Note: This column was written during my final semester at the University of Wisconsin-Superior, and published in the Promethean.
Paul Ryan, Columnist
Any of you who have attended school here at UWS and read this newspaper know that normally I write about poo. Yes, the column may not start out talking about poo, or end with comments or random memories regarding “poo-like” events, but much like a flaming paper bag on your doorstep late at night, you know that there is indeed at least half a shoe o’ poo inside.
On second thought, how about we just forget we read that first paragraph. Okay, good.
Either way, I’m sick of being the poo guy. I refuse to be “pootastic” or “pootacular”. I will not be “poolicious” any longer.
One may think it would be cool to be the poo guy, but believe it or not, there are major downsides. For instance, it’s annoying when I drive around campus, and people scream, “Hey! Poo guy!” Granted, it is airbrushed on the side of my moped and matching pink helmet, but that doesn’t mean I want the whole campus to know.
And another thing, please don’t insult me by calling me “poo boy”. I’m all man, be it a poo sort of man or not. The next person to call me “poo boy”, “poo moppet” (bet you didn’t know poo guy was a walking thesaurus, did you?), or “little poo” is going to get poo slapped twice in the latest kung poo style.
It’s also very hard to get a date when you’re known as the poo guy. Hard to believe as it is, most classy women around here don’t want to be known as “the chick who’s dating the poo guy”. And without a date, I’m forced into poonogamy. This poonogamous lifestyle of sitting around by myself on the cold nights of winter and the sometimes even colder nights of summer (damn lake effect) make a man a little desperate. And in desperate. And in desperate times come desperate measures, so I’m saying right here and now that I don’t want to be the poo guy anymore. From now on, I’ll never write about poo again. Next column, I’ll write about something different, like leprechauns who train monkeys to play backgammon for whiskey.
On another note, I drew a picture of my Uncle Phil with my left hand. Wanna see?
I’m glad you enjoyed that. I’m right-handed, so it was hard.
Anyway, back to the issue at hand. Here’s an example of a date I went on last month:
Hot Nude Woman: This is a lovely dinner.
Muscular, Irresistable Paul: I know. Hardees really is a wonderful place.
HNW: I’m so glad we only had to push your stalled car over flat land.
MIP: What do you mean we?
HNW: Oh, that’s right. You sprained your legs during football practice in eight grade, so I pushed while you steered.
MIP: Yeah. Sorry for leaving the car in park the whole time.
HNW: That’s okay. Three miles isn’t that far anyway.
MIP: Say, can I ask you something?
MIP: Are you wearing spacepants?
Random Guy: Hey! Pooooooo guy! Poooooo! Hey! Hey! Poooooooooooo!
And just like that, my suave, flattering and cleverly original pick up line is ruined.
So that does it. I’m done. No more. From now on, no more poo guy. Instead, call me “Guy i’m slightly frightened to be seen talking to in public”. And for you ladies, remember that Hardees is open 24 hours in this fine town.