“Be careful not to trip over your boobs. Seriously, save Frederick’s for when the lights are off.”

I probably deserved it. I had aimed for Jenna Jameson and landed somewhere on Dolly Parton. I’d broken the cardinal rule of Tig-O-Bittie-dom: never, ever wear a borrowed shirt in public, especially if said lender plasters her Donlon walls with posters of Mariah, Paris and of course, her own Bon Ton quality glamour shots. But I had been convinced by a hoard of floormates (whose chests resembled poorly replaced divots) to liberate my sand dunes of glory.

The above comment was spewed from a well-dressed reptilian-looking friend of the dreamboat who had taken notice of my huge, prominent smile and was throwing his impeccable game in my direction. It was provoked by my advice to “be careful not to trip over that step.”

I was stunned and confused; how could such a charming, talented piece of Louvre-worthy ass be friends with such a fugly jerk?

The Dreamboat must have read my face (think Fiddy’s reaction to Britney), and tried to remedy my odious confusion with the fuzzy math that always accompanies the Mean Ugly Guy:

“Shannan, it’s the Mugster. That’s just how he is.”

In retrospect, this was not my first encounter with the Mean Ugly Guy. Forever known by some absurd moniker, the MUG manifested as Doobie in high school. He was short and bow-legged, and always lurked in the shadows surrounding his posse of Future DILFs of America. His friends consisted of two gorgeous but insipid female worshippers, and a group of talented hottie-boomba-do-me’s that you’d double your dowry for. Eternally attached to an IV of Haterade, the Doobster would have been bored during drunk-twister with Rob and Big.

So, I pulled strings with some of my less-reputable connections and managed to get an interview with a Cornell MUG in a dark corner of CTB:

1. Thanks for meeting with me … what’s your name?

MUG: Oh my god, were you just erging in a sauna?

No, I always sweat this m … I’m an athl … I just walked here from Jason’s.

MUG: Yeah, my trainer says big people sweat a lot.

[A leather clip on his belt emits the chorus of “This is Why I’m Hot,” and I remind myself that I am not an ugly awkward 8th grader anymore.]

Hold on, I have a call. BTW, you must’ve been really weird looking in middle school.

[Dammit]

2. Could you turn off your cell during the interview?

MUG: [Holding one finger in my face.] No man, the awkward girl. I never heard of her either. [Puts down his Blackberry.] You’re kidding, right? I don’t put my baby down, not even during parties. My motto: there’s always somewhere I’d rather be.

3. Great. So, how does someone like you come to have friends? How was it for you growing up?

MUG: Probably better than it was for you. How big are you, anyways?

I’m six feet tall… tall.

MUG: So was Chyna. Anyways, it was pretty easy to make friends, considering my

[At this point, it sounded like either “mildly impressive athleticism,” or “above-average intelligence,” “prematurely overdeveloped body” or maybe “huge inheritance.”]

4. So, let me get this straight. You flaunted your [insert solitary good attribute here] at a young age … and therefore made friends?

MUG: Yeah, I was pretty popular. Plus, everyone who didn’t hang out with me was gay.

5. Awesome. So, MUG, are you single?

MUG: Most Cornell girls are ugly, but I do enjoy pootie from [backwards compliment girl].

Charming. She lived across the hall from me freshman year.

MUG: Yeah, she warned me that your column picture was extremely flattering. [Pause.] The company of girls below a certain attractiveness level annoys me. [Longer pause.] It’s like, what’s their purpose?

6. … So what girls DO you hang out with?

MUG: Duh, these two.

[Suddenly I notice two or three of the most beautiful, sparkly and undernourished girls I’ve ever seen sitting on either side of MUG, each wearing large sunglasses and a look of boredom, texting furiously.]

7. How did I not notice them? These are your friends? I don’t think we’ve officially met.

MUG: Don’t bother. Their Facebooks are set to private.

8. Um ... So girls, what’s your take on the illustrious MUG?

[I am met by looks of confusion and disgust. One looks like she just huffed latrine air.]

MUG: What are you doing? Don’t confuse them like that!

What … just … happened …?

MUG: They are not used to being addressed directly or asked an opinion. They are entirely void of conviction, joy and self-esteem. But they are satisfactory in bed and own no panties aside from thongs.

9. They’re sitting right there … can’t they hear you?

MUG: Of course not.

10. Oh … O.K. But, why do they hang out with you? If I look at your face for too long, I see kittens being lit on fire. And you’re mean! And you dress like Miami Vice. And I can’t quite fathom your eyebrows.

MUG [to girls]: It’s O.K., girls. You’re sexy and no one else is worth my time. You alone have earned my notice.

[The girls look contented, except that one still has the latrine-face. I start to wonder if it’s a permanent affliction.]

This concludes my dealings with the Cornell MUG, as he then received a text and had to leave.

Note: Although our MUG is one ugly mofo, no level of attractiveness excuses bitchery. No single person is cool/hot/talented/intelligent enough to pull off being a Debbie Douchebag. I request a campus-wide social boycott of these chumps. And, since we’re on the topic, I request a campus-wide game of capture the flag.

Shannan Scarselletta is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at sscarselletta@cornellsun.com. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Wednesdays.