All good things must come to an end. “Seinfeld,” the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy, the reign of the Roman Empire and in turn, my love affair with the Daily Nexus. I hope that this column made you crack a smile or even laugh once a week, but more importantly, I hope it made you think about something other than your shitty midterms, your fender bender at Costco or your constant arguing with an unruly roommate.
In honor of that thought, I used this last column to have mental diarrhea all over the page. It may not be cohesive, and it may not be conclusive, but I am willing to bet you are going to continue reading mostly because you’re bored or horny and this year’s “Wednesday Hump” has grown on you like genital warts on the average frat guy.
First things first: What is with the 101 nasty things to do with jizz/anal secretions? The Dirty Sanchez, Rusty Trombone, Angry Dragon, Pearl Necklace, Snowballing and the like – who makes this crap up? Just stop. If it has some clever name that makes people chuckle nefariously when it is uttered in public, it’s a no-go. If you’re a fan of any of those acts and you do not think you can quit cold turkey, I have a simple solution for you: Imagine your parents doing them.
That said, I’ll move on to those stupid-ass S.U.R.F. signs in the UCen, although I am not sure any of you are still reading after that last comment. Those idiotic signs have nothing to do with sex; in fact, they are nothing but an arbitrary waste of space. So I suggest you sexualize them when you see them. Try “Sex Under Running Faucet,” “Serving Up Reproductive Fantasies,” or “Sneaky Underhanded Raunchy Fornicators.”
Next on the list? Road head. Road head is dangerous. It’s irresponsible. It’s also one of the best ways to cope with bumper-to-bumper traffic, both for you and for voyeurs in the car next to you. If you are really worried that passing cars will be Ford Aerostars bulging with 5-year-olds, wear a Scooby-Doo costume and post a sign on the window that explains you found some Scooby Snacks embedded in your lover’s crotch.
Guys: Work on your stamina. No one wants a one-pump chump. And if your spooge looks more like potato salad than seminal fluid, get it checked out. Gals: It’s OK to like sex; stop pretending you don’t think about it just as much as the guys. Couples: Watch out or you will wake up one day and find yourself married with two kids walking down the pet aisle at Wal-Mart screaming, “Cletus, get your head out of that fish bowl!” at your 3-year-old.
And speaking of three, threesomes are pretty fun under the right circumstances, but if you are expecting great sex, “three’s a crowd” definitely applies. Trust me, my full column on that subject was too explicit to adorn even the liberal pages of the Nexus. When a threesome opportunity arises, it might be better to just go home, have a one-some, and call it a night.
To all the past good lays I’ve had, I want to say thanks. To all the bad ones, I want to say that I probably would have enjoyed myself more getting stung by an angry swarm of African killer bees. Then again, some of you inspired stories for many readers to laugh at so I guess it wasn’t all bad.
What else? Randy, sorry I never wrote the column you wanted. Shaun, I’m sorry I went semi-conservative style for awhile, and M.B., I regret that we never slept together in college, but hey man, I did win the bets. Danimal and Ryan, sorry I couldn’t help you have game, but I am a sex columnist, not a miracle worker. My girls: I love all of you, even if you all have defective sex lives. Larry, thanks for pushing me – I maintain that the “Wednesday Hump” this year was for you just as much as it was for me.
It was fun, people, but I hope you didn’t take any of it too seriously – it’s satire. This means you, Michelle Samura, so lighten up and put to rest your Kate Rice voodoo doll. The point was simple – you students are in your primes; enjoy it. If life were a plane ride, would you rather sleep through it or become a member of the mile-high club? Think about it.