Me being a buffoon
in the presence of girls / Me being a buffoon in the presence of girl (in a towel) / Mullets
A guy with a grit-stache
being a buffoon / NEW! Me being a
hero...Ok…a buffoon
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
ý “Very wise is he
who knows himself.”
--Chaucer
Over the course
of one's life, a person undergoes a number of experiences which both shape who
he is and reveal to himself the nature of the person he is to become.
Sometimes, if the individual is tuned in to that voice of intuition which is
present in all people, something
from within will whisper
to him just who he is. Sometimes, though, it screams.
I am a dork. One cannot simply define
what a dork is and its true depths can only be grasped through illustration...
I was at the
informal dance held in conjunction with the 2000 Great American Cross Country
Festival, after my glorious performance in the Race of Champions. I was hanging out with friends, when I
noticed two young ladies standing off to the side, looking as if they wanted to
dance, but not engaging in this extremely worthwhile pursuit. However,
"Who Let the Dogs Out?" began blaring. Naturally, I promptly stopped noticing
them. After approximately four minutes of serious contemplation upon such
an important question, the song's end came and I still had no clue as to who
the culprit could be. My best guess was the owner, but I found
it easier to merely
shrug my shoulders in time with the music and continue dancing.
Leaving the dance
floor to find a secluded place to quietly continue pondering just who DID let
those dogs out (could this person not afford an electric fence?), I passed by the tables from the buffet dinner held earlier
in the night. Well darn it if I didn't see those two girls again, now
sitting down at a table. I could only surmise that they were engrossed in
an incredible conversation, for I could clearly see that one of them had just
said something so profound that it had moved them both to silence. A
friend of mine (Mike McGrath, to be specific) once established a theory that if
you talked with people sitting quietly to the side as social events, you would
find that they are people extremely worth the time it took to make their
acquaintance. I, wishing to test this theory and hoping to at least cheer
the
two up by nobly
going out of my way to talk with them, cooly
sauntered up to their table.
"Is anyone sitting
here?" said I to one.
After her initial shock
and revulsion at seeing me wore off, she shook her head.
"It doesn't look
like you guys are having much fun," I said as I sat down.
Luckily, as I sat
down I tipped a cup quite full of pink lemonade and ice into my lap.
Recovering nicely, I sprang to my feet and shouted a resounding, "Holy
shit!" I gathered myself, coolly sat back down, and began picking
ice out of my crotch. I then started brushing my ultra-cool, ultra-wet
cargo shorts with my hands, I guess hoping to sweep the wetness from my lap
like eraser rubbings. This did not prove successful. At this
juncture in the episode, I was faced with a crucial decision. Either I could get up and run, praying I wouldn't see these
girls again, or I could plow into a conversation, acting as if nothing happened
and hoping they hadn't noticed and were staring at me because they liked my
cargo shorts. Choosing the latter, I wisely elected to forge ahead,
saying, "Don't worry. My
pants have been wetter
than this before."
ý On
Girls and Towels skip
to next
I recently picked
up a very valuable life lesson: show up unannounced and unexpected at the
houses of your female (or I suppose male) friends. On a humid July Saturday,
Ms. Jen (she likes to be called that) Carl and myself were driving around the
city buying stuff (buildings, candy, slave labor, and the like). Unfortunately,
around
other in the
neighborhood. Thus, we decided to pay a visit to each.
First we went to
Cassie Scovanner’s house. Cassie wasn’t
home. However, her sweet silver Spider convertible was. This made
the visit completely worthwhile. After calling from just outside her door
to leave a message on her answering machine, we took a moment or two to gawk at
the car, before departing Cassie’s residence, with the score Spider-1,
Cassie-0. It was on to Katie Diciccio’s
“humble” abode.
The Alfa Spider (1987)
After ringing the
doorbell, the door was answered and we were ushered into the “entry room” by a
man who I could only assume was Katie’s butler. This suspicion was later
confirmed when we learned that she had him making her a sandwich. Well,
this man informed us that Katie was presently showering, and invited us to make
ourselves at home, and did we want a sandwich? because
he was on pay through seven that night. A few minutes of waiting yielded
a most surprising (but good kind of surprise) appearance by Katie. It
seemed that there was some kind of clothing shortage at her house (although the
help-staff seemed sufficiently supplied) because she was reduced to wearing
only a towel for her “clothes.” I was taken aback, thinking, “Hello,
girl-who-I’ve-known-since-last-Tuesday. Hello, towel.” Katie
laughed upon seeing us. Perhaps she was picturing me in a towel. I
figure she threw in a “fabulous” for good measure, too, and though I can’t
remember if she did, I can be certain. At this point
Jenny introduced herself.
We fell to
talking and discussed what was going on that evening. She said, “I think
people may come back here once I am done working.” As this was my second
time to Katie’s house, I realized my odds for finding her in a towel that night
were very close to fifty percent and I immediately assured her that I’d make
sure to drop by. However, as the conversation proceeded, I began to
experience some strange phenomena, the likes of which can only be accounted for
if Katie is either a solar eclipse, black hole, or some combination of the
two. First, I found that every instinct I possessed was directing my eyes
toward Katie, or as my male-ness had now prompted me to begin calling her,
Woman-in-towel, yet I knew better than to look, for most are aware that
blindness can result from staring directly at an eclipse. Though I’m not
sure what exactly causes this effect, I felt pretty certain that her fingers
would be responsible should I cross the respectable, inoffensive,
friendly-eye-contact line. As a result, I found myself studying her
fabulous tan carpet and glass coffee table. Second, I discovered that I
was continually drawn away from her person. While we exchanged dialogue,
I would take steps backwards until I was standing on the side of the room completely
opposite Katie. Though strange, such action WAS fortunate for I was fully
aware of the well-known law of physics in which by standing in close proximity
to a freshly
showered woman, her towel
automatically falls directly to the floor.
We were soon interrupted as Jeeves informed her that it was almost time for her to
leave for work. Taking my cue, I excused myself, saying “I’ll let you go,
ya know, put clothes on.” She smiled and
thanked me. I then left, saying, “Yeah, it was nice seeing...um....a lot
of you.”
She replied, “Fabulous.”
ý
How to be a tough
guy skip
to next
Once, as I have
been known to do, I was running down
As I passed him on the grass, he turned
to me and made an obnoxious noise, I assume to try to scare me while
simultaneously showing the girl he was with how large his penis was. While he
did this I noticed that A) he had a grit-stache, also
known as the half-stache among other things [you know
the kind-- you can see it from the front (kinda), but
not from the side?] and B) he was pulling a scooter with one hand.
I was instantly armed with a million
responses: "Nice moustache," "Why don't you be a gentleman let
her ride the scooter?" and so on. I opened my mouth to say something. Then
I closed it. It was too easy. And besides, judging from the sound he made, he
probably could have kicked my ass.
ý
(This is not exactly a story, skip to
next
but rather something
I wrote for the
“humor” section of the St.
Xavier newspaper, the Blueprint. Humor
is apostrophized because under the dominion of then-editor Dan McMackin, little to no material in that section was
actually humorous. A version of the
following appeared in the paper after being diminished by some of McMackin’s editing, but read on to experience the
unblemished original.)
After years of obscurity, I decided a few days ago that I needed
to add some flair to my life. To set myself apart from other people that
look like me, I needed to add a little panache to my person. And I wanted
to do this stylishly. However, I have decided instead,
to grow a mullet.
At first many (and by many I mean none, but saying “many” adds a sense of
importance to this decision) were outraged saying such hurtful things as, “A
mullet?” and “Why?” One individual who will remain nameless even went so
far as to remark, “I like to eat babies.” Perhaps many of you readers
feel the same way. Anyway, after Rob Schrimpf
‘02 told me this, I was shocked that he did not appreciate the mullet and I
felt obliged to defend my case (and the mullet in general). Here’s the
undeniable proof that the mullet is truly great:
1)
All of the major male characters in the hit sitcom “Full House”
had mullets at one point or another. Not only were they all extremely
successful, building careers in television which have lasted for years and
years, but Uncle Jesse was widely regarded as “almost nice-looking” and “more
of a stud than Dave Coulier (who was Joey
Gladstone).” Have mercy.
2)
Captain Planet had a mullet. It was also green. Need
more be said?
3)
José Canseco, pro baseball’s first 40-40
man (he hit 40 homers & stole 40 bases in one season),
also had a mullet and he claimed it was the source of his power and
speed. He cut his mullet and what happened? Baseballs started
hitting him in the head and bouncing over the home run wall resulting in
general shame and low self-esteem for José.
When a number of
people (who I will call “females”) acted disgusted when informed of my goal and
said mullets were “gross” and “unattractive” and “the worst haircut ever,” I
wrote it off as bad taste. Despite all the strong aforementioned
evidence, the fact which is most convincing when it comes to showing the world
the power of the mullet is 
this:
4) David Copperfield
had a mullet. Not only did it grant him the amazing power to walk through
walls and move giant green statues, BUT it made international supermodel
Claudia Schiffer desire David and his silky
locks. They married and shared many happy, mullet-filled times.
HOWEVER, when Copperfield made the mistake of
clipping off the “party” portion of the old ‘business in the front, party in
the back, what happened? Claudia divorced him faster than you can say
"Jose Canseco was baseball's first 40-40 man
because he had a mullet."
That’s right...
mullets = this
ý Note: The following story is entirely
fictional. Especially
the incriminating parts.
On
Well, what I do
know is that the body was only a dummy and not an actual person. However, in the eyes of Fordham
University, this makes what (may or may not have) occurred much more serious,
for as we all know, trafficking any sort of object or item through dorm windows
is strictly forbidden here. For example,
one Walsh resident was thrown out of housing for throwing trash out of his
window. But I digress.
On that fine,
clear morning, Andy and I were down on the ground, awaiting that tell-tale
thud, and keeping an eye out for any passers-by that might observe such an
illegal and university-undermining act.
As luck would have it, an old man was walking down from Keating Hall,
headed for the dozen or so steps that lead to the street in front of John Mulcahy Hall, belovedly called
JMH here at Fordham.
However, this man was not merely old.
He- was- oooooooold. We’re talking, phonograph old. Days of the radio program old. And, to make matters worse, he was decrepit. Now, I’m not making fun of this man. He is what he is. Someday I will be as old and as broken as
him. But, I can tell you one thing: I will never, NEVER move as slowly as he did
that day. He was using a walker, that
might have been better named a “crawler” or an “inching-alonger.” Heck, “stationaryer”
would have been more appropriate based on the pace he was moving. With the steps still to navigate, I thought
to myself, “It will take this man at least an hour to clear the area so we can
do (or maybe not do) this stunt.” With
one eye still on this man, I threw my hands up in the universal “hold on” sign,
which must double as the universal “go for it!” sign because I suddenly heard
an ever loudening sizzling noise (the wind ruffling the falling dummy’s
plastic, shopping-bag head). Then a thud.
No time to see if
the old man had noticed, Andy and I charged in and stuffed the dummy in a large
garbage bag, with all the gusto and expedience of two Mafia hitmen.
We then made out for Finlay Hall, Andy’s place of
residence. Walking quickly, but not
running for fear of appearing suspicious, we made it inside, sprinted up the
stairs and made it to his room, without having been caught by security. There, we called our cohorts and learned they
had narrowly escaped, as security had entered the building as they were
exiting. Andy and I disassembled the
dummy, sat back and had a Coke, as our hearts slowly slowed. We soon decided we had bided enough time
and left to reunite with our friends in the
Jim deProphetis was on his way to the library as we exited Finlay, and we stopped to chat with him. After a few minutes I glanced to my left,
caught Andy’s eye and cut Jim off mid-sentence, saying, “Well, see ya later, Jim.” Andy
and I began briskly walking up past Eddie’s Parade headed for McGinley. Seems my
estimate of an hour was a bit off as it had only taken that old, old man twenty
minutes to descend the stairs and walk the fifty or so yards to the building
across from Finlay:
the Fordham Security Office. (And we had thought the mostly likely result
for him would be a fatal heart attack at the sight of what his poor eyesight
would surely report to be a suicide.)
Now, imagine
watching a baby toddle towards the edge of a cliff through a pair of
binoculars, as you stand a mile away.
It’s kind of like in Swingers
when Mikey calls that girl SEVENTEEN times the
morning after he meets her: it’s painful
to watch as things get worse and worse with each call, but there’s absolutely
nothing you can do to stop it.
(Note: we could have taken the
old man, thrown him out a tenth floor window in Walsh and hidden his body in
Andy’s room.) The old, old man was a
mere twenty feet from the Security office and Andy and I had over ten times
that far to walk to reach the relative safety of McGinley,
but he was walking so slowly that it made the inevitability of our defeat
deliciously ridiculous. So here we are
walking as fast as we can (but again, not running, lest we appear suspicious)
and trying to walk the length of a football field in the time it takes this man
to
walk through the endzone, because as soon as this old, old man, got in the
door, reported what he had seen and described Andy and I, security could hop in
their Rav4s and speed off to catch us.
Thankfully Andy and I are inconspicuous.
Oh wait, he’s 6’3” and I have the brightest red hair ever. Even this ancient man’s eyes couldn’t mess
that up. See...?
Andy’s height as
compared to
“regular” people’s “height.”
My hair as compared to
regular-colored hair
Well we finally
make it to the McGinley corner of Eddie’s and all the
while I’m casually looking around to keep an eye out for the 5-0 (make that the
2-5…its only campus security) and I feel a vehicle roll up behind us, and sure
enough, it’s a security-mobile.
It rollllllllls up to us.
Slows down right in front of us….
and drives off.
As we are now
only fifty feet from the McGinley doors, this close
brush with Joe Law makes it even harder not to run. But finally we make it inside, before
proceeding to sprint all the way to safety of the back of the club suite.
We really should
have been caught: this old man had two chances to ID Andy and I, and almsot certainly outraced
us to the Security office. Then again, I
have little doubt that when this old, old, old man got inside, and said, “I
just saw someone fall out of the window, and then a boy as tall as a tree and
another one with fire for hair came, and then they put the person in a bag, and
then they rode away on a scooter,” Becker just looked at him and bellowed,
“That’s not an ID.”