Before I get into the meat of this column, I'd just like to quell the big rumor that's been flying around regarding my disappearance and extended absence from PIC.
FACT: I did NOT spend the last year as the sex slave of a cult of love starved, psychotic, nymphomaniac cheerleaders. That only lasted for like four months, tops. When it was over, let me tell you, I was a changed man. Having all of your favorite bodily fluids sucked out by a bevy of nubile 18-year-old vixens in knee socks can harden a person. Particularly, it hardens a very specific part of that person…a lot!! You've seen those commercials for male enhancement pills where they say, "If your erection lasts longer than 12 hours call a doctor"? Well let me just say, there was no physician qualified enough to medicate the Benjamin Grimm level of rock hardness I experienced. By the time those ladies were done with me, I was spent, in agony, a battered, hollow shell of the man I once was.
As soon as I was done banging on their door screaming for them to let me back in, I came to a profound realization. Well, two profound realizations:
- My wiener was bleeding, and…
- I needed to turn my life around.
But the universe had thrown me a curve ball. Before I could truly find myself, I was going to have to find some answers. I wanted to know what kind of a God would create a world where a person could have crazed sex with multiple cheerleaders, but not be able to do it every single day for the rest of eternity.
I vowed to stay in school until either the sun consumed the Earth, I graduated, or I beat Castlevania on the original Nintendo. I know it's a cliché at this point, and I probably should have been more original, but like everyone who's ever suffered an ontological crisis, I decided to travel to Tibet and seek spiritual guidance from yetis. They are quite wise you know. I mean, people with beards are inherently smart, right? Well a yeti's whole BODY is a beard! Suck on that, Plato! (Besides, I needed to ice my penis.) Anyway, it was not an easy journey, my friends; it was long and bitter and cold and there were parts of Tibet that my Yaris could barely even make it through. But it was worth it.
Well, not really.
I only found one actual Yeti, and he wasn't very good. When I encountered him in his mountain home he was drinking beer on his couch and he kind of had his back to me. He was watching Jersey Shore. Nervously, I said, "Oh wonderful hairy guru, what is life?"
Then, without looking at me, he took a sip of beer, watched a couple more seconds of Jersey Shore, angrily threw his remote at the TV, and said "FUCKING RETARDED!" And that was that.
I turned and left. My question had been answered. If life was as he said, "fucking retarded," it was up to me to go and do the most "fucking retarded" thing I could think of. But what would that be?
Would I pump my body full of Gogurt until I exploded? Get a tattoo on my face of two pterodactyls having sex? Construct a 400-foot tall butter sculpture of Dave Coulier?
And then it came to me: "College!! I'll go back to college!"
Let us not forget, friends, the true meaning of "retarded" is not "mentally handicapped," but "totally backwards assed." And I simply couldn't conceive of anything more backwards assed than to go back to finish school at the doddering age of 27! There are tenured professors younger than me! Besides, with all of the insanity in my life I'd forgotten a simple promise I'd made to myself a long time ago when I was probably drunk. Back then, I vowed to stay in school until either the sun consumed the Earth, I graduated, or I beat Castlevania on the original Nintendo. Well the Earth is still here, I sure as hell haven't graduated, and I haven't even got past the Frankenstein level in Castlevania with those asshole hunchback guys who hop around.
So, with my car completely out of gas and my penis still bleeding, I returned to Kent State University, a lifetime college student—ready and almost even sort of willing to learn. It reminded me of when I first started at KSU. Back then, I was just scrawny 18-year-old who listened to punk rock and cared more about getting drunk and laid than about getting an education. Now I'm a scrawny 27-year-old who listens to punk rock who cares more about getting drunk and laid than getting an education, but man does my dick hurt!!