So last night. I'm sitting here, just like I am now. Bored out of my skull. Wondering if I will end up doing anything at all with my night. When I get a text message from Eric, who is at the Sig Phi Del formal saying that I have to come to the next one.

I agree, and five minutes later I get a phone call from Eric telling me what a good time he's having. And then K-Feld gets on the phone. And she harasses and harasses until I start to think it may actually be a good idea.

So.

I get in my car, gas up, and head out to freakin' READING. After an hour and a half on the road, I arrive at my destination. The Ramada Inn (or Ramadan) in Reading.

Everybody was pretty shit hammered when I got there, but no worries. A bottle of rum and a Sparxx later I had caught up! And then things start to get a little hazy.

I remember very clearly that Malibu was legendary last night. As well as this morning when I walked down to the room that him, Eric, K-Feld and Miriam stayed in. A very good time all around.

And that ladies and gentlemen. Makes me a Formal Crasher. Next step, bar mitzvahs and then maybe I'll make it to the big show and start crashing weddings... maybe.. there is potential.

Anyway. Next topic.

I finally am done with this damn car accident. A full week later, I have paid off the guy I crashed into on 611, and now my headlight's still out, and I'm now poor...er by 600 bloody dollars.

But at least that's over with. Now it's all about paying my dad back three hundred feckin' dollars while at the same time throwing about 300 dollars in the bank every week so I can pay for school next year. OH and let's not forget that I have to send the second half of my security deposit to Brookwood by next Friday... another 221 dollars.

I am the economy, at this point.

It will all be worth it in August, though.

Love,
Chris

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I'm an idiot.

But seriously.

As Jon Stewart said last night:

"Anybody who's seen a TV today knows that it's a terrible, terrible day.... but I am going to do, as I always do when faced with a tragedy, I am going to repress it and eventually swallow it. And then 30 years from now somebody will spill juice and I will freak the fuck out."

So moving on from the tragic events of yesterday morning, here's some news on me.

I got accepted back into Millersville. So suck it, doubters.
I am applying for financial aid, to see just how many courses I will take.
Work is going well, I'm snagging anywhere between 320-360 dollars a week.
I can not fucking WAIT to move into my apartment. I am sick of being in Doylestown, and I need change now.

Oh, and I'm watching the Godzilla from 1997 right now.

Things are overall pretty good.

Love,
Chris

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Nation, today's shout out goes... out to not only one of my good friends from last year in the dormitory known as Gaige Hall. But a flatmate of mine next year in good old 905 Brookwood.

Ladies and Gentlemen... I give you Bob Pryor.



This picture is taken at the turning point of Bob's life as most people know it.

What he is holding there is the first of many bad decisions we have made that we look back on now and smile about. AKA: The Red Hot Reindeer. Which is, 2/3 Frank's Red Hot Sauce and 1/3 Jagermeister.

However, the real story behind Bob Pryor's birth is this.

As you may or may not know, I used to smoke like a chimney. I've cut back now, simply because of this.

One day, I was on the stoop of Gaige. Smoking. When I noticed a lump on my arm, it was rather large and looked pretty fucking malignant, so I took a knife to it, and lopped it off. It fell to the ground with a splat, so I decided to piss on it. I did so, turned around, and when I turned back this is what I saw:



My first instinct was to take the knife to it, but it quickly said "let's drink". So I started calling it Bob, and to hide the fact that I was it's father we made up a story about Richard Pryor being his dad.

ANYWAY.

We've been friends ever since.

Here are some stories about Bob and I.

We once belted "Springtime for Hitler" throughout the halls of Gaige 2C right before winter break started, only to find out the only person left was Lee. Who happens to be Jewish. No big deal... but then again, his parents were there too.

We sat in his room one night, and learned all of the words (IN FUCKING RUSSIAN) to The Hymn for Red October. And haven't stopped singing it since.

Bob had sex to the same song, even stopping momentarily to start the song over again.

We had a competition about how many epic songs we could hook up with girls to. So far we each have one. Bob has Red October, I have Jurassic Park.

I once told Bob to watch over a friend of mine who happened to be female while we were drinking one night. And when I passed out, they ended up making out for the rest of the night.

Bob brought Airsoft guns into our lives. Simultaneously one of the best and worst decisions ever made.

No matter what time of day it was I could walk by Bob's room and yell "SUIT UP, BITCH!" and he'd meet me on the stoop for a cigarette.

Bob once scissor-kicked Angela Landsbury.

One time Bob left me for dead at a party and I made a huuuuge mistake... manufactured by Black and Decker, this mistake.

We are two people who within one year at Millersville were able to walk into any party and at least five people at the party would scream our full name, and at that point, it was possible to get a cup for free.

One time, Bob and I went to a Power Hour. Before we went we finished three quarters of a bottle of 99 Apples, then went and drank a 40 each before switching to some mystery mixed drink that was prepared for us for the last 20 minutes of the aforementioned Power Hour. I went into the house, vomited, and passed out. I woke up ten minutes later to Bob slapping me. I went, threw up again, came back out to the living room and Bob was passed out on the couch. We left the house at 7:30 PM. And were sober for the rest of the night.

Bob once drank so much that the next morning he climbed into a sleeping bag, zipped it up around his body and called it his womb. He stayed in the womb for the remainder of the day.

Bob and I ran around the World of Warcraft slaying innocent creatures for two months before we got bored of it and quit.

Bob and I were so drunk one night that we had our other future flatmate Kirk drive us home in my car. I rode shotgun, Bob rode in the trunk. Voluntarily.

Bob and I shared an entire bottle of SoCo 100 Proof one night, and by the time we were done were speaking to each other in accents and toasting each shot to something deep and spiritually touching... surrounded by people who were sober.

Bob dates out of his league.

Bob and I have sworn off of 99 Berries because we finished a bottle of it, went downstairs, and Bob got an underage for ... just sitting there, pretty much.

Bob, who owns "America The Book" downloaded the audio book on iTunes and we spent a week listening to it in his room.

Bob and I once drove to Vegas on a psychedellic journey of self-discovery and havoc that Hunter S. Thompson (RIP) turned into Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Bob's nickname in his fraternity... is Stalin. I shit you not.




Ladies and Gentlemen. Bob is my greatest creation. He will die for your sins one day, mark my words.

There are so many more. But frankly, I am too exhausted to remember.

Enjoy.

Love,
Chris

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Oh my God.

Everytime I see Fight Club I want to do something completely and utterly destructive with my life.

Something huge.

Nothing Sayeed Al-Qaida Hamesh would do.

But something, just to prove a point.

Or at least get into a fight. I'm good at those...

Whatever, either way, thank God I'm so tired, because as soon as this movie ended I might have done something bad.

Anyway, I'll try to have a bit more for you all soon.

Love,
Chris

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Snuke.

South Park keeps getting better and better, folks.

Love,
Chris

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Nation, I am a man of my word, and have decided to dedicate an entry to an admitted reader from Millersville.

I am of course talking about Brent Martin. Who told me on Saturday night that he loves to read the posts. So, here you go, bud.

And for the sake of perspective, people, this is what a Brent Martin is.



And now it's time for some stories.

Brent and I lived in Gaige Hall at Millersville last year. Didn't know each other until the second semester when I started hanging out on the stoop out front of the dorm. The stoop WAS a wonderful place where dreams come true and unicorns made of cigarette ash and dip spit wander peacefully about.

Anyway, everybody would smoke cigarettes (and other things) out there and just chill, and forget for a while that they were actually in school. Brent and I became fast friends via tobacco and alcohol. We realized we shared the same values and that we were very good at a very fantastic art. Shit talking.

Now please try to understand this. Gaige was inhabited by several "gentle giants" like myself. Brent is not a giant. And he knows this, but he is perhaps one of the most hilarious people I've met because if somebody says one thing that happens to be stupid or unnecessary, he can automatically flip a switch and with a straight face, berate and debase them for 10 straight minutes, meaning nothing by it, but certainly getting laughs out of everybody around him, even the person being belittled in most cases.

It was once discussed "what if wing 2C (my wing) and the G-Unit (Brent's wing) fought?"
After a lot of discussion about who would fight and everything it eventually came to the point where it would just be Brent and I standing in the middle of everybody else circled around talking shit.

But he's not all shit talking, nation. Mr. Martin is also capable of very generous acts, for instance, on my birthday last year, I was sitting on the stoop at one point and he came out and said "yo! birthday beer!" And in broad daylight we drank a beer on the stoop.

You need these kind of people in college, folks.

Anyway, before I wrap this homage to Brent Martin, here's a story.

Me, Brent, Dan Young, and a player to be named never are sitting in a dorm room one weekend night drunk and still drinking.

Dan says he can't drink beer if he's laughing too hard, so every time he tries to take a sip, the three of us are trying to make him laugh, and it's working for a while, and after inebriation makes us laugh for a while about the situation, we all calm down for a while, and Dan looks around and decides to take a sip. There is so much tension, because we want to keep it going, but we believe we've used up all of the hillarity.

The beer gets to Dan's mouth and with perfect timing out of nowhere, Brent just yells "MIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLK! MIIIIIIIIILLLLLLKKKK!!!!!!!"

Anyway, Dan didn't get much beer down after that.

And if you don't think Milk is funny, you don't know what funny is.

Love,
Chris

Post-Script: Let this set a precedent of admitted readers out of the NuTang community getting an entry posted in their honor. I believe this is a good idea, because by seeing the people who have surrounded me in my past couple of years of existence, you in the NuTang community will have a greater appreciation of who I am and will find the entries to be a lot more interesting.

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