While I was going through my box of recycling papers to make sure I didn’t accidentally throw in an important document like my birth certificate or Social Security Card, I came across a really old essay I had helped proofread for a friend back in college. Ah…seeing it again stirred up a lot of emotions and made me remember an important lesson I learned so many years ago:

Never agree to help edit someone’s essay when the first sentence is this:

I wanna go to college cuz skewl is kewl.

OMG! What the f*ck is this?!?!?!

I really wish I could tell you that I made that sentence up, instead of having to admit it was actually the opening of an essay someone thought would get him accepted into a first-tier university. I don’t know…maybe he was hoping to impress schools with his enthusiasm for academics, or show how much he wanted to major in Retartalian…or maybe he was just dumb…like, really, really, really, really, really, really, really dumb.

And I was way dumber than he was because, even though I was sitting there wondering, “how the hell did this guy manage to make it through the education system with a shred of brain that barely had the capacity to construct a kindergarten-level sentence?” I agreed to help turn a steaming pile of sh*t into a golden doodoo nugget. I assumed that was what friends did for each other…and it helped that he was going to pay me $20 for my time.

So I sat there and read pages and pages of raggedy-ass writing, corrected the spelling and grammar errors, and made notes on which sentences needed to be revised and how. Then I e-mailed it back to my friend, and waited for him to send me a new draft after he made the changes–all while feeling like this:

Five minutes later, he sent me a new draft:

I want to go to college because school is cool.

And beneath that, perhaps as a bonus, I got paragraphs of stuff that looked like it had been a copy-and-paste of the school website’s “About Us” section. Better sentence structure: yes. Less of a piece of crap: no. So I sent it back with the comment:

It looks like you put in a lot of effort into researching the school! Incorporate why you want to attend with the information you found, because right now it just looks like a bunch of facts. Don’t forget the transition sentences!

I put in a when what I really wanted to have was >:{}.

Two hours later, I got a response:

Can u write it 4 me i dun know how 2. thx.

And right after that:

my app is due tomorr.w

You know, I’ve been stuck at this part of my entry for a few days now because every time I read those two responses, I get super pissy and start saying all the things I wanted to say to him back then. Things like, “your dad is your brother, and your mom is your grandmother, right?” or, “someone with your intelligence wouldn’t even be able to get one of those Sally Struther degrees.”

But my snarky side wasn’t fully developed by then, so I kept my mouth shut and rewrote the damn thing. The school rejected his application, but I got my $20…the price of my dignity.

So say “no” to sh*tty prose!

I think it is kind of funny how some birth control commercials stress the importance of female empowerment, while at the same time focusing on how hard it is for women to remember to take a pill every day. How empowered can this woman actually be if she’s capable of conquering the world, but can’t do something as simple as popping a pill? Does she also forget to brush her teeth? Breathe?

But I guess there are a fair number of women who are forgetful, because companies are coming up with solutions like Femcon Fe, a chewable birth control tablet that “fits your daily routine even if there is nothing routine about your day.” And, of course, right below that sentence is a picture of a very busy woman—and you know she’s busy because she’s wearing a business suit and wind is blowing through her hair. But at least she remembers to take her pills now that they are chewable.

Taking a birth control pill once a day is not as arduous as some commercials make it seem. I’ve been doing it for 10 years, not because I’m a whore (not back then, at least), but because my estrogen levels were messed up and caused me to have insanely long periods. Having a week-long cycle is horrible enough; try doing it for two months. Granted, I felt like a super badass for being able to bleed that much and still be alive, but then I remembered I was wearing huge panties because those were the only kind that could hold my huge pads in place. And then I felt less like a badass and more like butt munch.

The only time I’ve ever “forgotten” to take my daily dose was for revenge purposes:

Ah…good times!

So if taking a pill everyday is really the physically and mentally laborious task those birth control manufacturers say it is, then I should turn in my MENSA application right now because I’m a freaking genius.

I just returned from a bathroom break. My professor is currently lecturing about something important, and I should be paying attention—but I can’t. I am way too busy trying to figure out why there was an opened water bottle sitting next to the toilet…like right next to it…by the toilet seat part…where someone’s butt goes…

All I can say is…

I like big butts and I cannot lie! I mean, UGHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Go ahead and call me a germaphobe or say I have OCD—I don’t care (although, I’d prefer something more original). Bathrooms are No Food Territories, and the thought of bringing anything edible into one is extremely disgusting to me. I know what ends up in toilets, sinks, and bathtubs, and it’s definitely not something I would want near stuff I’m going to consume. Therefore, to prevent possible tainting, I keep all my food and beverages away from the bathroom—far away, because once any part of it enters, it is immediately swarmed by nasty particles and becomes completely inedible.

Of course, I know you can’t always avoid bringing foodstuffs into bathrooms. When I’m at school, for instance, I can’t leave my bag of peanut butter M&M’s in the cafeteria while I do my business because someone is going to jack them. And I know this because I had jacked them from someone else earlier. Thus, if I want to keep my candy safe, I have to bring it with me. Luckily, the school bathrooms are pretty big, so there is a lot of open space between the toilets and sinks–which means there are some areas that have a lower risk of tainting than others. I like to think of them as Food Friendly Zones, and each zone’s level of friendliness is denoted by a color:

    Red: Areas that are within a foot of a toilet, bathtub, or sink are Red Zones. Anything within this zone is automatically contaminated by doodoo and pee. It doesn’t matter if the item was covered in plastic wrap, zipped in a bag, and placed in a locked vault made of titanium with Mr. T and Robo-Cop standing guard 24/7. I pity the fool who eats that sh*t sandwich.

    Orange: The Orange Zone encompasses the bathroom stall walls. Hanging things on those hooks (or precariously balancing them, if you’re like me) and placing items atop the toilet paper dispenser is okay as long as they are processed—i.e., full of chemicals and preservatives, and no refrigeration required—and contained in some form of packaging. No fresh food, regardless of whether it is packaged up or not, because that stuff isn’t protected by any butylated hydroxyanisole. However, Orange Zones become Red Zones if the stall smells as if someone’s ass has been rotting in it.

    Blue: Bathroom counters are zoned Blue, so perishable food is welcome to hang around there for a bit as long as they are in closed containers. By “a bit” I mean long enough for you to do your thing and leave. Staying beyond that means you like spending free time in bathrooms…weirdo.

So what was this opened water bottle doing in the Red Zone? The Red Zone turns all food into edible toilet paper. What horrible situation was this person suffering to resort to such drastic measures? Why, [insert omnipotent being], why?!

I think I just asked a question that has an infinite number of answers…and that means:

GAME TIME!

Today’s game is called “So What Was this Opened Water Bottle Doing in the Red Zone?”!

   By the way, it was one of those cute, mini water bottles that I guess are for small kids or people who are just a little thirsty. [Random Thought: have you seen those made-for-kids, tiny cans of Diet Coke? Those are kind of heinous, and makes me wonder what kind of parents are putting Diet Coke in their kids’ lunch boxes. It’s even more disturbing than giving them orange flavored goo-liquid that kind of burns when swallowed—i.e., Sunny D.]

I can only come up with two logical explanations:

    1. The owner of the water bottle was in the middle of taking a dump when a bunch of people came in to use the bathroom. Not wanting to risk announcing that she had eaten a rotten egg by laying one, she decided to wait for the bathroom to clear out before resuming her bowel cleansing. However, as we all know, stopping mid-poop can be physically and mentally draining, and this person was probably suffering such effects. To alleviate the strain, she took a gulp of water, and left it near the seat.

    2. The company that makes Massengill decided to copy Crystal Light by coming out with small packets that can be mixed in water–freshness on the go!
 

I don’t know if I should find this funny or not:

A woman is charged with plotting the real-life abduction of a boyfriend she met through the virtual reality Web site “Second Life.”

Who am I kidding? Hahahahahaha!

But wait! It gets better!

Police said the two met online on Second Life, a social site where people create alter egos. The man broke off the relationship after they met in person.

Let me get this straight: you met a guy while you were both playing a game designed for people who want to live a second life because their first life—i.e., their real life—sucks total ass. And then you two started a relationship in a game designed for people whose real lives suck total ass, and later met in person, outside the world of people whose real lives suck total ass. However, your boyfriend–whose real life sucks so much ass that he had to start a new one by playing a computer game—discovered you were an even bigger loser than he was and dumped you.

If that’s not enough to prove you’re fugly, then I’m a pilot…who flies a 747…made of dried horse sh*t. I’m a Fudge Flyer.

And as for the boyfriend–he must have been dumber than dirt. I mean, what was he expecting from a woman he met on “Second Life” anyway? That she would look like this…?

Hello! When you go to the “Spaghetti Factory,” you know you’re going to get spaghetti; likewise, when you go to the “Fug Factory,” you know you’re going to get a fug! It would be totally ridiculous to expect otherwise because hot chicks don’t need to troll “Second Life” to get some lovin’…and they also don’t dress like slutty drag queens.

What this dumbass should have expected was to end up meeting a female version of himself–i.e., a pathetic and desperate loser with a vagina. And that’s what he got, right? Too bad she also came with a bag full of crazy.

But let’s be fair: I have never played “Second Life” because I’m too busy trying to succeed in this life, so I admit I have no idea what the rationale is behind devoting any time towards making sure your little avatar maintains a stable job when you are still unemployed and living in your parents’ basement. What does it matter if you eventually save enough “Second Life” money (I bet it’s called “Douche Dollars” or “Crabby Pube Coins”) to buy a private island? Nothing! No one cares! Just like no one cares if you’ve got a reputation there for being the pimp of pimps, or if you’re so rich you’re practically crapping gold nuggets. We want to whore ourselves to the real deal, especially the person who poops gold…now that’s someone I’d let R. Kelly me any day.