The Independent Voice of Southern Methodist University Since 1915

The Daily Campus

The Daily Campus

The Independent Voice of Southern Methodist University Since 1915

The Daily Campus

The Independent Voice of Southern Methodist University Since 1915

The Daily Campus


Something to Drink to

Your Uncle Macky toasts to future semesters
 Something to Drink to
Something to Drink to

Something to Drink to

According to my decrepit, senior roommate, who stresses daily over his uncertain post-collegiate future, the Mustangs’ Fall semester is nearly ancient history. But to everyone else I know the semester seems like it’s just begun.

For a season-ender, one may find it appropriate to quote the majestic Grateful Dead by regurgitating the band’s now contrived lyric, “What a long, strange trip it’s been.”

However, this would only be relevant if I lacked proper intelligence and neglected my painstakingly strong sense of duty. Luckily, I’m not willing to punish my three beautiful fans by casting them dumbfounded, into boorish, literary doldrums where author-to-reader niceties fail to exist.

That is, I’m not going to say it’s been “a long, strange trip” for two fundamental reasons.

One, spewing forth cheap, ordinary and unoriginal commentary makes Mack pitch his cookies. And two, to those wily few who’ve kept their eyes open and ears pert, this semester has not been long, strange nor even a “trip.”

The semester’s been agonizingly short, dreadfully water-logged and, if workloads could be described in terms of the female body minus any insinuated sexism, draw-droppingly homework top-heavy.

But this summary isn’t intended to be wholly negative. Each person has their own perceptions of the year in close because all semesters will inevitably end, and this is no one’s fault but Mr. Time.

For a handful of overachieving individuals, the end of a term may mark a period of intense depression, anxiety and loneliness. For others, it signifies a glorious time for celebration, a call for drenching oneself in a liquid-bouquet of cheap champagne, Boone’s Farm and Sangria.

For instance, each time a semesters ends, many undergrads hurriedly turn in their final blue book, gleefully trash all semblances of lecture-loving, tweed-wearing, bespectacled professors and speedily clump their entire four-month term into a forgotten memory bank already chockfull of semesters past.

And unless we students discover President Turner and Student-body President Chip Hiemenz throwing fisticuffs in Dallas quad within the next eight days over who has the larger “jurisdiction,” our Fall 2004 semester fails to strike anybody as one that shall be different from the aforementioned scenario.

But even though thousands of Mustangs will soon take to America’s airways and highways for an anticipatory journey home, I feel it necessary to rehash the time we spent here in Dallas-ville over the past few months before thoughtlessly discarding the semester into the depths of our burned-out psyches.

Consider this: Classes officially began a mere 108 days ago. (Sixty-six days before that, the Olsen twins became legal, which made many heterosexual men feel 100 percent less guilty).

Upon reentering the academic arena we all re-learned that there’s always that one person, or hobnobbing group of people, in every class who attempts to monopolize the class’s allotted discussion time by shining the proverbial spotlight on his or herself for as long as the wearied professor will allow.

Unfortunately it’s something we’re forced to endure — well, except for the chummy annoyances themselves. As these pesky critters burrow themselves deeper into their professors’ hind-parts every chance they get, we all want to rise in a mutinous revolt so that we too may listen to what our $4,000-teacher has to say.

But then again, what are you gonna do? Somebody’s got to waste your precious time and money. Might as well be the local members of The National Federation for We-Have-No-Inner-Monologue-And-Are-Damn-Proud-Of-It.

But, regardless of these folks, time keeps a-kickin’.

As August turned September, and the political race for the White House intensified, we all observed John Kerry evolve into the most cement-faced and boring candidate ever – despite his public relations officials convincing him to delve into the wind-surfing world. Half interesting, half pathetic.

As for the silly, little Texan, we witnessed how Chuck Norris’s stupefying lines in every episode of Walker, Texas Ranger merited more praise than GeeDubya Bush’s bumbling attempt at political discourse.

It never improved Bush’s image either when he continuously belched forth his weasel-like giggle after admitting he tends to garble the English language. You’re the President, Georgey-poo. You should be able to speak intelligently, succinctly and clearly.

In October on game-days, all SMU non-football players thoroughly enjoyed partaking in the merry gaiety of the sometimes wet, sometimes dry, Boulevard by trying to dodge the wannabe-gun-slingin’ TABC agents.

In November on game-days, all SMU non-football players thoroughly enjoyed partaking in the boisterous romp that so aptly distinguishes the always wet Green Elephant by successfully eluding those pathetically-armed TABC urban cowboys.

When we return in January, all SMU students will no longer spiritedly frolic in the once heavenly Green Elephant – for the era of the ‘phant will soon expire. And that, my friends, is a sad, sad thing.

It seems that for every clump of hair I lose in the shower, another of my favorite college establishments bites the dust. Big Al’s. The Boulevard. The Green Elephant. Mike’s Tree House. The entire SMU fraternity system, which the administration fiercely squeezes in the stranglehold, dangling it over a cliff, daring the fraternities to give them an excuse – looking the Greeks in the eye and inviting, “I’ll be your huckleberry.”

But “Time marches on,” to quote an extremely awful, piercing Country song, because now we find ourselves in the cavernous darkness of bitter December days and even colder December nights, causing the inspiring Counting Crows song to rise to life.

All of the above being what they may, we all live and we all learn, which is why I must give the toast-of-the-semester to the prospects of an even better one in 2005.

I drink to you, future semester. Even if you disappoint me with closings, heavy rainfall and entirely too much work, I’ll still love ya. And since the status quo always changes, I suppose the only tangible thing, which you SMU students can count on, is that I’m the weird Uncle you kind of wish you never had.

These are a few of my favorite things. Now put that in your yuletide pipe and smoke it.

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