Half of these questions are made-up, half of these questions are stupid, and half of these questions are sexy. If you or your mother would like to email me actual questions, please send them to dangall@udel.edu

Q: Squirtle, Charmander or Bulbasaur? None of this Pikachu shit. Go!
-James Collyer, Staten Island

A: As an idiot kid who preferred sticking Fun Dip sticks up my nose to time-consuming challenges, I always chose Squirtle. Evey child born during the late 80s/early 90s knows the first gym in the game housed Brock, along with Onix and Geodude. The simplest way to defeat rock Pokemon was to use water Pokemon, so Squirtle would bubble his ass to victory, Brock would squint his eyes, and on our merry way we went to catch all 151.

If you chose Bulbasaur or Charmander, the amount of time spent killing Rattata to overtake Brock would take for FUCKING ever. I wasn’t about to scratch, burn and seed my way to an appropriate Brock level, especially with my buddy Squirtle eager to send that punk Geodude back home. And let’s not forget, Wartortle and Blastoise were baller as shit.

To confirm my Squirtle reverence, I texted four friends asking who they chose at the beginning of the game:

• Friend #1: “Charmander, Fuckin duh”
• Friend #2: “Big C”
• Friend #3: “Squirtle, no contest”
• Friend #4: “Squirtle, mostly because Blastoise is a motherfucker.”

Also, my rating of the original three Pokemon and their evolutionary stages goes:

1. Blastoise – Water fucking cannons.
2. Charmander – Loveable fire-breathing scamp.
3. Wartortle – Wings on his helmet, seemed awesome when I was 7.
4. Charmeleon – Seasoned veteran badass.
5. Squirtle – Cute little guy, but you knew the next two evolutions would be awesome.
6. Charizard – Big, stupid dragon who lost the charm of his original stages when he started breaking rocks over his head as an attack.
7. Bulbasaur – Cute little guy who suffers because his next two evolutions were awful.
8. Ivysaur – Sucked
9. Venusaur – Big, fat slow moving dullard who exclaimed “VENASAUR!” whenever he sneezed, farted or attacked.

(Other Pokemon questions: Why was Brock so horny? Did he know how to jerk off? Did he ever get any ass? Did he ever use Geodude to pleasure himself? Can Pokemon have sex? Another time…)

Q: Today before class my professor mentioned a book called Gadsby in which the author doesn’t use the letter E once. The book is 50,000 words long! Is that a feat in language or just stupid?
-Brian McCrae, Montreal

A: That is imprssiv….(Shit)….That is gooooood writing.

Q: I was wondering how you eat your Frosties from Wendy’s. There are basically two ways to do it: Straw or Spoon. I prefer to use the straw because it fills me with a sense of accomplishment while the spoon method makes me feel lazy and just makes my head cold.
-Sycamore Flynn, Wisconsin

A: See, I swore off Frostys two years ago when they decided to add those Vanilla and Strawberry flavors. Fuck Wendy and her thunder thighs for doing me the ultimate disservice of elongating my fast food experience. Example:

2008

Me: “Yeah, I’d like a medium frosty.”

Wendy Voicebox: (Static sound) “BLLLEFAWFAWGFSERG $1.49, next window”

Me: Thank You!

2012

Me: “Yeah, I’d like a medium frosty.”

Wendy Voicebox: Strawberry, Vanilla, Chocolate or would you like Wendy to rub her ass-cheeks in your frosty?

Me: (Pissy Pants Voice) Chocolate…

To answer your question: Eating and driving is always exciting, so I use neither and just cram the cup in my face.

Q: My 3^rd-cousin is going to the same college as I am, and as far as I can tell, is absolutely gorgeous? Am I going to hell for thinking about getting her drunk and…. Actually, nevermind.

Frank Knaus, West Virginia

A: College is a time for experimenting, and if that experimenting includes incest, then so be it. (BTW, Hell is underrated. All the cool kids spend eternity in hell.)

Q: A buddy and I were recently discussing wearing sports jerseys. While I said I pretty much always feel like a hard-on wearing them, he had an interesting personal rule. He says he’ll never wear a jersey bearing the name of someone younger than he is. So while he’ll never buy a Bryce Harper or Mike Trout jersey, he’ll continue to wear his Curtis Martin jersey until he’s too old to even remember who Martin was. Thoughts on jerseys and the policy?
-Willy in Seacaucus

A: Five years ago, I would’ve considered your buddy a pretty big loser. Unless at a sporting event, the type of men that wear jerseys are immature, short-sighted oddballs. The revenue from jerseys is split between the clothing companies manufacturing them and the teams in the league that your favorite player sees a fraction of a percent of your supposed “support.”

HOWEVA, in modern sports, you can support an athlete because you actually like the person. If somebody comes off as charismatic, charming, and actually engaged with the fanbase on Twitter and through interviews, and you feel like you could chill with this person on a purely friendly basis, then yes, you can purchase the jersey. Modern athletes are trying to market themselves the moment they realize their Madison Avenue potential, so they’d probably appreciate your support and Twitter follow.

If, for example, you saw your favorite athlete on the street while you were wearing their jersey, there ACTUALLY exists the potential that you could converse with this athlete on a regular basis. Look at jerseys in 2012 as a way to say to your favorite athlete “LETS BE FRIENDS!!!” and not just as a way for supporting the entire team. 

If all this logic comes with your friend’s jersey purchase, then I agree with his viewpoint.

As for (most) women, they can wear whatever they want. They don’t really know what the hell is going on anyway.

(Rereads question, realizes he didn’t answer the actual question)

Why would you want to hang out with Bryce Harper or Mike Trout? You can’t even go get shitfaced with those guys at a bar. Curtis Martin on the other hand! He’ll read from the book of the prophet Isaiah while you’re puking in the bathroom. He might even get drunk enough to call Bill Belichick a “jerk.”

Q: If movies toured like bands, as if they only played one night for a certain number of nights in a certain area, how much would you have paid to see The Dark Knight Rises? Considering the amount of entertainment (160 minutes worth), the value of a movie ticket ($12 at night, closer to $20 in IMAX) and the demand to see Bruce Wayne play guitar, I’m guessing this would’ve been like Springsteen multiplied by infinity. Thoughts?
-Peter Kryzstek, Ohio

A: Spingsteen multiplied by infinity plus one. If the only opportunity I had to see Rises was at Radio City Music Hall, where it was playing for one night only, I probably would’ve paid $1,000. Consider the fact that I’ve been a fan since their underground EP (Begins), I saw the band ascend to new heights with their second album (Dark Knight), and I made millions of jokes about that sexual deviant Alfred, I would’ve considered it a vocational form of attendance.

The lights would dim, Hans Zimmer would cue the orchestra, and I would join in the cacophony of those screaming “BRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCE!”

Complete E Street Band/ Nolan Batman comparison:

• Bruce Wayne-Bruce Springsteen: For namesake purposes and he’s been the glue since the inception. Both have been known for serious depression. (See: Nebraska/ Dark Knight Rises opening 70 minutes)
• The Joker-Clarence Clemons: Both taken too early from us. Both gave their best effort and warranted their mythical prestige.
• Alfred the Butler- Steven Van Zandt-: The leg our heroes always had to stand on. Whether dressed in a purple bandana or a butler outfit, support always came in the form of a screaming duet/ witty old man dialogue. A walking memento for the fans.
• Commissioner Gordon-: Patti Scialfa Both initially looked like positives, but over their job duration, have their fair share of resentment from those who admire our heroes. Gordon for the Dent Act, and Patti because she married Bruce.
• Rachel Dawes/Selina Kyle-Mary from Every Springsteen song: The silhouette of Springsteen love can understand the affection emoted by that lovesick Batboy. Luckily for Mary, she didn’t blow up in a heinous terrorist plot.
• Max Weinberg-Harvey Dent: I can’t think of a real correlation between these two, but they were both important and made me laugh. Weinberg for his time on Conan, and Dent for his hilarious screeching of “RACHEL! RACHEL!” I must’ve drunkenly yelled “RACHEL!” for the best four consecutive months of my life.
  

Q: How long will it take before Penn State becomes decent again? (Provided, of course, the earth doesn’t split open during the opening kickoff of the first Happy Valley game)

-John, (Un)Happy Valley

A: If I’m an athlete on the level of RGIII, and I understand how the NCAA is a heartless scam, then you’re damn right I’m going to Penn State. Modern athletes, as we just discussed, sell their own brand more than they sell their team brand. This is doubly true for college football and quadrupley (??) true for college basketball.

Where else is there going to be greater media exposure over the next four years? (Answer: No Where) Who loves a redemption story? (Answer: America) Who is obviously the most blindly devoted fanbase in the nation? (Answer: Penn State) 

In 2014, a standout athlete will realize the situation and capitalize on this spring-loaded launching pad to the NFL. Or, you know, it won’t happen and the word “Sandusky” will be treated like “Voldemort” during the early Harry Potter books.

Q: There’s a legit IMAX theater down the street from where I work. Is it wrong to pull a don draper and take a three hour lunch break some day next week to see a movie? Please say no….
-Ted Hillard

A: I know you sent that Fred Willard. Please, masturbate away!

Q: Just saw a guy get on the train, lock himself in the bathroom for 15 minutes, and then get off three stops later without paying. Where does this guy fall on the spectrum of scumbags?
-Tommy Spectrum, On a Train

A: Go check the toilet. If he actually used the toilet, then he’s just a guy who took a shit. 

But, if he skipped paying for a ticket, then he probably has bigger things to worry about than paying for a train ticket. Probably wants to save his money this Springsteen/Dark Knight Rises tour that I just copyrighted. 

I would call him crafty, BTW.

Q: Isn’t it bullshit that McDonald’s doesn’t serve Big Macs on the late night menu? Open 24 hours my ass.
-Grimace, Passed out in an Alley

A: I’m currently pissed at McDonald’s for the size and price of Chicken Selects. They used to come in a bigger box and be the size of staplers. Now, I’m lucky to get two that are larger than those deformed McNuggets you sometimes receive. I’m mad at McDonald’s for something new every week. 

And yes, that is some bullshit regarding Big Macs. Give me the ones that have been sitting around for four hours, I don’t give a shit.

Q: What’s an appropriate tip at the bar when all you order is a single bottle of beer? One dollar seems appropriate for three seconds of work. Two dollars is insane. Am I cheap or am I right?
-What everyone is thinking, America

A: You’re a little bit of both. You’re cheap because you took the time to email me and bitch about beer tipping. But you’re right because most bartenders are entitled pieces of shits. Especially the hot ones, they’re the worst.

Q: I am a vigorous masturbator, but with college coming up, what’s the protocol?
-Julian, Virginia

A: I knew roommates sophomore year that would text their roommates when they were doing their business. That’s odd and disgusting and beautiful in a very collegiate way.

Hopefully, one day, you will walk into your dorm, smell that very distinct stank of freshly squeezed semen, give your roommate a knowing nod, laugh, and bond over how horrible and horny both of you really are.

Q: How many condoms should I bring to college?

-Keith Van Horny, Utah

A: One million condoms. Go to Costco.

The post Springsteen, Squirtle and Sex: Questions You Need Answered appeared first on The Campus Companion.

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August is the neglected hormonal teenager of the summer months. It doesn’t receive the love that America heaps upon July, nor is it embraced with sun-kissed arms like June. As any rebellious teenager is then wrought to do, August cries for attention, repeating the same insubordinate actions that its sibling months already tried (UV Rays, Humid, Hot, HOT, FUCKING KILL ME NOW HOT). Initially, these disorderly conducts are met with regimented enthusiasm, but ultimately, the repeated defiance results in boredom and irritated indifference.

Suffice to say, if I were August’s parents, I would hate the shit out of it. Think you’re cute August, trying to do exactly what the other two summer months are doing? You’re wrong August. Nobody loves you. We didn’t even bother to put a holiday in your month. Not even a bullshit Hallmark holiday. Not even Labor Day, the official end to summer. That’s your reward for being hot, humid, horrible and unoriginal: EVERYBODY has a goodbye celebration to summer in September (A FALL MONTH!) because NOBODY likes you August.

I most associate August with dread and impatience. Dread, because of that sick feeling I would get during the last week of summer while in grammar school. Does everybody remember that feeling? The “Here comes another year stuck in the SAME classroom for nine awful months with the SAME teacher redoing the SAME damn Phonics and Handwriting exercise since kindergarten” feeling. Also, during grammar school, nobody knew who the shit was going to be in their class. You just showed up the first day and hoped that kid you snorted glue with was sitting across from you again. (You guys were “Let’s swap Lunchables”-level buds.)

I associate August with impatience because we have to be excited to wait. This is the month of countdowns, where everybody numbers the days until their job ends, football starts, or they go back to college. This is the month where we have to get excited for preseason football, where the most interesting action on the field involves injuries and HBO cameras. This is the month where we have to discuss furniture and bills for our new living arrangements on campus. This is the month where you come closest to telling your boss to “eat shit.” I hope you’re happy August, existing as an insult to calendars, sand-dials and sun-dials.

To recap, I hope you die of heat stroke August. Every year I underestimate your existential stupidity, and every year, you fuck me in the face with a heat wave. I look forward to having embarrassing swamp ass, a consistently moist forehead, and eventually, celebrating your conclusion. I can already see the leaves changing colors now…

The post I Hate You August appeared first on The Campus Companion.

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I have an irrational fear of being ousted by the general public for something I will write in the immediate future. My preferred nightmare includes:

1) I am on pace to win a revered place in society. (United States Presidency, for example)

2) Heartbreakingly, something “edgy” I wrote between the ages of 16-24 will be uncovered by the general public. (I use “edgy” because the idea of socially accepted writing changes from decade to decade. Just ask Mark Twain!)

3) This article/tweet/Facebook status will cause a fierce outcry from the public, thus resulting in my loss of United States Presidency.

I know what you’re thinking: “What type of posting could cause an outcry so large as to warrant your firing? Also, who wants to be president anymore?”

The presidency of the United States in the 21st century is the least desirable position ever imagined. Every opinion, action or thought must be mocked, heckled, and immediately criticized by every schwanz with internet access. Recently, Mitt Romney was held accountable for his bullying of a fellow student in high school. The incident took place in 1965, when Romney was 18:

“They came upon Lauber, tackled him and pinned him to the ground. As Lauber, his eyes filling with tears, screamed for help, Romney repeatedly clipped his hair with a pair of scissors.” -Washington Post, May 11th.
The Washington Post goes into great detail, with five different witnesses, about what happened that day. They all agree that Romney acted like a dickbag and probably regrets his actions from that day.

The article eventually prompted Romney to issue an apology for his actions from nearly a half-century ago:

“Back in high school, you know, I did some dumb things, and if anybody was hurt by that or offended, obviously, I apologize for that… You know, I don’t, I don’t remember that particular incident [laughs]… I participated in a lot of high jinks and pranks during high school, and some might have gone too far, and for that I apologize.” –Romney

The difference between the 1965 18-year old and the modern 18-year old is the amount of outlets possible to vent aggression. In hindsight, force and brutality were not the most sensible options for the young Romney, yet, they were the easiest and clearest way for Romney to express his frustrations. Today, the easiest way to express teenage aggression is through irresponsible tweets and unfriending on Facebook.

I don’t believe the actions of a dipshit 18-year old should jeopardize the candidacy of a completely different 65-year old politician. Yet, on the Washington Post story page, polls advertized whether or not the actions of a zit-faced assclown should influence the office of the presidency.

Lucky for the news services of 2056, it won’t be necessary to doggedly research such an occurrence. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Duckface* each document every idiotic action by this current generation with fearless aplomb. Between the subtweets and statuses lie short-sighted opinions and “Please don’t tag me in that” pictures. The internet’s not written in pencil, and the pictures are far from a dusty family photo album.

I fear for Romney-type persecution an older generation will level against this new crop of work-force members. Recently, it has come into vogue for employers to use Facebook, Twitter, and other social media sites to determine whether someone is a reputable individual for hire. It’s difficult to believe the older generation of employers can understand Facebook the way the generation that grew up with it. Where most 20-somethings see tagged pictures as a snapshot of a batshit weekend, employers see these pictures as a clear indicator of character.

It would be impossible to change this type of culture, and I would be doing my 18-year old self a disservice if I lied about my revelry in shocker tagged pictures. (Two in the pink, one in the…Fuck me.) In forty years, everybody’s tweets, statuses, and pictures will still be documented and recorded on the internet. For most, MySpace and Facebook profiles will serve as a humorous reminder to the more vulnerable days of adolescence. But for others, they will be an ageless albatross, waiting to be uncovered by a possible employer, or worse, for a dull news cycle.

To the United States President of 2056, I wish you the best of luck. You’re probably tweeting something stupid right now, and it shouldn’t matter that you’re currently a thoughtless teenager concerned more with your Proactiv than with your Pro-Choice beliefs. But it will.

*(Patent pending on Duckface by Gallagher Inc.)

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I suppose that last final would’ve been hard, had it not been for your six Red Bulls, four Monsters, two black coffees, and one beautiful sunrise. You’re a ticking sleep bomb of adrenaline, energy drinks and coffee breath, but DAMNIT if you don’t celebrate the conclusion of another semester. Please, grab your favorite seat at the bar, order a beer, press your palm against your forehead, and hate your professor for turning you into a catatonic zombie on the last day of the semester.

Number Six: The Campus Green

Fuck that walk back to your dorm! You’ll be damned if you don’t greet the grass with your face! If campus police gives you any shit, just ask “Who pays for this grass to be maintained?” And then, when they take you away to sleep in the drunk tank, you will thank them in the morning for preventing you from sleeping where those Frisbee weirdoes run around barefoot. Cops are people too, and they hate Frisbee weirdoes just as much as you do.

Number Five: Buddy’s Couch

You don’t know when your buddy got the entire Rocket Power DVD Box Set, but you’ll be dead and buried before you miss that episode where Otto goes surfing during that hurricane and Raymundo has to save him. (Writing checks. Butt can’t cash. Etc.) So what if you’re drunk and have a group meeting in six hours; you and your buddy are going to reminisce about high school, eat Little Ceaser’s and pass out with a half finished Bud Ice. College is the buddy’s couch. The buddy’s couch is college.

Number Four: Library Chair

Go ahead and make fun of the Asian students for staying at the library 24/7. They’re not the ones in danger of failing two classes, thus having to email their professors with weak excuses about why they need certain grades, and then have to plead with student financial services to keep their scholarships because I WAS JUST A FRESHMAN AND DIDN’T KNOW ANY BETTER BECAUSE I WAS A FRESHMAN! … Long story short: Library chairs are sneaky comfortable.

Number Three: Not Your Bed

“Oh my God… Fucking….Jesus…(Breathe)…Alright, I was at the bar…. Threw up…. Drank more…. Tried to fight the bouncer…. Left side of face hurts… Went to second bar… Drank more…. Fought bouncer…. Right side of face hurts… Ran into cute girl from organic chemistry at Little Ceaser’s…. Bought her a pizza…. She ate the entire pizza….Realized she wasn’t cute…. Didn’t care…. (Opens eyes)….Glad her mattress is queen sized…. Think I need a ginger ale, that was such an epic fail…. Katy Perry is the worst. ”

Number Two: Toilet

Sitting on toilet: Elbow to knee-Open palm to forehead-Pass out.
Head in toilet: Crumble onto knees-Persistent urge to vomit-Pass out waiting to vomit.
Also, there’s no college paparazzo quite like the toilet pass-out paparazzi. If you are thinking about running for president in forty years, stay away from the toilet pass-out. There will be at least 60 million pictures of the incident.

Number One: Your Bed

The nights you spend in your bed will be the most forgettable ones in your college career. Avoid it if possible, and make your friends happy by passing out on the toilet. EVERYBODY LOVES PEOPLE PASSING OUT ON THE TOILET!

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Minutes before their owner was to go out for the night, three shirts had a conversation regarding who reigned supreme in the college closet hierarchy.

Brooks Brothers: Classic bar night guys, he’s definitely going with me.

Ralph Lauren (Polo): Yeah, but he’s going to see that girl from organic chemistry. My color matches her eyes. I even heard him preparing a joke or two about it.

Lacoste: Ahem, he’s on a hot streak with me guys. Two weeks in a row, two separate girls, two used condom wrappers thrown on top of me.

Brooks Brothers: You look a little stretched out after that second girl Lacoste. You must feel insulted to have been worn so that girl could use the bathroom… You know… since she…. was fat.

(Brooks Brothers and Polo laugh)

Lacoste: You guys do realize that Lacoste is a French brand of clothing? Paris = City of Love. Doesn’t matter if it’s fat love or skinny love.

Brooks Brothers: Trying to brag about your history, Lacoste? I’m a pure breed American, founded in 1818. Lincoln was having sex in me!

Polo: There goes Brooksy, bragging about having sex with Lincoln and being worn by dinosaurs. 1818 is a far way from 1967, when I was born on Madison Avenue.

Brooks Brothers: Regardless of when we were founded, I think we can all agree we’re better than every other clothing in the history of the world. This is the golden age! Enjoy it boys!

All Three: YEAH!

Brooks Brothers: Besides, he’s definitely going to pick me.

Polo: No, me!

Lacoste: No, ME!

(Shyly) Tommy Hilfiger: ….Maybe he’ll pick me.

(Silence, followed by uproarious laughter.)

Brooks Brothers: (Still laughing) You? A Tommy Hilfiger shirt? On a college campus? (Laughs) Hey Tommy! I think I hear an 8^th grade dance down the road.

Lacoste: You are literally making me laugh so hard that I’m showing pit stains… And I can’t even perspire!

Polo: Tommy, don’t take this as an insult…. But you’re lame! You’re a nerd! You’re what the kids call, “uncool.” No right-minded 2012 college kid would wear you unless he planned on calling his mom for a ride while using his Motorola Razor.

Tommy Hilfiger: ….Razors aren’t cool anymore?

(All three laugh so hard they almost fall off their hangers)

Tommy Hilfiger: Well, what makes you three so cool?

Brooks Brothers: I smell like pussy.

Polo: I have molly residue on my collar.

Lacoste: I smell like pussy AND golf!

Tommy Hilfiger: … I guess those are pretty cool. But, what I’m asking is: What is it that makes you three the go-to brands in 2012? Why do college kids wear you guys every night they go out?

(The three shirts stare at each other, pondering a question they’ve never pondered. Partially because they are pieces of fabric, and partially because it never dawned on them to ask the “cool” question.)

Brooks Brothers: (Attempts to put arm around Tommy. Realizes he doesn’t have an arm. Starts speech anyway.) Listen, Tommy, I like you. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here right now! You killed it back in middle school. Gave girls those feelings they couldn’t quite understand at that age. But now we’re here, to finish those feelings (Snickers).

Polo: You’re dealing with a 21^st century type of girl now Tommy. Back in your day, it wasn’t the egotistical orgy that exists in 2012. From Facebook to Instagram to Twitter, this is a “Me” generation. There’s no time to get to know anybody….

Lacoste: (Continuing where Polo left off) So what’s the quickest way to know somebody?

(All three wait for an answer from Tommy)

All Three: (Simultaneously) NAME BRAND APPAREL!

Lacoste: Tommy, with us, it’s instant recognition of wealth, style, and being down to party. With you, it just brings back bad memories.

Tommy Hilfiger: Like what?

Brooks Brothers: (Bluntly) Wet dreams and acne.

Tommy Hilfiger: (Dissapointed) Oh….

Lacoste: Listen, Tommy, we love you. We owe you for covering up those awkward middle school erections. You know how cyclical fashion can be, right? Maybe one day, you’ll be hip and cool and crushing the American college scene.

Tommy Hilfiger: Yeah, I guess you’re right… Hey, aren’t you a French line of clothing? How are you so popular in America? I’m more American than you’ll ever be.

Lacoste: It’s just a little secret of mine… And if you tell anyone, I’ll cut your throat.

Tommy Hilfiger: (Gulp) Well, one day, you guys will realize how fickle the mind of a college student is. Nobody is an individual, everybody tries to blend into the crowd so they can get to know the rest of the crowd. One day, you guys will be looked upon as outdated and lame. When that day comes, Tommy will be here waiting, as retro and hip as Starter jackets.

Brooks Brothers: Whatever you say Tommy…. Whatever you say.

(The closet starts to rustle, and the owner selects the Tommy Hilfiger shirt)

Brooks Brothers: What the shit!?

Lacoste: Sacrebleu!

Polo: Doesn’t he realize women love money! There’s a guy playing freakin’ polo on me! Who the hell plays polo!?

Tommy Hilfiger: Finally! Today! This will be the day where I lay on a dirty pink carpet, next to a dirty old pair of Uggs, and on top of the most beautiful pair of pastel booty shirts on this campus! Enjoy the closet boys!

(All three shirts crestfallenly sway, like a tire-swing drifts next to an abandoned house)

Brooks Brothers: Everything I’ve ever known….. Gone

Lacoste: Fuck this, I’m going back to France.

(The closet again swings open, this time with boat shoes being tossed haphazardly)

Polo: Sperry! What are you doing in here? You’ve been out every night since the Bush administration! Also, you fucking stink.

Sperry: I know I smell, but the amount of time it takes to break me in, then I hear stories of blisters and…

Brooks Brothers: Just tell me why you are in here Sperry!

Sperry: Oh, well, our owner is going on a “Used to Be Cool” bar crawl. Everybody is wearing shit they used to wear in middle school. I saw my old buddy K-Swiss, he looked good!

(All three exhale)

Sperry: I heard there was going to be a bonfire too! Apparently, this bar crawl is going to burn all their old shirts, symbolizing a past they want to forget. Looking to the future and all that nonsense.

(Silence)

(More silence)

Sperry: MAN! I really do stink! Anybody have some Odor Eaters?

Polo: Shut up Sperry. Just…. shut up.

Lacoste: Oui…

The post A Polo, Lacoste, and Brooks Brothers Shirt Walk into a Closet appeared first on The Campus Companion.

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Dearest Mother,

I write with chills in my bones and contempt in my voice. The sense of direction I thought I incurred from years of schooling has become frayed, pointless, and ephemeral. This sleep-away camp, which was promised to me as a gateway to intellectual stimulation, is nothing more than a booze-soaked exhibition in horndoggery, casting away those who seek academic guidance in favor of perpetual alcoholic incompetence.

Mother, I fear for the creatures that I am supposed to call my “peers.” They exist in an apathetic haze, each attempting to outwit each other in arrogance, assholery and whichever brain-cell murdering endeavor comes cheapest. I have seen down the rabbit hole. I have seen over the fence, onto the other side. The grass is covered in vomit, and the rabbit, drowned in it.

Those beautiful brochures. Those glistening smiles. Those wonderful tours we took that almost killed me with their aesthetics….. ALL LIES!

I have survived 30 days, each more disturbing and crushing than the last. The promise of move-in day has been replaced with the horror of the…. “SHITSHOW” that was Homecoming.

(Please excuse my language mother, but my “peers” speak with such immorality that I must question the education system we exist in. Also, what is a “J-Biebs?” It’s apparently quite popular, and the key to my understanding of this culture lies with it. )

I am saddened to say I have become fat as well, mother. The fattest of fat, mother. So fat that all that exists in my veins is pizza grease and Mountain Dew: Code Red carbonates. Perhaps the problem is not my “peers.” Perhaps the problem….

I realize what I must become mother. Think of my metamorphosis as the butterfly, and not as a phoenix. A phoenix may rise, but he remains the same. A butterfly bursts through from a cocoon, transformed and earned into the majestic creature God intended. I shall be that butterfly…. The pastel butterfly I was meant to be.

I find it difficult to explain what I intend to become. Just know, the $600 I spent at Brooks Brothers is invested well.

Warmest regards,

Your Son.

67 Days Later

Dearest Mother,

I am the butterfly! I am the truth! I am one!

I realize my finest faults are that of expectations. I expected college to understand me. I realize now that I did not understand myself. I was the one who needed to understand college.

Mother, I am becoming what I always wanted: An American college student. I am hopeful to finish within four years, but if I have to stay another year, then “Fuck IT!” (It’s what the kids say)

Mother, I’m sorry I am not sorry about my language anymore. College is a lifestyle. This lifestyle includes the language, the clothing, and the SEX. Yes mother, the sex. I realize now why my personality was so rigid: I needed the alcohol. I needed the women. I needed a “Nut Bust.” (It’s what the kids say when… Eh, nevermind)

You only live once, Mother. Thus, I have written the alphabet with grades. One “A,” two “B’s” one “C,” three “D’s” and one “F.”I do not believe I have shamed the family with these grades. As I mentioned earlier, expectations are the greatest thing I’ve learned at college. I believe you could benefit from contemplating this too, as I now realize thirty credits in one semester is excessive.

I’m disappointed you did not teach me the proper calendar either, Mother. The weekend starts on Thursday, and everybody is mandated by law to drink until they are “White Girl Wasted.“ Apparently, the African American females understand how to consume alcohol responsibly, and thus, it is not as much fun to drink like them.

I am no longer fat Mother. I have cut the sleeves off of all my shirts, and am now considered a “Bro.” Once one cuts the sleeves off their shirts, their appearance does not matter, and others are only impressed by his alcohol tolerance.

I wish I could explain the relationship between men and women on a college campus, Mother. Intelligence is valued least when courting the opposite sex, while a certain “swag” is the most attractive quality somebody can have. I have yet to find what a “swag” is, and have been unable to purchase it at my local grocery store. I will update you on this continuing search.

I have made acquaintances since we last spoke mother. Next time we speak, I’m hopeful to have friends.

Warmest regards,

Your Son.

P.S.-I am still left confused by the obsession of this country over Justin Bieber.

The post A Home-Schooled International Student Writes to His Mother and Tries to Understand What the Hell American College Lifestyle Is appeared first on The Campus Companion.

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A fourth year student at a University recently rediscovered the diary he kept throughout his freshman year of college. Filled with hope, fear, and disregard for morality, the fourth year student could not believe his incompetence. He passed along the diary to me, along with comments about his actions during the first week of college.

(Freshman Year) August 26th, 2009: Mom finally stopped crying and dad gave me his firmest handshake. I unpacked all my college accessories, but somewhere on the drive, I think I lost my innocence. Mom kissed me once on my forehead, called me her “special little guy”, and walked to the car, sobbing and lost in the speed of eighteen years. My dad said he was proud of the man I had become. He wished me luck, and away they drove.

All these emotions….. Melancholy, regret, separation, delight, excitement, bliss, Pumped, THRILLED, FUCKING COLLEGE, FOR THE LOVE OF HOLY FUCKING SHIT I AM ACTUALLY AT COLLEGE!

My RA has the biggest, bushiest beard and has already added me on Facebook. He even told me to stop by his room and tell him what I’m doing with my night! I’m excited to call him my first friend!

There’s a girl on my floor named Amanda, and she is super nice (a.k.a. HOT!). She EVEN rubbed my back when I helped move some things into her room! Think I might have my floor freshman hook-up on lockdown, and I’ve only been here four hours.

Fourth Year Reflecting on August 26^th entry: My RA added me on Facebook because he wanted to impress his superiors by setting the record for most write-ups on the first night. I was the only freshman on the floor to accept his friend request, and he saw I was attending a pregame event with my roommate. After busting the entire floor for open containers, my RA patted me on the back and said “Thanks, friend.” Nobody spoke to me for a week. My perception of beards has never been the same.

(Freshman Year) August 28^th, 2009: Amanda just told me she’s a virgin, and she’s afraid to lose it to somebody that doesn’t care. Good thing I’ve been watching Cathouse on HBO (SEX MOVES!) and reading the entire Nicholas Sparks library. Just dropped a couple Notebook quotes (If you’re a bird… I’m a bird FTW!), told her that she would know when the time was right, AND told her my door was always open. WOW… Me losing my V-Card to another virgin in the first week of college. COLLEGE OR DIE!

Fourth Year Reflecting on August 28^th entry: ……..I was a big fucking idiot. The biggest fucking idiot, actually. Amanda started telling people about my use of Notebook quotes, and some girl said I could borrow her Ryan Gosling poster anytime I wanted. Also, I used to be scared of porn…… Yes, fuck me. Cathouse served as a gateway to it. I’ll have everybody know I am no longer scared of porn….. I SWEAR I AM NOT SCARED OF PORN!

(Freshman Year) September 1^st entry: I just had sex! LIKE A BOSS! (Lonely Island, lolz) I texted Amanda and asked if she wanted to watch some Jay Sean videos, and she texted me back “”. When she knocked on my door, she seemed to be walking funny and asked if she could sit down. When I asked if she wanted to lay in my bed (SWISH!), she just started making out with me! THAT IS WHY YOU BUY THE ENTIRE SPARKS COLLECTION ON AUDIOBOOK! I almost JIZZED IN MY PANTS (Lonely Island, LOLZ) when she asked if I had a condom! Let’s just say I was prepared with the biggest box of latex legally sold in the United States. I would like to thank Costco for the condoms, Cathouse for the sweet moves I pulled, and Amanda for helping me put the condom on. She was awfully swift for a virgin, but whatever, glad to lose that damn V-Card.

Fourth Year Reflecting on September 1^st entry: I was lucky to only catch Hepatitis C from Amanda.

(Freshman Year) September 3^rd entry: Everybody finally started talking to me, but not for the reasons I liked. Some guys in the hall were bragging about their sexual conquests in the lounge, and I figured I would join in too….. Only problem was we were ALL talking about Amanda. That girl sure did a lot of back rubbing during move-in day, as we all admitted to being taken by the first attractive thing to give us attention/erections. Thirteen of us to be exact, each swearing by the lives of our mothers that we had sex with the purest virgin on campus. I was sixth in the sexual Mordorian conquest of Amanda, and 1^st in line at student health.

Fourth Year reflecting on September 3^rd entry: In hindsight, this was not the worst thing to happen in my college sex history. The first week of college is a maelstrom of horny, immature, drunk teenagers trying to stick their dicks into anything. Unfortunately, we all stuck our dicks in the same hole.

I made friends with each of the guys that had sex with Amanda while we waited in line at student health, and am glad to continue to call them my friends today…. Except for one guy, who died of AIDS! (But so too did Amanda, so you take the good with the bad.)

The post Zero Goals and No Ambition: Freshman Year Diary (Part 1) appeared first on The Campus Companion.

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1) Ticket Prices:

There will never be a happy middle ground for the fans and Major League Baseball organizations. Fathers will always compare ticket prices to when they were younger, discount inflation, and blame the organization throughout their middle aged years. This mentality will be drilled into their sons, who will continue to bitch and complain until they have kids, attend games with them, and repeat the bitching cycle for all eternity.

2) Parking Prices:

Parking at Citi Field, home of the New York Mets, is $20.00. Much to my disbelief, I was not escorted to the stadium entrance on horseback while people laid down psalms (JESUS SWAG). Understood, for three hours in New York that these parking rates are commonplace, but still….. FUCK ME, RIGHT?! (Can’t teams open discounted parking two miles away and let people walk? ….They already do that and don’t need to discount? ….FUCK ME AGAIN, RIGHT?!)

3) Your Fellow Fan:

I’ve had pleasant conversations sitting next to random people 1 out of every 10 games I attend. The complaints you may have include: Racist, drunk, ignorant, racist and ignorant, child, guy with newspaper, body odor, guy trying to get chants started, guy with newspaper, guy who speaks out of his ass about team, guy/girl wearing jersey of team who is not playing (usually Yankees), couple with newborn and WOW that’s a bunch of people….Maybe I’m the asshole nobody wants to sit next to…. Nah, everybody sucks but me. (Delusion Swag.)

4) Peanuts:

As a person with a severe allergy to peanuts (and thus deathly afraid of Mr. Peanut), I can’t help but notice the mounds of peanut residue that is left all over the stadium. At least sunflower seeds are tiny and don’t leave mountains of debris the size of the Staten Island Dump (Largest outdoor landfill in the world… Staten Island Swag). Needless to say, I enjoy watching baseball without thinking about where the nearest hospital is.

5) Food Prices:

Obviously, going into a MLB game, you have to understand your wallet is going to be hurting by the end of the 9^th inning. As a 21-year old on a 21-year old budget, I thought I prepared myself for the exorbitant pricing of hot dogs, beer, peanuts, cracker jacks and burgers. Instead, I realized there is no proper way to prepare for a fucking $5 hot dog.

(If this blog is seeming especially cantankerous and pissy-pantsy, please blame the atrocious performance of the Mets this past Saturday. They played without baseball intent in their at-bats, made consistently poor baseball decisions in the field, and didn’t even have Mr. Met on the field until the 4^th inning. I don’t know how Mr. Met was voted the best mascot in the world by Forbes. He barely ever does on-field appearances, pales in comparison to the Phillie Phanatic/San Diego Chicken regarding humorous antics, AND doesn’t drive a taxi-colored ATV. It’s the 21^st century Mr. Met, step it up…. Rant swag over)

6) Stadium Soundtrack:

This is your daddy’s playlist BAYBEE! These tracks include:

• Welcome to the Jungle
• Crazy Train
• Sandstorm
• Welcome to the Jungle
• Crazy Train
• Sandstorm
• Welcome to the Jungle
• Crazy Train
• Thunderstruck
• EDM-ish song which plays in the background of the stupid chart which rates the noise of the crowd. (Everybody loves this damn chart, but nobody realizes it’s a scam damnit! Nothing is charting how loud the crowd is, but that doesn’t stop everybody from going BATSHIT CRAZY with their best hoots and hollers when the needle hasn’t even flicked passed “MORE NOISE!”)

7) Better Off Sitting At Home:

At the conclusion of the game, you will realize that in the 21^st century, unless attending a playoff game or presented with free tickets, baseball games are best watched at home. (You will then feel old, then say you will go to games when you’re a father, then take your son to his first game, then bitch about ticket prices, then realize you have come full circle.)

The post Pissy-Pants Gallagher Writes 7 Pissy Things About Attending MLB Games appeared first on The Campus Companion.

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Through the wonders of science, technology, and creative leaps, an undergraduate’s thoughts were recorded during an especially boring May lecture.

Is it really only Tuesday? Alright, just make it through this class, then Wednesday is practically Thursday, and before I know it, the weekend is only Friday classes away.

I can’t believe this professor received a 4.3 in the “Overall Quality” department on RateMyProfessor.com. He even had a chili pepper next to his damn name!

I wonder what RateMyProfessor’s IPO would be? It probably wouldn’t be as much as Facebook, but I’d still buy it. Shit, it’s now more valuable to me than Facebook.

What happened to Facebook and me? We use to stare into each other’s eyes like lost lovers for hours. Now, she’s a girl trying too hard, always attempting to video chat and point out her new star earrings… Whatever happened to bumper stickers?

Bumper stickers were CHILL AS FUCK! High school, now that was my shit. I wonder if any of my teachers remember me… I wouldn’t remember me. I was pretty lame in high school.

Did I even learn anything in high school? Learn? What does that even mean? I’ve been looking at the ceiling for 25 minutes now, haven’t heard a word from this professor. Learn?

Time to rate everybody in this class…9…6…7….Oh, that’s an 8 if I’ve ever seen it. Maybe I should talk to one of them, Carly Rae Jepsen style. “Here’s my number, call me maybe LOLZ!” …Nobody would ever laugh at that.

I LOVE when I text my friends and they don’t text me back. Time to send out a bitchy text about how easy it is to respond and….. Oh, they responded 33 minutes ago…. I just didn’t feel the vibration… Well look who’s the asshole now!

Do we even need college anymore? I’m pretty sure I could learn everything from Wikipedia and Twitter. Sure am glad libraries exist so I can laugh at them.

I don’t know what I love more about the library: the horrible nervous energy from exam studying or every undergraduate wearing sweatpants and hoodies… Some girls can actually pull this look off. BRAVO!

I don’t have any notes and haven’t listened to this professor all semester AND GOOD GOD HE’S LOOKING TO CALL ON SOMEBODY! LOOK AWAY!

That was close. I don’t even want to think what would have happened had he called on me…. Come to think of it, probably absolutely nothing.

And THAT is how you draw a penis on a desk.

Time for the old internet fuckaroo! Twitter, Facebook, Temple Run, Words With Friends and Instagram a picture of me looking bored. Fifteen minutes left in class!

(There exists a place in the universe for those so bored that their conscience doesn’t even consider the reality of the brain. It’s a dark place. Fun, but dark. Time ceases to exist. Thoughts are silent. The perfect balance of earth, nature, and mind correlate in these moments, yet they’re indescribable because they’re so serene. This is where ten of the final fifteen minutes of a 75 minute lecture exists.)

I’ve never zoned out harder in my life. Perhaps, this is what monks consider to be the elevated state of mind termed “nirvana,” where one reaches a high unlike WHOA FIVE MINUTES LEFT IN CLASS! WEEKEND OR DIE BAYBEE!

I really can’t wait for summer. Get to see all my friends in June, then Independence Day in July and then… August. Has anything ever happened in August? In the history of the world, has anything EVER happened in August? Pretty sure the Mayans were fucking around with August. The world isn’t going to end this December, but rather, one August is going to be so unbearably boring that everybody will just kill themselves.

I don’t know who to be angrier at: The Mayans, calendars, or this professor for taking attendance every class. I might just go give this professor a PIECE OF MY MIND!!!

(Professor dismisses students)

Ah, fuck it. I’m getting the hell out of here.

The post How To Waste a 75 Minute Lecture Without Really Trying appeared first on The Campus Companion.

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The pastel army continued unabated in their march across America on Saturday. The frat-tasticly ironic attire of bowties, highlighter shorts, and classy-collared flannel was omnipresent at the Belmont Stakes, where the Northeast corridor converged to revel in inebriated gambling. The 85,111 attendants existed in a half alcohol fog/half cigar-smoke haze without their main attraction. The melancholy tone which presided over the show took center stage when the gates were drawn without I’ll Have Another in stall 11. Instead of a coronation in athletic excellence, excitement would be derived from odds and winnings. It’s just a horse! But dammit did that horse hold this whole thing together.

Yeah... That type of party.

The Long Island Railroad Can Charge Extra For Bowties.

Admittance onto the Belmont express was prohibited without a cooler, concealed alcohol or a sundress. Everybody was drunk and angry and smiling and ready to waste money. “Who do you like in the race?” competed with “How drunk are you?” for the title of “Most Ubiquitous Question Heard.” (The winner, in an upset: “What time is the real race?”)

A passenger on the train stated: “Why didn’t they just replace I’ll Have Another with another horse? Just slap the number and the jockey on him, call him I’ll Have Another, and let the fucker go. Shit, you could slap a jockey on any horse and call him Seabiscuit. I’d believe it.” I was inclined to agree with this passenger.

Nobody was killed while transferring from the Belmont express train to the actual racetrack. (See picture above) The process and path from train to track was horse-like in nature: Led by people along a beaten path, then separated by gates to three different lines, and then ushered into an area where masters (or police) double checked to make sure all was in proper order (train tickets/no open alcohol/wearing a bowtie). There were no oats waiting for us at the end of our walk, but we were able to shit wherever we pleased. (IT SURE SMELLED LIKE IT!)

Let's All Lose Some Money!

The Girlfriend had no idea what to expect from the horse race. She dressed in what she assumed was proper attire FOR THE 134^TH RUNNING OF THE BELMONT STAKES, while I dressed like it was a hot Saturday. She was convinced that I would be turned away by the fashion police at the entrance gate, but I assured her that only fashion crime being committed today was the sundress she was wearing. (SASSY!)

The initial feeling upon entering the concourse and racetrack is indifference. The slabs of paint are hoary, green and a relic of the 1960s. The grass and track, however, inspire awe for the caretaking abilities and envy for the horses that will run on the most perfectly groomed dirt I have ever seen.

The racetrack was beautiful, I swear.

I Travel To Party, Not to Talk Dirt

The outdoor party section of Belmont is impressive, sprawling and fucking expensive. People stood from hundreds of feet away, gazing through cigar smoke and ridiculous sunhats to simultaneously watch expansive television monitors of the afternoons’ races. There would be an initial cheer at the starting bell, followed by prolonged murmuring, followed by uneasy excitement, then exclamatory yelping, then unmistakable cheers of monetary gain, and finally hurried steps to outdoor cash-in booths for those lucky bettors. I happily lost some bets and became the mare to Budweiser’s stud pricing.

The beer prices for the outdoor section broke down as:

• $15 for a 24oz. Heineken Light.
• $15 for a 24oz. Tecate Light.
• $10 for a 16oz. Heineken Light.
• $10 for a 16oz. Budweiser.
• $10 for a 12oz Blue Point Toasted Lager.

Everybody purchased beer like it was a negligible expenditure, yet I was the only one drunk/brave enough to say “That is a lot of fucking money for a single fucking beer.” The vendors agreed, and began to distribute beer for free while I rode I’ll Have Another in the parking lot for 45 minutes.

There is a section at Belmont where everybody can stare at the horses and blow cigar smoke in each other’s face. I smoked my stogie while choosing my Belmont winner and receiving 37 separate death stares from non-smoking onlookers.

Please! Blow cigar smoke in my face!

There was a shitty band playing a shitty song on a shitty stage in front of audience members who thought the band’s set was shitty and the beer prices were shitty but it didn’t stop all in attendance from getting shitty. All in all, it was a pleasant day… albeit a little shitty.

That Was Exciting

Crowds turn into masses. Masses turn into throngs. Throngs turn into immovable objects. For evidence, see the willingness of those in attendance in the cheap seats at Belmont. The closer it came to post time, the more people shifted their body weight to prevent anybody from getting closer to the track. An old couple claimed to be at their seats since 8AM, but since they were old and helpless, were one of the few people to be forcibly moved from their position by “The Throng”. I, being the unstoppable force, caused quite the scene when I created a black hole in the universe and found my position 50 feet from Bob Costas’s big head. A number of people told Bob he was short, and I couldn’t help but think that Bob already knew that.

I saw two separate fights occur. One was over a supposed ass-grab of a female. I can’t say it did happen, though, because that woman did not have an ass. (SWISH!) The other scuffle occurred after two bowtied 20somethings attempted to bypass a clearly inebriated mustached man. Some will say the bowties won the fight, but in my book, Mr. Mustache won because he was wearing a Pokey shirt. (Gumby)

My position clearly established as almost parallel to the finish line, I braced for the beginning of the race.

"Maybe I should run on the track..." -Everybody's thought for two seconds

In this spot, the race breaks down as:

(0.01)AND THEIR OFF! HOLY SHIT EVERYBODY IS YELLING AHHHHHHHH !

(2.0)THERE GO THE HORSES!

(3.0) ANNNNNNNNNNDDDDD now I can’t see shit.

The two horses I wagered on fell behind early (WIN OR GO HOME!) and never caught up, as I watched Union Rags take the win and my money. Initially, Belmont was expecting anywhere from 110,000-150,000 attendees until I’ll Have Another backed out. The energy in “The Throng” of 85,000 was as petrifying as it was exhilarating. I hope to be in “The Throng” next year, not seeing shit and losing more money. Hopefully, I’ll see other people lose their shit when a Triple Crown winner crosses the finish line.

Damn you! You beautiful animal!

The post Belmont Or Die: Lost Glory and Heavy Wallets appeared first on The Campus Companion.

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