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RA Knocks Boots (Over), Spills Secrets, Seed

So maybe not every RA is a brain. But we are sneaky. How else does one score such a cushy gig? You gotta convince the Man you're on the up-and-up, even if you're down-and-out by nature. We also silently conspire to knock boots with residents. So don't come to me with a sob story unless you're real purty. It's that alchemy of (assumed) power, fame—our pics are in your lobby!—and the excuse to get all cornily up in your grille. (And if I were quicker with the bra-strap, there'd be a busted nut worth relating—guess I lied about that part.) Leads me to my next point: RAs even masturbate more than you. What else is there to do with that speedy Internet connection and no bunkmate? That's assuming, of course, we haven't a willing partner. Recall the duty ritual: What else gives you the excuse to skip dinner and dancing and start the date at home? That's in addition to the room-of-one's-own bit. (Though, in my pre-RA days, I was never above bumpin' uglies with my boo while my roommate was listening to his headphones, taking a dump, using his automatic toothbrush, etc.) Between lonesome and lusty nights, getting paged with your pants down happens all the time—that's why we don't think your buddy has alcohol poisoning.

Anyway, the good news: You will never achieve this level of dorkitude again in your life. But in the meantime, be nice, and abandon all hope ye who get caught by the building manager. In all other cases, put contraband where we can't see it (lest your bong be turned into a summer housing office planter; I ain't creative enough to make this shit up) and c-o-o-p-e-r-a-t-e, Sesame Street-style. And, oh yeah, RAs really like being at a party, man, and having someone say, "Hey, ARE YOU GONNA BUST US? HA HA HA."


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