Sunday, April 16, 2006

Best (or worst) Of

Is it too arrogant to do a "Best Of" series my blogs? I don't know. That presupposes there was something good. Well, In any case, I'm out of interesting things to say, so until I come up with an interesting thought, I'll try to post a few highlights from my last blog. That blog is dead (I erased it because it used my real name; I was trying to make myself a little less Google-able for prospective employers). But I saved all the posts. Some of the old stuff makes me cringe. So if you're new to this blog this year or you long for the good ol' days, here is a sampling of what you missed. I guess I'm judging what's "best" based on the number of commentes I received and, well, just because I thought so.

I posted the following on October 15, 2004:

Went to the football game last night. On the field: terrific stuff.

Off the field: not so much.

I decided the average undergraduate at this school has the maturity level of a 6-year-old.

Why do I say this? A guy urinated on me. Disgusting, right? The guy was drunk, didn’t want to get up to go to the bathroom so he squatted down and pissed all over the floor. It splashed onto the back of my legs.

So at this point I’m not too happy.

Me: Hey asshole, why did you pee on me?

Him: Um I didn’t. I peed on the floor.

Me: Are you retarded?

He: What?

Me: I said, are you retarded? Do you actually think if you peed on the floor nothing would splash up on to me?

He: (pauses briefly) Um, no, I’m not retarded.

Me: Were you brought up in a barn? You can’t just piss wherever you want.

He: No, I was brought up in a house. (seriously, he actually said this)

At this point, the conversation deteriorates further. His big friend interjects and asks what happened. I tell him the guy peed on me. Big friend says “no he didn’t.”

I explain to big friend that no matter how many times he tells me I didn’t get peed on, it won’t change the fact that I got peed on. He seems puzzled and repeats himself over and over again, pointing to the puddle on the floor apparently as evidence that urinator did not peed on floor, not my leg.

More words are exchanged. A guy I’m sitting next to brings stadium security. It’s a hulking bald guy who gets in a heated discussion with the urinator and his friends.

Security guy leaves. Urinator or one of his friends actually say the following:

“oooooooh, the big babies called their mommy.”

Hmmmm….if I was 6 years old that statement would make me feel really bad. I’m 31.

I laugh but don’t turn around or say anything. Next, urinator or friend says:

“yeah look at how hairy that guy is.’

Um, if I was 12 maybe I’d feel self conscious about that. I’m not.

The dude points to the back of my head, tapping me lightly. I’m willing to let it slide.

But unbeknownst to me [or the morons], big hulking security man has not left. He’s lurking 10 feet away in the aisle, just watching. He comes running over and asks the children why they’re still messing with me.

Naturally, they deny everything. He patiently explains that he was standing 10 feet away and saw the guy touch the back of my head. Urinator, having already proven he’s of sub-average intelligence, *still* denies touching my head.

Security guard almost laughs (I think). He explains, not so patiently, that urinator and his little friends will be asked to leave if there is another complaint.

No more problems.

I took a long shower when I got home.

I washed my teva sandals, too. They are going to soak for a long time.

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