Talkin Bout My Generation

"I don't listen to the radio."

"You don't listen to the radio?!"

"I don't listen to shit."

"It's pop!"

"It's shit."

"It's rap!"

"It's shit."

"It's Taylor Swift, Jordin Sparks, and Miley Cyrus!"

"It's a shit SANDWICH!"

I may not be a member of The WHO, but yes, I am talkin bout my generation. And how much I want to roll it up into a ball, spit into it, and throw it right at Miley Cyrus's face, hitting her smack-dab in her upper lip that, in case you haven't noticed, lacks a Cupid's Bow. Or, I could take my generation, fold it into a paper airplane, the good kind that takes 7 folds, not the wimpy kind that only takes 3, and fly it right into one of Taylor Swift's eyes, which, in case you haven't noticed, are more like thin slits, which, as you can see, would make this a very challenging task. But I would do it. It would be my big F-YOU! to the "singing" stars of today. The brilliant and talented "writers" of our music. I mean, who can RESIST singing along to this catchy tune:

"Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with no air? Can't live, can't breathe with no air. That's how I feel when you ain't there. There's no air, no air. No air, air. No air, air. No air, air. No air, air."

Now, when they sat down to write this, what exactly is it they were thinking? (or smoking) Were they thinking, 

"Okay Jordin, what's something you can't live without?"

"Food!"

"Tell me how I'm supposed to eat with no food, food. Tell me how I'm supposed to eat with no food, food. It's been a few days since I've pooed, pooed. No food, no food."

"No, no, that won't work. It needs to be clever. It needs to be witty."

"Can't live without clothes!"

"Tell me how I'm supposed to dress with no clothes, clothes. Tell me how I'm supposed to dress with no clothes, clothes. Can't be naked like all them ho's,  ho's. No clothes, no clothes."

"No no no, come on, you KNOW a lot of ho's listen to your music; we can't offend them, now can we? We need something specific."

"Carbon dioxide!"

"Close!"

"Oxygen!"

"Closer!"

"AIR!"

"YES! We have it! We'll sing about you suffocating because you can't even breathe AIR when he's not around! You just sit there choking and coughing and wheezing and clutching your throat until he shows up! It'll be a HIT!"

And you know what our generation does? Proves them right. Even with songs that are merely common sense, such as this one: 

"I got this crazy feeling deep inside, when you called and asked to see me tomorrow night. I'm not a mind reader but I'm reading the signs, that you can't wait to see me again."

My guess is, if he's calling you, right after he has met you, and asking you to hang out, at night nonetheless, then yeah, I think that means he wants to see you. Is calling you asking you on a date really considered a "sign?" Aren't signs more like, "My phone was about to die but it lasted for my entire phone call with him, THEN died right after we hung up," or something along those lines of ironic happenings. CALLING is pretty blunt and straight-forward. If someone asks you on a date, it's not a "sign" that they want to go on a date. THEY JUST ASKED YOU. "He kissed me! That must be a sign that he wants to kiss me!" NO, it's not a "sign" because he DID IT. Kissing you was showing he wanted to kiss you. Kissing you was kissing you. Now, if he was whipping out the chap stick all night and smearing it on like sunscreen, THAT would be a sign he wants to kiss you. I mean, what? Is this just me? I don't think anybody would think, "Oh, he got my number, he's calling me, he's asking me to hang out, hang out tomorrow even...he must NOT want to see me!" Not only are you not a mind reader, Miley, you are not a musician.

Look, I know. You want what you can't have. So what if I daydream about stayin' alive with John Travolta? So what if I want to pull a Madonna and wear my bra on the outside of my clothes? So what if I want to mosh and crowd surf? I'm sorry I don't want to listen to whiny teenagers who sing like they just got punched in the stomach. I wonder if when I'm older, kids will be dreaming about this decade saying, "Man, I wish we lived in the Millenium when if it was getting hot in here we'd take off all our clothes. And when people shook their money-makers. THAT was a decade." 

The 1970's brought us Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and 4 guys who couldn't get no satisfaction. The 80's brought us Pat Benetar, The Cure, and 99 red balloons. The 90's? Nirvana, Weezer, and a semi-charmed life. And what has today brought us? Shit sandwiches.

Bibble-Babble On Down!

Baby food. Delicious. I'm telling you, you haven't lived until you've popped a bite of Gerber on to that adult tongue of yours, that adult tongue that thinks it's too "mature" for things like, compressed peas. EARTH TO TONGUE. You're never too old for compressed peas. You may be pish-poshing this bibble-babble of mine, but just because we don't technically bibble-babble anymore, I still advise you to bibble-babble on down to your local supermarket and pick up some ham and pineapple. You've never had sliced ham and pineapple chunks until you've had them smushed, mushed, and pushed into a tiny glass jar that can also be accessed with a tiny rubber spoon. (There's no other spoon like 'em.) It's not just about that oh-so-pleasant POP! you hear when you open the jar, it's the half-way-liquidated-but-not-quite-vegetable-goodness that awaits you inside. That's really how food should be. Instead of grabbing an OJ and reading, "Shake Well Before Drinking," you'll be grabbing a bacon-egg-and-cheese biscuit and reading, "Mush Well Before Eating." Shake 'n' Bake had the right idea, but they had a flaw: too many mandatory materials. Box. Oven. Oven heat. Oven mitt. Oven oven. BOWL, SPOON, FORK, SPORK?, the list goes on and on. Napkin? Optional, but encouraged. However, with Mush 'n' Smush, all you need are your hands. Or perhaps just a couple of toes. Or your friend's toes. It doesn't even matter! (strong toes optional, but encouraged) What? You're grossed out? Think your palate is all grown up and ready for the Big Boy foods, like steak (have you tried it masticated?) and lobster (have you tried it defecated? same texture, different circumstances.) and smoothies (mashed and delicious, and we all know it). So don't judge. What? You want a reason? You want a method to the madness? You want a logical explanation? WE HAVE AN OBESITY CRISIS ON OUR HANDS, PEOPLE.

How can Marge gain any more weight, you wonder. How can she be THAT big, you ask. How does she have room for that chocolate cake made for the Trunchbull herself, you ponder in awe. Well, SHE DOES. And she'll have room for more even before she "drops the kids off at the pool," but would she ever of had to purchase that XXXLLLMMXL Mu-Mu if she had never gotten weened off of the Gerber diet? NO. (Unless she was Dominik DiNapoli, but that's a different story.) Baby food = Baby Weight. What? You don't want the body of a baby? Dimples in all FOUR cheeks? Itsy-bitsy pot belly that people like to rub? Chubsy-ubsy thighs that ya just wanna grab a chunk of and shake 'em like a couple of salt shakers? Or money makers? Or the asses of bakers? Have you ever heard of an ugly baby? (The Penguin doesn't count.) And if you thought a baby was ugly, would you say, "Dude, what an ugly baby." NO. Because you would be shunned and forever deemed A Baby Hater. Which by the way, is just not excepted in American society. In other societies, you can throw babies in the river, or feed 'em to the dingoes, but in America? I don't think so.

Other than the Damn-you're-huge Dilemma, have you ever wondered why moms always eat their baby's food as they're feeding it to them? Yeah, "so the baby will eat it." Yeah RIGHT. If you jumped off a cliff, would your baby? NO. Not only because babies can't jump, but because babies would be like, "You know, though my mom just decided to plunge into the ocean, I'd really rather plunge into this welcoming jar of Mushed Turkey and Carrots." Because it's delectable, and moms KNOW IT. Admit it? Never. But know it? Always. 

ECONOMIC CRISIS. We're in the middle of one, and you're spending your money on things like spoons? Do people in third-world countries worry themselves with spoons? Do aliens saucer on over to purchase spoons? Does my grandpa ever find the need to use a spoon? Do you realize, and I'm not even mentioning the pots, pans, forks, knives, beaters, can openers, corkscrews, or those rubber things you use to open the mayonnaise, how much MONEY you would SAVE if you didn't spend it on spoons? Save your money, people. If you wanna spoon, do it in bed.

Now, baby food isn't for everyone. It will only be the biggest epiphany you've ever had in your mouth to babies, toddlers, children, tweens, teenagers, young adults, middle-aged men (yes, even you too, Mike Myers), middle-aged women, not-quite old-but-almost-old people, people in their 70's and up. So if you do not fit into any of those categories, I am sorry, baby food was just not meant for you. Morgan Spurlock may have said, "Supersize Me," but Natasha Ferrier says, GERBERFY ME...BABY.

Cottage Cheese Thighs

I have a feeling that the things I have been told to expect in college are not your average expectations. I've only seen the movies. Love Story. My one true love will die young and leave me depressed and alone. The Graduate. Right before I leave for college I will have a steamy affair with a 40-somethin' I'm not even on first-name-basis with who has a sexy leg. Animal House. Naked pillow fights and pothead-professors. So who do I go to in order to get the real deal? The ones who've been there.

"You'll meet an intelligent, mature boy..."

Mature boy...oxy moron?

"Excuse me, a mature young MAN..."

I could be dating a crack-head straight outta Compton, as long as he was mature.

"...who will respect you for the bright young woman that you are, and you will think you're in love."

Love. What a sweet thing to expect from college. Of course I notice the "think" before the "you're in love." Parents always believe their child is too young for many things, no matter HOW old they are, whether it be grasping the concept of adultery, driving in storms and pre-storms, dodge ball, and yes, even love. (I'm sure their parents do it to them, too, just in different, more adult ways, like..."You're too young to be in debt!" or "You're too young to be tired of sex!" or "You're too young to be wearing that mu-mu!")

"And you will want to have sex with this young man."

WHOA-HO! Taking an unexpected turn HERE!

"And you should. Because sex is healthy."

So what I'm getting from this is that college leads to...healthy sex?

"You might do other things, too, like give blow-jobs..."

WHAT!? NO! I'm naive! I'm sheltered! The birds and the what? I don't even know! Because I'm naive! And sheltered! And please, tell me more!

In case you were curious, I'm not one of "those" who is awkward around their parents when talking about things like sex (probably because I'm still innocent. Maybe I should wait 'till I'm not and see how "comfortable" I feel then.) I don't know what Guide to Parenting MY parents read but it must have included a chapter on, "How To Tell Your Child Specific Details About Your Sex Life." And thank god it did! Look, you may think I'm just another little horndog, but there is LOGIC to this method, people. Look at the sluts and man-sluts of the world, and ask them if their parents were ever open to them about sex. NO, THEY WEREN'T. That's why they had to go out and do it all the time! Because they were curious. To them, sex was alien; sex was a mystery; to me, I feel as if I already know sex tips A to Z and a half, so why rush it? I know the procedure, the drill, the uh-uh-uh.

Of course you can't get advice from just a couple people about something as grand as COLLEGE. So I asked my sister.

"You have to be the most beautiful or you will never be happy."

How utterly depressing. But then again, she's only four. NOT that four-year-olds are depressing. They're great. I love them. Maybe I just shouldn't have gone to her for College Tips. Naming Your Turds Tips, yes, but not college tips.

My other sister says...

"You're taking me with you."

"This is college, not the Mayflower."(Thought I'd throw in a little historical allusion there. Hope you enjoyed it. It won't happen often.)

"You're taking me with you."

And she leaves. Hmmm. Interesting. Oh, wait, she's coming back now---

"Seriously. You're taking me with you."

And she's gone. Again. Hmmm. Interesting.

From what I've personally gathered about college expectations, girls seem to be mainly concerned with "The Freshmen 15," which could potentially lead to what my mother refers to as, "Cottage Cheese Thighs," and NO, that's NOT a chicken dish. Fellas on the other hand...who even knows, man. Hot chicks, probably. (No, that's not a chicken dish, either.) But before I start loading up on Ramen and waiting for Prince Mature to arrive, I've got to get into the bloody thing. (College, that is.) Apparently I'm supposed to FIND one, then fill out STUFF, then write SOMETHING. God why can't things just be SIMPLE. What is there even for me to write about? A life-changing moment? (Puberty?) A painful experience that I overcame? (Chicken pox?) Who my hero is? (Doc Brown?) I have this feeling that writing about my first lovely lady lumps and the Flux Capacitor will NOT get me into college. I remember the first time I was told what college is...

"It's the only school that you get to choose...ALL...BY...YOUR...SELF."

I also remember the state of awe I was in. That was back in the day when school was cool. (HOLD THE PHONE. SCHOOL IS STILL COOL.) (Just not as cool as it used to be, when we colored all day and had a different boyfriend every week without him even knowing.) And now I'm actually here. Preparing. Anticipating. Drooling. (it happens. and it happens to you, too.) And in a complete state of oblivion, for I have NO idea what to expect. (Besides man-boys and weight gain. LET'S HIGH-FIVE TO THAT ONE!) In the meantime, I plan to live it up. Last year of high school, man, have a blast! (A SAFE blast, of course.) Do it ALL! (All the LEGAL things, of course.) Because college will be here before I know it. Mature man-boys and pothead-professors, here I come!

a.k.a. NUMBNUTS

For months I had been looking forward to writing for the school newspaper. I had this fantasy in my head about the whole thing, actually.

"Natasha! Your article is so funny we had to put it on the front page along with you picture and mini-bio!"

"Natasha! Your article is so funny we decided to ditch the whole "school newspaper" idea and go with...NATASHA NEWS, featuring things only written by you!"

"Natasha! Your article is so funny we decided that you don't even need to graduate from this hell hole! Get outta town with this ticket to California and make millions writing with people like Lorne Michaels and Larry David!"

"Natasha! Your article is so funny I want you to marry me right now and make millions of babies with me! I can't live without your charming wit, your dazzling sense of humor, or your bodaciously smokin' bod."
-Hugh Jackman, who would indeed appear at my school with a bouquet of roses after hearing about my debut article

These were realistic scenarios, were they not? People like my blog, people think I'm funny, Jackman would agree to walking around my house naked from noon till six free of charge. I mean, right? Not only did I know how people would react to my article, I knew that I would write something new and fresh for my fellow peers. That's right, no material taken from my blog. Something no one had ever seen BEFORE. I SACRIFICED here, people. I went out ON A LIMB here, people. And that just made it even better, because after e-mailing (we haven't quite gotten to texting our articles, yet. one day, I'm sure.) my article to the "Senior Editor," who told me it was hilarious, (ego boost), who told me it was great for the newspaper (moral boost), who told me it made her crack up (confidence boost), had the nerve to maliciously twist my article into something that was not only new and fresh to my peers, but new and fresh to ME. (you better run, bitch boost) So what do I get? What do I see when the newspaper FINALLY comes out after MONTHS of "editing" and "formatting" and "procrastinating?" I get a fireman jumping out of a birthday cake dancing to "Macho Man" and getting all up in your mom's grill as well as other places, which instead of horrifying her seems to be delighting her and you sit there not knowing if you should call the cops or just go ahead and hire a stripper-cop to make it even. I get a surprise. A BAD SURPRISE.

"I have copies of the newspaper on my desk for those of you who would like a copy."

Now in my fantasy, upon hearing these words, everyone would leap from their seats and stampede over to the newspapers, punching each other out of the way screaming things like, "But I've been waiting for this day!" and "I thought this day would never come!" and "What a day, what a glorious day!" and other things with the word 'day' in them that are positive.

"I guess I'll get one."

The one student who got up and got one couldn't even admit that they really wanted a copy.

"Thanks."

That one student was me.

As I sit reading the paper, not really reading it but just pretending to while really looking up to see if anyone is going to get a paper, I try to devise ways to persuade others to get one. I could A) laugh really loud and obnoxiously at an article on the the same page as mine...

"HAHAHAHA!snortHEHEHEHO!"

B) continue to gasp over and over while muttering common phrases of surprise

GASP! I just can't believe it...GASP! Who would have thought...GASP! This can't be real...GASP!...GASP!...GASP!

or C) act like it sucks. Teenagers tend to be cynical little bastards, if you didn't already know.

"Who writes for this piece of shit, man? I could have shit these articles out my ass, dude! My grandma's farts are more interesting than this!"

Yeah. That would probably get their attention. Especially the word "fart." That's a shoe-in. But thank da lawd I didn't do any of these things, for it was at about that time that I actually had the nerve to turn to my own article.

GASP!

(That one was real.) They had changed my article completely. Not only had they taken out words, they had taken out entire PARAGRAPHS. They had taken out various allusions. What's wrong with saying "Straight outta Compton?" What's wrong with saying, "sexy leg?" What's wrong with saying, "pothead professor?" (which they had changed to "crazy professor," as if 'crazy' is a synonym for 'pothead.' As if pot makes people 'crazy.' Just goes to show the naive sheltered dimwits that edit the newspaper. (aka GEEKS) (aka NERDS) (aka NUMBNUTS) My article had been turned into an appropriate for school-fair to all-non stereotypical-PG-piece of SHIT, and I was furious. Many thoughts came into my head to fix the problem, such as...

A) impregnate the senior editor (not by ME you fool)
B) shoot the senior editor up with heroin
C) shove the school newspaper up the senior editor's ass and give her ink poisoning
D) other cruel and unusual punishments involving the senior editor that have to do with things nerds, geeks, and numbnuts are against (sex. drugs. shoving things up peoples asses against their will)

But until then, I guess I have to grin and bear it. All I know is I am NEVER writing for the school newspaper again, vengeance IS sweet, and if I wasn't too busy blogging I would actually have time to think OF a sweet revenge. Any suggestions?

Nun on the Run

She had that look. You know, that look that you see in cartoons quite frequently, when one cartoon is trying to kill off another cartoon with the kinds of weapons you see in Arnold Schwarzenegger movies, all in order to entertain the young impressionable kiddies. The look of just recently being electrocuted. That's what she looked like. Frazzled frizz sticking out in all kinds of directions, to the point where it's almost an afro, except for the fact that it's fried like a couple of green tomatoes. A fried-out fro, that's what she had. Not only did she have that look, she had that story. The kind of story you know MUST be just a rumor, then you hear it again, and again, and again, each time told in the exact same way (rumors tend to become fabricated over time. First, it's Susie and Billy kissed when Billy was supposed to be picking up his grandma. Next, it's Susie and Billy made out in front of Billy's grandma. Then, it's Susie and Billy did it in Billy's grandma's bed. And finally you hear, Susie and Billy did it in Billy's grandma's bed with his grandma still in it. IN ON THE ACTION, THAT IS. That's how you know something is a rumor.), so it must be true. How do I know it was true? Because I asked her.

"Mrs. Quack, is it true that you used to be a nun?"

"Why yes, I was a nun for several years."

"And now you're an art teacher?"

"Yes."

"So you're not a nun anymore."

"No."

"Because you teach art."

"Yes."

"And nuns don't do that."

"Not in public schools, no."

"So you don't wear that thing on your head anymore that covers your hair and stuff?"
She should.

"No. I still have mine, of course, but I don't wear it anymore."
Why the hell not.

"So you lived in a covenant?"
Shit that's what it's called right?

"Yes."

"Was it nice there?"

"Yes."

"Good food?"

"Yes."

"So...you quit being a nun, though."

"Yes."

Look. I think it's pretty obvious that I didn't give a shit whether or not she had spaghetti and meatballs (because that's some good food right there) at her covenant or not. I just had one burning question that was stuck in my throat. Not that it would ever escape. I now knew half of the rumor was true, but I needed to know the other half.

"So why did you quit?"

"Well...you know...it was just time and after some time you just need to find other things and I love God."
Giving someone an answer to a question that was obviously pulled right out of your ass is a good sign that the other half WAS true. I didn't even need to ask. I just knew it must be the truth.

MRS. QUACK DID THE HANKY PANKY WITH THE PRIEST.

Mrs. Quack wasn't only a nun on the run, she was also my art teacher. It is because of my one year of art class that I have a biased opinion towards all nuns of the world. What is this biased opinion, you ask? All nuns are evil.

"YOU ALL BELONG ON THE STREETS, THAT'S WHERE YOU BELONG YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING HOOLIGANS! YOU...YOU...WEIRDOS WITH YOUR WEIRDO ART!"

This was only one of many of her ridiculous tyrants that sporadically occurred throughout the entire year. This would be a typical Tuesday in the art room of my high school. A typical Wednesday went like this:

"I love you all like you are my own children. You are all beautiful souls that God cherishes and it is obvious that you all have the inner beam of light inside your souls that will take you to Heaven and remind you to rinse the brushes when you're done painting."

And then the cycle would start all over again. And oh! WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T EVER LAUGH.

"Natasha, step outside with me right now."

"What did I do?"

"RIGHT NOW, YOUNG LADY."

Door slams. I had just thoroughly enjoyed a good laugh with a few of my fellow classmates when this quacker asks me to step outside. She looks at me. I look back at her. She squints her eyes at me. I hold my breath. She ever-so-slightly turns her head to the left, maintaining the squint of hatred. I let out a soft giggle and immediately shut my mouth. She continues to look at me. It's starting to get very awkward. Should I say something? What should I say? Anything, anything!"

"Mrs. Qua---"

"SHHH!"

She removes her index finger from the tip of her lips and opens her eyes very wide, only to squint them back down again. Wide...squint...wide...squint...oh...shit...

"Ms. Ferrier."

"Yes..."

"You are HIGH as a KITE."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"Are you serious?"

"AS A KITE."

"You're serious as a kite?"

"YOU ARE HIGH AS A KITE."

"You mean...I'm high? Like. On drugs?"

"Don't you toy with ME, Ms. Ferrier. I don't want any of your mind games."

"I'm not high."

"Oh PLEASE."

"I'm not high!"

"You cut that little innocent act right out or I'll have you sent straight to the office."

"How about I go to the office and say you're accusing me of being on drugs FOR LAUGHING."

"That wasn't a normal laugh and we both know it."

"Well I'm SORRY my laugh isn't up to par."

"It was an abnormal laugh."

"Well I'm SORRY I have an abnormal laugh. I didn't realize we all laughed the SAME way."

"It was the laugh of someone ON DRUGS, Ms. Ferrier."

"Lots of people have laughs that sound like they're on drugs. Some people even spit chunks of food on people's faces when they laugh. Or flatulate. I can't help how I LAUGH, for God's sake."

Did that on person to offend her. Man, I'm good.

"Get out of here."

"Excuse me?"

"Get your stuff, and GET OUT."

"Oh MY GOD, this is ridiculous."

Had to get one more offensive 'God' phrase in there while I still could.

I wanted to say it right then and there. I now wish I would have. If there would ever be a perfect time to say it, it would have been then. If only I can one day be the rebellious bad-ass motha fucka I so greatly aspire to be. If only I could have given that woman a taste of her own medicine. I'm high, am I?

WELL AT LEAST I DIDN'T DO SOME HANKY PANKY WITH MY PRIEST, BITCH.

Shake Your Groove Thang

It has recently been reported that 1 in every 4 American teenage girls has an STD. An STD, keep in mind, stands for sexually transmitted disease, not synchronized tap dancing, as I have heard a few MIDs (Mothers in Denial) insist. Disease, people. Disease. This recent statistic has struck fear into the minds and crotches of many teenage boys and girls. You could try analyzing the reasoning behind this sex craze, but it really is no use. In the 60’s, it was “Make Love, Not War,” and in the 80’s, girls just wanted to have fun. So what is it in this day and age that is having adolescents dropping their pants left and right? IT FEELS GOOD.

Let’s pretend I am the mother of a teenage girl. I’ve given her the sex talk. (“They’re only after one thing, honey.”) I’ve tried my hardest to make sure she isn’t influenced by pop culture. (Now see, in real life, honey, Julia would never end up with Richard. She is a whore who will die on the streets, disrespected AND infected, with runs in her stockings.) I’ve warned boys her age of the dangers of dating my daughter. (“Whip it out one time, Buster, and I’ll be grading it like cheese by tomorrow.”) But it’s not enough. I can’t stop little Susie from “getting it on” or “hooking it up” or “mojoing it down,” or whatever phrases these kids are using these days. I was a teenager once, myself. I do remember what it was like before these married days of, “I worked all day I don’t have the energy fine let’s just do it then I guess.” So, after much pensive thought, I have come up with a solution to this crisis.

My first solution, removing all genitals from adolescents ages 13 to 17, was soon deemed ridiculous when I realized that our human race would no longer be able to continue if this were to be done. Also, there would be no sufficient way to dispose of the genitalia of millions of boys and girls across the United States. Throwing it into the ocean would only lead to it later washing up onto the shore and who knows what diseases would spread then! Silly me. My second solution was also given the boot due to the fact that shipping all teenage boys off to Switzerland and keeping all teenage girls here in America would not necessarily prevent the spread of STD’s. It’s called adapting. But forget all of those preposterous half-baked schemes. It is I, Natasha Ferrier, mother of a teenage daughter, who has come up with the most brilliant solution to date, a solution that will indeed be embraced by millions around the nation.

High school students attend school Monday through Friday. From what my daughter tells me, Fridays are spent watching “educational movies” and “talking about what we learned.” From what my daughter tells me, Fridays are a joke. However, with my newly found solution, Fridays will no longer be of no benefit to the student body. Every Friday, we shall congregate all students, male and female, to some sort of large room, such as an auditorium, or perhaps a cafeteria. They will be given precisely 6 hours, one hour deducted in order to make sure no one has brought condoms or any type of “protection,” and after those hours are up, they will go home happy. It is during these 6 hours that, as my own mother would phrase it, they can “have at it” with whomever is willing. This “doing it” with numerous people will occur every Friday. You may even call it a modern “orgy.” As time progresses, the statistic will without a doubt change to: 4 in every 4 American teenage girls has an STD. When my daughter goes out on a Saturday night wearing an exceptionally low-cut top, I won’t be biting my nails thinking, “Is little Susie going to get frisky?”, “Is little Susie going to be safe?”, “Is little Susie going to have a disease-infested meal tonight?” Instead, I will be sitting at home, reclining even, thinking, “I hope my little Susie gives that Johnny that gonorrhea she contracted last Friday. That’ll show him!” So you see, as long as everyone has an STD, no one will have to fear ever getting one. You can “shake your groove thang” with whomever you wish! As a wise man once said, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” But as I say to the teenage girls of the world, “You can beat ‘em, and then you’ll join ‘em!”