This isn’t the weekly sexy as much as it is the weekly DELICIOUS.

In some ways though, it is incredibly sexy watching someone eat a piece of candy off of paper. The combination of stationary and saccharine is not only delicious and vaguely sexy, but is also a resourceful snack. At the risk of diabetes, you are receiving surplus energy since the the candy themselves aren’t anything more than small droplets of hardened sugar with a hint of food coloring. With energy comes creativity. In which case, you are plenty prepared to record your thoughts on the paper that you just licked (this is assuming that you have some sort of writing device). You could do math homework, write your Japanese penpal, write each member of Team Win a love letter, or even a ransom note (not addressed to Team Win).

So get some candy that is attached to paper (if and only if you are positive that your blood sugar is low and that you don’t have a family history of diabetes), and write something awesome.

If the portions aren’t large enough for you though, you could always just try some cake.

BAJANG! Colored Beach Rocks! Want to impress your friends in the sexiest way possible? WaPow! Hit them with a multi-colored display of pure geographic poetry. BraJink!
Sand art creations are the most interesting and sexiest form of self-expression that I know of. In fact, its rumored that Jesus gave Mary a homemade sand art creation for Christmas once, so you know they are cool (not necessarily as much a sexy gesture as a gesture of plain goodwill).* Plus, multi-colored sand is completely environmentally friendly and not tested on animals. So grab some empty plastic bottles, gather up the extra sand lying around your house, and make some archeologically awesome art.

*Yes, Jesus technically gave Mary a sand art creation on his own birthday. He was that nice.

No spare sand? Get some Here…

When I was 8-11 years old, I was always a little nervous when I swapped hats with people in my age bracket for 2 reasons:

1. Three kids that lived in my neighborhood and I all communally peed in Greg’s Cincinnati Reds hat when he refused to let us emulate some of Goldberg’s more famous wrestling techniques on him. He unknowingly wore it the next day. His nickname from that day on was pee-pants McGee (which was eventually shortened to just pee-pants, then to just Greg the douche).

2. Lice, which seemed to only spread through baseball caps and winter hats, is the most socially debilitating thing that can ever happen to a fourth grader.

Even with my best friends, who I played baseball with every afternoon of everyday in the summer, I wore their hats with discerning caution. Lice to me, as a 9 nice year old, was like tuberculosis to a village of Eastern Europeans during the 1800s, except unlike tuberculosis, which pretty much destroyed the entirety of the aforementioned eastern European villages, lice would just make me relatively unpopular amongst my preteen peers, and maybe, at most, make them think that I was a little dirty. Though lice wasn’t exactly sweeping hoards of school children into diseased trenches, as a pseudo-adult, I now know that there was a part of these children that died as a result of this childish infliction; social acceptance and any possibility of widespread high school popularity. Though purely speculation, I’ve come to believe that these lice outbreaks are responsible for the 75 percent of all comic book sales since Marvel comics was created. The widespread lice epidemic that occurred throughout our elementary school childhood is responsible for the current social division between adults that live in the basement of their parents’ house and adults that have high rise skyscraper penthouses in Manhattan. Had I not been so selfish with my baseball caps, I may very well be at an anime convention right now, or possibly be ranked fifth in the world right now at beetle adventure racing. I am fairly confident (10% at most) that the most important social divider in modern American society is preteen lice.

I have very distinct memories of sitting in fourth grade homeroom, watching the school nurse walk into the class room and strip one student of all their dignity by dragging them into the little examination room. The nurse may as well have been sitting in that room giving a definitive tarot card reading for each child’s potential for sitting alone in the lunch room or likelihood for getting magic the gathering cards taken from them during world history class. The second that your name is called out, your peers start placing bets on the probability that you have lice. No one is paying attention to the day’s reading of Paul Bunyan anymore. Everyone is now both trying to gain the emotional strength for when the nurse calls their name and making silent predictions about who in their homeroom they will soon no longer affiliate themselves with.

As kids start coming back to class, one by one, you see a series of only two facial expressions; healthy arrogance or personal disdain. You could tell who had lice by the look in their eyes (and maybe the fact that they were carrying acidic shampoo back into class room). The moment that this person walks into the classroom, people begin dissecting their backpacks and neon binders in the least discrete manner possible. If they have in their possession anything that this 4th grade leper let them borrow, they need to be rid it immediately. It could be a pair of gloves, a winter hat, or even something as subtle as the list of that day’s spelling words; no one knew what could or could not have lice; we were fourth graders, and this was social Darwinism.

Everyone knows the kids who had lice, and everyone knows who they are now and what they are doing with their lives. Some of them joined nu-metal bands and had Korn patches on their backpacks; some of them spent the entirety of English class reading Full Metal Alchemist instead of The Scarlet Letter; but all of them hated high school, were awesome at calculus, and in most cases, smoked cigarettes outside of the comic book store. Either way, none of them played sports, kissed members of the opposite sex, or went more than 2 weeks at a time without getting the cafeteria’s Salisbury steak thrown at them by the linemen of the football team. But this essay isn’t about the nerds and dorks of the world; it’s about the politicians of the world. Though no one saw the gears moving, through the lice epidemic, another social division was occurring. Your future state senator was gaining persuasive clout. No one knows it, but the president of your senior class also had lice, but as I shall outline, held much more control over his scenario, and because of this, spent college learning about the American constitution instead of Japanese robots.

Let’s pretend here that all of this happened to you. Mike walks into the classroom, and is carrying with him the bottle of acid wash. Mike left the classroom with smile on his face, and returned with a Soviet-like disposition meaning only one thing; he now has lice and will soon enjoy the music of slipknot. You immediately stop looking at the stats on the back of your brand new flair baseball cards and throw both hands in your Jansport backpack. In the midst of your frenzied dissection, you see it. You have Mike’s Cub’s hat. Christ. Everyone is too busy searching through their own Jansport backpacks to see your reaction to this startling revelation, so you pull your hands back onto your desk and start doodling anything you can think of so as to seem unengaged in the current de-Mike-ing process. You even raise your hand to answer a question about Babe the Blue Ox to further cover your tracks. You are safe, but you need to get that hat out of your backpack before it contaminates everything you own.

See, while Mike is contemplating learning to play the guitar, or becoming a Star Wars enthusiast, you are trying to think of all the clever ways that you can deny any sort of affiliation to Mike or his belongings; a very political move indeed. The difference between you and Mike is that everyone knows he HAS lice and no one knows that you MIGHT HAVE lice. Suddenly, the nurse walks in and calls your name. Jesus. Hold on. Now that you know that you might have lice, no matter what the outcome is, you can walk out of that nurse’s room with a preconceived pompousness about your scalp health. If it turns out that you have lice, you can throw the shampoo in the trash on the way back, and fake a successful visitation to the nurse’s room. Plus, Mike just gave you that hat 2 days ago, and you have only worn it once. You may not have lice in the first place. You are in fourth grade and probably don’t know the implications of believing in God, but this would be a pretty good time to try. Maybe, if you do have lice, you can just befriend the god-fearing crowd and use them as the shield against your insecurities. You are quickly becoming a problem solver. Politics.

Oh hell yea; no lice. You storm into that room like you just won a seat in the House of Representatives. This is only part of the battle though. You know that that cubs hat is Mike’s favorite. The only reason he gave it to you in the first place is because Tony, who unsurprisingly also has lice, was going to throw Mike off the slide if he didn’t give him the hat. You hid it in your backpack as a kind gesture. Since your mom and Tony’s mom are in a reading club together, Tony knows that you are untouchable. If you keep the hat though, maybe Mike will let everyone know that you have his hat and that you also may have lice. The hat may be infected and deserving of the disposal, but it just seems like bad diplomacy for you to not make an attempt to give it back. You decide that without proper trade negotiations with Mike, all the other kids with Lice may start turning against you and terrorizing you and your friends. You tell Mike to meet you behind the softball fields at first recess to make the exchange. The exchange looks less than vaguely like an exchange of important information about the current technological state of your nuclear reactors or the current state of the oil mining field in Mike’s country. Your eyes look in one direction, while Mike’s look in the other. That Jessica girl that stands behind you in the lunch line is standing by the swings, watching the whole exchange. She obviously sees you, and she obviously knows exactly what’s going on. Hell.

She starts jogging away in the other direction, and you start sprinting towards the basketball court. You know that she’s a gossip and is about to tell her best friend Rebecca who is about as popular as you can get as a 4th grader, so it’s about to be a shit storm. At this point, it’s your word against hers; it’s just a matter of whose word reaches the public first. Out of breath and sweating, you tell Jimmy that you just saw Jessica with the bug shampoo. In an act of celebration, you also tell Jimmy and Paul that you heard that she likes Tony, but to not tell anyone because you don’t want to hurt her feelings. Jimmy and Paul move in different directions to get the news out. You casually watch the virus spread from the top of the slide. Jessica’s word is at most, murky, under the media influence of Jimmy and Paul. Jessica is condemned as diseased by the elementary school public. At this point, 2 things happen; Jessica’s suddenly becomes a prime candidate for medieval LARPING and the likelihood of you eventually becoming president of College Republicans quadruples.

by Ben Majoy