• Oppress women and minorities. Gently stir in exploitation of the working class, adding manipulation of the world money supply in small amounts. Bake in prospering community for 10 years, then remove to leave vicinity in shambles. (Serves the interests of the rich and powerful).

• Pass xenophobic legislation. Separate Chicano and Asian immigrants until populace becomes a rich and pure white. (Discriminates against 8-16 million).

• Take drugs. Get addicted. Die. (Serves you right).

• Bounce ball. Throw in air. Hit with raquet. (Serves 1).

• Kill wife. Behave guiltily. Overlook blood stains. (Convicts 1).

• Attempt diplomacy. Bomb strongholds. Realize futility. Pull out. (Serbs 1, Muslims 0).

• Meet. Fuck. Fall in love. Get dumped. (Embitters 1).

• Watch MTV. Imitate Bevis and Butt-Head. (Stupifies, uh, a lot. Yeah, that was cool!).

So why didn’t I vote? Hell everybody knows that the election’s already decided by the time California votes.

A man enters the bathroom, he shudders, for he has just realized the incredible challenge that now confronts him. He and his girlfriend are dinner guests of their lesbian hosts. Part of which means, of course, that he was the only man there.

“If I piss on the lid, they’ll know. I’m the only man here, I’ll be the only man here this week. And I can’t just wipe it up, because these are the kinds of lesbians that hate men. I mean most woman hate men and their peculiar habits, but there are some gay women that just hate men (and for good reason). They will know, they can hone in on that kind of shit.”

It took eight minutes for him to pee.

Speaking of lesbians. Before we became a columnist, we worked as a towelboy at that lesbian disco bar on Lombard & 40th. The one that has 50 giant TV screens blaring episodes of COPS and Rescue 911 over the dance floor . . . . Remember: coffee + after 9 o’clock = fucking . . . .

Did you hear that Bill Gates paid $7.3 million dollars for Norman Rockwell’s “A First Fisting” at a recent auction ?

I’m just waiting for the perfect girl to walk through the door and say to me, “Come, let’s go . . . I want to be with you forever,” so I can say, “Fuck off bitch.”

Cab Callaway died just recently. Let’s see, that’s him and Gilda Radner, and Miles Davis, and Dizzy Gillespie, and Stevie Ray Vaughn, and Jim Henson, and Thurgood Marshall, and and and…. And George Burns and Strom Thurmond live. Now tell me there’s a god.

Thought for the day: “What if there were no hypothetical situations.”

Everyone’s seen at least one of the rich phallocopia of penile enlargements. With promises of their technique’s superlative results, each preys on those struck by fears of inadequacy. Like so many modern day Ponce de Leons, small often balding men line up in droves to make themselves big. Perhaps this is why appendage augmentation is the fastest growing sector of the economy.

These ads started out buried at the ends of money starved white trash porn mags, so I’m told. Not before long they spread to the pages of every newspaper in the country. Oddly enough, their progression paralleled the explosive growth of the popularity of the ESPN network.

I bet ten years from now they’ll be a penis enlargement clinic in every mall. Starter(tm)-clad suburban mall rats will be so incredibly hung as to suggest elephantiasis.

Mark my word, by 2004, those human fat farms, people by the cohorts of Richard Simmons’ stormkommanden, that supply implant materials for these genital enhancing operations will have become so influential in our society that picking up the tab for their government subsidies will soak up 8% of our federal tax dollars.

Yet there will be only minor demand for labia enlargement.

(Editors note: The editors of this article made it longer than the one that was originally submitted.)

Understand that a sorority girl is a person, with, like, ya know, feelings. Hath not a Tri-Delt eyes? If you prick her, does she not bleed? If she drinks bad Keystone, does she not spew? Here’s what really happens in the few cubic inches of one sorority girl’s head…

Friday evening, 6 p.m.
Dinner at the house; scrumptious. I mistook Maria, the token Hispanic pledge for the cook. Whoopsie. Felt great anguish at being so callous; about to apologize, but what’s the use? Apologies can’t make up for years of racism, and besides, she was wearing totally ugly shoes — I mean, even the cook wouldn’t wear green suede flats.

Kristy joined me in our nightly ritual of binge-purging. Someone had finished the ipecac, so we made due with shoving our fingers down our throats. As I hugged the toilet, I thought, `Sherri, you know not what you do! Don’t give in to air-brushed images and a patriarchal society that says a pre-pubescent body with huge knockers is the desired norm.’ My soul cried out, but then I glanced at Kristy, who has smaller thighs than mine, and I hurled like a volcano.

Tried to write a politically relevant sonnet; gave up when the only rhyme I found for Haiti' wasWarren Beatty.’

7:45 p.m.
Talked to Mumsie and Dad. Conversation broke off when they found out that I’m not going pre-med. Why, oh why must I always conform to their standards? My calling is to be a National-Book-Award winning writer and the nation’s poet laureate. Tried to stanch my bitterness by reading. But as I was flipping through an old issue of Vogue, I caught sight of Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison and Flannery O’Connor. Grossness!! They’re all either black, old, or dead. Toyed with the idea of becoming the first well-dressed and cute National-Book-Award winning writer and poet laureate, but then decided against it. This country is just way too shallow to sense the depth and richness beneath my smooth twenty-year-old skin and Club Monaco clothes.

Called Mumsie back and told her my decision. We squealed in mutual delight and spent an hour picking out colors for the waiting room of my practice. Still, my soul is uneasy. Oh, what to do?

8:30 p.m.
Watched Three's Company.' Had to leave, so disgusted was I with the infantilizing portrayal of women on the show. Terri, one of the older girls in the house asked, "What's wrong , Sherri? It's just a show." When, oh when will my sisters rise up against this? Went to my room; fortunately, Kristy had tapedModels, Inc.’ and we watched that instead.

9:50 p.m.
Got ready for party at KEG. Saw Mindy, the overweight pledge, wearing the same sweater I had. Changed. Then had to coordinate my lipstick, socks and scrunchie with the new shirt. Grabbed keys, lipstick, and put the back-up scrunchies on each wrist. God, does the pressure never end?

11:06 p.m.
Arrived at party. Immediately downed six cups of fine beer. Went to go dance wildly, then felt sick and oppressed. Disgusted, I tried to leave, but ended up freaking between two mildly attractive guys. Why, oh why must I always settle? Depressed, I escaped to the balcony, where I beat my head against a post and wailed my anguish into the night.

I was reciting Dylan Thomas when Bob, the house president, came out to see how I was doing. Touched by his concern, I got ready for deep-n- meaningful conversation. His first comment was, “So you drunk or what? Wanna beer?” But the conversation picked up, and we started talking about things that really mattered, like his dad’s business, his dad’s car, and his major. Things were going well, so I tried to genuinely connect with him. “Bob,” I asked, “Do you ever get tired of it all?” He looked puzzled, then contented, tried to speak. Unfortunately, the only comprehensible statement he made before passing out was, “Hey… you wearing a Wonderbra?” Amazed at the superficiality of life, I headed home.

2:30 a.m.
Wrote a seven-act play called “Glasnost –The Sherri Cycles.” Watched the last drunken revellers from the party straggle home — the readjustment of underwear, the falling baseball hats and the stains wiped off J. Crew clothing. I marvelled, thinking that moments ago, I was one of that immature band.

It’s a new day, Sherri, I thought to myself. From now on things will be different! No more putting up with immature frat boys, bad beer, idiotic parties with young idiots writhing like snakes in heat, petty in-fighting in the house over who’s the blondest (naturally), squabbles over clothing, monitoring my fat intake like a rabid German shepard — all of it, finis. Now begins my life as a new woman. Content, I fell asleep.

Saturday morning, 8:30 a.m.
Woke up earlier than usual; caught the morning paper before anybody else. Flipping through the Datebook section, saw something so amazing I had to close my eyes and reopen them. A ray of light shone through the periwinkle-colored mini-blinds in the breakfast nook — it was like a miracle…

o GAP SALE o
Today & Sunday
20% off all vests
Free parking in rear

I immediately repented of my ways. I’d seen the light. How could I have ever strayed?

I snuck upstairs to wake Kristy. Discontent no more, I know my true path. I am, I have been, I always will be a sorority girl. Never again shall I stray.

In the aerospace industry, the measurement of stress is a high priority objective. In light of endless manhours devoted to this research it may seem surprising that there are no effective human stress scales available commercially. But this exciting field has also seen new developments that will soon become part of our everyday lives.

• Measurement has always necessitated conversion of stress into some other detectable energy form. The Zumdahl test involves exposing students to simulated Organic Chemistry exams and measuring the decibel level of their screams.
• Stress causes physiological changes that can be easily detected. For example, one can lift a test subject by the ears. Do they hang comfortably limp? They are relaxed. Do they flail wildly and scream obscenities? They are experiencing stress.
• Urine can give us important clues. Is it bright yellow and high in caffeine? Is it all over the toilet seat or bathroom floor? Both of these are positive indicators of stress.
• A stressed person will appear pale and may behave in a cold manner. It is important not to confuse a stressed person with a dead person.
• You can try the following “litmus test” on your friends. Take a friend to a scenic location like the Golden Gate Bridge. Tell your friend the following scientifically developed phrases and when they jump, you know you’ve found their stress level!
  Stress Level vs. Sci-phrase

1. I’m sorry, the final was yesterday.
2. The good news is that we can guarantee 100% remission in 7% of our patients.
3. The deadline is in three hours, write something funny
4. I think it’s available in Beta.
5. Did I ever tell you I slept with your ex? Before they left you?