I thought things were pretty bad: violent crime is up, we’re nearly in a recession, and massive polar ice regions are being reduced to raisins in the sun.

But whatever — all that shit doesn’t matter today, because for just $29.99 (and a lab fee of $119) you can finally find out who your baby daddy is.

Go to your nearest Rite Aid — actually the one on Broad Street — and an over-the-counter paternity test can be found in aisle six, on the shelf close to the condoms and under the Excite Female Sexual Stimulating Gel.

If the cheek swab test is done correctly, these tests are 99.9% accurate. That’s pretty impressive. It sure takes the fun out of “Guess Who” whomp whomp.

But seriously, this is a pretty big deal for a lot of Americans. Research has shown that about 10-20% of Americans incorrectly assess who their real fathers are. Let’s do the math. 15% of 300 million citizens = 45 million who may now be able to call the right guy “papa.”

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So The Colbert Report is coming to the Zellerbach theatre from April 14 to 17. Want tickets? Too bad. I think they sold out thirty minutes before Stephen even made the announcement.

But alas, this column is not about Stephen Colbert. Nor is it about selling out. It’s about Doritos — as in the sponsor of Colbert’s visit, officially titled “The Colbert Report: Doritos Spicy Sweet Pennsylvania Primary Coverage from Chili-Delphia — The City of Brotherly Crunch.” And this column is about America. And maybe, just maybe, it’s about a collision of the two. (Missy Elliot not included, but we might just be able to get OK Go.)

Doritos, you see, are an American snack food. For one thing, the Doritos headquarters are located in Dallas, Texas — the most American state we’ve got. (Despite that whole “annexation” thing.) For another, the execs over at Frito-Lay have managed to come up with a wide array of Dorito flavors to parallel this country’s diversity: Blazin’ Buffalo & Ranch (delicious), Nacho Cheese (traditional), even Cheeseburger (fire that guy).

But perhaps most importantly, Americans consume more Doritos per capita than any other nation on any other continent. And sure, that might make us the most obese country in the history of the universe — but that can’t be blamed on just one snack, can it?

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After having a recurring observation or performing an inexplicable action, I often brood over the most pressing existential question to ever face teenage sit-com characters: am I weird?

Below are a few thoughts I have had over the past few weeks. Ideally, you, the reader, will comment and let me, the blogger, know if we have a shared musing or if I’m just weird. Let’s make this relationship work.

1. Shortly after I facebook stalk someone, they will inevitably appear in real life. I’ll see someone on Locust Walk, and their Facebook profile seems to appear over their heads, as I quietly judge them for their laughable music taste (Nickelback? For real?), embarrassingly contrived profile picture (your heavily-Photoshopped default with your eyes gazing to the far left is neither unique nor hip), or their “Hot or Not” application (if you have to ask, the answer’s “not”). Occasionally, I will meet someone for the first time in reality, even though I have already seen an entire album of their dog wearing clothes. I suspect that this new acquaintance remembers that “Dude, Where’s my Car?” is listed as one of my favorite movies. Neither of us mention anything.

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My experience in the Florida wetlands was anything but damp. It, being spring break, was actually quite dry — boozing wasn’t allowed.

Yes, it was an odd way to spend a vacation: sleeping in bunk beds, sharing a co-ed bathroom with seven others, and eating breakfast before the sun rose. Prison and Alternative Spring Break are the only institutions that could legally force such deprivations. I was captive in the latter.

I’m not really sure why I paid to volunteer. Picking up trash, carrying heavy fences, and painting Park Rangers’ houses was far from glamorous. But whatever, I’m glad that I went, because when I returned to Philadelphia, I felt fab. (And it wasn’t because I’m a community service whore like many ASBers. I don’t get off on giving. Like most people, I get off on getting.)

I just felt accomplished to have just spent an entire week with a group of my peers without the presence of illicit substances. We actually hung out — co-ed bonding, omg — and didn’t drink, smoke, do coke, or hook up for seven entire days. (God created Earth in seven days.) That doesn’t happen very often, especially at Penn. (I’m referring to sober boys and girls, not the story of creation.)

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On Friday afternoon, a text message (followed by an e-mail and a phone call) put my mind at ease. The UPenn Alert system was fully functioning.

The Penn Police have taken a giant leap into the 21st century. They plan to text us if there is a campus emergency. This is wise, as our generation invented the text message break-up. The new strategy is also convenient: now I don’t even have to take out my earphones to know that there’s a shooting rampage.

So, the new alert system got me thinking about all the ways my life at Penn would be easier if the University sent text notifications for more than just violent emergencies. Here are a few examples:

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Last Friday, The New York Times publicized some frightening information: 1 out of every 100 American adults is currently incarcerated.

The report, conducted by the Pew Center on the States, asserts that 1.6 million adults are in federal prisons and an additional 700,000 are thumb-twiddling in local jails. The United States boasts the largest population of imprisoned people worldwide; China is second on the list.

When did going to prison become as common as a trip to Acapulco?

But the more I thought about it, the easier it was to put these figures into context.

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Spring Break is just around the corner, and that means students have one thing on the mind: sex. At the University of Iowa, for example, sex classes are filling up like crazy. And here at Penn, this Thursday is yet another installment of Sex Camp on the Quad. (Also the unwritten theme of all my childhood Boy Scout retreats.)

But this season’s biggest sex star is John McCain, the 120-year-old presidential candidate who carried on an alleged affair with a lobbyist more than thirty years his junior. In that light, I’ve decided to ask Larry Craig — Idaho’s Republican sex scandal expert — for a few political sex tips, just to keep things fresh this spring. Below are some of his secrets (or at least what I’d expect him to say).

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I was having dinner last weekend at a friend’s place and, being seniors, our conversation turned to what we would do after May. Government and finance came up, but one person declared she would be volunteering to conserve giant pandas in China for six months.

Pandas? I’m pretty sure pandas are a huge cosmic joke. I think the whatever high on top of the thing wanted to see how long it would take for a useless animal to become extinct.

Recently the BBC reported on the naming ceremony for a bumper crop of panda cubs at Wolong Nature Reserve, China. They are, I admit, unbelievably cute.

But they are totally useless. They only eat one type of bamboo and they have to eat about thirty pounds of the stuff every day just to stay alive.

What if something came to hunt it? Let’s go through its thought process…

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When I was in eighth grade, my parents made me take a ballroom dancing class because everyone else was doing it. (For some reason, when I used that logic to defend many of my other adolescent actions, it didn’t fly.)

The class typically went as follows: 120 fourteen year-olds were crammed into a room built for 50; an underpaid, over-passionate instructor dressed like a Medieval balladeer yelled commands like “Swing your partner!” for two straight hours; and at the end of it all he played the “Cha Cha Slide” just to make us feel better (although I still have no idea how to do the Charlie Brown). Worse yet, there were slightly fewer girls than boys — so a few male stragglers were left dancing with each other (horrible) or one of the supervising moms (Oedipal).

Now, more than six years later, I barely know how to box step. So when I read stories about college students involved in ballroom dancing competitions, I get nostalgic and sad.

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All the hullabaloo about Philly being the sixth borough has mostly died down, but apparently there are still New Yorkers relocating to Philly in droves (including Pressler herself).

According to a recent article in The New York Observer, 8,334 New Yorkers have moved to Philly since 2001. Not including me, that’s still 8,333 southbound souls.

While that’s only about 0.1% of New York’s population overall, 8000+ transplants are more than enough to keep the “Chinese bus” in business and the demand for Tacconelli’s strong.

And to think, I fancied myself unique.

Why the mass migration? And — more importantly, for those of us who favor a little competition: which city wins?

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