November 20, 2003


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Pre-enrollment sucks more than a desperate sorority girl on a lollipop. Apart from having to wake up at 7:28 a.m. only to mourn the collapse of the mainframe and, hence, your future, there are other deficiencies in the system. If I were the Queen of CIT, I would institute a screening process for classes. Right now, classrooms are filled with social retards who have never been taught acceptable classroom behavior. I’ll bet the great orators at Padua were never brought to a halt by the melodic trills of the Nokia standard ring. Under my plan, not just any hobo could register for any class. We’d have standards, order, and rampant discrimination based on my every whim.

The foundation of the platform rests on my outrage at the number of couples who register for class together. Before a student enrolls in a given class, there should be a prompt that ensures that his/her significant other is not also registered for that class. If that student lies, they would be referred to the J.A. for couple de-programming. This process would include removing the “I <3 Mike" from their AIM profile and a ritual torching of all mix cds with John Mayer. Other universities would salivate over our zero tolerance for classroom canoodling. "That Cornell," they'd say, "they're stern all right. Stern, but fair."
What’s missing from the argument are the dangers of girlfriend-on-boyfriend learning. Believe it or not, I’ve faced this depraved behavior head on and let me tell you, it’s not pretty. Twice a week, I’m treated to an extended and very disgusting display of lecture-hall luv. This couple, who shall henceforth be known as bf-gf, cannot get enough of each other. They snuggle in class, whisper sweet nothings, and exchange quick kisses throughout the class period. Sometimes, bf puts his arm around gf as if they were at a drive-in movie instead of a lecture about abortion. I write this rant as an informal cease and desist order. If not, I may have to resort to spritzing you two with cold water or maybe corrosive acid. Don’t mess with me, I’m a little crazy.

“But Jaffa,” you might say, “aren’t you being a little hasty? Young love is a beautiful thing.” Oh, I agree. Love is wonderful, but only in the right place at the right time. You see, I’m not a prude who is disgusted by any PDA. Granted I went to an Orthodox Jewish high school where the conventional wisdom was to lock your chastity belts until that magical night when you just can’t take it any longer and have to fuck someone, or get married. But in my defense, I was caught making out behind the lockers during afternoon prayers on multiple occasions. So I’m not much of a pray-er. I like to show my love for God. Physically. With boys. But at least my skirt always covered my knees.

High school indiscretions aside, college is a completely different ballgame (heh, balls). The entire campus is your bedroom or, in my case, your locker bay. Want to fornicate on the Arts Quad? Go ahead! Feeling randy in Rand Hall? Be my guest! Rather dry hump in the library stacks? Well don’t, the chafing just isn’t worth it. Otherwise, now is the time to indulge your sexuality, as long as you are safe and don’t involve goats (I’m looking at you, fraternity boy). There is no reason, however, to bring your love-life into the classroom; it’s just distracting and wrong. But if you simply must get your nasty groove on in class, you might want to invest in some protective eyewear because I’m on to you. And I’m packing acid.

Archived article by Jaffa Panken