Tales from the OKC, Part 4

Boredom is a dangerous thing. Almost as dangerous as Osama Bin Roadrage. And that's pretty bad. Think of a lab technician mixing the next batch of penicillin on a bad day, then add in a boss straight out of Office Space, and wonder what a vendetta that employee might have; then fear what that employee might do about it. Now think about how similar that action might be to the actions taken when the employee is bored. See? Different intent in each situation, but similar results. Either way, thousands of people die. And one person laughs.

Frat Boy Mike and I spent much of our time in OKC bored out of our minds. We discovered early in our stay at the magnificent Bricktown Econolodge that our television was not working properly. It had been adapted to fit the surroundings. We prefer to call it "Ghettovision," in honor of its staticy goodness.

We found a bit of excitement when we left the hotel room though. For instance, we were followed by a homeless guy while walking downtown. That was kind of scary. And we embarked on a phone charger saga that spanned two entire days of the trip.

You see, FBM had forgotten/lost his phone charger at home. And we were in need of cell phones during this trip, being that emergencies seemed to arise every five minutes. When we went to the mall to purchase my new suitcase, FBM bought a phone charger from a little booth in the middle of the food court. Clue number one: a cell phone store should not be located between Chick-Fil-A and Wendy's. Clue number two: the receipt was hand-written, without an address or contact information of any kind. Clue number three that this guy was not a reputable vendor: the phone charger rattled when shaken. The damning evidence: the piece of shit didn't work.

So we got back to the hotel with a broken phone charger. Needless to say, FBM was pissed. But going back to the mall to try to find this guy and get his money back would have cost more in taxi fare than the price of the actual charger. [I am reminded of the episode of South Park in which the boys (just Stan and Kenny, I believe) pay to take a bus to LA to get their $18 from Mel Gibson because The Passion sucked.]

The next day, we were walking through downtown OKC, from lunch back to the courthouse for more mock trial, when we passed a cell phone store. FBM was determined now. He had to have a working cell phone charger. So we stepped inside and he purchased a cell phone charger for the same amount as the dysfunctional junk plastic he had bought the day prior.

Can you guess what happened? If you need a hint, just remember that we were still in OKC.

We got back to our immaculate accomodations and FBM plugged in the charger. Then he unplugged it. Then he plugged it in again.

Then he swore.

Then he swore again.

Then he tried another outlet.

Then he swore some more.

Then (and this is the fateful moment) he turned the phone on. Low and behold, his phone was being the p.o.s. It refused to charge unless turned on. So now FBM began to wonder. . . did the other phone charger work too? Had he just dished out an additional $22 for no reason?

The answer, good readers, is "no." The other phone charger did not work.

But thank goodness FBM got that functional phone charger. Otherwise our boredom may have endured forever. Thanks to the full battery on FBM's phone, we were able to engage in a long-forgotten and neglected pastime. It's a good one. Maybe you've done it before: pranking random 1-800 numbers.

FBM gained access to a restricted account by making up a four-digit pin number; he ordered a catalog (for what, I don't know) to be sent to me at our hotel address; he found several fax and internet access numbers; and best of all, he found phone sex. In the airport. We were in the airport, he had speaker phone enabled, and he "randomly" found phone sex. (It may have been a bit too convenient, don't you think?) If you've never called a phone sex number though, please do. It's hilarious. They ask for a credit card number, and as you're making up sixteen digits to punch in, a ridiculously breathy, unsexy voice keeps telling you how you're making her so hot by pushing her buttons that way.

But prank calls weren't our only form of entertainment; we're far more sophisticated than that. We also played a rousing game of Rambo Deer!

What is Rambo Deer, you ask? I will tell you.

While walking through Bricktown, trying to find something to do, we decided to explore the adventurous world of Bass-Pro Shop. You know, all of those dead animals, caged fish, and equipment with which to kill more animals and cage/kill more fish is quite appealing. We were meandering our way through the store when FBM spotted the games. They're arcade games. Only, instead of racing cars or fighting mutants, you get to shoot things--primarily wild animals.

FBM chose to play a game that would simulate a deer hunt. He picked up the fake rifle, planted his feet, and prepared to aim. And then deer started running across the screen. FBM shot and he shot, but he missed and he missed--that is, until the final round, during which FBM shot all three bucks.

It was amazing. The first deer did a back flip into a ditch after being shot. The second deer tucked its head and went into a triple somersault before slamming into a tree. The third deer. . . well. . . it's just too gruesome to describe.

I thought I was watching a Rambo film. This wasn't hunting. This was action.

But not all of our entertainment in the OKC was equally riveting. On Friday night, FBM and I decided to see a movie. We didn't check the movie times before heading to the theater, so I picked a movie based on its start time alone. We saw Art School Confidential.

Do not see Art School Confidential. Whatever you do, do NOT see Art School Confidential.

FBM's main reason would be the amount of male nudity. Apparently streaking through a frat house is perfectly acceptable, but a male nude model for an art class? Absolutely not!

My main reason for advising you not to see the movie is that the characters make no sense. By that I do not mean that they are quirky or "unique" or even mentally ill. What I mean is that just when you think that you know the main character and you know why he's in art school and you know what he defines as art, he goes and does something that betrays his moral fiber (as it has been portrayed to you, the viewer) in its entirity. And there is no good explanation given either. Way to go, Sony!