Harvard

 

(Pasty libtards love the oppressed.)

On Saturday night, I took Rice-Boy Larry to the chicken house. It was freezing outside, so I was a little afraid that the trip might cause complications such as pneumonia or diphtheria. My child has been suffering from a kick-ass cold for the last week or so. He keeps blowing his nose into discount shit paper and spitting snot from his chest into the toilet.

I said, “Maybe we should just turn around and go home.”

He said, “Why?”

“The last thing I want to do is kill my son by taking him out for dinner. I can make eggs and hash browns back at the apartment.”

He chuckled at my words. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Anyway, we ordered bird and beer. And as we chomped on our vittles, we struck up a conversation.

He said, “I really want to go to America.”

“How come?”

“The pressure of studying is really getting me down. I can’t take it anymore. Plus I’ll get to hang around with my brother.”

“So basically, you’re getting sick and tired of working.”

He nodded. “You don’t know what it’s like. Our school is very competitive.”

But here’s the truth. Larry is competitive, too. He loves to beat his friends in the area of academics. And when he does well, he frequently forces the other poor children to smell his metaphorical farts. In fact, he constantly makes fun of them, telling his buddies what a bunch of losers they are. I shit you not. As you can imagine, it’s quite unseemly.

I said, “You don’t have to compete with the others if you don’t want to. Do your own thing. In the words of Timothy Leary, you are free to tune in, turn on, and drop out.”

“But wouldn’t you be disappointed if my grades dropped?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I wouldn’t use a word like disappointed. It’s just that I think you’re smarter than me or your brother. Hell, you might even have a chance to get into an Ivy-League university.”

He smirked at me. “That’s bullshit.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. You’re going to do great on the SAT. I can feel it in my bones. So now you simply have to create a compelling narrative in order to separate yourself from the other goons.”

“A compelling narrative?”

I nodded and smiled. “That’s right. A compelling narrative. For instance, you can weave a tale in your application essay concerning your abundant misfortunes. Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy.”

“I’m not following the logic.”

I sighed heavily. “Tell those pasty libtards that your mother left you in communist China when you were in the sixth grade. You can also claim that she emptied the bank account before hopping on the plane. And let’s not forget about dad. He’s an alcoholic who refuses to bring you to the hospital when you’re sick.”

“But you’re not an alcoholic.”

“They don’t know that.” I paused for dramatic effect. “And what about the race angle? You’re a half-breed living in a nation that despises mixed-race juveniles. And every day, you get abused by the-powers-that-be here on the mean streets of Seoul.”

“Do you think the admissions officers at Harvard would fall for such a tale?”

“Why not? They love the poor and the oppressed.” I took a swallow of beer. “It certainly couldn’t hurt to give it a try. Just ask Elizabeth Warren.”

We got home at 9 p.m., and I watched a couple episodes of Wentworth before drifting off to sleep. I felt nice and toasty under my blanket. I have a great deal of affection toward my bed. If it had a pussy, I’d probably fuck it.

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