Queen’s Student Constables and Golden Words United… to Make a Fundraiser


The score is a bazillion to 0. The general populace of Queen’s against one of the most necessary and practical services on Campus and the Queen’s Student Constables. After such a bitter defeat, we put our heads together with everyone’s favourite party poopers to think of ways we could find some way out of our financial struggles. 
    The combined might of our two services combined should make the rest of this school tremble in fear: Golden Words’ words and StuCons Constables. The pen and the sword, together at last. Except we have laptops and Windows Vista running InDesign, and you just have your hands that you can gently cup a rowdy club-goer’s balls with. But whatever, close enough. Queen’s will never know what hit em – after we rise up, they will be Princesses at best. Probably Ladies of the court. But Queen’s isn’t ready for subjugation. We would be forced to rule as iron-fisted dictators instead of the benevolent monarchs we aspire to be. The time is not right. So it was decided that we must strike fear in the hearts of the general student body with a fundraiser so kickass people literally would blow their minds, and we would be free to respectfully pickpocket their corpses. 
    No idea was too outrageous, no method was out of bounds. We considered auctioning the shirts off our backs, We even, after hours of debate, came to the conclusion that the logistics of an organised prostitution ring would not be achievable. We like to think it’s because no one really wants the I Touched a StuCon bar badly enough to pay for it. They know that prematurely balding comedy writers are no one’s sex symbol. However we all agreed that, despite everyone present’s downright concerning familiarity with the dark underbelly of Craigslist, it would not present well to have the Keepers of the Peace become the Ladies of the Night and while GW staff possess a love making ability that would be simply impossible to put a price on. And not because it’s too low.
    Our first good idea was the good old fashioned car wash, with everyone dressed in nothing but XXL StuCon shirts. We would drive… statistically at least one person, wild with excitement to watch our team of rule breakers and rule makers scrub down cars in the freezing Kingston Winter. Our only really concern would be that the nipples on top of our perfect chests would be so ice cold that we might scratch the glass of our patron’s cars. But then we realised that in order to sign off on that kind of mischief the StuCons would be interested in yards of written consent forms and having a generally regulated approach and we’re not interested in doing that kind of paperwork.
    Next idea on the table would be to do what every single charity on campus has done: bake sale! We got to bring the heat and bask in the unoriginality! 450 degrees for 25 minutes to be exact, because we gonna put out a bake sale that will shake every quarter from these students’ pockets. We’ll be everywhere – cornering them Mac Corry, harassing them in the ARC. And we don’t mean the Queen’s Centre, we mean the fucking gym. If you’re doing a barbell curl, why not make it a cupcake curl. Let’s grease up those pans invite everyone we know to the facebook event and get to work!
    We can also starve them out and see how they like it when we go away. We’re already shutting down operations, I doubt that this student body will ever laugh again. And let’s see them get through another theme night at the Underground again without their eagle-eyed supervision. Soon, it will be nothing but totally unfunny anarchy. People will never stop partying and have no fun at all – so that means 24 hour bro-fights. Lets see them deal with that forever. Soon, they’ll come crawling back, dumbing quarters and loonies at our feet, kissing our feet just to give them one last piece of hilarious satire, one more frisk with extra sugar (if ya know what i mean). 
    Sure, we’ve had our differences over the years: we made fun of their yellow shirts, then made fun of their grey shirts. We wrote an entire full-page rap about them in the style of “Fuck tha Police” in last years Fake Journal. And you damn well know you’ve kicked more than enough of our staff out of Throwback over the years over stupid shit like “you’ve had twelve shots of tequila” and “please put your pants back on, Ma’am.” But that’s all in the past. the revolution is no time for petty differences. It is a time for action. A time for setting up folding tables and making signs out of bristol board. A time to break out a tiny whiteboard and marker and encourage them to write dumb sayings on them beside a hashtag for a Facebook photo. 
    For the survival of both of our services, the guardians of the Underground must reconcile with the denizens of the written underworld to melt the heartss and open the wallets of the general student body. The revolution is here and it’s a minimum five cent donation.