So I drop by Sci-Fi Club last night, only club isn’t where it’s supposed to be—someone called the front desk and cancelled the usual room. Chief suspect is some guy named Sketchy. I barely know Sketchy, but he’s got the reputation of having been a huge ass. I use past tense because he supposedly won’t be coming back to the club. The prevailing attitude is he’s persona non-gratis, so he’ll probably be reappearing within the next week or two.

What started all this friction? Something about another club member dousing Sketchy and “skanky ho” (someone else’s nickname) with a pitcher of ice water, since they were practically “dry humping” (another person’s words) in the hallway outside club. I wasn’t there for the actual dousing, but I’ve observed Sketchy before, and he’s both horny and stupid enough to attempt sexual congress somewhere he really shouldn’t.

But spreading rumors is beneath me. As a matter of fact, I would have no comment at all regarding this Sketchy character, except for comments he made about a certain Sci-Fi Club circle, which I have a feeling I unwittingly became a part of. The “Eloi”—mostly former NYU students, many of whom used to cross-polinate with the NYU Yo-Yo Club—have long dominated the Sci-Fi Club politically. According to Sketchy, we are a sexually-repressed and unambitious lot who have selected one Hal Johnson to be our messiah. Hey Sketchy: Lick my ass! Seriously, you’re the sexually-liberated one, so lick my ass! Phil X kowtows to no man! You can lick my ambition in the ass too, because I’ll be in grad school while you’re begging the club you just screwed over to let you back in.

And yeah, I know I wasn’t witness to the actual “event,” but don’t play the pious card when you’ve actually lounged around shirtless. What the hell kinda freak prances around a university facility—and not a gymnasium or dormitory—without a shirt on? It’s common sense! You wouldn’t go to lecture without a shirt, would you? No! Because total strangers, who don’t want to see you shirtless, could see you shirtless! So don’t walk around club without a shirt, because again, people who don’t want to see you shirtless can see you shirtless!

While I’ve only briefly met the Sci-Fi Club “Touchie-Feelies” (or “t-f’s,” for short), they have managed to make me nauseous to a degree exponential to the time spent in their company. 2 minutes of having to endure them groping = 4 minutes of nausea, 5 minutes of having to endure them groping = 25 minutes of nausea. And the reaction gets worse depending on the behavior. Thank God I didn’t have to witness the live sex show two weeks ago, or I would probably be six feet in the grave.

This, however, has nothing to do with being “sexually-repressed.” Sexually-repressed people think bare ankles are risque. They appear in Jane Campion movies. They can’t say the word “Fuck.” Well, I can say the work “Fuck.” Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck! Fuck with anchovies! Fuck o’ the Irish!

I hate to break it to you, but I’ve observed Sci-Fi Club thoroughly, and it isn’t just the Eloi who refrain from slobbering all over each other. It’s also EVERYONE ELSE IN THE ROOM! Sketchy! When no one else in the room behaves the way you do, that means YOU’RE the freak and EVERYONE ELSE are the normal ones. So instead of being “sexually-repressed,” we’re actually what sociologists would call “normal.” Studying others is actually a great way to avoid social faux-paus. Remember: When in doubt, look at how everyone else is behaving. If the no one else is acting like they’re in the Playboy mansion, you might want to avoid telling Miss April to disrobe. This system also works in regards to shirtwear. If no one else has their shirt off, you should probably wait until you’re in the privacy of your own home to unleash your inner Chippendales’ dancer.

Let’s face it, everyone knows that relationships between men and women don’t always revolve around love, or lust. Sometimes it’s ego. I’m sure there are sick twits out there who get a real self-esteem boost when they can make out with someone—even if that someone dresses in a manner that makes them look easier than Sunday morning—in front of semi-strangers. It’s like a game of Keep Away with breasts. Or maybe Sketchy just desperately needs the entire club to know his dick works. He really needs that kind of validation.

Sketchy, I don’t give a shit if your dick works or not. I don’t know if anyone in Sci-Fi Club ever did, and if there are members to whom such information is a priority, perhaps they should look into starting a new club. But I don’t give a shit if your dick works. I would just as soon assume, though I never want to ponder such a thing, that your dick works. Heck, even if your dick didn’t work, if anyone ever asked me, “Does Sketchy’s dick work?” I would tell them “To the best of my knowledge, it does.” Not because I give a shit, but because I really don’t. So please, never, ever, ever try to prove that your dick works ever again, because you don’t have to. Thank you.