Besides prostitution, pranks are the oldest form of entertainment in the history of mankind.  They are perfect in any situation, and everyone is completely susceptible to their wrath. Especially college students.

Many things make one's college years an enjoyable time, however nothing beats a hilarious prank. There is no better way to say "hey asshole, I think you are great," or "I think I'd rather eat glass instead of hang out with you." Here are some pranks that are a sure fire way to convey your intended message.

Balloon-a-palooza.

Materials needed:
1 enclosed space.
300-600 balloons.
1 whiny d-bag.

When you get a balloon from someone, you know that they think you are special. When you get hundred balloons put in your office, you know that they think you are a douche. So when that happens, what do you do? You act the part.


Butter on the Floor.

Materials needed:
1 tiled floor.
2 pounds of butter.
1 inconsiderate roommate.

There are many ways to ask a roommate to show more courtesy in the apartment that you share. One way is to politely ask him to do so.  The other way is to fuck his shit up by buttering the floor.

Other pranks: red dye in the sower, pron in the library, dead bird in the cereal box and ping-pong ball tsunami. 

Remember Grandma and Grandpa’s stories about going to the high school sock hop and dancing? Remember when your buddy told you he was so pumped because he was going dancing with his girlfriend and he might get to hold her hand? Of course not! That is because nobody goes “dancing” anymore.  Guys, if you’re in college or even a recent graduate the most dancing you will ever do consists of moving your hips side to side while a girl gives you the equivalent of a clothed lap dance. Just enough to get you to half-mast before the song ends and she runs off to dance with her girlfriends because Journey’s – “Don’t Stop Believing” just came on. The days of dancing to impress girls are long gone, which is why we need to get back to the roots of killer dance moves. I’m talking about our generation’s greatest dance teacher…the TV sitcom.

Below is a list of some of the best dance moves to ever hit your cable ready color TV. Try to incorporate a few of these into the next late night dance party you find yourself in, and you will surely go home with that blond in the short skirt. Just look at A.C. “it works”.

  Will Smith: Fresh Prince of Bel Air

Even if you do not have a sunglass wearing friend like DJ Jazzy Jeff to break down the beat you can still wave your arms like a bird and do the swim move like Warren Sapp.

*Other great dances:   Adam West Old School Boogie, The Urkelator, The Blossom Jamboree, The  A.C.- inator and the Carlton Banks Woo-Woo.

If you are looking for a break from the usual weekend filled with parties, beer and hung-over mornings, I have a suggestion. Go head over to your local movie theater and check out the newest comedy to hit the silver screen, Sex Drive.

This movie has something for everyone: fast cars, a road trip, the internet, lots of boobs,  beautiful girls and most importantly, a talking doughnut. The story line revolves around universally common themes: sex, travel and passage into manhood.

The main character, named Ian (played by Josh Zuckerman), is an awkward teen from Chicago that can’t get a break with ladies. His only luck comes when he chats online with a girl named Miss Tasty, and convinces her that he’s football star with a fancy car.  She wants to meet him.  Problem is that she lives 600 miles away. Solution: road trip. Vehicle: His brother’s GTO. Co-Pilots: His best friends Lance and Felicia (played by Clark Duke and Amanda Crew).

"FINDING PHELPS"

Here I am, in back of a cramped Hyundai with four of my friends, sitting in my underwear, my jeans next to my feet.  I rip them off an hour into the trip—they were just too constricting for the obscene amounts of Cheese Its, Starburst and Chex I was shoving into my mouth. I had forgot to bring sweat pants and even pajamas, only had a short jean skirt to change into. Fuck it—I think I feel a Chex grid sticking to an exposed portion of my left butt cheek. 

“Please try and keep my car clean!” Whitney Newman, who is driving asks. Apparently, I’ve already fucked up.

The intention of the trip to Anne Arbor is of course, in part for the football game. My friends and I are avid Badger fans, having been to the Bowl game last year for what we fondly remember as one of the best weekends of our lives. At midnight on New Years Eve, each of us was on the dance floor of a roofless bar pulling at the hair of the random guy we were making out with, cheap champagne in other hand. We have a Facebook album to prove it. 

The truth is no matter how much a college-girl loves football, there has to be some other motivation to drive 6 hours to see her team play—ours was to get some strange.

My friends and I love to be those anonymous girls who do shocking things in public, that we might not do within our town borders, where frankly we’ve done enough trouble making already. It’s gotten to the point where Madison bars are full of people we’ve made out with and had their girlfriends e-mail us about it the next day. Not that that’s ever happened to me or anything. 

For me, the trip starts out on a great note, I just found out that my brother who lives with me was arrested Thursday night and I hadn’t noticed until he was missing at 2:00p.m. On Friday. On top of that, I’m feeling pretty shameful for how retarded I had gotten the night before, and had the hickeys to show.  I knew the only cure for this was a long car ride of bad 90’s boy-band music and more beer later that evening.

By the time we are on our way for what should be a 6- hour drive, which ends up being an 8-hour hell due to traffic, we decide that whoever ends up making out with a Michigan boy first gets free drinks, the ultimate prize for a group of girls who subsist entirely on Miller Lights, red headed sluts, vodka red bulls and diet coke to help curb the effects of a hang-over.

This seems fitting as we pass a sign for a town I’m pretty sure I’ve never been to: Climax, MI.

Besides the strange men we hoped to enrapture with our Wisconsin roots and tales of cheese curds, we are on another mission: to touch one of the abs of Michael Phelps, who would be honored before the game for his obvious talent in the swimming pool.