I bid a sweet good morrow

Oh, fate! Oh vile, cruel and abominable fate! Wherefore hast thou stolen my college years away? Canst I be an undergraduate forever?

I’m graduating, my duteous disciples, after four long years of procrastination, revelry and debauchery. My biggest concern in this mess is for the likes of you, my doting public. How will you be informed of the world’s monstrosities once yours truly throws his hat into the vocational ring? From whom shall you receive your laughter, the best medicine (except if you’re Bob Dole or Raphael Palmero)? Where the heck did my four years go?

I’d like to note that I planned on writing about Iraq today. In the usual solipsistic nature of my column, I would have suggested that I become their next political leader. It would have been quite humorous. I was planning on making jokes about how great my picture would look all over town. I’m quite photogenic, I would have said, and I would have referred to the carefree mug above. However, I promised myself that I would refrain from writing any more politically motivated columns.

College comes down to memories, or reconstructed memories. Here are a few of mine that I hope you will enjoy. The George Clinton concert way back last century in McFarlin auditorium on Halloween night jumpstarted my college experience. Mardi Gras was fun. Class was hard.

And that’s all I got.

There’s something eerily depressing about graduating from college. I remember what everyone told me before I came to SMU: “College is the best time of your life.”

Drat.

Don’t you go assuming I haven’t had my share of college fun. Aside from my own, I probably commandeered a few of your shares of fun. I had so much fun in college that I’d be prepared to stick around for another few years to ensure that you all have as much fun. I’m just that sort of person. Always worrying about the happiness of others.

Here’s the problem: There are too many things that I should have done that I won’t get to do. I never went to Billy Bob’s. I never left for Shreveport at 3:00 a.m. for a few hours of blackjack. I never went deer hunting or cow tipping or honkey-tonking. I never made it up to the paradise also known as Oklahoma. And I don’t even own a pair of boots.

I digress. I’m leaving and there nothing you or I can do about it. SMU, however, can do something about it. They can name me as valedictorian – I’d even accept salutatorian-so I can pass my last few pearls of wisdom along. My speech would be fun and wouldn’t contain any of the sappy, cliched lines.

“Alright, buckies,” I would begin. “So you showed up to enough classes so’s nobody’d failed ya. Phenomenal. After four years of class – four and a half years or more for most of you – you’ve learned lots of valuable information that you will carry for the rest of your life. Now let me give you the information that really matters. If you ever find yourself in a karate movie, and you’re the bad guy, never catch the good guy’s kick. He or she will undoubtably do a spinning kick with his or her other foot. Thank you, that is all.”

What will this place be like without me?

In three weekends, I will be done with the undergraduate experience. No longer will I be a college student. No more keg beer. No more short pants and barbeque-stained T-shirts. A nice, conservative haircut. I’ll need to start shaving regularly (sigh). And, to everyone’s great dismay, no more wise-ass beyond his years.

It’s all very depressing, my little cogs. So much so that I actually decided that this was “good enough” to send in as my column.