Alcohol consumption continues to plague the college campus on which I live, but this time I must admit that I partook in the joys of this mind-numbing liquid. I decided to accompany my roommate to a party, at which I had a few beers, and two cups of punch, which must have been spiked with anthrax, because I soon realized that my glasses no longer helped me see correctly, and that climbing the stairs was a daunting adventure. After finding a wall kind enough to hold up my body, an unbelievably drunk girl I new from one of my classes recognized me, and yelled “Oh my God, Walter,” and then proceeded to sloppily hug me. Immediately after this she stumbled up to a few more people to do the same. I was still trying to regain the ability to walk in a semi-straight line, when the very same girl walked by again, saw me, and went through the above mentioned procedure once again. A couple of minutes later I decided to risk a quick exit, and as I was doing so the girl saw me again, re-recognized me, yelled, hugged, and walked away. The night went on, and I continued to fail to leave the party, and although that angered me, I was put in a good mood when by the end of the night I realized that the girl had recognized me 15 times that night, each time, the very first time for her.

I eventually made my way back to my dorm, and when I entered my room I found a note written on printer paper in squiggly pen markings resting on top of my keyboard, which said, “You can’t have sex on your bed,” and was signed “Emily and Anne.” I have no idea who Emily of Anne are, but I intend to find out, and when I find them I intend on asking them why I can’t have sex in my bed, and if I could instead have sex in their bed…while they’re both in it.

This was submitted to the Colby College school newspaper, but was rejected by the editor, because it wasn’t “serious” enough.

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Wallowing in depression brought on by the fact that I have been a student of higher education for almost three weeks and have learned no more than how to say “Hello” in German, how cells divide, and the fact that while the toilets may be reserved for only one gender when dealing with urination and defecation, either gender may use them when vomiting, I came to the most profound realization I have had in…well, actually, I’ve never had a profound realization before. I realized that I utterly despise clothing. How, you might be wondering, could I despise something as deeply ingrained into our society as clothing? Well, the reason is quite simple: clothing was originally made to protect us from the elements and keep our oh-so private parts out of view, but over the years clothing has become a superficial obsession, which devours large portions of our time and money, and which, although it continues to protect us from the elements, definitely doesn’t cover up nearly as many private, or not so private, parts as it once did, which is one change in the status of clothing that I thoroughly support. As I open my crust-covered eyes at 8:56AM on Monday, I am overcome with an irrepressible rage when I realize that before I go to my 9:00AM class I have to put on pants and a T-shirt. If my professors would merely let me go to class buck naked, I would be much more relaxed, even though everyone around would not be.

Clothing also costs massive amount of money; money that I could be using to purchase more important things such as NBA star bobble heads, or, considering how many sellouts there are in professional sports, actual NBA stars. The greed of the multimillionaires who own these clothing corporations amazes me. The fact that they are willing not only to charge me huge sums of money for colorful pieces of cloth, but also willing to enslave poor, starving third world children to make these pieces of cloth is utterly astounding. As greedy as I am, I would never stoop so low as to enslave poor, starving third world children, but I might stoop low enough to enslave rich, well-fed American adults, preferably rich, well-fed American adults who own multibillion dollar clothing corporations which enslave poor, starving third world children. The main reason that clothing has become far to big of a social concern, a reason that I’m sure many Colby students can understand, is that at least a couple of times a year I am forced to wash my clothing. I have to shell out $1.25, and waste at least five minutes, just so that my clothing “doesn’t smell,” isn’t “covered in food stains,” and isn’t “harboring dangerous bacterial infections.” And unlike the last eighteen years of my life, in college I don’t have a mom to do my laundry for me. This is why I’ve decided to offer the considerable salary of 89 cents and the honor of being around me everyday to anyone willing to be my surrogate mom. Your responsibilities would be doing my laundry, changing my bed sheets, and, of course, telling me that I’m special and wonderful my own unique way.

No matter how much I try, I realize that I will never convince everyone the time and money we spend on clothing, not the mention the time and lack of money that child laborers are forced to spend on it in order to accommodate our relatively frivolous concerns, proves the evil nature of clothing. Which is why I’ll be satisfied if I can only convince all the incredibly hot chicks to not wear clothing. Actually, now that I think about it, I’ll be satisfied if I can convince even one incredibly, no, one somewhat hot, no, one chick to not wear clothing. Unfortunately for me, as Mark Twain once said, “The finest clothing made is a person’s skin, but, of course, society demands something more than this,” but then again, as Will Ferrell said, “We’re going streaking through the quad ”

I went to the Colby gym today to do some pull-ups and few cock pushups. The music that was being played in the gym was Biggie Smalls, and I noticed that there was one guy there who was singing along, bobbing his head, and throwing his arms around like Eminem in 8 Mile instead of working out. He ended up doing this for the entire 20 minutes that I was in the gym.

This story is about Elias’ first week at college.

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Late into the night, as the stars begin to brightly light up the Maine campus on which I reside, the call of the college student, a booming “Dude, I’m so wasted,” can be heard off in the distance. As if it were an instinctual response another college student immediately responds with, “Dude, so am I,” and in order to complete this chorus of undeserved bragging the high-pitched voice of a young girl with a loose set of morals, and an even loser set of private parts, will yell, “Oh my god, I’m so fucking drunk, too.” Not surprisingly, alcohol plays a major role in the lives of many, if not all, college students, and also not surprisingly, alcohol makes for a great many stories of stupidity.

I recently decided to attend a college party, and on my way to the party I was stopped by an intoxicated, beautiful, one might even say, intoxicatingly beautiful girl who asked me for directions to party I was planning on attending. I told her that I was at that moment on my way there, and kindly, with a carefully placed kiss to her hand, and a flick of my smooth, black cane, offered to escort her there in my horse drawn chariot…actually I rudely told her that she could follow me if she wanted, but if she didn’t keep up or passed out I was going to leave her alcohol filled body in the middle of the campus, open for anyone who so wished to take advantage of her. I didn’t worry about how she would react to this statement since she was to drunk to react in any way except vomiting or dying alcohol poisoning. After the 45 second walk to the party, she turned to me and slurred “Thanks, William,” at which point, I realized that I had been lucky enough to met one of the few people stupid, or drunken, enough to forget my name in less than a minute.

I soon realized that if you like sitting in the corner of a hot, overcrowded dorm room, slowly sipping stale, cheap beer while numerous people loudly talk about the most trivial of topics or sloppily make out, yet conveniently ignore your presence the entire time, then college parties are for you.  Because I have a severe case of Alzheimer’s disease, the next night when I was invited to a party and dance, I eagerly accepted the invitation. The only thing I gained from the dance, besides soreness in my eyes caused by the flashing lights, was the realization that college dances and Nazi concentration camps have much more in common than I previously thought: both involve many people packed into small rooms (drunken people crowded into a well-polished gymnasium, or Jewish people crowded into a dirty boxcar); in both there is one person controlling all the other people (the DJ, or the SS officer); both involve objects which emit gaseous substances (the fake, colorful fog from fog machines, or Zyclon-B from shower heads); lastly, in both situations the people involved are incredibly nervous (nervous about getting laid, or nervous about dying). Upon realizing the similarity between these two places, I also realized that were one to ask me which I would rather be at, I would have to think about it for quite a long time, but I’m sure that eventually I’d come to the correct answer…which, of course, is the concentration camp. The most unusual story occurred just last night. I was quietly sitting in my dorm, minding my own business, looking at hardcore internet porn, and booting some black tar heroin, when in stormed three other college freshmen. Without any words of greeting or explanation, they laid upon my roommates bed and started talking to his friends and family members via AIM. Ten minutes later they abruptly left, still failing to explain their actions. I then did some more black tar heroin…actually, in order to ease confusion, I did a whole hell of a lot more black tar heroin. Although I have not participated in any alcohol-induced stupidity, I can not claim that I haven’t participated in any just plain old lack-of-brain-cells stupidity. Even though throwing water balloons at drunken upperclassmen from the window in my dorm was quite stupid, the thoughts I had while on my backpacking orientation trip were far stupider and far more entertaining. As I was walking through the middle of the Maine woods, an amazing picture appeared in my mind. In the picture Steve Erwin, the Crocodile Hunter, wearing his usual far too short khaki outfit and kneeling in front of a gorgeous, naked blonde woman. His hands and arms were arranged in such a way that they displayed her pussy, and he turned his smiling face in the direction of the viewer, which in this case was me, and said, “Vagina! The most elusive creature I’ve ever captured.”

But of all the horridly immature behavior I’ve seen come about as a result of alcohol, the worst, and most rampant, is vegetarianism. The college campus is a place filled with vegetarians, and I have realized that the only possible explanation for such a thing is the massive amounts of alcohol at college. Why else would anyone decide to no longer partake in the gloriousness that is eating meat? Except for a Phish concert, the only thing mind-altering enough to convince one to eat only fruits and vegetables for the rest of one’s lives is extreme alcoholism. I’ve tried to think of a constructive, helpful way in which to deal with all the drunken people on campus and after much pondering I have come to the conclusion that the best solution is to get really fucking wasted, thus I must now end this article, find some booze, and proceed to get severely liquored up.