There is one question that Vassar scholars have struggled with for decades: Why does the rugby team always need new players? It seems like a simple question at first, but then scholars looked at the team makeup at the times of the requests. Fifty players during orientation week seems like plenty, so why do the jersey-clad salesmen retain their habit of knocking on doors begging for conversion to their lifestyle? We set out to answer that question, with finality, from a primary source: Steela Whigs. Whigs was a rugby player in the Class of 2006. Or, she would have been in the graduating Class of 2006, had she not dropped out inexplicably on Jan. 1, 2004. She sat with us yesterday for a formal interview, 22 years after her mysterious incident.
When asked why she left Vassar College, she responded by blinking out the Morse code for “ask another question, dumbass.” The interview team was slightly offended, but we picked up and continued. A question was then asked about her last season on the rugby team, with a particular interest in what exactly went wrong.
Whigs shivered in her chair for 33 seconds then croaked out a response: “It was awful, truly awful.” An interviewer, who has since been fired for misconduct, then sprayed Whigs with a water gun out of fear. Whigs cussed him out and then resumed her original, slightly creepy posture. “They took us to Denver,” she said shortly, her scuffed Louboutin So Kates dancing shakily from her crossed leg. “The Denver Airport.”
Another interviewer responded cheerfully: “I love it there! The horse statue is so cute. Neigh!” He winked nervously then snorted horsily.
Instead of sympathizing with the man, or sharing the equestrian love, Whigs shot up in her chair, backhanded him across the face and spit into his toupee. “No! You don’t know what that thing does to people.” After calming herself down with a fidget spinner—which she had hidden in her bun—Whigs continued, “When they make you ride that horse, that evil, evil horse, it isn’t so cute anymore.”
I took on the next question: “What did the horse do? Sorry, what did the demonic horse do?”
Her eyes grew wide and her lip quivered as she made a couple of condescending clicking sounds. “Not demonic, buddy. No, something much worse.” She paused for exactly four minutes and 20 seconds, then leaned towards me like she was by a campfire, telling a silly ghost story—but this was real, I guess. “It swallowed us whole. Its insides looked like a Picasso painting, all fugly, you know.” She shook her head. “Anyway, it galloped and galloped and hovered a little, then took us somewhere dark, somewhere damp, somewhere that wasn’t Denver.”
After taking another oddly long breath, Whigs continued to recount the experience, “The horses are cosplayers. Not demons, cosplayers. You know the turtles? The mutant ones? They aren’t cartoons and they aren’t turtles. They are real, and they are horses.” she sniffled. “Horses with Bowser-themed saddles and Naruto headbands! Oh, the horror!”
Whigs shuddered so hard it seemed like lightning ran through her spine. “So real, you wouldn’t believe the way they talk, walk, smell. Their bodies are dusty and furry and smell slightly of Winter Candy Apple.” A tear fell from her cheek. “They played games with us.”
My jaw dropped slightly in terror. “What kind of games…” I trailed off.
“Oh, the worst games,” Whigs cried. “Operation, the Mario Kart version of Monopoly, Elden Ring.” She stops for a second. “They had it early, because they are aliens.”
“What happened after?” I asked, genuinely interested as a fellow hater of Elden Ring.
“Nothing. We went back to the hotel, and acted like nothing happened. That was winter of 2002,” Whigs recalled with shocking calmness.
“And you didn’t quit until ’04? Why is that?” my toupee’d colleague asked.
“Well, It was December 31st of ’03 that broke me,” she said softly. “We were invited to ‘The Ellen Show.’” She shook her head viciously, so viciously that she lost an extension. “Why would the Vassar rugby team pass up that opportunity, right? I mean, she hadn’t been canceled yet, so it was great!” She smiled then quickly flashed a harsh frown. “She wasn’t real. And I found out. I stumbled into her dressing room by accident. She didn’t have her face on, and her hair was so short compared to her long face.” Tears poured from her eyes. “I mean, I thought it was cool she was gay, but a horse, that was too much for me.”
“Did you stay?” I asked.
“No, no, she chased me out. I used my rugby skills to trip up the security guards and rode away on a golf cart. After seeing what those horses truly were, I began to question even my teammates’ humanity. I’ve been in hiding ever since the Ellen incident.” She paused, dug into her purse and pulled out an entire bottle of Pink Whitney. She downed the whole thing in one gulp and threw it on the ground. “Except one time. I reached out once, to my friend, Anita Drinkawater.” She held back a belch. “I told her everything, and she was dead the next day.” She cries between hysterical hiccups of laughter. “And what’s even worse, the same day she died, Trisha Paytas was pregnant!” She started laughing maniacally and collapsed to the ground, unable to continue the interview.
One thing can be said: We still do not know why the rugby team is always scouting for new members, but we can see why they are losing some members. But, without more testing, it is impossible to say if these seemingly magical horses hurt other rugby stars or if this was an isolated event. We ask readers to approach these topics with caution, as discussion could conjure you a brand new life within the Paytas family.