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Old Gold & Black

Old Gold & Black

Old Gold & Black

The Seniority Report

Seniority Reporter Elaine Best attempts to remain calm as a tour group filled with wild prospective students circle her like a vulture.
Seniority Reporter Elaine Best attempts to remain calm as a tour group filled with wild prospective students circle her like a vulture.

By: Elaine Best, Editor

This is The Seniority Report, where I investigate the hard-hitting mysteries of Wofford’s campus, revealing conspiracies, unveiling the truth and discovering the shocking secrets of this institution. This week, I took on my bravest mission yet: tour groups.

Tour groups march across Wofford’s campus this time of year like parades of lost children.  The prospective students stare in confusion at every object in sight, like puppies just discovering what aluminum foil is—shiny, but terrifying.

Current Wofford students slink away when these groups infringe on their spaces. I’ve personally seen a group of juniors abandon their lunches at Zach’s so they could run out the back door before a giant group of these prospectives walked through.

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I wanted to get to the bottom of this prospective student terror. I wasn’t sure what my mission was at the time—I just knew I had to find answers.

The prospies were on the prowl one afternoon, and I saw my chance. I walked up to the group pretending I was late for the tour and mingled in the back as the tour guide continued his speech.

“This is Old Main,” he said.  “It is old. Across the way is Milliken. People cry there.”

The prospies nodded their heads. So far nothing was amiss. It was the next line that turned my guts.

“This is mulch. We love mulch.”

I had flashbacks to my time hiding in the magnolia tree from one of my previous Seniority Reports. Mulch was no friend of ours. Suspicion crept into my veins. Why were we lying to the prospies?

I made it my mission, then, to create a pamphlet that would reveal the truth about Wofford. Here is an excerpt:

Buildings

Old Main: This building was named after Wofford’s sixth and a half president who was a giant lion.

Burwell: Burwell is made of sawdust. A chilled well—hence the name “burr” in Burwell—used to exist where Burwell stands today.  One time, an old lady fell into the well. She was safely retrieved, much to the regret of her family and friends. The place has been haunted ever since.

Olin Building: Originally from the “Guild in Nobil,” an ancient society named by the same people who created the “benificient” plaque, Olin Building is the anagram and name of the secret headquarters for the guild. Except it is no longer a secret. So now the building must be destroyed. I did not think this through. My apologies.

Events held by departments on campus

  • The annual “Existential Crisis” hosted by the philosophy department intends for students to question not only their existence, but everyone else’s existence as well. Questions like “is this a chair?” will implode students’ minds when the professors push the question further: “The chair is made of wood, so is it not wood then? Or is it a chair? This is the leg of the chair…or is it? Does this chair even exist?” Free cupcakes are usually given out unless the professors decide that the cupcakes are not free, and were never free, in which case they opt out because they are too busy discussing the cupcakes’ free will.
  • The chemistry and biology departments team up to play their own game called Quarantine where they unleash a deadly virus on campus. Students need to either figure out how to cure the disease or watch all their friends fall ill to the plague. Leprosy was a fun one back in ’09, let me tell you.
  • English Slam Poetry Nights are popular on campus, especially on raw meat Thursdays where students and faculty present their poetry while having raw meat thrown at them. If a poet feels in the mood, he or she may even go down to the audience and slap listeners with a good steak. The meat is a metaphor. We’re not sure what for, but it’s there.

My only obstacle was to figure out how to distribute my masterpiece without the admissions office catching on.

My plan, as always, was simple.

First, I would need a hot air balloon. Once launched into the air, I would hover over Wofford’s campus, throwing my pamphlets down to the ground. Meanwhile, one of my interns would bring out some speakers and blast Les Mis songs. This would set the mood for revolution. Upon seeing the pamphlets, current students would start an uprising, for why did they not know this information before? Why were they just now discovering Wofford had a space program hidden in the basement of Carlisle?

The students would form barricades out of beer cans and dressers. The institution would be flipped on its head, and the journalistic revolution I had always dreamt of would come true.

Everything was set. All I had to do was get to the hot air balloon I had hidden on the roof of a Cookout.

But little did I know that admissions had spies in my ranks.

I was going down the elevator in Phase V when they struck. The elevator stopped working. I tried to break out, but I had just eaten an entire bag of Cheetos and was not apt to handle such emotional stress.

I cried for three hours straight on the floor of the elevator, hoping my tears would rust away the door. It did not work.

Finally, the elevator started moving again. The Les Mis music was playing, but instead of starting an uprising, somehow Wofford students had found a way to shag to the soundtrack.

Despicable.

If we must lie to our prospective students, then so be it. I didn’t want anyone to find out about the secret playground behind the music building anyway. That tire swing is mine.

Over and out.

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