It's going to suck when we have to play the Mariners

You know, I’ve voluntarily subjected myself to quite a bit of disappointment in my life. I’ve been a Rays fan. However, this is their season.

If the Rays make the playoffs this year, Ian will personally take me on his back to every game that they play, home or away. Let this be proof of our binding verbal agreement.

How We Didn't Lose The Greatest Game Ever Played

Great news, everyone!

Thanks to the benevolence of the God above, the heavens parted tonight and poured down upon the fields of green that we so commonly call the Southwest Recreational Center.

You know what this means, right?

The Red Devil Gators didn’t lose. Oh, it was glorious: I didn’t strike out, overrun a fly ball, or commit my usual fourteen errors. Yes, it was undoubtedly the greatest game I’ve ever played.

Now it’s time for the playoff push. I hope the good Lord decides to spring another 40 days and 40 nights of rain on us again – I think it’s time for some spring cleaning.

Confessions of a Night Owl

Lately, my sleep schedule has been very thrown off. It seems that I can’t adapt properly to life with employment. Despite the fact that I now get up in the morning (technically) for some sort of obligation Monday through Friday, I still find myself going to bed after 3:00 in the morning.

Which brings me to my point, here. Today, the lovely Sarah Jones and I were discussing how early we got up every day for high school. I woke up at 5:00 in the morning every day. As a reference point, that’s less than two hours away from now. Man, if I knew then how my biological clock would operate now, I’m pretty sure I would have dropped out of school completely.

Seriously, it amazes me how much more devoted to my studies I was in high school. It makes me feel really guilty about how I live my life now.

But not guilty enough to go back.

Underneath 13th Street

Just wait until I get it into a sleeper hold

I know that the legions who have kept up with my life these past five years can attest to the fact that I am the moral foe of many a chair. However, I have managed to come away from the epic battles I’ve had with my companions as the victor, literally sitting in them until they become decimated skeletons of their former selves. For proof, click here and here.

Well, apparently the battle continues, though the chairs are gaining a stiff edge on me in my old age. Yesterday, as the FSPA Director was talking to me in the office, I only managed to simultaneously rip off two pieces of plastic from our newest computer chair. And, you know, since the chair belongs to work I’m kind of obligated to fix it.

You may have won the battle, chair, but not the war.

On second thought…

Recently, I decided to make an effort to stop my mother’s constant suggestions that I become a member of the working class, so I got a job in the College of Journalism here on campus. The job is really pretty awesome. I get to work with the Florida Scholastic Press Association, which was a constant entity throughout my years of high school journalism. Every day, I’m emailing or calling the very advisers and board members that made the organization work when I was a part of it. I’m now part of that core that makes it work, and that can get to be such a trip.

Bonus nerdy points for the fact that they have a blog and a podcast, even if they aren’t updated too much.

But the point I wanted to make here today wasn’t about my newfound calling. No, it’s about the college in which the office is housed. Since I’m a Political Science major, I never really got involved in the journalism school. Although I feel like they’re all giving me the stink eye when I walk through their hallowed halls, I know they’re not really eying me like that.

But I’m eying them. Friends, the College of Journalism on the campus of the University of Florida is the building with the most pretty girls I have ever seen in my life, save for sorority houses and this quaint little café in Micanopy. I think it’s because of the type of field journalism is: it allows you to be in contact with people while at the same time maintaining some academic credibility. All of the ugly girls go to engineering school. All the opinionated, pierced, and tattooed girls major in Political Science or some other soft science. But in the College of Journalism, you get the best mix of brains, beauty, perk, and poise that the university has to offer.

Uh oh, you guys. I think I picked the wrong major…

Here's to You, Chicken Quesadilla Hot Pocket

Dear people who make Hot Pockets,

Don’t think that your work has gone unnoticed.

When I was knee high to a grasshopper sitting on the children’s seat on the back of my mom’s bike, I knew that I was heading home to a pretty disgusting dinner.

But now, I look forward to the Hot Pocket Experience.

I started eating Hot Pockets regularly when I came to college, in spite of the fact that I have a gigantic kitchen in which I could prepare feasts fit for a king. Back then, Hot Pockets were weird lumps of disgusting dough filled with cheesy God-knows-what. However, in the spring of last year, I went to my local Publix and I was greeted with an amazing thing: instead of boxes with two such disgusting doughy delights, they were now beginning to sell boxes containing five of these things!

Oh, I was in Heaven. Little did I know that Heaven could get even better. Friends, I was about to gain access to Heaven’s champagne room with the discovery that they were now stuffing these things with even more (real) meat.

And who would have known that I could have myself a grand time in the champagne room in Heaven? That’s right – it got even better.

Apparently, they redesigned the crisping sleeve. Now, you can fold the sleeve into a little dinner holster from which you can consume your now-delicious microwavable treat.

So, here’s to you, oh Mavericks of the Microwave. Your efforts haven’t been lost in a sea of gourmet disapproval.

Love,
Casey

A Super Joke

I guess I forgot to mention it before, but this photo Ian sent me pretty much sums up my feelings against the Patriots:

How to save the world in about 23 seconds

Lately, the talk of global warming has enveloped our dear society into an intense struggle between people who think the world is going to end because I drive a car and people who know for sure that our recent climate change is a mere cyclical happenstance.

Well, I prefer not to take sides in this debate, so I offer the topic of an actual conversation I had with a female petition pusher with a boy haircut I had on campus today.

While I concede that global warming could indeed be a possibility, I maintain that I don’t really care, at least for the time being, and I offer the following as my reasoning.

The state of Florida, if global warming is a real threat, won’t be underwater for some time. At least, not in my lifetime. And they keep telling me to care about the fact that the environment is going to Hell in a hand basket and that I should take preventative steps to reduce its effect for my children’s’ sake.

Well, if that’s the case, I’ll have to have children, right?

If that is the case, I will have to, at some point in my existence on this big round ball, plant my seed inside a woman. Ergo, I will have to find somewhere a female who will allow me the privilege of breaching her floppy V.

So, if and when a woman decides it necessary to make love to me, I will begin caring about global warming for the sake of my little sideburned flagellate friends.

The moral of this story: girls, if you really care about the environment, you will have lots of hardcore sex with me. Do it for me. Do it for the environment. But most of all, do it for the children.

Now will the girls flock to me?