I don’t know how much you all keep up with current events concerning academia (this is a first at rickgoddard.blogspot) but recently, Karen Owen, a Duke University student, presented a senior thesis entitled “An Education Beyond the Classroom: Excelling in the Realm of Horizontal Academics”.
Yeah, “horizontal academics” isn’t talking about massage therapy or stay-at-home-dad theory. No, she did a 41 slide Powerpoint presentation about fucking. Banging. Screwing. Checking the temperature in the jacuzzi. The ol’ twenty toes. The beast with two backs. Piercing Paul (as in my cock is a knife and your vagina is Paul Pierce). Sex.
Owen documented numerous sexual encounters with 13 Duke University males. The Powerpoint included pictures of the men, how they encountered each other, and Owen’s assessment of her partner’s performance (she calls them “subjects”).
Surprise, surprise, guess where she met most of the guys? You guessed it, when she was wasted. She describes her “subjects” and assesses their “pros” and “cons”. Basically, she talks about size and overall sexual prowess and then gives a grade out of 10. What gives her “thesis” credence is when she writes that she could barely walk the next day.
So, why am I bothering to write about this? Am I upset that she exposed her sexual history? Not really. Am I pissed off that she objectified men in her process? Nope. What pisses me off is that she had the balls (well, I guess she had 13 pairs of testicles at different times) to pass this crock of shit off as a “thesis”.
You go to fucking Duke. Tuition isn’t cheap and everybody expects Duke alums to be the best and brightest of world. Instead of writing about something worthwhile like how to fix the economy or what the world would be like if Hitler was still alive and had a recurring role on According to Jim, you spend your time on a 41 slide morning-after story talking about how big the dude’s dong was and how hard it was to walk the next day. I did my senior thesis on Imperial Germany before the First World War. If I turned in a slideshow about the girls I picked up when I was drunker than Mel Gibson and screwed and how I never paid for Plan B, I’d still be in college.
And isn’t it kinda fucked up that she kept track of this? Casual sex is supposed to be fun. Karen Owen’s the only one in full pads at the flag football game.
This leads me to ask: what would her assessment of me be? Probably like this:
We met at a bar. He was wearing a shirt that said ‘My Chemical Blowmance’ and khaki pants that were torn and dirty. He said he fell down a hill. I asked him why his nose was bleeding, and he drunkenly pointed to his shirt. It was a slow night, so I asked him to come back to my place. He said, “Thank fucking God, I lost my La Quinta room key when I swiped it through some slut’s asscrack. Oh shit, that wasn’t you, was it?”
When we get back to my place, he goes directly to the bathroom and all I hear is what sounds like the slamming of a toilet seat. Ten minutes later, he emerges in basketball shorts and says, “Porcelain pump never fails.” I’m not sure what he means.
Memorable moments: He rummaged through my drawers for five minutes until he found an extension cord and said, “This’ll do,” as he wrapped it around his neck.
Pros: It must have been the cocaine because he was very aggressive. We tried some positions I had never heard of. The Transylvania Trombone. Cobra on the Carpet. The Pit and the Pendulum.
Cons: He frequently stopped and demanded, “Keep choking me!” Immediately after he climaxed, he ripped a disgusting fart and said, relieved, “Oh, the wings.” The post-sex pillow talk was moronic with gems like “I became pro-choice after I saw The Fly” and his insistence that he has the only copy of a Bill Paxton sex tape.
Raw Score: 2/10
Yeah, that’s probably how it would have gone.
Goddard Out.
