I’ve been so busy going down on I-bankers this week that I’ve had little time to dedicate to going down on you — and to write this column. So sit tight, waste a couple of minutes you would’ve otherwise spent touching yourself, and pretend to enjoy this week’s prattle.
Dear Yale Carillon:
STOP SCREWING UP. You’d be surprised at how angry I get when the Harry Potter theme degenerates into a cacophonous mess of www.tubgirl.com proportions — emphasis on the caca. I can understand a wrong note here and there, but as soon as someone begins to think that you’ve arranged a rendition of Helen Keller: Live in Tibet, there’s a problem.
It’s not personal. In fact, I’ve heard it is quite an honor to be a Carilloneur, especially in your Dungeons and Dragons circles, but, to put things in perspective, how would you feel if Red Hot and Blue rehearsed with a megaphone in your courtyard twice a day? It’s safe to say that you’d find yourself with an aural fixation for sharp objects as well.
Very few things in this world can transcend the barrier between my low self esteem and pretense of apathy for life, but every once in a blue moon, I will have one to two nice things to say, and today is one of those days:
Number 1: Damn, I look great in this chick’s lingerie. Number 2: O great iPod — thank you. Thank you for being more than a Hipster status symbol (just wait until they’re selling vintage iPods at Salvo) — and for being more than an external hard drive for Bianca’s porn.
You are my 100 percent guaranteed, tried-and-true, no harsh-chemicals-required bum deterrent. Thanks to you, iPod, I don’t have to carry a miniature spray bottle of water whenever I walk down Broadway. Thanks to you, iPod, I can throw in those ear buds, sashay my way down to Viva’s with Dragostea din Tei on full blast, and pull a “Not listening … not listening … wait … did you just say you had free pot? … — nevermind … not listening … not listening … not listening…”
The iPod is the proven leader in preventing various types of panhandlers, from your average New Haven bums to the occasional rural bums, from bus money bums to poetry bums. When coupled with self prescribed Zoloft, the iPod is all you really need to make it out of this place alive — though be wary of sporting a generic iPod, otherwise you might find people throwing money at you. And, furthermore, want to know my little secret about the iPod?
It even works against fat people.
I can see you from a mile away. You look left. You look right. You strut down Cross Campus in your a striped suit, while one hand carries your briefcase and the other jerks off your ego. You obnoxiously guffaw on your cell phone, as you recount your awesome Goldman interview in an oh-so-careless-of-me loud voice. You walk into class late with nothing but a Yale-branded leather portfolio and politely explain your unfortunate disposition to the professor, or, if we’re really lucky, you’ll disrupt the class just to leave a tad bit earlier. Cut the BS, Mr. In-Ten-Years-I’ll-be-Working-on-Wall-Street-Making-a-Seven-Figure-Salary-and-Sleeping-Around-on-My-Wife-with-a-Transvestite.
While you’re certainly not fooling me (did you conveniently forget our time together in Thailand?), I wholeheartedly support and even admire your drive. Out of the kindness of my heart, I’ve even decided to throw in a couple stock questions for you practice:
What compelled you to wear black shoes with navy slacks?
Who bribed your admissions officer?
Why haven’t you preordered a bottle of Propecia?
Now there’s a case study for you, biatch.
Joe Aphinyanaphongs may have sucked an I-Banker, but he eschews consultants.