Codependent Collegian

Guest editorial by Patrick Sellik,
Boise State Class of 2009

Yeah, I know that Tino is your bud and all, and I know that he always gets his pokey ass here eventually. But I start work in a half-hour at the cafeteria, and there is no way in hell I'm going to get though a four-hour shift without some herbage.

So call him, text him, or do whatever you gotta do, Kyle, to get that stupid fucking dopeman here, and pronto!

I don't mean to bust your balls, dude, but have you ever actually worked in food service? How about in a mindless job like busing tables at the Student Union? Time in that shit-hole goes slower than book hour in special ed class, and the only way I'll make it through is if I am crunked out of my fucking skull.

And no: I am not going to settle for your last two Valiums, dipshit. I can eat those like Skittles and not get a buzz, even if I wash 'em down with cheap whiskey. Besides, the only way the rancid food in that place is edible is when I blaze up a wickedly fat Blunt. That, and Melissa at the cash register will probably give me a hummer if I split a joint with her.

24 minutes, mister, or else I am fucked worse than a blond-haired boy in a state penitentiary. Don't let me down, or Tino will have to meet by the front door or some shit, and that half-retarded, mongoloidal douchebag is about as as subtle as a fart in an elevator: "Hey, man, I got your weed, you got my money?"

Might as well get me a neon sign for campus police to arrest my ass when Tino's around.

A Codependent Collegian Guest Editorial
By Evan Greene, University of Miami Class of 2010

Greene: Dedicated to His Masturbatory Activism

You know, I used to feel really embarrassed when I used the fifteen minutes between classes to find an out-of-the-way campus shitter, slip a porn mag from my satchel bag, and pound out a monster batch of nut butter.

But bro, there ain’t no shame in bathroom stall whackage, because it’s just heeding the call of Mother Nature, like taking a mean whiz or dropping a monster deuce.

I remember my first time like it was yesterday. It was my freshman year, way back in the fall of ’06, and I got this stiffy the size of Idaho in my elementary statistics course. I was eying Tracie Crenshaw’s thong in the third row, and her ass, at least at the time, was the tastiest on campus. Next thing I knew, class was over and it looked like I was smuggling Toucan Sam down the front of my jeans. There was only one solution: I found the nearest restroom, hoped no one came in, and beat my meat like it owed me money.

For the rest of the day I felt a little weird about it, like when sometimes I jerk off to my hot second cousin Rita’s Flickr page and then see her at Uncle Dave’s for our annual Fourth of July picnic. I wonder if chicks have sixth sense about that sort of thing. Anyway, as I was saying, it occurred to me after a few bowls of Kind Bud later that night that stroking one’s trouser worm is just, you know, a part of life, and should be covered under the umbrella of acceptable bodily functions one can discretely perform in a public can.

So for all you bros out there who need to ease the strain of a tenacious boner between classes, just remember: the men’s room is your sanctuary. Particularly the one on the second floor of Hammond Hall—I swear, it’s like no one ever goes in there, and the toilet water is always blue and smelling good.

Labels: boners, masturbation

Guest Editorial by Dr. Louis Opfelt,
University of Dayton English Professor

I used to get angry when I would give an assignment to a class of 30 students, only to find that less than eight people actually bothered to complete the work. I would think to myself: "Damn! That's just rude!" or some such thoughts.

These days, I have come to the conclusion that slacking students are actually doing me a favor, creating less work for me to grade.

Take my recent annotated bibliography assignment, for example. The class had three weeks to find 8-10 sources and write a paragraph on each book. Only 11 people bothered to do the bibliography, which meant that my workload for the other 19 students consisted of marking a zero in the gradebook. The next seven turned in some shit that they cobbled together at the last minute that did not come close to the expectations, and four people actually looked like they did the assignment.

Essentially, these slackers reduced my workload by over 60 percent!

That's more time for me to watch a hockey game on TV, or to work on my book, or to sashay over to the Déjà Vu strip club and watch a hot girl-on-girl stage show.

Actually, I made up that last part about the hockey game. I don't much care for hockey, and would rather surf for Internet porn, but the point is this: I have a lot more time to myself now that I have come to the realization that college slackers are my secret friends.

Left: McNamara struggles with group imbecility

(State College, PA) Penn State University history professor Kevin McNamara knows that his survey-level history students often come in with little prior knowledge of the subject, but the tenured instructor says that his Modern World class may be the "dumbest bunch of inbred feebs" he has yet encountered.

"Look: it's an intro course, so I am not expecting a whole lot, just the occasional nod of recognition, or a the slightest hint of awareness," he mused. "But the whole lot of them look like a bunch of drooling MRDD candidates, complete with the sort of imbecilic stare you might get from a retarded lawnboy or something."

Increasingly aware of the fact that his class possessed little in the way of intellectual awareness, McNamara recently introduced a new pedagogical technique.

"I started giving them patently wrong information, hoping that at least one student might question me," he recalled. "I had Austria-Hungary winning World War I, the Kaiser marrying Lillian Gish, and Woodrow Wilson being kidnapped by Sacco and Vanzetti. But nothing from these unblinking, obtuse cretins - they wrote down every word as though it were Gospel truth."

McNamara said that there is but one positive outcome in the "mass stupidity" exhibited by his class.

"Lecture prep is a fucking breeze," he admitted. "I pretty much just have to make the shit up as I go along, and these simpletons are none the wiser. Hell, thirty years of copious lecture notes serve no greater purpose that lighting a bonfire at the faculty spring mixer. And to think I get paid for this."

Labels: Penn State, PSU

Guest Editorial by Jayden Reischauer,
Ohio State Class of 2011

I know that many of my professors have written me off as your typical college loser, a person who skips every second class, who forgets important assignments, and who shows up at least 40 minutes late for every exam. And, to tell you the truth - I can see why you might think that I am just another idiot freshman trying to skate by on as little effort as possible.

Actually, though, I have this deal called Goal-Attainment Deficit Disorder (GADD), and this condition is what you might call a living hell. Sorry about the cussing.

GADD is characterized by an intense difficulty in focusing on deadlines, a remarkably short attention span, and a general sense that life is pretty much there for the living. Oh, plus the whole drinking seven days a week, smoking righteous amounts of Chronic, and seeking to plant one's love missile in the nearest willing vagina.

You probably haven't heard about this disorder yet, because most of us GADD sufferers live in shame, unwilling to go public with our inner pain. That's why I haven't been over to your office to explain the reasons why I scored a 7 out of 100 posible points on the midterm last week. Now that you understand this horror, I am sure that you will be willing to make accommodations for people like me, who have a 100-pound GADD necklace weighing us down every morning, keeping us virtually chained to our beds unless we hear the sound of a roommate stuffing herb in a toke stone.

Most mornings for a typical GADD patient are spent in a semiconscious, barely-coherent haze, while afternoons are often focused around distractions like Guitar Hero, World of Warcraft, or one of those cop shows on TrueTV. By the time the evening rolls around, most college offices are closed, so a GADD sufferer wanders the dark streets, knowing he's got stuff he should be doing, but powerless to take meaningful action since it's way past midnight, and winding up playing video trivia at the corner bar, hoping that 29-year-old barmaid with the two kids is good for a parking lot hummer.

Thanks for your sympathy, people, and together I hope that we can find a cure for GADD, or at least some way to raise a little fundage after the student loans get maxxed out.

By Derek Rochester
University of Maryland Class of 2011

Rochester: Harder Than a Frozen Ribeye

Wallet Condom, we’ve been through some amazing times together: senior prom, the freshman social last year, that awesome kegger last fall when Tina Higgins almost banged us but then started puking all over her own tits.

So with your expiration date less than a week away, I swear this pledge before man and God alike: I will lose my virginity this weekend, Wallet Condom, and it shall be with your stretchy goodness sheathing my member.

As a sophomore in college, I’ve had my fair share of sexual liaisons—over-the-panty clit rubs, backseat handjobs, and plenty of supple young boob suckling. But every time I come close to actual penetration, some ridiculous series of events happens, like the chick starts crying about her break-up with Brad, or we realize we’re late for a major exam, or my stupid mom calls and I have to answer my cell because she’s getting chemotherapy and the drugs make her hallucinate that I’ve died in a stampede or something.

But no more cock-blocks. This weekend, I will don the dopest threads, spray an entire can of Axe on my man-parts, and work the mojo until some willing vixen opens her meticulously trimmed snatch to my jizz viper.

To this end, Wallet Condom, I promise to assemble the perfect polo-and-visor combo that will yield us such voluptuous treasure. Oh my tattered and slightly oblong friend, I shall not fail again.

Labels: University of Maryland, wallet condom

Guest Editorial by
Larry Townshend, SUNY-Buffalo

Well, we got over a foot of snow today here in Buffalo, and every school in the area closed due to the inclement weather.

Every school, that is, except the Distance Learning program here at SUNY-Buffalo. These fuckers wouldn't cancel class no matter how deep the goddamn snow got, and they must think each of us has a fucking sled and a team of Huskies.

I know what you're thinking: "Larry, it's a DL class, dumbass!" The problem is, though, that these cable modems slow way, way down when it snows. I think the heavy weight on the lines or something is to blame.

Not to mention the fact that I left my textbook in the car, so I had to shovel a path just to get my shit for this class. I mean, I am just as likely to slip and fall in my driveway as I would be if I was walking to the bus stop on the corner, right?

And with all these pimply-faced eighth graders out of class today and hogging bandwidth to upload pictures of thmselves on MySpace and Gaia, my connection is slower than a special ed teacher on Quaaludes.

All's I am saying is this: when they make the decision to close schools, they should close ALL motherfucking schools, not just the ones that use the roads. We DL students have our own crosses to bear, and we sure as shit could use a day off once in a while.

Labels: distance learning, snow day