Back in the Bulk - Orlando (Calrissian), Part 2

See Part 1 here, if you missed it.

About midway through our Orlando trip, Ben Stantz, Rich Cornhole, John Reaver, Greg Hammel and I got to meet up with Ben's, Rich's, and my fraternity brothers Mitch Cold, Josh Striker, and Mike Malaria, on their own Florida adventure. We had a good time, touring "Downtown Disney", hanging out, and some of the guys even went to Cirque du Soleil together (Ben, Greg, and I decided not to drop the stack of bills needed to do so). We also took the time to enjoy some mini golf at Disney's Fantasia Mini Golf course. It was actually two courses. One set of 18 holes was traditional obstacles and whatnot, Fantasia-themed. The second course, which we would not play until the next day, was like an actual miniaturized golf course. There were mocked up sand traps and water hazards and everything. Each hole was based on an actual golf hole from an actual golf course. Neat! It was also profoundly difficult, as we were to find out.

But before that, we had a night out in Orlando to kill. Most of us were underage. Mitch and Mike were not. We ran the gamut, interest-wise, from geeky to trendy, so we struggled to find a place that would accommodate everyone's tastes. We ended up finding a place called XS that was awesome. It was a hybrid bar/restaurant/dance club/video arcade. There was something for everyone. We had a blast. Mike Malaria in particular had a blast getting pretty drunk. When we left XS and were hanging out on some raised walkways, the 5 of us from Bulkie Hall were having a grand old time making the "shocker" gesture at each other. (Skip the next paragraph if you don't know what the shocker is and would like to keep it that way. It is sexual. You are warned.)

Most of you, no doubt, know of the shocker. This gesture spread like wildfire through adolescents and people with adolescent senses of humor (yo.). We were always making shocker jokes and references (a few years later, Ben and I, along with Jared Kasparov, would even dream of releasing a series of shocker themed t-shirts like the infamous Coed Naked shirts from the 90's). Alright, for the few of you unfamiliar, the shocker is a gesture made by tucking the ring finger in while extending the other three fingers (thumb optional). This is supposedly to be used to penetrate a female sex partner simultaneously vaginally (with the index and middle fingers) and anally (with the pinky). The thumb can provide optional clitoral stimulation. The rhyme that famously accompanies this gesture is "two in the pink, one in the stink!" Very mature, I know. But that's the truth. Check urbandictionary.com if you don't believe me.

So, anyway, there we were, goofing around flashing shocker gestures at each other. Mike Malaria, drunk off his ass, was staring at us blankly. Not certain if he merely didn't find it funny, didn't understand, or just was too drunk to react, we asked Mike, "you know what the shocker is, right?" Mike, quite seriously, replied, "yeah, I know it. One in the ass, and TWO IN THE SHIT!" The briefest of pauses ensued, followed by our dismayed but amused reactions. "What? No, Mike, that doesn't even make sense! What the fuck!?" Mike couldn't, for the life of him, figure out what was wrong about his answer. The dangers of alcohol.

The next night, the original 5 of the trip ventured to the Fantasia Mini Golf again, this time to play the more difficult actual-golf themed course. Frustration ensued. Especially for me. I'll admit it, I was a sulky baby about how poorly I was doing. I like to think I've matured since then, but I was acting like a pouty child. Greg, meanwhile, adapted to the challenge by breaking the "no chipping" rule. He actually, after very few attempts, became decent at chipping the ball over sidewalks and the like to get favorable shots. Way to go, Greg.

We reached the 10th(?) hole. This one was either easier, or we all just had particularly lucky putts, because all of us were within striking range of par as we neared the actual hole. John and Rich's balls (insert "balls" joke here [insert "insert" joke here]) were tied for closest to the hole (insert "hole" joke here [insert "this author is a jackass" joke here]). As such, they had equal right to take their shot first. Rich, ever a gentleman, deferred to John. John, you may recall from previous tales, is a big dude. He has immense power in his large body, but sometimes lacked the coordination to control his strength. But not this time. John lined up his shot, putted, and nailed it. Great success! Knowing that I was next after Rich, I looked down to line up my own shot (as Rich was already doing) as John gleefully exclaimed, "I got PAR!"

I then heard a sickening thud. As though someone had stored a chestnut inside an orange and then struck it with an aluminum bat. I looked up and saw Rich on the ground. Instinctively, I assumed he had just fallen over yet again. But then I noticed John, extremely distraught and apologizing profusely. It seems that John, as part of his celebratory gesture, had swung his putter back with one arm as he shouted "I got PAR!". He was unaware Rich was bent over behind him, lining up his shot. The putter struck Rich. In the face.

Not just in the face, he was hit right on the eyebrow, right on the edge of the eye socket. A millimeter lower and Rich probably would've been blind in one eye. As it was, he was disoriented and bleeding. Concerned for Rich, we decided to abandon our game and get him medical attention. We recalled seeing a walk-in clinic on International Avenue in our explorations of Orlando, and figured we'd get him there as quickly as we could. As we went to leave, however, Ben declared that since we couldn't finish our game, we should get our money back or something. The rest of us ready to say screw that, Rich needs medical attention, but then Rich spoke up. "Heck yes, get us some free vouchers!" (Rich did not swear at that time). So we waited while Ben negotiated with the manager, trying to apply pressure to Rich's wound to slow the bleeding. I'll be damned, we got the free vouchers, and would use them the next day (a spot of Rich's blood remained staining the 10th hole when we returned).

We piled into my car and took off for the clinic. We turned onto the proper street and began driving and looking for it. We realized we turned the wrong way and had to double back. We finally found the clinic and realized it was closed for the night. The door had directions to the Orlando Hospital on it. Into the car again and off we went, eventually arriving at the hospital and entering the ER.

Rich, in high school, was an EMT and also worked in a pharmacy. He was our resident expert on all things medical. So when we were given his triage form and he insisted he would take care of it himself, we trusted him. Rich knew hospitals. So he filled it out and we began to wait. And wait. And wait. For like 2-3 hours. People who had entered a full hour after Rich were being seen, but not him. Ben and I approached the nurses' station and asked what the hold up was. She responded by showing us his form. These triage forms used a system of faces to indicate the level of discomfort and urgency. Like so:



Rich, with a head wound, a likely concussion, and bleeding, you'd think would've at least circled face #2. The one that looks like "Hey, there's places I'd rather be than the hospital, but all things considered I guess I'm not in awful condition." Nope. That stupid jackass circled face #0. "I AM FUCKING DELIGHTED BY MY INJURY/ILLNESS AND HOPE I CAN STAY IN THE ER FOREVER!!!" Rich defended his choice by saying other people probably needed care more urgently than him. Rich was an idiot that night. His defense has since changed, and now he says it was OUR fault because we let the guy with the head injury fill out paperwork himself. He may have a point with that one.

Rich eventually did get seen and treated, but we between waiting with Rich and then waiting FOR Rich, we spent at least 4 hours in that waiting room. It brought out the worst in us. Ben and John became mean, and entertained themselves by saying whatever they could to upset me, mostly lewd comments about my sister (whom they had not even actually met at that point). Emotionally and mentally exhausted at that point, and ganged up on 2-to-1, I couldn't effectively defend myself and became upset to the point that, in an effort to just get the fuck away from human beings, hid in the snack room behind a vending machine. Greg played with and contemplated stealing a lamp. I love Greg.

Eventually we got to go home. The trip had other fun times, such as wait times of 0 minutes for rides at Universal Islands of Adventure due to off-season and rain, meeting Rich's grandmother and Uncle Tony, and John eating an entire second Headhunter sandwich because he ran out of money and needed to use his free Headhunter voucher to eat (as to why he FINISHED the second one, I guess he was just hungry). I also ran out of money. Rich bankrolled both of us and was paid back at a later date. All in all, a grand vacation.

Back in the Bulk - Orlando (Calrissian), Part 1

In the weeks leading up to winter break of our first year at college, Ben Stantz approached four of us to discuss a proposition. The opportunity was this: his parents had a time share that they were not going to use, so would we like to make a road trip for a week in Orlando, FL during the later part of our winter break, January 2002, and split the cost 5 ways. He invited Rich Cornhole and I (his fraternity pledgebrothers), as well as his roommate Greg Hammel and fellow Bulkie Hall floormate John Reaver. We even had the fortuitous timing to have our trip to Orlando overlap with that of three other fraternity brothers, Mitch Cold, Josh Striker, and Mike Malaria and would get to meet up with them during part of our trip. This sounded awesome. We were all in.

The first issue we had to tackle was transportation. Of those of us with cars, it seemed mine would be the most accommodating for 5 travelers: a maroon 4-door 1993 Mercury Sable sedan, originally owned by Mary "Nonnie" Lebowski. We would all take turns behind the wheel, with one exception. Rich couldn't drive. I mean, it's not that he was physically incapable, but legally, he was unable. He had no driver's license. This wasn't a big deal, four drivers was enough, but it did provide leverage when it came to seating. The four drivers rotated, and each was paired with another to sit shotgun, navigate, and not fall asleep during the night portions of the drive. Ben and John paired off, as did Greg and I. Rich, as his contribution to the driving, was relegated to the middle in the back (aka "sitting bitch") for the entirety of the trip. There and back. And frequently while traveling around Orlando once there. Rich was a good sport.

The trip down had its highlights. Just into New York, John pointed out the exit Ben was supposed to take onto a new highway out his window as we passed it. Ben pulled off at the next exit and, trying to find a way back to the proper ramp, took a few side streets. On one, he waited nearly a full minute behind a car at a stop sign only to realize we were sitting and waiting behind a parked car. Oops. While getting gas, I watched from the convenience store window as Greg pumped gas, kept company by Ben, when they began to look panicked and started squeegeeing the side of the car like mad. Greg, it seems, didn't believe that my gas tank could possibly be full yet when the automatic shut-off occurred and insisted on trying to pump more gas in. Predictable spillage occurred. We visited South of the Border, for which there are SO MANY SIGNS on the way, and found it both closed and unimpressive. During the middle of the night, I enjoyed the freedom of several lanes and miles of empty highway by opting to luxuriously drift between lanes (like when Kramer adopted the highway and made extra-wide lanes), an experience that woke the back seat passengers and filled them with concern for my driving ability. We did, however, arrive safely and earlier than planned.

Once we were able to check in to the hotel (following a time-killing trip to Wal-Mart for forgotten toiletries and an authentic Krispy Kreme experience), we were treated to pretty posh living arrangements. Our room was a full suite with a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, washer/dryer, and balcony. Ben and Rich took the master bedroom, being the only two mature enough to share a bed. John and I took the other bedroom with two twin beds. Greg claimed the pull out couch. This was so much better than dorms.

Our first night (or was it second?), we just had to eat at a place called Jungle Jim's after an afternoon of Pirate mini golf (great fun, even though I sucked at it!). Jungle Jim's was a safari themed burgers & sandwiches sort of restaurant. Their specialty was an enormous sandwich called the Headhunter. The Headhunter was like 2 pounds of meat, loads of every topping, a bun (complete with olive "eyes" on toothpicks), and a bunch of fries. Anyone who could finish the Headhunter was entitled to a certificate for a free one. John, being a man of large size and appetite, decided he would take on the Headhunter.

Visually, it was an imposing sandwich. John's first task was to press down on it and squash it into a size that would actually fit into his mouth. He then began eating this compressed burger brick, pacing himself as we ate our more modestly sized (but still generous) meals. Around halfway, John felt full. By 3/4, the sandwich stopped being tasty and started being despair-inducing. But John kept going. Even as he complained that it wasn't fun anymore, he kept making slow and steady progress. And finally, with great pride, John finished the Headhunter. He received his complimentary gift certificate from our waitress, who also played Belle at Disney World. We journeyed back to the hotel with victory in our hearts and a plastic pirate flag from the mini golf course on the car antenna. And then we gave both our John and the john a wide berth.

That night, Rich, traumatized by a close loss at the earlier mini golf game, had a nightmare. In his nightmare, we returned to the pirate mini golf place to play again, and once again, Rich lost to Ben. Greg came in third, and John in last. When Rich described this dream to us, I asked where I placed. I didn't finish. A decorative cannon in a pond shot an actual cannonball, which struck me. I did not die. Unharmed, I instead became enraged and waded into the water to attack the cannon with my putter. I was escorted off the premises by the police. And my friends kept playing through. Thanks a lot, Dream Rich! But perhaps Rich's dream was premonitory of upcoming mini golf misfortune. Soon tragedy would strike one of our traveling party, and the trip would take an unexpected turn.

To be continued...

Back in the Bulk - Blunt Farce Drama

Not everyone who participated in the shenanigans of Bulkie 2 South were residents of the floor. A frequent visitor was our upstairs neighbor (well, 4 floors upstairs on the 6th floor anyway), Rich Cornhole. Rich is, to this day, one of my dearest friends. He, along with Ben Stantz (who you've seen a few times on here already) and I comprised 3/4 of the same pledge class for our fraternity and have had a tight bond between the three of us since (the 4th was Mitch Roll, who was a few years older than us and whom I was fond of but have lost most contact with). Rich is a great guy, very friendly, very helpful to everyone he meets, and generally fun to be around. He's also stubborn and has an unfortunate tendency to wind up with all nature of harm done to his body, inside and out. Sometimes this isn't his fault. For example, he wound up with some manner of stomach disease that has plagued him for years. Sometimes, usually more on the injury than illness side of harm, it is his fault. It really, really is.

One day, a number of people were hanging out on Bulkie 2S. Mostly floor residents, and a number of visitors. The hallway walls were cinderblock or some other similarly tough material with the occasional exit sign high up and the occasional raised metal wall outlet low down, and the halls were just wide enough that we would often sit with our backs against one wall and our feet propped on the other. It was in just such a position that I found myself at the outset of this Bulkie adventure. I was sitting near Ben Stantz and Greg Hammel's door, back against one hallway wall, feet propped on the other, chatting with Rich, who was standing up.

Rich suddenly had a look come across his face that I knew could mean nothing but trouble. A mix of determination, realization, mischief, and pride. "Remus, don't move," he instructed me, beginning to back up. I wasn't sure what was going to happen next, but I was leery enough to say, "Rich, I don't know what you're thinking, but I can guarantee you it's a bad idea." "Don't worry, don't worry, just stay still," he again instructed. As he backed up to the T-intersection of the hallways, Ben Stantz happened to be coming from the other way, and saw Rich backing up with that look on his face. Ben interceded, "Rich. What are you doing?" What choice did he have to reveal his plan?

"OK, OK, so, so, so I'm gonna run and dive over Remus, and go into a somersault, and wind up standing again." Both Ben and I announced our displeasure with this idea. Ben actually went so far as to stand in Rich's path with his arms out. But, as fate would have it, something happened or somebody said something down the other hallway that caught Ben's attention. Rich saw his chance.

With one arm, he reached around Ben and pushed him to the side as he began his acceleration. He was successful in getting past Ben, but it did affect his stride and balance. Nevertheless, he continued forward, reaching his peak speed for the run and dove. And what a dive it was! I knew that the time for interference had passed. At this point, I needed to stay still as Rich wanted or risk injury to us both. So I made myself as small as possible as he passed overhead. And as he dove, he tucked his head and shoulders and... holy crap, he made the roll! But, as I watched these fractions of a second unfold, I noticed he was rolling a little to the left... more than a little. I cringed as Rich, instead of entering a second full roll, smashed his head full force into the wall.

Rich was layed out on the floor. I quickly rushed over, as did Ben and all the various folks who were around in the other hallways. Rich was cradling his head in his hands, allowing some sounds of pain to escape. We all inquired if he was alright, and he insisted he was. "I'm fine! I'm fine! Leave me alone!" (Rich, despite having worked on an ambulance and knowing a lot about proper medical care, first aid, and the like, hates acknowledging ever needing such care himself). As he took his hands away from his head, though, we noticed blood. A quick look at the wall confirmed he hadn't just hit the wall, he'd hit the corner of the raised metal power outlet. The 10 or so of us gathered there rushed Rich into the floor bathroom (a men's room! And some of those present were women! Scandal!), where we allowed our de facto floor medic, Clive McEnroe to examine him and apply those rough, thin dorm paper towels to Rich's head as makeshift bandages.

Clive looked Rich over and announced the wound wasn't that large. "See!? I told you, I'm fine!" protested Rich. Clive continued, "Yeah, it's not big, but it's deep. I think if it were wider, I could poke your skull. You need to go to the campus health center." Rich would have none of it. He insisted there was nothing they'd be able to do for him, and that they were incompetent and a waste of time and besides, he had a test tomorrow and didn't have time for this. We forced him, grudgingly, to the bus stop where Ben and I waited with him for the campus bus as he grumbled protests. And we rode the bus with him. And went inside with him. And god damn it if that ass wasn't right. There was nothing they could do for him. They suggested he find a ride to the relatively nearby Windia Hospital. So we phoned one of the older fraternity brothers we knew owned a car (we were pledges at this point), Andy Greensleeves to come and pick Rich up, and that's what happened. Andy picked Rich up and took him and Ben and I went back to Bulkie.

We were hanging out in Ben's room for a while when Rich appeared at the door. We welcomed him back and all crowded up to see the staples in his head. He put down the papers he was carrying on top of a dresser and joined us in the room, taking a spot up on the top bunk, Ben's bed. Everyone was having a good time talking and laughing, but Rich was kinda quiet. Not alarmingly so, just less so than usual. Before long though, as he moved to get down from the bunk, he asked us what was on the papers he brought back with him. Surprised, we asked if he'd read them. He said he tried but it looked fuzzy. Hmm. We looked at the papers, which listed symptoms of a concussion. Vision problems was one. Tiredness. Problems with balance (poetically read just as Rich failed to climb down properly and almost knocked a dresser over). It was pretty apparent. Rich had a concussion.

Again, we insisted Rich needed medical treatment. Again, he protested, citing the test he had to take tomorrow. We asked him if he really thought he'd study alright with a concussion. That shut him up somewhat. We got one of the other brothers, Bryan Augery (who lived on the 4th floor of our lovely Bulkie South tower) who also had a car to be the driver this time and off went Rich to Windia Hospital again, this time with Augie (as he was called) and Ben.

It was late at night when they got there, and there was a bit of a wait to be seen, and even once they took Rich in, he was gone a long time. Ben and Augie were sitting in a room waiting when Dave arrived. Dave had epilepsy. Dave was also drunk off his ass. Dave's wife showed up at the hospital with drunk, epileptic Dave and said, "Here. YOU deal with him tonight." and drove off. So there were Ben and Augie, neither of them a day over 20, sitting in a room with drunk, epileptic Dave for what seemed like forever. And Dave, being drunk and epileptic, started to seize. The hospital staff came in and explained that it would be better for Dave if they kept the lights off. So they did. And Ben and Augie sat for an hour in the dark with drunk, epileptic Dave, who would periodically seize.

Eventually, they took Rich home, and he was fine. The ordeal was over. And no, Rich did not end up having to take his test. But this was only the first of Rich's many injuries, and the next would take place miles and miles from home, in beautiful, sunny Orlando.

Back in the Bulk - Blind Ninja Attack

After far too long a delay since the last update, here's a fresh tale for you to enjoy from my freshman year of college, living in Bulkie Hall. You may remember a few of the people involved from our previous tale, Elevator Darts. Ben Stantz and John "P.J." Reaver are once again important characters, as is Clive McEnroe, who was so kind as to share the stories of Right Angles Pizza with us long ago. Clive is a man of small and agile build, both brilliant and insane. His instincts are those of a small forest animal, always alert for the need to leap to safety from larger threats. Also of central importance is Jon "B.J." Hummer (The B.J. is for British Jon -- while not actually British, Jon did talk constantly about the time he spent abroad in England). B.J. was alright at first but got kind of annoying, he had kind of a skulky creepy thing going on. He was generally a pain in the ass by this point, and most of us didn't like him always trying to hang around us. Brendan Tourney, L.J. Seabiscuit, and Greg Hammel were all involved to a lesser extent as well.

One day, Clive McEnroe came back to the floor with a sleep mask. You know, like the type people wear over their eyes to block out light and sleep. This was evidently a mask marketed towards women, because it was powder blue and said like, "Princess" or something on it. Clive did not buy this mask, he found it. He found it in a parking lot. And thought he should bring it home so we could wear it. On our faces.

It was going to take more than his suggestion that we all try it on to get us to try it on. It was going to take a wiffle bat. Don't misunderstand me, we were not threatened with a toy bat. This wouldn't have been Clive's style, and it wouldn't have worked. Nearly any of us would've suffered one or two hits before taking it away and beating his ass back with it (because that's what friends are for). No, this wiffle bat was more of a "carrot" than a "stick". You see, ninjas are awesome. Like, really awesome. They are totally sweet.

A game was quickly designed for play with a crowd of idiots, a discarded sleep mask, and a wiffle bat. This game was Blind Ninja Attack. The rules are simple. First, someone volunteers to be the Blind Ninja. This person is blindfolded, spun in a circle, and given a bat. Then everyone else runs and hides around the floor and tries not to be killed by the Zatoichi-esque assailant. There's really nowhere to hide on a dorm floor hallway, so mostly we just tried to remain quiet as we moved around.

Ben, acting as he often did as a voice of moderate reason, decided that the risks of Trevor Cloak, our sometimes-friendly, sometimes-tyrannical RA disliking our game and ruining our fun were high, so we came up with a system. If anyone spotted Trevor, they were to say, quite loudly "Hey [BLIND NINJA'S NAME HERE], hows it going?". This would be the signal to stop playing and hide our equipment.

For the first round, Clive volunteered to be our ninja assassin. Being a nimble little guy with sharp hearing, he wasted no time in orienting and striking down great big P.J. I mean, John was huge and slow-moving, so it was an easy win for Clive. P.J. became the next Blind Ninja. He spun and we spread out away from him. John moved slowly in cycles, first listening, then orienting, then moving, then possibly swinging the bat. In order. Like a video game boss. He was fairly easy to avoid. But I miscalculated. I allowed myself to be backed into a dead end of the hallway (there were four dead ends, the floor was laid out roughly squarely with a dead end hallway at each corner). I tried my best to be silent, but John knew he was slowly, slowly closing in on someone. I prepared to kick the radiator to distract him then try to bolt past him, but fate intervened.

John's missed swings made noise. B.J. was always listening for sounds that we might be having fun so he could glom on and de-fun things a bit. And this time was no exception. Our showdown was occurring right outside his door. The door opened. B.J.'s face poked out. "Hey guys, what are you doing?" John heard a human voice. His ears perked up. He turned his head. He readied his swing. If B.J. had any clue whatsoever what was about to happen, he would've had plenty of time to dodge or close the door. But who suspects a Blind Ninja Attack?

John, swinging the wiffle bat with one massive arm in an downward arc, smashed B.J. right in the face. As he was knocked back and the door swung closed, we heard, "Oh god, my face!" and then did not see or hear B.J. for the rest of the day. P.J. took his mask off, thinking he'd won, not realizing he struck a bystander. Awesomely.

In any event, his turn was over, and Clive wanted another go. This time everyone got away from him more quickly, knowing that he was fast and extremely reactive to his surroundings. His tiny woodland animal instincts took over and he stopped distinguishing sounds, striking viciously at any noise. There was one noise he did not hear, however. And that was a toilet in the bathroom flushing. Trevor had been in the crapper this whole time, blissfully unaware of what was going on. Ben, passing by the bathroom door, heard the flush and saw Trevor exit the stall and start washing his hands. It was time to end the game.

Ben approached Clive and called the code-phrase. "Hey, Clive, how's it going?" Loud. Awkward. No chance it could be mistaken for conversation. But Clive was not hearing words, only noise. As Trevor exited the bathroom, he saw a perfect shot of Clive striking three times to Ben's arms and torso. "Ow. OW. OW! Quit it!!" But it was too late to quit. Trevor had seen our contraband toys and confiscated our wiffle bat. He would later return it, along with all sorts of toys he took away one magical day months later (we think he was told he wasn't actually allowed to confiscate and keep our things if they weren't actually disallowed in the dorms), but for now, it was gone.

Clive was allowed to keep the sleep mask.

Back in the Bulk - Elevator Darts

It's nearing the time of year when all over the country, fresh-faced young high school graduates are off to their first year at college. I am aware of this not because I am a creep, but because I work in higher ed. This will also be the first year at college for my little cousin Chris Rudedawg (the Rudedawg boys, you may remember, are the closest people I have in my life to younger brothers). So, this of course puts me in mind of my own first year at college and the various entertaining and sometimes bizarre things that occurred.

Freshman year I lived on an honors floor in Bulkie Hall (name changed, duh), a building with a dining hall on the ground floor and two 6-floor towers of dorm rooms. I was in Bulkie 2 south. Our floor, well, it kinda ruled. There was a large cast of characters, both resident and visiting, who collectively made up the Bulkie Boys (and Girls), as became the simplest way to refer to the Bulkie 2S folks. As I go through the stories from the days back in the Bulk (oh, hence the title. See what I did there?), I'll introduce the various players as they become relevant. It would just be too confusing to introduce everyone at once.

This story has as central characters Ben Stantz, John "P.J." Reaver, Trevor Cloak (our R.A.), and me. Of tangential importance are Brendan Tourney and Jon "L.J." Seabiscuit. They don't actually participate in the story, they merely enabled it to occur. You see, Brendan and L.J. were roommates. Like most college students, these two (and most of us) didn't always follow every little rule and restriction about dorm life. They possessed contraband. I'm not referring to the study lounge couch they stole and hid under a sheet (successfully! for months!), I'm referring to the equipment for that lovely old pastime, darts. They had a dartboard and darts, strictly forbidden in dormitory life. Trevor more or less turned a blind eye, since really there was no harm in playing darts in the dorm room, and we were careful to not be obnoxious and obvious about it. Well, for a while anyway.

I mean, you can only throw darts at the board the same way over and over so many times before you want to get more creative. It was really inevitable that we'd develop the Ninja Throw eventually. This is what we named taking three darts, gripping them by their points at the base of the fingers, one dart between each pair of fingers (so they look like Wolverine's claws but idiotic), and then swiftly launching all three simultaneously in the direction of the board with a backhanded motion. It is super fun. It also is not particularly accurate. Brendan and L.J.'s door caught the brunt of the ninja assaults a bit more than the actual board. We needed to find a more suitable location to practice.

Most dorm floors have a bulletin board where useful information, entertaining pictures or statements, or um, other types of paper (I don't know, what else would go up?) can be posted for the floor. Bulkie 2S was no exception. Now, a bulletin board, really, is just a massive rectangular dartboard if you think about it (it's best not to think about it). So we tried to practice our dart skills on the bulletin board. But it was too narrow a hall to be any use or fun, we were throwing from like a foot away. We needed a place to back up more. We needed the elevator.

Really, we can only blame for what is about to occur whoever thought it was a good idea to put a giant rectangular dartboard (still best not to think about it) directly across from an elevator door. P.J. and I had to take things to the next level (oh man, elevator humor. That is awful.) and we tried to convince Ben to join us in doing so. Ben is more sensible than either P.J. or myself, and refused to ride the elevator to the basement, ride it back up to the 2nd floor, wait for the doors to open, then ninja throw a bunch of darts at the board as quickly as safely possible. We were able to negotiate him into being our Director of Security. His entire job was to stay near the elevator and make sure that come hell or high water, nobody stood in front of the door.

So, the first round of elevator darts began. P.J. and I rode to the basement, rode back up, the doors open, and TH-TH-THWACK! three darts flew from my hand and stuck in the board. And *plup* *plup* *plup* John gently, carefully, throws each of his darts in the standard dart-throwing method. I looked at him disdainfully as he protested he didn't know we were ninja-throwing. Clearly we needed a do-over. Ben agreed to remain our Director of Security. Round two began.

At this point, I'm never sure whose part of the story to tell. I guess I'll stick with John and I, then come back and fill in Ben's part after. This elevator trip took longer. We rode to the basement. Someone got on. They took the elevator ONE FLOOR UP to the first floor (pet peeve) and finally we were back on our way, having taken twice as long as we should've to get back to the 2nd floor. The doors opened. Six darts fly out and stick perfectly in the bulletin board TH-TH-TH-TH-TH-THWACK! like something out of a ninja movie. It ruled. For about half a second. Then came the resounding "WHAT THE HELL!?!?"

While John and I were taking our sweet-ass time on this elevator ride, Ben had problems of his own. The second the elevator doors closed for this ride, out of his room comes Trevor. Trevor is/was a very tall, athletic, popular black man. At first, we thought he only had one rule for our floor, which was don't break the exit signs, because they cost "damn near a hundred dollars" to replace (We broke them. By accident. More than once. We fixed them most of the time). This event, elevator darts, may have been the turning point in Trevor deciding to become more strict with us. Trevor approached Ben, who, not knowing exactly how to handle the situation just said "Uh, Trevor, you're not going to want to stand in front of this door."

Trevor, of course, was curious what was going on, and repeatedly called for an explanation, which Ben repeatedly ducked, only repeating his enigmatic warning. Luckily, Trevor did in fact listen to Ben and stayed just out of the line of sight of the elevator door as he questioned him. As they went back and forth for what seemed like an eternity to Ben, FINALLY the elevator arrived on the floor. Trevor, unable to see into the elevator from his angle, only saw 6 darts fly past him at his neck and chest level and embed themselves in his bulletin board. Cue "WHAT THE HELL!?!?"

That exclamation was the rumbling thunder for the 6'4" African-American lightning bolt that was about to strike. We had nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He descended on us and began (possibly rightfully) yelling at us, asking rhetorical questions like "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?" and the like. P.J. is a big dude. I'm not small, but he dwarfed me in both height and weight. I did my best to stay behind him, much to his annoyance, during Trevor's tirade. It helped (me) that Trevor and John had a tumultuous relationship marked by humorous antagonism. John caught the brunt of the anger. He got written up, I think. Somehow I didn't. Nor did Ben. Nor did Brendan and L.J. (who were merely asked to get rid of the darts and dartboard). The storm blew over and all was right-ish on the floor.

Until Blind Ninja Attack.

Uh. Kids. Don't try this stuff at home. Err, school. Whatever.