The Black Sheep
FR EE . fo .. lik ol e a 's jo da ke mn ...y g ou oo kn d a ow pri ? l
• a college newspaper that’s actually about college •
Volume 8, Issue 13 • 4/10/13 - 4/17/13
theblacksheeponline.com @MSUBlackSheep
The adventures of captain cock block tom white wrote this
Here it is, Friday night. Love is in the air in East Lansing and coeds citywide are looking for that special someone to cuddle up to—or romantically flop on top of for a tantalizing six minutes sponsored by Passion Fruit Burnett’s. Not on my watch though. No balls will be spared from a blue-ing while I’m on the prowl; for I am Captain Cock Block. I’m gathering intelligence in my neighbors’ apartment hallway from my state-of-the-art observation pod when I overhear him, “Come over around eleven, Katie’s coming with all her skanky friends. Bernice ‘Bet I Can Get That Whole Slim Jim Down’ Brown will be there. Everybody finna get laid.” Jackpot, I’ve heard enough. “Fat chance, you libertine hussy-mongers!” I shout exploding from the SpongeBob blanket I was hiding underneath in the corner. I dash past the stunned fiends and rush down the hall into my studio apartment lair. I pick up bits of various conversation from the long hallway: “I told you that wasn’t a dead homeless… he smelled like fingers… told my mom she looked like a ‘Philadelphia whore’ once… what was with the wiggling?” But I’m too busy wiggling from anticipation and Pixie Stix to pay them any attention. I have a long night of cock-blocking to prepare for. Six meditative hours of calling children “pole smoking mama’s boys” on Xbox Live later, I am ready. I walk into the party; Lil John’s “Get Low” is playing and I immediately spot my first victim grinding away. He is “dancing” with a “charming” young woman when Lil John delivers his timeless lyric, “Get low, get low.” The lady obliges and I move in for the kill… “Bro, you were so right. You are totally about to smash this chick tonight. Get wet, son!” I yell, and before he can respond I hit him with a surprise high-five, sealing his night’s celibate, boner-less fate. In disgust, the girl walks away. Pa-Pow! One down. Next I spot a glasses-y couple discussing why Sufjan Stevens, “Is pretty much like the most important artist—and I stress artist—since Bob Dylan”. Methinks a different approach is needed for this tweedladen vixen. I saunter over and drop a hipster-hormone bomb on her, “You look like Carrie Brownstein only your bangs are quirkier. MTV sucks. Want to have conversations centering around the word ‘film’?” More aroused than Mel Gibson at the sight of tears, she practically slips out of her chair and starts convulsing on the floor in a storm of pleasure. Notably pissed, the dude storms off. Pop-pop, another cold shower coming up!
The reoccurring nightmare of a college student
“Sweet, Fat Jesus,” I say in horror, spying countless bros and broads burgeoning on banging. Time for ‘Brady Hoke at a baked potato bar’-style cock blocking: no mercy. “Hey, Steve, rough break with the gonorrhea, champ.” Blam! Done-zo! “Dude, don’t be so dramatic, she’s not that fat.” Zap-zap! I burn through the party leaving more flaccid members behind me than Roseanne Barr in a sloppy Joe eating competition. Then I see my Everest, the boss-hog of skankery herself, Bernice Brown. Almost nothing can stop Bernice once she spots her prey, and judging by her demonstration of how far she can fit her doughy arm down her mouth, find her prey she has. I slink along the wall until I’m behind Bernice and her man, knowing this next maneuver will require
what'’s inside
perfect execution. Thankfully, I ate Moe’s for lunch. I take a deep breath and let loose a real Charlie Villanueva of a fart—absolutely horrible and disturbingly meaty blend that I power out. Brown’s face contorts in horror and after accusing her partner of committing the sinister ‘ritto fart, Bernice retreats. BWAP! With the entire party thoroughly un-aroused and stinky, my work is done. I leave to celebrate and relax with a nice virgin Shirley Temple at Heartbeats. On my way down Grand River, I spot a group of girls headed to the bars wearing mini skirts in the frigid night. I sigh, knowing that against such dedication to sluttery, even I am helpless—it would take a James Madison student to mess up that slow, coital pitch down the middle.
Top Ten Things to Get You Through the Week
Arrested Development Devotees
No, not the sex dream where you're with a James Madison student.
It’s really more of a list of our addictions, but whatever works, you know?
There are literally dozens of us!
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