My tale begins way back when I was a wee frosh, I was just strolling along and whistling to myself, taking my dog Hornet Bastard for a stroll, when this student-athlete came barreling out of the bushes in a golf cart. He was maybe eight feet tall, so large the wheels of the cart were being crushed under their load, but he didn’t care—oh, no, sir, as soon as he saw me and poor ol’ Hornet Bastard he pivoted that golf cart in my direction and let out this mighty screech, this hellish war cry, and ran my dog over. Now I was shocked by this, shocked and horrified at the puppy gore splattered on the tires and road and also my Crocs, but I had enough human dignity in me at that point to demand that man apologize. But he just laughed—mocked me, ridiculed my pain! —and he pulled from his pocket my dear beloved pet cat, Dog, and threw her in front of the golf cart and ran her over, too.
Now I wouldn’t have made a big deal of this since I know Stanford loves to disrespect the student and figured this was par for the course at the Farm, but right after that athlete ran Dog over his golf cart slipped on all that blood and smashed right into Eavan Boland, acclaimed Irish poet and director of the Creative Writing Program, killing her instantly (and also denting the golf cart a bit after it kept going and hit a building). Now I thought maybe that athlete would get in trouble for damaging school property and maybe murder, but instead John Vandemoer, ex-Stanford sailing coach, came out and started clapping and gave that student athlete a replacement chariot, all covered in gold and encrusted with Tesla batteries and drawn by child slaves from Bangladesh.
Now I wouldn’t have made a big deal of even that, y’see, it’s just that right afterwards we happened to go to the same dining hall for lunch—it’d been a few days since I’d eaten and a few minutes for that athlete, which I respect, you know, that athletes work hard for our school and work up big appetites, and as we came into the dining hall I caught sight of my best friend and also the love of my life, Jeremy Jeremy. Now I shouted over to Jeremy to catch his attention but before he could do anything that student-athlete, who must’ve been distracted by my shouting and wasn’t paying attention—instead of scooping up salad into his plate he scooped up Jeremy and fucking ate him for lunch. The End.
