Course Overload #13: "The Dangers of Procrastination"

I know the feeling. You’ve just come back to your dorm after some wild party, or you’ve been up all night talking with your best friend. Or maybe you’re just lazy, you slacker. Whatever the reason, you don’t feel like doing your homework. But let me tell you something: It’s better to just do it and get it over with. Bad things happen to those who procrastinate. I’m living proof.

One sunny day a few years ago, I found myself neglecting my chores so I could play the newest video game, Final Fantasy XXVII. Of course, there were better things to be doing – the window screens needed to be put back on, the dog needed to be walked, and those dirty gym clothes weren’t going to clean themselves – but I could always do that stuff later. What could possibly go wrong?

My plan was to stop playing and start working around 3 p.m., a full three hours before mom would be home, but Final Fantasy XXVII had other plans for me. By the time I thought to check a clock, it was past 3 p.m. It was so far past, in fact, that the three hour cushion I had originally intended for myself had withered away to just 20 minutes.

“Okay,” I thought, attempting to repress my panic, “I can do this.” How hard could it be? I had my list of chores; I simply needed to complete them as they appeared. What could possibly go wrong?

First came my gym clothes. I had to stop for a moment to recall where I had left them. “Of course!” I exclaimed with a snap of my fingers, “I never took them out of my book bag!” I dashed into my bedroom, grabbed the bag, and shot downstairs to the washing machine. There wasn’t any time to fish my clothes out with all those unused text books in my way, so I tossed the entire thing in the washing machine, dumped in about half a bottle of laundry detergent, slammed the lid shut and ran off to complete my next objective.

I needed to walk the dog. It was obvious by looking at him that nature had been calling all day, and his answering machine was about to give out unless I did something right away. Our entire back yard is fenced, so all I needed to do was open the door and let him out. That way, I could save time and the dog could finally go with the flow. I flung open the door and he trotted out.

The dog was taken care of and so were my gym clothes. Now all that was left were the screens. For that, all I needed was a screwdriver. I rushed to the garage to grab one, but suddenly I flat on my back, laying in a sudsy mess. The washing machine had overflowed! Perhaps half a bottle of detergent was a tad too much. The floor was wet, the screens weren’t in place yet and my underpants were soggy.

Before I could even think about cleaning up the soapy mess, something caught my attention. What was that smell?

“Is someone burning garbage?”

Then it hit me. It was the roast I was supposed to take out of the oven an hour ago. I had to get it out before it set off –

The smoke alarm emitted a high pitched squeal. Ears ringing and underpants sloshing, I burst into the kitchen. I could barely see through the thick black smoke. Throwing the oven door open, I was met with a blast of searing heat. There was no way I could reach into the oven with all that smoke, so, I opened the nearest (screenless) window.

As the smoke began to clear, I realized that I had to make something for dinner. If Mom came home and found the house in shambles AND nothing to eat, I’d have bigger problems than an overflowing washing machine and soggy underpants. I opened the freezer and grabbed a steak. But wait! There’s no time for steak! Of course! Setting the timer for ten minutes, I threw the frozen meat in the microwave and went to find a mop.

Before I could even make it to the bathroom to retrieve the mop, a peculiar sound stopped me. It wasn’t the smoke alarm. No, this was much louder. Kind of like a fire truck.

“Wait a minute; that IS a fire truck!”

A man in full fire fighting gear kicked down the front door. Apparently, the smoke alarm was wired into the fire station. Seven firemen marched past me into the kitchen.

“There’s no possible way this could get any worse,” I said, burying my face in my hands.

I was wrong.

Almost as soon as the firemen entered the kitchen, they all came running out, swatting wildly, swearing and slipping on soap suds. Hornets the size of small battleships were buzzing around them. There was a nest right next to the kitchen window and the smoke from the oven fire had agitated them. With no screen to stop them, in they came, pissed off ready to kill.

I needed some fresh air. Stepping outside, I saw something big chasing the retreating firemen. It looked like my dog. It WAS my dog. He must have somehow escaped from the backyard. So, after I “convinced” him to leave the nice fireman alone, we watched them speed away. “Gee,” I thought, “I hope they aren’t angry.” Coming in the opposite direction was my mom.

Walking into the house, Mom said, “I hope you didn’t play that Final Fantasy game all day. Did you finish all your chores?”

“Uh, yes and no,” I replied.

“What do you mean by…?” Before she could finish her sentence, she was cut off by the smoke alarm. The dog and I just stood where we were as mom went barreling down the stairs. All I heard were the sounds of someone slipping and falling, some screaming about smoke and bees, and finally, something about steak in the microwave catching fire and making the smoke alarm go off. In the distance, I heard the familiar sound of the fire truck siren.

That day, I had learned a very important lesson. Even firemen are scared of hornets. Oh, and do your homework on time.

Course Overload #12: "Spring Broke"

They tell you it’ll be restful. They tell you that you’ll get to spend some quality time with mom and dad. They even tell you that some people get to go to Cancun.

And they’re all lying.

I’m speaking, of course, of spring break. I’ll bet you have fond memories of previous spring breaks. You know, the ones from grade school, where you woke up and spent all day eating rainbows and riding unicorns. In fact, even I have a few great memories of spring break, like the time Bart, Milhouse and I rented a car and took a trip around the country. But, spring break has changed since then: We’re in college now, soldier!

I’ll be the first to admit that spring break looks good on paper. At the start of the semester, people inevitably look at their calendars and highlight all one of the days off colleges grant them. At this point, most of us are already coming up with excuses –my dog ate my laptop, a pack of wandering ninjas filled my dorm room with cream cheese, I have a horrible spleen disease that only affects professors and kills them very slowly – to get out of class. But lo! There’s always that giant week-long hole filled with those wonderfully deceptive words “spring break.”

Little did I realize the horrors of spring break in the days leading up to it. In fact, I was looking forward to it! (Poor, silly, unshaven creature!) I was finally going to watch some television, play the video games I haven’t opened since last Christmas, and catch up on sleep. Remember sleep? It’s what we used to do as children in-between annoying our parents and chasing our dogs with water guns. I wouldn’t even have to wear pants. It was going to be glorious.

When I woke up the first day of spring break, a horrible realization soon came flooding over me. It started out happily enough. I rolled out of bed at 2:30 in the afternoon, neglected to shave or put on pants, and went directly for the Playstation controller. This, in my world, is bliss. I imagine that heaven is much like I just described, only higher up in the clouds and with fewer insects and telemarketers.

I grabbed a familiar white package from my shelf, and stared at it for a moment. Ah, Final Fantasy XXXVII. I’d had that game for over a year and a half, and yet, it had never been opened. School somehow always got in the way. In fact, the sequel, Final Fantasy XXXVII-2, had already been released. But now was my chance to finally play the original.

So I opened the package and loaded it up. Written on the screen in big pretty letters was the phrase “Press start button.” I was happy to oblige. Then, the next screen pulled up. “In order to save your progress, you must insert a memory card. Also, did you check to see if you have any homework?”

Egad! I had forgotten to see if I had any homework. But no matter, it was spring break. I had an entire week to do homework… in my skivvies. And besides, how much homework could they possibly have given me?

Opening my little blue MSMC folder, I yanked out my syllabi. (No kids, that’s not some sort of body part; it’s the plural of syllabus.) First, ethics. I only had to read a few pages for that. And for marketing, I had to write a paper. That would normally be a problem, but it was spring break! I could do the paper later on in the week.

But something wasn’t right. I was beginning to sweat. As I reached for the third syllabus, my heart began to pound. “Bio. The homework for that one is never too diffi- Oh dear God. Clone a sheep.”

It was getting serious. I missed the class where we learned to clone sheep because I had been feeding and immunizing poor sick children in Bosnia over the weekend and I couldn’t make it back in time to go to that class. But it was okay. It was spring break, and I had an entire week to do it! If I started the next day, I could get it all done by the end of the week. At least I would have this one day to myself. I allowed myself a small smile.

But then, I realized that I had one last syllabus left in my hot little hand – the plays of Eugene O’Neill. Hopefully, all I’d have to do was read a play. Looking down, I read out loud, “In no less than 600 pages, prove the existence of God. Remember to cite all sources.” As the tears streamed down my face, I was formulating my plan. “I can do this. If I just get a Bible, and maybe if I go to the library now… Wait, what does this assignment have to do with Eugene O’Neill?” Through the tears, I looked down at the paper again. “Oh, here’s the connection. It has to be handwritten in Gaelic. Makes sense, considering that O’Neill was Irish, and… Wait, Gaelic?! Dear God!” I knew that the first sentence of my paper would be: “I know God exists because he hates me.” (Only it would be in Gaelic.)

Somehow, I finished it all. All, that is, except Writing for Mass Media. I overlooked the syllabus that day because I was crying too hard to see it. However, all that it said I had to do was read page 245 of the text. I found out Sunday night, and I was so tired, I figured I could get away with not reading it, just this once. So you can imagine how I felt on Monday when I heard we were having a test.

“This will count for 80 percent of your grade,” said my instructor.

“What’s the test on?” I asked, even though I already knew.

“Why, page 245 of your textbook, of course.”

Somewhere, in an insect-free place high in the clouds, angels were riding unicorns over Playstation-shaped rainbows and God was laughing at me.

Course Overload #11: "Season's Beatings"

Ah, Halloween. It’s a day to let go of your inhibitions. It’s the one day a year you can come to your classes dressed like samurai polar bear and not be sent to the psychiatrist. It’s a day of potentially poisoned treats and innovative razor apples, designed to be a nutritious snack and give you a nice, close shave at the very same time. Basically, it’s a day that most people wait for all year.

It’s also a day I’d like to forget for the rest of my natural life.

Last Halloween didn’t start out badly. For the past three weeks, I had been working on my costume non-stop, ignoring classes and calling in sick to work. I told them that I lost a leg in a pumpkin carving accident, but it would probably grow back by November 1.

I was determined to make the best costume in the history of the world. I wanted my grandchildren to look in their history books and see a picture of me, wearing The World’s Greatest Costume. If I played my cards right, I might even get a holiday or even a future building on campus named after me. I’d even settle for a bathroom stall – The Matt Frey Memorial Little Blue Stall.

By now I bet you’re wondering what this ultimate costume of mine was. So am I, actually. I don’t really know how to sew, iron on decals, or use any of that “glue” stuff, so I basically taped something together with a paper towel tube, a Pepsi box and some McDonald’s bags. I was going to be a robot, but I got tired of coloring everything silver about half way though the project and figured no one would notice that this particular robot was made from 57 percent post consumer waste. Ninjas are totally sweet, so I made a ninja mask out of my mother’s wedding dress. And who could I forget werewolves? Lucky for me I had a pair of hairy gloves to wear from the year before.

So there I was, standing outside of the Math-Science-Technology building bright and early on a beautiful Halloween morning. The parts of the Pepsi box that weren’t crushed from me sitting on them in the car were glistening in the sun, my ninja mask fluttered in the wind, and my hairy werewolf hands held onto my book bag. But I before I could get to my first class, a group of little kids from the elementary school came marching up. They were going to go trick-or-treating on the first floor of the MST building. At 9 a.m.

I was in such a good mood due to my super great costume and all, so I decided to say hello to the kids. “Happy Halloween!” I yelled with a smile.

A nearby Spider-man stopped and started at me for a moment. “What are you supposed to be? Some sort samurai polar bear?”

Another kid, dressed as Yoda, stopped to look at me too. “I don’t know what he’s supposed to be, but he looks stupid.”

“Stupid!?” I exclaimed, getting red in the face. “I’ll have you know that…”

Spider-man cut me off. “He’s right. You do look really dumb.”

“I think he’s supposed to be some sort of Robo-Ninja Werewolf,” Yoda suggested, using his light saber to scratch his back.

“Yeah, a STUPID Robo-Ninja Werewolf!” replied Spider-man.

By now a group of kids had formed and were watching the action. A little girl dressed as an angel stepped forward, turned to the crowd, and exclaimed, “Forget this trick-or-treat crap! Let’s beat him up and steal his books! We can sell them and buy lots of candy!”

The rest of the day was kind of a blur. All I can remember is being attacked by Yoda, a few Powerpuff girls, Batman, Harry Potter, and no less than three Spider-men, then waking up at midnight in a forest three miles way from the college. My beautiful costume lied about ten feet away, as tattered as my broken body. I’ve never cried harder in all my life, even that time that Santa Claus told me that my mother isn’t real.

I bet those kids were just jealous of my awesome costume, but its okay. I’ve already started designing a new one for next Halloween. This time, it’s going to have flame throwers, spinning knives and lasers. How’s that for child proof, eh?

Or, you know, I might just be a Power Ranger instead.

I need Dragonzord Power (and candy), NOW!

What You Can Do That a Ninja Can't

Have you ever been walking down a dark side street and found yourself afraid that a ninja was going to pop out of the shadows any minute and behead you? It's a valid fear - at any given moment, there are approximately 15 ninjas watching you. But have you ever wondered what makes ninjas so mad? Take a gander at this video and you'll see that ninjas really aren't that bad.

Watch this video at YouTube

Course Overload # 10: "What Girls Like"

Valentine’s Day is a day to reflect on that very special person in your life; the one person without whom you’d be lost. It’s a day to consider all the wonderful things he or she has done for you over the years, and to thank the deity of your choice that your person has been there for you.


Or, if you’re like the rest of us, it’s a day to hate your life even more than you normally do and scramble about desperately looking for someone – ANYONE – to share Valentine’s Day with.

I fit firmly into latter category, although I didn’t think I was going to. See, I thought I had it made this year, because I have a girlfriend. Normally, this narrows down one’s potential valentines rather dramatically, but there was a little snag. Everything appeared to be going okay, even though it took me a while to gather the courage to ask her to be my valentine. Sometime last weekend I felt I couldn’t miss, so I sat her down and asked. The conversation went something like this:

MATT: Oh, Girlfriend. (That’s her name.) I’m so glad I have you. You mean more to me than the entire A-Team combined, and perhaps even a few of the G.I. Joes. Except Sgt. Slaughter; no one can throw a love-punch like him. How my face bleeds with ecstasy whenever he’s around… But that’s not the point right now. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I love you with all my raging hormones. Will you be my valentine?

GIRLFRIEND: No.

So there I was, only a few days before the 14th and sans-valentine. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. On Valentine’s Day, I usually just sit in my empty bathtub and see how long it takes to fill it up with my salty, salty tears and anguished moans. However, I was so sure I’d have a valentine this year, I had already gone out and purchased 60 pounds of chocolates and fine cheeses, as well a giant plush hand with a sign reading “I glove you.” I couldn’t let it all go to waste, so I began looking around the college for someone – ANYONE – to be my valentine. Along the way, I learned several invaluable lessons on how to treat a lady.

One thing girls like is to be lied to. Nothing enriches a relationship like treachery and debacle. For example, let’s say you sold your girlfriend’s dog, Toejam, to a gypsy potato farmer in order to buy some Star Trek mothballs from eBay. Now, when your girlfriend asks, “Hey, where did Toejam go?” you reply, “He saved a bus load of disabled children from a nuclear meltdown and then flew away to heaven with Mother Teresa and Billy Joel.” After that, she’ll be putty in your hands. Other things to lie about include marital status, income, age, gender, and my personal favorite, height.

Another thing girls like is eating, particularly when they don’t have to pay for it. Try having a romantic candle lit dinner at Burger King, if you can get the reservations. Be sure to order something with lots of onions, because studies have shown that eating onions increases muscle tone and boosts your income, all while keeping your breath minty fresh. When the time is right, lean in close to her ear, and scream sweet little nothings to her as loud as you can. A good time to do this is after the Burger King employees attempt to convince you that the rat tail you found in your burger wasn't a product of an unclean operation, but rather a “prize” like in the happy meals. Your date is likely to pass out from sheer joy if you can pull this off.

Also keep in mind that girls like fire, so you should try to bring it to them whenever you can. Sometimes, you’ll run out of things to burn, like your birth certificate or your mother’s wedding dress. In this case, it’s acceptable to burn something of your beloved’s, such as her baby pictures or her immigration papers. There’s nothing quite as romantic as lighting a candle with the only thing standing between your date and deportation.

Finally, if all else fails, give your potential date a gift. What better way to say “I love you!” than with a few bits of string and some torn gum wrappers?

Yet, sadly, all 237 of my attempts at wooing the college girls went up in smoke. (Sometimes literally.) I don’t know how that’s possible with all this new and wonderful dating knowledge, but I still don’t have a valentine. But, during my escapades, I realized something: If I don’t have a valentine, there must be a bunch of other people who don’t either. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that if we keep at it long enough, we’ll all find a valentine someday. One Valentine’s Day without a date isn’t going to make a difference in the long run.

So, yes, I don’t have a valentine this year. What I do have, however, is 60 pounds of candy. Suddenly, not having a valentine is looking a whole lot sweeter.

Course Overload #9: "Snow Daze"

When I was a kid, I used to love when it snowed. I loved to watch the snow fall from the sky and then look out on my deck and see how tall it had piled up. I loved to build grotesque snow people with my brother. And I also loved watching my father scream obscenities at the snow blower for 45 minutes straight, and finally force my brother and I to help him shovel out our 86’ Chevy. Dad used to use words I’d never heard before and I haven’t heard since. For example, I’m still trying to figure out what a “fligging kroll” is. But most of all, I loved snow because it got me out of school. I’ll be honest: I’d love a sinister alien invasion or a plague of tiny venomous beetles infesting my spleen if it got me out of school.

However, once I started college, all of that changed. Snow became yet another reason for me to submerge myself in my bathtub and breathe through a straw all day instead of going to school. This is because every time it snows, I have to drive to school in it. I could skip class, but the last time I did that, my instructor explained the meaning of life and it was on the test. So every time it snows, I wake up six hours early, put on my boots, and drive a blazing four miles an hour to school. Sometimes, Dad runs along beside my car, and laughs at me when he passes it. I think that’s God’s way of punishing me for all of the times I sprayed Cheez Whiz in my brother’s shoes when I was a kid.

So, when I woke up one February morning to my Mother’s cries of “Holy Aardvarks! There’s enough snow out there to sink a fleet of nuclear rowboats!” I was none too happy. I sat up in my bed, my eyes instantly bloodshot at the prospect of driving to school in the snow yet again. Looking out my window nearly made my heart explode. For miles – as far as I could see – there was a 38 foot coating of snow on everything. The streetlights were doing their best to shine through the pounding flakes. My trampoline looked pregnant under the weight of the snow on its surface. All the cars had snow afros. As I stared across the landscape in the raging blizzard, I shed a single tear that quickly turned to ice and stuck about half way down my face. “

I think this is God’s way of punishing me for all the times I glued my brother’s deodorant to his desk when I was in high school,” I muttered.

But then, ladies and gentlemen, something magical happened. My mother heard my wails of snow-induced agony, and burst into my room yelling, “The college is closed! No school today! Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!”

After that, I kind of just stared at her until it hit me. The registrar had finally closed the college before 11 p.m. Apparently, weather will impact classes today. That meant that I wouldn’t have to dig out my car from a ridiculously huge snow pile! I wouldn’t have to drive to school at sloth speed, praying to every deity I knew!

I didn’t even have to shave.

My first instinct was to use this precious free time to study for an upcoming Bio test. So, of course, the first thing I did was go back to sleep. About 15 minutes later, I heard a knock at my door. Upon opening it, I saw my father before me, covered with about six inches of snow. “What part of my door being closed and no sound coming out of my room made you think I was awake?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

My father just stared at me with his bloodshot eyes, mumbled something incomprehensible about the snow blower, and handed me a shovel. Oh well, so I had to help dig him out. I still had the whole day to study for Bio. And by study for Bio, I mean play Silent Hill on my Playstation.

The next morning, I was ready bright and early to go dig my car out. Shovel in hand, I began to step out of the house, until my mother stopped me. “The college is closed… again!” she exclaimed, grabbing my arm and jumping up and down. At this point, the registrar had performed two miracles in a row, making him a possible candidate for sainthood. Throwing down my shovel, I marched straight back to my room and turned on my TV. I was so happy, I watched Captain Planet. (He’s my hero.)

On Wednesday morning, I knew I wasn’t about to get a third snow day in a row. After all, lightning barely ever strikes once, let alone twice. And three times is right out of the question. So, I got up, put on my clothing, and decided not to shave. By now, my face was rather overgrown, but no matter; I’m lazy. As I walked out to my car, my heart sank so low I could feel it in my kneecaps.

In all the excitement of the snow days, I had forgotten to dig my car out. All I could see was a giant pile of snow and the driver’s side rearview mirror peeking out from the side. As I proceeded to remove the approximately 20 foot tall snow drift that had engulfed my vehicle with a shovel the size of a postage stamp, I looked up at the sky shaking my fist and screamed, “You fligging kroll!”

I didn’t know what I was saying, but I understood it.

Course Overload #8: "A Bedtime Story"

I should have known something was wrong when the school newspaper meetings were moved from 7:30 p.m. on Mondays to 3 a.m. Tuesday mornings. But, I assumed it was just normal college behavior and went on with my day. I was beginning to get suspicious when I was asked to read six of Hemmingway’s best novels in one night. I could do it; I’d just have to stay up all night reading. Besides, it takes more than a few classic novels to stop ME. But the night they wouldn’t let me go home… that’s when I knew. That’s when I knew that I was part of some bizarre conspiracy to measure the effects of long term sleep depravation on short young men with glasses.

I know it sounds too weird to be true, but everything becomes so clear when you haven’t slept for 20 hours straight and you’ve had four Pepsis in the last hour just to stay awake.

The night it all came together in my mind was a night like any other. The sky was black with rain clouds, it was beginning to get deathly cold, and the wind whistled through the trees, as if mocking me for my lack of a jacket. It was a nice night, really. I had stayed up until 5 a.m. the night before, finishing a very important paper on why the government abducts kids who get high scores on arcade games for my Neurotic Paranoia and Sleep Depravation in Young Males class. I was finished for the day and was about to go home when I saw my friend Meg walk by. We struck up a conversation and she suggested that we go out for ice cream. I knew I shouldn’t, because I still had to read another three or four novels that night, and I had a big test in my African American authors class the next day. I decided to politely decline.

“Sure! Let’s go!” I said.

So there I was at Denny’s. Our waitress promptly handed us our menus. I probably should have known there was something wrong when I saw she was wearing a black suit and sunglasses, but I was concentrating on the ice cream I was about to order. I opted for the Oreo Blender Blast, in hopes that the caffeine in the chocolate would keep me awake long enough to finish the conversation I was having.

In a few minutes, the waitress returned with our ice cream. She turned around to leave, but quickly turned back and tapped my shoulder. “I almost forgot. Would you like sprinkles on that?” she asked.

“Sure,” I replied.

“And top secret government tracking drug for the sleep depravation in short guys with glasses experiment?”

“What?!” I exclaimed. This last topping had me slightly worried.

“It tastes like gummi bears.”

“Well…okay then.” I watched as the waitress sprinkled a strange green substance in my glass. Then she walked away cautiously and stared at us from behind a column. I was having doubts about eating the ice cream now. Perhaps “secret government tracking drug” was some sort of cute name Denny’s used for a perfectly mundane topping, much like how McDonald’s has their the happy meals. But then again, “secret government tracking drug” is just a little less inciting than “happy meal.” I was beginning to figure it all out; I know it sounds too weird to be true, but everything becomes so clear when you haven’t slept for 67 hours straight and you’ve taken to rubbing salt in your eyes just to stay awake. I decided that I wasn’t going to eat the ice cream, no matter what.

It was delicious.

Later on, I dropped Meg off back at her dorm. Pulling out of the college, I figured that if I hurried, I’d make it home by midnight, and I’d have the whole night to study. I’d lose some sleep, but I could just make it up later when I didn’t have as much homework. But as I was about to turn onto my exit, all I saw were those silly orange traffic cones blocking it, and suspicious looking men in back suits and neon orange safety vests. They were all wearing sunglasses at night, so they’d done an awful job of blocking the exit, but I still couldn’t get on the highway.

“It’s all right,” I said. “The highway might be closed, but I’ll just take the back roads.”

“No you won’t,” said one of the men who was suddenly standing next to my car.

“Why not?” I inquired, more than a little freaked out that there was a big scary man hovering over me in the dark.

“Because it’s not just the highway that’s closed, it’s the entire county.” With that, I began to cry.

And that’s when I knew. That’s when I knew they were doing it all on purpose. But no time to worry about that, I had to get back to the college and see if I couldn’t stow away in a friend’s dorm for the night.

A half hour later, I found myself in a dorm, my eyelids screaming for me to shut them already. “I guess I’ll be sleeping in your roommate’s bed tonight,” I said.

“No, she’s coming back eventually. You’ll be sleeping at the bottom of my bed.”

“Oh, well that doesn’t sound so bad,” I replied.

“…with all the other people who got stuck when they closed the county.”

The door flew open and in marched more than 20 short guys with glasses. I stared at them as they came in; they all had bags under their eyes and looked as if they hadn’t rested in weeks. Most of us had figured it out by then; I know it sounds too weird to be true, but everything becomes so clear when you haven’t slept for 133 hours straight and you’ve taken to setting your hair on fire just to stay awake.

“At least I’m safe here with you,” I said to my friend.

“Of course you are,” she replied. “Now you relax and I’ll bring you a nice jug of black coffee to help you get to sleep.”

“But wait a minute! Doesn’t coffee keep you…?!”

“Exactly,” she said, putting on her dark glasses.

“How could you?” I yelled.

“They promised me a room in Wonka Hall.”

A single highly-caffeinated tear rolled slowly down my cheek.

Course Overload #7: "Textbook in My Trousers"

Libraries and I never quite got along. Back when I was a wee Matt in elementary school, my class and I were routinely taken to the library for 40 or so minutes of literary torture. The librarian, Ms. Kinderkill, apparently had something against me. Perhaps it was the fact that I never seemed to be interested in reading, or maybe I was just too loud for the library. Or maybe it was because she said she loved War and Peace so much she couldn’t put it down, so I glued a copy of it to her hands to make sure of it. She would always try to ruin my day whenever she had the chance. For example, she would always call on me to answer things I couldn’t possibly know. All the other kids got easy questions, like “How many sides does a triangle have?” and “Do you have legs?” I, however, was usually given a pair of tweezers and a sack of radioactive scorpions and asked to split the nearest hydrogen atom. I had no idea what was in the bag, so when I opened it, out came the scorpions. They stung me everywhere while all the other children laughed and laughed. As punishment for not being able answer the question, I was forced to clean all the chalkboards in the school. With my tongue.

So, you can guess that I wasn’t exactly seizuring with joy when I had to get a book out of the college’s library last Tuesday. When I entered the library, I was prepared for the worst. Sneaking past the large sensors near the entrance, I allowed myself a small chuckle. They want you to think the sensors are to prevent people from walking out with valuable, library-only reference books, but I know better. No doubt they were trying to read my brain waves in an attempt to sense my fear, and, perhaps later on, steal my brain. With a quick glance around the room, I realized no one had seen me yet. Everyone was either reading a book or staring at a computer screen. What luck! Deciding not to waste the opportunity, I made a break for the stairs to the second floor.

But as my hand grabbed the doorknob, something alarming caught my attention. There, behind the main desk, was a security monitor displaying images of various places throughout the library. Forgetting my mission, I simply stared at it, dumbfounded. Why did a library need a security monitor? Is there something so important in here that it must be monitored 24/7?

TERRORIST 1: The bombs have been placed, demands have been made, and the robo-hamsters have been positioned. We are only missing one essential component in our plan to take over the lower half of Canada – a copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

TERRORIST 2: Foiled again!

Eventually I regained my composure and made my way downstairs. While opening the door to the second floor, I noticed a sign reading, “No Cell Phones in the Library.” No cell phones indeed, library. That way we can’t call for help. Undoubtedly, the library emits some sort of electronic jamming signal that renders all cell phones within 100 feet inoperable.

It was getting serious. If I was going to make it out alive and in time to watch General Hospital, I was going to have to work fast. Fortunately, next to the door, I spotted a large box that was postmarked for Rutgers University. Overturning it, I dumped its contents on the floor and threw the box over my body. This way, I could sneak around and no one would know.

Looking out from under my box, I saw a librarian quietly putting camera parts in a box. Slowly, I moved up behind her, and tapped her on the calf. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, my voice somewhat muffled from under the box, “I’m looking for books on the mating habits of the Ruby-Throated Alaskan Snowmobile.”

“Please,” she replied in a badly faked British accent, “call me Textbook Muskrat. It’s my code name.”

“All right, Textbook Muskrat, I’m looking for books on the – ”

“You’ll find them on the shelf to the right,” she replied, “next to the Explosive Thermonuclear Arbor Day Unit. Careful, it’s an international incident waiting to happen.”

Well, that explained the security cameras.

Quickly, I grabbed my book and shoved it down my pants. I probably could have just put it in my jacket pocket, but my pants somehow seemed more appropriate for the situation. On my way out of the library, I overheard Textbook Muskrat dragging around a box of heavy camera equipment. “Could someone help me with all this metal gear?” she asked. I slipped out the door unnoticed.

Running up the stairs and out of the door to the first floor, I thought I had it made. I had my book and the library had missed its chance to hurt me. Just then, a vision of Ms. Kinderkill popped into my head; her old, cackling face still haunting me. I couldn’t hold back. The little devil in me had to call my old school and tell Ms. Kinderkill what I had done, just to spite her. But when I took out my cell phone I tripped the alarm. I was in for it now. I quickly ran past the sensors and out the front entrance. Shedding my box, I made a b-line for my car. I had made it. And all before General Hospital.

The next day, there was a story in the local newspaper about what had taken place in the library. For a while, I was scared that I was going to be caught. But lucky for me, I was wrong. The image from the security cameras was made into a police composite sketch printed in the paper next to the article.

All units be on the look out for a walking box.

Course Overload #6: "Magical Mystery Dorm"

The morning of Aug. 25, 2004 was a beautiful one indeed. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, and the weather was perfect. Well, it was probably like that. I didn’t really notice or care, because it was the first day of my junior year of college. I had become so bored in the last days of the summer that I had resorted to asking for more hours at work, which was truly the act of a desperate man.

The little piece of paper the college had sent me a few weeks ago said that I should come in and register at 1:30 p.m. (That is, before I lost it.) That meant that I had plenty of time to get ready at my own pace.

So of course, there I was driving to the college at 8:30 a.m. Everything was going as planned. However, about 10 minutes before reaching my destination, I noticed a distant, multicolor glow. There were vibrant greens, deep yellows, blue diamonds, red balloons, and purple horseshoes strewn about the morning sky. The whole scene could be summed up in one phrase: magically delicious. It was hard to take my eyes off of it, and as I got closer to my destination, the sight became brighter and brighter. There was something captivating about it, like pouring Jell-O mix into your pool and tricking the neighborhood kids into going for a swim. I had to know what it was.

To my surprise, the origin of the inescapable light was right on the campus itself. As I pulled in and went to park in my usual spot, I got stuck behind a line of commuters. All had stopped their cars and were gazing at the source of the brilliant light; most standing outside their cars, the keys still in the ignition and loud music still blaring. Some had even climbed onto their roofs to get a better look.

I thought that perhaps this was the Second Coming, and while opening my door to get a better look, I wondered if classes would be canceled the next day. Standing outside of my car, I finally had a decent view. There, in front of me, was some sort of space station or something, roughly 50 stories tall and filled with row after row of smiling freshman girls. Above it were 10,000 rainbows. Hundreds of leprechauns, each riding a unicorn, poured sunshine and true love out of their magic pots onto the elegant structure.

“Someone must have forgotten to take home their mansion last semester,” suggested one onlooker.

“Looks more like a castle to me,” replied my friend Ashley from two cars ahead, wiping a tear from her eye. “I hear that the phones are telepathic in there. All you have to do is think about calling someone, and you speak to them through your mind.”

“Castles don’t have phones, Ashley,” I muttered, still in awe. “What is this thing, anyway?”

“Why, that’s Wonka Hall,” said a man in a purple jacket and silly top hat. “It’s the new dorm for freshman girls.”

“Why slap me and call me Susan! That’s Willy Wonka!” I screamed.

“Yes, it’s true,” said Wonka, proudly taping the side of the mega-dorm with his cane. “I designed Wonka Hall. During the summer months, my Oompa-lumpas built it at night, under the cover of darkness.”

I starred up at the mammoth dorm. All sorts of fancy gadgets stuck to the walls, presumably pumping happiness and comfort into all the rooms. Then I thought about how all of my junior and senior friends lived in what boiled down to tents with severe heating problems.

“The rooms have all the modern conveniences,” continued Wonka. “For example, the toilets don’t flush with water, they flush with cotton candy. And wait until those freshman get a load of the elevator!”

I couldn’t stand it anymore. It had been a dream of mine since boyhood to flush my toilet with cotton candy. I had to see it all for myself.

“Can I go inside? I’d love to see what you’ve –”

Wonka cut me off angrily. “No man has ever seen the inside of Wonka Hall!” he informed. “That is… not without a Golden Ticket…”

Suddenly, I remembered registration! Oh no! I had wasted so much time drooling over the new dorm, I’d forgotten all about my classes! It was already 9:13 a.m., which meant that I had less than seven hours before I missed registration completely! I’d have to move fast!

“Quick, Mr. Wonka! This giant dorm of yours is great and all, but where am I supposed to park my car now that all the parking spaces you built over are gone?”

“You don’t get a parking space,” replied Wonka.

“Why!?” I asked, running back to my car.

“Because you’re a COMMUTER,” replied Wonka with a crazed laugh.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” I yelled, jumping into my car and speeding away in search of a parking spot.

After parking my car somewhere in the next county and taking a cab back to the college, I managed to register with a mere six hours to spare. By then Wonka had disappeared, so I never did get to see the inside of Wonka Hall. I later attempted to take an online tour of the dorm, but the second I logged onto the school’s network, I contracted some sort of vile computer virus that threatened to blow up Canada if I ever turned on my PC again. The last thing my speakers ever played was a woman with a British accent yelling, “Man alert! Man alert!”

But you know something? As I thought about it, I realized that I don’t need cotton candy toilets or unicorns on rainbows to be happy, because I have the love and support of my friends, and a great college experience I’ll never forget.

That is, until I spray painted my name on a parking spot just outside of the MST building. Now I don’t need no stinkin’ friends, because I have a parking spot! In your face, Wonka! HA HA HA!

Perfectly Pointless Poems #1

The Course Overload series will be returning in the next post. Today, I have chosen to educate you with some delightful, classy poetry.

A Ninja is Waiting (4U)


It's true, it's true

a ninja lies in wait

just for you

You think you can run
you think you can hide
but that ninja
is right by your side

and you're gonna die
yes, you're gonna die



Eskimo Love


The Erotic Eskimo;
he likes his lovin'
cold.




One for J.J.


Swinging high above the sky scrapers,
he waits;
the sounds of city life
swirl around him
like the delicate scent

of an expensive perfume.

Clinging to a building,

he watches;

clouds just overhead,
the people look like ants
in some sort of giant,
smog-entwined zoo.
He's your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-man;
watching over his home from the heavens,
and doing whatever a spider can.

Course Overload #5: "Cheers!"

I didn’t drink alcohol before I was 21 . Yes, I was a goody-two-shoes, a party pooper, a crazy mofo; whatever you want to call me. I just wanted to wait until it was legal. I understand that given some of my subject matter, my loyal reader(s) could reasonably infer that I’d been perpetually sloshed every time I sat down at the word processor. Well, I’m sorry if I burst anyone’s beer bubble, but I was actually 100 percent sober every time. The only influence I was under while writing is insanity.

Somehow, over the course of my first 19 years, the drinking alcohol hardly ever came up. There’s only one instance I can think of, and that’s the cast party for my high school’s production of Fiddler on the Roof. I had the honor of playing a human statue of the fiddler. Basically, my part involved standing in the lobby for several hours in the same position, acting as a human decoration when people were buying their tickets and allowing small children to drape candy wrappers and used tissues over my extended limbs. I was told that I was the backbone of the production and invited to the cast party.

By the time I got there, everyone, including the all three daughters, the Matchmaker, most of the townspeople, Lazar Wolf, and even Tevia himself, had had too much to drink. The only sober people remaining – me, the cat, and a few ferns – spent the entire time asking people if they were drunk. The answer was always “no,” at which point I would ask them to prove it by doing a handstand or a cartwheel. Around 3 a.m., I began requesting backflips. I was even considering dragging the neighbor’s trampoline into the house around 5 a.m., but by then all the fun drunks had passed out in various compromising positions. I spent an hour or so dressing them all in festive togas, and around the time the sun came up, I simply got up and left. I spent the next three hours walking home, in the cold, with nothing but my trusty overshirt and my dull wits to protect me.

Perhaps it was the disappointment of seeing an entire group of people I respected reduced to babbling morons (with togas!), or maybe it was the fact that I couldn’t have just gone to sleep, for fear of being "shaving creamed" or having my hand dunked in warm water. Or it might have even been the pair of hunters who chased me for a good half mile of my walk home wile waving their shotguns in the air and screaming obscenities. But that day I decided that alcohol wasn’t for me until I could handle it, and 21 seemed like a good age for that.

For the rest of my high school career, my teetotaling  wasn’t a problem. However, within the first few weeks of college, the subject of drinking came up nearly two billion times. It all started when I was offered a beer at a party. “Oh, you go ahead and drink it,” I said. “I think I’ll just have a coke.” The happy chatter ceased. The music ended abruptly. The entire room fell silent. Everyone, drink in hand, stared at me. You’d think I had said, “Oh, no thanks. I’d rather bite the heads off of these kittens.” They simply could not fathom that anyone could turn down a beer.

From that day forward it was my friends’ mission in life to get me drunk. And it wasn’t just my college buddies: People I haven’t seen in years took up the cause too. Around that time saw my decrepit Uncle Jimbo for the first time in about ten years. The first thing out of his mouth was not “hello,” or “nice to see you again.” It was, “Why don’t you have a beer?” Even my girlfriend at the time was in on it. If it were possible to get drunk while simultaneously cutting off my ponytail and driving too fast, she’d have signed me up without my knowledge.

A typical conversation, with anyone I knew, usually went like this:

FRIEND: You should get drunk, Matt.

ME: No thanks.

FRIEND: Come on, it’ll be fun. Besides, alcohol builds strong bones and increases awareness. Consuming alcohol also helps feed the starving children in Kosovo. What, are you some sort of baby killer, Matt? You don’t want to be a murderer, do you!? Their deaths will be on your head! Help! Police! This man kills children!

ME (over the screaming): But, wouldn’t this time be better spent trying to find out what makes life so unbearable that society has to periodically ingest mass quantities of a semi-toxic substance just to be able to go on with our lives?

FRIEND: You bring up a good point, Mr. Frey. Perhaps you should expand on that idea over a nice jug of vodka.

As you can plainly see, it was a conspiracy. I was convinced that there was an entire government agency devoted to getting me wasted. An elite network of spies from all the countries of the world exchanged cryptic passwords and manila envelopes with each other while wearing trench coats and silly gangster hats to blend in, even in the summer, all for the sole purpose of slipping me a Mickey.

For the longest time, I asked myself, “Why does everyone get agitated when I turn down alcohol? Why does the entire world want to get me drunk?” But now I think I finally understand. I’ve figured out everyone’s little game. See, it’s like this: Nearly all my friends worked for Budweizer, on commission. Literally, their college education depended on my intoxication. It’s the only logical answer. In the early 2000s, there must have been only two kinds of people in this world: Those employed by Budweizer, and me. And a few ferns.

People should be allowed to do what they want, as long as its within reason and its not taking away someone else's rights. If you want to drink then fine, I’m not going to stop you. And if I want to drink, and I'm 21 and I’m not driving someplace afterwards, you shouldn’t try to stop me. But by the same token, I should be entitled to not drink if I so choose.

Just keep in mind that if you exercise your right to drink, I might exercise my right to dress passed out friends in togas.

Course Overload #4: "Snooze Blues"

Does anyone out there remember sleep? It was good, if memory serves. I seem to recall it involving something known as a “bed” and another thing called a “blanket.” I also have memories of a third object, called “handcuffs,” but I don’t quite remember what they do.

I also know about something called a “nap.” Well, I know what the word “nap” means, in theory, but I don’t really have an experience to connect with the word. The last time I took a nap was sometime in 2001, and even then, it was because I was run over by a beer truck on the way to class. All I remember is seeing a conspicuously insect-free place high above the clouds, filled with angels playing Playstation games. Then I saw a man with a long gray beard and a shining white robe. He took one look at me and started laughing. The old man gave me a thumbs down gesture, snapped his fingers, and the next thing I remember is limping to English 101 with approximately 20 pounds of extra steel embedded in my body. I guess the professor smelled the alcohol on me from the beer truck accident, and I spent the next 10 hours in the dean’s office trying to explain that I wasn’t drunk; I smelled like beer because an old man in the sky made me take a nap.

By now I’ll bet you’re wondering why I don’t get much sleep. The answer is quite simple: I’m in college now, so I know better. Studies have shown that as we grow older, our bodies need more sleep. However, millions of people from around the globe have died in their sleep, thus it’s only logical to conclude that too much sleep kills you. In fact, sleep is the second leading cause of death among college age adults, the first being death. All college professors know this, and in a genuinely heroic attempt to keep us college students alive, they give us lots of things to keep us occupied during those lonely nighttime hours.

I am very grateful to my professors for doing me such an admirable service. After all, the youth of today are tomorrow’s leaders, so it would be wise to make sure some of us stay alive. Otherwise, children in the future will have a very hard time playing “Follow the Leader.” The game will simply be reduced to “Follow.”

Yet, as great as living is, sometimes I wish sleep wasn’t so deadly. Often, after staying up well past 14 or 15 o’clock, my body begins to malfunction. For example, the sleep depravation has begun to affect my memory. I will honestly not remember writing this, and when I see it on this blog, I will be very excited that I wrote an article. About half way through, I will forget who wrote it, look back at the author, and become excited all over again. This process will repeat itself until someone takes the PC away from me or I have to use the bathroom. Hopefully, I won’t look for something to read while I’m in there, or the vicious cycle will start all over again.

Unfortunately, I’m a commuter, and sleep deprivation affects my driving skills. For example, I often set my cruise control and go to sleep on the way to school. I just let my Taurus bounce off the guard rails for 28 miles until I get to school, like those bumpers they set up for little kids’ birthday parties in bowling alleys. This usually works pretty well, but every once in a while I’ll wake up in a ditch somewhere in Maryland. When this happens, I turn the car around in the opposite direction I was going, turn on cruise control again and go back to sleep.

I’ve also discovered another problem: No sleep impairs my judgment. One time, I thought it would be a pretty good joke if I called the fire department and told them that my grandmother’s cat was stuck in a tree and that they needed to hurry over before she attempted to help him down with her shotgun. I also said the cat was on fire. And full of dynamite. So, a few minutes later, 37 firemen arrived and dashed from the fire truck, waving axes and fire hoses high above their heads. I ran up to them with a look of terror in my eyes, put my hand on the fire chief’s shoulder, and exclaimed, “Tag! You’re it!” About 150 hours of community service have since shown me the error of my ways, so I can honestly guarantee that I’d never do something like that ever again. Oh, while I’m on the subject of firemen, did you know that the fines for calling in a fake emergency are doubled if you do it more than once?

My attention span has been also affected. Sometimes, I’ll start a sentence and never

And other times, I startt mizspeling thinngz. When it gets really bad, I just begin to speak in gibberish. This makes it very difficult for my flapjacks to buy their pants. But that made me realize that I should donate all of my salt to the furtive monkey dishwasher. I hear it's amazing when the purple stuffed worm in flap jaw space does a raw blink on Hari-kiri Rock. I need scissors! 61!

You know, as deadly as they are, I’m starting to think that I should just take my chances with this whole “nap” thing.