It’s been an interesting Dooley’s Week, with the forced conformity to the Student Programming Council’s (SPC) Dooley’s Galaxy theme, the apocalyptic rainstorms and the unprecedented decency of the Ty Dolla Sign concert. However, the festivities we have been granted are indicative of the end. Be it the end of your last year at Emory, your last few weeks before an empty summer or simply the last few days before the workload really kicks in, it’s only a matter of time before the fun of today turns on its head.
I was at the Ty Dolla Sign concert and things got kinda crazy. I used the wrong entrance and before I knew it, I ended up on the stage. All of a sudden, Ty Dolla Sign started yelling his name and I got really confused so I accidentally knocked out the DJ and then panicked and took his place. Ty did not notice the transition. I am writing to you from Ty’s tour bus because I really don’t know how to break it to him that I am not his DJ. I need a good answer or I’ll get fired from my job at Taco Bell and I’ll have to stop pursuing my degree in consulting.
From Baja Blase
Dear Baja Blase,
Emory is a prestigious, top-tier university, with its fair share of top-tier imbeciles. While you may have to sell your ticket to free Triple Double Crunchwraps, at least it’s better than selling your soul to Wall Street with your consulting degree. Count your blessings, friend.
The other day, I was walking down the hill next to Hamilton Holmes Hall on my way to my Introduction to Logic class. On my way, I saw this herd of people on a tour in front of me. Not wanting to be rude, I joined the tour and next thing I knew I was following them around campus for the next couple of hours. To make matters worse, when the tour finished, I got in a car with one of the families and now they think I’m their son. Life with the Richardsons is pretty sweet though. They live in this swanky mansion on Long Island, NY, and I get to wear these super comfy salmon pink shorts everyday.
That being said, now that I have taken over the identity of Samuel Richardson, I need to reapply to Emory. What are my chances of getting back in?
From The Son Never Sets
Dear The Son Never Sets,
Your friends might say you need a certain ACT score; your teachers, a super high GPA; and your demographic, that you need to make a $100,000 donation to the university. While all of those are sometimes unfortunately valid points, the biggest thorn in your chances is your criminal record; identity theft is a crime that not even a 36 on your ACT could redeem.
That being said, if daddy shells out enough money for a lawyer, perhaps that won’t matter.
Help me. I had just finished a tour of Emory and I was about to enter my parent’s silver Cadillac, when all of a sudden this other guy got in the car instead. My family left without me. At first, that betrayal perplexed me; I texted my family members but they thought I was just joking, replying with messages like, “Don’t be silly, I just washed your shorts yesterday.”
I now live under the Cox Hall bridge, rummaging through the putrid compost bin for whatever scraps of Twisted Taco I can find. Sometimes there are white spots on the food but it’s
OK because it allows me to maintain my high protein diet. At night, as I am pelted by the cold, howling winds and the echoes of drunk people as they pass by, I sing to myself a song of happier times: “Bad and Boujee” by Migos. My ears have given themselves up to viral infection, but even so, the soft vibrations of my trembling voice give me glimpses of solace. After my nightly concerto, I lay down on the cold ground, prey to ants and other small insects as they feed off of the seeping pus of my open wounds. My only friend is the glimmering moonlight that acts as my blanket every night as I cry myself to sleep.
How do I get my life back?
From Samuel Richardson
It could be worse, you could live in Dobbs.