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LIFE IN A COLLEGE DORM
At the time of this writing, I'm 23 years old, and 68 of those years — a sizable percentage of my meager existence — have been spent in college dormitories. For the past half-century and change, the world I know has consisted of cafeteria food, bunk beds, community bathrooms, tornado drills, and repeated quiet hour violations.
A picture of my dorm. Yes, I live inside this box.
Let Me Walk You Through a Typical Day
My alarm usually goes off around 10 AM. Sometimes I sleep through it, but my roommate usually wakes me up anyway. From there, it's off the bathroom, where I brush my teeth. It's so weird, though. Just when you think you have enough toothpaste to last the month, your tube runs out. Whenever that happens, my next door neighbor Mortimer lends me some of his. Mortimer is really good for that sort of thing; he must have a lot of spare toothpaste lying around.
When I'm hungry, I head over to the school cafeteria for a meal. The food isn't half as bad as you might think. Our cooks go the extra mile to make certain the students are satisfied. The lobster bisk is excellent, and my personal favorite dish, the potatoes au gratin, is always a crowd pleaser.
But It's Not All Wine and Roses
I practice my saxophone in my room, and every so often, I get carried away and play past 10 PM, when the so-called "quiet hours" begin. The folks on my wing are pretty cool, but Rupert, my resident assistant, is a legalist and vigorously enforces the rules. I don't mean to get dark on the guy, but just what kind of name is Rupert? I wouldn't name my child that! Would you?
One night last week, he knocked on my door at 4 AM (which is more than a little rude) and busted me again for practicing. This time, he told me to make an appointment with the Alphonse, the hall director.
Me, on the way to the hall director's office
A Most Unusual Punishment
Alphonse starts lecturing me: I have no respect for the dorm, my fellow residents, the lobster bisk, etc. He even accuses me of disrespecting the couch, whatever that means. But then he starts sobbing uncontrollably. I ask him what's wrong.
"Well, Murray James," he says, "when I was six years old, my dad and I decided to play horseshoes on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. As my father was crossing the freeway to pitch his next shoe, some rogue automobile came out of nowhere and hit him. The accident was serious, and I didn't know if my dad would live. But he pulled through."
"Wow. What a wonderful story, Alphonse! Who won the game?" I exclaim. "Well," he replies, "I forgot the score, and I can't really ask my dad. He never fully recovered from the accident, you see, and he's not... like most people."
"Oh?"
"Murray James, my father is a stalk of broccoli. He'll be a vegetable for the rest of his life."
In Case You Haven't Figured Out By Now
My entire dorm, including everyone and thing in it, is made of Lego. Me? Yes, I'm made of Lego. My saxophone? Lego. This website? Yeah, that's Lego too. This brings me to my final point:
What did you think it was made of? Vinegar? If it's made of vinegar, why don't they call it the vintegrweb? Have you ever heard it called that? If you were buying a computer at Radio Shack, would you ask the service representative, "Say, can this computer connect to the vintegrweb?" No, I didn't think so.
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