Post-Grad: Med School

Average first-year in med school

Many undergrads chose Pre-Med as their major out of their own unrealistic ambition or at the urging of their parents. They were laughed at by their peers, and by sophomore year they had flunked their way into something easier like Sociology or English.

However, the people before us now are the precious few who clawed their way into medical school, and they'll let you know they damn well earned it - they had to retake Organic Chemistry twice and blow their professor for a rec letter to get here.

Course Offerings

Does the med school building have more than one story? If so, make sure you look up when passing by, because the entire class is on permanent suicide watch.

Med school is known for its brutal course load that is the intellectual equivalent of feudal serfdom. So why does anyone do it? Don't fool yourself with the Hippocratic Oath and the desire to help others - it's obviously because they aspire to become filthy, filthy rich, drive a BMW 7-series, own a yacht, and then finally lose everything after a series of gross malpractice lawsuits.

Social Life

Socializing in med school is limited to beers in between anatomy chapters and consensual pity groping between two desperate people.

Be careful who you make "friends" with, because the average med student will kill your entire family and your dog to move up one step on the class ladder. However, the brutal competition is ultimately all in vain, because one student is actually a supernatural cyborg built for studying and does not need sleep, food, or pleasurable release. And his last name is probably Patel.

The Campus Bookstore

Welcome to the campus bookstore. After spending an obscene amount of money on official NCAA clothing and eight textbooks, why not fill out a job application to help pay it off? While your cashier and future co-worker scurries off to find the hiring manager, feel free to leaf through Mother Jones or the other left-wing trash the bookstore peddles to students in its magazine section.

Nike Pro-Shop

You might be tempted to ask the employee behind the counter if you took a wrong turn and ended up in Sports Authority, but worry not - this is the bookstore. It's just that Nike or Reebok have a corporate deal with the school and the bookstore makes some serious Gs each month off of suckers like you.

Who wants a $75 throwback jersey from two decades ago when our team didn't suck? Oh look, a $27 pink baseball hat with the school logo for the girls, and a camo version for their boyfriends. Or maybe your dear old mother would like to advertise to everyone in the mall parking lot that she is indeed the "#1 Longhorn Mom" with a $34 license plate frame.

One-Stop Pharmacy

Some campus bookstores may feature a small pharmacy with such college dorm-room essentials like toothbrushes and deodorant. This is also the place where you can blow through your flex bucks on Plan B in a sweaty panic one night, because the bookstore sells birth control, hooray! If only your parents knew why they were putting more money in your student account, young lady. You will quickly realize, however, that you are truly paying a premium for convenience when everything costs 200 percent more than it would at Walgreens.

Textbooks

After picking up your game gear and school-colored condoms, you head over to the department where the bookstore actually gets its namesake.

Lo and behold, every other freshman is also enrolled in Biology 101, and to your horror there are no copies of the required text left on the shelf. You will go to the counter and badger the overworked student staff about the lack of books. You will be put on back order, which means you get to beg classmates to make photocopies of their books for the first two weeks of school. Finally, an employee goes in the back and digs up a hidden Biology book for you, possibly out of an attempt to shut you up, or maybe because you're a hot girl.

You will then discover that this book costs an outrageous $142 used and some jerk marked up half of it with six different highlighters. Then when the semester is over and you return to sell it back, they will tell you that they can only give you $30 because the book is in "poor condition". Or better yet, you will discover that the professor decided to change editions next year, which means they won't buy it back at all because 300 words might be different or something. During your fit of violent rage on an undeserving employee target, you might be unwisely asked if you would like to donate the book. The only appropriate response in such a situation is, "No you bastard, I would not, I want half its original value".


Well, consider this semester a costly learning experience. From now on, you will simply buy and sell all of your books on Half.com and get your team T-shirts from the local Walmart.

Off-campus: Bars and Clubs

The best four years of your life

You've eagerly awaited college so you can finally go out whenever you want and make poor decisions without having to explain them to your parents. So after your folks wave a tearful goodbye, you round up the freshmen from your floor and head out to the club. Many hours later, after you avoid the campus police and stumble back to your dorm reeking of beer and cigarette smoke, you realize that the whole experience might be greatly overrated.

A Typical Night Out

After putting on your designer clubbing clothes that will soon be covered in beer, you head over to your friend Ryan's house to pregame. Once there, you meet up with three other guys dressed exactly like you. Your posse for the evening also includes someone we will refer to as Ms. Jaded Girl. This fine young lady has seen it all and done it all, and is consequently burnt out at the ripe old age of 22. She hovers from bar to bar with different groups of people, desperately hoping to find some bolt of lightning to strike her back to life, all the while lamenting the fact that four years of heavy liquor and sex with strangers has made her look old and tired. The crew tosses back energy drinks and Skyy vodka, and cheers enthusiastically when Ryan blows 0.20 on his pocket breathalyzer.

Once everyone is buzzed enough, you head out. Large amounts of time will be spent walking from venue to venue and waiting in line, because everyone apparently has ADHD and cannot stay in one bar or club for more than 30 minutes. The college bars you go to are filled with bros, and every single one is suddenly your best friend after he's had enough shots. People who would never acknowledge your presence sober will have no problem draping an arm over you and talking uncomfortably close to your face, as the combined smell of chew and Bud Light destroys your nostrils. Ryan hits 0.30 and goes to the bathroom to throw up.

You spend half your visit standing elbow-to-elbow with dozens of other people trying to get a drink at the bar, sweating buckets and wondering if the club is violating fire code. The bartenders at this venue are all guys, meaning they won't pay attention to you for at least 20 minutes because you don't have breasts. Around this part of the evening you might start thinking, "Wait, how is this fun?" When Brock McRoidson finally gets around to your Amstel Light, he looks miffed at your fifty cent tip. It is perfectly acceptable to tell him, "Listen 'bro', I'm not giving you a $1.50 for opening my beer, it takes two seconds".

The girls are putting on quite a show of T&A tonight, but before you get excited, unless you're man meat they're probably not interested. Chances are you and your buddies will do nothing and just huddle at a table, pointing out the girls and saying to each other, "she's a 6 out of 10, tops", "she has no butt, but I'd still hit it", and other things that would make mom proud. Then after an hour and a half of playing wallflower and building your liquid courage, you decide to try your hand at talking to the ladies. You quickly discover that the average club girl has an attention span of a mosquito on crack. Not that it matters; no one can hear you over the ribcage-vibrating FLO Rida (feat. T-Pain) anyway.

Then you're finally successful in keeping the attention of one young lass who is clearly drunk. Despite the fact that your "conversation" lasted all of five minutes, two of which were grinding, she gives you her number. You return triumphantly to your table and are greeted by high fives and fist pumps. However, the celebration is cut short when Ryan vomits again, this time all down the front of his shirt.

The club closes at 2 am thanks to a city ordinance voted into place by fascist geezers who don't want college kids trashing downtown until sunrise. The other guys leave to go to an apartment after-party where they will likely watch Ms. Jaded Girl hookup with some guy on the couch. You are stuck with dragging Ryan home, who just blew 0.38 and by all accounts should be dead.

The Aftermath

The next morning, as you nurse a raging hangover, you question why people do this every Thursday through Saturday night. Then you remember - because everyone else does it, and they don't want to be considered losers. After all, television and movies told you that these are supposed to be the best years of your life and you've got to party it up.

You decide to call the girl from the bar to see if she's going out again tonight. She doesn't pick up or call back, which is understandable because she has absolutely no clue who you are. The only person who calls you is Ryan, who announces that he crapped the bed while passed out. But don't worry, he'll still meet you at Whiskey Bar at 11:30 tonight.