(January 27, 2006) — This month’s column is going to get me killed. Half of the student body will praise me for it, and the other half will most likely put me at the top of their “list,” in a “burn book,” or devote a shrine in their closet to me, adorned with pictures of my face covered in darts and X’s. Why? Because this month’s column deals with female hypocrisy. Before you close the page, set aside the paper, and menace me with your deceptively pen-like pepper spray, hear me out. The following episode I am about to relay really happened, and in no way caused me to form blanket generalizations about the female gender. It is only an example of the indiscretion of a select few of its members. Now that the disclaimer is out of the way, let me proceed. So I started my day—my free-dress day—off like any other: going to the bus stop, picking up and smelling a beauteous flower on the way; you know, the norm. Everything was going fine for me until I walked into school. Off to my side in the hallway, I noticed a friend of mine and his girlfriend in quite the heated argument. Curses were flying, stern fingers were waving, the works. The only thing the quarrel was missing was shin guards and a professional referee. I could not stand for such hate being openly flaunted, so I calmly interjected; or in laymen’s terms—I threw myself. “Whoa whoa whoa… what is the problem here?” I investigated. “Stay out of this (expletive)!” said the girl. “Why are you yelling at him like he cheated on you or something?” I said. “He pretty much did! He was looking at this other girl, eyeing her up and down like she was a sex object. That’s all you guys do; view us as sex objects. We have brains too, you know.” Ok, I thought, she had a reasonable argument backed with a significant amount of evidence. But wait! As she walked away, I noticed something! Something…peculiar. There it was, emblazoned upon her rear-end, a word of amazing hypocritical significance: JUICY.