Reasons I Got In Trouble In College: Part 3

Disturbing the Disturbance Of Peace

The student housing building I lived in was at a very unique position on campus, in that it was nestled in between several Natural Ice repositories, known to the layman as fraternities. Every spring for about a week, these shorts-clad gentlemen could be found participating in their group mating ritual. This consisted of hanging out on their house front lawns, drinking beer in kiddie pools or playing basketball, all while the frat house band played live music that would make two square blocks reek of ill-played alternative music.

I'm not joking when I say that two square blocks were constantly filled with their awful frat music; regardless of the time of day. I assumed that music acted as a social lubricant, making it easier for them to walk around in a circle with their thumbs up the ass of the guy in front of them; but I digress. Aside from being utterly inconsiderate of the surrounding area, what infuriated me the most was that they thought they were awesome for engaging in said activities. We'd had all that we could stands and we couldn't stands no more.

Sweet frat party, bro

Obviously, the most effective way to fight a disturbance of the peace was with a more focused, and offensive disturbance of the peace. Following this rule, we rounded up a guitar amp, several large parking cones, several yellers and one accomplished guitar player, and set about our mission. Our attack was a two-prong one; the yellers would use the large cones to yell phrases such as "ffffrrrrraaaaaattttttttt bbbbooooooyyyyysssss", and "shut up you fags", while the amp focused the sounds of guitar solo versions of shitty Dave Mathews and Chumbawamba songs towards the offending lawn party.

In our heads, we'd hoped this would make the fratties think "what the hell is that annoying shit?! Wait a minute, we're also making annoying noise. Maybe we should stop." Of course, this is never ever the case, as common sense no longer exists. The effect achieved was actually quite the opposite of what we were hoping. What we got was six or so frat boys with backwards hats and board shorts, in a Busch Light fueled rage storming us.

Hundreds of swear words, many, many throw objects and constant statements affirming that I possessed a hatchet later, the engagement had to be arbitrated by several officials from both housing establishments. At the end of it all, somehow WE came out looking like the assholes. Who knew you weren't supposed to have a hatchet on your person while living in student housing?

Unwelcomed Arson

Backstory: A group of my friends that had lived in the same hall as I, had recently joined together and moved into a house directly behind the hall, which I still lived in. As was to be expected, they had a "proper" house warming party during the summer, specifically to prevent the campus patrol Nazis from interfering in the good times.

Like all good college parties, there was loud music, beer pong, copious alcohol consumption and pent up male aggression. But as the party began to wind down, we knew it would take something extra awesome, and borderline illegal, to jolt it back to life. So we decided to test an old urban legend; could we make our own napalm. It turns out we could.

After gathering a surprisingly small amount of supplies, and investing but an hour into the process, we had a tub containing a sticky and less-than-legal substance. But what to do with our new-found adult Play-Doh? It was then that I remembered an important lesson that I learned from the lame-ass snake fireworks kids get on the 4th of July: hot, burning chemicals on pavement leaves the cement charred. But what, oh what, would five adult men with napalm want to permanently burn into public works? Why, a penis of course!

At roughly 1AM, we loaded up into my car and drove over to the suburbs on the other side of town, where we felt safe in knowing it'd never be traced back to us. There, out in the middle of a residential side street, the napalm artisans began using the goo to outline a magnificent giant cock in the middle of the street. I, being the wheelman, stayed in the car, prepared to make out getaway at a moments notice.

Several minutes went by, and the time had come to unleash the hell fires upon the unsuspecting neighborhood. I will say this: in my head, I thought the ensuing flames would be small, sort of like you see in the movies when someone lights a trail of gasoline on fire. Fuck no, that wasn't the case. Upon ignition, a wall of flames literally three feet high (in the shape of a big cock) engulfed the street. I promptly leaned out the window of the car and exclaimed "it's time to be going now!". We made a clean getaway, and went back the next day to check out the end result. Sure enough: giant black dick in the middle of the road. Great success.

For years afterwards, we'd go back to make sure the dick was still there. And it always was. I assumed the neighborhood attempted to clean it, but with no luck. Their kids would still ride their bicycles innocently on a big road-dick. I knew it chapped their ass, and rightfully so. Eventually, the city had to tear up that piece of road and replace it entirely. Great success again.

Here, you can see the replaced chunk of road, where Old Cocky used to reside

Nuclear Terrorism

Back in college I was, and still am, quite the explorer; me and my friends would go places just to say we'd been there. Distance, awkwardness or legality were not factors we took into consideration when choosing our roaming adventures. The usual landmarks and national parks were, often enough, able to satisfy our Indiana Jones-eque need to quest about. In this particular story, we decided to go for something more vintage...something which would get firearms pointed at us.

Our school being in the midwest afforded us a certain adventure opportunity. During the cold war, the concept of the ballistic missile complex placement in the US was generally to put them as far inland as possible, to make them the maximum distance for enemy missiles to engage. This gave us the rare treat of having plenty of decommissioned Atlas ballistic missile sites to play with.

Now, before you get all high and mighty and say "it's decommissioned, what kind of trouble could you get in?", all of these former military installations are owned by very protective and naturally eccentric land owners. They're extremely protective of them especially given the predilection for meth users to find them and turn them into meth labs. Not dissuaded by this fact me and four friends loaded up and set out for our 1950s nuclear adventure.

The closest site was a mere 10 minutes outside of town, with paved roads all the way up to it, so the adventure wasn't fraught with many Oregon Trail happenings. Rather uneventfully we pulled up to the gate and all unloaded, setting our sites on the tall military fence that remained and stood between us and the concrete glory. We also took notice of a maroon mini van cruising by us at drive-by speeds. What we were doing might not have looked so damning, if it weren't for the fact that the driver of the car was now running towards the emplacement...with a bandanna on his head...carrying a ceramic raccoon...waving a wiffle ball bat over his head. Don't ask; he was just awesome like that.

As we all got up to the fence, three of the five decided it would be best if they didn't scale the fence and enter the complex; some little hang up about breaking and entering I suppose. Thankfully, they did assist me and the wiffle ball bat toting driver over the fence. Here's the only known photo that remains from the entire event:

100% not gay

All was well once inside the complex. The early missile complexes were above ground installations, which gave us many concrete and steel structures to explore. Sadly, much of the ballistic missile shelter itself was flooded from decades of rain. We still poked around a bit though...I mean...how often do you get to play in a nuclear missile readiness site? All was going well when we noticed that quite a few police vehicles had coalesced at the front gate...

Happily for us, these weren't normal cops, but portly sheriffs; they had no way of reaching us on the other side of the fence. We saw them detaining the people that hadn't entered the complex, and motioning for us to come over to them. Following their instructions, we went back to the section of fence we scaled to get in. Beyond the obvious law enforcement issue at hand, another hindsight of ours became clear to us at this point. As seen in the photo, we needed help to enter in the first place; our exit would not be as seamless.

They insisted we exit the complex immediately so that they could have a little "chat" with us. Being the smart-ass that I am, and knowing the sheriffs had no other recourse, I responded with "mind helping me out of here? It was hard as hell to get in in the first place.". Apparently they did not think this was a fair proposal, and left me to my own awkward exit devices.

Several minutes of struggling later, we were both back on the outside again. We were immediately presented with forms to fill out so that the officers could extract all of our pertinent info. They then informed us that all trespassing and unlawful entry charges aside, the reason they were called was that they had received a report of bandanna-clad terrorists running into the installation, and it was assumed that we were probably crazy meth heads.

After talking to us, they weren't quite sure that we WEREN'T meth heads, because no matter what we said, they couldn't understand what we were doing in an old missile emplacement with a ceramic raccoon. They even searched the inside of the raccoon to make sure we hadn't stashed drugs in it, but were eventually forced to conclude that we were a bunch of retarded college students.

They took individual as well as group photos of us (including us holding the raccoon), and then warned us to not come back, or they'd be forced to arrest us. We thought for sure that arrest was in our very near future, but I guess what we did was humorous enough to look past the illegality of it. To this day we're still fairly certain that in some po-dunk Kansas sheriff's office there's a photo of five idiots with a ceramic raccoon; and that the officers will be telling that tale for quite some time.

Reasons I Got In Trouble In College: Part 2

Inappropriate Use of Housing Equipment

Most nights in student housing were pretty devoid of activities, apart from TV or sex. As such, me and my friends had to find entertainment options, usually involving unwitting participants. Most of these games were usually harmless; and by harmless, I mean that we didn't get any sanctions against us as a result. A few of the games, however, were not so fun for others.

One of these games was called the vacuum game. You see, student housing had old-ass vacuums that had a mechanical switch to turn them off and on. During this game, we'd wait till shortly before midnight, and then retrieve a vacuum from the hall closet. With the power cord completely unfurled, but unplugged, we'd switch the vacuum into the on position. Then, we'd sneak into a room where both occupants were sleeping (dumbasses never locked their doors), and place the vacuum gently into the middle of the room, with the cord trailing out into the hallway. We'd then exit the room, close the door, and plug the vacuum in into one of the hallway outlets, bringing the loud beast to life. The goal of the game was to see which resident could last the longest in their rooms before coming out in a rage. One guy lasted almost five minutes before he noticed...

Another fun, but short lived, game was the stalactite game. The ceilings in the dining room kitchen were made of some shitty cardboard, painted white. Knowing how soft they were, one of my friends would take a bunch of steak knives and throw them point-first into the ceiling tiles, so that they'd stick and dangle there. The object of the game was to lure other occupants of the hall into standing right under them, and carry on a conversation with them for as long as you could to keep them in that spot. Eventually, either a knife would fall, or they'd catch on to us constantly gazing up at the ceiling directly above them. We were sadistic fucks back then.

Let's just say, student housing did not find the game as enjoyable as much as 4% of the hall did. I guess they had some aversion to bodily injury via knife.

Inciting Campus Violence

During the early parts of my college career, a world event took place that sparked much controversy; the second invasion of Iraq. Being that our university was the pinnacle of liberal areas in the entire state, naturally a lot of students felt they needed to voice their opinions about this. Let me preface this story by saying the following: I'm not a conservative. I'm 100% pro voicing your dissenting opinion, as long as you doing that doesn't interfere with my day-to-day happenings.

Hundreds of idiot students felt however, that their views could be best expressed by blocking the main sidewalk on campus, holding picket signs, and yelling at students passing by to sign some bullshit petition that would ultimately change nothing. I did not approve.

Taking advantage my one of my friends abilities to drive on campus, thanks to a handicapped placard, I decided to strike. I took several large pieces of cardboard, and fashioned them together into an old-fashioned sandwich board. Then wrote on both sides, in large black marker, "Hippies Go Home". I think we can see where this is going.

My friend and his car, me and my sandwich board, and another friend with a video camera set out on our strike mission; with the aim to give students the ability to safely use the sidewalk sans-harassment. Video camera man walked there ahead of us, and pretended to just be filming the rally, surely giving the protesters a false sense of importance. Little did they know, that in a matter of minutes I had arrive and exited the incursion vehicle with my board o' sensibility, when I then began chanting the aforementioned message displayed on it.

Naturally, several of the more uppity hippies were greatly offended by my ability to protest their protest. Perhaps even fueled by the rage of knowing that mine would have far more impact than theirs. Regardless, after several minutes of chanting and intimidation, I had to reenter the incursion vehicle and exit; lest the people protesting the unnecessary use of violence on innocent Iraqis use unnecessary force against an innocent student. Thus completing the cycle of asinine and contradictory things hippies pretend to care about.

This would have been a less offensive sign, it seems

Assault on Woodland Animals

One day after receiving my recommended daily value of education, I was walking home and noticed an odd sound coming from right outside next to the building fire escape. Naturally, I made my way out to the 'scape to investigate.

What I found was a squirrel out on nearby tree limb, making squeaking sounds, with one of it's leg lifted up. I was saddened by the creatures seemingly obvious injury. Others noticed my outside activities, and came out as well, where I shared my sadness with them. But then...it happened

The squirrel, whom I thought was quite plainly injured, stopped making the noise and started walking around on all fours with no noticeable limping. That's right; he was a faker, and he was going to pay for his ruse. I armed myself with several small rocks from the rock garden below the 'scape, and began and unrelenting carpet bombing of tree-dwelling rodents, the likes of which the world had never seen.

Because I'm white, I never actually hit the squirrel, although that didn't stop it from making angry chattering noises at me. Soon, I had exhausted my supply of rocks, and knew my vengeance would need to take a better, and more efficient form. Luckily, I had an idea for just such a thing. I hid myself inside the building, and watched from a nearby window, waiting for the squirrel to celebrate his supposed victory over me. After a few minutes, I witnessed the squirrel climb down the tree, and go to the spot where it had been burying precious walnuts for use in the winter.

I sprang into action and marched, chest all puffed out, over to newly revealed cache. The squirrel jumped into another tree, and just watched; watched as I grabbed his precious food stuffs and took them back into my residence. I knew when winter came, he'd be in a world of hurt, and he'd probably have to rethink his actions; assuming he even lived.

Boo fucking hoo, it's a damn squirrel. Get over it.

Bazooka or not, without walnuts, he's as good as dead

Reasons I Got In Trouble In College: Part 1

College is almost always the pinnacle of one's shenanigans career; it's simply too easy for crazy shit to happen when you are surrounded by friends and free time constantly. I've always been one to do anything for a good laugh, but occasionally the shenanigans would go too far and lead to a wall of reprimands falling upon me. With that in mind, I present to you a glorious list of some of the reasons I got in trouble during my college career.

Fake Parking Passes

At my college, parking on campus was horrendously difficult to find, and strictly controlled by a series of color-coded areas. These areas corresponded to the amount of corporate dick you sucked, with the best color (gold) indicating you could literally park on top of handicapped people if you wanted. Combine the above fact with my predilection towards being crafty, hating to have to walk from parking spots miles away and expert Photoshop skills, and the solution becomes obvious.

I would use a digital camera to take a detailed photo of a top-tier parking pass hanging in someones car, and then scurry home to begin my magic. I combined the digital pseudo parking pass with my legitimate student housing parking pass that all students receive, and then topped it off with a few coats of clear coat to prevent fading and give the shiny plastic appearance of a legitimate pass.

No telling how many spots I stole from legitimate cock-suckers using this method for about six months, but apparently I did it enough for parking enforcement to get tipped off. They begrudgingly respected my ability to pull the wool over their eyes, but still added my license plate to a list of prohibited vehicles. Luckily for me, I had several fake temporary plates that I'd switch out for my real one after I parked...

Assault with Cleaning Products

On a weekly basis (weather permitting), the student housing hall I lived in would have a night water balloon fight with the hall next to us. After several months of spending my Thursday nights making little water balloons to pelt a bunch of dicks with, I realized this was neither an efficient use of my time nor strong enough a weapon to assert our dominance over the other hall.

Using my ingenuity and an unsanctioned tactic, I took one of the housekeeping 10 gallon plastic trash bags, loaded it into a mop bucket, and filled it roughly half way full using one of the showers. I equated this to a daisy cutter to the usual water balloons 50 caliber bullet.

I wheeled this behemoth out to the third floor fire escape, and waited patiently. After a brief few minutes, sure enough, an "opposing" member was spotted standing underneath the fire escape, wielding a Super Soaker water gun. I hoisted the beast and released it to target below. Just to give you an idea of power this thing possessed: a gallon of water weighs just north of 8 pounds. In this case, that's roughly ~42 pounds of water falling from almost 30 feet in the air...

To my surprise, as I released the "fat man", the unsuspecting target was made suspected as he looked up to see the bag mid-air. He didn't move though, and like a champ, took all ~42 pounds of water to his face. The physics of the plastic bag meant that the top half of his body was instantly covered in the bag (much like rolling on a large plastic condom), and the bottom half of him was entirely drenched in the resulting blast.

He never said anything afterwards, just scurried off into the night. I assume he survived, but I'll never know. What I do know is that I got called to the housing department to have the swift cock of the law shoot it's justice all over me.

Pretend Public Events

During my sophomore year I decided that I again needed to put my Photoshop skills to good use. However, this time I wanted to do something larger, and more on the side of funny. Our chancellor at the time was a stalky man named Robert Hemenway; and I had always joked that I thought he looked like he had the physique of an old wrestler. I decided this would be my launching point.

I spent a few hours concocting my masterpiece, which I have since lost. Allow me, however, to describe to you its glorious content. On the left, using a photo I found of a legitimate wrestler wearing a business suit, was ol' Mr. Hemenway in a fighting stance. On the right was a Kodiak bear standing on its hind legs. Below that was a caption that read "Chancellor Bob wrestles a bear", followed by the date and location of this very real event. At the time, it was easy to see all these details, as you could find photocopies of this flyer posted all over campus.

Apparently age and wiseness are linked, as the administration quickly knew this event wasn't real, while students were not as clued in. I remember reading a section of one of the local student papers, informing students that this was a farce, and that Chancellor Bob was in no way going to wrestle a Kodiak bear. That didn't stop several of them from showing up at the allotted time however, forcing me to go "underground" for a while.

You tell me this doesn't look like the face of a man that would wrestle a bear

Last Will And Testament

At some point in everyone's life, they must concern themselves with the issue of their final wishes. At the senseless age of of nearly twenty-seven, I think I've got all my wishes sorted out.

Upon my untimely passing, there will naturally be two periods of observance.

1. A time of extreme mourning for society as a whole.
2. A time of extreme inability to purchase calendars, as they've all been pulled from stores in order to re-print them all with my day of observance noted on them.

 Following these two periods, the following three final wishes are to be carried out:

• For the first 72 hours following my passing, my slowly decaying corpse is to be used as a torment / practical joke implement, to be applied towards people I disliked when I was alive.

You'll have to act fast, as the list of people I disliked while I was alive is quite large, and grows at near exponential rates. Also, to maximize the effect of my body in this task, I think a good idea (but by no means the only one) is to secretly place my corpse in a place that forces the fucking jerks to interact with it in their everyday lives. Here's a few ideas, where the decomposing head of Abe Vigoda represents my body:

At dumbass coworker's desk, on top of office necessities

Propped up against fuckwit's home door

Suspended over dickface's car, preventing them from moving

Bound to nippledick's child

• Following the corpse-jokery, my corpse, drained of all funny material, is to be launched into space aboard a commercial rocket. With an orbital period of no less than three full revolutions of the planet, this will give me the chance to pass a judging scowl upon tens of thousands of miles of potential jerks below. Followed by a glorious re-entry into the atmosphere, which some moron will just happen to catch on his Handicam, and place on YouTube as "100% proof of UFOs".

• Once I become airborne particulates that everyone has to breathe in, my final wish can commence. All my possessions (cash included) are to be assembled and packed into the coffin that would have housed my body. These are to be buried, because they are mine, and only mine.

Before finally burying all my stuff (because you know they're all mine), a gypsy curse is to be placed upon the coffin, to curse those who may wish to obtain my things. God help you if you attempt to take my things.

Rest assured, the haunting I'll put on your ass will far outweigh anything you obtain from the coffin.

That shit is mine, asshole