The Ol' College Picking Days

     I've come up with many plans, but I think I'll be using the doggy technique first. That's the one where I spread the applications all over the floor of my room. Then, I make my dog run through mud and make him run through the room, chasing a laser. Whichever applications he touches, I apply to.      Come to think of it, I don't think that was mud. . .
     Be right back.

     So, wish as I do that the doggy technique was valid, I still haven't come up with my choice of school. I'm drowning in letters from colleges, all of which apparently want to take my body and bear my child. How can I say no to someone so desperate?

"Its finally time, Danny. Pick a college.
Princeton sounds good. How 'bout that?
Too preppy. Harvard?
You'll never get in there. You're too stupid.
Shut up! You are! Ass!
Make me, bitch. Dummy.
I know you are but what am I?"

     And so it was decided. I hate my conscious. Just a prick. College, however, I still don't know about.

     So, I guess the first thing to do is browse the brochures. I'm not quite used to this. If I had a nickel for every dime I've made studying colleges, and all the money I had in the world was made solely from college-research, I'd have about half as much change as I did before. And be really good con-artist. Or have really bad headache.

     Like giant robotic arms reaching out to get me, the college process has me caught in its icy grip. And once that cold, hard, metal hand locks, there is nowhere to go. . . Nowhere but smart.

     And so, I approached my first application. "Write name here. Check all majors that apply. Sign here." Screw that! I tore up the ap on the spot and threw it in the trash. Who needs Yale? No stupid ap's gunna come into my house and give me orders.

     So, I guess I'll leave it up to fate. . .