Let me be the one to say what we’re all thinking: fuck the football team for starting the season so well. When I applied to this esteemed institution, I was assured that I would be surrounded by hordes of nerds who only ever walked on a football field when deploying their telescopes on a particularly starry night; but now, because some ball was tossed into a goal, I must converse about some great catch by a wide receptacle.
What happened to the good old days when we could all just make chemistry jokes and Iliad references? Yesterday, my two friends had a whole conversation about Travis Kelce's blocking abilities downfield; what does any of that even fucking mean? This school is being overrun by jocks, and I’m being left behind, desperately trying to understand the difference between a touchoff and a kickdown.
This is the Ivy League; we’re supposed to scorn the athletically-inclined who we tacitly acknowledge will be working for us in ten years. If I had wanted to have fun during my college experience, I would have gone to a state school with attractive people and sunlight. But no, I chose Columbia explicitly because of its pervasive stress culture and alarmingly high suicide rate. I came to college to titillate my mind and reinforce my leftist viewpoints by engaging in meaningful discourse with those on the left and those on the further left. Now, the conservatives have the upper-hand, just because they understand what a forward pass is.
I am so disturbed by these recent developments within our school environment that I may transfer to a college where the football team still sucks, like Cornell.
In Other News
"Jesus, no I don't have any comment on what happened in Florida. Can't you see I'm busy here?"
"Jeez, I bet I look pretty ridiculous right about now."
"Many believe that Michael Phelps would have brought home even more hardware had he not been injured in an attack orchestrated by Tonya Harding’s ex-husband Jeff Gillooly."
"Coach, I get the game plan. When can we go out there and get this thing going?"
"As of press time, the research team reported they had gotten 'blitzed' off of $7 vodka and had just purchased tickets to a Dave Matthews reunion tour show."
“Honestly, after spending twenty minutes trying to find the Allen wrench I dropped under the couch, I’ve realized he was a terrible father."
6. My younger brother.
4. Kill the author of this article.
"Frankly, between seeing you at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and now this, I’m tired of your shit,” Grandma Ester tearfully remarked as she dug the ceremonial meat cleaver into her gnarled forearm.
"I swear, I saw him slide all the way from the top of the library steps down to the bottom right after it rained!"