Country Ray doesn’t like them — he says they smell funny, and always refuse to “c’mere and sit in my lap.” But they’re disliked outside the VIP lounge at Popeye’s, too.
They’re nerds, stuck-up assholes without any connection to the city or its inhabitants. They’ve never taken a stroll on the New Haven Green (“Don’t you know?! That’s where the homeless people do their deflowering of innocent virgins!”). They’ve never obeyed New Haven’s pedestrian laws (guerilla jaywalking units terrorize motorists in front of SSS with impunity). And they’ve never once bought a flower for a sandwich. They are a bunch of asshole career kids stopping on their way to Big Checks, U.S.A., to puke in New Haven, Conn.
OK, what part of “Get out of town, you f@$#ers” do Yale Law students not understand?
For one thing, if you are going to control the world, fine — but don’t try to make us feel better about by opening your dining hall up to transfers for lunch. It just ain’t gonna do it. And as a side note, what sicko would transfer and eat “lunch” from 2 to 3:45 p.m.? Do we undergraduates look like some backwards Central-Time-Zone-Following Neanderthals to you guys?
I mean sometimes I wonder what the hell’s going on with those jackasses at the Law School–
“Well, I’m shopping Cooper’s ‘Supercilious Ass’ — I don’t think I’m going to get into the ‘Understanding Why Other People Are Not As Good As You’ seminar. It’s really tough.”
“Wait, is that the one Bill took or the one Hillary took?”
“No, no, you’re thinking of R-Dizzle, aka the Chief Justice of big booty hoes. By the way, that was a sick late-night at ‘da House.”
“Oh yeah, the brothers at Tri-Dubya really know how to get down.”
“Wait just a moment, T. Aloysius Sterling: I just remembered how freakin’ sweet we are — can I get a high five?”
Given the fact that most of them will earn more money, bang hotter secretaries, and freebase harder drugs than the rest of humanity, it’s no surprise that they hold themselves aloof from Yale’s hoi polloi (and I’m not just talking about the School of Management, Yale’s “special” business school). This rarefied species avoids all commingling with anyone other than JAG recruiters. And really, it’s understandable. What with all their fancy iPod MP3 players, diminutive Nokia cell phones, and expensive Harvard class rings, only a JD with a death wish would walk home through Old Campus after dark. From the Over-graduate Student Handbook: “If you run into an undergraduate don’t make eye contact — they view that as threatening. Also, they’re probably as scared as you. Remember to calmly depress the ‘Panic’ button on your BMW keyless entry system and make deliberate and regulated wailing noises to attract help.”
But sightings of these Armani-clad assholes do occur, however rare and disastrous they may be. Beyond the fertile prick-spawning pool that is Sterling Law Building, these star-bellied Sneetches of Yale have developed a covert way of identification outside of the warren. Avoiding the collective wrath of a university scorned, these LSAT champs evade detection by donning T-shirts emblazoned with the letters J-R-E-G. Supposedly, a reference to a shadowy entity known as “The Journal of Regulations,” the arcane acronym in fact celebrates several prestigious alumni (READ: big donors): Jesus LAW ’00, Ronald McDonald LAW ’75, Eazy E Ph.D (player-hating degree) ’89, and Godzilla LAW ’51, king of the monsters.
Turns out, all these successful people were just like you and me in high school (most did in fact matriculate and were not hatched at Kline Biology Tower). What seems to unify these men and women is that “learning” (i.e., resume padding) didn’t end with Mom ghostwriting “Why I Liked Volunteering at the Senior Center: A College Essay Written For Six Schools.” In fact, instead of calling the Lillian Goldman Law Library “Toad’s With The Lights On” or even “Mory’s Without the Singing Groups,” they don’t even have a drinking-related name for it (and they call it a library, jeez). Yale Law students have achieved academic success (get this!) SINCE HIGH SCHOOL. That’s right, some of them even got valedictorian IN COLLEGE. Which means we really DON’T have any right to get our hookahs in a huff when our ID cards don’t get us into the Law School from Tower Parkway.
In the unlikely encounter you are approached by a law student, here is a clip ‘n save conversation for future reference (I always give back to my readers):
“Hello there, young man. By your raggedy North Face fleece, Nalgene bottle and poorly nourished face I can tell you’re a Yale undergrad. Since you don’t have anything to worry about besides drinking and fornicating, please do me the kind favor of escorting me to Union League Cafe? I seem to have lost my way.”
“Umm, okay, I’m definitely going the other way, and that would cause me to miss turning my Natural Hazards problem set in on time, but then again you ARE a law student –“
Just shut up and be glad they tip well.
Will Garneau spent more time thinking of a funny away message than on this article.