If the Fur Ain't Flyin', You Ain't Tryin'

Not really an update on life or anything, just some of my favorite exerpts from an essay I wrote on being a collegiate mascot. Oh yeah, did I tell you? I used to be a collegiate mascot.

"It is a strange mix of relief and failure having given up this stressful double lifestyle. Do I celebrate my own collapse? Am I supposed to enjoy the post hours of my crash? How do I distinguish between the pride I take in my decision to quit, and the guilty disappointment silently torturing me? Many months ago, I would never have imagined that it would end like this. The confused reader should understand that I am not formerly a spy, nor was I caught in a scandalous affair. I, Chas Lilly, am (or more aptly was) a mascot.
Allow me to rewind. Showing off has never been a foreign trait of my personality. As a child, I had the uncanny ability to draw everyone’s undivided attention, regardless of the location (often inappropriate) or time (often more inappropriate). Whether it something as simple and harmless as popping bags of chips at the elementary school lunch table, or as humiliating as goosing elderly women in church, I made sure that a nervous eye was on me at all times. Some would say I had a passion for performing. Others had a much simpler explanation. I was a punk. Still, most adults found me an endearing character. I spoke respectfully, and often was trained well enough in my mischief that I avoided blame."

Blah blah blah. I attended mascot tryouts and was awarded the position. Blah blah blah.

" I am not aware of what I expected when I first donned the suit at the annual summer cheer/dance/mascot camp. I certainly didn’t anticipate being introduced to a new level of superficiality. Female cheerleaders are an interesting breed and fascinating to observe in social situations. Here is a community of women who are able to apply a thick layer of sweet compliments to a teammate only to turn around and critique every aspect of that same teammate’s personality, appearance, and most importantly, body. I cannot stress how many times I heard a female cheerleader curse one of their own for putting on two pounds or perhaps for just being spotted eating any food other than dressingless salad.
The male cheerleader on the other hand is a different, but equally as shallow class. A common high school stereotype of male cheerleaders is that one must be homosexual to participate in such a female-dominated sport. The collegiate male cheerleader will fight tooth and nail to shed this perception. I was greeted by the male cheerleaders with far-to-firm handshakes and deep, hearty voices. They made sure to work in their womanly conquests within our first conversation, telling me which girls were “easy” and which ones wouldn’t “put out”. Their cocky attitudes and rippling muscles screamed, “Go ahead. I dare you to question my sexuality”. I did not."

Blah blah blah. I perform at my first football game. Blah blah blah.

"Nothing compares to being on a giant football field in front of 68,000 insane fans after the team has just scored a touchdown. You see at this point, all the attention is now on the Wildcat, for it is time to honor an age old tradition that is considered sacred to current students and alumni alike. My adrenaline hits its apex, blood pumping through my veins at supersonic speeds, summoning strength I didn’t know was present in my right arm to perform an amount of one-armed pushups equivalent to that of the team’s total points. The student section counts every last, agonizing down and up, and celebrates momentarily upon their total completion. Finally I spring to my knees on the board supported by six burly cheerleaders and lead what is comparable to a decent town’s population in a synchronized cheer, “OHHHHHHHHHHH C-A-T-S! CATS CATS CATS!”"

Blah blah blah. Children attack people in big furry suits and here is an example. Blah blah blah.

"Once in suit (as it is referred), there was little that could get under my skin (no pun intended). This is not to say that aggravation was foreign. There were games in which it seemed every single demon child had been ordered by their parents to maim my poor alter ego. I received a new injury more or less every appearance. On one particularly strange occasion, I was approached by a mentally handicapped man, no less than twenty-five years of age, who was eager to give me a hug. I gladly accepted his embrace only to be betrayed by a bite wound on my shoulder comparable to that of an adult lion. It takes a strong jaw to break flesh and produce blood under an inch and a half of leather and fluff. "

Blah blah blah. The end. Blah blah blah.