... on the Mass Insanity of College Undergrads 

What a piece of work is the college undergraduate. How lacking in reason, how impotent in faculties, in form and moving how car-less and inebriated, in action how like a sloshed roadie, in apprehension how like an incompetent god! The god of three-day-old pizza and hangovers. The god of dirty laundry. The god of mononucleosis.

To pee, or not to pee, in the alley behind the bar—that is your question. Whether 'tis nobler in your mind to suffer the horror of a five-day workweek, or to take arms against a sea of homework, and through a general tone of opposition and apathy, to do a substandard job. There’s method to your madness, but seldom do I see a work ethic.

I would never wish ill fate upon you, but, if you die, the rest of us might get some sleep. Your loud parties would cease, and the sounds of screaming sports fans would dissipate by 10 p.m. To die, to sleep—to sleep—perchance to dream. And in that sleep, what dreams may come … dreams of streets without litter, sidewalks without roving mobs, bars without the song “Sexy Back.”

You’re the students that make calamity of four years in college.

Alas, poor undergrads, I know you well. Your time here is filled with infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. You bear on your back a thousand books, most of which cost more money than your cell phones. But you never open these books—how abhorred in my imagination it is!

What will you do when you reach the job market? Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Where’s your resume? Your suit for interviews? Your haircut? Where’s your travel mug? Your tie rack? Your copy of “How to Win Friends and Influence People”? You’ll need them soon …

Better get thee to a career counselor.

Bring me some work experience.