Goddamn tortilla shell filled with bullets, Ironfists, Rambo traps, snake bites, and Indiana Jones whips to the face
Demon-fucking-offspring of Hurricanes Andrew and Katrina really high on giraffe tranks
Fourth grader that is 6’4” with a beard that threatens to crap in eyes if mini-corndogs aren’t handed over with toes (I only lick the toes if I forewarn)
3.2-ton milk cow that shits pure calcium and Vitamin D, but into Certified Michigan Trout Streams
Grotesque bastard delivered in Cudahy, Wisconsin, 3 weeks early weighing 13lbs, 9 oz while pepperjack cheese spews out of my ass in the eyes of Doc
Chef knife who craves thumbs and finger tips more than pussy (or stabbing one)
Rug on the floor that gets seven (7) orgasms every time a foot touches me
Snow that falls into the mouth of a dementia patient who fell asleep on the back-deck while his attendant took a smoke-break
Agent of a guy, who knew a guy, who just boiled a pot of six souls on the back-left this past Tuesday in San Bernardino
Snowman in the Antarctic with eight eyes made of coal with missiles tucked beneath my snowballs
Guy drunk on Wild Turkey, pretending to know what it’s like to write, while he fabricates a spaghetti dinner for his disillusioned parents.
This is a Goddamn proud moment within the Minorspeculum Family. I can feel it in my plums.
Like any family, a time to pause and reflect is warranted when one of its members greatly betters their life in any way, shape, or form. In this particular instance, the Subject is Larry (Larsen, Larsenito, Gregg, The Gym Master’s Son, Lancelot, Senior DungDiggles, FlyWay to Merc, The Monsters Only Fear, et al..), and the charge? His acceptance to Columbia College Chicago. The Admission Review Committee not only thought that Larry was deserving enough to attend their prestigious school, but additionally gave him coupons to a free lunch at any one of four diners within 47 miles of the campus, on odd numbered Wednesday’s of even numbered months. This is the first time an honor of such has ever been given to an incoming student.
We’re all proud of you FlyWay to Merc. You are the most major thing left in a minor town, the prized tomato growing on a weakened vine. Go there. Kick ass. See. Conquer. Paint the city with the bowels of the miscreants who ever doubted you or said an unforgiving word. And by God, have fun with it. Take as many outlandish liberties as humanly possible.
Several years ago I received a postcard from my dear friend Sebastian Dangerfield, sent from Worcester Massachusetts. The front, in black and white, boasted a drunken Irishman passed out on a park bench in City Square. On the reverse, these words, “It’d be wise of you to find your way east. Before it all burns down. S.D.” His implication was that a devil of a good time was going down, and I should join the revolution. I politely declined at that time, as my current state of affairs would not allow for such a journey.
One could imagine my surprise when my crony Erik Lerdal headed to Worcester many years after that postcard found its way to my hands. When the opportunity arose for me to join him, Mr. Dangerfield’s words chimed through my mind. I found my way east.
I’ve been in Worcester for two and a half months now. The irony is I have no idea where Mr. Dangerfield found a postcard to send. I’ve been driving around these winding roads for two weeks now searching for two postcards I promised a Mrs. Albert Stefani, for some 2nd graders learning geography. Phone calls made, stores searched, miles driven through pothole infested roads. Not a goddamn postcard in the county. Like Indiana Jones searching for the Arc of the Covenant. NOBODY KNOWS NOTHIN.
Although postcard woes are the least of my many concerns, the overtones of the situation ring true for my life here thus far. Nothing is cut and dry, nor easy, and the answers are always just out of grasp. It’s remarkably easy to identify my dislikes of Worcester. Let me share a few.
Foremost it should be noted that Worcester is the second largest city in the greater New England area, meaning that only Boston has more scurvy Micks and Guidos. It appears as the roadways were made on the fly; winding, thin, and completely unorganized. Accommodations needed to be made for the severely hilly landscape, yes. That’s hardly an excuse.
On these roadways are “Massholes.” These freaks drive like they just snorted an eight-ball shoelace of uncut yack, and chased it with a quart of Jack Daniels. I don’t leave the house unless I’ve had at least twelve punchinos. At that point, I rip and roar, taunting others with raunchy collegiate gestures and demon-like snarls. It can be fun yes, but never abuse it.
The roads themselves and their conditions are simply deplorable. There are potholes large enough to drown a pair of mating rhinoceros (if said pothole was indeed full of grimy street water). A water main will jut out 4 inches above the concrete. Large tree roots have had their way with Route 70 near the Charter cable headquarters. Vehicles speed along at 50 miles per hour then drop down to a crawl to navigate the fifty yard stretch where a war seemingly broke out some time ago, and the mess remains to remind us of the sacrifice.
Surely there must be kind hearted folk somewhere in these parts. However, for every one found you must wade through 341 shitbags of utter disgrace. A sense of entitlement carried around like a badge on the chest. “I was born here. So was my dad. And his dad. And his.” Though these folks have never left Worcester county, they are more well traveled than I, or any other. It took me a full month just for the guys at work to make eye contact with me. Hell, maybe because I’m so handsome though… neither here nor there.
And I guess that’s my main gripe, the people and the roads. Hell, I guess that’s not too bad, huh? There are some very picturesque settings around here. Some great history. Fantastic dining and bars. Opportunities for recreational activities. Close proximity to ALL the key east coast players; Boston, Providence, NYC, DC, etc. Not to mention seafood is so readily available that you can put a pot of water on to boil, go get a lobster and come back, without the water being close to hot.
Unfortunately, those luxuries are not yet available to me. This is a place where the established thrive, a locale where money can surely buy happiness. For the struggling new professional, you’re stuck with dollar drafts at The Ship on Tuesdays. And the roads. And the people. If I’d only known this when I received that postcard from Mr. Dangerfield. I would have sent him a postcard of my own, perhaps of the picturesque pier heads where the mighty St. Joseph empties into the big, blue beauty herself- Lake Michigan. On the reverse side, the following words would be etched, “Let the motherfucker burn.”
HARTFORD, MI- There was never any doubt that the one thing Brad Manning wanted to see in his lifetime was peace on our spectacular planet, Earth, the third planet from the sun. What is in doubt is the location of his human remains, and whether they are a whole unit, or if they are in little pieces, like the peanut bits found in Jiff crunchy peanut butter.
“I don’t know man, I’m just so fucking nervous right now,” says long-time friend Scott Nykamp, adding, “I just hope he’s fucking alive man, because, man, it would suck so bad if he wasn’t, ya know?” Yes, Mr. Nykamp, we know.
It’s hardly an understatement saying that Brad Manning was the most beloved sunuvabitch in Hartford. A first-year middle school English teacher, Manning has always vowed to give back to the community. However, he’s been so charitable recently that his friends were wondering what was next.
Lawrence Larsen II was also a close friend of Brad’s. Recently they had conjured up the blue prints to form the Hartford Literary Society, a movement set forth in motion by none other than Brad Manning. Larsen agrees in regards to the recent philanthropic antics of Manning:
“That fucking guy, Jesus Christ, he’s just been too fucking good lately, too fucking good. When he told me about QUEER (Quest to Unite and Evaluate Equality Relations), I could tell he was serious. The dude was so hot for QUEER, and how can you really blame him.”
No one knows precisely where Brad started his venture, where he planned to go on his second or third stops, or even his eighth stop. However, his close friends have identified the following as potential stops: Little Rock, Arkansas; Ciudad Juarez, Mexico; Baltimore, Maryland; and Spain.
Director/writer/actor Quentin Tarantino was a long-time friend of Manning’s, and they frequently vacationed together, quietly, at a top-secret location on the Pacific Northwest coast. Tarantino’s take:
“I can recall one of the last true conversations I had with Bradley. We were discussing some of the characters of my films, because he truly loved many of the characters of my films, and we discussed 16 of his favorite characters. He thought that Jules was just such a profound man, the way he decided to walk the earth. That really resonated with him; he just thought that (etc.).”
Brad Manning’s only fault as a man was that he cared too much. It is an utter, disgusting, pig-fucking shame that he can’t remain with us all, for the entirety of this miraculous nation, preserved for all to cherish, like a precious metal displayed at the Smithsonian.
NOTE: If anyone has any information in regards to Brad Manning’s whereabouts, please contact the Hartford Police Department, who will transfer you directly to the Van Buren County Sheriff’s Department, who will then immediately patch you into the nearest Michigan State Police Post. If that post is still staffed, they will contact the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who has been working relentlessly on this case since January first.
A recent email I sent to my Friend, verbatim. Tried to mold it into a short story; it wasn’t worth the effort. Enjoy.
So, shit, went 0 for 2 on the day. Took the job hit. Then Erica got on my nerves so fucking bad that I’m staying the night at Bert’s, even though she wanted me to stay. Here are some examples:
- We decided to go see Brothers. I was at her place 2 hours before going. For about 1.5 hours of that, she was sending texts, and various other messages. Then she did that shit where she would tell me everybody else’s comments on something she said on facebook. “I was like, ‘you were wearing a helmet because you ride the short bus,’ then jason was like, ‘what the hell man?’ and then bruce was like, ‘yeah, short bus, lmao……” I didn’t find any of it funny. She laughed her ass off.
- I turned the tv to Jeopardy. She repeatedly told me how the show was stupid. Before the final question, she asked if I would mind if she changed it. I say be my guest. She changes it to MTV, and fuckin Jersey shores. The worst part is, she wasn’t even watching it, she was texting her balls off. She asks me if I’ve ever watched the show. I say, “I haven’t watched MTV since I was in elementary school.” Afterwards, we watched some goddamn dance show Fox. I watched that is. She texted.
- She only wanted to go if I warmed up my truck and pulled it up to the door, stating, “that’s the gentleman thing to do.”
- We went to Walmart. She had to piss because she was slamming cocktails before we left. She was doing the “pee-pee dance” as she called it. Same shit as a fucking child would do, dancing and squirming around because she had to piss. She needed to pick up TWO things REAL QUICK. Mind you when we pulled into walmart, there was 12 minutes before the movie started. She ended up getting about 17 things. And we were late to the goddamn movie.
- When we get there, she was being really fucking rude, and a total fucking bitch, because some guy was trying to buy a couple of gift cards. Embaressed the shit out of me. The employee pointed to the machine where you can swipe and buy your ticket. She’s too dumb to work the thing. She talks shit to it. Further embaressment. The guy leaves the line, I go there to buy my ticket. I apologize profusely under my breath. The employee says he’s sorry. I say, no man, you don’t have to apologize for anything. Jesus christ.
- She decides after 15 minutes that the movie sucks. Commence texting. She says out loud, and to the “people” next to us, “this movie is sooooo slow. this movie sucks.” Once again, I’m embaressed.
- I can hardly enjoy movie, due to her and the “people”. The best part was when she didn’t say or do a fucking thing and curled up and snuggled up to my arm. I thought, this shit could work out after all. It didn’t. With about 20 minutes left in the film, she said loud enough so the entire goddamn theater could hear, “I can’t believe how much this movie sucks.”
- I’m going 35 mph in a 30 on the way back in St Joe. She says fairly snide- I’d slow down, the St Joe cops are assholes. I say back (she has 2 dui’s in st joe) “I’ll be fine. I’m not drunk.” I didn’t get pulled over.
- She tells me that prostate and colon cancer are the same thing. I disagree. (my grandfather has a slew of cancer) She says that she’s going into nursing, she knows. I say – that’s not what the doctors at the hospital told me. She says that, no, your grandfather only has one type of cancer. She tried convincing me that he has melanoma. He doesn’t.
- By the time of arrival at her place, I’d had enough. I helped carry groceries in. Told her that I had to go, have a lot on my mind with the job thing and all. Needed a long, country drive home to clear my mind. She looked disappointed that I wasn’t staying. She starts with some religious bullshit. Tells me that god is just trying to help me learn. That I should embrace my situation and learn from it. I tell her that I’m tired of learning, I’ve had bad luck for the majority of the past ten years. She says again that I need to embrace it, and she keeps pushing god on me. I almost throw up on her cats. She pushed that far. I hugged her. Then I left.
It was a rotten fucking experience. But maybe god put me through it so I would learn not to hang out with stupid bitches.
There was a time when the Heisman Trophy went to the most outstanding college football player in the nation. Players from such schools as BYU, Houston, Army, SMU (Doak Walker, anyone?), and Yale have claimed the trophy during its history. Too bad those schools won’t ever even have a player nominated again.
This past Monday evening, the Heisman Trophy Trust of New York City announced the five Heisman finalists: Colt McCoy of Texas, Tim Tebow of Florida, Mark Ingram of Alabama, and two other guys that won’t win the award, but the Trust made finalists in order to save face. You tell me, what are their names?
You see, we live in a sad, sad time when the Heisman winner, more often than not, is little more than Prom King. Seven of the last ten Heisman winners played in the National Championship game. Pure coincidence? What are the odds that seven of the Best players of the past ten years played for the National Championship? I understand the logic; the Best player dramatically leads his team to an undefeated season, and then vies for the championship. Ahh yes, pure poetry.
Well, there’s a problem. A quarterback, running back, or player of any other position that leads his team to the Championship isn’t necessarily great. I know, I know… Blasphemy. There are so many other contributing factors to be considered when speaking of a Championship caliber team. These aren’t considered, however, when the ballots are cast. Instead, votes are based more on sentiment, and the voters are narrow minded. For instance, Pap Sheffield, who votes in the southeast region: “Hellfire! Jimmy McLatterhorn led his team to the national championship game. He completed 58% of his passes, threw for 23 touchdowns and 10 interceptions, and had three fourth-quarter comebacks!!” Aww Snap. What Pap didn’t take into account is the fact that Jimmy has a great supporting cast of senior receivers and running backs. Jimmy’s defense was absolutely devastating; the best and meanest in the country. And, by the way, half of Jimmy’s touchdown passes came in his four non-conference games, at home, against the likes of Akron, Tulane, New Mexico, and Florida Atlantic. Their combined record is 11-37 (thanks to Akron’s impressive 5-7 campaign).
I mention this because of McCoy and Tebow. Both played for teams with ridiculous non-conference schedules. Florida played two ranked teams the whole season, Texas three. While these two senior quarterbacks had pretty good seasons overall, they faltered against good competition. Just look at this past weekend if examples are needed. It seems to me that an Outstanding player would rise to the occasion when playing a good team.
Meanwhile, we have Mark Ingram of Alabama. A sophomore running back on what, in all likelihood, is the best team in the nation. It’s not that he isn’t deserving of the award. He had respectable numbers against some pretty good teams. Overall, he’s one of the best running backs in the nation. But not THE best.
That distinction goes to Toby Gerhart. The bruising, punishing running back for Stanford who probably has the most impressive numbers overall of any position player. His key stats are his 1,736 rushing yards and 26 rushing touchdowns. However, he has also has caught and thrown touchdown passes. Stanford finished 8-4 during an up year in Pac 10. Gerhart was the team. If it weren’t for three close road losses and a home loss to a rival, he’d be the favorite to win the award. However, since his defense couldn’t rise to the occasion at times, and his supporting cast on offense was average at best, he isn’t the most outstanding player in college football.
I guess while we’re here I’ll throw out the last name, eh? Ndamukong Sue is the fifth finalist. Like Toby Gerhart, his dominance alone took Nebraska to the Big 12 championship game, a game he almost single handedly won. He was the motor than ran a machine of destruction, the Blackshirt defense. Although his numbers are superb and he is the best interior lineman in all the land, he can’t win the award. He’s just not… sexy enough. Although Charles Woodson won the award as a defensive player, he also returned punts and occasionally played offense. When Heisman voters compare 82 tackles and 12 sacks to, say, Mark Ingram being the 5th best running back in the country for the number one team, which sounds more appealing?
So here we sit, a day before the most illustrious award in college sports is given. Mark Ingram is lounging in his hotel room in New York City right now in a silk robe drinking a mimosa, while his acceptance speech roles through his head. “I just want to thank God, my mom, and my teammates. Without all of them, this wouldn’t have been possible.” Meanwhile, Toby Gerhart is down the hall, using some of that Stanford knowledge to put together a one-of-a-kind speech that won’t be read. Ndamukong Sue is eating 56 ounces of prime rib. Tebow is leading prayer, and McCoy is giving an aww-shucks interview to an NBC affiliate out of Santa Fe. All the while, the Heisman voters are hunkering down for a long winters nap, while visions of mediocre tailbacks and quarterbacks on top ranked teams dance through their heads.
Tis the season for Bowl U Pick ‘em. Below is the list of this season’s bowl games. A few great games to be anticipated and about 30 that nobody cares about. List your winning team and point total for the BCS Championship. An overall bet or side bets are up for discussion. Good luck folks.
NEW MEXICO BOWL- Fresno State vs. Wyoming
ST. PETERSBURG BOWL- Rutgers vs. UCF
NEW ORLEANS BOWL- Southern Miss vs. Middle Tennessee
LAS VEGAS BOWL- BYU vs. Oregon State
POINSETTIA BOWL- Utah vs. California
HAWAII BOWL- SMU vs. Nevada
LITTLE CESARS PIZZA BOWL- Marshall vs. Ohio
MEINEKE CAR CARE BOWL- North Carolina vs. Pittsburgh
EMERALD BOWL- Boston College vs. USC
MUSIC CITY BOWL- Clemson vs. Kentucky
INDEPENDENCE BOWL- Texas A&M vs. Georgia
EAGLEBANK BOWL- Temple vs. UCLA or Army
CHAMPS SPORTS BOWL- Miami vs. Wisconsin
HUMANITARIAN BOWL- Idaho vs. Bowling Green
HOLIDAY BOWL- Nebraska vs. Arizona
ARMED FORCES BOWL- Houston vs. Air Force
SUN BOWL – Oklahoma vs. Stanford
TEXAS BOWL- Navy vs. Missouri
INSIGHT BOWL- Minnesota vs. Iowa State
CHICK-FIL-A BOWL- Virginia Tech vs. Tennessee
OUTBACK BOWL- Northwestern vs. Auburn
CAPITAL ONE BOWL – Penn State vs. LSU
GATOR BOWL – Florida State vs. West Virginia
INTERNATIONAL BOWL- South Florida vs. Northern Illinois
PAPAJOHNS.COM BOWL- Connecticut vs. South Carolina
Initially, the start of Wednesday was like most for Larry. Naturally it started with masturbation, and was followed by the same ritual that had consumed his mornings for the past three years. The start was a vigorous and seemingly workmanlike shower, followed by a breakfast of two oatmeal packets with skim milk and a banana, then a brushing of teeth before exiting his apartment. The pieces of the morning puzzle fit snug together. Larry enjoyed it that way.
A stern vibration in the left thigh pocket of his Levis is what awoke Larry from his slumber. The routine was such that the 13 minute walk to class consisted of an iPod and oldies music, as well as casual glances at passerby’s. The vibration was a call from his best gal-pal, Pammy, which he so affectionately called her. Pam and Larry had met his very first day on campus, as Pam had lived directly across from his dorm room. Though their attraction for one another was evident, the relationship was that of professional studentship. Deep friendship could define the situation of the past three years.
“Speak to me baby-cakes,” Larry crowed with a glance at an awkward freshman gal.
“Fuckin’ Mahoney. I’m gunna need a drink today. Let’s meet at JoeBa’s around 5:30.”
While 5:30 initially seemed early to Larry, particularly on a Wednesday, he refused to care because he was done with class at 4:15, and didn’t have shit-else to do. With Pam saying the name Mahoney, Larry knew something serious was going down. In a relationship filled with irony, the usage of a Police Academy character’s name meant something had happened; one of a possible many parties had been scarred, and things needed to be discussed.
“Well okily dokily. How’s the morning going?” Asked Larry.
“Fuckin’ frantastical. Just meet me there at 5:30, give or take.”
“5:30, give or take. See ya then toots.”
A click on her end was Pam’s reply.
With the bluntness of her speak, she meant business. Larry dwelled over the brief conversation throughout his day. While he usually didn’t pay much attention in his Principle of Marketing class, today he was absolutely unfazed by each spoken word to a degree of uneasyness. Anatomy and Physiology was about the same, as was Nutrition for Healthy Living. In fact, his body refused to enjoy a single bite devoured of his Jimmy John’s #9 (Italian Night Club). He usually had random thoughts about Pam during the day, but today was a fixation.
At 5:36 Larry sauntered into the joint. He and Pam had called JoeBa’s home for the entirety of their legal drinking months. He headed directly for their usual table, but it was vacant. Perplexed, he looked toward the bar. Their stood a Bobby-Hot-Shit chatting up an unresponsive and quite morose Pam. They never sat at the bar, but there she was. Larry swooped in to save her.
“Excuse me chap, but this here is my prize fighter, and I can’t have her fraternizin’ before her big bout.”
The Bobby-Hot-Shit exchanged a fuck-you glance with Larry. Larry’s seven inches and 60 pounds very well could have been the reason that no words were exchanged. While the two stood there glaring at one another, Pam wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him deeply. The Bobby walked off, and Larry firmly exchanged the pleasantry.
“Holy shit,” she proclaimed as her wayward eyes went to the bar surface.
“Christ, I thought we settled on 5:30, give or take!” Larry could tell that she was a resounding three sheets to the wind. They both had a firm desire for the sauce, but early drinking on a Wednesday was baffling.
“It was the damndest thing. On my way to class this fucking force pulled me to JoeBa’s. Like a Goddamn magnet. Almost sucked me clear out of my shoes. It wasn’t negotiable. Wasn’t gunna fight it. So, I let the fucking thing pull me. Pulled me all the way to this fuckin’ stool, it did.”
Larry cracked a rye smile as the bartender, Clayton, asked for his order. Knowing Pam’s state and sensing the shitstorm he was about to power through, he did the only sensible thing.
“Beam double with a Busch Light back.” While he stated the beer portion of his directive, he placed his flat right hand about 30 inches above the bar, indicating a tall beer.
“So what’s the trouble kid?”
Pam didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes were still adrift in oblivion, and she swigged deeply from her traditional vodka tonic.
“Two shots of Silver Patron, chilled,” she barked at Clayton, though his back was turned while managing Larry’s order.
“Kodachrome….. gives us the nice bright colors, gives us the greens of-”
“Pammy, If I wanted Paul Simon lyrics I would go back in a time machine and fuck Art Garfunkel in the ass while asking about the most memorable thing his daddy ever told him. With that, tell me what’s on your mind and tell me quick, because I’m gunna have to shit within the next seven minutes.”
Pam offered a slight smirk to this.
Larry gripped his fresh Beam double, drank its entirety, and caressed the top of his chilled 24- ounce glass with his lips.
“Well, you see, I found myself in a difficult situation this morning. Jane called around 7:21.”
Jane was Pam’s mother who lived some 450 miles away.
“Jane says…. I’m done with Sergio…. Ok, shit, fuck, no more lyrics, sorry… Well Jane says that Gimps got hit by a truck this morning. That Goddamn rip-roaring redneck that flies by our house every morning going 30 miles over the speed limit. Fuckin’ blasted him about 20 yards and didn’t even slow down or stop afterward.”
Larry couldn’t believe the words. Gimps was the family Labrador that was always getting into shenanigans on the family farm. Pam talked of him non-stop; his exploits were famous in many circles. He was the true love of Pam’s life, so Larry believed. She was drunk enough at this point where she could deliver the news without flinching, being almost totally void of emotion.
By this time, the two Patron had arrived. Larry grabbed his immediately and tossed it into the air in a toast.
“To Gimps.”
Pam immediately raised her glass and poured the drink down. This process went on for the next six hours and two minutes. Stories of Gimps dominated the session, but various statements about classes, people, haircuts, music and movies were also included. Drinks were violently tossed down throats, trips to bathrooms were made, and homework was not completed. All the while, nobody in JoeBa’s mattered except for Larry, Pam, and Clayton. Larry and Pam were so engrossed in each other that the bombing of Dresden could have occurred just outside the door of JoeBa’s, and neither would have noticed.
Larry and Pam finally stumbled out of JoeBa’s at 11:46. They made way towards Larry’s apartment, though several extra steps were taken on account of the stumbling.
Upon the arrival at Larry’s front door, he dropped his keys while attempting to unlock it. Twice. They both laughed wildly at this, almost to the point of tears being shed.
Once inside Larry went directly to his record collection and quickly grabbed the one he’d been thinking about all day. He delicately placed it on the antique player, and put the needle in the perfect position. From the oversized speakers, Laughing by The Guess Who started. Larry extended his hand to Pam, and with a wide smile, she accepted it. With Larry’s apartment door wide open, they began to dance.
Promptly, at 11:59:59, it turned to Thursday, and Larry’s Wednesday was over.
Last night I took advantage of the opportunity to attend the Body Image presentation given by Amaya Brecher and Veronica Portillo, formerly of the Real World and Road Rules (respectively) fame. While the premise of the presentation was good-hearted, the content fell remarkably short of any sort of expectations which I possessed upon entering the Dome Room (of the Rankin Center, on the FSU campus).
Amaya and Veronica, as mentioned before, spent some time on a couple of cable TV “reality” shows on an over-watched channel directed towards adolescents. I got the impression during the presentation that after they over-stayed their welcome on cable TV, they longed for some more publicity; perhaps feeling as though they only got 14 and a half minutes of fame, when in all actuality, they pushed the 20 minute mark.
The actual “presentation” was laughable at best, and Amaya and Veronica consistently treated the crowd like middle school students. All of the facts and information they presented on PowerPoint were weak and looked as though it was put together just moments before the show. Endless slides throughout the presentation were of rail-thin celebrities, and how they must have an eating disorder. Neither of the two were doctors, yet they could diagnose anorexia from a single exposed rib.
Don’t let my tone give the impression that their message wasn’t worth the price of admission (free). They discussed a very serious topic amongst our culture, eating disorders. The most valuable information they conveyed the whole night were some compelling real life tales of the horror caused by eating disorders. Amaya hunched over the toilet, sobbing uncontrollably as she pictured sickening visions to aid her vomiting. Veronica surviving an entire summer eating only a single piece of chocolate cake each day from the restaurant where she worked. The horrifying happenings which occurred inside of California sorority houses in regards to total food intake. Remarkable and astonishing.
What I didn’t appreciate whatsoever was the tone they conveyed through the presentation. It appears as though that these two young women had eating disorders because society drove them to it. Due to Barbie’s phenomenal dimensions, print ad’s, commercials, TV and movies, these two women were forced to ruin their lives. No personal choices or decisions involved here, just the relentless pressure faced by living in America.
While the idea that our society pressures people to look a certain way is far from being a falsehood, the idea that these two women had no opportunity to live a regular life, eating disorder free, is far more extreme. For whatever reason, they failed to mention what their family lives were like when young, just how much self-confidence they lacked, and how susceptible they were to outside forces. Did they have a choice? Maybe?
This does not mean I wouldn’t recommend going to see this presentation if the opportunity presents itself. What it does mean is that you should take value out of what is given; gruesome personal accounts of growing up with a serious health issue. The rest of the time you should play tic-tac-toe with your neighbor.
We're just a few guys originally from southwest Michigan—though some of us abruptly left one summer—and we're all world renowned writers. Furthermoresirs