nou sprinkes the sprai. and penises.

It's springtime here at the University of Rochester. Barefoot boys in t-shirts and cargo shorts are throwing their frisbees on the quad, shouting things like, "dude," "yo, totally," "check out that chick," and "yo, totally check out that chick, dude." Clusters of girls suntan on outspread blankets and towels, their knees bent, feet flat against the ground, squinting beneath the sunglasses they wear--sunglasses half the size of their heads; sunglasses with neat emblems on them, like one of a "C" crossed over a "D" (I'm not sure what this signifies... probably some sort of Latinate reference that everyone's forgotten the significance of). Sunglasses more expensive than the black market value of the brains hidden behind them. Everyone is half-naked. Everyone has covered themselves in thick films of antiperspirant mixed with sun-tan lotion mixed with perfume/cologne...for after all, is it not the season to find someone to touch you in your special place and make you cum all over the grass? So as the deadly ultraviolet rays release the melanins in the fair skins of these boisterous and sex-starved 20-somethings, allowing them to better hide themselves in the dark while returning from their cars after purchasing the Barbara Walters' acclaimed "How To Improve Your Relationship with Your Melanocytic Tumors In 10 Steps Or Less," I return to my room to deliberate on that which I've seen.

It is walking on this campus in my own flip-flops, cargo shorts and t-shirts that I am so often struck (symbolically) by frisbees myself...and when I say struck, I don't mean that the urge to throw a frisbee becomes so overwhelming that I growl like a rabid dog and begin to drool until one of these fair-haired, backward-cap wearing individuals throws me the disc. Instead, struck by the image of such individuals doing such a thing as throwing a frisbee, I begin to consider the origins of such a practice.

Well not really. Probably has something to do with the discus. Unfortunately for myself however, these individuals are not as sparsely clothed as some of the bronze gods of yesteryear who pranced around the coliseum flashing their buttocks at the lions. A sad day for all, dear reader, when bouncing testicles were imprisoned by the cotton womb that is the "tightie-whitie" article of clothing.

But I digress...

Passing through the academic quad or residential quad, these are the sorts of sights one sees. The young men and women flirting, laughing, kicking soccer balls, attempting to read textbooks, etc. All very collegiate (is that the right word). Very stereotypical. VERY atypical of Rochester (it's rarely warm enough even as the summer solstice approaches to wear anything but heavy duty boots and a fleece-lined jacket.

But I digress again!!! Fuck me!

The fraternity quad, dear friends, is quite a different story. Exiting or entering Todd Theater from the front entrance, one can look west and see the best minds of our generation half-naked in front of their hulking rape-dens, hallow-eyed from the drugged drink they'd meant to give to a girl but accidentally drank themselves instead, and high from blowing lines of cocaine off of each other's erect penises. While most of these individuals would rather be spending their time finding a bike gang so as to become the sacrificial lamb in a steamy bukkake session, they find it prudent instead to sit in front of their houses on moldy couches, drink beer, play with the breasts and pussies of the cutest chlamydia-ridden maidens they can find, discuss at length the girths of their respective penises, fart, call their drug dealers for more Rohypnol, and adjust the prostate massagers that each has secretly positioned in their assholes beneath their cargo shorts. Did I mention the sleeveless t-shirts?

Now please don't misunderstand me, dearest reader. I've nothing whatsoever against prostate massagers. After all, is there anything better than a little tingling where one needs it most? No, my friend, there isn't. My specific objection to these ball-scratching individuals is their respective (and I suppose one could say collective) demeanors. My favorite anecdote about this glowing center of the universe is the time I walked without shoes past one of these houses. Rather than being a normal human being and ignoring a quiet passerby, one of the apes looked up from the feces-stained hand he'd been licking and rubbing on his face, stood, walked over to me, and slapped me across the face as one child might do to another on the playground. Not only did the security officer literally three feet away not do anything about this, but she proceeded to get down on her knees, rip open her blue uniform shirt, bare her breasts and flail her arms while going into a grand mal seizure, but afterwards she curled up in a ball on the pavement, sucking her thumb, declaring that the all-powerful collective arm of man comprises both shaft and the heads of G_D's omnipotent cock, that men who don't wear shoes outside are clearly not worthy of having penises, that University of Rochester policy requires that all students subject themselves to a violent act by a fraternity member at least once a semester, that being not limited to allowing oneself to be stabbed in the eye with a sword, gang-raped by a thousand viagaric "Greek" penises at once, be hit in the teeth with a baseball bat, wrapped in barbed wire and hung from a flagpole, and/or forced at gunpoint to masturbate into one of said individual's mouths until said individual's thirst is quenched.

The good news is that great progress is being made. Next year the requirement may drop from two self-subjections to violence per semester to one.

More anon. Love,

David