The Hogs of Entropy 0151

eZine lover (@eZine)

Published in 

The Hogs of Entropy

 · 5 years ago

  

 
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               >> "Fear and Loathing in the Suburban Midwest" << 

                              by -> MoonBagel 

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        Frat boys are the bane of my existence, I think.  I could be sorely 
 mistaken.  No, that's wrong.  I could be mistaken, but I find it hard to 
 believe that mistaken-ness would be in any way sore.  It would probably be 
 quite healthy if I didn't harbor this inexplicable loathing of frat boys 
 (frat boys, Ohio, and role-playing games, actually). 

        Frat boys are bad.  They are not good.  I don't like their dirty 
 little baseball caps, nor do I think they are in any way necessary (the caps 
 and the boys).  I don't like how they vomit a lot.  When I was at UMass in 
 Amherst, Mass., I didn't like how a group of frat boys had a giant 
 inflatable turtle in front of their house.  There is irony -- I wouldn't 
 mind having a giant inflatable turtle of my own.  The cause, however, is 
 perverted royally by having a largely-grassless yard fertilized with vomit 
 surrounding it.  Such a turtle deserves respect and a proper, healthy 
 environment in which to thrive. 

        Through years of extensive testing, living in the vincinity of 
 several large state universities as well as numerous smaller schools, I have 
 come to discover the one thing I'm sure frat boys are good for.  To recreate 
 the joy I sometimes feel, you must have at your disposal a small group (or 
 even one other) acquaintance/friend/stranger-who-shares-your-pain, a car of 
 some variety... and it sure doesn't hinder you to be hyped up on all sorts 
 of caffeinated substances. 

        Drive along a busy thoroughfare, or hit a popular weekend (or 
 weekday, if it tickles your toes) frat-boy nightspot. 

        Spot a carload of fratboys.  FOLLOW THEM.  Follow at a safe distance, 
 but follow 'em -- don't compromise your health and well-being for a carload 
 of brothers.  If you hit upon a ripe group, you'll hear shouts that your 
 momma admonished you for when you were a pure and virtuous, 
 uncorrupted-by-frats child.  Sometimes you'll get compliments.  Other times, 
 the most you will witness is a neat, intriguing mix of hand gestures which 
 may be offensive in a foreign land.  They may not be.  It doesn't matter, 
 ultimately.  It's funny.  Well, it's funny if you're caffeinated.  If you're 
 not, I must apparently reside among the upper echelons of lame-osity. 
 Woo-wee. 

        If the pickin's are slim in your area, expect me to show up on your 
 doorstep in a matter of days.  Don't despair -- I clean up after myself, I'm 
 house-broken, and you have another option -- redneck/hicks (also in 
 abundance in my city) prove to be a fine target, as well.  In that case, 
 follow the same steps -- just find boys in rusted-out pickup trucks. 

        Snacks are also appreciated.  Snacks make friends. 

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    * (c) HoE publications.  HoE #151 -- written by MoonBagel -- 12/12/97 *