Published: Monday, May 3, 2010 in The Whitworthian.
Oh my. It’s the last Muse of the school year. I’ve thought long and hard for the last five minutes about what to write this edition of The Muse on. I love you, gentle readers. I want to go out on a good note.
Alternatively, I suppose I could write a column that isn’t funny at all and get irony points. I could write it about clubbing baby seals or finals or computer nerds who write video game reviews in their spare time because they have no real prospects.
On the other hand, I don’t really feel like talking about my life.
Humor columns are hard to write, you know. They don’t just come or appear out of thin air. I mean, sometimes they do, I guess. LARPing was a pretty easy target. So was Canada. Big surprises there.
But in general, this is hard work. It’s a big responsibility, being a humor columnist. The pressure is immense. Being the only piece of content in the newspaper that people actually consistently read is no cakewalk. I have to keep you plebes entertained!
I love that word, by the way. Plebes. Someone should go back through archives and count the number of times I’ve used it. E-mail me the answer and I’ll give you a prize. Seriously. Do it.
Anyway. Humor is hard. Not hard intellectually, per se. More hard on the kidneys, because the only consistent way to pound out a column like this is to hype yourself up so high on sugar your cavitous teeth leap screaming from your mouth (hint: if you hurry, you can head them off at the Listerine aisle at Walgreens. Teeth are predictable.)
But I do it for you. Not just because I’m a narcissist. In fact, I’m the opposite. I’m quite humble, really. People talk about it all the time. I love hearing people talk about how humble I am. It’s my favorite.
Here’s an example of the writing process: I walk into the media office without a sweet clue. I sit down at my desk and begin imbibing Jolly Ranchers and Pixie Sticks. After about 20 minutes of this, my eyes are so dilated I can’t see my entire computer screen without moving my head. This is good. It helps me focus.
Finally I get started, spit out four to five hundred words and then realize that I’ve used up my initial idea’s potential. I then completely change the subject.
Bloomsday was Sunday. I celebrate Bloomsday every year by completely forgetting about it until I see people staggering around wearing brightly colored shirts.
I don’t participate in Bloomsday because it violates several of my core values, namely that of never running distances greater than one end of Whitworth’s campus to the other.
I originally had much stricter rules on this subject, but my habit of being perpetually late to class forced me to reevaluate.
However, if I were to run Bloomsday, I would do it right. One has to dress appropriately. And I don’t mean running shorts.
Some people have it figured out. There was a scout trooper from “Star Wars: Return of the Jedi” walking the course. Spiderman was apparently there, too.
Some people feel that sprinting up Doomsday Hill is some kind of big freaking deal. They are wrong. Until you have sprinted up it in a suit of armor made entirely from Legos, you have not truly done anything significant in your life.
I guess I should get back to writing this last humor column. I’ve been rambling when I should be focusing on making this Muse awesome before I run out of spa