Every time I play Scattergories, I lose interest about halfway through – just when people are getting heated up and competitive. So instead of playing seriously, I just half-ass everything. Case in point: the letter “N” comes up and the question is “Something that lives in the ocean.” My answer: “Nice Sharks.”
OTPHJ (Over The Pants Hand Jobs) are functionally useless. How the fuck do you expect this to end … all over my belly button? Hell no. This is especially frustrating if the girl is a man-eater. Imagine a Tiger hunting down its prey only to say at the moment of capture, “Yeah … I’ll have the salad. Oil and vinegar dressing, please.” To quote Steve Prefontaine, “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.”
I now have two khaki shorts that are button-less. For some reason, it flies off when I’m trying to take a piss. I believe there is a direct linear correlation between the intensity with which I need to pee and the likelihood that I’ll break the button right off my pants. I may try to sew it back on, but I’m going to reinforce it first with paper clips or epoxy so it won’t happen again. I’m sure one of them is on the floor somewhere in the Olson first-floor bathroom. Let me know if you find it – my number is (203) 257-7885. Anyway, nobody can see my waistline due to an overbooked Spillagio Hotel, so I now use my shirt to cover up this sartorial disaster. My zipper is ultimately the only thing that stands between me and nakieness.
What the fuck is it with Pokémon? They can only say their name. “Pika! Pikachu!” Imagine fighting with your friends: It would just be an incomprehensible mish-mash of various intonations of your name. This is clearly a byproduct of Japanese consumer schizophrenia. That, and maybe Pocky.
At Relay for Life this past weekend, some old woman who looked like the physical manifestation of a troll came by and told us we couldn’t sell hand-made cheesecake because of some obscure bureaucratic rule involving perishable food. She implied that it was killing people who were on chemotherapy. I was fittin’ to bitch her out after these wild accusations. When I did, she ended up crying like the blubbering asshole that she was. Apparently, she trolls around and does this wherever people are trying to be happy and caring toward one another – Picnic Day, Whole Earth Festival and Relay for Life are just a few of the places that she frequents. I’ve also been told that she cries when she doesn’t get her way. No surprises there. UC Davis: hiring bureaucratic, egomaniacal crybabies since 1905.
Every man should invest in a good pair of Ugg (or Fugg) boots and leggings. Think about it. Why don’t girls ever fucking talk about that shit? Because they feel bomb as fuck and they don’t want the secret getting out to guys. That’s why I bought them. And let me tell you: Wearing an Uggs/leggings combo is an orgasmic feeling for your legs. It’s like someone is constantly caressing everything below your waist. No wonder they kept that shit secret. Plus, it makes my ass look great.
Trying to uncover “white” privilege will only further separate us into a fabricated dichotomy that can never be resolved. This self-perpetuating belief that separation between “races” and various superficial differences are above and beyond anything we can do to fix them misses the larger point: Our differences would mean absolutely nothing if we thought it so.
Instead, we as a campus love to feed into this: There’s always a fight to be had, there’s always someone who’s oppressed, there’s always an enemy and there’s always an ego in need of attention and validation. This kind of victimization has gotten us nowhere, and it only furthers the already great divide between humanity and its sense of self. Next time, don’t “check your privilege” – instead, just try to be a decent human being goddamnit. You know, some people were so offended by my article that made fun of Persians that they were discussing whether or not it was possible to be racist against your own race. Are you fucking kidding me? I have carte blanche and I can say whatever the FUCK I want about Persians. Here’s one: Most Persian women have hairy backs. Ewww.
If you’re a Persian woman who isn’t light-hearted enough to take that joke in stride, then you can ask DAVE KARIMI to send you a complimentary bottle of Nair. His e-mail address is email@example.com.