Disclaimer: The Daily Tar Hell is purely satirical. Don’t take it too seriously.
A vaguely anthropogenic mass of fraying wires, cracked monitors and hatred toward political correctness began slowly advancing toward UNC-Chapel Hill early Tuesday morning, muttering over and over beneath its breath, “I … don’t … see … color.”
What was the threat, exactly? The Wolfpack, of course.
After extrapolating the exact destination of the monster using her space computer, Dr. Candle Popper, who specializes in the popularization of hate algorithms, Love-Love and furry culture vis-à-vis the World Wide Web, determined the origin of the mean-words-spewing creature. Based on its habit of feeding on the sadness and systemic oppression of minority groups, its tendency to be distracted by hentai and its enthusiastic appreciation for mediocre sports teams, Popper was able to pinpoint that the beast grew out of the NC State Facebook group, Wolfpack Students.
In a true example of freak accident, a bolt of lightning struck a mass of abandoned engineering computers at midnight while a black cat walked in front of a broken mirror and a Redditor in Utah repeated the name “Wolfpack Students” three times in their bathroom while spinning around. One of the computers had a screen permanently frozen amidst a scrolling session on Wolfpack Students, and this is what Popper believes to be key in the transformation.
In the morning, it rose, stumbling to its keyboard feet. It moaned before complaining about having to walk to class in the cold. It began its trek toward UNC-Chapel Hill, its screens glowing a garish red. NC State pride, you know.
That evening, professors gathered at the border of the university’s campus, anticipating an encounter with their newly born, highly formidable enemy. Strapped for supplies, the doctors, soon-to-be doctors, hardworking graduate students and graduate students who might’ve, like, wanted to go to Los Angeles to become actors but, you know, it’s fine, turned to their school lockers for equipment to protect themselves and their school against the imminent threat.
Don Donaldson of the Department of Women and Gender Studies used his stacks of specially made graduation certificates taped to his chest as makeshift armor, stating, “We soon won’t be needing so many of these anyway.”
Wendy Gullson, a wannabe novelist, but, let’s be practical, maybe also a coffee bar barista with a slight attitude, an ankle tattoo and a heart of gold, brandished a staple gun. She hoped to knock the monster out with a knee injury or maybe a deep flesh wound. She tipped her bowler cap forward before saying, “I only own a staple gun because my papers are typically too thick for average staplers to get through.” Atop her shoulders she wore volumes one and four of Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time,” the pages splaying out almost like wings.
A Hans Farley actually had a firearm, to the surprise of many. “I had a gun taped to the underside of my desk,” Farley said. “I think the beast would have supported that fundamental American right.” (We’d like to make it known that at this point in time, it is not obvious whether a Mr. Farley actually worked at UNC.)
The undergraduates were sent to their rooms under strict curfew, unless they had tickets to the game, under which case it was fine.
For hours the group waited, crouching beneath the shadow of what they like to call the Bigger Bell Tower. As the monster finally approached the threshold of the university’s campus, and the prepared Chapellers prepared to make their final stand as a university one in togetherness, the creature’s extension cord stretched just too far, its life prongs ripping out of a socket some 25 miles away.
Popper came close enough to catch its last words: “But … what … about … The … Daily … Tar … Hell?”
