The Deserted Bandwagon

Author: MATT KUNZWEILER

I spent Saturday afternoon locked in a cartoon rivalry against the two dozen wasps that had annexed the wooden staircase leading up to my apartment. I passed a paranoid hour holding a tennis racket and a can of Raid "Hot Shot" (which fires up to 27 feet and kills on contact…so much killing power for $3.99). But on the several occasions that I fired the pesticide I failed to consider the backdraft, and thus inhaled a liberal amount of the neurotoxins that make wasps twitch and freak dance on the floor before being seized by Death.

So I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the couch in my living room with the local poison control number typed into my cell phone, my thumb hovering over the SEND button, listening to Sigur Rós at full volume and crying. And I began wondering why I'm so susceptible to this type of idiotic self-inflicted misfortune - and why it didn't occur to me (especially prior to the fourth and fifth times I pulled the trigger) that the wind would blow the pesticides back in my face.

We've been raised in captivity. Like an overprotective parent, Middlebury College refuses to let us opt out of the meal program and take charge of our own food-or to move off the campus' premises and live like actual bona fide adults (unless we're one of the lucky 60 students who win their absurd little lottery). Up until the time we graduate, we're treated like boarding school brats or enrollees at a plush rehab resort. And accordingly, our transition into the realm of reality is almost guaranteed to be an awkward one, as the average student at this college has zero in the way of practical knowledge.

Just to give you an idea of how little practical knowledge I have, before firing my first shot, my only concern was that I would graze the wasp, leaving the little bastard to use the small amount of poison to its advantage (like Godzilla used radiation to his) and grow to the size of Mothra… then I'd really be screwed.

This is what four years of a liberal arts education gets you - and I'm unequipped to move on. I have enough difficulties surviving day-to-day as a part-time student, trying to avoid inhaling pesticides, sniffing indelible markers and eating Legos. I'm sure this is only a phase…and soon I'll stride out of this slough of practical ineptitude - but at the moment I feel as useless as your stock high school burnout - you know, the kid who has a pet snake, dabbles in tambourine-playing, carries around a laminated card that says "Certified Breast Inspector" and is genuinely passionate about Doritos.

This is a sad state I'm in. But there's good news - you (yes, you, the reader) can help. As soon as you're done reading this column, pick up that cell phone and call your wealthiest relative who's in a position to hire people. Tell him/her that you've found someone (i.e. me) who's bright, spunky, diligent and qualified for any task - so long as the task can be done for no more than 15 hours a week and for no less than $60,000 a year and from home. I thank you in advance for your assistance.