Column 18

Well, guys, I've been at The Daily Beacon (or, as I like to call it, "The Daily Bleak-on;" damn dirty communist hippies with printing presses... Gutenberg's rolling in his grave...) for awhile now, and it seems to me that I've mostly talked about myself. Not that there's anything wrong with talking about me; the FBI does it all the time (Yeah, I screen their calls. A Patriot Re-Act...ion, if you will). But this week I'd like to focus on someone else, a close friend of mine, named Ted. I've known Ted for as long as I can remember, which is, at the very least, fifteen minutes 45 seconds (We've done tests).

"Ted" (I promised I wouldn't tell you his real name was Herschel, and I am a man of my word. What that word is, however, I haven't the foggiest) is a pretty good guy. But, unfortunately, he just doesn't get this whole "college" thing.

See, it's like this: I ask Ted to do stuff with my posse like spray paint kittens or proliferate Malthusian "Mo' Babies, Mo' Inevitable Backlash Of Catastrophic Proportions" backpack patches or something, and he's like "Unfortunately, I have an assignment of great magnitude that taxes my cognitive resources to the utmost prolixities of limitation." And I'm like "Dude?" And he's like "I have a paper to write." And I get all sly and wink at him and I'm all "Haha, Ted, man! I understand totally. Heh, you have a great time 'writing' that 'paper', just take the sock off the door when you 'refine your rough draft' and 'print' your bad self."

So I stumble in at about 4 AM, and I'm like "What the Hapsburg, my man?" And he's like "I'm writing my paper." And I'm like "Teds, dude, you drrrunk? Paperrsss are for laterss!" And he says, "I'm not drunk. You are." And I say "Hah! If I'm so drunk, why are not I wearing pants?" And he's all "You are wearing pants." Well, I'll be damned. I'm so drunk I actually put my pants on! Now I'm scared. "Wait, wait, I thought you were getting it on! You know, 'writing' a 'paper?' With 'words' and 'stuff' and 'ladies?'" Apparently, he really was writing a paper. On a Friday night! I mean, Jesus P. Brahma, what's up with that?

It ain't no isolated incident, either. Last Saturday I was all "Ted, we gots some mad partays up in this here hood, you best be gettin your mad self some groove things, yo." And he was all "No." And I was all "What?" And he was all "..." And I was all "Oh hells no you didn't just get ellipses up in my grill!" And he was like "" and I was all "?" And that was that.

It's not cool. I mean, I've got a jumpin' social life and interpersonal skillz out the empathic hizouse. But Ted? Boy couldn't talk a wall into standing still. And yeah, maybe I do have a 1.8 GPA with my Turfgrass Management Major, but that, my friends, is just how I roll.

Although, I must admit, I sometimes wish I did better in school. You know. Try something new. And I want Ted to enjoy himself, because there's more to life than "numbers" and "money" and "suicide at the age of thirty-five in a hotel room with a phone cord and an empty ice bucket." I just wish there was some way we could compromise, you know, meet in the middle… But now I'm talking like a goddamned socialist. It's all or nothing, baby! Pants, I bid thee adieu.