Day 18: Batten Down the Hatches

My God... it's upon us

Day 9: Bosom Buddies

For the most part, today was a day just like any other. Uncomfortably early wake-up time, class, dining hall food, more class, unsatisfying instant food at home, work, so on and so forth. However, one thing set today apart from all the others: a noticeably larger amount of one-on-one, heart-to-heart conversation with the Kinger.


"awww."


fuck off.


Actually, I won't disagree with the "awww" factor. It's awfully snuggly wuggly, warm fuzzy, and giggledy wiggledy getting to know another human being through sincere, uninhibited chit-chat, whether it be over terrible, overpriced cafeteria food or a good jaunt on the exercise bike. However, with Kinger it's a very distinct kind of warm fuzzy. It's almost like being in the center of a fresh pastrami melt, staring comfortably out at a world that, even if only for that moment, gets you.


For those of you living under a rock, this is what a pastrami melt looks like:

Now doesn't that just look inviting and appetizing?

Quite some time later, the warm fuzzies wore off while I was in the midst of a late-night laundry assault, and I realized something important about today's interactions. It was something so profound and catastrophic to my senses, thought process, and circulatory system that I dare not turn it into prose.

However, it did make me feel good about myself, so I thought it'd be a waste not to inform you at all. So that I feel even smarter, I have composed a visual representation of my realization.

Look on at the following chart only if you dare, dear reader. I warn you that if you know Kinger or myself on any personal level, that your perception of either of us will never be the same:

Holy fucking Christballs, Batman...

Day 7: It's Cunnilingus Weather!/Kingernomics

"Lazy Sundays" are a big part of life in the apartment I inhabit. These usually involve lying around all day without "real" clothes on, playing video games, and watching cartoons. Well, Kinger mainly does those things. The rest of us usually just shuffle listlessly through our dull and empty existences.


Not today.

You see, today it was warm out.

Here in good old New Hampshire, if it cracks 50 degrees, it's okay to sunbathe. This sudden change of temperature apparently awakened the Kinger's long dormant sense of self-preservation and gave him the initiative to go into the kitchen and realize he had absolutely no food. "I need to go grocery shopping."


Light dawns on ginger head.


After setting his Instant Messenger away status to the seemingly ominous phrase of"it's cunnilingus weather!", he recruited me to accompany him (since I do not have a vagina, I did not fear becoming a victim of the soon-to-be-notorious 'Kingerlingus'.)


Now, I'm an absolute fucking failure at buying groceries, and more or less managing money in general. Every time I went grocery shopping, I'd come back broke with 5 boxes of Keebler Rainbow Chips Deluxe cookies and 3 packs of Top Ramen. I figured I could stand to take the time to observe some supposedly normal food-buying habits.

Perhaps, but today was not that time.

We proceeded through the entirety of the grocery store at a steady, marching, clip of about 5 miles per hour. In a car, this is practically a stand-still, but on-foot, it's burning fucking rubber. Kinger's hands grabbed things in succint, calculated motion. I couldn't catch everything, but I did see an almost disturbing amount of elbow macaroni form a distinct layer in the shopping cart. Before I knew it we were in the checkout line, and the only reason I was conscious then was because Kinger threw a goddamn 20-pack of toilet paper at my face (yeah, we wipe our ass that much here.)

Kinger bought 142 dollars worth of groceries, and proceeded to eat and drink half of his glorious haul over the course of the afternoon. I bought 35 dollars worth of groceries, and can see it lasting at least a week, maybe two.

So, who is the bad shopper? Me, Kinger, or both of us? To be perfectly honest, ladies and gentlemen, I still have no idea, even as I write this. I have no clever anecdote from today's adventure, nor any greater understanding of the mysterious "Kingernomic" scheme. I even tried to save the entry by taking a closer look at Kinger's dietary intake. Even that yielded nothing, except for the following figures. I leave the lesson up to you, dear reader, because I'm tired, cranky, and not looking forward to another week of white college youth drudgery.

A BOUNTY FIT FOR A KING(ER)
Pasta (of some sort): 95%
Soda: 1%
Fruit Snacks: 4%

Cunnilingus weather, indeed.

Day 5: The Internet is for Losers

Just in case there's anyone left on the internet who hasn't bought into the whole facebook thing, there is a photo making its rounds on the website that looks like this:

Yeah, I know: "what the fuck?" Let me break this down for you. The idea here is that a facebook user uploads the picture to their own personal album, and "tags" their friends as appearing in the photo as their respective stereotype. Adorable, right? While it might be cute the first time you see it, and you may even be flattered that that certain facebook pal thought you important enough to not only be in the picture, but appear as "the pimp" or "the one you can depend on," ultimately, it loses its luster and fades into online trend obscurity along with "25 random facts about me," livejournal quizzes, and a series of overly saucy open letters to people that will never read them.

This is the kind of shit that pisses the Kinger right off.

Normally, when one is in disagreement with such a vapid internet phenomenon, they simply choose not to participate in it, and may even denounce it to others who enjoy it. Not Kinger. Kinger is far too clever to stop there. He proved to me his righteous comedic chops today by uploading the following picture to facebook and subsequently tagging me in it:

What Kinger has done here is created a rectangular collage of pictures depicting his actual friends, and placed "the" before their names. Not only does this make his friends, including myself, feel unique and special to his online presence, it also makes anyone who used the first picture feel like a total loser and just another sheep in the flock. For those of you playing the home game and/or still scratching your heads: this is really, really fucking funny. Hats off, Kinger. Show those self-obsessed facebook junkies what-for.

Day 3: One is the Loneliest Number

The Kinger, myself, and a lovely young man by the name of Seth all have an infamously dull and drawn out British Literature class every Tuesday and Thursday from the hours of 11 am to 12:30 pm. During this time we participate in such menial activities as drawing profane and immature cartoons at one another, guffawing quietly at the dumbed down and irrelevant content of the curriculum, and of course, texting. It ends up being a rather enjoyable social hour (and a half) almost every time.

Today was different.

I myself was bordering on late to class, and hurriedly took a seat next to Seth as I pretended to catch my breath as a friendly sign of "back off, teach. I fucking tried to make it on time, really." When I had my wits about me, I noticed that Kinger was nowhere to be found. It was four minutes past the usual start time, and every seat on either side of Seth and myself was filled. I was bewildered, he had seemed perfectly healthy (and happily asleep) when I left home base that morning.

Within 60 seconds of this thought, Kinger lumbered in, giving Seth and I a look that I had never seen thrown in my direction: utter disdain. He then took a seat at the opposite end of the back row. I reeled for a few minutes, wondering what exactly I could've done to the Kinger to either a: make him late for class, or b: cause him such emotional discomfort that he would resort to glaring.

I got over this sentiment as I watched him intently throughout the class period. Ladies and gentlemen, the Kinger is a social creature. It survives, even thrives in the presence of other, lesser human beings. Alone, however, it has no outlet for its large bodily output of wit and sass, and must search for places within its mind and body to store the secretions. It is the equivalent to having Restless Leg Syndrome in one's brain. Watching Kinger cope with this was a truly heartbreaking experience. I cannot even explain the looks of horror, dejection, lament, desperation, and abject misery I saw on that full, normally joyous visage over the course of the next 90 minutes. If I was pushed to do so, however, I believe he vaguely resembled Pooh Bear attempting thought.

consider my emotional back broken...

Day 2: Deadly Sin or Divine Right?

Today turned out to be one of the legendarily scarce snow days on the University of New Hampshire campus. These have been steadily increasing in number during the 2008-2009 academic calendar year. Most people seem to think it's because we've had a few particularly potent snowstorms, as well as the odd complete freezing over of the state. I, however, believe it's because Kinger probably scared the living shit out of the campus president with this. I know that I personally would not fuck with anyone that could and would write that about me, but I digress.

A snow day for the majority of students means sleeping until the early afternoon, and then shuffling to the dining hall in pajamas and slippers. For a slightly smaller number of young scholars, it means not having to board that bus or start up that car, enjoying the company of one's roommates, and perhaps cooking an egg or two on that shabby apartment stove. Either way, it's a cozy scene.

For me, this particular snow day meant waking up mid-morning, abusing my alarm clock, bundling up like the little brother from A Christmas Story (I can't put my arms down!), and walking 20 minutes to Stillings Dining Commons, where I spent a few hours serving pungent, poorly prepared, dried out edibles to the lazy masses, as they filtered in still clad in fleeces, hoodies, and sweatpants.

Now, I'm by no means Saint fucking Peter, and I will admit, I got rather jealous, but the overall morning wasn't bad. The rest of the drastically older and clearly much more miserable Dining Hall staff took it very easy on me, and I barely had to lift a finger throughout the entirety of my stay. When the clock struck 3, I left, still in relatively high spirits. My day didn't seem to be going so badly.

Turns out it was going fucking god-awful.

I returned home to find none other than Kinger spread out on the loveseat, decked out in the royal bathrobe (which is, no lie, royal blue), with his eyes glued to the television set. In the small amount of time I had spent earning a few measly grocery dollars, his highness had taken it upon himself to get several additional hours of sleep. Not only this, but after he saw it fit to arise, he cultured himself with three hours of Telemundo network programming over a hearty, home-cooked breakfast. Ever-resourceful, he had managed to use this experience to completely master the art of Spanish dialogue. By the time I was able to sit down, he had already moved on to the Spongebog Squarepants movie, which I'm sure provided bountiful amounts of pop-culture analysis for our dear Timothy.

So, let's tally this up. In approximately 5 hours, the Kinger properly re-energized, got a taste of foreign culture, mastered a foreign language, and tickled his intellect and funny bone. He was also 3/4 naked and comfortable as fuck-all. In the same 5 hours, I unplugged an alarm clock, took a lukewarm shower, risked frostbite, comingled with unhappy middle-aged women, spilled cheese and broccoli scramble on myself, and watched people happier than me eat. I did all this in a rough, scratchy UNH Dining t-shirt and three-day-old jeans. Using careful analytic and evaluational methods, I have concluded that our separate day scores look as such:

Kinger: 5,000,000
Me: 5

Needless to say, I was upset. However, I thought, if I knew anything about Kinger, there would be a lesson for me betwixt all of this. I wracked my brain for hours, pacing my room, staring blankly at my computer screen, vainly attempting to sleep. What could it all mean?

Then it hit me.

The lesson wasn't something I had to think about. It was all very simple. I'm a piece of shit for getting up and going to my job today. Snow days are Dionysian by design, and I was seriously twisting nature's arm. We were not put on this Earth to work and toil for minimum wage. We were put on this Earth to laugh and wonder, wrap ourselves in the finest and fuzziest of vestments, and soak up everything we can about the world around us, much like the animated sponge that danced across the Kinger's eyesight all afternoon. Sloth is not a sin, but a right of passage. The powers that be saw it fit to give us the day off, and who am I to deny the forces that rule over the very planet I owe my existence to? I will never show such hubris against Mother Nature again. Thank you Kinger, thank you from the bottom of my heart.


this is a picture of what I think God looks like now.

Day 1 Part 2: Unagi Power!

I have been studying the Japanese language for a little over a semester now. I have only truly memorized one of the alphabets and understand enough kanji to write a letter to a toddler, but I am proud of my achievements.

Leave it to Kinger to put me in my place.

Tonight I went out to sup on Japanese cuisine with my brother Sean, Brett Bauer, and the King. Despite my ability to understand a few symbols on the menu and manage to order something, I was shown that studying a language and culture within a school curriculum is severely hindering my world knowledge.

Kinger knew exactly what every menu item was, exactly what he wanted, and exactly why he didn't want anything else. He also outperformed me extraordinarily at eating with chopsticks. I was not doing so well, and he was having exactly none of that.

So now that I've been shown the light, how will I go about ascertaining scholarly excellence in the Japanese language and culture? Why, by studying intently the comedy of DC Benny and listening to my dear friend Tim King, of course.

Day 1: Every Picture's Worth the Same 1,000 Words

It has slowly come to my attention over my long tenure as The Kinger's friend that he is very particular about photos. Almost every photo, whether it be drunk, sober, or otherwise, features the same expression.

Some people might think of this as some sort of sign of vapidity. Oh no, no way, hold the phone. This is purposeful. This is The Kinger being his own public relations manager. Why filter through tons of photos, searching for the best one, when you can just guarantee that every single photo is not only a keeper, but the keeper. Let's face it, it's a face you will not soon forget.

However, I cannot say that every photo comes out as golden as the above samples. Inevitably, the paparazzi manage to slip a few through the cracks. The Kinger cannot be blamed for this. Any photo showcasing another expression is one that Tim did not wish to be taken. He was either unaware of the photo being taken, or incredibly angry that you dared to take a picture of him at that particular time.

Case in point:

Now, your guess is as good as mine as to who exactly "Zaquisha" is, but there is one indesputable fact. Kinger is not pleased with the vinyl-collecting, hoodie-fetishizing asshole with the polaroid camera. They have caught him off guard and this is unfor-fucking-giveable. So, Zaquisha, whoever and wherever you are, I extend a hearty "fuck you" in your general direction.

Also inevitably, this approach to photogenicity has had a deep impact on my life. I myself had not realized it until yesterday evening, when I attended an apartment party with the Kinger and a few other choice individuals. Of course, at least once during the night, I found myself on the other side of the camera lens. I was too far past tipsy to really think about what was happening, and before I knew it, the photo was taken.

This morning I woke up to find myself photo-tagged on Facebook. I clicked on the link to find this:

My fucking god...

Prelude: Like Peanut Butter and Jelly Without the Gooey Comingling Between Bread

Before I begin, I must be up front with you: I thought this was a good idea while I was dead drunk. It's more than likely not a good idea by now, but I told enough people that I was "so doing this" that I can't really back down from it. I don't really believe any of that is going to save my reputation as a human being and inhabitant of the planet Earth, but hell, it was worth a shot.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

I have known the individual referred to as Timothy King for three years, two of which I have been aware of. Our first encounter happened in one of the many corridors of Stoke Hall, the largest dorm and overall biggest shit factory on the University of New Hampshire campus. It was in the wee hours of May 6th, 2006. I was preparing to leave for class with one of my acquaintances at the time (I have no recollection of who this particular person was. If you are the person in question, please contact me so I may replace "one of my acquaintances" with your name.)

As we were about to leave, a door swung open, and a burly, fire-maned presence shot out into the hall... and continued to stumble into the wall opposite him. This presence, at the time very foreign to me, continued to stumble back and forth until he disappeared down the long corridor. This was, of course, a prime opportunity for the hypothetical college boy to prove how hypothetically fucking cool and clever he is. "There goes a fucking champ," was the best my acquaintance could muster. To put it bluntly: fail. However, the burly ginger had, if only momentarily, piqued my curiosity.

Love at first sight? Who knows? To be perfectly honest, I seriously fucking doubt it, but who knows?

A year and small number of months later, during my third year of study at UNH, I haphazardly ran into this firey (I'm not trying to make puns at this point) presence again, at the Holloway Commons dining hall, the heart and soul of the entire campus. In my travels, I had befriended a ginger (this will be the stock term for pale, red-haired individuals from here on) of a very different, quieter nature: one Brett Bauer. This particular morning, I was eating a pretty typical Saturday morning breakfast with Brett. Halfway through my post-Fruity Pebbles cup of coffee, the distant-but-familiar presence passed by and gave an abbreviated greeting to other, quieter ginger. I'm not about to insert a "birds of a feather" joke here, but you can guess as to what I was thinking. I politely asked "who's that?" I then heard a name that would come to entail a lot more very, very soon: Tim King.

Key moment? Yes.

I'm a bit hazy on the details, but less than two weeks later, I found myself wandering Durham, New Hampshire with a very intoxicated Tim King. It was during this escapade that I realized Timothy was not only the aforementioned "fucking champ" from three years past (seriously, I was blown away by that alone,) but apparently my mirror image in general preference on more or less everything. I knew I had forged a powerful bond that evening, but even as he slept on the hard, unvacuumed tile floor of my single dormitory, I could not fathom the turn my life would be taking.

No. We didn't touch weiners.

You'd just be surprised at how much your schedule changes being tethered to, and eventually rooming with, a gigantic personality with a propensity for heavy drinking. Sadly, I didn't have this idea idea in the past 18 months, where many adventures have already occurred, but I have a strong feeling that the adventures have yet to cease. I have decided to monitor my good friend's life and its effects on my own, in hopes that everything from his most harrowing exploits to the most daily of his habits do not go unwritten. This is my life as the sidekick, the "straight man," but also as the scribe, the watcher. This is the Kinger and I.

-Robert "Bob" Pearsall