Word: dartboard
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Earlier this week, those taking their evening constitutionals by the dirty River Charles were overwhelmed by a most unusual phenomenon: a veritable swarm of sweaty, raving undergraduates charging down the red-brick paths, waving tattered caps as they yowled. Cheers drowned out boom-boxed anthems; in the Quad, where Dartboard makes his reluctant home, an explosion of some sort shattered...
...Dartboard was puzzled. Surely only the rarissima of aves—some infrequent occurrence, entirely foreign to any man or beast breathing today’s air—could have provoked such a violent, Hobbesian reaction. Sure enough, the Red Sox were going to the American Leagues Championship Series (ALCS), where they now battle Dartboard’s beloved Yankees...
...Dartboard has little to say to natives of Boston and the pro-team-deficient wasteland that surrounds it. They are beyond Dartboard’s reach, and deserve to grasp at their bit of irrational hope. There’s more than a little pathos in their insistence on clinging to a moronic dream, backs bent by 85 years of hard labor under the weight of a curse...
Dartboard’s conversations with unique, talented new fellow- students oh so keenly anticipated over the summer were interrupted by calls from other members of the ruling, cell-phone-bearing class. Dartboard resigned himself to his inferior status, fully aware that his communication abilities were not up to par with the rest of the Harvard elite...
...became merely the emblem of the extravagance to which the city folk so recklessly surrendered. Spur-of-the-moment meals at expensive restaurants and $100 water cooler rentals from HSA came as naturally as the phrase, “I’m blowing up.” But Dartboard is not cool enough to blow up. Paying monthly fees is not what Dartboard had in mind when he imagined getting a B.A. So Dartboard gives up his aspirations of joining the aristocratic majority of cell phone possessors and reluctantly endures his perpetual lowliness. Maybe it’s time...