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Turning the Beat Around

Savoir-Faire on Savoir-Faire

By Michael K. Savit

The attacks began early last week. Reading period usually does this to me anyway, but this time there was an added dimension. Thanks to a column I wrote last week, much flack has been directed my way. I've been called everything from malicious to a high school sophomore--which really galled me, because I didn't even go to high school.

In any event, I decided to give equal time to some of the people toward whom I've been accused of being unfair. I though that if given the same forum I possess, they would let you know the real Michael K. Savit. Here, then, are a trio of guest columns:


Gentlemen, I can honestly say that not only does Michael K. Savit know nothing about basketball, he knows even less about sports in general. And since sports is the only area in life he knows anything about, you can imagine what a low brow, unfulfilled life he lives.

As a student, he's a disaster. Supposedly, there was one lecture--probably in his freshman year--that he didn't fall asleep at. Note, gentlemen, the emphasis on didn't.

When I came to Cambridge four years ago, I was told great things about The Crimson. Gentlemen, they all turned out to be lies. Why, I became so sick and tired of reading the garbage on that paper's sports page that I even turned to The Independent once or twice.


Michael K. Savit couldn't multiflex if he were given an instruction manual to do it by. I hesitate, though, to say anything truthful about him because I know his mother reads this column. And that's half of his audience.

It is little wonder, then, that Savit was placed in Hurlbut as a freshman. They wanted to get him as far away from everyone else as possible. Not is it any wonder that only after bothering the life out of the folks at University Hall did they consent to allow him to move in with roommates. Who, after all, would want to room with him?


Why don't I talk to Savit? why should I? Would you if you didn't have to? The guy's a jerk. He covered hockey for two years for The Crimson without even knowing the difference between icing and offsides.

As for his writing ability, he has none. Jokes that aren't funny. References that make sense only to those who were invited to his Bar Mitzvah. Not enough cliches. To tell the truth, I can't think of anything about him I like.

Well, there you have it. I've given equal time to those who deserve it, and in so doing, I hope I've set the record straight. I'm not mean. I'm not malicious. I'm really a nice guy, and just to prove it, I'm going to give you all a chance to appear as a guest in this column.

Thus, for those of you who are bored by reading period and seek new and exciting diversion, I cordially invite you to send a guest column to me. Either leave it off at The Crimson or send it to Winthrop H-42, where it will be properly scanned and judged. Quality will count more than quantity. Accuracy will count not at all.

Any column that is deemed worthy of appearing in this space will be published in the near future, providing the author also consents to take me out for a drink.

So don't study until your eyes form bags, and I expect to hear from you soon. Hopefully before intersession, though, because starting then I'm booked until June.

See you around the campus, sports. This time I mean it.

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