I hate morning people.

It's true. I do. Ooh... I bet you like that I followed right up on my title just now. I didn't start all over once I got to the next box, no, I seamlessly linked title to body. My God, am I a wunderkind. I throw all caution into the wind and tell MLA format to kiss my ass. And let's not even mention that bullshit Chicago Manual of Style. Crap. Mentioned it.



Yeah, that's what we're talking about. Morning people. Well, at least that's what showed up when I google imaged "Morning person." For all I know she's doing yoga, performing the YMCA dance, or she's surrendering to hordes of police officers while creepily and sadistically admiring her brutally murdered victims. Probably the latter. She just has that look about her. But because she's clearly a dastardly and heartless murderer, we can also assume she's a morning person.

There wasn't anything in particular that brought this on, other than the looming fear of going home tomorrow night. Although I'll only be home one night, oh how I wish to avoid the Voldemort of morning people...

My mom.

This woman gets up while roosters are still clearing their throats. I'm convinced she beats the sun up half of the time. I don't know exactly what it is, and I don't know if it's generational, but I think getting up early is a point of pride with this woman.

Mom: "God, Ryan, it's almost TEN O'CLOCK! I've been up since SIX!"
Me: "WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU BE UP AT SIX?!?!?"

Now I know what you're thinking...come on Ryan, you're not swearing at your mom. Actually, in this case I probably am, because this conversation is happening as my mom rudely wakes me up by kicking my door open, throwing cats on me (this literally happens all the time) and opening my blinds. And despite my best effort to get the cat off my face and go back to sleep, it's too late. She's succeeded. I'm up. The sun is now glaring in my face, and if I have to get up to close the blinds, fuck, I'm already up. Plus, I probably have to go to the bathroom, and then it's really game over. First of all, I'll never be able to go back to sleep, and second of all, she's out there. Yeah, that's right, she's waiting. I could creep as quietly as possible but just like Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters she'll pop out of nowhere and hit me with a burst of energy like nothing the world has ever seen.

She will hit me with her laundry list of cliches:

Number 1: (And this is crucial...) No matter what time I wake up, I woke up at Noon. There are no exceptions. I'll come downstairs at 9:30, she'll start pinning me to the wall with her excitement as I clamor for the coffee pot, and yammer on furiously about what she's done already this morning. Then comes the line; "Of course you could have been there if you didn't sleep until NOON!"

It's important to know that if you actually slept until noon in my house, you would be shot, stabbed, and disowned, not necessarily in that order. On weekends, my mom will purposely mow the lawn at some ungodly hour like 7:30 so that when I wake up, she can needle me about how I'm a strapping young lad and yet SHE'S out there killing herself with that lawnmower. No, we're not Jewish. Why do you ask?

Number 2: So she's mowed the lawn. She's likely been tag saling. She is at this point in full battle gear: work clothes (including the sweatpants I bought her for Christmas last year) and a ridiculously bright, neon colored hat. When I come downstairs, it's time to make me do things. Oh, good, you're up. I need you to bring those trash cans full of branches into my car. Why are there trash cans full of branches? Because I decided I didn't like that bush and I cut it down. Can I drink my coffee first? Bring it with you. Same goes for vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, whatever. There is no waking up grace period.

Eh, that's enough of that. I'm going to start hyperventilating. I'm sure you noticed at this point that this entry isn't really "I hate morning people" anymore, so much as "my mom is the worst morning person of all time." I had to use her as my pinnacle of morning persondom. I've been around other morning people, but they just don't have what it takes. I could keep numbering crazy shit that she does in the morning, but a fair number of you have crashed at my house, you're privy to it. Waking up to my mother's presence is like opening a stove preheated to 500 degrees and feeling that insane heat suddenly shooting at you. You're never quite ready for it. If anyone who's ever slept over wants to share any fun Julie stories, you're welcome to do so. I'm not so sure it's good for my health to continue. So, au revoir! That means something in French.

The Challenger

Denim Douche does not have a statistics department. It's a shame, because I when I watch sports, which I do quite often, announcers will frequently vocalize a curiosity. You know, one of these:

Announcer: "I wonder... when was the last time someone had 37 points and 13 assists while playing 34 minutes on their grandmother's birthday?" And wouldn't you know it, before you can even figure out what they're talking about, they've got an answer for you. Hasn't happened since '77, on a long-since defunct team (Cincinnati Royals? Syracuse Nationals?)

Which brings me to my point: Food is clearly overrepresented on the Douche (or DD, if you will). I wanted a statistic to back this claim up; a percentage, a comprehensive count of food-related entries. But instead of looking it up, I chose instead to lament about this site's lack of a statistics department. In the irony of ironies, it appears I'm too lazy to navigate the archives for a few minutes, but not to write 3 paragraphs of convoluted nonsense. If laziness is conditional, is it really laziness? Chew on that for a while.

Check that: food isn't overrepresented on the Douche. Everything happens for a reason, and I write about food all the time because I love food. Food is the best, and it goes far beyond a need for sustenance. I apologize for the ironic juxtaposition of this entry and the one about eating disorders. Couldn't be helped.

During a spirited bout of eating this weekend, I consumed 2 and a half burgers, 2 chicken thighs, 2 servings of fries, and stopped because we ran out of food. This occurrence is hardly surprising, you see, because my roommate Ho and I have been training. We have been training for the Challenger. For those not in the know, the Challenger is a 2 person eating challenge at Randy's Wooster Street Pizza here at UConn. The description on the website calls it a "22' Stuffed Pizza with a combination too big to list!" And claims that 102 have tried it, with one team succeeding.

I'm ready. Ho is ready. Usually I stop eating because I'm out of food or because I feel that people are starting to stare. I want to see where I really stand. I want to enter this ring of honor and double that win total. But alas, Cronies, times are tight. The Challenger costs $35. I'm bleeding money and I'm not sure I can justify dropping 20 dollars myself for the challenge. That's why I turn to you...the fans. Sponsor this challenge. Pledge a few dollars, and come cheer Ho and I on.

Yeah, I'm serious. If a bunch of you throw in just a few dollars, you could be part of history. This event would be photographed, fully chronicled and the story immortalized here on the Douche with a postgame wrapup. When we have a solid base of funding, I'll post the date and time of the Challenger spectacle on the Douche and you can feel free to come enjoy the show (plus, you can BYOB at Randy's!)

Like Olmec from Legends of the Hidden Temple always said, the choice is yours and yours alone. Let's see what you've got.

I don't feel bad for people with eating disorders.

I have an inkling that this one might not be as universally accepted as some of my previous classics. You know, the rants about the Spring Weekend concerts, the celebration of the Guacamole Dorito, and of course, how could I forget, the Competitive Eating post. Hmm...Ironic that I should mention the Competitive Eating entry now, because I intend to delve into a topic that involves competitively NOT eating. It's just so circular, so strangely appropriate. Could any two things possibly be more diametrically opposed? Of course, since my thoughts on competitive eating are well chronicled on the Douche, you may have naturally assumed that I might find its polar opposite, eating disorders, stupid. And you would be right.

We all love to root for the underdog in this country. The Have-Nots. We feel for those who are less fortunate, and struggle to survive. So what to make of those who are quite fortunate, and yet choose not to eat? Public opinion would tell you that you should view these two fates with the same amount of empathy. Whether it's a homeless man collecting cans all day to pay for McDonald's, or a rich girl who watches too much TV and decides to stop eating so she can totally be fabulous like Heidi and LC, our hearts are supposed to go out to these people in the same manner. Funny, I don't see it.

People with eating disorders tend to be white, young, female, and upper class (Source: Abnormal Psych with Professor Cruess). So why am I supposed to care? Some of the most priveleged and educated people in the country wind up with a completely self-inflicted problem, and I'm supposed to feel bad? What if I were to start bashing myself in the head with a hammer twice a day? All the sudden it became a routine, and gosh darnit, I can't stop. I just love to bash myself in the head with that hammer. Do you feel bad for me? No, because I'm a dumb fuck for doing it in the first place. (Ed. Note: That's why I always use a crowbar).

Come to think of it, my overwrought analogy actually more closely resembles cutting/self-mutilation. But you know, I feel the same about that phenomenon, so let's just let it ride.

There are people in this country with real problems. Cancer. AIDS. MS, MD, ALS... Unavoidable diseases. (well, AIDS isn't entirely unavoidable, but one could stumble across it by accident, whereas Anorexia/Bulimia is purposeful) Starvation. Homelessness. For all these reasons, I just can't wrap my head around sympathizing with someone who's gotten themselves into a mess for superficial reasons.

And yes, I'm well aware of the fact that images in the media may have plenty to do with it. Well guess what; I've been in Abercrombie and Fitch too, and seen all the rippling-abbed men on the wall. I've seen the BOD man-spray commercials. I watched 300. The unrealistic portrayal of people in the media goes both ways. Men are objectified in a similar fashion. When's the last time you saw a men's underwear or cologne ad in which the man was clothed? Still, only 10% of people with eating disorders are male. Plus, if the portrayal-in-the-media argument was so strong, then maybe all women from 18-25 or whatever would have eating disorders. But that's not the case. There are the strong-willed and the weak-willed.

If you plan on eating dinner tonight, kudos to you for having faith in your convictions and thinking for yourself. Because even though images in the media can be a stressor, in the end, it's up to the individual whether they're going to pick up the fork or not; whether they're going to hold down the meal or poke themselves in the uvula and toss it right back up. As a nation, let's stop blaming everybody else for things we bring upon ourselves, shall we?

Oh, and if you didn't like this blog, I did it because I felt societal pressure to do it. Not my fault.

In case you're still not convinced, Ladies and Gentlemen, the late, great, George Carlin!

George Carlin: Eating Disorders

Damn, I'm hungry.

Explanation of recent clutter

Loyal and faithful Cronies, you may have noticed something a little different lately about your beloved Douche. *Gulp*

Ads.

That's right, I've sold out. I've gone commercial. I'm Metallica circa 1995. I'm Catherine Zeta-Jones and her T-Mobile spots. In case you still don't know what I'm talking about, for one, wake the fuck up, and two, I've put ads on my site. Yeah, that's right, ads. I've decided to unleash Google AdSense on this site and give it a trial run, to see how it works. You see kids, it's on you to make this a successful venture for me. If you see anything at all interesting on any of the ads, go ahead, give it a click. If it's horribly uninteresting, go ahead, give it a click. Furthermore, I put search bars on the top and bottom of this blog. Take a look. I'll wait. Now look at the other one. Look at it. Nice, right? It's a Google search bar, so if anything inspires you on my site, don't use your homosexual Google toolbar, use that. Because then I could potentially make money. And I gave it a silly name, and I won't tell you what it is. You have to complete a real live search and see for yourself.

If you're anything like me, you're probably thinking to yourself, "Fuck you, Ryan, what's in it for me?" First of all, watch your language. I won't be talked to that way. Second of all, using my vast knowledge of statistics, I found a perfect 1.00 correlation with my Pearson R between money generated from Ryan's new ads and quality of blog entries henceforth. Wow, a perfect 1.00! Who would have thunk? So now, think of your plight. You, the nameless, faceless reader who clicked the Denim Douche link because I post it on Facebook every time I write something, presumably clicked said link because you're slightly bored and are expecting some sort of entertainment. Well, of course, you've come to the right place. I'll give you your fix. But, if my ads end up tanking, I'll start writing about what I did the day I wrote in the blog. That's right, I'll start writing crap. If you really want to know how my next breakfast goes, you're in luck. If you want the good stuff, click the links. I'll be inspired and the quality of the writing is sure to improve.

Because I'm not famous and this isn't a real endorsement, I still get to do whatever I want. Fuck. Shit. Doo-doo Ca-Ca Pee-Pee Fart. Look at that, I still have advertisers. What a world! Penis. Okay, that's enough. I actually initially had planned to write about something, and planned to talk about the ads only as my traditional pre-topic topic. But fuck me sideways, I got on a roll and look where we are now...right near the end. Of course, I'm still writing, so who knows where the end will be, in the end. Only in hindsight will I know for sure.

Click them. Do your duty. I love you all, and we'll be back with our regularly scheduled programming soon.

Same musical shit, different day.

Pop quiz!

50 Cent refers to:

A. The headliner in this year's Spring Weekend concert
B. The maximum amount after taxes that Ryan Prescott would ever concievably spend on this year's Spring Weekend concert
C. The current selling price of one Curtis Jackson, if he were a share of common stock
D. All of the above



If you picked D, pat yourself on the back. You're smarter than everybody at SUBOG. (If anybody from SUBOG happens to read this and picks D, I'm sorry if your head begins to hurt as a result of this paradox, but you brought this upon yourself. And if you didn't pick D, case in point).


(Quick note: The host site of this picture is some website called SurlyTaco.com. No idea what that is, but I like it).

In case you haven't figured out how this blog works yet, I'm irritated. Irritated, but not surprised. You see, as much as I would have loved to have a halfway decent act perform at UConn, I never for a second believed it would happen. To live in a world where I put that much faith in humanity would be to live in a world of constant disappointment. That said, despite my grizzled Grinchlike heart, I maintained a small glimmer of hope that just MAYBE I'd pick up a Daily Campus and be pleasantly surprised. Just MAYBE I would read that an artist I like was coming here, and some peculiar thing would happen where the edges of my mouth curled upward...and my brow became unfurrowed...my arms uncrossed...I'd rub my eyes in disbelief...and then a powerful Fonzi-level thumbs up for the ages, at no one in particular. At the camera. There should be a camera.

But no. Instead we get this. A putrid, unholy pile of dog shit. And no, I don't think it's cute that he's from Connecticut. He sucks. You know that piece of shit movie, Jeepers Creepers? Where that ugly mutant scarecrow thing comes around every 23 years to eat people for 23 days? Well I feel like right now we're in that peaceful hiatus in between the beast's feeding frenzies, and we're so smug in our invincibility, we cocky teenagers. Well we're about to get a major shitbomb dropped on us in Jeepers Creepers 2, when the stupid bat-creature comes back to feast on our human flesh once again. If you're not quite there on the analogy, "Fitty" is the evil bat creature, and apparently I am every character in both of the fucking movies, since everyone else seems to be chomping at the bit to be eaten.

The analogy works in more than one way because when watching one of the Jeepers Creepers movies, much like listening to one of 50 Cent's albums, you sit there and think to yourself, "Was this really fucking made? Did a studio really OK this for production? Maybe someone threw up all over the master tapes and this came out by accident." Well, if you're me, that's what you think.

You know how glad you were that people stopped saying "Go shorty, it's your birthday" for a while? Well fuck you, because it's coming back. How about "Been shot 9 times but I don't walk with a limp?" Get ready for it. 50's lyrics have been adopted and butchered by more teenage girls than Napoleon Dynamite. We could have let him go in the corner and die, but just like Brendan Fraser in the Mummy, we had to read from the book of the dead and bring his rotten carcass back to life.

Okay, so the man's not Willie Nelson, but I am right in my assumption that he hasn't done a damn thing in quite some time, correct? He's like ninety-six in rapper years. And here I thought the whole point of pandering to the masses when picking the Spring Weekend concert was snatching the artist from the top of the charts regardless of staying power or musical merit. That probably would have yielded us Lady GaGa, so, fuck. I wish at least we could book our generic and uninspired concert lineups at the height of their popularity. If he was 50 Cent when he was popular (Get Rich or Die Tryin was 2003), inflation has to have pushed his net worth to over 75 cents by now, right? Is he 50 Cent in today's dollars or 2003's?

Freshman Year: OAR
Sophomore Year: Dashboard Confessional
Junior Year: T-Pain/Flo-Rida
Senior Year: 50 Cent

Holy shit, it's Malthus' four horsemen of the apocalyspe. I think 50 might just be pestilence.

So kids, I close by alerting you that in the spirit of this hellacious day (with a killer cold to boot), I have posted just before this entry my letter to the editor from last year reacting to the T-Pain/Flo-Rida fiasco. This is the version I sent them, pre-edit. I won't write them again, because it would probably be the same letter, but in the interest of full disclosure, voila.

As for me, you can find me nowhere near da club. With a bottle full of Everclear, drowning my sorrows.

Letter to the Editor (Spring Weekend Concert '08)

I am writing this letter on the behalf of all those out there just like me. The downtrodden, the frustrated, the unfortunate minority. I am referring to those people who believe that music should be something more than a rhythmic addition to dance-floor foreplay. Specifically, the selection of T-Pain and Flo Rida as this year's Spring Concert. I could not be any more disappointed with the selection of these soon-to-be nobodies for the landmark event of Spring Weekend (well, the one you'll see publicized). Seriously, I would rather listen to Donnie and Marie on repeat for 48 hours than hear "Low" one more time. I would rather be attacked by a pack of ravenous wolverines than hear "I'm N Love (Wit a Strippa)" I have no interest in buying "shawty" a "drank." What's up with all the phonetics in these song titles, by the way? I wouldn't be surprised if the rappers that wrote them truly didn't know how to spell the words.

Get ready to laugh. I like music with instruments in it. I appreciate musicians who put years of time and practice into honing their musical craft. Silly me! Maybe it's because I know how hard it is, having played bass and guitar for more than six years. I also appreciate musicians who write their own songs, rather than relying on producers to do it for them. Now here comes along somebody like T-pain, famous for appearing in every song currently on the radio and lending his horribly distorted vocals to every chorus. Where would T-Pain be without Pro Tools? Probably still in the unemployment line. The headliners for this year's concert have about as much talent as William Hung on a good day.

So what do I suggest? I don't know, maybe somebody like Incubus? Muse? A fairly prominent band that actually has some staying power and talent. I would hope to God that those concerts might garner as much success as the one lined up for this Spring Weekend. Now I know what many of you are thinking. "But Ryan, last year's concert was Dashboard Confessional! They play instruments!" No. Just no. Emo does NOT count. If the entire audience is weeping, and they're not watching "Schindler's List," I want nothing to do with it.

The night of the concert, I will venture no closer to Gampel than North Parking Garage, lest I be subjected to overhearing the musical abomination taking place in our beloved arena. I mean, honestly. How many songs can one possibly endure in a row that involve being in a club? What were these people doing before they became rappers that allowed them to spend every waking hour in a club? Okay, that's enough ranting. I just wanted to get all of this off my chest, because for every couple orange-spray-on-tanned, popped collared club rat, there are a few more people like me, rolling their eyes so hard it disrupts the Earth's gravitational pull.

-Author's Note: This letter was written before the inclusion of Method Man and Redman was announced. Now, while Method Man and Redman are not Lennon and McCartney, I have a lot more respect for them because of their longevity in the rap scene. They have been around for years and have been relatively consistent in their work. My biggest objection with T-Pain and Flo Rida is that I believe they are total flare-ups, one hit wonders soon to join the ranks of Chumbawumba and Natalie Imbruglia. Method Man and Redman should ABSOLUTELY be headlining this show. Having them open is a crime against humanity. By the way, the Redman song "Smash Sumthin'" is a phenomenal song and is fully endorsed by this author.
-Ryan Prescott, 6th semester Psychology Major

Empty your wallets, it's Valentine's Day!

Valentine's Day sucks. I have several problems with Valentine's day. The first of which is the historical bastardization done by the holiday's current incarnation.

According to Wikipedia (and we always trust Wikipedia...), the tradition of Valentine's day dates back to two Christian Martyrs. See, in these days, Valentine was a popular Christian name, and martyrdom was a popular Christian pasttime. These two men, Valentine of Rome and Valentine of Terni, were killed about 70 years apart and an annual Pagan festival was created to honor them.

Something like 1700 years later, Kay Jewelers demands that I buy my girlfriend a diamond necklace. What happened here?

You may have noticed that in essence, this entry is the same as 12/31's "'Tis the Season for Obligatory Spending." Indeed, just as we have commercialized and mutilated Christmas, so too have we ruined this great Pagan ritual.

Okay, okay. Of course I wouldn't give a damn about the ritual if it still existed today as it did in its original form. My real problem with the whole thing is that a festival for two murdered men has degenerated into what we see today. Why stick with Valentine's day? The original holiday has absolutely NOTHING to do with love or romance. Why piss on these two men's graves by cheapening their legacy and making their day completely unrecognizable? Why couldn't they just come up with a different day? Lover's day? Something like that?

Another reason Valentine's day is stupid is that it's reached a Christmaslike proportion of obligatory spending. The whole point of the day now is to show off how much you love someone by buying them material things. What a poignant reminder of what a festering shithole our society is. You love your girlfriend, right John Q. Dickhead? Well you better go out and buy her a teddy bear, box of chocolates, a Lexus with a giant bow on it, and a vibrating butt plug, or else you're toast.

Our society is already sadly materialistic on any other day, but Valentine's day just takes it over the top. Wikipedia also said that it's estimated men spend twice as much as women on this bullshit holiday. Why the hell do we need to buy each other stuff again? Really? Birthdays, Christmas and Anniversaries aren't enough? You really need a stupid day like Valentine's day to buy more shit? Yeah, no. I don't subscribe to this particular brand of consumerist crap. Hallmark and Russell Stover are laughing all the way to the bank today, because somehow they convinced our country that you don't love your significant other unless you buy them chocolate and a shitty card. What ever happened to making your own card? If you can't put love into your own words, don't even bother. You suck.

You might think the way I write about Valentine's Day that I'm bitterly single. Negative. I'm in a happy relationship (and things are going okay with Brittney, too...), but I'll be damned if that'll change my thoughts on this diarrhea-fest of a holiday.

Why do girls fall for this shit? Honestly? Girls reading this, think about it this way. You and I are dating. (Man, it's your lucky day!) It's Valentine's day. I get you something. Is that more or less special than me getting you something at some random point in time? That's right, much less special. Am I getting you something on Valentine's day because I care, or am I doing it because I feel like I have to, under pressure from advertisers, what other couples are doing, and the like? Valentine's day is like changing the oil in your car. You don't want to do it, it's a pain in the ass, but it's something you have to do to keep it running properly.

If you don't do something on V-Day and you have the wrong kind of girlfriend (which, thankfully, I don't), ohhhh boy. Why don't you care? Did you know that X and Y are going to a nice dinner tonight? And Z bought Q a necklace. Now you're screwed. But as long as girls keep falling for it, guys have to keep pretending they give a shit. And that's the bottom line, 'cuz Stone Cold said so.

Shout out to all my single homies out there today who feel like the whole world is laughing at them. I feel you, too. But believe me: Whether you're single or involved on Valentine's Day, it still sucks. Ass.

But you, my readers... I love you all. And we're bangin' tonight. <3