The other day I ushered an event at the Breslin Center called Women of Faith, which was where a bunch of different women sang Christian songs and performed Christian stand-up comedy (I didn’t get any of the jokes because my parents forgot to teach me to be religious). To attend this concert, you had to be a woman and you had to be Christian, and I believe you also had to have a hair style from the 80’s and be at least forty-five years old. It was also recommended that you were easily confused with finding a seat according to a basic numbering system, which made my job much more difficult. But I didn’t care—when I’m ushering, I blank out and stop thinking about anything other than doing what I’m supposed to do. It’s called being in the “Usher Zone” by some, and I had been feeling it strongly on this day in particular. They put me at the fast-paced floor seating area, but I was still fully prepared to do my job, which is to stand up and wear ridiculous clothing. I was prepared to usher like a madman.

The Production Staff, meanwhile, had their own agenda. These are the guys who, among other things, pick the camera shots for the giant four-sided Jumbo Tron monitor in the middle of the arena, and they often show random members of the audience’s reaction so that the audience can feel special. But on this day, right before the concert officially began, they decided to show me ushering as some sort of Production Staff joke. Immediately, the ten thousand-plus middle-aged Christian women in attendance erupted into laughter and gave off simulated cheers, because I was one of only a few dozen males in the entire building, and because ushers are dressed up like monkeys. I instinctively rolled my eyes before I realized that over ten thousand people could see me, and then I began pretending to laugh. “Haha, that’s really funny! I’m trying to do my goddamned job, but instead I have to put up with this bullshit! Haha!” Then, after they still continued shooting me, I began shaking my head in impatience. “Alright, you’re filming me. Everyone gets the fucking joke.” Then they began flashing the sentence “He’s Single!!!” on the monitor, and the audience’s response rose to new heights of enjoyment—all at my expense. Isn’t there some sort of sin against this type of shit? “Thou shalt not laugh at ushers, because they’re just trying to do their fucking jobs.” I believe that’s referenced in the New Testament quite clearly.

When the camera team finally decided to stop putting my face on all the monitors, I tried going back to doing my job, but now all the women were giving me peculiar looks. As if that wasn’t enough, they put me on the monitors again later in the day. What the hell is wrong with the Production Staff? Ushers aren’t supposed to be filmed, they’re supposed to usher. Whatever happened to that?

You know, it’s a good thing I don’t have a job where I get humiliated in front of ten thousand people while getting paid only six dollars an hour. Oh wait, I do have that. Jesus Christ.

My little sister recently signed my guestbook jokingly asking me if I had been taking tips from Jerry Seinfeld lately, and this reminded me of something. In my life, there is only one thing I can truly count on: At 2:30am every night, a crazy student will perform his impersonation of Jerry Seinfeld as loud as possible from a window somewhere on the third floor of my Residence Hall. It’s insane how not kidding I am. And he’s very punctual—you could set your watch to this guy. “Oh, there goes the crazy Jerry Seinfeld guy. It must be 2:30 in the fucking morning again.”

Usually he’ll just say, “Who are these people?” at the top of his voice over and over again, but sometimes he’ll mix it up a bit. “What’s the deal with corn nuts? Is it a corn, or is it a nut? What’s the deal with corn nuts? Who are these people?” Since it’s 2:30 in the morning, you’d think that I’d get really pissed off, but I can’t help but laugh. I mean, on the one hand, I’m prevented from going to sleep and will consequently end up being tired come class time the next day, but on the other hand, this guy is doing a goddamned impression of Jerry Seinfeld for no reason. That’s too weird to piss me off.

On an unrelated thought, the greatest part about used text books is following the markings of the book’s previous owners. It’s always the same story: The first chapter will have been neatly overlaid with multicolored highlighters, a rainbow of studiousness, with detailed notes in the paragraph margins and the answers to the chapter’s summary questions completely penciled out. Then all of a sudden, halfway through chapter two, the book becomes cleansed of any educational graffiti whatsoever, as if the student just went, “Alright, fuck this.” Then on page fifty or so, there’s usually an indecipherable message that causes me to stop reading the book and begin a long and unrewarding mental quest to attempt to figure out what the hell they’re talking about. “‘Victor’s cat needs 28%’? What the hell does that mean? What’s the deal with that? Who are these people?”

You always hear of people saying how they once secretly used a double-headed quarter to rig a coin flip, but here’s what I’ve always wanted to know: Where the fuck do you get a double-headed quarter? I mean, has anybody ever actually seen one of these mutant coins? And why don’t double-tailed quarters ever get any play? And who the hell is making these things? A retarded currency-plant worker, or just some random guy who knows how to manufacture coins? If I had the ability to manufacture realistic-looking two-headed coins, I’d probably just start producing regular quarters instead and then spend them. But this guy’s like, “Hey, I know how to make real currency! Now I could either produce an infinite amount of money and buy anything I wanted to, or make a few novelty double-headed quarters and play an hilarious prank on my friend. Double-headed quarters it is!”

In sleeping news, I recently had a loft bed put into my dorm room, because loft beds raise a person’s self-esteem. The problem with this loft is that the bottom of it is just short of being tall enough for me to stand up under, and as a result I’m continuously knocking my head against it. Within the first two minutes of it being finished, I literally banged my head on it about a hundred and fifty times. Another problem is that the ladder it came with is rickety and unusable, and so instead of using it I have to climb up on desks and chairs. Every night is a risky and challenging ascension of danger. Then when I wake up I can look forward to having to make an early-morning plunge to the ground some six and a half feet below, wherein I almost always collapse onto my knees from the impact. From there I must painfully crawl to my toothbrush in a pathetic display of loft bed abuse. And that’s pretty much how I start my day.

Michigan State has discovered a way to transform its students’ rudimentary walks to class into a challenging diversion by placing a series of rotating sprinklers near some of the sidewalks. For example, where traveling to my math class would normally be a ho-hum five-minute practice in monotony, it is now an intense battle of skill and timing. If I misjudge one of the constantly-revolving sprinklers by even a few seconds, I’m certain to get soaking wet. Thanks a lot MSU, I really appreciate having to go through this fucking obstacle course every time I go to math class. If it’s not too much trouble, could you also include some walls of flames for me to go through? And don’t be afraid to let a few hungry tigers loose. The more challenging my trip to class, the better.

Changing pace a little bit, do we really need music CD’s to have interlude tracks? Is there really an interlude demand that I’m not aware of? I’ve never heard of somebody saying, “Hey, check out my new CD. Track eleven is my favorite—it’s a thirty-second faux answering machine message! I love listening to that thing. Oh, and check out track eight—it’s a fifteen-second inside joke that I don’t get! It’s too bad they interrupt all these great interlude tracks with music.” The honest truth is that interlude tracks are whack.

I understand that Scissors can beat Paper and I get how Rock can beat Scissors, but there’s no fucking way Paper could beat Rock. Apparently, Paper is supposed to magically “wrap around” Rock, leaving it immobile. Why the hell can’t Paper do this to Scissors? No, never mind Scissors, why can’t Paper do this to people? Why aren’t sheets of college-ruled notebook paper constantly smothering students as they attempt to take notes in class? I’ll tell you why: because Paper can’t beat anybody. A rock would tear that shit up in about a minute.

Whenever I play Rock/Paper/Scissors, I always choose Rock. When somebody claims to have beaten me with their Paper, I punch them in the face with my already-clenched fist. I’ll say, “Oh, shit, man, I’m sorry, I thought Paper would protect you. Asshole.”

On another topic, I’m not sure when my Guestbook turned into a forum to discuss Adam Kangas, but I have recently added a Message Board to this site for things like that. So if you want to share the latest Adam Kangas news or even ask me a special question, feel free to use it.