Dear Queen’s University,
Whether you had learnt of my absence through the Brute Force Committee’s letter or through a Raven Symone-like premonition, I, the grease pole, the very symbol of engineering orientation week, have been stolen. After the annual Pole Climb, I was swiped by the BFC.
By now, you’re probably planning my valiant rescue. Maybe you’ve already got your parents to agree to pay my ransom fee, or you and a couple friends hatched a plan to Uber to Toronto. Or perhaps you’re trying to locate me via Google Maps or trying to infiltrate the BFC with the art of sexual seduction. Whatever your half-baked rescue plan may be, I ask you to halt all efforts now. I repeat, do not send help.
I admit, when the Brute Force Committee had stuffed me into a truck driven by one of the member’s mother, I was terrified. The uncertainty of my fate was rattling. After a long drive with 11 bathroom breaks, as the Brute Force Committee has the combined blatter size of a possum, I had arrived at an unknown destination. The Brute Force Committee have hidden me in Filmores Gentlemen’s Club, where I now serve as the pole for the strippers’ dance routines. And I must say, for the first time in 50 years, I now know of true happiness. After years of enduring the traumatic dry-humping of eczematic engineering frosh, I am finally being touched by women. That’s right. My use of plural wasn’t a mistake. I get danced on by multiples of women each day. I don’t expect the average, virginal engineer to understand what the sweet sensual touch of a woman entails. I’ve grown accustomed to the club’s technical wonders of smoke machine and strobe lights, the stickiness of the bills thrown on stage, and the rancid stench of the girls’ overapplication of perfume. The grease of my shaft is now a by-product of the dancers’ booty sweat instead of the tears of the group of the frosh that are failing to become a year. I’ve learnt that daddy issues are indeed a truly, wonderfully enchanting thing and heaven is a place where there is an excess of body glitter.
I did not realize there was a life beyond the miserable flailing of the uncoordinated engineering frosh. Over is the miserable, greasy sausage-fest that was Engineering Frosh Week and now begins a new day of glittery nipple pasties and the failed dreams of women who wear them. In Closing: please don’t come for me, I’m happy now.