JUMBO SHRIMP: University life and other oxymorons

If Martha Stewart has taught me nothing else, it is to never apologize for a meal before you serve it. By all means, apologize as your guests are being carted off on stretchers by EMS, but not a moment before that lobster-lychee casserole hits the table.

Thankfully, Martha Stewart’s credibility is completely shot, and thus I unabashedly forgiveness culpa, dear reader. This article was intended to be a coming-of-age tale, one which inspired thousands, and warmed various cockles en masse. The subject was Frosh, and I planned to deliver a cautionary yet enlightening tale of all things alcoholic from the perspective of a person who has both been there and done that.

My literary delirium was abruptly shattered when I came to a startling realization: no one cared. Or, to be more specific, no one cared anymore.

Freshman frosh guides were a dime a dozen, and they were all remarkably homogenous. After all, there is only so much one can say about sex and liquor. Or is there? Perhaps one could put a humanizing spin on the idea by including a personal anecdote about one’s own Frosh.

Well, maybe not. The thought only came to me when I got sexiled by my roommate and had to spend the night in the common room. Perhaps instead, I could litter my column with pop culture references, in the hopes of disguising the ghastly unoriginal premise of the piece. Wait, no, South Park already did that about the Simpsons already doing that. The bottom line is, writing a freshman advice article in this day and age is akin to sleeping with Paris Hilton: You just don’t do it. And if you do, you don’t leave your real name at the end of the night.

The problem is not, by any means, lack of readership – quite the opposite. First-year students go to great lengths to educate themselves in all things Frosh. The well-researched freshman already knows to avoid the eggs in the dining hall and can erect an Ikea bookshelf in 60 seconds flat. University is a pro football game, and incoming freshmen know the playbook through and through even though they’re rookies.

With total disregard to future columnists scrambling for September ideas, our literary forefathers have covered every possible topic from move-in to mescaline. To even attempt to rewrite their sacred and scholarly scripture would be like Dan Brown writing the sequel to the Bible. It would be an artistic coup d’etat that has not been seen since Limp Bizkit covered The Who’s Behind Blue Eyes.

Maybe it is time for something fresh, something modern. The epoch of evolution is upon us, and with it must come innovative and enticing new articles directed at freshmen. There must be another way to open the academic year than with vaguely witty observations on the buffet of insanity that is Frosh. A literary renaissance is in order; one sculpted to cater to the tastes of the next wave of post-secondary students.

One revolutionary article is all it would take. Just don’t ask me to write it; I’m not a chef, I just play one on TV.

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