Thursday, April 29, 2010
There are a couple of ways to obtain this feeling. All of them result in the same sheer joy and excitement. The first way, and my personal favorite, is to be the crazy dancer during a timeout. Camera men beat it to individuals of this breed. Usually they go for the younger kids fist pumping in every direction like they have epilepsy, but every once in a while you’ll look up and see a Dad twisting and shouting like he’s actually Ferris Bueller. The second way to get on the big screen is to wear an absurd outfit. There is no half-assing this either. Some eye-black and a wig dyed the color of your team is more played out than Grant Hill's career. If you don’t go the distance, you know some kid out there (probably named Noah or Micah) has their full body painted with mohawks and/or mullets swinging a terrible towel as the stadium blasts “Let’s Go” by Trick Daddy. Only a select few will get face time because of their outfits so if you're going to have any shot at all you're going to have to swallow your pride and go all out. Let's be honest, we all love our teams, but you have to have a couple screws loose to wear something like that in public.
The third way involves the proposal or the kiss cam. This is virtually impossible, and I have no prior experience, so I'm not going to sit here and preach about it. The last and final way is the easiest. Just sit courtside and chirp at the opposing team. Even if you don’t have a close up of your face you can still call your friends and give them your exact outfit, location and time when you’ll wave your hand/flip the bird so they can find you like you’re Waldo. Getting on the Jumbotron is a great feeling, all you have to do is decide how you’re going to do it.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Big money Weezy
White wife beater with the sig underneath it
How do I feel bitch I feel undefeated
Snap my fingers disappear from the precinct
I'm ballin' we ball out
Thoughts of we fallin' until the ball bounce
I send some niggas with guns at y'all house
Only to find out you live in a doll house
But I thought you was tough though
We carry choppers on our necks
Call it cut throat
We, bury cowards on the set that they come from
We know magic,
Turn weed smoke to gun smoke
We, ball first when we ride
You, in a hearse when you ride
I put my shoe down baby
And I'm holding down Young Mula baby!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
For the second time in a week, Barstool has once again stolen our shit. Congrats Portnoy, hacking college kids who have a had a blog going for a month or so might be a new low for you. Unlike him, we didn't issue a scolding-mom-type of an article on the topic, rather we commended this flight school connoisseur for having the stones to tell the world that he loves ripping bowls and slamming brownies like he's a starved kid in Sudan. Over/under on the amount of time until Portnoy uses the word "chafe" in an article? I'm saying under 14 days.
Ricky Williams' 30 for 30 is on ESPN tonight at 8 p.m. Eastern... 7 p.m. in Jamaica. Sit back and watch one of the most functional stoners of our generation tell his tale. Along with Michael Phelps and Tim Lincecum, Williams has made great strides toward the acceptance and tolerance of ganja-abusing athletes and we all have our fingers crossed that this isn't some "I'm clean now" sob story.
Walking through the mods on the way to class, you see someone you are acquaintances with, not exactly buddy-sip partners with, and who you damn sure wouldn't feel comfortable changing in front of. So you ask one of the only questions known to man where the answer does not matter. "How are you?" You keep walking, expecting their response to be "good" as you pass by. Then you hear them drop a timid "I'm okay" or "Been better". Don't you get it? This is the definition of a rhetorical question. I have better shit to do than hear you whine about your high school boyfriend/girlfriend who still texts you every few months. I don't wanna listen to you explain the way in which your dog died. And although I normally ask how your test went (also a very rhetorical question), I could give a shit if you got a 25 or a 95. I would much rather sneak glances at that one mod where girls are always sunbathing. Call your mom or some shit. Christ, even talk to your peer advisor (I have no idea what they do but I think it's something to do with stuff like this). If that doesn't work, cut your wrists. Whatever you do, don't bring me into this. Just remember, I will never ever care about anything going on in your life.
Aaron Hernandez, whom the Patriots chose in the fourth round of the NFL draft Saturday, had earned the reputation as perhaps the most dangerous pass-catching tight end prospect.
According to sources with three NFL teams, the Florida product’s precipitous fall was because of multiple failed drug tests for marijuana as a collegian.
Hernandez was open about his marijuana use at the Scouting Combine in February. “He admits to it,’’ said one longtime NFL executive who interviewed him there.
Ok, so let me get this straight. Aaron Hernandez failed like 5 or 6 drug tests for weed. He was open about his weed-smoking at the combine, and as a result, fell from being a probable first-rounder to a 4th round Pat. First of all, respect to Hernandez. He knows he smokes weed, he knows he's probably not going to stop smoking weed because of some stupid NFL draft, and he's obviously pretty fucking cocky about his natural athleticism and ability. Love it. Furthermore, props to the Pats for not really giving a shit that this kid smokes weed on the reg, and picking him anyways, because they know he's that good and they knew how lucky they were to fall in to him in the 4th round. Pothead football fans all across American rejoice, you have your new hero.
Don't argue with it. If there are 500 great feelings out there, getting a text has got to be the last of them. No matter how many times you get one, the sensation really never gets old. You feel that little vibration in your pocket, you notice the screen light up on the table, you hear your buddy, "Bro I think you're blowing up." Immediately the most diluted, watered-down euphoria hits you. I would call it the smallest orgasm known to man. One could argue that receiving a text you know is from a chick (meaning you just sent a girl a text and the reply was so quick that it probably wasn't someone else) is like feeling #499.5, but anyone who took Finite knows you have no choice but to round up. I mean honestly, tell me you don't feel like Ron Jeremy in a YMCA shower when you go back to your phone after working out (probably curls with 22.5 lb weights) and see "4 new text messages." Whether it's on your iPhone, your Crackberry, or on your "why-the-fuck-do-you-still-have-that-piece-of-shit" flip phone, receiving a text really is the last of man's great feelings, but a pleasurable one nonetheless.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Here I am, chafed out of my mind, grinding as hard as I have all semester. And there it was. Light in the darkness. 180 friends online? Yes please. I like to consider myself average when it comes to popularity, and for someone like me, this is an extraordinary number. One that will make the 55 on my upcoming Spanish prueba a little more tolerable. Aaron had his 755 (fuck you, Bonds). Uncle Chafe has his 180.
1. The Polar Express
2. Angel Falls, Venezuela
3. Pandora (as an Avatar, humans can't breathe the air)
4. Apollo 13
5. Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory
Sunday, April 25, 2010
It’s inevitable. Unless you go stealth and not let a soul know you have gum, you're bound to lose more than 80% of your pack at any given moment. Just pray it's not 5-Elixir edition. In it’s simplest form it is a great display of chain reaction. You get out your gum, your friend sees you have a lot left so he asks for a piece. Your other friend sees that both of you have gum and feels left out so he asks for a piece. Before you know it everyone is sticking their hands out expecting a piece to be nicely placed on their palm. It turns into a sort of soup-kitchen-but-with-gum-instead fiasco. It's literally Communist when you think about it. People are doing no work and expect to be rewarded. Everyone thinks they’re doing no harm since they are only taking one piece of gum. What everyone forgets, myself included, is that the one piece mentality adds up in the end to be a large portion of your pack of gum. If everyone just had their own gum, we wouldn’t have to deal with this chafe.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
"What the fuck is Blue's Clues?" You know exactly what it is you lying bitch. Blues Clue's was the shit from like age 6 to age 9 (I think). You followed around a little cartoon dog named Blue, along with this creepy guy named Steve, finding clues and solving mysteries (what could be better?). After he won the hearts of young children all across America, Burns decided the music world would be fun to absolutely own the shit out of next. After the clues ran out in 2002, Burns began work on his first album "Songs For Dustmites" at his house in Brooklyn, which was produced by PIAS Records later in '03. After posting 11 songs on his webpage, he realized his album fucking blew and enlisted the help of the Flaming Lips to be sort of like his new Blue and solve the mystery of turning his dog shit record in to something that wasn't complete and utter torture. They helped him finish it, and one of the members of the Lips even cast him in a movie in 2008 called Christmas on Mars. Big Steve also played a vampire in a horror-comedy with Darrel Hamond called Netherbeast Incorporated in 2006. The heroic Burns would later start a band called "Steve Burns and The Struggle" (Big Steve is now a fucking bad ass if you haven't noticed) and is currently working on his next album, "Deep Sea Recovery Efforts." I'm pretty sure the video posted below qualifies as soft-core pornography.
When you have a solid group of bros cheating on the same test there's always going to be a discrepancy of scores. At the top of the lineup card you've got you're QB (sorry for using two different sport references in one sentence, sue me). Hopefully your man-under-center isn't an an ass grabber and is focusing on nothing but getting your group out of that multiple choice section alive. This kid is your Lebron, your King Leonidas, your Adam Banks. The kind of dude that will just strap a band of retards to his back and carry them up the mountain that is their Not So Basic Finance Test. If the bro with the "C" on his jersey can do some cheating of his own (on the smart girl who writes fucking huge or the girl you kind of know from class who doesn't really have a problem with getting cheated off of) and pull off any score in the 90's, the team is in good shape moving forward (let's call it a 90).
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
I'm reposting this now because no one will be on their computers this weekend. And because it deserves to be seen. Notorious, we love you, wherever you are. Without further ado,
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of beer dragons danced in their heads. And Jenkem’s in his croakies, and I in my flatty, had just cracked ourselves our first scrumptious Natty.
When out in the Mods there arose such a clatter, I sprang to the window to see what was the fratter. Away to the Mods we flew with a flash, threw on some fresh pinnies to prepare for the bash.
Jenkem’s screamed out: “What’s that, is it chay?” I looked to the sky, dropped my jaw and said “Nay!” When, what to my blood shot eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh spewing out beer.
With a legend old driver, a drinking machine, I knew in a moment it must be Crunkushevene. Quicker than gravity he chugged like a boss, he howled and he shouted “FUCK YOU MIKE ROSS!”
He descended from the heavens, and called us by name. Then he echoed out amongst us and explained why he came. “I’ve come for the crunk,” he said with a grin. “I know of tomorrow, now, who brought the tin?”
Lucky for us, I was strapped with a tinny, and I pulled out the Skoal tucked under my pinny. “I’ve seen you before,” Jenkems said with a pause. “Me too” I agreed… "Aren’t you…Wade Boggs?”
My question amused him, he laughed and he said : "'Tis but a farce my good bros, you’ve all been misled. I am more than this beard and this Rays jersey of green. I am the Keeper of the Crunk, some call me Crunkushevene.”
“Now bros, I need pussy! Go find me a vixen. I’ve flown miles to be here, now I need me a fixin'. From the skanks of Co Ro, to the sluts of Walsh Hall, dash away, dash away, dash away all!”
The task at hand was not tough at all, just dropped the name Boggs and the sluts they did fall. After slaying 47 girls in 30 minutes or so, Boggs was done, and he was ready to go.
He climbed back on board his magnificent jet, and quickly inhaled 13 Miller Lites like a legendary vet. Climbing high into the heavens his plane it did soar, ascending to the ranks of Monday folklore.
There we stood, minds in a daze, still bedazzled by the great Boggs’ ways. From the stirrups to the biceps to the impeccable stache, his aura was majestic, his style unmatched.
Now it was bound to be a Monday unlike any other. Boggs came to Walsh as a god, but left as our brother.
He DUI’d his sleigh back to who-knows-where, beer dripping down his chin and Skoal ingrained in his facial hair. Off to a land where women were objects and “No means Yes”, how many he assaulted he’ll never confess.
Knowing not of personality nor brains, Boggs focused on breasts. The children lay warm anticipating a Monday of buddy sips and arrests.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
This is just why everyone should have an iPhone. Forget about the maps, apps and music, you buy this gadget so that when you're at Richmond Pig Roast you can capture a horrifically awkward make-out. We don't have frats at BC, so naturally we were pretty eager to immerse ourselves in the frattastic culture of Richmond. The frats at Richmond all have lodges, basically houses with dance floors, big decks, and bars used strictly for partying. At one end of the row of lodges is SAE, where we started our day. It's the frattiest frat and all of the hot girls hang out there so it was the obvious choice. Because there were so many people there sucking down beers, they ran out pretty quickly. We bounced. At the other end of the "lodge row" there was FIJI. When all other frats decided to dedicate their days to lax pinnies and cute girls in sun dresses, one frat dared to be different. FIJI was a magical place and an inspiring experience. It's a place that focused it's attention solely on ugly, fat girls and awkward make outs. They had beer left, and we got this absolute gem of a video. When you have such a masterpiece, you just have to let it speak for itself.
1. When King Tut was getting mummified
2. With Matt Damon and Ben Affleck while they were writing Goodwill Hunting
3. In the studio when Notorious wrote Juicy
4. In the Oval Office at the White House
5. In Monet's Garden
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Really? Last class on a Thursday and you’re torturing me with this shit? It’s just how the universe works. The weekend is at you’re fingertips, but they really make you work for it. You have to know the darkness to know the light, and sitting here waiting to get back a test at the end of an hour and fifteen minute class is without a doubt the darkness. What is the point of waiting until the very end of class to hand the tests back? You have them. We want them. Why can’t we just make this happen when we walk in? Most teachers think that handing tests back at the beginning of class is counterproductive because students will only look at the test and not focus on the class. First of all, most kids just want to see what they got and don’t give a flying fuck about what actually happened on the test, and second of all, we really don’t pay attention anyways. Listen, we get it Professor, you have the power. You have the ability to chafe us and you exercise it. Please just give me my fucking test.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
For all of you who don't know, Barstool took another shot at BC today, this time taking aim at the BC residents of Titletown (the hockey squad).
This isn't going to be as vicious an attack as most of you would probably expect. Did the assault of the hockey kids send us over the edge? Obviously. We're bros with a blog, they're bros on skates, so naturally we were ready to come to their defense. Does Cam Atkinson manage to be the leading goal scorer in the nation, wear a simba costume to a party, and get pussy all in one night? You bet your ass he does. We'll send Barstool a picture of Halloween next year, but instead of these costumes they'll be wearing nothing but mid-calf socks and their rings. I don't really think I have to go in to the math behind why a BC National Champ hockey player > Sketchy, blogging Portnoy, and I'll spare you all the 70,000 word document that explaining such a hypothesis would require. "Hey shutup! You guys blog too!" Yes, Portnoy, we know we blog, but we do it for the absurd amounts of pussy that get thrown our way as a result, and you're married. Furthermore, we do it from class (it's chill to do stuff in class other than pay attention), and you do it from your Buffalo Bill-like blogging shack. Case closed.
But like I said, this is not going to be a horrifically long Barstool-bashing (as much as I would like it to be). Instead, I'd simply like to offer the Pres a challenge. Any competition he wants that embodies Barstool v. BC (BC brought to you by BrostonCollege.com). Creative writing contest? Jenga vs. a football player? Scrabble vs. a rugby guy? Shotgun vs. a hockey bro? Ultimate fighting vs. UGBC President Al Dea? Parkour vs. the Parkour freaks? Academic decathlon? You name it, Portnoy, and we'll be there. Stop hiding in your blogging layer and come out to play. You've conquered chat roulette and giving Sam Adams dome, wouldn't Chestnut Hill be a great place to make your mark next?
P.S. If you decide to post about us you'll send our hit-count into the stratosphere, which we'd love (not to mention our unfaltering affection for all haters), and if you don't then you're a bitch and we win the fight by default. Check mate, Portnoy.
We'll be at Copperfield's tomorrow night chirping at your wonder-boy rapper for two hours straight in the front row. See you there?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
This is a completely unique relationship. There's really nothing else like it at college. Everyone manages to get a girl back to their room once in a while, and everyone is inevitably sexiled at one point or another during their stay on The Heights. But the relationship you have with the girl your roommate is hooking up with is a special one. You see them on the way in. You see them on the way out. You see them at their drunkest. You see them at their groggiest/ugliest in the morning. You pass each-other on your way to class thinking, "Yeah, you fuck my roommate," while she's thinking, "Yeah, I fuck your roommate," and that's the complete extent of the relationship. You really do know more about the sound of their moans than you do about their personalities.
(5) The bong that Michael Phelps got caught with