Sunday quest for warm pizza, cold beer turns tragic
By Krys Mroczkowski
Old Gold and Black Columnist

Sundays are usually glorious days for me. Since I am taking a mind-boggling 13 credits this semester (one of which is bowling), when most students are attempting to finish the ridiculous amounts of work that eluded them on Friday and Saturday, I find myself playing checkers using the Goldfish and M&M's from the trail-mix my mom sent me. I am lazier than the food staff at IS. Unfortunately, Sept. 22 was not one of those glorious Sundays. In fact, it was a hellish trip into masochism that I will never forget.

The day started out awful because I had to wake up at 9 a.m. I realize that many people on campus had woken up before me to go to church and attempt to ease their conscience of the carnal acts they committed earlier that weekend. However, since I am most frequently a Bedside Baptist, waking up before 11 a.m. on a Sunday is just plain awful. And to make matters worse, I was waking up to go play a rugby game in Burlington at noon.

Now, I love playing rugby, and I know a large majority of this campus does too, since they are on the Abercrombie & Fitch Rugby Team - by the way, don't you guys play Old Navy soon? Let me know what day. But as much as I enjoy playing, who schedules a rugby game for Sunday at high noon? Was Gary Cooper in charge?

This was the worst idea ever.

By the time I reached the field, the Indian food I had eaten the previous night was threatening to make a return appearance and the humidity level had just topped 190 percent. I broke a sweat opening the car door.

So after running around in an all-black uniform for 80 minutes, I had sweat off more weight than a freshman girl getting ready for sorority rush, and I was in sheer pain. I haven't felt so beaten and cut up since my last date with O.J. I couldn't turn my head at all, and it looked like I had gout in both legs.

So I picked up my bag and the two vertebrae that had been forcibly removed from my back during the game, and walked off the field with the grace and mobility of C-3P0.

Once back in the lovely metropolis known as Winston-Salem, the heat stroke was really beginning to kick in, which led my friend and I to believe that getting a couple 40's would help ease our pain. So we headed over to Quality-Mart, whose only apparent quality is sketchiness, and carefully selected from such fine beverages as King Cobra, Colt 45, Magnum and Schlitz. I bought Magnum, the cheapest of the bunch, while my friend elected to go with the classier and most expensive swill, Colt 45 (which only cost a dime more than mine). Then we headed over to his apartment, and cracked open our brown-bag beauties.

When I was about two-thirds finished, I realized how these beverages came to choose their names. The companies simply thought of things they would rather put in their mouths than malt liquor. I'm not sure what a Schlitz is, but whatever it is, I can guarantee it is a lot more pleasing to your taste buds than the drink that bears its name. I cannot think of anything more foul than the last few warm swigs of a 40. I would rather have a cavity search performed by Edward Scissorhands than finish another Magnum.

I wish I could say I ended my day there, but unfortunately my friend and I made another decision that would plunge us further along our downward spiral É we headed out to CiCi's.

While we were walking there, it began to rain, and I began to hope a bus would hit me to put me out of my misery. Alas, we arrived safely at the mecca of pizza houses and proceeded to binge like Rosie O'Donnell in a tuna factory, divulging in pizzas with toppings ranging from pepperoni to pennies.

Since we still hadn't showered, we fit right in with the rest of the CiCi's crowd. I ate until I went blind. Then, in a cunning attempt to make it out the door before the staff said "Good-bye," and thus earn a free meal for the next time I go to CiCi's (which will hopefully be never), my friend and I made a dash on a stomach full of malt liquor and low-grade pizza. You can guess where this is going É

Although I didn't make it out before the staff could send me warm wishes, I did puke all over the parking lot, which is a great consolation prize. While I was hunched over praying for a swift death, I experienced the highlight of my day - I found an old thumb-wrestler puppet lying on the ground. I think it was supposed to be Macho Man Randy Savage, but it looked more like Willie Nelson with Oakley's from the mid '80s. I'm not sure what happened after this event, because I started hallucinating at that point, but I'm pretty sure I met Ghandi.

Somehow I arrived back at my room, and almost fully clothed, too. I then ended my excruciating day by smacking my head on my bed frame and knocking myself out. Day of rest, my ass.

And there you have it, straight from the Horse's mouth.

Krys Mroczkowski, better known as "Horse," is a senior history major.