January 24, 2008


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Hey, it’s Friday again. We, the Sun columnists, are mad as hell and are not going to take it anymore. That means we get to…

Going to Gannett is like eating razorblades with chopsticks. I walk in. “I’d like to make an appointment to see a doctor.” “Well, you can’t just walk in and make an appointment,” (here the receptionist adopts a ‘you’re a mentally handicapped 5-year-old’ tone), “you have to caaall to make an appointment. Caaall.” I don’t own a phone at the moment. “Can I borrow your phone so I can call you?” Once they’re satisfied that I feel sufficiently dumb, they give me a fun little Hannibal Lecter mask to wear. I think that no one can recognize me, but this turns out not to be the case since people keep coming up to me to say hello. I despise them and want to tear off my mask and breathe on them. In the examining room I wait for one of the famed Gannet diagnoses, like “You seem to be in a state of immaculate conception” or “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have polio.” But no, instead I get, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Something’s wrong with you, I just don’t know what. Here’s some antibiotics in any case.” Super.


Honestly, why is my room in my rented house in Collegetown either broiling hot (like a Bikram Yoga studio, without the Bikram) or RIDICULOUSLY freezing (like a 12 x 9 freezer)?! I don’t understand why extraordinarily high rent does not include LIVABLE HEATING CONDITIONS. I’m sleeping with two windows open in January to offset a heater than produces 100 degree temps. Oyyyyyyyyy.


I found a poop in my toilet today. Just a poop. No paper, no paper residue, no skidmark. Just mud-dog. How does that even happen? What, like, you finish cleaning up and it just slips out under the radar? Or maybe someone was so confident in his own cleanliness that he didn’t dare waste a sheet or two of the half-ply sandpaper that this school calls “toilet paper” to make his second mouth presentable. Whatever. I flushed it and the deed is done.


Is it hot in here or is just me? Judging by that cotton — silk, cashmere, merino-freakin’-wool — scarf wrapped around your neck, it must be me. It has to be me. Because anybody with any tinge of consciousness wouldn’t wear an accessory designed to keep one’s neck warm indoors, would they?
Yup, they would. Where I’m sitting, inside it’s about 75 degrees. And that’s about 75 degrees warmer than it is outside. So why on earth would anybody wear the same garments in here that they do out there?! I’m not wearing my winter coat right now, am I? I’m not wearing my scarf right now, am I? Oh! That’s riiight! You don’t have a “winter coat.” You sport an $8,000, couture Marc Jacobs jacket. And a $300 Salvatore Ferragamo Capri Silk neck piece. THOSE are supposed to be worn inside. That’s right.
Actually, WRONG. Please remove your scarf upon entering any buildings.


For the last time: It is Gossip Girl. Girl. Singular. Not girls. And every single time you call it “Gossip Girls”, you sound like an asinine asshole. It’s not so hard, especially because those of you who watch the show most likely read the book, and should be smart enough to realize that Kristen Bell is the only person who is gossiping, even though there is more than one female on the show. You don’t hear me calling The O.C. “The OD” (although that would be funny), do you? No, you don’t, and it’s not just because I don’t watch it. So do me a favor, ok? “Gossip Girl.” Learn it. Love it. And stop saying it wrong, or I’ll smack you.