Codependent Collegian

Greenbriar, stymied

(Tallahassee, FL) Florida State University sophomore Derrick Greenbriar, a creative writing major, admitted to reporters that his poetic efforts have lately been "majorly shut down" by his almost obsessive focus on street slang.

"Part of this, no doubt, comes from listening to rap and hip-hop, but there's something really versatile about the word 'ho,'" Greenbriar insisted. "I mean it can rhyme with words like 'shore' and 'flow' and even a word like 'cold,' if you mumble a little. Still, most poetry professors - especially the women - aren't too keen on 'ho' showing up in my poems."

Greenbriar said that the word "gay" also keeps popping in his head.

"Besides the fact that it's a one-syllable word with hundreds of possible perfect rhymes, the word 'gay' also has a ton of different connotations," he argued. "Like, it could be used for 'happy' or 'carefree' or 'stupid' or like, well, dudes who like to take a sausage up the ass and whatnot. It's like the poet's best word friend, except for 'a-i-i-i-e-e-e-e-t,' which you can stick just about anywhere in a poem."

Labels: Florida State University, FSU, poetry

A Codependent Collegian Guest Editorial
By Bruce McAlister, Penn State Class of 2010

Bruce & Shawn Bonding Despite the Kidman Tension

Shawn, it’s time we faced the facts. I’m sick of your Nicole Kidman movies, the Nicole Kidman photo collage above your bed, and most importantly, your rambling about Nicole Kidman’s hotness when we’re both drunk at 2 a.m. and trying to watch reruns of M*A*S*H.

Bro, I wouldn’t bang Nicole Kidman with your dick, let alone mine, ‘cause that chick is old, skanky, and Australian.

For starters, isn’t she like sixty years old? I mean, my parents got a babysitter so they could go see one of her movies when I was in fifth grade. So who cares if she was pseudo-hot then? That was a fucking decade ago. I bet her snatch is like, full of cobwebs and that weird ashen dust that collects on Aunt Betty’s fruit jars.

Secondly, Nicole Kidman has fucked at least a thousand dudes. I don’t really follow celebrity gossip, but every time I buy groceries I’m confronted with her ancient ass on some magazine cover drooling over another young dude. And didn’t she bang Lenny Kravitz? She’s gotta have more diseases than a bus station urinal by now. Ain’t no way I’d plunge that muff, even with your salami.

Finally, if I’m gonna nail some non-American tail, I’m going with some exotic Brazilian girl who don’t speak a dime of English and whose skin tone is the color of caramel. That, or Heidi Klum’s smokin’ German ass—she could talk all Nazi while smacking me with a riding crop. Australians are the wannabe British of the world, but without the Monty Python humor. In other words, they’re like Canadians, but lamer.

So in conclusion, Shawn, this Nicole Kidman obsession has got to go. Even if she showed up right now, all spread eagle, and I had your dick, I still wouldn’t raw-dog her balloon knot. Maybe a blowjob, but that’s where it ends. It’s a matter of principle.

Labels: Nicole Kidman, Penn State

By Connor McHugh, Vermont Pot Head

McHugh: Another Cliché Stoner for Utopia

(Montpelier, VT)—Friends, we live in dangerous times. The war in Iraq, a tanking economy, poor healthcare, and an underachieving educational system are all the result of a failed political paradigm. That’s why a whole new generation of progressive neo-hippies like me are bold enough to say YES, we can change the world for the better.

How are we going to do this? By getting high.

Regardless of how exhausted I am from the previous day, I get up at the crack of ten and smoke a bowl. Now sometimes I’m still high from the night before and all I have left is some resin. But when I think of those kids starving in Mozambique or whatever, I know that I must rock the ganj as a political statement against oppression and the high price of gas. (I’m kinda between cars right now, so I don’t really drive, but gas prices are totally ridiculous.)

Then I promptly stroll down to Capitol Grounds, the best coffee shop on earth, where I serve customers their preferred blend of java while politely engaging in socially relevant debates. At least I think I do—the first few hours of my shift are always a blur. Then Gabriel—he’s the Navajo dishwasher—fires up the bong right before dinner and, being a man who greatly respects religious ceremonies, I partake of the holy bud with him.

But nothing I do makes a bigger impact than my open mic performances on Tuesday nights. My eclectic stylies are a mix between early Dylan, late Marley, and mid-era Tom Waits. I only have three songs right now, but when that crowd of thirteen people hears me tear through “Mary Jane Is the Mother of Us All,” they can’t help but to think about this presidential election, and taxes, and like, CHANGING THE FUCKING WORLD!!!

Labels: Getting High, Save the World