If you are reading this it means that the school has droppped its lawsuit against me, and that I am legally allowed to write for this paper, and all public forums, once more. Again, I would like to sincerely apologize to all minorities, amputees and/or “special” people for any harsh words I might have thrown your way last year; that was then, this is now, and we should all try to put the past behind us. Moving on to more current events, right now, I am down in The Phillipian room at 4 AM the night before this assignment is due. I am not supposed to be here at this time, and I have been thrust into a vicious standoff with campus security; I figure the barricade will hold for at least another 2 hours, but it’s only a matter of time before SWAT is called in. I’d better get started. For most Phillips Academy students, when they leave campus for the summer they return home to all of their normal friends who don’t obsess over SAT scores, class sizes and lack of a female companions. However, it’s a little different for a day student like me. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Spratler is just as amusing and good looking in the summer as he is during the normal school year, but there are only so many times you can fill the library toilets with Jell-O before it gets old. In lieu of an eminent supply of activities, I somehow managed to entertain myself this summer. To start, I got a job. Now, I know what you are thinking: Pete isn’t allowed to work in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts after the incident with the goat at McDonalds! Yet, to all those naysayers I have but one response: plausible deniability baby. If no one saw Mr. Tito enter the fry cooker then it’s almost as if I never did it… because I didn’t…shut-up. Anyways, this summer I somehow snagged a primetime job at The Andover Townsma? where their motto is “No story is too small to give to Pete Smith.” I found myself writing about a 5-year-olds poem that in all seriousness, was exactly as follows: I like the fall It is very beautiful The leaves turn colors. This is by far the crappiest poem I have ever read; it fills me with rage and ire and an insatiable desire to sucker punch a kindergartener. Yet, I found myself writing about things of this nature on a regular basis. In an attempt to spice up my job, I began to write stories about killer bees invading the town, the hulk wreaking havoc at the senior center, and my Editor-In-Chief’s mom being dismembered by a pack of unruly hobo’s. Needless to say, I was forced to find other ways to entertain myself this summer. I went on a bender for two weeks in the middle of the summer. Most of the moments are hazy; the last thing I remember is waking up in a jail cell next to a man named Jamarcus, while wearing a flamenco dress and clutching a tube of lipstick. Moments like the aforementioned make me feel lonely inside. Probably the only successful thing I was able to do this summer was reach out to my old friends who now attend Andover High. You might know them: they’re the ones who drive by campus yelling “Catboner!” Their idea of a good time is having a “fire-in-a-barrel” or “hobo-fire” in the Andover High Parking lot. For the record, these actions both consist of lighting things on fire in a trashcan. These events were marginally entertaining, until one night, when all the discarded babies of Andover High School’s teenage mothers started to flock towards the fire. It was hard, but we were eventually able to suppress them without any major injuries. Alas, I found myself yearning once more for the scrumptious taste of Phillips Academy’s entertainment-giving teat. Orientation couldn’t have come soon enough, and I’m not sure I could’ve waited another moment to see the faces of all those I had missed over the summer. On a side note, I would like to extend further condolences to the Deveney family. Again, I hold myself personally responsible for their son’s loss, as I was his Blue Key, yet no one could have foreseen a lion in the sanctuary. If it is any condolence, it is said that a lion bite to the head is one of the quickest and most painless ways to go.
