All Hallows Eve is coming up, and I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about scary things lately. And I’ve also been hearing a lot of talk about scary places. Well, dear reader let me tell you what is truly scary in life: opium dens. I’ve been trying to keep this close to the vest, but I’ve been doing some experimenting with time travel. My goal is to be able to go back in time and get in on one of those Roman orgies, but that’s for another article.
In the most frightening occurrence of paranormal tomfoolery to strike this campus since Alpha Delt’s “My Neck-rophilia, My Back” Valentine’s Day party last February, Film Hall, located on the bottom floor of Nicholson Six, is purportedly being haunted by Ghost.
[Ed. note: So Sascha says this is from the Amper Archives. We’re not sure what that means. Did it actually run two years ago? Did it get rejected back then and he’s just pushing old crap? Either way, the point is that he can get away with it because…he’s writing a thesis. Well, not really. He’s a film major. They don’t actually write theses. They just… well, see below.]
This Friday, the Argus will publish an issue consisting entirely of archival articles. Since the good ole Ampersand isn’t published on Fridays, we’re beating those guys to the punch with our own clip show.
Amherst and Williams: Neither one swallows. Trust me.
Grinnell: Imaginary. Do you actually know anyone who goes there? Honestly.
Bates, Bowdoin and Colby: Actually the same school.
Colgate: Buildings are not actually made of toothpaste.
Yale: Do not believe in the reach-around.
Cornell: Fewer suicides than you would think. More assholes.
[For best effect, read note aloud in the style of a 1920s newsreel narrator]
Listen here chief, I got a story. Story that’ll knock your socks off. This story’s big. Big as the Chrysler Building I tell ya. I’m going right to the horse’s mouth with this one. We’re going to Washington; Seattle, Washington that is. Big things there, big things. They got Negroes voting I tell ya, in plain daylight, it’s crazy stuff!
I celebrate my senses,
making the sex of the universe a tangible touch to my man-hands.
i was selected before i was born out of my mother,
generations made me proud long before i arrived.
Want your name forever linked with the likes of Charles M. Schulz, James Thurber, or even Bill Keane of "Family Circus" fame? Think it’s impossible? Think that just because your mom was a crystal meth addict when she was pregnant with you that you can’t accomplish anything?
My dear students of Wesleyan University,
It was I who snuck into your rooms late in the night and stole your laptops. But please, before passing judgment, hear my story. This autumn’s lasting heat has brought bad tidings for my family. Dressed in furs as is our custom, we perspire heavily. The eternal drip of sweat from my darling wife Sonya’s brow has caused her great distress and rekindled painful memories of her past. She now spends her days sitting listlessly in the drawing room, twirling in her fingers the frayed hair ribbon of her long-gone childhood friend, Natasha.
True! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? I am not mad, not in the slightest. The consumption of WOW! Potato Chips has sharpened my taste buds — not destroyed them — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute, I heard all things from the internal expulsion of gases to the external explosions from the bowels of hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! And observe the lack of fat in my diet and low blood cholesterol.