by Zach Saltman
Recently, Zach Saltman has been watching a lot of those “Real Men of Genius” commercials, and decided imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Real Penn of Genius
Today we salute you, Mrs. Really, way too big sunglasses wearer
When the sun comes out, you tell it “Not today, Buster.” You hide your face like a stash of candy at fat camp.
You walk the streets incognito, yet hog any attention you can get. And you’ll be damned if that slut from psyche class sports larger lenses than you do.
So keep strutting the streets of Philly with pride, oh disguisèd damsel, because you make all the jappy New Yorkers feel at home, even in Filthadelphia.
Today we salute you, Mr. way overachieving, overenthusiastic class hand-raiser
They say that in college you get more work than you can possibly finish, but you prove them wrong at all costs. Sleep isn’t important… you run off the pure thrill of answering that question in class, day after day, after day.
The only time you spend in the gym goes to your right shoulder, so you can shoot those fingers in the sky before anyone can even say, “get a life.”
So keep taking that nose to Browntown, oh master of memorization, because you’re the one that we love to hate. And we really do love it.
Today we salute you, Mr. hates frats but is still a Beirut player
You love to bash the frats, but throw on your lacoste shirt (or take it off) to play Beer Pong every weekend anyway. Like the government, the bane of your existence is the ability to say one thing and do the other.
When playing a drinking game, you’re focus is impregnable; your determination, unbeatable; your stare, fierce. You focus on that shot like a PGA Tour putt. And when your shirt comes off, the game face comes on, because you spell glory, P-O-N-G.
So keep on ballin, and keep on hatin’ the ballas, because whatever you are, you don’t like it, and neither do we. But at least we can agree on something.
Today we salute you, Mr. pre-weight room primper
Most guys shower after they work out, but you have a unique foresight that makes you special. When you hit the weight room, the smell of your cologne hits us while you’re still coming up the stairs.
You might be wearing gym clothes, but under them you sport a showered, gelled, shaved, fragranced, excessively primped body, that is sure to be a winner, even though you never really played a sport.
So here’s to your dream of picking up a girl (or guy?) in the gym, Mr. pre-weight room primper, because even though some girls go there to find guys, they won’t find you.
Today we salute you, Mr. hard ass frat entrance bouncer
A paradigm of selflessness, you wait outside the party, making sure the sacred “ratio” is preserved for the brothers, at all costs.
Like a 5’8”, white Wesley Snipes, you stand firm, arms crossed, with a look on your face that says, “I’m a Bad Mother Fucker.”
Like clerks and policemen all over the country, you live for the power trip. So tell those freshman guys to find some girls or get the F out, because you’ve been waiting years for some authority, and now’s your time to shine.
So keep stepping on the little guy, tough man, because you are what every man at the party wants: the biggest dick in the house.