Enthusiastically embracing cynicism

By Jared Narvid

Cross Campus is dangerous. And Old Campus is virtual suicide. Let me explain with a story. It begins with a very unusual boy from California returning to Yale for his sophomore year. (I know--an astoundingly original premise) Two things characterize this boy. The first: an intense fear of warm, sunny weather. Unusual indeed for a Californian, but his fear is not of his native state's sun--he just spent the entire summer basking in it. No, this boy fears the few days we see sunshine at Yale. Why? As you might have surmised, I have the answer: and it lies at the climax of this terrifying tale. Two days after arriving at school, our thus-far nameless subject dies on Cross Campus. Is it cancer? No. An infectious disease? Most certainly. And for you who were beginning to doubt the seriousness of this article, I declare that the subjects at hand are of utmost importance.

Billy did not die from catching an infectious disease, but from not catching it. And thus we arrive at Billy's other unusual characteristic. Billy was a cynic, and the disease is what he and others like him call "Undergraditude." It has nothing to do with being appreciative. Its symptoms--love of the sun, the grass, acoustic guitars, singing, and in general demonstrating the qualities of happiness--are strikingly obvious to the unaided eye. Call this article my call to arms against this modern plague. We must boldly lash out against its victims (those drummers, guitarists, Ultimate players, and especially those people who do their homework on the lawn); they are everywhere. And for the sake of all generations to come, they must be stopped.

With intellectual cynicism at its acme, many like Billy come to Yale to bask in the sheer glory of misanthropy. To wax pseudo-poetic: to swim in the sparkling seas of all that is cynical. But these young bucks have an arch-enemy: the frisbee. And in this battle between good and pure evil, our heroes are losing. In walking from Cross Campus to Old Campus Billy found himself surrounded. Two males throwing a hell-disc, a woman laying out on the grass, and (the horror!) a guitarist strumming and singing pure, unadulterated torture. It was too much. The moment of crisis was upon him, and our brave and heroic protagonist fell dead.

A modern tragedy with an overwhelmingly negative message--it tells us what we cannot continue to do. Lives depend on the abolition of grass, sunshine, and of course those circular, flying weapons of death and destruction. In order to truly revolutionize undergraduate life and save us from our fast-approaching doom, we must find a positive model for the future. Sure enough, I have found him.

Recently, a friend shared with me a little anecdote about a guy named Bob. Upon hearing his story I realized Bob was our beacon of hope, our positive model to guide us, our cynosure. Thus, finally, I relay the tale that holds our future:

Bob, a college junior somewhere in America, decided that by determination and sheer force of will, he could live for three months without leaving his room, ingesting only Coke and hamburgers for sustenance. It was a proud plan, and the boy got scurvy. Yes, the affliction of pirates and sailors--scurvy. I think it is safe to say that if little Billy were alive to hear of Bob, he would have found his ideal man. And, as well, Bob should be ours.

In closing, I shall sum up my argument. When I am in a bad mood, I want to kill those happy people who beat on drums and play frisbee.

Jared Narvid is a sophomore in Jonathan Edwards.

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