Seeking Asylum at the Harvard of the West

This past weekend, I escaped from Harvard. Under the guise of a "job interview" I spent several days in California before I was captured, tortured and placed in Loker Commons for re-education. What follows is my abridged version of events.

Thursday a.m.

I'm not sure if I'm going to make it out. Some of my friends tried to leave Harvard before and were put on probation cleaning the urine off the John Harvard statue.

Today it looks like the Deans have paid off Mother Nature because there's a blizzard threatening to foil my plot.

To counter my opposition, I sacrifice a squirrel to the ghost of Claverly Hall and pack some Harvard Kryptonite-a potent mixture of common courtesy, happiness and fun-as my weapon of choice should I encounter trouble.


Trouble indeed begins as soon as I descend into the T. I am stopped by an Ad Board Gestapo Patrol. Wearing masks to preserve their anonymity and sporting "No Escape" tattoos, they chant "none shall pass" and burn a mock-up of my diploma.

"Why would you want to leave?" asks one.

"Yes, stay with us. Everything you need is right here," they croak.

"If you go, you'll regret it," cackled another. "There's nothing to see out there except savages and heretics. They'll eat you."

Fortunately, what is not anonymous about them is age, and I outrun them.

At the airport, I swear I see one of my professors with an earpiece but think nothing of it. However, as I board my flight, the attendant rushes at me with a needle screaming, "Die traitor die!!!"

I hit him with a courtesy grenade and he falls. Close call.

Thursday p.m.

I arrive in San Francisco and notice a big difference in the weather. There is a large yellow object in the sky that hurts when you look at it.

I ask the natives what the airborne fire is, and they say it's called "sun." Man, is California weird or what?


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