Poopy Penn

I was going to entitle this, “Penn can suck my…” but I thought my mother would be upset.

It’s that time of year again.  The birds are singing, the daffodils peek their sweet little faces out of the ground, and high school students everywhere are getting their acceptances.  Or rejections.  From the school their mother went to.  The school where their grandfather got his pHD.  The school where their great-uncle played soccer and wrote plays.

No, really, it’s perfectly understandable that I got into Penn.  They told us to write the application in pen, so I wrote it in pencil and then traced over the letters in pen.  I tried to erase the pencil underneath, but it got sort of smudgy, so I just left it.  For hobbies I wrote, “I like to read, jog, and babysit.  I also like to play the guitar.”  I can just see the Penn admissions committee:  “Joe!  Look at this application!  This girl is incredible.  She babysits!  Do we have any good babysitters in the class of ’85, yet?  No?  Damn!  We’d better hop on this one lest Princeton grab her first!”

Listen up, Penn.  It’s one thing to insult me, but you didn’t even insult me.  You accepted me!  What the heck were you thinking?  Were those cannabis fumes I saw billowing out of the Furness Building?  It’s another thing to insult my baby boy.  The most handsome, smart, talented boy in the world.  Talented in what?  Hmmm.  He can sulk like the dickins when he doesn’t get something.  He’s a good tennis player.  No.  Not good enough for you to want him.  Kiss my tuchus, Penn.  You’ve messed with the wrong Robin.  When I am on my death bed, doling out the big bucks to worthy institutions, there will be the Altman House for Autistic Adults, but for you, Penn…..nada.  Niente.  Bubkus.  And it’s all because of this grave day.  March 29.  The day you rejected Alex Altman.  Too bad, Penn.  You could have been something.

What I’m Gonna do to Penn