College confidential

By Laura Argintar, Daily Opinion Blogger
Published April 9, 2012

Ever fantasize about having sex on the block ‘M’? Wonder what really goes on in the Michigan dining hall or in the back rooms of the bar? Individuals speak out about scandals you’ve always felt were happening on campus but never knew who they happened to.

Which of these activities have you partaken in?


All names, places and titles have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.

The nutty professor

I was at Espresso with a friend, talking about Adderall and studying for the LSAT, and this guy was eavesdropping and started talking to us. I nudged my friend, feeling really uncomfortable because I recognized him as my professor from last year.

Somehow, we started talking about where he was from, where we were from — that kind of thing. We both thought he was gay. Then we all exchanged numbers and e-mails.

He actually wrote me an e-mail a couple days later. We had discussed restaurants when we met, and in the e-mail he wrote, “Why don’t we try one out?” Assuming he was gay, I agreed to go.

We met for drinks at The Black Pearl and got a bottle of wine. Then I was like, “OK, this guy is weird,” so I went to the bathroom, called a cab, came back out and said it was time to peace out. He tried to kiss me, and I got all weird. Then I realized he actually was not gay or pretending not to be. Anyway, he continued to e-mail me. I didn’t respond.

I saw him again at Amer’s, and I said “Oh, I was sick. I haven’t had time to respond to e-mail, and I’ve been away for two weeks.” It was a shitty lie and awkward situation, but I thought that that would have been the end. However, he continued to e-mail me, not getting the hint.

I see him around campus and wave or put my head down. But I’m still wondering if he ever remembers me from class.

Cheaters never prosper

I always heard those scary stories about teachers comparing Scantron answer sheets or putting essays through special websites, but I never actually believed them — or even if I did, I didn’t care. I had it perfected to a science: I’d sit in the lefty desks on the aisle, and I’d be elevated in the stadium-style seating in the lecture hall. I could see everyone’s Scantrons in the aisle adjacent to mine. It worked for quite some time and in a variety of classrooms.

It was a stupid test. I was sitting next to my best friend, and I guess we were a little too confident because we didn’t notice our teacher noticing our blatant cheating. When we handed in our papers (each at different times; we weren’t that dumb), our professor made a suspicious comment. I tried to play it cool and forget about it, but afterward I caught up with my friend, and she was worried.

A few days later, we both got separate e-mails requesting to meet with the professor individually. I knew we were caught. He said if we formally wrote him a letter admitting to cheating, he wouldn’t notify the University, and we’d just receive zeroes on the test. My friend was more concerned about writing that letter than getting a zero, which I thought was absurd.

That class ruined my GPA. I guess I was a little bitter about the whole thing because I couldn’t bring myself to write the letter — I somehow convinced myself I didn’t really cheat. So I paid someone else to write it for me and sent it in.

Serving it straight up

When I first started bar tending, I was so miserable. Annoying, over-entitled, mostly underage kids shoving bills in my face (like that’s going to get my attention and make you stand out). I would come home soaked in liquor, beer and my own sweat. Puddles in my shoes. Barely collecting tips.

What made me stay was how awesome the other bartenders were. They were my boys. We would make fun of all these drunken losers who thought buying two shots of Patron made them The Man.

One time, I was serving a table of drinks near the back and literally — right out in the open, not even in a corner — two people were having sex. It was wild. They weren’t even that drunk — I’m sure if you asked them, they fully remember all the details. I didn’t interrupt them. I think I actually felt proud of them.

Sometimes I’ll dress a little sluttier because, even though it sounds cliché, it really does get me more tips. If I take shots with the patrons, I’ll also get better tips.

I always try to remember to be friendly to good tippers. It’s kind of a win-win situation: They think they have the almighty powerful bartender on their side, and when I pretend we’re friends, they feel a need to tip me more.

I guess it also helps that people are getting wasted and not realizing I’m not giving them exact change back. On accident, of course.

Doing it big in the Big House

I’ve heard of so many people trying to break in to the Big House, coming really close, and never succeeding. I’ve done it twice.

It’s actually pretty complicated, and you have to be the perfect kind of drunk to get inside or else you’ll either be too sloppy to maneuver or too sober to attempt it. We had the cab driver drop us off at the gates of the stadium after leaving the bar.

We had to circle around it for a while before figuring out a way to get in. I’ve heard of people doing crazy shit to get over the fence: slipping through faulty turnstiles, getting a limb stuck some place it shouldn’t. We were pretty old fashioned. We found a trash bin near the fence, so he went first. He stood on top of the trash bin, leaped over to the other side and kind of slid down the bars.

Then he found another trash can and brought it closer so that I could land on it as I jumped over. That was a mistake. I jumped from one trash bin and landed over onto the other one. It hurt so bad — well, actually, that’s where the drunk part comes in, because I don’t really remember it hurting.

We got to the 50-yard line. It felt incredible. All of it. There was only one bright light on, spotlighting the block ‘M’. It was some of the best sex of my life — so good that I went back the following year with a different guy.

Confessions of a cafeteria worker

As part of my work-study, I work in one of the Michigan dining halls. It is what it is. Would I rather be earning cash elsewhere? Yes. Am I doing that, too? Yes.

I’m sure you want to hear all about how we drop food on the floor and still serve it. Or that we spit in it. It never happens.

It’s sometimes awkward when I’m wiping up crap after a kid from my discussion. Or when I’m cleaning some mess and my friends walk in, and I can’t join them. But then I get to clean up their mess too.

I hate when people linger. Like if I’m putting up the chairs and you’re still sitting there, you should probably leave.

Girls eat more than guys, but guys definitely eat grosser shit. My favorite is those girls who come in every day, starting out at a normal size in October and then gradually, they get bigger and bigger. That shit is pretty funny.