Sans Cullotes

Hazelwood, MO is a place all its own. I was pleased to see some nice changes when I came home, like the giant model elephant at the used car dealership and sign advertising 99 cent tacos at Churches Chicken (why didn’t they think of this sooner?!). It’s true. Hazelwood is anything but refined, and this fact was confirmed upon my arrival to 7 Eleven yester-eve.

My mother needed to get gas, so we pulled into the station. As I walked inside to pay, I noticed something awry. There was a woman standing at the Red Box outside of the 7 Eleven. She was wearing a coat, that came just below her butt. She was not wearing any pants.

My best guess is that this lady was just chilling at home, doing some crank, watching some E!, when she decided what she really needed was an immediate screening of Just Friends starring Ryan Reynolds and Amy Smart. There was no time to lose. No time for pants. She threw down her pipe, went to the shed to wake up her boyfriend/cousin, and they hoped in the Pontiac.

Facts:

  • It is winter. The temperature has been in the twenties ever since I arrived on Friday. When I am outside fully clad in my coat, hat, and boots I am cold.
  • When one leaves the houses, one should wear pants (unless one happens to be Beyonce or Lady Gaga, in which case one must NEVER wear pants. EVER!).
  • Red Box is a privilege that shouldn’t be abused. Red Box contains a bevy of DVDs , from romantic comedies to family comedies. And regular style comedies. If you can’t treat Red Box with respect, then maybe you don’t deserve Red Box.

Now I hope to god this junkie found the flick she was looking for, because she was standing at that machine for a good five minutes. It’s highly likely that her brain was running at a slower pace, which disabled her ability to efficiently select the film she wanted. They probably got back to the house only to find three copies of Air Bud in her filthy, crack hands.

There is a lesson to be learned here, and that lesson is obviously not to stay off drugs. The lesson is this: always put on pants before you start doing illegal narcotics. The next thing you know, you’ll be the Britney Spears of your local gas station. You’ll wake up the next morning with a mild case of leg hypothermia, and you’ll spend money on DVDs you don’t want.

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Squagels, and the Fall

Today I was in Cosi, getting my coffee on, when I broke a chair. Now, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I was simply sitting on my stool, when I noticed a sign promoting their new item: Squagels. Squagels are exactly like bagels, only square. I know, my mind was blown too. I leaned in to read more about this intriguing new food, and I suppose my gaze was too intense. I pressed down on the bar on my stool that hadn’t needed to be there in the first place, and it snapped. Everyone dropped their Squagels and eyed me with disgust.

Can you even believe it?!

Although this chair breaking was mild, it reminds me of a more embarrassing chair-breaking tale that goes a little something like this:

During Fall Break of my sophomore year at Conn, Cassie (my biffle for liffle) and I decided to stay on campus. It wasn’t worth it for us to fly home, and we could spend some quality time working on our Halloween costumes (a stella pair of human-sized cereal boxes). I became concerned, though, when I heard that the dining hall closed during school breaks. In fear of going hungry, or even worse, needing to buy food, I hatched a plan. Cassie and I would go to Harris (the aforementioned dining hall) on the first day of break with Ziploc bags. If we had to pay, we had to pay, but we were packing for the weekend.

Eager for our excursion, I pulled my chair over to my closet, at the top of which I stored Ziploc bags, apparently. I stood atop the wooden chair, and just as I was reaching for the bags, it collapsed beneath me. I crumpled to the floor, the leg of the chair stabbing into my left shin. Blood was everywhere. I rolled on the floor for four minutes before reaching for the phone.

“Cassie,” I said, in a weak, defeated tone.

“Yeah?”

“Ohhhhhhh. Ow. Don’t panic.” (long pause) “I fell. I’m bleeding. Ohhhhh. Don’t worry, I’m ok.”

“What?”

“Don’t hurry over or anything. Ahhhhhhhhh. I’ll be fine. Oh my god, I can’t stand.” (pause) “I’m ok. Don’t rush.”

Cassie arrived about five minutes later to find me laying in my bed, smears of dried blood still on the floor. I explained what had happened. It was the fattest story ever told. She helped me hobble to Harris, where we first asked the kitchen for ice, and then ate for two hours.

After the eating bonanza, I limped to the health center, where I was told the bad news: I had a hematoma. I wouldn’t live.

It wasn’t quite so bad, but I did have a hematoma, which prevented me from dancing full out for the following two weeks. When I told people why I couldn’t dance, they asked if I had been drinking before the incident. I reluctantly answered ‘no.’ Usually the person walked away then.

So today, as my chair snapped, I felt proud. Not only did the chair simply ‘kind of’ break, but it wasn’t even the result of my trying to steal food. It was only my result of looking at a new shaped bagel too hard. It was only that.