The Statement Humor Issue: Open letter to dorm hall assholes

The economy is in a slump. Apparently, so is humanity, because you and I were somehow shat into the same collegiate latrine called on-campus housing. I must have been a huge dick in a previous life, or else I would be enjoying a more favorable social lot, perhaps as a witch doctor or platypus or javelin thrower. Instead, Providence, undoubtedly plastered, played poker with our lodging logistics and dealt me the royal flush of douchebaggery in having to live a few doors down from you.

At the beginning of the year, Dorm Hall Asshole, thoughts of peaceful symbiosis were not so ridiculous. Amid a cornucopia of boxed wine, flavored vodka and Pabst Blue Ribbon that fueled the first few weeks of school, our bond flourished. I found it charming how every football Saturday, you would piss on the side of any random house on the way to the Big House. When you drew a penis on your roommate’s face after he passed out, I laughed heartily. And I will admit, that weed your high school friend Fedexed you from Mendocino County was indeed dank. But like a half-full keg, your charms grew stale within a week. And now I’d rather collect urine in Mountain Dew bottles under my bed than risk running into you on the way to the bathroom.

Looking back, how your initial tool factor escaped me escapes me. Are you partially deaf, mildly challenged or unaware of the astronomical annoyance of your pointless lingering in my room? Yes, I do want to eat my grandmother’s homemade peanut brittle. Yes, I do mind if you sit in my room playing Xbox while I’m in class. No, I don’t know if that’s chlamydia.

The first time you drunkenly lumbered down the hall, throwing up erratically, hurling expletives at loud volumes and pissing off the slumbering community, it was sort of funny. But the Wednesday after that and then the Monday after that and every week since then — no, not so cute. You are not a plush toy or an exceptionally chubby infant. The cute factor naturally erodes — no matter how darling your vomit-caked face looks in the lap of whatever neighbor girl who got suckered into playing rockabye that night.

There are certain unavoidable spectacles that characterize the freshman shitshow experience, which you, Dorm Hall Asshole, seem ardently dedicated to recreating. For one, March Madness is not to be taken literally. My blissful afternoon naps have consistently been spoiled by your unnecessarily deafening updates regarding the status of your bracket. Jarred awake, I mentally inquire as to why the skull-splitting volume of your voice is shaking the dust off my “like new” textbooks. Did you just get a shocking, breaking news e-mail? Find religion? Fail a paternity test?? NO. DUKE JUST LOST. OMG. I am well-versed regarding your bracket, your disgust for Tom Izzo, and your belief that if Michigan can just “coach smart” and, like, recruit better players and, uh, be confident, then next season will be “totally redonkulous.” If you tell me all that while I’m trying to take a shower one more time, I’ll poison your Ramen noodles.

I get your March Madness enthusiasm, I do. I can’t wait to collect that $100 you threw away. But what I understand less is why you think walking into a girl’s room in just a towel “on the way to the shower” is the way into her extra-long twin. There are at least eight girls here who could have legitimate sexual harassment suits against you. And I don’t want to hear all the things Becki or Brittney had to say about the size of your cock. And I don’t really believe those girls would say those things, because we all saw you passed out in the hallway with your pants off. Just cut the crap, man.

Respectfully,
Hates You

P.S. It looks more like herpes.