Again, italics means edit.

‘Fanboy’ defends his passion, addiction

In case you don’t pay attention, or don’t know me, or for whatever reason you don’t know (space edit), I’m what is called a “fanboy”. I have an addiction. I’m talking about my pastime. I’m talking about my sole reason for earning a paycheck. I’m talking about sequential graphic storytelling. I’m talking about spandex literature. I’m talking about tights ‘n’ fights. I’m talking about full color, 32 pages, with ads… Comic Books – ‘Nuff Said! (this was simply changed to ”’nuff said.”, which is incorrect…)
Allow me to quickly defend myself and my hobby. First off, I really don’t care if you think I’m immature for liking comics, I really don’t care if your mom thinks I’m stupid for liking comics. And girls, I really don’t care if you won’t date a guy who reads comics. It really just narrows down the playing field of girls I have to consider even talking to. Besides, the less money I spend on dates, the more money I can spend on comics.
Tuesdays and Wednesdays are my favorite days of the week. Tuesday is Testosterone Tuesday. It’s a night where I get together with the rest of my unofficial anti-social club, Wild Donkey of a Man, and we eat manly food and watch a manly movie. Then there’s Wednesday (space). Wednesday is a glorious day, not because I only have two classes, and not because I get to go to church again, although those are both excellent reasons. I’m all about the two-class/church combo, it’s good times. But no, Wednesday is a great day because Wednesday is New Comic Book Day.
Once a week, the pilgrimage is made. Like vultures flocking to a rotting corpse, so do the fanboys descend on the comic book store in their great hordes, every Wednesday. And not the comic book store here in Searcy. That place is just sad (I can’t fathom why this was cut out). No, no, true believers, this is a holy mission (maybe because I called a comic book run a holy mission?). (t)his requires heading on out to Little Rock. Every Wednesday, at three o’clock, the pilgrimage begins. (Reworded to read: The pilgrimage begins every Wednesday at 3 p.m.) The voyage is not for the weak, verily, I say thee nay. A steel resolve and incredible depth of faith are required to endure the blazing sun of Highway 67 South, never quite knowing when the end will come, but knowing that indeed at the end of the arduous trek awaits a prize like no other: the weekly stash.
Oh, what a glorious rapture it is to step into the great citadel, knowing that there, on the humble wooden shelves, lies the prize - comics, in all their splendor (The – and the , after comics were edited out, which actually made the sentence more grammatically awkward than it was to begin with). The expedition was not launched unprepared, no. An intricate network of informants and spies have been dispatched and routinely debriefed to make sure that each of the valiant fanboys know exactly what holy grail(s) they seek. Handling their treasures with a care rarely seen outside of nurses handling newborn children, the fanboys walk to the cash register, (comma removed, with their added) heads held high and proud, comics in hand, and then part with their hard earned money in exchange for the tales of their highly regarded superheroes.
As you can very well see, this ain’t no light readin’ hobby for me. This is serious. I’m a pretty laid-back guy. I’m easygoing, I’m funny, and as far as I’m concerned, I’m pretty easy to get along with. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure and for certain. (comma added) (t)here is no quicker way to boil my butt (changed to ”tick me off”, denied, then changed to "get my goat", and actually printed as "get my goad"… Whatever that means…) than to get my obsession wrong. Ask about Superman.
I hate Superman. I hate Superman like the Simpsons hate natural skin tones. Superman is Richard Simmons in blue spandex pajamas. He’s [this material unfit for print in any Harding University publication, and the author simply ought to be ashamed of himself for even thinking something like that], and not only that, but he’s [now this is just getting ridiculous, honestly, what’s he got against Superman anyway?], too! (Just one of them things that can’t go in the Bison, I guess…)
Batman could kick Superman up and down the street any day! (changed to a period) Don’t ask me how, it’d take too long to explain and this column does have a space limit. Simply know that a) I’ve got proof, several times over, and b) I wrote a dissertation on it. So, if you see me on Wednesday, NO, I didn’t get any Superman (added “comic books”, for whatever idiot reason).
With all these comic book movies that have been hitting the screen lately, I’ve been downright giddy. Daredevil, Spider-Man, X-Men and X2, Hulk… When Stan Lee (the creator of all those heroes, and many more) showed up in all those movies, my heart skipped a few beats. At the end of X2, I couldn’t form coherent sentences. I saw Daredevil five times in the theater, 3 within a week of its release. I wept tears of joy at Spider-Man. I can go on and on, so, if you’re bored and have a few hours to kill, hunt me down.
Now, I know I’m (added “horribly”) addicted pretty bad. I know some of you are scared, and that’s OK. But lest the lesson of the National Spelling Bee slip past you, let me remind you that it can always get worse. Let me explain it like this. I like Lord of the Rings. I’ve read the books a thousand times, and I’m digging the movies. I know the story inside-out and backwards. But there’s a whole ‘nother (changed to “other”) level that I’ve not even come close to: I don’t speak Elvish. J.R.R. Tolkien, the awesome writer he was, completely invented a language for the Elves in his books, just to be sure of the details. I’ve met people who knew that language, and used it in conversation. I don’t speak Elvish.
So again, I say to you, I’m pretty bad… But it can always get worse. Now you just know how bad I really am.
And I promise you, next time, there will be a different moral for the story. Excelsior!

This is my final version of the first article I submitted to The Bison for this year. Anything in italics was removed by the Bison editorial staff or some higher-up after my submission. (Added Monday, September 22: I also wrote in why each bit was edited, just so you know.)

‘Vexillology’ not a word for the weak

Have you ever heard the expression “as dangerous as giving a toddler a loaded gun”? It’s not dangerous because the kid is especially malicious, or because he wants to knock over a bank, but because he doesn’t quite realize what kind of damage he can do with the instrument in his hand. Well, my name is Aaron. I’m two years old, and this is a .44 Magnum. [The reasons for this edit are listed on the main page's archives on the entry for Sunday, September 7, 2003]
Now, I know this is going to surprise a lot of you out there, but I’m a bit of a nerd. How could the guy that did a chapel devo about superheroes be a nerd? Shocking.
So, being a nerd, I didn’t exactly have what we like to call much of a “social life” throughout high school. Well, I was a bit of a geek in junior high, too… as well as elementary school. For what it’s worth, I was a dork in pre-school.
“What’s that weird Aaron boy doing?”
“He built a fort out of all the nap mats and is using the oranges and apples from snack time as hand grenades.”
(I eventually had to come out because I’d eaten all my ammunition supplies.)
Now, bearing all that in mind, I want to tell you a story about the experience of a lifetime: the 1997 National Spelling Bee in Washington, D.C. For one week, I was the coolest kid around.
First off, let’s examine the thought process behind why I was actually in our nation’s capital. Just how bored do you really have to be to call all the kids in town together and get them to spell words? And at what point did it become such a fierce competition that somebody decided we ought to do it on a national level? Have you ever been to a spelling bee? Even if you’re actually a contestant, the thrill of competition is only slightly above that of the adrenaline rush that comes with, say, buying a new toothbrush, and slightly below the heart-pounding excitement that accompanies cleaning out the refrigerator. (Now, I realize that cleaning out the refrigerator can certainly be an almost religious experience – managing to see both demons and angels manifest within the space of 18 cubic feet at 40°F, battling atop some bowl of potato salad that has managed to gain sentience.) [edited for space]
Washington, D.C. is a really neat town, especially if you’re a history buff like I am. The monuments, the memorials, the something-elses-that-start-with-m… It’s amazing. But there was nothing I saw during that week more impressive than the sheer amount of dweeb that flowed off of some of the other contestants. I assure you: none of the following is made up.
While at the National Spelling Bee, I met a 10 year old girl (her name escapes me at the moment, but I’m sure it was something like “Moon Dust”) who knew the entire choreography to the Locomotion (understandable), The Electric Slide (a bit more disturbing, but not yet to the point of fear), and The Hustle. Yes, THE The Hustle, as in “Do the Hustle! Doot-doot-doot-do-do-da-doot-da-doot… Do the Hustle!”
I also met Rebecca Sealfon, winner of the 1997 National Spelling Bee. She is also the single most frightening individual I’ve ever met. She spelled words into her hands and then into the microphone, one letter at a time. Her winning word was euonym. My computer’s spell check doesn’t even recognize euonym as a real word, yet I assure you, it’s real, and it’s spelled correctly. Rebecca was from Brooklyn, New York. Rebecca was also home schooled. I’m not going to say anything else, because I think that picture is pretty well painted. [This was edited to avoid offending the large numbers of home schooled students at Harding University. I say screw 'em if they can't take a joke, anti-social sheltered little weirdos...]
Just so your curiosity is satisfied, I missed my first word. My word? Vexillology: the study of flags. How many kids do you know running around saying they want to be vexillologists (studiers of flags) when they grow up? I had no clue what the word was, much less the spelling. So I asked for the definition, straight from the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Here’s the definition I got: “Vexillology… the study of flags.” I then asked that the word be used in a sentence: “Vexillology is the study of flags.” I spelled “v-e-x-a-l-o-l-o-g-y”, which is… uh… incorrect. So I heard the desk bell of doom and was dismissed to (insert dramatic chord)… the comfort room. Two contestants before me, the word had been “panther”.
Since the National Spelling Bee is such a highly revered institution in the lives of children with glasses thick enough to see into the future, the comfort room is a pretty depressing place. You see, what happens is that so many of these kids (there were 270-something contestants when I went) [space edit] realize that the only hopes they have for any level of fame and glory is to spell words right. So when you miss, you’re sent into this ridiculously luxurious conference room with professional counselors to tell you that just because you lost doesn’t make you a loser. Oh, that, and there’s pastry as far as the eye can see.
So after I gorged myself on glazed, chocolate glazed, glazed chocolate iced, crullers, and about a gallon of milk, I decided I’d been thoroughly comforted, and [run-on sentence](.) I proceeded to walk out of the comfort room, head held high, knowing that my self-esteem was not completely tied to my ability (or inability) to memorize the dictionary.
Somewhere back there I had a point… But for now, let’s just say that while, yes, I may be the dorkiest guy on campus… It can always get worse.

Here endeth the lesson.

More than anything, I'm ticked about the Brooklyn/home school crack being taken out... But I guess I can understand it. I guarantee you that won't be the last thing edited out of my Bison articles... I'll keep you posted.