Something horrible has happened.

I realized it Saturday night. I was walking past a pack of freshmen guys on my way to Marshall Street when I heard two of them planning an after-hours party in their double on the Mount. The event sounded like a full-on bonanza, complete with closet-door beer pong, the Skrillex Pandora station, a resident adviser lookout post and, maybe, even a girl or two.

As I listened to their grand plans I realized that none of it sounded fun to me. I used to be the king of residence hall ragers, but two years have passed since my last dorm party and I’ve outgrown my desire to attend one. After three years of college, my worst fear has come true: I’ve grown up.

My newfound oldness isn’t limited to nightlife either. I live in a house now, cook my own meals and work full-time. I even watch the History Channel sometimes to relive bits of my childhood.

Now, to most people my age, maturity is a welcomed trait. The sooner we stop drinking Natty Light and laughing at poop jokes, the sooner some CEO will think we’re employee material.

For me, however, maturity is the end of my life as I know it. You see, I’ve been writing this humor column since some of you were still high school sophomores, and I should have run out of funny material years ago. After all, it takes a sick, twisted and phenomenally immature person to write jokes about this campus week after week after week.

That used to be me.

Now, I’m just a Joe six-pack, living my boring life like the rest of Americans, hoping to get by. I don’t appreciate humorous things anymore because I see the world through adult eyes.

Poop jokes? Not funny. Will Ferrell movies? Lame. Practical jokes? Bo-ring. Heck, somebody could go jogging in parachute pants, slip on a banana peel, fart in midair and land face-first in a pan of cream pie right in front of me, and I still wouldn’t laugh. I’m a real person now. I have a job with clients. I’m considering buying a Volvo.

There must be some cure for this disease that would allow me to continue living the lifestyle to which I am accustomed. After all, there are plenty of old men in my family who still play ‘pull my finger’ every time I see them. How do they maintain their immaturity after all these years? Is there a fountain of youth somewhere in my family tree? Or maybe a pile of Adam Sandler DVDs next to it?

Unfortunately, I’ve had no luck finding either, and the semester has already begun. I guess I’ll just have to entertain my readers with intellectual, highbrow humor that uses wit and irony to both teach and entertain the masses. It might take some getting used to, but eventually, you will grow up and appreciate mature humor, too.

Just kidding. Get ready for a semester of poop jokes.

Danny Fersh is a senior broadcast journalism major and his columns appear every Wednesday.  Don’t worry — he thinks farts, puke, snot, boogers and mucus are all hilarious, too. Email him at dafersh@syr.edu and follow him on Twitter at @fershprince.