Codependent Collegian

Guest editorial by Kevin Jacoby,
Penn State University sophomore

One of the things I most hate about the modern world is the loss of traditional values, like how our politicians have all become crooked, or how families don't spend enough time together, or how some chick says she'll be a Facebook friend, but then she totally blows you off even though you listed her as "more than just a friend" and shit.

Or like how the johns at the Pattee Library are no longer a good place to spank your frank.

Take yesterday, for example. I'm in a stall on the fourth floor beating my meat like it's a piece of raw tenderloin when some fuckwad comes into the next stall. While I'm trying to dream about ramming Scarlett Johanssen in a schoolgirl outfit as she's bent over my mother's coffin, Dickweed in the next stall is all ruffling pages of his newspaper and shuffling his feet and shit.

Mission-fucking-impossible, I say.

Or the annoying idiot last week who interrupted my efforts to varnish my banister while shoving a freshly-scraped carrot up my ass. Dude sounded like he had the world's worst case of TB, hacking and wheezing and coughing up lung oysters and shit while I'm trying to blast 20 ccs worth of man-juice all over the toilet seat.

No can do, Pablo, and fuck you very much.

So, folks: either shit or git, as they say, 'cuz some of us are engaged in serious hand-to-gland combat, if you know what I mean. It's awfully tough to massage the purple-headed warrior if some asshole is talking on the celly while letting rip a nasty shart.

Bathrooms were made for one thing, mister, and that one thing is taking Little Johnny dancing down at Knuckle Junction, you dig?

Labels: masturbation, Penn State

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