You can ask anyone I know, I am a man of my word. When I lose a bet to my friends, I pay up. When I promise my older step-brother that I'll do his chores if he would please just finally tell me what a dingleberry is, I do his chores. And I recognize that you and I made a pact a few months ago. I told you that I would write you, and Mephistopheles was there, and then we went on this crazy flying journey; it was eerily like the story of Faust.
Being that I am a man of my word, I will do as I have promised. I will go to the University Library, check out a bunch of giant books with frayed covers, and leaf through them to find keywords and phrases that will assist me in writing you in the most bullshit-heavy manner possible. But not before I give you a piece of mind. So here goes.
Final research paper, you're a real fucking twat. You are the Jar Jar Binks to my otherwise marvelous Star Wars cast. You are the Weasley-red pubic hair in my glass of Fresca. You are the Creed opening for my Coldplay and you are the salad lurking on my Chipotle menu.
Like seriously, how do you fucking sleep at night? Are you charmed by your sadistic lifestyle? Do you enjoy going to sleep on your pillow of freshly-plucked dove feathers with the minty-fresh taste of Mike Huckabee's earthy ejaculate on your tainted palate? Or maybe you just can't wait to have wet dreams about open mass graves and whimpering Corgis? Regardless, every time I see you strutting around town with an irreconcilably jovial smile on your face, I can't help but be impressed by just how sprightly you are. If I were you, my conscience would allow me so little sleep that I would look like the ill-fated lovechild of a post-crack addition Christina Aguilera and a pneumonia-stricken Al Pacino.
Maybe it's just that you don't understand what else is on the line. Perhaps we should pity you that you were raised only to value hatred and academia-oriented schadenfreude. So just to make sure we're clear, let me enumerate to you some of the things I would rather be doing with my time than writing this goddamn diatribe about American hegemony.
First of all, you know that we don't have classes this week, right? From a practical standpoint, there's no reason I shouldn't be spending every night this week getting shithoused with my friends and challenging them to Sporcle championships. There's no reason I shouldn't have a four-day Burger King streak going, and there's certainly no reason I shouldn't be putting the finishing touches on my Game-of-Thrones-themed beer bong.
Second of all, it's the holiday season. Now, given what I know about you, I would feel pretty safe presuming that you don't celebrate any holidays besides National Punch A Pregnant Woman In The Cervix Day, so allow me to enlighten you about the holiday season. Essentially, it's the greatest. It's a time for people to decorate their houses with beautiful lights, give to others for no reason other than
peer pressure mere generosity, eat delicious food, make gingerbread houses, and watch their delinquent cousin attempt to get high from huffing peppermint extract. You know what's tough to do when you're writing a final paper? ALL OF THOSE FUCKING THINGS. Except the last one, but only because my cousin was evicted by his landlord and now has nowhere to huff things except the library. What I'm trying to say is that your inherent taintitude is ruining my holiday season. It's also becoming more and more clear to me that whatever assgerbil wrote the song "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" did not have to write a 30-page research paper on the goddamn automotive industry.
Lastly, final paper, I'm going home next week. Do you know how excited I am to do that? I don't know how long it's been since you went home to
the Seventh Layer of Hell Nebraska, but if you haven't in a while, you really should. Maybe it would remind you of what's important. I can tell you that, on my part, I'm really quite looking forward to spending time at home. I'll quickly fall into a routine of having my first drink at 5pm every day and eating food that somehow isn't week-old spaghetti. If I'm lucky, I'll even get to see my step-father have one drink too many and verbally harass our entire family until we admit that Slingblade is a Christmas classic.
There's one thing standing between me and these three things right now. And it's you, you fat whore. Your wide torso and cellulite folds are physically blocking me from passing through the doorway to relaxation and happiness. In a famous song of his, Bob Dylan once grunted, "Don't stand in the doorway, don't block up the hall," and if I were looking at you right now, I would groan those lyrics at you just as passionately and incoherently as Mr. Dylan did. So this is a last plea, final paper: Stop being such a raging douchepirate. Cut us stressed college kids some slack next time around. And seriously, if you are this vague in your instructions one more time, I swear I will throw so many steaming piles of catshit at your window that you won't even be able to see that it's inexplicably 60 degrees out.