Five Illogical Hatreds

A few years ago, my room mate introduced me to the concept of "illogical hatreds". He said that he has five things that he absolutely cannot stand, for little to no reason what so ever. Sounds a little silly at first, until you actually sit down and think about some of the things that really irk you. They can be the most inane things at times.

Other times it makes perfect sense.

Here's a rundown of my room mate's five illogical hatreds. The line up has changed a little bit over the years, as things cause him more or less rage.

1. The Cold

Why would anyone want to live where this happens?

As any true southerner, my room mate hates the cold. But he also grew up in Florida and California in addition to North Carolina, so he really hates the cold. When it's cold, he just can't think, can't move. He basically shuts down and becomes non-responsive, far more so than seems necessary for the simple fact of climate.


2. New Jersey

The number one thing you want to do while in Jersey? Leave.

This particular entry used to be a combination of New York and New Jersey, but after a nice visit to Albany and a few other places, he narrowed it down to New Jersey. Probably already the most hated and picked on state in the Union, New Jersey really probably doesn't mind that much that some random college kid hates it.

3. Curly Hair

Frankly, curly hair is only a small part of what's wrong with this guy.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Curly hair? Really? That is illogical." And honestly this is probably the best possible example of an illogical hatred. My room mate hates curly hair, and for no reason at all. He once dated a girl who put her hair in ringlets for dance routines and he wanted to break up with her every time she did. You can't explain it. It is simply an irrational, illogical, impractical hatred.

4. People Talking to You While You're Eating Cereal.

This will make sense in a few lines.

This one toes the line of illogical, because there is a reason behind it. Once he pours that milk into his bowl of cereal he is "in a race with the Devil" to eat the cereal before it becomes soggy. When people try to talk to you, it's tough to hear them over the crunching of your non-milk drenched cereal. You can't answer them without stopping your breakfast. However, much like the cold, his contempt for this exceeds any rational level of hatred for such a simple act.

5. Blue Tooth

Normally blue tooth users are just crazy, not crazy hot.

Anyone who has ever seen one of those people use a blue tooth in public knows what we're talking about here. But although you might be annoyed when you think for a split second that the complete stranger in front of you in line at the grocery store is asking you about your day, you don't want to inflict bodily harm on them the way my room mate does.


After hearing his list of illogical hatreds, I was more than willing to think of the top five things in my life that I hate. Now, I like to think of myself as a pretty easy going guy, but there are a lot of things out there that I just can't stand. I mean, a lot of things. Some minor, some major. In fact, one of the reasons I like sports so much is their capacity for legitimizing hatred. Hatred of a person, a city, or anything really. Below is my list of illogical hatreds.

1. Hipsters

It stopped being ironic about six years ago. Now it's just annoying.

Hipsters are one of the banes of my existence. They are like some bizarro-world version of frat boys. So much disdain is leveled upon them, yet if you're not careful, you could find yourself surrounded by them, especially in college. I hate nearly everything about them, and it's not like they ever did anything to me. Oh well.

2. Michigan

Yes, we get it. Your state is shaped like a fucking mitten.

Yes, I know that both my room mate and I hate a state. But while he mostly hates the people in New Jersey, I hate the entirety of Michigan. I despise the people, famous and not, with their obnoxious accents. I pull against any and all sports teams and athletes that come from that state. I heap insults upon their cities, infrastructure, economy, even the very geography of the state.

3. Abstract Art

"What do you mean you don't get it? It totally represents imperialism."

Now, this might seem like a bit of an overlap with my aforementioned distaste for hipsters. It is. But I hate abstract art with every fiber of my mind, body and soul. Alternately, I really enjoy realist art, and even a Picasso every once in a while. But abstract art is a parasite siphoning off talent and resources from the world of real art. Most of it takes little to no skill, and what is depicted can often be indiscernible, even with the help of the title.

4. Really Old People in College

Now I can get a MyFace or a SpaceBook account to pester my class mates.

Every once in a while, you might happen to run into an older person going back to school to either finish a degree they left off many years ago or to pursue a career change. When you meet this person, do you have to suppress the urge to ask them why the hell they insist on impugning on your own scholastic journey? I do. And it happens a lot. As a graduate student (old people) in history (old people), I am inundated with octogenarians who are desperate to impart their irrelevant stories about what they were doing back in 1937 to me. I don't mind that in context of telling personal stories, but how is that pertinent to our discussion of McCarthyism?

5. People Who Suck At Video Games, And Refuse Help

In order to play Guitar Hero, it helps to actually press buttons.

This one could actually be condensed to people who don't accept advice or offers of assistance in general, but nothing earns my ire faster than somebody who is obviously terrible at a video game, but won't accept any tips from an older, more experienced player. I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life, I'm just trying to tell you how to not continuously run into walls or shoot your own team mates. It's for your own good. And everyone around you would probably appreciate it as well, they just don't want to say anything.


Since our illogical hatreds bring so much joy to us, (ironic, I know) we often speak about them to friends, and then have them come up with their top five list of pet peeves that really don't make much sense at all. Although I can't remember all the ones I've heard, here are a few examples that stick with me for some reason or another.

1. Rudolph

Just look at that evil red nose.

Yes that Rudolph. One person hates Rudolph as the embodiment of everything that is wrong with American and Christian society today. When we told him to search for something deep down that really annoyed him, it took about 1.3 seconds for him to spout this little gem.

2. Potatoes

You say 'potato', I say future french fries.

What about them you ask? I don't even know. She couldn't explain it, making it an excellent example of an illogical hate. An illogical hate can be illogical because of the unnecessary level of hatred it accrues from you, but one that is a complete non-sequitur is always great to have.

3. Shirts That Have the Sleeves Cut Off to a Ridiculous Length

But with everything between his armpits and his bottom rib exposed.

You've all seen them at the gym. Some boy playing basketball has obviously decided that he needed to cut the sleeves off his old high school football shirt. Perhaps he does it so his jump shot isn't impeded by that bothersome fabric. But why did he cut it all the way down to his ribs? I hope to God that he knows, because I surely don't, and I approve this friend's illogical amount of hatred for silly wardrobe choices.

4. Being Asked if You Want Your Tea Sweet or Unsweet

"What do you mean this tea is sweet?"

We live in the South. As such, you would think that anything labeled "Tea" should be sweet. Well, one of our fellow southerners actually really hates the fact that this happens. She's not sure if it is the grammatical connotations or the simple fact that sugar is added to tea to make it sweet, hence tea without sugar should be just tea. Maybe it's because most of the world drinks their tea unsweetened. Whatever the reason, she's against it.

5. Mormons

They'd like to talk to you about Jesus, version 2.0

One friend of mine, who is known for his hatred of...well, nearly everything, hates Mormons. Now, I can see a few reasons to dislike them; he's black and Mormons had a longstanding bias against black people; to the outside observer their religion can seem ridiculous, and the list goes on. But he doesn't settle for mocking them. Oh no. He has that hate in his heart. If given the chance, he would probably bring ruin to the Mormon church through some sort of Bond villain-esque schem involving lasers or controlling the world's supply of mayonnaise.


Well, that about does it for the illogical hatreds post. If you have any particularly vexing things that you feel the need to share, be sure to do so. If there is an explanation for it, (if not, all the better) be sure to include that with the topic. Hope to hear some really ridiculous rage being brought to the forefront of your thoughts in the not so distant future.

Baby Face

One of the key differences between my room mate and myself is the ability to grow facial hair. One of us is blessed with the beard growing capability of a lumberjack while the other will probably keep his boyish good looks until he's fifty. All this despite the fact that my room mate is three years older than I am. The fact that he looks very young for being one of the oldest people I hang out with is another of the running jokes that provide us (mostly me) with constant amusement.

Baby faced, but with an old soul.

Here are a few anecdotes revolving around the paradox of Old/Young Room Mate.

My room mate is currently twenty five and a half years old, but looks like one of those actors who portray unrealistically mature and attractive high school students on television. This creates problems for him at times.

This dude was twenty four years old, playing a senior in high school.

About a year or so ago, he was out on a date with an older woman. And by older woman, I mean she was like 26 or something. Not a huge difference, but she was hesitant about going out with somebody younger than her. He tried to convince her that it wasn't that big a deal. And it almost worked, until they got to the movie theater.

They went to see an R-rated movie, not sure which one, but it really doesn't matter. The ticket attendant said, "Can I see your I.D. please?" Thinking that she meant his student I.D. for the student discount he handed it to her. She was like, "No. Your driver's license." He wasn't able to convince a ticket attendant that he was at least seventeen years old.

He goes by one name, like Madonna. Or Seal.

Next story.

We went back to Raleigh for a First Friday event one time, and it was just another chance for him to be picked on. There was him, me and a friend of his. Both the friend and I have some facial hair. As we went into a bar, the friend and I went in no problem. Guess who got carded. Not us.

Then as we walked around downtown, we ran into a few frat boys, probably twenty, maybe twenty two. Pink polo T-shirts and everything. They were drunk. My room mate was wearing a small back pack with some extra bike parts. Seeing this, the frat boys were like, "Is there alcohol in that back pack?" My room mate replied that no, there was none.

Who's got two thumbs and is a douche bag? This guy!

Frat boys immediately yell, "Freshman!" and proceed to tell us where we can get some alcohol. My room mate then attempted to explain that he was actually a second year graduate student, and older than they were.

Frat boys' response? "It's okay man, we were freshman once too. It happens to everybody."

After this stunning verbal riposte, they shamble off, probably to enlighten more people on where you can procure alcohol underage.

Yeah!

Back in the fall, my room mate got a letter from the AARP in the mail, filled out to his name. For those of you who don't know, you have to be at least fifty years old to get membership in the AARP.

"Alien" came out three decades ago.

As much as I wish that I had signed him up for this, I did not. Whoever did though, has a place in my heart.

He used to take Centrum Performance vitamins. Now, whenever I hear Centrum, I think of the Centrum Silver vitamins. Old people jokes ensue. Then, they took the ginkgo out of the Performance brand, the main reason why he took them. Because he has bad memory, like an old person. He had to switch to Centrum 50+.

Next stop: Poligrip discount coupons.

How White Are You?

If you've never visited the website "stuffwhitepeoplelike.com", you really should. Regardless of what color your skin is, this list of things that white people like is a must read for anyone who enjoys humor. The essential gist of it is this: the author compiles a list (currently at 132) of stuff white people like, ranging from farmers markets and microbreweries to the idea of soccer and hating their parents. It's hilarious.

Why isn't "Cheese" on the list?

Anyway, my room mate and I have a running joke about how he is paradoxically one of the whitest people I know, while at the same time having an affinity for things typically enjoyed in black culture. He customarily rags on me for not being able to identify some hip hop lyrics that he randomly spouts, or for not being particularly good at basketball. Anyways, I decided to print out a checklist of the items on the list, and see which of us was the whitest. I then invented a scale to judge how "white" you were based on your overall score.

My room mate and I both filled out the checklist separately, and then checked our results. Now, I had bet him that he was whiter than I was, simply because I hadn't even heard of some items on the list, much less liked them.

Anyway, once the results were all tallied up, I was correct. I was less "white" than my room mate. Our respective scores of 56 (me) and 73 (him) placed us both firmly in the "Culturally acceptable level of whiteness" category. However, he was dangerously close to the thresh hold of "Probably acting white right now". Honestly I wonder if there's a chance that he didn't check a few boxes just to be sure he didn't make it over the edge.

"Fluent in Java Script as well as Klingon"

After we settled this little debate, naturally we decided to share the quiz to see how white our friends were. If you want to take the test, you can just contact me and I'll send an email your way.

Once we sent out the quiz to some mutual friends, we sat back and awaited the results. The first, and best response, was from a mutual friend of ours from our undergrad years. The subject of his return email was "Heaven help me, I'm so white". His score was a 94, which placed him nearly in the "The whitest person in the room right now" category. He was, however, acting white right that moment. He was drinking coffee, listening to classical music and writing a paper on free trade while using wireless internet.

If only he was writing poetry about his troubled childhood.

This topic will eventually branch off into separate blog topics on related items, like hipsters (one of my five irrational hatreds) and being white in everyday situations.

Life With One Channel

My room mate and I are cursed with terrible television options. Since we don't pay for cable, and our reception is almost non-existent, the only channel we get is NBC. The only freaking channel. One time I came into the living room as he was watching television, and asked him what he was watching. "What the fuck do you think I'm watching? Our one fucking channel, that's what the fuck I'm watching!"

Since the start of the semester, we have come to despise nearly everything that is on NBC, with the exception of Thursday nights. Thursday nights have Community, Parks and Rec, The Office and 30 Rock. All really funny shows. But other than that, most of the things we watch are absolutely terrible. Every now and then another show will give us a small ray of hope, like Heroes, Chuck or the Marriage Ref, but for the most part life with one channel is like being stranded on a desert island with an eighty year old woman. Every once in a while you'll look at her, only because there's nothing else to see.

"Hey old lady. Show me your boobs again...........Gross!"

That being said, we felt the need to share some of the moments of our television watching experiences that were so terrible they looped around and back into awesome. In a town with no news, the local news is understandably anemic. Greenville local news is so terrible that the newscasters reek of the same desperation normally found in Los Angeles strip clubs. They frantically try to hold on that one day they will no longer be forced to degrade themselves over and over again, in the hopes that their inner star will be discovered, catapulting them to the top.

I'll begin with the pathetic attempt at capturing worthwhile news articles and public interest pieces. You know that scene in Anchorman, where Will Ferrell's character comments on a clip shown on his news station by saying, "Ha, ha. That squirrel can water-ski."? Greenville's local NBC news, WITN, actually showed that clip! And not even ironically! They showed that shit right after a piece on the rising number of people who get their news over the internet! And they wonder why it happens?

Seriously WITN?

Another time, they had a story about an old man and his grandson. They had a habit of journeying around Greenville, looking at trains parked in various places, searching for cabooses. "Okay" you think, "That's cool. It's local." What I didn't mention yet was that this story was their top news segment! They spent six minutes out of half an hour on this ridiculous waste of airspace. What lead paint eating director green lighted that?

Moving on past the dearth of actual journalism that plagues our only station, it's time to transition into the titanic failure that is their late night programing. Where to begin? The fiasco of the their revolving door lineup for latenight? Having to wait longer for Jay Leno's comic stylings? Not getting to watch Conan at all? Suffering through Jimmy Fallon's embarrassing attempt to be funny? Let's begin with Jimmy Fallon, since he's the easiest target. And by easiest target, I mean it's like picking on Jimmy Fallon, because that's how easy it is. We don't need any other thoughts in this simile.

Or "Fever Pitch", take your pick.

We'll start off with what had promised to be the best part about Late Night with Jimmy Fallon: The Roots. Sadly, although Quest Love and his band mates soldier on as best they can, watching what this show does to them is akin to watching your best friend being beat up in a corner, while some asshole in a good suit looks at the camera and giggles. You know what I'm talking about. It's embarrassing. Jimmy Fallon took a successful and critically acclaimed band, and reduced them to making "Ba-dump, bump, tshh!" sounds after his unfunny musings and attempting to cover some song that sort of relates to the special guest on stage at the moment.

If you can stagger through the desolate wasteland that is Jimmy Fallon's attempts at charming or funny conversation, you are rewarded with Carson Daly. Carson Daly's show is not anything like most late night shows. Mostly because he spends a lot of time speaking with an obviously blazed out of his mind Snoop Dog, who complains about how he doesn't get enough critical acclaim for his acting ability. Carson looks at Snoop with an expression of "I can't believe you're actually saying this shit" upon his face.

Can we put this shit on television?

Memorable quotes include this gem of Snoop wisdom, "I mean, if it wasn't for the people who started hip hop, we wouldn't have hip hop today." and "Whenever I create a character, I really like to become that character." My room mate looks over at me and says, "I bet he had to do some real soul searching to prepare for his role in Old School. He should have won an Oscar."

Imagine the situation on set. The firemen bust into Snoop's trailer with fire extinguishers at the ready after seeing smoke billowing out from under the door, only to realize that Snoop was just getting into character.

How high? Stoner of the Year high.

And as much as I love America, and enjoyed cheering on athletes like Shaun White to victory during the Winter Olympics, there was nothing else on NBC for weeks. For weeks! From the very first failure at lighting the torch, we knew that the Winter Olympics on NBC would not be the pinnacle of organization and media excellence.

Picture this: for two weeks straight. (pun)

We had to put up with hours upon hours of ice dancing, curling, and the terribly boring biathlon. How could a sport that comes straight out of a James Bond movie be so disappointing? Seriously. And the people who commented on the events were ridiculous. One commenter remarked that one pair in partner figure skating was dissapointed with their performance. He said that it "would rankle in their hearts for years to come." They won gold. I'm sure that the memory of their colossal failure on the ice would indeed fester for the rest of their lives.

I know that I'm the best, but my mother still doesn't love me.

Hide the Broccoli

This next tale from the near side comes from the early part of last autumn, when I had just recently moved into the apartment where I live now. Now, I had known my room mate beforehand, so this wasn't some sort of random room mate match made in hell as described in Aziz Ansari's latest stand up special.

If you've seen it, you know what I'm talking about.
If you haven't, you need to get on that. Pronto.

However, I met him two years ago when we were both R.A.s during our undergrads and didn't really know him super well. I never really paid attention to how he lived, ate or did whatever things that typically get on room mate's nerves. Also, I hadn't actually seen him in about half a year and all our communications had been over the phone or email. Who knows how he might have changed over that time period?

Tragic acid accidents are more common than you'd think.

I had the pleasure of meeting all three of the people with whom he had shared the apartment with at some point during the previous year. All of them had left for various reasons ranging from graduating, transferring or just personal differences. So I was just a tad apprehensive about living with him. I've had room mates before and they had turned out great, but there's only so long that I cared to trust my luck.

Well, not to spoil the ending, but living with him has been great so far. We get along well, have fun hanging out, and most importantly, he hasn't become my nemesis yet. In fact, he's one of the people who pushed me to create this blog and spread some of the humor we share to the rest of the interweb, or just preserve it so that we can laugh about it later.

So, as a result of him having three different room mates over the past year, and all of them having different tastes in food, there was a wide variety of food in the cabinet and refrigerator when I showed up. He was away for a while and wouldn't be back for a few days, so I had the place all to myself. Stop thinking what you're thinking. Nothing of the sort happened. I in no way used the entire apartment as my own personal ball pit.

2.7 children a year go into ball pits and never return.

Back to the food. So there's a bunch of food in the fridge, and I kind of have to assume that a fair amount of it is his. So I wedge some groceries in around all the different things. Soon enough though, it became obvious that some of the food would have to go. We couldn't have three different types of peanut butter taking up all sorts of space.

After one particular grocery store trip, we returned with mass quantities of frozen foods, one of the staples of any college aged chef's menu. As we opened up the freezer, it quickly became apparent that there was no way that all the food was going to fit. And so, like the occupants of a sinking zeppelin, we began to think about what we would jettison in order to maintain altitude.

"What do you mean we threw out the parachutes?"

It was at this point that my room mate turned to me and said, "Well, I think that we just need to throw out your giant fucking bag of broccoli. Then we'd have more than enough room for these new things." And I was like, "I thought that was your huge bag of frozen broccoli! I hate cooked broccoli. I figured you were just into eating healthy, based on the organic almond butter that's in the fridge." He was like, "No, no, no. Homie don't play that uber healthy stuff. You couldn't pay me to eat that." It turned out that it was just a great big sitcom style misunderstanding.

Oh. It was all a big misunderstanding...

After we realized that neither of us was the original owner of the monstrous bag of frozen vegetables, the decision to chunk it was easy. However, the trash can was pretty full at the moment, so we just set it down next to the trash. My room mate says, "In a little while, that bag of broccoli is going to smell pretty rank. You know what would be funny? I'm going to throw this in your room and let the stink get you." And I answer, "Well, I'll just put it in your room next." He laughed and said, "It'll be a game of hide the broccoli."So he takes it and chucks it right inside my doorway. "Tag, you're it. I'll see you in broccoli hell!" I chuckle a bit and then we move on.

Later that night, after we get back from playing some basketball at the gym, I realized that it was the perfect time to put the ball in his court. And by ball, I mean broccoli. And by broccoli, I mean a ticking time bomb.

Like this, but more difficult to disarm

One habit that my room mate has is the tendency to take really long showers. And often. Like, he will take a twenty minute shower, with the accompanying body wash, conditioner and luffa-ing before he goes to the gym. So he looks good for any of the ladies who happen to be there. Anyway, the point is: he's going to be in the shower for a good while. That gives me time to plant the bag of broccoli somewhere in his room and still take a shower before he gets out, none the wiser. It is so on.

Not wanting to make the initial escalation too big of a step, I merely lift up the edge of his bed curtain-thing (whatever it is that drapes down off the bottom of his mattresses and hangs to the floor) and place the bag of broccoli right there where he keeps some of those under the bed rolling storage containers full of shirts or something. Feeling good about a solid move in this dangerous game of one-ups-manship, I proceed to pretend like I don't even remember that the broccoli was in my room to begin with.

The next day, I had class pretty much all day. I knew that he was alone at the apartment, and if he got out of bed before noon or so, he definitely looked under his bed. Knowing this, I get back and don't ask him if he found the bag. If he hasn't, I'm not going to tip him off. Later that night we go to the gym again to play some basketball or something. Same deal as the previous night. I hop in the shower, am done in like ten minutes. I then proceed to tear apart my room looking for that bag of broccoli.

Artist's simulation

I noticed that my pillow looked a little bit flat. So I investigated. That sneaky bastard had taken my pillow out of it's case, and replaced it with the bag of broccoli! That's how big that bag of rapidly decaying organic matter was. The size of my fucking pillow! Who even needs that much broccoli? Was that previous room mate trying to make the world's largest shepherds pie or something? Honestly. There's no need to have that much broccoli. Ever!

Thankfully, my room mate had decided that he didn't want to mess up the pillow case with a sweating bag of broccoli, and had placed the veggies inside a trash bag. I'm rather partial to that pillow case as my mother made if for me. It's a Batman pattern, so that way I never forget it at a hotel or some friend's house. I instantly know that it is my pillow, because it is equal parts awesome and lame, but always identifiable. I take the bag-in-a-bag of broccoli out of my room and think to myself, "Where can I place this that it will not be easy to find?"

Like if he was hiding in a barber shop pole factory.

Across the hallway from his room, my room mate has a small closet. Within that closet, there is for some inexplicable reason, a filing cabinet. "Eureka!" I exclaim. Not really. I don't think I've ever actually used the word "eureka" until just now. Anyway, I place the bag inside one of the drawers of the filing cabinet, inside the closet, which is at the junction of his bedroom and bathroom. I think to myself, "This will be perfect! It will take a longer time for the smell to get out, but as it does, it will be all the more potent for the delay! He'll have a tough time finding this not so little bundle of joy." And that's exactly how that shit went down.

The next evening, I'm in class. We went to the library for some reason. I guess graduate students need to be told how to find books and articles in a library. Anyway, I get a text from my room mate that says the following: "When are you getting out of class? I've been looking for that fucking broccoli all day. It smells like a there's a dead body in the apartment." I text him back that I'm in the library and will be done soon. Turns out he was in the library already, probably because he actually likes to study or some sort of lame excuse.

How my studying normally ends.

He doesn't bother with small talk when I walk up to where he was sitting. "I looked everywhere for that bag of broccoli. Under my bed, in my shower, in the oven, on top of my wardrobe. I can't find it anywhere. I even checked the freezer just to see if you put it back there to fuck with my mind" he says. Laughing, I tell him that he should have looked under "S" for "Stinky Ass Vegetables" and tell him I'll get rid of it when we get home.

So we go home. I'm under the impression that he was exaggerating the smell. He was not. As soon as I opened the front door, it hit me. Hit me like a wave of fetid, decomposing, nostril burning pungency. Choking back a little bit of vomit, I quickly remove the bag from the cabinet inside the closet and proceed to throw it out into the dumpster near our apartment building. "Well, I'm glad that's over" we proclaim as we dust our hands off and start plugging in more Glade air fresheners. Sadly, much like seemingly every horror movie ever, it wasn't over.

Seriously? What the hell were they thinking?

Over the next few day, we noticed a distinct lack of non-stink in the apartment. Mostly around his room, but I could still smell it if I was sitting in the living room. Just to be sure that it was coming from the broccoli residue and not an actual dead body, we enlisted the help of one of our neighbor's dog. We let Neighbor Dog inside, took him off his leash and watched him sprint to my room mate's bed room. He proceeds to sniff around the base of the bed, scratch at it some and promptly lie down right where I had placed the broccoli the first time as if to say, "I know why you brought me here. This shit smells terrible! Here's where it was." Well, our course of action seemed pretty clear. Simply put, we had to cleanse that particular stretch of carpet. Easier said than done.

After several days, and several attempts to scrub out the smell, vacuum out the smell, absorb out the smell, pretty much everything short of setting the room on fire, the smell is still there! It smelt so bad that it stunk up the vacuum cleaner when we used it. We had to wash out the insides of the vacuum with bleach just to get it to stop smelling and buy a new filter to boot. We nearly ruined a vacuum cleaner just by attempting to clean where this broccoli had been. Now we're worried. We begin googling for "toxic bacteria in broccoli" "deadly broccoli mold" and other such search topics.

We wish we had some HAZMAT suits laying around.

Finally, we manage to find some sort of super cleaner at a hardware store. The description says that it will neutralize mold, bacteria, viruses, mildew, stains, rust, etc. This product was essentially a tactical nuke in a spray bottle. And get this, it had the audacity to proclaim "Safe for Children!" How can something be safe for children when it can kill or remove anything smaller than a large tabby with a few sprays? Whatever. It was war. We did what we had to. And that stuff worked, thank God. Again, we dust our hands off and say, "Glad that's over."

A few weeks later, I decide that it doesn't need to be over. While my room mate is back home over the weekend, I do a little shopping. Halloween was about a month or more away, so of course all the stores have 10 lb bags of candy for sale. Now both of us love candy, and both of us also appreciate a good joke. However, my room mate would not be in on the joke, which made it even more hilarious to me. I buy a giant bag of mixed candy, design and print out a fake broccoli label to put on it. I hide in the exact same spot as the first time, and sit back to await my room mate's return to the apartment.

Not what he wanted to see hiding under his bed.

He gets back that Sunday, and I'm sitting in the living room playing some video games or something. We say all the usual "How was you weekend?" stuff and then he begins unpacking. Suddenly it gets really quiet in his room. After about a minute or two, he comes out, nearly shaking in rage/shock. "You mother fucker! I'm going to kill you for this shit! Don't you realize that I had to wait this long just to get my heart rate down to merely startled?" After he calmed down a bit, he explained what happened.

He reached under the bed without looking to grab the rolling container, when he felt his hand grab something crinkly. As quickly as he could, he drew his hand back, but like a snake bite, it was already too late by the time he felt it. He said that the first thing that crossed his mind was, "I'm going to miss that hand." He knew in his heart of hearts that the only way to get the smell of broccoli off that hand would be with a saw or a blowtorch.

What he imagined his future to be consigned to.

Surrendering himself to his fate, he grasped the suspected bag of death with both hands and withdrew it from under the bed. Upon seeing the fake broccoli label, he just leaned forward and sighed, thrilled to be uncontaminated, but unable to get his survival instincts to lessen up just a little bit. He had never been that happy to have a bag of candy. And that is the story of "Hide the Broccoli". And as my facebook says, "Never, under any circumstances, play a game of Hide the Broccoli. There are no winners."

The Origin of Dr. Woofers

Well, since this blog is named after Dr. Woofers, it only seems right that the first story posted should be the origin of the doggy doctor whom we've all come to know and love. So below is how the running joke of Dr. Woofers came about.

My room mate recently had a class called 'Health Care Systems and Problems'. He quickly realized that one of the problems with the health care system was the class itself. The professor was an older hippie type guy, who was looking to expose young collegiate minds to "alternative treatments" and "thinking outside the box". Just like indie kids only love bands nobody's heard of, so too do hippies only like medicine that no hospital uses. They're all about some herbal remedies for cancer and heated stones to relive arthritis pain. Now, there's nothing wrong with that sort of thing, except when the course is supposed to be about problems with things like HMO's and swine flu vaccines. You know, real problems.

A health care reform he could get behind.

Now, luckily (or unluckily depending on how you look at it) this was a once a week class. That meant that for three hours in a row, every Monday, this professor would spout nonsense and ramble on about keeping a balanced approach to health care. I had a similarly mush-minded professor for a Civil War history course that same night, so we would each come home and repeat the latest ridiculous rants that our respective professors had spouted in the throes of their advanced Alzheimer's-based dementia.

One night, my room mate came home with a particularly ridiculous story to tell. That night, the professor asked the class to give examples of health care providers. My room mate and an actual health care professional who is also in the class began listing off things like "Physicians, surgeons, nurses, paramedics, dentists, pharmacists, etc." and the professor was like "Nope. Nope. No. Keep thinking."

Now you're probably thinking, "What on earth could this crack pot professor be looking for if doctors and nurses aren't in the answer category?" Finally, some random student pipes up hesitantly with "Midwives?". And the professor is like "Yes! Excellent example!". My room mate is naturally perplexed by this answer, as should anybody even remotely aware of what being a "health care provider" details. But it doesn't stop there.

Throwing away centuries of accumulated medical
knowledge pertaining to the dangers of childbirth.

The professor says, "What about chiropractors and physical therapists?" I know what you're thinking. You're probably thinking that those actually kind of make sense. Don't worry, the professor quickly veers back into the oncoming traffic lane after his brief venture into normalcy.

He continues with "What about special education teachers? What about camp counselors for at summer camps for terminally ill children? What about those dogs they bring into hospitals to cheer people up? What about comedians? We can't forget the healing power of laughter."

Don't worry darling, Dr. Chappelle is on his way.

My room mate replies with, "So are you billing me for this right now? Because this class is a joke." The professor doesn't think it's very funny. This professor seriously rates dogs higher than doctors in the hierarchy of health care providers. From this night onward, this professor was known as Puppy Doctor, and the legend of Dr. Woofers was born.

You might walk around in your fancy 'people clothes',
driving your 'people cars', but you'll never be half
the health care provider that Dr. Woofers is!

Can you imagine the situation at the hospital? Nurses are running everywhere with squeaky toys looking for Dr. Woofers as the intercom blares "Paging Dr. Woofers. Paging Doctor Woofers. You're needed in the O.R." It'd be like that car commercial where the owners drive all the way around town looking for their dog, only to have it bolt off again once they finally locate it digging up some poor innocent person's flower patch.

The chief of medicine glares at some resident and asks, "How could you let this happen? I told you not to leave the door to his office open after you took him for his afternoon walk!" The young doctor stammers back, "But I've looked everywhere. The park, the waiting room, his office, but mostly just the park. Dr. Woofers is nowhere to be found." Exasperated, the chief of medicine walks away muttering, "God help us if he's off chasing a squirrel; there's no telling when he'd be back."

Dr. Kelso! Look! I found him!

And from those humble origins, Dr. Woofers had gone on to be one of the best running jokes we have. We live right across from the hospital so we often see people in scrubs walking their dogs, and make jokes about what that particular terrier is doing his residency in. We'll see a dog sitting in the front seat of a car in a parking lot and joke about how hard it is for him to keep his driver's license, what with always veering off the road to chase squirrels. When it came time to get a new calendar, naturally we chose one with puppies, and the proceeded to create medical profession related costumes for all the puppies. We even see Dr. Woofers in the video games we play.

Dr. Woofers stretching his neck out before operating.