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The Dartmouth
July 22, 2025 | Latest Issue
The Dartmouth

Useless Body Parts

Haveyou ever wondered why certain parts of the body haven't evolved out of existence? Well this past Tuesday, I stood pondering such a physiological question. In all honesty, I did a lot of standing, a lot of grimacing and a lot of thinking.

I was maneuvering my way around the third floor Topliff bathroom at about 4:00 a.m., desperately trying to locate some spare toothpaste. My tube had pretty much been tapped, leaving nothing but a minuscule white circle around the edge of the dispensing hole. For five minutes, I twisted, turned, stomped on, chewed, ripped, sucked, tweezered, pipetted and knifed the helpless tube, but to no avail.

Nothing would come out. My breath was definitely going to be absolutely righteous the next morning. No Scope, no Listerine, no breath fresheners in sight. Not even a Tic Tac. With no magical polishing agent in my proximity, I felt as if my teeth were being gnawed at by those dreaded cavity creatures, destined for immediate enamel erosion, gum infection and decay.

However, just as I was about to leave, one of my freshman hallmates entered the bathroom. After identifying my problem, he grabbed my toothpaste and squeezed the tube until a stream of red, white and green paste found its way onto my recently purchased electric Snoopy toothbrush. After a quick drink of water, he left, leaving me with the memory of his 5' 4" 115 pound scrawny male frame accomplishing in five seconds what my 5'9 1/2" 135 pound frame couldn't accomplish in 10 minutes.

I was seething inside. Those once-a-week half-hour workouts in the Kresge weight room seemed all for naught. The religious eating of Power Bars for breakfast lunch and dinner had been a complete waste. The Flintstones vitamin supplements and amino acid pills that I ordered through my Joe Weider catalog had done nothing. Even my Regis Filbin work-out tape had failed during crunch time.

Overcome with self-pity, I vowed to prove that I was a virile, self-assured Dartmouth senior, fully capable of demonstrating my intestinal fortitude in a guttural, grunt-worthy activity. I needed some sort of test, a physical conditioning rite of passage that would once again re-affirm my XY chromosomal status.

Sexist as it may sound, I wanted to be Arnold Schwarzennegger, Hulk Hogan, Superfly Snukah, Adam West, Don Knotts (no relevance, just a childhood goal). The blood coursed through my veins, and I pondered what I could possibly do in a Topliff bathroomat 4:15 a.m. to once again be hailed for my Adonis-like physique. One-armed push-ups? Too passe. Counter-top dips? Too easy. Toiletbowl arm-lifts? Too risky.

Then it hit me. I looked over in the direction of the rusted-out shower bar on the opposite side of the room upon which hung a faded white plastic curtain. Pull-ups, I said to myself, and I walked over to what would become my own personal Goliathan challenge. I pumped up my Reeboks, spit on both my hands, mentally pictured myself facing Nitro from American Gladiators, yanked on my left ear to let Mom and Dad know I was doing fine and subsequently proceeded to the shower area.

Without much hesitation, I jumped up onto the bar and let my feet hang a few inches from the tile below. In a quick burst I raised my chin over the bar and lowered myself down. With a primal exhalation, I screamed "one!" Once again I lifted myself up towards the ceiling, raising my stubbly, unshaven chin over the brownish-gray curtain bar. That made two.

But before I could lower my body down back to the ground to finish my Presidential Physical Challenge (like Reagan ever did a push-up), I heard a sharp snap from above and my body quickly collapsed in a torqueing motion onto the protruding shower step.

Where did I land you query? Right on my tail bone. Yes, the coccyx -- that useless body part that marks the gradual progression of humankind from the Neanderthal stage to that of Homo Sapiens.

Pain shot through my hardened gluteus maximus, and I stood hunched over for 10 minutes, panting uncontrollably. I was achampion boxer, sucker-punched by a grimy iron bar. I could have been a contender but in my dizzied state all I could do was wince and stand, stand and wince. Foreman would have to wait.

After hearing my sordid tale, you may now see why I question the necessity of the small seemingly useless bone located at the base of my spinal cord. Maybe you too realize why for seven days I have stood pontificating why certain parts of the body have not evolved out of existence. Maybe my professors now realize why I have been unable to grace them with my jubilant presence in class this past week.

At least when tonsils get infected, kids get ice cream. For the past week, all I've gotten is grief and a kick me sign on my back.