Was It What Blown Weekends

There was a comment left on my last post regarding my assumed preference for wolves over bears.

So, you hate bears but you'd save a wolf? From quicksand, apparently. Bears, who we all know to stay away from for they are LARGE and, well, bears. But a wolf? Wolves are FAR more dangerous. Wolves pretend to be dogs. And you look at the wolf and you think "how bad can it be? It looks like my neighbor's husky!" And then you get close to the wolf to pet it and then IT RIPS OUT YOUR THROAT! Save the bears, hump on the wolves.

There you go. Left by a dear friend that I know for a fact doesn't always lock the front door to her house. Her expertise in the field of safety is questionable. I don't suppose I'll ever find a framed master's degree in the field of Not Being Savagely Murdered hanging from her wall. 

Wolves are far safer than bears. This is an inarguable fact. Despite the facts that bears are larger, stronger, faster and loyal to nothing but the relentless pursuit of hunny, you've got to consider things like... who do you think you could take in a fight? Bear Grylls or Wolf Blitzer?

Things like... what happens after you dance with wolves? You win the Oscar, typically. Then get a haircut. What happens after you dance with non-circus bears? Not much, unless you consider screaming bloody murder and decomposing slowly to be worthwhile activities. Dancing with bears is the sort of thing that you might have read about in the last chapter of "Into the Wild," had it been written.

You know what happens when someone comes to your house and sees a bear skin rug on your floor? They might think you have a lot of money to spend on frivolous things. They might consider you to be a captain of industry who smells of grapes. They may stare at your crotch while you strut and wonder if you're hurting people with your equipment. They might want to offer you a flagon of grog or mead. If they have an odd warrior name like Zula or April, they might want to have sex with someone on it. 

You know what happens when someone comes to your house and sees a wolf skin rug? Maybe they'd wonder why you're so poor that you're carpeting your floor with roadkill. Maybe they'd assume it was a dog and that you were a filthy person that didn't have time to clean up all of your carcasses before you invited them over to watch the game. Maybe they'd say, "Fuck, dude... you couldn't pick this up before anyone saw it? Good job, Michael Vick. Look - let me help you get it in a dumpster before the cops come over." Is that what you want? 

You're so backward.

Three Little Right Today Your

I think this will be the first year I can recall that I didn't help promote the Boobiethon. I guess that must mean I'm siding with cancer. Wow. I apologize for my carcinogenic behavior.

Am I such a lazy blogger than I couldn't get off my ass and write a few words that could potentially save some lives? Yes. This is indisputable. 

High school students, do not ask me to write you letters of recommendation to your favorite college admissions departments. A few months later, after I've decided that I couldn't be bothered to hook you up, you'll be cursing my name as you toil away at Safety School State. And your less enterprising friends with semi-reliable references will instead enjoy the scenery at prestigious Nepotism University. 

My bad.

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Completely unrelated aside to help me reach my unofficial minimum word requirement:

One of my lifelong aspirations has always been to own a bearskin rug. I'd grow a beard out, get a mug of something warm, sit on the rug and stare into a crackling fire while I talked to someone about the time I saved a wolf from quicksand and became its best friend. Maybe I'd have friends over and casually pet the bear on the head while saying, "Careful, old friend - we remember what happened last time you bared those teeth at me, don't we?" It'd be so bad ass*.

For whatever reason, every time I daydreamed about the rug (and, consequently, how much I really hate bears) I'd never be near a computer to look up what they cost. Then, I'd get near a computer and, before I remembered to price one, I'd get on Wikipedia and read about Unwound or something. 

This pattern went on for years. Literally, years. I would never think about my desire for rug ownership while I had the means to find out how to get one. I'm not sure what the issue was.

Then, the other day, I got on the google machine and remembered to price rugs. And, now, I'm thinking I should just focus on trying to save a wolf from quicksand someday. That'd still be bad ass, and it wouldn't require years of indentured service to Bank of America.

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* To be fair, for about 5 of those years, I just wanted a bearskin rug so I could be that guy that could say he'd had hooked up on a bearskin rug. That pretty much stopped when I realized that normal women who aren't named Sheena or Zula don't easily get turned on by the notion of having sex on a corpse. Live and learn.

Side On Changes Walk Tiny Birds

I just saw in the news that Tufts University no longer allows students to have sex in their dorms while their roommates are present, with, I assume, orgies and film shoots for various porn websites being the exceptions.

On one hand, I can see where you'd have to wonder how many of those ugly kids at Tufts were having sex with each other to merit the rule. On the other, I can completely understand. A story ensues...

Once upon a time, I was in college. I had just spent a long day studying, preparing for exams and preparing a paper* and I was very, very tired. I went to bed at around 10 PM and left a note for my roommate on the door saying I was tired and asked if he could be quiet when he got home later.

When he arrived, I could hear him outside the door saying, "fuuuuuuuuuuck," followed by feminine giggling. You see, while I was studying and preparing myself for an exam**, my roommate was spending the day romancing*** a really, really, really hot girl that he'd been after for a while. Apparently, he'd pretended to like enough bands that she liked and pretended to think she was smart and insightful long enough to get her to agree to go to bed with him. My note was, as the kids would say, a hard rock cockblock.

He opened the door and peeked in. I was laying on my bed with my eyes just barely open. He said, "How tired are you?"

Extremely, my friend.

"So, you're saying you could sleep through anything right now?"

I... I.... damn, she really is hot, isn't she?.... alright, yeah. I could sleep through anything.

"With your eyes closed?"

Probably? But definitely asleep enough for your purposes.

"So, I'm gonna walk out in this hallway and talk to her for a second. When I come back in - you're snoring?"

Sure. Camera phones haven't been invented yet. Knock yourself out.

"Nice."

So, twenty seconds later, my roommate stumbled into the door with his lady friend and ambled over to his bed with her. Cockblock averted. Since my eyes were closed, I can only assume that he also brought over a rabid polar bear, a jackhammer that needed oil and an unchained banshee on LSD, because the sounds that came from his half of the room for the rest of the night were inhuman at best. 

I'd like to sit here and say it was your standard meat and potatoes sexual encounter and that, on a good day, I could have done the same, but I'm pretty sure he spent an hour breaking her into little pieces and ended up having to rebuild her like Frankenstein before the sun came up and I'm not a demolition expert. If I wasn't pretending to be asleep, I'd have applauded and tossed bouquets of flowers onto his bed.

The next morning, the three of us went and had breakfast. He ate enough pancakes to refuel a Sherman tank and, surprisingly, she was able to keep food down after having her stomach imploded.  Me? I was considering changing my major to theater arts because my manhood was in question for about a year.

So, congratulations, nerds at Tufts University. Not only do you not have to worry about figuring out whether to upload your hidden camera footage to Redtube or to Youporn, but you're also spared the never ending nightmare that is being outsexed by your yeti of a roommate. Enjoy the peace of mind.

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* I most certainly was not doing any of these things. Not by any stretch.

** Again.... not remotely possible. But whatever I was doing, I was definitely tired at the end.

*** I'm being very kind with this verb. 'Romancing' isn't the kind of thing that precedes dropping a cherry bomb in a woman's crotch. I probably should have said 'bullshitting' or something.