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               >> "Fear and Loathing in the Suburban Midwest" <<

                              by -> MoonBagel

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        Frat boys are the bane of my existence, I think.  I could be sorely
 mistaken.  No, that's wrong.  I could be mistaken, but I find it hard to
 believe that mistaken-ness would be in any way sore.  It would probably be
 quite healthy if I didn't harbor this inexplicable loathing of frat boys
 (frat boys, Ohio, and role-playing games, actually).

        Frat boys are bad.  They are not good.  I don't like their dirty
 little baseball caps, nor do I think they are in any way necessary (the caps
 and the boys).  I don't like how they vomit a lot.  When I was at UMass in
 Amherst, Mass., I didn't like how a group of frat boys had a giant
 inflatable turtle in front of their house.  There is irony -- I wouldn't
 mind having a giant inflatable turtle of my own.  The cause, however, is
 perverted royally by having a largely-grassless yard fertilized with vomit
 surrounding it.  Such a turtle deserves respect and a proper, healthy
 environment in which to thrive.

        Through years of extensive testing, living in the vincinity of
 several large state universities as well as numerous smaller schools, I have
 come to discover the one thing I'm sure frat boys are good for.  To recreate
 the joy I sometimes feel, you must have at your disposal a small group (or
 even one other) acquaintance/friend/stranger-who-shares-your-pain, a car of
 some variety... and it sure doesn't hinder you to be hyped up on all sorts
 of caffeinated substances.

        Drive along a busy thoroughfare, or hit a popular weekend (or
 weekday, if it tickles your toes) frat-boy nightspot.

        Spot a carload of fratboys.  FOLLOW THEM.  Follow at a safe distance,
 but follow 'em -- don't compromise your health and well-being for a carload
 of brothers.  If you hit upon a ripe group, you'll hear shouts that your
 momma admonished you for when you were a pure and virtuous,
 uncorrupted-by-frats child.  Sometimes you'll get compliments.  Other times,
 the most you will witness is a neat, intriguing mix of hand gestures which
 may be offensive in a foreign land.  They may not be.  It doesn't matter,
 ultimately.  It's funny.  Well, it's funny if you're caffeinated.  If you're
 not, I must apparently reside among the upper echelons of lame-osity.
 Woo-wee.

        If the pickin's are slim in your area, expect me to show up on your
 doorstep in a matter of days.  Don't despair -- I clean up after myself, I'm
 house-broken, and you have another option -- redneck/hicks (also in
 abundance in my city) prove to be a fine target, as well.  In that case,
 follow the same steps -- just find boys in rusted-out pickup trucks.

        Snacks are also appreciated.  Snacks make friends.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
    * (c) HoE publications.  HoE #151 -- written by MoonBagel -- 12/12/97 *