Since publishing Prestige and Mobility, The Harvard Crimson, previously known only for heteronormative  undertones, has seen tremendous ad revenue
Since publishing Prestige and Mobility, The Harvard Crimson, previously known only for heteronormative  undertones, has seen tremendous ad revenue growth.  In thanks, they have given us a genius grant to test our new mind reading device. We have published our initial results in the tradition of great UC meeting live blogs. Our research, which was conducted during prefrosh weekend, is presented below:
12:37 p.m.: Look at this red folder. What high-quality paper products. It’s clear the school cares about me. It’s like I’m irreplaceable to them. This folder is a treasure chest of the experiences I’m coming to Harvard for. A chance to see a Gutenberg Bible? A debate between two campus political groups? An ice cream social (for the world’s best high school students!)? Many would be intimidated, but not me. I excelled at the high-school level, both inside and outside the classroom. Mostly inside: my mom says I was born an “indoor kid.”
12:48 p.m.: I’m glad I left early for this THURJ info session.  I have time to think of compliments for the members, and I can establish some social capital with these mostly symmetrical prefrosh while we walk. Don’t blow it this time. Remember freshman year of high school: a signature fedora? Every day? What was I thinking? Not now. I just need a cool topic. Sports. I’ll talk about soccer. No, soccer’s too gay. What about basketball? No, not classy enough. “Hey, who here plays motorcycle polo?” Oh, no. Oh, no. They’re walking faster. They know I can’t keep up—being an “indoor kid.”
If I can just make fun of someone else to assert my dominance...that prefrosh doesn’t even have a folder! He’s selling newspapers? Is he already comping The Crimson? Everyone knows that Comping “Current”=Being a Baller. My new friends are walking faster. “Hey, nice shirt! Hey, the paper’s called ‘The Crimson,’ not ‘Spare Change.’” Maybe they’re just fast walkers.
1:18 p.m.: I can’t believe I can eat whatever I want. An individual piece of chicken fried just for me with buns nearby? Alpine Strawberry or Antediluvian Chocolate? Nice. It seems like I can sit with anyone and just introduce myself. Four years of friendly classmates? I’ll take seconds! I can just casually bring up that stern lady who swiped us all in. We all have that in common! Easy introduction. It seems like all of the African-American students are at one table. This wasn’t in the folder! This wasn’t in the folder! How can I complete my group of multi-ethnic friends as seen in the admissions brochure? I head to the back. Look at that statue. John Adams! My favorite. A closer look...Shit! The alarm! Run, just run. They might rescind my admission—or hurt my chances of enrolling in Freshman Seminar 34[1/2]x: “Chastity in an Age of Cyber Warfare.” Run.
9:30 p.m.: Doo-wop, beep, shee-wah-bop-pow. What an a capella smackdown! Wow, it’s like the voices WERE the instruments. I want to join an a capella group, but who would want me, anyhow? I couldn’t even get into the Fallen Angels. Man, those girls have it all. Sure, I turn to drugs and alcohol sometimes to get by, but who doesn’t? Life’s tough. Do you know how many AP 5s I got? Nine.
9:36 p.m.: Looking for a party. Found a place that looked like it would be bumping (and grinding?!) all night: Lamont Café. I was pretty sure prefrosh didn’t usually get into final clubs, so I played it cool and only talked about my SAT I and never my SAT IIs. I ate a stale raspberry Danish and chilled in the VIP section, by the newspapers. Show them bitches no love.
9:41 p.m.: I’ma keep a low profile with a decaf chai latte and eye potential biddies. High school hasn’t gone so well for me with women. Sure, I once reached first base on a balk, but I got out by a fielder’s choice.  College will go better now that I’m reinventing myself. I strut over to a girl, hit her book out of her hand and say, “Do you have any idea how many free t-shirts I got today?” She doesn’t respond, so I lean in and whisper, “Seven.” Yeah, we pretty much frenched.
 Oh, Microsoft Word Paper Clip, “heteronormative” isn’t a word? Looks like we just found one wiry, wound-up bigot!
 Couples seeking 5’7”-5’10” albino Sephardic Jewish egg donors with 2300+ SATs, come on down!
 Editor’s Note: THURJ, we put you on the map. We expect some quid pro quo, such as, Undergraduate Research on whether Shaq is the new fun czar.
 Infield fly rule=unexpected and unwelcome unzipping of pants; bunt=kissing her hand and then attempting to move to lips; Kirby Puckett=her ex-boyfriend; third base=vague; hit by pitch=hit by bus while kissing date; first base coach=guy who helps you make out; Cal Ripken, Jr.=making out with same girl 2,632 consecutive times; called third strike=leave theater, get popcorn, return, date absent; inside the park home run=artificial insemination; suicide squeeze= “DO ME OR I’LL KILL MYSELF”; Registrar Barry S. Kane=inventor of the suicide squeeze.