NAV 1

Now insisting you call him K-Man, the slightly rancid (and overly fond of long Germanic titles) Kant, is now intent on dragging you to his zombie family reunion. Said reunion is being held amongst the statues in the Rodin Sculpture Garden. This is strange.

(In fact, it’s all so strange that I suggest you give up reading this ridiculous “Choose Your Own Adventure” story and go find a lonely dark corner to sit in, whilst contemplating the miserable failure that passes for your life.)

Upon meeting them, you discover that the Kants are an unusual family (not least because they, too, are the living dead). As soon as he sees you Papa Kant immediately inquires as to what your favorite Biblical passage is and then offers to show you his hand-crafted riding saddle.

Somewhat confused by this juxtaposition you turn to Mama Kant only to find that she has squeezed her (abundant) rotting flesh into a leather cat suit and is holding a riding crop which she is flicking nonchalantly against “The Gates of Hell.” Then, staring at your belly, she asks whether she’s going to be a Grandmother Kant.

Aghast, you turn to the K-Man to demand an explanation. He suggests coffee. You ...

NAV 2

Pulling out your first edition of “Critique of Pure Reason,” you draw a deep breath and finally begin to put all that time spent wearing black and reading philosophy to good use. Deftly weaving analytic and synthetic propositions, you insist Kant has a Categorical Imperative to set you free. If only your TA could hear you now.

Zombie Kant looks at you slightly puzzled. He then explains that the whole philosophy thing was just a joke and most of it was written whilst jacked up on heroin, in between wild Konigsberg-nights out with the boys.

As you try and integrate this groundbreaking insight into the true nature of Enlightenment philosophy, you notice Kant has started sweating and is glancing around nervously. Inquiring as to what is ailing the intellectual giant you learn that he’s in withdrawal and in desperate need of a hit.

Pointing out that EBF Happy Hour was yesterday you tell your flesh-dripping companion that he’s going to have to go cold turkey. He is unhappy. Very unhappy. Very, very unhappy. Very, very, very unhappy. Very, very, very, very unhappy. Very, very, very, very, very unhappy. Desperate to escape this increasingly dangerous-looking (and oddly repetitive) situation you decide to...

NAV 3

After a series of appropriate misadventures that account for any continuity errors, you finally find yourself alone in a dimly lit Memorial Church with a trusty sidekick and some recently acquired condoms.

Slightly out of breath from your escapades, skin gleaming in the flickering candlelight, you gaze at each other, and smile.

“You know, I’ve always felt you and I could be more than sidekicker and sidekickee,” you say, edging closer.

xxxxxxxx supple tongue xxxxx xxx xxxxx xx x xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxx xx. Hard.

xx nipples xxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxxxxxx, xxx xxx xx xxx xxx xxxx. Lips meet, xxxx xxxx xxx xxxxx, hands squeeze, xxx, xxx xxxx xxxxxxxxxx xxx caress.

xxxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxx clothes xxxx stumble forwards xxxx xxx xxx xxxxxx xxx the altar, limbs akimbo. xxxxx xx xxx xxx xxxx xxxxxxxx xxxx xx xxxx xxx xxxx, all thoughts of incredibly attractive physics graduate students vanish from your mind.

xx xx xx xxx mind (xxxx xxxxx) blowing experience. xxxx xxxx xxxxxxx the sensations xxxx xxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxx xxxxxx xxxx. Ah, why did you have to wait so long for this?!

xxxxx xxx xxx xxxxx inappropriate religious epithets xxx xxxxx xxx xx.

As the sidekick rolls off, you light a cigarette, stare at the rococo ceiling, let the warm feeling suffuse your body and thank xxxxx.

NAV 4

Finally the hard work and the “sketchily macking” on a freshman pay off. You become a graduate student.

A world hitherto unknown to you, grad school offers wonders that your tiny, insignificant, worthless undergraduate mind can barely comprehend. But don’t worry, it’ll grow on you.

Soon the obsessive fixation with free food seems less like a fixated obsession. You realize that rather than being a demonstration of the desperate poverty you have volunteered yourself into, scurrying around for free food is a demonstration of your superior hunter-gatherer qualities (which will make you a better husband/wife/sex slave).

Although you will never have sex again (until you are forced to do so by a transvestite humpbacked evil Russian princess) you swiftly realize this is not a problem, since you have suddenly become slightly unclean and completely undesirable.

Superior intelligence and that strange squint (which you developed one night, after working late on a PWR paper in Meyer library) now allows you to look menacingly at the young ‘uns.

Of course, the considerably more attractive, soon to be more successful and much more socially adept young ‘uns aren’t so much menaced as they are amused. And sick of your constant pathetic whining in your Daily column about how your life sucks.

YOU LOSE.