I Would Have Gotten Away With It, If It Wasn't For Daylight Savings Time!

Yesterday, my alarm went off at six forty five and I got dressed. I brushed my teeth, put in my contacts, and ate some ice cream. Then I drove to Rick's Bakery, to meet with a couple tenth graders that I mentor.

When I arrived, not only did I realize that there was no one in the Rick's parking lot, or that Rick's itself was locked, but that the sky was uncharacteristically pitch black for seven in the morning. As I sat in my car, I tried to rationalize this with the explanation of Daylight Savings Time, but I'm still not exactly sure how that works (I know I'm supposed to move my clock, but the past two years I've put it under my bed and it's done nothing). It may have taken sixty long seconds for me to look at my phone and realize it was actually five in the morning.

For Christmas my senior year of high school, my parents bought me a semester spanning series of sessions with a personal trainer. Worst Christmas present ever, outside of the Batman shirt our foreign exchange student's parents sent me in the sixth grade. At the time, I was considering collegiate football, and so it made sense to train. But not like that. Not like that.

My trainer was Jessica, the only woman ever to throw the shot put and discus in the same Olympics. She would laugh when I threw up, and the only conversation we ever ventured into outside of weight lifting was Gatorade flavors. I hated going there. Our sessions were at five in the morning, but I was so conflicted about attending that some mornings, I would wake up in a daze, dress, and drive to the Fayetteville Atheletic Club, only to realize it was three o'clock. Then I'd drive home, get back in bed with my shoes on and watch the clock travel from three to five.

At that time in the morning, reactions are sluggish enough that the obvious signs that it is not the time you think it is are hard to catch, like your favorite morning show isn't playing, or your car radio clock says three a.m. (mine actually said three a.m. yesterday. Like I said, I'm not exactly sure how Daylight Savings Time works). I think this may be what hangovers are like. You can stare at your hand for thirty seconds and not be able to tell if its the left or right hand of someone else, or yourself.

Save the Pankration!

I'll admit - I have never posted about the Pankration before. I promise to explain it in full, but I'm assuming if you're reading this blog, I've probably told you in person, so anything I write on this website I'll just embellish. But that's why you read it. Because when I write, I turn my brain off and write ridiculous things like this.

However, you must act quickly to save the Pankration from wikiocide! That's right, I wasn't thinking, I just turned my brain off and the word "wikiocide" came out. If you're curious how I come up with posts, that's a perfect example. Rechecking Wikipedia this morning to calm the fears which I had hoped were unfounded, fears that told me the article I wrote concerning the video game holiday I made up called the Pankration had been deleted, I found this:

"It has been proposed that this article be deleted because of the following concern:

Not notable. See WP:ONEDAY."

My first reaction was elation. For someone to post this, that meant that they had to have actually read my article, and now they have knowledge of the Pankration. And knowledge of the Pankration is like a virus: once you have it, you can never fully get rid of it. You can only hide it, until it surfaces every ten years like syphilis and you are publicly shamed.

I followed the link to WP:ONEDAY (with the help of technology, you can too!) and I was so surprised by what I found that I killed a man by putting a butter knife up through his jaw all the way into his brain. Never sneak up on me again, Wikipedia.

"Wikipedia is not for things you or your friends made up. If you have invented something novel in your school, your garage, or the pub, but it has not yet become known to the rest of the world, please do not write about it on Wikipedia. Write about it on your own website or blog instead."

First off, I cannot start a retort until pointing out the aristocratic insult that insinuates that I might have invented the Pankration in a school building, a garage, or a bar. The Pankration was born in my head like Athena, and spilled out of my ears like a rainbow waterfall in the land ruled by koala bears. It is not novel - it is revolutionary (but only if you're playing a video game that involves you taking part in a revolution).

But listen closely, Wikipeedmypants, because I know you read my blog - just like you read my article on the video game holiday known as the Pankration. Wikipedia is only for things taht I or my friends have made up. Each word on that site has been made up by someone sitting at a keyboard, and each of those typists is someone's friend (except you). I consider your website the only valid option for posting false information, stae secrets, and lies that I've had to stop telling children because they called me out on them. Furthermore, you don't work for Wikipedia. You are not getting paid to delete my article. By deleting my article, you are only depriving millions of Eastern European children the chance to enjoy video games from sunset to sunrise. That's millions of sunsets that you've just stolen. You are the main villian in the next dream that I have.

I will never give up! You may be able to delete my article on a holiday that I invented, but you cannot delete my soul, and that's what counts. The only ones who can delete my soul are the Master Friends, who watch over the computer program that we're all hooked up to that simulates life while simeltaneously using our brains as billions of organic computers that power their starship as it works to stop what we know as Alpha Centauri from going super nova and destroying the life force that binds the universe together.

Did you see what I did there? I just started typing, and I had no idea where I was going.

November 1st

Stick Stickly said once that if the first words out of your mouth on the first of the month were, "Rabbit Rabbit," you would have good luck. Stick Stickly was also a tongue depressant which googlie eyes Elmer's glued on, so I'm not sure why I gave him such credence. Maybe because he reminded me of popsicles, and at eleven, popsicles are the reason you dream about a shopping spree in a grocery store.

I have never managed to say this. Every first of the month I fail, saying all sorts of things, from, "What time is it?" to "Where is the captain?" and "Never again!" On probability alone, given all the first of the months between the age of eleven and twenty one, I think I should have said it by now, even if I didn't mean to. I mean, I've said, "Who are you?" multiple times.

Last night I said it walking home from Common Grounds after midnight. I don't believe it worked. It makes since that you would have to say it as you woke up to the new month; also, with all the evil spirits, called Trevor, roaming around between midnight and midnight fifteen, it's logical to assume they intercepted my appeal to the benevolent spirits, called Master Friend, for good luck. This all comes from a belief system called Solar Inferno I invented when I was eleven to account for the existence of Stick Stickly and all the other puppets on Nick in the Afternoon, among other things.

Also, it could be that it was Daylight Savings Time, and what I thought was after midnight was only after eleven. All the clocks were set back (and I was still late to church). However, after some intensive internet research, I've found a hypothesis that if you say, "Tabbir, Tabbir" before falling asleep on the first of the month, you will secure yourself good fortune. O Master Friend, hear my prayer.

The Price of Pledgeship

As Pledge Commander, I've had to make sacrifices. I've stopped going to many classes. I don't do my homework. And many nights, I don't sleep in my bed. I've given up any hope of a normal life or a face that girls might find attractive in order to watch all thirty episodes of the canceled television show Jericho with my pledges.

However, I have found that being Pledge Commander has a different price - my dignity. Not that I had dignity before, but I feel like when other people see me, they feel my dignity slipping away, and I don't have time to stop them and say, "I lost my dignity long ago. It's too late for me - save yourself," so somedays I feel it just as strongly as the first day it left, that time Lewis Chase ratted me out to Stephanie Broderick for writing that anonymous love note in second grade.

Every time I go to Wal-Mart, I relive that day when Lewis Chase told me that Stephanie would much rather be with him than with me (right before she left town; to this day I still can't find her on Facebook. Do you know how many Stephanie Broderick's there are in the continental U.S. alone? At least ten, because you can only view ten at a time, and I wasn't about to page through the whole list). For pledgeship, I've had to buy the oddest things. 200 squirt guns. Fifty pounds of flour. Fifty dollars worth of panty hose. A hacksaw and several gallons of industrial strength lime. Okay, I made that third one up.

Saturday, in the check out line with seven bottles of spray paint, ten rolls of masking tape, and seventy Hanes V-necks, Arkansas radio personality Rick Schaeffer (see picture: the original Hotness) pulled in behind me. He gave me the stink voice, which is the FM equivalent of the stink eye. In return, I told him not to sound so smug, with your fifty pounds of animal feed. What are you doing, running a cock fight?

I may have not said that, but it still feels terrible to have a minor local celebrity infer that you're losing your dignity.

Another Assassins Story

Last night, the game Assassins ended with a battle royale at midnight on Old Main Lawn, between the fifteen remaining players. They survived 150 other assassins, to make it to the final round, only to spend the last ten minutes of the game searching all the trees in Arkansas's arboretum for the last target, who was well hidden. However, this is an email I received from Matt Bakke, a pledge who was killed this past weekend.

The best way to describe it is an overwhelming sense of nothingness.

That last shot of adrenaline when danger is near, and then you feel those liberating drops of water.

Hit, wet, free. No more walking up 6 filghts of stairs. No more sidewalk chases and wall climbing. No more making body shields out of passerby's. No more stakeouts outside your door. No more being chased out of residence halls for sneaking in by angry RA's and secuirty. No more cryptic texts, "Hey man, What are you up to?" No more suspiciously attractive females asking what you're doing later. No more people hiding in bathroom stalls. No more avoiding your room like the plague. No more piles of laundry from not going to the laundry room. No more broken water guns soaking your pocket. No more furtive glances over your shoulder, and twitchy 360's, no more accidentally shooting someone for looking suspicious, no more hours in the library, no more creeping on your targets house.

Just Kevin Lawson in a dark coat with the joy of the kill in his eyes.

and Freedom.

The First Man I've Met So Far

I went to Stillwater for the OSU Homecoming; the festivities were gorgeous and crowed, and the city was flat and debilitated personalities. Leaving Stillwater, I felt like a person again. However, neither the crippling depression that waits for you there or the $50,000 dollar Greek lawn decorations were what made a lasting influence. The memory I left Stillwater with was of the man Stony Fath.

It's pronounced Faith. Stony Fath, like he was faith like a rock hard foundation, or like a stripper's name. Stony is 6'2", 220 lbs of lumberjack; he transferred to OSU after two years playing linebacker for the Air Force Academy still left something to be desired in life. He's kept a well trimmed beard and receeding hairline consistently since the tenth grade. Stony lives alone in a one room house decorated with oil paintings of small children. He's built most of his furniture and spends his time reading the Jewish Roman historian Josephus. I cannot make this up.

Saturday morning, after sleeping on an old futon where diseases are created, Stony woke me up and told me to get my clothes on, because "we're going to get the Don." Who is Don? Why are you in my room? These questions did not matter. I did what I was told.

He took me and several of the other backcountry boys that were sleeping in the same house to a Mom and Pop diner, where we waited in line with other Cowpokes for ten minutes. When the nine of us finally got to a table that seated six, instead of ordering, Stony told the waitress we just needed nine Dons. Why are there so many Dons? Can I have some coffee? These questions went unanswered.

I beheld the Don. Two pieces of Texas toast, upon which rested two hamburger patties, topped with several handfulls of fries, covered with grated cheese and white gravy. Only six of us finished. Stony finished first, then ate the rest of mine.

An Assassins Story

Our fraternity is playing Assassins: with teams of big and little brothers, each team eliminates their target, another big little team, and takes that teams target. The one team left in the end wins. It has been a heated, controversial, and at times colorful competition. I recently received this email from one player who was contesting his death. You might call this a guest blogger:

I would just like to pass on this story to you, because, regardless of the outcome, it was a glorious battle for my life, with multiple parties taking hits on both sides.

For the past three days, I have avoided my house like the plague. Only randomly dropping in to grab essentials, I make my visits at unannounced times. Tonight was no different, and I made my nightly stop about an hour after step show practice was over. During a brief chat with three of my roommates, I let slip that I was heading to the library to work on a lab report with some people (Mistake numero uno). But, it was just my housemates. Right? Would they sell me out? Wrong.

There we are in the library, vigorously working on our lab reports (peopleofwalmart.com), and none other than the venerable Jordan Difani walks up and taps me on my shoulder. Fear gripped my insides like ice. I glance down at my watch, only to realize that it was 12:15. For those of you who aren't familiar with David W. Mullins Library protocol, it is open until 2:00 a.m. However, after midnight, the only door open is the one on the Union side. Hence, only one door to freedom.

Quickly calculating and realizing my predicament, I begin to weigh my chances. Knowing there is a underground entrance to the library into the Chemistry Building, I proceeded to have a flirty conversation with a wonderfully rude beast of a woman named Michelle, who happened to be working the main desk at the time. She very kindly informed me that under no circumstances would I be able escape my prison through that venue.

As I stared at the door, I saw the growing masses of assassins grouping at the one exit, preparing to do unspeakable evils to me.

I made the call, and rallied in the troops. Mike Turner, Jon Braschler, Tim Yopp, and four of my friends from the BCM answered my call to battle. They came armed with a large blanket and ingenuity, and together we hatched a brilliant escape plan.

We placed the tallest one of them, which happened to be a girl, under the blanket, and the rest of them crowded around it. As we creeped up the stairs from the basement to the Golden Doorway, I hung back, biding my time. As soon as they reached the main floor, they were seen. They broke off at a sprint (or as much of one as the blanket-covered body could manage) for Maple Drive, not making it very far before Matt Chappell quickly and concisely blocked their path. What continued was much grappling and water-squirting, with the biggest of the Allies grabbing the psuedo-me and attempting to carry her off to the BCM and safety.

In the ensuing confusion, I took my chance. I bounded off towards Dickson Street, nearly measuring my length on the stairs. I made it a good five steps before they realized what had happened. As I was sprinting away, the Axis powers-at-be chased after me. Being a good twenty yards ahead of them and already running, I very easily made it into the welcome open door of Jon Braschler's truck outside of the Music Ed building. With the windows up and the doors locked, they jumped, pushed, and squirted futilely.

We drove off in victory, but it wasn't long before we realized that the screaming we were hearing was more of the Nazis having launched themselves onto the top of Jon's truck. We slowed down to let them off, and Josh took his leave. Before getting back up to speed, we wanted to make sure that there was no one else on the car, not knowing that Tommy Hughes was still clinging on for dear life. We slowed down, and I cracked my window (Mistake Number Two) to yell at whoever that they needed to jump off then or most likely be subject to much Road Rash.

Tommy wisely hopped off, and as we were speeding up It happened. The Shot Heard Round Dickson. Running beside the accelerating truck, Tommy made two valiant squirts into the cracked passenger side window. They missed. They hit. Both sides could have sworn on their momma's grave the opposite outcomes. We will never know the truth.