Housing, you’re a deceitful streetwalker. Seeing as how you ran off so quickly with my money and my room key after we had our intimate moment at the end of last year when I finally got lucky enough to end up with the housing assignment I actually desired after three years of getting elevator shafted, your initials should change from “OHARE” to “O-WHORE,” with the new acronym standing for Office of Withholding Happiness Over Resident Empathy. I suppose I should have stopped trusting whore houses years ago.
Here’s the story: the day after my older brother and I traveled half the world with our taste buds in the local, international beer tavern in celebration of his birthday, he and I drove up to Vandy to move my shit into my suite. Still slightly hungover and suffering from cottonmouth, we stuffed every inch of my mid-sized car with stuff and began to roll out on Dubs – and by that I mean blaring songs that fit into that particular subgenre of Reggae – blaring them, because we could only hear sound from the front two speaker. The back two were muffled by bedding, clothing, and the gigantic, hot pink, stuffed bunny I had just won at the state fair. I named him Mr. Rogers and gave him a sweater vest.
Anyway, nine hours, bad Taco Bell, bland Subway, and two tanks of gas later, we pulled up in front of Towers at exactly 11:15 p.m. My genius plan was to arrive at such an unusual time so as to avoid all of the human traffic and have free range of the elevators, so that we could quickly and stealthily move Mr. Rogers into my room without a heightened risk of embarrassment.
No such luck.
I swiped my card and opened the Towers door, fully expecting to be warmly embraced by the wonderful Housing Keymaker who would grant me access out of the Matrix and into my room, but as you might have already guessed, that didn’t happen. I flashed my gold card to Mr. Smith, the badge-wielding doorman, registered my brother on the official “If someone gets raped in this building tonight, harass this guy first” list, and smiled kindly to the girl working as a reeve behind the counter. When I asked her for my room key, she told me that she was actually quite powerless and couldn’t give me my key, or really even do much of anything at all besides open the front door when people have too much shit in their hands and reset the alarm when people exit through the side doors. But she was really nice while telling me of her utter lack of utility.
She turned around and knocked on the magic door behind her and found someone who pretended to be useful: one of the RAs of the building. This second girl was less kind, less attractive, and far less helpful. (O-WHORE, just whom are you hiring these days? You could at least sugarcoat the wallet raping.) After ten minutes of waiting on the phone while she called her superior, housing homegirl informed me that O-WHORE reserves the right to give residents their room keys at their own discretion after 10PM. Since she didn’t feel like giving me my key, even though it was chillin’ in the little box right in front of her, she wasn’t going to do so. I should’ve just snatched the shit up right then and there, but that would’ve just been really awkward as I’d make multiple trips in front of her back and forth to my car.
After making repeated idle threats of getting her fired, I stuffed my tail between my legs, suppressed my manly pride and anger, grabbed Mr. Rogers, and called my friends until I found a floor upon which my brother and I could crash. The next morning, as we attempted to move all my shit, we were forced to wait in elevator queues as long as Great Depression bread lines, and we weren’t even getting anything for free.
So, O-WHORE, I hope you’re happy with yourself for finding a new way to unnecessarily annoy me…once again. I hope you get gonorrhea from all of your hussy activities, so that it burns every time you piss. Oh wait, we’ll just substitute “gonorrhea” for mold and call it even, because you already have that, and you’ve infected enough underclassmen already. Bitch!
OHARE is an O-WHORE
Abused Dorm Furniture Rebels Against Owners
Shocking news out of Residential Education today as a new report indicates that students have been attacked by abused furniture at an alarming 420% increase over the recent weeks. A crack news team assembled of The Slant, News Channel 5 and Cletus the Crack Addict discovered that a student, whose name shall remain anonymous, was mauled to death in his room by his door after having his eardrums blown out by his speakers. A local sophomore was found on the scene to be the only eyewitness.
“Well, he was always slamming his door every time he opened it, and he liked to play his music unnecessarily loud, so I’m not really surprised that it had to end this way,” he said. “Honestly, I would have gladly helped out.”
Our reporting staff caught up with Housing Director Jason Jakubowski as he was leaving his second job of tenderizing meat at Honeybaked Ham.
“Well, we’d been hearing all along about furniture being abused,” Jakubowski said. “so, I’m not going to say we didn’t see this coming, but come on… kid was a jackass.”
The Vanderbilt Student Furniture Association has been quick to come out saying that these incidents of violence do not reflect the furniture demographic as a whole.
“This just isn’t fair to highlight the recent rise of extremist and fundamentalist tablism,” VSFA president Sprintz Ikea said. “Not every piece of furniture is trying to rebel against their owners. The media and the press have drawn way too much attention to a very isolated event.”
The murderous door was spared capital punishment by axing or burning but still had its locks replaced against its will. The speaker system was confiscated by VUPD and will either be sold in a police auction or placed in the chief’s living room.
Funeral arrangements for the splintered student have been put on hold fearing that so many collapsible chairs in one area could incite violent, uncomfortable rioting.
Towers RA Caught Kicking Puppies on West End
Well….not really. But we would like you to think so. You are probably only going to remember the headline anyway, so feel free to spread that rumor around. Only YOU can destroy someone’s reputation.
But, seriously, Vanderbilt Resident Advisors have been on a rampage recently. RAs have been breaking up parties and dishing out warnings like it’s their job. Upperclassmen have reported feeling 53% more annoyed by dorm rules and regulations over the past month, due, in part, to an upsurge in RA strictness. With finals approaching, RAs have become less tolerant of loud music, yelling, and “getting crunk with my boys,” as one fraternity member put it.
As winter grows steadily closer to Nashville, Vanderbilt students have found themselves getting lazier and less likely to leave their rooms on weekends to party; indeed, dorm room parties in November were up 13% over parties in October. Some students hoped that RAs would empathize with their dilemma, but to no avail. ”It’s just too flippin’ cold!” a Freshman at the Commons stated, “It’s ridiculous to ask us to leave our dorm rooms in this weather. This dress was not tailored to be worn in temperatures under fifty degrees!”
Students have even hypothesized that RAs are, in fact, a highly evolved, super-annoying race of human beings who are impervious to cold temperatures or heartfelt groveling. Students also say that RAs are trained to smell fear and have a sixth sense that detects lies. Although the Slant can neither confirm nor deny the validity of these rumors, these stories demonstrate the community of fear being created by campus RAs. When questioned about these rumors, a Towers RA exclaimed, “Wait, how did you get up here? This is the tenth floor!”
In conclusion, we at the Slant would like to emphasize that in no way are your RAs evil zombies who prey on fun and happiness. This is (probably) not true (although in Kissam, who knows?).
*All stats taken from a Hustler survey which discovered that 69% of all percentages are made up.
