First Steps - The Hedge Trimmer Humor Magazine by thehedgetrimmer

Feb. 2018 VOL. 1, ISSUE 1

Fig 2.

Humor Magazine at UGA

First Steps

Humor Magazine at UGA

“Made for Students, by Students, and When We Run Out of Paper, Out of Students.”

“First Steps” EDITORIAL BOARD EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Maggie Dryden ‘19 Ben Goren ‘19

CONTRIBUTORS

Noell Appling ‘19 Grayson Harper ‘19 Thomas Heiges ‘18

Aakash Malhotra ‘19 Aaron Stafford ‘19 Kristin Storck ‘21

ART BOARD COVER ADDITIONAL ILLUSTRATIONS

Savannah Simmons ‘21 Adrian Hanson '18 Maddi Huff '20

DART BOARD Electronic, 1, For Sale

SPRING BOARD Lakeside Country Club Aquatic Center

Come and Join Us! facebook.com/thehedgetrimmermag/ thehedgetrimmer.com The Hedge Trimmer is a magazine produced by students of the University of Georgia. The University of Georgia is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to names, characters, or events, real or fictional, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental.

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THIS WEEK’S HEADLINES FOR SALE: BABY SHOES, NEVER WORN, REAL AD, SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY.

MASSAGE PARLOR SHUTS DOWN, UNHAPPY ENDING

AFTER RENT HIKE, FLATS IN HISTORIC LEPER COLONY COST ARM, LEG

OPINION: "TIDE PODS: THE POPULATION CONTROL WE NEVER KNEW WE NEEDED"

FINANCE MAJOR REALIZES ACTUAL PASSION FOR SOMETHING HOURS BEFORE GRADUATION TEACHER FAILS STUDENT FOR USING TOO MUCH FLUFF, STUDENT'S RESPONSE: "MY HORRENDOUS GRADING REPORT STUPENDOUSLY CAUSED A QUAGMIRE IN MY DOMESTIC RELATIONS" SHOCKING: GIRL WHO WAS REALLY INTO HORSES IN HIGH SCHOOL DOESN’T SHARE HER OPINION IN AN ODYSSEY ARTICLE

SEXY COLLEGE GIRLS IN YOUR AREA LOOKING TO HOOKUP, JUST NOT WITH YOU

First Steps

A Letter from the Editors

eil Armstrong. Jackie Robinson. Amelia Earhart. What do these three icons have in common? They all used to be babies. And babies, like our baby, The Hedge Trimmer Humor Magazine, all have to take their first steps before they accomplish greatness. Here in this scrappy book of words and pictures – or scrapbook, if you will – is the documentation of it’s first steps. Please, let us show you our baby’s scrapbook. Our daughter is still upstairs getting ready for the prom anyway, so have a seat, won’t you? Unlike most parents our age, we’ve been expecting our child and properly preparing for it’s arrival – we’re one hole punch away from a free Lamaze class. And now, like the baby bird high in the tree, it’s time for our baby to be forcibly pushed out of the nest, and we, like the mother of the baby bird high in the tree – or an expecting mother without an epidural – are ready to forcibly push. These first few steps will be clumsy, we’re sure; as we find our footing, our baby will stagger; as we hone our prose, our baby will babble; and as we administrate, our baby will likely dribble and wet itself all over – we can only afford so high a quality ink, after all. But in time, with patience and love, our baby will develop into a fully functioning being. It will find it’s own voice, develop a sense of style, and most importantly, learn to use humor in order to make people like you.

Now that our baby is here, we cannot take full credit for it’s safe arrival. As first time parents, if there’s one thing we’ve learned about raising a child, it’s that it takes a village. If there’s a second thing we’ve learned, it’s how to cope with the immense guilt of wiping out that East Asian village. We owe our baby’s wellbeing to the many wonderful contributors featured in these pages. We are ever grateful to the writers, illustrators, and comic artists whose great work form the content of our first issue. They are the wet-nurses that makeup our all-star baby-making team. In this first issue, they have written satirical headlines; they have brought forth accounts of first love between Uber driver and Bop-It toy alike; and they have shared tales of discovery, from using a dormitory restroom for the first time, to breaking in to the breaking-in business of robbery. Together with our makeshift family – including you at home, the reader, and you in the basement, Uncle Joey – we will guide this baby through life. Or at least until it’s moody teenage years. We’ll let it figure things out on it’s own then.

Sincerely,

Ben Goren Maggie Dryden Editors-in-Chief

The Hedge Trimmer CS MAJOR MAKES A C++ ON FINAL, FLUNKS OUT BANANAS: NATURE'S DILDOS? MAN WITH FINGERLESS GLOVES GETS LAID

6 ATHENS STUDENTS HIT THE SLOPES ON SNOW DAY, 50 OVERDOSE

DOUCHEBAG MAGICIAN PULLS BITCOIN FROM BEHIND CHILD’S EAR

How to Not Remember a Name: An In-Depth Guide Fuck, not him again. You’ve seen this kid every day for the last two years but you have yet to remember his name. You both studied for that physics test for hours that one time, and he said your shirt was "dope" and you said his khakis were "neat," so why are you drawing a blank? You’ve resorted to calling him "bro" or "my guy" for what feels like forever. Or was that somebody else? How did we get here? You have to stop smoking weed. You’re a smart person, you can solve this mystery. GroupMe! That’s your way in, the physics class GroupMe. His name has to be there, it's... "The Chosen One." That’s his name. Seriously? This is Physics Two. More importantly, this is a 20-year-old - use your real goddamn name. Okay, that’s fine, there has to be other ways to get to the bottom of this. After class you approach him. "'Sup my guy, want to get together and study for class?" "Of course Johnathan Leanne Smith." Way to use my whole name to rub it in - even my effeminate middle name! "Sick, let me get your number and I’ll text you," he says. You hand him your phone hoping he fills everything out, but to your horror he fills his name out as "The Chosen One." On top of that, he puts his address as, "Your girlfriend’s place." No luck there. You got one final plan to solve this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You wanted an outdoor venue with a view of the Himalayas. But you’re stuck in a church on campus. Everyone is wearing the same tux they used for formals and the flower girl keeps eating the flowers. You knew you’d find your Prince Charming, but you thought you’d at least know his name before the big day. You know what to do. Find out that goddamn name and leave, that’s it. "Do you take The Chosen One to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the pastor said. I blurted out, "Wait, your name is The Chosen One?" "Yeah, my family believes in Jediism." -NA '19

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I Am the First Man to Drink Cow’s Milk Okay, now hear me out. You’re probably thinking, “What was your mouth doing down there, Herschel?” Well Farmer Abraham, and the rest of you fine townsfolk, that sure is an excellent question. And I must add that your cow Betsy, Farmer Abraham, is quite the lovely heifer. But please! Put your pitchforks down and listen to my tale! Let me be clear: I am no pervert. I will not be the town redneck who fools around with animals; Billiam’s doing just fine all by himself. And while I am a lone steed looking for a cow to call my own, I was hoping that cow would be human. And that she would be willing to overlook the whole cow-equals-woman metaphor I got going on here. See, what I was doing here was making one of them pioneerin’ discoveries for posterity-like, just like them brave souls who fell off the Earth to prove its flatness. What if I told you, Farmer Abe, that the cows on your pastures possess a delectable treat the world has yet to be awoken to? And what if I told you, Steel-cut Stan, that your teeth-grinding grains and dry oat cereals are a single ingredient away from being a delicious breakfast meal that won't cut your gums? And what if I told you that your bones don’t have to be so meek, Meek Millie? The answer to all our problems lies in those fat black-and-white dogs out yonder. I started with a simple question: what’s inside those pink, plump water balloons on their underbelly? Is it water? A heap of more balloons? A two-ton weight that stops the white clouds on their bodies from floating up to the heavens? No, it’s none of these things! These farm whales all produce a delicious drink from their udders! And before you jump to any conclusions – I’m looking at you, Billiam, you gross kook, you – it’s milk! Milk, I tell ya! A refreshing mid-afternoon snack drinkable by all ages! Once and for all, putting our mothers’ weary bosoms out of commission, how I’m sure my own mother's body tires of my selfish depletion of what little extracts it has left, god rest her soul. So I must plead with you, townsfolk, put down your weapons and listen to me! I don’t suck for suckin’s sake! I am no weirdo! Now come wrap your lips around Farmer Abe’s pink plumps! Wait, let go of me! No Billiam, no! -BG '19

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8 Savannah Simmons '21

Yes, Time to Make Another Powerpoint About Subway Sandwiches You open PowerPoint. You start sweating. Finally… you're back. You are ready to make another PowerPoint presentation about Subway. You look through your personal list of Subway PowerPoint presentation titles and then you pick the one you are feeling for this particular project. You know you're a freak, but you don’t care one bit. You embrace it. You pick the title "Subway Subslays." Shit, that’s good. You just love creating meaningless presentations about Subway, the privately held American fast food restaurant franchise that primarily purveys submarine sandwiches and salads. You create 4 slides. “Four…that’s perfect,” you whimper in a guilty sigh.

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You get an idea to use fade transitions between slides. You've never done this before, and you are exhilarated. You just love watching those slides about Subway’s founder, Fred Deluca, fade in, out, and back in again. "Oh yeah, just like that," you exclaim a little louder than you should. Clip art? Do you dare? Of course you do, you sick fuck. You scroll through the clip art folder. Oh my God, you found it. The perfectly bland, unstylish, poorly designed, little piece of art. A tiny black forest ham sub. You insert it. Quiet tears pour down your face. Tears of thankfulness, tears of satisfaction. You finish crying. The last time you cried was when Australian teenager Matt Corby posted a Facebook photo showing that a Footlong sandwich he bought was only 11 inches long, thus enacting a lawsuit against your beloved. And every time you think about that selfish piece of shit Aussie attacking your only love, Subway, immense rage builds inside you. You then title a slide, "$5 Footlongs." You love $5 Footlongs. You ignore the fact that Subway did away with it and never said anything. And now anytime anyone is at Subway they walk in thinking “Oooo $5 Footlongs,” and then they get really, really sad when it is not on the menu. Every. Single. Time. You ignore this. You don't even care because Subway is the best goddamn restaurant in the world. You go back and select Comic Sans as the presentation font. You think it looks fun. You have terrible taste. Oh shit, someone is knocking. Seriously, right outside the door. They're saying, "You ok in there? You've been in there for 3 hours." With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you remove the slices of cold cuts you have randomly stuck to your body and strap up your velcro shoes. You say "One minute please." You proceed to wash your hands and exit the Subway restroom. "See you guys tomorrow," you yell as you swiftly exit the establishment. -GH '19

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Choose Your own Adventure! A) Stick a normal, boring metal fork into the outlet. B) Stick a limited edition 1981 Amazing Spiderman metal fork into the outlet. Check the bottom of the next page to know your fate!

First Steps

Breaking into Breaking In: A Woman’s First Steps in a Career in Robbery Women have attempted, nay succeeded, to break the glass ceiling for some fifty years (we’ll call it the beginning of time), securing jobs as lawyers, astronauts, even doctors, all of which are noble professions. But what about those professions that involve taking lives, not saving them? You have your gangs, your mafia, your timeless thief. All in all, it’s a man eat woman industry. Now, I may be mistaken, but the future of armed robberies is not female… until now. Following these simple steps, you’ll be on your way to becoming Bonnie, a one woman show, paving the way for aspiring female felons. Step 1: Remove “I’m Sorry” From Your Vocabulary If robbing is what you want to do, there’s no time for apologies. A television, a rolex watch, and an iPad didn’t just happen to fall into your pillow case at 2 a.m. when no one was home. This was not an “accident.” You meant to do this, and people will not like the results. Welcome to the business. You’re not here to make friends. Step 2: Black Is the New Black Look professional. No more fun floral patterns and definitely no more cute sayings written on your butt. No one is going to take you seriously with a hot pink shirt that reads “Champagne Campaign.” Your new look is black. Live it, learn it, love it. Step 3: Burn Your Bras If you want to burn things, now’s your chance; We’re going for robbery, not arson, for God’s sake. There is no room for such nonsense as a bra under a bulletproof vest, the only protection needed in such a profession. Rearrange the letters in bras, and that’s what you’ll end up behind if you do not carefully follow this step. Step 4: Form a Girl Gang Move over, Spice Girls, because we’re about to tell you what we “Wannabe.” Your power is all in the name, and the possibilities are endless: The Jonas Mothers, Girls II Women, The Other Jackson 5. Maybe even, “The Tampons”? Although graphic, this brand is simultaneously assertive and shows you are not afraid to get a little bloody. Step 5: Stay Out of the Kitchen What would you steal from there? A blender? Maybe a few top-shelf sponges? While tempting, a woman's place is not in the kitchen, especially not now. On second thought, those knives are pretty swanky. Are those Cutco? Okay, just take those. Now, to the vault. Together, we must break the glass ceiling (and windows) of breaking and entering. This is just the beginning. Welcome to the movement, you warrior women, you! Warning: Results may vary anywhere from 77-80% in comparison to men doing the exact same job. --

Chose A) You're dead. Chose B) You're dead, but you’re a little cooler.

MZ '20

HG '19

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Couple's Spotlight: Katie and Tom Calling all love fanatics and relationship connoisseurs! Couple’s Spotlight, Athens’ cutest, bubbliest relationship column is back with another installment. This week, we take a deep dive into love at first car between sorority sweetheart Katie and her boyfriend and Uber driver, Tom. Let’s jump in, take a ride, and catch some of this juicy gossip! So Katie, tell us about how you and Tom met. Yeah of course. It was your typical Wednesday morning. Me and the girls had skipped class to drink wine and help Jenny get over her latest fling. We were all way too drunk to walk back home across the street, so I called an Uber. Tom showed up and was a gentleman from start to finish. He helped us clean Jenny’s puke from the side of his car and didn’t even charge us the $200 cleaning fee. I seriously felt like a girl in a romance movie. So Tom, about you. How long have you been Ubering? About 4 months. Great. Katie, what makes Tom different than other boys you’ve been with? Well, to start he’s much older. And with that comes responsibility, you know? He’s on the Uber sleep schedule, which means he takes 6 twenty-minute naps throughout the course of the day. By being awake a solid 22 hours, he just has a lot more time for me and what I want to do. And I can’t tell you how nice it is to finally have a man with a working job. So Tom: love, like the roads you drive on, is a two-way street, so let's not count your thoughts out here. Is this a part-time job or are you full-time Uber? Yep, full-time Uber. Mhm. Great, great. Katie, do you think that in the desperate search for love, we often settle in what may be an unhealthy relationship? I can’t tell you how many times my close friends enter into a toxic relationship just because how “good” it looks. People were skeptical of Tom and me just based on the fact that it’s such a dream situation. I mean here I was, worried out of mind that I was gonna be single forever after Corey and I split 2 weeks ago, but love just has its way of surpassing every ounce of my logic reasoning. People are jealous, they are really jealous of us.

First Steps

Savannah Simmons '21

And Tom: they say communication is the key to a successful relationship. That being said, how’s the night been? Pretty busy with rides, Tom? Mhm yeah, it’s been a bit slow. Been here since about 9:30. Fantastic. Hermes argued that love in itself is a societal harm, a mechanism for creating phony self-worth and egotistical self-admiration based on false ideals and expected norms. Thoughts Katie? If I could say one thing to Herpes it would be, GET OVER IT, GIRL. Just keep an open mind and blindly, emotionally commit yourself to the first boy in plain sight. And who knows, maybe you’ll find someone as special and enthusiastic as Tom! *After 5 minutes of uncomfortable silence* Yeah Tom, my house is right up here on the left. Cool, yeah you can just park anywhere. Thanks so much for the ride! Am I supposed to tip or something? Yep, tip would be very much appreciated. You know what, I’m okay, I prefer Lyft anyways. -AM '19

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Eric Dorney’s Innocence Eric Dorney pulled into Gary’s Groceries for the fourth time today. He looked in the rearview mirror to check his beanie. A few strands of his mid-length hair had fallen out of place. Nothing a little hair flip couldn’t fix. He kept telling himself that every item he forgot on his mother’s list was an “accident,” but deep down he knew that wasn’t true. Gary had recently hired a new cashier, Molly Kepler, and she was stunning. Eric could not stop looking into her deep blue eyes, complemented by her platinum blonde hair and cute little dimples. Eric looked himself in the mirror. “This is it. This time you will ask her for her number,” he said to himself. Eric took a deep breath, then exited the car. The store seemed miles away. When he finally made it to the door, he paused. “Dear God,” he prayed, “I know I haven’t been the best Christian, but I promise I regret all of the bad things I’ve done. If I get a date with Molly today, I swear I will go to church more, help at the food drives, even hand out those little Bibles on the street that people just throw away anyway.” With that, he entered. He headed directly to the Latin food section and picked up the taco seasoning his mom had requested five hours ago now. He took a deep breath and looked to the sky, hoping God had heard his prayers. He then made for checkout counter five. “Dang Eric, this is the fourth time you’ve been in today!” said Gary. “Just really forgetful lately, I guess,” Eric said with a fake laugh. He really just wanted Gary to go away so he could talk to Molly. Once Gary mozied over to another register, Eric felt ready to make his move. “So, uhh, Molly...” He started sweating profusely. He was losing his confidence. “Yeah, Eric?” Molly asked, completely oblivious to what Eric was going through. “I was wondering if, uhh, maybe you’d be interested in going

First Steps

bowling? Like, just me and you?” There was a pause in the conversation. It felt like an eternity. All of a sudden, Eric heard a faint trumpet call in the distance. “What was that noi-” Before he could finish his sentence, Molly’s eyes shifted down to look directly at his groin. Eric felt a sudden draft, a cool breeze across his midsection. When he looked down, he was completely naked. Then everything cut to black. The trumpet call was a message from God, signaling the rapture. Eric Dorney was almost left to suffer on Earth for his sins, but God felt the sincerity in his prayer, and knew Eric Dorney meant the words he had said. Yet, however gratifying, eternal salvation in heaven cannot prevent the unraptured from gawking at your penis as you ascend to the stars. Eric Dorney now wanders through the absolute perfection of heaven, unable to find happiness because he will never know for certain if the look on Molly’s face was one of admiration or disappointment. Molly Kepler now resides in Hell, where she finds the infinite torture by Satan himself more satisfying than having to talk to Eric Dorney and his small penis. -AS '19

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Monsieur Darvesham's School for Baby Gentlemen Good morning and welcome back, loyal readers, to Monsieur Darvesham’s School for Gentlemen, the weekly column dedicated to the promotion of prim and proper conduct. Today’s piece of advice covers the correct way to comport oneself as one is being born. Firstly, if you find yourself as a member of a litter, always let any of your sisters exit the womb first. It is unchivalrous for a man to precede a lady, so a proper lad should instead hold the womb ajar while his fairer siblings exit. Those who fail to do so will of course be shot. Now upon your exit from the womb and subsequent entrance into the world of polite society, you must be mindful of several key facets. Firstly, it is a scurrilous lie spread by the filthy lower classes that babies are born nude; no, a gentleman of breeding should arrive as ever in a coat and tails. If you are unsure whether the event of your birth will be white or black tie, you can of course pen a telegram to your father’s footman in advance of your arrival. Additionally, should your mother be forced to deliver you outside, perhaps if her carriage is accosted by a highwayman or if her driver contracts the dreaded Dancing Fever of 1518, you should of course emerge wearing a hat. Those who fail to do so will be mocked relentlessly, and then shot. Upon exiting, it is of utmost importance that you establish your parentage through a demonstration of your inherent nobility. This can be accomplished through engaging in witty discourse with an icy Victorian heroine, killing a fox during the hunt, or browbeating a servant to tears. After this, you should cordially introduce yourself to your father before he leaves to enjoy his celebratory cigar. Keep this meeting brief as he has more important things to do, and of course you will soon see him again upon your graduation from boarding school in 18 years time. By following these simple rules you can avoid massively embarrassing yourself, bringing disgrace to the family honor, and of course being shot by me, Monsieur Darvesham. Ta-ta for now my readers, and remember: a gentleman is always on time and Monsieur Darvesham is armed and gunning for peasants. -TH '18

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Bop It, Baby Bop It: Bop It! Me: *Bops It* Bop It: Spin It! Me: *Spins It* Bop It: Pull It! Me: *Pulls It* Bop It: Hey, just stop for a second. Can we talk? Me: *Looks over shoulder* What’s up? Bop It: I don't know, I just feel like you don't Bop me like you used to. Me: Don’t be ridiculous, I’m just tired today. Bop It: You've just been really distant recently, and last time we Bopped you didn’t even look at me. And I swear I heard you saying Xbox under your breath. Me: Please, just stop. I’ve been going through a lot, ok? Bop It: How am I supposed to know that if you don’t talk to me. All you do to me is Pull It, Spin It, and Bop It, when sometimes... I just want to Talk It! Me: Weren't you just saying how I don’t Bop you like I used to? Why would you even comment on Bopping if you're so interested in Talking?

Bop It: You’ve been so distant lately! I feel like I don’t even know you! Is it because I kept asking you to Flick It over and over again that one time? I just wanted to try it, and you said you were into being more adventurous. Me: No no, it’s not that. It's just... It's just... I feel like we are growing apart. I’m learning new things and seeing the world through a whole new perspective! Bop It: Such as? Me: I don’t know. I mean, things like the X button, R trigger, or even RB. Bop It: So it is Xbox. I knew it! That light-up, disc-inserting skank bitMe: STOP! I just think we need to take a break, I need to figure out where I am at personally, it’s nothing about you. And hey! Maybe you can find someone who loves to Flick It. Maybe we just aren't that compatible anymore. Bop It: What am I supposed to do in the meantime, play with myself ? Me: You could Bop It, maybe. *Turns Bop It off. Takes deep breath, and picks up Xbox controller* Xbox: RB It! Just kidding, I'd never tell you what to do. Me: Thanks, Xbox. -GH '19

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My Trip to the Portland Airport Turns out my trip to the Portland Airport was exactly how you think it would be. I heard that it’s a very vintage place, but I had to see for myself. And let me tell ya, going there was like travelling back in time. Especially when the airplane felt like going through a time warp; the whole plane was shaking, even shrinking! I saw flashes of lightning and grandfather clocks swirling outside the cabin. Turbulence, these days. Just wait till you get a load of the actual airport, though. I felt like I was in the year 1974 from quite literally my first step off the plane. The carpet looked like the patterned seat of a cross-country bus. Very retro. And the seats in the terminals were actually seats from an old cross-country bus. Extremely retro! They reclined and were stained with the pee of those old bladders who just couldn’t hold it anymore.

One of the terminals was even decked out as a living room from the 70s. It had lava lamps, loveseats, a huge patterned couch and matching patterned curtains draped over the window. A family of four sat on the couch, watching a TV the size of brick. It looked like they were watching Saturday Night Fever, but maybe it was a livestream of a flash-mob that the Portland Airport security camera was picking up. After all, Portland is so quirky! I needed to get some food in my system. Travelling across time, I mean time zones, will really wear you out. The really only familiar thing in the whole food court was the classic Golden Arches. I walked up to the register, and the smiling cashier looked me in the eyes and said, “What can I do ya for, in this year of nineteen-hundred and seventy-four?” Portland is so literary, even the service workers talk in rhyme!

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I then asked for a Big Mac, and, feeling extra ambitious, I asked the nice man if I could get a large fry with my burger, as well. He responded, “Did Gerald Ford just become the first unelected president of the United States? Of course!” How nice of him! And get this: it only cost me $1.11! It’s like inflation hasn’t even affected the Portland economy! Portland local government, keep doing what you’re doing. I was walking back toward the terminals when a bookstore caught my eye. I walked inside and looked around. Under the “Best-Seller” sign was Stephen King’s first novel, 1974’s Carrie. A classic! And a best-seller after all this time? Way to go, Steve! People had told me that Portland was vintage, and after visiting the airport, I totally agree. After the few hours there, there was no need for me to even step foot into the city, really. So, I bought a plane ticket and flew home. I can’t wait to usher bell-bottoms into the 21st century! -MD '19

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Taking the Leap, and the Flush: Taking a Shit in a Community Bathroom for the First Time She pushes open the stall door and slides the lock behind her, heart pounding. She had been in the fifth floor Breswell bathroom once before at orientation, but that was just a glimpse inside that added to her imaginings of what the next year would hold. Now she was in that imagined life, on the precipice, taking her first steps - or rather, her first sharts - onward. The bathroom was relatively cute: flower decals on the warm yellow walls, and plenty of stalls of toilets and showers, all reminiscent of the restrooms at an elementary school or a cutesy overnight girl scout camp. Everything was basically according to what you would expect.

All except for the hot pink Hello Kitty radio sitting in the corner, blasting music at full volume. Currently, it was playing “Despacito” by Justin Bieber and some other guy - or was it really just a complete rip off ? She wonders this as she sits down on the small porcelain potty. Really, why did these bathrooms seem so small? Was this some sort of cosmic full circle of shitting? At least there was the blasting sound of the radio and the air conditioner to mask the sounds of her going to the bathroom. So maybe that was the purpose of the radio? To maintain her dignity? Little did she know that this radio would do so much more than “maintain her dignity” and the dignity of all the other girls on her hall. It would become the soundtrack to the ecosystem that was this community bathroom. As the sorority girls vomit profusely after just hours earlier confidently declaring they liked to pregame with tequila and then chase it with vodka redbulls, “Shape of You” by Ed Sheeran echos lovingly in the background. As the weird girl from Connecticut rinses the scarf her dog peed on in the sink that other people brush their teeth and wash their dishes in, Niall Horan’s “Slow Hands” tells her exactly how to gently hand-wash the delicate garment.

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As the girl who has full makeup and hair done at all hours of the day and night walks past the sink without washing her hands every single time she goes to the bathroom, the music keeps time to the absurdity of it all. As the horny freshmen boy and girl try to take a sexy community bathroom shower together late at night and horrify the innocent onlooker just trying to wash her face, “Strip That Down” comes on the radio. As the vomit from one of the girls who couldn’t quite make it to the toilet sits and dries in a puddle because no one cleans it during Hurricane Irma (vomiting is an important part of this, bigger than shitting, keep that in mind), the soundtrack plays on. Or even when someone throws their bloody tampon outside in the hall and a different girl sends a picture of it in the hall GroupMe for all to see, “Look What You Made Me Do” thrums ironically through it all. She would soon learn that trying to turn down the volume, unplug the machine, or change the station to indie rock or opera was all to no avail. Someone, somewhere would always flip it back to the blaring top-forty hits. She would soon begin to wonder if God himself were doing this and whose dignity he’s trying to maintain. The girl would soon begin to realize that this wasn’t just one community bathroom in one 960-person dorm in one college town in the U.S. This was bigger than that. This was the crescendo of the human race, all human chaos playing out in one isolated bubble. And “Despacito” will play on through it all. -KS '21