Call me maestro

It’s the end of yet another semester here on the Hilltop, and again I’ve been snubbed. In its finite wisdom, SMU has yet to name me president of the university.

By all means, this injustice needs be righted if we expect to get anywhere as an institution of academia.

Shall we review my thoughts from over the semester? This world is mine, babe, so we shall.

In a hilarious “welcome back” piece, I predicted that SMU would not only play in the BCS championship game, but that we would win it. Alas, being that we attend neither the University of Miami nor Ohio State, this vision will not materialize. In Fletch Lives, Chevy Chase said, “It takes a big man to admit when he’s wrong. I am not a big man.”

I concur. SMU football will win the college championship after a computer virus planted by yours truly skews the system.

Skipping along, I commented on both the sex acts being performed in the prisons of our country and on one of the “best inventions of the year,” the dog translator.

These stories were viewed in light of hilarity, prompting many a chuckle with the occasional guffaw. Three cheers to me.

I’d like to talk briefly about the volunteer ideas I’ve offered. Initially, after a review of the injustices provided by our governing peoples, I mentioned that I would be running for president in ’04. I plan on changing that silly law about being over 35. Moving to Iraqi issues, I suggested that I’d be the perfect weapon’s inspector. Who could forget my infamous “Saddam babies” idea? Later, after a cunning dissection of the royal family, I stated that I should be king. I’d make one helluva king, let me tell ya.

My awe-inspiring two-part series on my trip to the hedonistic paradise that is Las Vegas won many a reader. Who among us didn’t fall to the throws of glee when I announced my victory over that savory township?

Then, of course, there was my hit list, those people who I feel fail society worse than Enron.

Caroline Rhea, that fetid blob, fell first. However, her show still airs; I have work left yet. I victimized Michael Jackson, that silly little Playdoh creation, only last week.

And who could forget our boy George. The time and space I dedicated to the leader of the free world enriched all our lives, providing chuckles and jeers.

I should write his speeches. Alliteration and four-syllable words would abound.

From you, the masses, I’ve received countless e-mails, many of which gushed with gratitude.

Much thanks. I’ve also received several spite- and malice-filled attacks, condemning me to the darker reaches of hell. More thanks. I, too, need a good laugh every so often. Most shocking, I suppose, is that my prose was discussed at an esteemed private law college in Mexico. I’m global, darlings.

So go, children, cavort and canoodle, mosey and mock, gallop and gambol through the winter break. Don’t worry yourself too much, for I shall return triumphantly next semester with my infinite wit.

And maybe, just maybe, SMU will wise up and name me president. I’ll tell you one thing, this final business will make the whole mess less comprehensive.