Last Saturday, I was faced with the unfortunate circumstance of going to the hospital to visit my 6 year old brother. A high fever, a sore throat and some delirious mumblings prompted my mom to get him checked-out at the hospital. After derailing my action-packed Saturday plans to go to the hospital I hoped for the best, but I had no idea what was ahead of me.

While my brother laid in the bed waiting to be treated, I roamed around the pediatric ward like the mischievous person I am. I took two steps out of the room and I was almost trampled by a group of people who ran alongside a stretcher as if they were athletes on the US Olympic bobsled team. I tried my hardest to catch a glimpse of the poor soul on the stretcher, but I only saw her arm. On closer observation, I noticed that the arm that I saw was not attached to anything. The injured patient actually used her left hand to hold her right arm, which was completely unattached to her body. Why would they bring this 13-14 year old girl to the pediatric ward? I don’t know. The sight that I saw was like a weird Don Hertzfeldt film and I felt like I was high on shrooms or something, so I went back into my brother’s room to recuperate. But that was just the beginning.

I wandered outside of the room once again and somehow ventured out into the waiting room, which had a view of the hospital’s driveway. In the driveway was a woman and a young child on a stretcher. Suddenly, someone yelled out “MAKE WAY” and the “stretcher-pusher” wheeled the woman and child past me at supersonic speeds. About an hour later, the waiting room’s door opened and the mother and son reentered the waiting area. Apparently the hospital’s staff transferred the people from the stretcher to a wheelchair, but something was odd about this image—something had gone horribly wrong. The woman had a broken arm which was bandaged, and the child….oh man, the child. I need a new paragraph to talk about the child.

The child was a cute looking child who couldn’t have been more than 4 years old. He sported a wonderful smile on his face, bright blue eyes, and a hole…a hole in his head. One could almost see directly into his head via a dime-sized hole between his two eyes. Externally, I tried my hardest not to cringe, but internally I was screaming “WHAT HAPPENED?!?? CLOSE THAT HOLE!!! WHY ARE THEY IN THE PEDIATRIC DEPARTMENT?! I CAN SEE HIS BRAIN!! WHAT KIND OF SICK BUSINESS IS THIS?! THIS IS NOT HUMANLY POSSIBLE! I’LL NEVER RECOVER FROM THIS! I HOPE HE RECOVERS FROM THAT!!” The worst part was that the doctors and nurses in the department seemed completely unfazed by the hole in his head. To add to the horror of the incident, the kid never shed a single tear.

I could easily continue speaking about what was going through my head at that moment, but I don’t think that the english language contains the correct words to accurately express my thoughts.

My brother was finally diagnosed, treated, and discharged and I was free to leave from the bloody pediatric inferno. I hopped in my car and drove towards the hospital’s exit when I saw a homeland security helicopter landing on the hospital’s landing pad. I didn’t bother to stick around to see the response of the emergency room because I had already accurately predicted it: ”just send him to the pediatric ward.”

I hate the World Cup. There…I said it. But I’m not your typical World Cup hater.

At the beginning of the tournament I ignored all games except those that the Trinidadian team played in. Since I was born and partially raised in Trinidad I was naturally inclined to see them demolish their opponents. Trinidad did not go far in the competition and as a result I was on-edge, ready to snap at anyone who mentioned the fact that we lost…twice.

After I got over the loss of my home-team, I became a fan of France. I’ve never been to France, didn’t know a single french person and haven’t eaten french fries in months, but I took 5 long years of French in middle and high school, so I felt the need to give back to the country with my support.

When France defeated Spain, I was happy. When France defeated Brazil, I was ecstatic. When France defeated Portugal, I was jubilant (thank you, thesaurus.com). But then the final game of France vs. Italy came and I was, once again, on edge.

Due to other duties that needed to be fulfilled, I caught the final game at the 49th minute, but that didn’t spare me any distress. Each time France took the ball near their goal with their bright white, seemingly-angelic outfits, I was ready to jump through my 52”, 1990’s style big-screen television and kick the ball to the goal for them. This couldn’t have been good for my blood pressure.

The game went into overtime and the France player, Zidane, head-butted the Italian player in the chest. Although I consider the act of frustration to be 100% gangsta, it made the team suffer, which made me suffer…emotionally.

The game went to penalty kicks, which I’ll call “shootouts” because of Zidane…the gangsta. The French player tried to be cute and kick the ball high into the air, rather than directly into the goal, and as a result the ball was rejected by an inanimate object…the goal post. Give me a second to rant about this…

I’m neither a soccernista nor a mathematician, but I would imagine that the height to width ratio of a soccer goal is 1:5. Why on Germany’s green grass would you kick the ball up into the air rather than left or right into the goal?!? WHY?!

Because of this foolish move, Italy won 5 to 3 on penalty kicks and they flaunted their victory in my face. This act of showmanship arose feelings of repressed disgust for the Italian team for defeating the French, and somehow affected my physiological status.

Basically, I hate the World Cup because it puts me through a roller-coaster of emotions…and it doesn’t even have the decency to give me a reward for the anguish that I suffered. Thanks, World Cup… now you’ll have thousands, if not millions of people in therapy for years!

DisclaimerGeremology.com and its affiliates do not condone Zidane’s actions, nor do we support random head-butting by its readers; however, you have to admit….that was cool!

After buying a new car, regular people typically go in search of car accessories to enhance their purchase. But Me? I’m no ordinary man. I buy my sneakers to match my car, regardless of how hideous the sneaker may appear to be.

Dearest T-Mobile,

You won over my heart many years ago when you were a little company named “Omnipoint.” You advertised that you had a “100% digital phone network” and I signed up because I thought that digital was sononymous with “new technology”. I was greatly let down when I found out that your network was 100% digicrap. But I still stuck with you.

You merged with another company, picked up the name “Voicestream,” flaunted your new logo and sent me a flyer that promised better service and I believed you. I bought a new “trendy” phone and expected reliable service, but your service was thrice times worse than anything that I’ve used in my life, including walkie-talkies and tincan and string. Often times, I got so sick of your horrible, horrible service that I resorted to yelling on the rooftops for house-to-house communication. But I stuck with you and your quadraplegic network.

You became T-Mobile and gave me 1000 anytime minutes, free nights and weekends, and all the other bells and whistles for $39.99/month. The network was greatly improved and you kept giving me free things to keep me as a customer. You reminded me of my second girlfriend who always said, “don’t go! I’ll change! I’m different now!” But were you really different, or was it all a facade?!

You kept sending me letters in the mail saying, “looky here, we’re improving” but the lingering 2 bars on my cell phone proved otherwise. You sent me a letter saying “we’ve expanded our network to upstate New York,” but during our yearly retreat to Poughkeepsie, my phone had less bars than a dry Mormon University. You sent me another letter saying “we’ve upgraded our coverage in northern New Jersey,” but I could never hold a phone conversation on my way to school because the call was always dropped. I stopped relying on my cell phone and started to use word-of-mouth and snail-mail for everything, BUT THAT DEFEATED THE PURPOSE OF ME USING YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE!

Basically, what I’m trying to tell you is that it’s over. Just like that. I’m tired of the broken promises, the lies, the deceit and the dinners when you ditched me and left me alone at the dinner table.

I’m leaving you for your second cousin…Sprint.

Why Sprint? Because she’s better than you are. She is giving me everything you gave me in addition to unlimited video mail, picture mail, broadband internet, mobile television and companionship for $10 less than I paid you. Also, Sprint looks better than you do.

I got this sweeeet phone from them and after 2 weeks of using it, I’m not turning back.

It was fun while it lasted, but I got tired of this seemingly endless love/hate relationship that you got me involved in.

Love your ex-customer,
Geremy F

After a month chock-full-o-classes, I’M FREE! No more 6 hours of classes each day. No more quizzes everyday. No more frustration.

Now that I’m free, I can resume normal life again. I’ve got so much to tell you about, including but not limited to:

• My matching purchases
• Attempted murder of the Nokia
• The new chick in my life
• The Gerelaxer v2

Big things!
Big things.