Here is my ode, my elegy, to a generation lost in the realm of Jersey Shore, “the Balloon Boy,” confused political junkies and Britney Spears—again.
Ours is a generation full of anything but class, packed with drug addicts, hit-and-runs, abusive personalities and alcoholics.
I’ll be surprised if VH1 can muster up enough optimism to make the next step on the “I Love the…” series.
The evolution of maturity and dignity seems to possess a scientific half-life, and with each year societal credibility plummets. Weeks ago, people waiting patiently in line to see Obama at UT were deceived by false admission tickets.
Just sitting outside this week, I saw three fights almost unfold and heard “rumors” of a woman enduring a Snookie-like sucker punch.
Unfortunately, we are stuck in a classless society.
A deal with the devil was made as soon as we introduced Gasparilla into the streets of Tampa. In exchange for malicious behavior, we were given colorful beads crafted by the poverty-stricken in China along with camel-backs full of liquor and beer.
And as the obnoxious frat boys trot down Bayshore like hyenas chanting random obscenities and fist-pumping, I admire their outlandish behavior; because not everyone can be professional off the clock and sip rum straight through a funnel.
No, these men crawling down the streets sit behind the counter of Taco Bell serving the 89 cent burritos and are probably getting fired shortly after for smoking the wrong kind of smoke.
The only way I could see this rare breed as classy is at an after dark event—perhaps at the “CEO’s and Corporate Hoes” themed parties. At least it would be a false pretense of professionalism before they pass out behind the keg.
Looking back, half the boys had their shirts off, showing their masculinity of course, and girls ran around flashing the unnecessary. It was like a scene pulled directly out of “Jersey Shore.”
It gets scary when fist pumping becomes the new dance move and “The Situation” becomes the idol of 2010. His brief appearance in Hyde Park proved his tool-like personality to be both fascinating and annoying. His influence on up-and-coming guido wannabes is simply overrated. They should give him, along with his cast mates, another show and call it “Trash Talks.”
This species of immature overgrown boys obsessed with fame, rocking Ed Hardy and a hair full of gel forces me to question their mental state.
I can’t even fathom how this vain collection of immature ladies’ men still exists. I guess wishful thinking allows me to overlook the fact that laying out a woman in a bar is as classy as it gets.
But to narrow down such a time bombarded with immaturity, I always discuss my fellow Spartans.
I admire how they go back and forth through the courtyard, making a pit stop at the grill and withdrawing money at the ATM. Although I imagine the majority of the students utilize plastic, the ATM comes in handy when their card doesn’t match the name on their ID.
This “Jersey Shore” nonsense imprisons the mindset of the UT students and that’s just unfortunate.
At times I forget that only a small percentage of the school’s population falls into this category of fools.
However, I continue to fall in love with UT because its cobble-stoned theme is the ideal booby-trap for the dimwitted.
Drunken girls cautiously tip toe over cracks in the pavement, stumble around gaps of brick and slide a few feet on the slippery floor in Brevard. But of course the big yellow cone that warns you that the floor is splattered with unmentionable fluids is irrelevant.
Regardless of the time, I get interrupted during every cigarette break by rowdy fools that define the concept of “hot and cold.”
I feel like the courtyard is a hit or miss at three in the morning: you’re either entertained by the dozens of students stumbling in or verbally attacked by the latest form of drunk.
This is the sad truth: I have a bad taste in my mouth, a tainted experience with a plethora of these hooligans and I’m a little biased when it comes to stereotyping this undesirable breed of humanity.
They could be a race of their own. Could go down in history and make a name for their selves like the Beat Generation.
My advice: show a little class if you can, pretend to at least.
And just remember, pinkies up when guzzling down that $26 bottle of Captain! That way you at least look like you’re trying to maintain any dignity and self respect left lying around.
Narisa Imprasert can be reached at nimprasert@ut.edu.