Take your joint...and shove it!

Dear art-fart male English majors,

Your lip ring does not make you avant garde. Neither does your pot-smoking philosophizing. Brush your hair, throw out your flannel, and put your Kerouac back in your backpack. While I admire your attempts to dethrone the Romantic era in favor of postmodern drug-addled musings of hippie poets, you come across as a shallow-minded idiot bent on showing the world just how much of an art-eest you truly are. I respect artists who retain some level of humility. But when you call an entire class GLIB (especially after I just brandished my own little gem of genius...[sarcasm]), you've entered the realm of the cocky bastard. And congrats. In doing so, you've actually embraced the manhood you've been trying to rid yourself of.

This is for you asshole. I've got Ken Kesey in one hand, and Wordsworth in the other. Suck 'em.

With love,
haze