As we sat outside beneath the roar of planes from the airfield next door, everyone decided that it would be prudent to drink beer. If you have known me for any amount of time, you know of my rocky relationship with this most insidious beverage. It’s gross. It’s beyond gross. I smell it – nay, I look at it the wrong way – and I am mere steps away from an esophageal eruption on par with most active volcanoes.

However, as I sat at a picnic table with a bunch of other people around my age I realized that my life cannot proceed like this. As disgusting as beer is, it is becoming clear that the path to normal twenty-something relations invariably travels through a brewery.

So like I had done many times before, I told myself, “Self, it’s time to man up. You’ve got to learn to drink beer again. Your future depends on it!”

I stopped by Publix on the way home and bought a six pack of Killian’s Irish Red. I now realize that this was probably a poor choice for a new beginner. Regardless, I proceeded home, whipped up some dinner, and cracked open a longneck.

I took two sips.

Now there are now five beer bottles sitting in the fridge, wondering where their brother has gone and waiting for my father to get home so they can join him. I only hope my special condition isn’t too detrimental in my social life during the next two years.

Casey: i got diarrhea and xmas treed it

Daniel: So you had a more positive experience than me?

I’m beginning to think I have a fundamental sitting problem.

Man, I bet he wishes the Delorean hadn’t been hit by a train at the end of the third movie.

What did we come up with? A facial hair growing contest, of course! I am offering Angus $20 if he makes it until October 12 without shaving. A modest amount, yes. But the wonders that await Angus’ face will repay me tenfold.

Below is a photo taken with my (terrible) camera phone and a professional artists’ rendering of what we anticipate in a couple of months.

A few weeks ago, though, Dad took exception to my friendly jabbing and claimed with the authority that only a father can exert that he is, has been, and always will be in better shape than Yours Truly.

Now, I know very well that I am not what experts in the health field would call “in shape,” but I think I am in better shape than my Pop. We are of a similar build, with Peterson funk handles (they evolved from “love handles” at about the time when The Macarana came into its prime) and a fondness for crab legs. Dad is pretty much exactly like me, only with less facial hair and thirty years added to my age. This is why I doubted his claim that he was in better shape than me.

When I expressed the extent to which I opposed his ridiculous claims, he thought of a way to settle the issue once and for all: a footrace.

While the thought of two overweight, pale, and otherwise weak individuals racing each other is hilarious, I ask you to bear with me.

This challenge was posed a few weeks ago, and we set the date for this past afternoon. Well, it went down. Pop challenged me to race up Keene Road from Druid Road to Lakeview Road and back. We each took our positions at opposite corners of the busy intersection and awaited the signal from Mom. Her arm dropped, and we were off.

I had a strategy: I thought I would sprint from the starting line to gain as much ground on Dad as I could, allowing myself periodic sections of my journey where I could walk. Dad’s opposing strategy of taking the course at a steady, mildly-paced clip proved inferior. And wouldn’t you know it, 1.2 miles later I was waiting on the corner where I had started, watching my old man hobble toward me with a look of both resignation and defeat.

Victory is sweet. Victory is sweet, indeed.

No, I don’t care if this class is an upper level class. No, I don’t care that this class is taught by the same man who taught me a year ago and didn’t think it necessary to dress up for class. And no, I don’t care if this class is about French politics and society.

Darn it, this class doesn’t start until two.

I knew it was for me.

What was not for me, however, was the fact that I, you know, actually have to do stuff for this class.

I was assigned a paper to be due last Thursday. And, you know, since I’m such an exciting individual, I stayed in and wrote it on St. Patrick’s Day so it would be all ready to go three days after.

Thursday came, and I woke up in time for class, got dressed, and made my way off to campus, where I realized that I had left my beautiful analysis (read: complete BS) of the French executive in the Fifth Republic at home.

Oh, crap.

Now, this wasn’t quite as stressful as the Macroeconomics affair of a year ago, but it was still pretty bad. I had twenty minutes to get to class or else I would undoubtedly get a zero on this paper and somehow be sent back to the fourth grade. So, without breaking a sweat, I sped through the suburban side roads of Gainesville at 50 miles per hour until I made it home, grabbed my paper, and got back to class right as it was scheduled to begin. I approached the door and saw a sign hanging there.

“Dr. Conley’s class has been canceled today (3/20). Turn your papers in next Tuesday.”

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.

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.

Well, it happened.

Allow me to set the scene. Ian, in all of his fortunate goodness, was able to lease a (very nice) new Nissan Altima a few months ago. He kept his old jalopy of a Saturn so he could drive it to and fro while not accumulating miles on his new, fancy-shmancy car. This left me high and dry outside of the garage, which only has room enough for two cars. So, I have to park in the backmost portion of the driveway, leaving Ian to play musical cars to work his vehicle around mine, meandering into and out of the garage. I have no problem with parking where I do; it will be especially cool in the winter (no pun intended!) when ice forms on my windows.

We both agreed at the beginning of this system that my car was going to be hit. We didn’t know when it would happen, but we knew it was coming. It’s sort of like a far less interesting return of Jesus to Earth.

Sure enough, last night Ian took a page out of the book of my grandmother, whose two year old Mitsubishi Gallant has been wrecked no fewer than five times as a result of her not looking behind her when the backs up her car. He hit my front fender. No actual damage, though – just a good amount of paint that has found its way off of my bumper.

Interestingly enough, though, Ian was far more upset than I was. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so genuinely apologetic. It was kind of nice – I could get used to that. As for the car, it will be fixed in time; it’s really no big deal.

Until then, I’m parking in the street.