For the past two months, y'all have been subjected to a never-ending parade of "freshman advice" columns where writers muster up all the meaningless humanitarian niceties and spew them on print in their best imitation of Dr. Phil, devoid of anything entertaining or soul-rotting.
For this one, it's time to bring out Dr. Kevorkian.
This upcoming weekend, many of you will be finishing off a strong week of playing musical chairs on ISIS while getting completely Schiavoed every night, taking more shots to the dome than JFK. Such goes with the tradition that is drop/add week.
Unfortunately, a herd of prepubescent cattle is about to plague midtown as bright-eyed freshmen, decked out in their extra-small Abercrombie polos and ironic slogan T-shirts (I don't care what your chest reads. You are not a test subject for an alcohol company or an amateur gynecologist), many for the first time in their lives.
Now, if you're one of those prodigy alcoholics who have already been liquefying your liver at watering holes since high school who just happened to be cursed with the fact that your parents didn't use the safe word a few years earlier, then I welcome you. Hell, if you come up to me and make some obscene joke about Helen Keller or an awesome reference to "Eastbound and Down" or the "The Big Lebowski," I just might buy you a drink. I'm talking about the kids who sipped a couple of Smirnoff Ices in high school and think they've reached the level of David Hasselhoff eating cheeseburgers from his hotel floor. They're the ones who need to be roofied and left naked at the front of a monastery.
However, this rant does not apply to underage girls. Watching daddy's princess, who only a few months ago was getting her prom dress split open by the high school quarterback/future Uncle Rico, bust her ass on the urinal is about as funny as seeing Santa Claus get bludgeoned to death in front of a school yard of children.
But take this one golden nugget. Don't dull us with your stories of being the next Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman or the first person to make someone care about the WNBA or how all these college guys are "so mature they can read your soul." Shut up, drink your apple martini and look pretty.
Instead, I'm talking about the guys who take up space at the bar only to order a "strong" Diet Coke. If you go to a bar on a Friday night and don't take your game to alcoholic stepfather level, you might as well spit on the American flag. Man up, get an ID that says you're "Abdul Aziz Jabbar" and rage.
Here's another group of people who should be reincarnated as one of Bing Crosby's kids. Just because the pretty waitress called you sweetheart or puts her hand on your shoulder to get past you during happy hour doesn't mean you have to track her down at every free moment to "spit mad game." You look like a damn circus clown and, more importantly, you're stopping her from getting me another pitcher. Servers, if these jamokes try to woo you with their tales of how they stuck it to their driver's ed teachers in high school, tell them kindly that it's people like them who make you feel Roe v. Wade was a good thing.
Lastly, if you're trying to shotgun that Natty Ice you snuck into your cargo shorts in the bathroom stall where Brutus the beefcake bouncer can't find you while I'm ready to R. Kelly all over the toilet seat, just take your neck, stick it between the door and continue to slam until your soul begins to ooze out your nose.
The Dude abides.
CJ Pruner is the freelance editor of the Independent Florida Alligator and a journalism senior.
