincere disapproval as his passenger attempts to enumerate the reasons why Led Zeppelin is the greatest band ever. There are still four hours left in the ride. “Led Zeppelin is overrated,” chimes a skinny boy clad in pants three sizes too small that he bought from the Salvation Army’s Binghamton store. “Now Wilco… there is an underappreciated band. They just make you feel so alive.” His friend, an All-American Ginger who bears a resemblance to Jay Cutler, offers no response except to take a long drag on his cigarette and nod his head in agreement.

November 13, 1530 hours: The clock on the wall works, but it feels as though it registers only one of every three ticks. There is always a lull around this time of the afternoon at the Yorktown Dunkin’ Donuts. The manager, who seems in relatively good spirits this day, decides to let his staff off early – news that is very welcome to one clerk in particular. He quickly clears the register and is out the door. Although he may have lost a step or two, no one is surprised to see some fireworks as he books it to his car and tears out of the parking lot in the direction of the Golden’s Bridge Metro-North train station. The Lion tears into his cheesy gordita crunch with reckless abandon. “The food is awesome!” he roars without the slightest hint of irony is his voice as he dives in for another bite of grade F meat. His posse of Hyena goons is equally enthused by the gourmet cuisine of Malta, NY.

November 13, 1800 hours: As soon as Freebird ends, the Jet removes his foot from the gas pedal allowing his vehicle to slow down to a speed at which it does not rattle violently. Despite his best efforts at 100mph switching lanes like whoa, he will not make it to MO-MO-MO-MEMORIES before closing. The disappointment soon subsides as he and I reach Binghamton University to pick up the All-American Ginger. However, when he is not at the predetermined meeting location, we begin to worry. We scan the library, but the only people there have sideways vaginas or are Dan Pond. A Henry David Thorough search of all the frat houses turns up nothing but hair gel, fake tan cream, and lubed, extra-large black dildos. We are all but ready to give up when the sound of uninformed, pretentious conversation seeps out from behind the infirmary. We turn the corner to find none other than the Ginger, a flannel hanging loosely from his shoulders and camel tail way too pronounced, singing the praises of modern French art to some girl concealing her ugliness behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, assorted piercings, and an indifferent pout. The Jet worries that it may be too late, but fortunately the setting sun shines through the trees scattering the hipster scum. They are gone long enough for us to seize the Ginger and lug him back to the car. He looks like a dead fish – the Jet points out that he looks pretty crappy – but we move on, because we just received word that Simba and his pride have already arrived at Cortland.

November 13, 1930 hours: The party is picking up at the Big John’s house by now. He is taking a bag full of empty cans to the end of his driveway when he spots a shady looking car parked in front of the house. There is movement inside the car. He approaches the driver’s side door cautiously from behind reaching the window just in time to catch the Ginger, the Jet, and myself taking sips of it through our noses. Jenkum, that is. I hit play on the stereo and Semi-Charmed comes on. It is immediately followed by Kickout (James Veg Song). The music is so loud that Warren G, Brucey B, and a host of other similarly initialed clowns come outside. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe are not far behind. This is an occasion for a shotgun. The crowd moves to the backyard and the ceremonies are about to begin, but there is a grumbling from behind a bush. The Ginger, a look of shock on his face, shouts, “It’s the Bear!” People drop their beverages and prepare to run when a hairy-chested goofball in cutoff jeans emerges from the bush. All are pleasantly surprised by his presence and gather ‘round as he lifts his drink and opens his mouth to speak…

What does he say?

Disclaimer: This account is the intellectual property of the author (With some credit going to Nick D). All characters are entirely the product of the author’s imagination and any similarities to actual people are purely coincidental… except in the case of the hipster Ginger who is clearly Noonan.


The Hebrew Hammer said...

no fuckin way am i there by 6.

butch johnson said...

nothing... bears can't talk