>>> Fringe Benefits
By staff writer J.M. Lucci
January 23, 2008

From the Book of Tyrell, Chapter 59, Verse 1:

And from this fountain of knowledge we have drunk heartily, and no longer will we submit to the idiocies of jive turkeys and their White Masters, for now we are Artisans of the Revolution, and are free to prosper and propagate on our own terms.

Last year, I joined the illustrious and select group of PIC staffers who write for a college humor site, but don’t actually attend college anymore. December ’07 was, so to say, my personal winter of discontent. It was a wild emotional rollercoaster of tears, laughs, heartbreaks, and sloppy seconds. I packed up my belongings, tied up loose ends, explored a few (desperate) Sunset Valleys, and left the twilight nightmare that is my university of choice. I crossed the Mason-Dixon Line, and the sun shone a little brighter for me.

Now that I’m done with college, I’m on my way to better things. While many infant graduates may lambast the real world for its low tolerance of formerly accepted college activities, I revel in never before available newfound opportunities. For instance, I can start building a credit history without fear of defaulting on payments because I emptied my bank account on booze and boobs. The real world frowns upon such formerly “fun” decisions.

Also, I no longer must submit myself to an arbitrarily designated system of letters and numbers that represent my proficiency in a subject. Instead, I am free to assign myself any variant of measure to ascertain my personal productivity rating. For instance, 70% productivity in the real world is an extraordinary rate of work for one person. So why give me a “D” on that research paper? Fuck you, professor; I’m practically divine by real world standards.

“During my hiatus from writing, I walked into the local recruiting office for the Air Force.”

Speaking of which, I’m finally a productive member of society myself. College, as put by my freshmen history professor, is where “you students, you parasites, come to greedily, and unthankfully, leech off the labors of society and your parents for you own personal gains. Hopefully, once you graduate, you will in turn contribute back to society in some way or form, so that younger generations of parasites will have their chance to suck your wallets dry.” He was a real charmer. And he was right. Once the fantasyland of college disappears in the rearview mirror, it’s time to get a job.

Unfortunately, I did not land my dream job right away. Like many of you who chose the arts over science, I found myself lacking in the financial department, and was forced to take up, shall we say, unsatisfactory job prospects. Working thirty hours a week at Subway (fuck you, the job market is shit and they were the only place that would take me on short notice) doesn’t pay the bills like Mom and Dad could in college, but hey, it’s work….right? At least I don’t have to wear a nametag…

Customer: Hey, did you see that new Subway commercial? With the guy and the copy machine?

Me: I don’t watch TV.

Customer: You should. It was a Subway commercial and you work at a Subway and it was hilarious. See, the guy goes to his boss, and…

Me: Sir, for the love of mercy, just tell me what type of cheese you want on your sandwich.

Saying the word “cheese” a hundred times a day will warp your mind. However, I do look sexy in an apron. But don’t fret, dear readers, I am not long for a world of sandwich craftsmanship and fallaciously happy customer service. For during my hiatus from writing, I walked into the local recruiting office for the United States Air Force, and began the deceptively arduous process of joining our nation’s exemplary military—an uncontestable job in the “badass” column.

Young Business Professional: I manage hedge funds for international investors and personally handle billions of dollars a month. I own three Ferraris and wear only the finest leathers and silks imported from foreign lands. What do you do for a living?

Soldier: I drive a tank.

YBP: Uh, I sleep with European supermodels on a daily basis—when I’m not swimming off the coast of my private island, of course.

Soldier: I drive a tank.

YBP: Okay, you win.

My dream job has always been to serve in the Air Force, and now that college is out of the way, it’s my time to shine. I’m currently in the Delayed Entry Program (awaiting the dream job inside the dream job), and I’m crossing my fingers that a spot opens up for my tech school soon. So here I wait—working, exercising, and playing games—a pleasant limbo in which I can prepare myself for the rigors ahead.

The trick to prospering in the post-college real world is not defining yourself by your college experiences, because frankly, nobody in the real world cares about your collegiate accomplishments outside of an academic scope. My advice to college seniors in making the smooth transition to true adulthood? Playtime’s over. Shed your mind of all traces of who you were in college. Otherwise, you’ll be that prick in the mailroom bitching about how he was soooooo cool back when he was a Beta Iota Whateva and was captain of the football team….seven years ago and thirty pounds lighter.