"You Never Want to Wholly Overcome Your Dislike for White People."

A little repression is not a bad thing, especially if it prevents you from posing for photographs naked in the shower with a carrot shoved up your rear end, like Jeff did. Or, god forbid, taking a shit into a pickle jar. Which someone there did, as a friendly prank.

Instead of disposing of the befouled pickle jar, as one might be expected to do when striving to remain inside the boundaries of modern civilization, those little goblins kept it around. And they’d offer you a pickle when you came over, then clap and dance and laugh and caper around with glee after you saw that damn turd-pickle swirling around in the brine. Gah! How?! Why?!

The worst was the time someone shat into a hot dog bun, slathered it with mayo, relish and all your favorite condiments, and then stuck it in the microwave. They set the power on high and the cook time for the longest possible duration, and then left. . . .

As the story goes, various roommates kind of drifted in, wondering where the turd smell was coming from, but it took hours for them to discover it, like a satanic treasure hunt where the treasure has about the same effect on your sinuses, and perhaps will to live, as the Ark did on those Nazis.

Girls liked them. A lot. A lot more than they liked me, anyway. Or you. Probably.

Not that they needed girls — they had the Party Melon! Oh wait, maybe this is the worst thing, not the hot dog turd. Aw, who can tell. Anyway, Jason and Eric had a small watermelon that they kept on their coffee table they called the Party Melon. It had many holes cut in it, holes Jason and Eric would use for humping. They wouldn’t even take it into the bathroom or anything, just spread out a porno mag on one end of the table, get on their hands and knees and mount up. They didn't even, like, lay down a tarp.

I like to think that, should I ever sink to depths of such casual depravity, I’d have the decency to hide my Party Melon from company, or at least swap it out with a new one once in a while. Shit, any self-respecting drunken melon-baller would.

You win. Okay? I'll admit: We're not like you. There. You happy?

(Who knew, that all it would take for me to renounce one of the prime tenets of the Civil Rights Movement was one fried turd?)

Dad, Martin, you were wrong, so horribly, completely wrong. I wish I could have told you earlier.