*Okay, what I'm going for here is that the conquering skills of a big, sexy warrior look like the unadulterated fear of a 14-year-old girl next to the profile-annihilating abilities of the FBT. Sometimes my metaphors are pretty reaching.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
The Facebook Terrorist
You innocently sign on to Facebook five minutes into your Humanities reading after a hard day's work. "Jeepers!" you exclaim. "50 notifications! I bet everyone commented on my hilarious Overheard @ BYU post!" Au contraire, young Padawan learner. Every single one of these notifications is from that person who you're pretty sure was in your ward that one semester a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away: he/she answered 40 questions about you, tagged you in 8 of those friend-character-personality grids (in his/her eyes you are Charmander and the snuggliest of his/her Facebook friends), and sent you 2 messages about the event he/she has invited you to. The FBT has veni-vidi-vici'd your Newsfeed so thoroughly with his/her 2,000+ tagged photos, 100+ photo albums, and constantly updated statii that he/she makes Leonidas look like a Miamaid at her first stake dance*. Even if you don't remember where you met the FBT or how you know him/her, you know absolutely every thing about his/her life. Basically the FBT serves as a reminder of why everyone hates Facebook and why, after three hours of stalking, you should really just get back to your homework.
*Okay, what I'm going for here is that the conquering skills of a big, sexy warrior look like the unadulterated fear of a 14-year-old girl next to the profile-annihilating abilities of the FBT. Sometimes my metaphors are pretty reaching.
*Okay, what I'm going for here is that the conquering skills of a big, sexy warrior look like the unadulterated fear of a 14-year-old girl next to the profile-annihilating abilities of the FBT. Sometimes my metaphors are pretty reaching.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Point Mongerer
You've just blasted through a test that consisted of a painful mix of regurgitation of information and BS-ing*. It's one of the few times you didn't have to trek all the way to the Testing Center just to feel bad about yourself, so all you want to do is get out and watch a reality show on CMT to remind yourself that you're lucky to be literate.
The last thing you want to do is spend one more second agonizing over question 67 and whether you should have chosen "all of the above excepting b, d, and f" or "none of the above excepting a, c, and e". But, your professor wants you to learn from your errors by catching them yourself (which means he/she really wants to go home and watch CMT too). So you're stuck. But grading is easier than actually test-taking right? This should be painless. Plus, you're sure you got 67 right.
Cue the Point Mongerer
This person has not let one point slip through their writer's bump-ridden fingers since the PKU test tak as a newborn and is not going to start now. As soon as the professor gets to one of those "choose the best answer" questions the PMer has his/her teeth gnashed and is willing to rip away every lost point from the professor. They're like a vulture working on day-old roadkill, but more disgusting.
The PMer will also come under the facade of showing how righteous they are by asking questions like "Do I still get it right if I didn't dot the i with a perfect circle?" or "Would Heavenly Father give me the points if my pencil went out of the scantron circle?"
By the time the PMer has sucked the soul out of your professor and everyone else involved, you've missed My Big Redneck Wedding. And you got 67 wrong.
*By the Spirit-ing. Of course.
The last thing you want to do is spend one more second agonizing over question 67 and whether you should have chosen "all of the above excepting b, d, and f" or "none of the above excepting a, c, and e". But, your professor wants you to learn from your errors by catching them yourself (which means he/she really wants to go home and watch CMT too). So you're stuck. But grading is easier than actually test-taking right? This should be painless. Plus, you're sure you got 67 right.
Cue the Point Mongerer
This person has not let one point slip through their writer's bump-ridden fingers since the PKU test tak as a newborn and is not going to start now. As soon as the professor gets to one of those "choose the best answer" questions the PMer has his/her teeth gnashed and is willing to rip away every lost point from the professor. They're like a vulture working on day-old roadkill, but more disgusting.
The PMer will also come under the facade of showing how righteous they are by asking questions like "Do I still get it right if I didn't dot the i with a perfect circle?" or "Would Heavenly Father give me the points if my pencil went out of the scantron circle?"
By the time the PMer has sucked the soul out of your professor and everyone else involved, you've missed My Big Redneck Wedding. And you got 67 wrong.
*By the Spirit-ing. Of course.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
The Karma Chameleon
The Karma Chameleon* is always ALWAYS seen at any given dance party. It may take you a second to place him, but it's not because he's a No Face**--on the contrary, the KC is typically pretty hot. It's just that he's usually wearing some sort of cloaking agent, such as giant aviators or a fake Burt Reynolds mustache. The theme of the party doesn't matter; he is always dressed to nines in a costume so thorough he could have conceivably paid for it to be custom made--but he didn't! He went to DI the day of the party and somehow left that glorious institution with JNCO pants for the '90s party, a neon spandex onesie for the Neon dance, and a Members Only jacket for the '80s party.
This is the most fun-looking person you will ever see in your entire Provo career--colorful, hot, dancin' crazy, always surrounded by members of his entourage...but beware: he is either a 28-year-old who still has Undecided as his major or a freshman waiting for his mission call.
*name chosen because it sounds colorful and has retro, '80s connotations
**A No Face, by definition, is a person who looks different and unrecognizable every time you see him or her, kind of like Jerry's girlfriend who looks totally different in certain lighting in that episode of "Seinfeld". He/she could be perfectly attractive, just lacking in any definitive features. Trust me--it is a real affliction.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Salt Lake Center-er
The SLCer is extremely hard to spot initially, because their whole purpose is to look as if they go to BYU Provo like any other Zoob, when in reality they live in an alternate universe filled with carpool lanes and easy classes. Like Canadians, they live among us with so few outward differences that they almost seem like one of us, except for the huge fact that: they. are. not.
At FHE they'll announce that they go to BYU and they'll complain about Physical Science and American Heritage to further the facade, but what we don't know is that they're not living in BYU housing so that they can live close enough to class that the walk there doesn't have them waltzing into the MARB, panting hard enough to have just furrowed a small field. They live among us, making the hour long drive, the one that took our pioneer ancestors months (uneducated guess) to do by hand-carts, to go to their classes, all so they can get the BYU experience [cough, marriage], without actually going to real-BYU.
But there are some tell-tale signs to differentiate these "students" from your real peers:
Never have a major
Never seem to have had professors you've ever heard of
Unusual griping and moaning about high gas prices because they use so much of it on their commute they might as well be pouring it over their cereal
Generally skittish when conversations about ACT scores and high school GPAs come up
A light in their eyes that wasn't ripped from their souls by the demons that are generals credits at real-BYU.
At FHE they'll announce that they go to BYU and they'll complain about Physical Science and American Heritage to further the facade, but what we don't know is that they're not living in BYU housing so that they can live close enough to class that the walk there doesn't have them waltzing into the MARB, panting hard enough to have just furrowed a small field. They live among us, making the hour long drive, the one that took our pioneer ancestors months (uneducated guess) to do by hand-carts, to go to their classes, all so they can get the BYU experience [cough, marriage], without actually going to real-BYU.
But there are some tell-tale signs to differentiate these "students" from your real peers:
Never have a major
Never seem to have had professors you've ever heard of
Unusual griping and moaning about high gas prices because they use so much of it on their commute they might as well be pouring it over their cereal
Generally skittish when conversations about ACT scores and high school GPAs come up
A light in their eyes that wasn't ripped from their souls by the demons that are generals credits at real-BYU.
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Piano Man
The Piano Man is under the impression that we are all in the mood for a melody, and that by serenading all of us sitting in the Wilk Terrace, he's got us feeling alright. I probably shouldn't judge a person who is just trying to bring his candle out from under that bushel and cultivate his talents, but how many times can one endure the same three Jon Schmidt songs?
As he plays, the PM is seemingly shielded against all the winces and eyebrows raised in his general direction, probably because he is basking in the admiring glow of the female stranger sitting beside him with her Teriyaki Stix rice bowl, swaying and singing the words to the "Viva la Vida/Love Story" masterpiece he's pounding out so passionately. Even though they think they're alone in their Chris Martin/Taylor Swift love connection, all of us lunching in the Terrace were forced to be a part of this moment as soon as he sat down on that bench.
As he plays, the PM is seemingly shielded against all the winces and eyebrows raised in his general direction, probably because he is basking in the admiring glow of the female stranger sitting beside him with her Teriyaki Stix rice bowl, swaying and singing the words to the "Viva la Vida/Love Story" masterpiece he's pounding out so passionately. Even though they think they're alone in their Chris Martin/Taylor Swift love connection, all of us lunching in the Terrace were forced to be a part of this moment as soon as he sat down on that bench.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
The Truebluecoug
This guy is such a big BYU fan that he comes dangerously close to violating the second commandment with how much he loves that bronze cougar in front of the stadium. He feels the deep need to express his school pride on non-game days and is only one more Oklahoma game away from wearing a tie with his Cougar United shirt to church. But this worship of the Lord's school doesn't seem blasphemous to him because he considers the fight song a hymn, BYU slogans to be doctrine and game plans to be divinely inspired.
At the games you'll find that when the truebluecoug isn't putting his heart and soul into every crowd-involvement that the Jumbo Tron throws at him, he's talking about the athletes like they're his best friends and/or spouses, i.e.: "Well you know when Max passes like that it's because he had Cheerios for breakfast". You'll also be able spot the truebluecoug because not only is he the one at the games with the painted face and the stupid hat, but he's the one with the newborn baby that has the painted face and the stupid hat.
Newborn or not, you know you'll find the truebluecoug doing his part to help his team by heckling, which usually includes:
Citing scripture to inform the opposing team* why they will be destroyed
Giving the ref the finger**
Softcore cursing from the 50's like fiddlesticks, dagnabbit and H-E-double hockey sticks.
Sitting in close proximity to a truebluecoug at any game is almost enough to make you feel like one of those curmudgeon-season-ticket-holders sitting on their cushioned seat they bought after they got their hip replacement, yelling at the stupid kids to just sit down already.
*aka Satan
**their CTR ring finger
At the games you'll find that when the truebluecoug isn't putting his heart and soul into every crowd-involvement that the Jumbo Tron throws at him, he's talking about the athletes like they're his best friends and/or spouses, i.e.: "Well you know when Max passes like that it's because he had Cheerios for breakfast". You'll also be able spot the truebluecoug because not only is he the one at the games with the painted face and the stupid hat, but he's the one with the newborn baby that has the painted face and the stupid hat.
Newborn or not, you know you'll find the truebluecoug doing his part to help his team by heckling, which usually includes:
Citing scripture to inform the opposing team* why they will be destroyed
Giving the ref the finger**
Softcore cursing from the 50's like fiddlesticks, dagnabbit and H-E-double hockey sticks.
Sitting in close proximity to a truebluecoug at any game is almost enough to make you feel like one of those curmudgeon-season-ticket-holders sitting on their cushioned seat they bought after they got their hip replacement, yelling at the stupid kids to just sit down already.
*aka Satan
**their CTR ring finger
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Candidates
You're innocently walking to the Wilk, hoping that Sugar and Spice hasn't run out of Graham Canyon ice cream, deciding whether or not you'd be deemed Telestial if you took a nap in the library instead of going to Devotional, when suddenly you are blinded by all the colors of Donny Osmond's Technicolor Dreamcoat. Has the circus come to town? How did all these balloons get here so quickly? Packs of smiling, shiny people gradually come into view, and all is clear: tis the season for BYUSA elections.
BYU is always full of friendly, high-fivin' dudes and dudettes, but around election time, the BYUSA-ers become a gaggle of Tracy Flicks. Cutthroat and immune to any embarrassment, they will stop at absolutely nothing in their quest to be in charge of BYU parties make a difference. Nominees will reestablish contact with one-time acquaintances from their Helaman Halls Elders Quorums. They will shove tiny flyers down strangers' throats and refuse to take, "I actually don't have a second, I have to...pray..." for an answer. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these candidates from the swift coercion of their apathetic peers with the help of their bright, catch-phrase'd posters.
Don't worry, we'll consider voting--provided there's a free t-shirt and possibly some of that Graham Canyon in it for us.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Library Goers: Fifth Floor
With every step you take on your ascent to the fifth floor of the HBLee (pronounced AY-ch-blee) you are renouncing all intentions to actually do anything homework related. Don't even pretend to pull up your research paper or any scholarly sources, maybe just set out a textbook that makes you look like you're capable of making lots of money and/or children in the near future.
Where on the other floors you need at least a furrowed brow to make it look like you're completing some brilliant assignment (when in reality you're facebook chatting), on the fifth floor there are no facades, but it is a floor where the only way you will be hushed is in a cute and flirty manner. On floors one through four you'll probably get a few crusty eyes for ruffling a bag of sun chips (garden salsa variety), but the fifth floor is the land of the socialites, home of the procrastinators; a place where the streets are paved with sideways smiles and mutual acquaintances.
Let it also be known that the fifth floor is a black tie affair which means that your lucky study sweats are not permitted. Always dress to impress [translation: you're going to have to drop those ironclad dress and grooming standards--Ugg boots make any skirt length look practical no matter how cold it is outside]. But most importantly, this is a floor of regulars who have devoted their study habits to memorizing who comes and goes on this floor, and lamenting to each other how it's "sooo not right that In-N-Out is in Utah now..." If you're going to "study" here expect to be on Academic Probation by the end of the semester. But hey, you'll probably get a few Color Me Mine dates out of it.
Where on the other floors you need at least a furrowed brow to make it look like you're completing some brilliant assignment (when in reality you're facebook chatting), on the fifth floor there are no facades, but it is a floor where the only way you will be hushed is in a cute and flirty manner. On floors one through four you'll probably get a few crusty eyes for ruffling a bag of sun chips (garden salsa variety), but the fifth floor is the land of the socialites, home of the procrastinators; a place where the streets are paved with sideways smiles and mutual acquaintances.
Let it also be known that the fifth floor is a black tie affair which means that your lucky study sweats are not permitted. Always dress to impress [translation: you're going to have to drop those ironclad dress and grooming standards--Ugg boots make any skirt length look practical no matter how cold it is outside]. But most importantly, this is a floor of regulars who have devoted their study habits to memorizing who comes and goes on this floor, and lamenting to each other how it's "sooo not right that In-N-Out is in Utah now..." If you're going to "study" here expect to be on Academic Probation by the end of the semester. But hey, you'll probably get a few Color Me Mine dates out of it.
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