It was a late night for the Whitman Divestment movement a few weeks ago. 8:47 p.m. Way past everyone’s bedtime. They were used to divesting right after they showered in the morning (no conditioner allowed!) so their hair and their lifestyle would be oil-free.
Their previous strategies of putting on “divestment weddings” in public places and placing fake oil on the steps of Reid to inconvenience everyone had proved failures. The leadership of the divestment movement concluded that they needed a bold move if they were going to succeed.
They had gathered in Olin Hall, which was against standard procedure (due to the fact that it’s heated by gas), but Ankeny Field, in the words of divestment advocates, was “icky.” Smitty Collins, the bespectacled and behatted (cowboy variation!) leader of this group of bold upper-middle class white kids, solemnly took the stage.
His recently purchased fair-trade organic shoes barely squeaked as he made his way to the podium. Collins had requested that the soundtrack by Ennio Morricone to “The Good, The Bad and the Ugly” play for 30 seconds before he start speaking.
He quietly took off his cowboy hat and let the tension in the room build (he had decided to forego the stick horse routine he usually did as to not alienate the new members).
“Gender is a spectrum adherents, I have continent-shaking news!” announced Collins. “I have unearthed evidence that the Whitman Board of Trustees and President Ponts do not want you to hear. I have moved mountains to find this, but in this folder…”
Collins paused and held up a peach-colored folder that he took out of his Northface.
“…I have evidence as to why Whitman has not divested. Divorce papers filed! And the reason as to why is irreconcilable differences! These differences are not merely political, but biological! Yes, Ponts and the Board of Trustees are flesh-eating reptiles, or reptilians, from the constellations of Orion, Sirius and Draco!”
A hush developed over the divestment supporters.
One sophomore biology major immediately put his face in his hands and muttered, “I never should have given him that acid.”
But the majority of the crowd began to whisper among themselves: “That makes sense”; “Why else would they not divest?”; “Ponts always looked like he was wearing a skin suit!”
Ponts was quick to respond to these rumors after #Whitmanrunbyspacelizards started trending on Twitter. One Tweet, by a certain Cooker Bonte, read, “Why do they water the grass so much at Whitman? Is it to keep the reptilians happy so they don’t eat our flesh? #Whitmanrunbyspacelizards.”
Ponts announced that classes were canceled, and a symposium entitled “Sincerity and Sensitivity: Don’t call me a fucking lizard” was to be held. Everyone who attended apologized to Ponts and the few trustees who could make it. By the end of the day, even if they thought he had been a space lizard from outer space, they were totally enlightened and realized their mistake.
Collins, however, refused to accept this. Even though he had admitted at the S&S that he had no such evidence, he felt a feeling in his gut about Ponts.
He challenged Ponts to a debate to be held on the Memorial Building steps. Point after point, Ponts would deconstruct Collins’ thinking, but he refused to answer the question “Are you a lizard from outer space who eats human flesh?”
Although Ponts was the clear winner of the debate, flicking his tongue and darting his icy eyes from one end of the audience to another, I thought I saw a laser pistol tucked under his belt and a zipper attached to his skin.