ADMISSIONS — Growing up, I loved hanging out with my friend Thomas. For ten years, we played Wii Sports, had sleepovers, and of course, absolutely tormented his dumbass little brother, Brayden. Brayden is three years younger than us, but acts like he’s ten years younger. He couldn’t catch a ball if his life depended on it, he won’t eat his vegetables at dinner, and every time we pin him to the ground and say “here comes the tickle monster,” this kid starts crying. Sounds like a prick, right? Well, that’s what I thought. But somehow this kid got accepted to the Boston University Class of 2025.
What the fuck, BU?
What do you need to get into a top college? Good grades and a good SAT score, right? Well, I don’t know Brayden’s stats, but I do know this: when I was eleven and Brayden was eight, he choked on mac and cheese. Mac and cheese. It’s a fucking noodle. You could probably swallow it whole and be fine. I know it sounds insane to even ask this, but does BU care more about Brayden’s ability to find the area of a hexagon than his ability to ingest a noodle without coughing up cheese dust until his mom gives him the heimlich?
But even so, you need interesting extracurriculars to get into BU, right? Well do you know what this nincompoop does? Golf, chess, and I think something else… I wasn’t really paying attention. And now, BU’s giving this kid a golf scholarship? Don’t they know every man golfs? Do you know what happened last time I played putt-putt with Thomas and Brayden? I lined up for my first shot, swung the golf club with all my might, and drove that golf ball straight into Brayden’s face. His eye was black for weeks! Moron! I don’t know much about Division 1 athletes, but I sure know they don’t go crying to mommy and daddy when their opponent sticks a ball in their face.
Seriously, does BU just accept anyone now?
And look, I wouldn’t care if this were my friend Stephen’s sister or my friend Kayla’s brother. They’re actually kind of cool. Stephen’s sister downed a forty last week, and Kayla’s brother pantsed Brayden in kindergarten. But Brayden’s mom does pottery class with my mom, which makes this a really sticky situation. Anytime I come home and see a piece of clay on the kitchen table, I know I’m in for a “hey honey, can I give Brayden your phone number? He has some questions about BU” or a “I forget, did I tell you Brayden got into BU?” Fucking bullshit. I work and I work and I work to get into a top 100 university and then this bonehead jackass simpleton is just handed an admissions letter.
Oh boy, another text from my mom about Brayden… wait, he chose NORTHEASTERN??!?!?!!!