Syphilis is kind of funny. And the fact that Cornell had to distribute a mass e-mail painting a bare-bones picture of the recent syph outbreak is downright hysterical (alas, if only we could “Reply All”). But the real gem is the simultaneity of the syph outbreak and the rise of bizarre Collegetown Creeper-esque crime. Correlated? Sure. Cause-ated? God, I hope so.

For the past week, my imagination has been all astir. It seems Ithaca’s criminals have the case of the crazies. Wouldn’t it be glorious if the recent surge of dudes breaking and entering girls’ apartments only to watch them sleep was actually brought on by syph-induced insanity? (Look it up. It goes to your brain.) If so, Cornell’s campus would have to become weaponized, as girls wandering home from the library late at night would replace their obligatory mace-equipped key chains with the needle full of penicillin they had picked up at Gannett for free with their Cornell ID.

After spending an evening at the library carefully planning a repertoire of STI jokes that could easily slide into every conversation, I heard the most hilarious news of all: Cornellians were starting to “hypothesize” (read: gossip our cold-sored little mouths off) about the source of the syph epidemic. Each rumor seemed more bizarre than the last: a single freshman frattress infecting a brotherhood. (frât’rĭs: synthesis of “frat” and “mattress.” Does not refer to the ones on sale at Serta.) An orgy club that met online. And, my personal favorite: the sauna air at an Ithaca gym, as if media has twisted our terror-ridden minds to believe that the syph is now airborne. Personally, I think we should stop looking to blame other people and get wise to the real route of our problem: Ruloff’s inability to keep the women’s restroom condom basket filled.

I know it’s crude and offensive to crack jokes about STIs, but that’s what makes it so much fun. As one of my more classiness-impaired male friends once wisely replied to the inquiry about whether he had ever contracted one, “Oh, tons. But, as long as they’re curable, who cares?” Ah, a true sage.

I admit, as non-gingers should refrain from redhead jokes, I should probably steer clear of mocking a group of which I’ve not procured a membership. Yes, I’ve never contracted an STI. But I haven’t had much time, considering I held on to my V-card so long I had started to worry it would expire.

That’s right, kids. Surprisingly, this awkward turtle got pulled up to the big leagues pretty late in her career. I guess you could call me the Jimmy Morris of booty. (Don’t worry, about 13 people got that reference.) In other words, I was one of the few who found 40 Year Old Virgin terrifying.

I know the assumptions. In fact, I’ve always made them, too. I was a either Bible-beater or a man-hater; I either had a poor body image or my body was a poor image. Only recently did I hear a new one: I was intercourse’s version of a steadfast triathlete starving myself and shaving my legs with a carving knife to take a few seconds of my 40-yard sprint. (Sorry, Jenna B. Like many of your adoring female readers, I can’t help but question my heterosexuality while reading your columns. But I’m going to go ahead and deflate your deified view of innocents, so the young virgin babes out there don’t think it’s going to be a marathon-run. P.S., Please be my friend.)

In high school, I read an article about teens that somehow managed to keep their Levis zippered. As I flipped through the images of out-of-shape farm girls posed in front of their American Doll Collections holding two Persian cats that were also pictured on their tie dye tee shirts they’d screen printed themselves, I wondered if the author had really believed that this would be the article that would convince millions of American teens to cast aside their hormones and bear the cross of celibacy. Look: sometimes, people choose virginity; other times, virginity chooses them.