Guess what, UCSD?
It’s somebody else’s turn to minimize the voice of the student and maximize the sweet, sweet $$$ that our administrators won’t use to improve your education or college experience! This time that guy is Pradeep Khosla, who got hired out of Carnegie Mellon to go Ballsdeep Khosla for UCSD.
You think it’s easy working for such a callous sellout like Mark Yudof? Just try getting interviewed by him:
“Meet me on the street in back of the inNout near the 5 and Garnet in PB,” his raspy voice whispered, the shouts of vagrants echoing in the background.
Pradeep Khosla didn’t understand why they wouldn’t meet on the UCSD campus for this interview, nor why Mark Yudof would pick such a sketchy location for them to meet instead. Nevertheless, UCSD’s research dollars were gleaming in his eyes, and he felt he was smarter than Yudof anyway.
Khosla got out of his rental and walked, past several hobos jacking off to tattered bits of titty mags, towards Yudof, who was busy arguing at an obese mexican woman with tattooed eyebrows. “YOU GAVE ME THE CLAP, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND,” roared Yudof, with what appeared to be a needle in his hand. “Oh shit bitch, leave, LEAVE,” he stammered hurredly, tossing the needle to the side. He gave Khosla a stern look, as if to challenge him to question his situation. “Get in the whip, playa” he huffed.
“Nice to meet you,” Khosla replied, trying to act unsurprised.
As Yudof swerved through the streets, he suddenly started to ramble belligerently. “This job aint so easy to get. You’re gonna have to prove your dick aint a dildo before this night’s through bitch.” Yudof told Khosla to open the glove compartment. Inside were two tiny popper bottles and an opium pipe, along with several cockrings. “You indian, right nigga? Sand nigga? Sandiego nigga? Maybe you think you’re chancellor sand nigga huh? I AM the UC system.”
“Any questions you have I’d be glad to answer,” Khosla said coolly.
“You think you’re Indian, so that makes your opium hot shit?
You think you can catch the dragon faster than I can? You think your robotics game is hotter than my ice gang? I burn through three spoons each MORNING motherfucker, like it’s BREAKFAST. Smoke that shit. Tell me India fucks with my dust. I got a plug in my ass AND yo bitch on my cock. Test me.”
Yudof’s gaze was neither on the road, nor Khosla. Khosla started to question whether the chancellorship, and the extortion racket he had planned to instill on the sly to pay for his his secret Skynet-style robot army, were worth the batshit, relentless insanity of the UC system.
Fuck it, he thought, I’ve made it this far.
He took a giant rip of the opium as Yudof cackled at him. They were pulling up towards the Chancellor’s mansion. “There’s a spiked baseball bat and some rusty knives in my trunk. Think of them as sex toys as you kill this shaking bitch. The job starts August 1.”
Khosla stumbled towards the trunk, grabbed the weapons, and turned towards the house. Yudof sped off, underage Tijuana hookers in his sights.