Cheerleading
YES.
I haven’t written for a LOOONG time.
But so be it. I’m venturing back into the blogosphere with a new utility belt and a pressurized biohazard suit composed of an impenetrable ego and woven with words, so save your criticism and get the HELL OUT OF MY WAY.
Since it’s been so long since my last post, I find it necessary to update all those who may read this in the future as to my current standing in the world. I’m a freshman at Washington University in St. Louis, and while I certainly enjoy academia, I thrive in social situations.
This social addiction I have lends itself to plenty of interesting situations. I find myself in curious predicaments at a rather alarming rate, which is only exasperated further by my inability to look even slightly unfriendly at strangers, be they terrifying spanish gangsters on the streets of Cabo San Lucas or giddy chinese college students on the airplane.
So, now that we’ve established an introductory relationship of sorts
*handshake*
on with the blogasm!
When I first arrived at Washu in the fall I attended the activities fair to see which extra-curriculars I wanted to commit myself to. The fair is situated in one of the older gyms in the activities complex, and the cavernous, yellow lighting of the room lent the student groups peddling their wears a sense of illegality I found slightly disturbing. I had just come from the gym two floors below and was wearing a cut-off shirt which screamed YALE across it, a testament to my choice of WashU, and so I looked much more muscly than usual. With my biceps pumped to absurd proportions, I perused the tables of student groups until I walked past the WASHU CHEERLEADERS booth.
I will say at this point that I truly did walk past the booth. My eyes may have wandered from pathfinding to the women on the cheer team, but I had no intent on stopping what-so-ever.
That is, until a tiny woman (who would later become my projectile) named Danielle ran up and poked me in the back.
“Hi! Want to be a cheerleader?” she said.
“Psh! I, uh, I’m a MAN.” I hastily responded.
“Well, we have practice at 8 tonight if you want to come. It’s really fun and you get to throw us.”
*chuckling* “I, uh… no thanks. I actually have a dentist appointment around that time…”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
*awkward pause*
Danielle looked giddy but uncomfortable. I smiled.
“If you come to practice you can go out on a date with some of us.”
Damn seductress! Succubus from the furthest depths of hell!
“Well… What time did you say?”
“Eight.”
“I’ll maybe be there at nine. Maybe.”
Danielle smiled. I returned to the table and filled out an email form while chatting with the coaches and wondering what the hell I was doing.
I would later go to cheer practice (at 9, don’t you forget) and find that throwing women by the bony parts of their hips was quite to my liking. I didn’t necessarily excel at the activity, but with my strength and Danielle’s tininess I began to pull off harder and harder stunts. Now, quite addicted to throwing women around, I’m a full fledged member of the cheer squad, along with five other guys who joined around the same time or shortly after I did. Two of them are giant football players, one of whom left his position as a defensive tackle halfway through the season to turn women into projectiles for other people’s entertainment.
We had a holiday party as a cheer squad, but due to a change of transportation plans on my part I was unable to attend. In my stead I left a poem to convey my general thoughts about cheering and the amount of pain involved. Apparently it was quite a big hit, and so I will post it here, along with some of my other poetry (later, perhaps), for you all to enjoy.
Before you read it you must understand one term my fellow cheermen (battlecallers, we’ll say) and I are painfully acquainted with. Air brakes are deployed by cheerleaders far too frequently when, for whatever reason, they are startled by being thrown into the air (absurd, right?). In a sadistic act, whose consequences I will leave the poem to explain, a single leg of the cheerleader will bend at the knee before they’ve cleared chest level of their launcher, who is then struck in the man-parts by a small but quickly moving foot. This is, as you might guess, painful and startling.
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Air Brakes
A five hour drive is what it takes
To escape the torture of air brakes.
Those slaps to the test-ee-clees
Which some of you, daily,
Render upon me.
BREAK TO STARE AT DANIELLE ANGRILY
Be it from fists, heels, foreheads or toes
Claws, butts, or scissor-kick throws,
You’ve all shown your love
In a manner of ways
Some of which are
Much less depraved
Than that dreaded air brake.
For one month
No bitches will be thrown
My claws will heal
And my shoulders re-sewn
Though I will miss
Those of you who are air-brake prone
I can look forward to
Not bending forward and emitting a groan.
A storm approaches Iowa, my home
And it is for this reason that I do bemoan
My inability to be with you this night
Though I hope this poem as a stand-in is right
Be it christmas, hannukah, or an atheist gift-exchange
I wish you the best in dealing with derange-
Damn relatives that are sure to come and go
Just remember that the Atheist Cheerleading Minister
Who’s home laid covered in snow
Wished you a great break
Even without bitches to throw
