Mr. Wilson sucks.Dude, school rocks. You rock too, but, school rocks most. Really, it fucking rocks. Everyone knows it too. You got a nice room, walls all covered with some hot posters from Maxim, and you heard some dude calling it The Cool Pad. Hell yeah. This place is pretty much like heaven, but you aren't sure if you can pop wicked boners in heaven, so maybe your dorm room is better. There is everything a chill dude like you needs: girls, booze, and the like.
Life is freakin sweet. That was a Family Guy quote, hell yeah. But really, everything is awesome and totally chill, except for this paper. Four pages of hell assigned by Mr. Wilson the tool bag. He sees how much fun you bros have with the chicas, and he mad, so he gets all jealous and makes you write a paper that's due at midnight tonight. What a dick. Ugh, what kind of fag assigns homework during rush week anyway?
So now you got all this work to do, and really, you don't know what the hell is going on. The paper's supposed to be about some dead chick writer, but you didn't read it and you had a wicked hangover for the past, like, three weeks, so you're all lost and shit. Worst of all, you don't give a shit. But, your 'rents are paying for this, and if your room is going to stay The Cool Pad, then you better be here and not get kicked out. Then again, the Pi Beta Phi are throwing a wicked kegger tonight, and you've heard that they are all skanks.
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.
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