Oh glorious day! We are on the verge of a truly momentous occasion. Tonight, as you lay your head upon the pillow, history will be made behind the mahogany doors of a well-furnished chalet.

There will be a celebration, complete with wine, cheese and a nice, healthy serving of arrogance. Glasses will clink as the air fills with the sounds of self-congratulatory bombast. The ball will admit 100 lucky people, with a guest list that has been carefully combed through. And everyone there will be a VIP.

What is this event, pray tell? The guests to tonight’s cotillion are the 100 hottest members of our student body, the 100 most sculpted, aesthetically beautiful creatures that our campus has to offer. They have gone through a rigorous screening, and now is their time to shine. Their 100th member has joined, and the group is complete.

The spotlight will fall on each of them in turn, and for that instant illuminate their perfectly symmetrical features, their enviable externality.

And those of us outside in the courtyard, our faces pressed to the window, fogging the glass of the chalet’s wall-length casement with our unclean breath, will have no recourse but to look on, our revolting appearances only highlighted by the contrast with the beauties within. “If only!” we will say. “If only we could somehow find a way in, and prove to ourselves that we are beautiful!”

But nay. Try as we might, we are the great unwashed. The undeniable Standard has declared that there is one beauty, and we do not fit the bill.

“Look at our badges!” they will trumpet. Our eyes will turn to a pin on their lapels: “The 100 Absolute Hottest People on Facebook.” Underneath, some of the guests have more insignia, sewn into the fabric of their expensive suits: “Facebook’s HOTTEST men!” and “I just tried to ford the river and my fucking oxen died.”

They are the well-decorated veterans of an everlasting struggle for aesthetic superiority.

You know what this really means: The most ridiculous people on campus have finally found their friends. And now, there are 100 of them. The 100 most superficial, shallow, and generic prototypes to own a Stanford Facebook account have been armed with a community of like-minded individuals. And the results are disastrous.

The group bills itself as a community with the purpose of celebrating the “physical beauty, intelligence, humanity and charisma,” of “select Stanford students.” With the goal of “contributing positively to a progressive sense of beauty,” (a phrase apparently taken from someone’s college application), the group hopes to smash traditional notions of attractiveness by admitting a diverse, multifaceted and exotic team of...

... blond-haired, blue-eyed white kids mostly from California.

“Now now,” you might say, “certainly, the officers for the group represent a diverse notion of beauty! Look: there’s a black guy or two. And an Asian one!” Indeed, striking. Until you note that there are only three African Americans in the group at all.

East Asians make a slightly better showing, with a full five of them, and South Asians constitute roughly three themselves. There are two people of likely Hispanic origin.

But wait. Wait. Our University is only 40% Caucasian. Why are 87% of these people White? For that matter, why are most of the girls wearing bathing suits, and most of the guys wearing pink shirts/polos, and holding alcoholic beverages?

Whoa there, partner. Maybe I’m being a bit too critical. After all, these people are Hawt Stuff! Perhaps I’m just speaking out of envy. Come to think of it, I’m only bitter because I can’t fit the shallow and generic stereotype of beauty espoused by these well-proportioned paragons of physical excellence.

In the end, Facebook’s 100 Hottest, continue to celebrate in your chalet, as we the great ugly masses look on. Give yourselves a great big pat on the back, realizing that you are better than all of us. You’ve earned it.

Nat is deeply saddened that he isn’t one of Facebook’s hottest. You can email him at nat.hillard@stanford.edu, but the reply will be laden with self-deprecating sadness.