Dear reader,

Sometimes, when water cascades onto the stir-fry grill and the resulting steam all but envelops me, I feel like I’m Dian Fossey in Gorillas in the Mist. As vapor obscures my vision and the gentle hiss of evaporation soothes my ears, I stare at the shapeless forms that surround me. I am gripped by a sensation that is equal parts awe and horror.

‘What are these creatures that approach me,’ I wonder, ‘And why, by God’s teeth, do they wear mascara with pajamas?’

Then someone yells for a chicken quesadilla, and I’m torn from my reverie. This isn’t the primeval jungle; it’s Late Nite Café at Warren Towers.

Besides the decent pay and obvious food benefits (though the food’s beneficial nature is disputable) that come with working at Late Nite, my job has a unique perk: three nights a week, I bear silent witness to some of this university’s most egregious offenses to taste, decency and manners.

Considering the social blunders committed by its inhabitants and visitors, I often wonder how Warren keeps up its reputation as our campus’ most sexually active building. Then again, with the way some of these wretches act and dress, I’m not surprised they want to get drunk and naked as quickly as possible. I may not be a fashion expert, but I do consider myself an appreciator of grace and aesthetic beauty traits that seem to be greatly lacking among the unwashed masses.

Cutting the neck of a sweatshirt with dull scissors, for example, doth not sexy attire make. Completing the outfit by wearing sweatpants with Greek letters emblazoned on the backside only increases the cringe factor.

Those who sport these bastardized tracksuits may argue for comfort over style. If this is the case, then why wear enough foundation and mascara to dissolve petrified wood? And why, in the name of all that is holy, shave your eyebrows and draw them on, or and I don’t have to make this up, folks apply makeup to your breasts to create the illusion of cleavage?

A disturbing number of customers also seem to believe that bare bones equal beauty. I don’t have the skinny on stats pertaining to eating disorders on campus, and I’m venturing out on a very thin limb by making light of the subject, but this place is called Bulimic University for a reason. Common sense dictates that if my right arm is thicker than your left leg, you can probably stand to eat more than a bowl of raw broccoli and carrots for dinner.

In fact, I hope the greasy goodness we serve at Late Nite will help students realize that eating a little fat can’t kill anyone, but not eating at all can. BU could even introduce a special meal plan for recovering anorexics: all mozzarella sticks, all the time. At 70 calories apiece before deep-frying, they’re sure to produce results.

I do, however, understand the gravity of eating disorders. A dear bosom buddy of mine suffers from a case of anorexia reversa. He consumes nearly everything he sees and suffers myriad maladies as a result. Profit from his mistakes; if you are seriously concerned about yourself or a friend, please contact student health services immediately.

Although the lack of grace and refinement among Late Nite’s patrons gives me endless fodder for friendly ridicule, I can forgive and even befriend customers who treat us workers respectfully and most of them do. An ever-growing minority, however, seems to have been raised by simians.

Dearest patrons, if we block off a section of the seating area (at all three of its entrances, no less), we are clearly trying to tell you something: don’t sit there. If you ask for a smoothie and we give you a hamburger, you’d surely complain that we didn’t follow your orders. Please return the favor and follow ours.

Also, if you expect us to remove your trash from the tables, that’s fine just start tipping. Twenty percent will suffice. And if we put up a sign instructing patrons to sit elsewhere, please try to keep your kleptomaniacal urges under control.

While sign thieves will certainly burn in hell for violating the seventh commandment, some sneaky scallawags who can’t be bothered to throw away their garbage or sit in a prescribed area may escape divine justice. That’s where we come in. With our high-powered spray bottles full of corrosive toxins, we possess an arsenal of biological weapons that rivals Saddam’s. Hours of spraying and scrubbing tables have honed our skills to deadly accuracy, and the dining hall’s design creates ideal locations for sniping. Consider yourselves warned.

Working at Late Nite isn’t all ugly freshmen and uncouth patrons. My job also allows behind-the-scenes glimpses at the cogs and wheels that give us each day our daily bread. If you’re holding your breath and waiting for horror stories about ‘BU Burgers’ actually consisting of ground terrier meat (although that would be an improvement for our little yipper of a mascot), then you’re sure to die of asphyxiation soon. In fact, the Warren dining hall is run with surprising cleanliness and efficiency, and the employees deserve praise for putting up with us underbred kids.

Although I hate to bite the hand that feeds my mouth and wallet, I do have two slight nits to pick: the chefs don’t always wear gloves, and the marinara sauce is stored in large, lidless metal vats on the floors of the walk-in refrigerators.

I can just imagine Mee Chow, or some similarly diminutive dining hall employee, reaching up to a high shelf and accidentally stepping in or knocking something into one of these vats in the process. And, while I realize that Ms. Chow is probably incapable of committing such a blunder (the Empress of Sandwich always carries herself with extreme grace and dignity), I seriously doubt that nothing has ever fallen or crawled into these vats.

Leaving the roaches for next time, Jason, your imitative working boy