So instead I drive to HEB where I am greeted by a bird that sounds like it is giving birth to a panda and having its entrails ripped out at the same time. It's really a miracle of evolution. How a living organism can go on making a 300-decibel racket for months at a time without ever stopping to inhale is beyond me. I suppose it is the same principle that allows sorority girls to exhibit the same behavior.
In a town full of rednecks who drive hundreds of miles to shoot at birds, how is it that we have THIS problem?! There are probably ten guys in HEB right now that would pay five bucks for the chance to shoot that bird and take its dead carcass home as a romantic gift to their sister/girlfriend.
My point is that there's a lot of starry-eyed idealists here on campus who have big dreams about making a positive impact on the world and can't wait to get out of Huntsville to do it. There are things we can do right here to make a difference. Things that can change people's lives for the better. Things like drawing and quartering that bird and then putting the leftover bits on pikes at the four corners of Walker County as a warning.
Let the message to all God's creation be clear: we'll make an effort to keep our pollution out of your forests so long as you keep your stinking Nature out of our cities.
-- R.P. McMurphy
Spring Broken
RP's Final Letters from Prison
I swore it would never happen again. Not after last year. I spent the two weeks after Spring Break in traction learning how to walk again. It always starts out as innocent, casual conversation, but somehow one thing just leads to another. Before you know it you're smack dab in the middle of a Cirque du Soleil cast orgy and way out of your league. Let me tell you those are some powerful and relentless people.
So this year I was just going to take Spring Break easy. Do some light reading, finish my Spanish workbook, enjoy a martini or two - nothing life-threatening. This plan lasted until Tommy called me and said we should go get some drinks at this new classy place downtown. I figured no harm could come of this, so we split. Now, I don't have a lot of time, so I'm just going to stick to the facts. Here we go:
At the bar we met two girls – Patti and Louise – who had foreign accents and said they were transfer students. They invited us back to their place where we had a couple drinks that they must have spiked with something because Tommy tried to ride an invisible elephant and I could have sworn that one of the girls was two midgets in a body suit. We found out that they had escaped from a Romanian circus when their former manager busted down the door with a year old fruitcake and brought us all at gunpoint to a private airfield. We escaped with the entourage of a t.A.t.U. tribute band who caused a distraction for us by putting AA batteries into each other’s panties.
We stayed up all night doing asparicaine. Asparicaine is when you take a stalk of asparagus, hollow it out, fill it up with cocaine, and deep-fry it in beer batter. Tommy and I woke up the next day in a speedboat in the middle of the Nevada desert with no sign of the girls. We walked for half a day looking for Jawas, but instead we found a compound full of religious fanatics who believe that Christ’s True Message can only be found by beating all the games released for the original 8-bit Nintendo. They gave us food and shelter until Tommy entered the up up down down left right left right B A B A select start code at which time they threw us into a dungeon with all the other heretics who committed the same sin (or owned Game Genies).
The prison revolted. We all broke free of our bonds and fled to Vegas on horseback. We got invited to a VIP room in a nightclub where Vince Vaughn, Hugh Downs and the girl from Small Wonder were mixing a bottle of Everclear with regular unleaded gasoline and shooting it with a hypodermic needle. Vaughn was passed out in 5 and the Small Wonder chick was a bitch, so Hugh Downs took us on his private jet where he had a theater troupe of pygmies reenacting famous assassinations from throughout history.
The pilot was told to land anywhere at random, and when we landed in Venezuela the country was in an uproar. The National Prostitute Guild was on strike and protesting in the streets demanding medical, dental and birth control benefits. A young vixen named Ezmerelda won us over to their cause by promising Tommy “professional courtesy” and me “a bottle of tequila.” It was all fun and games until someone brought out the riot guns and fire hoses. Tommy fled with Ezmerelda and I sat down with my bottle of tequila until the riot police beat me senseless.
I woke up in a dingy prison cell smelling like Robert Downy, Jr. They say they will release me in time to catch my classes Monday morning, but until then I am stuck here with a cellmate named Carlos who will not tell me if has ever killed a baby.
If there is a lesson to be learned it’s this: Spring Break hedonism is an empty dream. Don’t let Snoop Dogg take a picture of your boobs.
-- R.P. McMurphy
-- back / next page