(I emailed this complaint letter to Versus last Friday afternoon. As of yet, no response. I thought I should share it. The content may be clash with the Vandy Creed, but the intent was not to insult, but to humor.)
Letter to Versus (a.k.a My Ineffectual Weapon of the Impotent)
I, on behalf of all angry and bitter seniors that have been seniors for three years now, would like to thank Versus for delivering yet another alternative use for toilet paper. This issue, like all the previous ones, has been a reliable source for wasting time and providing redundant information. I would like to extend the aforementioned bathroom metaphor and address a few key pieces of doodoo in this issue:
The Spoon interview provided absolutely no real insight whatsoever, except for the Guided By Voices reference. I'll go ahead and assume this interview was supposed to be a joke and pretended that Spoon's drummer is in elementary school, and maybe the best damned kickball player on the block. This being the case, then there are some other crucial questions missing: what is his favorite color? what's his favorite candy? does he prefer the smell of crayons or magic markers? What's the latest your parents let you stay up on a school night? What do you prefer: Batman or Spiderman underwear? If we had these answers, then we'd have ourselves a magnificent interview for Highlights Magazine!
Next, is the completely irrelevant, obvious checklist of things to do and not do at a spring formal. Again, my question is this: was this supposed to be funny or painfully obvious? Please allow me to add a few highly useful tips:
-Forget sunscreen. When you get to the beach, just ask a cute Vandy girl you've never met for her sunblock (preferably a Kappa or Theta that has a boyfriend much bigger than you). Once you slowly tear off your T-Shirt revealing your blinding pale skin and that inexplicable back hair that's been growing recently, she's sure to be more than willing to rub the lotion on for you. As she does this, purr like a walrus. I have no idea why, but chicks dig that.
-While at the beach, never answer your cell when your Mom calls and wonders why the hell you're at a spring formal as a 26 year old and why, in God's name, have you not graduated yet.
-If you don't want to get a suntan in the afternoon out on the beach, it is recommended that you buy a bag of mushrooms from the creepy guy that loiters outside of Applebees, put them in your $15 cheeseburger you ordered from room service, turn on the shower in your hotel room, and sit in the bathtub for 3-5 hours staring at the ceiling and bathroom tiles. Good time guaranteed. Side note: Do not freak out when you begin discover the meaning of life dictated by a talking bathroom towel that, for some reason, has a fake Jamaican accent. Don't worry dude, he's not a cop. He's totally cool.
-If you're going to ditch your date and hook up with a random sophomore's date, do not mention to that girl you are 26 because then the conversation inevitably steers into what Florida's laws are concerning sex with minors, yada-yada-yada, etc. Also, make sure that you don't do it in that sophomore dude's room. He will walk in on you halfway through intercourse and he will be angry that you used his formal clothes to tie up his date to the bedposts. Also, do not borrow his condoms and claim you'll give them back, but really, that's not that big of a deal.
-If you choose to get ridiculously smashed and drive on the wrong side of the road going 85 mph, do not give the Destin cop that pulled you over your Vanderbilt ID when he asks for your driver's license. The problem will get sticky when you actually do hand him your license and he asks you why you are a 26 year old still in college. To avoid answering this question, distract the officer by claiming that you were intent on driving straight into a Waffle House because after 7-8 years of going to one of the most expensive colleges in the country, you've accumulated enough debt from loans to ever get out alive, and would rather die a fiery death smashing into a place where the last thing you'll smell is the fried deliciousness of a double patty-melt with hash browns "smothered" and "covered". He will then kindly escort you to the Destin Psychiatric Ward, which is unmatched in its coziness and with complimentary sleep aids like Thorazine. The Destin County Jail "Drunk Tank" has far less accommodations.
-Lastly, if it's 4 am, and you're almost paralyzed from the ungodly amount of cheap beer you've consumed down at the beach, and you suddenly run into a dude you briefly met freshman year when you were living at Vandy-Barnard, and he asks, "Hey dude, you want to go up to my hotel room and blow a couple of lines of white?", immediately decline his offer. The stuff he has is very low grade, and it will be extremely awkward and very difficult to make up an excuse as to why you need to leave his hotel room immediately. Also, at some point after the third line, you will remember that you're not even supposed to be in the state of Florida because of the warrant out for your arrest from selling low grade blow to college students half a decade ago. After this, you'll notice that the dude doesn't look a thing like the guy you met freshman year, because, jesus, you were a freshman in 1999. At this point, sobriety will finally set in and you'll see that the dude actually looks exactly like the cop that pulled you over for drunk driving and your mom will be really, really be pissed because you will never ever graduate from Vanderbilt because you are now in a Florida prison.
A special note to the Editor In Chief: what's her name? Who has two thumbs, points to her back, and has a jersey named "Newell"? Answer: this girl! (Jesus, that joke was beyond terrible.) Anyways, your editor note in the first issue is guilty of false advertising and you are liable for a lawsuit: you have not "rocked us like a hurricane". I've done some research into tropical cyclones (it's one of my minors by the way) and the Beaufort scale indicates the severity of Versus' rock-ness classified as "less than a .5", which is described as "the sludgy dribble that leaks out of the faucet in a Gillette bathroom".
If you've gotten this far in my letter that I'm using to avoid my paper on Schopenhauer that is already a month late, then you already know that everything I've said could and probably should be tossed aside like the last ounce of flat natty light in that red solo cup you were using for beer pong. After all, what the hell do I know? I'm a jaded super-senior that should've finished school a long, long time ago. In other words,"I'm just a caveman. I fell on some ice, and later got thawed out by scientists. But there is one thing I do know..."
And to finish off that quote from an SNL bit from the 80's... (Good god, you guys weren't even born in the 80's) ...my final conclusive remark will incorporate a quote from the Editor's favorite film, Wet Hot American Summer:
Versus, 'you taste like a burger. I don't like you anymore.'
P.S. Class of 2012, I'll see you at Graduation!
Respectfully,
A Super-duper Senior
Vanderbilt Freshman -1999
Hustler A&E Ass. Editor (2001-2003)
