When I was a lad, many, many, moons ago, Sunday nights at boarding school brought forth the most odd item on the menu: Mélange.  When asked, someone told me that it was French for leftovers; others thought it was some sort of early-90s water boarding of teenage boarding-school students, and I thought it was the slow abuse of my taste buds.  What it ended up being was the remnants of what I didn’t eat over the last week, dumped onto my plate to consume, all without holding up my little bowl and asking “more, please.”

So, without further waste, here are my mental leftovers for you to snack on.  Please remember to tip your waitress, and enjoy.

First, I need to talk about the games that invaded my television for 16 days last month.  Beach volleyball is not a sport to be competed in the Olympics.  I don’t think the ancient Romans were spiking Wilson® balls while naked and greased.  Synchronized diving, in my opinion, is an hour of my life I will never get back.  Nor do I think walking should be considered an Olympic feat.  Do you really think that walking, what old people do at the mall every morning in white tennis shoes, can be called a sport?  Walking?  What was that competition like?  “Hey, Sunny, race you around the block, but let’s have a walking competition, and both walk!”  That would be a justifiable reason for a drive-by shooting.

Don’t get me wrong; Phelps is going to get laid every night for the rest of his life for the effort he put forth for his gold medals.  I do think that the little Chinese girls were way too underage to even consider checking them out as they did their gymnastic stunts.  But I still hoped they did well, because although China hosted the games, I didn’t put it past the officials to hold their families hostage until a gold medal was won.

Actually, for the women’s marathon, I think they were just cruel to the runners.  In case you didn’t watch, the women looked like they survived a year at a concentration camp – their ribs exposed, their bones without muscle, running like they had a pound of blow in their pockets and the cops were about to release the hounds.  The truth is that they were holding a giant Twinkie® from the back of the pace car, driving the runners to the finish line.

But my mom put it best, and I am going to run with it: They are all professional athletes.  This is what they train to do.  Do you really think Phelps has a cubicle somewhere up north and goes to the Y to practice swimming on alternate days?  Hell, no.  Swimming is all he does.  All the Olympics have become is a celebration of the best that practice for years and years.  Even those walkers walk all day, every day in order to stay in top walking shape.  Nothing is amateur anymore there, and the sponsors pay them well to compete.  It’s a sad state that it has come to, but I guess that it makes good television.

I humbly propose the following for the next Olympics, in order to reflect current trends and ensure better ratings:

1. •Beer Pong
   

2. •Wii™
   

3. •Skateboarding
   

4. •Fastest Texter
   

Having had my fill of the Olympics, I now need to sample the big plate of freshmen at LSU.  That’s right, they have returned.  I want to thank numerous freshmen in their new cars for reminding me that my horn works.  For your info, I contacted the DOTD, and they have informed me that the road was made for all citizens, not just Chloe, Kymberlie, Mercedes, and the rest of you freshmen that have a future in the gentlemen’s club industries.  In everything we read on campus, they try to tell the new students to memorize the map, don’t carry your books in the bag you got them in, and, for heaven’s sake, don’t wear your high school T-shirts.

Since no one ever listens to anything anyone tells them, I am forced to exploit the saps that were the top dogs at their schools of 400 and are now trying to be cool at a school of 30,000.  That was me selling the free papers for a dollar to the lesser students on the first week of school.  Thanks to the naïve dunces that have now financed several of my engineering books, and especially the few that were being shrewd by prepaying the entire year.  Sure, you saved 50% off the daily price, but now I have enough beer money to buy a round after a rough day of senior project.

We also managed to break into the top tier of colleges nationally this year.  I know it’s a four-way tie at 130, but it’s still top-tier.  I did my part, Mr. New Chancellor, with my many signs and the different profanities that I uttered at the football games throughout the years, causing CBS to finally add the ten-second delay.  Whatever it was, we did it.

But at what cost?  I remember, years ago, LSU was known for parties, drinking, and incredible fun.  We were consistently number one in the nation for partying, according to Playboy.  Number one by Playboy – now that is something to hang your hat on.  Now, I honestly think that alcohol is banned even from the infirmary on campus, fun is a three-letter word only reserved for football games, and all freshmen have to take an online seminar on alcohol awareness.  Back in the day, “alcohol awareness” was being handed a beer and pointed to the drunken sorority girls.  How far we have fallen.  Enjoy your education, freshmen, and I guess fun will come when you graduate.  Good thing we still had that when I was in college the first time.

My girlfriend’s hidden talent has finally manifested, all without me getting her really drunk or buying her new clothes.  Starting this summer, she has attracted tropical storms.  Not other girls, not nimble maneuvers that would make strippers jealous, not even the ability to crap gold bricks. No, she attracts tropical storms like moths to a flame.

Case in point: she went to Houston to visit family for a week.  Tropical Storm Edouard blew through Houston like a $20 hooker on Airline Highway.  Once done with her visit there, my woman went to Disney for a week.  Guess who else visited?  That’s right, Tropical Storm Fay blew through there.  Disney stayed open, and she rode the rides until her flight home.  A few days later, it was here in Louisiana.  Now, Hurricane Gustav is bearing down, seeking out my woman.  I guess that next year will be the first time that a storm will make landfall in Colorado.

I forgot how busy the summers are, and how hard it is to pick just one topic that chaps my tail. But now I can focus on my last year of school, LSU football, and the upcoming elections.  That combination is always a good idea as I finish my last year, but that’s me, working without a net.