By the time this column makes it to the dining halls, I will already have migrated to my next vessel. I am not authorized to disclose the identity of this vessel, but I can tell you there were 2,350 candidates in the running. Of this number,
- 90% graduated in the top 10% of their high school class
- 18% are eager to tell you their SAT scores
- 23% sneeze when they think about sex
- 5% have not left Ross since coming here
- 4% were Ron Liebowitz
- 97% were not Ron Liebowitz
- 1% were discovered to only have been posing as Ron Liebowitz
- 12% were friends with minorities just in case
- 24% prefer basil pesto
- 9% prefer spinach pesto
- 2% prefer Swiss chard pesto
- 2% prefer Napa cabbage pesto
- 0.5% prefer baked tilapia pesto
- 46% of Registrar’s Office employees know they are Registrar’s Office employees
- 38% thought you didn’t notice, but you did
- 11% have urinated on the tire art
- 6% forced themselves to start smoking
- 2% measure distances between buildings in cigarettes
- 8% know that “Paul Lewis, piano” has been playing at Middlebury since 1840; he is a vampire and battles the carillonist of Mead Chapel on Tuesdays and Sundays for Grille certificates, because he can’t eat in the dining halls while the sun is out
- 5% get an alternative point of view by climbing trees
- 10% have decided what position their middle child will play in lax
- 29% are excited by how close they are to running the world
- 27% will deny these statistics for political reasons
- 70% of SGA candidates are undermined by this information
- 0.553% love to throw “pedestrian” in there every once in a while
- 43% erroneously believe “juxtapose” is anywhere near as good a word
- 100% should try not thinking in words
- 14% wonder what it would be like to play a different varsity sport
- 4% think about their guns, because it’s proven to make them bigger
- 20% don’t really need the icepack
- 0.0004167% were overheard boasting “I’m 5 for 5 at the bunker.”
- 41% are way too ambitious
The cosmic holiday honoring my new vessel begins now and you are invited to celebrate, make the universe sneeze and say bless you. You have seen evidence of my previous coming etched into the desks in Twilight by other visionaries. Now it is your turn. Grab your chisels, spray cans, buckets of pig’s blood and spread the word, dumb and stealthy as a Proctor crush: “Victory forget your underwear we’re free.”
I see you,
Nick Jansen
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