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Every single time Duke plays a significant home game, the gasbags on television feel compelled to give us a precise account of just how long students have been camping outside the arena in order to gain entry.
It's probably supposed to make us think, "Oh, those kids. I remember all the skullduggery I used to be up to during my college days. And to think, back then there were no women!"
The entire thing is infinitely dumb.
For starters, you know that every kid in those tents is a spindly freshman from Teterboro, N.J., with a wispy, training-wheels mustache and the self-confidence of a squeezed lemon. Someone told this gullible stick that college was "all about" these kinds of "wild experiences" and that he "totally needed" to do the "tent thing."
These are the same people who do a cappella.
Of course, the stick will later tell you that it was "100 percent worth it" even though that can't possibly be. No two-hour sporting event is so precious that one would willfully live in a tent for months rather than watch the game on television.
Even people who live in tents will tell you this.
I don't care if we're camping out to watch Mike Tyson kickbox a space alien—it's never worth it.
We have HD technology, you boobs.
And speaking of people who actually live in tents, did you know there was a time in our nation's history when stuff was so bad that hundreds of thousands of people were forced to live in improvised housing settlements on the outskirts of town?
We called them Hoovervilles, and they were awful. Grandpa will tell you. He probably had to fend off a pack of wolves just to suck the last drops of juice from a rotting apple core. But that's just the way things were.
We got by. And we never had to live in tents again.
Got that, Duke? Every night you spend in your Coleman Bayside 8-Person Tent is an affront to Grandpa—and probably democracy.