If you’ll accept my disclaimer: I do understand the tenderness of this topic. Racist gags at UCSD, all inexcusable, have been consuming our thoughts and guts for almost three weeks now; personally, it’s hard to remember a time when Geisel Library made me think of cool spaceships instead of lynches/punctured pillowcases, or the days when I would have defended the First Amendment to the death — before I watched it contorted into an excuse for exploiting the pain of a vulnerable few.

But solemnity has proved just as toxic. After 4,000 words of soul-sucking editorials and a lifetime dose of drippy-eyed airtime on CNN, this bitch needs to cope.

So, because Koala humor should only be enjoyed alone, in the dark and on the toilet — followed by an immediate trip to confession — and seeing as no other campus rag has access to its funds in this time of need (here’s to you, King Gupta) — I’m here to try my hand at halfway tasteful, good ‘n’ controversial, angst-airing art therapy for the masses. That’s right: Real hip-hop is back up in the building.

It’s called “Compton Cookout: The Musical,” and it’s written with love.

(If there’s one thing we can learn from “World Trade Center” and the recent swarm of Iraq war films, it’s that the “too soon” principal is a thing of the past. Might I also remind you, dear reader, that many of history’s greatest travesties — namely, the Holocaust, and it doesn’t get much worse than that — have turned gold on a stage with some showtunes to carry them. Now is our time.)

Fade in. Pale-faced frat boy sits, hunched over his Dell, in darkness. A cruel spotlight bores down, casting a forest of dastardly shadows (shout-out to my man M.A. Fox for the hip new vocab) from his nose and eye sockets, haunting the Greek letters body-painted across his chest.

The mouse on the desk makes a deafening click. Above, “Wizard of Oz” style, the looming visage of Jiggaboo Jones, YouTube extraordinaire and alleged “Compton Cookout” mastermind, materializes — some millennium shit — onto a blood-red velvet curtain (best kind of curtain, always, for any purpose), his hands pulsing and contorting as if simultaneously beating back the bass in his head and puppeteering our poor brain-slugged party planner into the darkest realms of evil stereotype hell.

The boy is now furiously typing out the Urban Dictionary definition of “ghetto chicks,” as fed to him by Jones, in a flurry of ticks and echoes. Fade out, to tune of ghetto-rific cackle — as the wizard’s ringlets shiver and quake — and a trailing mountain call of “No. 1 Nigga in Americaaaaaaa!” that shakes the cupholders. All is dark.

Don’t go — here comes the party. Wish you could have been there to pop some watermelons on some mo’fuggin skulls? Now is our time.

A string of girls in wife beaters and Baby Phat shuffle, shackled, from the wings, fried chicken stuffed in their mouths and empty red cups in their hands. (Yes, they’re shackled. Borderline, I know.) They stand center stage, waiting silently, until one girl opens her mouth to begin a heavenly round of “to the window, to the wall,” soon joined by all her friends, chicken spilling from their mouths and streaking greasy down their fronts.

Just as they reach a harmonic pinnacle on the bone-chilling line “all you bitches crawl,” the boys begin to file in, ping-pong balls in hand, circling said sorority choir. Ever seen CollegeHumor.com’s “Brohemian Rhapsody”? (If not, get your nose out of the school newspaper and YouTube it, ya dork.) It shows us that beer pong lends itself beautifully to musical theater; in this case, the boys will be trying their hardest to make their balls into the girls’ cups. Get it? Their cups.

This play won’t end in tragedy. Up next week: the bobblehead in the poncho, refrigerator box-sized evidence and an earsplitting commie cameo. You don’t want to miss a thing.