Who You Calling Govie?

If you flip open a copy of the handbook, it's highly propable that you will find a copy of the Alma Mater (or not, I don't really know, mine props up on one side of my desk so it doesn't wobble). It is a wonderful, perfectly fabulous song, with the exception of one word. I think we all know what that word is. But for those of you that have never attended a school function, the word of which I speak is "Govie."

Govie. This word just reeks of pocket protectors and glasses taped across the nose. Come on, now. What kind of word is that to put in the damn Alma Mater? If someone were to stumble across a copy of our Alma Mater in, let's say, a podiatrist's office, they would read that G-word and say, "What the hell kind of dorks are they?" Well, Mr. Foot Problem, we're apparently Govie dorks, why do you ask?

Well shit, as long as we're convincing the world we're complete and utter losers, let's do it right. Maybe we could have a mottot written over the Res Hall door in binary, and a Latin translation underneath it for the less intelligent among us and/or alternates. Have a sniper or two outside to peg off dumb jocks and such that try to enter. Or maybe we could send out our best and brightest to preach on the street corners of Hartsville about the flories of logarithims and kinetic energy and nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide. These would be equally effective methods of convincing the masses that we're nothing but a teeming dorm of brains.

If your symptoms persist, take to Valuums and call me lame.

Buttered Grass.