You rodent. You scum. You absolute filth.
You just had to do it, didn’t you. Yes, you—the one wearing the rolled up canvas capris, the ‘Camp Stanford’ t-shirt, a baby blue Aeropostale jacket, glasses with no lenses, and a stickered Hydroflask in your hand.
We know what you did, and you will pay. The moment you decided to strut your Hot-Topic-wearing ass into our sanctuary—our Batcave! —place your grubby little mitts on our pristine box of pure satirical genius, and just leave with it, you set off a chain of events that will leave you quaking in your Crocs.
You simply don’t know the organization you’re dealing with. You think we’re just a bunch of gangly college students, running a satirical magazine for the kicks and giggles? Please. That’s just a facade we wear to disguise the true nature of our actions. You think those papers you stole were just articles for the amusement of the student body? If only you knew.
This open letter isn’t just to express our barely contained rage, though. It serves as a warning; a chance at a head start, if you will. Your life now hinges on your ability to run, to hide, and to survive. Even as you read this article, the sweat starting to form on your upper lip, your heart beginning to pound like a hammer in a forge, the clock on your lifespan slowly ticks towards its end. I sure hope you have your Crocs in track form with the heel strap on, peasant, because you’re going to need to start running.
By the powers of all that is good and funny, we curse you. We curse you to be plagued by 45 second unskippable YouTube ads, to run out of lead or ink right before a test, to have your phone connect to WiFi that doesn’t work, to have your Instagram forever be spammed by those weird Eastern European porn accounts, and to always be blocked by people walking just a little too slow in front of you.
We didn’t start this blood feud, but by the grace of all the gods of paper conservation and comedy, we will end it.
Love,
The Stanford Flipside
