I hate a guilt trip.

Those Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercials, a homeless man asking me for a ride to Anaheim (true story), a friend using passive-aggression to remind me about the $5 I owe him — why do y’all have to make me feel so bad? Can’t I just live my life in a bubble of 1950s euphoria? It makes life difficult to deal with.

But all that’s nothing compared to the liberal shame that washes over me when I get into a cab with a bunch of drunk 20-somethings.

Really, I’d rather live out my existence as a musk ox than work one shift as a cab driver on a Friday night.

Invariably, every time I’m headed out for an evening on the town with my compatriots, I end up striking up a conversation with our cabbie, and the juxtaposition of two worlds in front of me is pretty horrifying.

In the backseat, my inebriated friends are yelling at each other, taking pictures on their iPhones or yelling out song requests to our embattled driver. In the meantime, I’m listening to the life story of the man behind the wheel — the names of his children, where he came from originally, how long he’s been in the United States.

And it’s not like he just volunteers this information. I ask, because I guess I like to feel terrible about myself before going out to party for the night. A strange form of masochism, that’s for sure.

Can we be nicer to these guys? Or just be a little more self-aware the next time we take a 30-second cab ride from Chuck’s to Comstock Avenue? They work for a living.

They came here to make something of themselves (just like The Godfather Part II) and make a better life for their children. The way we act might be rubbing their noses in it just a tad.

The convention now seems to be “your cab driver is essentially a non-emoting robo-chauffeur, so act as you please.” And as a result, I can’t stop thinking about how awful it must be to deal with a full eight hours of drunk people who can’t remember where they live, or lost their wallets and can’t pay, or vomit on the upholstery, or scream to change the radio station, or — well, you get the idea.

Look, just give me those five minutes sitting in the back seat of a cab. Just be polite and friendly and conscientious for that period of time. The rest of the 168 hours a week, go ahead and behave entitled and spoiled as much as you like. You have my blessing. Just five minutes of courtesy a week. Ten minutes, tops.

But I know we’re better than what we’re doing now. I’m sure of it.

I just don’t want to sit in stony silence next to a driver smoldering with fury as he delivers an oblivious backseat full of handbags and vodka-filled Dasani bottles to a dive bar. I can’t do it anymore.

Quit being a bunch of Sarah McLachlans. Let me just go out on the weekends in peace.

No more guilt tripping.

Kevin Slack is a senior television, radio and film major. His column appears weekly. He can be reached at [email protected].

Published on November 13, 2012 at 1:00 am