To the slobs at my college:
Excuse me, you dropped something. Yes, I’m talking to you, you slack-jawed cretin, the one that just dropped the cigarette butt, the candy wrapper, the bottle lid on the ground. Please bend over and pick it up. Surely it’s not too much to ask a competent adult to display the necessary muscular strength, mental acumen and digital dexterity to do so. Is it too much to ask you also to hobble six feet and exercise your clearly challenged tempero-spatial aptitude such that you deposit it in the receptable so thoughtfully provided for the purpose? And here’s a hint: if you didn’t drop it on the ground in the first place, you could skip the first part and go straight for the second. Up to you, if you feel you need the exercise. But for Og’s sake, don’t leave it lying around the landscape for the rest of us to appreciate. Believe it or not, we aren’t enamored of your garbage.
What’s that? You think it’s not my place to speak to you about this? I’m not your mommy, or the boss or you, or the campus police? No, I’m not. I am simply an adult member sharing the community you choose to be a part of. As you are apparently unaware of a fact you were supposed to have learned in kindergarten, allow me to let you in on this: big boys and girls pick up after themselves. You’re in 13th grade now, kiddies, let’s see if you can display some mastery of the the basics of civilization. This is what we call "being a grown up.” And this is not really one of the difficult parts, like filling out your class schedule, or driving a stick shift or cashing your paycheck from BurgerOoze. Have you been paying any attention at all?
What the hell is the matter with you, you selfish, sniveling prat? Do you think mommy is still running around behind you, you little ninny, picking up your foul trail of putrescent leavings? By and large, this is a fairly nice campus. Do you think the fine, hard-working men and women of Facilites Management have nothing better to do with their time than scrape up the repulsive spoor of your carelessness? Are you just a puling, whiny, inconsiderate, infantile loser or are you actually the sort of animal filth that fouls its own nest? And whichever one it is, why do you think any of us should therefore feel privileged to share space with you? You are a blot and a canker. You are a carbuncle on the butt of this institution and the foul smell of its hairy, unwashed armpits after gym class. You are the booger sneezed onto the plate lunch of life, the bird dropping falling from the traitorous tree of beguiling shade into the soft drink of fine weather, the unexpected menstrual smear on the new silk panties of the morning, the cat shit on the living room carpet of the afternoon.
It’s such a small thing, it doesn’t even make a decent rant, but it besmirches unnecessarily what would otherwise be a fine thing. Over and over and over again. Go home and grow up, you grubby, nose-picking diaperloads.