It’s a typical Monday morning and as usual, my facade of fabulousness seems to contradict the fact that it’s 9 a.m. In case you were wondering what my secret is, I live in Paris time. That’s why I’m so catty, arrogant and well, French. But, alas, I digress.

I was sauntering along the personal catwalk that is Commons when I was practically knocked over by some fool with a tray full of sausages! It was a veritable pork blitzkrieg! I am sorry, but when you see someone coming, you go right! Paris time or not, this is America and we go right. I had thought this was a commonplace practice, but apparently I was sadly mistaken. I was left on the cold floor of Commons to mull over my options:

1) Just get up and brush it off like it never happened. It’s a big campus, just keep on movin’! It’s like that time Naomi Campbell took that spill at the Vivienne Westwood show in front of all those flashbulbs from Vogue. The only people who saw me were some freshman girls. Then I remembered that Naomi had an excuse — she was wearing stilettos.

2) Follow this early-morning ego-assassin and let him know that I’ve read Emily Post, and that I don’t care if he hasn’t, because this is America and we may not be able to run public schools, but we go right! RIGHT, DAMNIT, RIGHT!

Then I glanced up at the huge portrait of George Bush to my (and this is just by chance, and not a literary device) right. What would good ol’ Georgie do? Better yet, what would his Right (okay, this time it was on purpose) wing son do? The answer, my friends? The answer lies in option number three (which just happens to be three words. Jesus on a pogo stick! This is like reading Beowulf! Oh, the sheer allegory of it all!)

3) Wage ceaseless jihad.

It’s the perfect solution! Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? Next time you find yourself in this situation, or any situation, just remember these three simple words: wage ceaseless jihad. Cut off in traffic? Wage ceaseless jihad! That girl just took the last bagel? Wage ceaseless jihad! Roommate looked at you funny? Wage ceaseless jihad!

Now, I know what you’re thinking —

“Bradley,” you say, “I don’t even know this person! How could you tell me to ‘wage ceaseless jihad’ against her/him!?”

I know, I know, it does seem a little ridiculous, this whole idea of attacking those you’ve never even met, but that’s what the online facebook is for! With all the press that the anonymous, spontaneous waging-of-ceaseless-jihad is getting nowadays, I heard that our good friends at Yale ITS are going to make sweeping changes to the facebook. Right now, you have to know the name, college, and possibly even the home address of the recipient of your misdirected but totally warranted rage.

Gather close, children, for you are about to see tomorrow — today!

According to a recent rumor, there are plans in the works to re-organize the facebook more like the beloved childhood game of “Guess Who!” Soon you will be able to wade through those pictures of potential playmates, victims and sausage-toting freaks by such wonderful criteria as moustache, glasses, male pattern baldness, cup size and even the ubiquitous unibrow!

Once you’ve identified him or her by some defining feature (perhaps poor dental work or visible tattoos), the time has come to exact your revenge. I would recommend taking classes at the gym first. This semester, at my request, there is one being offered based on the movie “Enough.” It combines Israeli streetfighting, aerobics and salsa dancing with handguns. I think it’s listed as “Spandex, Thighs and Videotape.” Once you’ve finished with this stage of the training, it’s time for confrontation.

It was with the catlike moves of J. Lo in mind that I kicked open the door to Commons. My unitard was riding up a little bit, but I was numb with fury. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, toting an entire tray full of bacon. Using the ninjitsu techniques I had picked up at the gym, I scaled the Fro Yo machine in under a second. I crouched on top of it, ready to pounce. It was at this very moment that I heard the shrill cackle of a lesser primate, nay, a lesser primate being flogged with a nine iron.

“Oh my God! I saw you yesterday! Make sure you don’t fall! Walk much?! Oh my GOD! YOU ARE WEARING A UNITARD!”

My cover was blown. My pig-loving nemesis saw me trying to hide my frame behind the “fat free butter pecan” sign, shrugged, and walked by, chuckling to himself. My gaze turned slowly to the homo erectus wearing a headband to my left. I inhaled deeply.

“Okay,” I sighed, “three words –“

Bradley Bailey is a fashion fundamentalist.