Codependent Collegian

It seems like every time I turn on the news, there's another story about New York City cops sodomizing a suspect. Whether it's slivered broomsticks, their metal flashlights, or just a good old-fashioned throbbing hunk of man-meat, there's like a non-stop sodomy-fest going on in the Big Apple.

Some folks just have all the luck: why can't a muscular NYPD cop sodomize ME?

I've tried hanging around cop bars to get sodomized, but the closest I've gotten to hot-and-sweaty reaming was a beat-down by an obviously homophobic sergeant from the 113 Precinct at a South Queens shot-and-beer bar. Now, I like it rough once in a while, but a broken nose and two cracked ribs is a bit over the top, you know? A simple "no thanks" or "get away from me, faggot" would have sufficed.

But I digress.

Then I tried making calls to 911 for police assistance, like the time I said I saw a strange man in the bushes. I waited naked for three hours in my rhododendrons, hoping a nice, ripped cop would "discover" me and sodomize me, thinking I was the pervert. But no: they never showed, and I wound up with a wicked rash from crawling around in the landscaping.

I even tried lying naked in a cop car outside a Bronx diner while a cop was eating, but the fucker Maced me in the face and crotch. Bee-Jeebers! What exactly does a guy have to do to get a New York cop to sodomize him these days?

Codependent Collegian Guest Editorial by Evan Frankfurt, Clemson University Class of 2009

Evan and Tracy, During Their 37-Hour Romance

Tracy, neither of us will forget that fateful night eight weeks ago when we made sweet love in the back of my Prius and then hit up Denny’s for some Grand Slam omelets. Sure, I have a few regrets—sticking my pinky in your ass was a bit rash, and I should have turned the new Metallica album off and put the radio on that smooth jazz station no one likes except when they’re fucking.

But Tracy, the way you exploded when I suggested our most logical and affordable option was nothing short of immature—you’re really blowing this abortion out of proportion.


What exactly is your sticking point with this? I mean, it’s not like you’re Catholic and going to burn in hell forever while devils dance around a circle of flame and jab you in the uterus with their pitchforks. And it’s not like you particularly like kids, because that one time I wanted to watch “Jon and Kate Plus 8,” you said you’d rather punch yourself in the boob than watch that crazy family for a half hour.

Are you scared that the procedure is going to hurt? As a life-long field hockey player, I’d like to think you have a remarkable threshold for pain. And as far as the cost, I told you that we could hit the Coinstar machine at the post office on our way to the clinic, so I got it covered.

Abortions are a natural part of life, Tracy, and you should be grateful we live in the United States of America. Yeah, it might be tough for folks to get bridge work done or get physical therapy for a work-related injury, but damn if we Americans don’t take our embryo vacuuming pretty goddamn serious.

So let’s plan on going Friday, Trace, since neither one of us has class, and we can be back in time for the Kappa kegger.

And maybe, just maybe, if you take this all in stride like a big girl, we can hit up Denny’s afterwards for old time’s sake.

Labels: abortion