Remember when you dressed up in Superman pajamas, jumped off a chair and got a concussion? Reading the following article will look stupider and hurt more. But keep reading, because, despite the pain, vomiting and temporary memory loss, you could use a slight dose of childhood. So instead of using this newspaper to wipe your ass because your roommates forgot to buy toilet paper, save your butt cheeks the ink stains and embrace your inner child by reading about mine.
I recently shattered all accepted standards of adult decency by dropping my pants and underwear all the way down to my ankles at a urinal in Meyerson Hall. I carefully took position at the last urinal in the row. (Even half-naked, there were certain urinal codes of conduct I was unwilling to break.) A pleasant draft tickled the hairs on my ass while I shook the dew from my lily. I felt like a kid again. As I reveled in my immaturity, revered Psychology Professor Andrew Shatte entered the restroom and said, "Wow, that's monkey-butt ugly."
"STYB! [Suck Turds, You Bitch]," I responded. Sufficiently disturbed with my nudity and mysterious acronym, he fled the bathroom muttering something about abnormal psychology.
But, No! I wasn't crazy. As I pulled up my pants and took a bite out of a large mint I found in the urinal, I realized that pissing with my pants down was more meaningful than just pissing with my pants down -- it was a symbol for how I wanted to live: like a kid. From now on, I declared, I would no longer siphon the python, or shake dew from my lily but wee. I would no longer be a man, but a child. With a final swallow of my minty mouthful, I decided to get serious about being childish.
Why? Because maturity is a futile and unnecessary struggle. Especially in college, where the theme song of every weekend is "We are regressing back to grade school,/ Back to grade school we are regressing," sung to the tune of "Intergalactic" by the Beastie Boys.
Why do we attempt to subjugate an inner-child that will always, despite our efforts, manage to claw its way out? Why not just accept our immaturity? Fraternity brothers, starved for fraternal affection and missing the childhood days when they innocently took baths with their real brothers, know that not even conditioned homophobia can deny a throbbing inner child. Intra-frat drunken arguments often take the following turn:
Brother One: "Yo asshole, why don't you suck my dick?"
Brother Two: "Shut up bitch, you suck my dick."
Brother One: "No, suck my dick!"
Brother Two (bursting into tears): "Okay. But all I really want is to take a bath with you.
Brother One (now crying also): "I love you -- go turn on the water."
Determined to fully embrace my inner child and accept the virtues of immaturity, I left Meyerson Hall and went home to watch The A-Team, my
favorite childhood show. Mr. T threw one bad guy over a bar, another bad guy through a glass storefront and a third bad guy off a hotel balcony into the pool below. Hannibal said, "I love it when a plan comes together."
After the show, I was hungry. Mr. T always makes me hungry. It's because he's beefy. Calling my mom at home, I asked her to drive over and breast-feed me. Then I realized it was illegal in every state but Mississippi for 20-year-olds to breast-feed. My mom was disappointed we couldn't meet for dinner, but supportive as always, she dropped off some pairs of my five-year-old brother's Batman underwear and some other important items. Now I was ready to head full-swing into the playground of my second childhood. I said, "Let's rock kid-style, bitch." I was dressed only in Batman undies (they were tight -- real tight). In my left hand was a Star Wars lunchbox filled with Dunkaroos, Gumby and Pokey figurines, crayons and an Archie comic. In my right hand was a bowling pin. On a strap around my neck was a little tape player screeching More Songs from Pooh Corner by Kenny Loggins. (From "Highway" to the "Danger Zone" to "Pooh Corner." Damn, Kenny Loggins is washed up.) I left my apartment and my life changed forever.
First order of business: running around my high-rise floor drawing penises and vaginas on the walls in crayon.
Second order of business: yelling at my dumbfounded RA, ("Leave me alone you stupid ass-face!").
Third order of business: scampering down to Der Komissary, buying Hershey's syrup and spraying it all over everyone in the lobby.
Fourth order of business: hurling my bowling pin at a guy who rushed me in an attempt to take away my chocolate syrup.
Fifth order of business: being intercepted by University Police.
Sixth and Seventh orders of business: having my Batman underwear replaced with an orange prison jumpsuit, and watching Bubba (my cell-mate) eat my Dunkaroos.
Eighth order of business: Bubba saying after lights-out, "You like being a kid, kid? I'll show you who's your daddy."
I'm writing this article on toilet paper in my cell. Childhood is a bitch.
Dave Yankelewitz was genetically engineered by the finest European scientists to be a perfect specimen of humanity.
