I might look kind of funny — my hair has been compared to a poodle’s tail far too many times to count, and when I finally turn 21, I’ll probably get turned away from Murphy’s for appearing to be 15 years old.
I might act kind of funny — my personal food guide pyramid consists of cereal and granola bars, and any mention of Bon Iver being a “new artist” will cause me to actually hyperventilate out of frustration.
I might like kind of funny things — nothing makes me happier than finding an obscure court trial I can stream online, and if I ever discover a class on icebreakers, I’ll be the first to take it.
Basically, I’m quirky teetering on the edge of weird. But not funny. There’s a huge difference. And guess what? I’m more than OK with that. Admitting it is the first step, after all.
Every year, there seems to be that one column that attempts to make readers burst into giggle fits all across campus. Sometimes it’s successful, sometimes it’s not. Success was the Brian Harper dinner invitation to Father Wild of two years ago – absolute genius right there.
I won’t be that columnist, though, because I can’t be. It would be forced, fake and nothing more than a big, fat fail. I’d much rather be honest. People don’t always like honesty, but at least it’s better than trying to make up jokes in my writing. To do that, I’d have to Google what a “good joke” is, and that would be plagiarism, my friends. So let us have a lesson in honesty.
The first week of classes each year is absolutely fascinating. Exhilarating, really. Like the thrill of casually acting surprised when someone you secretly stalk strolls in to a class you already knew he or she would be in.
Don’t be embarrassed; we all stay up until midnight to check those class lists.
But seriously, the first week is when everyone gets a feel for what the campus dynamic is going to be like for the next nine months. Even those who don’t typically spend time people-watching catch themselves glancing around classrooms and across the street to see what’s up with the new student body.
Everyone, in case you haven’t noticed, we have an Invasion of the Bros on our hands.
I tried to tally up the number of bro tanks I saw on Monday but quickly lost count and stopped — the bright colors and variety of striped and zigzag patterns were playing optical illusions on my eyes. Since then, I’ve done some research on what exactly a bro tank is.
I haven’t found much.
According to Urban Dictionary (no, this is not a reliable source, and no, it is not being used as a reliable source), a bro tank is defined as a male tank top, but NOT a wife beater. The definition further states that the males who wear these tank tops are fellow bros with decent sized muscles.
“Fellow bros with decent sized muscles”?
Here, I could launch into a deep discussion as to what constitutes a “decent sized muscle,” but that would probably result in a riot, so I’ll save it for another time.
It’s all right, though. Bros are bros and that’s … chill. By no means do I have anything against the newfound species that is taking over campus. In fact, I’d be willing to pay five dollars for someone to find the legitimate origin of the bro tank and enlighten me on how this trend sweeping across Marquette began.
See? That’s honesty. It’s not necessarily funny, but it’s what we all have been thinking this week. That, and how awesome it is not to have received an influx of email DPS reports yet.
Bottom line — I’m not going to use this column to be something I’m not. I’m not inherently funny. And I won’t try to be. I’m honest. My honesty might occasionally be funny, but I’m not promising anything. I will promise, though, that I’ll keep it interesting, and hopefully my quirkiness will win you over. Only time will tell.
So, as the bros would say, deuces.