Codependent Collegian

A Guest Editorial by Warren “Keg Stand” Eustice
University of Toledo, Class of 2008

Eustice and His Homies: Drunk, Shirtless, and Strangely Horny at a Summer Festival

During my three years as a Sigma Tau brother at UT, I’ve bagged a lot of chicks. And I mean A LOT. From Asians to redheads to that smokin’ exchange student from Nigeria, I’ve poked my hang-down in a lot of snatch.

But now that I’m a senior, and the end to my college debauchery wavers on the horizon, there’s one major sexual escapade left to achieve: I need to piss all up inside some chick’s mouth.

I know what you’re thinking—“how could you possibly want to do something so demeaning and foul?” And for most of my life, I thought the same thing, too. But last spring, when Brad Parker from the Delta frat told me he blasted some Miller Lite wiz in Jenna Quinn’s skankified pie hole, and then showed me the hidden video footage from it, I made a solemn vow that my yellow showers would trickle down some hoochie’s dick-gagging throat, or I’d die tryin’.

True dat, it won’t be easy. It’s one thing to convince a babe to let you slam your salami in her butt, or let your thirteen year old brother stick a banana up her cooch, or even sixty-nine in a stall in the library’s third floor handicap-accessible bathroom, but it’s another thing entirely to piss in her mouth. But I’m up for the challenge, and my game plan is airtight: I’ll sport that new shirt I got on clearance at Aeropostale, get a little sobby-sobby about my ailing grandmother, and boom—nine shots of Yager later, my rancid piss is all gobbled up.

Yes, I have to overcome the whole "can't piss while you are woodified" dilemma, but I figure if I begin with a regular blowjob, and then all of a sudden start concentrating on my upcoming fantasy football draft, I can maintain enouugh hardness while letting loose with a half-quart of pressurized lemon juice.

So if you know any naïve freshmen, or any fine ladies who are coming off a rough summer break-up, send their mouth my way. I’m on the second floor of the Tau house, first room on the right. It’s the one with the unmade bed and Shakira poster.

Labels: blowjob, college girls, sex

By Codependent Collegian Advice Columnist, J. Randall Bellingham

Hello again, love monkeys! It is I, J. Randall Bellingham, here to bing love to the loveless and give a smackdown to those in need of it.

I have been busy polishing the Mojo and penetrating into the abyss that is love, but enough about me.

You are here because you want to tap into my expertise, not to hear me boast about my conquests of many supermodel women.

Yes, there have been so many, and so many beautiful moments in which I have driven my pile-driver into so much forbidden supermodel territory.

But that is for another time.

Dear Randall:

I did something really stupid and I need your help. Last night things got kinda weird with Jenny and I. In a moment of drunken freaky lovemaking, I grabbed a jar of salsa - HOT - when I couldn't find the K-Y Jelly. Needless to say, we are both having some odd physical problems, and Jenny is really, really pissed at me. What should I do?

Sam in Palo Alto

Dear Sam:

My friend, they do not refer to certain anatomical regions as "tacos" for nothing. I suggest that a large bag of Tostitos and some Jose Cuervo might just be your ticket out of Tijuana.

Dear Randall:

I know that brothers and sisters are not supposed to, you know, "do the dirty," but my sister and I are both dropping suggestive hints that we could go there. What do you think? By the way, she is hot and of age.

Cooter in Tuscaloosa

Dear Cooter:

There is no inhibition that the right amount of cheap whiskey cannot overcome, and nothing the same bottle of hooch cannot erase from the memory banks. I say: Go for it. If nothing else, you will have plenty to keep a bevy of therapists gainfully employed for the next 20 years, and you guys might end up with one of those really scary looking mutant kids that you could put in the circus or something.

Labels: advice, love, Relationships

Subcomandante Bob knows that many of you regular readers are skateboard afficianados, and he would like to recommend a skateboard website that is beyond comparison.

Warehouse Skateboards has the world's most comprehensive collection of cutting-edge and classic boards in more styles than you could count, even if you were some mutant freak with ten thousand hands. They offer skateboard components, complete skateboards, and boatloads of skateboarding accessories.

Among the top shelf brands that Warehouse Skateboards carries are Element skateboards, which can elevate your game to previously unheard-of levels. Best of all, you can use the website of Warehouse Skateboards to custom design a board that will have your friends drooling all over their retarded Abercrombie and Fitch polo shirts.

Labels: skateboards

(East Lansing, MI) Tad Bowerman's student loans ran out three days ago, and the junior engineering student found himself in "desperate straits."

That's when he decided to go "all-out" on a process of full-scale acquisition of houesehold needs.

"It started when we crashed this hotel party last weekend, and we saw an unattended maid's cart," said Bowerman. "It was a free-for-all on sopas, shampoos, mouthwash, and about 2 dozen rolls of toilet paper."

Bowerman said that he and his roommate, Chris Jericho, have been on a "wild hunt" every night since.

"We hit the Wendy's on Grand River and waltzed out with two cases of crackers and a box of ketchup," he said, adding that the pair also netted "two sleeve" of napkins. "Then we drove past this KFC and hit the jackpot."

While the delivery driver was inside flirting with the day manager, Tad and Chris helped themselves to "shitloads" of frozen goods.

"We couldn't believe it - whole cases of chicken nuggets, french fries, and catfish filets," said Bowerman. "We might be able to get by on this until our summer refund comes."

Jerischo said that neither man believes that what they are doing is "theft."

"Listen - they got insurance for stuff like this," he said. "Besides with the money they have raped us over the years - we deserve a few freebies."

Labels: Michigan State, MSU

A Codependent Collegian Guest Editorial
by Heather Roland, Recent Clemson Graduate

Roland: Cute, Ambitious, and Enslaved to Debt

I’ve always been proud of the fact that I was the first person in my family to go college. And not just any college, either. As a business graduate from Clemson University, countless opportunities will open to me during the coming years as I embark on a career in the corporate sector.

Unfortunately, I’ll be paying these motherfucking school loans until my ovaries dry up like a bag of grapes on a hot Harlem sidewalk.

Having just finished my degree in May, I was relishing my first real internship with Bank of America this summer. True, the hours are long and the stipend is meager (to say the least), but I was finally able to get my own apartment and not lean so heavily on my parents for financial help.

Then this school loan bill shows up. Even after consolidation, these loan sharks want $219. Can you believe this shit? $219! I drive a ’91 Ford Focus, eat off-brand condensed soup most days for lunch, and these bastards still want a week’s pay every month. And don’t even get me started on the interest. Even with a fixed APR of 16.9%, I’ll still be cutting checks when my second marriage is failing and my boobs sag and I start crying a little each night that I stopped at two kids instead of having a third and maybe I should’ve run away to Spain when I was 18 with that stoner-poet guy I met at a Dave Matthews concert.

So thank you, debt hounds of America, for swelling my $35,000 degree to a quarter million dollars and financially crippling the next three decades of my life. Around the year 2034, when I go into counseling for the depression and hot flashes and such, I’m sending your asses the bill.

Labels: Clemson, student loans

A Guest Editorial by Logan Williams,
Indiana University Class of 2009

It seems like only weeks since IU let out for the summer, and here we are, getting sickeningly close to the start of classes. True, we have ten days until we have to drag our depressed selves into an actual classroom, but the past two weeks have been filled with all sorts of quasi-academic crap that has bled into what remains of a dying summer season.

Death is stronger than we are, and we can’t prevent it. Therefore, whatever meanings exist must apply to the temporary period while we live, those remaining days before the start of the new semester.

Oh, we uncertain students are doomed to be seekers, always searching for a meaning to life but never quite finding that shred of purpose that keeps us from splattering our fucking brains all over the Quad with a rusty shotgun.

Yes, death looms ahead of us like a hangman’s scaffold being assembled outside the 12x12 window of a condemned man's prison cell, pouding nails an ever-present reminder of the precious few minutes we have before the noose of life breaks our fucking necks and we spend eternity floating around like one of those Bounce Fresh Linen Scent sheets that fell out of the laundry basket of a student on academic probation, blowing across the dorm parking lot with all of its softening and static-cling protection long since sucked out by the dryer that is life.

So you sit there listening to the horrific sounds of death around you - and I do mean horrific, so don't accuse me of an artifice like hyperbole - so you sit there with your drooling mouth hanging open because you can't believe what you're hearing from me, the sounds of TRUTH and LIFE hitting you smack square in the middle of your bourgeois face, and realize that there are now less than ten days left, brother, to make something of this impossibly short summer.

So what do you say? Would you rather hit Kilroy's Sports Bar or Scotty's Brewhouse tonight? Not that it really matters, given our inevitable deaths, but I hear Kilroy's is running a 25-cent Hot Wings special tonight, and I know the bartender, and she'll probably give us a couple of free beers, too, espcially if we leave her a phat-ass tip and stuff.

And there's nothing like that live pub trivia contest, matching wits against drunken imbeciles across the country, to make one forget about all that death shit.

Labels: existentialism, Indiana University, IU

Subcomandante Bob has screwed up many things in his life, but one of the smartest moves he ever made involved his son, Bob Jr.

Junior, you see, was struggling with math and reading in school, and Bob turned to the experts at SCORE! Learning Centers to help Junior get back on track. They were able to help Junior improve a full grade level in reading, and almost two entire grade levels in math. When you need the help of an innovative tutor program, be sure to turn to SCORE! This was a sponsored post.

A Codependent Collegian Special Report

By Billy Pilgrim, Codependent Collegian Rogue Editor

Once, it seemed, America’s youth could rest easy when July’s stuffy, languid afternoons waned and August came, with its shorter days and cool, open-window nights anticipating autumn. After all, the fall semester didn’t begin until after Labor Day, and there was always plenty of time to prepare one’s terms of surrender to the assorted confines of yet another school year.

Choosing the Right Pack: Popularity’s Vicious Game of Russian Roulette

But now that thousands of school districts across the country have inched their curriculums into the last week of August, many students are left scrambling to get the best clothes and supplies; and none is more precious than the backpack, which has become the hallowed barometer of student coolness on that ever-important first day of school.

“When I was in elementary school, I had all of August to whine and bug my parents for new school stuff,” explained Timothy Barthe, an eighth grader in downtown Seattle. “But our first day this year is the 23rd. Can you believe that? It’s a goddamn Thursday. That means I have less than two weeks to get myself a new Jansport or Nike, or this is gonna be another long year of kissing locker metal, I can tell you that.”

Other students reiterated Barthe’s anxiety over the impending school year and the heightened peer pressure for name-brand backpacks.

“Two years ago, Margie Pandernock graduated from middle school as the poor chubby girl that everyone threw chunks of meatloaf at during lunch,” sermonized Vicky Sandoval, a sophomore in Lewes, Delaware. “But that summer, she lost like, twenty pounds and when we all came back to start high school, she had a $90 Puma bookbag that you can only get through mail order. Now she’s co-captain of the cheerleading squad and was ranked seventh on Wyatt Cooper’s famous list of Lewes High Hotties. Coincidence? Um, I think not.”

So as the liberty of another summer draws to its fateful close, students across America are left to whimsically reminisce about their backyard adventures, and at the same time, suffer the impending malaise of schoolyard conformity.

“Dude, I’m gonna be a senior this year, and I’ve had the same stupid monogrammed L.L. Bean backpack since I was twelve,” huffed Jon Grummer, a native of Austin, Texas. “These next ten months are my time to shine, but I don’t even know where to begin: do I get one of those elaborate hiker jobs with all the extra straps? Or should I go urban, and get one of those messenger bags? Man, after this nightmare, applying to college will be easier than feeling up Rachel Wilson. And let me tell you from experience—that chick stuffs.”

Labels: back-to-school, backpacks

Subcomandante Bob knows just how hard many of you folks work at teaching kids about money, and he is proud to recommend a new site that offers tips on this important task.

Chores and Allowances is a blog site dedicated to helping parents try to find answers and information about teaching kids and teens how to manage their money. The site offers full-length articles and shorter posts with tips to help your thick-skulled urchins get a clue about the bitter pills that await them later in life with regard to that Leviathan: M-O-N-E-Y.

(Los Angeles, CA) The mother of UCLA freshman Matthew Spielmann expressed discontent with her son's recent Youtube productions.

"I know he's a college man now, but is it really necessary for him to post videos of his roommate going to the bathroom?" asked Catherine Spielmann. "There are some things the world does not need to see, you know?"

A video that Mrs. Spielmann found particularly "shocking" involved a keg party, green dye, and an edema.

"Why someone would film another student, well, shooting green liquid out their buttocks is beyond me," she said, shaking her head. "He certainly didn't learn that sort of behavior here, let me tell you."

Spielmann hopes that Easter weekend will be an opportunity for her to impress upon young Matthew the need to show greater restraint in his filmmaking.

"I can yell all I want on the phone, but when he is home Matthew can't hide," she said. "You know, is it too much to ask that he post videos from when we went to the circus in 1992? I think a lot of people would watch something like that." Mary Winkler

Labels: You Tube, YouTube

One of Subcomandante Bob's all-time favorite getaway destinations is the lovely island chain of Bermuda. Bob once spent an entire month on Bermuda, living on the largesse of friends and friends-of-friends, although many of the memories of that particular trip have been eroded due to excessive synapse destruction.

There are many Bermuda attractions worth investigating, but Bob prefers to spend all of his time in Bermuda on the beaches. There, alone with nature and scantily-clad women, Bob can meditate on the most important things in life, most of which involve rum and romantic negotiations. Best of all, there are still a few Bermuda hotels that have not permanently barred Bob from visiting, and in general Bermuda remains a place in which customs officials will not immediately bounce Bob back into the plane, unlike, say, St. Croix.

Left: Witten is smitten

(Columbus, OH) Junior education major Kevin Witten, admitting he has been "something less than diligent" in his Ohio State courses, announced to roommates that he is switching majors.

Adding to the collective confusion was the basis for Witten's decision, which hinged solely on the attractiveness of a female student in front of him in the lengthy OSU Bursar's office line.

"Something special happened there, something that no one can ever take away," he mused, still basking in the "love rays" of the chance meeting. "We connected in a way most people never experience in their entire lifetimes, me looking down her shirt and her reading some stupid book."

Witten recalled an "incredible moment" when he realized the pair were destined for each other.

"The physical and spiritual attractions had already been made. Well, at least on my end," he acknowledged. "The mental attraction happened when she turned around and asked if she could borrow a 'writing utensil.' A writing utensil! 'Damn,' I thought to myself, 'this chick's got a body AND brains.' I could see our future together: late-night karaoke to Nickelback, rainy day games of Texas Hold'Em and long afternoons of Frisbee golf on the Quad."

When pushed for details, Witten admitted the relationship still "needs work," but he added that he is willing to make the necessary sacrifices.

"She had her hand over the top of the paper, so I could only read three letters of her last name: I-N-E," he noted. "But I know that she's taking ECON 110 on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I should be able to track her down. And she's still got my pen, so I have an in right there. The important thing is we are meant for each other, and I can't remember a day in my life where I was so absolutely sure of my decision."

Labels: bursar, Nickelback, Ohio State

Subcomandante Bob has not always been a marginally employed, self-destructive lowlife. There was a point in time when he was a fully-employed, self-destructive lowlife, and he took seriously his role as a father to young Bob Jr.

One of the smartest things Bob ever did was to stop using girlie magazines as curricular materials for Bob Jr., and instead turned to SCORE! The reading tutors at SCORE! bring talent and compassion to their work, and Bob Jr. showed marked improvement in his reading skills as a result of working with these fine folks. This was a sponsored post, but don't let that stop you from checking out SCORE!

A Codependent Collegian Guest Editorial
by Maggie Fletcher, Philosophy Major
University of Toledo Class of ‘08

Fletcher: Hot and Bothered Atheist

First of all, let me say that I’m totally a person of faith. I have faith that the sun will come up tomorrow, I have faith that The Gap will always have a tight-ass pair of size two jeans on clearance when I need them, and I have faith that Stacy Thomas will try to steal my boyfriend again this fall semester because she’s an uber-slut.

But I don’t have any faith in religion, because it’s like, a total scam.

Have you noticed that most churches, synagogues, and mosques ask their parishioners for money? Seriously. If Rabbi Schwartz is so connected to Yahweh and stuff, why does he have to hit up “God’s chosen people” for twelve grand for a new roof? And another thing—how come a good Jew can’t get a better contractor bid on a roof? My parents put a new roof on their summer cottage last year and it only cost three thousand bucks.

And don’t get me started on the Catholics. The Vatican is like, the Smithsonian of World Oppression. They have more artifacts, documents, and sacred treasures than most state museums combined, but every time I go to mass with my boyfriend, they pass around that collection plate like they got a brother who needs bail money because this is his third DUI and he knows he has a drinking problem and will go into therapy but right now he totally needs the cash and don’t let mom and dad find out.

Protestants are just as bad, though. Most ministers in Toledo are considered full-time employees, which sounds great—“doing the Lord’s will,” all that jazz. But most of them are married, have kids, and how much do they actually work? Um, try three hours on Sunday! And who pays their salary? I rest my case. So the next time Pastor Robinson hits you up for a few canned goods for the church charity drive, feel free to take a few from his kitchen, because you paid for that shit.

So in conclusion, be a free thinker. God is a nice idea, but just like a pain-free wire bra that doesn’t dig into the underside of your boobs, he’s a total myth.

Labels: God, philosophy, religion, underwire bras

Subcomandante Bob would like to briefly tell you about Thoof.com, which is a user-generated news and information service. The cool thing about Thoof is that its computers learn about what you are interested in and deliver news to you that you care about. Kinda creepy, but pretty cool, Bob thinks.

Thoof is a personalized news site that has social interaction features, and users figure out the value of submitted posts. Thoof also adds what it calls a "rank badge," and this tells visitors the popularity of a particular article as compared to other stories or articles that have been submitted to Thoof. This allows visitors to determine if a given link has caused other readers to rate highly the value of the linked material.

Bob is not sure what the word "Thoof" really means, and he spent several hours working on the origins of the word. Actually, he spent several hours drinking some 180-proof white lightning that one of his fellow residents at the Cherry Street Mission in Toledo cooked up in an abandoned house. Then he decided to come to a conclusion about the origin of the word "Thoof."

Except he passed out from his immoderate habits.

After he awoke, and launched his half-digested lunch all over the front seat of a rusted-out 1988 Dodge Caravan that also serves as a second home for his pal Mookie, Bob came to the conclusion that "Thoof" is a sound that has something to do with mixing cheap hooch with hot dogs. Over the course of the past few hours, Bob has "thoofed" in a number of socially-undesirable places, and people are beginning to give him that funny stare, the look that means Bob has something disgusting hanging in his four-day beard.

By Billy Pilgrim, Codependent Collegian Rogue Editor

Riscone rigorously training for the dog-eat-dog prison culture

(Tuscon, AZ)—University of Arizona fifth-year sophomore Tony Riscone has grown tired of the “academic rat-race,” and believes that a life behind bars would be much rewarding and conducive to his slovenly lifestyle.

“Man, dudes in prison have it made,” Riscone remarked while checking the status of a frozen pizza in his apartment oven. “They get three hot meals a day, fresh sheets and cots, and even cable TV. Yeah, they might get boned in the ass once in a while, but they sure as shit don’t have to take Professor Thompson’s statistics course for the third time in a row. Did you know that fucker is teaching it at 9 a.m. in the fall? Again?”

Riscone shared some preliminary thoughts on the means by which he could become a prison inmate.

“At first I thought I could stalk Stacy Collins, because she is a slice of hotness pie, and I don’t have the balls to like, actually hurt nobody,” Riscone pondered. “But then I realized that the worst I could get for that—seeing as I have no record—is a restraining order and a rep as the “creepy stalker guy” on campus. So I think I might just stab one of my roommates the next time they drink my Bud.”

And though Riscone expressed concern about his family’s response to his new life as a convict, he nonetheless seemed committed to his decision.

“Yeah, it’ll probably hit mom the hardest. Her and my old man never went to college, but seeing how they owe thirty grand for my degree, and I’m still 67 credits shy, I think they’ll get over it when the tuition bills stop showing up. Hey, can’t you like, get a degree in prison for free, anyways? Plus you learn a lot of history in there, like the rise of Nazi Germany from the tattoos of guys nicknamed Thor.”

Labels: prison, prison rape, University of Arizona

Guest Editorial by Cole Jorgenson
Penn State Class of 2011

It's easy to get lost in the crowd at a big school like Penn State, where you are just another student, just another number in a portable database that some university dipshit will leave on a table at Starbucks for some bastard to steal and create a false identity with, running up ten grand in credit card bills and sticking you with the fallout.

At least that way I'd have some kind of life, like I was on my way to being a crazed outlaw or something.

But the only way I'll ever amount to anything is if I come down with some rare form of cancer, like Malignant Rhabdoid Tumour (non-renal), or Pheochromocytoma. If I developed an inoperable cancer like that, I bet they would hold one of those cool 5K Benefit Runs for me.

And you just know that hot babes would be willing to sleep with me, since I had just weeks to live. I could tell them I'd never slept with a woman before, and that I hoped to experience True Passion at least once before I die, and after they stopped crying, every one of those chicks would start with the crazy sex right there in the hospice room.

The University would probably name an entire fucking building after me if I caught one of those rare tumors. They would see how brave I was, hanging on for weeks after the doctors said there was no more hope, and the President of Penn State would take a picture with me, and then me and his 18-year-old daughter would get the freak going during the dedication ceremony, and she would walk back to the crowd with a tiny bit of my cancerated jizz on her chin.

It would be beautiful. Now all I have to do is find some way to get infected with cancer. Maybe I should spend more time around the Jake Gittlen Cancer Research Foundation, like that Jake Gittlen kid did. Hell, they named an entire Foundation after that dude, the lucky bastard.

Labels: cancer, college freshman, Penn State, Pheochromocytoma

Subcomandante Bob knows that not everyone can be a supermodel like Cameron Diaz, his on-again, off-again girlfriend, but that's just fine by Bob. Lord knows how boring the world would be if everyone was a beautiful actor or actress.

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