Welcome Almost Berkeley Students.
Congratulations
on your “legitimate” acceptance. Looks like all
that hard work finally made up for you being at
least a semester dumber than your peers! I mean
sure, you were president of your graduating class
and led the league in goals for varsity soccer,
but your inferior 3.8 GPAs and 1350 SAT scores
will earn you about as much respect here as a
transfer from SC or a sheepdog enrolled at Davis.
Your only use is as a buffer for the rest of us
super-geniuses. I don’t want to worry about
failing Intro Math, Chem, or Econ while I’m having
threesomes with Brazilian supermodels and winning
Ultimate Fighting Championships. But with your
dismal threes on the AP exams, I know that no
matter how much crime I’m fighting or your mothers
I’m banging, I’ll keep getting A’s while you keep
turning into graduate students in the school of
education. I’d wipe my festering ass cheeks on
your popped collar Lacoste polo shirt after taking
a satisfying Mexican dump if I didn’t have any
respect for my ass. If it were up to me, I would
brand “Fuck Tard” on all of your foreheads and
make you wear a scarlet letter of shame denoting
your stupidity wherever you go. Just like in that
one book, The Scarlet You’re a Fucking Fuck Tard.
Thirty years from now, when you are a broken soul
drinking whiskey at a local dive bar in Scranton,
Ohio, while we actual alumni win Nobel prizes and
beat the Dalai Lama at arm wrestling, you’ll
lament to the other barflies how you should have
gone to the honors program at UCLA instead, and
that maybe, just maybe then you wouldn’t have
impregnated your underage cousins. A tear will
flow down your rugged cheek as you retire to your
single room in some roach infested motel with a
flashing neon sign indicating permanent vacancy.
You’ll pass by Jenna, the sixty-year-old starlet
who never quite made it, her face caked in makeup,
always pretending to audition for leading roles in
big productions on Broadway in front of her dirty
mirror. You’ll hear your door unlock as you expel
a heavy sordid sigh filled with apprehension for
the coming night tremors and blistering
loneliness. A single crisp envelope will lie at
the foot of your door. A message from your doctor
stating simply: “You have pancreatic cancer, two
months maximum.” It is at that precise moment, at
the absolute lowest point in your life that I will
burst through the door with my bulging oiled
biceps and long beautiful locks of hair flowing in
the wind. I will walk up to you, and you will look
upon my vest, adorned with purple hearts and
medals of honor, and know that I, Daniel Brady, a
true Berkeley alumni, President of the World and
Destroyer of Mars, am better than you in every
possible way. In a flash I will deal you a
crushing blow to the head with my rock solid legs.
I will mount on top of my futuristic dinosaur
adorned with medieval armor, the pope’s wife in a
skimpy bathing suit cradled in my arms. As I
saunter toward the sunset leaving a trail of dead
robotic sharks in my wake, a smirk will cut across
my face as I realize that once and for all, I am
the greatest ninja that ever existed.
Clean my
hole with your tongues,
Daniel Brady
