A Modest Proposal: Final Clubs

It’s punch season again, and this year it’s really getting to us. We are sick of seeing sophomores dressed to
By Peter J. Martinez and David A. Wallach

It’s punch season again, and this year it’s really getting to us. We are sick of seeing sophomores dressed to impress at 7 p.m., only to return at 2 a.m tearing each other’s clothes off and pulling the trigger in the stairwells. Honestly, since when is social standing based on how much you can drink? It saddens us that many underclassmen, whom we had previously respected, are buying into this insanely sexist system. These all-female clubs are out of control; we speak for all men on campus when we say, “Enough is enough. END THE INJUSTICE!”

We had a dream last night. It was about Derek C. Bok. And then we cleaned up the sheets and went back to sleep. Later, we had another dream, a dream that one day our sons, admitted to Harvard as legacies, will be judged by the content of their character and not the presence of their penises (or by the fact that their fathers were the two greatest inventors of the 21st century). Yet we awoke to a dystopia, in which every aspect of campus social life is determined by gender.

Why do the members of the Bee, Isis, Sabliere, Pleiades, and the especially insidious Seneca insist on excluding our kind? We are no different. If you think about it, men just have reverse vaginas, kind of the way Jewish people have reverse brains. And no one discriminates against Jewish people. No one ever has.

This localized sexism feeds right into the more systemic subjugation of men in society. With one or two phone calls, any of these privileged girls can get her pick of the best e-recruiting placements. Do you have any idea how hard we have worked for even the smallest chance at being a secretary, nurse, or elementary school teacher? Damn hard. And no Dalton divas should get our spots.

To add insult to injury, these “ladies” parade us around at their date events like we’re show dogs. But we’re not trying to help you get into some stupid club. We’re trying to help you get into our pants, which is way easier since we have a no-cut policy. No black balls here, just an aching set of blue ones. See, while you’re so busy trading compliments at the cocktail hour, the best us guys can do is trade meaningless tug-jobs in the men’s bathroom, which can get pretty bloody.

We demand that the final clubs open their doors to the hairier sex. Because even all that hair can’t keep us warm when we’re shivering in our short skirts and slutty tops trying to get into those sweet parties. In a perfect world, Harvard men would have mansions of their own, but we’ll settle for integration.