Enjoy My Whine: Aged 20 Years to Bitterness

The title says it all! I officially wrote this 3 years ago. Before I could even buy a legal beer! In any case, here’s an article rant I put together, which, if you don’t like or find offensive, don’t blame me! I was 20 when I wrote it!

Enjoy My Whine: Aged 20 Years to Bitterness

Some college kids major in embarrassing themselves. Actions and attitudes deemed uncool by me have spread like the legs of a Kobe rape victim. As people attempt to fit in, I desolately watch them make hilarious exhibitions of themselves, and now I intend to write about it, vehemently. For instance, as I meandered through the bar scene last Saturday, I observed freshmen guys displaying women’s underwear! Ok, maybe guys aren’t doing that to fit in. Ok, and maybe I didn’t really see a freshmen showing off women’s underwear. Ok, and maybe it was actually me, sporting a leopard print thong. Regardless, I now intend to make fun of you at my leisure.

For starters, lets address attire that makes me want to ram a ballpoint pen into my eye sockets. Case and point: girls making a spectacle of themselves with shirts that are blatant false advertising. Tube tops proclaiming: “HOTTIE!” and “PRINCESS” or my personal favorite “PRINCESS HOTTIE” worn by beast masters which are none of the above. In fact the only thing most of these broads are above is their dorm elevator weight limit. I’m not discriminating against heifers though, chicks of all sizes qualified to live on “Beat Street” based on their deficiency in the looks department flaunt these apparel abominations.

Oh, stop laughing Bruno, because I’m getting to the guys next. While maybe your little tit hugger number doesn’t come right out and say it, I’m picking up what your putting down. When I see you or one of your fellow alpha-males strutting around in “club gear” it screams to me: “Hello, my name is sleazoid at the bar. I use KFC grease to style my stupid hair follicles. If you have a vagina and drink too much, I will grind my grimy body all over you until you allow me to penetrate my sordid tongue into your mouth.”

If that wasn’t bad enough, the other male fashion extreme consists of Abercrombie shirt repugnancies boasting numbers on the back, as if wearing upper middle class clothing is some sort of sporting event. The wearers of these fashion abortions are the same dudes who will go out and play “Piano Man” forty-eight times on the jute box at your favorite dive. So, number twenty-five and the rest of the Abercrombie football team, track team, and beach patrol join hands and “sing us a song”. And by singing I mean blowing their nauseating halitosis all over the bar, as they scream like they should be wearing helmets and escorted in minibuses.

This brings me to the next major malfunction concerning college life: intoxicated demeanor. You know what, if you and your friends are going to get wasted, why don’t you take it all the way to the hospital. I say this not only because the “drunk tank” is awesome but also because you won’t be able to bother me when you get back from the bar. Now I could write a ten thousand-page manifesto that would only begin to address the grievances I have with hammered cool guys and the atrocities they commit, but for space considerations I’ll cite my most recent encounter with drunken banter.

On this particular occasion, I was chatting it up via America Online Instant Messenger (A.I.M.) around midnight on a Friday; because let’s face it: you have to be quiet a hipster to be on the Internet on a Friday night. When suddenly my “lol”s were interrupted by a message announcing, “I waszqted mannnnnnnnn. lETR ge3t pizzjqa11!” Now, do I need this in my life? Is this what I’m pursuing a diploma in higher education for? So, angrily I responded, “Dad, that’s the last time you drunk message me. You’re going on block (Followed by the face that looks really mad).”

If you don’t want my next post opening your tear ducts, heed my words, heathens. Ladies wearing ridiculous tee shirts, to keep me from slapping your face and running away like a little girl, I’d suggest burning the aforementioned clothing choices. Abercrombie wanksters: the dreams over, you’re not on the team, shop at Salvation Army. Finally, guys wearing airtight clothing, you’re hopeless; my advice for you is to get behind the wheel of a racecar, floor it, and then have a seizure.