I'm depressed.

"Right," you snicker to yourself, unaware that anyone is listening to you (note: if you're going to snicker to yourself, don't do it out loud. Also, wash your hands when you're done.) "Kim Shable is obviously one of the funniest, sexiest, most brilliant, patriotic, giving, talented, and modest people I know, not to mention the fact that she has been honored by three US presidents for her outstanding courage in slaying any sea monsters that threaten the eastern seaboard. What could she possibly be depressed about?"

Let's see. I think it started with the Accident I had last Monday. (My story: a maniac hit my car. My dad's story: I, a subversive Communist with ties to several terrorist organizations in the Middle East, paid a Nazi war criminal using the bones of dead babies as currency to purposely and willfully attack my car.) The car is fine; my father and I, on the other hand, will be boxing each other to the death on next week's "American Gladiators."

Not wanting to further damage my already irretrievably bungled grade (but what the heck, eh?) I hesitate to mention that my philosophy class has also been a great contributor to my downward spiral, as it were. But who can be cheerful faced with the fact that we could be nothing more than brains in jars, seeing, feeling and sensing only those things which an evil genius wants us to experience? It really takes all the joy out of sitting down to watch a good episode of "Mama's Family" after a hard day. (Because was the day really hard? Does Mama, in fact, exist, or is she just a puppet for the evil genius? Is television real, or just a cardboard box with cut-out pictures from magazines pasted to popsicle sticks, being operated from the inside by very small monkeys? See the issues I have to deal with here?)

In fact, it seems to me that the whole campus is generally in a funk. The normally chipper voices on the bulletin broadcast review aren't nearly so peppy, the football team doesn't ring the victory bell with the same verve they once had, and no one's having sex in the stairwells of Amstutz. What's going on?

I'm glad you asked.

There's only one possible explanation: my Smart Card man, fed up by the taunts and accusations of his Smart Card peers, has been putting downers in our food.

I know, it sounds bizarre. Downright zany, even. But think about it-- when was the last time you got really excited that your phone was beeping? Or when they ran "Clue" on Comedy Central for the fifth time? You're depressed, too! Everyone is depressed about something-- except those fortunate few of us who don't eat in Convo. Eh? Eh? Can I sniff out a conspiracy, or what?

There you have it: the cause of all our troubles is Mr. Smart Card. Who didn't know? So, until he gets fed up and leaves us alone (which, I imagine, will probably be as soon as I stop bringing him up in my column) we'll just have to run ourselves through the proverbial tickle machine until we cheer up. Unless, of course, Mr. Smart Card is the evil genius controlling our minds that I've learned so much about in philosophy, in which case, we're in big, big trouble.