Goddammit, Gretchen Peterson, watch your phrazology. Or you’ve got trouble. Right here in River City. But we’re in Claremont where big giant babies fall from the sky. It must be the drugs. Shaving is against my religion, so is getting drunk. So I (not my real name) wash my armpits with vodka, and turn to Friend and other baby supplied materials.

I’m moving to Sub-free. Sub-free is also fun-free, happy-free, and baby-free. The fun and happiness I won’t miss, But I sure will miss those babies.

I had a prospie who had a friend who ate babies. Velosoraptors eat arms.

A baby did land on Norton-Clark and the entire sophomore class was forced to defer. They will live in a box under Deanna Chalfont’s desk and bite her ankles when they get hungry. No, Gretchen Peterson, Goddammit, that is not the baby’s name. Its name is Friend.

The baby was later discovered inside Gretchen Peterson’s couch, along with a seam-ripper and an anal probe. Coincidence? I think not, Gretchen Peterson. (chortle chortle guffaw guffaw)

In response to the housing crunch, Pomona’s administration issued a resolution that all Pomona students move to Harvey Mudd, and that Harvey Mudd students move to the underground hallways connecting all the buildings. They’re nice hallways. Like Mudd-Blaisdell, except without the dorm rooms and the carpet and the lights. The lights was a problem, but they have their laptops to give them skin cancer in lieu of the sun.

This incident was in response to something I can’t mention here. Let me just say that it involves frozen underwear, a leopard print thong, and the chem midterm. Curious George may or may not have walked in.

I am afraid of milk. Like seriously afraid of milk. Everyone asks me if there’s some deep-seeded issue, like if milk abused as me as a child, but I think I’ve repressed it. Although there is that time that my mom punished me for being mean to my brother my pouring eight gallons of milk over my head while naked in front of my entire kindergarten classroom.

But that’s not true. Except the part about the baby. That’s it. A big giant, drugged out baby spat up on me when I was four. It smelled really bad, like a mixture of sour milk and freshman bathrooms on a Saturday night.

You know what they say, if you don’t have a good partner, you’d better have a good hand, Gretchen Peterson.