A dark and brooding cloud of shame settled over our fair Universitas Wesleiana over the last of days, a cloud that brought with it the rain of humiliation, the hail of shame, and the slushy frozen sleet/rain mix of disgrace.
No, dear literate members of the Universit—hich is perhaps about half of you–-this offense is much more egregious. It seems one of our own faculty members, formerly beloved professor of Government Marcutius Foley, was caught with his pantaloons down. Metaphorically, of course, not with his actual pantaloons down; Jehovah, would that have been embarrassing! No, Professor Foley was caught trying to bang little boys. Which, I guess, is much worse than being seen without pantaloons.
According to Office of Public Safety and Mulling Spices reports, the shunned professor was attempting to solicit intercourse with one of his teaching apprentices through the use of advanced telegraph communications. “The Morse Code is not for the faint of heart,” said Office of Public Safety and Mulling Spices constable Worthington Bobbleforth. “It’s just a deluge of ‘dot-dot-dash-space-reach-around-dot-space-dash-dirty-Sanchez-dash-dash-dot-dirty-we’ll-open-up-a-restaurant-in-Santa-Fe,’” the obviously troubled constable added.
Thankfully, fair Ampersandian readers, the esteemed journalists of this paper have been able to apprehend a transcript of these illicit telegraph conversations, bribing a female secretary with promises of enfranchisement, a smallpox vaccine, and aid in rearing her fourteenth child. Be forewarned, the following is said to result in a desire to fornicate outside the view of the Lord.
Professor Foley: Well, cheerio there, my young lad.
XXXXX: A hearty hello to you as well, sir.
PF: How is my most favorite of young stallions feeling?
XXXXX: Quite fine sir, quite fine indeed. And yourself?
PF: A lot better now that I’m talking to you.
XXXXX: Oh, Professor, you are certainly quite the cad.
PF: LOL, hahaha. Guilty as charged, my most lugubrious of male cocktails.
(prolonged awkward telegraph silence)
PF: So, did any girl give you a hand job this weekend?
XXXXX: Why, dearest me, Professor, did you inquire as to what I believe you just inquired?
PF: What?! Oh lordy… you think I… with a yank on your crank… what, oh, that’s silly. A wayward acorn seems to have fallen on my telegraph. Oh, the embarrassment!
XXXXX: Embarrassing indeed, Professor! I’m tittering up a storm, sir!
PF: As am I, my dear boy! My knee is red from slapping! Red like your sweet little ass will be after I give it a spanking…
XXXXX: Professor! My word!
PF: The acorns! They are falling all over my telegraph! It is as if the Eleventh Plague has bestricken my office!
XXXXX: Why, have you the inclination to call on the Physicalest of Plants, sir?
PF: I just may, my lad. And rest assured those rascally scoundrels will not get off so easily. Do you get off easily?
XXXXX: Well, if they know what they’re doing it’s usually pretty easy… why, what in tarnation, Professor! Your inquiries are simply licentious to the point of abhorrence, and I feel I must end this conversation post-haste, sir!
PF: Why, these acorns are simply demonic! They are assaulting my telegraph machine with their lascivious intentions! But seriously, what are you wearing? Knickers? Pantaloons? Ass-less chaps?
XXXXX: Good day to you, professor.
PF: Did you say “cut-off denim shorts?” Just beep once if you shave your balls. Was that a beep? A dash? Damn this communication! Well, at least no one will ever find out about this.