Reader’s note: This story is satirical in nature and published in a spoof issue.
Here’s the deal: We figured out how to time travel. It’s no big deal, but our shit makes the Dolorean look like a toy. So, we decided to have some fun and send a reporter 10 years into the future to see what GW is like in 2020. The following rant ensued.
GW is on the road to perdition.
No, seriously. With no more triple grande, two-pump soy, no-whip white mochas to fuel their distractions, sorority girls have taken to studying hard in the shell that used to be Starbucks. Across the street in the newly renamed Cloyd Hell Marvin Center, GW’s most preeminent tools are without their shed following the Board of Trustees’ decision to disband the Senseless Administration. And Jews all over campus are without a place to hold a Passover Seder now that the University has turned the building into a new real estate venture.
When the news broke that Bank of Obama would be dropping the University’s credit line, forcing operations to a standstill, administrators reacted with prototypical shock and awe as if the decision surprised them. That is, except for professor Donnie Pardons, who warned us all along that the only road Schemin’ Steven’s Science and Engineering Complex would put us on was the one to Sodom and Gomorrah.
Purgatory – in this case a fiery world of negative account balances – was just the first step. But now that the post-apocalyptic fever is setting in, everyone is left wondering: What the fuck are we going to do?
Some have taken matters into their own hands, storming the empty offices in Rice Hall in a vain attempt to ensure FIXIT requests were at least half-fulfilled, only to find a shovel and a note saying, “Be back after the snow melts.” Then there is Richard Fatha, a GW parent who called to complain that a stone in the diamond-encrusted toilet seat in his daughter’s Ivory Tower penthouse fell out, only to hear: “You have reached the emergency line at Facilities Mismanagement. Leave a message and an intern who doesn’t know shit will get back to you.”
Improvisation is the new order of the day. In Thurston, stuck-up bitches and foreign princes have found themselves in the peculiar position of having to clean up their weekend messes without the usual butler service.
GW tools have been among the most affected. With the Senseless Administration dissolved, Preztobe Clifton has taken to preparing an upcoming national presidential run.
Now that the school has to gone to Hell, the campus is more flaming than ever. Heterosexual marriage has been outlawed in the District, and a coup is rumored to be in the works to replace UPD Chief Jack Bauer with fashion maven Miranda Priestley.
One thing is clear: all is not right in this world of pretentious presidential wannabes and grandiloquent gibberish. There is a silver lining, though – having been fully engulfed by the flames of the inferno, Foggy Bottom is actually living (or dying) up to its name. The old regime is long gone, and there is little chance of it returning. And selling your soul to the devil himself won’t help.
After all, that’s what got us here in the first place.