The Deserted Bandwagon

Author: MATT KUNZWEILER

Are you that kid? If not, at least you know that kid - one of the incarnate forms of obnoxiousness responsible for souring dining hall experiences, making classes intolerable, killing the joy and generally crippling morale. I thought the College's Admissions Office would have thinned them out, but every day I witness a scene that makes me lose a little more faith in the Admissions Office. Please, if you know one of these kids, politely ask him or her to transfer.

There's that kid who brings up the issue of tuition every time something doesn't go according to his little heart's desire. "Hey, I don't pay $42 grand to eat cream of mushroom soup when the menu said lobster bisque." "Hey, I don't pay $42 grand for my dorm not to have an elevator." "Hey, I don't pay $42 grand to get only two bars of cell phone reception at the fitness center."

Then there's that kid who almost killed me the other day because he thought that the girl riding shot-gun would be impressed by his masculinity if he gunned the engine of his '99 Ford Explorer and accelerated into a parking space. Because that's what real men do. They drive really fast in parking lots.

There's that kid whose cell phone rings in class and instead of stifling it as any level-headed member of society would, just lets it ring and exasperatedly looks around the room, shaking her head with an expression that says, "Can you believe that my mom has the nerve to call me during class? Even after I faxed her my class schedule. There's no way I'm answering this." And lets it ring for 30 seconds. A minute later it beeps, letting everyone know that mom left a voicemail.

Then there's that kid who claims to be - and I quote - "the shizzle at beer die," and punctuates this claim by high-fiving someone.

And there's that kid who, knowing full well that class ends at 11:00, asks the professor at 11:02 some vague question about the theme of martyrdom in English literature - which takes at least 10 minutes to answer. This is what we call a buzzer-beater - a last minute shot that forces class into overtime…and makes everyone suffer. That kid chooses brown-nosing over collective happiness. And instead of seeing him tarred and feathered as he should be, we instead have to watch him smilingly nod along to everything the professor says in response.

There's also that kid who'll read my column this week and tell me that it appeared slapdash, pointless and disorganized. His comments may in fact be appropriate, but I'll tell him that it isn't easy to write something profound every week for two years - especially when I'm not getting paid. And if I can't think of anything profound to write about next week, I'll use my column (as I often do) to launch a passive-aggressive attack on whomever has upset me lately - namely, the clown who criticized this week's column. Or I'll just cut-and-paste a Dave Barry column.