I would like to share these insightful bits of wisdom imparted to us by Trey Parker and Matt Stone, from Team America World Police. It explains many a complicated phenomena in the world today.

"There are three kinds of people: dicks, pussies and assholes. Pussies think everyone can get along and dicks just want to fuck all the time without thinkin' it through. But then you got your assholes, Chuck. And all the assholes want is to shit all over everything. So pussies may get mad at dicks once in a while because... pussies get fucked by dicks. But dicks also fuck assholes, Chuck! And if they didn't fuck the assholes, you know what you'd get?? You'd get your dick and your pussy all covered in shit!!"

"We're dicks! We're reckless, arrogant, stupid dicks! And the Film Actors' Guild!.. are pussies. And Kim Jong Il is an asshole. Pussies don't like dicks, because pussies get fucked by dicks. But dicks also fuck assholes. Assholes who just want to shit on everything. Pussies may think they can deal with assholes their way, but the only thing that can fuck an asshole... is a dick... with some balls. The problem with dicks is that sometimes they fuck too much, or fuck when it isn't appropriate, and it takes a pussy to show 'em that. But sometimes pussies get so full of shit that they become assholes themselves. Because pussies are only an inch and a half away from assholes. I don't know much in this crazy, crazy world, but I do know that if you don't let us fuck this asshole, we are gonna have our dicks and our pussies... all covered in shit."

My exams are over, and due to this fact I am back to my normal college self again. Of course the end of midterms was cause for much celebration, and I have spent the past week under the influence of many a drink and other things. On the other hand I’ve managed to quit smoking…. tobacco, so that’s good. Last night was no exception, and I still feel the ill effects of my previous evening’s consumption.

I found myself last night, at Café Campus where 60s 70s and 80s music is played on Tuesdays. I like this arrangement very much for the selection is an exquisite mix of cheese and class which I so do enjoy. The place gets very packed quite quickly due to its popularity, and I find that most of the time, I need to show up quite early in order to skip the lineups. Yesterday was no exception, but we didn’t have to wait long to enter. Since we were celebrating the birthday of a friend of mine I found it suitable to purchase the first round of drinks. Since no one obliged for the next one, except the birthday girl of course, I obliged a second round as well, which left me quite undamaged since Café Campus is also famous for its 6 dollar pitchers on Tuesday nights. Hence it only took me a short time before realizing how deliriously happy I was, and went off to the dance floor to experiment with my newly acquired fluidity.

At about 1:30 the birthday girl expressed a desire to return to her resting place since she had consumed quite a bit more than she had originally intended, and felt the effects beyond her control. Being the gentleman that I am, I returned her to her home, and departed.

It was in this moment that it dawned upon me how drunk I was, and realized all of a sudden, that I might have difficulty walking the remaining two blocks to my abode. However, I persevered with a bit of stumbling around, and found my way to bed without incident, if I recall properly.

It occurs to me that I was acting perfectly normal, not slurring my words, and, whilst I was responsible for my friend, did nothing stupid, nor gave away the level of my intoxication. However upon being relieved of that responsibility, I was plastered. This brings me to a conclusion which has popped up several times during my drinking bouts. If I am responsible for someone or something I manage to clear the alcohol from my head for awhile.

Indeed several times in the past I have found myself quite drunk until something bad happened, such as the time when a friend of mine got ill and had to go to the hospital. All of a sudden, bang, I was sober again. Adrenaline rushes do the same, but yesterday was no such thing. I was responsible for a friend of mine, and I stepped up to it. I am certain that had I spent the evening with no such thoughts in my head, I would not have managed a successful return home, unassisted.

The heart is beating to a frantic, twisting beat. It attempts to force as much as it can. A hollow drumming is felt within the confines of an empty shell. The brain beats. Blood rushes furiously like a panicked mob desperately attempting to flee from a burning building. Burning. The stomach turns, and flips, and dances, furiously attempting to escape a pending doom. Petrified, it expels. The left heel taps rapidly in anticipation, like an epileptic fit. Calve muscles tense. The belly squirms. Breath pumps. Frantic fear.

And all of a sudden. BANG! The body stops, the muscles relax, the breath settles, the tapping of the heel shifts into a calm mantra. The beating becomes music. The mind is focused, the heart relaxed. And enlightenment happens. It is not a deep understanding of the things beneath the eyes, but rather the profound comprehension that life matters. The hand scribbles something meaningful in somebody else’s universe which might be akin to its own, but in the end, it ends and that makes all the difference.

I really like economics. It’s a great subject and lots of fun. People think I’m crazy for studying it, but I always argue that it just a more specialized form of philosophy. Then again most things stem from philosophy, but I digress.

However like all great things it is always possible to overdose, especially when you are force feeding yourself because of exams, and like all things there is almost always a small aspect of something which you dislike. This thing for me is Econometrics. Econometrics is the more applicative aspect of economics. It consists mainly of advanced statistical inference, along with loads of economic theory. I tend to prefer the more creative aspect of economics. Give me a model, some kind of explanation, it is art. Give me matrices and multidimensional mathematics, and I crumble. I should probably elaborate for economics is a very mathematical subject.

Algebra is ok so long as it doesn’t become too abstract. When I start having to imagine dubious spaces in more than 3 dimensions I get headaches. It especially hurts for vector projections. Calculus, no problem. I know it, I understand it, I know more than most people; I get by. Statistics, if kept relatively simple are doable. Combine, statistics, calculus, linear algebra, and economic theory to boot, you have econometrics.

I guess I’m especially bitter because over the last week I’ve been studying for my econometrics exam about 8 hour or more every day. My exam on Thursday was ridiculously difficult, and although the whole class failed, I am left with a very unsatisfied feeling. Exams like these can’t be studied for so I feel like I might have wasted a lot of time. Fortunately the professor is a fan of the bell curve, so I’ll get a kickback, but how can I convince myself that I want to make a career out of something which leaves me with no sense of accomplishment?

However in defense of the “dismal science,” I happen to love just about every other aspect of economics. I am especially attracted to Game Theory, and not because it has the word “game” in it. This week I’ll have the remaining two exams, International Macroeconomics and Game Theory. I’m a bit burnt out from Econometrics, but I think I can pull them off without too much coffee. Time will tell.

So maybe someday I’ll be Doctor Admiral, but until then it’s back to the Economics Department at Concordia U for more brain stuffing (I know how bad that sounds).

It’s Saturday late afternoon. I know this because of the calendar on the computer, the needles on my watch. The box is devoid of natural light for there are no windows in the economics department. I like it, sometimes. It’s quiet. When you sit still and listen, there is a dull throb of florescent light bulbs, the humming on the computers from the computer lab. Death silence in a bustling city. By now the rain has probably begun. I know this because of the computer, its feels like it’s raining. There are no windows.

The last several hours have been a myriad of numbers and equations filling the cervices of memory. As if a hard drive is de-fragmented for extra space. None of it stays really for very long. It slips away silently as the eyes move on to other things. Somehow, someway, they will seem more and more familiar as they are looked upon. Eventually understanding will dawn, and the miracle will occur. The hand writes and copies, the eyes stare empty. There is no thought, but eventually it will come.
You can lose yourself for days, hours, weeks in a place like this. During the day there are bodies in this place. There is noise and laughter and frustration and joy. There is anger and love and smiles and frowns. But in the end there is only ME. I move through the dimly lit halls searching for a way to make it all happen. I gain inspiration in this windowless box. Lost somewhere within the walls of a building, right in the center of it, lies the road to enlightenment. It is in places like these that one can truly explore the nature of things. "I am moved by these fancies that are curled around these images and cling: the notion of some infinitely gentle infinitely suffering thing." But among the doors, the humming, the poor quality carpeting. Among the florescence, the musty smell, the books, the notes, the drama. Among the plastic, the blue, the conformity. "Words, words, words." "Numbers, numbers, numbers." Shall I go and memorize? Do I dare to try a proof? I shall write senseless things and walk along the corridors. I have seen professors working in the early hours of the morning. I do not think that they will speak to me.

When you find yourself alone. Lost in a small part of the world where no one will go to. When you are alone and thinking. You start wishing you can share it with someone special. But sooner or later reality reasserts itself, and I have to get back to studying.

“No thanks. I love life… I’m sad, but at the same time I’m really happy that something can make me feel that sad. It’s like, it makes me feel alive you know? It makes me feel human. The only way I can feel this sad now, is if I felt something really good before. So I have to take the bad with the good. So I guess what I’m feeling is like a beautiful sadness. I guess that sounds stupid… Thanks for offering to let me in your clique guys, but to be honest I’d rather be a crying little pussy rather than a faggy Goth kid.”

-Butters (Southpark)-

A similar problem has been bugging me for the past year or so. I didn’t expect to find the answers in a Southpark episode. Now I can go find something else to worry about.

The events of the past few days are plentiful and hilarious. So much so that I have little faith in my ability to explain all the intricacies of what happened, the inside jokes, the context of everything. However because we had so much fun I will attempt to put into words the overwhelming feeling of hilarity which dotted the weekend. The following post WILL be offensive to anyone who attended Bishops University. I am a little ashamed of myself.

That being said, I begin. The Minister of Fashion is an ex-student of the University of Bishops. Or maybe it is Bishops University, but this is not relevant. Bishops is located north of here in the small and quaint village of Lenoxville. It is a small undergraduate school, which sports over 2000 students, however the most impressive thing is that is it, to my knowledge, the only Anglo university in Quebec, outside of Montreal. Most people haven’t heard of it. I first heard of Bishops when I was living in University residences, back in my McGill days. A couple of acquaintances of mine had gone up and ripped the place apart with obnoxious acts ranging from rampant vandalism, to getting thrown off campus for playing with the fire extinguishers. They came back weaving a tale of a party school full of jocks. At the time, I thought it to be close by. Much to my surprise, I discovered, several years later, that Bishops is but a short 2 hour bus ride from Montreal in the small village of Lenoxville. Lenoxville might as well be called Sherbrooke for I do not notice the difference going from one to the other. It is surrounded by small farms and is quite rustic. My roommate, The Minister of Fashion, invited myself and Number 65 up for a trip this weekend. It was Shell Boy’s birthday and we were requested to celebrate. It was more an excuse than anything else. I’d been to Bishops in May to help the Fashion Minister move his belongings to Montreal, but I had not the time to taste the lifestyle there.

So it was with great enthusiasm that we debarked from the bus after a long ride of making loud redneck jokes, and faking a poorly done Quebecois accent. We were feeling obnoxious and I’d been itching to let lose all week. It’s been a hard week, but I digress.

Bishops stank of manure, which didn’t surprise me much seeing as we were in the middle of hick Quebec. We made several remarks concerning this, which might have offended Shell Boy a bit more than I’d intended. I probably went too far with the “Bishops student’s are just McGill rejects,” remarks but I managed to stop myself before any true harm was done. We were introduced to Shell’s roommates, and settled in.

As we were entering the building we came across one of Fashion’s old friends. Since she was a great source of amusement for the whole weekend I shall call her Fifi. Fifi and I got off to a great start when I introduced myself in French and she goes, “Ohh you’re Quebecois!” I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an empty look of lack of intelligence in a human beings eyes before. She reminded me of a puppy with a stellar body. I am certain that this female was what they had in mind when they coined the word “Bimbo.” For those of you who don’t get the joke, I am French from France.

The dorm room was exactly as expected. The common area was covered in trash which they insisted was “recycling.” The dishes were dirty enough so that I stopped feeling embarrassed of the state of my apartment. I found joy in the fact that I had progressed since my own undergrad days. Shell had three roommates who I shall call, Raspy, Julie, and Steve. Steve was the president of the computer science club, and, as his name suggests, was a complete dweeb. Julie disappeared quickly so I didn’t have time to make judgments. Raspy was a shy, cute gamer girl with a wicked sore throat. It took me about thirty second to judge Steve with his, “Yeah I’ve heard of the IMF, when I was living in Nicaragua. All the farmers complained about how the IMF made them buy 100 dollar manuals on agriculture which were worthless to them.” I responded with a famous line, “Dude, do you even know what the IMF is?” So obviously we got off to a great start. Raspy was hanging on his every word, obviously smitten. Steve’s girlfriend “Megabyte” (her real nickname), was this loopy chick who reminded me of some movie I’d seen as a kid involving a chainsaw wielded by a psycho blonde.

We basically dropped our things and went looking for liquid refreshment and food. After a short walk, which involved jumping along train tracks, we found ourselves in one of Lenoxville’s culinary gems, Village Grec. We were served by an angry waitress who didn’t believe us when Number 65 requested a chicken sandwich. He also warned her that he was going to check the food for saliva, when she complained about how we had switched tables. When she asked us if we wanted anything else he replied with, “Well what do you recommend?” She replies, “Umm desert?” I was just happy she forgotten to bring my side order of tzadziki for it tasted like ass on my pita. Shortly afterwards, were back in the residence with booze. Shell Boy’s roommates took off, and we waited for one of his friends, Shell Girl, and her buddies to show. The plan was to celebrate Shell Boy’s birthday and then go to a house party.

Shell Girl turned out to be every inch a spoiled princess. Her one friend was relatively cool, and was giving Number 65 a pretty good vibe before pleading fatigue and leaving. Too bad too, he had almost convinced her to come with us. Shell Girl had us all annoyed with her princessy plastic attitude. We couldn’t help but take a few cracks at her. Number 65 posed as a fine arts student from Concordia and later admitted to “taking the piss,” (She was a fine arts major). I laughed at her when she whipped out Shell Boy’s birthday present, a shot-bottle of whiskey, which was obviously taken off an airplane ride. At the end of the evening she stormed off saying that we annoyed her. Shell Boy didn’t seem to mind.

The house party was littered with French people (from France), and I really didn’t have much of a vibe from anyone. I function much better in English, but I also have trouble speaking to people when I don’t know them. This effect is multiplied when the crowd is 6 years or more younger than myself. I did some light conversation with a Spanish girl who, of course I argued with, but mostly I was observing people. I also got into another spat with Fifi who insisted that I had a Quebecois accent when I spoke English, and that it was my English she had commented on previously. I hadn’t spoken a word of English to her until that moment, and I pointed out to her that I am half-American. That shut her up. Fashion was in his element. He approached everyone with the lamest comments he could muster. At some point he took a dare and brute forced himself into talking with a girl by interrupting the conversation with an arbitrary line about his sexual preferences. Everyone was plastered so it didn’t matter. Number 65 was cornered by an ugly example of the fair sex. It was amusing for me.

At around oneish, Number 65 and I stepped outside for a bite. Since McDonald’s was closed we contented ourselves with Pizza. It took 45 minutes to get it and of course they’d screwed up our order and brought us Pepperoni with extra cheese instead of an all dressed Pizza. By the time we got back the party had died. Fashion decided to stay at the place since they offered a better sleeping arrangement for him, so Shell, 65, and I went back for the dorm room and passed out.

I was woken by Steve and Megabyte holding signs over my head and snapping pictures. I didn’t get to read the signs cause I was sleepy, so I rolled over and went to bed. We spent the early part of the day lounging around. 65 tried to study, and I spent most of my time chatting up Raspy who confided to be a gamer and big fan of the medieval. I was a bit hungover and didn’t feel like pursuing too much. That doesn’t ever happen to me. Whenever I meet someone with similar interests to mine I jump all over it, but for some reason I just wasn’t getting the vibe. When Fashion showed up, we headed to the sports facilities.

After a couple of pathetic dives in the pool and breath holding competitions, Fashion challenged some kid to some diving. The individual in question pulled a magnificent flip/twist, landing on his feet. Fashion ran across the diving board like a crippled kid and threw himself into the water. It was funny to watch. I managed about 75 meters holding my breath (I’m certain that I could pull 100 if I wasn’t constantly breaking my smoking ban). We also spent some time in the sauna next to some sweaty naked guy who lectured to us about the history of the sauna. The sauna was electric and he was pouring water onto the coals straight out of a bucket. He did however admit that it was dangerous to do so with this particular sauna when I pointed out to him that pouring water on an electric heater was hazardous.

Upon returning to the apartment, we were informed of a night of drinking occurring there, later that evening. They gathered friends of theirs to play a game called 3-Man which is an old drinking game I played once when I was 19. Their version however involved dice and Raspy was all proud about whipping out her d6es. We went to the supermarket to get booze which got all sorts of positive reactions from the flat mates. It hadn’t occurred to us that they might think we were going to fuel their game. People started showing up sporting 40s of Wildcat, which I liberally took the piss out of. When they started helping themselves to our booze we hid it. Finally we got bored of observing the young rez student in his natural habitat, seeking temporary companionship by impressing females with the quantity of bad beer which can be consumed in a short period of time. Eventually they left.

By this time I was annoyed. Our beer had been taken, and the level of intelligent conversation had dropped heavily with their presence. They reminded me of everything I used to detest in rez and I was glad to see that my opinion hadn’t changed. I played with Raspy’s dice and suddenly developed an overwhelming urge to take them. When I suggested this to the others, Shell Boy warned me that she would be sad at losing them for they have great sentimental value to her. I was fairly certain of this given her gaming background. Most gamers are very attached to their dice. A dice with attachment is more fun to roll and from a superstitious standpoint more powerful. Naturally I don’t believe in this but my D&D buddies will understand where others can’t. They weren’t especially nice, but I was in a shitty mood and wanted to do something bad. I don’t know why. Raspy wasn’t a bad person, she was even cooler than the others perhaps, but something ticked me off. Eventually my conscious and my buddies convinced me not to do it, so I placed one dice on top of the kitchen cabinet so that it would be difficult to notice. I placed the other one under the coffee table so as to make it appear as if they had been knocked over. I wonder how long it will take for her to find it. I feel a little bad.

To Steve I used the old trick of the screenshot. I took a screen shot of his computer and made it into his background. I hid the icons, and dropped the taskbar. Voila. It looks like everything is there but the icons aren’t because they are back of the background. I wondered if such an old trick would confound the computer science president for a long time but it was harmless. After a few laughs we ascended to Fifi’s apartment for a bite of brownies.

It was at this time that I realized truly how genius my roommate really is in his native language. I always knew was funny, but in French he is ten times more hilarious, and liberally started ripping into everyone including himself. We was rude, witty, quick, punning, and hilarious all at the time same time and generally in one sentence. After helping ourselves to some brownies which turned out pretty good, we departed for the “Lion” night club, accompanied by a French girl who’s name I never caught so I will refer to her as “French girl”.

The Lion was packed with hotties and jocks. It reminded me of Crescent Street. A real meat market. The boys were all preppy white guys dancing to gansta rap. Exactly the kind of place I tend not to like, but nevertheless I had a beer which was surprisingly good. Homebrewed apparently and not bad at all. Eventually I got bored of watching people so I struck a conversation with French Girl whilst the others went hunting. I was still riding on my “I’m not in the mood to make an effort to face rejection tonight,” feeling, and so it was only when Number 65 returned asking us to join him on the dance floor, that we did anything.

I don’t like Rap and R&B. It was obvious that French Girl also wasn’t too much into the music by the way she danced, but I shook my ass as best I could, and took the piss out of myself as I always do whenever I’m dancing. Eventually 65 left the two of us together and we shook to the music. Suddenly some guy pushes rudely and points at my t-shirt with a scowl. I was wearing a McGill shirt. I threw him a mocking smile, emphasizing the insult with my hands, and continued what I was doing. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him scowling, not dancing, and after a moments hesitation, moving to speak to other guys whilst pointing at me. It was at this moment that French Girl suggested we move off the floor. I conceded, not wanting to get into trouble. I found out later that there exists a long lasting hatred of McGill on behalf of Bishops students. Apparently McGill beats them in rugby or something rather. I am convinced that this actually stems from the fact that many Bishops students are McGill rejects. This was confirmed to me by several people. Anywho I pulled it off and remained unmolested for the remainder of the evening. At one point Fashion filled a beer mug with urine and left it on the table despite my urgings to pour it into random cups (I was in the mood for cheap thrills). We left Number 65 who had managed to start a conversation with some girls, and returned home.

When we entered, three people were in the process of passing out on our mattresses. Shell Boy kicked them all awake informing them that the mattresses were for his friends. I watched with glee as they left, and fell asleep with a smile on my face. Several hours later Number 65 stumbled in, cursing his bad luck. He had made friends with one girl who lived a bit of a distance away, but since he had no ride, she was forced to leave prematurely. I fell asleep again to the sounds of him cursing his luck, interrupted by an occasional flatulence of mine for good measure.

This morning we woke to a scowling Steve who ignored our existence completely. Raspy was somewhat social, but disappeared into her room for a few hours and then from the apartment. We had breakfast and packed up. I figured from the music eschewing from Steve’s room that he had fixed his computer, but I gleefully noted the dice which still hadn’t been located. We shall see. A small part of me still wanted to take it. A small part of me still wishes I had. I am a bit ashamed at myself. We bade Steve goodbye, which was returned very unenthusiastically and left. Shell Boy went to class.

Now I have to go back and edit this stuff, so I’ll keep my closing remarks short. This story is probably not as interesting to you guys seeing as you weren’t there, and most likely you are thinking about how much of a looser and asshole I am. I have no defense to this save only that I’ve been feeling kinda shitty for the past few weeks and this weekend gave me the opportunity to unleash that frustration. The unexpected bonus is that I got to unleash it against a time of my life which I really disliked. It was some lame form of vengeance for me, but it was extremely gratifying and for all it’s worth I laughed my ass off.