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School Days: Anecdotes from College

Somewhat recently I was reminded of the following two incidents from my own days at university, so since my livejournal has been fairly doom and gloom lately, I figured I'd share them to lighten things up a bit.

Names in one story have been omitted to protect the innocent, while the other story a nickname is used because, well, you'll see. Cut for length, and somewhat for content. And I'm saving the better one for the second.



Our first story revolves around... we'll call him X. X was one of the members of the same roleplaying orginisation to which I belonged. He also had a girlfriend who was a fringe member, or "groupie," and we'll call her Y.

Now, one night (or day for that matter) in bed Y decided to try something new involving her hands - both hands. (We know this because X was foolish enough to share some details with one or two members of the group, silly boy.) I don't know what the particular technique was, or any details about it, so don't ask for pointers. But it was apparently enjoyable. Very enjoyable. So enjoyable that, in fact, once his girlfriend left, X decided that he wanted to try it on himself.

He sprained it.

Yes, "it."

Yes, sprained.

Moral of the story: Leave the more demanding techniques to the, er, professionals. And if you don't, for $deity's sake, don't decide to tell one or two chosen friends under the veil of secrecy. Unless you want an entire club to be snickering under their collective breath at you as you walk gingerly around campus for the next couple weeks.




Then we have the story of Woodstock, who unfortunately will not remain nameless for this episode, although at least I'll be kind enough to not give his real name. And really, it's not like he did anything really stupid or anything, just something that would be hard to forsee.

So. This also revolves around the same organization as in the first episode (which may tell you something). Said organization also had club T-shirts each year that members could order, with a design on the back from one of the club members. The members could also choose the shirt's color, and a name to be embroidered on the top left. Snazzy, no? (Well, no, but that's beside the point.)

So the one year, we had our club spring picnic/get-together/excuse to party at a local campground, camping out one night and then having a large picnic at the campground's pavilion the next day. And this where they decided to take the opportunity to hand out the ordered T-Shirts, while most of the members were gathered together. Fair enough.

And in the process of said handing-out-of-shirts, the hander-outer decided to use the format of shirt size, shirt color, and embroidered name, to best make sure they got to the right people. Again, fair enough, because that's perfectly logical. In fact, I consider it bad luck that Woodstock picked that year to shorten his nickname on his shirt to "Woody." And that the same year he decided on red as the color. And certainly it's not his fault that he wears a large shirt (although, come to think of it, any size would have had much the same reaction.)

But whether it was his fault or not, once the shirt handler called out his shirt in the usual way, he was reaaally red-faced as he went up to get his T-shirt, with the rest of us laughing hard enough to split our sides.



Okay, now that they're down in black and white they might not be quite as funny unless you were there. But damnit, they amused the hell out of me at the time and they're all typed out, so suffer. Nyah.