BYU

Sometimes I drive aggressively. Most of the time, in fact. Like this morning on the way to work, you could say that I drove aggressively, perhaps even dangerously.

But I would never put anyone in any real danger, no. I may harbor an abiding hate for pedestrians and drivers who hug their steering wheels, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever intentionally punish them for doing what they do, for walking and hugging.

When I say “punish” I really mean “teach them a lesson by scaring the living shit out of them.” I personally hate it when people try to teach me a lesson, especially a lesson about life. Every professor I had in college, for instance, tried presumptuously to teach me a lesson about life, as if not having the time to read Heidegger would ever have anything to do with my ability to pay bills or reach orgasm.

I had one professor, Dr. Young, who gave quizzes during the first three minutes of every class. These quizzes counted for half of our entire grade, so if I was ever late to class more than twice I wouldn’t be able to pull down higher than a B+ and would, therefore, lose my scholarship. The only thing I remember learning in that class was how male pattern baldness on BYU campus was sadly not a pattern but an epidemic.

In fact, I would go as far to say that at least one out of every two men who attend BYU suffer baldness to a varying degree, which is sad when you consider that most of them, probably 99% of the ones who aren’t married, are still virgins. Bald *and* virgin. Does one cause the other?