Sam Editorial: Dweeb of the Year


So this past summer this funny thing happened during my daily commute. While on the bus back from my job at the engineering office wearing a short sleeved collared shirt, I transitioned smoothly from playing chess on my phone to doing the crossword to doing the sudoku to reading a comic book. It was this seemingly innocuous combination of nerdy pastimes that catalysed a reaction within me. Unbeknownst to me what I was doing on the bus combined with my studies at an electrical engineer short circuited past my body’s natural dweeb dampening mechanisms. The preventus wedgius region in my brain popped under the strain and then I suddenly doubled over in pain as I became aware of duct taped glasses, a lisp and a mountain chain of acne starting to grow on my face. The reaction accelerated, as I suddenly knew more and more about the specifics of American Civil War history and the mechanics involved in a standard Pokemon battle.
High school athletes at the height of their careers, some of them already transitioning smoothly to become bitter old men, appeared in the horizon outside the windows of the bus.  I genuinely began to fear for my life as jocks started sprinting after my bus, , chanting taunts featuring crude puns on my name like Sam Shitrington, or Dweebacus Codrington at me. My vision flickered, as a Mathletes pin magically attached itself to my pen protector: I could no longer see social cues!
As women were thrown off the bus, repulsed by the sheer sight of my growing armpit stains, I felt a rage grow within me. It was a wrath that I could only then describe on a scale between someone suggesting Superman could beat Batman in a fight and someone having the audacity to teabag my bullet riddled corpse in Call of Duty without preceding that with a successful 360 no scope. I grabbed my pocket calculator and unsheathed it to reveal a lightsaber. I leapt out to enact my own revenge of the nerds, donning my wedgie resistant tighty whiteys. I came under fire at once from the quarterback who lobbed a series of wiffle balls at me. I’ll admit I was phased. However after regathering my nerve (I rolled a 20 sided die and passed my Morale Save) I shot back with projectiles of my own: my model train collection fired with accuracy that even Legolas would have let his sleek proud, elvish Jaw hang at the sight of my precisely calibrated shots. I knew I couldn’t have missed, I had done some on the spot projectile motion equations in the seconds previously.  I shouted out an expertly translated Orc warcry, drew my authentic hauberk from the back of my historically accurate medieval fair costume (I was one of Richard III’s guardsman afflicted with the Black Death and syphillis) and charged towards the chanting mob of testosterone, muscle and sure death. Sizing up the first linebacker I swung the halberd with all my might at his handsome head. He reached out and flicked me and I flew back thirty feet, with every bone in my body broken. How could I have forgotten I have osteoporosis and asthma. The jocks crowded around and I screamed as they began to eat me ali-
Hold it one goddamn second, Sam Codrignton here, editor for Golden Words and I’m going to interrupt this collection of stereotypes and in-jokes like a pre-programmed subroutine while the interrupt_enable is set to HIGH in a regular clock cycle of the processor. For those of you not taking ELEC 371, I’m going to interrupt this series of eclectic nerd trivia like Kanye at Taylor Swift’s birthday party (“Imma let you blow the candles out, but Rihanna’s birthday was last week”) . We got a great issue for you this week so hopefully you can get over the memory of overhearing your elderly relative call one of your younger cousins a “sexy piece of ass” this Thanksgiving dinner. Ugh, Grandma Jones, why?