LowbrowApril 7, 2011 at 3:48 am


Well, you couldn’t expect everything to be the “best.”

Worst Place to be Ridiculously High: Getting Bombarded with Flyers on Locust
So it’s a lazy Thursday afternoon and you’ve just smoked a post recitation J sitting on the roof of College Hall (the perks of dating a Philo). In need of a nap to sleep off your altered consciousness, you head westward, only to foolishly chose Locust as your route of choice. Suddenly a bombardment of neon colored fliers, screaming actors and bumbling high school tours overwhelms your sensory organs. Your head pounds. Will the walk ever end? A more seasoned weed smoker would just stroll down Pine, taking in the quiet shade.

Worst Place to Fart: Fisher Fine Arts Library
If you are anything but an inanimate object, Fisher Fine Arts Library is not for you. If you dare to flip pages in a textbook, type on a keyboard, or ­— god forbid — sneeze, people will hear, and people will judge. Harshly. Therefore, if you just happened to have a delicious burrito at Chipotle with extra pinto beans, it would probably be in your best interest not to study in Fisher an hour later. That is, if you value your life.

Worst Wawa Sandwich: The Wawa Gobbler
Heaven exists, and it goes by the name of Wawa. With its wide array of Chex Mix flavors, Lunchables, energy drinks and slushies — along with being open 24/7 — it is truly the greatest accomplishment of the human race. However, even God himself makes mistakes. The Gobbler is nothing short of an abomination: all of Thanksgiving meal crammed between two thin, watery slices of bread. Hell, it probably even has your aunt’s favorite parsnip casserole in there. It is messy, greasy, repulsive — and absolutely delicious. Fuck yeah, America!

Worst Year: Sophomore
To freshmen, everything in college is exciting and new. Frat parties! Wharton stereotypes! Picklebacks! The world is your boozed–up, “adult” oyster. Meanwhile, seniors are at the top of their game. They know who they are, what they’ve accomplished and (hopefully) what’s up ahead. The whole campus rallies around them, making sure their final year is the best yet. Plus, they’re finally 21! Legit, man. Oh, and juniors have study abroad and Hey Day. What’s left for the poor sophomores, then? Nothing. They’re the Jan Bradys of college life — alone, unloved, forgotten. Heads up, though ­— those coddled little freshmen are next.

Worst Place to get Food Poisoning: Wan Chinese Food
Why are you even eating at Wan Chinese Food? You should be ashamed.

Worst Place to be Vegetarian: Philadelphia
Philadelphia is a meat land. Cheesesteaks, scrapple (that just sounds like meat)… it is a lumberjack’s dream and a vegetarian’s worst nightmare. It’s tough living in a city where the smell of fried cow is considered a grand tradition. Luckily, there are always options. Who doesn’t love Bobby’s Burger Palace’s… um, salads? Yum?

Worst Time to Black–In: Just After Hitting Send on that Paper
And you thought taking the edge off a night at VP was a good idea? Hey, it happens and it’s not your fault that frat bros #3, #16 and #23 convinced you to participate in “Just one round!” of The Big Lebowski drinking game (Walter says fuck, you drink. 260 times is nothing, you pussy. At least it’s not Goodfellas). Plus, your paper is on INTERNATIONAL RELATIONNNNNSSS. A little buzz will give you a better insight into The German Business World — it’s like method acting and you’re practically Marlon Brando.

Worst Place to be Ridiculously Hung Over: Recitation
You knew it was going to be a problem when the only class second semester senior year that fulfills your Living World requirement had recitation on Friday mornings. And now it’s 9 a.m. and after a six dollar cab ride to DRL you’re sitting in class wearing sweatpants. Ew. You can still taste that sixth vodka cranberry in your mouth as you convince your stomach to settle for 50 headpounding minutes. At least you have margarita happy hour at Mad 4 to look forward to!

Worst Route to Take on a Walk of Shame: The Wind Tunnel
Thank you, high rise engineers, for a building design layout that captures the wind so perfectly, so completely, that it has the capacity to make a walk of shame — already a low — that much worse. As if the painful high heels, embarrassingly telling outfit, raging headache and fresh feelings of regret aren’t enough, the icy wrath of the tunnel manages to kill any remaining ounce of self respect you still possessed. In addition to the roaring winds and 20–degree temperature drop, the wind tunnel’s central location on campus (on Locust by the high rises, dining hall and Hillel) significantly increases a walk–of–shamer’s risk of exposure to the general public. And, let’s be real, the last thing you want in this vulnerable state is judgment by your fellow peers, professors or Conservative Jewish friends when you’re just tryna get home. There’s nothing like some Marilyn Monroe billowy skirt action in that below zero wind to make you regret last night’s outfit choice.

Worst Place to Publicly get Dumped: A Huntsman Study Lounge
Getting dumped in hushed tones in a Huntsman study lounge is probably comparable to being dumped via AIM in sixth grade; it is that impersonal and offensive. Because as the world slows, tears blur your vision, hyperventilation sets in and a sob escapes, you are accosted with aggressive “SHHH”s from every angle. Ten pairs of eyes peer over their little cubicles and narrow, unsympathetic to the fact that your two–week relationship came to a screeching halt and your world is crumbling. Because, well frankly, they have a [insert Wharton class here] test tomorrow and they don’t have time for your petty relationship woes.  As we all know, Wharton is not for the faint of heart, and thus the folks typically camped out in Huntsman do not make for the most nurturing post break–up environment; unless your relationship will somehow affect the stock market, in which case they feel your pain. This is strategic on the dumper’s part, since you are left with neither the opportunity to voice your grievances nor the chance to make a scene Elle Woods–style. You’re instead left red–faced and spluttering, and your dumper in the clear, single and ready to mingle. Now all your ex needs do is block you on their buddy list and be on their merry way.

Worst Time to Mention that You’re Not Jewish: Getting Picked up by Your Theos Boyfriend’s G6 on Your Way to Spring Break
Spring break with Mr. and Mrs. Steinbaumowitz. So, you decided not to do Puerto Vallarta this year. Good for you! A quiet trip to Palm Beach on your Theos sweetie’s G6 is the perfect remedy for a semester of preemptive “If you eat an entire feta cheese calzone you will HATE YOUR LIFE in the morning” pre–blackout–drunchies protection notes. New Juicy swimsuits? Check! Mani–pedi in Rittenhouse? Check and check! Back–up supply of birth control? Chuh–ECK! But if you thought the Name Game and Jewish Geography were the same thing, you’re about as prepared for this vacay as you were for your last Econ final. Better swap your Herbal Essences Body Envy for some Totally Twisted, because small talk is not going to save this one.

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