Rev. Philip L. Boroughs, S.J.
All I asked y’all to do was READ, damnit. Instead, you defy me- by drinking to the point of inebriation in a damned parking lot? A wine-mixer? Really? I mean, I know Holy Cross is preppy as all hell but I didn’t think my subjects were a bunch of drunk soccer moms. Jesus.
Screw it. I’m done. I’ve instructed Paul Irish and his men to initiate a full-scale carpet-bombing at the intersection of Caro and Boyden. For once, that stupid lot will not reek of cheap beer, but of the sweet smell of shrapnel. 33 Caro’s probation may eventually end, but you try playing beer pong on mounds of scorched rubble. I become excited at thought of Caro Street reduced to a glorious block of fire. Shock and awe, man. Shock and awe.
To complete this “cultural transition,” I’ve also met with Public Safety to commence what I’ve termed the “Final Crusade,” in which all those who roam off-campus will be met with the fury of all seventy-five of HC Pub Safe’s nuclear weapons. Why, you might ask? Well, for one, Dean Irish has approximately two hundred and thirty five meetings scheduled with off-campus seniors, and he thus is asking the Administration for a raise. However, if we paid him, we certainly could not afford the gold-plated posters with my wondrous face strewn about campus. I mean, priorities, guys.
Some might say I had some alternatives. I probably did. For one, I could have went full 1843 on your asses-make you all learn Latin and Greek and bring back the beatings- but then you degenerates would probably just start saying “Prout illuminatur” instead of “It’s lit.” The only way for me to win is for your precious block to face annihilation. This is the Great Flood, except there’s no Noah this time. If you’re reading this, it’s too late. The Catalina Wine Mixer is dead.