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All right, I'm a little miffed, you know, like Duke students at a T.I. concert. I thought the school knew the meaning of a standard bartering agreement, but apparently I was mistaken. This isn't an eBay transaction where you are under no obligation to give me that which I have paid for. I was OK with waiting patiently for a while, but now my miffedness has reached its limit.
A peculiar incident occurred a couple weeks ago, one that you may or may not be familiar with. A somber fall from grace for some and a rare pleasure for others, it may be cited as one of the most uncompromising examples of the world's insanity for years to come. It was particularly jarring for me due to the severe emotional link with which I relate to the event, not to mention the self-inflicted injury I caused/suffered amidst the anguish.
In an unbecoming move representative of a gradual digression into another gender, I am resigning my membership from the League of Masculine Brave Souls and Die Hard Bruce Willis Fans, an organization whose bylaws I have irrevocably violated by admitting a most sordid flaw.
Times are tough. And in these trying times, it seems no one is trying hard enough. The political climate is palled by the gloomiest of clouds. With a forecast of "nothing but trouble," and an economic atmosphere that I have no informed opinion on but might as well "suck terribly," current events have evidently fallen ill due to an unidentifiable epidemic. Abortion, I say.
In theory, it seems like it would be difficult to convey anger effectively on this piece of grayish, smelly newsprint. Real fury is three-dimensional; can you see my banging fists and hear my cracking voice? Honest-to-God, tangible vitriol burns in more ways than one, like its close cousin alcohol. If this paper were burning. well then it would be unreadable.
As a freshman three years ago, if I had been told I would be onstage for three minutes in an essentially Indian culture performance-type celebration, I, an accomplished self-loather, would have been deeply hurt and insulted.
As the bottomless bookbag of ACES opens its jaws and you take the courageous leap into the academic abyss, think about this: In the near future, Trinity administrators could force you to take less major-related classes in the prestigious College of Arts and Crafts. A proposal, aimed at Duke University like a cruise missile, seeks to reduce the number of courses required to complete a major from 10 to eight. Yes, in fact, in spreading hocus-pocus heartening desire to increase interdisciplinarity within the curriculum, they are killing opportunities to develop qualities vital to keeping us whole, and possibly even American.
I am extremely disillusioned with the president of the country of the United States of America. Am I allowed to say that? Am I allowed to be extremely disillusioned with him? I mean, I don't want to go out on a limb here and risk being ostracized by the better part of the liberal population.
After the unabashed success of Nasher Noir, with more than 1,500 (1,500?!) students essentially teetotaling to the delight of the Durham community's Thursday night, faulty rationale follows that the museum should hold a weekly "Martini Thursday" event, theming each one to a different color cocktail dress for maximum variety and elegance. Whether you enjoyed the classy art, the classy drinks or just dressing up classy, it is apparent that "you" exemplify the class that Duke aspires to. No wonder you enjoyed it so much. In fact, they should put you on next week's flyer.
I know this sounds really crazy, but a girl came up to me in front of the Chapel and said, "Persuade me in a 500-word, well organized, cited argument, oral or written, to believe your point of view."
Who knew? Here I am, deriving all my self-esteem from my profound reservoir of lethargy and ineffectual indifference, and then I receive a series of solicitous e-mails encouraging me to superior enterprise. They customarily come in the form "Don't want to be lazy anymore?", with follow-up solutions such as "Exercise!", "Socialize!", and "Learn English!"
You know, like nunchuck skills, bowhunting skills, computer hacking skills... Girls only want boyfriends who have great skills.
Finally, it has come. Justification. A reason for returning home to the heartland. Just when I was thinking my childhood had no point whatsoever, the heavens shine down upon me with a magnificent karma refund. The stars and Martians and whatever else the heavens consist of collided in a fiery culmination this past weekend when the West Virginia Mountaineers reached the Elite Eight of the NCAA tournament.
Before I realized the unique experience that is college, I had only secondary sources such as history books and Saved by the Bell: The College Years to go on. When I finally arrived, the lack of social upheaval surprised me. I could have sworn it would be like UC Berkeley in the ’60s, but I guess people just don’t do enough drugs nowadays. Sure, there were random events that seemed more like sociology seminar group projects than populated movements, but these seemed pointless or just searching for legitimacy. Whiling away the hours at a school where I’m supposed to be thinking constantly despite the fact that I run out of homework fairly easily (and I have yet to succumb to 24), an epiphany slapped me in the face: there is no legitimacy.
Apparently, stereotypes are bad. I have come to that conclusion after months of exhaustive research, testing mice in a secret, underground laboratory. The mice said that stereotypes are bad, that they have an acute moral compass and that their priest told them that stereotypes are odious examples of the devil’s… badness.
“Don’t stop til I get enough”
Apparently, we Duke students are the smartest people in the world, nay, the universe, maybe even Research Triangle Park. From all the hullabaloo I hear on this campus about the Duke student body, I can draw only one conclusion: we are the smartest beings alive. The funniest part is when people admonish us for downplaying how smart we are, and then tell us we must accept and embrace our abnormally and ridiculously high intelligences. This led me to wonder what exactly smart means, and why we Duke students have so much of this mysterious quality. Since Duke is obviously the finest arbiter of who the brainiacs are in the high school crowd, I reflected on what got us into this equally excellent institution, and this is what I found:
Well it’s finals week, the panic is spreading like an overeager cancer, and we have to reveal ourselves. Oh Snap! We had actually thought we could just stay hidden forever, or fake our deaths and then release an underground humor column like Tupac. (Tupac was an extremely accomplished humorist, didn’t you know?) But, alas, we are being coerced, possibly with threat of molestation (help, please) into throwing our actual, mediocre identities into the ring of public ridicule.
