The following letter was found written in kibble on the sidewalk of Walnut Place:
Why do you leave me chained to a stump all day? It makes you seem like Michael Vick.
Also, your penis is small. In addition, our front lawn looks like Ground Zero.
Traumatized Attack Dog
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Cuse Kids are VERY scholarly, kinda. While some students couldn’t care less about highlighting, or reading, a select few treat PHI 197 like it’s Yale Law. We’re talking highlighting, destroying, wreaking rainbow carnage all over the page.
Watch as the Bro hunches over the reader, his eyes squinting to meet the words of Aristotle. Teach me O’Aristotle, teach me the secrets of the world like Plato taught you. Aristotle begins to speak to the Bro. He brags about how he practically created science, he waxes poetic on the universe, he lectures on causality. The Bro reaches into his backpack, pulls out a blue highlighter and stabs Aristotle, stabs him in the eye, in the heart. Aristotle is going down, he has no chance. Material cause, efficient cause, formal cause, final fucking cause—the Bro owns it all. Everything is important, nothing is safe. The entire page is blue. He is in the zone.
Next section: Kant. The Bro murders Kant with a pink-yellow highlighter combination. Morality, good, evil, reason. Transcendental fucking objects. The Bro is sweating, Kant is screaming. People are staring.
A girl approaches the Bro. She asks to borrow a highlighter, the orange one. This girl has balls, big healthy balls. He is surrounded by highlighters: orange, yellow, blue, green, pink, purple. But NO. It’s possible that he’s foaming at the mouth. She retreats.
Aristotle and Kant are sprawled on the gray library carpet, gasping for air, begging for mercy. Damn, did that Bro just transform the library into a man-cave of destruction? An evil man-cave? Yeah he did. Totes evil.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Cuse Kids love playing Major Tom by jumping up and down in the Dome columns. It makes a really clutch boingy-boingy-boingy-astronaut noise. Once, as I jumped up and down in-between two noble pillars of concrete, I began to float in the most peculiar way. Perhaps it was the artificial high of Astroturf, perhaps it was the spacepants, but for a moment there, as I dare left the capsule, Syracuse became a new place. A place where palm trees were pregnant with coconuts. A place where Pacific-Cooler Capri-Sun flowed from drinking fountains like the hair of a Grecian goddess. A place with an ever-repeating “This is What Dreams are Made Of” Hillary Duff soundtrack.
It was like I was sitting in a tin can, far above the world. Planet earth was blue. And then it was over.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Chancellor Cantor is somewhat of a mystery. Cuse Kids hear her speak at various events, read her emails and see her picture in the newspaper, but they rarely interact. She lives in the Crouse Hinds Hall penthouse, on a throne of Connective Corner propaganda pamphlets and reigns supreme. Joe Biden is her friend, they share jokes. Occasionally, she’ll venture down to Starbucks, and that’s when all hell breaks loose.
The hell, of course, is invisible, trapped in the feeble hearts of Cuse Kids. They would never admit it, but when they spot Nancy from across the street, they get all nervous. A swarm of butterflies suddenly invades their stomachs. Nancy, like a hard drug, stops their hearts.
She is Diddy. She is Oprah. She is the Dalai Lama. Wait, is Nancy walking in slow motion? A slight breeze tickles her short hair; her pantsuit looks rare, like it was dipped in the tears of virgins. The pearls on her neck shine—they’ve just been removed from the ocean after a thousand year nap. A symphony plays somewhere in the distance.
Some Cuse Kids will point. Those with courage will wave. The bravest of all will walk over and say hello. Nancy is nice. Damn, you think, I should have introduced myself.
Next time, there’s always a next time.
The celebrity sighting will provide a conversation starter for days, a cheesy pickup line in Chucks (Guess who I saw today? The Chancellor. She gave you an A+ for looks. I agree.) You replay the moment for your friends: how you saw her, at Starbucks, with an entourage. You don’t admit that she made your heart skip a beat, that your palms got a little sweaty. But you hope. Hope that you will have the balls to wave your sweaty hand, the courage to croak hello.
Cuse Dudes get hard at the gym. Then they pretend like we didn't see. I saw. I saw the outline, the bulge, the sheer embarrassment of your boner. Control yourself, please. These frequent pop-ups are a mystery, but there are a few possible explanations.
1- Biology: We’re don’t got no M.D. edjumacation, but perhaps blood simply pumps as Cuse Dudes pump weights. And if blood’s a-pumpin, then dicks are full of excitement?
2- Archbold Gymnasium attracts girls in tight, tight clothing. Then those girls go perch on machines that emphasize the tush. Tush make man excited, rawr!
3- Cuse Dudes are actually listening to Mariah Carey on their i-Pods, while thinking about Mariah Carey’s tush.
4- You can’t walk two inches in the gym without catching your reflection in the mirror. Are Cuse Dudes getting boners for themselves? For their model-like physiques? For their brilliance? For their sweet dance moves? For their large feet? Survey says correcto.
And now we’re out like a boner in sweatpants.
Yoda leh ee-hoooo!
Radio Who ?
Radio not, here I come! You can’t hide! Gonna finnnddd youuuu and make you want me.
Icon tell you another knock knock joke. Do you want me to?
Why yes, yes I do. Bring it back, Cuse Kids, bring it back.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
All that learning and texting will make a Cuse Kid hungry, and sometimes, he or she has no choice but to grab some sustenance and bring it to class. But when Cuse Kids grab, it’s serious.
There you are in your Modern Europe history discussion session, trying to learn about the centralization/decentralization of power in Russia or whenever, when the girl next to you pulls out a Schine bag. You hope she will offer you a M&M or two, but that’s naïve.
No, she opens a container of salad. Romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, black olives, two croutons, carrots, nothing fancy. You watch as she struggles to free her Thousand Island salad dressing from its little packet. She squeezes, closes the salad lid and SHAKES. This girl is shaking her salad with two hands like it’s a maraca, like she is the maracassist of Justice, if: 1- Justice had a maracassist, and 2- if that’s even the proper term. It sounds like thunder is spilling from her hands, like the lettuce is about to tumble to the floor. She gives the container one last pulse of confidence, just to make sure that it’s perfect, and then she starts chomping. Chomping on those carrots, chomping on those two croutons, this girl is making sure that her salad is good and chewed. And she is chewing, oh baby she’s chewing, she’s chewing like she’s a horse, like a horse that’s in charge. And then it’s over. You are relieved. You turn back to the TA who is talking about Nicholas II or something.
Not so fast. It’s time for pasta. And meatballs. Balls made of meat. She is slurping, twirling, flicking spaghetti sauce within inches of your hoodie. You like a girl who eats—balls—but all those Russian revolutions are damn confusing. Okay, good, she’s done with the pasta. Oh, wait, she’s licking the bowl. Now she’s done.
Back to Nick of Russia. The man has a solid beard, you are impressed and wonder why you can’t grow such a healthy beard. Do girls like beards?
Shit, she is gulping water. Gulping that fucking Aquafina like it’s the last bottle of H20 on earth. You can hear it echoing in her throat, you think about her throat, you are distracted.
What’s the difference between “tsar” and “czar”? You raise your hand, full of curiosity and impatience. But then you feel dumb and lower her hand.
Ah, yes, now for the M&Ms. They are the peanut kind, your favorite. The girl is arranging those little pebbles of chocolate deliciousness in rows: blue, blue, orange, yellow. You bet this girl is kinky. You do know that she is weird, or just hungry. You want to smack her. Hard. She. Is. So. Annoying.
“Take this review sheet on your way out,” the TA says. And you do.
Cuse Kids love the movie-film Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan. It might be the best movie-film ever made. Better than sexy time with a prostitute who try put rubber fish in your anus. Better than, how do you say, frat party where girls dress up like my future wife Pamela. Better than jar of gypsy tears to protect you from the AIDS. Better than suit that is NOT BLACK! NOT! Better than George Bush drinking blood of every man, woman and child in Iraq. It is the best. Cuse Kids like very much.
Talking in Borat voice is simple way to get laughs. Ha, ha, ha, they will say, this individual is so funny, they tickle my funny bone. I am laughing, ha, ha. It is also a promising way to get the women ladies; they will let you make romance explosion on their chesteses. It is also very fun group activity, like an icebreaker, or a party game. Cuse Kids of all shapes and penile sizes, they know this fact. They know that Borat voice make great success! High five!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Oh, hello there, you miniature chief operating officer, you. Phone to ear, head down, free hand swatting an invisible, mutant bug from the air. It looks as if you are about to loose, or make, a seven million dollar business deal. Are you merging with another company? Are you negotiating a slot on CNN money? Are you dealing with an annoying contract dispute? I’d like to ask you for an internship, since you seem really important and all. But you’re intimidating, and that makes me scared.
Wait, you are arguing with your mother. In public. On the phone. Like she is Lloyd and you are Ari Gold. Like you are wearing a $5,000 suit instead of a backpack.
“MOM! They fucked up my laundry, Mom! LazyBones fucked it up! I told them to dry my shirts on low heat so they wouldn’t shrink, you know? But then everything came back wet! Damp! WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? ARE THEY RETARDED?! MOM! CAN YOU CALL THEM, PLEASE? I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!”
Yes, Cuse Kids. You love to yell. In public. On the phone. At your mom.