I am ashamed. I am ashamed that during my junior year of high school I bought one of the earliest 'N Sync singles (FYI, the song's "I Want You Back"). I am ashamed that I sometimes crave liver. I am ashamed that I can chug a beer faster than the rest of my girlfriends--strike that, I'm actually quite proud of this. I am ashamed that, for almost an entire year of my pubescent life, I thought that Leonardo DiCaprio and I were "meant to be." I am ashamed that I will reside, for the greater part of the next three years, in a state that voted Stupid (i.e., Republican). I am ashamed that I sometimes use politically inflammatory language merely to maintain Bush as a perpetual object of ridicule in my humor column--actually, no, I'm glad that I've come across and implemented this technique as it is remarkably useful when trying to fulfill a column word count of at least 600 -- 53 words, right there, in one fell swoop.
I am ashamed that I once poured half a bottle of undiluted bleach into my refrigerator in a vain attempt to clean an unidentified food substance that was shellacked to the bottom of the fridge. I am ashamed that I occasionally find an underclassman attractive (it's hard to tell sometimes). I am ashamed that I used to regularly watch "Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman" and "SeaQuest DSV" ("Jonathan Brandis has SUCH PIERCING blue eyes. And he is sooo smart and SENSITIVE. He can talk to dolphins!").
But most of all, I am ashamed of Dartmouth.
Hop events are fabulous. Hop events are better than, in Dart-speak, "four or fewer drinks" on a Saturday night. (Ha. Four drinks? It'll only be four drinks if you count four drinks for Sober Self but not if you factor in: four drinks for Mildly Buzzed Self, another four drinks for Drunken Self and four more drinks for Shhtupidly Wayshted About To Black Out Shelf.)
An event at the Hop can be almost as good as a pong tournament! And yet, for all the staggering genius of the performances that the Hop brings us, I can't help but marvel at the complete lack of participation of the "Average Dartmouth Student." The Average Dartmouth Studentsucks.
I went to the Rennie Harris performance of "Rome and Jewels" approximately two weeks ago (because, of course, I am not an Average Dartmouth Student, I am actually of the "Atypical Dartmouth Student Who, On Occasion, Longs To Be A Student At Wesleyan" ilk). The hip-hop that the DJs were spinning was "hot to death" (quasi-esoteric expression not directed at the Average Dartmouth Student) and still the audience could only summon polite clapping and the occasional "woo" for what would have brought a real audience to their feet.
Do I have a solution? Not really. Perhaps the wholesale distribution of cocaine prior to shows. This is actually a plausible plan of action now that our beloved Crackhead President of the "Youthful Indiscretions" has been inaugurated. And open admission to Yale for everyone with politically powerful parents! (Oh, dear, I'm being naughty again. Shame on me! Bad, bad!)
I end my column here with an address to the girl sitting at my left during "Rome and Jewels" (her name shall remain anonymousprimarily because I don't know it).
Dear Girl-Who-Kept-Turning-Her-Head-To-Glare-At-Me-Every-Time-I-Screamed-To-Express-My-Approval-Simply-Because-She-Had-A-Pole-Rammed-Up-Her-Ass-And-Was-Therefore-Incapable-of-Enthusiasm: You have no idea how close I came to ripping your head off and tossing it into the balcony.
At which the audience would have clapped politely and someone would have tentatively said, "woo."
And by the way, Bush is dumb.
Word count: 601.
