Writing for the sports page is not the most exciting thing in the world, let me tell you. Probably much in the same way that reading the sports page is not the most exciting thing in the world. Just like my feet.

This is something that I rediscover weekly as my editor tells me I have to write some god awful article on some sport no one really cares about… like anything involving a ball or uniforms…

I shoot some rum, muster up some courage, then yell at my editor for no real reason and threaten to quit with my fist shaking violently in the air. Then I collect my check, shout something in French, something evil, and this all nicely repeats itself every two weeks.

I am not the only one who feels this way, Adam does too, and secretly we have been meaning to kidnap Conor and bury him in a vacant plot of land in Mexico… we would call it "The Game", it would star Michael Douglas and probably Gerald Depardieu, because I like Gerald. He reminds me of a Muppet.

So why am I ranting nonsense like I write for the Collage, you ask? Partly cause I have shit to write. Partly cause it’s 4am and I have already begged to have the cup passed from me and have been denied like the last time I tried to solicit someone who turned out to be not working after all. And apparently she was a dean. Apparently "College Avenue is no place to look for business, young man."… and apparently you can get arrested for something like that.

But also partly because there is something seriously lacking in sports in this school, and I’m not just talking about gorillas or fairy godmothers or male copy editors who don’t smell so bad… ly.

I’m talking about scandal. Yes, I plagiarized the idea for this entire article from Adam Goldwyn, but he’s probably not reading it so who cares, you’re probably just skimming it yourself, trying to find your own name and tell all your friends how you’re now the new cool kid on the block who just had his name published in the TSL… and sniffs glue. (Well, here are some names: Emily Eiden, Peter Henry, Gary Coleman, Stacy Kend. Hopefully I just made one of your days. And hopefully one of you are single. But not Gary, cause that’d just be sick)

Have I mentioned it’s four in the morning? Now its 4:16. What are you doing right now? Probably sleeping snugly. Thank God you weren’t born a sports associate… or Kirby Puckett or a Pitzer student.

If you were here right now, you’d probably be telling me that no one is necessarily "born" a sports associate; that I chose this role. I would probably tell you to shut up, mind your own business and give me back my goddamn vodka. All slurred, so it would sound something like this: David for Vice-President! Then I’d ask what you were doing here anyway. Then we’d make love… maybe.

Are you bored yet? I certainly am, but I have just… let me check… a hundred words to go and then we’re both off the hook. I can go back to the bottle and you can go back to… whatever it is that people do at 4:25 in the morning. Common sense and my roommate who is shaking his head morosely behind me are telling me that this isn’t going to fly. That Conor is going to shove this back in my face and tell me to try again. But not Janice, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.. unless that fly were Gary Coleman. There’s never any love for the midgets.

Anyway, as I was saying, the problem with this school is that there is not enough scandal, or swimming pools made entirely of pudding. There are no recruiting woes, no steroid abuse, no point shaving…. that we know of, that is. There are no real rivalries other than CMC, but how can you call that a rivalry when we just kick their ass every year? (Except this year, and I’m just talking about basketball… and I’m just talking about the past three years.)

Consider this article a… call to arms. Hit those steroids! You know what they say, Dare to keep kids on drugs! There’s hope in dope!… or something like that. Place bets! In Raines there is a huge sign warning athletes about the dangers of college betting. Bullochs! Tomfoolery, I say!

I’ve done my part, oh yes I have. Once, at a UCLA game I offered T.J. Cummings $20 to "blow the game just like I blew [his] girlfriend." Afterwards we shared a friendly discussion, mostly suggestions that I go fuck myself and me trying to explain to T.J. that I’ve tried and that I’m just not that limber.

I know it’s not quite the same thing and I didn’t get to watch the second half, but you understand the spirit of it all. And at least I tried.

After you’re done, come with me… if that’s not too personal a thing to ask. We can make this an exciting page yet.