Woof Woof, Handsome Dan

Ah, late November: midterms are mostly over, there’s a pleasant nip in the air, and the men and women of Cambridge have some extra spring in their step as another victory for Harvard fast approaches. Indeed, the 120th playing of The Game tomorrow will give all who believe in the triumph of good over evil something to be thankful for as they eat their turkey next week. And yet it hardly makes sense to express gratitude for something as sure as Yale’s impending defeat at the hands of our gridiron warriors—one might as well thank water for being wet or notorious Yalie George W. Bush for mispronouncing anything over two syllables. It’s just not in Yale’s nature to win at anything, let alone a football game. Indeed, a shade of cruelty surely lurks in the souls of the horde of Harvard undergraduates who will pack into chartered shuttles tonight and tomorrow to witness the bulldogs being brutalized. Wearing shirts that point out just how much Eli sucks, while the accuracy of such observations is beyond doubt, is something akin to boasting about how much taller you are than your 10-year-old sister.

Still, duty calls: The pesky safety-schoolers insist once again on challenging our obvious might, and a crimson campus rises to denounce its mewling foes. It won’t be as exciting, perhaps, as beating a real team, but if we don’t make Eli smile weakly through his tears at our merciful promise not to thrash him again for a full year, who will?

It’s not all fun and games when it comes to Yale’s dogged lameness. Much has been made of late of the peculiar case of a Harvard School of Public Health lecturer who seemed to think it was all right to represent himself as a Ph.D. after purchasing an ersatz degree from an online Argentinean institution that required neither classes nor tests for “graduation.” That incident, as regrettable as it was, involved only one bad apple in the sumptuous bushels of Harvard’s faculties. How much greater, then, is the threat posed by the innumerable professors and graduate students at Harvard who hail from that barely-accredited university on the banks of the—oh. Right. Yale doesn’t have a river.

Yes, a truly formidable academic hoax stalks the eastern seaboard. Its name sours on the lips of every true devotee of veritas. (We need no artificial lux for intellectual trail-blazing under Cambridge’s bright daytime skies; and unlike Yalies, we actually have lives once the sun goes down, and visits to the local police station don’t count.) But as pathetic as Eli is, he is an insidious pest. The task of eliminating the malformed menace from New Haven is a Herculean one, far beyond the reach of any one class or team. Harvard’s vast physical holdings will no doubt extend one day to the grotto where Yale now lurks. But until then we can only rely on our stellar football team to give Handsome Dan a thorough whipping where it hurts most—on his home turf.

Dissent From New Haven: NO, YOU SUCK!!!!!!!!!?

So what if I didn’t get into Harvard, guys? I’m really happier here anyway. It’s true. New Haven is a real all-American city, and if you don’t believe me, just look it up on the city’s website. BOOYAH!

Our endowment may be smaller, but we really know how to use it. Go ahead, laugh, you sex-deprived FREAKAZOIDS. I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was that we don’t waste millions of dollars on raises for clerical and custodial workers like you do. I mean, really, dudes, who cares about all this “living” and these “wages” you keep talking about?

Anyway, Harvard was so lame when you hosted the Game last year. How were we supposed to drown out the caustic serenity of your not-so-depressed town when your loco parenti took away the kegs? With all those cops, you are the real safety school! Ha!

And after the game, where was all the entertainment—the brawls, the brothels and so on. The Hong Kong, yeah, you wish that were really sketch.

We own you, losers. Wait until tomorrow. Our team is so much more emasculated than you, and we know how to overcome mediocrity—preserve all we can, until you take your shame trains back to Cambridge.

Oh no, who’s that opening my door? No, not my laptop. Help!

—Eli. S. Yalie. BOOYAH!