Breeze Perspectives

What Chaps my Hide

By Evan Allgood, contributing writer

In the new “Family Guy” movie (“Stewie Griffin: The Untold Story”) Rhode Island everyman Peter Griffin has a segment on Quahog News entitled, “You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?” In the segment, Peter rants for a couple minutes about something — usually nonsensical — that really gets under his skin. Well, since the vast majority of my role models are cartoon characters (with Roadblock, the badass machine gunner/gourmet chef on “G.I. Joe,” topping the list), I’ve decided to follow in the footsteps of my favorite animated fat man and rant about the things that bug me. I call it, “You Know What Really Chaps My Hide?”

You know what really chaps my hide? The giant sunglasses girls wear these days. What’s with that? I’ve seen smaller eyewear at nuclear test sites. What exactly is the thought process behind this fad? “Oh I’m having lunch with Chad today; I better throw on my Express ninja ski goggles!” I know the sun is big, but come on, it’s not that big. I don’t know who the hell I’m waving to anymore. If all of you girls were to wake up tomorrow and decide to rob everyone on campus, we’d all be helpless because we wouldn’t be able to identify our attackers. I couldn’t pick half of you out of a lineup. “Officer, you don’t understand, these sunglasses were huge.” This is a trend that needs to end in a hurry. What if sunglasses continue to grow in size? What then? They’ll be twice as wide as our heads, getting caught in doorways and on errant tree limbs. Everyone will look like a misguided clown in search of his or her tiny car. (Oh, and the tan lines. Don’t even get me started on the tan lines.) Honestly, you’re all beautiful; there’s no need to wear sunglasses that cover everything from your upper lip to your hairline. Unless your hat size is 8 3/4” or above — and you know who you are — throw those colossal shades away.

You know what else chaps my hide? Guys who come out of the bathroom at a party and act like they share some deep, spiritual bond with me because I’m next in line. They put one hand on my shoulder and proclaim, “It’s all you, bro,” which should be the end of it. But no! It’s only the beginning! They start yammering about the girl in the purple tube top, or how they made the jungle juice themselves: “Two handles of Everclear, bro, no fake.” I came to this place with aspirations of urination; now some guy’s giving me his screen name — “It’s GoSkinz but with a ‘z’ instead of an ‘s’” — and saying we should party. It’s funny: you drink a kamikaze but you’re never sure what your target is until you bump into one of these clowns. I don’t want to embarrass myself, but the more elaborate that little dap-handshake-hug becomes, the greater the chance I’m going to pull an R. Kelly and ruin both our nights. So step aside, you amicable, annoying young man. You’re making my bladder angry — and you wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what chaps my hide.

Evan Allgood is a senior English major.