A surprise under the snow
A few days before winter break, I stepped out of my apartment, armed with an industrial strength metal shovel, and stared down my car as it sat in the driveway, buried under a billowy blanket of snow. But for its familiar and sleek outline characteristic of all ’95 Eclipses – the epitome of automation – the car was completely unidentifiable under the snow.
I began my task of shoveling off layer upon layer of snow. As I went to unearth a mountain of powder on the hood, though, I slipped and landed gluteus first on the unforgiving ice. Arising in a tumult of anger and expletives, and obviously presuming the car to be my own, I proceeded to release my frustration by pounding it with the blunt side of my shovel.
Only after a glimmer of green peaked through the snow – my car is cherry red – did I realize I was banging on someone else’s car. Dear Green Pontiac Owner: To you I send my sincerest apologies.
ANDY KROLL
Lords of the dance
It was a standard Thursday evening a little before 11 p.m at a campus bar – well before any drink specials had a chance to kick in. Though the bar was quiet, four guys who looked to be relatively well-groomed upperclassmen suddenly took to an empty dance floor. They stood motionless until a nod from one guy caused all four to start seizing and gyrating. Their movements could loosely be considered dancing.
One started doing the cabbage patch dance, tossing his drink into the air and watching it land all over the dance floor. Amid claps and cheers from the semi-full bar audience, another started doing the worm (which prompted me to wonder who would put their body on that disease-ridden floor).
The fun ended when security escorted the men off the floor. The dancers seemed to be satisfied with the abrupt end to their performance, each wearing a smug, accomplished smile.
CHRISTINE VANCE
In-class confessions
It was the last meeting of a class that had been boring at best and utterly dismal at worst. The professor was not a wholly uninteresting man – white haired and passionate about his subject, he at least made cynical jokes once in a while. He was just unable to make anyone care about what he said.
When everyone was settled into the last class, eyes already beginning to gloss over, the professor announced in a grave voice, “I have a confession to make.” There was a long silence as he surveyed a room of suddenly interested students. “I have been sleeping with one of the members of this class.”
Unbelievable. Shocking. The class reeled. No one said a word until after a few painful seconds, the professor spoke again, pointing towards the back of the class. “Fortunately, it’s okay. We’ve been married for 15 years. Let me introduce you to my wife.”
BEN VANWAGONER