Codependent Collegian

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.