It’s finals season—time to get serious. But not for these guys. Give Penis Pundit Matt Schantz a casual head nod and maybe decide to stay for a while as he crafts a masterful portrait of those Butler Archetypes who just can’t seem to stop dicking around. 

A pornographic image purchased at a dimly lit 7-Eleven by Louise McCune on her 18th birthday

They’ll come bearing a few muffled grunts, perhaps a quick chuckle or two.

You’ll hear these noises—their imminent approach—before they will actually become visible. Before you have time to look back down at your work, you’ll see a group of faces, peering into the room; a small sea of fitted caps will peck against the glass portion of the door. Their slack-jawed expressions will resemble those of visitors to a zoo. It will be clear that they’ve never been to the library before. As you return their gaze, you’ll be unsure who the animal on display really is—you, or them.

The door will creak open and they’ll shuffle in. A few mumbled words. A guffaw. As the herd sweeps through the room, looking for a place to set up headquarters, one will see an acquaintance and stop for a moment; “Final tomorrow, bro,” he’ll say, and offer a melancholy fist bump. Finally, they’ll descend upon a four-top, carpeting it with notebooks, binders, loose sheets of graph paper, and lecture slide print-outs you’re sure they won’t use.

“Can you forward me your study guide?,” they’ll mouth frantically at one another as they arrange and rearrange the hodgepodge of class materials on the tabletop. They’ll spend the next hour and a half emailing one another the same attachment, over and over again. (“Dude, send it to me,” one will urge another, until they’ve all finally located the file in their inboxes.)

Then, there will be a long silence, followed by an even longer game of “Nose Goes.” One will eventually stand up and walk out to fetch their guides from the printer.

The remainder of the crew will look around, a devilish glint in their eyes. Slowly but surely, the same shit-eating grin will appear on all of their faces. One will brandish a Sharpie. They’ll grab the nearest notebook of their absent companion and open it to the first page. The Sharpie wielder will make a dramatic display of removing the marker’s cap, lowering the tool, and drawing a large penis on the front page of the notebook. The steady stream of chortles leaking from the table will now erupt into full-blown laughter. (Meanwhile, the condescending glares of the rest of the room’s inhabitants will be blatantly ignored.)

More markers will appear, and the solitary phallus will be joined by a host of others, the notebook’s pages being transformed into a Boschian journey through a forest of dicks. One will draw a bulging penis. Another will add a long, skinny one that curls into a loop-de-loop. A third will sketch a penis that splits off into two heads. Several of these phalluses will spurt impressive fountains of ejaculate, spelling something you won’t be able to quite make out from your seat. One penis will have a bushy mustache. Another will wear a top hat and smile. For good measure, one artist will draw a pair of breasts, and write “NICE” right beside them.

Suddenly, a hush will fall over the four-top—they’ll look up as their friend returns to the table, copies of the study guide in hand.

His momentary expression of indignation will make way for the same shit-eating one his cohorts wore earlier. He’ll lean down, and carefully outline a large dick on one of his friends’ copy of the study guide. Another group member will give him a fist pump, but not before adding a thick vein to the design.

“Let’s call it a night,” one will suggest, and with a round of fist pumps for all, the crew will leave, never to be seen again—until next finals season.