We have ... no manners.

Some guys seem to have left what their mothers, fathers and grade school teachers taught them back home. And it's not arithmetic or tying their shoes either.

I'm talking about common courtesy, and the apparent lack of it on this particular college campus.

I'm not asking for anyone to kiss my feet, or to throw a cloak over a puddle ... but hold the door open (if you can spare three seconds) when you see someone walking towards the door.

It's not difficult to be polite.

Here's a hint: asking "Hey baby, what's up" as you walk home mildly intoxicated and practically running me off the sidewalk onto Beaver Avenue doesn't count. Particularly if it's a torrential downpour and the street has become Beaver River.

And let's talk about football games for a second.

Spitting, obnoxious hawking noise included, is very attractive. It's a surefire way to catch the attention of the ladies. And likely to send them running in the opposite direction.

Slapping me high five and calling me "Janet" (the name is Jennette ... JE-nette), while saying "it's all your fault," when a play is fumbled or "Janet, your yelling is awesome," when the team does well, with alcohol-laden breath is not cool.

In fact, my friends and I were irritated.

And their names aren't Melissa, Lauren or Brett, either.

How do you like them apples?

And I definitely caught you cutting in front of my friends and I at the pretzel line. You know who you are, as you attempted covertly to play it off by looking the other way.

Uh-huh. Didn't we learn in third grade that everyone has to wait his or her turn?

Wearing a Molson Canadian beer box on your head and passing it off for your other friends while you sway to the tune of who knows how many beverages was funny for the first second. Until we began to worry that the domino effect would be imminent by the end of the game.

Did it ever occur to you that the awesome box/hat might impair a 5'2" girl's view?

What would your mother say?

Though I must admit, when the box was about an inch from my face, one of your friends was at least polite enough to catch your drunken attention before it hit me.

Maybe there's hope yet. I mean, a little politeness never hurt anyone.

Perhaps it's more of an issue because I'm a Resident Assistant in East Halls and am surrounded by 18-year-old boys who might not know it would be helpful to hold a door as I'm juggling grocery bags, dinner and a bookbag as I'm rooting for my key.

Though I did appreciate the young gentleman who grabbed one of my precious pink butterfly cut-outs for my study buddy board as it blew away.

Thanks.