HE SAID:
Would you rather be haunted by the spirit of Billy Mays or by the spirit of Michael Jackson?
I’d have to suggest that Michael Jackson was essentially a ghost since 1987 when his complexion became a steadily fading gradient. He pretty much haunted pop culture with his mask and baby-dangling antics. I’m not knocking his tunes, though. I’ve previously admitted the movie “Free Willy” brought me to tears, and Jackson’s song “Will You Be There” on the soundtrack contributed.
But if I had to have a translucent houseguest, Mays gets the invite. While Jackson would just wander my halls like a frail doe, at least Mays would engage me with (abrasive) chitchat. And I could be an absolute slob since he’d have all the infomercial cleaning solutions. Plus he could coach me toward a flawless beard. It’s no-shave November, after all.
Would you rather have your own theme song that played anytime you entered a room or have your life be broadcast as a television show?
I’m sitting under dim light watching the World Series while typing on a Dell whose internal fan is too loud — no one would tune in to my show. And that’s precisely why I’d choose television. If someone happened to find a facet of my life intriguing, it would be up to him or her to pick my channel. (Maybe my failed bar flirtations would offer some humor.) I think I’d lose friends and never gain new ones if they had to suffer an unwelcome tune each time I switched venues. I do think the song would be awesome, though, but I’d save it and others (Michael Jackson) for the network soundtrack.
Would you rather be abducted by aliens or have a close encounter with Bigfoot?
I love the Radiohead song “Subterranean Homesick Alien,” which glorifies traveling with space dudes. But I suspect extraterrestrial folk don’t offer their saucers for galactic joyrides. Rather, they have walls of polished tools with which they want to twirl my insides like spaghetti. And there’s no way you can evade them; aliens can turn your body into flying particles at will with a light beam. Assuming both potential encounters are in a darkened forest, Bigfoot actually has mobility limitations. The hairy beast would clip his massive shoulders on trees as I darted through them like a cheetah, screaming in Mariah Carey octaves.
Would you rather streak across the Drillfield during a class change or up an entire set of Lane Stadium stairs during a game?
Although the celebrity of the jumbotron is tempting, I easily side with the Drillfield sprint. It’s just inherently easier, and you can dip into a nearby building to re-clothe. I convince myself that riding my bicycle is adequate cardio, but I know Lane Stadium would crush my endurance. I’d rest hands-to-knees every so often, and my pale skin would be more distracting to the game than the sun. And there’s no swift exit. I’d touch the top row and have to awkwardly return to an entry tunnel. Or maybe the student section would crowd surf me back down. Of course, only after they used me to count out the last touchdown.
Would you rather take a full-speed pass from football quarterback Tyrod Taylor from 10 yards out or take a charge from basketball forward Jeff Allen?
Tyrod’s option makes me think of karate. Specifically when a black belt delivers a hypersonic palm to a slab of wood and it splinters like a soup cracker. I’m pretty sure that’s how my sternum would respond to his pigskin toss. This isn’t to say Jeff Allen isn’t a tank, because he is 260 pounds of almost-certain injury. Still, I imagine I could avoid blunt trauma by crossing my arms to absorb his slam-dunk leap. But I do realize my oxygen supply would exit my lungs, and I’d probably lose all the skin along my spine as I slid at 17 mph on the hardwood floor.
Would you rather sleep through your graduation ceremony or a sibling’s wedding?
Coincidentally, both of these are quickly approaching for me, but my older brother is getting hitched before I get my $40,000 piece of paper. Despite the sea of loans I’ll endure, I’d gladly forego the hat-tassel formality to see my only sibling put on his eternal shackles (kidding). By the time I walk across the stage, nearly all of my good friends will be alumni anyway, so my cheering section is only family. I’d rather have my pillow drool disappoint one instead of two sets of kin at the wedding.
I happen to be the best man, so my list of responsibilities is basically a scroll. If I slumbered, there’d be no ring for the bride, and I couldn’t make the proper first toast (which I’m convinced will melt even the most leaden hearts).
SHE SAID:
Would you rather be haunted by the spirit of Billy Mays or the spirit of Michael Jackson?
Though I own several of the products Billy Mays has put forth, I’d have to go with Michael Jackson on this one. Michael Jackson seems much less abrasive than Billy Mays. When not making a career out of imitating a zombie in your living room, old Jacko would probably just be reclusive and quiet, only waiting for his bust-a-move opportunity. He’d be a fantastic tutor. Imagine your friends’ envy when they roll up for a dance party and suddenly, you know how to do the moonwalk and belt out “Billie Jean” like a pro.
With Billy Mays, I wouldn’t be able to handle his enthusiastic yet bossy screaming in the middle of the night, and he might become a vengeance-seeking poltergeist since I use my Slap Chop and ShamWow way more than I use my HandySwitch or OxiClean. Not to mention that I’m miserably allergic to the latter, and that’s the last product I would want demonstrated on my clothes.
Would you rather have your own theme song that played anytime you entered a room, or would you rather have your life be broadcast as a television show?
If my life were a television show, it’d be so boring that I would get cancelled immediately. It’s not like I live in a mansion with Criss Angel or Kathy Griffin or anything interesting. (My ideal show: living with Jon Stewart. Mrrrow.) I go to class, go to work, study and occasionally take naps with my fat dog. My pride couldn’t handle my own show getting the can. So on this question, I opt for a theme song — and it’d be along the lines of the ominous “Imperial Death March.” I mean, if I walk into a room and that song follows me, I’ll guarantee that nobody will screw around with me. I might have to choke a fool ... with The Force.
Would you rather be abducted by aliens or have a close encounter with Bigfoot?
At least with aliens, if they abduct you, you’ll come back. I’d rather be abducted simply to know what the criteria are for their selection process because they pick some unfortunate candidates.With Bigfoot, he would probably just rip your arms off and carry you into the woods as a snack for later. I’d prefer to be probed and sent home than mangled and partially digested. Either way, it’s not like anyone’s going to believe you.
Would you rather streak across the Drillfield during a class change or up an entire set of Lane Stadium stairs during a game?
Without going into any gratuitous detail, I’d much rather take my chances on the Drillfield. I’d blind fewer people that way.
Sleep through your graduation ceremony or a sibling’s wedding?
And death isn’t an option? Both of these are pretty horrible. If it came to sentimentality, I feel like I could sleep through my graduation and be completely fine. Since I have student loans up to my eyeballs, graduation is simply a reminder of how I finally have to pay back Sallie Mae.
But sleeping through a ceremony in which you’re participating is a little tougher than sleeping through a wedding you’re not directly involved in. I could probably go to my brother’s wedding and pass out under a table at some point and no one would notice I was missing. So I say yes, I’d sleep through my brother’s wedding. (Sorry, Bubs.)
Take a full-speed pass from football quarterback Tyrod Taylor from 10 yards out or take a charge from basketball forward Jeff Allen?
I’d have to take Taylor’s pass. No offense, Jeff, but I weigh 110 pounds and you weigh 260 pounds. I would implode on impact if I took that kind of force. And although I’ll probably lose some teeth and some dignity while attempting to catch Taylor’s pass, at least I’ll escape with an intact ribcage.