The title alone is funny, because it uses the word "ass"... twice!

Currently, the Pitzer community is playing Assassins. It's a time of high paranoia, because I'm constantly looking behind my back to see if someone is stalking me. Everyone participating is to shoot their assigned target with a water gun, all while evading whoever is trying to kill you; you then take the assignment of the person you kill and repeat the process, with the last person standing wins. Last year, I won, meaning I have a legacy to fulfill.

Apparently, there is still junk mail being delivered to me at the house I lived in this past summer. Katy's sister, Amber, gave Katy the mail to deliver to me. When she told me, I got excited, and asked if we could go pick it up from her room immediately. As we departed, Michael Michael said, with a sad face, "Where are you two going?" From that awkward exchange, I was tipped off that, most likely, Katy was assigned to kill me. Though I probably should have ran away, I decided that I needed to face the situation, and if need be, I could totally take her in a showdown. Alas, we didn't even make it to the stairway before she turned and squeezed me, saying, "All right, I have you, but I can't kill you." I asked her why not, explaining it was just a game, but she was distraught.

We went upstairs to pick up the mail anyway, whereupon I discovered the envelopes were sopping wet, which I correctly assumed was the result of a leaky water gun. Katy whined about how this is a disgusting game and there's no way she could ever kill me. It is important to note that Katy is perhaps the sweetest individual in the world. When I first met her, I wanted to hit her because it just seemed so fake to behave that sugary all of the time. As time past, however, I realized that that was genuine Katy. (For added context, it might help to know that Katy made the "creepy in the butthole" inquiry.)

In retrospect, it came as no surprise that Katy would not want to kill me - or anyone for that matter. Once, we played 13 Dead End Drive, a board game where you try to kill your opponents' pieces. Rather than murdering someone else, she offed herself so as not to make anyone upset. Though it would be easy to exploit this weakness on the part of my assassin, the good sport that I am, I proceed to have a half hour pep talk about how it is just a game and why it is all right to kill me, and how, having signed up for the game, she should feel obligated to at least attempt to do me in. After near tears, I convince Katy to agree to try to pursue me. Needless to say, this is already a bastardized version of Assassins. What potential victim has to practically beg eir killer to kill em?

Thirty-six hours after I gave Katy encouragement, she killed me. What a bitch! I pump up her esteem and this is the thanks I get? I hope she dies! In the context of the game, I mean.

I jest. I think this is big progress for Katy becoming slightly more cold-hearted and I commend her for catching me off guard. Truthfully, it's a good thing not having this game consume my time when I could be writing my thesis. Dear gosh, my thesis. Shoot me again, this time with something more potent than water.


Kiss His Ass, Grandma

At the age of four, Andrew's parents announced the good news: Andrew would soon have a new sibling! Immediately, he went to his room and wrote a list of his favorite names, with the top choice being "Lucille." Alas, when it was determined that Lucille would instead be called Matthew, he was promised that he would be the first person allowed to hold the baby, an honor for which Andrew was very excited.

On that fateful day when Matthew came into this world, Andrew ran into the hospital room, only to discover his grandmother already holding Matthew. Rubbing it in, grandma said, "Oh, look, Andrew, look who got to hold the baby first."

And that, folks, is the definitive reason why old people should just die already.



When relatives recently re-researched his family tree, thoroughly Caucasian Ted learned that a few generations back, his however-many-great grandmother was a black slave. Well, that or a slave owner. Ted hopes it was the slave, though, because that would help his aspirations of being a hip hop superstar. Not that I think his race would have any impact on his talent, but the recording industry is a biased business. Moreover, however, Ted hopes his ancestor is the slave because he doesn't want to feel guilty.

Come on, now. Don't we all regret something we haved owned? The first CD I ever bought was the Rembrandts. Sure, I rocked out to it at the time, but aside from that one "Friends" song, I am rightfully mortified in retrospect. My sibling owns literally hundreds of Beanie Babies. Years ago, she thought they were cute and wanted to possess as many as possible; since then, she realizes what a truly unconscionable idea that was.

It's like that pair of pants that seemed to fit nicely while at the store. Once you get a good look in the mirror, you realize that slavery just makes you look fat.

(Oh, relax, it's called litotes. Look it up.)



What Would You Recommend?

Amazon.com sent me an unsolicited email. Based upon previous purchases I've made through its website, Amazon decided I might enjoy a book entitled Girlosophy: Real Girls Eat.

Though anorexia has recently left me physically and emotionally crippled, I'd like to thank Amazon.com for caring enough when my friends and family did not to motivate me to beat this eating disorder.

(Geez, you buy one Sheryl Crow CD from them and they think they have you all figured out.)


Barely Legal

In class, my professor wrote the name of a website on the board: www.barelylegal.com. After receiving some snickering from the students, the professor explained that the site is actually a legitimately helpful source of copyright information. Still, with that kind of address, I somehow doubted it.

Later at home, I found what I had suspected: barelylegal.com had nothing to do with copyright information and everything to do with promiscuous eighteen-year-olds. Unable to "learn" much on the site without submitting a credit card number, I decided to tease my professor with this email:

Will the media studies department fund my membership at barelylegal.com ?

The response I received a few hours later was:

how much?

Clearly, my initial message was too subtle, so I try this:

$4.95 for a 3-day trial membership or $29.99 for a monthly membership.

Though pricey, it does grant free access to Hometown Girls, Hustler, and Slut-Planet.com.

Within minutes, my professor responds with a simple:


Apparently, the real web address is slightly different. Can professors be fired for recommending porn websites to their students under false pretenses? Considering that I had a professor that screened pornographic material that he starred in, probably not.


The Calculator

While sitting in a dark room, Ted begins playing with a calculator. "It's broken," he announces, though no one pays much attention. Several moments pass before I notice that he is smashing the appliance into tiny pieces.

"Ted, why are you doing that?" I ask.
"It doesn't matter: it's broken," he reaffirms.
"It's solar-powered," I say giving him a glare, which he blankly returns. "Ted, the lights aren't on, of course it's not going to work."

Apparently, the lights really are off. Holding on to several mangled pieces of calculator, it finally occurs to Ted what he's done.

Oh, Ted.