Annual Report Finds Harvard Kennedy School Faculty Remains Largely White, Male
Harvard Square Celebrates Oktoberfest
Harvard Corporation Members Donated Big to Democrats in 2020 Elections
City Council Candidates Propose Strategies for Supporting Low-Income Residents at Virtual Forum
FAS Dean Gay Hopes to Update Affiliates on Ethnic Studies Search by Semester’s End
They're here, I've seen them, out in the Square where they always are this time of year, pinching asses (usually girls') and casing Cambridge for a liquor joint that will sell to minors.
Lugging their suitcases with "Indians" sipped on the slick upholstery, they've come "like the bad weather." one Harvard cop remarked yesterday-unwanted and out of nowhere.
If you happen to hit the Square tonight, look around, you can't miss them. They look like George Gobel dressed up as a leprechaun, wearing their green high school jackets, blue jeans with a GREEN POWER sticker plastered on the crotch, and boots that have "kick-ass" patterned across the toe in dirt.
And if you don't happen to be there, don't worry. A friend, a brother, a fraternity brother of a brother, will invariably stop by over the weekend to use your floor.
When he asks The Question ("Hey, you don't mind if me and a couple of buddies use your floor?") be wary. He might mean he wants to sleep there, but usually it's a tip off that he is about to throw up.
It's nearly automatic. You're ready for Friday dinner, the date is due in an hour, and some clown comes busting through the door with his kick-ass boots. He says he's a friend of your roommate, throws his duffel ("You don't mind if I toss my duffel up here") on the desk, then pukes.
If you're lucky, he won't come to your party after the game. Usually, though, he will and he'll bring his freshman dormies with him.
Now his friends are not all that bad; they could be nice guys if they hadn't just spent a month and a half learning to disguise their prep school accents so they could sound like dock workers.
Around midnight though one of them starts chasing his girl (who at 8 p.m. was your girl) around the room. He rips down the curtains, spills the booze, and picks up quite an audience in the process.
Finally he corners her, his sweaty pits encompassing her shoulders, and whispers in her ear, "What kind of party is it unless you get laid?"
When more friends of your roommate's friends arrive, they will recount the game for you: listen patiently. When they promise to drink you under the table, nod approvingly. When they attack your masculinity because you haven't stripped to your T-shirt, smile quietly. And as they walk out the door, yell back "Eat Your Heart Out, Green Weenie!"
Want to keep up with breaking news? Subscribe to our email newsletter.