“Tell me all you know about sheepskin condoms,” I said. Consternation dampened the glib mood I had intended to create with the remark. The request (or demand, depending upon the mental state of the one with ears to hear) was supposed to cause a spontaneous outburst of laughter. It was one of those entirely random things you might say to cause the hearer to be so overwhelmed by its spontaneity that they cannot help but be moved by the sheer, intellectual prowess of your impromptu speaking potential.

My forensics coach would surely never approve.  

At any rate, this humorously-intended appeal for knowledge would not be met with any sort of acquiescence by my counterpart. Instead, I was met with the grim realities involved in waking up an R.A. at exactly 4:02 AM because I, for once, locked my own keys inside of my dormitory cell. All of the harshness of such a move was on display for all who assume that their Resident Assistant shares your ungodly sleep habits.

Dare I exacerbate the threat his glare intended any further?

At this point, I did not feel inclined to such clandestine heroics. I had already run the gauntlet tonight. I had endured the short-lived pleasures and equilibrium-jolting ends of narcotic abuse. For I, fitting in somewhat with the whole “free, white and twenty-one” social caste, had obtained a consortium of alcoholic liquors and stimulants as a means to an end. “And to what outrageous end?” one might demand.

“What end” indeed.

You know you have fouled up your prospects for an eventual friendship with your collegiate demi-gods, those erratic, ever-roving R.A.’s when, upon granting you re-admission to your cell via a useful device known as a spare key, they acknowledge your thanks with little more than a primordial grunt.

What was the meaning of this exchange that only a true pithecanthropus erectus could appreciate?

I managed to work my way through the dark room and found myself in the chair betwixt the bed and the desk. It was directed at an odd angle towards some corner of the room or another, and thus nearly spilled me onto the floor. Avoiding such a crude end by no small amount of commotion, I began to recall all that had occurred on this bleak, humid evening.

Since the very start of this semester, I had been thoroughly enjoying my classes. Very few people are probably as happy in their fifth semester with the major they chose in their second semester. I happen to be one of those proud few. Or, as some of the more pious, neo-conservative members of our student body might suggest, one of the elect. If by election you mean in the same fashion as George W. Bush, circa. 2000, then by all means: no thank you, kindly.

At any rate, on most evenings, upon finishing the various studying commonly associated with being an International Economics major, my behavior tends to differ from that of many college youths. Instead of meandering about the campus in search of some hapless female student to infuse with my family’s rich genetic heritage, I opt to fire up my ageless Xbox and search the dormitory network for other gamers in search of digital enjoyment.

Our poison? Our gratuitous medium of choice?

None other, my fine, unwitting readers, than Halo 2.

This is a fine choice because, as a multi-platinum title, many people possess it and therefore I do share this common vice with the uncouth, mongrel hordes of my generation. I love Halo and its successor.

This is beside the point, however. Upon the resumption of classes this fall, I began making a name for myself in the form of the timid moniker “Richard Nixon”. Those gamers sporting headsets would bellow, “Who the [expletive deleted] is Richard Nixon?” This question would often be followed by, “I don’t know the [expletive deleted] and still this, this Nixon is damned good!”

I’m not the best amongst our heroic circuit, mind you. Not usually, at any rate.

But tonight…ah yes, tonight, this was to be different. I was armed to the teeth with an advantage that few facing me in the arena could fathom. Equipped with an inadvisable amount of alcoholic beverages and stimulants (such as ginseng, L-Arginine and cocaine) in my bloodstream, I took on all comers. My team always prevailed; even under normal circumstances I am the consummate team player. This is probably because my unflappable loyalties go far beyond the normal confines of friendship: I always do my utmost to watch the proverbial backs of my teammates. Thus, in a team slayer match, rarely does a fracas break out in which I do not make an attempt to dip my oar in and end it with either an assist or a kill on my own merit.

It was at the very height of my glory, after more than three hours of this kind of fabled behavior, at nearly 4 AM, that the females arrived. They muddied the otherwise pure, unspoiled waters of our manly struggles with their loud, obnoxious and openly-social presence.

One of these rambunctious social butterflies finally took a breath long enough that she noticed one kill on-screen was attributed to some “Richard Nixon”.

“Who is Richard Nixon?” she asked in a genuinely curious tone.

My friend nudged me. For this was no run-of-the-mill female, it would seem. Apparently she was in possession of the kind of human anatomy most of the male gender would willingly crawl through an army of Amazonian Fireants just to be near.

“Why he was the 37th president of the United States,” was my halfway-exasperated reply. “In opening trade with Red China, he is largely responsible for authoring what is arguably the most important economic event in American history. He managed to reduce overall defense spending and end American involvement in the Vietnam Conflict in what he rightfully termed ‘an honorable conclusion’, and not at peace at any price as those worthless, ignorant and hopelessly shaggy peaceniks so desperately desired. His administration sponsored many of the just, progressive civil rights laws that we hold dear today in spite of him receiving next to no credit for it. He also got the Russians to reduce their arms spending. After his resignation, largely attributed to the crisis involving that ridiculously-overblown third-rate burglary…”

“Dude.” My friend went beyond nudging me this time. He outright bumped my arm, jolting me from my otherwise intense mental state. For I was a man intent on exorcising the unfriendly confines of this deadly arena, on ridding it of hostile occupation. What exactly could he have meant by this rude and awkward kind of arousal?

I looked up, only to see this saucy freshman dressed in unnecessarily expensive clothing. Her eyes were fixed upon me in an uncertain manner. But then, with a weighty toss of her hair from one shoulder to the other and the closing of a previously agape mouth, I understood: she was inquiring as to which poor fool was uncool enough to have “Richard Nixon” as his GamerTag. She would rather have had her eyes gouged out with a rusty set of Hittite eating utensils than hear me go on at length about my political idol, one Richard Milhous Nixon of Yorba Linda, California.

Should I attempt to resurrect my prospects with this woman, seemingly devoid of any intellectual understanding beyond the friendly confines of her brothel (commonly referred to as a girl dormitory)? Should I inform her how as a “Nixon-Rockefeller Republican” I was actually amongst the number of rational centrists in the Grand Ole Party who are in possession of good sense?

With no further thought I exited my character from the game, and bid my friends goodnight. They naturally protested, citing uneven teams as an allegedly-valid reason for me staying the course and seeing this particular conflict through to an honorable conclusion.

It was not to be born, though. This female clearly did not share my sentiments on the matter. She attempted to console me and requested that I stay and continue playing, claiming she meant no offense by the question.

I merely proceeded with my quiet exit. No offense had been taken. In reality, I felt quite sorry for her, and so I attempted to give her one final chance to redeem herself:

“Who is Master Chief, and if he were alive today, in this day and age, would he be a dove or a hawk?”

My question seemed to brighten her eyes for a moment, and so brightened the prospects of sharing a moment with her in my eyes.

She flashed a half-seductive grin, and softly brushed my chest with her hand. “God, you’re cute.”

“Wrong answer, missy,” came my swift, curt reply as I turned and walked away, Xbox controller in tow.

“Wait,” she blurted out unprompted. “A hawk? Right? That sounds tougher than a dove.”

I stopped and turned toward her. “Play to your strengths.” I attempted to continue my journey back to my own dormitory, but it was not to be. Not yet.

“What do you mean?” came her reply, genuinely devoid of any understanding.

“I mean play to your strengths: T&A, and not wit, is your yellow brick road to success.”

The emotion behind the next exclamation was anticipated: “What?!”

I turned again to face her. “Look, you dim-witted fool! Go read some Capoti, Shakespeare, some Crowley, some Machiavelli, some Dante Alghieri or even some Nixon if you want to know what I was going on about earlier. That sort of writing will set you well on your way. Or not. You could continue along the same pathway of Milli Vanilli.”

Her facial expression temporarily eroded from anger and shock to amused uncertainty. “What do you mean?”

I sighed, nearly content to give the cause up for lost. “Look, my friend. Yours is the pathway which leads to the domain of Lou Bega, the ‘Left Behind’ novels and, ultimately George McGovern.”

“Who?” the female asked in response, much to my chagrin.

I could bear no more, and rapidly spun on my heels and sped away at a walk that verged on something more along the lines of a panic-stricken run.

As I opened the door to the stairwell in hopes of finding my way back to my own room, to my own bed, I heard her shout in the distance, “I liked the ‘Left Behind’ novels!”

The lovely, warm waters of the shower, and not my plush pillow, was what touched my perennially-furrowed brow next. Nonetheless I did eventually make my way to bed after no small amount of grousing hopelessly from one hall to the next in search of my own room, and after a malevolent R.A. aided me in the process. My Taiwanese roommate had been of no use; he failed to stir when I beat upon the door and shouted and urged him to open it. The next morning he had no recollection whatsoever of my labeling him “a treacherous Maoist” upon my re-entry to the room. This, I felt, was probably a good thing.

Was this the fate I was meant to bear? Was this the rightful end to such a wonderfully introspective late-night fight? And which conflict, and eventual victory, meant more? The victory in Halo 2, or the victory over my urges to give in to the wiles of that flirtatious creature and plead for her cellular phone number?

Was I truly meant to cap off such tremendous strides of progress in such a way?

Winston Smith would never approve.