It’s official. First-years Janet “Jannifer” Reno and William “Billiam” Rogers are staying together for the summer of 2015.

“I’m so excited for Jannifer,” exclaimed one friend of Reno’s. “Billiam is such a great guy. I love that ant farm he has in his room. So badass.”

On their scramble, where Reno and Rogers first met, sparks began flying almost immediately. Rogers likened her face to that of a jack jumper queen, a species of ant native to Australia, when they were assigned to make a fire together.

The two also had common interests.

“We were both interested in majoring in pre-law at Whitman before we realized that program didn’t exist,” confessed a uniquely insightful Reno. “So I ended up becoming a physics major who will probably later switch to psychology, and Billiam is biology right now but might end up as an film major.”

“I’m a little worried this commitment might end up like Ingmar Bergman’s ‘Scenes from a Marriage’ — the television version, mind you — but for now, I’m still caught up in the bliss of being a freshman at Whitman in spring,” said Rogers.

After their scramble, the two often saw each other around Anderson Hall, but Reno was pretty busy rushing Kappa Alpha Theta, from which she never received a bid. Rogers, on the other hand, mostly stayed in his room, getting his ants adjusted to their new environment and drinking NyQuil every night to get to sleep.

“I’m going to be honest: The ant thing and NyQuil did not help Billiam in my eyes. Neither did his supposed nickname, come to think of it. But I’m glad we are roommates because he just sleeps over in her twin bed, and I can have ladies over here whenever I want,” said Rogers’ roommate, Stan Chadley.

But at the ’80s dance, Rogers drunkenly asked Reno to go into the fountain with him. She was initially skeptical but then acquiesced.

“I was scared that dolphins might be in the fountain for some reason,” said Reno. “I feel like I can hear dolphin noises coming from it all the time. But I knew it was only saying that because the absinthe I stole from my parents was giving me the placebo effect of having hallucinations.”

Indeed, it was a romantic evening that consisted of making out on a bench, only stopping when another freshman couple walked by.

Yet, by spring, their relationship had grown beyond just drunken hookups.

“I’ve put absinthe behind me,” confessed Reno. “Five handles behind me.”

Reliable sources inside Anderson have confirmed that the couple will be staying together throughout the summer.

“Although sometimes ants crawl up my back when we are hooking up, I don’t mind anymore!” exclaimed Reno.

It was 11:37 on a Friday morning in first-year James Leblooze’s Encounters section with Tom Davis when something happened that changed Leblooze’s life forever. Leblooze had been experiencing mild allergy symptoms but had taken a little Allegra and drank some tea and said later that he felt “genuinely good that morning and was definitely not expecting any sort of Vesuvius-like disaster to happen.” But, it seems, that Encounters class was much like Pompeii in 79 A.D. and would witness an eruption almost the size of Krakatoa.

In a post-incident interview, one of Leblooze’s classmates described the scene:

“We were just talking about some book that’s supposedly relevant to our education at the time. And I was half paying attention, but then I look over, and Leblooze is leaning back like he’s going to sneeze. And there are no tissues in this class dude. None.”

“I felt the sneeze coming on, and I put my hands to my face, thinking it would be dry. But it wasn’t,” noted Leblooze himself.

Indeed, Leblooze sneezed in the middle of the riveting Encounters discussion, just as one of his classmates was comparing St. Augustine to a Buzzfeed article.

“Leblooze’s sneeze mostly went on his hands. Mostly,” confessed one classmate who had not done the reading but had instead watched James Cameron’s “Aliens” the previous night.

Indeed, most of Leblooze’s sinus ooze, which was determined to be around five ounces of snot in the post-incident report filed with the school, ended up on the palms of his hands. But some landed on one of his classmates, Jan-start Lauren Harriliy. Harriliy refused to comment on the story and has taken a leave of absence from the college to cope with what her friends describe as a “soiled reputation.”

“I feel really bad some of boogers ended up on Lauren, but I was the one who truly suffered,” said Leblooze.

Post-sneeze, Leblooze noticed there were no tissues in the classroom, and his hands were completely covered with snot. Unluckily for Leblooze, he had to turn a door handle to get to the bathroom. When he lowered his hands, snot was also covering some of his face, which some of his classmates began snickering at. Leblooze managed to open the door after about 20 seconds and left some residue on the handle, which the professor later cleaned up with his tie.

Leblooze made his way down to the bathroom, but not without embarrassing himself further by walking past the girl he liked. Leblooze held his hands to his face and hoped that she wouldn’t notice that he was nervously making his way to the bathroom. She however, silently greeted him by offering him an open hand. Leblooze acted on instinct and immediately high-fived her. Another student commented on the incident: “I just her shrieking in the hallway and this girl was on the ground with snot all over her hand. I thought she had sneezed her brains out and fainted, but then I saw that creep sneaking away.”

“It was an incident I’ll never live down,” said Leblooze. “My reputation has been seriously damaged. I’m thinking about legally changing my name.”

Leblooze has since been known around campus as “Snot-boy,” and several chants have been started at fraternities of the nickname upon Leblooze’s entrance. Leblooze has yet to show to his encounters class after the incident.

“I just feel so bad about the tie,” he said. “But hopefully, I can still scrape by. If there was a moral to this story, it’s don’t have allergies! They will kill your reputation.”

It was to the surprise of many normally apathetic Whitman students that President-elect Jack Mercyvail would not be occupying to the ASWC Presidency next fall. In a surprise press conference followed by a solemn brunch on April 21, Mercyvail discussed his reasoning: “I cannot with good conscience ascend to the bejeweled Beerhozian Throne that Tati currently sits upon. Even though I ran unopposed, I did not even get 50 percent of the vote of the Whitman student body. I thought this election would have a better turnout with all these supposedly politicized Whitties, but it seems they don’t even care about ASWC or me.”

Mercyvail took a breath and held back the tears like a post Cowboys game Ndamukong Suh.

Finally, he noted, “And with that, I will not accept the position of ASWC president next year. Without a mandate, I do not deserve the ruby crown and emerald scepter that Matt Dietrich originally designed.”

With that statement, Mercyvail stepped down from the podium and forever into simple civilian life.

But ASWC, like every powerless student organization when it comes to making real change, needs a puppet at its head. And that puppet has a name. And happens to be quite cute and made of real human skin. And it’s Dylan Tull. The former Pio News editor was confused and surprised when he first heard that he come in second place for the ASWC election. In an exclusive Skype interview from his penthouse in Capitol Hill, Seattle, the Backpage gained the scoop.

“Wait, you’re just fucking with me, right?” was Tull’s initial response. Nay, this reporter replied to Tull, and told him the story of Mercyvail’s resignation. Tull began to get emotional himself and took pity on Mercyvail for not acquiring the number of votes he wanted.

How did Tull come to be elected after graduating in 2014 with a B.A. in English? Apparently he had been secretly campaigning on Facebook but didn’t expect to get any votes. All the votes Tull received were write-ins, and he fared much better than the other write-in candidates, including “Mickey Mouse” and “Skippy the Bush Kangaroo.” “Maxey girl” and “Canoe,” however, were close on Tull’s tail, gaining 4 percent of the total student vote due to recent posts on Yik Yak.

“Well, all right then. I always dreamed of being ASWC President. I get a harem, right?” asked Tull. This reporter quickly corrected the new President-elect and insisted he only got a hairdresser.

Tull, quite ecstatic, even with the removal of the harem, plans to move back to Walla Walla and live (on paper) only on the stipend that ASWC provides the president.

“I’ll work full time as president and embezzle as much as I need from ASWC funds. We might need to raise the student fee in that case…” said Tull. “If I’m running low on cash, I’ll camp out on Ankeny and get swipes into the dining hall for food. For fun, I’ll just show up to Tamarac. They have great parties there on occasion, and one time I even kayaked down the stairs. I got a concussion, but because I was drunk I didn’t feel it.”

It should be a quite a year for students, as Tull’s first act is to open a “small petting zoo” in the tennis courts during the warmer months on Ankeny. He also plans to open a “Whitman Butchery” nearby at Reid that he insists has nothing to do with the petting zoo.

“It’s definitely going to have baby crocodiles! And hopefully bush babies if we can get an exchange program with an Australian school going!” shouted Tull. Tull plans to make the trek to Walla Walla a few weeks after the fall semester starts, just to make sure everyone “gets settled in before I start making sweeping changes to the campus. I hope the freshman are ready for the new king of campus!”

As for the new President of Whitman College, Tull is excited to work with her.

“I think if she likes trap music, we’ll find we have a lot in common,” he said. “If not, I’m a bit worried there might be a big of tension.”

Either way, students are in for a different type of president next year.

Springtime is recognized around the world as a season of rebirth, fresh beginnings and a renewed sense of nymphomania. This spring, however, greeted many Backpage writers with the bitter taste of failure — similar to the taste of octopus droppings (although some cultures do regard this as a delicacy).

Indeed, it was to the surprise of many Backpage writers that the Whitman Pioneer’s “Jack Issue” was universally heralded as a stunning success, marking a milestone in the era of comedy. Will Ferrell, in a personal interview with the Backpage staff, lamented:

“I have no idea how to describe the Jack Issue, except as to say, it’s redefined comedy forever. I can’t compete with this level of humor. I can’t even think of a humorous way to spin this.”

Bill Hicks, Mitch Hedberg and Andy Kaufman also made a statement from the grave using recently developed technology.

“We congratulate the Jack Issue of The Pio. They know comedy better than we ever did or possibly could have. Tell Michael Stipe to write a song about that issue,” said the three men.

The “Jack Issue,” distributed annually as an April Fool’s edition of The Pioneer, received nods from the American Comedy Association, an offer from HBO to adapt one of the articles into a series and the Nobel Prize for Comedy.

Although most of the Pioneer staff is generally regarded by 74 percent of campus (who has had one or two drinks) as “pretty humorless,” this showing of untapped talent caused 100 percent of the staff on the Backpage to resign. None of the Backpage writers had written for the “Jack Issue.”

“What’s the point?” asked one former Backpage writer. “If the rest of the staff can come in and just be funnier than us, than why even do this? I almost died laughing when I read the ‘Jack Issue,’ but I couldn’t bring myself to sue The Pio. I’m just a failure.”

What will these unemployed clowns do now? They tried each week to bring a bit of joy the tiny Whitman campus — only with their dreams to be squashed by an apparently gut-wrenching staff.

One staff member, who goes by many pseudonyms, including “the poet laureate of the Backpage,” had something to say.

“I thought my poems would bring joy to all. Like a goat blood-gutting on a full moon in November, or reciting of all of Lamentations during an All Saints Day vigil. But perhaps my ideas were too abstract. I thought poetry would be an outlet for creative expression, but it just turned out to be an outlet for failure,” he said.

The poet laureate took the news especially hard, dropped out of Whitman, and as a last ditch effort at both poetic and comedic justice (as well as reference), became a crossdressing lumberjack.

Another member of the staff, Lewis Trevors, began a silent protest by sitting outside naked of Penrose Library while wearing cat whiskers, but this too was a failure.

“I’m a failure!” Trevors yelled, as if he was speaking to the abyss. He soon returned to his fraternity to hibernate among other brigands and beasts.

With the Backpage leaderless and staffless, The Pio announced they would be just be printing a blank page — to commemorate the failures of the said page.

Illustration by Asa Mease.

When you fly on a plane, do you prefer the window or aisle seat? Once in my life I totally preferred the aisle. My preference was based on practicality — when you sit in the aisle seat, you don’t have to ask anyone to move when you want to go to the bathroom. Besides, I always feel uncomfortable engaging with strangers. I like to avoid talking to my seatmates as much as possible.

But sometimes… it becomes inevitable.

FLASHBACK. It happened on a casual afternoon. I had finally made it onto my flight and I was worn OUT. I was ready to turn off, you know what I mean? I had my earbuds in, I had my movie picked out — but life had other plans. As I walked down the aisle towards my seat (not making eye contact with anyone), I noticed this older lady sitting in the seat next to mine. There was something immediately dreadful about this woman — I could tell. There was a big friendly smile on her face, and I got the impression she would try to make casual conversation with me. I hate casual conversation. Lo and behold, the second I sat down she started talking to me.

“What are you listening to?” she asked. I begrudgingly pulled out my earbuds.

“You probably haven’t heard of him.”

“Oh come on, I’m curious dammit!” Once the words left her mouth, I knew I was in for it. And I was right! She talked to me the entire flight. She told me all about her job as a nurse at an old folks home. It changed her whole life. Because of her proximity to death, she now sees every moment as precious and important. It totally opened her eyes to life.

“I’m so glad I got the window seat!” she told me. “I fucking love staring out the window. Don’t you just fucking love flying through the goddamn air? Jesus Christ!” She swore all the time. She was just excited about everything.

She was pretty crazy, though. She talked about all sorts of things.

“I’m really looking forward to the revolution!” she told me about how humans will eventually realize we aren’t really living at all and just going through the motions of life without ever engaging with anything, perfectly content to live in our comfortable separate silences.

“Always alone in a crowd,” she said.

At one point, without breaking eye contact she burped right in my face and laughed about it. Her high-pitched cackling still rings in my ears sometimes. That’s why nowadays, whenever I fly, I always choose the window seat.

– Jack Swain is a licensed mystery solver. If you have any mysteries you need him to solve, please contact swainjw@whitman.edu. Serious mysteries only, please.

When Michelle Ma sent out an email notifying all Whitman students of an “Emergency Alert,” most students dismissed it as another mistakenly sent email. Indeed, mere minutes later, she sent out an email apologizing that she had mistakenly sent out the “Emergency Alert” and that everything was “just fine and certainly no need to investigate.”

Yet, a very un-Whitmany idea drifted across my thought-thinkers, and I mused to do the opposite of what someone important had told me. I politely sent her an email and waited for her response. Yet no answer came. It was like I was emailing the Student Engagement Center, who never fucking responds to any emails (Seriously though, I sent them five emails in a row and they did not respond to one). Something suspicious was up.

I had one last resort besides email because, like many others of my generation, talking to someone on the phone scares the living shit out of both me and my lower intestine. I quickly texted Jorge Ponts, and he responded to me saying, “Of course we can chat. You’re still made of human flesh, right!?!”

Ponts sat down with me in his office, and he began to explain to me what had happened: “I’m about to retire, brah. Of course I can talk about dis shit. I might even reveal to you that I’m wearing a skin suit. Just kidding! Saw that article last week. I’m not a fucking lizard.” I coolly responded and he began to tell me the unfortunate tale of a first-year who had gone mad.

“His brain had never been exposed to kale and kombucha before coming to Whitman,” said Ponts. “After his West-Coast, new-money, raised-by-hippies roommate showed him a few PETA videos and introduced him to psyclobin mushrooms and cannabis, he was quick to cling onto this completely new lifestyle, which was quite a shock to his system.”

“Interesting,” I responded. The thought of PETA had distracted me from the conversation and reminded that I had a few microwavable steaks sitting on my counter at home. “Continue, please.”

Ponts flicked his tongue and brought some dried flies to his mouth before positioning himself more in the sun. “Sorry, that’s better. Anyway, where was I? Right! Kale began warping his brain, and some students in his section, mostly those who only ordered meat at the dining halls, began to disappear. After a brief investigation, we found their bodies decomposing in compost pile behind Jewett.”

“He couldn’t use lye…” I started to say—

“Because of the environmental impact! Exactly.”

Ponts explained to me that the killer hadn’t done much harm because he had only killed a few Phi first-years, and you “can’t really tell them apart anyway.” The case would be of course handled internally, and the WWPD was fine with that after getting a sizable sum donated to their retirement endowment. The kid was going to “probably get a slap on the wrist only. But at least he left those half-decomposed bodies for me and the trustees to snack on!”

We both had a good laugh and Ponts’ tail nearly went right through the window.

It was a late night for the Whitman Divestment movement a few weeks ago. 8:47 p.m. Way past everyone’s bedtime. They were used to divesting right after they showered in the morning (no conditioner allowed!) so their hair and their lifestyle would be oil-free.

Their previous strategies of putting on “divestment weddings” in public places and placing fake oil on the steps of Reid to inconvenience everyone had proved failures. The leadership of the divestment movement concluded that they needed a bold move if they were going to succeed.

They had gathered in Olin Hall, which was against standard procedure (due to the fact that it’s heated by gas), but Ankeny Field, in the words of divestment advocates, was “icky.” Smitty Collins, the bespectacled and behatted (cowboy variation!) leader of this group of bold upper-middle class white kids, solemnly took the stage.

His recently purchased fair-trade organic shoes barely squeaked as he made his way to the podium. Collins had requested that the soundtrack by Ennio Morricone to “The Good, The Bad and the Ugly” play for 30 seconds before he start speaking.

He quietly took off his cowboy hat and let the tension in the room build (he had decided to forego the stick horse routine he usually did as to not alienate the new members).

“Gender is a spectrum adherents, I have continent-shaking news!” announced Collins. “I have unearthed evidence that the Whitman Board of Trustees and President Ponts do not want you to hear. I have moved mountains to find this, but in this folder…”

Collins paused and held up a peach-colored folder that he took out of his Northface.

“…I have evidence as to why Whitman has not divested. Divorce papers filed! And the reason as to why is irreconcilable differences! These differences are not merely political, but biological! Yes, Ponts and the Board of Trustees are flesh-eating reptiles, or reptilians, from the constellations of Orion, Sirius and Draco!”

A hush developed over the divestment supporters.

One sophomore biology major immediately put his face in his hands and muttered, “I never should have given him that acid.”

But the majority of the crowd began to whisper among themselves: “That makes sense”; “Why else would they not divest?”; “Ponts always looked like he was wearing a skin suit!”

Ponts was quick to respond to these rumors after #Whitmanrunbyspacelizards started trending on Twitter. One Tweet, by a certain Cooker Bonte, read, “Why do they water the grass so much at Whitman? Is it to keep the reptilians happy so they don’t eat our flesh? #Whitmanrunbyspacelizards.”

Ponts announced that classes were canceled, and a symposium entitled “Sincerity and Sensitivity: Don’t call me a fucking lizard” was to be held. Everyone who attended apologized to Ponts and the few trustees who could make it. By the end of the day, even if they thought he had been a space lizard from outer space, they were totally enlightened and realized their mistake.

Collins, however, refused to accept this. Even though he had admitted at the S&S that he had no such evidence, he felt a feeling in his gut about Ponts.

He challenged Ponts to a debate to be held on the Memorial Building steps. Point after point, Ponts would deconstruct Collins’ thinking, but he refused to answer the question “Are you a lizard from outer space who eats human flesh?”

Although Ponts was the clear winner of the debate, flicking his tongue and darting his icy eyes from one end of the audience to another, I thought I saw a laser pistol tucked under his belt and a zipper attached to his skin.

It’s that time of year again when the dude who is rumored to be Kris Kristofferson’s long-lost brother sends out an email entitled “Whitman Lifestyle Choices Survey.” When one imagines the Whitman lifestyle, a few images come to mind: eating Walla Walla sweet onions on designated Wednesday evenings, playing frisbee with oversized ham slices on Ankeny and burying dead townie bodies in the wheat fields after a cultish ritual. Just kidding about that last one, gang. The body would be plowed up in a heartbeat next harvest and would probably take a zombie-like revenge on the farmer.

The survey, however, has more intentions than just finding out about our hobbies and naughty habits. It helps inform the Whitman faculty that despite being mostly upper-class, white and from the West Coast we don’t ALL have a cocaine problem (56 percent of Whitties do five lines or less on a typical Friday or Saturday night). It also helps assure parents that Whitman students don’t party too much. Instead, the administration argues, they’re doing interesting things like watching re-runs of Becker, getting stoned and trying to make moccasins, or playing saxophone drunk in the Whitman Jazz Band (they show these pictures in the backgrounds of the stats they showcase all around campus).

The survey is supposedly anonymous, but why did Budweiser start emailing my Whitman account immediately after I checked the box saying I drink 15 beers every night (Don’t worry parents, it’s O’Douls)? Also the question “On how many times did you drink alcohol during the fall semester?” begs the following actual question: “How many nights can you not remember from fall semester?” If, at the very minimum, you had one drink per week, you would be on the far side of that question according to the survey!

On a somewhat serious note, the serious administration is trying to confront a serious problem on Whitman’s serious campus: serious constipation (#toomuchtaq?). One question reads, “I engage four or more times per month in the following behaviors to control my appearance or deal with feelings about my body pooping,” and the options consisted of “laxatives,” “organic laxatives” and “more taq.” Thank goodness. It’s always been a rumor that Bon Appétit put laxatives in the food, but if students were doing organics on top of those, that could be a serious problem. Finally someone is confronting this campus’s overuse of toilet paper! Divest!

There also is an option to check to say how often one takes testosterone/steroids illegally. I personally put down the maximum option to balance out for all the TKEs who are too busy looking in the mirror or spying on Kappa Section on their way to the Crack House.

On an actual serious note to the administration: The people on this campus who have fun are having too much to take a survey that everyone knows is bullshit and used as propaganda anyway.+

Nothing quite says ‘Spring’ like former presidents giving commencement addresses on their post-presidential passions. Few have forgotten President Jimmy Carter’s April 1994 speech at Columbia University regarding Habitat for Humanity, or Ulysses S. Grant’s lecture titled “I Won the War Drunk” at Harvard University in 1868.

Our 43rd president, however, wasn’t offered the commencement speech at Whitman graduation. Instead, President George W. Bush guest lectured at the Whitman Art Department this past week. Bush, who left office with two ongoing wars, a trashed economy and lax regulations on the environment, has turned into a post-presidential Picasso.

President Ponts contacted the Bush family through a mutual friend to get Bush to speak at commencement. The Young Republicans Club at Whitman immediately celebrated the possibility, and donations began flooding into the college. The faculty, however, sent out an email that basically said, “NO FUCKING WAY.” Ponts, perturbed, emailed the two members of the Young Republicans Club, asking for a “set of principles” and a “simple goal” that would allow the students’ parents to continue to donate absurd amounts of money to the college through some sort of compromise. The Young Republicans responded, still pushing for Bush to come to Whitman, but not as the commencement speaker. Ponts, slick as ever, figured he could get Bush to lecture at the Art Department. When contacted for a response, the entirety of Whitman’s art faculty laughed for five minutes. In an exclusive Skype interview with the former president, we got down to brass tacks.

Backpage: So, Mr. President, are you glad to be lecturing on your new hobby?

Bush: Yes, I am. No one invites me anywhere. I’m just happy to get off my damn ranch. I’m sick of all these Lil’ Bush reruns.

BP: What is your philosophy when it comes to making art?

Bush: Well, let me tell ya — anywhere a paintbrush stirs, let art critics fear. I believe that God wants everybody to be paint. That’s what I believe, and that’s one part of my foreign policy… I mean, painting policy.

BP: How would you describe your paintings?

Bush: Well, I would say they’re misunderestimated most of the time. No one gets what I’m trying to say. Painting is where I find hope, where my wings take dream.

BP: Wings take dream? Like the band?

Bush: Forget it. I’m the decider.

Bush decided to show a few of his art pieces, portraits ranging from Hamid Karzai to Vladamir Putin, despite the two leaders’ poor standing with the United States.

“These guys are my pals,” he said.

One moment was awkward, however. When Bush was walking off stage, he very clearly passed gas. He turned around and said, “Goodbye from the world’s biggest polluter.” The crowd of 18 erupted in laughter.

It’s the dawn of a new age: Second semester has officially begun. It’s been two weeks, so obviously it makes sense that everyone is completely exhausted already. The countdown to spring break has already begun, and sickness is sweeping over this campus like a new form of the plague. The days of break are long behind us, and pale faces, incessant coughing and, of course, that one annoying person in the library that can’t stop sniffling have become the new norm. In other words, the student body has started looking more like sleepwalkers than those excited Whitties that circulate during the warmer sunny days. However, some people actually have an excuse for this weariness (besides staying up watching entirely too much Netflix): initiation week.

What does that entail? You may be wondering. Well, unfortunately for you, you don’t get to find out. It’s all hush hush, brotherhood, sisterhood, sworn to secrecy and all that jazz. Well, ease your mind because, boy, do I have an initiation process for you.

I should preface this by saying that the only club I’ve ever been the leader of was the Shakespeare Club in my high school, but quite honestly I think that makes me very qualified to lead this aforementioned initiation.
So here it goes. This is what should have been the initiation process into my high school Shakespeare Club. The most important thing that would need to happen is to have everyone walk in and seriously question whether they are joining a cult or not. This probably would mean that the ceremony should take place near a volcano because, you know, easy access to virgin sacrifices, etc. (I mean, when you ask a group of people to show up in all white, what do you expect?). The initiated members of the club would be shrouded in black-wearing masks, and obviously Enya’s “May It Be” would be playing on repeat in the background.

Cue the initiates: blindfolded, they walk in. The smell of sulfur lingers in the air as Enya’s voice rises above the bubbling lava. The initiated members all speak through the use of sonnets, but instead of clear voices they are all using autotuning; think T-Pain does Shakespeare.

Prior to the ceremony, the future members would have a list of things to bring (because why the hell not?)

A squirrel on a leash: It seems just crazy enough to inspire fear within them, but also it would be hilarious.

A Chipotle burrito: They would have to pay the extra dollar for guacamole because, well, what is a Chipotle burrito without guac?

A freshly baked pie: I don’t want to focus solely on food, but an apple pie á la mode sounds delicious right now.

A memorization of Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back,” which they will be required to speak slowly and interpret in a dance.

Obviously there would also have to be some prerequisites to this initiation, so the week before initiation all of my lovely pledges would all have to speak solely in iambic pentameter. This sounds very difficult, but, hey, I’ve got to make sure they have what it takes to make it in the world of Shakespeare lovers. Along the same vein, they should probably only dress in Shakespearean garb. That means those poofy pants with the tights underneath. Though this will perhaps be embarrassing, but on the real, the Shakespeare club is worth it.

At the end of this week, through the blood, sweat and tears, they would all become official Shakespeare club members, bonded forever. Thus, the spirit of the Bard of Avon will live on in infamy.