A humorous look at travel, family, relationships… And all kinds of other shit.

Attending Harvard’s graduation, Bald Truth-style

So I attended the Harvard graduation ceremony a couple of weeks ago.

Not really. I mean, I was in the general vicinity, but it was only by accident.

I got stranded at the Boston airport, and by the time United Airlines pulled its collective head out of its ass and decided nobody was getting out that night, there were NO rooms left in the area, because it was graduation weekend at Harvard. All those Ivy-covered snobby sons of bitches took up every room in the city.

Luckily, by frantically working the phones, my wife Cindy found the last room in the area: A balcony suite at a nice hotel in Cambridge. It just happened to also be where many of the Harvard parents were staying.

It also happened to cost $450 for the night. But it was either that or sleep in the airport. I took the suite.

When I walked into the hotel, the place reeked of money. You could smell it on people, the way you can smell B.O. on a bum. My inner rage immediately kicked in. Here were these Harvard fucks taking up all the affordable rooms in Boston, when they could obviously afford whatever they wanted, and I had to pay $450 that I didn’t have for a room I would be spending exactly seven hours in.

But it did have that balcony. And damned if I was going to waste it. So I ordered a bottle of wine from room service and sat there and drank it and listened to the revelry on other balconies, thinking about their Harvard fucking lives and their Harvard fucking futures.

And I started fantasizing about what I would love to do, if I could spend the whole weekend among these east coast, Ivy League tight asses.

Here were some of the things I would love to do. I only hope I get to live them out one day:

Fantasy #1:

Walk around the snooty hotel wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a wife-beater T-shirt, holding a tall-boy can of PBR, and start slapping the other parents on the back and saying, in a very loud voice:

“Harvard, right? Right? Fucking Harvard, am I right?? Fuck Yale!! Let’s get it going: Fuck Yale, Fuck Yale, Fuck Yale . . .”.

And I would keep chanting until people felt forced to join in.

Then I would say, “Yeah, I went to Yale, you jagoffs,” and chug my beer, crush the can against my head, drop it on the floor and walk out.

Fantasy #2:

Just sort of wander over to the ceremony, and ask the richest looking person:

“Do you know where the actual stage is? We could only afford to send my son to community college even though he had the grades to get into Harvard, and I’d just like to see what actual success looks like. My boy is 28-years-old and living in my basement. I think he has a meth lab down there.”

Fantasy #3:

Sit at the hotel bar, waiting for a Harvard parent to start a conversation with me. It would go like this:

Harvard Rich Prick: Is your son or daughter graduating today, old chap?”

Me “No, he’s actually a custodial worker on the campus. I keep hoping he’s like that genius from Good Will Hunting . . . but I’m starting to think he might just be real stupid.”

Fantasy #4:

After all the graduates throw their hats in the air, I would race around like a madman, gathering up as many as I could, and then sell them back to the spoiled little entitled pricks for $100 bucks a piece.

I would take great joy in watching the new grads go to their parents and say, “Mumsy, I need a hundoo to get my grad cap. A crazy fat bald man took it and won’t give it back.”

I know I would probably never have the balls to do any of those things . . . but it’s fun to think about them.