Yellow fever fiends

By KAY NGUYEN

Campus editor / Asian sensation

I’m Asian so it’s totally OK that I write this.

urbandictionary.com defines yellow fever as: “a term usually applied to white males who have a clear sexual preference for women of Asian descent, although it can also be used in reference to white females who prefer Asian men.”

According to stuffwhitepeoplelike.com, number 11 on the list of likes is Asian Girls. Great for me, right?

Wrong. This creeper makes it really difficult to ever trust people. Am I really hot or do you like me just because I’m Asian? Don’t get me wrong, I have my preferences too, but thinking that every Asian girl is hot is just downright creepy.

This creeper is the guy who starts the conversation with a: “So, where are you from?” When I answer Rochester/Michigan depending on the locale, he will then again ask “So, where are you from?” Am I going to ask you where you’re from and expect a foreign country?

No. The sad part is that this creeper is often encouraged and can often reach his goal. I am talking about you, Rupert Murdoch. You too,Nicholas Cage. Thanks, Woody Allen for being the creepiest of all.

The best part is the complete disregard for age.

I’ve had people guess anything from 12-30 for me. But this creeper really doesn’t care because, in the end, Asian girls don’t age, right?

I have admittedly gone so far as to date someone afflicted with this creepiness.

Does he have an odd fixation on Hello Kitty? He may be this creeper. While you’re doing some Facebook creeping of your own, check to see who he’s taking pictures with. If you see anything with Pikachu, run.

While I know that my advice really only helps a small percentage of the population, I’m hoping I can do whatever I can to curb the creeper.

CLASSROOM CREEPER

by KATIE WOLF

Managing Editor / ferocious flirt

I’m a friendly, social person. I like to make friends with my classmates. So on that first day of each semester, I start working on my neighbors to be my friends.

Some people (OK, to be honest, pretty much everyone alive) would go so far as calling me a flirt. I think that’s my mistake when encountering classroom creepers. I don’t know how to turn off the charm. So maybe I’m living in a hell of my own making, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

It always starts out so innocent, like a question about an assignment via Moodle, a friend request on Facebook, a joke about that stupid girl who just won’t shut up, you know how it goes. A friendship begins. Double bonus points if your new “friend” is cute.

Triple negative points if your new “friend” is a creeper.

There’s really no appropriate segue from “How’d you do on that test” to “What are you wearing right now?” but somehow creepers still think that’s a completely normal topic of conversation.

A hint? It’s not.

And speaking of inappropriate, no, Mr. Creeper, I do not care how big your man-pickle is, but that doesn’t stop you from telling me, does it?

Fellas, a word to the wise: If a woman doesn’t ask you what kind of heat you’re packing downstairs, it’s not something you should share.

When you volunteer that information before the question is asked, you have officially declared yourself a resident of Creeperville.

If you continue to talk about how impressive it is, you’re throwing your hat in the ring for being mayor of Creeperville.

Senior Creepito, I do not appreciate your dirty text messages. “You looked really f**kable today” is not how I like to end a long day of classes. I’m flattered that you … wait, no, I’m not flattered at all. I’m grossed out.

Most importantly, I am not playing hard to get. I promise. When I say, “I’m not interested in dating anyone,” please take the hint that I’m trying to let you down.

The right response would be, “Oh OK, I’ll back off.”

Do not say, “Well maybe you just need a good time,” and follow up with a wink.

I wish I could say I was making these stories up, but I’m not.

HALLMARK HORRORS

By JENNIE WOOD

Senior Reporter / Hallmark hottie

Dear Married/engaged/even-slightly-taken men who shop at Hallmark,

As much as the flattery is appreciated, please stop hitting on me.

Speaking on behalf of myself and the rest of the Werner’s Hallmark staff, I need you to understand that when I am working, khaki-clad and ultra-smiley, I am earning a paycheck, not trying to land a taken man.

When I smile and chirp, “Are you finding everything OK?” I really just want to know if you found the overpriced card you need so I can go back to smelling Yankee Candles and singing along with Michael Bolton’s Greatest Hits CD.

I want to be nice to you. I enjoy my job for the most part, and as both a female and a Hallmark veteran, I think I have a pretty good handle on what your mothers, sisters, wives, and girlfriends want. (Hint: It’s not the 500-word “Between You and Me” cards … sappy does not equal sweet.)

However, I do notice your wedding ring and when you are buying an anniversary card.

It is highly insulting that you really think winking and saying, “Hey, how about you add your number to that bag,” will make my heart beat faster as I ring up your over-the-top “For Her” birthday card, complete with ridiculous picture of two frogs kissing and lame pop-out that reads “my heart leaps for you.”

Odds are I have seen your wife in the store. I am not going to be anyone’s “other woman.” The hours that she spends kickboxing, paired with that gigantic rock you bought her are not anything I want to mess with.

It also will not help your case to become a regular. I will not forget about the card for the wife, nor think you aresensitive because you spend so much time at Hallmark. I will only further be weirded out and probably hide in the backroom and watch the surveillance video until you leave.

For the most part, spoken-for men are easy to spot. The tan line from your wedding band, the “Forever Love” CD paired with a sugar-free Godiva bar, and the fact that your Gold Crown Card is under the name Mary are a dead giveaway.

Love, Jennie

CLUB CREEPER

by ANNIE STODOLA

You, local editor / grossed-out ginger

By nature, I am awkward. Being short, red-headed, and excruciatingly shy has never really done much to combat this. After a bad break-up and a surge of bravery (or desperation?) however, I agreed to go to the club with some friends. Fun idea in theory? Yes. Good plan in real life? No.

The first thing I noticed at Necto was that “College Night” is a call to creepy older men to flock to the area. Inside the club, there were groups of girls dancing together and creepy groups of older guys watching from the wall. Not a good way to start, but I decided to humor it a little longer.

After dancing for a bit with friends, a boy asked me to dance. Asking instead of just creeping up on me earned him a few brownie points, so I agreed. Those points were lost almost immediately. While we were dancing, his hands began to wander, both up and down. This might be ok with some club ladies. Unfortunately, I am not a club lady. I am awkward. Or maybe I just have morals?

In an attempt to lose the creep, I went to the restroom. I came back from the bathroom, assuming that in a sea of a couple hundred people, I would have lost him. Less than one bad rap song later, I felt someone grab onto my hips. He was back. I don’t know how or why. But he was.

I decided to try to lose him again. I said my shoes, although sexy, were killing my feet and I needed to sit. I firmly stated that he should keep dancing without me. Instead, he followed me.

I tried to make awkward small talk about the shoes, the music, anything. Midway through “These shoes were a bad choice,” he decided it was appropriate to stick his tongue down my throat. Not so much a kiss, but more of a uvula-licking.

If I wasn’t already grossed out, this pushed me over the line. The evening was over. Club creeper officially ruined the club for me for good. From now on, I will stick to practicing my cupid shuffle and shopping cart in less public forums where there are less creepers.