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?

I will probably drop dead within a month

Well, somehow my lifestyle as an unhealthy and bored college student has caught up with me and my friends.

Lately, we have been aching for things to do on the weekends. And seeing that we are not particularly interesting or anything, we have had to create fun things to do in the absence of actual social lives. Over break, we were confined to the realm of our hometown, the parent-filled purgatory of any college student. Ergo, we made socially acceptable things to do, most of which involved wandering aimlessly in our local Wal-Marts and ending the evening at Steak n’ Shake.

Now, this is all well and good, but it can get old after about one night spent in the toy aisles, pressing the button that cues the novelty horn on every miniature Dukes of Hazzard General Lee.

So, we’ve come up with a new game: generally, I attempt an absolutely amazing feat and if I can successfully accomplish this, my best buddy Angus has to do something silly.

Last week, I was dared to eat 10 tacos and an order of Nachos Bel Grande from Taco Bell. In return, Angus allowed us to bind his wrists and ankles for the rest of the night. While this sounds lame, I can assure you that it was quite humorous – at least until he had to go to the bathroom and I was the one in charge of removing his pants. If this sounds gay, it’s probably because it is.

Tonight, I was challenged to eat a Frisco Melt platter from Steak n’ Shake in addition to three double cheeseburgers and a large order of fries from McDonald’s.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “You, Casey, are the least healthy person on the face of the planet.”

Yes, I agree. And I regret this. But friends, the payout on this wager was marvelous: Angus Wade Hill was forced to shave his arms and legs.

Petty? Yes.
Silly? Yes.
Hilarious? Unequivocally, yes.

I know that all of this sounds extremely juvenile. However, I think we can all agree that as time progresses and the hilarity of Angus’ payback grows so too will the necessity of this entire process for the sake of physical humor both in Alachua County and our lives.

That said, any thoughts on what next weekend’s challenge should entail? We are running out of ideas.

I took me about 50 times longer to make this recreation than it did to make the real thing

I got bored:

Well, I didn't know I was going to take out a second mortgage…

Dear Civil War Professor,

Seriously, dude. What gives? We have to buy not one, not two, but eight books for your class. I know that your newfound gig at a major university is exciting and all, but you should remember that we get just over $200 to buy textbooks. So far, I’ve gotten six of the required texts for your class. You know how much I paid? One hundred and sixty bucks.

I know that may seem like chump change to you, pal, but that’s a good amount of green here on the up-and-coming college student’s budget. And what gets me is the fact that most of the assigned readings I was forced to pick up at Goering’s are really, really old. Like, out of copyright old. Meaning, of course, that I could access these stupid things on the Internet and save my cash for more important things, like Hot Pockets and Tang.

Angrily yours,
Casey

Rock on!

Well, in my never-ending search for ways to make women swoon (for those of you keeping score at home, none of my previous attempts have yielded success), I’ve decided to take a more conventional route.

If you’ll recall, I tried learning the mandolin. I learned a few chords and things, but this attempt for love was born in futility. I guess chicks don’t dig an instrument that I play only because it’s small and I have tiny hands. And I guess, at least subconsciously, they know what tiny hands mean and they flock to the nearest regular-sized guy.

Then, I tried lifting weights. It worked out for a while, but then I went home for Christmas and didn’t take home my miracles of muscle making. And man, that stuff is heavy. It didn’t really act as a chick magnet either, though. I assume this is the case because notwithstanding my somewhat increased arm size, I remained short. Chicks dig tall guys.

Well, I am trying again. This time, however, I’m doing it the right way: I’m learning to play the guitar. I’m getting kind of good at it too, even with my gnomelike hands. This has got to be the clincher that makes the women of the world show up at my doorstep in herds wanting to be my bride, right?

So, tell your friends that their wildest dreams can soon come true: I can serenade girls until they fall madly in love with me.

At least after I learn more chords than A, C, D, E, F, and G.