Chapter 4
Somewhere along the line a stigma was attached to both poop and masturbation. For the life of me I can’t figure out why we, as a society, would choose to treat these common bonds with such disdain. I mean, who are we kidding? Everybody does both. Maybe not as frequently, or as proudly, but we all relieve and pleasure ourselves routinely. Human excrement has such a negative connotation that guys like to joke that girls don’t poop. Although I, too, wish it were true, this futile glimmer of hope was destroyed for me after I witnessed a particularly attractive girl who will remain nameless let a textbook fart go during my freshman year.
My future housemate and next door neighbor at the time Max, this girl, and I were sitting in the hallway outside of good old Jogues 225 on a weekday night in February of 2004. Why we decided to sit down on the rugged, uncomfortably thin carpet I don’t know. I sat just to the right of my door with my dorm room at my back. To my right was Max, who was sitting just to the left of his door. He was wearing a black hooded Guess zip up sweatshirt and grey sweatpants. The hood was pulled over his head and he was chewing on a paper towel, as he often did, like it was a stick of gum. Our female friend was seated in-between us, but across the hallway with her back to the bathroom wall. Our large rectangular communal bathroom was centered on our floor much in the way that a four sided bar is centered in a local watering hole. The closest of the four doors was just past Max’s room and towards the exit which meant that Tim and I had to pass Max’s room to get to the lav.
This female who will remain nameless hadn’t hooked up with anyone on our floor to this point, but she still hung out with us all the time. She had straight, dirty blonde hair with brown roots that would eventually take control as she got older. She was without a doubt pretty, but I thought she looked better when her hair was occasionally curly. She was short and petite and wore a black Northface jacket and tight, dark jeans1.
As the three of us wasted away in the hallway Max told a sexually explicit joke2 that he had just heard. He delivered the punch line precisely and with a confident chuckle that sent this girl and I into hysterics. The joke was funny on its own right, but Max’s enthusiasm put us over the top. Minutes later my radio co-host Robby, who lived in the corner triple with his two friends from high school came out in the hallway to join us.
Robby was 5’10 and skinny. He weighed no more than a buck fifty five soaking wet. He gave off a punk rock vibe with his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt, black Chuck Taylor Converse All-Star sneakers with white soles, toes, and laces, multiple bracelets, a studded belt, and sideburns that went almost all the way down his cheek bones. Our radio show was called Thirsty Thursdays with Robby and Dan, but the local Jamaican man who hosted the show leading into ours always called it either Thirsty Thursdays with Dan and Dave or Thirsty Thursdays with Rob and Dave. I assume that he only knew one white person and the guy’s name happened to be Dave. Either way, we each made a CD of 12-15 songs and alternated our choices over the course of two hours. The show was simulcast on all of the televisions hooked up in dorm rooms and townhouses on campus (Channel 65), so our friends would watch on TV and call in to join our conversation, attempt to be funny, or tell Robby that he needed to come back to his room to let a roommate in who lost his key.
Within seconds of Robby sitting down this girl and I told Max that he had to tell his joke again. He did and we all laughed. Shortly thereafter two more people came out into the hallway and almost on cue Max delivered the joke with the same gusto. Our congregation soon attracted more followers and Max had to tell his joke again and again. For some reason, this girl couldn’t help but laugh at the punch line every time. It was as if the joke got funnier to her the more times she heard it. Right after about the fifth time Max told the joke, this girl, caught up in a laughing spell, inadvertently let an audible one cheek sneak loose. It was such a shock to hear a female, much less a very attractive one, let one rip that the 6 or 7of us didn’t know how to react, so we didn’t.
We sat there in dumbfounded silence as the laughter resulting from Max’s joke subsided. After what felt like minutes of quiet (I’m sure it was no more than three seconds) Robby called attention to the high pitched slip by exclaiming, “Oh my God, (this girl’s name)! You just farted!” Once the thought of a female farting finally clicked in our heads, we all burst out laughing harder than we did the first time we heard Max’s joke.
When my second article was printed I both recognized and understood people’s right to treat these excretory acts as private, but at the same time I felt compelled to bring them up because they were, and continue to be, integral parts of the college male’s lifestyle. In fact, once I found out that I was going to be the “He Said” writer I put that “know your roommate’s schedule better than you know your own” joke on the back burner. Surprisingly, after three years of reading He Said columns, it was the only joke I knew that I wanted to make. For some reason, the “He Saids” before me chose not to tackle the topic of self-gratification. Maybe they didn’t want to flat out tell the student body about their self-relieving ways. I, on the other hand, did not care. I also must give credit where credit is due. I originally wrote the joke in a much more straight forward fashion (something like “so you can clean the pipes”), but Tim suggested the line about having some “solo time with your right-handed tutor.”
I wanted to make the joke from the get go because I knew how many guys could relate to the scenario. It’s one of those things that all guys are aware of, but are hesitant to openly discuss. Sure guys talk about masturbation in broad terms, but they also try their best to dance around the topic when they are about to perform the act3. For example, when a male says to his roommate, “Don’t you have class now?” he is actually saying, “I know you have a class right now. Hurry up and get out of here because I want to spray my seed.”
As the week went on many guys, plenty of whom I had never seen before, commended me on the overt manner in which I had covered poop and masturbation. I was told plenty of stories about roommates walking in on each other, guys having to dump themselves while in bed with chicks, and perhaps my favorite college story of all time.
Two kids that I knew separately my freshmen year named Jimbo and Dave lived together on the first floor of Jogues Hall. By the time that the spring semester rolled around Jimbo had grown accustomed to Dave’s routine. Every morning Dave’s alarm would go off at 8am and he’d hop off of his lofted bed (most people raised their beds and put their desks underneath them to conserve space) and head to the bathroom to shower, shave, brush his teeth, etc. He usually re-entered the room at 8:30 to get ready for a 9am class. During this half hour window Jimbo would climb down from his lofted bed, pop in an x-rated DVD, release some man batter, clean up, and be back in his bed before Dave returned from the bathroom.
Well one day in April, just like any other day, Dave’s alarm went off at 8am. He hopped off of his bed, grabbed his towel and toiletries and headed for the bathroom. A minute later Jimbo climbed down from his bed, popped in a DVD, turned the volume up, and went to town. After he cleaned up, like usual, he stood on his desk chair and re-ascended into his bed. It was as he shifted all of his weight onto his bed that he felt the dreaded flash of embarrassment. You know, that gut wrenching feeling where you can feel the sweat form in your armpits as your face turns red. Sometimes this brief flare of panic is unfounded, but unfortunately for Jimbo his flare was all too real. He had forgotten that Dave’s girlfriend slept over that night. Once that piercing thought came to his mind he looked over and saw that she was curled up in the fetal position in the corner of Dave’s bed. Panic stricken himself Jimbo went back to sleep as calmly as he could and minutes later Dave returned as if nothing had happened.
My question is this- If you’re the girlfriend, do you tell Dave? If so, when? And do you ever say anything to Jimbo about it? How could you ever make small talk with him again? I didn’t hear the story until three years after the fact, but Jimbo4 claimed that he never spoke to the girlfriend about the incident and that Dave never said anything to him about it either.
Either way, while the male population seemed to thoroughly enjoy my depiction of the morning after, the females of Fairfield did not. I guess you could say that after just two columns the collective female water pot was beginning to boil. Simply put, women are ultra-sensitive. By calling them wildabeasts, heffers, and dragons I had apparently struck a nerve. It should be noted that this was not my intention. I never sat down and thought about how to piss girls off. For the record, that doesn’t take much thought. All you have to do is call them fat, which I know, I guess I did, but my goal was solely to relate to guys and to make them laugh.
Personally, I didn’t care if anyone was upset. I didn’t think anything I had written was that bad. I mean, even if girls were truly offended I figured that they would probably just bottle up their anger and explode about something innocuous later. If there’s anything I’ve learned about women by living with my mother for 20+ years, it’s that (Love ya Mom). Besides, I was pretty sure that all the girls that knew me knew that I didn’t have any ill intentions. While this may have been true, it didn’t prevent them from taking action.
We had a loose stone driveway at our beach house that could fit one, maybe two cars. My roommates and I usually only parked one of our four cars there because on the other side of the street was a small parking lot that we shared with our neighbors Mark and Ayles, who were not only fellow seniors, but also Marines.
On the Monday after this column was released, I left the Pink Box to go to class like it was any other day. Sundays were a big day for intramurals, so Tim and I usually came home late and were both relegated to parking in the lot across the street. As I got closer to my white ‘02 Ford Taurus, I noticed that something wasn’t right.
It looked like my car had been littered with flyers from local businesses. After a second glance I realized that this couldn’t be the case because every other car in the lot was unblemished. My car, which was not nearly the most luxurious in the general vicinity, seemed to shine brighter than all the others on that sunny September morning. As I approached my vehicle I learned what was causing this peculiar luster. My car had been tightly wrapped in saran wrap. It was as if someone had it for dinner and wanted to save it for tomorrow’s lunch. I tried to open the driver’s side door, but it barely moved. I pulled a second time, with much more force, but again the door would not budge.
It was at this point that I again noticed what I initially thought were business flyers. They indeed were not. They were pieces of white loose leaf paper, each with their own message, taped to the windows above all four doors. The messages read, “Fat Girls Are People Too”, “I <3 my big boobs”, “Let Me Live Four Eyes”, and “More Cushion for the Pushin’.” Taped to the windshield was my article on the morning after and accompanying picture cut out from an issue of The Mirror. I had been pranked.
It took me a good five minutes to rip through all of the saran wrap. I even had to go back inside to grab a knife. All the while I was removing the wrap I was scanning my brain trying to think of who could have done such a thing. Thankfully the vigilantes wrote the messages or else I might have thought the act was a serious retaliation to my written word. By the time I was able to enter my car I had narrowed the potential culprits down to two groups of girls. Then I remembered that a girl crazy enough to conjure up this diabolical scheme was in my house the entire night before hooking up with my roommate Greg. I wish I could say that the Hound Dog was back, but he settled down with this girl (who happened to live next door) and dated her for about a year after college.
It turns out that the mastermind behind this plot was Kristen, the girl I had a thing with before she went abroad. Her and her housemates, who were all encouraging Kristen to date me at the time5, snuck over around 11 p.m. and did the dirty deed while my housemates and I were awake and in our house. They even got all dressed up in black and took a boatload of pictures around my car to claim responsibility for the prank. Kind of like how Al-Qaeda leaks a video tape claiming responsibility for terrorist attacks. Knowing that the prank was all in good fun, I took it in stride and told them that I was impressed that they pulled off such a stunt, but to be prepared for my retaliation.
That night, Greg and I were sitting around the house thinking of ways to get this group of girls back. Greg’s one of those kids that has ‘a guy’ for just about everything. If you are looking for a new pair of shoelaces, Greg’s Uncle will have a friend who knows a guy that can pull a few strings (no pun intended) and get you 50% off. That being said, our best idea was something that Greg’s cousin’s friend told him about. The plan was to nail two large pieces of plywood over the front and back doors of the girls’ house, so they literally could not get in or not. I was all for it, but I didn’t want to respond right away with a return prank. I wanted to retaliate when they least suspected it. I wanted them to forget all about the prank war they had started and then wake up one morning and not be able to leave their house. Sure enough, I waited so long that I effectively forgot all about it. When I finally remembered I wasn’t even upset because things had changed so much with Kristen and those girls that it wouldn’t even have been worth it.
The saran wrap debacle was just another reminder that my column was a topic of many conversations all across campus. In fact, I received two emails that week that reiterated that notion. The first was from Steph, the editor in chief of the paper. Her email (she sent it to Jackie as well) read:
hey guys. for the future, please keep in mind that he said/she said is
a type of commentary that is traditionally "funny" - but to be funny,
you don't have to be crude or insulting. remember that the entire
University community reads this and it reflects upon you as the
writers as well as myself, the editor, and the entire mirror
staff/fairfield undergrad community as a whole.
try to be as tasteful, yet honest, as possible.
The second email was from my News Writing Professor, a middle aged woman named Fran, that I had the semester before. Her email simply read:
Dan
Saw your column. You certainly have a strong writer's voice...
humm....I'll leave it at that!
I told them both that I knew who my audience was (college males) and that I was going to keep writing with them in mind. Amidst all of the reaction to my second column, I was already focused on what I would write next. It was early in the year so Jackie and I both had plenty of suggestions. My only criteria for a topic was that it be relatable to not only seniors, but to juniors, sophomores, and freshmen alike. For me, this meant keeping topic ideas as broad as possible.
For our third column, I suggested that we write about our campus cafeteria because it is a staple of undergraduate life at Fairfield. Jackie was all for the idea, but she hadn’t been to the cafeteria since the end of her sophomore year. All freshmen and sophomores are required to have meal plans at the cafeteria because they live in dorms that are on campus. Juniors, who primarily live in the townhouses that have their own kitchens, and seniors, who primarily live in beach houses a few miles away, have the option of purchasing a meal plan, but most do not even bother. I had a meal plan my senior year because I knew that my responsibilities with the intramural department and the radio station would have me on campus more often than not. The only other senior I knew with a meal plan was Tim, who had one for similar reasons. After promising Jackie that I would get her back into the cafeteria, we rendezvoused there on the Friday afternoon before our columns were due.
Now eating a meal at the Barone cafeteria, as it was called, was quite the experience. After climbing two flights of stairs you got to a landing where a lovely elderly woman named Mary or a Latina woman who spoke limited English would swipe your student ID card and grant you access into the cafeteria. Freshmen and Sophomores generally got 12 meals (swipes) per week while Juniors and Seniors had the option of paying for 40 or 50 meals for the entire semester. Once you got into Barone, it was an all you can eat affair. You better believe that I had my fair share of four course meals in that place. The only problem was that the closest bathroom was on the floor below and once you left you couldn’t get back in. For those without a meal plan it cost $6 for breakfast, $8 for lunch and $10 for dinner. Being the gentleman that I am, I coughed up the cash so that Jackie could join me. My generosity led to the following exchange.
“You know that because you just paid for me that this is technically a date.”
“Well then you better put out later.”
Upon getting your card swiped you entered the bottom right corner of a large rectangular room that was designated for seating. The smaller of the sides were to your immediate right and far left. The near wall (to your immediate left) had a large opening in the middle that led to the actual cafeteria. Most of the tables were round and sat 8 comfortably, but the chairs were not connected to the table or the ground so they could be arranged in any way that their inhabitants sought fit. There were also rectangular tables with 6 seats a side that adorned the entire perimeter of the room except for the near side with the opening. Clearly the best seats in the house were the ones closest to the opening so that you could see everyone that walked in and out of the cafeteria as well as those arriving or leaving the large rectangular eating area. Even if you had a prime seating location tracking the whereabouts of hot chicks in the cafeteria was not as easy as you’d think. One of my friends even suggested that there must be a hidden room where only the attractive females ate because so many seemed to disappear after entering the cafeteria itself.
There was a symmetrical feel to what I’ve been referring to as the cafeteria (aka where the food is). The front of each side had trays, silverware, and a fountain soda machine. To the left was a salad bar, pasta station, four tubs of hard ice cream, coffee, and 6 make it yourself skillet stations, to the right was a sandwich station, pizza, French fries, hot dogs, hamburgers, and desserts, and in the back was the main course.
While Jackie and I dined together to remind her of what it was like in Barone, I didn’t need a refresher. I knew exactly what I wanted to write about. In fact, I probably could have written the following column two weeks into my freshman year.
The Mirror on September 26th, 2007:
The Barone Cafeteria
Speaking of the Hershey Factory, I’ll be the first to say that if Barone had a bathroom, I’d never leave. Seriously your bowel movements are the only thing keeping you from scoping babes all day. Not only am I one of fourteen seniors with a meal plan, but I’m also single handedly keeping the Scott Toilet Paper company in business.
There’s been talk about a Barone Marathon (All day from 8am- 8pm), but I don’t think it can be done. That food gives up more runs than Kei Igawa6.
Going to Barone for dinner is a process. You want to be there for prime time 6:30, but you also don’t want to run the risk of not getting a table. If one opens up, show no mercy and throw your stagcard down before someone else does. All is fair in love, war, and staking claim to a table in Barone. And rectangular tables don’t count. Those are for ugly couples to partake in PDA sessions that aren’t watched- they are ridiculed.
When it comes to checking out every girl in the place, not only is your table’s positioning key, but so to is your seat at the round table. Having the feature table is great, but having your back turned to the entrance and exits is like sitting front row at a DMB concert (most colllegge band out there) and being deaf. Besides, we all know the lawn is where it’s at.
Sunday Brunch is a disaster, but anybody who is anybody is there. Everybody tries to clean themselves up without making it look like they tried at all, but seriously you aren’t fooling anybody with your sweat pants when your hair is gelled. Everyone looks so bad it’s as if there’s a shuttle bus to the cafeteria from the morgue.
Nothing is worse than seeing the girl who shut you down after you professed your love for her the night before. There’s been countless times when eye contact is made and quickly turned away from. We all do it, but let’s try to not be so obvious this year. We know you aren’t thinking about getting one of those hotdogs that have been spinning longer than the one’s at Kwik-E-Mart7.
There are plenty of options for the hangover cure like eggs, peanut butter, beef stew, and tacos, but that just takes us right back to square one.
1- The college female’s home uniform. Substitute black yoga pants and you have the away uniform.
2- There's a huge highschool party and a girl really wants to go. It's the biggest party of the year and the highschool quarterback told her that he wants to hook up with her there. She lives too far away for any of her friends to pick her up, so she asks her dad to borrow his car, but he says no. She says, "Please dad. I'll do anything. I have to be at this party. I'll be back tomorrow before 11. Can I please have the car?" He thinks about it for a second and says, "Sorry honey, it's not happening." "Come onnn dad. I never ask for anything. Just let me have the car tonight. I'll do anything." The dad thinks about it again and says, "Anything, huh?" His daughter's like, "Yes, absolutely. You name it." So the dad says, "Ok, suck my dick." She says, "Eww dad. That's gross!" and he says, "I thought you said you'd do anything to borrow the car tonight?" She has to be at this party so she reluctantly agrees to give her dad a blowjob. She gets down on her knees, unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants and takes out his dick, but there's shit all over it. She immediately says, "Dad, what the fuck? There's shit all over your dick," and he goes, "Oh yeah, I forgot. Your brother has the car tonight."
3- Well, everyone except Max, who was always very upfront about it. He would frequently say things like, “I’m gonna go whack off and then go to bed.” I guess his honesty was refreshing in a sense.
4- Jimbo recently got engaged (Thanks Facebook), so in the rare event that he's reading this- Congrats!
5- They were very public about their support and I appreciated it very much. They proudly supported “Team Dan”, even spelling it out in block letters (think random letters on a refrigerator) on their sliding glass back door, and this was before the Twilight movies and all of that Team Edward vs. Team Jacob nonsense.
6- Igawa was a left-handed Japanese pitcher who started 13 games for the New York Yankees from ’07-’08. His career ERA is 6.66.
7- The supermarket in the long running animated series The Simpsons.
1 comment:
i miss barone and snipin' at primo tables...thanks for another trip down memory lane
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