It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was Kyle Boller on paper, it was Kyle Boller in reality. It was the Britney Spears we saw for the first time in elementary school, it was the Britney Spears with an umbrella and a shaved head. It was Bill Clinton pre-Monica Lewinsky, it was Bill Clinton...oh wait, he still got an enthusiastic UTPHJ in the Oval Office so he came out on top. Needless to say, there are two drastically different factions developing in our room. One side, ruled by the Old Man of the Sea and his furious sidekick Johnny Appleseed, seeks total domination, reigning with an iron fist and a lint roller. Our side feigns fear, yet it is all an act, substantiated to appease their growing Napoleon complexes (ironic that the complexes are growing, we know). Our brilliant ideas flow like a D-III FoGo's lettuce, but the two harpies shoot them down like they're Plaxico's leg (he gets out of jail in June. I think the Panthers need a big guy on the outside. Oh wait, the Panthers need anybody. I say they throw this entire season and hope Andrew Luck doesn't go after his PHD to avoid playing for your franchise).
The Old Man of the Sea came from nowhere and is bound for nowhere. Actually that's completely false, he's from Montana and is probably going to be a Naval pilot. But seriously, Montana is nowhere. The four people who reside under the big sky might get upset with such a claim, but fortunately they're probably too tired from eating fried buffalo balls to remove themselves from the re-release of "A River Runs Through It," a movie so terrible you'd think that Nicholas Cage wrote, directed, produced, and starred in it. Despite his rural upbringing, the Old Man enters the arena of our room with more experience than the rest of us in the ways of the world and nearly 60 college credits from which he was able to validate one course. His ways are as mysterious as Charlie Sheen's brain after a thirty hour bender, and he prefers to live in perpetual darkness as one of the mole-people. Although he lives in pictures of the past, the Old Man of the Sea works harder than anybody to control the present, sending so many texts to organize secret meetings you'd think he's Tiger Woods.
The Old Man's partner in this subterranean refuge is Johnny Appleseed. Is he from Tennessee, or is he from Georgia? I don't think even he knows. In those states, the map of the U.S. is still divided between the North and the South. Until he met the Old Man of the Sea, he was under the impression that everything west of the Mississippi was inhabited by the savages. He's a wrestler by day and a pretty impressive climber by night (kind of like the love child of John Muir and Batman) so his skill set makes him quite the asset to their faction. Unfortunately for the duo, Johnny Appleseed spends 80% of his day scouring Google images in pursuit of one of the world's rarest treasures. No, not a pennant for the Baltimore Orioles or a home grown talent for the New York Yankees, but rather, a mildly attractive climber chick. Apparently, there are some out there, but unfortunately, all we see are hairy legs, dreadlocks, and backs so muscular Mark McGwire jealously bends over and takes a shot in the hammy from Jose just at the sight.
Our side of the room is the social corner, a watering hole of sorts where shipmates in search of juicy gossip gather to share the latest news. We've got the freshest beats (i.e. Sam Adams, 90's Finest, Hall and Oates...etc.) and enough supplements to make us wonder if any parts of our bodies are actually real. There's a sweat shop on one side of the room, producing model engines with incredibly narpish precision, while the other side harbors a site almost as rare as the hot climber chick: work being produced by an English major. At least we think its work. Often he is seen closing out of Sparknotes with fingers so fast you'd think he's the Sundance Kid (of Butch Cassidy fame).
Regardless, our side of the room is the inspirational side. We make something out of nothing. We are Billy Beane. We are Dirk Diggler. We are John Galt.
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