Party Time at Girls Gone Wild University

Does alma matter?

Is this your first year of college? Are you sitting reading this right now while the bustle of campus life rises around you with carnival gaiety? While others boisterously greet one another and form alliances that will last a lifetime, you sit nestled in your copy of the Weekly, with the sinking questions, "Where is my place in this edu-grandeur? Have I already missed my chance to [as we say in the big city] bust a move?"

First impressions are very important. If you don't do something bold to say, "This is me! Look out, world!" on your first day of class, chances are you never will. Entropy's cold undertow will pull you under, and four years later, you'll graduate without your instructors ever matching your name with a face. Then you'll be absorbed into a corporate mass from which you'll be cast off at age 65, spent and broken.

We will not let this happen to you. The very fact that you are reading the Weekly proves that you were born to lead! You are one of us!

Right now, this instant, I want you to roll this paper into a tight cylinder, approach the biggest, loudest alpha male in the cafeteria/commons/library/dorm hall, cram one end of the cylinder into his nose, and from the other end shout directly into his brain pan, "You, sir, may forget everything else you learn in this institution, but you shall not forget me!"

You may then sit down and resume reading this paper.

If you are a man, you can be assured that Mr. Alpha Male will cede his dominant status to you, though perhaps not before pounding your pussy ass into a fine powder for a couple of years until you pay him a significant "please stop pounding my pussy ass and go away" honorarium; $12,000 is the prevailing rate, plus lunch money.

If you are a woman, he will probably marry you. In either case, your future is assured. No need to thank us.

You will, of course, still have to show up on campus every so often for the next few years. This can be bewildering, particularly if you have come here from a small town like Zep Rules, Colorado, or Running Joke, Virginia. For example, the UC Irvine paper, the New U, now routinely carries a police log, citing a big-city range of campus crimes: thefts from cars, thefts of cars, identity theft, lasciviousness, drunkenness, assaults, hate crimes. I guarantee you: it is only a matter of time before this grisly headline appears in the New U: "Futon Damaged in Drug Raid."

Compare this with a small-town police log, such as one in a recent issue of the Sequim Gazette, from nocturnal Sequim, Washington. This is real, actual stuff, repeated verbatim here:

Aug. 19, 10:24 a.m. A woman called to report the udders of cows at Sequim-Dungeness Way and Old Olympic Highway appeared to be too large. Aug. 21, 4:25 a.m. A 30-year-old female caller from an undisclosed location requested medication to shut off her brain. Aug. 22, 2:51 p.m. Three large dogs were reported running loose in the 100 block of Independence Drive. Aug. 22, 5:37 p.m. Three cows were reportedly wandering the roadway in the area of Towne and Woodcock Roads.

Back when I was well on the way to dropping out of UCI, you could literally cross the street from the campus and find cattle grazing. Some classmate friends and I once chased a herd across a hilltop—for credit. Then the steers in the herd turned and chased us—also for credit. With our college-honed minds, we were quickly able to discern the essentials of the situation: "Those cows sure have large horns. Those cows there, the ones stampeding toward us."

Somewhere there exists a Super-8 film of this, as we were making a movie titled Boca de la Vaca about a dairy-based vampire. We used a lot of cow and milk imagery, though our vampire mainly attacked people in voting booths. This was our final project for a class titled "Sociology of the Horror Film." Reflect upon this as you spend six hours a night with your biology core textbook: we got A's in the course just for pointing a camera at some cows.

It was the most popular course on campus, with well more than 400 students enrolled. Those bodies meant more campus dollars for the department, prompting a jealous professor in another department to start a course on the psychology of comedy movies. That professor's recurring premise was that since Freud said laughter was a release valve for pent-up repressions and Marx said it was repressions reaching the boiling point that led to righteous revolution, comedy was counterrevolutionary. We all had a good laugh over that.

This was after the Vietnam War, when Gerald Ford was president. A spirit of stoned ennui had settled over the campus, broken only intermittently by streakers. For those of you too young to remember, streakers were naked people, sort of like your current Girls Gone Wild, except instead of being vivacious drunk chicks showing off nipples harder than Mardi Gras beads, streakers were most often solitary, hairy-assed guys running al dente through the cafeteria when you were already having a hard enough time eating a Sloppy Joe.

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