For college students, winter break is without question primetime fertile ground for some good old fashioned rumor spreading. I mean, just look at the situation -- people from all parts of the country (your high school friends from other colleges) converging to the same place (your hometown) with nothing to talk about (face it, dude).

So, without further ado, I give you CollegeHumor's list of rumors to kick off the year 2K5. Of course we can't verify the authenticity of any of these. Spread "˜em like butter, friends. Like metaphorical butter.

1. Desperate Housewives star Eva Longoria (best known as Gabrielle, the hot Hispanic woman who sleeps with her gardener) got her Hollywood start in"¦ New Jersey. Longoria played a Bada Bing background stripper during the second season of The Sopranos. Copies of the second season DVD have become virtually unavailable at video rental stores.

2. After 15 consecutive years of putting out games, the John Madden video game franchise is taking a year off. There will be no Madden NFL 2006. With EA Sports acquiring the exclusive NFL game license (and in effect knocking out virtually any competition) it will take an extra year off for research and development and completely revamp the game for a big re-release for 2007.

3. Heartthrob rocker John Mayer refuses to take a paternity test for a woman in Austin, TX who claims to have slept with the singer during a Fall 2003 tour stop. The woman also claims to have received threatening calls from intoxicated members of Mayer's touring band.

4. No, it's not Buffalo wings or Chicken of the Sea: 98 Degrees singer and Newlyweds star Nick Lachey actually has a deadly allergy to peanuts. Lachey's tour riders and production contracts specify that no peanuts or peanut-based food may be present with a $5 million dollar violation penalty.

5. Despite his recent $50 million dollar Comedy Central contract, Dave Chapelle is still as thrifty as his days as an upcoming DC comic. On a recent trip to the Hard Rock Café in New York following a taping of a segment for his show, Dave picked up the $1600 tab for his cast mates, but left a paltry $100 tip.

6. At the end of the first 2005 fiscal quarter, AOLTimeWarner will no longer allow Instant Messenger profile changes for non-AOL paying subscribers. As of March 15th 2005, users of the free AIM service will be stuck with their current AIM profiles until getting a new screen name (which will contain the default "No Information Provided"� message.)

7. Former news anchor and current first lady of California Maria Shriver is rumored to have a benign brain tumor. Calls to Governor Schwarzenegger's press secretary were returned with a statement that the illness is "not a tumor."

If you missed our last CH comedy night in LA, be sure to check out the one this Wednesday (9pm, Hollywood Improv). Tony Rock (Chris' brother) Harland Williams (Half Baked, Something About Mary), and Carlos Alazraqui (Lt. Garcia from Reno 911) will be performing. E-mail gleib@gleib.com here for free tickets. Now, hotlinks.

Quick thing! If you've ever shamed someone (or been shamed) and want to be in a Washington Post story, e-mail copelandl@washpost.com. Word.

Truth.com

Every year 95% of people who try to quit smoking fail. Every 8 seconds someone in the world dies from tobacco use. 2000 teens start smoking every day. 80% of adult smokers started before they turned 18. And 100% of me couldn't give any less of a shit.

No doubt you have seen a commercial for truth.com; the website (which is actually "thetruth.com"�) that encourages the defaming of big tobacco. They are committed to exposing the awful truth behind tobacco companies and bringing all their lies to light. These teen street warriors will go to no end to help citizens understand the risks involved with using tobacco. They will also go to no end to piss me off.

To begin with, the "real life teens"� in their ads are intolerable. They remind me of born again Christian teenagers - kids deluded enough to think that it's "cool"� to follow the rules. You know them; "You don't have to have sex to be cool. Jesus was the coolest guy in history and he didn't have sex!"� Shut up. This gang of do-gooders travels the country to let all the smokers out there know that they are merely pawns in big tobacco's evil game.

The teens always engage in some sort of sabotage act, whether it is stacking body bags in front of a tobacco company building or pointing out that dog shit and cigarettes share some of the same chemicals (you know what else shares some chemicals with dog shit? Dog food). They get on megaphones and shout facts to passersby about the evils of tobacco use. "Cigarette companies advertise to teenagers!"� they scream. Of course they do; it's called capitalism, comrade.

Even the way their ads are shot is annoying. The grainy film makes their actions look dangerous, like they're taking part in Project Mayhem in "Fight Club."� They want to give you the illusion that they're a guerilla army, spreading the renegade word of truth to the country by subterfuge. I'm surprised they don't wear black arm bands and drive around in beat up jeeps with .50 cal truth-guns jerry-rigged to the back. In reality though, they're just a bunch of holier-than-thou teens finding a way to get back at the smokers who gave them wedgies in gym class. "Ha ha, Randy Garson, I bet you're sorry you stuck my head in a toilet last year now that I have an army behind me...by the way, you're going to die of lung cancer someday."� God, I hate these kids.

They word their annoying ads in such a way that it seems tobacco companies want to kill people. Now let me ask you a question: why would a company want to kill off its customers? Is the president of Philip Morris sitting in his office saying, "I just wish there was a way to make our cigarettes more lethal. Wait a minute, why don't we put some anthrax in them?"� I don't think so. If there was a way to make a cigarette that wouldn't kill you, they would.

But the most glaringly obvious - and heavily over-used by comedians - fact that the truth squad ignores is that everyone already knows that smoking will kill you. Now, the fact that Levitra may cause anal bleeding and diarrhea"¦that's something I didn't know. But telling me that smoking is dangerous? What do you think I am? Everyone that thought smoking was harmless died in 1977 of lung cancer. It says smoking is dangerous right on the pack; how could you miss it? I'm looking at my almost empty pack of Parliament Lights right now, learning that if I ever get pregnant my smoking may cause my baby to be born premature. Shit. Sometimes I think the surgeon general is just making stuff up in these warnings. "Smoking may cause erectile problems in males."� Really? I mean, I may be short of breath in the act, but the private is still at attention.

However, the truthy's greatest downfall is overlooking the fact that smokers really like smoking. We know the dangers, we know it's stupid, we know that our babies will be born underweight, premature and have flippers, but we don't care. It's our choice to smoke, just like it's their choice to be totally annoying douchebags. Telling a smoker that cigarettes are dangerous is about as useful as telling a pregnant woman that having unprotected sex may cause pregnancy.

If anything, this pack of assholes makes me want to smoke more just to spite them. I want to go to one of their "renegade"� street gatherings and blow secondhand smoke at them in hopes of giving them a phlegm-y, hacking cough. I want to follow them around with a megaphone shouting, "Did you know that 100% of smokers find you all annoying, irrelevant and arrogant?"� I want karma to bite them in such a way that they are harmed by their actions. I want them to be hurt by one of the other ten million things in this world that will hurt you. I want them to get mercury poisoning from eating too much tuna fish. I want them to destroy their testicles and ovaries from over-enthusiastic microwave use. I want brain tumors from cell phones and terminal bloody noses from Afrin nasal spray. Recurring acid reflux from coffee! UNSIGHTLY MOLES FROM OVEREXPOSURE TO THE SUN! But most of all, I just want them all to shut the hell up and stop telling me what I don't care to, and already, know.

Man"¦that was intense. I need a smoke.

O.C. Can You See

No doubt you are all aware of FOX's mega-hit "The O.C."�, but what you don't realize is how it has ruined my life. I can recall my first viewing of this drama-drenched masterpiece. I was on an overnight vacation in Newport, Rhode Island with my girlfriend. Being that we were both Irish and had spent the entire day at the beach, the sunburns were blistering and popping by 8 o'clock. We smeared Aloe Vera gel on each other and argued about who was to blame for this debacle. Sex was out of the question as we both fear we would flay our skin off in the process. What to do?

The TV glowed to life and I sat and watched three episodes of the then-brand new show. I liked it; it had drama and skinny girls in bathing suits without pussing sunburns. But then I left for England and quickly forgot about the show. Upon my return, I came to find that all of my friends were deeply, emotionally involved with the show. On Thursday nights I had nothing to do but watch The O.C. since that was what every single person I knew was doing.

They say you get hooked on crack after your first puff. Well, The O.C. takes a little longer"¦like cigarettes. You watch one, you go, "Eh, it's ok."� You watch two, you go, "I dunno, it's pretty good."� You watch three and that's it, you're hooked. You start to get anxious at about 7 PM because you know that you need to finish all your business before 8. You rush calls with Mom, you leave unfinished sentences in papers, you don't even bother wiping yourself because if you did, you would miss the opening teaser. You know, the two minute little clip of action that precedes the theme song and always ends with a witty little comment.

Now, let me take you to Best Buy with me where I browsed alone clutching a $50 gift card I received for Christmas. What to buy, what to buy? Ah, a scanner. I've been wanting one and I could certainly use it. Oh wait, what's this? A new digital camera card with more memory? I could definitely use this"¦but, wait. Is that what I think it is? The O.C. season 1 on DVD! And that was it. I dropped all thoughts of buying something useful and instead opted for this 27 episode (with extras!) time killer.

Needless to say, the next three days and nights were spent sitting in my parent's living room watching the love triangles unfold. My trusty sister, Heidi, was by my side in the other La-Z-Boy and we would take post-episode breaks to discuss our feeling about various plot developments and character flaws. It was pathetic. I finished off all 27 episodes plus the season 2 sneak peek feature and immediately looked down into my pants to make sure I still had a penis.

Now look at me - a hopeless addict, emotionally entangled in the lives of people that only exist in pixels. If an episode ends on a depressing note, I become depressed. If an episode ends on a happy note, I'm on cloud nine. I ceaselessly worry about Marissa and the demons she wrestles with. I wonder what ever happened to Oliver and Eddie and Teresa. I wish, against all hope, that Seth and Summer get back together. I am, in short, a total wreck when it comes to this show.

But, at least I know I am not alone. My father tormented me for watching the show to know end. He used phrases like, "I have no son"�, "I hear that you're kind can still get married in New Hampshire"�, and "Thank God you're the mailman's kid."� Well, he tormented me until he watched an episode or two. After that he was asking me to fill him on all the plot twists. "Who's that? Why doesn't he have a car? Where is that kid's parents? Are they related?"� The questions abounded. I answered graciously as it gave me a chance to showcase my knowledge and make sure that knowledge was razor sharp.

The fact that my Dad got into the show - and this is a man who laughs out loud at Heineken ads - proves my theory that even if you don't like anything about the show, you will watch it. To this day I'm not sure if I think the show is good. But what I do know is that you better not call me on Thursday night from 8 to 9 or all hell will rain down on you.

Jesus, I need a life.

There is a difference between being a neat person and a clean person. A neat person has orderly places for everything, and knows where all of their stuff belongs. A clean person has orderly places for everything, knows where all of their stuff belongs, and none of the places are covered in barbecue sauce.

I, am a neat person.

I didn't used to be a neat person, including in the manner of, "hey, look at that lanky kid with the pale skin! Neat, huh?" I grew up very messy - I left my stuff wherever it ended up, because that's where my stuff decided it wanted to live. You try telling a GI Joe he has to spend his nights in a shoebox with no air holes. He was much more comfortable between the cushions of my parents' couch. And really, who wouldn't be?

I was also not clean as a kid. I HATED doing dishes, especially cleaning the sink. I hated the smell of Comet (they didn't pay me to say that, either), and so I would do loads of dishes without ever washing the sink. I remember the day we got one of those spray nozzles on our faucet and I could just spray the sucker down. That was a good day.

As I got older, I realized the benefit of being neat: actually finding things. I got a planner in college, which begat a palm pilot which begat a desk organizer which begat a to-do list which begat the discovery of my low grade OCD. Don't give someone who methodically checks his watch every five minutes and can't go to sleep without answering his email a to-do list. Speaking of which, I ought to make sure that I shut off the water all the way.

I began being neat. I am more efficient, I am happier, and I haven't ever had to apologize for the way my apartment looks. I'm not perfectly neat, but for a 25-year-old comedian who lives alone, I keep the place tidy.

Clean is a different story. A story that I still haven't read. Mainly because I heard it's a really boring story, and makes your hands smell kind of funky. I messed up the analogy just then, but you still understand that I hate cleaning.

I wash the dishes before they pile up too high and I wash my clothes whenever I need to, but that's it. I know I should wipe down the counters when I cook. I know I should vacuum more or ever, and I know that no soap scum is good soap scum. But often I just don't bother. I know I should. I know it's a problem. But it's not one I'm willing to face quite yet.

I move often. OFTEN. I haven't lived in the same place for more than a year since 1994. When something got dirty it never mattered because I was moving anyway. But I like the apartment I have now, so today I got the desire to get it clean. Not to clean it myself, because that would be ridiculous.

I'm willing to work - I am a bit of a workaholic sometimes. (See OCD, symptoms of). But I am not willing to clean, ever. I will tidy up. I will not clean.

So the question became how to clean my apartment without cleaning. I tried checking my email and looking at my watch a whole bunch, but that didn't do much. So I thought of the obvious answer - get someone else to do it.

Since no one will ever do something like that for free, I looked up some cleaning services. I found one that looked good, but they were $160 dollars. And so, a new question arose - how to clean my apartment without cleaning or paying someone $160.

To help me answer it, I checked my email and shut off the water a few times. And then it hit me. I spent the last few hours promoting my book more in order to raise the extra money. That way I could work to clean my apartment without having to do any of the work I didn't like. Not to mention I was contributing to our economy by keeping money circulating.

Neat, huh?

Steve Hofstetter is the author of Student Body Shots, which is available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

Every year on January 2nd college kids across the country mourn the loss of something great"¦winter break. They would mourn on January 1st, but that day is mostly spent leaning over a toilet trying to figure out how, exactly, the word "˜cock' came to be written on your face. It is not as if winter break is over; most of us have another two or three weeks left, but the fun portion of it is done. After the material joy of Christmas has passed and the debauchery of New Year's Eve is gone, what are you left with?

Nothing. You've already exhausted every possible entertaining thing to do in your hometown ("I dunno, we could hang out at the gas station"¦again?"�). And, to be honest, your high school friends are wearing on your nerves. There are only so many times you can hear a sentence started with "Oh shit, remember that time"¦"� before you just lose it. Yes, home has certainly lost its magic.

And there you are - a depressed, slightly heavier version of yourself wishing for a return to the normalcy of college life: the parties, the all-microwavable-food diet, the shower-sandaled joy that is your life away from home. However, you will not be back in that all-too-healthy pattern for a few weeks and you've got some time to kill. Let me help you fill your last weeks of break with exciting and entertaining diversions to take your mind off the fact that you wont be doing any keg stands till Martin Luther King Jr. says, "my day has passed, go back to school."�.

Return all your gifts: You don't even like sweaters, but somehow you now own 32 of them. Plus, you're short on cash considering you blew it all trying to be a high roller on New Year's Eve ("Yeah, we'll have another bottle of Cristal over here!"�). A-Ha! A simple solution to both problems - return all of your gifts. Yes, you'll hurt some feelings but you'll have plenty of cash in your pocket and a guarantee from all your relatives that next year they'll be writing checks instead of shopping for you. Hell, while you're at it you might as well grab some of your kid sister's gifts and take them back too; is she really going to notice her missing Barbie Doll?

Take a fake vacation (or fakation): While most of your friends are basking on the sands of Saint Tropez, you're shoveling snow in New Jersey. Damn. Fool those suckers by crafting a perfect Fakation for yourself. All you'll need is a tanning bed, Adobe Photoshop and a few crappy trinkets to give your friends. In a few days, you'll have all the evidence of a great vacation: pictures of you on the beach, little shitty presents of all of them and a nice dark-orange, melanoma-inducing tan. Yes, having leathery skin and dark, malignant moles on your back will suck, but at least nobody will know that you spent your vacation watching "The O.C. Season One"� with your sister.

Call Your Friends: Here is a simple way to make all your college friends think you're having the time of your life; put on some loud techno music and call their cell phone. However, when they pick up, don't say anything into the phone. Instead, leave it lying on the bed while you talk to an imaginary person (preferably, make comments about their attractiveness, their helicopter, and how flattered you are that they want you to take them home tonight). Your friend will assume that you accidentally dialed their phone while you were out at some cool club and hang up in a jealous rage. When the ruse is through, go back to eating peanut butter and watching Conan.

There isn't much to do in these last few weeks of break and you'll just have to get used to it. Some of my past late-break activities include taunting my dog while he's in his cage, driving aimlessly around my town and making liberal use of my parent's On-Demand cable package. At least you know that just over the horizon, just beyond view, is your return to school and all the joy that it entails. Well, at least it's fun till classes start"¦then it sucks. I hate school. I wish it was break.

Matt has a new issue of Ah, College out, so check that. Also, we're now proud to feature the Stella videos from the guys who did The State on MTV and Wet Hot American Summer the movie. If you're into really good weird comedy, give them a look.

Now, hotlinks.

In response to increasingly more streamlined technology and a positive response from viewers, the NFL revealed plans Wednesday to expand the types of on-field graphics they employ. Though no decisions have been reached with regards to what statistical content will make its way down to the field, NFL sources indicate that the graphics will definitely be as brightly colored as possible.

Originally, on-field graphics were limited to the vaunted first-down line, technology that has since been recognized as falling somewhere between "blogs"� and Google in techno-cultural significance. "We won a number of awards for the complex technology involved in creating the first-down marker,"� explained an intern working for SporTVision, the company that pioneered the now-ubiquitous on-field yellow line. "At least, the technicians did. I was washing one of their pet rabbits."�

Bolstered by the thin yellow line's accolades, on-field graphics have expanded this season to cover an assortment of statistics, including red zone diagrams and kicking distances. The latter of the two, the boldly-colored bands detailing kicking success rates at a variety of distances, has proven to be especially popular with kickers.

Now, as the season winds down, NFL executives are trying to determine how they can best expand their catalogue of on-field graphics. "Now that we understand that breadth of the technology, we really want to see just how many bright colors we can get onto the field at any one time,"� commented one anonymous NFL GM.

While the NFL powers-that-be generally want to stick to only statistical on-field content, some dissenters have suggested that the football fields are a perfect green canvas for advertising. "I see no reason not to display large cans of Campbell's Chunky Soup in the backfield, out of play,"� said Wilma McNabb, mother of Donovan McNabb and the new face of hearty pre-game meals.

Inspired by the elder McNabb's bravado, advertising executives have been feverishly pitching the NFL on ideas for mid-game commercials. "Think of the possibilities,"� an excited advertising executive exclaimed during a recent ideas meeting, just before settling back with a notepad and waiting for thoughts on the possibilities.

Fictional insiders in the NFL front office reveal that commissioner Paul Tagliabue shares this optimistic perspective on the future of graphics-laden football: "Of course it's a good idea. The NFL is the best-run sports league in the world. We're simply incapable of making bad decisions."�

"He's right,"� echoed MLB commissioner Bud Selig, who couldn't be reached for comment, "though our athletes, pound for pound, are significantly stronger than NFL players."� He then continued, "Please, someone buy the Washington Nationals."�

Considering how NFL fans have embraced the computer enhancements, it's logical that other sports dabble with the practice. But, predictably, other leagues are reluctant. Baseball, a sport based heavily around statistics, has indicated that it won't venture beyond its wildly successful virtual drug testing program, while hockey is quick to point out the abysmal failure of its virtual puck "˜tail.' "We thought that TV viewers would appreciate being able to follow the puck,"� a man closely resembling NHL commissioner Gary Bettman was recently overheard saying to a TGI Friday's co-worker. "Then we discovered that we don't actually have any TV viewers, and couldn't afford the tail anymore."� Then, clearly shaken up, the Bettman look-alike added, "God, I loved that tail."�

But despite the setbacks experienced by other leagues, the NFL continues to move forward with their plans to cover the field in an assortment of vibrantly colored stats. NFL execs are already looking forward to an off-season festooned with meetings as they try and determine which digital enhancements will be appropriate for broadcasting. To this effect, they have established criteria for all proposed on-field graphics: they must be non-invasive, they must enrich and engage TV viewers, they must be a very, very bright color and, above all, they must make the NFL and the game of football more exciting to watch.

Right now, a virtual NFC is the leading candidate.

Packing It In

In twelve hours I will set off for a week of sun, sand and possibly Sea World down in Florida. I've been working on my tan by making sure that the sun reflects off the snow at just the perfect angle to give me that oh-so-nice mid-winter New England tan. I've also been working out like a mad man in hopes that I could turn my far from perfect physique into a less than perfect one. Yes, I've certainly been getting ready, but one thing remains to be done: packing.

Here's the problem - when God created the sexes, he made sure to include enough ingrained differences to make sure the world homosexuality rate holds steady at ten percent. To the fairer sex he gave beauty and sexiness and an amazing ability to know about the latest hair products before they reach the market. To the hairier sex he gave competitiveness and rugged charm and the ability to ignite gas from our rectums. Yet, God did not see it wise to give men the ability to pack. So here I am, a few hours away from leaving my cozy Connecticut retreat without a thing to wear! What's a boy to do?

I'll tell ya. Over the years I have perfected a packing method for the confused and frustrated man. It has been tested on many occasions by myself and I swear by it. With this method you bring only what you need and nothing else. Let us begin with clothing because unless you're going to a Seidell family reunion, you're going to need to cover up.

Men wear one pair of jeans, one pair of shorts and one bathing suit. Therefore, this is all you should pack. It doesn't matter if you're gone for a day, a week, or a month, you're never going to wear more than that. When it comes to T-shirts however, feel free to indulge a little. The great thing about T-shirts - actually, any kind of shirt come to that - is that they are so easy to pack. On past occasions, I have packed as many as 14 shirts for a three day trip. They can be jammed inside of shoes, stuffed down by the toiletries or crammed into a backpack next to all that duty free liquor you'll be buying.

Oh yeah, you should probably pack some underwear and socks too, but that's all up to you.

Now, the most important thing to remember when packing your bag is your personal products. Every man, and I mean all of us, has some sort of deodorant, body spray, cologne, etc. that we really enjoy. This product (Axe for me) is to be given pride of place in your baggage. Fuck the digital camera, my Old Spice High Endurance has to go on top. Joining your scent of choice will most likely be a music playing device, a few "guy"� magazines and your blanky"¦Snugglebug.

So, I suppose I should stop putting this off and get packing. To be honest, it's never taken me more than ten minutes, but it's the initial push that's so difficult"¦you know, like sex or moving a couch. I suppose you won't be hearing from me for a short while but don't fear; I'll be down in Florida wondering why the hell I packed myself twenty T-shirts and not one pair of socks. Oh well, I have more important things to worry about - like how my blister-prone Irish skin is going to get along with the Florida sun. Melanoma here I come!

If you don't have a Facebook profile, you're missing out. If you don't know what Facebook is, you're missing out and you're over 25.

TheFacebook.com is a website, and from what I hear, the internet is becoming very popular. Ever since Al Gore invented it a few years ago, people have been purchasing home computing devices intended for use on said internet, where they are interacting with other owners of computing devices. Almost as popular as the internet is this new thing called "sarcasm."

The most common way for young people to express their love for the internet is by signing up for profiles on a billion different community websites. The sites are predicated on networking - Friendster was the big one, then Orkut hit, and now MySpace seems to be taking over. The sites are fun ways to track down old friends, find new ones, or post revealing pictures of yourself in hopes of making up for the attention your parents didn't give you as a child.

TheFacebook.com is like all these, but college-based. And it's more than a fad - the vast majority of students on my old campus have Facebook profiles. I have even been to bars where people exchanged Facebook information instead of phone numbers. I'm kidding - they exchanged Facebook information instead of screen names.

Even though I'm an old gross alumni ("Ew! He's, like, older than my TA!"), I have a Facebook profile. The site is great for me - I make most of my living performing at colleges, so I use it to keep in touch with bookers, fans, and people who I conned into letting me use their web connection to check my email and update my Facebook profile.

Last week, I was on Facebook when I got a message asking me when I was performing at a particular campus. I wrote back with the details, and it dawned on me - what a great way to let people know when I'm in town.

I started adding people I didn't even know as friends. At first I searched for fans of standup, then people on programming boards, then the newspaper, then the radio station, then anyone with a cool last name. It grew - I was adding hundreds of friends, and they were adding me back.

I decided to see if I could get 10,000 friends on the site. The number was fairly arbitrary - I picked it because it was attainable, but impressive. Kind of like my prom date. I then changed my profile to talk about my quest, and even put a caption on my picture to explain why I was adding random people. Then I sent a message to my entire list asking for help.

Word started spreading that there was a crazy comedian adding people on Facebook. And suddenly, I didn't have to ask anymore. I spent hours adding all the people who were asking ME to be THEIR friend. Here's where it stopped feeling like my prom. There must be something about a zany request combined with the boredom of winter break to mobilize the masses: in a week, I'm already over 5,000.

I've gotten several dozen encouraging messages - most a variation on "you're crazy, but I'll help." I've also gotten four pieces of hate mail. One was from someone who hates all comedians, and two more were from people who thought I was bastardizing the purity of Facebook - as if there's some inherent purity in adding the girl you've never spoken to in your Lit class because you want her to read your profile and fall in love with your boyish online charm. The fourth message came from someone named Kyle Hofstetter, who accused me of ruining the Hofstetter name. He's not related to me - but I Googled him and found a website that accuses him of twice sodomizing billy goats. Of course, that's my website. Thanks for writing, Kyle.

I also get several messages a day from people asking me who I am and why I added them. If you read my profile, you'll see why I find that funny - that's like asking someone wearing a restaurant nametag what he's doing disturbing you during dinner.

The funniest message I got was from a student asking me if I was going to make fun of her in my act or in my column. I told her that I am linked to 5,000 people on the site, and if I made fun of all of them individually, it'd be a very boring column. So, no, I will not make fun of her in my column. At all. Not even in this paragraph.

Overall, the quest has been fun - I've made a few new friends and a few new fans, and found something to do over the holidays while the rest of the world seems to be closed. I'm not sure where this will take me, but I'm enjoying myself. And when I hit 10,000, I will probably keep going. Maybe 25,000 is next. Maybe 50,000. Maybe even 100,000. The only one who can be truly sure about the limit of all this is Al Gore.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to take care of this Kyle Hofstetter fellow. Anyone know where I can get a feather pillow, some super glue, and a mousetrap at this hour?

Steve Hofstetter is the author of Student Body Shots, which is available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

Once a year, everybody here at the CollegeHumor place (we all live in an abandoned firehouse) writes down our resolutions for the upcoming year. This year, we decided to do it at New Year's.

One of my resolutions that I decided against was trying to be a talking head on a VH1 countdown show and for every person on the countdown say "And that's why X is X!" For example, for Paris Hilton- "And that's why Paris Hilton is Paris Hilton." Or for, let's say, William Hung- "And that's why William Hung is William Hung." And then of course have them use every clip.

Anyway, without further ado, here are our resolutions. I put mine first because I can.

	Ricky Van Veen	2005 is going to be the year I finally single-handedly revive the use of the words "fox" and "dog" to describe attractive and unattractive women, respectively.
	Amir Blumenfeld	My New Years resolution is 800x600. Also I'm a computer nerd.
	Dan Levy	Join a gym that allows Jews.
	Bruce Noll	Make more of my own jewelry.
	Ethan Dougherty	Laugh with, not at, orphans.
	Josh Jacobs	In the same day tip a waitress, a pizza guy, and a cow
	Steve Hofstetter	I gave up making New Year's Resolutions for lent.
	Lauren Herskovic	Rid the world of that evil Ugg/Short Skirt combination
	Mindy Raf	Stop making Herpes a scapegoat for my fear of intimacy
	Christian Finnegan	I resolve to grow three inches of excess cock. You know, for parties.
	Bobby Oerzen	Stop accidently deleting e-mails from my mom with the subject: "Want a bigger penis? Guaranteed stronger penis in 2 weeks!"
	Jakob Lodwick	For 2005, I resolve to stop being misleading with girls. A lot of my girl problems stem from not being totally honest. For example, sometimes I will tell a girl that I didn't have sex with someone else right before coming to her apartment, when really I'd just finished pounding some other girl and the condom broke but I kept going anyway. In some ways, I feel that behavior is misleading.
	Shallon Lester	Redouble efforts to hook up with actor from Harry Potter ("Mrs. That Kid From The Movie" has such a nice ring to it)
	Neil Janowitz	"Stop telling middle school girls that I'm 'College Humor's Streeter Seidell' just so I can get into their pants."

Well wasn't that fun. To see other resolutions (some more way good ones!), go right here. This update has been brought to you by The Online Poker Tour, so muchas gracias to them. Have a wonderful New Years everybody.

Hey guys, Amir here with some hot end-of-the-year entertainment news. Unless you've been living under a rock (or living under Iraq - Kuwait) you are very familiar with the myriad of countdowns VH1 has aired this year. Hottest this, coolest that, and the other. Well I've compiled a list of their lists, and here is a countdown of the greatest VH1 countdowns of 2004! (Note: This list is NOT real. The jokes you are about to read are facetious and satirical, for actual news please visit CollegeSerious.org)

5. Top 100 Luke Warm Celebrities of 2004: VH1 counted down a list of 100 luke warm celebs for 2004, and frankly, America listened. These are those people in Hollywood who aren't quite hot, but aren't quite not hot either. They reside in a grey area under the radar, but some reside in an area that's grayer than others! Most notable luke-warm celebrities include: Ray Ramano, Derek Jeter, Heather Locklear, and probably the luke-warmest celebrity of all time: Gene Hackman.

4. 101 Celebrity "Shit I left my keys in the car"� moments caught on tape: VH1 startled the entire United States/Kingdom when they released this bad boy in late November. Hot, raw, unadulterated footage of these primo "Shit I left my keys in the car"� moments. Watch Freddie Prinz Jr. call AAA! Check out Christina Aguilera get Dirty"¦ with AAA! And I'll be damned if that wasn't Will Smith getting jiggy with AAA! Even the stars have their life-threatening tragedies!

3. Top 500 Celebrity Scandals involving Sandals: Hollywood Lore has it that VH1 first compiled a list of 1,500 Scandals involving Sandals that they then widdled down into a watchable 500. This week long extravaganza included the time Jerry Seinfeld wore sandals and stubbed his toe, to the #1 sandal scandal of all time: Drew Barrymore wearing sandals!

Rumor has it, VH1 is going to follow this baby up in 2005 with their list of the top 100 Scandals involving Sandal Candles. Sandal Candles are sandals you light up with your dance moves.

2. I love the 20's: Strikes Back: Remember Hoola Hoops? Hitting a ring with a stick? Herbert Hoover? Herbert Hoover's Hoola Hoop? Saying that three times fast? Well so does Hal Sparks, Tommy Lee, and the black guy from MAD TV and they're not afraid to talk about it! Watch D-list celebrities reminisce about a period in time your great great grandparents cant even recall -- because they're dead. And no matter how hard you wish, no matter how many prayers you make, no matter how many candles you light, you ain't never gonna bring them back! YA HURD! Rated G.

Our countdown concludes with the number one countdown on VH1 in 2004, after this line break.

Hey we're back.

1.VH1's 200 greatest 6-hit wonders. VH1 dissects the anatomy of the oft-fabled myth: the six hit wonder. What makes certain bands like Hootie and the Blowfish, and Blues Traveler release six hot hits then seemingly die out? See which bands are Less than Jake but Better than Ezra in this hot 12 hour mini-special which airs at the bottom and top of each day. I for one can never ever never get enough!

Can't wait till 2005, where VH1 airs the top 2004 years before this one but after Jesus was born!!

Ah, the post-holiday period, where everyone is 15 pounds heavier than the fatties we were before the holidays. And trust me, we're fatties.

Don't be suprised, either. Of course America is getting fatter. We start early. How many of you grew up hearing, "You can't eat desert until you finish your meal." Not only is there an incentive for over-eating, but it's pie? Your kid is three forkfuls away from his own episode of Maury Povich and you're rewarding him with pie.

I saw one kid on that show who was five-years-old and weighed 230 pounds. That's ten pounds heavier than the fighting weight of Mike Tyson. How does that happen? This kid didn't gain 200 pounds overnight.

He had to be about 3-foot-2, 180, and his mother is going, "You know, he's looking a little chunky. Maybe I should call the people from Maury Povich." I'm no Dr. Spock, but let me tell you something, mother of the year, when you're husband is getting hand-me-downs from your five-year-old something is amiss in the kitchen.

They interview this woman, and she says, "You know, I notice he always eats more chocolate pudding than he should." Here's an idea - stop serving the kid pudding! He's five - he doesn't know how to make pudding. I'm 25 and I can't make pudding.

Too much pudding? He weighs 230 pounds! At this point, any pudding is too much pudding! Look at him! He's practically made of pudding. And I know you're the one serving it to him because his stubby meatball arms can't even reach his fat mouth.

But why do we over-eat as a country? A lot of reasons to over-eat are emotional, like anger, or rejection, or shame. But we're America! What do we have to be ashamed about? Well, the slavery thing, sure.

Segregation in general. Viet Nam. Watergate, prohibition, internment camps, the civil war, stealing land from the Indians, Iran Contra, unequal pay for men and women, and a culture that produced Snap Bracelets, Color Me Badd, and Paris Hilton. Maybe we should have another piece of pie.

Think you're funnier than Steve? Good. We're recruiting new CH writers for '05. Send samples of your stuff to us in word document format (collegehumor @ yahoo). Word.

People You Hate XV - Special Holiday Edition

Tis the season"¦to be hateful. Here at "A Word From The Streets"� we specialize in bringing you the very latest, very ugliest hate we can. And now, with Christmas dead and gone and a big stack of clothing awaiting return, we bring you a special Holiday edition of The Famous Hate List. It just wouldn't be that time of year without the anger.

*To anyone wishing to submit a hate list entry, please email me at suxatlife@hotmail and let it all out. The next edition will return to the normal, everyday kind of hate we know and love.

MINE:

Wendel the Whiny Jew: Most Jewish people like Christmas. This may sound strange but it is true. If it weren't for Christmas, Jewish kids wouldn't get presents on Chanukah. Plus, many Jewish families give gifts on - or around - Christmas just for fun. They keep intact the commercial aspect of the holiday without all the messy Jesus stuff (something I wouldn't have minded halfway through the 2 hour mass I attended on Christmas Eve). But there is always one Jew, one asshole, who can't seem to deal with the fact that, yes, Christians like to celebrate their holidays. He gets all pissy about Christmas trees in public places and chastises you for wishing him a merry Christmas. "I don't celebrate Christmas,"� he says in a snotty tone, "I'm Jewish."� Ok, well, happy Chanukah then. It doesn't matter to us; we're all in a good mood because we know that in a few days we will be swimming in products we didn't pay for. If you don't like the Christmas trees outside, stick a Star of David on top (after all, Jesus was Jewish). But, above all, please just keep your anger to yourself and let us celebrate our holiday without the guilt trip. We're not hurting anybody by giving each other presents. Shit, I'll buy you a present if you'll just shut the hell up. We don't get all mad about Yom Kippur, do we? Wendel, I hate you and your Scrooge-ish ways.

*To any of my Jewish readers, I joke because I love. Feel free to submit Christian-themed hate at any time. Also, interesting note: Microsoft Word spellcheck recognizes about 200 ways to spell "Chanukah."�

Mr. New Year: I put a lot of faith in people. I put so much faith in people that I often depend on them. Thus, I have been let down again and again by this man; Mr. New Year. He is your buddy that is going to make all the plans for your new years revelries. He was going to call the hotel and make reservations, he was going to buy all the Champaign for the hotel party, he was going to buy the tickets to the bar. Did he do any of this? No, no he didn't. For weeks you're expecting to ring in the new year atop some cool hotel with a glass of Moet in your hand, but what happens? You're in your parent's basement watching Dick Clark with a six pack of Natty and half a cigar you managed to steal from your Dad. He has ruined new years once again. Goddamnit, Mr. New Year, why don't you let me do the planning this year? You're a worthless excuse for a friend who likes the responsibility but consisstantly fails to follow through. I should ring in the new year by beating you senseless with a blackjack. But instead, I'll just complain and sip my warm beer in your parent's basement while you swear that, "the hotel was all booked up, dude. I called, like, a month ago."� Sure you did, asshole. Mr. New Year, I fucking hate you!

YOURS:

Reader Jessy Y. really hates: the 22-year-olds whose parents still give them tons of money to buy presents. yeah, my mom will put my name on something for great uncle bob who I never see, but when it comes to my parents and brother, I'm stuck paying. so I really don't want to hear about how your mom gives you ONLY $300 bucks to go Christmas shopping, and the expensive shit you bought your friends and family, because yeah, your gift came from the clearance rack at goody's, and you better be fucking happy I even got you one, you ungrateful bitch. Now excuse me, I have to go check the vending machines for quarters so i can afford buy my dad that book he wanted. maybe I'll just burn him a cd with downloaded songs--it's the thought that counts.

Reader Steph F. at U. of Memphis really hates: Scowling elderly. I held the door open for you. I smiled, I wished you a nice day of Christmas shopping. And you looked at me like I was trying to mug you. Yes, we are in Memphis. Yes, college kids have no money. But that doesn't mean I'm going to beat you over the head with my Old Navy purse to steal your Metamucil coupons. We haven't quite reached that point of desperation. Some old ladies are happy to be smiled at by a "youngun", but not you, you wrinkly old bitch. You'd rather scowl and hurry away from me. I'm a fucking 19 year old female with a southern accent...I couldn't be threatening if I tried!!! Damn it lady, I hate you.

Steph also hates: Stupid ass Religions Teacher. Yes, I have dark hair and eyes. Yes, I have a Jewish last name. But remember that card I filled out the first day of class? The one where you asked my religious background so as to know what we were already affiliated with? Read those, bitch. I'm a Buddhist in a Christian family. Not Jewish. Quit wishing me a Happy Hanukah. Don't ask me why I light the Menorah, or to speak to my Rabbi. I DON'T FUCKING HAVE ONE. I'm not a vegetarian because it's kosher. I can't read 'Hebrew. I DON'T SPIN THE FUCKING DREIDEL. But if I did....I would stab you in the eye with it, you dumb ass bitch.

Donovan O. really Hates: holiday music. How many long do we have to be subjected to this shit. It's horrible. If it wasn't horrible then they would play it through out the year and not just for a month and a half. I can't fucking stand going to the mall because you just move from one stupid ass song to another one in the next store. I mean really, who decided that we must automatically listen to holiday music the morning after thanksgiving? It's far too long. So I HATE HOLIDAY MUSIC!!! And I hate you if you fucking play it because if I have to go out and do Christmas shopping with this shit blaring over the speakers at every store I go to then I'm gonna pull out a gun and start cappin people, -- call it holiday spirit, whatever. So stop playing that shitty holiday music.

Reader Diana really hates: Paul Politically Correct -- this is the asshole who gets offended when someone wishes him a Merry Christmas instead of saying Happy Holidays. Hey smartguy, we're just trying to be friendly. If you're in a traditionally Christian area, you shouldn't expect everyone to change their holiday spirit for you. If someone of another culture wishes me a Happy Chanukah or Kwanzaa, I'll appreciate that they wanted to share their tradition. Especially if I'm in a country where they are the minority. It's Paul's fault that people at my workplace can get fired for saying Merry Christmas -- lighten up buddy and enjoy the fact that someone is being nice.

Reader David B at Georgia Tech really hates: the dumb slut red cross bitch who asks me for money outside the mall. I just bought about 12 dollars worth of Christmas presents for both my parents no I can't fuckin donate 72 cents to your charity. Do you understand what 72 cents is worth you whore rag? That's a natty light where I'm from and that's about 1/8th of the way to getting me fucked up for the night. So no, you fuckin bitch I'm a poor ass college kid with 3 dollars and 72 cents in my wallet and I will not give you money so that your bell and stick up your crusty old twat you fuckin bitch I HATE YOU!

Reader Sam P. of High School really hates: In the spirit of the holiday celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ I would like to say that I hate Mr./Mrs. Super-in-your-face-Christian. I know you all know who I'm talking about. They are the ass fucks who like to judge you constantly and always have something condemning to say about EVERY SINGLE activity us normal people do. NOONE I repeat NOONE wants to hear your stupid goddamn ass tell us how to live our lives. Despite what you think, not everyone wants to be told they are going to hell because they looked at a girl with lustful intentions, and yes I was condemned by doing that one time. I already know I'm going to hell, so next time you feel it necessary to make sure I am 100% certain as to where my soul will be tortured for eternity, don't damn me for listening to music that has the word "shit" in it, damn me for making fun of your mentally retarded little brother you goddamn ass. If you feel the need to do God's work so much why don't you just do us all a favor and die and join him..... I HATE YOU. and happy holidays.

Finally, The hater of the Holidays Award goes to Joe M from Baruch College Who hates the following people:

"Patti the walking Planetoid" I work in a mall, during holiday season, and I know its crowded, but there is no reason to waddle along merrily RIGHT INTO ME! I am moving boxes, and you cannot phase through them because I can tell by your blank expression and preoccupation with shiny objects that you probably don't even know how to spell science. Boxes are SOLID, they do not move out of your way. As you shift your orbit to prevent me from getting sucked in, please also take a moment to notice the floor is shaking! That's right, your mass is making thousands of tons of steel and concrete quake. Do us a favor, shop at the fucking drive thru until the bottom of your car collapses.

"Mr I got done back in October" Well whoop-dee-doo I got your medal right here, you shining example of compassion, caring, and financial planning, good job sir! Seriously, fuck you, nobody cares how early you got done with your myriad of purchases for all three people you had to shop for. You always lord it over us mortals that we have to deal with lines, and how if we just got up at 4:30 in the morning on Saturday we could beat the rush. Thanks for your advice, I think I'm going to go sever all my friendships, who needs people anyway? And sleep?! No way, of course I'd rather be out having convulsions from the cold. This is always a competitive person too, you just scored 15 bonus points in the game of life because you care more than me, you must, after all why would you brag to the semi-friends you have that you're such a better person for finishing early. Take that medal and hang yourself by the festive ribbon.

"Ronnie the Christmas Republican" You're right, I hate America, because I'm a dirty filthy liberal. I also eat babies and use the lord's name in vain. Oh shit, I forgot to capitalize the "l". This rare cretin acts like he invented Jesus and Christmas, and never fails to make this holiday political. What's your religion, Joe? Oh, agnostic, and you're a liberal, well why are you celebrating Christmas if you don't believe in it? This isn't your everyday republican, which I get along with, these are the missionaries proslethyzing the American faith. Jesus fucking Christ (oh no going to hell now) not everybody agrees with your religion or your fascist political agenda, I can't put up a tree and give gifts because I'm missing the "true meaning of Christmas"?! Go suck Dick (Cheney) because I'm sure if Jesus saw what his follower's were doing in his name, he'd come back to life just to shoot himself. I'm pretty sure even he doesn't love you, and this just in, J-man believes in evolution.

"Palm tree decorating Pamela" You live where you don't see snow, so what do you do? You light up a tropical tree just before your midnight swim. I don't know what I hate more, that you're warm and I'm not, or that you can't drive your ass to Wal-Mart and get a fake tree. Decorating a palm tree is not clever, its not classy, its from a goddamed Corona commercial. So go off and play with your jetskis, and your Miami beach, because when the summer comes and your house gets blown out to sea, I will sit up here laughing at your lame ass. Just for you, I'm going to take that dollar I was going to donate to the hurricane fund and buy a lotto ticket. I won't even play, I'll just throw it out, because I'm not giving you my dollar out of spite!

Hot damn, that's some fierce Holiday Hate. Remember, if you're offended by any of the entries; feel free to write your own take on the person for the new "reader on reader hate"� section. Or, just write me a normal hate list but send either kind to suxatlife@hotmail . Please include your first name, last initial and school. Happy Fuckin' Holidays everyone.

A friend recently asked me if I would have sex with Paris Hilton. Not in the same kind of way my friend would ask me if I wanted to grab coffee, because I actually have a shot at grabbing coffee. She asked me hypothetically - because that's the only way I could ever have the opportunity to have sex with Paris Hilton.

So, hypothetically, I have to think about it. I don't want to give my friend an answer that is half-baked. I want to analyze the question carefully just in case I actually had to face this choice - you know, if the laws of the universe ever collapsed.

Obviously Paris Hilton is hot - if another woman who looked like her wanted to sleep with me, the answer would probably be yes. But that is not the question. The question is Paris Hilton.

First, there's the money issue. Most guys want to sleep with her because they think they can somehow come down with a case of wealth - they may come down with something else, but we'll discuss that later. When rich women sleep with regular guys, they don't also give them a million dollars. And my friend's question is not if I'd be willing to be her paid man-slave, it is if I'd be willing to have sex with her once. So money can not factor into my decision.

Maybe the parties are a reason why. If you sleep with Paris Hilton, you get to go to cool parties, right? Not necessarily. The people that sleep with her and go to cool parties would go to cool parties anyway. Rick Solomon was famous before he starred in their movie, and Nick Carter is a Backstreet Boy. Sleeping with Paris Hilton will not automatically get me into any cool parties. Though it may get me into some clinics - but we'll discuss that later.

What about the bragging rights - those have got to be worth it, right? What a story to tell! I'd be the hit of every party, even though they wouldn't be especially cool parties. What's a better story than having sex with Paris Hilton? Well, turning down Paris Hilton makes a good story, too. Plenty of guys have had sex with her. But how many have honestly turned her down?

And then, there's her pure hotness. The woman oozes sex appeal - among other things, but we'll discuss that later. No matter how much you dislike her personality, her past, or her public relations, you'd be blind to admit she's not sexy. Her hotness was confirmed when a tape of her naked became the most watched thing ever. I don't have stats to back that up, but I'm pretty sure it blew the last episode of Mash clear out of the water. For those who say that tape was spread around just because she was famous, I say "balderdash!" And then I'll explain that what balderdash means is that her fame helped the tape spread, but her hotness made it spread farther and faster. No one would have been file-sharing a greenish bootleg of Bea Arthur. Though, much like a car-wreck, I'd probably glance at it before speeding away, happy I wasn't involved.

Yes, Paris is hot - in theory. Hotness is directly tied in to how many guys a girl has already slept with. And, I'm still just speculating, but I think she's taken more hits than her website (oh, snap!).

What about her personality? I don't know her, so I just have to answer based on what she looks like in the media - which is a self-aggrandizing conceited un-feeling racist, and that makes her kind of ugly. While many people don't have to like a girl's personality to sleep with her, I only like girls who I don't want to strangle in the morning. I am, of course, just speculating.

I also promised I'd get to the possible issue of disease. While Paris probably has PR people reminding her to use protection before and while she's having sex, I'd be scared that anyone that promiscuous could be, well, oozing something other than sex appeal. Yes, I know it's gross, but so is Chlamydia.

That brings me to my well thought out answer. Having sex with Paris Hilton wouldn't lead to money or cool parties, she's not as hot as she looks, her personality seems abhorrent, she might give me the clap, and I'd have more bragging rights if I turned her down.

So, in closing, yes, I would have sex with Paris Hilton.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of Student Body Shots, which is available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

It's 5 o'clock in the morning. And I'm writing this now. Not quite sure why.
The holidays are here, which is somewhat exciting for me, being Jewish. In fact, no it's not really that exciting, because, like it is four out of every five years, Hanukah already happened like three weeks ago. This has completely taken the steam out of my holiday mood. I'm excited that my workload will be lighter for a few weeks, but that's about it. When the holidays just make you relieved about your workload, you know your holiday cheer is in short supply. Not that I'm grinchy or anything, I love Christmas, but in that "true meaning of Christmas"� way that I'm not sure a Jew can ever fully understand, I just don't feel it this go round.

I've been thinking of it as a good thing, much like Martha Stewart being in jail, or Michael Jackson only breathing through a facemask. Surreal. Funny. And I like it just fine. It makes me feel okay about myself. You know, whatever's goin on with me, I don't wear gold catcher's equipment while riding a lama in my backyard. And I'm not obsessed with baking crabcakes, or for that matter, presenting them nicely.

Michael Jackson, you have to admit, is doing one great thing four our society these days. Sure he's got the theme parks, and the lamas, and the rampant molestation of young boys for us to deal with, but he is very graciously, with his face, complemented by his inherently odd behavior and penchant for buggery, desensitizing us to seeing weird shit. He is making it hard to be shocked by the whole rest of life. This gift, in these troubled times, (which is a phrase that has become as clichéd these days as "orange alert,"�) but this gift that Crazy Whacked Jacko, as I like to call him, is giving us, is worth it's weight in nose surgery. Because occasionally in life, and especially lately, we have to see some pretty strange things. But pretty much whatever we see, no matter how bad, no matter how scary, is not gonna be as bad as Michael Jackson.

If aliens visited us, with awkward bodies, and foreign clothing, we'd all be like, "Damn. Aliens. That's almost as weird as Michael Jackson."�
Alien be like, "True. I mean danglin' a baby off a balcony? That just wacky."�

Okay, one attempt at some holiday cheer...How about a rhyme?

Rhyming. Maybe that's the true spirit of the season?
Cause finding words that sound alike is always pleasin'.
You can rhyme things that don't go together, like bacon and treason.
And to make this line rhyme you don't need a reason.
You can put together opposites, like peace and middle east.
And you can also get real fat at your Christmas feast.
Alligator muffins are sitting on a fence.
Rhymes don't even have to make sense.
So for spirit anytime, a monkey barrel of sewage.
If I'm wrong, remember, I'm Jewish.

To watch Gleib's hilarious videos, check out Gleib.com Neil has two new columns out so go get a double-dose of Neil. Hotlinks!

John 18:2:17
Jesus Instructs the Disciples on the Art of Decorating for Christmas

And so it was that Jesus' birthday fast approached. The twelve apostles were confused when it came to planning the party. The twenty-fifth night of December, said Paul, must be solemn and holy for it is the birthday of our Lord. Nay, cried Mark, to honor our Lord and savior we must be festive and cheerful.

The twelve argued for much time till, lo, Jesus came into the hut. Why do you argue, asked the Lord. No disciple would volunteer and answer so Jesus asked again. Why do you argue? After much silence, the twelve told of their predicament.

Jesus smiled, and bade them sit down. My children, He said, there is not but one way to honor the day of my birth; there are many. The twelve did not understand. But my Savior, asked John, we do not understand, should not there be one way to honor you? And Jesus knew their burden and took pain to explain His words.

My disciples, said Jesus, my flock is as varied as the animals on Noah's Ark. You all celebrate in different ways depending on the land of your birth. So, for each of you, celebrating the day of my birth will be different. And Jesus went on to instruct the apostles in how each nationality must honor him on Christmas.

I bid you listen here, called Jesus, for what I tell is the word of God. And the disciples all listened to Him. I will, cried Jesus, begin with the Italians, for they are the ones who decorate most fervently. If ye be Italian deck thy house with many lights. Make sure thine lights are colored and blink. Never has an Italian frowned upon glowing plastic statuettes of My Mother, Mary. Deck they yard with figurines and a plastic light-up nativity scene. It is important, continued the Lord, that ye never take thine lights down and leave them up all the year round. Everyone in the neighborhood will knoweth that ye love me. Also, maketh an Italian flag out of red, white and green Christmas lights and display it on thy house. For I am the one true God, and I must be honored by electric plastic lawn ornaments.

The disciples were pleased, but bade Jesus continue. Next, the Lord said, I shall instruct the Hispanics, for they are many in my flock. If ye be Hispanic ye will celebrate in thine own way. Ye shall blast "Feliz Navida"� from thine home on repeat and ye shall sing along. Ye shall forsake the cheap, Chinese-made figurines of the Italian, and instead adorn thine house with opulent golden crucifixes and a nativity scene where I appear to be Mexican. Ye shall hang a painting of My Mother, Mary, framed in blue velvet and golden yarn. All shall know you love Me and all will argue over who is tackier, the Hispanic or the Italian.

The disciples grew displeased. Jesus, asked Mark, I am neither the Italian nor the Hispanic, for I am white trash; how shall I decorate mine own home? And Jesus calmed Mark and said, I shall now tell the White Trash how ye shall decorate thine home. Ye shall adorn your double-wide trailer with sparse, but well-intentioned ornaments. All of thy decorations shall have been bought secondhand and shall be stained, dented, or burned in some way. Ye shall deck thy front yard with a Santa figure, yet he shall be missing four reindeer. In each of thy two windows, ye shall place a plastic candle with an electric flame atop it. These candles shall be stained yellow from thy cigarette smoke in ye trailer. Perhaps even, ye could string a "merry Christmas"� banner across thy door on which one side will fall off. Yours shall be a depressing site.

And Mark thanked Jesus for His wisdom. And Jesus said, there is one more group that I shall instruct, The Jews. Being that all there were Jewish, the twelve listened well. If ye be Jewish, ye shall disdain the day of my birth. Ye shall celebrate the Chanukah in retaliation. Upon your lawn ye shall place large, glowing menorahs and stars of David. Ye shall let everyone know that Santa cometh not to thine house. On the day of My birth, ye shall see a movie with others of your beliefs and eateth the food of the Asian. It shall be a day of sadness for you and ye shall curse Me and my flock. For, be it unfair that thy neighbor geteth a great big tree and all ye have is nine small candles. Do not be angry my Jewish brethren, for ye had a Bar Mitzvah and they did not.

And the disciples understood His word and all was well. And for all time would the world know how it should decorate for the birthday of the Lord. Now, said Jesus, who will bringeth the eggnog to the Temple party? And again, all the disciples fell silent.

By this point, it should be common knowledge that I harbor a slight admiration of Shakira. I can't really explain why; she just captivates me in a way that only 17,000 cerebrum-sizzling viewings of the "Wherever, Whenever"� music video can do. I don't try and hide this endearment; rather, I express my love in just about every possible medium, all on the outside chance that she reads / sees / hears / feels (huh?) my enchanting love mumblings and hip-wiggles her way over into the East Village and, unless irony is really a bitch, into my apartment.

And so, it should come as no surprise that I own a Shakira t-shirt. Or rather, the faded remnants of a t-shirt that has seen some wear, albeit briefly, every single day of my life. That being the case, it was without thought that I wore the shirt to work one afternoon at my Greenwich Village bar. To me, this was natural. To others it might be pathetic, but to me, that is frequently also natural.

Upon arriving, I wandered into the kitchen to find our three Spanish bar-backs going about their work. I greeted them, and they all turned, greeted me and then paused. This caused me to pause, as I'm sure the abrupt stoppage of three foreigners would do for many people. I stood there and silently watched the three men, who in turn looked at one another and then back at me. Finally, one pointed at me, laughed and yelled "Shakira!"� There was another brief, silent pause before I nodded and laughed back, and then the other two men took up the chant, yelling "Shakira!"� as well. Caught up in the moment - and hoping that three illegal aliens and one uber-obsessor chanting in the back of a bar would summon the woman - I too began yelling "Shakira!"� with the fellas, not at all understanding what was taking place.

A few days later, a peculiar thing happened. The next time I went into work, it was (reluctantly) without the Shakira shirt. I was going about my business in typical fashion, preparing the bar and setting up the dining room, when the bar-backs wandered out of the kitchen to back the bar and such. I turned to greet them, but before I could, it happened again: one of them pointed at me, laughed and yelled "Shakira!"� Then the three of them erupted into a massively incoherent orgy of Spanish. This puzzled me. The bar backs, as far as I could tell, were addressing me as Shakira. That, you may remember, is not my name.

Now, I don't know Spanish. I do know that when someone is pointing at you, they're probably referring to you. Likewise, when someone is pointing at you and saying "Shakira"� while you're wearing a Shakira t-shirt, they're probably referring to your t-shirt. When a group of people point at you and laugh and chant "Shakira"� when you're not wearing a Shakira t-shirt, they're probably referring to the fact that you're a big, big pansy. To this allegation, I'm left with no defense.

The chants of Shakira continued throughout the day, to the point where I couldn't walk into the kitchen without a festive chorus of "Shakira!"� echoing throughout the restaurant. Any notion of authority that I held over these men was gone, as is usually the case when your employees begin referring to you as a blonde Latin songstress. I've got nothing against Shakira (unfortunately), and hey, I'm a fun guy, but something about this whole episode just nagged me. Perhaps it was the slight difference between being "infatuated with Shakira"� and being "called Shakira."�

The shirt took something of a sabbatical at that point. Not altogether, for that's impossible. Rather, it was reserved exclusively for appearances in the FHM office, wherein the strange reactions - and doctor, there are strange reactions all right - are at least understandable. Back at the bar, meanwhile, the "Shakira"� references slowly subsided as my tearful, quasi-communicative convulsions became more extravagant, and eventually the bar backs returned to calling me by some unintelligible foreign phrase. Some of them even got into the habit of calling me "Neil,"� which would then of course be followed by another unintelligible foreign phrase. But at least it was progress.

Cynics involved in this whole episode are quick to point out two things: firstly, that Shakira's natural language is Spanish, and if our love is to blossom, I should probably put some effort into learning her native tongue. Secondly, the indignity of being called "Shakira"� should come as nothing new to someone who considers a worn t-shirt of that same woman to be formal-wear. To the latter of these attacks, I say: yes. To the former, however, I contend that Shakira and I can communicate with another language: the language of love. It is a language that we will create together as our romance blossoms into a rapturous and breathtaking flower of bliss.

Which is convenient, "˜cause I'm sure as hell not going to learn Spanish.

I finish up a comedy set for about 18 tourists and realize that the migraine headache I put up with all day is gone. Maybe it is the adrenaline of performing live, the re-focusing of my energy that leads to its demise. Whatever the case, I suddenly feel this unfamiliar zest for life, and since I am still trying to get over someone, I decide to go out.

I meet up with some friends at a predictable, yet entertaining bar on the Upper East Side called Dorrian's Red Hand. I am wearing little make-up, sneakers, and a large baggy knit sweater jacket that covers up any sign of my female body. I am not expecting to turn any heads. I camp out in the back and watch my friends pick up guys while blatantly eavesdropping on others people's conversations. A particular one grabs my attention.

Angst Ridden Female: I called you today at 3 o'clock to see what was up tonight and you don't get back to me until 9pm?!
Guy Who Wants Out: ugh, yeah sorry.
ARG: It's like you make no effort whatsoever to see me. I just like, ya know, am like so like frustrated.
GWWO: So . . . what? You wanna, like, end things . . .? (trying to be casual, yet looking like a small child on Christmas morning)

I silently applaud the GWWO for attempting my favorite and most respected move: The Manipulative Self Escape. (The guy wants to get out the relationship, but doesn't want to make the effort. So, he acts in a way that will piss off the girl making her think that when she finally does end things it was all her idea.) Brilliant!

The guy heads to the bathroom and I approach the girl, hoping to fill her in on what is going on.

Mindy: He wants out.
ARF: Excuse me?
Mindy: He wants out of the relationship, and he's making you do all the work. Don't make it easy for him.
ARF: Fuck you.
Mindy: (I glance at her with pity.) Your anger is completely justifiable. He wants you to end things, don't you see? Don't worry, you deserve better anyway.

OK, that was a lie. She really didn't. Once I saw the whites of her eyes, I could tell that she was of average intelligence and had nothing remotely interesting or significant to offer society. Yet, I was feeling extremely benevolent and continued.

Mindy: This is your only chance to have some power. Don't make ending this relationship easy for him. Let him do all the work.
ARF: Fuck you.

I look at her the way that Roma Downey looks at the people she is trying to save on that TV show Touched by an Angel (ok, so sometimes when I'm drunk I watch the Hallmark Channel) and walk away.

"Nice Sweater!"�

I turn around and face a very good looking guy. Now I am usually not a fan of handsome cheesy looking men--
because they always seem to think that their looks make up for common decency-- and so I do not suggestively lick my lips, bat my eyes, stick out chest, or say "thank you"� while giggling and averting my gaze. I stare at him blankly and reply, "I got it in Ireland?"�

So we end up talking about the British Isles for awhile, which somehow leads to a discussion about traveling in general, and I tell him how I want to go Italy this summer, and he tells me how he just got back from Spain, and somehow we end up talking about modern art. Turns out he loves Jackson Pollack and we both have the same book at home on Rothko. Then we get into a great discussion about Samuel Beckett and how his writing parallels itself to modern art. And then he says,

"Yeah I haven't been to the Met in a long time I need to go back soon."�

And I say,

"Me too."�

And he says,

"Well we'll have to go sometime."�

And I say,

"Yeah, definitely."�

And just as I am about to give him my number he says,

"My wife hates museums."�

UNBELIEVALBE!

Now I know it's possible to think someone is flirting with you when they are really just being polite. And, I know that this guy never officially asked me out, but there was arm touching, hair touching, and major eye contact. So much so, that I was fairly certain he was interested and available.

I stare cheerfully at the misleading, handsome married man in front of me. I do not want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that this information surprises me. I smile, don't miss a beat, and respond with the only thing I can think of to save face.

"Well my husband will go to them sometimes with me, but I think he'd rather be watching sports. ( awkward pause) Yup, I'm married too."�

That, dear readers, is how I went from a single girl picking up a handsome guy at the bar, to a married woman flirting with another woman's husband!

I feel my migraine creeping back. I excuse myself from the shady man with NO ring on his finger, wrap myself up in my sweater, and give my friends the "I'm calling it a night"� signal. "Have fun tomorrow night!"� one shouts across to me. She then mimes shooting herself in the head while the guy who is hitting on her is turned the other way. Oh god, I almost forgot. I have a date tomorrow night. Well, I guess if it is really awful I can always start talking about my museum going, sports watching husband.


*************************************
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Your parents always told you that hard work was the only road to success, but if they're so "successful"� why are you stuck with all these student loans? The correct response is, "Dad, you're a failure. You didn't win that Grammy; you bought it on Ebay with the money you earned shining shoes at the bus station! I'm cheating!"�

Now that you're on the trolley, you have to think strategy. Sadly, insipid sitcoms have ruined most of the best means of cheating. If you really want to make the metaphorical grade, it's time to make some revolutionary changes, like when they added Jesse's babies to the cast of Full House and the show kept getting better and better. Two sets of adorable underage twins in one show? Pedophilo-tacular! Here are some new techniques to help you squeak out that 2.0 GPA. And if it doesn't work, junior college is still college! Sort of.

The Bait-and-Switch. Don't study for your exam. When the test starts, get a quick feel for the format of the exam. If it's four essays, just bang out four essays about anything marginally related to the course, but make absolutely certain they do not address the question asked. If the question is about symbolism in Don Quixote, then write an essay about the imagery in The Great Gatsby (Obviously, neither novel contains symbolism or imagery). Your poor assistant professor, eating canned soup in his unheated apartment while he battles for tenure, will surely think that he gave you the wrong exam, and will probably panic and give you an A so he can go to Starbucks faster. He's finally going to talk to the cute barista he's been telling his mom he's dating.

The Nonattend. Make like your deadbeat father and never show up. If the class is large enough, you won't be missed, and then when you get a zero on the exam, the professor obviously lost it. You'll probably end up having to take the exam, but you'll buy yourself valuable study/mistake-sex-with-high-school-girlfriend time over winter break. In the South, we used to call it "Christmas break,"� but then we heard a rumor about people who weren't Christian. Oh, the things the liberal media will tell you!

The Giveaway. Write the name of the class on the inside of your palm. When the professor hands you your copy of the exam, feign cheating by conspicuously look at the word written in your palm. Look deep into your professor's sad, lonely eyes and share a laugh over such a ridiculous way of "cheating."� You'll share a good, academic laugh at some dry wit. He'll never even think to check for the rest of the cheat sheets hidden on your body; he'll think you're just that committed to the joke. Yes, professors are smart, but they also think they look good in tweed. They can be fooled.

Of course, sometimes you'll get caught, leaving you ex