People want to know what school is like in Perth. I like to compare it to Saved By The Bell: The College Years, mainly because I've seen at least three mullets here that are on par AC Slater's. Honestly I'm not sure what to compare it to, as I've never had classes like these before. What I mean by that is they're extremely easy. For example, all my Australian Studies class requires this entire semester is three 2-3 page responses to our field trips (people from St. Olaf may now throw their computer in a jealous rage. Go on, I won't go anywhere. Done? Ok). John, Andrew and I are taking a sexology class. I just had the introduction this week, and next week we'll be watching a desensitization video so that we'll be more comfortable with the material. Some people might think it's cool we get to watch porn in class, but our teacher made it clear that this was anything but porn. She said this movie was made in the '70s, a time when nobody did any sort of body hair grooming. It contains people in wheelchairs having sex, and other things I can't remember off the top of my head, but I promise to tell you all about it after I see it Tuesday. Im pretty sure I'll feel so traumatized that no amount of cleaning will help me. So how did we get here? Oh yeah, basically classes are easy.
The other day I played basketball with some Australians and was able to introduce my soaking-wet jumpshot to the land down under. Basically I dominated more than Michael Jordan did against the Monstars. I also introduced inadvertent hacking and egregious fouling to the Australians as well. How else am I supposed to guard someone who's 50 pounds lighter than me? Pretty soon my opponents were begging me to have mercy on them, but I would hear none of it. My two-inch-vertical and I put on a clinic in rebounding my own shot five times in a row before finally making the basket. Yes ladies and gentlemen, it was quite a sight to see.
Finally, an update on the bathroom wars. I will not stop until this mystery girl flatmate is completely broken. She left a note under my door explaining that she is disgusted that I continue to use the bathroom she designated for the girls for my morning sit on the throne. She's weakening! I must continue to be on the offensive. I don't understand what she means by disgusted though. I apply the same mantra I use for camping as I do for the bathroom: leave no footprints or skidmarks behind. I think she has the the wrong person if that's what she has a problem with. I must figure out how I can use this to my advantage. Some of you out there might be wondering: Paul are you that petty? Why can't you just go to the left toilet. I'll answer those for you. Yes I am that petty, and right is my favorite direction. Derek Zoolander and I have three things in common: We are really really good looking, we're even better looking doing blue steel, and we avoid going left at all costs. For instance, when I'm driving, I hate turning left, I never feel like I have enough time to do this and I'm not going to see an oncoming car until it hits me, and afterwards I'll be sued and the other person will win and take my old lego spaceship set. And who wants that. So I guess I'm going to be turning right to the bathroom until this mystery girl's fighting spirit is crushed.
Until next time,
Paul
No comments:
Post a Comment