DIGS WOMEN, REVERSE STATISTICALLY IMPROBABLE.
     by J. Wilder Konschak
     
     There are girls in my hall! Isn't that cool? There are girls in my 
bathroom! That rocks! The majority of my friends are female! How rad is that? 
Now, I'm sure this is not unique -- the survey says at Hampshire females far out 
number males -- but I think I take special pleasure in this situation. There's 
nothing I like better than a pretty co-ed living next door. And, about once a 
month, it gets all the better. 
     The thing is, I don't know if you've noticed this, but ladies have this odd 
tendency to go entirely crazy about once every full moon. This isn't a rule - 
but it's certainly a tendency. My hall, thanks to the wonders of human biology, 
goes into a grand, synchronized form of lunacy. Every few weeks, it's like the 
circus is coming to town. Stuff starts flying, there's screaming, and singing, 
and lots of weird foods. Yet, I'll be honest, to me, this fully female 
phenomenon is quite endearing, quite exciting, makes life unpredictable and fun. 
In fact, I honestly adore moody, menstrual women more than the stable variety.
      I realize this is probably just my own weird delight, I've never heard any 
other male mention loving women during that special, happy time. Of course, I 
love crazy people in general. And, besides, I have the mind set and the method  
to get the most out of that pivotal stage of the cycle.  
     Two words: Midol and Chocolate. 
     I didn't say three words, because "and" is really unimportant.
     In this stale, civilized land, there are few opportunities to truly prove 
that one is an exceptional, valuable, and brave male. I can't remember the last 
time I was asked to fight off an invading horde of barbarians, or forced to kill 
a 12-headed vicious hydra, like my grandfather always got to do. No, usually, 
the greatest threats I'm called to face consist of moving icky bugs (without 
killing them), opening jars (without cursing), and taking personal 
responsibility for birth control  (without making pouty faces). Life is just too 
simple.
     However, thankfully, once a month, true ordeals present themselves - true 
obstacles  to overcome. For example -- bravely driving to town in my manly 
truck, and proudly purchasing Midol, Baby Ruths, Cranberry Juice, Pickles, and 
Tampons (with a dollar off for my Stop&Shop card), all without getting even a 
drop of sex in return. In fact, most often, all for getting a lamp thrown at my 
head. Then a hug. Then a kick in the groin. Then a kiss on the cheek. Then a 
request for a massage. Then a ear-splitting ÒDON'T TOUCH ME!Ó
     Ah ... how I love women. No sarcasm there. I fucking love them. And vice-
versa. Oh yes, oh yes, I do love my angels. Even when all's quiet on the 
menstrual front, if I go to the mall with my male pizanos, I'm sure to stock up 
on PMS tea.
     "Why are you buying PMS tea, dude?" they ask.
     "Dude, because there are hot chicks on my hall!"
     "They aren't hot if they need PMS tea, dude!" they shout.
     Then I grab them by their noses and pull their heads off.
     "Ha ha!"
     Of course, I must say, in defense of my headless friends, I know exactly 
why all men don't adopt this senseless affection. Simply, it gets me no where. 
Though I may be well-loved and in-demand during the time of turmoil, when it's 
all over, I am virtually abandoned, and maybe even a little embarrassing, since 
I've seen them at their "worst." Alas, my research shows, during the flaming 
biological frenzy, the ladies aren't especially looking to get laid -- even if 
some of  them are wonderfully snuggly. Few relationships grow from long talks 
over tampons.
     Thus, I admit, my love for the wild ways of women under the influence of 
their whacky wombs is particularly pointless and not at all productive or 
reproductive. It's a genetic experiment gone wrong. As I always say, "kindness 
couldn't get a chromosome across the hall with a handcart," and this bizarre 
kindness is no exception. Like my preacher always said, "Nice guys finish last. 
So let's go fuck shit up!" In the big scheme of Darwinian survival, it's a waste 
of time, money, and care, because in the end, the assholes still win. 
     But it makes me happy. 
     So, if a lovely lady finds herself needing a big, warm hug about once every 
28 days or so, or maybe some tea and a little Midol and Chocolate, she should 
know where to find Dr. Wilder. He'll be sitting in his room, checking off the 
days before C4-hall's next big event.
     PS: Point of order. A certain female Omen author insulted me in her 
article. Though I would usually rebutt, saying something painfully witty like, 
"No Keely, YOU suck," I will refrain from such banter. I just bought her some 
chocolate, so she'll be less crabby once it starts working.