>>> Casual Misanthropy
By staff writer JD Rebello
April 17, 2005

The following events are true, exaggerated in some instances to make me look like a badass that chicks will want.

I had two final exams this past Friday: a “TV: Text and Culture” final at 8 a.m. and an Introduction to Islam final at 1 p.m. Now, you're probably thinking: TV? Islam? This is college? And you're right, but let me assure there is no greater joke in the world than a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism—it's like four years of watching retarded children play dodgeball. I've seriously taken more joke classes in my four (going on five) years at Northeastern than anyone in the history of mankind. The only other majors that require less brain power are communications and business. In other words, undecided.

So the night before my final, I've yet to study. Granted, TV class is a blazing joke, after sitting through two classes I expected Ed McMahon to bring my parents in and be like: “Look what you're spending 30 grand on! You're on Candid Camera!” Followed by my dad slugging that old bastard in the eye. Still, the professor is under the staggering delusion that this is an actual class, and wants us to learn about such aspects as The Ideology of the A-Team and The Postmodernism of the Simpsons. I didn't make those up, those are actual subjects in this class.

“The professor passes out the final, shooting me dirty looks as she hands me my test. I don't blame her, I looked like Nicholas Cage at the end of 8MM.”

So at 7 p.m. on Thursday night, I've yet to start studying. It's not my fault, though. The Sox were playing the Yankees. By the way, that was the same game where Sheffield got into a little tiff with a fan in the right field grandstand. For those of you who are either (a) not into baseball, (b) sick of me wasting Internet bandwidth with my drunken ramblings on the overexposed Red Sox, or (c) homosexual; then just scroll down to where I say “Pubes” and you'll be fine. So anyway, (I trust all the jackoffs have left) I think Sheffield had a right to be pissed. I just thought of myself at work, grabbing a fax for one of my ingrate, inbred, overpaid, underwhelming, cockface, asshole bosses and on my way, if ten people tried to slap at the fax followed by one drunk shit trying to slug me in the face, I'd shove the fax machine up his ass and fax myself the lost works of Tolstoy. So yeah, I think Sheff showed a great deal of maturity and restraint. With that said, if Commissioner Selig wants to tar and feather him in Fenway Park, I'd be cool with that.


Hey, welcome back. Ok, so at 11 p.m. I get talked into going to “Our House,” the nearby college bar. I say, “Ok, I'll go for one beer and come back to study, sober as a priest on Sunday!” For those looking for some historical context, the above quote was somewhere between “Let's speed the Titanic up, we won't hit any icebergs,” and “Throw a few more pitches, Pedro, you'll do fine.”

So I go to a bar, and naturally, it's a fun night. Go figure. I have maybe three fun nights a year, and this just happened to be one. It was one of those nights where everyone got drunk real quick, and there were laughs, and big-boobed waitresses and beer by the pitcherful. So I kept going through the motions of “I'll have just one more beer, then go home and study.”

But the times were too good, like I said. Lots of laughs, and I was “ON!” Not quite “ON” to go talk to a girl (I have to be somewhere between GLOWING and POTENTIAL MELTDOWN for that to occur), but still, I was hitting the mid-90s with my comments, and that's usually a good night.

Finally, at 1:30 a.m., we leave. Here's the weird thing, I wasn't that drunk. I mean, I wasn't driving anywhere, but I could function. I get home, start studying. Not happening. I'm looking at my notes with one eye and the other eye on the Family Guy (returning in MAY!). Finally, at 3 a.m., with me about as prepared for this test as Britney Spears for motherhood (oh, schnap!), I pass out.

Four hours later, I wake up, still drunk. I stumble to the shower, push my contacts into my eyes so hard my medulla oblongata actually improved in vision, and make my way to the class.

7:57 a.m. The test is about to start, and I'm about to give birth to Mexican triplets in a tar pit. I get up and haul ass to the men's room, conveniently located on the floor below. Of course there's a women's room on my floor. Who are these architects? Do they think men will avoid a certain floor in a building? I could see if the floor only contained Lifetime movies and Tori Amos and tampons and baby changing stations and books entitled: “Commitment = Vasectomy” by Dr. Phil, but it was just a regular academic building.

I make it downstairs, drop a mean deuce in the toilet, but something's not quite right, nope, this is going to be a double-orifice adventure. I turn around and let fly. Let it be known, I am the greatest puker in the world. I'm relatively silent, I don't start crying, and I can actually take my mind off vomiting. During this particular puke, I put together a mean fantasy baseball trade for Keith Foulke.

I stumble upstairs, shaking, unshaven, my breath smelling like I just swallowed a family of emus. I sit down next to the hottest girl in the class, some pretty blonde thing who looks like Mandy Moore during her “Candy” days, when she was so worth going to prison for just four minutes of pleasure (three in my case).

The professor passes out the final, shooting me dirty looks as she hands me my test. I don't blame her, I looked like Nicholas Cage at the end of 8MM. I'd be scared of me too.

I sit there, and suddenly it all became clear: My anger at women was just a subconscious fear of them? I should get into a profession to help others? Sports are just a distraction in my life? Come on, if you think that, I don't want you to read my columns anymore. Go away. No. The answers just came to me, like Good Will Justin. I cruised, answering every question like it was a test designed around things I already knew.

What is your dog's name? Missy.
What is the problem with cheese? It sucks.
Why does Chucky scare you? He's a small doll that kills people.

I'm telling you, I was rolling. When I was done, there was actual applause. I was Curt Schilling, rising from the ashes of puke and shit to conquer mankind. And I honestly believe God pulled me through to victory. Either that or the class is just a total joke. Whatever.