Chicago Shady Dealer

What To Do If You Call Your RH “Mom”

We’ve all been there: it’s O-Week and you’re having dinner at your house table. The food is feeling especially Bartlett-y today. You ask your RH to pass you the salt for some much needed flavour, and then two fatal words slip out of your mouth “Thanks, Mom.” The dining hall goes quiet. 

What do you do? 


Pretend like nothing ever happened 

Easier said than done. When we say pretend like nothing happened, we mean nothing. Forever. This is an all out ghosting of the next four years of your college experience. You’ll take a vow of silence, wear a burlap sack over your body and only eat jello out of a camelback for the next 4 years as you pretend this and nothing else will ever happen again. To get people to forget about this, you must make them forget about you and that you ever existed.


Yell “food fight!” 

Come on, you know you’ve always wanted to do this one. Ever since you saw Robin WiIlliams do it in Hook, every waking moment has been consumed with a desire to be the Braveheart-esque figure of the cafeteria who yells “food fight” and throws mashed potatoes in Ms. Rafferty’s face. College is a time to be who you weren’t qualified enough to be in high school. Go on, be the hero.

Sure, maybe no one will react and you’ll be the guy who was escorted out of Bartlett in pursuit of this ‘fun’ I’ve heard so much about, but at least people will forget about the mom stuff.


You’re at UChicago, talk about Freud 

Speaking of “mom stuff,” it’s time to pull out the big guns. If you want people to forget about mom-gate, just launch into the Freud monologue you had saved for SOSC and then sit back and watch the world burn. Watch as you peers stumble over themselves to prove you wrong, barely able to contain themselves as they deride your reading of the Oedipus complex as “trite” and your insights as “trivial.” Marvel at the lengths some will go to in their pursuit of being “the devil’s advocate” as they rush to your defense, ill-advised as it may be, as they proudly declare to anyone who will listen,“so he wants to fuck his mom, so what?” like the free thinkers they are. And finally, bask in the glorious chaos of the discourse you’ve created as memes are made and Viewpoint Op-eds that no one asked for are published, defending and attacking a take that didn’t have much substance anyway. Welcome to the big leagues, kid. 


Play “Here comes the airplane!” 

That’s right, commit. All the way. Your RH is now your mother and you are her bosom babe. Now eat your spinach baby so you can grow big and strong. Here comes the airplane, fwooosshhhhhhhhhh!


Fast travel out of there!

You’ll be leaving the haters in the dust when you open your mini map, select “home,” and wake up back in your dorm room far far away. It’s escapism at its finest. Those rubes back in bartlett will be all like, “what, where did he go? I was just about to point and laugh, now what am I to do?” in their little rube-y voices, and you’ll be all like “Yay technology!”. What a load of rubes, you’ll show them!


Call your real mom, ask her to pick you up 

I guess college didn’t work out. That’s okay, we weren’t in the top 5 anyway. Better luck next time, bucco. I hear Northwestern could use someone like you. I’m sure mommy’s cookies will make it all better though.