On the Typically Sagacious Commentary of the Average 18-Year-Old

As readers of this humble “weblog” undoubtedly recognize, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pretty youthful folks. Not, we dare say, as young as Philip Roth—that whippersnapper—but fairly youthful nevertheless.

Accordingly, we naturally remember much about our undergraduate experiences. And, of course, by “experiences,” we don’t mean what the typical undergrad means: I.e., recreational druggery. Rather, we refer to our hours spent prostrate to the higher mind, if we may offer an unimpressive reference to an unimpressive Indigo Girls song.

We mention this, dear reader, for a particular reason. After much careful cogitation and a few rousing rounds of gin rummy, we have happened upon a view that both pertains to our respective collegiate experiences and is utterly true. Although it is highly likely that you won’t consider our opinion on this matter life-altering, we simply must share it with you.

Our conclusion relates to the realm of the seminar (or, as our women’s studies brethren call it, ovular). You know the seminar, dear reader: A three-hour marathon designed to show how dull a particular topic can be and how borderline retarded your fellow classmates are.

Now, don’t get us wrong, dear reader. Plenty of lecture-style college courses are dullsville too. As it happens, no one ever really instructs college professors how to teach, and thus the typical undergraduate is compelled to listen to some scatterbrained oaf with his fly undone muttering inaudibly about the “transcendental signifier” or “moles.”

And that, of course, is when said professor speaks English without an accent through which you could drive a stretch Hummer. One of the delights of our globalized world is learning about, say, Indian civilization from a woman who appears incapable of making any noise save for a glottal click.

Still, we would be remiss if we failed to mention the particular abominations related to the undergraduate seminar. Its faults are legion.

Most importantly, the very nature of these seminars forces its participants to withstand hours and hours and hours of dribblingly unenlightening banter from classmates who pepper each and every phrase with the word “like.” “I, like, you know, like, love, like Lacan. He, like, totally reminds me of, like, Paris Hilton.”

Well, gee: Thanks, Megan, for that incredibly useful insight. We can’t help but be impressed by the sagacious commentary of 18-year-olds who plan to major in dipsomania with a minor in acquaintance rape. Ah, the life of the mind.