Ten Ways To Ensure You Will NEVER Be Admitted To College

http://writing.wikinut.com/img/2188z727cx43bs.l/Rejection-stamp

Do you delight in defeat? Are you a "winner" only as defined by Charlie Sheen? Are you applying to college simply to pile more rejection onto your life-long resume of regret?


If so, this post is for you. 


(If you're one of those do-good-ers who actually wants to attend college, you should probably avoid doing anything on this list. It won't do you any favors.) 


How NOT to be admitted to college, after the jump:

Walk-In Application Day Returns Like a Jedi on 12/2/11

Image from starwars.wikia.com. Property of Lucasfilm Ltd. 

Last year we had five Walk-In Application Days. At the onset I thought I'd be clever and compare each to the nearest major holiday. 


Why holidays? Because WIAD is a long tradition (like Thanksgiving Dinner), stressful (like Black Friday), and fun for the whole family (like Christmas Morning). 


That was fun for the first few, but I rapidly ran out of witty holiday metaphors (and also, incidentally, of the holidays themselves). So this year, rather than resorting to a hackneyed attempt at making a analogy to National Mutt Day on 12/2/11, I'm going to try something new (and equally hackneyed):


Movie Sequels 


And what better sequel to start us off than George Lucas's finest work, Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi?


So, here goes after the jump. 


...Please pardon my nerdiness.

Happy Thanksgiving From Marymount College!

The Eternal Question This Thanksgiving:

There comes a time where every man must ask:

“To brine, or not to brine, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler for the bird to get dunked in a liquid of immense salinity, or to take it into my arms and with a sea of butter, lovingly baste it. To brine, to dry out no more; and by brine we end the long history of moisture-sucking breast meat, the heartache of a bird sacrificed only to go uneaten. The flesh so moist: ‘tis a consumption devoutly to be devoured. To baste, to butter—to crisp and brown the skin—aye, with a spice rub. For in the basting, what flavor may come when I turn on the electric coil of my oven must give us pause—the respect of the in-laws to be earned. For we cannot bear the whips and scorn of the dinner guests for a bird cooked wrong, the poor cook’s pangs of dispriz’d dinner….”

Alas, poor Butterball, I’ll cook you well.