Codependent Collegian

Pendergrast reviewing the TRW reports of her beaus

(Austin, TX) University of Texas junior Caitlyn Pendergrast, torn between the affections of two "really sweet guys," came upon a novel solution for her dilemma.

The accounting major decided to use the credit scores of the young men as the final arbiter in her decision.

"Ultimately I want a guy with some stability, someone who knows the value of having a good credit record," Pendergrast said, showing Codependent Collegian reporters a series of spreadsheets she developed. "Depending on your credit score, lenders will determine what risk you pose to them. I can't see myself spending the next five or six decades being weighed down by someone with lousy credit."

Between suitors Paul Killarney and Kevin McDougall, Pendergrast found that Killarney's credit rating of 745 "totally gave him the edge" over the mere 560 posted by McDougall.

"It looks like Kevin was late on his car payment three times in 2005, and he bounced a check in 2003," she said, shaking her head. "These are the kinds of red flags that should scare the hell out of any woman giving serious thought to dating Kevin."

McDougall: "Crestfallen, but understanding" of Pendergrast's decision

Contacted by the Codependent Collegian, McDougall said that he is "totally cool with" Pendergrast's mate selection methodology.

"I knew that I was dancing with the Devil on those late payments, but with a younger sister needing a kidney transplant, what could I do?" he said of the three months he was out of work for the donation surgery. "I just want Caitlyn to know that I'll always be there for her, and my credit score is really just a snapshot of my credit risk at a particular point in time. Someday, somehow, I'll prove to her what kind of man I really am. Until then, my shadow's the only one that walks beside me on the boulevard of broken credit."

Labels: credit scores, TRW, University of Texas

Guest editorial by Lance Prospero, evacuation maestro

It is my sincere desire to share with mankind the fruits of my labors, the creativity that dwells deep within me.

That is why I never flush a toilet, and leave my precious bodily byproducts there for all the world to enjoy. This, truly, is a subtle whore, a closet lock and key of villanous secrets.

Whether I produce prodigious stools, watery bowel washings, or my delightful yellowy urine, that which emanates from my body I give unto you.

Some decry what they see as "laziness" or "disgustingness," but they know not what they speak. For my body produces nothing but sumptuous perfection, delivered by mine loins, and I selflessly bequeath my art to the next visitor of this stall.

What light through yonder porcelain breaks?

I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student. These funeral-baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables from which the next visitor shall partake.

If I quench thee, thou flaming monster, I can again thy former light restore. Should I repent me; but once put out thy light, thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat that can thy light relume.

For if I have too austerely punish'd you, your compensation makes amends: for I have given you here a third of mine own life, or that for which I live, and I ratify this my rich gift. As you from crimes would pardon'd be, let your indulgence set me free.

Enjoy, brave Concorde!

Labels: toilets, unflushed toilets

(Columbus, OH) Marissa Vandergraff thought she was going to head home for the holidays and enjoy some time with friends and family.

Instead, the Ohio State freshman finds herself facing an "unthinkable horror," as a pimple of epic proportions suddenly appeared on her forehead this morning.

"I'm an ugly, horrifying freak!" she screamed to her mother downstairs. "I can't believe this is happening to me! I am faced with living out the quiet desperation of knowing that acne is only too real, and that there are incredible injustices we are forced to accept."

Vandergraff told Codependent Collegian reporters that she is having difficulty coping with the lifestyle changes her illness is bringing.

"I find it extremely difficult to talk to people about the way I feel, because I think that they just do not understand," she said, dabbing away tears in in her eyes. "I have kept it inside all morning, and I cry constantly. I spoke briefly to my best friend and my boyfriend, but they will never understand how low and depressed I am feeling. Until they have walked a mile in my shoes, they can't know what I am going through."

Vandergraff said that she is preparing herself for "the worst."

"My worst fear is that the zit germs will metastasize, growing and spreading microscopically across my entire face," she said, crying in her pillow. "I need to schedule an appointment with a plastic surgeon today and look at my reconstruction options; there's no way I am going to go through life looking like a pus-filled abomination."

Still, said Vandergraff, she has had moments of deep despair since the discovery of the whitehead this morning.

"I thought of driving in my car, while I was crying my eyes out, thinking that my car and me would look so good wrapped around a phone pole," she said. "I am sick of pretending I am happy and perfect. I am living a lie and I just don't want to do this anymore."

Labels: Christmas, depression, zit

Guest editorial by Heather Gliomador, cancer patient

After you broke up with me, Jake, things got a little crazy, and I said some things I regret that night.

Like how much of an asshole you were, and how that little bitch Meghan you hooked up with was a total slut, and a lot of other shit I don't remember because I got falling-down, stinking drunk.

But why, oh why, did I ever ask God to smite me with brain cancer?

Christ, if I'd have known He was actually listening for a change, I would have prayed for something more useful, like a BMW. Or at least I could have asked Him to pay you back with a nasty case of herpes or something.

But no. Not Heather. Heather had to go and stand in the rain, raise her arms to Heaven, and ask for a fucking medulloblastoma.

THIS sure was a great birthday present, I must say

Hey God - could You have recognized I was totally wasted, despondent about a breakup, and completely out of my gourd that night?

I have an urge to shout the phrase "FUCK ME" at the top of my lungs right about now, but I'm afraid Somebody will get the wrong idea. Again.

And no offense, oh Holy One, but I really do have a headache. Big time.

Labels: cancer, God, medulloblastoma

(Austin, TX) University of Texas economics professor Greg Prostakovich has been very impressed with the performance this semester of newly-hired assistant professor Ji Lee Sun.

"Her work on the nexus between social limits and macroeconomic growth is groundbreaking," he said. "But I really dig looking at her long, luscious legs in those black nylons. Gr-r-r-r-r!"

Prostakovich said that Sun has been "a blessing" to the UT economics department since her appointment in August.

"She has attended every department meeting, and made herself available to the graduate students," he acknowledged. "And what I wouldn't give for just ten minutes in a sauna with her. Damn - I bet she looks even better naked than she does in those short skirts she wears on Tuesdays to the mall."

Prostakovich could show her some serious growth, if you know what he means


The tenured economics professor said that his only previous contact with a Korean woman has been at a local business.

"Her name was Cherry, and she worked miracles on my lower lumbar region," he said. "I'll bet all Korean woman are born with magic fingers. I think it's in their blood or something."

One of the difficulties in getting to know Sun better, said Prostakovich, is that of language and culture.

"She smiles at me sometimes in the hallway, and I never know if she's just being polite, or if she really wants to just go nuts on me, right there next to the copy machine," he said, shaking his head. "It's kind of like that movie I was watching last week, Sex-Crazed Korean Sluts . One minute they are putting on the polite act, and the next they are wild animals in fishnet stockings. The suspense is killing me."

Left: Molesterol molecule

(Columbus, OH) Researchers at the Ohio State University today announced the discovery of a sterol they have named "molesterol," believed to play a crucial role in the formation of sexual feelings for children among adults susceptible to the chemical.

"Molesterol is present in higher concentrations in tissues which either produce more or have more densely-packed membranes, such as the testes and the penis," said Dr. Sticcam Harter, a university biochemist. "And we believe there is a connection between high molesterol levels and watching Hillary Duff and Taylor Swift music videos."

OSU chemists discussing optimal methods of pedophile treatment

Harter said that researchers hope to develop a chemical treatment for pedophiles.

"Two chemicals stand out as likely prospects," he said. "We lean toward arsenic and curare as chemical treatments that offer a pharmaceutical beatdown on these sick fucks. As far as curing them, nah; it's a hell of a lot more rewarding just killing the damned pedophiles."

By Billy Pilgrim, Codependent Collegian Rogue Editor

Winthrop’s photo from the University catalog

(Iowa City, IA)—University of Iowa English Professor Thomas Winthrop has never been one to break draconian rules, even when they seemed inane or intentionally restrictive. But after 13 long years of instructional and institutional commitments, Winthrop has become “truly fed up with the system,” and nothing better illustrates his growing contempt than his flagrant abuse of his faculty mail privileges to send Christmas gifts and correspondence.

“For the past decade, I’ve fought the urge to exploit the ‘OUTGOING’ slot in the department office,” remarked Winthrop in an exclusive interview with the Codependent Collegian. “They just take that shit down to the mailroom on the first floor, rubberstamp it all, and ship it off on the college’s dime—it’s been ripe for the picking.”

Winthrop outlined his longstanding urge to taste this forbidden fruit.

“Occasionally, if I ran out of stamps, I’d throw “Professor” before my brother’s name and just slip it in there, or bury my electric bill in a stack of other crap hoping nobody would catch me,” Winthrop explained. “But lately, I’ve just had it. I put 37 Christmas cards in there last Tuesday. When those fuckers shipped, it was game over. By Friday I’d put nearly a dozen packages in there, one of which was a salad-shooter for my sister in Winnipeg.”

The conspicuous salad-shooter posing as academic materials

Only time will tell if Winthrop will be held accountable for his disregard for his ever-amounting abuse of the mail.

“Most of my colleagues are frumpy old white men who know more about Beowulf than conflict resolution,” Winthrop chuckled. “I’ll save hundreds of dollars this year on shipping, and worst case scenario, they’ll send a threatening email reiterating policy. In the meantime, I need to finish writing this card — I gotta send this skateboard to my nephew in Seattle before lunch.”

Labels: professors, University of Iowa

By Mfume Koch, University of Toledo Sophomore

Let me just start by saying I’m not one to get easily distracted. For this statistics class—which I have a B in, by the way—I studied 2-3 hours a day for two weeks just in the hopes of acing this motherfucker so I can pull an A-. I got a good night’s sleep, did a half-hour of yoga, and ate a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and banana slices.

But somebody just queefed up in this final exam, and the stench has ruined my concentration beyond repair.

But perhaps I should back up. The Wikipedia defines the word ‘queef’ as “an emission or expulsion of air from the vagina, often during sexual intercourse or (less often) other sexual acts…the sound is somewhat comparable to flatulence from the anus but does not involve waste gases and thus has no specific odor associated.”

Koch’s mental focus ravaged by a “raging queef” emitted by an anonymous female classmate

So unless you’ve been living under a rock, or are still a virgin at 28, we all know this definition to be fairly accurate—except from one critical oversight. It stinks. And I mean it fuckin’ stinks. Twelve seconds ago, this room smelled of freshly sharpened pencils and test sweat; now it smells like a fish-eating skunk covered in yak shit.

Inquiring minds might wonder how I know this foul odor to be a queef. Let’s just say a brotha knows. I know me some white boy fart — I live in a triple [dorm room], so the odious mixture of Natty Light and Domino’s is pretty goddamn familiar. But this nasty…this is a whole new level of sour, and no amount of slow through-the-shirtsleeve breathing will brink my focus back.

So thanks a million, Mystery Bitch, for opening your foul-ass legs. I’m going to fail this exam, pass this course with a C, and resign myself to academic mediocrity since I can’t even fuckin’ see straight. I hope the next frat boy you bang gives you hepatitis —and I’m talking types A through G.

By Billy Pilgrim, Codependent Collegian Rogue Editor

Andersen: Quietly praying for an immediate death

(Houston, TX)—University of Houston philosophy professor Jim Andersen has always considered himself a “student-centered kind of instructor,” and despite a difficult semester wrought with rampant absenteeism and plagiarism, he has tried to remain focused on “the good ones.”

But with final exams looming on the horizon later this week, and only a few more essays to grade, Andersen’s seemingly-balanced schedule has been ruined by a tsunami of incoherent student emails, most of which lack punctuation and are written in all capital letters.

“Every semester I tell myself the same lie,” Andersen vented as he rolled his chair a few feet back from his desk and loosened his tie. “I think: ‘Jim, these kids have passed freshman composition as a prerequisite, they can handle Nietzsche, and you sure as hell can teach it.’ But by week 4, there’s only 9 kids coming to class, and most of them are so hungover that they take turns sneaking out to puke. And it’s all uphill from there.”

Andersen revealed that most student emails are so jagged and inane that they prevent him from completing his daily schedule of tasks, and now at the end of the semester, are a massive roadblock to computing his final grades.

Andersen offered the following random example from a student to illustrate his point:

“JIM IM SORRY TO HITTIN YOU WITH ALL THESE QUESTIONS THE WEEK OF FINALS BUT MY OTHER ONE WAS I KNOW THE SHEET SAYS 4 TO 5 PAGES BUT ARE WE GOIN TO GET MARKED OFF IF ONLY REACHES 4 PAGES? OR IS THAT OK I FIGURED 4 PAGES OF GOOD WRITING IT BETTER THAN 4 PAGES OF OK WRITING AND ½ PAGE OF FLUFF THANKS YOU’RE THE BEST, DANA S.”

“Frankly, I don’t even know what this fucktard is asking,” huffed Andersen as he idly toyed with a yo-yo on the corner of his desk. “Is she asking whether or not I want 4 pages of good writing or 4 pages of mediocre writing? What the hell kind of question is that? And I love that she calls me Jim — after all, it’s always such a good idea to talk to a PhD from Columbia as if he were your dad’s racquetball partner.”

Perriman practicing his right to booty-flaunt

(Ann Arbor, MI) Tired of disapproving looks from parents and teachers, and angry at attempts by legislators to outlaw exposed rear ends, University of Michigan sophomore Tyler Perriman has decided to fight back.

In response, the 20-year-old activist has created an organization called American Students Safeguarding Our Underwear Technique (ASSOUT), which is dedicated to preserving the rights of people who prefer to wear their pants low, showing off their gluteal cleft.

"Who is the Moral Majority to tell me how to wear my pants?" asked Perriman, standing with fellow protesters on a busy Ann Arbor corner. "And is my ass crack really that offensive? At least I wax the damn thing, which is more than I can say about some of those snooty old women with those hairy upper lips. Ugh! Can you imagine kissing one of those furry beasts?"

Several states, including Louisiana and Texas, have attempted to pass legislation outlawing low-slinging, pants-sagging, belly-baring, or underwear-peeking pants. Perriman said that these efforts "clearly violate" the U.S. Constitution.

"It infringes on our freedom of expression and our privacy rights," he said, referring to the First and Fourth Amendments. "Plus, I think ass crack is just plain sexy, and nobody seems to care much when chicks show regular boob cleavage."

Just a line between some flesh, so what's the big deal?

Perriman said the group plans some "high-profile" demonstrations in the coming weeks to highlight the issues of "free booty rights" and "butt crack equity."

"We'll be hitting the local malls during the holidays, a little deal we call 'Drop While You Shop,'" he said of the low-riding retail campaign. "And we'll be making presentations at local and state political offices to make sure our legislators understand that 'we're here, we're sheer, and we like to show our rear.'"

By Billy Pilgrim, Codependent Collegian Rogue Editor

Rowland: Hard at work stealing the ideas of other people

(Ann Arbor, MI)—It has been no secret this semester that University of Michigan sophomore Grace Rowland is, by all accounts, “dumber than a retarded deer slurping antifreeze,” and her struggles in advanced composition have been well-documented by her peers as well as her instructor.

But it still came as a shock, says Professor Upton Matthews, when she steadfastly denied plagiarizing her last essay of the semester, and had the “thickheaded audacity” to coyly flirt her way through his confrontation.

“Some academics still want to debate the finer points of plagiarism, and I respect that,” Matthews mumbled between bites from a tuna sandwich during his office hours yesterday afternoon. “But this is what we call a slam dunk: I found this girl’s first three paragraphs on freecollegepapers.com. Let’s just say I don’t remember her attending my lecture on Shakespeare’s sonnets and ‘verisimilitude’ this semester.”

So, like, this Shakespeare dude? He was all up into this girl's verisimilitude and stuff.

Rowland’s classmates also commented on her intellectual deficiencies.

“Earlier this week she asked me to help her revise this last essay,” recalled Literature major Ian Bolger, as he sat nestled deep within the stacks of Shapiro Library. “I knew she stole most of it, so I nervously said something about citations. She was like a stoner with a Rubik’s Cube—she just stared blankly, as if she’d never heard of citations in her life.”

When finally confronted, Rowland chose the path of denial rather than disclosure, so only the final exam and fate will decide whether or not she can successfully complete the course.

“Brother, she knew she was busted, but she gave me this long song-and-dance about being alone at night, not having anyone to help her study, etcetera,” Matthews affirmed. “Meanwhile, she stripped her sweater off, tied it right under her tits, and breathily asked to talk with me ‘in private.’ What a dumbass. When she saw the Rainbow Pride poster back in my office, she knew the jig was up.”

By Billy Pilgrim, Codependent Collegian Rogue Editor

(Reno, NV)—Claire Kessler, resident fox in Erickson Dormitory at the University of Reno, recently denied her ownership of ‘granny panties,’ even though they were spotted within plain view of her closet hamper.

"Uh - I don't think so," she told reporters. "I, like, wouldn't get caught dead in anything that skanky."

Study partner and sometimes sex-pal Josh Ritchie offered his perspective in an exclusive interview with the Codependent Collegian.

“I showed up about 15 minutes early for our chemistry cram session, and her room seemed messier than normal,” Ritchie recalled. “She had just gotten out of the shower, so I busied myself with her CD collection. That’s when I spotted this cottony blob. I swear, they were bigger than the mizzen mast on a Caribbean cargo frigate.”

Kessler: "No way" the mysterious skivvies are hers, but offers lame explanations for the origin of the bountiful briefs

Kessler’s roommate and confidant Pam Montgomery was not surprised by this discovery, however, and chided the vivacious vixen on her lingerie choices.

“The only time she wears the good stuff is when that douche bag Josh comes over,” Montgomery vented. “I know he thinks they’re ‘studying,’ but you should see how much time she spends getting ready. Maybe next time she’ll take a minute to hide those things under her bed like the rest of us.”

Reeder is "totally committed" to pursuing grants

(Tempe, AZ) Upon reading in a leftover newspaper that Arizona State University’s College of Nursing and Healthcare Innovation was awarded a $1.3 million federal grant to design a program for improving nurse retention and patient care, ASU sophomore Kyle Reeder decided that he needed to investigate further.

"They frigging dole out grants for all kinds of research and shit," he slurred to Codependent Collegian reporters, interviewing him at the Big Tool Pub. "It's about time the Kyle-man got his hands on some of that green."

Reeder said that he first intends to "get totally fucked up" tonight.

"To be honest with you - I'd probably have trouble reading Dr.-fucking-Seuss right about now," he said, as the second set of JJ and the Pederasts kicked in. "But first thing tomorrow, baby, I'm gonna hit them grant thingamadoos. Hard."

You just fill in the blanks, and they send you money. Straight up.

Reeder paused to tell some unattended young females about his plan.

"Listen up - six months from now this cat is gonna be rolling in cash," he bellowed to the hesitant women. "So how's about we start celebrating tonight, ladies?"

After failing to negotiate a nocturnal tryst, Reeder returned to the table with Codependent Collegian reporters.

"Probably a buncha bitches anyways," he belched, slamming a double shot of Jack Daniels. "But they'll be crawling back to daddy once the grant cash show up, a-i-i-e-e-e-e-t?"