Scoring What They Can at Oktoberfest

We would like to begin this column by commending Fun Czar John T. Drake ’06 for pulling off a memorable fall event this past Sunday: Oktoberfest. The food was great, D.A. rode the ferris wheel until he got sick, and our favorite Peruvian wind ensemble performed. Yet despite these successes, the event fell short in two critical respects. First off, the food stands were needlessly charging students for their assorted sundries. This gouging was an unqualified outrage, given all of the University Hall funds that must have gone into the event; we wonder if Drake might not benefit from some courses in basic financial planning.

Second, the lax security provided by campus police was deplorable. Just an hour into the event, so many non-Harvard students had smuggled themselves in, we felt like we were in an introductory algebra course at the Extension School. Just smelling these commoners made us want to run home and take a shower in rubbing alcohol with a steel wool loofah.

But by the end of the day, we concluded that outsiders really aren’t that bad and can even provide better company than our classmates. First off, they were actually willing to talk with us about issues that matter, like our Lord Jesus Christ. For example, one man in a sandwich board holding a sack filled with baby doll parts gave us each a cartoon pamphlet and dialogued with us about the miraculous power of His love. (Corinthians 2:14). Yet if we had had this conversation with the typical Harvard student, it probably would have devolved into some Zionist diatribe about Larry Summers being the best Harvard president ever, which we know is total hogwash. (Bok 33:24).

Second, off-campus girls are way hotter. Michelle, Sonja, Ariel, Jenny, Amy, Rachael, Amanda, Jessica, and Tatyana, it was great to meet you. To each of you: you really are one-of-a-kind. Your gifts of not-fake e-mail addresses were far more generous than the stilted pleasantries we’re used to from Harvard girls, who avoid us just because we sit behind them and tug on their thong straps in lecture. Look, we’re just being playful, so why don’t you save that rape whistle for when you actually feel violated.

Intellectuals and females aside, however, the most worthwhile acquaintances we made at Oktoberfest were a number of unkempt bearded oracles. We had seen several of these shamans outside of 7-11 before, jingling their mystic wisdom goblets, but had never mustered the courage to speak with them. And oh, what we were missing. Those priests of illusion have much wisdom butter to spread. One of them is writing a historical novel about a love triangle in the Courts of Vienna...entirely in his head! And another has risen from poverty to be one Boston’s premier adult party planners, throwing themed sleeping-bag galas under the Coop seven decadent nights a week.

After Oktoberfest, we decided to stop by one of these debaucherous all-nighters, and boy will we tell you, we’ve never gotten so much play.