March 31, 2000 D.C. Jail Cell 9:21 p.m.
He’s been called a parasite to the world, a tragic literary figure, and a prince. Former GW student Ned Meindoesntwork’s story is the stuff of scandalous biographies and made-for-TV movies.
Sensing a good story and not wanting to get scooped by Fox News or some other reputable media form such as The GW Journal, this Crotch-Itchateer jumped at the chance to visit Meindoesntwork when she heard he had made a D.C. jail cell his new humble abode. So from my notebook to your over-crowded classroom (where you are most likely reading this), I give you the story of Nedward George Meindoesntwork, Jr.: the tragic figure behind the villain.
After I slipped a Banana Republic gift certificate under the jail cell door as my admission fee, Meindoesntwork, lounging on a bed wrapped in cashmere sheets, motions to the guard to let me in.
Welcome to my home, Meindoesntwork says, looking up from his tattered copy of The Great Gatbsy. He leaps up from bed, his Italian-leather loafers squeaking as he pads across the marble floor.
Would you care for an espresso? he asks, tinkering with the shiny silver machine and latt? mugs.
As I sit sipping on my liquid refreshment, Meindoesntwork divulges the details of his escapades.
He said he left Harvard and went to Oxford for a couple of months. Missing life in the states, he came back to New England, wanting to start anew as a Yalie. He went to Yale, registered for an Art of Seduction class, and decided he would join the one organization he knew would protect him (no, not Skull and Bones): The Yale Daily News.
Nobody is going to expose me now, he said. But if they want me to expose myself.
Befriending Buddy Tractorboy, YDN editor and son of the notorious GW prez, he convinced Tractorboy to let him do an investigative report about what it’s like to be a prisoner, which is why he’s had to establish his palace from within these walls.
While Meindoesntwork takes a phone call from Chicago on his cute purple cell phone, I begin to think and realize all the pieces of his story don’t fit together. After he hangs up the phone, I press him for more info.
Listen, can you keep a secret? he whispers quietly. Verbally obliging, this muckraking reporter was sure to take copious notes about Meindoesntwork’s adventures in the land of Ivy and men with long, hard, slender oars.
See they caught me up at Yale too and brought me here. something about an article in the Harvard paper, he says, while carefully filing his nails. But I couldn’t take it here! I just couldn’t! So my friend brought over a credit card for me to pick the lock. That didn’t work – so I used his card and ordered some creature comforts with my one phone call.
Our conversation was interrupted once again, but this time, it wasn’t a call from Chicago on his little Nokia, but the shouts of large, hairy, tattooed prisoners being led to the showers by a couple of guards.
Hey Meindoesntwork – you better grab your bar of Clinique soap for men, one particularly gruff prisoner, peeking his head through the bars of Meindoesntwork’s cell, said with a wink and a smile.
My last vision of Meindoesntwork was his small figure, draped in a silk maroon robe, mingling with the imposing men, who all took turns patting him on the rear.
Remember G-dubbers: You heard it here first.
