They All Become Blueberries

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

So Much For Stamp Collecting

Fall Break at home brought a shocking surprise.

My father bought a Harley Davidson motorcycle back in March. Now the only things he ever wears are flannel shirts and bike tees, and he has been building an obsession with motorcycle memorabilia ever since. So far I've been able to handle the die-cast models, and the blankets, and the special edition beer cans. Hell, I could even handle the ridiculous 13 fucking Harley paintings in our upstairs' den.

But, this folks, this has gone too far:


It's the newest addition to his collection, and it has complete light and sound action. It even "revs up" when you turn it on. This I can't handle.

Also, he bought a pair of chaps. I saw my father in leather chaps. No son should ever have to witness such a thing.

Please Check Availablity at the Reference Desk

Drowsy and lazy, jamming out to some Bob Dylan in Davis Library as I attempt to finish 25-30 more pages of journal entries for Leon Katz's drama class, something finally sparked my interest again in Elizabethan tragicomedies and their satirical underpinnings.

"Who wants to eat my wife out after I fill her with cum?"

Yes, it came from a computer nearby, and, no, it was not a comforting feeling when I noticed the words "SUCK MY TITS" sprawled across the screen three feet away. The man chatting turned around, glared, and turned back to refocus his attention on porn. He obviously doesn't mind that he stares at gaping vaginas in a public facility used primarily for undergraduate research.

Suddenly John Marston's assumption in the The Malcontent that "all humans are sexual acrobats" looks much more intriguing than it once did.

Or not. Yeah, definitely not.