UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, BAVARIAN ALPS: Dearest readers, I am currently on the lam not only for a controversial investigative piece regarding the TCSA (more like Tea-CSA, am I right?) but also for what is about to transpire within the confines of these next few paragraphs. I will be discussing the promotion of toxic masculinity, indifference to colonialism, classism, and generally obnoxious (peaking in O-week) culture of two of Trent’s five colleges — one on East Bank, and one on West Bank — and their eventual descent into brutal conflict.
I think we all know exactly which colleges I’m referring to, but in the interest of protecting the well-being of myself and those I hold dear to my heart, I will refrain from mentioning the names of the aforementioned colleges.
I was sent the following by a student affiliate of the West Bank college who, for obvious reasons, wishes to remain anonymous:
I saw the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by the madness, standing half naked,
Dragging themselves through the frigid quad at dusk looking for that (pep) rally fix.
Brightly painted leaders burned for that connection to their former selves in the machinery of night.
[REDACTED], I’ve given you all and now I am nothing.
It is March, and none of us have time for this shit
This poignant (if heavily plagiarized) interpretation comes from an incident last week. As the sun slipped below the horizon, dozing students in the unmentionable West Bank college were awakened by the unspeakably loud cacophony of bullhorns, sirens and college pride chants. A flurry of college dons and O-week leaders descended upon the terrified first-years, telling them to “get up pussy, there’s a raid tonight” and loudly stating that they are “[REDACTED] til’ I die.” The first-years were then brought to the [REDACTED] and forced to their knees in front of the large, bronze bust of the College’s namesake. The leaders then doused the young students in red and blue paint and hurled insults, hoping to ignite a fire inside the confused youths. A fire which could only be extinguished with the blood of their enemies. Under the metallic eye of the metallic of the indifferent colonizer, the students recited these ancient words:
I am the keeper of the faith
I am the early bloomer
I will live vicariously through that one kind of fun week
And uphold the strong traditions of my college and its namesake
I will return every year to impose our culture and traditions
Upon those who thought they could escape the cliques and exclusiveness of highschool.
This I pledge:
From this day, until my last
[REDACTED] Til’ I Die!
The West Bank rabble gathered, preparing to subject the obscure and much weaker [REDACTED] college on the East Bank of the Otonabee River. Somewhat obviously, the excessive noise from the college west of the river had acted as an early warning system, giving the [REDACTED] college students — calmly sitting in their smoking jackets and engaged in vibrant discussion about how they were better suited to Queen’s University — a chance to prepare for the oncoming onslaught of gorilla calls and obnoxious, inappropriately aggressive college chants. The wealthy, unknown, and largely un-thought-of East Bank associates sounded the alarm — a loud, campus-encompassing rendition of the Chainsmokers’ “Closer,” a song and band as unremarkable as the college. This rallying song blared through the night, awakening a murderous, defensive rage among the associates. They prepared for a fight by gathering cannon fodder from the neighbouring, mostly working-class members of Otonabee College, citing their socio-political status as a justification for sending those peasants to their demise. The [REDACTED] College barons gathered ‘round a burn barrel as their East Bank serfs dug an extensive network of trenches and fortifications along the bank of the Otonabee, establishing Faryon Bridge as the focal point of their defense.
While covering these events, I came across the account of a so-called “Trench Rat” inscribed on multiple $20 bills, all of which were found in a stack buried in the mud, waiting for some survivor — or a handsome reporter — to uncover it and let the world know what had transpired in this hellhole:
My comrades and I are youths no longer. We don’t want to take the world by storm. We are trapped in the storm. We were eighteen, only beginning to crave the world, and we shot it to pieces. The lives of luxury, A/C, and single rooms the Barons promised us are gone. A distant drumming of fists on bare chests sounds from the deep. We cannot get out. They are coming.
Incoherent screeches of “CHAMILY, CHAMILY, CHAMILY” emerged from the distance, the West Bank berserkers erupting into an ever more unified war cry. Continuing the chant while marching across the bridge, the press-ganged East Bank serfs were led to the eastern edge of the Faryon. A torchlit standoff ensued, lasting well into an increasingly wet and cold night. The downpour of sleet blistered the glistening skin of the red-and-blue painted youths. The [REDACTED] college president, armed with a banner emblazoned with a fleur de lis forced their way to the front of the war party. They commanded their troops to attack, citing “preserving our fifty years of heritage and culture” as casus belli. The West Bankers then beat their chests and screeched like frenzied gorillas. Brandishing hockey and lacrosse sticks, they charged toward the East Bank defenders.
The details of this brutal conflict are only now being brought to light. This reporter is keenly interested in seeing what Trent University will do to curb the violent and toxic atmosphere and the passive praise of a violent colonizer which incited such an attack. But then again, we have a library named after a man who made shoes for Mussolini’s fascists, so they probably won’t do anything.