78.5 F

Davis, California

Sunday, May 19, 2024

Column: That damn bucket list

I was maliciously tackled with a by-the-day graduation countdown recently. As you can imagine, this severely annihilated my ability to pretend this isn’t my antepenultimate. But it ain’t mourning time yet, so sit the hell down.

A lot can happen in three weeks. I could lose a tooth in a bar fight or figure out how to make boozy pop rocks (that would be totally fetch). Maybe I’ll witness another KY jelly wrestling fight. The first time I saw one, I was sure I had seen everything there was to see in college. Bikini tops were falling off left and right and since I’ve never been able to afford a ritzy spring break trip, I imagined it being something like Miami in April. TITTIES!

Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, I figure it’s time to do that super cliché, the bucket list, filled with even more clichés of all that stuff you oughta put on your agenda before the ghost of John “Bluto” Blutarsky comes to whisk you away. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you to do anything illegal, so this list will have to suffice.

Break it down to “Shout.” Animal House reference. See it. You’re not a proper college student until you’ve heard that chant, “Toga! Toga! Toga!” Also, there are boobs.

Anyway, every once in awhile someone at a party will take a break from playing songs about bed rocks or whatever and spin that Isley Brothers classic. And that’s when magic filters in and you can pretend you’re Bluto himself. I’ve been fortunate enough to live this experience – we threw our hands up in the air, we got low, we did everything but the seizure part.

Catch some tube. I’m talking about the socks, and it involves attendance of a sporting event. For much of my first year, I staked out sporting events on my mission for a sweet set of those knee-high bad boys. I endured being pelted with candy and beads, but I was relentless. One sweet day, my dream came true. I successfully swooped in on a pair that some kid had dropped and tore up the racquetball court in my new tube socks the next day. It’s too bad I have no idea how to properly play racquetball.

Golf cart it. I’ve always been jealous of those kids who get to zip around on campus in golf carts. Apparently some of them get paid to do it. I once had a friend pull over and give me a ride to class; that was pretty sweet. And then there was the time my friend and I hijacked one from the ASUCD elections committee and it took it for a spin. Ghost riding not recommended.

Play a strip game. The great thing about strip games is that you can turn just about any game into one. There are even car strip games for road trips, but those are best played at night. Consider them a crutch for overcoming stupid fears and hang-ups you may have about taking it off in front of a bunch of random people. Honestly, you’ll probably never look better than you do now.

Once you’ve jumped this barrier, public nudity becomes a favorite pastime. It’s the gateway to streaking, when you think about it. In fact, if you ever venture on down to The Aggie you’ll realize that the only reason we even keep that piece of crap foosball table around is because it gives us an excuse to strip.

21. Turning 21 should go without saying, but there’s always the idiot who insists on going abroad and doing it in a country where there’s no drinking age anyway. It’s all fun and games until someone buys you a liquid cocaine. I was actually fired earlier this year when I bought stoplight shots for The Boss (the Loberstein, not the Springsteen) and he was not particularly happy about it. But that’s the great thing about 21sts, anyway – no one remembers a thing.

Go out in style. As much as I loved the blissful immaturity that came with dorm life, there were a couple things I was ready to move on from when it came time to bounce. I don’t remember much of the pizza party at the end of the year, but someone told me “Your body was there. Your mind was outside in the street getting hit by cars.” Allegedly, I yelled, “Whoot! Thompson 3,” did a little pirouette, and shoved open the door as I swaggered out. I’m not saying you have to do this, but give the people something neat to remember you by.

MICHELLE RICK had a dream that you e-mailed marick@ucdavis.edu. Make it come true.



Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here