He lurks in his dorm room like a gremlin shunning the sunlight. Leave his apartment to attend a group meeting? No way -- but he'll make the five-minute excursion to buy a gallon of Turkey Hill iced tea, all of which will be consumed in a three-hour time span.

You've got the nicknames for him: Waste of Space, Loser, Do Something!, Slacker. Yet, despite his obvious lack of motivation to move (let alone seek educational and social enrichment), you've all learned something from him.

Maybe it's picking up on the idea that you don't want to turn out like him. Maybe you'd like to learn how to love Weekend at Bernie's II with the same fervor. Maybe it's a multitude of things.

For me, this "Waste of Space," this model of what-not-to-do, is Todd Giardiello (Gee-ar-dell-o).

He's a 20-something hustler of sugar, sleep and sudsy beer, who hails from Antietam, Pa., a small suburb of Reading. Two years ago, the Penn State community lost this pillar of slacking success when he returned home to attend community college and work.

Every student has encountered a Todd Giardiello during his or her tenure at Penn State.

He's the kid from the R-rated film that you're not quite sure whether you want to root for or not.

The kid who, while I'm prepping myself for my 9:45 a.m. class, has been up since 7 a.m. to catch reruns of seaQuest DSV on the Sci-Fi Channel -- with full-blown intentions of skipping his 11 a.m. And his 12:30 p.m. His entire Tuesday schedule, in fact.

The kid who spends mind-numbing hours playing Diablo II -- the roleplaying computer game where you're a Viking who slays monsters -- while wearing a plastic Viking helmet on his head.

The kid who scores head-shaking dates with attractive women, does absolutely nothing to make them feel significant (other than to pass gas on them) and somehow still gets them to stick around for up to two years.

The kid who looks and appears like your average Penn State student, but is really an abnormal creature with the stench of Elmer's glue.

The kid who is a member of Phi Potato-Chip Groin-Scratch Nintendo fraternity -- membership one.

The kid who goes five days without a drop of H2O cleansing his overtly greasy body. You could fry a pig on his back.

The kid who switches his major from physics (too hard) to history (too many classes) to Blockbuster retail (too many free movie rentals to pass up).

The common thread of all this? Todd Giardiello -- and all his other incarnations -- is a university icon. Some students here strive to leave it all behind -- the academics, the social skills -- to become a Todd Giardiello, if just for one day. The sad reality, though, is that most Todd Giardiellos don't survive at Penn State. They either fail out, lose interest or just plain head back home to the old, beaten love seat. And when that happens, it's a true shame. Penn State loses a certain intangible aspect, that thing that offers your life better perspective, while entertaining and teaching you the entire way.

This place needs more Todd Giardiellos. Because of His Royal Laziness, I've learned to balance school, work and my social realm with a certain flare for the dramatic. I've interjected the Ying Yang Twins into my life, long before Lil' Jon and his chalice made them a household name. And I've found that skipping a class can provide ample time to nap or catch reruns of Dawson's Creek. You know, all the important stuff in life.

Make no mistake about it: I love the kid. In fact, I miss the lazy sack of garbage. The outlook and the life lessons I've stolen from this lump of do-nothingness are invaluable.

And so, to honor a true inspiration:

Todd Giardiello, this potato chip's for you.