born in the crazy saloon

In light of yesterday’s Blither, Ryan Hankins has revoked my poetic license. Where I used the word ‘ourselves’, he said, ‘us’ would have been infinitely more appropriate. I agree, but that still does not justify the XXtreme injustice I have wrought. My deepest sympathies go out to those that were affected by my abuse of grammar.

The school is a ghost town today, minus the cool old Wild West buildings, tumbleweed, outhouses and ghost horses tied out in front of the dusty ghost tavern. What if people rode outhouses instead of horses? When you go out to dinner there would actually be a parking lot full of outhouses, and you would hand your keys to the pimply valet kid and say, “It be th’ weathered gray one whit th’ half moon cut in th’ door.” Then he would poke around the lot for three hours looking for your outhouse because they all look the same, and he would finally return with one and you’d slap him across the face and say, “You insolent cretin! This here ain’ mah outhaus, cuz mine got a fine leathah interior and lace curtains and this one ain’t got nothun’ but dat fancy veeloor seet covah!”

And then Matt Grimm would show up in the hallway with a thumpin’ stereo, playing Rawhide really loud and dancing some crazy jig. The RAs would try to stop him, but Matt cites the poster that designates the hallway as “someone’s front porch.”

“We’re just partying on our front porch,” says Matt Grimm. And the RA notes the poster’s other statement, that one must “tread quietly.”

“Front porch!” “Tread quietly.” “Front porch!” “Tread quietly.”

This place is nuts.