#37: the Bible Butt

Enjoy a guest post from the always amusing Taylor Lamb:

If you have ever been to Refuge, or even church for that matter, then you have definitely seen it. You know what I’m talking about. You’re walking into the sanctuary when BAM, it’s your face. It’s a butt. It’s a butt that is irregular in size and shape. This is when it hits you: that guy has a Bible on his butt. It’s right there in his back pocket. He is so close to the word of God at all times (because we all know that the word of God diffuses from a larger concentration to a smaller concentration when in contact with a believer). It’s basically part of him – or at least part of his wardrobe. Throughout my years at Ouachita, I have seen many a Bible Butt and have even come to classify them into three distinct groups.


The Petite Bible Butt (PBB)
The most common Bible Butt is popular among those looking for comfort. This usually comes in the form of a KJV New Testament. The benefit is not the translation, but rather the fact that these Bibles come in the smallest of sizes and easily fit into the back pocket. The advantages of the PBB are obvious. With bibles only slightly larger than wallets, they can be taken anywhere, and do not need removal from the pocket when sitting down. For these reasons, the PBB is a go to for girls, seeing as anything larger could never get into the back pocket of those skinny jeans. However, there are also disadvantages. For one, it’s an archaic text. And two, there is no Old Testament (except for some of the editions which include Psalms and Proverbs). So if you put comfort above the necessity of the complete word of God in a modern readable translation, I would say the PBB is the way to go.

The Creased Bible Butt (CBB)
 This Bible Butt is characterized by an average sized (Non-study) Bible folded – almost to the point of creasing – and inserted into the back pocket. The ESV Thinline is a primary candidate for the CBB. This is the method of choice by the hip youth minister type, especially in older generations (in which case it is commonly accompanied by a makeshift duct tape front and back cover). The benefits of this method are many. Primarily, it is a very effective way to wear in a new Bible and give the allusion of consistent and frequent reading (unless of course you are one of those “One should cherish his Bible and keep it in perfect condition” kind of people). Also, it saves money for the Want-To-Be-Bible-Butter. It can be pricey to purchase a full Bible that fits into the back pocket without folding, where-as the ESV Thinline can be purchased for a budget friendly fifteen dollars. Despite the fact that this Bible Butt-er literally twists and molds the word of God for his own purposes, this is a great method to accomplish the Bible Butt.

The Fitted Bible Butt (FBB)
The FBB is for those who want to go all in on the Bible Butt but don’t want to sacrifice the Old Testament. To accomplish the FBB, one must seek out and find a Bible that will fit snug in the back pocket of his or her pants. As a former Fitted Bible Butter myself, I recommend the Zondervan NASB Compact Reference Bible. It is the perfect size for the back pocket of an average pair of jeans and has nice gold trim as well as a leather cover. Some might call the thickness common of an FBB Bible a draw back. I would agree in terms of sitting down, but the benefit is that if someone has one of these things in his pocket, everyone within a forty foot radius will know it. That is a bulge that does not go unseen. Some more drawbacks might be the price and the font size. These Bibles can be upwards of forty dollars and some require a magnifying glass in order to read them. Fitted Bible Butts are frequently scrutinized for their lack of creativity and perseverance. They didn’t make their other bibles work for the bible butt. Instead, they spent money that could have been used to feed an average of 14 young African children for six weeks on buying yet another Bible. So if you really want to 1) rock the Bible Butt, 2) have the whole Bible, and 3) don’t mind letting young children starve, I would recommend the FBB.

#36: sneaking Starbucks into the library

Don't look at me like that. You know, maybe in a weak moment during finals, that you've stumbled. Hey, this is a safe space for confession-we've all been there. Ten pages left on that exegetical paper, and you've already been at it for 7 1/2 long, claustrophobic hours in a freezing study room.  The pages of commentary begin to blur in front of your eyes, and the usually captivating discussion over Paul's use of conjunctions in Romans 11 stops making sense. You notice your hands begin to shake from caffeine withdrawals, and you remember that pile of fresh, crumbly, decadent chocolate chunk Otis Spunkmeyer muffins placed so haphazardly on the Starbucks counter. You know that taking a break long enough to enjoy your caffeine outside the library would disrupt your flow of thought and lead to failure. Even the most strong willed and studious of library patrons begin to imagine how much a small cup of coffee would aide in the homework process.

Only problem? 

Besides bottled water, food and drink do not fly within the confines of Riley-Hickingbotham. So, like prisoners smuggling contraband, we find ourselves faced with the difficult-but not impossible-task of sneaking Starbucks into the library. There are 4 main approaches.

1. Pulling the Freshman card

Some students walk straight in from Starbucks, venti mocha-chino with whip cream in hand. Secretly, they hope the librarians and student workers will turn a blind eye out of respect for their boldness. But if this fails, they merely feign ignorance to the rule by batting their eyelashes, turning up that southern accent, and innocently saying, "Oh, this book staining/carpet ruining/bug attracting deliciousness isn't allowed? I'm just a freshman/transfer/new to studying senior, I was very unaware..." in naive hopes the librarian will let their drink stay 'just this once'. 

Success Rate: 15%

Warning: This excuse can only be used 2x per librarian or student worker before they begin to get suspicious. 

2. Conceal and Carry

This method involves first removing every item from the backpack inside the library. Once in Starbucks, the beverage is carefully placed with a complicated system of coats and napkins at the bottom of said backpack. Then the carrier simply strolls into the library, past the student worker, disguised as a rule following, beverage less student.

Success Rate: 70% 

Warning: Not recommended for beginners, the facially expressive, anyone with an expensive backpack, or those that do not like the occasional feeling of steaming hot beverages spilling down their back or thigh. 

3. Bribing the guard

This can be tricky. If done incorrectly, the student worker positioned at the Starbucks entrance will be staring you down every time you even approach this side of campus. But occasionally, a Snickers bar or Naked juice passed indiscreetly across the table is all you need to gain access for your tea. 

Success Rate: 30%

3b. Befriending the guard

Closely related and more successful than the above, befriending the guard is a good and practical approach. It never hurts to meet and get to know a fellow Ouachitonian, especially one who watches those who exit Starbucks with a watchful eye. It is better to grow these friendships outside of the work study environment, however, as the student workers in the library tend to be clever, humorous, and intuitive when it comes to seeing through cheap attempts at camaraderie. Did I mention they also tend to be some of the best dressed and more attractive students on campus?

Success Rate: 25%-60%, depending on who is scheduled to work and the frequency of rotation.

Warning: It can be easy to abuse already existing friendships that offer this benefit. If over used, it puts your friend in the awkward position of helping out a pal and loosing their work study. Proceed with caution.

4. Treating the process like a video game

Before the days of first person shooters and RPGs, video games in my youth consisted of a Gameboy Color and various versions of the Pokemon series. In many of these games, success meant finding, through trial and error, a way of avoiding enemies or traps to make it to a prized object or enemy. I like to approach this in the same way. First, I visualize a map of the location. Then, I take a few moments to learn the predictable patterns of student worker movements as they patrol the shelves. Once I feel comfortable, I begin the quick and subtle journey of moving across the library and to my study location in increments. The secret to this maneuver is the subtle holding of ones cup at a casual, concealed location by your upper thigh. Be prepared to quickly move the coffee from one side to the other as needed.

Bonus Points: Rewarded for making it all the way to your study location without spilling over half your drink.

Success Rate: 90%

#35: discovering Ouachitonians in unexpected locations

One Saturday this summer, my friend and I were attending a talk about Islam at church. I was listening attentively when, unexpectedly, something caught my attention. Like a puppy suddenly spotting a brand new sneaker lying forgotten on the floor, my eyes were drawn to a couple sitting only a few rows ahead. Whether it was some special glimmer in their eyes, the ease with which they wrote down Islamic terms containing too many vowels, or the shiny new diamond ring on her left hand, I knew with certainty these two were Ouachitonians.

Nudging my fellow seminar attendee, I rejoiced over seeing someone from my homeland during the long summer months away from my beloved OBU. There is an indescribable joy we all know and cherish that comes only with the knowledge another person in the room can correctly spell both 'Arkadelphia' and 'Ouachita'. While weighing the pros and cons of awkwardly saying hi to two people I have never met but vaguely recognize, three men wearing Greek letters foreign to all other universities slipped in one aisle over. My joy grew exponentially.

Ouachitonians, as it turns out, are everywhere.

Now, some of you aren’t impressed. You are not excited about this occurance, because you know

1. I live in the DFW metroplex, an area richly saturated in OBU attendees

2. The above mentioned church was the Village, a place frequented by 'in the know' college students who love Acts 29-esque churches, great podcasts, and missions.

Having calculated the statistics and knowing the high probability of this occurrence, you refuse to share in my joy. To you skeptics, I offer this second example.

The summer after my freshman year, I was working as a youth intern on the senior class trip to New York City.  Being a farily kind and giving youth intern, I spent an entire afternoon waiting in the Wicked cancellation line attempting to buy tickets for my students. I had been waiting for about an hour when I noticed a familiar shade of purple moving past the theatre. I stared, fixated, as a girl wearing the generic ‘Ouachita’ t-shirt we all receive during our official OBU visit pranced past me. Being new to the now all-too-common phenomenon of running into Ouachitonians at random times, I asked the woman behind me to hold my spot so I could run, screaming, after this mystery girl. Sadly, she disappeared into the city before I could even ask for her name/major/hometown. While I never discovered the identity of this fellow tiger, I did befriend the kind New Yorker who held my spot in line. As it turns out, her niece had recently graduated from-you guessed it-good ole OBU.

Where’s the strangest place you've unexpectedly stumbled across Ouachitonians?

-The 'other' Jessica S.

#34: graduating

Last Saturday at approximately 9:30AM, the band-aid bridging that delicate gap between “Ouachita’s World” and the “Real World” was ripped off. Perhaps a gentler transition would have been nice. Maybe a grace period of 3 months of footloose and fancy free time. Or perhaps some sort of 12-step program. (Step 1: learn to find food on your own. Step 2: accept lack of consistent dance parties in your life. Step 3: find a friend that is not your age—and consequently, probably boring.) But, since this is the cruel, heartless real world, we seniors do not get a 4-day church-campesque orientation session to the rest of our lives. We don’t get a name tag. We don’t get a t-shirt. And we certainly don’t get ice cream with the president. (Ok, maybe we did get ice cream with the president last week, but that is beside the point.)

Let’s face it. However painful, the quick-rip method was always the recommended method for band-aid removal over that slow-pull-of-agony method. Those baby hairs surrounding my elbow scabs were superfluous anyway. No need to keep ‘em hanging around. Thus, it is only fitting to embrace this next season of life with the same level of gusto as that band-aid rip. For, it’s likely just as emotionally healthy to watch those five stages of grief fly by my plane window as it is to actually experience them.

So here we are, now cruising safely into the acceptance stage. Acceptance of the real world. Of the oh-so exciting 9 to 5. Of invigorating chats about car insurance. Of the adventurous world of 401ks (confession: I have no idea what this is). In but a blink of the eye, we seniors will be embracing the stealthy and divinely comfortable Dodge Caravan as our means of transportation and will be saving babies from dirty diapers with a level of calm and collectedness that would put Superman—or at least Supernanny—to shame. That’s right. Say hello, to the rest of your lives, my senior friends! Adventure is sitting on our parents’ doorsteps. (Our temporary residences, of course).

Seeing as how I am now saying my goodbyes to Ouachita, I feel that it is only appropriate to say goodbye to Stuff Ouachitonians Like as well. There is no room for any band-aid remnants on this very adult elbow. My alumni pin would certainly get jealous. However, instead of shutting SOL down and leaving SOL and all of its readership truly SOL in the ways of Ouachitonians satire, I would like to bequeath the blog to a friend, fellow Ouachitonian, and--far more importantly—a fellow English major. She’s a sophomore. She’s a Ouachita legacy. She’s an Eta Sweetheart, and she is a master of wit. She is Jessica Scoggins, the stuff Ouachitonians truly like.

All the best to you, Jess. I could not stand to bequeath to anyone with less awesome of a name. May your satire be sharp. May your Tiger Tunes endeavors be successful. And may your sheep, your bleat, your fleece be true.

O.B.U.

Over and out.

Jessica Schleiff

#33: power outages

Nothing shakes up the unspoken social conventions of Ouachita Baptist University like a good ol' power outage. Sure, by day, we are upstanding scholars. We brush the shoulders of our acquaintances with mildly interested “how’s it goings” and many a smile in the caf. We interact with professors with tact and a considerable level of hygiene. We try not to tip over the proverbial boat.

But when the lights go out, things get real. Like Bible Times real. Like Old Testament Real. Like “Oh, snap! Lot’s daughters did what?” real.

I have never been in an apocalypse. I didn’t even finish the Left Behind series. Thus, I found myself completely unprepared recently when the town of Arkadelphia found itself on the verge of total anarchy.

Two Tuesdays ago I plopped down to study for my impending Life Science test at the exact same moment that darkness seized the halls and sidewalks of our beloved campus. Like any self-respecting RA would do at such a time as this, I immediately abandoned my hall, rushing to the science building (a.k.a. The New Jerusalem of Life Science) and reassured the freshman girls cowering in the halls and stairwells of FCW3 that there would only be cause for panic if a cow came busting through the windows.

However, my Great Escape to Productivity turned out to be quite the quest. FYI, if you ever find yourself caught in the middle of an apocalypse, do not expect to get anywhere fast. The first obstacle in my and Courtney’s trek (Courtney had by this time jumped on the Jones Journey Train) to the science building was the Francis Crawford lobby. I should have known that all the residents of Flippen Perrin would converge on our halls at the first sign of weather danger. I suspect they were answering the call to use their bodies as physical Twister shields for all the vulnerable FC-dwellers who might at any moment be sucked away into oblivion. In the future, I will sleep soundly in the knowledge of this chivalrous commitment to self-sacrifice, but at the time, they were merely a blockade on the path to test preparation. Obstacle 1.

Obstacle 2 was a gargantuan tree that the wind had blown into the middle of the road. Not to fear, though. The men of Flippen Perrin were on their toes once again, rushing to the scene of the road impediment, sporting subhuman strength, headlamps, and muscle tees. It is comforting for future apocalypses to know that I live so close to an entire community of Jack Shepherds. (I suspect, though, that it wouldn't take the men of FP six seasons to get off that dadgum island.)

After safely avoiding Obstacle 2, Courtney and I slipped and slid on the lightless Ouachita sidewalks all the way to our intended goal. Yet, not surprisingly, though the Jones generators did illuminate our meiosis and exegetical notes, they did not illuminate our minds. How can one study cell reproduction when a whole host of flashlights are closing in on the Ouachita Tiger? It was like Lord of the Flies had broken out within the parameters of area code 71998. From our window, Courtney and I watched with both awe and horror as tens of (thousands of?) tiny lights crept closer and closer to our caged mascot. Meanwhile, the Tiger waited unprotected in his prison, his security cameras rendered useless by the electrical outage, leaving him as helpless as a veal or one of those suicidal shark-cage divers. Thankfully, Securitas was on the job in no time, halting the faceless ruffians from desecrating our hero with their irreverent butts on his back. (Let all Ouachitonians hereby rest assured that OBU Safety does NOT need electricity to maintain campus safety.)

Meanwhile, back at the farm, the residents of O.C. Bailey decided that a power outage was the perfect time to run, screaming, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth between their dorm and Lile.  I now know that Ouachita Football does not take pansy excuses like “total darkness” as reason for shirking physical training time.

Yet in spite of the madness, Courtney, I, the other Jones studiers, and the rest of Ouachita managed to walk away from our micro-apocalypse unscathed. The lights came back on. People went about their normal business. And I made an A on my Life Science test. What happened in the dark pretty much stayed in the dark.

I wish, though, that I had been the all-seeing Eye of Sauron in that brief moment when the Apocalype and the Ouachita Bubble collided. In those seconds right after power returned to Arkadelphia, that “Dream sequence-Jerry B. Jenkins-end of the world-I am Legend” state shook hands with the “2^nd-Baptist-attending-NorthFace-Vest-Wearing-Piggybacking-BBC kids” state. If only I could have witnessed that freshman touching the Tiger tail for the first time, or that CDA newbie in mid-rap-lyric-holler, or that streaker as he sheepishly rushed to clothe himself with the nearest shrubbery. Perhaps, then--and only then--would I have seen the true faces of Ouachitonians in all their gleaming, transparent glory.

#32: tiger traks, a personal anecdote

For four years I have happily avoided the celebrated competition of Tiger Traks. Convenient excuses like “I have to commemorate my friend’s birthday in the location of her actual birth,” or “Oh darn it, I’ll be out of the country,” or “I’m sorry, but I believe I’ll be feeding Sudanese refugees that weekend” have kept my lack of athletic ability inconspicuous.

Until now.

It being the final semester of my senior year, I was struck recently by a staggering question: can I call myself a true Tiger without ever participating in Tiger Traks? I reasoned that, “no, I could not.”

So, I set out to make my Ouachita experience complete, searching for the perfect Tiger Traks Eight-some. I pondered questions such as “where can I find the poster children of sport?” and “who on this campus epitomizes physical intensity?”

Naturally, I looked to the English Department, a hotbed of athleticism.

Having assembled our team, we embarked this past Friday on what was to be the adventure of a lifetime. We—Liz “The Dark Horse” Richardson, Baronger the Brave, Sarah “Not Plain but Tall” Stark, Ellen Three Sticks Pointing East Eubanks, Jason the Pony-tailed Warrior, The Emperor of Ice cream, Mary Poppins on Speed, and myself set off on our quest, sporting much heart and several deer-in-the-headlights expressions. We hoped to put our name down in Tiger Traks history.

The name, however, posed an unexpected problem. Mary Poppins had a brilliant idea on the subject of team t-shirts. One of her students was selling shirts to raise money for Nigerian widows. Poppins thought that by purchasing said t-shirts for the team, we would save ourselves time as well as tender our finances to the poor and destitute in the process. In order to merge both our literary roots and represent our friends back in Africa (aka, the Motherland), we chose the name “Things Fall Apart” for our team, giving a shout out to our old friend Chinua Achebe and calling upon the sympathies of many a Western Letters student. We could not foresee at the time, however, the confusion said shirts would inspire.

Apparently, having the words “AIDS” in bold red letters on one’s back during Traks lends itself to a variety of responses, few not marked by condemnation and distain. What it also lends itself to is many a conversation such as this: [while running around campus on the tiger trek]

--“What! Oh hey! No, it’s not our team name” [several gasps for air]

--“Yeah, I realize AIDS is a serious issue” [more gasping]

--“No, we’re not trying to be funny.” [more gasping]

--“It’s a novel, you know, Things Fall Apart. Nigeria? Achebe? Beular?” [exasperation]

--“Yes, I know my shirt has the words malnutrition and sex-trafficking on the front, but isn’t it nifty how it fits into the shape of Africa?”

After settling any lingering tension from the above issue, we attempted to hold our own in a variety of competition events. We found that some areas were not our strength—specifically, all games relating to mud (at one point Liz, Dr. Amy Sonheim, and I were all dragged upside down, the only lifeline between us and death by mud-drowning being the bottom of a tug-of-war rope). However, in other areas we shined. 91 marbles with our toes! Can I get a witness?

However, in all Traks events, we felt prepared. We armed ourselves with proverbs such as “the pen is mightier than the sword” and “sticks and stones won’t break my bones…” We channeled our inner Borrimeers and Beowolfs. We rested in thoughts like, “Relay? Boat race? Volleyball? check! I’ve totally read about that somewhere! We got this!”

And in the end, we fared well. We walked away with our heads held high. We brought honor to many English majors who were safe at home, resting in the comfort of a book, cup of tea, or a solitary walk through a forest.

Perhaps, Africa Is not Done Suffering, but after the end of the weekend’s events, we, the members of Things Fall Apart, certainly are.

That’ll do, Things. That’ll do, indeed.

#31: using info like eharmony

This is a postmodern world we live in, people. This is not your grandmother’s Ouachita. You won’t find us scurrying to our females-only tennis class wearing raincoats to cover up our shorty-short skirts. You won’t find us rendezvousing at the sidewalk during the designated hours for co-ed bonding. And you will certainly not find us answering telegraph invitations to go out for a coke on a Saturday night.

Community at OBU looks different than it did fifty years ago. I know this may come as a shock to you, fellow Ouachitonian. You probably, like me, were under the misconception that the past 100 years were utterly static. But let’s face reality, friends. The world is changing, and so must we.

And we have.

The area of Ouachitonian lives where this change seems most obvious is in the field of cross-gender relations, i.e. dating, engagement, and marriage.

Just in case you were unclear about that fine print section on your degree plan, be aware that these three experiences are prerequisites for you taking that ol' leisurely stroll in mid-May across the graduation stage and maneuvering that handshake-diploma-hand-off with Dr. Rex Horne. And just so we’re all on the same page here, these steps should preferably be taken in the order listed above. (Sometimes Ouachitonians get fuzzy on this issue. Not to worry. Many are here to counsel you and walk you through the process. Please consult your advisor or RA).

I know that these three tasks may seem daunting. But, not to fear, I am here to inform you that Ouachita has conveniently equipped you with all the necessary skills you need to date, engage, and be married. Where those we now dub Golden Tigers may have required intentional methods like a face-to-face conversation to figure out who that cute girl in Fine Art Theater was and whether she was available to be telegraphed for that coke, we 21^st century Ouachitonians have more convenient and technologically savvy methods.

I would like to now introduce you to Ouachita’s very own version of EHarmony:
INFO
It’s like facebook had a baby with christianmingles.com, except that baby is exponentially more talented and beautiful than either of its parents.

“How,” might you ask, “is INFO the best method for Ringing by Springing it?” Let me count the ways…

1.) Geographic Relevance.

Whilst facebook creeping an acquaintance, have you ever found your eyes wandering over to his/her friends column and landing on a particularly aesthetically pleasing individual? When clicking on said individual’s profile have you been heartbroken to discover that said individual lives in Milwalkee? Well wipe those tears away, my friend. When INFO creeping, you will never again find yourself geographically isolated from that potential someone…unless, of course, you dub the walk to the Village too strenuous.

2.)Personal Details

Will Christianmingles.com inform you of that potential someone’s major and classification? I think not! (Ok, maybe it will. I’m not really sure. I have always chosen the supremacy of INFO for all my dating, engagement, and marriage endeavors). No matter. Either way, how will you know if that easy-on-the-eyes female’s interests are truly compatible with yours? How can you anticipate her dietetics major rendering her totally uninterested as you chart the rise and fall of the Roman Empire on your first date? How are you ever to save yourself both the humiliation and wasted carbon dioxide if not to INFO stalk her first?

3.) Photograph

Perhaps 100% of Eharmony users are indeed body-builders and marathon runners. However, if you, like me, are a skeptic and find yourself doubting the legitimacy of that person’s profile pic, doubt no more. Not only are the photographs on INFO not photo-shopped or cut and pasted, they are taken in the not-so-stylistic-high-point of one’s life. AKA: freshman year. And just in case you still distrust that INFO picture, rest assured that Ms. Sandy can verify its authenticity.

I wish you the best, my Ouachitonian friend, in all of your dating and mating. If you find yourself spring semester, still unhitched, don’t blame me or Ouachita. We did the best we could to help you find that special someone.

**The inspiration for today's post came from the one, the only, the Adam 'A-Hud' Hudson. (Be sure to ask him for a personal testimony about how INFO has changed the course of his life.)

#30: aquatic friends

There are only two places in this world where Speedos are appropriate: Sweden and OBU swim meets.

Sure, some may say “hey, wow, that small piece of spandex you’re wearing screams ‘TMI!’” But such people have obviously not experienced the aerodynamic efficiency that said piece of swimwear provides. And not only that, it is highly preferable attire at outdoor sporting events. Who wants those awkward shirt and shorts tan lines?

A variety of adjectives (occasionally with more than four letters) may be uttered when the subject of our aquatic friends at OBU comes up in conversation. Some may complain about the exclusiveness that said group often adheres to. Others may be frustrated about their dining location in the caf (whatever, we didn’t want to sit there anyway). And others may simply be intimidated by their confidence in rocking minimal clothing.

Yet, let’s be honest, any hard feelings we Ouachitonians may feel towards our dearly beloved Tigersharks are only motivated by one thing: jealousy. That being said, I think that we must bond together to overcome this breaking of the 10^th commandment together. The only way to avoid being totes jel of one’s neighbor is by making said neighbor your friend.

So, here are some great strategies for becoming besties with the OBU Tigersharks…

mission: BEFRIEND A SWIMMER

1. feign a near-drowning:

This plan involves both acting and swimming abilities. Be timely. Make sure you attempt this during the regular hours of swim team practice, lest your Oscar-worthy performance be all in vain. You have two options: A. The “Oh I was just casually strolling by the water’s edge when I stubbed my toe and fell in” plan and B. The “I was swimming laps when, out of the blue, I suddenly went belly-up like a betta fish” plan. A Tigershark will have dived in that pool and swum to your rescue faster than you can hum the JAWS theme. And everyone knows that saving someone’s life equals lifelong friendship.

CAUTION: If you do not have the level of swimming proficiency necessary to put this plan into action, please divert to one of the other options, lest your attempt at faking your drowning result in your actual drowning. (The OBU Tigersharks are not liable for any deaths that may occur in efforts to befriend them).

2. maintain a daily caloric intake of 20,000+:

You will not be able to avoid bumping into a Tigershark as you both return for the 10^th time to the mainline. You’ll chat, bond, and plan a rendezvous for maximum bonding at one of Arkadoo’s all-you-can-eat buffets. Friendship is sure to ensue.

CAUTION: A diet of this proportion may necessitate your spending hours each day in vigorous exercise.

3. try a new hairstyle:

Boys, you know you’ve always wanted a Mohawk. Not only will said hairstyle land you on the path to being chummy with the swimteam, but you will also blend in at all local gatherings of both the KKK and British punk bands. Win-win.

For the girls, rock the sopping-wet bun. They won’t even know you’re not one of them.

4. Eat breakfast at 5:00am

The Tigersharks will not be able to ignore your heart-breaking loneliness as you dine morning after morning in the caf alone. If you don’t have a table invite in no time I will lose my faith in mankind. (However, if they do, by some chance, fail to notice you, try wearing an ankle-length rainjacket. By the time they realize you’re not actually a part of the team, you’ll have already won your place in their hearts).

5. when thinking life-science lab partner, choose a Tigershark:

Nothing says fellowship like making a baby potato head together.

Dear swimming Ouachitonian, if you are reading this, know that we long for your companionship, to understand where you’re coming from, to embrace diversity and tolerance through unity with YOU, our fellow Ouachitonian. I’ll leave you with a twist on the poetry of one wise mermaid—your comrade, if you will. Consider it an insight into all of our hearts:

When's it your turn?
Wouldn't you love, love to explore that world up above?
Out of the sea
Wish you could be
Part of our world.

**The idea for today's post was submitted by Amanda Seeley!

#29: Chehpel

Going to Chapel every Tuesday is like eating one of Bernie Bott’s Every Flavored Beans.

One day, after a few good choruses of “See God’s Light,” you may plop down in Row C, seat 107, to happily discover that today, Tony Campolo is speaking. Today, you picked a chocolate mousse bean.

Another day, you are slightly surprised. You don’t know what to think about the fact that there is currently a mime on stage, and said mime has replaced his invisible-box routine with the entire book of Hebrews. Today is a Marzipan day. Not bad, just not quite what you expected.

And then of course, there are those Tuesday mornings when you realize that today you lost your game of Chapel-Roulette. You should have used that chapel skip rather than saving it for flu season. And you find yourself repeating the famous words of Albus Dumbledore, “Alas, earwax.”

Due to the Forrest Gump, life-is-like-a-box-of-chocolates nature of Tuesday mornings at 10:00AM, many students have discovered means for combatting those earwax-flavor days. For, as every college student knows, nothing is more fatal than Boredom. And “listening to people older than us talk” and “Boredom” go together like Richard Simmons and inappropriate use of the unitard. I mean, how can anyone who doesn’t have a facebook possibly have anything worthwhile to say? I bet they can’t even spell the word relevance, let alone #hashtagit.

Visitors to Chapel may be flabbergasted to discover that Ouachita students regularly use Chapel as study hall. And sure, to those unenlightened outsiders, this practice may seem disrespectful. But how are they to know that home-working during the message is a long-standing Ouachita tradition? And not only that, it is a serious attempt at self-preservation lest the style of a speaker not measure up to our I’d-rather-just-listen-to-a-podcast tastes. Who, may I ask, would be liable in the case of a campus-wide epidemic of death by Boredom?

I, for one, am grateful for the way Ouachita Chapel has taught me how to cope with unentertaining situations. Heaven knows I’ll often be bombarded with them in the real world. Committee gatherings, seminars, board-room meetings, conventions? I'm confident that life after the bubble will involve circumstances that wreak havoc on my ADD, rendering my attention span comparable to that of a goldfish.

In fact, I have already started applying these coping methods to situations in my dad-to-day life. I now carry my IPod and Life Science text book on my person at all times.

Just the other Sunday, I showed up at church to discover we would be reading out of Deuteronomy that morning. I managed to don my headphones and whip out my Cellular Respiration notes before the pastor could say “thou shall not.” Maybe he was offended. I’m not really sure. I was too busy bobbing to the beats of Katy Perry to notice.

Next week I am supposed to go to this thing where the Pope like gives an address and stuff to a bunch of people. I’ve heard he’s pretty longwinded. Good thing I have an iphone. And unlimited texting.

#27: hypochondria

As an impoverished college student, I am hesitant to spend money on frivolous things like insurance or flu shots or doctor’s visits.

So what if my whole left arm has been purple for three days? It probably just needs circulation, nothing a few games of ultimate Frisbee can’t fix. And so what if I’m running 106 °F and the substance I’m currently blowing out of my nose looks radioactive? Nothing a little RnR and OJ won’t purge from the system in no time. I mean, do you know how many taco bell runs and pumpkin spice lattes could be funded for the same price as the co-pay on one trip to the doctor? The ratio is dizzying, my friend.

So understandably, I find it inconvenient when monthly (weekly?) I am confronted with a notice of my impending death. Such warnings come in the electronic medium of Kluck. Medical. Emails.

The signs started appearing September of freshman year when I first opened my Tigermail Inbox to find that Holy Cow! I had Measles/Mumps/Rubella! That kindergarten booster I endured back in the day was obviously faulty, because not only did I have fever, general malaise, sneezing, AND nasal congestion, but I had been fightin’ off a brassy cough for weeks! Sure, I could chock it up to the mold growing in my Francis Crawford AC unit, but that would just be pathetic disregard of the facts which were so blatantly staring me in the face, denial at its very finest.

And come October, I was taken aback to discover that the shortness of breath I was feeling when climbing the ESC stairs was not in fact due to too many boxes of Chik Filet waffle fries but instead, a nasty case of Sickle Cell Anemia. The signs were simply unignorable.

Since freshman year I have been dismayed month after month to learn that, not only do I have Lassa Fever, Ebola, Trichinosis, Prostate Cancer, HIV/AIDS, and three different kinds of Meningitis, but darn it, I’m pretty sure I have a rather persistent strain of SARS. (I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that civet cat kebab on our family vacation to Chongqing. Curses.)

Besides the stress it has caused my family, the most inconvenient part about this whole diagnostic process is the way it greatly conflicts with my college student search-under-seat-cushions-for-quarters-for-the-McValue-menu lifestyle. I mean, if you thought pediatricians were expensive, you would never believe the dolares one can charge when one holds the title “specialist.” And I regret to tell you that some of these diseases go beyond the scope of expertise of local physicians. I challenge you to find a doctor here in Arkansas who can confidently confirm your case of Guinea Worm Disease.

Dear Dr. Kluck, as much as I appreciate not only your concern for our physical well-being but also for our medical education, it has to stop. I just can’t take it anymore. And neither can my grandmother. After your December installment alerted me to her Coronary Artery Disease, I’m worried that her poor heart can’t take one more blow. And unfortunately, I have a growing suspicion that I have the bubonic plague. I’d just rather not know if this is true. As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. And I think in the case of both me and Grandma, a strong dose of ignorance is just what the doctor ordered.

#26: having unspoken (but never to be broken) rules of modesty

As a senior in high school, scrambling through that giant pile of college advertisements, my list of "things I look for in a university" had to get super specific. I mean, if I was going to be feeding my kids soup for the next 20 years until I finally gave those student loans the boot, I wanted it to be for the sake of a worthwhile educational cause. So, I started getting choosy, thinking about what really mattered in a college. I even developed a system for sorting pamphlets into the "heck no techno," "hmmm...probably not, but I'll dangle that admissions counselor by a thread a little longer," and "yeah, I think you could make all my varsity dreams come true, so I'll definitely give you a shout out this Wednesday at prayer meeting when peeps ask me where I'm thinking about going" piles.

Some colleges made it into the final rounds of the decision making process, only missing my tuition check by a few yards. John Brown, had you not roomed me in an "we-secretly-have-Mennonite-sympathies" suite during your version of SCOPE/GROW, you might have been the one. And Hardin-Simmons, you almost had me with that free CD; it's not your fault you had to go and locate yourself in (excuse me as I spit) Texas. U of A, you were definitely in a close second; if only you had appreciated my papier-mache volcano project as much as you did that Japanese-Indian-Korean-Pakistani-American kid's independent cancer research and given me that Fellowship instead, we could have had a beautiful life together.

Other universities were a no-brainer, their fliers going straight from the envelope to the shredder. Wellesley Private Women's College, thanks for the invite, but you just didn't comply with my stay-at-home-mom fall-back plans. Yale, it was fun going on that emotional roller coaster with you, but some acceptance rate statistics would have been nice along with the bumper sticker, personal interview, and 2007-2008 handbook you mailed me. And Liberty, ooohhh, Liberty. You had me for a split second with that colorful add frequenting the pages of WORLD magazine. Your mission statement and scholarship options were pretty legit. You just made one slip up: you included a picture. Yeah, sure, the girl standing on the steps of your chapel was really pretty, and some might have been fooled by her super relevant t-shirt complete with ambiguous slogan and tree graphic, but I was cunning. I knew what to look for, and my scrutinizing eyes could not miss the blaring statement sent by that floor-length khaki skirt...DRESS CODE! You went straight to the "heck no techno" pile, Liberty, faster than I could flip channels from 700 Club to MTV Cribs. Yes, yes, I know. I did ask for a Christian liberal arts education, but I had no intention of getting doc martins, an IMB logo-polo, and a head prayer-shawl in the mix. Better luck next time.

So, after months of googling, GROW-ing, alumni-facebook-stalking, essay writing, campus-visiting, and the occasional session of spontaneous weeping, I finally decided that Ouachita was it. With my down-payment on its way to Arkadelphia, I took comfort in knowing that I had made the right decision. I had been told that, in fact, Jesus went to OBU. And "by golly," I thought, "if it's good enough for Him, surely it's good enough for me."

Naturally, I struggled to suppress my shock when I arrived on campus to discover that, in spite of boasting to be as good as Liberty except "like not fundamentalist and stuff," Ouachita did indeed have its own set of clothing do's and don'ts. Sure, you might not find them printed in the Tiger Handbook, but you would find them engraved somewhere else: on the hearts and minds of Ouachitonians.

Perhaps that spaghetti strap and jeggings combo I rocked last week wouldn't land me in Keldon Henley's office, but it would merit me a concerned spot on the Wednesday night prayer line-up, if not by name, under the not-so-unspoken heading of "those girls." You know "those girls:" "those girls who have not yet had the 'being-sensitive-to-the-struggles-of-their-brothers-in-Christ' revelation." We need to really keep "those girls" on our hearts. Perhaps, if worst comes to worst (i.e. leggings as pants or heaven forbid, something strapless!) the situation may call for a little loving dose of confronting via a friend, an anonymous 'girl-don't-you-know-that-outfit-is-only-suited-for-street-corners' note, or better yet, a passive aggressive blogpost. :)

Freedom, grace, no longer being a slave to sin? These are all grand concepts, and Ouachitonians like to help keep them happenin' through intensely specific social conventions. Though at first I was wary of the subtle clothing regulations, I have come to realize their benefits. I mean, it is nice to be able to sleep soundly at night knowing my righteousness is still intact. Not to mention that it majorly cuts down on the number of quail that I have donate for my personal atonement every spring. (I especially appreciate this latter repercussion around tax time. I can never figure out if temple sacrifices are deductible!) Said conventions also sure do make all those passage about sexuality and adultery and stuff a lot more comfortable to sit through in Sunday School when I know that I am guilt free thanks to extreme personal discipline, the gouging out of one of my eyes, and the commitment of my brothers to gloves, turtlenecks and MC hammer pants.

I only have one suggestion I would like to submit for Ouachita Dress Code consideration. I feel that my addition would be immensely helpful in our striving toward modest-is-hottest communal living. Two words: Invisibility Cloaks. In fact, why not just replace all previously unspoken rules with just this one? We could rid ourselves of a lot of ambiguity by simply investing in a campus-wide set. We're already giving incoming freshman beanies these days. So why not throw a little 100%-purity guarantee into the mix, Harry Potter style?

#25: mail time

It's Tuesday, post-lunch, and I've got a good 30 seconds to kill. What am I going to do? Check mail, of course! Maybe I've already checked it twice today, and maybe there wasn't anything to be found. Ir-relevant. Anytime is the perfect time to check mail. Who knows what distant relative, WOM lady, or sweet my-spiritual-gift-is-writing-encouraging-notes-on-craftastic-homemade-cards friend might have felt so led in the last 120 minutes to send a little love over to 410 Ouachita St., box 4493.

So, I head over to the student center, avoid eye-contact with 40+ potential acquaintances lining the couches and corridors (I am on a mission here) as I scurry down the stairs, turn right, duck under some stairwell architecture jutting down from above (and threatening to concuss many an unsuspecting freshman), hang left, and finally reach that blessed small, silver square--a tangible representation of all my post officinal hopes.

I stop. My breath catches as I dream about what could be awaiting me inside box 4493. A giftcard? An Emilee Wade original bird-gram? or perhaps...homemade chocolate chip cookies? Do I dare to dream? I do, I do indeed.

I try my combination, not once, not twice, but seven times until finally I hear the melodious click of success, and I throw open the door to find...Huzzah!...there are contents within the vault!

But wait! Are said contents for moi? Alas, 3 are for my blasted boxmate. Foiled once again. Does he not know that mail checking is a daily--albeit hourly--responsibility for every self-respecting Ouachita student? How could he be so inconsiderate as to raise and crush my hopes with his postbox negligence? I know that mass-mailed tiger serve day announcement is not fresh. I mean, I recycled mine ages ago--hours even!

Gasp! But what's that!? Do I spy with my little eye an orange slip? Orange slip, orange slip! Blest be thee, orange slip! Art thou for me? Yes yes, you are indeed!

I hastily grab said orange slip as joy fills my heart. I slap my box shut and skip over to the post office window where a friendly work study worker greets me with a smile. She takes my slip and darts behind the wall to retrieve my glorious parcel. She returns carrying a box that, much to my heart's delight, is twice the size of my backpack! I check the return address! Alas, it is from my mom! She does love me!

I rip open the box only to find a bookmark, my medical insurance card, and three socks I left at home over Christmas break. I sigh, trying to suppress my disappointment. I check my watch. 30 minutes until my next class. Perhaps I should take my non-chocolate-chip-cookies package back to my room. It really is quite cumbersome. But wait! My friends are still in class. If I head back now, how are they to observe that someone loves me 12" by 14" by 6" and $6.47 S&H's worth? They don't have to know that my box's contents are far less exciting than its exterior.

I decide to stick around student center for a while. I choose to sport my package on my shoulder rather than risking the floor's dust or the couch's obstruction of the view of my box to peers passing by. I mean, I would hate for someone to lose out on the blessing of getting to congratulate me on my mail-time luck!

As I wait, a song fills my heart..."here's the mail....it never fails...it makes me wanna wag my tail. When it comes I wanna yell: Maaaaaiiiiill--lllll!"

**The idea for today's SOL was submitted by James Taylor. Thanks, J.T.!

#24: squirrels

I would like to take this opportunity to affirm my fellow Ouachitonians. Overall, I would say that we are a pretty reputable bunch. We serve the community in many ways: chillin' with the elderly, taking internationals to walmart, pickin' up trash once a semester on Pine St., and making Arkadelphia at least 400% hipper just by gracing it with our v-necked presence. We have passion. We have com-passion. We have compassion children. We eat. We pray. We love.

However, there is a group in our midst for whom I feel we have not reached the level of brokenness that is due.

Daily they wander around our campus unnoticed and unloved. All they ask for is a safe place to hunt, gather, and raise their kids. Usually, they are pretty inconspicuous. If you're especially astute and an early riser, you might just might spot one scurrying--naked and cold--through the grass, nervously, desperately, searching for something, anything, to take back to his family for sustenance. And oh to be a fly on the bark at night, when anguished fathers and mothers whisper of the coming winter, when there may be no walnuts on the table for dinner and no acorns in the children's stockings at Christmas.

Sure, they may not be as cool as the rest of us. Maybe those coats they usually sport look just like the one's their ancestors were rockin' back in '85 BC, but does mean they don't deserve our respect? Does it mean they don't still need acceptance?

Ouachitonians, we are called to care about the "least of these." I just don't think we have even begun to understand what this means when it comes to the furry ones among us. Our responses to them may vary. Some of us choose apathy. Others choose ignorance, pretending not to notice
when we see a furry brother crawling out of the trashcan with a chic fillet wrapper in his paws. Others are even downright cruel, making them objects of pranks and "relocating" them to new homes down at Degray. Did they ask for that? What have they done to merit such unjust treatment?

As much as I want to keep patting you on the back, friends, I just can't with the situation at hand. Something has got to give. Love, diversity, tolerance, antidiscrimination. These are not just words we throw around in ethics class. Whatever happened to personal application? What happen to faith+deeds? I have a dream, my friends, a dream that one day this tiger nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all (ver)-men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the gray side-walks of Ouachita, the sons of former squirrels and the sons of former squirrel hunters will be able to sit down at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Arkansas, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, sweltering with the heat of 90% humidity 9 months out of the year, sweltering with the heat of mediocre dormitory temperature control, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children (yes I do indeed have four of them just in case you didn't know but I have to keep it on the DL since I'm pretty sure Francis Crawford rooms are only supposed to house two so they all secretly sleep on pallets under my bed and only leave at odd hours of the day when no reslife staff members are around...let's just say I have a past) will one day live in a tiger nation where they will not judge others by the color of their skin and/or fur but by the content of their character.

#23: the sexy prayer voice

The concept for today's post was submitted by Jacob Watson and Sky Howard. However, Jacob and Sky are not to be implicated in any sacrilege that may have snuck its way into today's post. For that, the writer of SOL is entirely to blame (and apologetic).

Thanks to the writings of those like John and Staci Eldredge, Susan Campbell, Hillsong, and many creative interpreters of Song of Solomon, phrases like "being in Romance with Jesus," "Jesus, lover of my soul," and "Dating Jesus" are now regulars in the world of Christian dialogue. This kind of lingo can become confusing to those of us Ouachitonians who depledged from the exegeting club after taking that Bible Interp final. As inspiring as these phrases may be for some, I often find myself wondering if, when I pray, I should be envisioning an image of that wimpy, creepo Jesus depicted in many Baptist Foyer paintings, or rather, something more along the lines of Will Smith. And should I change my facebook relationship status from "single" to "in a relationship with Jesus Christ?" For me, talking about Jesus in an eros kind of way leaves room for implications that make me just a little squirmy. But, maybe that's just me.

However, though I may be the only one wrestling with these particular questions, the discussion of romancin' it up with the Creator of the Universe has definitely had some subtle effects on the way we Ouachitonians express our faith. I would now like to call your attention to a phenomenon that has been sweeping Ouachita prayer circles for some time now...the Sexy Prayer Voice. The Sexy Prayer Voice (let's call it SPV, for short), has a dramatic way of entering the scene whenever someone decides that, yes, right here, right now, we're going to take things there. We're going to invite the Lord into this conversation we are having, even though we secretly know that He has been here the whole time.

You've heard the SPV before, likely you've even rocked it before: voice drops at least half an octave, words become more slowly and emphatically enunciated, aspiration of consonants dramatically increases, and ending "s's" are held just a little bit longer. Everything sounds at least 250% more heartfelt.

There are many reasons to rock the SPV. Perhaps God will be quicker to answer if He knows that you are really feeling it for that someone on whose behalf you are interceding; I think I read somewhere once that His ears are in fact more attuned to words spoken in the style of Morgan Freeman. And I can guarantee that your lowered pitches will be more easily heard by all the elderly ladies and cocker spaniels in your prayer circle. Furthermore, your slower speaking speed will be greatly appreciated by all the non-native English speakers around you.

However, the greatest reason to bust out the SPV when you are having quality time with the Lord in the presence of others is to sky-rocket your level of matrimonial eligibility in the eyes of those who are both members of your prayer circle AND the opposite sex. The SPV reveals that you are sensitive to the needs of others in an I'm-not-obligated-to-say-this-I-really-do-weep-myself-to-sleep-nightly-for-the-orphans-of-Africa kind of way. Furthermore, it proves to those available co-eds that you are lovin' Jesus in the same kind of way you'll be lovin' them. Forget about having to prove your awesomeness through expensive, eternally insignificant means like flowers, chocolate, fancy dinners, and original song serenades. All you need is love. And nothing shows your capacity for love like the sexy prayer voice. You're welcome.

#22: taking artsy photographs

Just got engaged? Looking for some awesome pics for those wedding invitations? Luckily for you, there are about 450 up and coming photographers wandering around campus just waiting to take you to a field where they will reveal the magic that is your young love via 22.5 megapixels.

Want to capture your college friendships on film for facebook? Why settle for an awkward let-me-try-to-hold-the-camera-and-get-us-both-in-the-picture-without-making-it-look-like-my-arm-is-connected-to-my-face shot at a football game, when instead, you could grab that Canon EOS Digital Rebel-carrying chum currently walking down an OBU sidewalk with his tripod and flash in tow. He'll take you down to the railroad tracks with 50 of your closest friends where you'll show off your fiery eyes and all those modeling poses you've been secretly doing in front of your mirror for years.

And as any true Ouachitonian knows, you cannot truly consider that mission trip you took over the summer a success unless you have Kodak-momented in HD those little Ethiopian kids to whom you gave food, water and Bibles.

Unfortunately though, there are some on campus who have not shelled out the buckaroos or extra elective hours needed to join the Perhaps-I'll-Ditch-My-Biology-Degree-and-Pursue-a Freelance-Photography-Career Club. Not to fear! If you are in the marginalized 3% who (gasp!) only use the manual settings on their non-SLRs and can't even remember the brand name, there are a variety of ways to cover up your lack of photography skillz. Soon, you will be able to go back to putting your family photos on facebook without shame if only you follow these simple do's and don'ts...

Do: Cutting off part of the person you're photographing: i.e. head, half of profile, everything but the feet, etc. Nothing says "cliche" like including an entire body in a shot.

Don't: Poses. Candid all the way, baby.

Do: Throwing in an inanimate object that had no apparent relevance to the subject. Your pics will be so epic in all of their postmodern glory.

Don't: Including babies. Babies are so 1995. Unless that baby looks especially sad or has half of his face missing or is from another country or is wearing an "Invisible Children" onesie or serves a symbolic purpose in your photo's message, ditch that little son of a gun.

Do: Rocking the black and white option. Black and White makes everything look at least 50% more artsy.

Don't: Family beach pictures. Need I say more?

#21: tiger tunes

Friend 1: "Hey girl, wanna get dinner together tonight around 6?"
Tuneser: "No, girl. You know I've got Tunes. I haven't eaten dinner in 4 weeks. Duh."

Friend 2: "Hey, hey! How's it going? So I have been doing a lot of research, and I think I have finally found a cure for cancer. If you come and look at some lab results with me tonight, I will totally share my Nobel Prize with you."
Tuneser: "Sorry. I have Tunes. Priorities, you know?"

Friend 3: "Hey, how are you? Hey, I really need help your help. There's a family of 12 over on 17th street whose dad is in jail and whose mom just got hit by a bus. Can you come help babysit and bring them food with me tonight? I'm just not sure how much longer the little ones are going to make it. Winter is coming, you know."
Tuneser: "Hello-oh! Tiger Tunes practice! You know I don't have time for frivolities like that."

As many a Ouachitonian knows, Tiger Tunes is not just a cute show for Homecoming and Scholarship Raising. Tunes. Is. Life. Though some may claim that tunesers commit 80+ hours over a period of 5 weeks all in the name of fun, if one were to spend that same amount of time with an individual, they would not be just friends. They would be changing that facebook relationship status, son! Despite what Tunes participants may try to tell you, don't be deceived. It is not an open relationship. They are not seeing other people. Move aside, Other Friendships. Move aside, Homework. Move aside, Community Service. Move aside, Healthy-Relationship-with-Parents. Tiger Tunes is coming through.

Now given the level of time commitment necessary to be a Tunes participant, some might ask why any self-respecting student would subject him or herself to so many hours of song-and-dance boot camp. Well sure, there are a variety of reasons. Some claim it is all in the name of community building--for making new friends, having fun, and growing together. For some, it is a chance to live out childhood fantasies in a socially acceptable context (cough, cough, Eta Star Wars show). For freshman boys, it is a chance to show off their fun personalities, moves, and harmonizing skillz to both freshman AND upperclassmen ladies. (And indeed, many a new relationship has bloomed as tunesing co-eds tiger-tunes-run it off the stage, side by side, hand in hand, and heart in heart). For other boys, Tiger Tunes offers a chance to finally rock those tights and makeup they've always wanted to try without the resulting white-faced dads and weeping moms. And finally, others just can't afford that club fine.

However, we all secretly know why that cm prisoner will willingly undergo 400 run-throughs of the same contagion night after night after night, and why even the sweetest Tri Chi White House secretary will deck her sister when she misses that harmony part in "Eye of the Tiger" for the 3rd time in a row, and why the men of Beta Beta will kind of sort have a late-nighter. They all have a similar ambition: to beat the heck out of those blasted Kappa Chi's.

Through the years, several clubs have taken their turn in the winner's circle, and almost all have gotten to revel in the year long glory of sitting on the Tiger Tunes Champion's Throne (our hearts go out to you, Pi Kappa Zeta). However, in the past few years, one club has risen above the others, making the "only-professional-ballerinas-can-bend-like-this" moves of the Chi Delta's seem amateur and making those 8-part EEE harmonies sound like something performed by Vacation Bible School children. When the men of Kappa Chi busted out that synchronized helmet light show in 2008, things got serious. Things got real. Things got personal. From that point on, the Kappas could officially consider themselves ENEMY NUMBER 1.

So I ask you, non-Kappa-tunesers, what will you bring to the table to top them this year? Live Animals? Rings of fire? Soul? All I know is that it best be good. And I for one look forward to sitting back and watching--safely from my mezzanine seat--the emotions, the drama, the sweat, and the tears that are sure to commence come Thursday night.

#20: zimbabweans

Who's that drinking hot chocolate on a warm, August afternoon? Who's that you spot walking all the way to Walmart to pick up some stuff from "the shops?" Who's that student stashing extra food and water in his backpack in the caf when no one is looking? Who's that rocking a quasi-British/quasi-Australian accent? Who's that boy donning Veldskoens and shorty-short shorts? Who's that girl bundubashing through the hedges to get to her next class when a perfectly acceptable sidewalk is merely inches--ugh, I mean centimetehs--away? Who are those okes leading shirtless boys in a bloody round of padding-free football down at the intramural fields? Who's that sporting some classic vuvu-lip at the OBU soccer match? Well, they're your trusty Zimbabweans, of course, boet!

Who would have thought that Arkadelphia, AR would become a near-refugee camp for marginalized Southern Africans? "Not I," said the Zehbra, "not I," said the hippopotamus, "not I," said the wildebeest. Did you, my American Ouachitonian friend, ever imagine that your peer group at OBU would possess a level of diversity that transcends beyond the mysterious boundaries of foreign lands like Montana, Utah, or New Jersey, reaching all the way over to that big-ol'-dark country of...(cue mood lighting and hushed voices)...Africa!?!?

We here at Ouachita would like to thank you, our dear Zimbabwean friends, for all the ways you help expand both our minds and our hearts and in doing so, make Ouachita lank awesome...

Thank you for helping us count our blessings for the finer things in life like food, shelter, and freedom from inconveniences such as racial oppression, hijacking, and being threatened on our lives at the voting booths. Thanks for checking our food complaints in the caf via pictures of empty grocery store shelves and starving, parentless babes. Thank you for keeping freshman girl attendance at Friday Noon Days at an all-time high. Thanks for teaching us that one can be African and simultaneously (gasp) white. And last but not least, thank you so much for helping us conquer our previously insurmountable fear of the word "Celsius."

Natalie 'When My Fingers Embrace the Keys, Magic Happens' Carroll

Theo 'Okay, Okes, It's Not Bromance, It's Called a Scrum' Hone

Jason 'Welcome to Noonday' Kirk

Tim 'I Rock the Zehbra Speedo 24/7, Boet' Ferris

#19: campaigning for lil sis/beau

by Elizabeth Hammons


"Oh, sorry, I can't go to Chic with you. I'm going over to the (fill in the blank) house to watch wrestling. Yeah, I just can't get enough of it! Plus, those guys are like, my best friends. I just baked two dozen cookies from scratch just in case the boys get hungry. I mean, I'm over at "the house" so much, I should practically move in. They all think so! That reminds me, are you going to the serenade tomorrow night? It's going to be amazing. If you want to make posters for some of the guys, just stop by my room. I'll be putting the finishing touches on all of mine. No big deal, I'm just making each member and pledge a poster with his name spelled in glitter. I need to charge my camera battery tonight; gotta make sure I get a picture of every song at every dorm! Oh, you only go to the serenade at your dorm? That's...nice. Have you heard what they're doing for Tunes? It's going to be really funny. I mean, it's so good I hope they beat my club. JK!"

"Yeah, bro, I'm totally up for lunch at the caf. I just want to say hi to a couple of my friends over at the (fill in the blank) table. Oh no, they want me to stay and eat with them. Is that cool? They need my opinion on the shirts for the crush dance. Did you get invited? Don't sweat it. I'm sure your invite is in the mail. They just gave me one in person last night while I was helping move their giant wooden letters off the football field. I'm totally psyched about the outing. I can tell one of their pledges to ask you if you really want to go; they owe me since I was in their date auction. I'll bring it up when I go to their carwash today. Autozone, 12-5, be there! I've got to drop these letters in the mail before I go. It's nothing. I just wrote a letter to each one of their pledges, telling her she chose an amazing club. No reason, I just wanted to give them a little encouragement. Oh yeah, I can't make the intramural game today because I've got to coach their football team, then I promised the girls I'd help set up for the mixer. I don't know what time the "rest" of you are supposed to be there. Check my wall-to-wall with the social chairs."