Maybe it's the abundance of visible dead grass and the lack of white and drifted snow, but it looks like winter wussed out. That season between autumn and spring missed its curtain call, and so I have preemptively called an end to winter. Some of you may want to argue my disregard for nature and its supposed course. To quiet those who disagree with winter's sudden summation, I'd like to point out that a meeting about this took place nearly a week ago.
The meeting was in the basement of Stella's coffee shop, quorum was reached, I made the initial motion to end winter, and God seconded it. After a short debate and a wine chugging contest in which God totally kicked some ass (Go God!), someone asked for a vote-to-vote, and then we reached the two-thirds majority needed to change the seasonal bylaws.
Fighting with our resolution on the matter now is futile, and if you disagree with the manner in which we reached our decision -- like that unstructured and undisciplined Groundhog -- be aware that our complaint department is fond of striking down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger.
Spring has sprung, and so have I. It's time for us to wake from hibernation and start sleeping around! Why wait a few weeks until we can't control our libidos? Mating season has officially begun, and with the change of season comes a change of attitude and hormone balance. Think of it as day light savings time for the biological clock -- time to start marking your territory, lathering yourself in your own musk and brandishing your antlers to ward off other rutting males.
Most students have already noticed and embraced the physiological flux of emotion, which comes with this season. In the once puritanical Collegetown, students now openly ogle each other like ravenous carnivores. Even I have stopped in my tracks to admire a shapely femur or two, and the other night at Mama T's while waiting for my well-done chicken parmigiana, I watched junior Ivan Lychenhymn unabatedly stare at sophomore Julie Wawahoohoo's mammoth breasts for a full 15 minutes. As unbelievable as it may seem, events like this are occurring all over the winter-green pastures of New York.
Last Saturday, the entire city of Binghamton gathered on Main Street to celebrate St. Patrick's Day
two weeks early. This is the complete truth. Binghamtonians, clad in green, all-cotton sweatshirts and grasping pitchers of deep gold lager, flocked to the streets for the Mardi Gras of upstate New York. The official moment that signaled the beginning of mating season occurred when Clan Buchanan's bag-pipe septet finished its third encore with a version of Skynyrd's Freebird.
"But why would they celebrate in Binghamton?" you ask.
Because Binghamton is the sexual capital of the world. Even the city's sewage spews intoxicating pheromones that tug at one's loins. The city is a hub of sexual commotion, and in the same fashion we bid farewell to fair Cornell every May, Binghamtonians throw down and throw-up annually two weeks before St. Patty's Day to show the world they're ready to start courting a suitable mate.
I suggest we take the torch from our brother-metropolis 50 minutes to the south and commence with the season. The time for action is now.
You may start by kindly approaching that cute TA and asking in a humble manner if he or she would be willing to join you for an eight-hour session of animalistic debauchery. Go out tomorrow wearing your sex drive like a large pin or sash that says to the world, "Here I am, now get in line so I can decide who may get their hump on with me." Make the next two months your own extended episode of "Blind Date," or, to a lesser extent, "The Fifth Wheel."
The powers that be seconded a motion to give us all an extra month of mate time, and it shouldn't be wasted waiting for the start of a specific solstice. Just listen to the answers blowin' in the wind; they're screaming, "It's naked-time, baby". It's time to rent a collection of make-out movies, invite over the football team and prepare to indulge yourself in that microwave-popcorn fantasy (Orvillephelia) you've had since freshman year. Don't worry, they'll all be over around eight
we had a meeting about it.
I'll personally be on the Class of 1935 bench near Rockefeller Hall, groping a bottle of wine, yelling at passersby and practicing my mating call, which is a bag-pipe rendition of Chumbawumba's "Tubthumping." Come find me, and if you're my Princess Charming (or at least wearing a tiara), I promise to perform my instinctive male duties of sketching you out and ogling you as you walk away.