Senior Recap

A lot of graduating seniors are already talking about how much they will miss college, which is kind of like Lance Armstrong talking about how much he misses cancer. Studies have shown that nostalgia can be unhealthy. In fact, my great grandfather died from an acute case of nostalgia poisoning. Like most old men, he claimed that in his childhood he walked uphill both ways through a minefield to buy malt liquor from a 7-Eleven. Such stories were unbelievable since everyone knew he bought his malt liquor at a QuickTrip. A lot of seniors in the class of 2007 are similarly deluded. For some, college has been four years of drunken debauchery interrupted only by bouts of vomiting or the occasional nap. Their foray into higher education has been defined by weight gain, brain cell loss, and guilt-free intercourse with partners ranging from disease-ridden ho-bags to ho-bags who are only somewhat ridden with disease. For others, college has been eight straight semesters of educational exhaustion, a gauntlet of term papers, finals, and intercourse with ho-bags who are somewhat ridden with disease. That last part is pretty much unavoidable, regardless of which path you take. Clearly, neither group of students can be trusted when it comes to remembering college. That’s why I’m here. As usual, I possess unprecedented insight on the subject, having taken detailed notes over the past four years for the sole purpose of writing this very article. I will now dispense the contents of those notes, excluding a doodle I made of Mike Tyson brutally pummeling two nuns and a mule. That one drawing pretty much sums up all of my experiences in Core 8.

For the purpose of simplicity, I’ll describe the collective experiences of the entire senior class through the eyes of John Undergraduate. Like most new college students, John is a Korean War veteran with one eye and an intense disdain for oppressive laws requiring him to wear pants in public. John Undergraduate arrives at Saint Roderick’s College eager to get an education and make the world a better place. Then on Little Sibs Weekend he gets sexually assaulted by six transvestites behind a Dumpster. John spends the rest of his freshman year struggling to define himself and win his battle against low self-esteem. He achieves the last part by getting drunk and beating up some third-graders.

Summarizing the collective experiences of the entire senior class’s sophomore year is more challenging. It starts with the first summer break of college: To make ends meet, John Undergraduate takes a job over the summer clubbing seals and octogenarians. The simple beauty of beating small aquatic mammals and people in motorized wheel chairs helps him hone in on what he really wants to do in college: English creative writing with a minor in Combat Pottery. Modern wars are won and lost based on the availability of marginally functional clay bowls on the battlefield. To satisfy the requirements for his major, John enrolls in a poetry class and instantly becomes 98 percent more effeminate. Heterosexuality and one’s appreciation for iambic pentameter are inversely proportional. While his friends learn how to run businesses, write computer programs, and educate future generations, John spends his time writing four-line poems about a tree that’s actually a metaphor about that time his uncle touched him when he was six. With a skill like that, job offers are sure to abound. To balance out his newfound status of barely-straight, John takes an English literature class as well. Wisely, he sees the real world benefits of spending hours and hours conducting a feminist criticism of a fictional character no one has ever heard of. Not all of his classes can be quite that useful, but they can come close. In Combat Pottery 101, he learns how to paint a clay pot while under sniper fire. Core 3 and 4 are similarly practical. In the former, he learns how Greeks spread civilization by speaking in long, elaborate speeches that caused their enemies to leave the battlefield out of boredom. In the latter, he discovers that every assignment in the class can be successfully completed by rearranging the phrases “Christian humanism,” “image and likeness of God,” and “be the best we can be.” He also learns that he can selectively insert the phrase “kill the Free Masons” for bonus points.

Junior year is perhaps the time period in which the senior class of 2007 had the most in common, making it the easiest to describe through the personification of John Undergraduate. God caused evolution, and India, China, and Latin America are financially poor, culturally rich, and have lots of people. Having solved Cores 5, 6, 7, and 8 with that sentence, John Undergraduate has plenty of free time to daydream about suicide during his fifth and sixth semesters. He stays alive only because he knows America needs his combat pottery skills if it is to survive the impending war with India over copyright infringements in Bollywood movies. He also continues to hone his skills for his particular major by drinking more, studying less, and hosting cockfights in the basement of Merlini. In compliance with his revised life style, John’s English creative writing skills now involve staring at a blank Word document while holding a water bottle in one hand and a live grenade in the other.

That brings John Undergraduates misadventures to the present, when the class of 2007 suddenly becomes nostalgic for a version of reality that never existed. During the summer between his junior and senior year, John abandons his cruel seasonal work as a seal clubber in favor of becoming a cruel seal clubbing intern at a rival company for slightly more money. The experience prepares him for Core 9 by giving him a new appreciation for the Skulldore, the supreme deity of carnage in Christianity’s complex pantheon of gods. John fears change, which is why he loves Core 9. It proves to be yet another chance to toss around the phrase “Christian humanism” for instant success, although it doesn’t hurt to add a few comments about Jesus’s resurrection and drinking problem. John moves on to Core 10 eager to showcase his writing prowess with a semester’s worth of hard work on the twenty-page term paper that will be the culmination of his college career. Instead, he ends up starting his paper twenty minutes before it’s due. He finishes with fifteen minutes to spare and gets an A minus on the paper only because he misspells “Skulldore.”

Non-English majors may have had a college experience slightly different from that of John Undergraduate, but the lessons are the same. An undergraduate education teaches students to scale back on honesty and effort in favor of strategic lies and assignments typed under the influence of household cleaning products. While there are some aspects of college that people may find hard to leave behind, those aspects are usually extracurricular, illegal, or deadly in nature. If someone gave me the option to do it all over again, both the school work and the seal clubbing, I would stab him or her in the throat.

That brings me to the next point: For anything less than a stab to the throat, let’s keep the crying to a minimum during the graduation process. It’s not like graduation suddenly jumped out of the bushes to hit you with a brick and steal your car keys. Although this might surprise you, it’s actually been approaching at a more or less steady rate for the past four years – about a minute every sixty seconds. The only solution to the unnecessary emotions people are expressing about leaving here is a bouncer at graduation. To anyone who cries before, during, or after the ceremony, the bouncer will deliver a swift kick to the stomach. That way you’ll actually have something to cry about, and the dignity of the ceremony will be saved.

I’ve enjoyed taking up half a page or more for the past year, and will continue to post these same sorts of articles online in the future. Although I often compare college to cancer, I must admit that any organization that lets me go practically uncensored for four years either has incredible respect for the first amendment or a truly admirable lack of standards. In this case, I suspect it was a little of both. I’d also like to thank my fiancée, the future Lola Gilbert, who has patiently proofread every one of my articles. She managed to stop a few potential blunders on my part in terms of objectionable material, and for that I am truly grateful. Yes, there really is another level of offensiveness beyond what I print on these pages. If you’d like to see that level in my future articles, visit http://www.explodingunicorn.blogspot.com. If you wouldn’t, please enjoy your kick to the stomach at graduation.

Practical Advice and the New Standard for Offensive Analogies

In my esteemed and uncontroversial tenure as co-head editor of this fine publication that somewhat resembles a newspaper, my columns have become known as an authoritative source on topics such as culture, sensitivity, and things getting raped by other things. Seriously, if it wasn’t for forced sex acts between unlikely companions, I would’ve run out of material about a week and a half into my freshman year. In that sense, I am to the newspaper business like bear semen is to the human rectum: totally unwanted but too deeply embedded to get rid of easily. That analogy is horribly inappropriate for a college newspaper, but it worked just fine as a mission statement on my last batch of graduate school applications. With credentials like these, I’ve more or less assumed the right to interject my opinion anywhere I see fit, much like a bear interjects his… well, you get the idea. Despite my unrestricted powers of opinion on topics for which I have no qualifications, people don’t write to me asking for advice. That could be because this isn’t an advice column, or it could be because all of my answers would involve analogies about bear semen. It’s hard to say, really. Fortunately, not being asked about my opinion has never stopped me from giving it anyway. Here are some real questions I’ve seen come up in professional advice columns over the years along with the right answers the question-askers should have been given in the first place.

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Dear Answer Guy: Our child sleeps in our bed, and my wife has stopped having sex with me because of it. I’ve asked the kid to sleep in his own bed, but my wife wants him in bed with us. What should I do? Sincerely, Horny Enough to be Turned on by an Analogy about Bear Semen

Dear Horny: Some people will tell you to seek marital counseling. Others will tell you to file for divorce. I have a solution that far less traumatic than either of those options: Throw your kid down a well. Nothing turns on a woman like the unexplained disappearance of a child. Her hormones will go ballistic telling her to replace the kid as quickly as possible. Of course, once you have child number two, you’re going to have the same problem as before. That’s why you’re going to need a really deep well: It’s going to be pretty full of children by the end of this process. If that doesn’t work, try smacking your wife around. The only thing that turns on a woman more than the death of a child is domestic abuse. Trust me on this one.

Dear Advice-o-holic: I work sixty hours a week, and I feel unfulfilled. My family says I’m obsessed with money. I say they’re just afraid of my success. What do you think? Sincerely, Unhappy but Rich

Dear Unhappy: The first step you need to take is to make a list of your priorities in life. Here’s what my list looks like: 1) God 2) family 3) school. Actually, that’s the list of things I’ve been blowing off for most of my college career. Here’s my current list of priorities: 1) petty revenge 2) Pringles. As you can see, I lead a rich and fulfilling life. Money, however, didn’t make my list. Don’t get me wrong, I love profit. I just have a moral aversion to working for it. I plan to use my career solely for prestige purposes before resorting to piracy on the high seas to support my high-maintenance lifestyle. If you’re unhappy and rich, keep up the good work. Most people only get to be unhappy and poor, which I suppose can’t be all that bad since poor people don’t have feelings or souls. By being rich, you’ve earned the right to experience whatever emotions you choose. If your family can’t understand that, then you have a moral obligation to throw them down a well. Good luck finding one that’s not already full of children.

Dear All-Knowing Sex Machine: My wife and I have been friends with the couple next door for decades. That couple recently celebrated its 50^th anniversary. My wife and I thought our neighbors would want to spend the day with just each other, but we recently found out that they’re offended because we didn’t take them out to eat. Should we have taken them out for a night on the town, or were we right to think that a long-married husband and wife might want to spend their special night with just each other? Sincerely, Confused and Old-Smelling

Dear Confused: Women, like cars, are meant to be traded in for a newer model every four or five years. The fact that your friend has been with one model for five decades shows that he has a poor understanding of asset depreciation. There’s no sense in helping him celebrate his failure. In fact, if I were you, I’d get as far away from him as possible. I once heard of a man who drove the same car for fifty years. Then someone he knew died from AIDS. Coincidence? I think not.

Dear Master of All Information in the Universe: I love my girlfriend, but her parents think I’m a loser. What can I do to change their mind? Sincerely, I Smoke Pot for a Living

Dear Underachiever with a Heart of Gold: The key to winning over her parents is through your girlfriend’s mother. Impress the matriarch of the family by inviting your girlfriend’s mother out to a fancy restaurant. When your girlfriend’s mother arrives, break the ice with something light and harmless, like making wild accusations about her sexual orientation. Her icy stares are sure signs that you’re the type of man she wants dating her daughter. To keep the meal moving along, limit your lesbianism accusation session to no more than forty-five minutes. When your girlfriend’s mother continues to deny being a lesbian, try touching her leg. If she resists, you’ll have your proof, and if she doesn’t, well, you’re going to a special level of hell reserved for people who make analogies about bear semen. As for your girlfriend’s father, men are physical creatures. Try impressing him with blunt force trauma to his head. If that doesn’t work, tell him the story of how you scored with his wife despite the notable handicap of her being a lesbian. You’ll go from boyfriend to son-in-law in no time.

Dear Master of the of the Observer, Slayer of Dragons, Maker of the Kessel Run in Less than Twelve Parsecs, and Bearer of Breath that is Perpetually Minty Fresh: Ten years ago, my mom was killed by a drunk driver on her way to my dance recital. If I hadn’t been taking lessons, she’d still be alive. Should I still feel guilty after all of this time? Sincerely, Sad but Hopeful

Dear Sad: Somebody has to feel guilty about it, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me. While it’s true that I was traveling the wrong way down the interstate and that I had enough heroin in my system to kill at least six elephants, it’s also true that women have no business being on the road in the first place. This is in no way an admission that I slammed into your mother’s car while going more than 180 miles per hour and then hid in a trench filled with cow manure until the police left the scene. What this is an admission of is that if you hadn’t been selfishly taking dance lessons, your mother would still be alive. I hope you’re proud of yourself.

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My ability to console and guide those in need is truly amazing. I should have been a child psychologist, or maybe just a serial killer. Either way, a lot of people would have ended up dead. Sadly enough, I actually have seen all of these questions come up in various advice columns. It saddens me even more that most columnists answer these questions by calling for calm, measured actions and respect for the feelings of all parties involved. Never once have I seen Ann Landers recommend that a male reader take a garden trowel and stab his neighbor in the eye with it. This is especially shocking given the number of my-neighbor-is-giving-me-a-dirty-look situations to which it’s applicable. The truth of the matter is that there are some conflicts that can’t be resolved by sitting down and talking about it. Even Ann Landers spent most of her lifetime feuding with her sister. If she had taken my advice, she could have could have settled the whole dispute in an afternoon. All she needed was a garden trowel.