Freshman Shocked At Acquaintances’ Transformations Into Colossal D-Bags During Rush Week

(I wrote an article for my campus’ satire paper and was going to spam a link to it but because our URL was bought by a spam site builder in China, I’m postin’ it here. This article is the last copy I have before it was finalized by the editors, but it's....close enough to the end result. ENJOY, comment, like, share, reblog, dig, smoke signal, etc.)

  According to eyewitness reports, freshman Gregory Chen was stunned to discover that people he had once considered budding acquaintances had suddenly turned into douchebags during Rush Week.

   “Frankly, I’m just speechless,” Chen stated, “This guy, Daniel [Miyata], from my math class, he was so nice to me on my first day, but then I saw him standing on Library Walk behind a booth with greek letters on it, smirking and fistbumping, and my heart just broke.”

  Miyata was not the only potential friend that Chen lost to Rush Week. Statisticians have confirmed that almost 50% of the people Chen had begun to befriend during his first few weeks were in fact already “huge douches,” while another 32% were reportedly considering or already in the process of rushing frats. 

  Nationally renowned Douche Specialist Dr. Rusty Bayers says that this phenomenon is not uncommon at all. Bayers reported that during the first few weeks of college, freshmen around the country meet a fraternity member every 15 minutes on average. In addition, around 84% of freshmen start to build relationships with fraternity members before discovering their true douchey nature during Rush Week.

  “Many freshmen come out of Rush Week just absolute emotional wrecks,” says Bayers, “Their excitement to make new friends is often ripped out of their beings the moment they see a former acquaintance in a fraternity tank top.”

  Bayers says that learning to recognize the common subtleties of douchebags are key to avoiding such heartbreak. According to him, cheap plastic sunglasses, pastel-colored tank tops, cargo shorts, Ryan Gosling-esque hair swoops and intricate knowledge of Jack Johnson’s discography are all common signs of douchebaggery.

  Library Walk is not the only place that Chen has discovered the true identities of people he once considered to be potential friends.

  “A lot of my suitemates who used to just stay in their rooms and play Starcraft are rushing and now all they do is talk about hosting huge ‘ragers’ in the suite with their ‘bros’” said Chen, “I think I’m going to have to move to another suite if this continues.”

  But for Chen, it just doesn’t seem like just going anywhere would be a permanent solution. Earlier this week, Chen had attempted to spend more time away from his suitemates by attending a meeting for the RC Club, but left after seeing that most members greeted each other with head nods, fist bumps and loud shouting. Chen also recalls going to Geisel Library to study as him suite had become a 24-hour hub for a beer pong tournament, but was equally distracted by a group of loud bros cavorting about ‘getting out on a raft,’ getting their ‘bronze’ on and drinking a couple of ‘brewskies.’

  “I just don’t know where to turn or who to trust anymore,” Chen said, holding back tears. “They could be anyone, anywhere, anytime.”

Unadulterated Loathing

Four years ago, I was attending the Nippon Jamboree, an international scout gathering held in Japan every couple of years, and I was touring with my host troop. While walking around, we were wearing our scout uniforms, which had the American flag patched on our right sleeves. And while we were walking around, I heard someone behind me sneer with deep contempt and loathing:

“Americans? I hate Americans.”

I turned around to see an older Japanese boy leering at my friend and me. I met his eyes, but looked away the moment I saw the malicious look he had in them. His hatred shocked me and I was, for the first time on the trip, scared and confused. I spent the rest of the trip wondering, Why does that boy hate us? Why does that boy hate me?

At the time, I had already learned about Pearl Harbor and the bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I knew what damage USA and Japan had done to each other, but I didn’t see that as any reason to hate us.

A few years later, I attended a memorial for the victims of the bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I listened to a man speak about his experience in the blast. I listened to him talk about having to take his friend who was so burnt his skin was peeling off to pool so he could cool off for his final moments. And through this I heard that boy’s voice in my head

Americans? I hate Americans.

But I still couldn’t see why. Maybe he had a family member die in that or one that was affected by it. But I still didn’t understand. Of course I felt sorry for what happened to the victims of the bombings and those who lost loved ones or were injured and/or diseased by the radiation, but I just didn’t see why the Japanese could hate Americans.

Then, two nights ago, an 8.9 magnitude earthquake shook off the shore of Japan, causing a tsunami that engulfed everything in its path, trapping and killing hundreds, maybe even thousands. I watched from my computer into the wee hours of the morning as news stations frantically called correspondents for insights and information. I saw people jumping at the chance to donate, retweeting, reblogging about the disaster and willingly extending relief. And I thought to myself, “How could that boy hate us now?”

And then I see things like this. I see people hold dreadful grudges and make racist, xenophobic remarks. I see people refusing to help because they bombed us 70 years ago. I see people calling karma on the Japanese like nature keeps tabs on who bombed who. I see people forgetting what we did to them.

And I remember what that boy said and as we meet again in my mind I greet him, scowling:

You know what? Sometimes I hate Americans too.

I've been neglecting you, haven't I?

Well I'm on the cusp of a story. More deets to follow.

College is fun. Life is fun.

I am a packrat.

My room is a cove of items from my childhood- toys still collect dust in boxes in the bottom shelf of my bookshelf, still home to many picture books that I enjoyed in my early years and pictures that have faded in color, next to certificates yellowing behind more recent accolades. My closet holds unfinished Lego projects, old Shonen Jump magazines from my 2 year subscription in middle school and both my Boy Scout and Cub Scout uniforms. My drawers are an archive of classtime doodles, binders will bursting with schoolwork from whatever grade they were used in and my forgotten Yu-Gi-Oh! cards and handheld gaming systems.

Items that should have been cast away as soon as I outgrew them instead got stashed in every available space. I hold a connection to each and every item I possessed. Rather, I forge some arbitrary attachment to every item that I own, regardless of their actual importance in my life.

All through my life, I have worn out shoes and backpacks and papers and when the time had finally come to throw them out, I would kick and scream and cry. I always felt so connected to the items, even though I had no significant memories with them. I still vividly remember being forced to throw away one of my backpacks, my eyes watering as I lifted the trashcan lid, holding my backpack in my other hand for as long as I could. I suddenly tossed it into the trashcan, letting the lid fall as I ran back into the house and cried, cried, cried.

So last week, I surprised myself when I told my little cousin he could take some of my toys home with him. The “yes” had come out with almost a tone of carelessness, and I quickly reevaluated what I had just said. These toys were different from anything I had been forced to part from before. They WERE my childhood, items that were prevalent in almost every childhood memory I had.

One of the toys he asked for I remember receiving. It was a Power Rangers Megazord, one of my favorites. I remembered the first day I received it, how my hands shook as I held the shiny new figure from the weight of the toy and my excitement. I remembered the afternoons I had spent in the backyard with it, battling invisible enemies and finding new configurations for it. So why would I be so willing to give something I was so attached to away?

Then I remembered my cousin’s face all the times he came over just to play with it. He battled with his own imaginary enemies, he fiddled with its “instructed” formation and created his own combinations, same as me. If I had any time to give it away, there would be no better time than now, when I would be going to college. If I had any person to hand it to, there would be no better child than he, the boy who would care for it as I did, as I have forgotten to. The first step to becoming an adult would start with throwing away the chains of my childish antics.

So I didn’t cry as I watched him walk out of my house with a box full of my old toys. I knew what he would do with those pieces from my childhood. I knew that I might never see them in the same condition I left them. But I was relieved because I knew that they would not be unused because I left. I knew I would not have to face another trash can.

My room is still filled with childhood pieces left to be taken away by more deserving children. But in the spaces left by the pieces I gave today, I can hoard pieces from the beginning of my adult life. I am still a packrat. But I am no longer attached.

Season 5 of Dexter

HOLYYYYYYYYYY SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT IT’S ABOUT TO GET REAL ASDKFLDSJFLDSKFJDLKSJFKLDJFLKDJFJK

I hope that clarifies how excited I am for this upcoming season of Dexter. I mean, last season blew my mind with the (trying to avoid a pun-type adjective so I’ll go with some buzz words) sharp writing and stellar performances all around. Everything seemed to have come to a head last season, but it all wrapped up quite nicely, as Dexter finally feels at home with himself, his family and his “dark passenger”; Rita got closure with her daddy issues, Quinn just blossomed so beautifully as a character and really melded into the ongoing storylines; Masuka was Masuka; Arthur Mitchell found his right path and all seemed well. I was happy and wondering what the writers could do to amp the show up more when Dexter went into the bathroom to find Rita dead in a tub and Harrison crying in a pool of blood.

This trailer shows me a couple of things I’m really ecstatic about:

* They’re continuing major water cooler story lines from season 4 (besides Rita’s murder), including the Kyle Butler one, the Rita-Elliot (God that guy is such as sleaze) affair and the growing tensions between Quinn and Dexter.
* The changing dynamics in Dexter’s life- he now has no one to depend on to take care of the kids when he’s out killing, but apparently he still can so I want to see how they explain that.
* QUINN+DEXTER. I know I already said it but GOD THESE TWO NEED MORE SCENES TOGETHER AND THIS SEASON WILL BE FULL OF THEM.
* MORE CHARACTER GROWTH FROM DEXTER OH GOD. I mean, I thought Dexter was DONE, a fully fleshed out character, but here it seems like they’re showing Dexter crack under all of the pressure he is now under.

Anyway, that was me fanboying all over your dash. But seriously, get caught up on Dexter now, because this season will be killer (sorry but I HAD to stick one in).

Paul Conrad, in memoriam

“The important thing is that we continue to fight for these things [freedom, democracy], so that we have a country that is enviable because we, as a democracy, are the makers of our own destiny, the destiny of our generation, and for many more generations to come.” - Paul Conrad, ‘I, Con’

“Paul Conrad died.”

My mom informed me (rather bluntly) of his death a few days ago. At the moment, I took it in slowly, mumbling, “Oh,” and proceeding to walk off without so much as a second thought.

Today, my dad was organizing and found a book, which he gave me. It was “I, Con,” Mr. Conrad’s autobiography and the book that had introduced me to him. And as I held the book in my hand, I remembered him. I opened the book and saw poignant and detailed political messages arranged with skill and precision; words and images juxtaposed to call politicians out on their blunders. I remembered receiving the book my sophomore year and reading in awe all the Presidential terms he lived through, the 21st century he saw and wanted to correct.

This, I now remember, was the man who inspired me, who I modeled my own cartooning style after. I credit this man to helping me win various cartooning awards at write-off competitions at the local, state and national level and for giving me the brief dream of becoming an editorial cartoonist. Without him, I probably would have struggled as an editorial cartoonist on the Spartan Scroll; I would have lacked not only the skill and the passion required for the job. He does for my cartoons what Geoff Boucher and Bill Plaschke did for my personality features, and I regret not being able to meet him while he was still with us to tell him this.

But thank you, Mr. Conrad, for your contribution to modern cartooning and for showing me that we can all have voices that resonate far and wide, we just need a pen and a good idea.

Day 6: Beauty

Every weekday, I step off the bus after work and find myself surrounded in the screeching tires, revving engines and steel-and concrete high rises. The air smells of smog and dirt and the sidewalk I stand on is hard and unforgiving. And all the while, people push by me, regarding nothing but their destination and their own well-being. It must be Los Angeles.

And I continue forward, up a set of cobbled steps into a beige marble-lined square. Suddenly, everything has changed- the high rises take no presence over my location, and the ground is suddenly smooth. I walk forward towards a large square of grass, where dogs romp and play with each other as their owners smile and chat, looking as if they had been there forever. And I tread over the soft, wet soil, past the giant purple tower rising to my right. People sit at tables underneath large green umbrellas, business suits and ragged jackets interacting without much regard to the appearance of the other. A tall wooden tower rises immediately in front of me, host to a shabby wooden birdhouse and a million colorful scribbles all over its unfurnished walls. And soon the square opens up again, falling into a circle of stones that cusp the end of a yellow waterfall off the end of a purple arch. The arch connects to a long wall adorned with giant soda can mosaics of the King of Pop and a colossal painting of Salma Hayek. People skirt the edges underneath the shade, coming in on 6-foot tall bicycles for a weekly gathering. I pass a group of students admiring the City of Angels visible from the square, chattering loudly and snapping shots of the brick high rises.

But I cannot stop but notice the activity around me still, the rhythm of the heart of Los Angeles pulsating in vibrant color and remarkable harmony. Here, in Pershing Square, L.A. is at its essence and people from all parts gather to contribute to the vibe.

And as I step out along the large inset crack and back into the busier part of LA, I always find myself smiling, still giddy from seeing this side of LA. It truly is a thing of beauty.