There we were, sitting atop Main Building’s roof doing thesis research. The objective: chuck ice at the groups of traveling freshmen who take up the entire sidewalk. Our thesis aims to study their dispersal patterns for a future multimedia exhibition in the Frances Lehman Loeb Art Center. Sorry for the “falling ice” email and scattered signage—that’s our B. Senior tings.
But our chucking wasn’t going as planned. Usually, screams emerge outside the building. That day was different. Yelps were vibrating the ceiling we sat on; the screams were coming from inside. In every line for Tasty Tuesday, disaster was striking. Arlington Bucks were down.
Concerned divas sent up our bat signal: a backlit castrato dressed as Nonno from “Nonno’s Pasta Bar” at the Deece. He’s seen singing with a text bubble declaring, “Nonno Deece Nuts.” We had been summoned. Our asses had to get down there, fast.
We slid down the roof on PB’s slay toboggans. Our descent happened in slo-mo, our throats sexily screaming because we didn’t really know how to sled. Our falling bodies looked like a two-man luge team minus the skin-tight body suits (we were naked). Our bodies crashed into Main Circle with a ploop. With groin muscles pulled, and spirits high, the hunt had begun.
Our first tip (hehe), came to us from a discarded Misc copy, tattered with footprints and melted snow. Traced with what looked like blood, but was really just ketchup from Street Eats, was a cryptic phrase atop Noah Baumbach’s dewy, unblemished skin: “Follow the money to my honey. We got your food, bitch.” The font was pink. Barbie pink.
“Not much to go on,” we thought together. Woke mind virus af. But the film connection was clear; Greta was near.
We headed to the lobby of Vogelstein and crawled up the elephant’s butt to the secret film lounge. In that small intestine, amidst vape smoke and a Premiere Pro instruction manual, we found our next clue: a redacted memo from the parent company of EAccounts (Meta).
The memo read like a poem: “College broke lolllllllllllllllll Baumbach bribe lol lol lol lol lol lol lol pay in Arlington funds lol lol lol lol lol haha students lol l skinty summer ahead ol lol dumb as hell lol lol lol lol never know. Best, PB.”
We were gagged. Our precious My Market wine funds were being used to bring a Brooklyn Boy back to PK. We already have enough of those. They disappoint us enough.
Thoughts swirled in our minds, like the geese shit mixed with snow. Should we tell people about our discovery and keep the College accountable? Nah. We had other plans: We would wrest control from administrators, raise money for Arlington Bucks ourselves and institute our own program.
To collect funds, we needed the masses on our side. We needed a cool, baddie af fundraiser. Who could garner enough attention and Fizz popularity for our mission? Vassar Burlesque.
We pulled up to their house, unannounced. The Chapel looks great this time of year. To capture their attention and introduce our dilemma, we performed a “Fantastic Mr. Fox” routine, red tails flapping against our buttocks. We constructed a den of sticks on the Chapel stage, exploding it with water and gyrating in the resulting stream. They flocked to us immediately, as if they were standing in line to get tickets to their own show. After filling them in on the deets, Burlesque was all in.
The pro bono performance would take place in the Nircle Igloo, colloquially known as the “Snort.” $10 tickets were sold under the heading: “Snort with us to dismantle Baumbachery.” The foundation was laid, cash set to flow in, journalistic integrity within reach. All that was left to do was to enjoy a monumentous, Fizz-worthy event (and, of course, get our wine rights returned).
On a rando Tuesday night, bodies huddled in the Snort, threatening to melt the creation with intense heat. Local penguins were pissed at the use of the structure, but they showed up anyway and were lowkey into it, likeeeee.
The most popular routine was a “Heated Rivalry”-esque battle between Jason Blum and Baumbach. We obviously portrayed each of them, using boom mics as hockey sticks and slapping each other’s cookies.
The grand finale? Marriage Story 2: PB and John’s final epoch. We unfortunately weren’t present for this performance, because we were loading t-shirt guns with loose cash. At dawn, it was time. Instead of chucking ice, we blasted envelopes of $200 to unsuspecting students from the roof of Main. Our goals had changed, niceness was in, big backs were gettin’ bigger. And just like that, in the dead of a lusty midwinter, EAccounts swelled again.