Go Fete!

As a media studies major, I'm expected to attend the Media Studies Fall Fete. Fete? Why not just say party? I think it's just a way to make an often belittled discipline seem more scholarly; I'm also an English major, and I had to check the dictionary to verify that fete meant party. (It's important to confirm these kind of things, lest I show up at a Media Studies Barn Raising event - though I suppose that wouldn't be very likely considering the Amish's sole critique of films would be "the devil's work" or some other crazy quip from their button-less selves.)

En route to the fete, I encounter some douches from the football team. Sorry, I'm assuming and that's unfair of me: they might be douch-y sumo wrestlers instead. These gentlemen have acquired a frisbee and are heaving it at parked cars to amuse themselves. Why, I bet they haven't laughed so merrily since that night they poured acid on a stray cat. After needlessly dinging many a vehicle, they decide on a new target: me. "Hit that kid!" I hear, followed by Cro-Magnon laughter. Shortly, a frisbee whirs by, landing five yards ahead of me. (Judging from their aim, they most certainly are on the football team.) Quickly, I trot past the frisbee as the thugs shout to me. "Hey, a little help!" "Throw it back, dude." First they try to strike me with the frisbee and then they expect me to toss it back? That's less likely than them having gotten into college on academic merits. If I had any intention of returning the frisbee, it'd involve inserting it up their asses.