I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. A dangerous pastime, I know. But as I stand abreast with the rest of the seniors, eye to eye with the most horrible monster the world has ever known, doing a lot of thinking is the very least we can do. I’d much rather fight, slay the beast that we peep toward with the dazzling purity of Legolas demolishing that oliphaunt upon the Pelennor fields, but the demon that we face is, sadly, impervious to all attack.

Even arrows.

It is no sea monster, no robotic leviathan, no ghoulish spawn of the undead. No, no, what we are set to face is something 10 trillion times more horrifying: adulthood, or perhaps more specifically, fucking after college.

Why call it a monster? Every cloud has a silver lining, no? No.

After watching three episodes of “Jake in Progress,” I have come to the grim conclusion that if reveling in a satisfactory sex life after college means enlistment into a punany competition that will pit me against the likes of John Stamos, I reluctantly accept my membership card to the club for celibate thirty-somethings and this lifetime supply of Red Baron personal pizzas.

It’s a well-known fact that the day before we graduate, we are party animals. I will most likely drink a fifth of 100-proof SoCo, I will smoke several blunts in my jacuzzi, and I will pee in the yard of a complete stranger … all while wearing nothing more than the silly/gorgeous graduation hat. The day after graduation, we are no longer lauded as the paramount of sociality and rock ‘n’ roll. Instead, we will be called alcoholics, vagrants, space wasters and shit-full of malarkey. And to think that’s all while my mom tries to wake me up for breakfast with Aunt What’s-her-face.

But what’s not as well-known, what dear old mom and dad have failed to warn us about is that, once out of school, getting ass is harder than we can possibly imagine. No matter how much soul you’ve got, no matter how super-bad you may fancy yourself, to command collegiate amounts of copulation in the real world is to master a set of rules that are set unkindly against Joe and Jane Graduate. Take, for example, the casual pickup line…

“Hey stranger, what’s your major?”


“Oh really? Wow, did you read Ulysses?”

“Did you read the instructions on your diaphragm?”

(Ridiculous sex ensues)

… and compare it to searching for ass in the real world:

“Hey stranger, what do you do for a living?”

“My parents are paying my rent, I have no real job to speak of, and while I broke my arm jumping off the roof at my graduation party a few months ago, I am now rehabilitated to the point that wiping my own ass is no longer a dream, but a very lucid and sanitary reality.”

(Well-dressed older dipshit buys your date a drink)

“What’s this, you’re fucking the dean now?”

(Slap ensues)

You see? Hooking up, while fruitful over the past four years, has revolved around a set of circumstances that, while at one point seemed completely normal, in the following months will become downright scary. Getting drunk, seeing a pretty face and wandering off to the house and bed of a complete stranger was common fare during my tenure here at Saint Babs. When we move off to the big city, that sort of behavior will most likely result in mugging or scalping, not an Ikea trash can full of used condoms.

From what I have been told by friends who have since made it out of college, scoring means prolonged bouts of “dating”- the fuck? – along with heavy doses of romance and sincerity. Shameless nights of “exploration” are thrown out the window in favor of the cute auditor from Ernst &Young who wants you to buy her mimosas and walk her Maltese before she gives you a hand job. The hand job, of course, will only take place assuming that my johnson has not been struck idle and flaccid from years of sitting too close to the Xbox.

I think about sex at UCSB and what it entails, and it makes me happy. I think about getting tail after I touch the godforsaken parchment my diploma will be scrawled across and, in the timeless words of Joey Ramone, “Ba-ba-bapa, ba-ba-ba-bapa. I wanna be sedated.”

Daily Nexus sex columnist Dave Franzese has filled an entire Ikea dumpster full of rubbers during his tenure at UCSB.