There are a lot of people I never thought I’d meet - Halle Berry, Michael Jackson, you know, the Repo Man. But yesterday, that all changed…

It was 2:45am. I was laying comfortably in my bed when something lightly caressed my cheek. The window was open and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the moon I saw Halle Berry topless standing in front of my bed.

Then, of course, I woke up to the screams of “Brian!!! Brian!!! Where the fuck is our money!?!?” right outside my bedroom. I looked out the window and saw two giant white guys who looked like this was their part-time job outside of the WWF pounding angrily at my door. Along with the mystery of who the hell were these strange characters, I had to deal with the mystery of my boxers. They were soaked with either, ahem, the remnants of Halle Berry, sweat, or urine, possibly all three.

I snuck over to my roommate Brian’s room and whispered “There are some guys at the door to kill you!” He just rolled over and said “Is it the repo man?”

Motherfucker knew the entire time they were coming. I should have known. Brian owed me back rent for weeks. He kept using the tired old excuse of “You said I could pay you in sexual favors,” and frankly if he had kept up his part of the bargain I wouldn’t have been dreaming about Halle.

Not only that, but that day Brian had asked me for some help cleaning out his car. Then, he parked it as far in the garage as possible…Far enough to bump the wall.

Brian casually strolled down the stairs as I hid under my bed in fear where I found a jelly bean. Apparently the Repo Man took his truck away, but he still swears it was a courtesy pick up from the dealer for the new BMW he was buying.

Moral: Break your roommates knees if they don’t pay you or just take their car before the repo man gets it.

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I’ve been asked to review some popular classes for Drunk University. For a variety of racial reasons, I’m only allowed to attend classes in which I am enrolled, so those are the ones which I will review. Fortunately, my girlfriend just dumped me- regular Drunk U readers and followers of police bandwidths know that, when my girlfriend dumps me, a classmate gets hurt. By me. With pain.

History 102B
I usually bring a gun to this class, because my professor is European. However, I’m trying to hurt someone, not shoot my teacher in self-defense, so I left the gun holstered. I did bring a bottle of whiskey. My professor repeatedly used the word “Nazi” in a lesson that was supposed to be about pre-World War II Germany. Deeply offended, I challenged my professor to a fight, right there in class. He accepted, but then said he’d need some preparation to get in a “punk-slapping mood.” Soon enough, the stinking Euro was passed out at the nearest bar. My quest continued.

Advanced Calculus 4
It’s hard to understand this professor, as he is from Asia. But, he knows his stuff, and doesn’t mind repeating himself when you raise your hand and say, “Repeat that, you fucking doof.” Plus, he frequently turns to write something on the chalkboard, which gives me time to whittle my T-square into a shank. It came in handy, when I ran out of paper and was forced to carve my notes into my arm to blur the pain. When I finally jumped up and challenged all the math nerds to a knife-fight, I was covered in blood. This was the last thing I remember about that class.

Chemisty Lab 6B
Usually, in Chem Lab, I’m hard at work doing what I do best- stealing chemicals to sell to people who make meth. But, today, I spent class diligently concocting a corrosive acid that I planned to throw in the face of the next person who asked to borrow a pencil. Yeah, I know, stabbing them with a pencil would have been more apropos; I’m not the clearest thinker when I’m filled with homicidal rage and only 2 pints of blood. So, I sat there waiting, and finally, this chick asked me to borrow a pen- close enough! As her delicate hands flew to her acid-scarred face, I saw the words “Chuck must Die” burned into her forearm, along with the formula, “∫4πr².” Then, it blurred as her she swung, cracking my jaw in three places. I knew it was love, and I’m going to take her out dancing, as soon as she fixes her face.

For those of you who are thinking of taking any of these classes this quarter, I’d probably stay the fuck away. They’re all good classes, but you don’t want to get involved with my drama. So, back off.

Drunk Links

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So, I’ve been at this college for a few months now, and I’ve realized something- everyone here is a pussy. Even the manly-looking chicks are pussies. The other day, some nerd asked me to “Rush” his “Frat.” I asked him why he was speaking to me, and he told me all about pounding boilermakers with his frat buddies. “Shit,” I thought, “If I wanted to drink beers with a bunch of virgins, I’d go back to kindergarten.” I would’ve cussed him out, but I was wearing my new grill, and it hasn’t set right on my teeth, yet.

Then, I found a fraternity that changed my life – Tau Alpha something. No more of this study-all-day-drink-bud-light-on-weekends-and-call-yourself-“cool” bullshit. The fraternity I rushed is beyond that- they’re all about heroin. We’re not a “heroin fraternity,” don’t get me wrong. We’re just hooked on heroin, every one of us. But, we do lots of other activities which are only semi-heroin related:

A. Social Life

Our weekdays mainly find us robbing recruits and studying for our visual arts degrees. Most of my V.A. projects involve me filming myself shooting heroin. I get straight A’s.

The weekends are usually really kick-back. We usually all gather in the living room and watch “Family Guy” reruns. Afterward, we watch “Sex and the City” because no one can reach the remote.

Parties are excellent. Somebody throws on some Eno, we hang a bunch of belts in the foyer, and… well, that’s about it.

B. Rush Events

The fraternity doesn’t really have an informational “rush week.” Our merits are self-evident. But, the hazing is hard-core. One time, they made me shoot heroin into my dong. I couldn’t ejaculate for three days, but I didn’t really care, because I spent most of that time in the hospital.

When I fell asleep on the table during Parents’ Night, they took away my stash. That week was rough. I fucked a goat, blew a bum, and watched back-to-back episodes of “Real World vs. Road Rules: The Gauntlet,” all because I was told these things would score me smack.

C. Charity

Charity drives are alright with this brotherhood. Every month, we donate all of the stuff we can’t sell. Sometimes, we just roll downtown and donate goods to a drug-dealing bum. Usually, the bum ends up getting shot, but whatever. That’s all too heavy for me to worry about, anyway. Charity, man.

As you can see, my days are full, now that I’ve pledged my life to this fraternity. The best part is learning how to maximize my budget. I would have thought that pawning my T.V. would lower my entertainment, but I don’t even care. I just spend all day fixing, then I stare at these pictures:

Drunk Links

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Holy shit I just burnt my fucking face off. “Hey, let’s have a bonfire,” I thought. “Great idea Bradley!” all my friends agreed. And then I had another brilliant idea - to spit white gas into the flames. Did I mention I was drunk?

I had been drinking since 4pm and alcohol was practically seeping out of my pores. After my face caught on fire I buried my head in the sand like an ostrich. My drunk friends tell me that flames shot out from my ears for 10 seconds. Instead of going to urgent care immediately my drunk ass demanded to be taken home. I didn’t want them to think I was a wuss afterall.

According to the accounts of my friends my face looked like fucking Freddy Krueger, but don’t worry ladies I am supposed to make a full recovery. I feel sorry for those burn victims I saw at the burn center today though. Motherfucker! There were people who’s skinned looked like crumpled paper.

Anyway, this update is not supposed to be funny you fuckers, but a warning. The moral of the story is: if you are going to catch your face on fire make sure someone has a video camera so you can put it on your web site and make your update actually entertaining.

Drunk Links

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Subway sucks. Every time I walk in some fat sandwich-making chick tries to get way too friendly. Asking me how I am and where I’ve been. Damn, I just want a sandwich! I knew this guy who worked at Subway from high school until he was 27. When someone asked for a sandwich he’d give them two cookies filled with ice cream. Wait…that was Baskin Robbins. Still, the point is that all the people that work there are retards.

In fact, I walked into a fucking interview wearing boxing gloves and got the job. The manager asked why I was wearing boxing gloves and I told him it was because I had a hook. Yes, Subway hires retards and the retards make your sandwiches. Do you really want retards making your sandwich? One thing I know is I don’t want no retard juice on my beef, lettuce, and tomato.

As soon as I warm up to the fat chick they pass me down the assembly line. When I get to the end they ask me what kind of sandwich I have. Even though it’s hot and steaming and the guy standing 2 feet from him just asked me if I wanted the “double meat for a dollar,” I tell him it’s vegetarian because it’s the cheapest. Everyone and their mom knows of this trick and yet they always fall for it. They must wonder why they even stock up on meat.

“Dur, vegetarian sure is popular this week. Hold on, I gotta go get some more turkey from the back.”

Subway doesn’t even have the staple sandwich, peanut butter and jelly. And even if they fucking did a retard behind the counter would probably ask you if you wanted the toppings on it. “Errr…mayonaise and mustard on your PB and J sir?” The only cool thing about Subway is that the chips and drinks are free. What? You didn’t know that?

Everyone there has a specific job kind of like how in high school the challenged kids pick up trash after lunch. One Subway worker picks up cans, one picks up paper, and one points. Similarly, at Subway one person puts mayonaise and mustard on your sandwich, another puts vegetables, and another puts on meat (why do they even have this guy!?). Notice that there is no Chip and Soda Guard Guy.

Anyway, what the fuck am I talking about. Back to how Subway sucks. The first day on the job the manager asked me where my hook went. I told him I traded it in for a Dallas Cowboy’s jacket. “Errr…oh, okay,” he said.

When I was working there they kept on insisting that I pay for my sandwiches. You gotta be shitting me. Why the fuck would I pay for sandwiches when they throw them away because “there’s extra pickles�” or “too much pepporcinni.” I just put those in my back pocket. In fact, I just put everything in my back pocket.

So one day I wrote this letter telling them how much I appreciate working for Subway, but they mistook it for blackmail. It didn’t make any sense because I’m as white as they come. All I said was that if they didn’t pay me more I would start a vigorous campaign in the media detailing how their stores were Feng Shui unfriendly.

The next day I get this note with my paycheck: “Dear Mike, I am sorry to inform you that you have been demoted from meat slicer to mayonaisse squirter.”� NOOOOO! But I had worked so hard for that position! I guess they were just looking for a reason to fire me because a week later I was canned for taking meaningless shit. I took old bread, left over meats and cheeses, a few bags of chips, and some money from the cash register. Fuck you Subway.

Stupidest thing I ever heard at Subway: “Oh my god! What am I going to do if a customer comes in? I’m just the vegetable layout specialist!”

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