Happy F*cking Graduation Day, Young People

Since Sir Charles kickstarted the whole bitterness theme last night, I thought I'd keep the bile going by sharing this wonderful rant, by Drew Magary of Deadspin, with all of you, my lovely readers.

(Has it really been, uh, twenty-eight years since I stayed up all night party-hopping across Gainesville, crawled home to my apartment at dawn, downed a quart of sludge-thick coffee, plunked the same silly tasseled hat on my head--just as they're doing this month at campuses around the nation--and wrapped my already-overheated body in the same heavy robe?

Yes...yes, I suppose it has.

And from what I'm seeing in the news, grads today will have just as much futile fun trying to parlay said degrees into paying careers: thanks to the flaccid economic conditions that characterized the early 1980's, we fresh-faced, newly-degreed journalismers considered ourselves lucky to land the odd bar-tending or cocktailing job, supplementing as we could with hilariously cheesy modeling stints for used car lots or cafeteria chains while waiting to hear back from one of the fourteen airlines to which we'd sent in applications for a flight attendant position. Good times!)

But Drew says it all so much better:

That's the reason there are celebrity graduation speakers: to boost the already healthy egos of the graduating class. It's strictly for name-dropping value. Oooh, you guys are so special, Fed Chairman Ben Barnanke wanted to give you a pep talk! This is bullshit. College grads don't deserve to be feted by celebrities, or honored, or lifted up with inspiring words. They deserve to be BROUGHT THE FUCK DOWN BY THE CRUSHING WEIGHT OF REAL LIFE'S BITTER DISAPPOINTMENTS. They deserve a stern lecture from someone like me, who is NOT famous, NOT inspiring, and NOT attractive to look at.

I bet you grads had one hell of a spring, didn't you? Oh, I bet you spent your whole spring taking a miniscule courseload, lounging on blankets outside on the quad, fucking each other, drinking your gay little Twisted Teas... I bet you even smoked pot on Wednesday morning, just for the hell of it. I bet you just had the time of your fucking lives the past four years, didn't you?

YOU MAKE ME SICK.

Guess what, fuckos? Party's over. You're out of college now, and your parents are now too poor to nurse you through grad school. No more fantasy life for you. No more ice luges. No more intellectual discourse. [...]

At some point, you will not be able to sleep in past 8 or 9AM, and this will piss you off. I used to be cool. I used to be able to sleep until noon no problem. I SPAT RIGHT IN MORNING'S FUCKING EYE. No waking up at dawn for me. Waking up early is crazy gay. Am I right?

Except then I got a job, so I had to wake up early every day. Then, my body got used to waking up early every day, so it just woke the fuck right up at the same time on weekends, too. "But Body," I said to my big fat body, "There's nothing to fucking do, and I wanna sleep more." But my body wouldn't have it. Then I got married. Then I had kids. And holy shit, do kids wake up early. Not only does my kid come storming into the room at 6AM, but she screams WAKE UP at the top of her lungs every damn time. Having a kid is just like having a really mean spinning instructor. They give no fucking quarter. They're like tiny little Hitlers.

Now, even if there are no kids around, I wake up at 7AM at the latest. This should be good for me, I suppose. I get to run out and experience the full day, or something. But I don't feel that way. I feel like a complete asshat for getting up that early. I feel lamer than shit. Which is completely irrational. Then again, most anything I think or do now is beyond explanation. So rest up, kids. Because soon you'll be chewing Ambien like they're fucking Bubbalicious.

Seriously, read the whole thing.

(H/T Cajun Boy in the City)