Course Overload #14: "The Day I Was Almost Shot from a Cannon"

For some reason, I don’t ever expect these things to happen to me. It’s always some sunny, abnormally normal day, and I’m always just walking around, minding my own business, when something deranged happens and I’m traumatized, once again, for the rest of my natural days. I guess what I’m trying to say is that every day I wake up and the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I’m finally happy with my life for once, I should skip my classes and stay in bed. Whatever material I miss in class will be made up for with my sanity.

So when I woke up one fine morning in October and the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and I was finally happy with my life for once, a little voice in my head started screaming like a little girl; a little girl waving a red flag with a skull and crossbones on it and wearing a yellow hard hat and a T-shirt with a neon orange “danger!” sign. Realizing it was a great day for me to be run over by a beer truck or attacked by a troupe of wandering ninjas, I took extra care in getting to school.

My first two classes that day went by without a hitch. I checked for gas leaks in every room before class and was very careful to not sit in the desks with giant skulls painted on them in human blood. Somewhere in between Western Civ and Modern American Fiction, a dirty man in a beat up ’77 Chevy pulled up to me, wearing a trench coat and dark sunglasses. He asked if I wanted some candy, or free kittens, or apples with razors in them. Everything looked so delicious, especially the kittens, but I knew it would lead to trouble.

I was actually going to make it to lunch without campus security arresting me for wearing white after Labor Day, or tiny, venomous beetles infesting my spleen. A sense of victory washed over me.

And then I heard the sirens and I knew it was all over. I knew that they were somehow meant for me, and that there was no way around the great pain they were about to deal to me. I simply kept walking to my car with my head down. I assumed it would be easy to spot my car now that it was the only one in the lot that was on fire.

“I always thought that sirens were so romantic,” said a random passerby to her boyfriend. “And fire trucks too, like the ones parked next to the girl’s dorms right now. Oh, let’s just get married, shall we?”

“I have to teach a class first.”

I thought that perhaps all the hot girls who live in those dorms had finally caused the place to burst into flames. I’d estimated that on hot days, the temperatures in there could rise to well beyond 200 degrees, and the students living those dorms would have to sleep on blocks of ice instead of beds.

Expecting to see an inferno of textbooks and laptops bursting through the doors and people leaping from the windows, I turned my head towards the building. There were about five fire trucks and 50 firemen, yes, but fortunately, there were no flames. I watched as a group of firemen kicked down a clearly unlocked door and rushed inside. Several groups of annoyed girls huddled together on the sidewalks, watching as the remaining firemen sprayed huge streams of water into all the open windows, just in case.

“What’s going on?” I asked one girl, who apparently had only one eyebrow.

“Those Godforsaken fire alarms go off all the time,” she replied. “I was putting on my makeup when it went off.”

Well, that explained the single eyebrow.

“It’s true,” interjected a shivering girl clad in only a white towel. “One time my boyfriend and I were just standing under one of the detectors and it went off.”

“Who’s your boyfriend?” I inquired.

“Johnny Depp.” Upon hearing this, I wondered why the alarm hadn’t gone off sooner. She continued, “I’ve learned to not use hot water in the shower; the steam sets it off sometimes. In fact, I was taking a cold shower when the alarm went off.”

“I’d take a cold shower too if I were going out with Johnny Depp,” I mumbled.

At that point I noticed the fire chief hovering over me. He looked rather upset. “Hey you, with the glasses!”

“Yes?” I said, puzzled.

“When was the last time you took a hot shower?” he asked. This question worried me on so many different levels.

“Uh… this morning,” I responded carefully.

He frowned. “It was this guy right here who set off the alarms!” he exclaimed. And then, looking at me – “Don’t you know it’s against the law to trip fire alarms when there’s no fire?”

“But that was five hours ago and I was 30 miles away!”

“It doesn’t matter,” interrupted one eyebrow girl. “Like I said, those alarms go off from the smallest things.”

“Looks like you’re going to be fired from the college,” said the fire chief.

“Don’t you mean expelled?” I asked, holding back tears.

“Nope, I mean fired. From this cannon,” replied the chief, pointing to the shinny metallic object that the firemen were already unloading from the truck. “That’s the punishment for setting off a false alarm.”

“I should know,” said a girl with a flat face.

Just then, wet towel girl broke free of the crowd. “Hey, there’s my boyfriend! Over here, Johnny!” With that, everyone gasped and turned to take a look. Silently thanking Mr. Depp, I stole the opportunity to sneak away.

Walking back to the lower parking lot, I muttered, “Well, at least it wasn’t my car that was on… oh no.” As I watched the smoke swirl around in the air, making pretty patterns that seemed to be mocking me from above, I cursed chirping birds and normal, sunny days for the rest of eternity.

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.