Kent State University

23 Jun 2009. Frostburg, WVU, RobbyMo, and Kent State all in one day! Wait, another visit to Kent State? Why on earth would I go out of my way again? Thank a lost water bottle, originally purchased 21 Nov 2007. Which ultimately I am okay with - look at that gaudy yellow eyesore. Replaced with a centennial shotglass.

Before she was into her studies, before she was into her health, before she was into dental school, new ZTA pledge Persephone Evelyn Bumbaugh was into tanning.
Like many young women, she took her skin's tautness and her godlike metabolism for granted, bombarding it with inordinate amounts of UV rays, empty alcoholic calories, and late night slabs of pizza.
Persephone, and much of the KSU student body, took the skin coloration to another level one chilly night in November. Kent State's opening night of men's basketball was being broadcast live on ESPN. In the early days of cable sports, this was unheard of for a small school (they could thank the reputation of their big-time opponent, Ohio State). For Kent State, a televised sporting event was a first. The students, traditionally feisty, shifted into full spring break mode for the game. Persephone and her sorority mates painted themselves gold, with white lettering on their stomachs that spelled out K-E-N-T-S-T-A-T-E. Persephone played the part of the last E.

"Kent Read, Kent Write, Kent State"

During a video camera's crowd scan, mini-riots broke out. A grabby drunk tried to yank off Persephone's sports bra. She pulled away and gathered some momentum on the backswing. She launched forth at his jaw with a tiny fist. She pegged him square, then gave him another shove. He was carried off by ushers. But as she turned back to the court and the camera, her top snagged on a hastily fastened STUDENTS ONLY plastic placard. It tore away a strip of spandex. The plastic sign, though it had no libido or horny malice of its own, managed to do what the drunk frat boy could not. The TV audience at home was beholden to a brief glimpse of golden tanned teen bosom.
Persephone enjoyed the rest of the game in an usher's bright yellow raincoat.
The 'golden flash' was the talk of the school the next day as much as the basketball game itself. A new nickname was born. Persephone quickly tired of the notoriety but was proud to have inspired more school spirit.
The electrocuted bird logo is another story though.

Robert Morris University

23 Jun 2009. If campuses were animals, RMU would be a basset hound. The Saddest Place on Earth! Sure it was empty due to summer break, but despite beautiful weather, the few employees and summer students milling around looked like they were headed to their own funeral, catered with pretzel rods and tonic water. Even the full retail price of the cup, 99 cents (slightly over 3 cents an ounce), mumbled, "Why bother with markup and profit margin, no one will buy our dumb stuff anyway." :'(

What a jackass Robert Morris was.
A revolutionary jackass.
A fat man lacking facial hair, he gulped patriotism in gallons. Upon learning of an impending raid on his town by the British guard, he organized the locals.
The redcoats were coming to crack down on a string of tax evasions. As the taxed item in question was an everyday necessity, people refused to pay.
Toilet paper did not exist as we know it today. Instead there were 'lav cloths', round swatches of fabric. With imported lav cloths becoming more unaffordable, the colonists of western Pennsylvania started stitching their own. In the 18th century, personal hygiene was not just proper manners, but a requirement of good health and disease prevention.
So imagine the Brits' surprise when they arrived to a quainte vigourous towne on a hilltop not crippled by dysentery.
Now imagine their even greater surprise when those commoners doff their breeches in unison.
300 pasty white clean bills of health, led by Robert Morris himself. To further the insult, Mr. Morris grabbed an English bulldog and, in a symbolic gesture, scrubbed his backside with the hound.
Furious, the brigade charged. But the diversion worked. The local militia had enough time to catch the British from behind. They were driven away, and Robert Morris was serenaded as Hero. This short event might be referred to as the Pittsburgh Assacre, but that would be crass.
Local bakers created a sweet pastry called a 'moon pie' to commemorate the victory.
The town council agreed to rename their city to 'Moon Township' in remembrance of the historic rebuttal.
The above is just another chapter in the miraculous story of the American Revolution. Once again, daring derrieres saved the day.

The cupola that became the university logo that was based off of Robert Morris' upturned rump.

West Virginia University

23 Jun 2009. WVU had long been on my list. And after many cold walk ups ending at locked doors, I wised up and started gathering bookstores' phone numbers and business hours. Even with detailed directions from a nice homegrown front desk lady, I got lost. I visited the downtown campus and got lost trying to get there, stumbled into the bookstore's parking garage out of dumb luck, and got lost on the 45-degree streets trying to leave. Frustrated, I just put the car in neutral, folded my arms in pouting defiance and let it roll till it reached the interstate. Car insurance got expensive after that.

Jessica Hurst's mother had told her never to accept rides from strangers.
Jessica's mother, however, also told her to use mustard when mixing potato salad, and that was a matter of taste at best, a vile befoulance at worst.

But the issue at hand went beyond mere mayonnaise-based side dishes, it even went beyond the State of West Virginia. It went to Ohio. The football Mountaineers were playing their first away game at Cincinnati the next day. Jessica, the lady mountaineer, had lobbied hard to accompany the team on road trips. The administration agreed to foot the bill. Unfortunately she had overslept and the buses left her stuck in Morgantown. Being only the second young lady to don the buckskins, she was quite proud of the honor. But the scrutiny would be especially harsh after a no-show. Failing to live up to the responsibility would surely mean the stripping of her title.
Simultaneously mention the topics 'Jessica Hurst' and 'stripping' would make even the coolest man flush with flop sweat.
Nick Cassavetes, quite cool in his own right, was no exception.

"Headed to Cincinnati?"
"How did you know?"
"You guys have a game tomorrow night, right? Plus the outfit..." said Nick, motioning to her fringe.
"Okay, perceptive. Please tell me you're going there? I'll cover all your expenses for gas."
"Don't worry about gas, I was going that way anyway."
The power locks shot open. Nick stepped out of his hand-me-down station wagon.
"Let me get your bags."
Jessica watched Nick load her carryons in the trunk.
His chivalry, charming.
His Ohio license plate, corroborating.
Her hunting knife under her right pant leg, assuring.
Nick opened the door for her. "If you're hungry, there's some extra chicken wings and potato salad in the paper bag there."
"Potato salad?? Mustard- or mayonnaise-based?"
"Are you kidding? Mayonnaise, of course."
Jessica smiled and stuck out her hand. "Jessica Hurst, West Virginia University!"
"I know - you're on TV all the time! Nick Cassavetes, University of Dayton. All datin', no fu-"
Nick stopped himself short from finishing his automatic call-response. He self-edited. "Fun. All Dayton, No Fun."
"Don't worry, I've heard it. An oldie but a goodie."
The station wagon, and the flirting, continued through the Appalachians at 80 mph.

The ladies of WVU can even turn the heads of iron sculptures.

Frostburg State University

23 Jun 2009. In a perfect world, June at Frostburg would be filled with players, staff, and media for the Washington Redskins training camp. But a hometown feel is not a good fit (that is: not optimally profitable) for big business, which is what the NFL has become. So don't blame owner Dan Snyder - if it wasn't him, it would have been someone else.
Anyway, FSU is sparsely inhabited by janitorial and construction crews, taking their time, relaxing, absorbing the sunlight. Bobcats' fans know how to enjoy a summer day, Redskins or not, thank you very much.

"Yo where's Portis?"
"Who knows. How you gonna sign up for a radio appearance and then not show up?"
"Don't worry, he told us." A slim brunette walks into the studio and starts adjusting levels on the sound board.
"Clinton is out at Frostburg. He'll be on the air tomorrow."
The young lady hands a pair of headphones to the two Redskins players.
"Frostburg? What's he doin' in Frostburg?"
"You hogs ready for showtime? Pa-ZAM! Pa-ZAM!" The mid-heavy host walks in to give the football players a couple of faux stomach punches. Not wanting to be badmouthed as jerks later, the players pocket their fists and smile weakly.

"Dumbledore was a Quidditch beater but still managed to catch the golden snitch thirteen times."
"Excellent point. Everyone, you could follow Clinton's example. Now for next time, we'll tackle chapter 7 on the creatures of Hogwarts."
#26 quickly finishes up his notes for his appearance and packs up. He is the first one out of the classroom. He checks his cellphone and dials the first of his seven missed calls.
"Sup Cooley?"
"Yo man I hear you up in Frostburg today?"
"I'm leaving right now."
"What are you doing way out there?"
"Our team played up here for decades man. You just got no sense of history."
"I guess not. But I don't share your sense of style, Miss Nancy, and you're not watchin' that Tyra Banks 'So You Want To Be A Model' show."
"Whatever dicknose. See you at practice."
Running back Clinton Portis had been keeping his attendance at FSU a secret for obvious reasons. It's one thing to wear a pink feather boa to a press conference as a joke. It's another to enroll in a college course called The Science of Harry Potter.
Though his teammates had started to become suspicious of his Tuesday night absences, he would be outed by a completely different source.

Portis walks into the radio studio for his make-up interview on The Sports Rotunda with Robert Rotunda. He pulls out his notes on his talking points, special thanks, and charities. The interview goes well but he leaves his notes behind. Normally that is not a problem. But his notes tonight were scribbled on the back of a classroom seating chart. After the show, the female producer plucks it out of the recycle bin.
"Robert, check this out."
The fat man takes the sheet. He reads it silently. His smile and eyes grow wide.
"Is this for real? This is great! Pa-ZAM! Ratings! Maybe even a mention on the ESPN ticker." He one-two punches the air.
It was not revealed the way he would have liked, but Clinton Portis became the first pro football player to openly admit being in love with a boy wizard.

Not pictured: tailbacks, tight ends, Jim Zorn

University of North Carolina, Asheville

10 Apr 2009. The Berkeley of the East. So that nickname turns a lot of people off, fine. How about Lovely Country Home of Antiqueing and Cracker Barrel Bingo Tournaments? Better now? Give hippies a chance. And don't pass up a chance to visit the Biltmore. But I'm no architecture fan...I'm a dip fan. The Biltmore produces the tastiest bacon dip you will ever spill on your cravat.

"You filthy son of a whore!"
Hatchback dodged a lanyard of keys.
"Listen, Moonbeam, I don't know how this happened!"
"Like Hell you don't! It's that stick figure at your pizza shop. I bet she's loaded with all sorts of diseases."
"Suzette? I would never do anything with her. She has bacne."
"Oh really? Bacne? And how would you know that?"
"Uhhhh...."

Moonbeam was angry. Double angry. She recently learned she had contracted hepatitis, but what really ticked her off was her boyfriend Hatchback cheating on her. She found out of her new malady from UNCA's student blood drive. When she and Hatchback started dating, they both had their blood tests to make sure they were clean. An quick and dirty way to build third-party-administered trust, like a pre-nup for people who are just messin' around. Now all of a sudden they both tested positive. Moonbeam had plenty of conspiracy theories and they all included a blonde cashier at The Baked Bambino named Suzette.

"I never should have let you start working there!"

Neither Suzette nor Hatchback were to blame though. They were simply coworkers where Suzette's bacne was a running gag. Moonbeam's was a classic case of jealousy. No, the culprit was The Baked Bambino.
Bambino's kitchen had long housed many culinary viruses. The most potent was the hepatitis swimming in the marinara. Endless relationships had come crashing down thanks to pizza hepatitis.
Moonbeam got over Hatchback quickly. She found her rebound in the student chapter of Amnesty International. But her tool of revenge, Jason Minks, was no saint either. He joined Amnesty and adopted the name Waffles to get to the loose hippie chicks. Moonbeam and Waffles deserved each other.
As the cycle continued, condom manufacturers shed a tear all the way to the bank.

This round baking sheet-shaped plaque on UNCA's quad raises awareness for pizza hepatitis.

American University

21 Feb 2009. AU was a baffling ordeal to get to. At least compared to the schools where you pull off the interstate and BOOM there it is. Drive to the metro then shuttle then walk. Their quad reminded me of UIC's and construction had me walking in circles and cutting through brunches to find their bookstore. Nothing with the new slick AU logo on it, sad.

"And that is why dolphins regularly eat their young. Thank you, and good night."
Jacques Cousteau exited the Bender Arena stage with the full applause behind him.
Minutes later, he emerged from his dressing room in a sleeveless shirt, a towel around his neck and a red tuque on his head. The ragged old Frenchman answered the media's questions in between tips of a navy-issue canteen.
The throng died down. One college student remained. As Cousteau confirmed evening plans with his assistant, the young man tentatively approached the oceanographer.
"Mr. Cousteau, can I get your autograph?" He handed over a program that read Jacques Cousteau Tellin' It Like It Is.
"Sure, let's make it quick. What's your name?"
"Trevor van Ness, sir. I love watching your shows. I think I'd like to be an oceanographer too," he said, fishing for career advice.
"Oh, yes? Good for you," said Cousteau, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"Yes, I want to swim with the dolphins like you."

Trevor just hooked a lunker.

Cousteau stopped writing, which was good as he already forgot Trevor's name.
"Like me? You know how many times I have swam with the dolphins? One, at a show at Sea World in Orlando, Florida." He spit the last two words out with disdain. "It appears you do not have a basic grasp of the vigorous scientific background required for professional ocean studies. It is thankless, dreary, gut wrenching work! So many times I have awoke paralyzed, unable to see how I can continue into the deep, yet equally unable to resist the pull of the sea. The only reason I have achieved my popular glory is by God's chance. Why me, is something too dangerous to ponder."
Cousteau handed the program back to Trevor, searching the boy's eyes to see if his message sank in.
"Oh. Okay. Um, thank you for the autograph."
Cousteau headed toward the exit with his assistant. He stopped short of the door. He motioned to his assistant to continue without him. Cousteau turned back to Trevor.
"Boy, if you want to talk some more, we're going to party at Spread Eagles." He tossed a handbill to Trevor and walked out.
Trevor looked at the flyer and admitted that the lady on it was quite alluring. He was never so glad to have a fake ID.
A stray newspaperman heard the entire exchange.

And that is why American University adopted the Spread Eagles as their mascot (later shortened to Eagles). Thank you, and good night.