But my freshman year, I had an awesome RA.
I had the best RA in the world.
I wish he was with me all my four years.
His name was Arnold Baldwin.
We had this RA, Arnold Baldwin.
He's this big, tall, skinny, black guy.
And he talked exactly like Chris Rock.
And we loved him, because he didn't give a crap about us.
He didn't care.
He was like, I'm your RA.
Resident assistant.
Resident assistant.
I'm not the resident counselor.
I'm not the resident mother.
I don't need to know everything.
Your friend's throwing up in the bathroom?
I don't need to know.
Everybody throws up.
He's lucky he made it to the bathroom.
Just give him a Tic Tac and a pillow and leave him alone.
Leave him alone.
I don't need to know.
Your suite mate's smoking crack?
I don't need to know.
Just tell him to exhale through an empty toilet paper roll
stuffed with dryer sheets.
Make it smell like the mountain spring fresh as a crack.
I don't need to know.
I don't need to know if you've got a 40-ounce beer ball keg
playing beer pong, flip cup, century club,
got some zoomie zoomie going on.
I don't need to know because I don't care.
Your girlfriend broke up with you?
I don't care.
Your roommate's paying the ass?
I don't care.
You made a booty call at 4 in the morning and she got a friend?
I care.
Remember me.