What in the love of Me have you people done with this place?
I decided to come back here when I visited in late May. You had a sleepy little hamlet with some decent food, good drinks, and even better music. Where that place is now, is beyond me. Talk about a bait and switch. I feel like a guy who took a girl home only to find out that her neck is not muscular, but instead she’s got an adam’s apple, a Scarface poster in her bedroom, and a penis. The last week this town has been turned into some glorified summer camp with large imported SUV’s instead of canoes. I got so pissed I tried turning up the thermostat to keep them away, but that didn’t work. Hell, if anything it just made it worse.
Who are these people? You would think that if anyone would know, it would be me. But some things in this life belie the common notion that your higher being is omniscient. I have tried to form some opinions. From what I can tell, most of the men must be sunglasses salesmen sent on some sort of sales call where four wheel drive and pastels are required. The young women are no better. I have determined that many of them are believers in saline beyond its use with contact lenses, and that tank tops highlighting one’s Greek affiliation are the best method of displaying their new “toys”.
And the younger ones in this crowd are even more wretched than their older comrades. Here is a quick hint for the newly released men who have been kicked from the comfort of their mother’s Pottery Barn inspired nest into the den of iniquity that is Stockard Hall. Wearing a shirt with a beer logo on it might make you look a little cooler than wearing one that trumpets the Jackson Prep JV baseball schedule, but wearing one everyday makes you look like an adolescent alcoholic on a books scholarship to Panama City Community College.
But before I turn this into some divine opus on the perils of dressing like an imbecile, I’ve decided to help some of Oxford’s newest residents by answering the three most common prayers and requests of me by entering freshmen, before they ask them.
Dear God, please don’t let me get arrested for (insert misdemeanor alcohol offense here)…
Sorry Paxton or Mary Grace, there’s no helping you there. A smart bet is that you will run afoul of local law enforcement during your time here. The best thing to do is use part of your money that your parents gave you for books and get a DUI lawyer on retainer. I would recommend mine, but he’s taken my case pro bono. Must be something about me forgiving him for wishing his client had lost his whole arm and not just his pinkie from the logging accident.
Dear God, please let me pass my test in (insert mind-numbingly simple freshman class here)…
Being that your parents sent you here for two reasons, one for the tax write-off and two in the hopes that you’ll learn enough to get off the family’s financial teat, I give you this one piece of advice relative to higher education. Try going to class. Guys, you wouldn’t try and lose your virginity if you’d never masturbated to your mom’s Victoria’s Secret catalogues. Likewise, getting to know the material before your tested on it is a foolproof way not to end up having to work construction or turn tricks for the rest of your life.
Dear God, please let Ole Miss beat (insert vastly superior football team here)…
This is a tough pill to swallow, but you are better finding this out now instead of later. I will never let your football team get over the hump. Ever. You will think that one day, I am about to lift this curse that has befallen your Rebels. Your team will be close to victory. Your team will be a breath away from greatness. But they will lose. This is what I do for fun. That and watch Brett Michaels try and keep his receding hairline covered with neon bandanas during VH1’s “Rock of Love.”
I’m sure you’ll have more questions as you spend more time here. Guys, if you’re lucky you will need to know how long you’ll have to take the penicillin before your rash goes away. Ladies, you may want to find out why none of your clothes fit like they should. Email me at godallahyaweh@thelocalvoice.net. Or better yet, come by and talk to me whenever you like. My office hours are pretty much anytime and anywhere.
