Friday TORTURE Night

Yesterday I joined my colleagues and friends on a forty-five minute trip to the north. Our motives were different, though. Shane and a few others wanted to participate in an event viewed by me as being
MASOCHIST
and
INSANE!
I, on the other hand, wanted to enjoy the night and watch the others suffer at the hands of everyone's favorite buffalo wings.

According to Shane, the rules of the competition were simple: eat six wings in twelve minutes; spiciest selection; no drink; no wiping your paws or mouth. They expected a somewhat pained yet short task.

Well, six and twelve can be two different things according to how you organize them above. When we arrived in the northern city and found a seat in the crapped buffalo wings restaurant we discovered that Shane had unintentionally relayed the information to us--you were supposed to consume TWELVE WINGS in SIX MINUTES.

As they waited for all the contestants to pile in and receive their deathplates, I socialized with some of the others and played with Adam, the puma (one of the past crushes, a twenty-four year old graduate student). When the spicy wings come, however, the entire mood escalated.

The first three persons to walk into the furnace were Will, Mike/Heath, and Matty. Will was having trouble but hid it well. I could see that Matty was tearing as the heat invaded his taste buds and attacked at his constitution (Adam stated sometime during the event that "Better be glad he invested points into his Constitution.", a tRPG reference). Heath handled everything in a calm manner, even appearing to actually be enjoying the meal. We all cheered and picked at the three of them as they painfully ate the hellish poultry.

The three of them all pulled through and headed off to the restrooms to clean themselves up. Will, though, bailed soon after; I do not think he received his "crown". A few minutes later, Shane received his basket of twelve wings and proceeded to attempt the ordeal...solo.

The whole audience nagged at him and ridiculed his tears as he silently consumed the fiery chicken. His wife and we backed him up throughout the entirety of the challenged; he succeeded as well.

In the end, though, it was all fun and games. I do not think anyone meant true animosity towards the sufferers. I had a blast (although I did get a bit of a stomachache, and my food was not near as spicy as what the contestanst had to bear) that night and was bouncing around in the van the whole journey back (three glasses of sweet tea and a grande chocolate chip frappuchino from the cafe was mostly to blame). I would gladly do something like this again!


drewcaine

The Disgusting Challenge in Ad Design

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I have Advertising Design I at college. Last Friday, though, harbored the first "torture" event of the day (that evening will be discussed in a separate blog).

Our instructor, Travis, is similar to the other graphic design instructors--laid-back and possessing a sense of humor (we force ourselves to laugh at their jokes, though...sometimes). He does not usually get upset, but he will not hesitate to put design restrictions on you if he feels you need improvement in a particular area.

Well, we found out that we needed improvement in the automobile knowledge. He offered to buy us a soda if we correctly named the car that was in place as his Mac's desktop background. We all gained an "EPIC FAIL".

Due to the lack of success with us, Travis once again offered sodas to anyone that would consume straight Fizzies in their mouths for an indefinite period of time. Sara, Lois, and I stepped up to the challenge and took the harmless-looking, yet ominous, packets, leaving Kurtis the only other willing individual out. However, upon watching Lois struggling with the fearsome endeavor, I promptly gave up my Fizzie and sat down to gladly watch the ordeal. There were many comments said and statements made; I honestly almost vomited from hearing the descriptions of what the root beer Fizzies looked like on the tongues of my classmates...not going into detail there. If I can acquire the photos then I may post them.

Only two of our students got the sodas...pretty interesting way to start the class that day.


drewcaine

Thoughts on a friend

I know this intelligent young male in my multimedia II class.
Mark Dakota Roberts
He is not that bad of a human when you really get to know him. His attitude is controlled yet rebellious...he speaks in an eloquent and non-crass manner...and he can be quite cold but honest when he chides you.
Like myself, this individual is a mature soul trapped in a teenager's body.
When class is dragging along at a painfully slow pace, Mark and I might engage in conversation. However, this is not the lame banter of some students you might hear.
No cheerleading rants.
No "futball" bullcrap.
No planning to stab you phylosophy instructor in the back.
No...
This is deep, phylosophical conversation, ranging from discussions of honor contrasting today's society and the feudal era of the past; the hypocrisy of religion and why I follow Jesus and he chooses not to; or simply a short endeavor into why human beings act the way they do. No matter what the topic, the debates and discussions are well worth it; I would not trade those moments with Mark for hardly anything else. I can not find those kinds of discussions with anyone else (excluding Shane or Jeremy).
Mark and I stand out from the class...in a positive way. We both do not believe that grades reflect ability, and we both love writing. Mark, though, is a journalist, and a pretty good one at that (I myself considered journalism once...well, here I am). I plan to minor in the new creative writing area...he will probably major in it.
I appreciate Mark's company; he is the reason that I have a laptop right now (and needless to say this computer has gotten me through some pretty rough times) and I am glad I took him up on his offer! Personally, I found Mark to be more Christ-like then some Christians themselves; I will always remember him for his unique and original character.
drewcaine1-22-09

TRAGEDY

"This is a piece I wrote earlier this week.

I was pacing around the book section of America's favorite discount chain when my eye caught the title of this Christian book. It was aptly titled "HELL".

What happens when one's life if shaken beyond a certain point? What will they do?

Here is the beginning of one fox's path..."

The average worker is many.

The television set was on; mute, though, as the only owner of the apartment never watched TV. He always had either generic cereal or bland leftovers from the Asian cart down the street on his way to work. He would usually thumb down a cab and then go to the office.

The spoon clattered into the empty bowl as the guy put a padded hand to his forehead, cringing at the minor pain shooting through his head. Eyes half closed, he stood up shakily from his chair, knocking it over in the process, and moved over to the rusty old sink; in the dim lighting he combed the bottom of his cabinet.

A few seconds of pained scrabbling at the old wooden boards rewarded the kitsune nothing—he simply banged on the wall thrice and walked away from the kitchen section of the cramped efficiency, scowling madly. “Son” and “bitch” escaped his lips, too.

The New York morning was cold, and the second day of the work week was never the kindest. The fox had to listen to some wolf of the cloth preaching around the corner of the trade center, always stopping him with a supposedly kind paw to the shoulder which the vulpine simply retracted with a neutral verbal statement or two.

“Good sir, have you thought about coming to our congregation?”

“...not really...”

“Church of Our Lady of Mercy...good sir.”

The fox smiled grimly and walked off.

“The frost is not kind...sir, you can warm your heart with a praise or two to the Almighty.”

“Maybe...some day I will.”

The fox briskly returned to his path.

“Hey!”

Then there was the wild 'yote that owned the well-kept Harley. He seemed to be the typical twenty-something year old punk that had his ears and nose pierced and wore leather.

“Dude, man...how much d'ya work?”

“...” The fox checked his mailbox that was in the center of god knows how many others; he sighed...how many more bills came on Tuesday, again?

“You must not work much, dude,” said the 'yote, padding over to the fox, standing at a]the side so he could pass.

“If only you knew...”

The fox and 'yote walked out from the breezeway and into the cold morning. The tall fox knew just by repetition that any trustworthy clock would read “7:59”.

“Man, I don't know if I would want to work that much...especially just typing and throw paper airplanes at people.”

The fox “psh'd”. “If my job was like that I would laugh.”

“Good one!” The canine laughed, watching as the fox pulled his worn leather gloves on. The temperature had to be around 25...

“You know...why don't we go hit up the diner down that'a'way?” the guy suddenly asked, pointing in the opposite direction of where the tired fox was headed.

Through the constant pain of his headache the fox could only see moving vehicles and flashing lights. He wondered if the kid had lost his marbles.

“...you serious?” he checked, hoisting his attache case with a jacketed arm.

The 'yote actually looked nothing like one of his mischievous kind; he stepped towards the fox and said, “Dude, I'll cover your meal. Just...you really shouldn't be workin', is all...especially today.”

The fox nearly dropped his case right there...he could take a well-deserved day off.

Saturday I was in the doctor's office for all afternoon...damn humans and their babies...and my diagnosis...

Sunday I was cursing at the tax officer...I never needed the electricity, anyway.

“You know what, you go your own self, you damned kid.” The fox pushed the 'yote off and headed towards the two towering skyscrapers in the sky...the great “twins” of this world.

The fox scowled three minutes later, removing a newspaper from his face. The near-mint bundle stated that a Catholic priest was found guilty of assaulting a twelve-year-old boy.

“...hypocrites, all of them,” the fox said simply, tossing it aside.

In the corner, Tuesday the eleventh was displayed.

“Five dollah.”

The fox took out his crummy, taped-together billfold and pulled out the money.

“Sir. Sir, this is only four dol--”

“I know, just...let me get some change or something,” said the fox wearily, digging into his old slacks for coins...or luckily a crumpled bill. He dropped three quarters, two dimes, and several pennies on the fried rice stand.

The Asian male pushed three pennies back towards the fox, who let out a sigh of relief. His emergency funds were lost to a local business. Figures.

Two months after Independence Day; the fox never got to celebrate it. He had been off in Arkansas working on his old man's farm...and the bastard had not even had respect to pay him anything.

“Yeah, I spent my vacation in the Bahamas,” he overheard a fruit bat say, brushing past him on the busy sidewalk. The fox shook his head, still in pain, and held up an outstretched thumb. To his left, a plasma screen TV in the electronics store “A-Z Game Hardware” read “8:23”.

“Hey, pal, you don' look too good...” the rottweiler driver mention as he took a seat in the back of the cab.

“I don't have any money, either...damn, I forgot!”

“Nah, pal, just...if ya really wanna go to work, I'll drive ya for free.” The rotty hit the gas and pulled off from the curb.

“...for some reason I don't wanta thank you.”

The fox stared out over the streets; as he did so, he noticed a young vulpine child sitting on the curb, wearing a mangled white dress. The vehicle came to a halt behind twenty or so cars. Red light, as always.

“So, pal...how ya liking the year? Pretty dreary, eh?”

“Well, only the second of this century...we have ninety-eight...”

“...and a half,” the driver jumped in.

“...more to go.”

He looked back—the child was still there. The fox's lip trembled lightly...she reminded him of his daughter. The light switched to green; the fox was about to look away when he saw a rough-looking man kick her teddy bear into the road.

“...” The fox just opened the door and stepped out--

“HEY!” A car horn blared in his right ear; he kept walking, the Mustang squealing to a halt. He bent down and snatched up the bear, and saw that one of its button-eyes was popped out. Not much of a gift to a child, but this is America...

“Hey, little girl...” the fox kneeled before her, a smile on his beat face. The vulpine child raised her head to him, and he could see tear streaks running down her furred cheeks.

“--Bear!”

The fox nodded gently, holding out her [plush/stuffed] animal. She took with thankful arms, staring into the fox's green eyes. “Thank you, mister!”

“You know, you...look like my daughter,” the fox said, not even thinking it. His heart was faltering, and behind him he could see several people, humans and furs alike, stepping out of their vehicles.

Above, he heard the sound of a jet airliner approaching...

“Get the hell of the street, asshole!” A gruff human yanked him up by his collar.

“Officer to headquarters, there is jet flying below the permitted limit.”

The fox did not say anything...he just stared at the sky, then at his office—one of the twin towers a few buildings away from them.

“Hey, where's that plane going?!”

“Jesus...Christ, it's not gonna--?!”

Then time froze; the fox was running through his entire life, seeing his first love; the day he signed up for Selective Service; the day he graduated from the Marines; the day he wore all black to the funeral of young loved one; the day he--

His ears were overtaken by the massive sound of the jet plane colliding nose-first with the side of one of the towers. The shrieking of a multitude of glass panes mingled with the sound of metal crushing and mortal screams of terror.

“Oh my god! Oh my god!”

“Jesus, Jesus! What the fuck just happened? WHAT THE FUCK?!”

The fox cried out and fell into the road, shocked beyond all comprehension. People were leaving there cars and running away by foot, knowing that driving would be useless. Patrolling officers were responding to the emergency and following orders. The nearby one picked up the child and shouted to him, but he didn't understand. He couldn't even think. He didn't think he would ever again.

“Pal! Pal!” The rottweiler driver dropped down beside him and forced him up, shielding him from the mass of screaming people. A woman was crying as she was being dragged away by a man, screaming that she could not leave her son “somewhere”.

The fox's heart was faint, and he struggled for something to say. “Mark...Mark, what just...?”

The dog helped him along, carrying his case as well. Fire trucks struggled to navigate through the escaping crowd, and sirens of all kinds only made the mess of cries, screams, and shouts incomprehensible.

“I'm gonna...” the fox's legs gave out, and the dog nearly lost him.

“--hang on, I see an alley...”

The drive pushed through the outraged citizens and into the alley, evading a cop. The fox's vision was giving out as he was lowered onto the dirty ground, heart pounding wildly against his chest.

“...I can't...I don't know what happened...”

“Easy there, Jason...just, don't talk...”

“But...he was...he was...”

The driver's watch states that it is “8:49A.M.”.