Thursday, October 26, 2006

Flippant Reflections on College (Part Two)

Complaints 1-10 came early, now 11-20 follow. I could probably go on forever, so I'm going to stop here for the time being. Feel free to start your own complaint list! Pass it around! Nail it to the dept. chair's door! Whine until you get that 4.0!

COMPLAINT ELEVEN: The Walk of Shame is a Shame
Dudes, these girls were kind enough to let you ejaculate on, in or near them, and here they have to walk home by themselves? Be gentlemen for once in your unfortunate lives and make these ladies breakfast and drive them home. They did you a favor, now do them a favor.

COMPLAINT TWELVE: Here We Are Now, Entertain Us
Everyone drinks constantly because there's nothing else to do. I went to one of the biggest party schools on the planet, so I know. Most on-campus entertainment sucks. I don't care about jugglers with one arm or Stalinist piano players. I don't want to hear the guy who wrote a book of poetry about the Darfur Massacre on Friday night ... and I actually give a shit about politics and poetry. Your Fun Committee's idea of a good time is not my idea of a good time ... and my idea of a good time involves yuppie fucks getting arrested and smashed in the face. Your Fun Committee needs to experiment with cocaine, hire a circus and go batshit insane. Then I will start paying attention.

COMPLAINT THIRTEEN: Tuition Hell
I'm trying to figure out what I'm paying for. I do all the work, someone tells me I'm right (or wrong), and then I get a paper saying I'm right (or wrong). At least when I give a stripper in the Las Vegas $50 and she sticks her glittered-up tits in my face, she does all the work and I'm always right.

COMPLAINT FOURTEEN: Achtung, Amazon Women
Ladies, come on. I know pants and shirts cover it up, but we're going to be grownups here, and I'm going to tell you that your legs shouldn't be hairier than mine. High school girls want to look like porn stars and college girls want to look like street trash. Street trash with Lexuses and thousand dollar handbags.

COMPLAINT FIFTEEN: Major Nothing
The number of things you can major in at some universities is bewildering. If you offer Wine Making or Do-Rag Wearing, people are going to take them. I mean it. Video Game Design? Every high school male wants to go for this with dreams of making Halo. Um, are you Hideo Kojima? Do you even know who he is? Did you even pass Geometry? A student I couldn't pick out of a line-up told me she's planning on majoring in equestrianism. Like, uh, ponies? Sure, I've bet on a few, but that's not a career, Slutbiscuit. Neither is Medieval Literature or Greek Philosophy. Wake up and smell your parents' basement.

COMPLAINT SIXTEEN: Dorm Showers Kill May Flowers
The shower curtain is to keep the water from getting on the floor, not for wiping your ass with. Thank you.

COMPLAINT SEVENTEEN: Dope Haze
Apologies to friends who partake, but the characters played by Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Rory Cochrane in Dazed & Confused are comic relief. That means, you're supposed to look at them and go, "What assholes!" Blockbuster Video doesn't need more like you ... really. And no, for the thousandth time, I don't want any. While you're smoking, I'm the one stealing money from your wallet.

COMPLAINT EIGHTEEN: Taste is Relative
Party People: the beers you like are trash. Coors Light, Bud Light, Keystone anything, Lord Chesterfield ... my god. Yes, I agree we all need to get wasted, so why not cut right to the quick and get some grain in this motherfuck? And turn that bass up because I can almost feel my blackness coming on.

COMPLAINT NINETEEN: Dr. Oh No
Please Professor Talks-A-Lot, help me to find the string that winds you up so I can cut it off and whip you Jesus Style. Also, I know we're all "adults" but making one night "mandatory" for the class to come over your house and eat with you and your haggard wife isn't fun: it's creepy. The 70's are long gone, hippie. Thank the Heavens something called "Tenure" exists, or else you'd be with me, teaching 17-year-olds how to count change so they can work at Wendy's and sneeze in the Frosty Machine.

COMPLAINT TWENTY: Greed
Wait, as Alumni I'm going to be hounded by you jokers for more money until my dying day? Do what I did: mail it back to them. Just mark the material (unopened) "Return to Sender." If anyone asks where you got this delightful idea, you never heard of me.

Twenty-one through one-hundred-and-fifty to come over the course of the next several decades. I came, I saw, I came again, I saw something, I need to find a Diet Coke ASAP.