A Bad Idea I'm About to Do by Chris Gethard Page B

neighborhood full of self-hating Catholics burst within me. Even though no one else was there—not even the Russian Bear—I looked up at my filthy, cracked ceiling and let out a scream.
    I immediately ran to the phone and called the friends who had introduced me to Rob—or, as I knew him online, Prfsr-Frink. They gave me his number.
    â€œChris?” he answered. He knew I would be calling.
    â€œRob,” I said, “what was that? I mean—what WAS that?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “This kid who lives on my floor, he’s been doing that all day to people. He calls them IM bombs. He thinks it’s really funny.”
    â€œIM bomb? Why? What did I do to him?” I asked.
    â€œNothing. He just organizes a bunch of people and they do it randomly,” Rob said. “He came into my room and took your name. I didn’t realize. I’m really sorry.”
    â€œRob, what’s the kid’s deal?” I asked, my mood shifting from confusion to anger.
    â€œWell, it’s Deh-reek,” he said. “You gotta understand, he’s a good guy, but—”
    â€œWhy do you say his name like that?” I asked.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œDeh-reek,” I repeated. “I’ve never heard that name before.”
    â€œWell, it’s spelled like Derek, but he pronounces it Dehr-eek,” Rob answered.
    The grievances were piling up quickly. Not only did he IM bomb me, this guy also pronounced his name pretentiously. But what truly sealed Derek’s fate was the fact that he attended Princeton. Even the most self-loathing Rutgers students have a
natural hatred for our Ivy League neighbors. We’re blue-collared. They’re blue-blooded. We don’t like it.
    â€œWhat’s his deal again?” I asked.
    â€œWell,” Rob said, “he’s from Toronto, and—”
    I exploded into the phone. “This fucking Canadian fuck.”
    I don’t have a problem with Canadians per se; in fact, I wish we had their health care system. But I do have a problem with any Canadian who thinks he’s going to walk onto my turf, New Jersey, and pull a fast one on me. New Jersey may not be the prettiest place in the world, but it’s mine.
    â€œRob, what’s the name of your dorm?” I asked. He told me.
    Then, I took action. I threw open my door and saw Andy sitting with his door open across the hall. Andy was as depressed and crazy as I was, plus he had a car.
    â€œAndy,” I said. He turned around. “Want to drive to Princeton and beat up some Princeton kid?”
    He answered “Yes” instantaneously, and with surprisingly little emotion in his voice. He didn’t even look surprised at my query. It was as if he had been waiting all night for someone to walk by and offer a midnight beating of a Princeton student.
    We called our other friend Jeff, who came running over. The three of us dressed in black from head to toe—black puffy jackets, black pants, black wool hats. We got in Andy’s car, and we were off—three true-blue Jersey kids on our way to Princeton.
    â€œHow far is it again?” Jeff asked, shifting uncomfortably in the back seat.
    â€œMaybe thirty miles,” Andy answered. Thirty miles was all that separated our shitball college from one of the most prestigious schools on earth.

    â€œW hoa,” I gasped when we finally pulled up alongside Princeton’s gates.
    â€œYeah,” Andy said. “It’s fucking beautiful.”
    All three of us shook our heads. Princeton was the complete opposite of Rutgers.
    â€œIt’s so clean,” Jeff said. We were shocked that a school could be so grime-free.
    Princeton was clearly not the type of place where you got in without writing an essay.
    â€œWe probably shouldn’t have dressed in all black,” Andy said.
    It suddenly dawned on us that at Princeton, someone was likely to stand out if he wasn’t wearing