I don’t want to be naive , but apparently cold sores – not better known as lip herpes, and definitely not known as liperpes (though it should be) – is spreading like wild fire amongst college students. The culprit blamed for the spreading: beer pong.
But beer pong could be nearly as dangerous as unprotected sex in terms of spreading diseases, according to a recent article in the University of Massachusetts’ student newspaper — which links the rise of herpes on campus to the popularity of beer pong. Because the game involves multiple people drinking from the same cups, the herpes virus — which can be transmitted via saliva — can be spread to everyone who is playing through the course of a game. The virus is up 230 percent since 2007 in people between ages 17 and 21.
And here I foolishly thought it was because college students are generally sluts (and I’m talking about both genders when I say that).
This got me thinking about what other STD’s might not be ST’d (sexually transmitted), and in fact may be BP’d (beer ponged).
Gonorrhea – From clapping near someone else who is clapping. This is why it’s also known as the Clap.
Chlamydia– From getting sodas out dispensers outside of Walmart stores.
Genital Warts – From playing with toads before using the restroom. The same applies to Crabs. Not to be confused with Gentile Warts, common amongst Christians.
Syphilis – Was created by Alexander Fleming in order to sell his new discovery, penicillin. Transmitted via playing catch with Frisbees, and sometimes Nerf Boomerangs.
A pubic public service announcement from the 80’s:
Mario Paint, a staple of the Super Nintendo, was a pretty pointless, but very entertaining gimmick game, like pretty much most of Nintendo’s products through the years. Gotta love ’em nonetheless!
Anywario, there’s an app floating around on the TripleDoubleU that imitates the old composer portion of Mario Paint, and what would the world be coming to if nerds fans out there didn’t create their own masterpieces! Well, at least covert other people’s songs into Mario Paint versions. Some highlights:
I had a series of strange dream flashes recently. Here’s the gist of them:
1) The Gash Monster. This one is a little messed up. The opening of the dream started like a pinhole fade-in… except the pinhole was a square. As the blackness pulled away, it revealed a creature comprised of eyes that looked just like this one below:
(Kinda) Artistic Representation
It was covered in gashes (take that word choice however you may), and in every slit (same goes for that word choice) rested a beady, blinking eye. The beast was the size of a couch and shaped like a boar. Its snorting (and endless staring) woke me up immediately.
2) The Floating Puck. In this dream, there was a ten foot cushioned, hockey puck-looking thing in a play area. Some kids were floating above it, but I thought they were flying by jet packs like we’re used to seeing (even though I saw none):
In case you couldn't put "jet" and "pack" together in your mind.
When they started doing flips, it freaked me out. I was worried they’d crash and smash their heads. As it turned out, this puck-thing blasted air which made everyone virtually weightless. At the point I finally stood on it, I had to jump to get started. I lifted a bit higher with each jump, but I was too heavy for it and slowly descended back to the ground. For whatever reason, this made me wake up, laughing out loud.
3) The Giveaway. This is maybe even stranger than the other two dreams. I was in my basement doing laundry, and Robert Redford was also there, going through all of his old awards. He was pulling out all kinds of trophies and throwing them in the trash – even his Oscars. The only one he wanted to keep was from Butch Cassidey and the Sundance Kid (for which he wasn’t even nominated). He told me he’d give me his Academy Award from The Sting (he didn’t win, but at least he was nominated). When he reached into the box, he pulled out a toy of the Gash Monster.
Okay, it’s official. As you can see in the Widget bar at the left, I am a Twitterer-er–ee… and my user name is WYSeanIWYG if anyone’s interested (comment me with your below and I’ll “Follow”).
Anywhippersnapper, I’ve already made one cool discovery, courtesy of Actor!Kevin Pollak (whom I’ve always liked before and since The Usual Suspects, probably because he kind of reminds me of one of my uncles).
He recommended the “I Can Read Movies” Series by some artist named Spacesick. Basically, he conceptualizes each selected film as an iconic, stylized image (kind of like the old Activision game covers), portrayed as an old book cover.
Some examples:
"There can be only one... unless we want to make sequels."
"Hey, Dr. Jones, no time for love. Swinging on vines with monkeys? Eventually."
Soon to be major motion pictures, I'm sure. Then "I Can Read Movies" novelizations. Then video games again.
When I was just a wee lad back in the day (I’m prepping for St. Paddy’s), it was awful fun for the adults give kids a sip of beer and watch their reactions. I’m the oldest boy of all the cousins on my father’s side, and for quite awhile I was the only boy (my brother broke the streak when I was nine… there were nine girls and me… ever notice how the more girls there are, the higher the octave of screeching goes?)
What I’m getting at is it wasn’t uncommon for my elders to make me the butt of the joke. Some might have thought it would encourage drinking, but I never took a sip of alcohol (not counting my relatives’ pranks) until I turned 19 and could legally do so in Canada. My other tendencies in alluded-to innocence: I was more interested in Nintendo than IN-tendo (if you catch my innuendo), smoking was a disgusting habit my parents had and I swore I would never have, and drugs… well, I’d stick only to any of the natural kind.
…parents pulling new tricks on their kids for laughs (and filming it and putting it on YouTube… “Thanks Dad… what are you, like, thirteen, or something?”)…
…or teaching their kids to be pretty good at smoking.
I guess you could always over indulge your child and baby them so they can become insulated and protected from the rest of the world (read: spoiled), that they never have to deal with R|E|A|L|I|T|Y. Heaven forbid someone take their Cloudsong…
Last night, I had the first confirmation of a theory I’ve long held to be true. It’s not quite a Theory Sheet level theory (yet), and the jury is still out on whether or not it’s repeatable, but I’ve at least found an available and consistent means to test it.
The Theory: Thinking while drinking makes you smarter.
I was going to describe how the parachutes are like beer and the running is like thinking, but the picture makes me laugh for some reason, so I'll write nothing but this.
The Test: Brain Age 2 for the Nintendo DS
Basically, two nights ago, I dug out my DS because I didn’t feel like turning on my TV and PS3 to play a video game to fall asleep. Brain Age 2 was in there and since I didn’t feel like changing that out (I was tired… and a little lazy), I gave it a go. It was a sober night, and I was rated a Brain Age of 54.
Last night, I had a good five drinks in me as I went to bed. I pulled out the ol’ DS one more time and I was rated a Brain Age of 34. That’s a substantial gain, especially when considering my average was previously 53.
The big question that remains: Do I have to stay drunk to stay smarter?
My sister, Tammie, had a good chortleguffaw chuckle when she heard me ask this one time:
Hey Chris, what does it mean when my Wii’s glowing blue?
She lost it, and upon thinking how ridiculous it sounded out of context, others joined her giggles, myself included. As it turns out, she may slowly be turning into my foil.
Let me further explain.
Last night, one of my friends stopped by with his two sons. They’re cute enough, nice enough kids, but where my friend made the mistake was to inform his children that I had toys.
What I have are not toys. They’re collectibles. Two totally different things.
Upon arriving, and not expecting them to stay long as I had mentioned plans to head to trivia, the boys whipped off their scarves and knit caps and bundled coats and proclaimed, “Where’s the toys?”
I begrudgingly lead the trio back to my DVD room (yes, they have their own room… they kinda require a room when they reach 1200+). In there, I have Indiana Jones figures, Lego playsets, Transformers, and Matt Trakker of M.A.S.K. re-released as a G.I. Joe, all in their packages. Of course, the first thing to reached for is Trakker.
“I know how to put this together,” the oldest proclaimed.
“So do I,” was my response as I put it back.
On one of the cabinets, I have some open figures on display which include mini Ninja Turtles, mini Transformers, a mini Grimlock cartoon figure that does not move, and both versions of Bumblebee from the Michael Bay movie.
They moved onto these collectibles, and within minutes, Grimlock was in pieces (I don’t think he’s supposed to come that much apart, if even at all), the rubberbands holding the weapons in the Turtles’ hands were snapped, and the ’77 Camaro Bumblebee was being stabbed by his own laser sword.
I have learned patience through all the years of working with computers, but when it comes to children—
My friend kept talking to me and I kept thinking, doesn’t he see what they’re doing? The youngest had to go #2 and took Raphael with him. Raphael! RAPHAEL?!
When they were finally getting packed up to ship out, I told my friend he could visit with them again in about 10 years.
Now back to Tammie. As I recounted the situation to her, she just laughed at me again. The definition of a foil according to Answers.com:
One that by contrast underscores or enhances the distinctive characteristics of another: “I am resolved my husband shall not be a rival, but a foil to me” (Charlotte Brontë).
She said, “You do realize you’re complaining about children playing with your toys.”
Over Winter Weekend Break Part 2, I stopped at a Best Buy store, and this “game” caught my eye:
Um... yeah...
I mean, how could I nazi it?
It wasn’t on the display with all the games in the regular section, it was in the main aisleway, right there on the first rack… or was it second… no, third reich.
The game was on clearance for $14.99, and I didn’t even have to axis why. Just look at it!
I was supposed to go get some things I need, like the 3-TP’s (toilet paper, tooth paste, Tarts Pop), rather than things I want. That’s why you should never gestapo at an electronics store while running an aryan. (I’m done.)
Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one is about a Halloween party where I learned a hard life lesson…
I consider myself a cardboard specialist. Sort of a masterboarder, if you will. Two examples:
Get it? Duck-Duck-Goose! Ah, go duck yourself.
I ain't afraid of no--OMG! Is that orb a ghost?!
Your Aunt Tammie and Uncle Will wanted something simple, cheap, and quick a few Halloween’s back. She came up with the concept; I came up with the design.
A Halloween or two prior to that, I studied my “Ghostbusters” accessories, and mocked up a poor man’s version (a.k.a. child’s version) of their Proton Pack to go along with my tan jumpsuit and patches.
My talent first revealed itself to me a Halloween or two prior to that one. (There was one party in the middle where I grew out my beard and hair and went as Tom Hanks in “Cast Away.” I was going to follow-up as Robert Duvall in “THX 1138” the next year by shaving my head, but I went on vacation instead. As if you cared.)
The event that birthed my boardery occurred at a private gathering in the basement of a hall. Upstairs, a wedding reception was held, and upon walking through the front doors of the hall, the groom exclaimed, “Optimus Prime!”
Michael Bay, eat your heart out.
He didn’t yell to Uncle Jay, “Starscream!” He yelled the character I was playing. (Although he did also shout “Dogma!” when he saw Uncle Chris dressed as Matt Damon in the film – he was a wingless angel in armor. Nerd!)
Later in the night, prior to the police arriving to break up the Halloweed festivities, a group of us would eventually make our way back up to the reception to seek out more alcohol. There’s video somewhere out there of Optimus Prime and Starscream dancing with the bride and bridesmaids. But that’s not what this tale’s about.
Despite the fact that Jay and I won Best Couple (again, before that whole cop crackdown thing), there was a bitter Energon cube I was forced to swallow. While talking to a pair of G.I. Janes, my good old buddy was getting all the attention. I blew up. “I’m the leader of the Autobots,” I began. “Starscream doesn’t lead anything. In fact all he does is whine to Megatron. It’s his wingspan, isn’t it? It’s always about the wingspan. Don’t lie and tell me differently.”
Thank Cybertron the boys in blue cancelled the show.
MORAL OF THE STORY: No matter what you do, no matter how much you accomplish in life, girls always love the bad boys.
Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this time it’s about what makes this country so great… especially Detroit…
Independence Day (the holiday, not the movie) is a time for celebrating our right to blow things up and be American! One particular Fourth of July, we showed our dedication the best way we could… by buying illegal fireworks from Ohio.
Now, you youngsters might be wondering, “Isn’t that illegal to buy things that are illegal, Uncle Sean?”
And that’s my point – it’s American to do just that very thing!
As we sat on my front porch which is on a main road in Detroit, cars drove by while mortars and missiles and fountains rained down colored flames. No one paid a mind, and a great time was had by all… especially because we had a couple of 24 packs inside that dwindled down faster than a sparkler.
SIDENOTE: I used to have three lawn chairs. They were the old aluminum frame ones with cross-hatched plastic strips. They were pretty crappy, but still comfortable. One by one they were eventually stolen off my porch, but on this day I still had all three. Viva America!
One of my friends slash your uncles either didn’t know how to sit in these chairs, or he was the straw that broke the camels back, so to speak, but the cross-hatching gave way under his weight and he fell and bent the frame. We all had a good laugh (he may not have), and I pushed it further by tossing it over the bushes onto my front lawn as the show continued, courtesy of Uncle Rich.
Some neighborhood kids came down to see if they could buy some fireworks off us. We weren’t selling, so they stole some. Viva America!
Your Uncle Jay and Uncle Rob decided to pretend they were in G.I. Joe, so they each grabbed a Roman candle and had a battle in the front yard, roadway, and across the street shooting at each other. I suggested that Jay use the downed chair as a shield (Rob was the one who broke it). Viva America!
SIDENOTE: The people across the street from me were evicted. A big dumpster full of their belongings was parked out front. There were boxes, furniture, mattresses. You’ll need to know about this later.
After the battle used up all the ammo, I thought it would be funny to suggest that Uncle Rob throw a mortar into the dumpster to see what would happen. As if he was in Mission Impossible, he scurried to the trash heaps steel base. With his back pressed to it, he lit the firework and chucked it in. He ran back across the street to us. And we waited. And we waited. No flurry of sparks. No explosion. We deduced that it must have need its launch tube.
As the supply of fireworks winded down (the beverage supply was getting low too), your Aunt Sue readied to put the last mortar into the launch tube. She stood over it as she prepared to light it. This was her first for the night. We shouted at her to stop… pointed out how dangerous that was. On cue, a tiny flame flickered out of the dumpster.
Everyone leaped into action. Sue and Rob scrambled to pick up all the debris littering the front yard. Rich, Jay, and I hurried inside to grab bowls to fill with water to put the fire out. From my kitchen, through the front door, I could see that the flames were out of control. Jay pulled out a colander.
“We need a hose and some trash cans,” Rich said.
Outside, we filled and carried trash can after trash can and ran across the road. A pair of women walking down the street laughed at our efforts. Viva America!
The fire truck eventually arrived. I carried the last dose of water. I nodded as they took over. We all hid inside as they finished the job, which took quite awhile. They even had to pull out the charred remains to make sure it was extinguished. That’s when we realized the cases were empty.
MORAL OF THE STORY:We should have ran to the store well before the Roman candle fight.
monkeyBLOG monkeyDO 
