Kev Kage: OK, so, first off...should I call you She?

She: That’s a little short, but it’ll do.

KK: Great. It’s no secret that you’re pretty well-known amongst the CollegeHumor commenters. How would you gauge your popularity?

She: I can’t believe how much it’s grown!

KK: It really is incredible, isn’t it? People seem to take notice of everything you say, even if it’s an arbitrary comment. For example, someone mentioned that you said, “I love roosters.”

She: That’s not exactly what came out of my mouth.

KK: Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t read my notes. My handwriting is atrocious.

She: Don’t worry, there’s better things you can do with your hands.

KK: How right you are! I heard that you broke the world record for “Time Spent on the Tea Cup Ride”, and that your Dad was your coach. What kind of advice did he give to you?

She: He just told me to sit on it and spin.

KK: Tremendous words of wisdom. Speaking of which, do you have anything to say to the people who have been thinking about making the SATs more difficult?

She: The harder the better, I always say.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I wish to file a complaint against two of your plumbers who, in my opinion, exhibited gross professional negligence and blatant disrespect while in my apartment to repair a clogged toilet. Though the employees refused to give their full names, I recall one being a short, pudgy man in red overalls, and the other tall and lanky in green overalls. Both had thick moustaches, and the short one, possibly a recuperating stroke victim, repeatedly shouted the name of your company in a high-pitched Italian accent.

I led the two gentlemen into the bathroom, explained the problem, told them I would be in the living room if they had any questions, and left them to their work. When I returned around half an hour later, however, I discovered the short one sitting cross-legged on the tile floor popping psychotropic mushrooms from a Ziploc bag, and the tall one—apparently tripping already—attempting to squeeze himself down my toilet and incoherently rambling something about getting to the "Mushroom Kingdom"—a place he appeared to already be in.

I went to the kitchen and began to call their supervisor. As I dialed, I heard a loud crash from my bedroom. I hung up the phone and ran over to discover the two had found their way in from the bathroom, and that the tall one had thrown my change jar to the ground and was scooping the coins up for, as he explained, "an extra life." Meanwhile, the short one was biting the heads off my girlfriend Christy's orchids. When I ran over to stop him, he warned me he now possessed the ability to shoot orbs of fire from his mouth.

At this point, I was more concerned over the two men's health, as well as the safety of my apartment. When I suggested calling an ambulance they began to panic. The tall one, under the delusion he could demolish brick walls with the top of his skull, ran headfirst into my bedroom wall, knocking himself unconscious. Then the short one jumped in the air, grabbed the lighting fixture above, ripped it from the ceiling and, screaming about his newfound "invincibility," leaped through my second-story window. Miraculously, he survived this fall, and continued to run down Union Ave. grasping my bedroom light and trying to squash every pigeon on the sidewalk he passed.