Party Time at Girls Gone Wild University

Does alma matter?

In this atmosphere of meaninglessness there arose a tacit understanding between the faculty and students, one that seemed to say, "Look, we'll act like we're teaching, and you act like you're learning, and maybe we'll all get through this okay."

Hence "The Sociology of the Horror Film," which screened such B-movies as Blackula, Count Yorga and Vampire as well as works by Italian budget director Mario Bava. Every week, the instructors would give lectures relating Blackula to Erving Goffman's Frame Analysis theories, or introduce arcane acronyms like BBV, for "Bava's Busy Foreground." It was all a bunch of amiable bullshit, but it has stuck in my mind for decades, while Wuthering Heights has not. Indeed, about the only other standout memory of my college years was a Human Sexuality course that showed cheap porno flicks—in one, the female participant was so disinterested she picked at zits on the guy's back while he did her—and where the professor demonstrated male ejaculation by taking a flying jump off a lab table.

In keeping with those uptight times, the only genitals pictured in the official class textbook were diseased, chancrous ones. (For extra credit, what's the Latin for "I came, I saw, I chancred"?) Are we less uptight now? I visited the UCI Bookstore recently, and the current $87.65 text, Human Sexuality: Meeting Your Basic Needs, still ignores the college student's basic need to eyeball puds and pudenda sans pustules. No one likes girls who have gone too wild.

What is the spirit on campus today? In my visit to Irvine, the prevailing mood seemed to be one of torpor and disengagement. Granted, this mood might also be called "summer vacation," since classes hadn't begun yet and no one was around. Still, it was right in line with what I hear about college students today: that they're too busy pursuing a career, swapping MP3s or getting drunk to be engaged in the student's traditional role of being society's conscience. Unlike Tiananmen Square, if a U.S. student laid down in front of a tank, it would be because he/she was too drunk to stand.

C'mon, kids, pull yourselves together! You've got your whole future ahead of you, and no besotted, stumble-tongued frat boy is ever going to be elected president of the United States.

But then, who needs to be elected to be president anymore? Party on, dude. Here is all you really need to know to make a success of your college years—the recipe for:

Jim's College Rum Cake

Buy a cake. A sponge cake is particularly good. Douse it in rum. I don't mean sprinkle. I mean douse. Pretend you are a brave fireman and the cake is fire.

It is ready to serve. Get ready to graciously accept the accolades that will come your way, such as, "My udders are too big! Will you help me out of this bustier and into a youthful indiscretion?" and "Wowie! I'm so full of rum it feels like Captain Morgan's pissing up my ass! Thanks!"

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