Smith: Welcome to Samantha’s room, can I take your coat?

My wonderful readers,

I write to you with sad and regretful shakes of my head. I have found that writing my column is no longer fulfilling to my dreams and desires. Thus, I am sacrificing my space for someone who is more qualified by his Y chromosome to better serve you in the Samford Crimson.

I have been converted. The Jezebel spirit that has whispered in my soul to escape the structuralist confines of my sex within a patriarchal society has been thrown from the window and eaten by the dogs. I am finally free.

Free to wake every morning with the wants and desires of the men of the world on my mind. Free to skip all of my classes and put my natural feminine talents to use by joining the cleaning staff, spending all day on my knees for the men of Samford.

There is no greater freedom for a woman than to be enslaved to an archaic stereotype developed for the protection of the masculine power of these United States. I can think of no nobler cause than to strap myself to the stifling responsibility of fulfilling the emotional, physical, educational and developmental needs of my offspring. Who am I to consider my own sexual desires, occupational dreams and intellectual interests in the face of soccer practice, science fairs, parent-teacher conferences and the bi-daily rape of Wal-Mart’s always low prices.

In my restoration to my sex, I have discovered something beautiful. There is simply nothing that makes me feel more like a woman than delivering ice-cold beer to reclined, sports-viewing males. Thus, with the help of a few other reformed women, I have converted my dwelling space in Malcom Hall to a sports bar of La-Z-Boys and high-definition TV screens. How did I manage to do this?

Well, first I dropped off for resale all my textbooks, scholarly essays, posters of Virginia Woolf (who I’m sure would support this, being a feminist and all) and anthologies of modern thought. (Just a small tip here ladies: Books-A-Million has a hearty collection of adult fiction, which, when neglecting your sexual needs for those of your man, can be extremely cathartic. I find that Taming the Highlander really addresses my desires to be thrown up against a tree and man-handled by a half human, half beast Germanic rebel. Remember to replace the book cover with that of the Bible.) The money I gained from this venture, as well as the remainder of my college fund (won’t be needing that anymore) helped pay for the purchase and installation of six 395-inch 3D screens. A donation from the Daughters of the American Revolution covered the La-Z-Boys, though I did have a moment of panic when I thought I might have to enter the workforce to afford the renovations, but in the end it did not prove to be financially necessary. A local Mormon branch was so kind as to provide me with a scholarship that went to the purchase of seven pairs of spandex labeled for the days of the week (Yes, we’re open on Sunday) and matching leather corsets. I fear I will have to wear a wig, as short hair runs contradictory to the ideal of beauty. But Julia Roberts has been so kind as to lend me the one she wore in Pretty Woman. I find it really supports the look I’m going for.

Oh, excuse me! The nice men from Bud Light just missed the driveway again. I have to go stand on the corner and flag them down.

 

Samantha Smith is a junior English major from Paducah, Ky. She can be reached at ssmith4@samford.edu.

 

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