(Gay, Gayer, Gayest)
Frat boys! Why?
It’s kind of obvious and easy to hate on frat boys. They’re the living embodiment of the innate human tendency towards homo-erotic violence and alcohol-fueled rape. And they wear button down shirts the way, say, a whore wears ripped pantyhose. What else is a whore going to wear?! They smell like the inside of a men’s magazine and some of them have their ears pierced because they’ve never seen a mirror.
And it’s easy to hate aging frat boys. Lawyers and hedge-fund managers, sitting at that reserved table ordering bottles of Gray Goose and remembering what it was like to spank each other with wooden paddles, back in the good old days, right before a long, exhausting night of drinking and raping people. Now they listen to Daniel Powter and have heard good things about some band called Radiohead. They would probably beat the shit out of a homeless person for a dollar and then burn the dollar if it meant they could return to that one magical night where they accidentally blew their best friend.
But my reason for hating on them today is because despite their general amorality, their sartorial douchebaggery, and just the fact that seriously fuck them, it’s hard not to be just a little bit jealous of them. They seem to live a blissfully unexamined life, totally unaware of just how shamefully retarded they are, how completely uninteresting in every single way. And who hasn’t sort of wished that life could be easier, or at least enjoyed? That one could drink just because one wanted to throw up, and not because one wanted to drown out the incessant self-doubt? Who hasn’t wished they could wear sweatpants with the word “Juicy” on the butt without wondering if that was tearing down years of work towards sexual equilibrium across the social sphere? Who hasn’t wished they could just move to a new town and buy a whole bunch of new friends and not feel that that went against the very foundation of what friendship actually is?
Did I already say “douchebags”?