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What Four Decisions in Your Life Do You Most Regret?

By / 09.13.12

Andy Moore: When you’re young and you’re asked a question like this, it’s almost too easy. You don’t have to get heavy and say, “I never should have married that woman” or “I may have made some missteps down the line in raising my drug dealer son” or “I sure hope Jerry was kidding when he said he saw my daughter turning $5 tricks at a truck stop!” No, your problems are relatively minor. Your regrets, if any, are typically not of the life-altering sort.

This is why everyone hates young people (and rightfully so): Much like the hot, thin blonde complaining to her fat friend that she needs to lose five pounds, young people’s problems are seen by their older counterparts as petty and pointless. “Yes, complain that you weren’t alive to see the Beatles in their prime,” an old person might say. “I’ll just be here, going through a divorce.”

All this said, here are four MAJOR regrets I’ve had in my life. Life-changing things here.

1. Fall, 2008 to Spring, 2009: The collected events of Freshman year

Freshman year of college is a magical time. Anything is truly possible. Depending on how well you lie, you can totally reinvent yourself from high school—ou can hook up with girls out of your league, and you don’t even have to date them! You can get really fat—and still hook up with those girls you don’t have to date! The future is limitless, the present is fantastic.

There is one major thing you kind of have to remember through it all, though. You do actually have to pay attention in class. And you have to go. I did not do this enough my freshman year, and then I spent the next three years scrambling to put together the pieces of a ruined GPA. I was a 100-yard dash runner who not only stumbled at the start, I was shot twice in the kneecaps by a sniper perched on a rooftop.

No, academics should not be the foremost part of your college experience. But there unfortunately has to be some balance.

Lesson learned: Yes, college is the most fun year of your life. But f*cking go to class.

2. Fall, 1997: Refusing Mike Holmgren’s autograph

1997 was a rough year. At the beginning of the year, I, for some reason, ate dog poop on a dare. I still can't walk by doggy feces without the memory resurfacing and the foul stench slowly manifesting itself in my mouth.  

Later that year, though, came one of my biggest regrets: I turned down the autograph of the one, the only, Mike Holmgren. It happened while on vacation at Disney World. I was touring a park with my family. We walked by then-Green Bay Packers coach Mike Holmgren. He was coming off a Super Bowl win, and, if memory serves me correctly, my dad motioned for me to go and get his autograph. Holmgren waved me over, smiling, but I turned away, and shook my head. I think I really disappointed Mike Holmgren. And, more importantly, that autograph would be worth $60 today. If it was written beside Mickey Mouse's? Priceless.

Also, later that day, a seagull sh*t on my head. That was God telling me I should have taken the autograph.

Lesson learned: If you turn down free autograph opportunities with semi-celebrities, a bird will sh*t on your head.

3. Summer, 2004: Deciding to go to an Evangelical Christian school

Only there for one year, but oh boy. I learned that the Earth is 5,000 years old, that God looks down on female basketball players who wear shorts, and that the 2004 tsunami was God's wrath for Muslims. Kids, don't go to one of these places unless you're a reeeeeeally religious nutso. These places should all be condemned. Never hire anyone who actually enjoyed their time there.

Lesson learned: Do your research before going somewhere.

4. Spring, 2012: Writing this column

I wrote this last column for the school newspaper on my evolution in college through my drinking choices. Since the publication of this horrific, pretentious piece of garbage, I have been roundly mocked by my friends for it. And you should mock me too. The fact that I'm even linking to it should be grounds for dismissal from this job.

Lesson learned: Proofread, proofread, proofread.


J.Camm: My adult life, for the most part, has been sculpted by a litany of questionable choices. Even I can’t refute that. How the hell else can one explain writing nonsense online for a living and working with a human parasite like Andy Moore? A garbage dump's worth of bad decisions, that's how. But I digress…because I love this job and Andy has his moments.

Some of my poorest and most miserable decisions have happened with women. But I won't be discussing any of them because there are casualties in sex and those stains on my existence have been deemed “worth it” and not regrettable whatsoever. Instead, we'll look at a few of my other non-achievements in the field of life, things I could have easily prevented that resulted in me experiencing physical, mental, or emotional anguish. The criteria for these will be A) Was this a horrible mistake? and B) Did I leave this experience without blowing a load? If the answer to both of those questions is a resounding yes, then the criteria has been met. 

Lastly, I have no idea why Andy chose to only do 4 regrets. We're just scratching the surface and getting warmed up with what's below. I could have listed at least 6 more. Oh well, another list for another time.

1. Trying to go drink-for-drink with Andre the Giant's son (wasn't really his son)

Everyone drinks, everyone blacks out, everyone gets laid, everyone is awesome…I GET IT. But this was one of those “I one-hundred percent should have died” moments.

One day, about 5 years ago, I attempted to be a little too awesome during a day drinking session. Me and this other dude (who was about 6' 11″ and 350 lb), we'll call him “Other Dude,” started to pound tumblers full of vodka at this day party for no reason other than the bottle was in the kitchen. Those efforts went so well that by 8 p.m. I was admitted into the hospital (YAY FOR ME!) while Other Dude remained unfazed — but still suffering from gigantism, so yay for me again!

Only problem is that I stopped drinking at around 6 p.m. So what happened between the time I stopped drinking and the time I hit the hospital bed? Great question!

After I was fine tuned, I tried to leave the apartment we were partying at because I was going to a concert that night. Knowing full well that I was point-of-no-return drunk, the idiots I was drinking with (most of whom I barely knew) still let me get in a cab alone. Although I was blacked out, I suspect Other Dude said nothing to stop me — being a bitter giant and all — but my grave state of being was mostly his fault. You'd think he wouldn't want that blood on his hands?

Anyway, next thing I know it's 4 a.m. and I wake up in the hospital with IV's coming out of both arms, my entire body in seething pain (most notably my left ass cheek and the back of my head), I've got wounds all over my arms, while my clothes are covered in generous mixture of blood and vomit. The nurse walks over and gives me a play-by-play of the story she heard from the EMTs. Apparently, while I was passed out in the cab on the ride home, I started vomiting all over the place. Total yard sale. Appropriately pissed about this, the cabby pulled over and forced me to get out. Just then, another cab, who evidently didn't see me stumbling out into traffic, turned the corned and gored me in the ass. This sent me flying onto the hood where I remainded for a few seconds until I lifelessly slid off the car. A nearby doorman called 911 and then he came out and helped the two cabbies drag me onto the curb. That's where I stayed for the next 30 minutes until the ambulance finally came and scraped me off the pavement.

Lesson Learned: Other Dude sucks. Never drink with Other Dude again. Fuck that giant.

2. Pants-ing my friend in front of our entire gym class freshman year of high school

How could I possibly regret something so undeniably awesome, you ask? Let's just skip right to the lesson in this one.

Lesson learned: If you pants someone, they could have a dick the size of an infant's toe, and while that's not your fault, the fact that it's now public knowledge and the driving force behind his nickname and lack of sex for the next 3 years kind of falls on you. Going beyond high school, the argument could also be made that I'm partially to blame for his substance abuse and employment at Radio Shack. I would, however, contest that argument in saying that at some point even a needle-dick needs to take responsibility for his shitty life and stop blaming others. I am right? Just agree.

3. Joining a Coed Flag Football League

Football and fucking have long been two of my favorite f-words in the English language. Four years ago, I decided to try and see if they could go hand in hand by joining a Coed flag football team. Coed sports leagues are a huge racket in New York City. Softball, kickball, soccer, football, you can play any team sport with a bunch of women if that's your idea of a good time. It's not mine, but when I was new to the city a friend asked me to play, so I decided to give it a shot; sometimes being surrounded by concrete makes a man do the unthinkable.

Now, there are two types of dudes that subject themselves to this level of torture: guys with athletic girlfriends and dudes who want to hook up with sporty chicks. I fell into the latter bucket.

Why do I regret this you ask? First, because the team I was asked to join had zero hot chicks, and second, I never got laid from this experience. But I did get fucked. Hard. During the second quarter of the very first game a tree stump from the opposing team lost her balance (which after the fact seems impossible due to her low center of gravity) and keeled over right on my ankle. All 10,000 lb. of her. The force of her substantial mass instantly shredded every ligament and within seconds you couldn't tell where my foot ended and my leg began. 

Stumpo's mighty fall ended my season and caused me three months of misery. Although you can argue not being able to walk is better than having to play football with unathletic fat chicks…

Lesson Learned: Out in the wild, fat bitches will go to great lengths to cock block you.

4. Failing to read Andy Moore's epic prose that unintentionally outs him as a alcohol snob and closet bed wetter prior to hiring him

To paraphrase Andy in the pile of shit that is his Duke Chronicle swan song: knowing what I know now, how could I responsibly go on allowing him to work here? I mean, have you read that article? WHAT. A. DOUCHETUBE. Don't get me wrong, the beginning of the piece had promise; he was self-deprecating, almost likable, hitting valid points of how we all drank in the early years of college, but then he started talking about his senior year and the wheels just fell off. “I drank wine at West End with my parents, I sampled most of the beers on tap at the Fed and the Joyce, I had a brunch Bloody Mary or two at Alivia’s…I began to learn how to treat bartenders right, to know their names, to know how to tip them…” I'm shocked he didn't go on to say “all the while I was waiting and praying for my dick to vaporize so I could finally have that vagina I had been lusting for.” VOMIT. PROJECTILE VOMIT.

Lesson Learned: Everything could always be a lot worse; I could have hired some weirdo that doesn’t drink at all. Now I'm only stuck with one that drinks like a menstruating woman.


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