“I’m not even cold,” boasts nonchalant new King of Sex
Ladies, hold onto your panties and fellas, try not to be sore losers — this is not a drill. While campus may have been closed on Sunday, Jan. 25, TU freshman Jacob Greenley was holding free admission to the gun show. That’s right, this macho man went out in sub-20 degree weather in just a t-shirt. On. Purpose. A true pillar of stoic masculinity, Greenley reportedly knew beforehand that it was below freezing and still forwent his jacket on the frigid walk from Hardesty Hall to the Allen Chapman Student Union.
What’s more, Greenley extended what was already a trek of some 150 meters in the savage tundras of Tulsa January to nearly double that by walking around Holmes Hall and passing in front of the sorority houses, which by some miracle sustained no flood damage as 5 feet, 11 inches and 153 pounds of pure aura swaggered past. When asked why he chose to bear even more of the howling and icy death of winter just to pass the row, he reacted with mild surprise:
“Honestly? I totally didn’t even like, know, that I was passing the houses. I guess I just like, wasn’t in a rush, or like totally thinking about getting there as fast as possible or whatever. Why did someone see me? What did they say?”
Amazing.
Greenley is so tough, so heroic, so incomprehensibly nonchalant, that he did not even realize that he had turned in the opposite direction as the student union, whereas any lesser man, in his cowering fear of the temperatures, would surely have made a beeline for the shelter of warm Sol Cantina smoke across the plaza. But Jacob Greenley, clearly, is not cut from such simpering cloth.
“It’s not even that cold,” he boasted in his highly-sought after exclusive interview with The Collegian. “I barely even felt anything.” It’s true. Eyewitnesses report that the paragon of sexual prowess barely even shivered during either the voyage forth or back from the ACAC. One dazzled onlooker reported that his hands barely entered the pockets of his Adidas sweatpants for a sweet morsel of warmth and that he quickly jerked them back out into the elements when he noticed people watching him. In fact, Greenley maintains that, “I’m pretty sure I never put my hands in my pockets. Or if I did it wasn’t because I was cold. Because I wasn’t cold.”
Astounding.
Greenley even seemed surprised to hear that people had seen him; early in the interview and completely unprompted, he informed the public that “I don’t, like, care that anyone saw me. You know, if they did. It’s not a big deal to me or anything, like it was only maybe negative twelve out.” Some, no doubt sore at how thoroughly Greenley had exposed them for their weakness, have come out with claims that it was not even negative anything. The Collegian would like to remind these people of their place and that they are directly disagreeing with the proverbial big man on campus.
Four students kneel down in reverence to their newly kinged leader. Photo by Ian Orr
In the days since his exhibition as master of the arctic, Greenley has been knighted, received the key to the city of Tulsa and nominated for a Nobel Big Balls Prize, a category created specifically in honor of his achievement. All administrators who did not immediately flee the country in shame after Greenley’s stroll voted unanimously for the construction of a new building on the Old U to house his growing army of concubines.
As for the president himself, Rick Dickson’s secretary came to the press on Thursday with a note found on his desk next to a broken window, reading: “The school is his, just give it to him. Tell him he can have anything, just forgive me my insolence.” Dickson was unavailable for comment at press time.
There are no words. For how impressed we all are, for the attention that this feat deserves, for the utter shock and awe inspired by such unmatched levels of casual endurance. O Jacob Greenley, we bow before you! We give you all the attention we can muster (though you clearly didn’t do this for attention or anything)! We would surrender our women to you, but alas they have already run from us to your casually goose-bumped arm. Forever shall they sing your name, forever may they tell the tale of a man — nay, a god — who did not need a coat, who wasn’t even cold.
