IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ve decided to surreptitiously take minutes for a Friday night gathering of college freshmen, recording it for them as a gift so their grandchildren can remember this momentous night. The night they spent twenty minutes discussing Tickle-Me-Elmo. A partial list of things debated, things learned, things better left unsaid:
We, like, watched this amazing dancer for, like, ten minutes in the seediest club EVER.Ã¢â‚¬Å“A History of ViolenceÃ¢â‚¬Â is the worst movie EVER. This despite near-universal praise from critics and two Oscar nominations.
Arm Cutting 101: Ã¢â‚¬Å“down the streetÃ¢â‚¬Â versus Ã¢â‚¬Å“across the streetÃ¢â‚¬Â, whereupon we reach the conclusion it is definitely down the street. Their clinical detachment from this discussion is mildly disturbing.
Guys have a higher suicide rate because girls try to overdose and they suck at it, whereas guys shoot themselves and are often quite successful.
Dude: Ã¢â‚¬Å“My pants are American Eagle.Ã¢â‚¬Â Other dude: “Take them off.” This is, presumably, not an actual directive.
A friend of a friend had to get an IV in his head because they couldn’t find blood in the arm.
How do pants stay up? Are we constantly pulling them up? ItÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s annoying having to always pull up our jeans. Belts – you know, BELTS – are never mentioned.
“Cho-mo” is, apparently, an accepted and useful term for “child molester.”
Chuck Norris going “dracula” on “that guy” was hilarious. The fuck?
Badminton is/is not an Olympic sport. It is, after which we conclude it’s “never on TV because nobody cares about it.”
Ã¢â‚¬Å“The most famous person IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ve ever met is Joe Lieberman,Ã¢â‚¬Â says the very lucky bastard picking at his knee.
Two dudes, secretly and slightly attracted to each other, start whispering secrets – presumably because public conversation is too public. Maybe also because they realize there is a stranger in the corner with a laptop who suspiciously only seems to type after they’ve completed an interesting thought (which is not very often as it turns out). The whispering leads to a hearty game of “telephone.” The secret phrase is the very rousing “I liked it.” Which, after going through eight people, mutates into “I licked it.” Which is obviously HYSTERICAL. These people are my new best friends.
As a matter of record, the telephone game goes on for forty minutes. The kids are alright.