Mike London’s fevered dream sequence springs to life

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It’s late on a Saturday night, and Mike London sits quietly at home, trying to wake himself from a dream.

His weary mind bristles with the image of himself galloping down the Virginia sideline, inching ever closer to the end zone as the deafening noise around him washes away any trace of fatigue in his 49-year-old legs. Running stride-for-stride alongside him is Chase Minnifield, whose unlikely odyssey across the field, at least from his point of view, has taken up the better part of 10 minutes.

When Minnifield’s gutsy 65-yard interception return is finally brought to a halt, London stops to gaze up at a scoreboard that reflects his team’s sizable fourth-quarter lead. His frenzied players can’t stop jumping up and down; orange-clad men and women in the stands brace themselves for yet another rendition of the Good Ole Song; the Hill remains chock-full of bright ties and sundresses; and perhaps most amazingly of all, the Cavaliers are going to win their first football game of the season.

But no matter how many times he pinches himself, London can’t seem to wake up. Could this be real after all? Continue reading Mike London’s fevered dream sequence springs to life

Thanksgiving story

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The thought of Thanksgiving always makes me smile because it reminds me of my senile old uncle, Col. Shelton Haybasket. At every Thanksgiving when I was growing up, Uncle Shelton would gather all the children in the family together and tell us the captivating story of how Thanksgiving came about. He would always begin the story the same way:

“Go get me a beer, dag nabbit!”

But Uncle Shelton is currently off in an infirmary somewhere, so allow me to relay the classic tale in his stead.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, the Pilgrims, tired of Europe’s annoying tolerance for chain smokers and French people, set sail for America. According to history buffs, they arrived sometime between the 12th and 18th centuries, the “Age of Not Knowing Where America, or Even Asia for God’s Sake, Is.” Continue reading Thanksgiving story

The importance of being drunkest

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Like most people, I came out of high school as dumb as a cow. But thanks to the thousands of dollars my parents have spent on my college education, I can now say with some confidence that I am at least twice as smart as the average cow – and probably even smarter than the smartest cow in all of Albemarle County.

Indeed, after four semesters of college, I have learned a great deal, including:

1. Thomas Jefferson, our nation’s fifth Latin-American president, is responsible for our freedom, our University and according to GQ magazine, our douchebaggery. He also invented the Gus burger, Louisiana, cheese and gravity, among other things.

2. Without Mother, the seemingly simple tasks of placing the toilet paper on that rack contraption and cleaning dirty dishes by hand are nearly impossible.

3. Facebook is the most reliable news source available today.

4. Globalization is happening and it involves the globalizing of the globe or something like that.

5. Heavy drinking impairs learning, and sometimes even column-writing. Continue reading The importance of being drunkest

Edgar Allan Poe: dead, but still kicking

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One thing I’ve noticed about the University is the great respect it gives to its mentally deranged student demographic, the one driven by severe sleep deprivation, manic depression and a proclivity for being named John Nelson.

Totally kidding on that last one, of course. But not really. I don’t know the guy, but I hear he’s in charge of some self-righteous political organization, thus automatically making him kind of a tool and worthy of some serious, ungrounded heat from the belligerent media.

But I’m a nice guy, so I’m not going to do that. Instead, I’d like to look back on the legacy of the University’s first mentally unstable student, the great Edgar Allan Poe, whose 200th birthday the University library is honoring this year with a special exhibition portraying the author’s enduring influence. To conclude the exhibition’s opening ceremony, one University official eloquently put forth the significance of the bicentennial, noting, “If Poe were alive today, he would be one decrepit-looking old dude.” Continue reading Edgar Allan Poe: dead, but still kicking

April is (not) the cruelest month

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You know what they say: “April showers bring May flowers.” This old adage, which is a slightly adapted version of the even older Pacific Islander expression, “April showers bring much death and destruction,” seems to adequately sum up the current state of the University community.

After putting up with all of March’s crap, including the persistent cold weather, Daylight Savings Time, the basketball coaching controversy, the commencement speaker controversy, the switch to SIS and Twitter, we are finally ready to move on and put up with all of April’s crap, including taxes, spring cleaning, Kelly Clarkson’s birthday, the onslaught of allergies and mysterious egg-dealing bunny rabbits.

Yes, there are a myriad of things to get excited about in April, which according to the omniscient Professor Internet, has been deemed by federal lawmakers as National Pecan Month, Irritable Bowel Syndrome Month, Women’s Eye Health and Safety Month and, of course, National Straw Hat Month. Here are just a few highlights of the next 30 days: Continue reading April is (not) the cruelest month

Bloodthirsty birdflesh

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Times are tough. We are in the midst of a horrendous economic crisis, thousands are dying needlessly in conflicts overseas and innocent people all over America continue to be subjected to Nickelback on their radio stations. Locally, a backwards honor referendum is being passed (or are they? I wrote this thing four days ago, people.) Students are coping with the loss of their most trusted news Web site (Juicy Campus), biweekly Cavalier Daily columnists continue to work without pay and needy underage punks constantly pester surprisingly old second-years named Nick Eilerson to buy them beer.

Now throw all that in a pot and stir it up with a smorgasbord of personal problems: I recently suffered a sprained ankle, am still recovering from yet another bout of football-related depression (or, in medical terms, Rooting-For-the-Dallas-Cowboys syndrome), continue to live in Gooch/Dillard and was recently dumped by my girlfriend of three years, Selma Hayek. Continue reading Bloodthirsty birdflesh

21, here I come

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Like most people my age, I realize I am statistically likely to die this week. According to the U.S. Bureau of Questionable Statistics, 55 percent of 20-year-olds fear drowning themselves on their 21st birthday, while 76 percent actually do drown themselves. Yes, I am on the verge of becoming just another statistic, as I turn 21 Wednesday.

For the average American college student, this final rite of passage into adulthood can mean a number of fun and diverse things, such as eliminating all those unwanted excess brain cells, losing complex skills like walking and completing a sentence, obtaining a renewed fascination with toilets, depleting one’s credit card by buying drinks for anything that moves or makes noise, feeling suddenly less inhibited to remove one’s clothes in public, annihilating one’s liver, puking all over … well … everything and even waking up in prison the next day. My 21st could very well involve all this and more, but here is how I envision the night playing out:

I roll into Coupe’s with my usual weekend posse of anywhere between 10 and 35 of the finest babes on Grounds. I take a seat at the bar, and the bartender says, “What can I get you? Pepsi? Sprite? A juice-box perhaps?”

The ladies giggle and begin to caress me sympathetically.

“Watch the hair,” I warn them. To the bartender I cockily reply, “How ‘bout a Heineken?” Continue reading 21, here I come

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