By contributing writer James Pearson

I work as a lowly clerical person on campus at my school. Fortunately, it does have a few perks. For instance, while the vice presidents, senior vice presidents, senior executive Christian vice presidents, and whatever other name they can fucking think of to add on to vice president, ignore me, the lower rung of people fall in love with me.

The secretaries, the janitors, the prostitutes on Broad Street (actually, that has nothing to do with my job, they love me because of my Brad Pitt face and Arnold muscles, and the sweaty wad of money I hand them when I’m done blowing a load in their face), they all put a smile on their poor, insignificant faces whenever they see me coming. I think they probably feel that I’m one of them. While I do not have any STD’s (that I’m aware of, but it’s kind of hard to know for sure when you’re too fucking scared to get tested) and am intellectually superior to probably ninety five percent of the people I’ve ever met, I’m still ignored by the superiors, make shit for pay, and honest too God, probably do less work than anyone in that whole fucking building. Thank God for Wikipedia, and

Push me / And then just touch me / ‘Til I can get my / Satisfaction.

Consequently, these lowly-positioned, and more often than not intellectually-stunted people talk to me all the time. I don’t really mind, because there is only a certain amount of time one can look up celebrities online (seriously, I know everything there is to know about Hugh Hefner, Larry Flynt, Woody Harrelson… you get the fucking point).

However, one janitor we’ll call Thomas, is perhaps one of the funniest, most uneducated, intelligent people I’ve ever met. He’s a 40-something-year-old black man, has been a janitor in the same fucking building for 17 years, and as far as I can tell, doesn’t do shit but flirt with ladies who come through. And he’s not that dirty old man you see flirting all the time, this motherfucker is smooth as silk.

The other day I was sitting at my cubicle staring at the desktop. In the back of my mind I was hoping against hope that my boss wouldn’t walk through and see me doing this for the third time that day, but you know what? The most pressing thought on my mind wasn’t, “Damn, I’ll probably get fired if it happens again.” Instead it was, “I hope that porn is done downloading on my computer. I haven’t beaten off in five hours, and if that motherfucker Cody is downloading music and it’s slowed down my connection so much that my porn isn’t done, I swear to God blood will be waist high when I’m done with him.”

Suddenly, Thomas sat down right next to me, interrupting me in the middle of my lust for porn.

“Holy fuck man, don’t fucking scare me like that. Can’t you see I’m fucking busy?”

“Yeah man, real fuckin’ busy.”

Then I remembered what I had been wanting to ask him. There is this place called Lusty Planet down from my fraternity house. I had heard it was a fucking brothel, and if so, I wanted to check it out.

“Hey, you ever been to Lusty Planet?” I asked him, expecting nothing less than a boasting affirmative.

“Naw bra, but whatcha need to know ‘bout it?”

Jesus, he fucking lied to me, I thought. Thomas had been married for 25 years, but he was about as likely to be as faithful as an Alcoholic Anonymous member at a strip club in Nevada. Just one won’t hurt. Then the next day he wakes up with no car, no money, and three different rashes coving his balls to the top of his dick.

I decided to shoot back at him.

“Yeah man, I’m sure. Is that place really a whore house?”

“You go in there, you’ll get what ya need bra.”

Now, let me explain something. I’ve never once paid for pussy in my life (aside from the aforementioned prostitutes), so I have no clue what to expect in a whore house. Maybe I’m a douche, go to fucking hell.

Thomas continued. “But listen up man, when you go there, if they ask you about Molly, just say no. You don’t want nothin’ to do with no Molly bra.”

“Why not?”

“Trust me. Stay away from that Molly.”

It took me seriously thirty seconds to figure out what the fuck Molly was. At first I thought it was some ugly ass whore, but Thomas kept looking at me with eyes that pleaded for understanding, as if my life might depend on it. What the hell, why is he looking at me like that? I mean, I’ll stay away from that Molly bitch, what the fuck… Oh…OH…damn.

He just nodded as he saw the faint flicker of a light bulb build into the glare of a burning ball of flames behind my eyes.

“Ya just get ya some jaw action, and head on out bra.”

And with that, Thomas patted me on the leg like a good father figure and headed out. Out of all the advice my father and mother have ever given me—work hard, get a good job, put the knife down, stop having sex with the dog, etc. —this was the best bit of advice I’d gotten since college. I seriously think colleges should educate young men on the dangers of Molly in whore houses. Some young strapping gentlemen is asked if he wants Molly, he unwittingly says yes, and all of a sudden the kids eyeballs rot out of his head, and his penis falls off at the same fucking time.

So to all you new freshmen entering college, if you forget everything you fucking heard at orientation, if you don’t listen to a damn thing your parents say, remember this: Just say no to Molly. “Ya just get ya some jaw action, and head on out bra.”