Up until going abroad a few months ago (in a place with not-so-great toilets, as it were), I had a really hard time dropping a deuce anywhere but home. It wasn’t that I couldn’t; in a high stress, emergency scenario, I was perfectly capable of using a public toilet. But it was never a comfortable experience, and despite my recent maturation, pooping in a public place is still something of a trying experience for me.
It may well be that I am alone in struggling to drop trou in public restrooms. I have a hard time believing that I am #foreveralone, but even if we say for the sake of argument that I am, I’m still sure that everyone, I mean virtually EVERY man, woman, child, and other, prefers to poop in comfortable circumstances. It’s why dogs prefer the grass to the sidewalk, why cats prefer anywhere but the litter box to the litter box (wait no that’s because cats are total dicks nevermind).
I pooped in the big-kid toilet therefore I deserve some whisky.
It’s senior year, and despite the fact that I have yet to figure out what the hell I’m going to do after they kick me out of this university, the number of fucks I give about my classes every aspect of my life is approaching zero faster than you can say senioritis. So I’ve come up with a system in which I reward myself for doing the little everyday things. It’s sort of like getting a gold star for putting away your toys after playtime in kindergarten, but for grown-ups lazy-ass college students.
If you’re anything like my mom, you’re saying, “but going to class and doing your homework already has a reward, it’s called a diploma.” Besides the fact that you’re not being funny, working 40 hours a week at a less-shitty job than if I didn’t go to college is not going to keep me off Facebook during class. I need something immediate. Like candy. Or vodka. I’m not talking about one candy bar after a long day of classes and homework. That shit may have worked freshman through junior year, but it sure as hell isn’t going to cut it now that I’ve realized getting straight A’s will have virtually the same effect on my GPA as straight C’s (thank you, engineering, for making me take a full course load every fucking year). No, with this knowledge always at the back of my mind, I’ve had to start rewarding myself for even the simplest of tasks. So, just like putting toys away = 1 gold star:
With all this talk of the end of the world, I’ve had plenty of time to think about all the men things I wish I could have done before we all face inevitable doom. And, because I’m home for winter break and there is absolutely nothing to do in this godforsaken town except watch TV and get drunk, these thoughts naturally led me to wonder about all the fictional characters I’ve been spending so much time watching. This list could (and does) go on forever, but I have narrowed it down to a select few. If there were a party large enough to contain all the sexy characters ever to grace our television sets, these men would be on the VIPenis list.
So it’s all over. Despite your healthy diet of Cheesie’s, alcohol, and more Cheesie’s, as well as your hobbies of binge-drinking, binge-regretting, and orgo all-nighters – it looks like your life is going to come to an early end. However, the end of the world doesn’t have to be all bad. Here are several ideas to help improve your final evening on Earth:
Also like in baseball, there's usually a pitcher and a catcher.
There’s a question we all ask our single friends regularly, usually when they show up looking unkempt, worried, and possibly pregnant.
“How far did you get with them?”
This is a question that SEEMS like it would have simple answers. “I let him touch my vagina.” “I touched her vagina,” “We started to get naked but I ejaculated prematurely,” these are all reasonable responses. But, for whatever reasons, (mostly embarrassment) people never give these answers. Instead they rely on euphemisms, the most popular of which is “The Base System.”
Which would be fine, that’s cool guys, its totally fair to equate sex to baseball – they’re both exhausting team-sports that are hard to watch for more than ten minutes – and, just like baseball, I don’t really understand the rules. But if we’re going to use a base system, we need to have one common definition for all the bases. And right now, that consensus does not exist. Is first base kissing? Does tongue have to be involved? Where does tactile vaginal contact fall? Boobs? What about BOOBS?! WHO’S GOING TO TALK ABOUT BOOBS?!
Don’t worry, we will. And at great length.
Anyway, here are the two different ways you can interpret the base system. Which one is right? Sound off in the poll below.
FIRST BASE
Sometimes you can just guess...
Point, by Sad Bones Malone
First base inhabits this weird realm of ambiguity. Everyone understands that kissing is involved in some capacity, but this begs the question: “how much kissing?” We both agree that a peck does not constitute first base, but I feel that to actually get to first base, you have to be “making out.” There is an underlying expectation that there’s a little bit of hands, and a little bit more action than a single kiss. It should be a semi-extended duration that might involve a little bit of exploration. First base contains a whole host of operations — hickeys, ear-play, fondling — these are all entry actions to the sexual experience. And since first base is the entry way to the other bases, all these activities are constituted within first base.
Counterpoint, by Manua Hiki-Hiki
You have to be kidding me!? I mean, you have to do a little exploring in the land of the mouth to be considered “at first base,” but first base does not mean you have to be searching for the hidden realm of the esophagus. First base is an important step, but IT’S JUST THE FIRST FUCKING BASE!!! Using your definition as first base is like saying you don’t know anything about geography until you know the capital of Zimbabwe (you should really look into learning that though, as Harare is bomb as Hell). Next thing you’re going to tell me is that I have to be inside a girl’s pants to be at second base. Like, really? Really?!?
SECOND BASE
Although he's usually hopelessly out of breath by the time he rounds third.
Point, by Manua Hiki-Hiki
Actually, let me just preempt what I expect will be your naively asinine answer: There’s no way being inside a girl’s pants qualifies as second base. I have far too much reverence for the vagina to place it at such an easily accessible base. If a 500-pound bear-creature named Prince Fielder can make it to second-base in a game of baseball, then searching the mystical vagina cannot be second-base – because second base is PRETTY FUCKING EASY to get to. Want to know what’s not easy to get to? The Vagina. Therefore, those two things cannot be equivalent — it’s math. We all know the real second base: Boobtown. Boobtown is a very important step and deserves its own base. You cannot neglect boobs. Boobs are awesome. Getting to touch a girl’s boobs is like riding a bike for the first time: both are important landmarks in your life, both cause a big sense of accomplishment… and I ejaculated after both. All excitement issues aside, boobs are very important in the grand scheme of the “game of love” and deserve their own base.
Counterpoint, by Bad Bones Malone
Listen guys, I don’t want you to think I’m coming from the wrong place. I love boobs, and I have the upmost respect for boobs — in fact, some of my best friends are boobs. But if we only have three bases to work with, boobs aren’t deserving of their own landmark.
She just has... so much... you know... CHARACTER!!!
Because, as much as I like boobs, they aren’t even close to being equal the vagina. When a guy gets drunk and gets a little boob-gropey it’s “a little creepy,” when a man decides to go straight for vaginas it’s “a little bit of a felony.” Those lines are drawn for a reason, the vagina is simply far, far more important than boobs.
The fact that boobs don’t get their own base also has to do with the function of the base-system — it’s shorthand that can be used to denote romantic progress. And, while I’m sure it was nice, I don’t really care if you touched a girls boobs. We aren’t in junior high anymore. Boobs get touched all the time — and if you’re making out with a girl it’s not an unreasonable jump to assume you might have felt her up. If you’re using the proper definition of first base — my version — then you’ve already covered fondling anyway. Congratulations.
The first time you touch a girl’s vagina is important — it’s the first time you have a chance to let her fake an orgasm (laaaaadies), which as far as I’m concerned is the EXPRESS PURPOSE OF SEXUAL ACTIVITY.
So if you’re going to chart the progression of sexual activity, then you better fucking have a stop reserved for the first time you take an action that actually ends where you’re trying to go.
THIRD BASE Consensus: I think we can all agree here: Once the trouser dragon has entered the salivary sea, you’re at third base.
HOME Consensus: If you’ve solved the coital conundrum, you’re home.
The proposed base systems have been researched by many a student at Harvard, Princeton, and other places where these things never occur… and that is why we need your help. Vote in the poll below and help solve history’s second most important Trojan War (ahhh, get it? Trojan. Like the condom. SEX).
With any luck, one day you'll make a heinous rock all of your own.
If you’re like me, a socially awkward alcoholic, you haven’t found your NU love yet. This is probably because the venues you most often frequent have three Greek letters in their names and smell vaguely like Four Loko and urine. Haven’t found any keepers while projectile vomming in the Beta Kappa handicap stall? Keep looking, young freshmen. Take my hand on the magical road of dating: from the painful first encounters and sloppy make outs to the time your suitor hangs your bra on your locker after you left it in his car. Oh wait, this isn’t high school anymore.
It’s time to look for some more obscure places to find your future lover and/or tonsil-hockey teammate. Here’s where to start.
1. A Swanky Restaurant
I suggest Bistro Bordeaux on Church St. Nothing can ever go wrong with a good French meal. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Bristol, I need to find a future lover before I can go to a swanky restaurant. Wrong! Go alone, but inform your waiter that someone else is joining you. Wear a red rose. Pray to God that someone mistakes you for their exponentially-cuter-than-you-looked-online blind date. If no one shows up, cry to your waiter about being stood up. Pray to God the waiter feels sympathetic/gives you their number/accompanies you back to your sex lair for the night.
Too forward for you? Work your way in slowly then. (That’s what she said.)
Yes, I'd like an overnight package please.
2. The Post Office
Guaranteed to generate the best pickup lines:
“Wanna be my priority male?” (Punny, right?)
“I’m here to pick up my package.” [Cast eyes down to genitalia]. (Classic.)
“If you liked it then you should’ve put a stamp on it.” (Because Beyoncé is a goddess.)
3. Dark Parking Garages
Ever feel uncomfortable introducing yourself to a girl in a bar? Wait until she’s walking back alone to her car! Explain that you saw her walking in a dark parking garage that may or may not be chock full of rapists or flesh-eating Republicans and decided to walk with her to protect her from said travesties. At first, she’ll probably pepper spray you, SING at you (solar plexus, instep, nose, groin),* or force you to watch a video of Michelle Bachmann eating a corn dog. But as soon as she realizes you’re just a creepy motherfucker with good intentions, she might just give you the seven-digit password to her pants.
Trolling for some bitches
4. Dog Shows
It works, believe me. It’s like a Cincinnati Cyclones game on $1 beer Wednesday nights, but with wine and trust-fund dog owners on Sundays at high tea.
Perhaps just as important as the places you should go, are the places you should NOT go.
1. University Place or Ridge Avenue
Unless you want to fall in love with a punk in a hoodie who steals your smartphone.
2. The Showers at SPAC
Unless you’re into watching/performing/assisting in self-gratification. Then balls-to-the-walls, young harlots!
3. The Sauna at SPAC
You are not into naked old Jewish women who look like sweaty beached whales. So don’t go in the sauna for love. In fact, don’t go into the sauna at all.
4. Find your NU love/ Flirting for Nerds
I attended both the speed dating event “Find your NU Love” and the seminar “Flirting for Nerds,” more out of irony than desperation. I did not find my NU love, nor did I learn how to flirt anymore heinously than I already do. So unless you want to wince every few minutes when the girl knitting a pair of Eskimo slippers snorts loudly, avoid NU dating events.
You know where to go. Now go and get ‘em, you sexually frustrated bastards.
Sherman Ave 