Legacy

Dear Pilgrims,

So the legend goes: It was a balmy day in November when Squanto interrupted your meal of flour and sugar to bring you the gift of corn. Then John Smith came out of the brush with a young Pocahontas and announced, “Hey, look what I found!” Then another pilgrim — the one with the hat — said, “I’m thankful.” And thus, we have Thanksgiving.

You had much to be thankful for: freedom, land, opiates. Times were tough for you guys, so you took a break from your plans to steal Geronimo’s land to feast on Delaware’s finest buffalo.

Thanks for taking that break, Pilgrims. “Two days isn’t enough!” You proclaimed. “Let’s make this holiday so grand that in years to come we can give young Matt Sigur an entire week to spend with his family.”

This season finds me full of loathing. Let me take a few moments from counting my blessings and stuffing my face with ham, turducken and that much-maligned cranberry sauce to recognize what I’m truly ungrateful for.

The Animal Cruelty Ad

There’s nothing worse than having my regularly scheduled programming of “Intervention” interrupted by an ad from the ASPCA. You know the one — Sarah McLachlan’s stomach-turning “Angel” plays in the background while kittens paw at the screen and mutts with eye patches look at you like you’re a bastard.

“Thanks for ignoring me,” a dog with crutches seems to say. “That’s what my last owner did.”

At this point, when the piano chimes in, I tend to scream at the television and fumble for the remote. I don’t want to give these dogs false hope. I was already depressed watching the story of the 43-year-old mother who drinks mouthwash to cope with her bland husband. Then I start crying through a mouthful of popcorn because of this ad. It’s worse than a trip to the animal shelter.

I had to do something. Not to help these animals, but to show Sarah McLachlan these ads were human cruelty. I bought all the McLachlan CDs I could find at FYE (roughly five) and traveled to her home with a bunch of picket signs.

I stood outside in the sunshine of British Columbia and waved signs in front of her house. “STOP HUMAN CRUELTY!” I chanted. “I JUST WANT TO WATCH INTERVENTION IN PEACE!”

My efforts went unnoticed, as she was on tour with Melissa Etheridge. So I went to the nearest animal shelter and picketed there until an employee came out and Tasered me.

When I awoke, I was inside the shelter. Everywhere I turned, a deformed cat, dog or chimpanzee pled silently, “Adopt me now!” Unbeknownst to me, the employee stood in another room, looking on and laughing as she blared “Angel” over the loud speakers.

She wouldn’t let me go until I had adopted five animals. I left with two dogs, three kittens and Sarah McLachlan’s song stuck in my head. But it could be worse — now I won’t be plagued with guilt when I see the ad.

I can just look at my new three-legged, one-eyed furry friends and say, “I can change the channel now, right?”

Tailgating

I was at Tiger Bar a few weeks ago when I was presented with two choices: A) use the toilet filled with puke or B) relieve myself on the guy puking in the next stall. I wondered: Was this guy puking because he was at the classiest of all Tigerland’s dives? Was it that last shot of vodka and Red Bull? Or did he just realize he made out with a pool cue?

I was thinking out loud when he startled me by emerging from the depths of the toilet bowl and patting me on the back. “Nah, brah, I’ve just been tailgating since 6 p.m. yesterday!”

Tailgating — the most extreme of extreme sports, where a college student’s once-solid vocabulary is whittled down to three phrases: “I’m drunk,” “Where’s the bitches?” and “AHHH!”

I was once thankful for tailgating — for half an hour when I was a freshman. Nowadays, I don’t see the pleasure in drinking four beers then walking to another tent then drinking four more beers then walking to a beer pong table, doing a keg stand and drinking four more beers then passing out on the Parade Grounds while smiling at what appears to be a fully-clothed lady, but is, in actuality, a sheep dog.

Then there’s the heat. When the air outside is stickier than syrup and hotter than Africa, I’d probably enjoy the game more on my 20-inch set at home than in the stands. When I’m in the sun for 12 hours drinking Milwaukee’s Best, I sweat gallons. By the time I enter the gates, I barely manage to slump over to my seat before cheering agitatedly and falling asleep during the fourth quarter Hail Mary. It might not happen for the 40-something alum with 35 years experience who has his 8-month-olds decked out in cheerleader outfits and helmets, but it’s bound to happen to me.

Honor Roll Kids

With school now well underway, I’ve become increasingly aware of those privileged students who disrupt class and want you to notice — otherwise known as the Honor Roll Kids. They include the philosophers, the gamers and the divulgers. And all three can make an hour-and-a-half class go on for eternity.

The philosophers are a peculiar breed of annoying. I noticed one in my American History class. The professor always wraps up the lecture by asking, “Anyone have any questions?” Clearly, no one should.

“Yes, I have a question,” the philosopher piped up. “So what are the exact dimensions of John Hancock’s signature in relation to the other constituents’? And are you using figures from past times or recent history?”

Here’s a question: “Would you mind if I round-house kicked you out of the classroom?”

In another class I discovered a gamer. I was struggling to write down every word coming out of my professor’s mouth when I noticed this guy playing online poker on his laptop. My attention kept swaying from the lesson to the digital cards on this guy’s computer screen, hoping he would bet more. The cycle went on, and I inched closer and closer until my head rested on his shoulder and I whispered, “You’re seriously going all in on a pair of fours?”

And then there was the divulger. When the professor asked “Any comments?” he chimed in, raised his hand and shared his comments.

“I was discussing John Hancock with my brother. And we were sitting in our bunk beds, you know, just having a flashlight pow-wow. Then my mom came in and I was all like, ‘Mom, I ain’t got no pants on!’ And then I punched my brother in the face ’cause he’s a loser, and we wrestled ’till like four in the morning.”

The divulger added nothing to the conversation while telling us more than we ever wanted to know.

Whenever these cats speak up I immediately go into zombie mode, but they always manage to permeate my skull with their absurd questions and distractions that aren’t even on the exam. Please, guys — just save it for after class.

Organic Food

After all that class stress, I needed a good meal. You pilgrims would’ve gotten by with hot water and cornbread, but now we are blessed with organic food, which is basically the same things you guys ate, just packaged with a golden ribbon and full of ingredients I can’t pronounce.

Take the California Club, manufactured by Organic Manics. It’s filled with avacado, sprouts, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Then there’s the added B-1, Vitamin D capsules, organic honeydew seeds, jalapeño residue and chocolate sprinkles — all piled high on cardboard and pan-fried to perfection.

After one bite, I felt like I’d bitten into a dirt sandwich. I kept thinking, “This is what it’s like to have dentures.” It tasted like a smoothie and the leftover gel of a Crest Whitestrip combined.

I finished and was even hungrier than before. I craved the comfort of fat and grease I knew I could only get from one place. I decided to go down the street to Sonic and buy a Super-Duper-Double-Bacon-Cheeseburger, a 79-ounce cherry limeade and cheese tots.

It’s what any true pilgrim would have done.

Sincerely,

Matthew Sigur

Unwilling animal savior, non-tailgater, non-Honor Roll Kid, organic-food-hater