Your Uncle Smugly Says

Malaleel U. Smugly '93, whose experience and sage advice are both Justly notorious, continues his series of counsels to the undergraduate in distress. Send in YOUR problems and see what happens.

This column continues to agree with CRIMSON editorial policy, in spite of the impending Depression.

Dear Uncle Smugly,

I'm in trouble again.

You remember me. My name's Cephalitis, and I wrote you a few days ago about my going to sleep in classes. Well, what you said about hypnotism set me thinking, and I got a book about it, which was very interesting. But now, whenever I look hard at a professor, and try to think about what he's saying, he just looks back at me in the strangest way. He doesn't say anything and his mouth opens and shuts like a fish. Yesterday this lasted five minutes until somebody gave him a drink of water. What should I do? Trustingly,   N. Cephalitis.

Dear Mr. Cephalitis,

You may trust me, but I don't trust you. Wear black glasses, look the other way when you concentrate, shut your eyes, or something, but don't go around hypnotizing the faculty. The Dean's Office is a bit prejudiced about psychical research.

Hoping I shall not hear from you again, I remain,   Your UNCLE SMUGLY.

Dear Uncle Smugly,

I've just been to a party. I didn't have much to drink, so along about two-thirty I get bored, and I go look for my roommate, and I say to him, "Charley," I say, "1ct's scram. Lulie ain't here and things're too damned tame." But my roommate, Charley's his name, he says, "Oh, go dance with the hostess then." Only he says it sort of ominous-like. So I ask one of these flunkeys with a white flower in his button-hole which is the hostess. And he points over to a girl that looks like she'd kept pretty well, and I explain I want the Old lady's daughter. Then it turns out this is the daughter. So then I know what Charley means, and I get careful. She has on one of those long pink dresses with icing and forgetmenots around the neck, and she's got a green orchid strapped around her middle. She's got big feet and her hair starts from her head and goes out like the Japanese rising sun. The same color, too. I don't do anything, I just stand there and look. If she'd had on glasses I'd have hollered. And then I slunk out quiet-like.

I didn't dance. Should I have?   Eddie Kett.

Dear Mr. Kett.

You need not worry. In fact, you're very lucky to have escaped unscathed. I once went to a party where they served thirty-two cases of champagne (not quite all to me) and I woke up at four-thirty in the morning still dancing with the hostess. But I was an usher that time, and someone had to start her off. The other boys figured I could stand it, I guess, and I guess I could in the good old days. I am therefore sympathetically,   Your UNCLE SMUGLY.