Troy Duffy III, fratstar
Last night at 11:59 I was hittin’ the gravity bong, and right as I took a huge rip, some sick nasty resolutions popped into my head. I tried to write them all down, but my Blackberry fucking died right at midnight from so many sororstitutes wishing me a happy new year or whatever. So I wrote them on that kid passed out in the ski goggles. Who the fuck was that dude?
One: I pledge to bag hoes. Two: I pledge to call my lawyer and have those “public urination” tickets taken care of. Who the fuck knew ‘on a pledge in the middle of Locust’ was public property? Three: I pledge to ball on bitches this semester for my intramural fratsketball team as much as I raged last semester for my pong team. Ballsdeep 2011!
Carol Duffy, Troy's mother
As Harold and I were wrapping up a happy and healthy 2010 with a few G&Ts and some Valium, we heard a bubbling sound coming from the basement. “Gravity!” someone yelled, and I realized that my charming son was doing his physics homework, before the semester had even started — the organizational skills found under those windswept blonde locks! Until that very moment I had forgotten to record my annual resolutions for our youngest and brightest son. So I slipped off my loafers, un–hooked my pearls and settled into my monogrammed stationery.
Firstly, I do sincerely hope that Troy finds a nice girl to woo this semester. Troy’s father calls him a heartbreaker, but I know he’s a sensitive boy. Go easy on him, ladies! Secondly, I wish for Troy to further his basketball career (8th grade Scarsdale Community Center champs!) with the same love and devotion that he gives his family and his Lord. Lastly, I hope he continues to explore his love for the classical studies. I was so proud to hear that he was accepted into the Order of Omega, which I can only assume is a branch of the Young Greek Scholars Honor Society. What a boy!
While reflecting on the new year, I am brought back to the puppy farm, suckling on my bitch in the plains of Yorkshire. Back then there was no greater joy than a bit of marrow cut fresh from the calf. Alack, those days have passed me by and now I sit, head perched on the easy chair, yearning for my master’s homecoming. I have simple pleasures, now: pondering life’s great fallacies, nibbling on a bit of chicken from the dinner table or watching, on those rare nights when my master takes his wife and copulates while I remain on the rug, a silent spectator in the night. In these long days, I have come no closer to reaching self–actualization.
Thus, my new year’s resolution for 2011: to find that goddamn bone I buried by the oak tree. Where the hell is that thing? Jesus, I’m just a dog. Lilia Hu, student
My new year’s resolution is to break out into the Penn party scene. I’m a freshman — go class of 2014! — but at the ripe old age of nine, I'm also the youngest one! However, that doesn’t make me any different from my peers. I too want to “party like it’s my birthday” and “krunk," whatever that is. There’s a lot for me to learn here, though. For example, people keep telling me about Mary Jane. She sounds really fun! Is she the president or something?
I really want to attend more parties this year. I stayed away from them last semester because the drinks were gross. I do like Skittles a lot, though. I eat Skittles on Halloween, but I never imagined drinking them! I felt funny afterward. Still, I like discovering all the party scene lingo. I’m already pretty good at eating ice cream sandwiches, wearing pearl necklaces and petting pussies, so I think I have an advantage going in!
Irving Lanard, professor
I do not have high expectations for 2011. Why, you naïve little fetus, may ask? Because there is no use for such frivolous concepts as “hope” and “happiness;” rather, one can only expect lies and devastation. That is what Mother Life brings each year: a package of despair, wrapped in a tiny, sparkly, horrible ribbon of misery, delivered to your door by that wretched stork of ruin.
My new year’s resolutions? Hmm, how about students who remember my name? Or students who know what the hell my course is about? Silly old me, I forgot that no one gives a damn about dramaturgy. No one gives a damn about worthless Professor Lanard and his little lectures on Rent, which he spends hours working on alone in his parents’ basement, eating second–rate Chinese food and watching episodes of the Golden Girls, weeping. Oh god, the weeping. Only Dorothy knows my pain … God, I’m so alone.