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.

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

Dad Bods

Listening to several overweight college bros discussing with pride the sorry state of their beer guts over a couple of Natties (because Natty Light implies one does not seek the dadliest of bods) has become a staple of the college experience.

We are the sarcastic generation, which I greatly appreciate because of my own scathingly sarcastic tendencies, but the number of dudes actively trying to look like a middle-aged dad that has given up has gone beyond the point of being a funny joke, and become an epidemic.

This could easily be a blog post about the obesity epidemic combined with body image and why we should accept all body types, but that topic is more geared towards the serious writer, who isn’t quite as interested as I am in ridiculing the absurdity of spending more time trying to look like a fat f**k than doing any other activity this wide world of ours has to offer.

Here’s a tip for attaining the ideal dad-bod: go get out that list of future goals you’ve been updating constantly over the last few years, and Sharpie a gigantic beer gut over all of them. Goals are overrated when you’ve got a gut that could pass for a hairy, white beach ball.

What’s even crazier is that it seems to work. Guys in half-buttoned Hawaiian shirts, sporting what appears to be roughly sixteen liters of beer trying to bust through the remaining buttons, are somehow almost always surrounded by the best-looking females.

At first, I thought it was because the dad-bod Todds of the world had figured out the surefire way of convincing college girls that they were already much more mature than the “boy-bods” around campus, but that would be too simple. Then I thought it could be the girls’ fault- maybe they thought a secure future was hidden inside the massive gut bumping into them?

No, I had to go deeper for this one. I had to be the dad-bod to understand the dad-bod. So, I threw on the only Hawaiian shirt I own, a pair of khakis to round off the look, tuned the TV to ESPN, and drank four thousand beers.

What I learned from this experience has actually changed my entire world. I used to make fun of my peers who chose to pursue the dad-bod, but now, I get it. I understand completely now that actively working on making one’s bod look like that of a dad’s is the only option left to a man who has decided that the rest of the world, with their non-dad-bods and their self-respect, is just not frat enough.

So, I pity the fools who try to get dad-bods. Sure, you may get all the smokeshows now, what with your pasty white stomach and matching tube socks, but rest assured, the fun will come to an end once those smokeshows find themselves a dadlier bod. And then where are you? Alone on a couch, with nothing but a twelve-pack of Yuengling and memories of the glorious days when society’s standards for bods were not so dadly.

We must take a moment here to consider the group of people most affected by this widespread movement: the dads. Their bods’ good name, once revered as something for young men to aspire to rock at barbecues someday, has been sullied by these drunken pretenders.

One dad I ran into at Home Depot did me the honor of getting down off of the riding mowers on display to share some of the infinite wisdom that is apparently granted to all dads by the dad-bod-God:

“These kids, they don’t have what it takes,” he began, “they see a guy like me, and they go, ‘Hey, I could have a dad-bod like that in no time,’ but they don’t understand the hours I didn’t put in to get and maintain the bod you see before you.”

“They have no sense of responsibility. Of course you’re able to get a nice beer gut going in college, when you don’t have anyone else depending on your bod. But when you get to be my age, with three kids to constantly ignore and a wife to disappoint on the reg, dad-bod maintenance becomes more difficult than ever. You have to make time for it.”

The dad, who requested to remain anonymous, wishes that all of the young men setting off down the path to dad-boddom would take some time to consider the dangers in doing so:

“It’s good to have goals, but dad-bodding isn’t for everyone. Sure, you could go out and buy yourself the shirt, the golf clubs, and buckled sandals, but perfecting the dead look in your eyes takes years of resentment and remaining seated.”

Ebola Sucks! We Want Devastation!

We need a new plague. Not that weak-ass Ebola that’s been cruising around- I’m talking the Black Plague. Actually, I’m talking the BLACKER plague. We need it to wipe out the staggering number of incompetent and useless people on this planet. People often refer to other people as, “God’s gift to the world.” If that’s true, then God clearly has a bone to pick with the world, because a large number of His “gifts” are shitty people. That’s why we need a plague, or even some sort of gigantic gerbil infestation to wipe out a majority of us.

Now, is this a “nice” or “thoughtful” idea? No, it’s not, but this is my blog and this is AMERICA so you can take your anti-plague B.S. (that means bullshit) elsewhere.

It never ceases to amaze me how many genuinely stupid people exist. Not like, eating glue at age nineteen stupid, but not far off. Films such as Idiocracy have already explored the seemingly inevitable possibility of human society devolving into one comprised of brain-dead simpletons- but to me, it seems as though we’re already a good part of the way there.

What sparked in me the burning desire for a good plague to roll around is a moment I had in line for food yesterday at the Bullet Hole, a restaurant on campus that is lovingly referred to by students as the “B-Hole”. Haha!

While standing in line for my chicken sandwich (seeded bun, lettuce, onion, and some Southwest Ranch sauce. Mmmmmmm), a pair of girls walked into the B-Hole and started heading my way.

I should point out that if I can hear you coming from more than twenty feet away, I automatically assume you are a) completely absorbed in your own dull life and b) at the top of the list for plague victim candidates. Also at the top of the list are the entire Aryan Brotherhood and Rosie O’Donnell for no reason at all.

This girl and her friend seemed to me to be afflicted with what I consider to be a plague: the annoying trait of raising the pitch of their voice at the end of every sentence. If you do this, please think about how stupid you sound when everything you say sounds like a question, even if it’s not. If you don’t do this, then sit down and make sure you don’t do it, because people like me may or may not be (but probably are) making fun of you. It’s like a stutter for the stupid.

Back to the B-Hole. This girl goes up to the guy working the counter and asks for the special (orange chicken and rice). She then proceeds to go over to the salad refrigerator and examined the various salads.

For those of you unfamiliar with the dining options available to the students of Gettysburg College, allow me to walk you through the B-Hole and how it works. Students get a number of meals a week- these meals can be “spent” at the B-Hole. A “meal” is defined as a main dish (for example, this girl’s orange chicken), a side, and a drink. The sides are where this story gets interesting.

Available to students who are either health-conscious or guilty about eating pizza for the eighth time in a week is the Side Salad. It’s a pretty decent-sized salad, and is clearly labelled as a Side Salad. There is absolutely no way any literate human being with halfway decent eyesight can mistake the Side Salad for something other than a Side Salad.

I guess that makes the B-Hole girl non-human, because in the midst of her annoyingly high-pitched rant on something irrelevant, she turned to the guy standing behind the B-Hole counter and said, “Uhhhhmmmmm, yeah, can I get the side salad as my side, ooorrrrr…?”

Courtesy of Tim & Eric

Courtesy of Tim & Eric

I was very, VERY tempted to do one of two things at that moment:

1.) Explain to this girl in the meanest tone I could possibly muster that the Side Salad was named the Side Salad for a fucking reason

2.) Start ripping Side Salads off the shelves and throw them all over the B-Hole in a fit of rage.

Unfortunately, tossing salads in the B-Hole is frowned upon at this fine institution of learning, so I didn’t do anything quite so rash.

I did, however, proceed to make eye contact with the guy working behind the counter. I don’t know what it is about something as minor as eye contact, but I had to pull one of the ol’ smile-but-not-too-hard-because-I’m-trying-not-to-laugh’s. As soon as this guy saw my face straining not to laugh out loud, he chuckled. He chuckled real hard, and it made my day.

So go on out in the world and make yourself a new friend today. Nothing brings people closer together than having a good laugh at the expense of others- it’s been going on since the dawn of man. Cavemen used to rip on each other for either getting eaten by sabertooth tigers or being turned down by what were surely incredibly hairy cavewomen.

Pumpkin Spice is the Kim Kardashian of Beverage Flavoring

Winter is my favorite season for a number of reasons. The temporary extinction of all bugs is pretty nice if you, like me, appreciate the end result of millions of creatures dying of frostbite. Christmas is also on the list, because I love hearing how PISSED OFF people are that corporate America DARES to plaster poor Santa’s bearded face all over CVS in order to make a few extra bucks earlier and earlier in the year.

See? They’re pimping out old Saint Nick!

While Christmas and snow and dead bugs are all well and good, I do have an absolute favorite aspect of winter: the disappearance of pumpkin spice.

Ooooo, I can hear the angry protests of white girls reading this across privileged America! I relish in the fact that every basic white girl’s ability to “even” essentially hits zero when their access to pumpkin spice is taken away.

No more can the hordes of Ugg-clad, yoga-pants-wearing basic bitches pumpkin “spice up” their lives in the form of ridiculously overpriced hot beverages. Instead, they’ll have to resort to whatever vanilla-soybean-latte-triple-whip bullshit they used to get.

As someone with a decent amount of spare time on his hands, I recently devoted roughly twenty-eight seconds of my precious time here on Earth to Googling what pumpkin spice is actually made of.*

*But, before I share the results, I need to tell you about the image that just popped into my head: okay, so the scene opens with a shot of a few basic white girls standing around in the bathroom discussing whatever- probably the weirdly crooked penis that Karen saw over the weekend. In the middle of her recounting of the tale (“It had to be like, thirty degrees skewed to the left! It looked like a checkmark!”) one of the girls pulls a bag of some fine brown powder out of her stylish, but comfortable headband.

“OMG, is that heroin??” exclaims Karen. Karen prides herself on being willing to try anything once.

“No, betch, shut up,” Lauren replies. Lauren has been unhappy with Karen ever since she got the nose job. Whispering, Lauren explains, “It’s… pumpkin spice.”

The other girls cannot even. They start acting like a bunch of angry primates; smashing up the bathroom while the others rail lines of pumpkin spice off the soap dispenser. A number of snapchats are sent to relay how awesome their lives are in relation to others’, which ends up coming back to bite Karen in the ass when her husband runs for President.

Phew. Thanks for indulging me in that story. Now, an interesting fact that you may or may not share with someone at a party at some point in your life:

There is no pumpkin in pumpkin spice.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?! No pumpkin in pumpkin spice?? That’s like, if, well, someone told you that something had something in it but really they lied and there is no God. In my mind, I was imagining a number of starving children slaving away in a factory somewhere, shaving the sides of pumpkins with cheese graters or something to harvest the spice of the pumpkin.

Something that I think is worth pointing out is the fact that I have never witnessed or heard about any black women ordering pumpkin spice anything. Perhaps white girls have some sort of genetic predisposition to a pumpkin spice addiction? Kind of like a way less destructive form of diabetes.

Come to think of it, I have never seen a black person order a hot beverage of any kind. Did I just stumble across a new stereotype? Let me know if you have evidence of the contrary. I will say, though, that my Google search for “black people coffee” did not reveal nearly as many pictures of black people drinking coffee as I thought it would. It did, however, show me a bunch of pictures of Bill Cosby making various faces, which kept me entertained for a few minutes. 

Vote ‘No’ on Salt Bagels

This is the sort of question I ask myself while standing in the line for a bacon, egg, and cheese the morning after a long night. The racks of various kinds of bagels astounds me every time, although the cinnamon-raisin bagel is what really keeps me up at night.

If “Bagel Roulette” were a real game show, the raisin bagel would be the bullet. This metaphor makes sense, because raisins are really just shriveled-up, discolored bullets. It also makes sense because raisins can kill you just as quickly as a bullet can, if you were to consume a large quantity of raisins and began choking with no one around to save you.

If you’re not over the age of sixty, you have absolutely no business buying anything with raisins in it. This is the first law I will enact as Emperor of the entire world.

While raisin bagels certainly raise a few eyebrows, the consumer I really want to strap to a water-boarding table in Guantanamo is the buyer of the salt bagel. The thought process of someone who buys a salt bagel at ANY point in their life is worthy of an extremely unnecessary level of analysis, and might provide us with some answers to questions we’ve been asking since the beginning of time, such as:

“Why do we exist?”

“Do these pants make me look fat?”

“Why did Breaking Bad have to end?” And,

“Why should I vote against Salt Y. Bagels in the upcoming election?”

Let me tell you something, consumer of salt bagels: I’m onto you. You may be fooling the rest of the people in line at Einstein’s Bagels, but I’m the revolutionary off to the side, shaking my head at your ludicrous purchase.

You see, while the other bagel aficionados are lulled into oblivion by the warmth seeping out of the bagel ovens, I am over in the freezer, crouched behind the strawberry lemonades that nobody ever buys, watching your every move. While the others have been fooled into thinking you’re just a fellow bagel-lover with a penchant for salt, I observe you with absolute clarity from my vantage point among the various flavored cream cheese spreads.

After years of observation in the field and getting kicked out of various bagel-selling establishments, I have come to the conclusion that has rocked my bagel-shaped world, and will rock yours too. If you see someone buying a salt bagel, know this (you may want to sit down):

They’re really just buying a pretzel.

I know what you’re thinking: “But Adam, won’t this declaration and ousting of the salt bagel people make you a target for retribution?”

Well, concerned reader of my blog, yes, it will. Fortunately for you and the rest of the world, I am not afraid to do this kind of investigative journalism for the sake of mankind and bagels everywhere. I know this has angered a great many buyers of salt bagels, but people like me and Edward Snowden have to take this kind of risk to keep you sheeple informed of what’s really going on.

As a side-note, if any readers are currently living in Russia and can offer me some sort of asylum, that would be greatly appreciated. There are hundreds of protestors outside my window, shaking salt-shakers and demanding my head on a salted stick. It looks as though they’re running out of salt bagels to keep them relatively calm.

God save the plain bagel.

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Horrible Common Phrases

Common phrases are misused all the time, and I am absolutely sick of it. Here’s a list of them, and why they are idiotic:

“Drive it like you stole it” No thank you, I think I’ll continue driving my car like I put down a large down payment and have a terrifying number of monthly payments to make in the future. Plus, I have no idea what driving a stolen car is like. I imagine the first thing I would do in a stolen car is go get a Slurpee.

“Your shoe’s untied” Sorry to disappoint you, but my shoes are never untied. This is because I refuse to wear anything other than flip-flops and Crocs in the spring, summer, and fall, and velcro strap-equipped snow boots in the winter.

“That guy has a chip on his shoulder” This is a flagrant lie, and will not be tolerated for its stupidity. First of all, you need to clarify what kind of chip the subject is balancing on his shoulder. Is it a potato chip? A poker chip? Or has this person somehow lured a talking chipmunk onto his person?

“That costs an arm and a leg” Cool your jets, Hannibal Lector. I’m in Banana Republic looking for a fashionable fall jacket, not some black market for body parts. Also, if that jacket really does cost an arm and a leg, how the hell am I going to pull it off missing fifty percent of my limbs? Perhaps we can meet in the elbow and I’ll give you a forearm and a leg.

“Beating around the bush” This one is particularly offensive to a man as environmentally-conscious as myself. What kind of sick, twisted individual goes around laying the beat-down on defenseless vegetation? If that bush owes you money, don’t beat up his neighbors- rip it straight out of the ground and give it a pair of cement shoes, Mafia-style.

“Close, but no cigar” Get the f**k away from my younger brother and stop offering cigars as prizes for knocking down the milk bottles, you filthy carnie. He’s only eight, and wouldn’t even know what to do with a cigar. Idiot.

“Cut the mustard” I’d love to know the origins behind this one. Try cutting up some mustard. All you’ll end up with is a very mustardy knife and mustard smears all over your kitchen table.

“Don’t cry over spilt milk” Don’t tell me what to do. You don’t know my life, or what sort of morning I’m having! I’ll have you know, that was the last of the milk, and now I have to eat my Fruity Pebbles like some sort of sick f**k who’s addicted to cereal dust.

“Put a sock in it” I must admit, I’m actually a huge fan of this fairly common phrase. It makes me laugh when I think about a society where it is perfectly acceptable to stuff a sock in someone’s mouth to prevent them from saying whatever it was they were saying. Making this act legal would not only dramatically decrease the number of stupid people talking, but would also result in a booming sock industry.

“I hate to rain on your parade, but…” Oh, put a sock in it. You’re not upset about raining on someone’s proverbial parade- in fact, I think we love raining on parades more than we love the parade itself. This might be in part due to the fact that we didn’t get invited to the parade and do not want others to enjoy themselves. This instinct is called, “being a dick.”

“You got the short end of the stick” Stop being so ungrateful and be thankful for the fact that you got an end of the stick at all. It could be way worse- you could have gotten the long end of the stick- to the face.

“There’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team'” Nobody likes a smartass, and everyone who has more than twelve brain cells knows how to spell ‘team’. Dick. For the record, I wouldn’t even be talking about the team if I wasn’t a part of it, so why don’t you take your “holier-than-thou” attitude and get the f**k out of my face so that I can complain about how awful my teammates are in peace.

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks” Bulls**t. My dog is sixteen years old and just learned how to play dead. He hasn’t moved in over two weeks! Now that’s a well-trained dog.

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.

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!

“Hi Mom, I’m a Fratstar Now” Episode One

Here’s a video I put together over the weekend with my friend Connor. It’s an “interview” with a Fratstar that is not your average interview.

Enjoy.