Just as money and culture abandon Eastern Long Island at each summer’s end, the Wesleyan population deserted mediocre Middletown before Christmas, causing economic hardship for some local businesses. Haveli shortened its business hours, It’s Only Natural almost went out of business, and O’Rourke’s, as a result of the fall’s fire, is sealed up like a drunk girl at a Tupperware party. However, many Middletown residents rejoiced at their renewed freedom to be un-P.C. Menorahs were immediately removed from storefront windows; Public Safety officers drove aimlessly around campus (like normal), but in low gear, deliberately emitting more greenhouse gasses than usual; and Middletown police officers continued to racially profile suspects.
Allow me to welcome you back to Wesleyan from your month of:
A. Being a Mass-hole, rooting for the Pats while drinking Bud Heavy with your pal from UMASS, UNH, and UFND (University of Fackin’ Nowheres Dood).
B. Sitting on the couch, being a dump with your friends Ben, Jerry, and Mr. High Cholesterol as you judged with Paula Abdul, danced with A.C. Slater, and endured three grueling Law and Order marathons.
C. Raiding thrift stores in search of something tattered, ugly, and poorly fitting, but hip nevertheless; experimenting with pubescent facial hair; and finding new ways to be unconventional on facebook by posting distorted pictures or nonsensically answering Mark Zuckerberg’s probing personality queries.
D. Going to the gym and cutting weight, shopping, and reverting back to the person you were in high school so that your best friends wouldn’t think that Wesleyan has changed you—that you still like to get dressed up and spend daddy’s money as you and the girls go out for cocktails and then try to fuck one of the Yankees.
As you were too busy partying your dicks and va-jj’s off, or bringing in the New Year with Carson Daly and the rest of the NBC family, allow me to catch you up on current events. After disappearing four years ago, Shawn Hornbeck returned from the equivalent of Neverland Ranch and is reunited with his mother and the guy who’s banging her. Saddam Hussein, who was hung like a light-switch, was hanged on Saturday, Dec. 30. The execution has provoked additional violence throughout Iraq, as there have been several bombings and shootings in the recent weeks. In response, President Bush shared in his national address on Jan. 10 that he plans to send 20,000 more troops to Iraq. Representative Charles Rangel, D-New York, announced in November that he would be introducing legislation in early 2007 to reinstitute a service draft, perhaps in an attempt to diversify the “human shield” protecting the West Point grads. There was little support for Rangel’s initiative, but with Bush’s newly unveiled agenda, I was forced into a rare state of thought: How would a draft change Wesleyan’s landscape? Whose lives would be spared on account of flat feet or ADD? Why is my dick bigger when I use the centimeter side of the ruler? How many people would come out of the proverbial closet to avoid service and save their (fore)skin? But more valorously, what members of the Wesleyan community would answer the call of duty? In the name of football, NASCAR, and Wackarnold’s, who would lay their lives on the line to defend the stars and horizontal stripes?
Although I’m not a people-person and I don’t care much for anyone beside myself, I am a patriot. (YEAH I AM! If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have suggested that the Spirit Marines incorporate lyrics into their music by covering “The Star Spangled Banner.”) Recognizing my nationalistic spirit, the student body would surely select me to lead a platoon of Wesleyan soldiers. After clearing my thoughts and testes (making a mess all over my tummy), I thought long and hard about what members of the Wesleyan community I would choose. Who would be on my dream team?
If we were in medieval times (not the themed restaurant), I would select the entire clan of Dungeons and Dragons enthusiasts who battle with toy swords under the stars in the Butterfield courtyard. Unfortunately for these wood-wielding Peter Pain-in-the-necks, I’m not talking about Zelda or any other RPG conquest. I’m talking about 21st century war: nukes, tanks, and flamethrowers (not those pyros in Prometheus who make flaming tennis balls dance like glow-sticks on teen night), weapons that inspired Christian rock band P.O.D.’s 2001 hit single “BOOM.”
In today’s military, you have to be strong enough to carry a bazooka and have enough athletic coordination to throw a grenade farther than the winner of your fifth grade science fair could hurl a wiffle-ball. Many Wesleyan folk can toss the bee as far as John Elway throws the vortex football in that 1994 commercial, but unlike the disk, the grenade doesn’t gracefully float into the hands of that dude in your film class whose name you don’t quite remember because of the diabetic combination of PBR with those dank buds.
To survive in Iraq, I would need one of the nocturnal Warcraft worshipers of ST Lab to serve as my strategist, a sweet lax brah to sling grenades at far away targets, a really tall guy to serve as a target for enemy snipers, and the most lascivious of the DKE Saturday-night stragglers to ease, create, and then again ease the squad’s sexual tension. I would also select several members of the shoeless population to feel for, and keep the squad from falling victim to, land mines. I would bring a few Eclectic members to keep me up to date on such important matters as American Apparel’s new collection of V-deep V, and deeper V-neck T-shirts, and of course on The Management’s contract status. Lastly, I would select a member of the Wesleyan community at random, because HEY! Life isn’t fair.
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