Your Chance to Help Thabeet the UConn Huskies

I’m writing this latest installment from the comfort of my parents’ house. I arrived in New York for the holidays several days ago, and I could not wait to get here. Prior to landing in Newark, I had gone the entire holiday season without hearing this...


Apparently this little holiday gem has yet to venture west of the Delaware Water Gap. Next December I will not rest until everyone I know in Chicago has experienced the joy of singing and clapping while Dominic begins to dance). But now that Christmas has passed, I’ve turned my attention to one of my favorite times of the year: the advent of conference play in college hoops.

As most of you know, I’m an unabashed and avid fanatic of sub-par, underachieving D-I basketball teams. Fortunately, as a Fordham season ticket holder, I’m rarely disappointed in my quest for perpetually putrid basketball. I don’t understand why you’d want to be a faceless and anonymous person in a massive crowd cheering on some powerhouse of a program when you could be one of just a few die-hards who get to sit in a half empty gym and have the whole place hear you when you tell your friends that, in addition to being a horrible official, the ref also beats his wife.

So when I began applying to graduate schools in the Mid-West, I had to do some soul searching. After all, the Mid-West is home to the behemoths of the Big 10 as well as the home of the largest fupa known to man...



Would I sell out my mid-major conference roots to seek out the immediate gratification of one of the several at large bids that the Big-10 pulls in on a yearly basis? Or would I once again cast my lot with a down and out program, hoping to get in on the ground floor before a meteoric rise to national prominence?

In the end, by choosing to go to DePaul, I obviously opted for the latter. I decided that my first trip to an NCAA tourney game should feel like the grand pay-off to a long and arduous journey, not some trivial honor given annually (like the trophy you would get at Grand Slam for having your birthday party there. Even as an adolescent, I was baffled by this. What exactly did the birthday boy achieve? What kind of coddling culture do we live in when kids get trophies just for surviving the year?). Although I should mention that my decision was made significantly less complicated by the rejection letters that I received from each of the Big-10 schools I applied to. Perhaps, through my statement of purpose essay, they could sense my reticence to join their athletic juggernauts. So with my decision made for me by various admissions boards across the region, I prepared myself for some more of the mediocrity I’d grown accustomed to in the Bronx.

I got my first taste of this mediocrity just a few days ago when the Blue Demons took on the Bible-thumping, rapture-loving, Crazy Christians of Liberty University. Our opponents’ dogmatic approach to higher education proved to be fertile ground for the jeers of the DePaul band and student section. After each DePaul basket, members of the band would shout, “Who’s your Messiah now?” The Liberty bench seemed pretty confused by this chant. Perhaps, like me, they were wondering if the band was aware of the fact that St. Vincent de Paul and the Catholics at my school worship the same God as them. And then, in a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black, one particularly slovenly member of the band mocked the Flames for their well-known chastity: “You’re entire bench has never been laid,” he shouted. I suppressed the urge to inform him that this was by choice, whereas in his case, it was most likely due to the flatulence resulting from his tuba and his nachos.

Considering the jeers being hurled at the Liberty players, it became abundantly clear that if my school is going to take the next step towards being a force in the Big East, I would have to step up my game in the stands (The Blue Demon barely held on to win in the waning seconds against this inferior opponent despite a barrage of 3's by Golem's little brother).



If I am able to elevate the level of smack talk, hopefully this will result in quality wins against tough Big East opponents. So when #2 ranked UCONN comes to town in January, I want to be ready with a slew of chants far more clever than ones that were broken out during the Liberty game.

For this reason, I am calling upon the faithful readers of JohnClaytonisaRobot to pool their creative efforts and submit chants that will undoubtedly rattle UCONN’s 7’3” Hasheem Thabeet and his teammates (Staff members at JC/Robot like to use a play on words using the center’s name. “Hasheem Can’t Thabeet the Blue Demons,” is a clean and politically correct example. But you are by no means limited to this style, nor are you restricted to clean and politically correct chants. Here’s the UCONN roster for inspiration as well as a link to the women's roster in case you're feeling frisky). After all suggestions are submitted via the comments section on this site, we will put the matter to a vote. The reader who creates the best chant will win an Addidas DePaul athletics tee shirt and a free ticket to a Blue Demons game (airfare not included).

Civil Servants in the City

I received a lot of comments and inquiries concerning my last post detailing the festivities at the local Brauhaus. So I thought I’d regale you with a story regarding another colorful character in my neighborhood:
A trip to my post office always proves to be a harrowing experience, not just because menacing vagrants camp out in the vestibule, but because one of the postal workers needs a cancer kazoo to communicate (I’m fairly certain that “cancer kazoo” isn’t the technical term for the device that one applies to the throat to be able to speak, but I don’t remember covering this topic in AP Bio. I do recall abusing the ether that was intended to render the fruit flies unconscious so we could study their genetic traits, but anything past that experiment is rather foggy. Perhaps there’s a correlation). Whenever I enter the post office and see that this particular civil servant is on duty, I’m immediately unnerved. It’s that not I’m disturbed by the gaping hole in his throat; it’s just that I’m not accustomed to seeing such a person function as a productive member of society. I usually only see cancer kazoo recipients as I walk past a dive at 10 o’clock in the morning on my way to school, and they are standing outside the bar chain smoking cigarettes. So to see this fifty year old man with a bald head and curly mustache (let’s call him Melvin) serving the public is unsettling because I usually just sidle past such people, with my head down. But in this situation, I’m forced to interact with Melvin, and I must do so without staring at the gaping hole in his throat.
My biggest fear is that I will be so mesmerized by the hole that I will not realize that I am staring. Like in a movie or television show when a man is caught staring at a woman’s cleavage and she saucily tells him “I’m up here, buddy,” I’m afraid that Melvin will have to make a similar statement to me in his creepy monotone drone. Fearful of such an embarrassing exchange, I quickly gauge the movement of the line, trying to determine whether I will be served by Melvin or by one of his co-workers.
The first time I visited this post office, it quickly became evident that my worst fear would come to fruition. After waiting a few minutes, my moment to be served was imminent. The only person in front of me in line was a skinny woman balancing a bevy of packages in her spindly arms. I knew that this customer would take quite a bit of time paying the postage for her various packages, and much to my horror Melvin’s colleague called the skinny woman forward, telling her to approach the counter. This left me at the front of the line. As the woman fumbled with her packages, Melvin was wrapping up his business with another customer. Any second now and I would be beckoned. Immediately I became deeply engrossed by the zipper on my jacket, my cuticles, the priority mail envelopes display, the “Most Wanted” posters, and anything else that would divert my attention from Melvin and his gaping hole.
With my head bowed in careful analysis of my shoelaces, I knew that I would be called at any moment. I would soon have to draw upon every fiber of tact that I possess (which admittedly is not a lot) to get through this delicate situation. It was at this point that I heard Melvin say, “Boy am I glad to see you.” My heart skipped a beat. Why on Earth was Melvin glad to see him? Was he being facetious? Could he somehow sense my apprehension? Furthermore, can one be facetious while speaking through a cancer kazoo?
This comment threw me for a complete loop. I had no idea how to react. I had carefully rehearsed in my head what I was going to say so as to make our encounter as brief as possible. I had not prepared a response to such an unexpected pleasantry. As I began to stammer out a reply, I looked up to notice that Melvin was speaking not to me but rather to another female co-worker who had materialized behind the counter. As the women assumed Melvin’s position at the counter, he told her, “I’m about to get me some lunch. What would you like? It’s on me.”
“No thanks,” she replied. “I’m all set.”
“You sure? There must be something I can do for you,” Melvin said in his robot-like, unwavering drawl with a suggestive glance up and down his colleague’s body.
After witnessing this exchange, still waiting beyond the black line, I was dumbfounded. I had to that point never pondered the concept of cancer kazoo recipients having a sex life, much less flirting with their co-workers right in front of me.
The thing that truly made this a bizarre situation was the voice that emanated from Melvin’s device. Though he was obviously trying to be coy, this was a difficult notion to convey when all his words came out in the same flat tone that he used in every other facet of his life. Addressing customers, ordering Chinese food, speaking to his mother on the phone. In each of these instances Melvin employs the same tone and inflection as when he is trying to seduce a colleague. Regrettably, even the volume at which he spoke was the same. With this lack of subtly, the entire post office was privy to his amorous overtures.
I didn’t stick around long enough to see if Melvin made any progress in his courtship. I grabbed my book of stamps and left swiftly, thankful that the co-worker bore the brunt of Melvin’s attention in my stead. But from time to time, as I prepare for a night out on the town, I wonder if I’ll ever run into Melvin as he’s cruising for chicks. His bold advances in the workplace make me completely reconsider my thoughts concerning the cancer kazoo and its effects on those who have one. Now when I pass by those dive bars in the morning, I don’t scurry along. Instead, I take my time, hoping for another fascinating glimpse into their world and a chance to come to a deeper understanding of the kazoo.
Perhaps with time, and repeated trips to post office, he and I can become friends. I’m sure we have a lot to learn from each other. He can teach me how to avoid sexual harassment suits in the workplace (I think it’s clear he’s an expert in this regard given the fact that he still has a job), and I can teach him how to safely huff ether (There are definitely advantages to dating someone in the apothecary business).

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