I went to the doctor the other day. I had been having stabbing pains in my heel for well over a decade. My wife, John Wooden’s statue, recommended I see our family doctor. He said I was overweight, and the pressure on my heel was causing the pain. I said, “Hey idiot, what if it’s the thousand students a day taking my heel and doing unspeakable things with it before their finals.” So anyway, I ate the doctor. But my real beef is with these students with no social boundaries.
Yeah, you really needed to rub my heel before your GE final with a 70% A+ curve, just so you can write “in conclusion” in three straight paragraphs. How about, “in conclusion,” suck my bear-sized—I’m sorry, I’m just really angry ever since all of Kappa took turns sitting on me last week.
People do so many weird things with me because I’m a motionless statue. Like, some USC kids came over last night and took turns humping me, but the joke’s on them because now they both have herpes.
Oh, you’re going to your upper division math final, you say. You need luck with such a hard subject. How about instead of fondling me, you go to the goddamn library. “I studied for four hours last night, and I was only drunk for two of them,” you say to me as I stare straight ahead and imagine you suffering a painful death. “But maybe the answers to my Linear Algebra midterm are in this smooth bear achilles.” Go grope your textbook, you clown.
But, it’s okay. After thirty years of constant torment and sexual harassment, Chancellor Block has promised me the administration will send out a required consent course for my heel. Too bad I can never say yes, as I am a goddamn statue.