Hey y’all,
It’s Bell Week gentlemen and gentlewomen. With the sacred tradition of demolishing Depauw this Saturday, comes the sacred tradition of defending the Monon Bell, along with several other sacred sites of the campus, all week. Last night 5 men were on post at the corner of Wabash Ave and Grant St on a routine surveillance mission. Only three of those men awoke this morning. This is the first installment of what happened that night.
We were so happy, so full of joy, so excited… It was only 10:00 pm, the night hadn’t even begun. The five of us trekked all the way out to the entrance of campus from the chapel. I don’t know why, but Ethan thought it necessary to immediately climb to the top of the traffic light. Like a squirrel, he shimmied up that pole in the time it would have taken me to tie my shoe, and before we knew it, Ethan had the best view in Crawfordsville, (yes even greater than the views The Riveria Motel has to offer), 20 feet higher than the rest of us. From this perch, he could’ve easily spotted any Danny (derogatory word for a Depauw student) from two blocks away, and if the four of us on ground level were overrun, he could stealthily attack from above. If I were up there, I would try to imagine myself as a ferocious winged-puma, but I doubt that would help me if shit were to ever go down. With my high center of gravity, I think I would lose balance and land somewhere facedown in the red and white flower beds. And also, it was below freezing for most of the night, so props to Ethan for sitting on cold metal for over ten minutes.
We had a slight suspicion that we would never actually encounter any Dannies, but that was not an excuse to be unprepared. Derrick Andre, the self proclaimed ‘Liberal Kicker,’ decided it was in our best interest to arm ourselves with his golf clubs, so he journied back for the titanium weapons. I’ve never been skilled with anything higher than a putter, but I do pride myself on creativity on the battle field, so I requested he grab me some golf tees. When he came back, I slid the tees in between the cracks of my fingers and shadowboxed the night sky for a few rounds. Armed with sporting equipment, we demanded some music to reinforce our masculinity. And I could think of no better man for the job than James Brown. Any car that passed by had to be extremely confused at the scene occurring just outside their window–five deranged men practicing some form of golf karate shouting out with the greatest funk musician to ever live. While I was doing my signature pony ride/pelvic thrust I couldn’t help but think that somewhere up in heaven,two of our history’s greatest pioneers, Caleb Mills and James Brown, were looking down together and smiling.
Unfortunately, I have to get back to real work, but I promise to tell the rest of this story tomorrow.
Goodnight,
Carl Sonnefeld
