I’ve never understood geeds’ obsession with handing out flyers. The closest I’ve ever gotten to handing out flyers was this one time I was blacked out at a taco shop and pulled every napkin out of the tabletop napkin dispenser after my friend and I got in an argument about “Minute to Win It.” I’m not entirely sure if that counts, though. Regardless, I just don’t think I have it in me. I would rather put in 10 cubicle years under the watchful eye of Bill Lumbergh than deal with the looks from passers by as I ruin their day by guilting them into accepting my dorm room printed, hand-cut flyer urging them to join me in stopping Joseph Kony.
One of the worst parts about geeds handing out flyers is the irony of it all. Promoting eco-friendly topics by handing out trash for people to litter is pretty counter-productive. How can anybody take your effort to increase the amount of recycling bins on campus seriously when you’re standing knee deep in your own discarded pamphlets? That’s like me giving my next-door neighbor a speech about how I’m not about to take a dump on his lawn as I’m standing spread eagle over his garden gnome with my b-hole as ripe and ready for the show as a North Korean performer in a victory parade.
Every once in awhile you hear one of those stories – a story that fills you with such intense rage that you thank your lucky stars that you designated that loser legacy to be “stress-doll pledge” so that you can angersqueeze him so hard his eyes shoot out of his head like that cartoon wolf when he sees that hot nurse, and it just makes all your anger go away. I recently heard one of these stories.
Because of his schedule, my pledge brother Alex is forced to walk through an area of campus that is frequented by these flyer jockeys. While he usually remains TFTC during this stroll, one of these goobers managed to capture his attention. How did he do it? By asking the most important question the world has ever heard – a question whose answer is so obvious that it’s almost rhetorical:
“Hey you, do you want to play 1-on-1 basketball with Dave Coulier?”
Needless to say, Alex was ecstatic. Walking over to the table all he could think about was shooting hoops with THE Joey Gladstone. Oh the fun they would have! He’d juke out Dave and sink a sick skyhook, to which Dave would respond, “Cut. It. Out!” with accompanying hand gestures. Afterwards they’d go get ice cream and talk about their lives. Dave would tell Alex that he’s like the son he never had. Tears would be shed, and Alex would then tell Dave that Joey Gladstone pretty much raised him because his dad didn’t love him since he wasn’t good at sports and because of that one time he caught him putting on his sister’s lipstick.
Anyways, Alex arrives at the table and asks the geed in charge what he has to do to sign up. The geed smiles, hands him a flyer, and says, “All the information you need is right here!”
Alex takes a look at the flyer, ready to immediately clear his calendar of all conflicting events. It reads:
“Humans vs. Zombies kickoff meeting! 8:00 Saturday September 22 on the quad! Pizza will be provided! See you there… IF YOU DARE!!!!”
No Coulier?! Fuck. That. Kid.
When Alex told me what this fucking geed did, the erection I had received from the earlier details of this once-promising story went limper than Marcus Lattimore’s leg.
The fact that someone would even think of using such a red-blooded American icon as David Alan Coulier to promote this geed-infested abomination is an affront to everything George Washington stood for when he told the British they were a bunch of “poopy rimjobs.”
Now, not only do my friend and I not get to meet his pseudo-father Dave Coulier, we also have to suffer through another semester of Humans vs. Zombies.
Fuckin’ geeds, man.
It’s a TFM.