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You Know Better Than To Read This

Note: This column was written during my sophomore year at the University of Wisconsin-Superior, and published in the Promethean.

Okay, so I lied. I said I wasn’t going to do another column, but it was brought to my attention that a joke issue of the Promethean (INSERT SARCASTIC REMARK ABOUT QUALITY OF PAPER HERE) wouldn’t be complete without it. But wait, there’s more. This issue, we only have three writers writing for us (LOAD GUN WITH BULLETS). We usually have at least seven or eight people, so just sit and think for a while about a regular Promethean with 62.5% less quality! (PUT GUN TO HEAD) Then think about this: the three writers are me, Chad Gustafson, and another person who’s never written before! (REALIZE GUN IS ONLY SQUIRT GUN, CRY A LOT). Of course, I’m only joking. I think this paper and its writers have made incredible progress. On the other hand, this column has stayed the same, adding nothing more to society and culture than retched poo jokes and sarcastic, inaccurate comments about people I’ve never met. I would like to mention some of my good points, though:

—I’ve never made fun of Greek Mythology majors, even though they’re majoring in fake stories that have no practical use, except to make people feel sorry for you for having no talent.
—I’ve never written a check for $1.37 worth of lettuce at the supermarket (true old lady story).
—My nerf hair gets all the ladies.
—I’ve never been naked in public (believe me, life is better this way).

Hey! Want to know what I think would be really neat? Yeah, well I’m gonna tell you anyway– having 40 million dollars. Right now you’re probably thinking, “Hey! Why didn’t I think of that?!?” Yes, you’ve probably dreamed of 39 or 41 million dollars, but no sensible person would ever dream of that. Numbers like that are just ridiculous and silly. 40 million is a decent person’s goal.

Think of what I could do with that money! I could go to class just for the joy of rubbing my wealthiness in the faces of others! Whenever a professor asked me a question, I could say “I have 40 million dollars– this makes your question rather illogical to me,” or “You have angered me. For this, I shall pay Lionel Ritchie to sing ‘the song that never ends’ at your house 24 hours a day until you die.” I could also hire Mr. T to dress up like a leprechaun and drive me around campus in a pink golf cart. Not that I like pink. Shut up.

The other day a friend of mine told me that besides his current girlfriend, he has a backup plan girl. This girl is his second choice if his current relationship crumbles. After hearing this, I thought to myself, “Wow, what if I had a backup plan girl? Actually, screw that– what if I had a girlfriend?”

I can imagine it now. It would turn out that my backup plan girl really likes some other guy, making me her backup plan guy. This would make us a perfect backup couple, in case we both sometime felt like having a less enthusiastic, half-assed relationship in which each of us constantly reminds the other that they aren’t quite as good-looking as one would hope. We could then go on half-assed dates where we could order food that we kind of like, but not as much as other things. Eventually we could get married, inviting to the wedding all those friends of ours that only a cold day in hell would make us want to hang out with. At the altar, instead of saying “I do,” we would say “I guess so” or “Yeah, but only because it lowers my taxes.” Later, we could have “slightly less quality than we wanted” children, and so on and so on.

I’m in an advertising class, where we’re making our own 30 second commercial. Here’s my commercial:

Narrator: “Scientists are conducting a blind taste test. On the left is Coke, and on the right is Shasta cola. Hubert, our subject, will now taste both.”

(Hubert tastes Coke, smiles. Hubert tastes Shasta, gags violently. Tries to break neck on table to trigger instant death)

Hubert: “It tasteth like chlorine water! Ye shall burn in hell, vile scientists!”

(Scientist scribbles in notebook, gives Hubert “thumbs up.”)

Hubert: “Confounded potty chair water! I shall rid my bowels of thee!”

(Hubert smashes Coke bottle on table, stabs himself in brain.)

Narrator: “This has been a public service announcement for cans. Cans are not only better recyclables, they’re also more difficult to kill others with. Only murderers and psychopath death merchants buy glass containers.”

Not to be uppity or anything, but a project such as this deserves no less than a C-.

See you next year, folks. Thank you for your time, your loyalty and your support.

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