The world is full of injustices.

Some are minor, some are major. Some can be remedied by a simple act of kindness. Some are so bad the only way to recover is picking yourself up from the ground, pulling the wedgie out of your backside and binge drinking immediately.

The worst part about these injustices: They’re inevitable. Everyone has been on the wrong side of fortune at least once in their lives. You might not know it yet, but last week it happened to you.

Yes, you.

It started in early October, when I decided to run for Homecoming king. As a senior, I figured the best way to end my illustrious college career would be the same way I started it: loud, belligerent and wearing a crown I stole from a stranger.

So I researched the position, updated my resume, photoshopped my headshot to make me look like David Hasselhoff and spent hours drafting and redrafting answers on the Syracuse University Homecoming Court’s written application.

I told the selection committee how I would rule this campus with the strength of Genghis Khan and the compassion of Brangelina. I promised to lower tuition, raise academic standards and institute mandatory dance-offs to settle all grading disputes.

But alas, it was not to be.

Last Friday, I received notification that — despite my stellar GPA, extraordinary qualifications, Hasselhoff-esque sex appeal and ‘more-than-just-friends’ love for Otto the Orange — the committee rejected my application. I would not be allowed to interview for the position, and my name would not appear on the final ballot.

I’ve dealt with rejection before. It’s easy. All you have to do is take a deep breath, sleep off your sadness and buy a blow-up doll that looks like the object of your affection. The real victim of all this: you, reader.

Without my name on the ballot, you can’t experience the sheer lunacy that is a Danny Fersh campaign. I’m the type of person to do just anything for your approval, let alone your vote. Rules mean nothing to me. Decency means even less.

As a Homecoming finalist, I would have ridden around campus on horseback, asking — nay, demanding your vote through a giant orange megaphone. I would drape every building on this campus with campaign posters, lawn signs and giant banners of American heroes with my face on theirs.

Imagine: George Washington Fersh crossing the Delaware River with the Continental Army. Martin Luther Fersh Jr. preaching to thousands about his dream to become Homecoming king. Lindsay LoFersh getting out of rehab. Lindsay LoFersh going back to rehab. Uncle Sam … Fersh. Mount Fershmore. The possibilities were endless. Unfortunately, the Homecoming selection committee stripped you of the opportunity to experience them.

I just don’t understand. So what if my only campus-related activity is 600 words of potty humor in The Daily Orange? Who cares if I thought being Homecoming king would earn me diplomatic immunity on other college campuses? Why does it matter that I wanted to accept my crown in the nude?

Selection committee, you robbed me and the SU student body of a truly special Homecoming. Now, nobody will ever know that I wanted to be king.

Danny Fersh is a senior broadcast journalism major. His column appears every Wednesday. He’d like to give a shout out to AZD’s Jamaican bobsled team and his lovely formal date. If you still want Danny to be Homecoming king, protest naked on the Quad tonight at midnight. Or just email him at dafersh@syr.edu and follow him on Twitter via @fershprince.