My D-Day:

My criminal law professor had it out for me ever since I started skipping his classes.  This bald black bitch - who, as rumor has it, likes to shine domes (but not the one on his head) - is known as the 'scary professor' because he likes to grill students.  bitch.  Anyway, one day I get a note in my mailbox that says, in all caps:

PROFESSOR [BALDBLACKBITCH] WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU IN HIS OFFICE REGARDING YOUR ATTENDANCE.

So, thinking it's a joke I called his secretary and asked if it was a joke.  yeah that was stupid of me, bite me.  so i prepare for my fate.  But all my classmates say, "oh don't worry, he's really nice in person" ....

Vice of Confidence #1 - I walk in to his office like yeah i'm going to set this bitch straight (not literally).  I'm going to tell him I've been too busy for his stupid class (well not directly).  Was I wrong?  yeah.  dead wrong.  This son of a bitch sits me down like a dirty little middle schooler who was caught peeking up Miss Karn's skirt in once during english (so worth it), and lectures me for half an hour about academic responsibility and participation yada yada yada eat my ass.   So, I, broken and nearly crouched in a fetal position sucking my thumbs, agree to entertain his authoritarian perversion by participating in class.

#2 - Does he call on me the next day?  No.  Did I prepare those cases assigned like I was the one on trial?  you bet your virgin ass.  So, the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next, I go, uncalled upon, until I figure he probably forgot and he's not going to call on me...

#3 - Then, in the final week of class, the chesea-clinton-looking girl in front of me gets called on.  subsequently, the guy to my right gets called on.  then the guy to my left.  then the guy behind.  Now there is just one more day of class left this semester, and I know i'm next.  His final sadistic fantasy.

#4 - So I walk into class today, prepared and ready to take on this shiny-headed ass-catcher.  but instead,  "Mr... somebody else" he calls on.   whew.  now I can play pinball.  bank shot into the wormhole, 2nd level commendation, and as the ball shoots directly toward my eager left flipper - "Mr Yee" - wait no, this pompous prick calls us by first name, so "Tae".   Startled, I look up to reply to his demands "tae, make the argument as the defense attorney" yeah, the freakin defendant was a psycho killer who slaughtered some kid's father, thinking he was controlling his brain.

#5 - Fine bitch. i'll take it up the ass with this impossible case, you legal faggot.  I prepared it, so i'm ready, bring it on.  i begin to speak "My client -"   Dadada dadada dadadada dadada  It's Joan.  she's calling me.  of all the possible ways my loving gf can ruin my life, she chooses at&t wireless.  It's not even a bring-bring ring.  it's a joan-exclusive, "let me express my cheesy ass love with this pathetic high-pitched all-too-happy" kind of ring that i pray to dear god doesn't go off when i'm with my guy friends.  but crimlaw class, when i'm being grilled, cmon. 

so today, as the last person to get called on this semester, I limped home with a figuratively sore ass.

There is no quicker route to shame than boredom.

To start off my day nutritiously, I popped my Celeste pizza in the microwave this morning.  Why they dropped the "Mama" from "Mama Celeste" is beyond me.  I personally enjoyed my meal more when I imagined the purveyor of such instant delight to be a portly Italian mother figure, not the aging porn star.  Anyway.  With the mesmerizing spin of the stiff frozen disc of cheesy delight in my nuke box, I could only anticipate garnishing its crown with a graceful unbroken spiral of Tuong Ot Sriracha sauce.  In effort to contain my hungered arousal, I plopped myself down in front of the TV- anything to break the teasing spell of the personal pizza. 

Holy crap it was Maury Povich.  I thought he was dead.  This slick rick hadn't aged a day.  Maybe it's all that asian poon he's getting from Connie.  He is among the age-defying television celebrities such as American Bandstand's Dick Clark who's been around since the 50's but won't get old, and The Price Is Right's Bob Barker, who apparently was born old and just won't die.  The Grim Reaper needs to eat his Wheaties if he wants to catch these guys.

So on the show today "MY NINE YEAR OLD IS OUT OF CONTROL".  If you're not familiar with the typical day time talk show solution to child reform, let me fill you in.  The producers of these shows search far and wide in trailer parks and government-subsidized housing communities to find a child that may at times be "unruly".  Cmon, what nine year old isn't unruly?  Ok, so then they send a camera crew to follow this kid and encourage him to do things like steal money, curse at his parents, beat up midgets, and fornicate with sheep.  When it is clear that this child has broken every commandment in the bible, every pillar of islam, and every hindu dharma sastra, the newly-depraved child is shipped to the talk show.  After a flattering introduction from the host, the kid jumps out from the green room to a cheering studio audience whose hoots and hollers are drowned out by kiss my bleeeps bleeep bleeep you bleeep you bleeep you don't know mes, and with fingers waving our young guest of honor pimp limps to the seat.  The host then asks the obligatory question "why are you so bad", then follows the child's obligatory response "because I want to" instead of the more truthful, "because your producers flew my white trash family out to chicago, put us in a four star hotel, and gave me a thirty minute daytime nationally-aired tv bloc to be the meanest, baddest, christ-punching sob you could imagine."  Then when the child's future as a well-adjusted citizen seems doomed, the door busts open and Sgt. Dishonorable Discharge comes marching out screaming army-slang gibberish, accusing the child of being a maggot, and threating to eat his lungs.  This daytime tv drill seargent then kidnaps the child, then for a full day emotionally traumatizes, scars, and retardifies the child into docile submission.  Then when finally the tough kid drops to his knees into the self-created puddle of urine and tears, he is given a new "nice-boy" wardrobe, hair combed and parted, and reintroduced to the television audience as "reformed"

All this to set a child straight?  Ridiculous.  I grew up in a loving family, and my father had several time-tested techniques to keep me in line.  Below are a few.

THE ATOMIC NOOGIE:  Known in culture's vernacular as the "Ahl Bahm", this manuever sheds the playfulness of the conventional noogie and requires head-splitting force concentrated on the middle knuckle of the dominant hand.  This force is then lovingly applied to the center of my head to teach me, "hey I shouldn't have done what I did"

THE VICTORY CHAIR:  In order to show me that through discipline, I can achieve victory, I am required to hold my hands over my head like Rocky Balboa and keep it there.  To show me that the seat of virtue is difficult to attain, I am required to sit on an imaginary chair against the wall.  This means 90 degrees at the knees.  When my quads give, my father rushes over to end my lesson with a beating.

THE MACH THREE:  Mach 3 meaning three times the speed of sound, this manuever requires swiftness of the arm.  Let's say I did something bad like drop my glass of milk.  Before I can even realize my error, before the sound of the glass shattering can even register in the auditory center of my brain, I feel my head spin as the first slap grazes my right cheek. The first slap is a warning slap which tells me "i did bad", then comes the second slap which serves to knock sense into my head "oh, I dropped my milk", then comes the third and final slap which serves to discipline me for my wrongdoing, "boy i'm paying for it now".

THE PAVLOVIAN KID:  As Pavlov's dog was conditioned to drool at the sound of a bell which meant food was coming, I was conditioned to feel an instant burning swelling pain on my ass and thighs at the sound of the words "jeeb eh gah suh bo jah" or "just wait until we get home."

OUT FOR THE COUNT:  No matter where I am when I commit my crime, I know I have exactly three seconds to haul ass to my father when he starts the count "hanah (1) - dool (2) - set (3)".  It is in my best physical interest to present my head or ass to my father for the appropriate discipline before the one count, as the level of anger and the severity of the punishment is exponentially increased with each subsequent count.

LOUISVILLE SLUGGER:  This is when I am disciplined with the thin end of a wooden bat, because of course, a mauling with the thick end of the bat would be abuse.

RETARDED BULL:  This is when my matador father holds out his fist and says "deh"- the red flag instructing me to run my head full-force into his knuckles.  I've learned, no matter how hard I rev up and bash my head into his fist, it just isn't hard enough, and then comes the MACH THREE (see above)

PREMPTIVE STRIKE:  Let's say three girls in bikinis walked by on the beach while I'm on vacation with my family.  I turn my head to follow the bouncing of their bosoms, before I begin to fantasize luridly I am awoken with an ATOMIC NOOGIE (see above)  Thanks dad.

THE ARTFUL DODGER:  Here is when my father intends to hit my head, but I try to dodge it, and it hits another part of my body.  My father, peeved with missing the sweet spot, tries again.  Same deal, over and over again.  By the end of this episode, my head is bruise free, while the rest of my body has been crippled by dad's man-beast blows.

All this thoughtful discipline by my father has allowed me to grow up to become the well-adjusted young man that I am today.

To say that 40-page papers "rape" me, is an understatement.  Semianually I am brutally sodomized within the prison walls of due dates by professors who are all too eager to bludgeon me with their scorn and ravage my work with red Bic pens.  Between the intermittent pangs of agonizing torture, I put together the short bursts of conciousness to come to this revelation:  I do this to myself.

I am given three months to write on a subject I rather enjoy, the Nazi SS.  Lethargy, Sloth, and Senioritis: the unholy trinity - conspire to ruin me.  In an effort to emulate great men like Ghandi and MLK, I challenge these academic oppressors with non-action.  Obviously, that doesn't work.   I go two months, three weeks, and six days without so much as a glance towards my books. 

I'm down to the day before my paper is due.  I am back at my computer, and so too are Lucifer's unlettered minions.  They with tempting lures in the form of stupid computer games, tv programs, and websites force me to spend my last hours with my books opened but for lack of a better term, "screwing around like an inbred hooker." 

Is it just me, or do you experience it too?  When you have free time, you're bored to death and want to go out.  When you have a paper due, CNN.com or Solitaire is like the freakin circus came to town.  Doing the dishes you put off for more than a week suddenly seems necessary!  The bed cries to you, "come hither, come inside me!"  Your brain cells- which were fully functional before you opened your books- like pushy union workers refuse to work unless their demands are met: coffee, redbull, and a short nap. 

You're down to your last hour.  The unholy trinity has been vanquished by a greater trio: Desperation, Urgency, and the near-fatal overdose of Caffeine.  Your brain cells have been appeased.  You feriociously tear at your books, hilighting and circling...  soon you find yourself lost in a sea of post-its.  Your stress builds like a pressure cooker and you brace yourself for combustion... except the explosion comes in vocal form, and you scream at the top of your lungs words you didn't know existed, scrambled nonsensically but your frustration is clear: WHY DOESN'T THE SON OF A BITCH PROF GIVE US MORE TIME TO DO THESE THINGS?!?!?!!!!

...and that is your final release.  the blame has been passed, and the grade you receive will be based solely the sordid whim of your tenured professor.

Alright so I went to the gay ballet last night.  I was tanked on champagne and we had balcony box seats, so the experience wasn't so bad.  In fact, it wasn't bad at all.  The ballerinas were incredibly hot.  Half of them had enormous racks, prompting many to wonder how these women pull off such bewildering feats of acrobatic dexterity, when, even standing upright with such huge bajingos would seem to defy the laws of physics. 

Oh, but buyer beware:  Where there is a stage alive with the coordinated movements of hot chicks, there are bound to be half-naked men.  Half-naked men with really tight pants and a cod piece.  Now these very homosexually close-fitting pants leave little if any to the imagination.  What’s really amazing is not how agile these fairy-men are, nor the 8-packs of abdominal arrogance these men flaunt.  Truly amazing is the fact that these men can endure the titillating torture of ballerinas’ breasts playing Pong with their faces and crotches being obscenely rubbed against the thin layer of spandex covering their genitals, all while resisting erection.  Holy crap, there was this black guy and it looked like Sadaam was hiding a freakin missle silo in his leotards.  Hey want to find a weapon of mass destruction? Get Tyrone here aroused.  So either these men are really gay, or the fact that I spent almost an entire Xanga entry talking about male ballerinas raises some disturbing questions.  Touché.

THANK YOU, you greasy bluecollared meathead for wasting an entire hour of my short life.  For those of you, who like me, decided to ignore your academic obligations and instead tuned your boobtubes to Fox to catch the "ending" of Joe Millionaire, I feel your anger.  If you missed it, consider yourself fortunate.  Nothing goddamn happened.  The same childish scenario where these myopic dolts think the TV camera’s ubiquitous presence is more potent than Cupid’s arrow.  Look Joe, shut the hell up.  I dare you to complain again about how “wah waaah wah, this is going to be the most difficult decision, I’ve got girls throwing themselves at me, I’m so stressed, somebody’s going to get hurt.” SHUT YOUR FACE, YOU WHINY BITCH.  This ratbastard’s complaining about difficult choices when he’s soaking in a hottub flanked by four pairs of floating breasts.  Joe’s an idiot, the girls are skanks, and the butler always seems to be drinking his Brit ass off by the fireplace.  And today, I didn’t even get to see the one moment of redemption that reminds me it was worth spending an hour in front of the idiot box- the moment where one of these bimbos get axed.  Somebody’s going to pay for this.

Ok, so here’s my idea for a better reality show.  Instead of JOE MILLIONAIRE, check it out: TAE HUNDREDAIRE.  It will be similar in format; I’ll have a group of voluptuous harlots offering themselves to me as carnal sacrifice, lots of hot tub fun, and plenty of alcohol.  The only thing that’ll be different is that there won’t be so much goddamn talking, just straight up who’s-yo-daddy-bam-chicka-baw-wow action, and NOBODY will get cut!  All you hos can stay!