Updated on August 19, 2016
I was talking about high school with a coworker today, and the conversation turned to the topic of shenanigans. I realized two things from this:
A:) Evidently to some I could have been considered a borderline juvenile delinquent.
B:) I realized why I don’t really remember how to speak German too well, even though I studied it for a year.
Now, I can’t take all the blame here. I’m a creature of inspiration and spontaneity, and if my teacher does or shows things that inspire hilarity or generalized chaos, I’ll go for it. Between jokes, being fed donuts aka pure sugar during German club meetings (which, if I remember correctly, were right before our period), random YouTube videos and a Harry Potter themed final exam, I think anyone would get the idea that some levity was allowed.
But to be honest I am probably pretty much all to blame.
Between hormones, a naturally short attention span, and the discovery of energy drinks, I was a ball of energy looking for the funniest possible way to explode. German class just happened to be a good outlet. It didn’t even have to be high comedy, the right situations would set not just me, but the entire class off. We fed off each others energy like cracked out velociraptors.
A good example would be when he decided to show us an older video of one of his favorite yodelers. We all sat quietly in rapt attention, but something about the video threw us off. Something was funny, or was going to be funny; being able to sense this was a weird sixth sense we all had, and now it was just a matter of time. The singing and yodeling itself was nice to listen to, so that definitely wasn’t a problem. Everything seemed perfectly normal. And then, a couple of seconds in, the singer smiled at the camera, and happily cooed “Cuckoo!”
The room was quiet for a fraction of a millisecond, but then from somewhere in the back of the room came the sing-song reply of “Cuckoo!” back at the screen, in a nearly perfect mimic. And that was the beginning of the end. Little by little, as the three-minute song wore on, more and more people starting chirping the bird cry back to the gigantic cheery face of the woman singing on the projection screen, until the entire class was involved. Any other part of the song, the room was the picture of perfect attention, but anyone who came in would have been able to feel the tension building in the class as the song went on. Even the teacher, while smiling at first like it was cute, now had an air of quiet distress about him as he seemingly tried to brace himself for whatever was going to happen next. Finally the video came to an end, the room became soundless, and the energy dropped back down to normal levels. Relieved at the prospect of today’s apocalypse being dodged, the teacher stood up to continue the lesson.
The quiet chitter didn’t even have time to echo before the room exploded into a cacophony of crazed Germanic pseudo bird yodeling. Chaos had broken free, the inmates were running the asylum, and it was all happening right now in this very room.
At his point, it was far enough in the year where my teacher had already realized there was no way to control it, and to just let it die off on its own lest any interaction on his part fuel the mayhem. About five minutes later we had all calmed down enough for class to continue, but the damage had been done, and it was permanent. For the remainder of the year, all it took was a random “cuckoo” from any student to set the room off for the next few minutes in a warbling frenzy. I haven’t tried it with any other people, but part of me is thinking is video could be weaponized into the ultimate distraction machine. I actually found it and posted it below, so I guess share at your own risk?
Updated on August 4, 2016
So last week Greg and I decided to get our first car together. Technically it’s my first car, which is funny because also technically I don’t have my license, just a learners permit. A mixture of having a lot of car crash nightmares as a kid and also not being very confident in multitasking and observing your surroundings makes operating a two-ton death machine at high speeds an uncomfortable situation. The new car is definitely smaller than the tank we’ve had for a couple years, so hopefully I’ll feel less crash-y with a smaller, shiny new car. I’m probably going to drive at 5 miles an hour tops in the beginning.
Although I honestly don’t understand why anyone would trust me with handling one of these. At the dealership I went to use the restroom since they’d been plying me with endless water and soda once I got approved and agreed to sign for the car, and also I had a lot of time to kill since we were waiting for our guy to finish the paperwork. I am a tiny woman with a tiny bladder damn it! I can only wait so long! So there I am finishing up my business, pulling my pants back up when the toilet ghost strikes. Greg argues that it wasn’t a toilet ghost but the automatic flusher going off because I had leaned forward, but he wasn’t there, he doesn’t know. I FEARED FOR MY LIFE, LORD. So all of a sudden there’s splashing and a loud roaring sound behind me and my exposed tooshy and in my fright I attempt to get away while screaming “YELLOW PAPER, YELLOW PAPER” with my pants still around my knees, and I face plant right in to the stall door. I am really, really happy there was no one else in that restroom.
I went back to our table to find the dealer there waiting for me, so I of course had to apologize for making him wait. “Sorry to keep you waiting, I think you toilet is haunted.” Props to the dealer for keeping a poker face and getting back to business, especially at the prospect of a Spector inhabiting your commode, but Greg must suck at bluffing because he just stared at me incredulously. If there’s ever a poker game where young Johnny Depp in a suit is in the losers pot, totally making Greg play and then Johnny Depp and I can eat all the tapioca we want. I haven’t gone back to the restroom at the dealership, and they haven’t mentioned anything, but we all know that after I left they probably called the Catholic Church and exorcised the shit out of that toilet.
Posted on July 25, 2016
This isn’t really a full-fledged post, but an observation.
Ever since my engagement was announced on Facebook, literally ALL my ads are wedding themed now. No more geek t-shirts, or subscription boxes. I am not a person anymore, I am a wedding. This happened before I even changed my relationship status, which would happen a couple days after the incident. All it took was me being tagged in a couple pics, including one with a ring, a shit load of comments that probably had a lot of key-words in it that sent Facebook’s Robot Ad-Overlords in a frenzy, and BAM. Poofy dresses and pink and cake everywhere. Even my ads popping up in my Gmail changed, and some businesses I buy from or get newsletters from suddenly started congratulating me talking about weddings. I’m not even going to get married until probably next Fall or something, so I am in no way truly planning or visiting a bunch of sites or anything like that. This is definitely a lesson on how all-encompassing Facebook can be. Facebook you scary.