Frat Guys Diligent readers of

Frat Guys

And, to be sure, there is a degree of truth to this: Throughout the course of the wild, wild ride that has been “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” we, the crack young staff, have oft taken umbrage with the weaker sex.

Now, as loyal readers of our humble “weblog” will no doubt inform you, roughly 47 percent of the crack young staff is of the feminine persuasion. And we’re not even including Tim. Accordingly, before you malign us as a passel of hysterical misogynists, you should at least note that roughly half the staff is, as our friends on the Left say, “internalizing the oppressor.”

Still, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” figured that it was about time to make sure that the fellahs got their share of the lumps too. After all, an excruciatingly large number of men are torrentially irksome.

And what better subset of the gentlemen to contemn than the common, garden-variety frat boy? Frankly, dear reader, we couldn’t think of a reason either.

As such, without further ado, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly devote today’s edition of our humble “weblog” to that most noxious of collegiate creatures, the frat guy.

You know the kind of guy we mean, dear reader: Drowning in Abercrombie & Fitch gear, the frat guy is a full-time acquaintance-rapist who is moonlighting as a student. (Or should we say daylighting as a student?) In general, the frat guy has the brainpower of the average mollusk. Yet, unlike a mollusk, the frat guy does not have a soft unsegmented body that is usually enclosed in a calcareous shell. The idiot.

When not engaged in acts of rape, the frat boy is usually absorbed in his ancillary activities: Turning his liver into a brown banana and cheating on examinations. Adjusting the brim of his cap also takes up much of the frat guy’s free time. This cap, naturally, offers the name of a college with a suitably witty mascot: The University of South Carolina Game Cocks, for example. Apparently, this kind of ingenious humor is a big hit with eighteen-to-twenty-two-year-old girls.

Oddly, the more aggressive and uncouth the frat guy, the more popular he is with the ladies. It’s as if college women are desperately in search of the most Cro-Magnon-esque young men on the planet.

As far as musical tastes, the average frat boy tends to like the three “Bs”: Bruce, Billy Joel, and Bowie. Well, actually, that kind of fare proves too esoteric for him: He prefers the odious brand of popular music one might dub “college rock”: Whiny, know-it-all singers, and pseudo-heavy metal guitars. And a bit of rap, just to prove to the ladies that this white boy is “down with it.”

This all leads us to one final question: What should one do when confronted by a frat guy? (In reality, it is difficult to confront just one of them, as they tend to travel in packs.) We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” suggest that you chuck a can of Budweiser at him and run in the other direction.