Graduating Suma Cum Loudly


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.


I’m a Dirty Little Man

I have hit an all-time low. I’m at the tail end of a couple of hours filled with applications to various writing and editing internships, and I am mentally drained. I am also very, very ashamed. Today’s events will make a pretty good episode of my reality show that people most likely watch in some sort of alternate reality.

I’m not ashamed because of my failure to secure a job I want- no, I actually enjoy the rejections now. They assure me that life is meaningless and I am doing absolutely everything wrong. Now, instead of crying into my pillow at night, I laugh like a clinically insane person living in a shopping cart under a bridge in Cincinnati as I think about how ridiculously hard we have to work to find jobs nowadays. I relish the large portion of the best years of my life I spend looking at a computer screen filled with Tweets and Help Wanted ads. 

Just so you know, I’m still sniggering right now. I find it extremely funny how low I have sunk a self-proclaimed, “writer.” Just how low can I go, you ask? This is how low I can, and have (recently), gone:

I just submitted an application to write dirty, “Adult” short stories for a well-known porn actress to narrate and sell to what must be very, very desperate and/or kinky people with internet access and a Kindle.

Get your scoffs and disappointing exhalations of breath out of the way, you animals. A writer has to do what a writer has to do, and in this case, what this writer has to do is stoop to levels so low, they were previously only achieved by the world champion of limbo.

In case you were wondering, the world champion of limbo is this person:



How she gets back up; I do not know

I have to say, though, she comes nowhere close to how low I can go… in terms of MORALS!!!! (Not physical height). In all seriousness, keep me in your prayers or personal diaries, whichever you prefer. I need this job. I also need to rapidly become very good at writing dirty short stories. Here are a few titles I just thought of:

Gulliver’s Travels to the Brothel

Bone-e-o and Juliet

Moby Dick (This one pretty much wrote itself)

Suckleberry Finn

Nineteen Eighty-Whore

Catcher in the Guy


Dental Dam(nation)

If you clicked on this blog post because you’re looking for a funny story, then let me be the first to congratulate you. You’ve found it. It’s the story of something I actually witnessed. Before we delve in, I have something to say:

I AM NOT AN ANTI-FEMINIST. I respect the fact that men and women are created equal. I do not respect the fact that some women take this a bridge too far and show no respect for men, and vice versa. That’s simply counterproductive and “just plain ig’nant, dawg.” I am also against feminists and pretty much everything else that refuse to shower. You’re gross. Really gross. People don’t dislike you because you have strong opinions: they dislike you because you smell like the inside of a rotting raccoon carcass. 

Before the story begins, a quick message to all the angry, blinded-by-ovarian-rage feminists fuming behind their computer screens: do you have any idea how hard it is to be a white male in America? Of course you don’t, because you are not one. We have to deal with a lot of stuff you aren’t even aware of. Dane Cook is in our “classification” and believe me, it’s not by choice. We are also confronted with dozens of perplexing problems each day, like trying to decipher what women are talking about, or choose between boxers and briefs (this problem has been resolved with the ground-breaking, “boxer-briefs”).

So I’m sitting in my women and gender studies class. I sit behind these two girls. They aren’t your run of the mill college girls. These are full-on “I don’t like men and nothing you can say or do can change that” girls. Perfect. They constantly try to astound the class with random facts that either do not pertain to our discussions, or are clearly just something a total d**k would spout off about in class. 

Naturally, I would love to be able to say incredibly rude things to their faces just for the sake of being a troll, but my desire for an easy A prevents that. So, I keep myself sane by making fun of them in my head. This is what transpired in class the other day:

We got to talking about safe sex and the 1980’s, when safe sex was something that people started to realize is a good idea. “What’s that? You mean I could have prevented these f*****g crabs from running around all over my junk?! Well strike me down with a bolt of lightning, Zeus, I’m in!” This was the general consensus at the time. 

So these two girls have a certain passion for making it seem like they know everything there is to know about the LGBTQ community. This makes it particularly infuriating when they use a ridiculous number of hand gestures to articulate their lack of knowing the right word for their incomplete argument, until our professor comes to the rescue. Then, they look at each other with the kind of smirk that makes me want to light a great deal of things on fire. I pray for their parents’ sanity every night. If someone presented me with the choice between $100,000 and the opportunity to smack these pretentious sacks of atoms with a live telephone wire, I would happily pass on the money.

The professor asked the class for examples of what comes to mind when she says the phrase “safe sex.” The fist answer was “condoms”. This is a good answer; a reasonable answer. Heck, it’s the first thing I thought of. Then, a student went off on a rant about how her school in North Carolina made them sign pledges when they were in THE FIFTH GRADE stating that they wouldn’t have sex until marriage. Which jackass down in the South came up with this game-changing idea? Most likely someone with the brainpower of a mushy banana. 

And then one of the girls thrusts her hand into the sky. I swear, I felt a light breeze from her need to voice her oh-so-very-important opinion.

 “Dental dams!” She cries.

Image It’s like some sort of cross between the Predator’s mouth and a massive, burst bubble-gum bubble. “Mmmm, yeah Predator, that’s the stuff.”

Dental dams?! Have we been transported to some other planet? Who in this world has ever used a dental dam in their life? I would like to meet those (maybe) four people, and smack every one of them in the face. I’ve only encountered one dental dam in my life, and that was courtesy of our high school health teacher. You better believe I laughed when one of my poor friends Kaitlyn got up in front of the class and tried to convince us of the merits of using one. It wasn’t her choice; it was an assigned project. This did not make it any less funny.

I don’t think there could possibly be a bigger boner-killer than hearing the words, “Hang on one sec, let me go and grab a dental dam.” Maybe a close second would be getting a Skype call from your grandparents in the middle of a computer “sesh”. A close second indeed.

From now on, I’m going to stuff my ears with dental dams so I can sit through that class without being verbally assaulted by those two. I’m sure my blood pressure will thank me.

White male, over and out.