Ryans and Tigers and Bearsa tumblelog

I don’t know why I thought of this, but just go with it.  No one makes you read this.

I couldn’t sleep last night and somewhere in between wondering which former star of “Friends” has the smallest bank account right now (it’s got to be David Schwimmer, right?) and waking up sweating because apparently I had my first night terror since I was 6, I came up with the following thoughts.

For anyone who is still in college, or about to enter college, I have realized that a few things will inevitably happen.  In the spirit of title IX, I will break it down for both genders.

First of all, you will hook-up with someone that is, shall we say, less than desireable.  For you ladies, this will probably be some dude that hangs out at alternative bars and cringes every time he sees fraternity letters.  He’ll drive you home in a beat-up Ford Bronco that is blasting DMB the whole way back to his “sweet” townhouse that he shares with his fellow phishheads.  After the third or fourth play of “Crash” he will begin to tell you about how Dave Matthews is the greatest musician of our generation.  You and I both know that the voices of great musicians do not sound like someone sodomizing a hippo with dengue fever.  Nevertheless, it will work, you will wake up the next day, he’ll want to cuddle, he will ask for your number, he’ll say something about catching this “awesome dude that plays acoustic guitar at the Union.”, you’ll never answer his call, and that will be that.

Fellas, your hook-up will inevitably happen while you’re taking a grenade for one of your buddies.  She’s also known as “the friend of the hot chick.”  Your buddy will spend the whole night convincing himself that because some chick named Britney accidently brushed her boob against him on the way to the bathroom, that she “totally wants him.”  He’ll try talking her up the whole night while you entertain her friend.  Guess what?  Only one of you is hooking up tonight and it’s probably going to be you, because you had 13 red bull and vodkas in the hope of numbing yourself to the pain of the situation.  Like the DMB fan earlier, this chick will also like to talk sentimentally about music.  Except she’ll be explaining how she feels that John Mayer wrote “Your body is a Wonderland” just for her.  Just wait until you wake up and you realize that the wonderland she speaks of is a lot closer to Bavaria during Oktoberfest; full of fatty sausages and heavy beer.  You’ll conveniently forget to ask for her number.  You’ll only run into her at 1:00 am when you’re shitfaced, you’ll ignore her, she call you an asshole, you’ll never talk again, and that will be that.

At sometime during college, you will obtain a nickname.  And it probably won’t be the one you wanted. (Kind of like the Seinfeld when George wants to be called T-bone)  No one will actually believe that your nickname on the high school forensics team was “Captain Awesome.”  It will inevitably lead to a nickname along the lines of “Captain Doesn’t Shower” or “Captain Cries During ‘Gilmore Girls’”  Just let it happen.

Finally, at some point everybody falls asleep in class and accidentally lets out a fart.  Your first instict will be to blame it on the heavy guy in the Pac Man shirt and Levi’s jean shorts.  Don’t.  He doesn’t need more reasons to stay at home on Saturday night playing World of Warcraft and downloading Babylon 5 episodes.  Laugh it off, hope it’s not during a test, and take credit when credit is due.

Dear Gary Glitter,

I miss your rock and roll stylings.  I miss the fact that you are macho enough to use a stage name that is so obviously homosexual.  I’m sure you had no idea that those girls in Vietnam were underage. (seriously, he’s in jail for that)  I am sure you learned your lesson after your first two child pornography charges.  This conviction was an atrocity and I look forward to your acquital and release.  Because when you get out I know you’re going straight to work on that rock opera I’ve been waiting for.  It will certainly put “Tommy” and “Dark Side of the Moon” to shame.  Every time I go to a football game, I am reminded of you.  (Da Da Da Da Da…..HEY!!!  Da Da Da Da.)  I am reminded that you are a far superior talent than the current batch of emo rockers.  You don’t have to cut yourself in the bathroom to write a good song.  You don’t need to fill albums with ten songs about some girl that dumped you in seventh grade.  No sir, to this day, you’re breaking the hearts of seventh grade girls everywhere.  At the same time, you break many sexual codes, laws, and statutes.  The only inspiration you need for a hit single is a six pack of Zima, Teen Cosmo, and hours upon hours of secretly taped, 5th grade girls volleyball games. You sir, are an inspiration to the creepy uncles, the creepy english teachers, and that creepy, old drunk that hangs out in back of movie theaters after a 6 o’clock screening of “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.”  Keep fighting the good fight and don’t let those bullies in prison beat the hell of you, you, you, you you you!

Sincerely,

Ryan Standefer

So, the good people at YUM! brands have finally sent me over the edge. (They are the fast food juggernaut KenTacoHut)  In my usual catatonic sunday morning/afternoon/early evening hangover, I decided to frequent the Taco Bell on Rainbow Road. (Not the rainbow road in MarioKart, I think they just have Captain D’s.  I’m talking about the one in KCK)  Anyway, after my insistance that the kind gentleman behind the bulletproof money taker/food giver give me “a lot” of hot sauce, I was obviously upset to find that there were a mere three packets in my bag.  My first conclusion was that the sound waves produced by my soothing barritone voice, must have the same velocity and force as a bullet.  My request simply didn’t make it through the bulletproof money taker/food giver. Upon further thought I realized at no point in my life has my voice created an exit wound.  So this certainly couldn’t be the case.

Now, this was enough sauce to cover my spicy chicken crunch wrap supreme.  However, I did not have any left over for my regular beef taco or double decker supreme. This frustration coupled with the intense anger that Mary Lou Retton was deniend an ESPY nomination, AGAIN!, led me to take out my anger on the dog.  Now I don’t strike the dog, because he bites.  I don’t yell either, cause that would rile him up, and he bites.  But I did bitch to him like a 17 year old girl that can’t find the right shoes for her prom dress.  I didn’t have anyone else to talk to because Matt was at the boats squandering our rent money.  After a 10 minute diatribe I think, I actually watched, for the first time, a dog contemplate suicide.  I’m sorry Roy, I will make up for it with dog biscuits and bitches.  Seacrest Out!