Graduating Suma Cum Loudly

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA gotcha!!

I am not graduating with Honors, but I am graduating with all four of my limbs, so I have that going for me.

Confused yet? I am. I’ve been awake for about 34 hours at this point, and I feel so good I’m almost convinced that this is a dream. The only definitive proof I have that this isn’t a dream is the rancid odor of coffee breath making its way up into my nostrils. It’s a pretty good way to wake yourself up via a nice deep gag every few minutes.

I’ve been up so long because I had to write the last two papers of my undergraduate career at Gettysburg College, and time management is probably my 56th best skill. My top three skills? Sure.

1. My “old Jewish woman” accent will knock your matzah balls off

2. Hitting my face on things. Seriously. I ran into a volleyball pole in fifth grade and this one kid in our gym class passed out from the sight of all the blood. I heard later that I basically ruined the class for everyone because they had to listen to the teacher talk about why running around before class starts is a bad idea.

3. Falling asleep in any sort of transportation.

This seems like a good place to start listing weird shit that has happened to me over my last four years in college.

This was our mascot until a few years ago. It’s a bullet, and definitely not a dildo.

Freshman year, I ran down my hallway at 3 AM jumping and punching the styrofoam ceiling tiles the way Mario does in the video game. I also made the “Ding!” noise every time.

Also during freshman year, I caused a scene in our hall (during the day this time). To put it bluntly, I took a massive crap that got stuck on the bowl and simply would not flush. I tried a couple times, and then gave up and left. About an hour later, I stepped outside my dorm room to see every guy in our hall talking excitedly about “It”. Someone blamed it on this kid Gerry who vehemently denied it, but I just acted surprised and let him take the blame.

Sophomore year, I somehow got into a local bar with a fake ID that said I was 26 years old. My roommate ended up bringing home a 37 year old woman with 3 kids, a C-section scar, and a husband in jail. I slept on the Yogibo in our living room.

Ah, I forgot one from freshman year. I went to this fraternity rush event one Thursday night, and got absolutely plastered. I managed to wake up in time for my 8:30 Econ class, and dragged myself across campus with nothing other than a giant-ass water bottle. About fifteen minutes into class, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to just go pass out in my room, and made it as far as the wooden bench just outside the Econ building before passing out on said bench and sleeping in the rain for about a half hour before I mustered up the strength to get back to my room.

A bunch of times throughout college I had a cold and sometimes wouldn’t catch the sneeze in time and a huge snot rocket would land on the floor in the middle of class. I have no idea if anyone noticed or not. It was pretty gross.

Once during junior year, my roommate and I went to McDonald’s to try to “cone” the lady working the drive-thru window. “Coning” is when you order just a cone of vanilla ice cream, and then when they hand you your cone, you just grab a fistful of the ice cream – leaving the cone in their hand – and drive off. As soon as I ordered a cone at the drive-thru speaker, I could hear the skepticism in her voice. When we pulled up to the window, this middle-aged lady peers out, looking utterly pissed off, and goes, “You aren’t going to try to ‘cone’ me, are you?”

“NoooOOOooooo,” I replied. “I don’t even know what ‘coning’ is. What is that?”

When she handed me the cone, I tried to swipe the ice cream right off, but MAN, this lady had some reflexes in those forearms. She yanked it away before I could cone her, and told me, “If you try to do that again, I will throw this ice cream in your car.”

I was like, “…..naaaah. There’s no way you would do that. You’d get in trouble.”

“Oh, really?” She said, cocking her arm back just enough to make me wonder just how much of my car’s interior she could splatter with one cone’s worth of vanilla ice cream.

It was too much. I caved, and accepted my vanilla cone like a little bitch. I don’t even like vanilla ice cream.

Here’s how it should have gone down, if that lady wasn’t such a stickler for serving vanilla cones the way Ronald McDonald told her to.

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Gettysburg College’s President Riggs “Sick and Tired of the Liberal Pansies”

President Riggs putting on a smile for the liberal pansies.

Running a prestigious liberal arts college isn’t for the faint of heart. President Janet Morgan Riggs, who graduated from Gettysburg College in ’77, now runs the show here, and was kind enough to buy me a Mocha (with whipped) from the Commons and sat down for an interview.

“Having the same work title as BrObama is pretty sweet, to say the least,” Riggs began, “but it’s far from being all fun and games. As Presidents, we have to deal with a lot of stupid people on a daily basis.”

President Riggs, while sipping on a Venti-Chai Latte with eighteen shots of espresso, described what her average day looks like.

“I wake up around five each morning to steal my neighbor’s copy of the Gettysburg Times and throw a roll of that awful single-ply toilet paper all over Phi Delt’s house. Then I head over to Servo for one of those fantastic omelets, and force the manager to fire up the ice cream machine for me. Afterwards, I whip one of those scooters-for-rent up and down North Washington, flipping off DPS and blasting some N.W.A. I like to keep in touch with my inner student.”

(DISCLAIMER: This interview was particularly revealing of President Riggs’ questionable habits on campus, and may shock some readers.)

President Riggs recently escaped a rather brutal board meeting, where an anonymous source claims the board members grilled Riggs for hours on what’s been going on here at the college.

“Yeah, of course I remember the meeting with those liberal pansies,” Riggs started, “coming into my house clamoring for “student rights” and other stupid stuff. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Is this all worth it?’ Like, is it really worth sacrificing my remaining time on earth to helps secure the futures of these salmon-pant wearing toolbags strutting around campus?”

This reporter, as the owner of a pair of salmon pants, is more than a little dismayed at the Kool-Aid Riggs is selling.

“I’ve got liberal pansies like you up my ass seven days a week asking me, ‘Janet, where’s the money going, Janet?’ I don’t have time to deal with that B.S. Do you have any idea how tough it is being all Presidential and shit 24/7 while trying to get the grounds crew to install my new 12-man jacuzzi the right way? I swear, this is why I drink.”

At this point, we had to take a break from the interview to give President Riggs a chance to answer some texts and, “Downvote some weak-ass Yaks to oblivion.”

When asked about the recent allegations accusing the school of lacing the fingers of signature Chicken-Finger Friday with laxatives, Riggs laughed.

“Of course we put laxatives in the fingers. The only one who could stomach them otherwise is a goat- we did a lot of illegal goat testing over the summer, which was fun. Off the record? They’re not even really chicken fingers- the B-Hole staff just fries up whatever animals DPS manages to taze during the week. It’s usually squirrel, but they’ve been wizening up to DPS’s tazering techniques, so occasionally we sub in some raccoons that are usually rooting around in the trash behind Servo.”

**** In reality, I did not interview President Riggs and do not know anything about the **** installation of a 12-man jacuzzi at her house

Let Me Name Your Children

I’ve been thinking a great deal about names lately, and frankly, I am not too happy. As someone with a few ounces of creativity still available for sale to The Man (take notes, employers), I find white people’s tendency to use the same names generation after generation terribly boring.

I cannot tell you how many Will’s or Ben’s I’ve met in my lifetime, but I can tell you that it is over fifty. Let’s make things easy and call it sixty-four Ben’s. Sixty-four Ben’s is a lot of Ben’s. Sure, there are definitely some stand-out Ben’s in the group, but it’s nearly impossible to differentiate between all of them.

That’s why I propose a new naming convention for white people: I call it, the S.E.M.E.N. system. Super Easy Manually Entered Names. This is sure to become a smash hit in America sometime soon, so send me your money immediately to get in on the ground floor of this amazing opportunity! Investing in S.E.M.E.N. is a safe, fun way to diversify your portfolio, make a sackful of cash (pun intended) and name your child at the SAME TIME.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “But Adam, why is S.E.M.E.N. only for white people?”

An excellent question. The reasoning behind this choice is that white people are the only ones who actually need help naming their children. Black people have it completely figured out, and continue to churn out names that I not only do not understand, but have no idea how to spell or pronounce. The Asians don’t need S.E.M.E.N. because there are simply too many of them to creatively name each and every one of them. You can only have so many General Tso’s before a war breaks out.

The Native Americans need S.E.M.E.N. the least because they’ve had the whole naming thing down to a science for centuries. What better way to give your child a head-start in life than to name him “Runs With Buffalo.” Please, enlighten me, and tell me when some shitty, bullying white kid named Bill is going to fuck with Runs With Buffalo?

I tell you what, if someone named Runs With Buffalo walks into my office and asks for a job, they’re going to get it- on one condition, of course. For all you Runs With Buffalo’s out there, I promise that you will get the job, but only when you show me a video of you living up to your name.

The S.E.M.E.N. system is comprised of a few very important and distinct sections: the first is the name your cracker-ass child will receive at birth. This initial name will last for the first year of the child’s life, and will be whatever sort of high-pitched scream the baby makes when first exiting the womb. This will make introducing your baby to people who don’t give a single fuck about your baby much more interesting for all parties involved.

At the time of your pasty-white child’s second birthday, you will rename it whatever that child’s favorite food is at the time. This will make spankings much more fun (for you) and will ensure the child will inexplicably have chills run down their spine every time someone offers them Bagel Bites or Carpet Fuzz in the future.

Once the Terrible Two’s have come to an end, your child will once again be renamed under the S.E.M.E.N. system to whatever color you like until they finish high school. This will make it far easier to organize children into groups in the classroom: “Okay, let’s have the Fuchsias over here drawing caterpillars, and the Turquoises over there brainstorming how I can convince my wife to start working out without her realizing that I think she’s fat.”

Once your child has made it through high school, they will enter the most exciting aspect of the S.E.M.E.N. system: the Peer Review. You see, after having gone through the most transformational period in any person’s life together, these kids are very familiar with each other and will have the presence of mind to properly name each other within the confines of the S.E.M.E.N. system.

The beauty of S.E.M.E.N. is that it takes all of the stickiness out of naming someone for life, and grants that power to the child’s peers; a much more reasonable, exciting process. Every system must have its limitations, though, and S.E.M.E.N. is no exception.

To put it in the simplest of terms, white kids will name each other based on their most distinct or most -discussed personality trait. This does create a finite number of name possibilities, but you would be surprised how creative these kids can get!

For instance, a recent study that put the S.E.M.E.N. system to the test asked one hundred students that are in the same grade in high school to name each other. The S.E.M.E.N. team’s initial analysis showed only two matches in the entire study, but it was soon discovered that it had been a missed typo- the names were Fat Ass and Phat Ass, which clearly offer very different, creative descriptions of these students. While these names may not seem to be personality traits, I can assure you as non-certified professional that Phat Asses are personalities of their own.

Other extremely creative names included Great Head (open to interpretation, but definitely still creative!), Crusty Lips, Small Pinkies, and Weird Nipples. As you can see, giving these kids the freedom to name each other results in complete freedom of expression, and also provides ample incentive to not be fat and/or ugly.

I know this explanation of the S.E.M.E.N. system has proven to be quite the mouthful (and nobody knows how to dish out a mouthful of S.E.M.E.N. like I do), and I will gladly answer any questions you have or take any money you would like to give to me for whatever reason. Together, we can do away with the boring, conventional white-people naming method and prove to the younger generations that we are hip and creative.

Don’t Touch the Volume

The automobile is my favorite invention of all time. I would give up airplanes, microwaves, and comfortable seat cushions before I would give up cars. Trying to describe the emotions any gear-head feels tearing up an S-curve is a dangerous walk amongst innumerable clichés.

When you throw other people in the car, however, the automobile atmosphere spawns awkward moments like a Christmas dinner with your grandmother’s new boyfriend.

The music is always a source of conflict in the car, as it is pretty much everywhere else. My car unfortunately does not have an auxiliary input, which limits my musical choices to subpar radio stations or CDs.

Making a CD for the car is far more difficult than you may think. What if Michael Vick ran up to me in full pads one day and asks for a ride? He wouldn’t be very amused if “Who Let the Dogs Out” started playing.

Volume control is a power I grant to only a select few, carefully-chosen passengers every year. If you realize “Born in the USA” is playing and crank the dial to maximum volume, you can kiss that dial goodbye. I will turn the dial back to a very reasonable level immediately. Your little party will be over before it can even begin.

Even worse than the volume extremist is the Concerned Walker. The Concerned Walker takes countless forms, but is most often encountered as parents with a stroller or an elderly couple. When I am driving my car down the street at a very conservative twenty-six miles per hour, the Concerned Walker will often stop in his/her tracks to assault me with a gaze of pure, unadulterated hatred.

Oh, I’m sorry, is the fifteen-foot grass barrier and full lane separating us not adequate for you? I know for a fact that you don’t have a radar gun installed in your head, so cool your Terminator-wannabe stare and keep strolling.

Are the beams of hatred pouring forth from your eyes directed at the “stormy sea blue” color of my Volvo? If so, I’m sorry, but I can’t go get it resprayed a less offensive color and call myself financially responsible.

One last reoccurring moment in the car I would like to bring up is the whole, “Let’s leave Adam on the side of the road and drive off because he’s being too loud.” Thanks very much, mom, but I’m twenty years old now and still do not appreciate it one bit. I dry my tears well, but they were spilled… they were spilled.

A Day in the Life of a Fratstar

Well, I’ve been going on a video-making spree over the last week, and here is the latest in my wildly successful homework-avoidance program.

This one is all about my alter ego’s daily routine. Enjoy!