Wasted Youth

So I'm walking down York Street at about 10 when three guys wearing only codpieces and sneakers run past me, whooping and carrying magic markers. They reach the corner and turn into a coffee shop; through the window I can see them approaching young women with requests to sign their naked chests. Everyone seems to find this uproariously funny.

This is, mind you, the same place where a few months ago I saw another group of guys, this time in suits, lined up against a wall, being forced to count off in binary, and doing a terrible job of it.