How to not bring an oven to College

So quite a bit of of cool stuff happened recently. Even with a severe drought of anything actually "happening". The happenings started to get cool when we decided to go visit Fabio's sister at CMU. That's Central Michigan University for those of you who are stupid*. We took off for CMU, it's about a 3 hour detour to get there in the summer months. A certain person forgot to burn a CD for us, so we didn't get to hear the genius stylings of "Ill Mitch". Instead we had to settle for Vanilla "the lyrical spear" Ice and some other less than stellar music. So, big hi five to that certain person. You just made #1 on my 10 most wanted (persons to put under a bus seat again) list. It's a good story, I'll tell it sometime.

So long ride short, we got there. On the way in we got the requisite "hey was sup" from a few steroid induced chunks of flesh playing volleyball, who thought somehow volleyball gave them the right to talk.

We finally get up to the 6th floor, another painful detour seeing as how both elevators seemed broke. Unfortunately it was six floors and stairs are not as much fun as they were when we were little kids with slinkies, so we were required to try and fix the broken elevators 10 or 15 times by pressing different button combinations. Fortunately, a steel resolve paid off and we got to the top without exerting an effort and costing the environment a measly 25 years of it's life. As if CMU was located in the heart of Detroit where room was actually sparse.

Skip ahead 5 minutes, and we find ourselves in the middle of a crisis of mediocre proportions. Of course, being the instigators that we are, it seemed only right to start what would forever more* be known as "the great oven wars of 2003". It started with a simple request from a RA. If you never went to college, or you're still in high school, odds are you don't matter. But, on the slight chance you both A) matter, and B) don't know what RA stands for, it stands for Resident American. Each floor has a Resident American to plan capitalistic adventures for the floor, and make sure things don't turn communist during the semester. Also, these fine folks make sure things like OVENS, which are strictly forbidden by some code somewhere, are not being snuck into dorm rooms.

Getting back to the request, the RA kindly asked us to snoop around her floor (and the others) and see if we found any evidence of toasters, ovens, microwaves, candles, barbeque grills, or dishwashers in the rooms. Her exact words were "Stop calling people and asking for Grandpa." Of course, we assumed this meant "leave incriminating notes on dry erase boards and flush out anyone who had anything to hide using rumors and wild accusations." So during the course of our inspections, we may or may not have left the following messages:

(Room 612's Door) - We know about the dishwasher. Repent.
(Room 610's Door) - Rm. 612 said you guys have an oven..
(Room 607's Door) - No ovens. No excuses.
(Room 512's Door) - Frozen Pizza's don't cook themselves. Lose the barbeque grill NOW.
(Room 215's Door) - Room 606 said this floor sucks. Pass it on.
(The RA's Door) - I think I accidentally brought a candle. What should I do? (signed) Room 602.

We offered our services to a few other halls as well. In the course of this I met for the first time (in person) an interesting guy who we shall call "Henry", to protect his identity. You may remember "Henry", from such wonderful pieces as The History of Jazz or Jazz, The History of, depending on whether you were brainwashed with the Dewey Decimal System early in life. "Henry" regaled us with stories of having his best friend get hit with a car repeatedly for a school project*, and the times he started up a business with some friends selling powdered sugar and baking soda to teenagers inquiring about where they could get some cocaine. Depending how busy "Henry" is, it's possible he'll do a feature for the site sometime.

*stupid and/or not from around here
*forever more on rare occasions means until we left the next day
*school project and good time are of no relation whatsoever