This column is going to suck.
It's going to suck because back when I was still the boss, I scheduled my own column for the issue of The Student immediately following spring break and then promptly forgot about it. This has created some last minute problems, both for myself and for the current editor who dislikes columns that are going to suck.
Spring break, as we all know, is a time for the complete renunciation of all responsibility, accountability and human morality.
It is the only period officially recognized by all major religions when it is considered OK to curse, have premarital sex and use the pages of each religion's sacred texts to roll joints.
This column is also going to suck because the person now in charge of the editorial page warned me only moments ago that I cannot write anything about spring break, which, when I reached into my ass to pull something out at the last second, was the absolute only topic I had to work with.
My ass (which is basically a fancy term for my "idea bin") was dryer than a Texas well at the height of a drought.
With my spring break trip blacklisted, all that remains are dust bunnies and roaches scuttling around the corners.
In addition to that, this column will suck because I feel like I haven't slept in days.
A 19-hour drive from Florida to Ohio will do that to a person, especially when any amount of that time is spent working one's way through the state of Tennessee (official state motto: "The Taint of the South!").
I also must warn you that this column will, in all likelihood, suck because I've been on an alcoholic bender ever since the Thursday before last.
Green Beer Day left my colon stained green and my liver throwing up its hands in defeat and saying, "Fine, do it your way. We'll see how long you'll last."
For the next week, as I drank myself into a stupor on the coast of Florida, it sat back with its feet propped up, reading a newspaper, and every once in a while commenting to my gallbladder, "If I had anything to do with sexual function he would be rubbing my feet and giving me back massages instead of slowly drowning me in toxins."
"You said it, girlfriend!" my gallbladder would reply.
And finally, for all you Choose Your Own Adventure Fans, this column will suck because of four reasons.
One, so far this column hasn't been "about" anything.
Two, it referred to my native state as a man's fleshy erogenous zone.
Three, it seems as if Markley has chosen a vapid, unsubstantial topic that relies purely on shock value to entertain, while meanwhile he grinds the last of his credibility as an informed individual further and further into the dark dust of oblivion.
Or, lastly, that's a trick question - all of Markley's columns suck.
