Finally. Thanksgiving break is here. I am really excited to take a break and eat some home-cooked stuffing, but I think we could all benefit from you passing on the carb-free turkey and sticking to that cocaine and Splenda water diet I suggested. How else do you think I keep this rock-hard stomach distended? As Yale/Harvard, or “The Game,” if you will, looms closer and closer, I thought these ditties might leave you with just enough insecurity to go ahead and start drinking now. No, really. Just start. Now.

You don’t have to worry about going to Y/H sober if you’re dead.

Dear YSAC:

I need to discuss a very serious matter with you, though it is something that’s really hard for me to talk about — honestly, I’m still in shock that this university would sponsor such an event like the “Mr. Yale” competition. I think I speak on behalf of myself as well as the whole of the Yale community when I say that this pageant idea is utterly distasteful and offensive — even barbaric. Have you no shame? Have you no dignity? Have JonBenet and other child pageant stars like her all died in vain? I am disgusted that your organization could be so insensitive, especially during a time when the repercussions of JonBenet’s passing flows stronger still in our hearts. I don’t know who or what, even, raised you, but my parents taught me that when a beautiful, blonde pageant princess meets an untimely fate in Colorado, we pay our respects — we don’t mock her legacy like a bunch of hoodlums.

YSAC — you make me sick.

Dear Hipster:

Fat people wear skinny jeans — skinny people just wear jeans.

Dear Self-Obsessed Yalie (i.e. everyone):

Why is everyone here so gung-ho about being original? If I hear one more ’mo exclaim that he is not your typical ’mo or if I hear one more Hispanic say he is not your typical custodian, I might shoot myself (maybe this time I won’t mess up).

I, too, thought that I was oh-so-original. I mean, here I am, this midget of an Asian, who was born and raised in the South — Nashville, Tennessee, to be exact. You’re probably thinking, “I know for a fact that he’s from California!” and that’s because you’ve mistaken me for either Michael Huang or Henry Ng, et al.

No. Seriously.

I’m not that irrational for thinking that someone like me was hard to come by. Are we not taught that each and every one of us is unique? Do our mothers not name us “Bobby Kristina” or “Sean Preston” in order to separate us from the children who live in crack dens? In this same light, how the hell do Long Island Jews manage to differentiate themselves from one another?

The lesson to be learned from this rant? Forget what your nanny told you. In the big picture, you are actually no more special than that crazy bald guy who talks to himself while rummaging through trash cans or the Urban Outfitters cashier. As tragic as it may seem, it’s time for you to face the truth (though may I advise that you pose with the sides of your waist parallel to the face of the mirror, so you look thinner while you cope — and try not to look so poor).

Dear Gym Rat,

It’s obvious why you should be here: You were going to work out that bulbous expanse you call a stomach and maybe get a little cardio done if your heart doesn’t give way first. But I’m not staring at you because your sports bra has ‘pit stains, nor am I counting your split ends or the dimples in your cellulite. I’m staring at you because, if you are here to work out, why are you taking the ELEVATOR?

What am I doing in the elevator? Uh … the stairs broke (?).

*Awkward elevator silence*

Joe Aphinyanaphongs wouldn’t know the House of Payne from the Waffle House, even if he is from the Dirty South. But he does have damn sexy abs.