LOOKING FOR WALDO WHILE DRUNK v. LOOKING FOR WALDO WHILE STONED
By Zach C.
To go along with the theme of me being the Rival Room’s least sports-savvy contributor I have chosen to write about the least athletic Pop Icon that I could possibly think of. There’s really no better person to fill these shoes (or this shoe (singular), he often loses one of them) than the horizontal striped shirt-wearing, thirty-something year old, scrawny, cane-carrying tourist named Waldo. Furthermore, in addition to simply discussing this absolute epitome of un-athleticism I also intend on examining one of the least athletic things a man can do with his time: finding this sneaky little fucker named Waldo.
I have a friend who always wears red and white striped shirts. He also happens to wear glasses and thus looks strikingly similar to Waldo from those old Where’s Waldo? books. Because of this two-part coincidence I think about Waldo much more than the average person; not just because of the visual likenesses between my friend and Waldo but also because the thought of searching for Waldo often makes me laugh when I’m having a hard time finding my aforementioned friend in any given dense crowd. First off, if you don’t care much for Waldo then just st
op reading now and save yourself the 3 minutes and 45 seconds that it would take you to digest this article and go punch a clown instead.
Now, for the handful of you that are still reading, I will soon attempt to dissect the key differences between paging through a Where’s Waldo? book drunk vs. paging through a Where’s Waldo? book high. I’ve decided to do this because the honest majority of the world will be at least a little drunk or a little stoned at some point in the not-so-distant future. Besides, we’ve already found Nemo several times and people have been asking where Waldo is since the early 90s.
As a youngster I liked 'reading' Where’s Waldo? mostly because it was the only book without any words. It’s this lack of actual text that is key to drunken Waldo hunting, as we know how hard it can be to compose a sentence when tanked, let alone comprehend one. It is also arguably the lone reason why these books make for fine bathroom literature in college. No sane man wants to sit down wasted on the can after getting cock-blocked by a steak burrito and actually read something.
Finding Waldo while inebriated usually starts off pretty easy; this tends to make readers a little overconfident. You can usually make it to the second or third LSD-inspired cartoon setting before realizing that the crafty little bean pole is damn hard to find sometimes. Even early on in these books Waldo becomes more difficult to find than that girl that will bake you cookies, do your laundry, tickle your taint, and let you hook up with her younger sisters on special occasions.
It really doesn’t take too long to turn this seemingly mindless pastime into absolute drunken chaos. Sadly, I must admit that I’ve seen this tragic scene more than once. It’s actually pretty formulaic. Things always start off calm and collected with an abundance of laughter and eager finger pointing. Then, as the book progresses, it gradually becomes more challenging and before you know it people start to panic; the more they panic, the more they start to lose focus. All of a sudden your craziest meathead friend starts screaming: “Where is this gangly mother fucker? AHHHHH!!” and then the dog starts barking and trying to herd everybody into --what it thinks-- is the safest corner of the room. Then your drunk hippie friend who ate too many mushrooms pulls the fire extinguisher off the wall and starts spraying your barking dog in the face because he thinks the most colorful fire he has ever seen is coming out of its eyes.
Needless to say, things get real weird, real fast. So drunken Waldo-hunting is usually a short-lived experience which almost always ends in swearing, pages being torn to shreds, and a generally disastrous wake of destruction.
The search for Waldo while high, on the other hand, is a completely different kind of experience. While browsing each vivid landscape for your very mellow (and very worldly) buddy you notice every intricate detail within the book. You find that you can very easily get lost in Waldo’s miniature world. You begin to notice the finest points about the cartoon characters’ facial expressions and all of the strange social interactions that are going on across each and every page.
In a beach scene you notice two mischievous young boys trying to untie the strings to an oblivious attractive woman’s string bikini. You wonder why the editor let that slide in a kids’ book. As you search on and on for Waldo he seems to become a mere figment of your imagination. You begin to wonder what Waldo’s religious and political affiliations are and why he always travels alone. You then begin to think that Waldo is just an ingenious allegory and that you aren’t looking for Waldo after all… You’re really looking for yourself.
This goes on for about 10-15 minutes before you forget why you’re even looking at a children’s book in the first place. Then you think of Freud and about how your id and your super-ego are tag teaming your ego inside your brain. There is suddenly an imaginary epic battle between these faceless entities of your mind. As their battle rages o
n, you again begin to think of how lost Waldo is and how scared he must feel all alone. After feeling ashamed and helpless about not being able to find him you feel like getting in the fetal position and rocking yourself to sleep. Then suddenly one of your five or six friends sitting in the room with you breaks the eerie silence and suggests that you pack another bowl. And so you do. Waldo remains forever unfound.
This just about sums up all of the differences between searching for Waldo drunk vs. searching for Waldo high; as you can see it is a daunting task regardless of your current state of mind. You could be completely blacked out or as high as an Asian’s MCAT score and you’ll put down a Where’s Waldo? book with equally troubling feelings. You readers probably won’t believe me but I am neither drunk nor high as I conclude this article because, like good old Billy Clinton, I did not inhale and I did not have sexual relations with that fat woman.
To go along with the theme of me being the Rival Room’s least sports-savvy contributor I have chosen to write about the least athletic Pop Icon that I could possibly think of. There’s really no better person to fill these shoes (or this shoe (singular), he often loses one of them) than the horizontal striped shirt-wearing, thirty-something year old, scrawny, cane-carrying tourist named Waldo. Furthermore, in addition to simply discussing this absolute epitome of un-athleticism I also intend on examining one of the least athletic things a man can do with his time: finding this sneaky little fucker named Waldo.I have a friend who always wears red and white striped shirts. He also happens to wear glasses and thus looks strikingly similar to Waldo from those old Where’s Waldo? books. Because of this two-part coincidence I think about Waldo much more than the average person; not just because of the visual likenesses between my friend and Waldo but also because the thought of searching for Waldo often makes me laugh when I’m having a hard time finding my aforementioned friend in any given dense crowd. First off, if you don’t care much for Waldo then just st
op reading now and save yourself the 3 minutes and 45 seconds that it would take you to digest this article and go punch a clown instead.Now, for the handful of you that are still reading, I will soon attempt to dissect the key differences between paging through a Where’s Waldo? book drunk vs. paging through a Where’s Waldo? book high. I’ve decided to do this because the honest majority of the world will be at least a little drunk or a little stoned at some point in the not-so-distant future. Besides, we’ve already found Nemo several times and people have been asking where Waldo is since the early 90s.
As a youngster I liked 'reading' Where’s Waldo? mostly because it was the only book without any words. It’s this lack of actual text that is key to drunken Waldo hunting, as we know how hard it can be to compose a sentence when tanked, let alone comprehend one. It is also arguably the lone reason why these books make for fine bathroom literature in college. No sane man wants to sit down wasted on the can after getting cock-blocked by a steak burrito and actually read something.
Finding Waldo while inebriated usually starts off pretty easy; this tends to make readers a little overconfident. You can usually make it to the second or third LSD-inspired cartoon setting before realizing that the crafty little bean pole is damn hard to find sometimes. Even early on in these books Waldo becomes more difficult to find than that girl that will bake you cookies, do your laundry, tickle your taint, and let you hook up with her younger sisters on special occasions.
It really doesn’t take too long to turn this seemingly mindless pastime into absolute drunken chaos. Sadly, I must admit that I’ve seen this tragic scene more than once. It’s actually pretty formulaic. Things always start off calm and collected with an abundance of laughter and eager finger pointing. Then, as the book progresses, it gradually becomes more challenging and before you know it people start to panic; the more they panic, the more they start to lose focus. All of a sudden your craziest meathead friend starts screaming: “Where is this gangly mother fucker? AHHHHH!!” and then the dog starts barking and trying to herd everybody into --what it thinks-- is the safest corner of the room. Then your drunk hippie friend who ate too many mushrooms pulls the fire extinguisher off the wall and starts spraying your barking dog in the face because he thinks the most colorful fire he has ever seen is coming out of its eyes.
Needless to say, things get real weird, real fast. So drunken Waldo-hunting is usually a short-lived experience which almost always ends in swearing, pages being torn to shreds, and a generally disastrous wake of destruction.The search for Waldo while high, on the other hand, is a completely different kind of experience. While browsing each vivid landscape for your very mellow (and very worldly) buddy you notice every intricate detail within the book. You find that you can very easily get lost in Waldo’s miniature world. You begin to notice the finest points about the cartoon characters’ facial expressions and all of the strange social interactions that are going on across each and every page.
In a beach scene you notice two mischievous young boys trying to untie the strings to an oblivious attractive woman’s string bikini. You wonder why the editor let that slide in a kids’ book. As you search on and on for Waldo he seems to become a mere figment of your imagination. You begin to wonder what Waldo’s religious and political affiliations are and why he always travels alone. You then begin to think that Waldo is just an ingenious allegory and that you aren’t looking for Waldo after all… You’re really looking for yourself.
This goes on for about 10-15 minutes before you forget why you’re even looking at a children’s book in the first place. Then you think of Freud and about how your id and your super-ego are tag teaming your ego inside your brain. There is suddenly an imaginary epic battle between these faceless entities of your mind. As their battle rages o
n, you again begin to think of how lost Waldo is and how scared he must feel all alone. After feeling ashamed and helpless about not being able to find him you feel like getting in the fetal position and rocking yourself to sleep. Then suddenly one of your five or six friends sitting in the room with you breaks the eerie silence and suggests that you pack another bowl. And so you do. Waldo remains forever unfound.This just about sums up all of the differences between searching for Waldo drunk vs. searching for Waldo high; as you can see it is a daunting task regardless of your current state of mind. You could be completely blacked out or as high as an Asian’s MCAT score and you’ll put down a Where’s Waldo? book with equally troubling feelings. You readers probably won’t believe me but I am neither drunk nor high as I conclude this article because, like good old Billy Clinton, I did not inhale and I did not have sexual relations with that fat woman.
posted by Rival Room Editor at
8:23 AM
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