It never ceases to amaze me how superficial some people can be, looking down on others for their haircuts, clothes or even bodily piercings. One would think that at Yale, the rigorous academic environment would weed out those who are simply interested in what people wear. Well, I don’t know who that “one” is, but he’s wrong. The corners of High, Elm and College streets are littered with such individuals.
Personally, I find this practice mean-spirited and archaic. I don’t like to judge people simply on what they wear or how they look; I prefer to use their lunch trays. I have done extensive undercover guerilla journalism into the most selective sect of this subculture: the freakishly skinny girls. And now, after that long, convoluted and disorganized introduction I am ready to share my findings with you all.
Every night in my college there are those girls who, on the outside, seem to have it all together. That is, of course, until I turn my gaze toward their lunch trays. Diet Coke and a plate full of steamed broccoli! What kind of sick twisted Vietnamese-P.O.W.-meets-Rodeo-Drive kind of dinner is that? These are the same girls I’ve seen every weekend this semester pounding Solo cups full of Schaefer. How do they do it? Their bones must be as brittle as the nonfat pretzel sticks they down like ravenous hyenas. It’s literally all I can do not to yell “Fire in the hole!!!” and chuck a roasted ham in their direction. I suppose they are nice enough people on the outside, even if their bodies are consuming their livers on the inside. Occasionally, I see a spark of human decency in their malnourished eyes, but maybe they are just scanning my body to see if I’ve hidden any potato chips in my pocket.
It’s possible that some of these girls could merely be perpetually participating in that YHHAP fast thing, which I guess is kind of admirable. To be perfectly honest the whole concept of the fast was lost on me. Since the moment some guy in sandals attacked me with a clipboard, I have been utterly confused.
“Dude! Do you want to help eliminate world hunger?”
“Listen up, dude. Just sign this form and help eliminate world hunger!”
“But — If we eliminate world hunger, who’ll eat all the food?”
“Ha ha, dude, just sign the form.”
“No, I’m completely serious. With no hunger the world cow population will skyrocket! The cows will rise up and rule us all! It’d be just like India!”
“Don’t ‘dude’ me! It’ll be just like that one Chinese fish that could walk on land and like, ate all those poor children in Arizona or something! OH GOD! GET AWAY FROM ME!”
I really do invite someone to come and explain to me what will be done with all the food if we actually eliminate world hunger. I mean, all those restaurants (even NYLA, owned by Britney!!) would go out of business. There would be homeless sous-chefs and hibachi cooks roaming the streets offering to make food for the no-longer-hungry public. It brings a tear to my eye — and like, a real tear, not a pageant one.
Maybe it’s just the hunger-induced delirium talking here — I didn’t eat lunch today — but I’m starting to think these waifish zombies are on to something. I too have since sworn off real food. Only eating broccoli is the safest way to avoid certain meats of dubious origin in the dining hall. Chicken Kiev (Russian for “cat”), Chicken Marsala (Italian for “pigeon”) and Roasted Chicken (euphemism for “hell, WE don’t even know!”) are among the scarier things I’ve witnessed in the fair Georgian dining halls of Silliman. Seriously though, one must wonder where all this meat comes from. One day in Italian class this girl said that manufacturers filled it with laxatives in case it was contaminated. All I have to say to that is, “Sir, may I have another?” Back home, that’s what we call a “double whammy” — all the benefits of bran, but all the enjoyment of stray cat (or “chat perdu” if you’re dining out). I realize that I am obsessing with the idea of being served calico or tabby, but if you had seen the Detroit episode of “Animal Cops” (on Animal Planet) with the guy who had 247 cats in his house, you too would wonder. What did they do with all of them once they had them boxed up? I can’t say for sure, but I bet it was quite a fine week of feasting for Michigan schoolchildren.
I guess judging people by what they eat (or don’t) isn’t the best way to pick out the potential psychotic killers (“Saltines. Only Saltines — and a bottle of Chianti! Pthpt Pthpt Pthpt Pthpt!”) or cheerleaders (“Ummm — Pink snow puffs, and a pack of Virginia Slims, but never before a game! I get tossed! YAY!”). After all none of us really knows what we’re eating. Unless of course you dine in Berkeley, in which case you are eating foie gras and the finest chevre that the other 11 colleges’ money can buy. With my newfound appreciation for dining hall tolerance, go ahead — grab whatever you want! Throw three whole steaks or merely a sprinkling of raisins onto that tray — I won’t even take notice (and no, it’s not just because I’m lightheaded. Oh Christ, I’m hungry). So, on that note, “Bon appetit!” to Berkeley and “Try not to think about your pet cat Bubbles!” to the rest of us.
Bradley Bailey is carbo-loading. He has to run from cheerleaders. It turns out they really are athletes.