Note: This column was written during my final semester at the University of Wisconsin-Superior, and published in the Promethean.
Paul Ryan, Columnist
So this is it. This is the last Ramblings column I’ll write. Let me say that I feel comfortable sitting here talking to you, reader. I would make the word “reader” plural, but I don’t want to lie to you, reader. You’re the only one. And as a reward, I’m going to tell you a secret.
I have something shocking I’d like to tell you, and I’m certainly not proud of it. In fact, I’m disgusted with myself for it, and I don’t expect you to feel any differently.
I know you think of me as some sort of non-athletic anti-jock who spends his evenings reading Whitman and Thoreau, but I have some startling news to tell you: I can’t read.
That’s not the secret, though. Anyone who’s spent more than five seconds around me knows I can’t read good. In fact, a lot of times I just give small children large amounts of coffee and let them write my column for me. Nobody’s noticed the difference yet.
But that’s not the secret, either. Here’s the real secret. After three and a half years of posing as a writer, I now must admit that I’m not. I’m really . . . are you ready? Okay, here it goes. I’m really a male hockey player.
That’s right, a male hockey player. I’m big and strong and dumb and I’m from Thunder Bay or possibly Vancouver and I love mullets but strangely refuse to date girls who have them.
I am so going to get my ass kicked for this.
Another thing I like to do, as a real live male hockey player, is sit in the back of class and make dumb heckler comments to my other hockey friends – who I refuse to take a class without, because I’m incredibly insecure and insanely frightened that if I’m not in the presence of others like me, people in the class will find out that I don’t know anything – but it’s not because I’m a complete jackass, it’s just because I’m a hockey player. We’re allowed, y’know.
I also enjoy throwing parties, where instead of being casual and friendly, I stand around and scowl at everyone. This is because UWS chicks dig guys who don’t smile. Just kidding! They really don’t. They dig guys who play hockey and don’t smile. Also, my scowling lets everyone know that I’m cooler, because they’re smiling and having fun, and only foo-foo sissy boys let people know that they’re having fun. Real men like me spend the majority of their lives standing around being emotionless and acting cool.
Also, often times when I get drunk at these parties, I groggily sit on a chair and try to pick fights with guys who are weaker and less attractive than me, much like a pathetic, spoiled little girl who needs attention. This way I prove only enough toughness so that shallow, gorgeous women can rationalize and say to themselves, “Well, he’s not picking a fight with anyone even remotely strong or willing, but at least he’s beating up on somebody . . . yeah, I’ll sleep with him.”
But most of all, I enjoy playing myself up to near-Godlike status here at UWS. Granted, I’m here at college mainly to play hockey, not to learn – and it’s only Division III hockey, which makes the amount I spend on tuition only to graduate with no vision for my future even more insane – but hey, I’m way better than you non-hockey player and non-hockey player groupie people out there! Sure, in the real world, basing all my electives only on which classes are easiest to pass might be considered something a loser would do, but I’m not a loser, am I? Of course not! I’m a male hockey player!
Oops! Oh no! I broke my leg! Time to drop out of school! There’s no other reason for me to stay here, since I can’t play hockey anymore. Oh well, such is the life of a real live UWS Division III male hockey player. Goodbye!
Paul doesn’t hate all male hockey players, only the vast majority of them. You’ll also notice that Paul didn’t rip on female hockey players. That’s because they actually are tough, unlike the men. They’d kick Paul’s ass six ways from Sunday, if you asked Paul. And you did. Or you were going to. I don’t know. Shut up.
In all seriousness, I am very grateful for all you readers out there, and for the opportunity I was given to write this column for so long. Thanks so much for your letters and your flattering comments through the years. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this column as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it, but sadly, this will be the last “Ramblings” ever . . .