By Dean of Freshman Thomas A. "Tommy D" Dingman

 

Aight gang, let's address the elephant-sized pile of horseshit in the room. Yes, ya boi is stepping down as Dean of Phresh at the end of this year. Yes, it is because I have received a six-figure salary for years with no administrative responsibilities other than operating the Mike Smith marionette on special occasions. And yes, Rakesh is a fuckin' snitch for calling me out on it at a meeting, when I was this close to outlasting Faust and starting this whole "uhhh, educating the person as well as the student" act again.

 

But this pales in comparison to how much it sucked that I had to go to fucking Yale for my last H-Y weekend. Weed is still illegal there, all the strip clubs I went to closed at 5 AM, and the Skull and Bones sex dungeon hasn't even accidentally decapitated someone since the '70s. I've seen more vomit on one dinner table at the Delphic than I did in all of New Haven's gutters combined. Hell, their CS50 barely offers any drinkable adderall, least of all the cherry-flavored kind ya boi likes to chug before a Committee on Financial Aid meeting.

 

And yeah, I know, I can come back to Cambridge next year. But have you guys seen how weak-ass the alum tailgate is? When I'm trying to make a rum and coke with Tommy D's bathtub gin instead of coke, I don't need some i-banking douche in three kinds of plaid telling me I'm waking up his toddler. Precious little Wyatt needs to get READY FOR SOME FOOTBAW, and I saw you piss yourself at the Fly in '03, you smug chode.

But I'm not mad. I'm not even mad. And if you happened to see someone doing bath salts next to the impromptu bonfire outside Yale Commons, you better not have snitched.