The Eighth Page

Grave Injustice

While walking through the library one day, I noticed a grave injustice. “Oh what, kind sir, would ever draw such attention to a great man like you?” I’m glad you asked, attentive reader. The weird room between Garver and Freeman had been inundated by the Freshman horde. Gasp! Long ago this room was the birthright of the Senior class. In fact, I recall when I was a confused and ugly Freshman, a menacing figure who went by the name Uz went into a schizophrenic tantrum by the mere sight of an underclassman sitting at his glorious wooden table. Determined to restore order to the awkward table room, I began to scheme (which I am famous for). After hours of tedious pondering, I realized diplomacy would be out of the question: freshman have the tendency to poke you with bamboo sticks if you attempt to initiate conversation with them. I would have to take the room by force. I needed equipment fast. Luckily I am friends with notorious arms dealer Samuel Conte ’07, who was able to provide me with sufficient weaponry. As I prepared for battle, I kissed my wife and nine children goodbye, telling them I had left a large amount of food stamps and welfare checks in the bank to secure their well being. After a long and arduous journey, I finally reached the library. Abandoning all hope, I stealthily entered the stacks and made my way towards the door that opened to the middle room. The following account is a diary kept throughout the entire conflict. Those of you with weak stomachs, turn away now. DAY 1. Today I used Ja Rastafari’s (AKA “The Chief”) pimped out thug-a-licious bullet proof ultra-G-money camouflage jacket to achieve unnoticed infiltration. They haven’t noticed me behind plant in the right corner; probably because they are occupied by the shiny object I placed in the middle of the room. On a somewhat related note, I haven’t been able to stop attempting to rap since I put on this jacket… it’s just like that movie “Like Mike”, but instead of making me great at basketball it makes me awful at rap. DAY 2. It appears the frosh have elected a tribal leader named Anschuetz, who shaved off half of his head as a sign of victory, or because he just lost a bet. Either way, it’s just freaky. Later in the day they turned cannibalistic and ate one of their own, most likely because of the lemon chicken and orange beef at commons. Frankly, I don’t blame them. DAY 3. This will be the last entry in this diary. I am starting to go insane. After witnessing the Freshmen for three days, I’ve lost all faith in God and cry myself to sleep every night. If anyone finds this journal after I am dead, tell my wife and kids that I loved them. P.S. Tell Hasan I’m not really his dad and he’s never going to play baseball again because I am selling him to a circus to pay off my poker debts P.P.S. Sell Hasan to the circus to pay off my poker debts. He’s an expert juggle, swear to god. Fortunately, I survived the horrific battle that ensued. Armed with only Bio-100 text books and wads of cash, the freshmen were no match for me, only because I’m made of twisted steel and sex appeal. Using the knot tying skill I learned in boy scouts, I tied the Freshman to a table, which I then loaded on a plane and sent to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Luckily, the New England Patriots cheerleaders have just been admitted as the new class of ’08 (cha-ching). Now the joyful days of chillin in that awkward-transition-wood table room have returned. Then I woke up and was asked to hand in my English paper.