Alma mater
You know that part in “Half Baked” when Guillermo Diaz quits his fast food job and uses the cashier’s mic to tell off the whole restaurant? “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck YOU, fuck you, you’re cool, fuck you, I’m out.”

I’m reenacting that at Northwestern. I really detested my last year or so on the campus, and am gleefully rebelling against it during my forced return for graduation. A week ago I got an e-mail affirming that my payment for my cap and gown was never recieved, so I showed up at the office on the first day of distribution to pick up an extra. Before I could, I was redirected to a room with 20-odd Apple iBooks, prompted to give me a “senior survey.” I clicked on it, filled out the first button of every answer, and gave my current address as Arlen, Texas.

Then I headed to the gown room for an extra. Surprise! There were no extras! I smiled at the attendent who gave me the news.

“Glad you guys are on the ball!” I said.

I headed over to the ticket-dispensing table where a fellow grad was chatting with the ticket guy. “Move it along,” I said.

And this is when it dawned on me – I’m one of the few people truly unhappy to be here. The rest of the campus and the insta-bureaucrats set up to service are smiling, forgiving and giggly. So if I blast them – they don’t do anything!

I asked the ticket guy for my commencement passes; he asked for my gown. I told him they had failed to order the extras and told me to come back tomorrow. The guy, an alumni-looking pensioner, sort of ruffled his expression and told me I couldn’t get my passes without a gown.

“So I have to come back tomorrow because you guys screwed up your order?”

He kind of stumbled – again, he wasn’t expecting rudeness.

“That’s great. Thanks for nothing, jackass!”

And I walked off, cutting right through a line of people waiting to pick up some corporate gift. It was GLORIOUS.

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