Recently the Lady Monkey and I found ourselves at a gathering of the rapidly ageing one of those parties where the attendees go overboard in embracing their so-called maturity by drinking wine instead of beer, and ceremoniously bury their childhood by discussing things like pre-school and investment portfolios instead of road trips or the Simpsons.
I hate parties like that, and so does the Lady Monkey. We never really understood why one has to turn their backs on simple, silly, stupid things just because there is a considerable pile of calendar pages in the out box. Not only do we hate these parties, but we also hate the self-involved, pompous, tight-sphinctered sort of people who throw them.
As it turned out, this party was hosted by a colleague of the Lady Monkeys, and we were obligated to attend. The host turned out to be some humorless intellectual specializing in modes of alienation found in the contemporary racial matrix of post-modern society, or something like that. Basically a Ph.D. who sacrificed whatever whimsical qualities of youth they used to posses in pursuit of the ability to make a lot of neurotic and insecure undergrads go "ooh" and "aah" as they pontificate endlessly, spreading their particular brand of intellectual intolerance.
Now, it is no coincidence that the host was an alumnus of one of the more prestigious and expensive universities in the land, and one that I just happen to mock at every opportunity. At first, I didn't know the educational background that formed the foundation of his specific type of condescending pedantry, but in retrospect, it should have been obvious. His pseudo-Marxist philosophy simply dripped of privilege, and his patronizing attitude reeked of a life of shelter and excess. He was a Stanfurd through-and-through.
I was introduced to the host, who made it a point of referring to himself as Doctor. As he extended his limp, clammy hand, he surveyed the Monkey, apparently looking for clues in my eyeglasses, aloha shirt, and the fact that I was the only one holding a beer, as to my pedigree. Being unable to reach any internal conclusion (or, perhaps, just wanting to see if he had concluded correctly), he immediately asked about my profession. This was going to be fun.
I informed Doctor Stanfurd that I was unemployed, owing to a rather nasty misunderstanding involving a bottle of Bosco and the local grammar school playground a few years back, but that I was on parole and supplementing my unemployment checks by staging phony automobile accidents and then suing for soft tissue damage. His expression was priceless. He snorted as if he realized I was joking, but the revulsion on his face betrayed the fact that he wasn't sure. He then made some small talk about some mental onanism he was involved in regarding negative representations of Caucasian adolescents in South Asian literature, when he asked how the Lady Monkey and I met. I told him we met at an orgy at college, when fortune caused us both to decide to adjourn to the snack-bar at the same time. He asked where that was, and I gave my first honest answer of the evening. That was when he straightened slightly, eased his shoulders back, and puffed out what little chest he had to tell me that, as he put it, "matriculated at Stanfurd."
I snickered a bit, spilling some of my beer, causing him to raise an eyebrow and adopt a defensive posture, which for a Stanfurd man usually involves crouching so as to protect their soft underbelly, while throwing their arms over their head to absorb the initial blows, but which in this case was more a hurt look in the eye and an overall affect of preparing to run to mommy. We discussed our mutual alma maters, each degrading the other for a bit, until he concluded that I was woefully misinformed, as all my judgments were based on visiting the campus during the odd-years of The Big Game, and wandering around after consuming copious amounts of Oat Sodas.
And you know, he was right. So, it was with that in mind that when the opportunity arose I made a side-trip to the city of Palo Alto and the campus of Stanfurd Junior University to see if I was wrong about the place all these many years.
It turns out I wasn't. Stanfurd is as bad and as annoying and as utterly dislikable as I had always known. It is the sort of place you want to see bulldozed to make room for a manure storage facility. It contains the type of people who drive BMWs and take mortal offense if anyone satirically pokes fun at them. It is a place where you learn how to reconcile giving lip-service to populist philosophy while employing an illegal Guatemalan maid. In short, it sucks.
But you ask, "Monkey, oh Monkey! How does Stanfurd suck? Do they suck out loud, or in silence? Do they suck often? Do they also swallow?"
I hear your cries.
Through hard investigation, tireless research, and the physically repugnant act of having to deal directly with Stanfurd people and propaganda, I have catalogued evidence of the depth of Stanfurd's sucking. And let me tell you, Chachi ... they suck long, hard, and deep.
To begin, there is the campus. For some reason, Stanfurds find it a thing of exquisite beauty, while anyone with even a modicum of aesthetic sensibility immediately recognizes that it looks as if it was left behind by a passing herd of cattle suffering from a collective bout of particularly nasty dysentery. It consists of a hodge-podge grouping of mud huts and squat hardscrabble shacks, all in some shade of vaguely nauseating beige, built around their beloved "quad." The "quad" is, in fact, the center of their campus social life, and hosts such beloved events as the daily Insider Stock Exchange, where Stanfurd undergrads can gather to let each other know if their parents are being investigated by the SEC and which stocks to sell immediately. The "quad" is also where Stanfurds can hear inspirational public lectures on how to properly correct your servants, or how to get that deep shine on the finish of their BMWs.
However, the real centerpiece of the Farm (as Stanfurd Junior University is affectionately called) is the Hoover Tower, a feeble structure startlingly devoid of any vision, aesthetic quality, or redeeming nature. Named after Herbert Hoover, one of Stanfurd's most beloved alums, the tower encapsulates all the charm, prestige, and charisma of that man. In one of the truest examples of the Stanfurd gestalt ever put forth, Hoover, on receiving the presidential nomination of his party, said: "We in America today are nearer to the final triumph over poverty than ever before in the history of any land" and then promptly led the country into the Great Depression. Hoover tower's flaccid shape hearkens not only to that legacy, but also to the half-erect phalluses and oafish sensibilities of all Stanfurd men, and is the perfect symbol of Stanfurd vitality and vigor.
But there is more to Stanfurd than a hideous campus, revolting student body, and embarrassing legacy: there is athletics! Ask any Stanfurd and they will go on endlessly about the so-called athletic tradition of Stanfurd. Whatever small amount of success they may have garnered in recent years is belied by decades of futility and cowardice, best exemplified by an event involving the Stanfraid Rugby team in 2001. Scheduled to play Cal (defending champions and owners of a considerable win-streak against the Stanfraid Ruggers) and faced with an inevitable thrashing and mocking of their limited manhood, they instead opted to forfeit. Citing fear of injury and a distaste for losing as cause, the Stanfraid rugby team, showing the same fortitude as a pack of Frenchmen hearing two children speaking German, simply surrendered weeks before the game. In a moment of stark honesty, then Stanfraid coach, Franck Boivert, said: "[we] are, however, very afraid to get injured and indeed fear for [our] safety."
Along with this monument to fragility and spinelessness, there is also the tradition of the Stanfurd Band and the Stanfurd Tree. The band, which gains notoriety from their "zany" performances and "wacky" uniforms, is in reality, little more than a collection of spoiled children. Their antics are the sort of cry of attention often seen from any pampered, coddled, over-indulged two year old. Like the aforementioned two year old, the band's feeble attempts at being precocious quickly move from mildly interesting into irritating displays, and after ten minutes you really wish they would just go away. Yeah, it was cute when it started, but a little goes a long way. The same goes for their tree, but doubly so. This perpetually annoying mascot is a prancing jackass, animated by the little boy that best exemplifies the poncey, fancy-lad spirit of Stanfurd. The tree irritates, aggravates, and minces, displaying a level of appeal usually found only in pinworms or maggots. However, it does serve as the perfect mascot of Stanfurd Junior University: it is rarely fully erect, it tries far too hard to draw attention to itself, and for all its macho posturing and false bravado, it will curl into a ball and whimper uncontrollably whenever confronted, as it did during one memorable basketball game, when Oski beat the ever-lovin' crap out of it.
In short, the degree of suckage of Stanfurd is immeasurable. If one were to construct a comparable listing of suckosity, Stanfurd would have to anchor the high point, making them the barometer of a logarithmic scale of sucking. For instance, stubbing your toe may rate only a hundred-thousandth of a Stanfurd, while losing your job would come in at a whopping thousandth, and having your family die in a fire would rate, perhaps, a five-hundreth. As of this writing, only one thing has come close to this gold standard: Bush IIs administration, which has reached a zenith of 0.75 Stanfurd.
New Consumeriffic Value-Added Section! Jam-packed with SCADS of useful information to satisfy the topic nazi's and stay-at-home nitpickers who tend to rule and ruin this place. Now, I don't usually cave in to the whims of the simple minded and overly annoying, but apparently this review of Stanfurd didn't have the requisite degree of consumerly helpful information needed to help the more needy and dim decide whether Stanfurd was right for their precious bundle of joy. Here's a hint: if you are the type to helpfully add suggestions regarding the suitability of my essay to this section, then your screaming brat is likely perfect for Stanfurd. But, let it never be said that the Monkey isn't all about helping the consumer, so here is another bit scadfully filled to the brim with helpful, relevant information about Stanfurd, geared toward assisting the consumer make an informed choice!
For all the irritation and aggravation oozing from Stanfurds regarding their ugly campus and repulsive traditions, easily the most annoying aspect of these people is the hype with which Stanfraud Junior University promotes their academics. True, the faculty at Stanfraud are among the most noted in the world, and the student body tends to skew toward the upper end of both the SAT and egotistically inflated curve. However, the dirty little secret of Stanfraud is the fact that, for all their chest-thumping and yowling about their academic standards, it is impossible to fail out of the Farm. At any other regarded institution across the country the students must work hard to earn their grades. But not Stanfrauds. See, they have a system there where, should one of their "students" find themselves facing the prospect of earning anything below their entitled A, they may drop their class up to the last week of instruction. Ho ho! What an advantage! The reason is simple, and I will present it in the stylized form of an old Junior High Geometry proof:
Given: Stanfraud students do not fail out of class
1. Stanfraud admission standards are very stringent.
2. Only the highest quality students meet the admission standards.
3. High quality academic students do not fail out of class.
5. Stanfraud students are incapable of failure.
To explain this to the type of people who leave helpful comments about how to improve my postings, or regarding the appropriate location for my essays, the logic goes like this: Stanfraud would never admit any students who could fail out of school therefore no Stanfraud students can fail out. It's sort of a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts, but no matter how you slice it, the fact remains that while students at other universities are under constant pressure to maintain a minimum GPA, those at Stanfraud are under constant pressure to maintain a deep polish on their BMWs.
There. An extra dose of super-top, consumerly helpful information to help all the information starved visitors to this site make an informed decision regarding universities.
Just doing my small part to maintain minimum standards in this Eep community.
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