From: mgoldfarb@buffalo.edu

To: cjahearn@buffalo.edu

Subject: Generation

Dear Mr. Ahearn,

I am writing you not in regards to any specific article that you’ve published, but rather as a response to your collected, semi-coherent ramblings as a whole in the weekly rag that you assholes like to call Generation. I’ve noticed that in your constantly failed attempts at being humorous, you repeatedly target the female population of Long Island—“JAPs,” as you are so fond of referring to us.

Shame on you, you hypocritical, vaguely anti-Semitic, hipster prick.

Perhaps you fail to grasp the irony of the situation when you lambaste “those bitches who wear their oversized Chanel sunglasses indoors at all times—as if the rest of us can’t tell that there’s a giant, shiny forehead lurking beneath.” But it is not lost on me. I’ve seen you walking around campus, adorned in that scarf—even when you’re inside sans coat—like some kind of gaudily wrapped Christmas present with a euro-trash fetish.

Then there was that time you wrote that fake Crocodile Hunter column—“this should be read in an Australian accent”—in one of your poorly constructed attempts at being cut, and talked about stalking “the wild JAP in its natural, beer-soaked habitat.” You said that, “the easiest way to root them out is to go to the Main Street bars where they thrive. Just lie in wait behind the nearest bottle of Labatt Blue Light (or whichever Smirnoff bitch-drink is popular this week) until one comes running for you, clutching daddy’s credit card in its right hand.”

Give me a break. I’ve seen your awful scenester hangouts down in Allentown and off the Elmwood strip, and I know for a fact that you kids wouldn’t be caught dead not standing there pensively on a Thursday night, sipping from a can of PBR or bottle of Red Stripe. Unless, of course, your upper-middle class white suburban parents happened to have filled your checking account that week, in which case you would branch out into Japanese import beers.

And what’s your beef with Uggs? How can you say that we Long Islanders “walk around with what look like the regurgitated lovechild of an Eskimo and a raccoon poorly fastened to [our] feet,” when I see you and your hipster-scum friends parading around in the loudest-colored pair of ugly Asics/Adidas/Pumas that your father’s white-collar money could buy—as if you had loaded a shotgun with the collective cast of Sesame Street and then blasted yourself to get the desired effect of owning ridiculously colored ‘80s throwaways.

Most importantly though, don’t you think it’s unfair to characterize us as “cum-depraved whores who give out blowjobs like they’re Halloween candy to any guy willing to get within close enough proximity of them to hear the shrill accent and see their back fat spill over the waist of their extra-medium spandex pants”? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it a general rule that you’ll have sex with whichever faux-cokehead slut sticks her Sparks-orange stained tongue down your throat in-between awkward dancing to bad disco-punk at whatever shit bar is offering free drinks that night?

But, I guess what I’m really getting at in this letter is that we’re actually not so different, you and me. Whether it’s my “delusional Sex and the City aspirations,” or your vague plans to “relocate to Brooklyn after graduation so [you] can pen [your] novella—probably Williamsburg,” we’re all in the same boat here. We’re both following the newest absurd trends with feelings of vast superiority in our never-ending quest to be the coolest subculture on campus. So, why not embrace our patently ridiculous lifestyles and let each other be? I’m just asking for a little understanding.

Yours,

Myla Sulzberger-Goldfarb

Proud Resident of Nassau County