The Onion Read online

  Students talking about things much more interesting than some girl you miss.

  “That guy [you] acts like he’s the only person in history to be separated from his high school girlfriend after leaving for college,” said your roommate, who, after examining a photo prominently displayed on your dorm-room desk, described your girlfriend as being “not even that hot.” “I’m sorry, but some of us are trying to actually start the next chapter of our lives here in college, so forgive me if I am not exactly on the edge of my seat about the unfolding drama of somebody’s high school love.”

  Since relocating to your new home in the dorms earlier this month, sources report, you have gone on and on about your 17-year-old girlfriend at every possible opportunity. Worse, you have done so without apparent regard for the fact that your utterly clichéd scenario could not be less interesting to your fellow students, most of whom have spent their time hooking up with each other instead of mooning over some boring high school chick they’re probably never going to see again after the next few weeks.

  Students interviewed by The Onion confirmed no one cares that “this is the first time [you’ve] tried to make a serious go of a long-distance relationship,” that “[your girlfriend] is totally worth it because she’s the most special person [you’ve] ever known,” or about any of the other things you keep going on about to anyone within earshot.

  When asked to rate their interest level in your high school girlfriend, an overwhelming 93 percent of your fellow students responded “zero.” Furthermore, when asked to list topics they would rather pay attention to than your girlfriend, they cited subjects ranging from dorm-safety procedures to cafeteria meal-card distribution policy to Earth Science 101.

  “When asked to rate their interest level in your high school girlfriend, an overwhelming 93 percent of your fellow students responded ‘zero.’ ”

  According to the campus-wide survey, interest was similarly nonexistent in several other areas of your life, including the fact that you were the editor of your high school yearbook, that you really miss that one cool restaurant you used to hang out at in your hometown, and that some high school buddy of yours may be coming up for a visit in a few weeks if he can get his father to lend him his car.

  Your girlfriend cemented her No. 1 ranking as the least interesting subject on campus, however, when you became highly emotional about her at a party last Saturday after having what eyewitnesses said was “only, like, maybe two beers.”

  “[You] even told this one girl who obviously wasn’t hitting on [you] that [you were] taken, and then proceeded to talk her ear off about how great [your] girlfriend is,” said one of your floormates, who wished to remain anonymous for fear of being trapped in another dull conversation about your girlfriend. “What a [total pussy].”

  Your girlfriend.

  “Your girlfriend cemented her No. 1 ranking as the least interesting subject on campus, however, when you became highly emotional about her at a party last Saturday after having what eyewitnesses said was ‘only, like, maybe two beers.’ ”

  Furthermore, dorm insiders claimed that everyone is glad you won’t be able to make it to the big get-to-know-each-other floor outing at the Cheesecake Factory this Thursday night at 8 p.m., as that is your scheduled chat time with whatever-her-stupid-name is.

  Your girlfriend could not be reached for comment, as she was busy French-kissing some high school dude as of press time.

  STATSHOT

  COMMENTARY

  I’ve Left My Haltingly Awkward Voice Message; Now The Ball’s In Her Court

  As a single guy who’s gotten out there a fair amount, I’ve learned how to play the game. The way I see it, if someone’s interested, great. If not, no skin off my nose. Take last night: I got the number of this hot young thing at a bar and decided to give her a call. And now that I’ve left my painfully uncomfortable six-minute-long voice message on her cell, I’m not going to waste my time obsessing over my next move. The ball’s in her court.

  By Vince Cazno

  If she wants to make the next move and return my panicked and barely coherent phone message, that’s fine by me. If not, she can take a hike.

  See, I’ve laid the groundwork, and if I do say so myself, it was pretty fucking painful: I stared blankly at my phone for a few hours; I dialed the number and said hello but in a voice so low that I had to clear my throat and repeat it several times; I spent a full minute awkwardly trying to explain that I was the guy drinking vodka tonics, but then, realizing that other people she was talking to were drinking gin and tonics, which look pretty similar, I said that maybe she’d remember me as the one wearing a bomber jacket and singing along to most of the songs that came on the jukebox; after that, I sealed the deal by stuttering my own name a half dozen times before spitting out “Vince.”

  Or did I say Victor?

  Look, I could be a total loser and stay up all night waiting for her to get back to me, and I almost certainly will do that. But, why bother? If she calls, she calls. I put my sweaty, desperate cards on the table, and now it’s on her. And unless I’m mistaken—which I usually am—as soon as she hears the sound of my trembling voice she’ll be digging through her purse for the Arby’s receipt that I frantically scribbled my name and number on.

  What can I say? I guess my voice just has that effect on some women.

  And when she does call, I am not going to freak out like it’s the first time a woman’s ever called me or something. In fact, I may just let it ring and keep her on ice for a while, assuming I don’t panic first and start screaming into the receiver the second I hear the phone ring.

  “After that, I sealed the deal by stuttering my own name a half dozen times before spitting out ‘Vince.’ Or did I say Victor?”

  Because I’m the kind of player who likes to come on too strong. Just a nice, pitiful, borderline disturbing phone message, and I’m on with my life. It’s not like I invited her and her sister to come have tacos with my parents and me tomorrow night or anything. At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. To be honest, the last few minutes of the message were kind of a blur.

  All I’m saying is, if she wants to get in touch with me, she knows how to reach me. After all, when I left the voicemail, I helpfully supplied her with my cell phone number, my home number, my work number, both my e-mail addresses, and my old pager number. I even repeated the info twice so she could find a pen and paper and write it all down. I just hope that she doesn’t communicate by fax machine. If she does, well, then, tough cookies, because I don’t have one.

  “I just hope that she doesn’t communicate by fax machine. If she does, well, then, tough cookies, because I don’t have one. That’s just how I roll.”

  That’s just how I roll.

  Hey, if she doesn’t want to come over to my tiny, filthy apartment for a brief round of underwhelming, surprisingly messy sex, then that’s her loss. Really, it’s cool. I got a whole line of girls ready to politely exchange numbers with me as I stare at my feet, too petrified to make eye contact. It’s not like I’m hard up for females or anything, someone whose breasts I can clumsily fumble over until, in disgust and disappointment, she makes up an excuse to leave.

  Yes, sir, I’ll just be here hanging out, playing it cool, and checking my voicemail messages every 45 seconds or so. No big deal. No big deal whatsoever.

  Unless you think something went wrong with her voicemail and she couldn’t retrieve my message. Could that have happened? Huh. You know what? Maybe I should call her back real quick. Just in case. Yeah. Just in case.

  NEWS IN BRIEF

  Gay Couple Has Banal Sex

  MINNEAPOLIS—Jerome Ostrowski and Barry Lipner engaged in the practice of banal sex Monday, sources reported. “After we got home from Don Giovanni’s, the restaurant we go to pretty much every Monday night, Barry started giving me one of his predictable mood-setting backrubs,” Ostrowski said. “After five minutes of that, he mounted me and put in a hundred or so quick thrusts. All in all, not one of ou
r more memorable encounters.” Lipner said that Ostrowski’s reciprocal act of fellatio was “serviceable.”

  TIPS

  Dating Tips

  The dating world can be a bewildering place. Here are some tips to help you navigate the perilous waters of love:

  Ladies: Your date’s salary divided by your own equals the base you should let him get to on the first date.

  If you are overweight and socially awkward, consider “online dating.” You can go on a dragonslaying adventure instead of to a movie, play games on Pogo.com instead of dancing, and masturbate instead of having real sex.

  Do not bathe for several days prior to a date to get your pheromones good and strong.

  Never date a married person, unless he or she is just about to leave his or her spouse and simply waiting for the right moment.

  When planning a romantic candlelit dinner, the right music can create the perfect mood. Put on The Best Of Spike Jones to create a freewheeling, anything-goes atmosphere.

  Maintain a casual, “Let’s just have fun” attitude until the other person starts seeing someone else. Then let the tears and accusations fly.

  Remember: There’s only one way to console a widow.

  To make a lasting impression on a first date, declare yourself his or her eternal soulmate and propose marriage.

  Why don’t you ask that Julie girl out? She’s a lovely girl. You’re practically 35, for God’s sake. Fine, rip your mother’s heart out.

  If you are a princess being courted by a low-born but beloved suitor, be sure to elude the watchful eye of the lord high chamberlain.

  Instead of going out tonight, punch yourself in the nuts three times and the heart twice. This will save you approximately $75.

  COMMENTARY

  Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel Or Something To That Effect

  Excuse me, beautiful, mind if I stand next to you and do some talking? I don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help but notice that you were sitting all alone and enjoying yourself. There’s just one problem: If you’re here right now, then that means heaven must be missing an angel or something to that effect. Though I doubt anyone’s noticed since there are so many angels up there anyway.

  By Aaron Kaplan

  I’m trying to say that you’re hot.

  You look pretty tired, though. Maybe it’s because you’ve been running through my mind for a while. I think about hot women a lot, so for the purposes of this argument let’s just say you were one of the ones that I’d previously been thinking about, even though we just met. Are you considering having sex with me yet? Because if not, I could ask you if it hurt when you hit the ground after falling from heaven. I know I already said the thing about you being an angel, but maybe you didn’t catch it the first time. Or if you did, maybe it will seem like I’m building off that. I’m trying to tell you that you’re pretty like an angel I want to sleep with, is the point.

  What else is there? Oh, are you from Tennessee? Because I think you’re a seven. I might have gotten that wrong, but you get the gist of it. I’m using the name of a state to express how much I’d like to see you naked, but I don’t really care where you’re from.

  Can we just go now? All right, well then why don’t you tell me your sign. I don’t really believe in astrology, but maybe you do and will go home with me because I come across as open-minded for mentioning it. I think I’m a Virgo. Pisces? One of those. I’m sure we’d be good together, because you’re very attractive, as I’ve said before, which I think is really the most important thing anyway. Speaking of which, do you have a license? Because you’re driving me somewhere that’s complimentary to you.

  “Are you from Tennessee? Because I think you’re a seven. I might have gotten that wrong, but you get the gist of it. I’m using the name of a state to express how much I’d like to see you naked, but I don’t really care where you’re from.”

  Your eyes are blue like the sky or water, whichever you prefer. And your lips are really red like—I don’t know—that girl’s lips over there. Also, I’d look great cumming on your shirt. Or your shirt’s becoming, I mean. I want to be cumming on your shirt or in your general vicinity is what I’m getting at. I didn’t quite say it right, but the sentiment is there.

  So do you have a boyfriend or what? Because I don’t have all night to waste on talking to you if you’re dating someone.

  “Do you come here often? If so, would you like to go back with me to my apartment and have sex with me? What if I told you I would rearrange the alphabet for some reason?”

  Do you have a mirror in your pocket so I can see myself in your pants? How about a quarter, so I can call my mother and tell her I found the girl of my dreams? I’m not actually going to call her, because she’s been dead for two years and it’s actually up to 35 cents now anyway and I’d probably just use my cell phone, but I’ll take the quarter from you if it will get you in the sack.

  We should go back to my place and do some math. We’ll add a bed, subtract our clothes, and do other math stuff related to fucking.

  Look, it’s obvious where this is leading. I’m saying all the right things and you haven’t walked away yet, so let’s just cut to the chase: Do you come here often? If so, would you like to go back with me to my apartment and have sex with me? What if I told you I would rearrange the alphabet for some reason? I’m thinking of asking you what you’d like for breakfast tomorrow, in the hopes that you might sleep with me because I implied that it’s inevitable.

  Can you see where I’m going here?

  I guess I should say I think I’ve seen you someplace before. And I don’t mean earlier, when I was staring at you. I’m pretty sure we’ve met in a past life or in my dreams or something, so you should feel comfortable lowering your standards around me. Also, your shoes are nice, so I’m sensitive and observant. If you really need me to, I could buy you a drink to show you I have some money and then we could do it in the bathroom.

  Wait, don’t go. Just one more thing. I lost my phone number. Can I have yours so I can call you later about having sex?

  NEWS IN BRIEF

  Man Breaks Out Dating Boxers

  SUFFOLK, VA—Having secured a date for the first time in seven months, area resident Andrew Agee removed his dating boxers from the bottom of his dresser. “No tighty-whities for me tonight,” said Agee, taking off a pair of dingy Fruit Of The Loom briefs and slipping on the blue Calvin Klein boxers with a small, understated white “CK” logo near the bottom of the right leg. “A girl might actually see me in my underwear.” Agee added that if the date goes well and future encounters with the woman seem likely, he will purchase a three-pack of boxers.

  NEWS

  20,000 Tons Of Pubic Hair Trimmed In Preparation For Valentine’s Day

  WASHINGTON—Flushed with anticipation and ready to emerge from another long, cold winter, millions of Americans participated this week in the annual tradition of trimming their pubic regions in time for Valentine’s Day.

  Americans all across the country once again prepared for Valentine’s Day by carefully thinning their pubis.

  A ritual as old as time itself, this year’s pubis-shearing is expected to be among the largest in decades, with more than 20,000 tons of curly clippings predicted to fall by Feb. 14.

  “My boyfriend and I are going to see As You Like It and then enjoy a nice candlelit three-course dinner,” said Brooklyn resident Lydia Simonson, who along with many other hopeful lovers will soon excuse herself from her daily duties, retreat to a nearby bathroom, and carefully tend to the area around her genitalia. “It’s going to be so romantic!”

  Indeed, tiny scissors and electric razors have already begun to fly off drugstore shelves, while all across the country legs are dangling precariously over open bathtub drains. According to statistics from the National Depilatory Council, the week before Valentine’s Day is by far the busiest time of the year for shaving, trimming, sculpting, playful pattern-making, waxing, and even manscaping.

  “David an
d I are going to take a long walk around the park and then maybe on the way home we’ll stop and grab some ice cream,” said Julie Stibbons, a Dallas-area design consultant who recently made use of grooming shears, a pair of tweezers, and two magnifying mirrors to contribute her 0.4 ounces to the nation’s total raw tonnage. “I wonder if David will send me flowers at work like last year.”

  Added Stibbons, whose smooth vaginal region will show no signs of stubble for days to come, “He’s just so wonderful.”

  “In 1947, the first year records were kept, Americans only mowed about 1.25 tons off their ‘crotch lawns,’ while in the mid-1970s private trimmings were so rare that documentation was actually abandoned until 1981.”

  While this year promises to be prolific, experts said the country has gone through many personal grooming phases over the years. In 1947, the first year records were kept, Americans mowed only about 1.25 tons off their “crotch lawns,” while in the mid-1970s private trimmings were so rare that documentation was actually abandoned until 1981.

  But with the booming economy of the 1990s, the U.S. saw a significant resurgence in pre–Valentine’s Day shearing and plucking.

  “There’s a huge spike every year in the first half of February,” said Brooks Watson, who is head of sales at Schick, makers of the TrimStyle razor for women. “The rest of the year, Americans generate about 50,000 tons of total trimmings, but in the week before this special holiday we see a massive jump. It’s a veritable clear-cutting down there.”

  “Bzzzzzzzz,” he added. “Timber!”

  According to Schick’s marketing research, during the Valentine’s season, U.S. pubic hair removal rates briefly approach those of Brazil, traditionally the smoothest country on the planet. While Americans seem willing to chop it all off for their annual celebration of romance, personal trimming still varies by season and plummets to levels almost as low as Greece’s during the week of Thanksgiving.