Why do we drive on parkways and park on driveways?

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Friday, September 16, 2011

S'up, brochacho? A few random notes...

If it's fifty-fucking-FOUR degrees out and your dumb ass is wearing flip-flops, booty shorts and a halter top that shows your gunt, you bet your ass I'm judging you. Particularly if you're complaining to everyone in earshot about how cold you are. You're lucky if I don't flat-out call you a stupid slunt.


Listen up, honey-pie: scheduling a two-and-a-half week vacation in the middle of the first half of the semester makes you functionally retarded. Oh, you're carrying 21 credits this semester? One of those classes is O-chem? You're getting home from your vacation in the middle of midterms week?

"Do you think missing that much class will do bad things to my grade?''


No. Of course not. Not only will you get straight A+s across the board, I bet they'll nominate you for Student of the Year, and award you the Class Presidency.


"Duuuuuude, my weekend started on Thursday night. I'm soooooooooooo hungover right now."

Great. However, it's an 11 AM class that's a core requirement. There's a mandatory attendance policy in place.

No, I will not turn off the lights, close the blinds or shush my lecture voice. Man up and handle your hangover!


The youth of today have no intestinal fortitude.


Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Someone had one Hell of a night.

I was running late this morning, due to various roads being flooded or trees being down. I got to campus with about ten minutes to park, pee and beat feet to my ten AM class.

I managed to sprint from the far-flung faculty lot to the class building and up three flights of stairs to the first convenient Proffy pooper. It was uncharacteristically smelly, but I was too hurried to thoroughly check things out, I rushed in, dropped my bag, slammed the door and unleashed, only to look up and discover...

...hanging on the little hook usually reserved for purses or keys/ID on lanyards, a pair of (formerly) white, hippopotamic, beshitted granny panties. We're talking step-ins vast enough to be a sail for a forty-foot vessel.

It's not as if someone rinsed them out and hung them to dry, either -- oh, no. These were ripe and lump-laden.

I damn near lost my coffee on my shoe-tops.

I eased out of the stall and grabbed the nearest maintenance worker (poor bastard), who marked the bathroom out of order.

The Hell is wrong with people? At least throw your dirty squirrel-covers out, don't festoon them around the only bathroom on the fucking floor!

Monday, September 5, 2011

Ooooh. Iceburn.

(All the more sad because it's entirely accurate. God damn.)