Okay. We all know about the winners at GW. This institution is quick to advertise the success stories. We hear about those honor students. We hear how they enjoy doing more challenging work than the rest of us. We hear how they numb their Ivy-envy by sitting around in their row house reading Chaucer and eating scones.
We hear about all the Rusty Stahls and the “Q” Golpavars who volunteer all their free time to make sure the bag lady on 18 Street has socks (and make the rest of us feel like big meanies for spending all our free time eating sun chips, getting drunk and vandalizing public property.)
We hear about all those ambitious students who come to GW and immediately start interning for Representative Bob Littlehiney so they can stay on track to become president before their mothers die.
But what about the losers? In middle school, there was a kid named Jason Lau who would beat the cr?pe out of me. I still recall him chasing my little naked buttocks around the locker room and forcing me to do peniy slides in the shower pit. He said to me one day as I was sliding across the basin floor on my face, “Hey Hertzfeldt, you should thank me. If it wasn’t for dumb `m-fers’ like me, no one would think skinny a-lickers like you are smart.”
This gentle sermon has remained deeply nestled in my taut breast. And it is in this taut breast that I recognize losers. When I say losers, I am talking about personable people who don’t bother to achieve societal norms of accomplishment. Those people who enable two-thirds of us to classify ourselves as overachievers. They aren’t dumb. They just have decided that those people trumpet “Give 110 percent” are either on speed or lack basic math skills.
I would like to shine The Hatchet’s spotlight on Loser-of-the-Week, Adam Levin. I have been a friend of Levin’s since Thrustin Hell. I have watched him mature from his Thrustin days when he would roam the halls at all hours making certain everybody stayed as unproductive as he; to his present spartan regiment of naps, Jerry Springer and scheduled bathroom breaks.
Upon graduation, Levin hopes to get a job with Tony’s Flowers on 19th Street, which specializes in beautiful flowers and low grade porn, and continue his banality at a professional level.
Rob: “Are you glad you came to GW?” Levin: “I’m happier than a pig in shit.” Rob: “With what have you been involved at GW?” Levin: “I have a sports radio show and I’m in Sigma Alpha Epsilon. It’s really stretching me thin.” Rob: “Ever had an internship or job during the school year?” Levin: “No. I might get one at the MC Store just to pad the ol’ r?sum?.” Rob: “How many hours a week do you study?” Levin: “About 30 minutes.” Rob: “What’s your GPA?” Levin: “2.98.” Rob: “Are you proud of this?” Levin: “I don’t give a shit what my GPA is. Ninety-five percent of the shit you take you don’t need anyway, so who gives a shit?”Rob: “Do you think your father completely wasted his $120,000 sending you here?” Levin: “Yes.” Rob: “Why?” Levin: “Cause I could learn this same shit at a local community college.” Rob: “What was your proudest moment here at GW?” Levin: “Befriending the J Street employees – Big Larry, Reddish, Duane, Lolita and last but not least, the lovely Sonia at the coffee place with her rosy cheeks.” Rob: “Any advice for freshmen at GW?” Levin: “It don’t mean nothin’ cause it’s all bullshit anyway. And don’t minor in anything. Minors are gay.” Rob: “What is your goal in life?” Levin: “I don’t know. Don’t ask me that, Bertrum. I don’t have an answer. To be a good person. I don’t know. To rest. Yeah, that’s it, to rest and relax a lot. Well, that answer’s a clunker but I don’t give a shit. I’m tired. Leave me alone. You think of something funny to put.”
In this article, I would also like to pay homage to a departed friend of mine, Roger. I will call him Spooge.
Spooge arrived here last semester from my high school in Hanover, Pennsylvania. I tried to help him feel at home in the GW community by embarrassing him in a cartoon.
However, by the end of the semester I could tell he would rather be Linda Tripp’s proctologist than spend another semester here. Spooge said all the people here are stupid and that there is nothing to do. True, when queried, Spooge would admit he had never gone out at night except for Flicks once, never went to any cultural events and didn’t make any effort to meet anyone.
Spooge is now at Penn State and is probably happily sitting alone in the woods speedballing J.D. and Yuengling’s Lager in a hut made out of leaves and deer dung. So I would like to salute both Spooge and Adam Levin who do just enough to get by. Because, after all, isn’t that all we can really ask?
Before you attempt the crossword puzzle, I would like to add this addendum. In my last article, my editors removed a sentence warning students to be wary of the persuasion class of Golden Marla Award Winner Clay Warren. His grading method is slightly draconian and I would not want to be responsible for having anyone not graduate on time (War has done it before).
Secondly, I appreciate constructive criticism and some of my friends have told me that my last cartoon on the SA candidates was not funny. Upon review I agreed with them and was going to issue a public apology, but instead I have decided it would be more fun just to tell Grant and Adam to go to hell. Thank you.
This article appeared in the March 12, 1998 issue of the Hatchet.