There is a cone in a pit in front of the Deece.
I repeat: There is a cone in a pit in front of the Deece.
I cannot explain why nobody else seems to have noticed this. There is a pit, and in that pit is a cone, and I’m the only one who seems to see it. Am I Haley Joel Osment? Am I hallucinating? Does everyone else on this campus have selective cone-based blindness? I simply need to know and I need to know now.
And I know what you’re thinking: “Madi,” you’re thinking. “Madi, yes there may be a cone in a pit in front of the Deece, but that’s the least interesting thing I’ve heard all day.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe, to you, this is boring. This is a non-issue. Negligible in the world of confusing gathering guidelines and students shoved up elbow-to-elbow on the floor of Blodgett Hall and the fact that the elevator in Skinner is somehow still not fixed.
But I refuse.
I say to you, humble reader: We must talk about the cone in the pit in front of the Deece. It is an absolute necessity that the cone in the pit in front of the Deece be dealt with, and be dealt with before it is too late.
Because the question, the overwhelming question, as T.S. Eliot once said (not about the cone in the pit in front of the Deece, but close enough), is: Why? Why, dear reader, is there a cone in a pit in front of the Deece? Why the pit? Why the pit, dear reader, and why the cone?
I have some theories.
The first theory—the Occam’s Razor of theories, if you will—is the simplest but also the most boring. The theory is that there are pipes, perhaps of water or gas, or electrical lines maybe, underneath the ground at that spot where the pit has been dug and this is why they have dug the pit and put the cone. The pit was for maintenance, and the cone was a warning. “Do not fall into the maintenance pit!” the cone seems to cry silently, pleading to a body of students who cannot understand it.
But I’m not sure if I believe this. Rather, I think––no, I know––that the cone in the pit in front of the Deece is a cover-up for something big. Something great. There is a conspiracy involved with this cone, and I am going to get to the bottom of it.
I ask my friends. I say, “Why is there a cone in a pit in front of the Deece?”
One says, “Perhaps the cones grow there. The Deece is preparing for a bountiful cone harvest.”
Another says, “I cannot remember.” What can you not remember? I plead. The cone? The pit? The Deece? “I cannot remember.” The cone in the pit in front of the Deece has taken their memories. I cannot blame them for this.
Finally, a possible lead: Could the cone not be a cone at all?
Say, hypothetically, that you were a gnome. Say you were a gnome and you fell into this pit, this pit which has been dug by a merciless womp-womp. You were a gnome and you fell into this womp-womp pit and what does the College do? Well, you’re stuck! They cannot save you! But they don’t want a lawsuit, oh surely not. So what must they do? Paint your hat, of course. Paint your gnome hat to look like a traffic cone, an expert camouflage job, and then, and only then, has Vassar been cleared of all crimes, all liability. This could be the true answer to our dilemma.
Dear reader, I know this journey has been arduous; I know it has twisted and turned and may not have ended up where you may have liked–– a moral failing from our beloved dining hall is never where one wants to end up, after all. But this is the only solution that I think holds any merit to our unanswerable pit-cone-Deece question.
I hope you have learned something this day. And, while the true nature of the cone in the pit in front of the Deece may forever remain unsolved, I do believe that together we can help uncover this and future mysteries.
Stay safe, my friends.
All my love,
Your faithful Humor Editor