Allow me to expand your social network by introducing you to my old friend pubic hair

More erotic then a low single shot into deep penetration that is countered by a reach around to a butt drag, More Humorous then the freestyle wrestling references you don’t understand, it’s the life and times of semi competitive Inner Tube Water Polo Hero Jamie Michaels. Well kids it’s been a busy month. As you may already know being both a master of organizational skills and time management my decision to undertake a few extracurricular activities this new semester was a well thought out and carefully orchestrated plan. If you actually know me you would probably know that I spend the majority of my time incoherently wandering through life with my brain simultaneously attempting to realize where I am, where I should be, why neither of those places ever seems to be class, what the lyrics to Forgot about Dre are, and if a system of state socialism that promotes the equal distribution of essential services and state wealth is more ethical then a system of government that may repress the proletariat but ultimately offers a wider horizon for the freedom of the individual to pursue happiness within the confines of the system, It is usually around this time that I realize simultaneously that I am somewhat confused that I was not able to get into first year political science and that during this discombobulated excuse for a thought process I have unwittingly signed up for another extra curricular event that is beyond my current means of participating In.

It is this series of events that leads us to my current gong show of a life. Perhaps some would say that I lacked foresight in going to school on a varsity wrestling scholarship where practices are mandatory every weekday, signing up for five classes, Volunteering for an antipoverty group, Playing on a residence dodge ball team, Becoming a University of Alberta Athletics Board Athlete Representative, playing on a semi competitive inner tube water polo team, Trying to help organize a silent auction for Sports Central, Training in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and attempting to run for a position working for residence which I will otherwise be unable to afford to live in was a choice I put little thought into. By the time you have finished reading this paragraph I have become a member of an ultimate Frisbee league. However despite my usual copious amount of cerebral planning I had neglected to realize one important detail, when you live in residence the weekend begins on Thursday and ends on Monday. Now initially this was not a problem the extra days off gave me time to work on my sweet dance moves and read Hunter S. Thompson novels. However the good times did not roll when I discovered that the majority of university professors to not acknowledge the 2 day work week. This unfortunate development has prompted a frantic attempt to preserve what remains of my academic term.

I enjoy this photo thoroughly it's like "where's Waldo?" for the challenged (Waldo being myslef)

As much as I enjoy residence, from the paintball fights in the lounge to the week long tower competitions where no one goes to class or sleeps. I have a feeling that it may not prove to be the most conducive environment to learning. My roommate who I have recently become acquainted with is a Chinese exchange who goes by Donald. He is substantially more studious then myself. Our relationship so far is peachy keen except for one minor discrepancy, Donald never got off of fucking Beijing time. The fact that we live close enough to each bring a girl home and high-five across our beds while going at it (an idea Donald is so far opposed to) is compounded by the fact that I wake up roughly when he goes to bed. I also fall asleep to the sounds of him playing world of warcraft, I’m also fairly confident he’s not in any classes as normally they are traditionally held during the day. In an effort to expand the multiculturalism of my peer group I decided to bring Donald out for a night of given’er. The night begins well with a lesson in principles of shotgunning, perhaps to well, Donald is completely done by the time we get back to residence, we misplace him on our way to a party on the 3^rd floor. I wander back to my room in the wee hours of the morning to find Donald drunker then a (insert racial stereotype here) at an (insert humorous location where alcohol is consumed in liberal quantities) sitting at his computer playing world of warcraft. I guess you can take the level twelve druid spell caster out of the enchanted forests of mystery but you can’t take enchanted forests of mystery out of the level 12 druid, (with the exception of finding the gauntlets of relocation.)

In the exciting world of semi competitive campus recreation The Inner Tube Water Polo season got off to a rough start with our team entering the playoffs without having ever won a single game. Having based the majority of my second and third year university expenditures on becoming the recipient of an inner tube water polo Xyience endorsement deal it was time to step it up. I arrived at the game but was shocked to realize that I did not own a swimsuit; I was also shocked to realize that I had failed to realize this during the duration of the season. With the game underway we concluded the first half only down by 10 points, they were falling right into our trap. I took to the net knowing that my catlike reflexes and unparalleled coordination would enable our entire team to play offense, the perfect strategy. However I was forced to pity my own foolishness (something that leading foolologists had previously believed impossible) because soccer shorts without draw strings are not advantageous to jumping vertically from a pool. The first female opposition player to shoot on the net expanded her social network when I introduced her to my old friend pubic hair. The next shooter was unfortunate enough to also encounter not only pubic hair but his good friend penis shaft. Being the gentleman that I am I played the duration of the match with one hand holding up my shorts. Luckily our team soon left the pool after our captain was disqualified by forcibly inserting the inner tube water polo ball into another players face. After the game during the customary handshake of non disqualified campus rec participants the rival teams goal keeper inquired as to whether pubic hair or shaft had facebook, not as of yet.

The conclusion of res games provides a much needed break from sleep deprivation, Highlights include the homemade bomb set off in an attempt to get a player holding a cup of water to spill it without making physical contact. If any mere mortal had been holding a cup of water during a bomb exploding hard enough to shake paint chips off of the ceiling they might have spilled, or called the police, but Jamie Michaels? Bitch please, get a real job. I also enjoyed watching some of the best and brightest minds in one of Canada’s top schools ride a recycling bin down the stairs or a scooter through a window. Stay Classy Lister.

In recent not selling out news I’ve shaved the international symbol of revolution into my chest hair. Im gangster that way. Anyhow Im gonna caller for now. Don’t believe the hype. Respect, Jamie.

Liveing in conditions reminiscent of what it would be like if a rhinoceros attempted to rape a clown in the middle of a Christmas display

“Fire!”, “Earth!”, “Water!”, “Wind!”, “Heart!” (In extremely high pitched and possibly gender confused voice) With you powers combined I am Jamie Michaels! A great man once told me “your not hardcore unless you live hardcore, in these last few weeks hardcore was lived. Since even my incredible literary prowess on the field of intellectual battle cannot sum up how many wicked awesome things happened this Break I’ll do my best to just capture some of the high points. But I want to shoot out something that I learned this break. One day you and everyone you have ever known will be dead. This statement would be incredibly more menacing if I could say it in a raspy smokers voice, Pull up my hood, extend my right arm straight out, have a raven descend onto it, ruffle its feathers, open its beak and go “CAW”. And then have me leave whatever building I was in with a crack of thunder and an onslaught of rain. If I ever figure out a way to perform the prior scenario I would probably use it to break up parties I had not been invited to. But digressing back to my past point you’re not living for ever so get busy givne’r.

This winter break started the way most do; I was greeted at the airport by family, friends and adult oriented pornography. If men had emotions I would have probably displayed some. This was closely followed to a trip to the village. I arrived just in time to arrive late enough to look at a menu, talk to a waitress look back to the menu realize my extremely debonair companion Steve Currie had strategically placed pornography over the top of my menu. The waitress was luckily enamored with my masculine charms and forgave this slight dining breach of protocol.

As My infallibale ADD and poor sense of time managment has caused this article to be written well past midnight many weeks past winter break the following account may be somewhat fragmented and may contain traces of Gonzo.: Winter Break. Cold. Sam Robinson is offered to drink an entire bottle of hot sauce at Carlos and Murphy’s for 20$. He finishes it, I am mildly impressed. His eyes light up with the half crazed glint of a man who has just finished several glasses of draft beer and a bottle of hot sauce and is about to go play a game of ultimate Frisbee. My eyes light up with the shine of knowing I don’t have any money to pay the bastard. He seems unfazed and leaves without paying the tab. Well played.

Now I’m sitting in a car with the usual bunch of idiots driving through the bitter night we may or may not have been looking for street signs to steal. We are a Frenchman, a Jew, A honky, and a Blackman armed with some wrenches, two cans of spray paint, and a graffiti stencil of a naked man sporting a peculiar Mohawk with sideburns, the united nations of disorganized crime. Signs are removed based on a critical fore planning using a meticulous selection of results from the first three pages of a Google image search of “Winnipeg signs” and words that make us express amusement. The laughter of wasted youth and the singing hiss of aerosol is the music of the night. Shit that sounds bad ass, I should be a writer or something. We stop at burger king drive through we have several whoppers and some milkshakes to obtain. We discover they do not serve milkshakes after 2. After a heated debate we return to BK to ask the late night manager if they did serve milkshakes would they bring all the boys to the yard? He seems unsure and goes to the back, likely to consult the manual of the milkshake maker for clarification. But we are busy men and are off into the night once again. It is around 2 am when I am struck by an epiphany, you know what would be funnier then stealing signs, switching them. A great success.

New years remains fairly uneventful. Not!. I rarely drink, being an individual who believes that activities should almost exclusively be performed all or nothing alcohol consumption can be a bit of a gong show. I remember getting to the party, the rest is of the evening is pieced together from my own hazy memory construed of photos and the recounts of friends. It went something like this. Drinking. Speaking in voices louder then necessary for the designated social setting. Dancing. Poorly. Come to think of it extremely poorly, I must have looked something like a punch drunk Donkey Kong hopped up mushrooms. I have a large set of wooden cutlery although I can’t figure out why. I go to find out why sexy back is no longer playing. I chase a peculiar stranger into the front street for punching a whole in the houses drywall. I confront him while trying to tie my shoes, I hope will not get kicked in the face. A large verbal confrontation occurs , it makes little sense, the property damage is agreed to be paid for, I doubt it ever will. I realize my plane is leaving and call my father in a desperate attempt to make it to the airport. I do, barely. I wake up in Calgary wearing a hat that does not belong to me.

I arrived in Edmonton disheveled and hungry, so naturally it was a perfect time for a 10 block walk with my luggage from the sky shuttle stop. I was getting ready to gear up for a week of hardcore wrestling camp, three wrestling sessions a day of h-core grappling. I arrived at wrestling practice with my mouth guard and wrestling shoes but I had a terrible feeling I was forgetting something. Oh yeah, athleticism. shit. The next week is mostly a blur. I moved into residence, I foresee it being some of the most enjoyable, unhygienic and perception altering months I will enjoy in the new year. I meet my floor mates the day I move in. they are huddled in a half circle around the TV in clothes I can only guess how long they’ve been wearing. The floor is reminiscent of what it would be like if a rhinoceros attempted to rape a clown in the middle of a Christmas display. It’s terribly humorous in a disgusting sort of way. Stale gingerbread, Christmas ornaments, and enough garbage and Styrofoam containers to make me wonder if someone has gone to the effort of actually going to 7-11s to collect trash and dump it out on the floor is lightly sprinkled with pine needles to give it that holiday ambiance. As I walk to my room a heated argument on whose turn it is to change the channel quickly erodes into a heated gingerbread fight. Needless to say I join in. Well It’s 4 Am on Monday morning, I will leave for class at 7 so I’m seriously considering hitting the hay. Never Sell Out. Respect, -JM

Seriously think that If I smelled a croissant right now I think I’d probablley pop wood.

Shalom Aleichem,

It has been an eventful couple of weeks in the E-dot. Last weekend featured seven
Stabbings, two of them fatal, one seven blocks from my house. Disrespect. Naturally this regrettable turn of events only prompted me to further explore Edmonton’s night life.
But before I could go out I would have to complete a week of what those in higher echelon academic circles currently refer to as “University”. A fair compromise, Unfortunate. This brings us to news from the world of academia: Religion class is mildly interesting, even the parts I’m awake for. The start of class is pretty sweet when I’m Spiderman who can for no particular reason fly and is fighting Nazi’s with the Pope who can throw bolts of lightning, just like in real life. (The Nazi’s always get owned they can’t handle the combined force of the lightning bolts and spider webs, bitches). Things usually go downhill right around the end of the first half hour when I wake up and realize I’m learning about Buddha who I might add has never battled the evil shock troopers of the third Reich (Pussy)

English class by far is one of my favorites. I was in a class on Wednesday that was going well until I received back my first essay in which I may have quoted Mr. T. throughout the essay and possibly in the title. I received a B+. This is unacceptable as well as historically inaccurate. Mr. T. was clearly a member of the A-team. Any professor should be a able to instantly realize that any piece of academia citing such a well known and important scholar of the twentieth centaury who in addition to being one of the coolest human beings alive, provides all of the necessary grading information about papers referencing him in the name of his organization. There was problem. No one else could help. If I could find them I might be able to hire….After taking a small breather to regain my coherency I realized that a B+ was an alright grade and I defiantly didn’t have the financial resources to travel to the LA underground to hire the A-team.

After an eventful day of classes it was time to unwind with a little introduction to microeconomics. Now for most part economics classes are filled with semi interesting idea’s that somehow turn into terrible graphs that demonstrate scenarios that apparently never happen. But by the time you figure out most of the graphs don’t actually show you anything you can ever remotely hope to use anywhere the withdrawal deadline has past. Crafty economics department. One article of interest in this particular economics class is a disproportionate amount of mustaches. Only this constant hope that the class will suddenly break into a series of swordfights keeps me in semi regular attendance. I’m pretty sure people with mustaches swordfight although I’m not sure why.

After another week of the grind over and done with it was givn’er time. I headed ‘er over to Whyte av. for an evening of adventure. After getting absolutely destroyed in a game of billiards I headed down to bar wild to get my dance on. It should be noted that I left home with no money as I had run out around the middle of November. I’m so hungry. If you have any trace of humanity left in your soul you’ll mail me some cookies. Seriously If I smelled a croissant right now I’d probabley pop wood. Anyhow I got to the bar sober with only my ruggedly handsome good looks, and overwhelming presence of awesomeness to work with, Luckily this was enough for people who were cool enough to hang out with me to purchase copious amounts of alcohol for mutual consumption. Good times. Well I was crunk’d, dancing poorly, and when the opportunity afforded itself occasionally pretending to be a dinosaur and intruding on photos. All was well in the world. Then, since its Edmonton and no one can have a good time with trying to assault someone else with a weapon a good old bar brawl broke out. Now due to the fact that there were multiple participants and I was busy laughing and being held back from joining in, I can only recount a fractured portion of the events. It went down something like this: a few guys start trading punches. Bouncers start to lay some beats down. For no apparent reason five people run out of the bar yelling and laughing. Then someone starts to reach into his breast pocket. Someone else Yells: “He’s Got a Gun” Now I was pretty sure that this guy didn’t have a gun. If I was a betting man I would guess it was a cell phone so he could take a picture and maybe write his own inferior quality blog entry about it. Well regardless of the fact that I didn’t think it was a gun the two bouncers that were beating on the guys head like he was a red headed step child.

After leaving the bar scene a few hours later and winking at a police officer while be patted me down on the way back in when I went back for my coat, We were off for a quiet stab free walk home. But wait my spider senses were tingling, there was trouble a brewing . Two guys were chasing a homeless man out of a Donair shop and were going to beat him up. Disrespect, It was time for drastic measures I brought out the T-hawk and put on my ass whopping face, which at the time was drunk glazed over half smile. Then going for intimidation I said “He guys let’s all just be friends stepped in between them put my arm around the homeless guy and walked down the street. I’m a champ.

Anyhow I’ve put of finishing this blog for like two weeks. I just ate food again which was wonderful, I’ve never felt so much empathy for hungry hungry hippos. I’m gonna try to keep you guys up to date as much as possible but I’m getting into exam season soon, by which I mean tomorrow, I’ve sat down and studied in a library for the first time since someone was kind enough to show me where one is, and I have a paper worth 40 percent due In about 7 hours. Also as an athletic representative I’ve just been given 40 bar passes to give out to my friends in an attempt by the university of Alberta the further encourage our most successful athletes to become intoxicated and attempt to reproduce and create the next generation of champions. So I’m off to try to get my life together. Get high off of hugs, not drugs. Respect, -Jamie

Fuck you Deported Chinese Robots, show yourselves cowards.

Word,
Strange things are afoot at the Michaels-Thacher household. First and Foremost there has been little sign of our Chinese landlords for the past month. At first I assumed nothing was out of the ordinary. One could even say that I was taking advantage of their perceived absence. One might even go as far as to say we were blatantly flaunting our disregard of the terms of our lease. Rumors have even been started that up to six people may have slept at our 2 tenant accommodations for an extended period of time. Currently however these rumors continue to remain unverified and we remain un-evicted. However after an exceeding amount of time has passed I am beginning to formulate theories as to their whereabouts. My initial thoughts led me to sum up the factors previous to their absence: 1) The heat in our home is rarely, if ever on, 2) Our Landlords have given us apples from the trees in their garden therefore proving they have no need for food, 3) No one has yet seen our hosts during the winter months. After summing up these obvious factors there remains one obvious conclusion. My Landlords are Robots. However being Robots attempting the maintain a human façade one would assume that they would maintain the pretense of making the casual appearances around the house and perhaps on occasion turning up the fucking heat. Following this strand of logical reasoning something must have happened to this robot apple gifting couple who provide monthly housing at affordable rates. All of a sudden it became obvious having been created in China and not yet having the proper north American voice chips modifications installed they has been interred by the Canadian government and promptly deported.

The last few continuity lacking paragraphs may appear somewhat arbitrary. However in light of recent developments it is absolutely essential that I locate the landlord. You ever see the movie mousetrap? It’s kind of like that but not at all a comedy. Steven initially discovered the mouse in the washroom where it mistook him for a potential mate. A surprisingly reoccurring scenario.
However throughout the entrie course of human history man and rodent have failed to coexist and as such I would have to locate this mouse and dispose of it. It came time for me to hatch a plan to outwit said rodent. I had decided upon a cunning plan: I would turn a crank which in turn would rotate the gears causing a lever to move and push the stop sign against the shoe which will therefore tip the bucket holding the metal ball which will then roll down the stairs and into the pipe which leads it to hit the rod held by the hands , causing the bowling ball to fall from the top of the rod, roll down the groove , fall into and then out of the bottom of the bathtub , landing on the diving board . The weight of the bowling ball catapults the diver through the air and right into the bucket, causing the cage to fall from the top of the post and trap the unsuspecting mouse. Mousetrap. Check Mate Bitch. However in the midst of building my trap I was interrupted by an attorney representing Hasbro Games who informed me I would have to investigate in another mouse trapping stratagem. Luckily being a licensed Manitoba fur trapper I was not without plans of my own. After getting together some bait and preparing my screwdriver and IKEA hammer I drank a cup of stakeout tea and settled in for the long run. It’s gonna be a battle of wits and at the end of it I’m gonna blow out your fucking brains with a hammer.




Anyhow I’m settling in for the long run. So a big PETA shout out to all my hommies. Respect, -Jamie

Wrestling, Alcohol, Bitches, are you not entertained?

Word to my Hommies,
I have recently returned from wrestling in Vancouver in my first International tournament. I regretfully inform you that half of my team in fact , did not survive. However our intrepid hero fought valiantly against all odds to capture a 4th place finish in the 80kg weight class. For the purposes of clarification it should be mentioned that the majority of my victories where achieved in true championship fashion, namely freak injuries sustained by my opponents moments before we wrestled. Good times. Results can be viewed here: http://www.themat.com/results.php?page=display_results_style&ResultID=100756

The tournament ran the way the majority of wrestling tournaments do with hundreds of sweaty, grumpy, hungry guys in spandex suits waiting to hop on a scale hoping to trick their bodies into thinking that there lighter then they are after dropping incredible amounts of weight ( the ten pounds I dropped was considered nothing). They then sprint to the parking lot and race to the nearest pasta restaurant. Statistically speaking after every wrestling tournament there is a minimum of one fatal automobile accident and 2 Italian pasta chefs killed. (That’s why Italians refer to the Olympic games hosted in 1960 as “the summer of black linguini” with over a quarter of its pasta making population killed in the aftermath of the Olympic weigh inns.) Wrestlers then proceed to wander back to there host hotels high on calories to enjoy a quiet evening of assaulting bellboys and breaking furniture before going out for a second dinner.

Being the intellectual powerhouse that I am I decided that I would wait for my second dinner to come to me. Inevitably there will be pizza ordered to one of the wrestling team’s rooms. When the pizza arrived it would be my responsibility to out wit either the delivery man or the pizza recipient. However I would need to maintain an aura of diplomacy around me because the wrestling community still has not recovered from the infamous events of a pizza delivery man being severely assaulted and robbed after refusing to yield to the request of “I’m a wrestler give me some mo fucking pizza”. This is unfortunately not at all a joke, and charges were filed. I entered the hotel lobby and within mere moments the pizza had arrived. I then proceeded to stealthily pursue it all the way to the room of the Regina women’s wrestling team. This proved to be fortunate as I would then use my overwhelming powers of manliness to distract them while consuming there delicious pizza. However shock would soon turn to horror as they began to resist my masculine charm. There was one factor I had failed to take into account. Lesbianism. To the selfish, pizza devouring, women molesting, fascist members of the Regina Women’s wrestling team with frozen vagina’s who were staying in room 714 of the executive inn: Fuck You. It’s called sharing. Bitches.

After the wrestling tournament ended the team attended a meeting reminding us that we actually needed to get to the airport tomorrow morning and we would leave from the hotel around 7:30. I was also reminded that the drinking age was 19. After fending off numerous assaults from my fellow wrestlers who, for no reason decided I was I need of a good beating I hopped on a train and headed for downtown Vancouver. I deiced to meet up with some friends and family in Vancouver and attempt to do all of the clichéd tourist activities in one evening: After putting my hand in the ocean, eating at trendy vegetarian restaurant, and doing copious amounts of cocaine I was ready to wind down at a local pub. After giving the doorman the customary nod wink I walked in without showing any ID. Jamie 1, Legal Drinking age 0. I woke up the next morning in my cousin’s apartment in downtown Vancouver. Making it back to the hotel 0, Alcohol 1. However I made it to the airport in time to catch my plane and not be murderd by a man with a mustache, so all things considered a great success.

Anywho I'm considerding reading myself a bit of Vonnegut, or maybe just saying I am to sound cultured, you decide. Or maybe just beating one out into Steven's milk. Life is about choices . Respect, -Jamie

Wrasslin on the Road

Since I last informationed you much has transpired. First and foremost however I propose a riddle, how many Manitoba Wrestlers does it take to screw in a light bulb and win a high caliber wrestling tournament? If you were looking for the answer your out of luck because neither task was performed this weekend, however the number is defiantly greater then two. Remember that time when you were bored so you watched saved by the bell the college years? Remember when A.C. Slater was pretty much the man at high school wrestling throwing suplexes around like it was nobodies business? Then he went to college and Screech saw him get pinned during practice? And then AC Slater made him promise not to tell anyone, but he accidentally told Zack Morris anyways? It’s kind of like that, I’m AC Slater, This Blog is Screech and you’re all Zack Morris. If the preceding paragraph made little sense to you then enjoy the following spandex filled picture, then return to the 90’s and review the following episode for your own peace of mind.

Now the matches that Steve and I lost at this tournament were close ones with rounds like 1-2 and 1-1. However the score failed to record things like Stevens Separated AC that will put him off wrestling for 3 weeks. Perhaps even worse was my ruffled Mohawk from which my ego may never recover. I decided that if I couldn’t win any matches in a Canadian tournament in Calgary I would follow the logical progression of athletic development and enter my first International Freestyle Wrestling Tournament the following weekend in Vancouver. Hooray logic!

Being a wrestler with funded travel and wicked awesome perks is pretty sweet. People do your laundry after practice, pay for your school, and you can command women to make out with each other on the spot. It does however have some minor disadvantages. One of these is having to volunteer at the occasional bingo. I initially thought that combining wrestlers with old people with fragile hips for extended periods of time was in fact the worst idea ever. I briefly relented when I was confronted with the epiphany that Bingo Halls is where old people go to die so in a sick sort of way it made perfect sense. I then went back to thinking it was a terrible idea after having to actually be there for seven hours.

As I life has recently become somewhat eventful I’m gonna header for now. More non old people news/ less saved by the bell references/ more awesome stories to follow shortly. Scouts Honor. Respect, Jamie

3,2,1, BISONS!

I’m like rocky 6 fools. I’m back and better then ever. If you initially thought old then fuck you. It’s been a busy few weeks and semi regular bloggage should resume shortly. A few quick points of reference, Steven has recently taken the photo of himself making out with himself off of the fridge. I had originally anticipated this would greatly improve my quality of life. However my lack of cerebral reasoning proved to have adverse effects as he has since then barricaded himself in his room and refuses to engage in any activities that go beyond chronic masturbation. Any attempts to dissuade him from said activities and maybe consider, I don’t know... Cooking some fucking food continue to remain unsuccessful. Unfortunately for some readers this will temporarily delay him from writing another blog. Fortunately as a superior linguist and human being I will post a few blogs that will keep you entertained until Stevens “condition” is resolved.

In recent Academic news Latin can Carpe my balls. People sometimes wonder why Latin is a dead language. The current leading academics in the field are caught between two hypotheses: One is that it devours scrotum, the second is that one day it got on the wrong side of Chuck Norris. Both are true. Keeping these facts in consideration I was left with only one choice as to what I should do. Drop it like it’s hot. Now as most of you know as I was taking a lethal combo of Politics, Latin, Religion and Economics dropping Latin proved to be a difficult decision as would have to abandon my week long dream of becoming pope. However as questions to my religious background began to surface dropping the course was indeed to best choice of action.

It has come to my attention that a disproportionate number of people who attend university sell out. People become so focused on getting good grades they forget what university is all about: keeping it real, making new friends, meeting fly honeys, and not taking life so seriously. In the spirit of fighting the man I have included the words “I pity the fool” in the title of my first English essay. Other more experienced university students have told me this will go poorly.

In other maintaining a somewhat manageable standard of living news it was another laundry day. The problem of not living remotely close to a Laundromat and our lack of transportation would prove to be a problem for mere mortals with no sense of adventure. But with a large basket, a bicycle and copious amounts of tape and a little ingenuity we were good to go. See picture attached for your viewing pleasure.

For all you concerned citizens out there you can rest assured that my athlete medical was indeed passed. I do In fact have a working heart; one might go as far as to say that I’m all heart. However passing an athlete medical much to my dismay does not grant one athletic abilities. In a wrestling room that contains a higher caliber of athlete then I have ever worked with, from national team members to former Olympians this proves to be somewhat of a problem. As a general observation wrestlers can be both very territorial as well as live in a perpetual state of rage. Take for example me beating one of my fellow teammates into a washroom facility. I was assaulted with a kick to the spinal column followed by the verbalization of “get the fuck out of here; I ain’t going to take a deuce anywhere you’ve taken a deuce”. Taking the moral high ground I promptly responded with a snap kick to the face but it was to my dismay caught and I was repeatedly hit in the shin with the lavatory door forcing me to yield the bathroom facilities.

Wrestlers also have a strong sense of school spirit. After an excruciating practice of confronting my arch nemesis the never ending set of stairs and more live wrestling then this Hebrew hardcore could handle we concluded practice with a team huddle and cheer. This consists of crowding together in a circle of sweat and manliness and all putting in our hands in for a celebratory cheer to show how happy we are with this recent attempt to end each others mortal existence. It went down something like this: Team Captain: 3, 2, 1. Team: BEARS! , Jamie: BISONS! This turned out to be a decision of poor quality. The coach gave me the option of completing one hundred pushups in front of the team or cutting my Manitoba Provincial Team T-shirt of my back. (Mischa if you’re reading this it is in fact your shirt that you left at jiu-jitsu). Needless to say in the spirit of not selling out I completed the pushups with my teammates beating me upside the head with gym shirts. That’s the price you pay for reppen out bison pride. Anywho it’s now Saturday and I’ve got biceps to flex that still somewhat hurt and women to seduce so I’ll be off keeping it classy at bar wild. Fight the Power. Respect, -Jamie