Air Drumming Is the College-Age Equivelant to Eating Paste

That's right -I went there. I don't know what it is about "out Christians" but apparently the rules of decorum simply do not apply to them. I was sitting in the student center taking an inordinately long study break (I put the book down at 11, it's 1:15), checking facebook and the like when these kids sit down on the couch next to me. They start yammering on and on and on and on about their church's college ministry and how great and spiritual and bladdy blah everything there is. Having grown up in the church, I know this is to be expected. HOWEVER, when the music started playing is when I went from mildly aggravated to the strangest combination of appaled/enthralled I've felt in a while. Kind of like when you see a car crash on the side of the road: it's gory, there are po-pos, etc. yet no matter how close you come to causing another accident right across the street, you just can't look away -that sort of phenomenon .

This kid, in full view of a crowded campus center, straight up pulled air drum sticks out of his pockets, ninja-style and started his own one man mosh pit. And folks, this wasn't your average elbows bent at roughly ninety degrees while gently tapping one of those little pads drummers always seem to carry around in your lap air drums that most of us are used to. No, we're talkin' head being swung violently like male big-horned sheep during mating season with arms flailing like an epileptic Bruce Lee on speed jam session. America, when have we ever been okay with this kind of behavior? (Excluding, of course, frat parties with copious amounts of Natty Lite and the within the confines of a low rent Fast and Furious douchemobile a la:

Not to mention the fact that Jesus Christ Superstar decided to follow up this display of undeniably brotastic douchebaggery with the song "TiK ToK" by Ke$ha. I'm not sayin I don't love me some openly slutty Miley Cyrus knockoff because, frankly, I work out to that blonde hussy's danceworthy tunes. BUT I am not okay with ho-hum conversation about WWJD bracelets and pizza socials being followed by what could quite possibly be the most intense air drum solo the Westenrn hemisphere has ever witnessed, only to be topped off by a rousing chorus of "gonna blow my speakers up tonight, imma fight, 'till we see the sunlight (rise over the tomb of our lord? I mean, I guess it is almost Easter...)

And all this from members of a social group that prides itself on maintaining the status quo and a sense of normalcy in the crazy world of black presidents and tommy has two mommies? Focus on the Family can have the Bible Belt, but I'll be damned if they take away my Ke$ha!

In related news, I got a double dose of instant karma for this post. First I sneezed ALL OVER myself (like old school You Can't Say That On Television SLIMED my arm) while typing this very post in front of them only to spill water from my Earth-friendly aluminum water bottle down my front within five minutes of the sliming. I swear that stupid water bottle is out to make me look like a 'tard . . .

Hugs 'n shit,
Chompers

Moving Right Along

Greetings blogosphere! This is co-blogger Chompers of soon to be The Snark Tank fame. I hope you all are finding this Wednesday well because, frankly, I wasn’t until my beautiful, beautiful co-blogger Bitey gave me the best e-surprise of all time (yes, even better than that one guy who sent nudie pics via facebook -we were NOT that serious!): this here blog!

Ok, background: I am the “college age” correspondent for this fine piece of internet literature (yup, first post and we’ve already started fishing for a book deal) attending a nondescript, tier four “institute of higher education” which we all know means the only difference between this little slice of heaven and your average American elementary school is that the cafeteria has chain restaurants and the girls may or may not have a little fuzz down south when they show you what’s in their pants in exchange for pudding and half a pack of necco wafers (yes, this has happened to me). That said, the b-e-a-utiful trainwreckage that is this campus is just that, UH-MAAAAAZE-ING. Best part: it’s in a rural part of the Durdy Souf: trainwrecks with accents.

Pleasantries aside, let’s get down to brass-tax with our first ever segment of:

Can I Just Say?

That I -a white, middle-class male in a lab group otherwise composed of African-American females of varying age and weight, was the fortunate participant in a lab experiment entitled “Who’s The Daddy?”

Pause for emphasis –I’m literally raising my eyebrows suggestively as I type this.

That’s right, there is a God –and he has one fandamntastic sense of humor! I literally yelped with glee when, upon finishing my pre-lab minutes before class (like I do) There I was, casually flipping through the day’s assignments to assess the damage (that class is forever long –like, waiting on Ricky Martin’s queeny ass to come out of the closet long. Tangent: why was that even relevant? When was the last time you heard his name? Answer: 1999ish) and I stumbled across the title of our experiment having to do with blood typing, or gel electrophoresis, or some such sciency bullshit. Guys, I for real could not catch my breath for at least twenty seconds –it was that good.

Fast forward to class time: my lab partners (who will henceforth be referred to as Mah Gurlfrans) and I are sitting in lab. After our strikingly frog-like TA (imagine Professor Umbridge and that raspy-voiced kid with specs from “Little Rascals” had a baby –that’s her) finishes going over the homework, Mah Gurlfrans and I flip open our lab manuals and I audibly gasp. Mah Gurlfran #1 laughs. her. ass. off. at the title as Mah Gurlfran #2 mutters something about racism under her breath (she’s a middle-aged black lady: ‘nuff said). I am, at this point, visibly uncomfortable which does not go unnoticed by Mah Gurlfrans. After much hemming and hawing, we get down to business and discover Maury-style that, of course, the blackest lab group in the room is indeed the father. Mah Gurlfran #1 proceeds to pantomime Maury’s “you are the father” and “you are not the father” mannerisms for the next five minutes as TA Frogger tries to reestablish order. Order reestablished, we move on to experiment number two which involved snapping various bits and pieces together to form plastic DNA strands (seriously!? a $200 lab fee to play with fucking K’NEX?). We are now two hours deep in lab and Chompers is hungry so he starts directing the construction of said DNA strands. Not about to let the obvious racial goldmine that was our first experiment, Mah Gurlfrans proceed to piss and moan about how all I do is order them around. I deny this vehemently and continue ordering them around. This, too, does not go unnoticed by Mah Gurlfrans and they continue pissing and moaning until finally Mah Gurlfran #1 begins to call me “Massuh.” It is at this point that I lose all ability to comport myself in a manner befitting a young man of good raising. Y’all, we had that entire room in fits of laughter going on about “guh you so crazy” this and “illegitimate slave-baby” that.

Moral of the story: attending shitty public universities affords you the opportunity to basically re-enact issues of Dave Chappelle’s show in a relatively safe environment all while earning college credit.