The next time you sit down in your psychology or History of Rock’n’Roll class, just think of this: Someone else may have participated in the horizontal polka in the exact spot you are parking your rear end.
Alarming? You bet your ass, or someone else’s, that is. The Rip recently reported that two naked people were caught doing the nasty in the Fine Arts 30 auditorium, where — and I’m sure the mighty gods of all that is ironic are laughing their bare asses off at the moment — I sat in for an entire semester last fall, learning about the evoultion of American rock music.
The same seat where I studied the controversy of Elvis Presley shaking his pelvis, may have also experienced some real-life pelvic gyrations, although I assure you, they more than likely weren’t done by the King.
What concerns me the most is that not only have I had a class in Fine Arts 30, I’m also enrolled in a psychology class in the forum for the spring semester. Who knows what kind of fornicating has gone on there.
The very thought makes me want to take a bath in peroxide, except that would probably really burn considering I scraped off most of my skin with a cheese grater after hearing about the Fine Arts 30 incident.
I’d like to take one moment to address the Adam and Eve who were caught by the janitor playing doctor: What the hell is wrong with you two?
Are you so desperate to get some nookie you couldn’t wait to get home, or at least the back seat of your car?
They’re lucky I didn’t catch them, because I probably would have kicked both of their bare asses, wearing fishing boots and rubber gloves, of course.
Why am I so angry, one might ask? For starters, it’s disgusting. I’m not speaking from a moral point of view since I don’t care about how people choose to lead their lives. But the thought of sitting in a spot of someone else’s dried bodily fluids makes me want to gouge my eyes out. Germs, thousands of them festering, just waiting to contaminate me. (And don’t for one minute think Bakersfield College will pay to clean those seats.)
It’s not enough that I have to compulsively wash my hands (especially after certain cretins sneeze into their palm and then touch the door handles in the library), and that I have to use a minimum of four toilet seat covers per tinkle.
No, now thanks to two horndogs who don’t respect property that isn’t theirs, I also have to walk around campus armed with a bottle of Lysol.
What also disturbed me about this little rendezvous is that it brings to mind all the other places prime for a romp through the garden of good and evil.The counseling offices? The grassy knoll near the flagpole? The room in the gym with all the mirrors and a balance bar? I’ll leave these disturbing possibilities with you now.
You’ll have to excuse me, I just ran out of Lysol.