The Strong Man

Dear Readers,
maybe its 2:09 A.M. in the morning when I'm starting this post. Maybe I've been done with school for the past two days and been doing nothing but wasting my life drinking alone for the past 48 hours. Maybe I challenged a certain lesbian to a drinking contest tonight that ended with me passed out under a table while she was sober as a bird bragging about the fact that she has more game with women then I do (she's a daywalker...has all a male's strength with none of his weaknesses). Maybe I didn't write this next post you are about to read myself...in fact that rumor I can confirm because Brandon Strongman wrote a guest post for you in honor of my facebook group exceeding 200 members (it's been holding steady at 226...not crazy impressive, but pretty much everyone I know). Notice while reading that Brandon kept the family-friendly nature of this blog alive by refraining from using curse words and deragatory comments towards women. Brandon is a blog version of Will Smith as a rapper (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ul6IHXklym8). I hope you enjoy this next entry...and if you don't I am clearly not the one to blame.

MR. BELOIT GOES TO BLOGGINTON (by Brandon Jak Estraghn, aka "Mr. Beloit")

I always made fun of blogs, deeming them desperate, emotional vents reserved for pre-pubescent girls, self-absorbed midlife crisis victims, and Battlestar Galactica watching mouthbreathers, but I have found a seed of faith in this curious medium, thanks to the tongue-in-cheek satire and reflective lack of tact that sets the tone in this particular blog. After sharing my thoughts and compliments with Mr. Jack Of All Trades Esquire a few weeks ago, it would seem that my recent notoriety as Mr. Beloit 2009 was sufficient to grant me an audience with the audience of his modest yet honorable chunk of the Great American Blogosphere (i.e. Ye Olde Interwebness), which I saw as a perfect opportunity to articulate my current introspections and mind meanderings, and perhaps find a bit of receptive solace in the Sack Artist's inherently skeptical and sarcastic readership. After all, such a purpose seems to motivate Mr. Artist himself to blog his guts out each week. Though perhaps his efforts are, in fact, sincerely intended to simply make the world a better place. (Personally however, I would just hate to think of Sachary as such a genuine altruist.)

When I was four, I tried to make the world a better place by liberating a bottle of Flintstone Complete Chewable Vitamins® from the medicine cabinet while my mom was gone and sharing them with the neighborhood kids. We popped some popcorn to compliment the Freds and Wilmas, then played on the juggle gym until we got busted and dragged to the ER. I spent my two hour time-out in a straight jacket while they made me drink charcoal and pumped my stomach. I didn't give in without a fight though. I punched one physician's assistant and kicked two nurses in the face before they knocked me out and got that dang tube down my throat. Fricking jerks.

I digress. But who cares. Not to disrespect this forum, but isn't that what blogs are for? That and distracting both readers and writers from doing anything even remotely productive in the real world. Really, I should be studying for my Database Principles exam right now. But I don't want to. Not only are databases dumb and I will never be a database administrator, but I feel that spending an hour to write this guest blog will probably yield a more favorable effect than studying for that stupid test. Why am I a computer science major anyway, you might ask? Well, I wanted a job when I graduated. But wait. Didn't Ryan Ream get into computer science because he wanted a job too? Now look at him.

Yikes.

Let me tell you about being Mr. Beloit. I would like to say that the consequences of my victory struck me the next morning like sandbags to the billies, but I didn't actually realize my fate so soon, because I woke up at around 3:30am on the floor of Wal-Mart in the sock isle with a pair of men's 9-12 white cotton athletics serving as a makeshift pillow and a six pack of black, dress polyesters (with a subtle sailboat motif) over my eyes to block the blaring fluorescent lights above. So I was a little preoccupied with not getting run over by the industrial floor waxing Zamboni®, being driven by a deranged illegal immigrant, rather than worrying about my Mr. Beloitness. (Actually, while Zamboni does it fact warrant a registered trademark, the floor cleaning apparatus I am speaking of does not reserve such a right, seeing as it is not a product of the Zamboni® corporation, but merely reminiscent of there renowned machinery. The inventor of the waxing machine however is a holder of nine US patents. That's almost as cool as a registered trademark.)

Once I regained as much of my sanity as I could reasonably expect after that miserable weekend though, which ended up being somewhere around Tuesday afternoon, I finally started analyzing the blessings and burdens of my new position as Mr. Beloit. These amounted to a handful of new friends on Facebook that I did not know, scowls from guys that were apparently jealous of my recent win, smiles from girls that apparently wanted their boyfriends to be even more jealous of my recent win, some candy and tissue paper in my little awards bag, a Kappa Delta shirt that was too big for my scrawny frame, a free night at the Beloit Inn, and the pressing weight of that shiny, plastic tiara with the blinking LEDs that I had already lost to some drunk girl at the Michael Jackson party nine hours earlier. (Actually, she might have been a guy.)

How had I even got into this position? I couldn't just put it off on the fake Freddie Mercury mustache and chest hair that I wore during the formal wear portion (although Nadia did a remarkable job bringing my flat, pasty chest into a fresh form of manhood that will probably never be repeated by yours truly in this century) or the wicked Brett Hart fighting moves (done to me rather than by me, unfortunately) or my behemoth biceps that defeated Greg Buchanan in that spontaneous arm wrestling match during the Q&A session. (This was really more attributed to my familiarity with Sly Stallone's rad, father-son, trucker classic, Over The Top, in which he uses an arm wrestling tactic where he brings his fingers around – off the hand of his opponent – and over the top of his own thumb to get the extra leverage needed to beat the big, fat, sweaty trucker champion at the end of the movie. Not to say that Vegemite Buchanan is so fearsome a nemesis of course. I mean, it's not like I'm not still so sore about that B- in Intro to Psychology freshman year or anything. But seriously, it should've been at least a B+.)

This bring me to my next point. (No, not really, but if I had to actually tie all of this together, I wouldn't have started it. I would probably have better luck wrapping a fart in cheesecloth. Oh yeah, and don't get me started on the Food Network. I don't watch much TV, but man I would burn a hole in my own leg to spend the rest of my life watching cooking shows – and almost did freshman year, actually.) Right. So I have this hotel room at the Beloit Inn. This should not be a difficult issue to address. I'm Beloit's most eligible bachelor or something like that. Plus, everybody knows what you're supposed to do with a night with a king size bed and a jacuzzi. If only it was that simple.

It's like when I go to a restaurant though. I never know what to get, so I ask the waitress for whatever her favorite thing is. While doing this tends to either land me the soggy, chicken fried steak or a phone number from some toofless wonder with a lazy eye, it takes the pressure off of having to make my own decisions. But I can't just ask a receptionist at the hotel to tell me what to do with the room, unless I really want some rugged trouble. I thought about selling it on eBay®. But that's boring. I had a few other ideas too. I could invite all of Kappa Delta over in gratitude for aiding me in my Mr. Beloit achievement, but after all the nights that I ate their house food and trashed their living room, this could result in some unfavorable revenge against me. I thought about bringing Voodoo Barbie over for a slumber party, but Jon Verkler always steals the covers. I could invite Whispering Eyes, as a reward for them doing so well during the IM frisbee playoffs this year. But who in their right mind would put Odin, V, Tony, Julian, Vince, Roland, Jared, Kenney, and especially T-Towns© in the same room for a night? And what if Kenny and Coach Carl showed up with the girls? Nope. Definitely not an option.

Perhaps I could hire a prostitute and play Scrabble™ all night. But she would probably win every round and make me feel stupid. What about getting a bunch of winos from downtown and inviting them over to build a big fort with couch cushions and go skinny dipping in the tub. Er. Maybe next time. Along similar lines though, I thought about calling Dr. Sachary so we could spend the night going on missions and doing adventures around town, then use the Beloit Inn as home base to write an über awesome co-blog. But he would probably down a 5 hour energy and pass out or end up twittering the whole time and I would have to spell check all of his texts.

So if any of you have any other thoughts, let me know. I'm desperate.

Closing Thoughts
Brandon just did an incredible job in my opinion so I hope you all are giving him a big round of appaulse as you read this. Some of you might be saying...Sach this post is all inside jokes that I don't understand. Well if that's the case I have a suggestion for you...get on the inside. Become a part of my incredible and always entertaining life. Facebook friend me, enjoy a my great company and a delicious McDonald's breakfast, or UPS me some money...I don't care. Be proactive. You are a friend of this blog, but you have to make sure it is a friend of yours as well. Embrace it with open arms and your love and trust will be returned 10-fold. Anyways, I am probably not in the right state of mind to continue on...but if you didn't like the guest post I suggest you either A)grow up or B)acknolwedge my greatness and inability to be duplicated

Back soon with a fresh perspective and a mostly orignal post

In Hoc,
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Jack of All Trades"