I’m done with this place. I’m sick of having to cancel my own classes to watch “Summer Heights High”* on YouTube all day long. I’m sick of days that aren’t Monday because that’s the day I get two Archers for the price of one — I’m a tubby, hollerrr! I’m especially sick of no one reading my column except dorks who pick up a paper to read while eating in O’Hill at 10 a.m. because all their friends have lives and were out drinking and not being boring and are now where you should be — sleeping off their hangovers and trying to fight off the encroaching déjà brew when they realize what Natty made them do. I’m talking to you, you in the blue shirt, scarfing down your waffle! I’m sick of you!
Anyway, I just thank Zac Efron I’m outta here in two months. With Obama taking his sweet time fixing the economy and personally handing me a job, the cool thing isn’t to talk about your post-grad career (since it doesn’t exist), but to talk about where you’re moving — or at least from what street corner you’re going to inform people the world is ending, while also asking for gin money. PSA: “High School Musical 4” is being made without Zac Efron, so the world might as well end.
OK, maybe it’s just the fall of western civilization, but I’ve been blaming that on Hannah Montana for years — though my Miley Cyrus Pandora station is ballin’. Anyway, as a new dark age begins, where should you huddle and wait to die from the encroaching plagues? OMG, you’re so cute for asking! I could just jab out my eyes.
The obvious and horrible suggestion is to stay in Charlottesville. You probably already have an apartment — I told you, you flabby omelette-munchin’ first-year, to stop reading my column! Why don’t you just read that Watchmen comic we all know is hidden in your JanSport, and yeah, I said comic because I’m not going to make the dead guy that gave us Charlie Brown and that questionably sexually-oriented Peppermint Patty roll over in his grave by calling those miserable emo drawings a graphic novel. People that live on Grounds should be hauled out of their halls and made to watch “Two and a Half Men” until they’re ready to transfer to VCU, so why not just stay in your apartment for another year while you work part-time discovering yourself?
News flash: You’re on the path to epic fail if you’re trying to become a townie and discover yourself by discovering first-years at Three. Also, how can you live somewhere there’s only yellular service. I don’t even want to get in how many times Verizon made me accidentally yell out in public such private tidbits as “Nick Jonas just brings up his diabetes to sell records!” or “My friend just got Wow Cow with Magic Shell — I don’t think this idiot knows it’s not 10 calories per ounce when you top it with fatty fattiness,” or my fave convo-ender, “You wastin’ my minutes!”
Well, Cville may be out of the question, but if only there was a major metropolitan center nearby ... like Richmond! Maybe if you’re a nasty li’l hillbilly — not the same Hills as my fave hillbillies Spencer and Heidi — Richmond is a city, but unless you want to sell the ol’ whacky tobacky like that not-famous guy in that movie with Seth Cohen (Instant debate! Seth Cohen v. Ryan Atwood! Winner: Ryan Atwood. Loser: Marta Cook for not telling me when Ryan/Ben was visiting on the Lawn last fall. I will never get over this, Marta! Neverrrrrr!), there’s no reason to head to this dismal cesspool. Unless you like the ‘burbs and want to see my house, where I shop for scented candles — Downtown Short Pump, holler hey! — or the Chipotle where I eat. Now I’m not saying people who eat at Chipotle are better than the people who eat at Qdoba. I’m just saying people who eat at Chipotle are better quality people than the people who eat at Qdoba. Ironically, though, the people that work at Qdoba are much cuter — but never text me back — than the ones that work at Chipotle.
Los Angeles is a much better metropolitan center, even if it’s on the other side of the country. L.A. has all the best things. Jennifer Love Hewitt, Hilary Duff and Miley Cyrus all live on the same street! No, but fine, why don’t you just go to N.Y.C. or D.C. where Hobo Jim, pile of human refuse, and pile of crack needles all live on the same street. Go ahead, I’m not stopping you. While D.C. doesn’t have quite the hobo population, you do have to deal with molestin’ senators and if you intern like all the other overachieving archies, you’ll probably go missing and be found cut up like a paper snowflake in a van down by the river.
Boston is the cleaner version of N.Y.C. While it doesn’t have an acronym, it also doesn’t have the rotting stench of dead backup dancers and dead dreams and Donald Trump’s hair cream. It’s also colder, but I’ll make that a positive and call it brisk — the kind of brisk that keeps nipples perky from October till March.
Whew, that was uncharacteristically harsh of me — usually I’m a bottle of funshine and pixie dust and friendship — but I think all places with acronyms for names are awesome except ATL, and I don’t even know why we let Hotlanta try to jump on the acronym bandwagon. They already jumped on the Real Housewives bandwagon — shout-out to the world’s best housewife NeNe! OK, I’ve never seen the show, but Anderson Cooper loves NeNe, and just like cashmere cardigans, I like everything he likes — except his show. I don’t like his show because CNN is for the liberal media. I watch Fox News instead, because we both hold ourselves to the same rigorous standards of journalism.
*I like to name drop trendy premium cable shows, but let’s be honest — all I watch is “The Suite Life of Zack & Cody.”
Steve’s column runs weekly Fridays. He can be reached at s.austin@cavalierdaily.com.
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