Dearest Reader,
My name is Gulliver, and I still have a tale to tell that will make your hair stand up and your mouth open wide. All I ever wanted was to travel and have amazing adventures. So one spring day, I threw some clothes into a bag, said goodbye to my shocked family – like a father leaving his newborn child for a gallon of milk – and boarded the Green Liner, a ship bound for Medford, Massachusetts. My goal is simple: spread the holiness of British culture to the lesser peoples of America.
My story starts with touching down upon this foreign, hilly land, as I came upon savages – young people in many different sizes, shapes, and creeds that called themselves Jumbos. The men were scrawny, feminine, and political science majors. The women were scrawny, feminine, and political science majors. Women in England are much hotter; they wear corsets and have bustier breasts.
They brandished strange items such as “Stanley Cups,” but I did not understand what was so Stanley about them. The only Stanley I know is Stanley Featherington, the Baron of the Cornwall coal mines. The Jumbos drank a green elixir they called “matcha.” When they ritualistically forced it down my throat, I recall it tasted grassy, and I felt like a cow. I, again, felt like those bovine creatures when I dined on the slop they call “Dewick.” I was served Halal Chicken, short for Halaluyah Chicken, I imagine. Ah, Imagine… how I love John Lennon.
After Dewick, I found myself quite out of breath attempting to walk up the voluptuous hill, as round as a fair maiden’s bosom. I then came upon a glade of interesting creatures with bangs, dyed hair, and piercings in their septums. The kind of seedy stuff you see in the underbelly of Notting Hill. Every morning, these pierced fiends are swallowed by metallic, blue shuttle-beasts and magically brought to a place called the “SMFA”. I exclaimed in confusion, “That is not a place! Those are just letters!” But the buffoonish art students did not know what letters were. They only know art. They frequently referenced a recently deceased figure named David Lynch. I can only assume this Lynch character is their version of Jesus Christ.
After these art students talked at me for a while, I informed these Jumbos of all the wonders of England — tea, The Beatles, Thatcher, Bond, and, of course, beans. I shouted to these rubes about how a bucket of soft, savory brown beans hits just right after a long day in the mines. Picture this: you sit down and watch the 2134th episode of Doctor Who as you wolf down beans, light brown in color (and shape) like day-old dog feces. As they enter your gullet, your insides are filled with glorious splendor. But my words fell on deaf ears and all they did was laugh at my accent.
These miscreants have no idea what true culture is. The engineers frequently talk about how much work they have, yet they yell at me when I tell them to engineer a shower to mask their rancid odor. All these English majors want to talk about are American writers like James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, and Emily Dickinson, but they quake when I urge them to read real English authors like J.K Rowling. The Jumbos watch people dance practically naked at “Burlesque” shows, but they cower when I do my Naked Tea Paul McCartney Dance on the Residential Quad. Bah!
They know nothing. Nothing at all. They call me weird for my accent and beloved British customs, dissing even the beans and the naked dances. These Jumbos are wallies. The lot of them. I am smart and they are stupid. Fat, American pigs they are! More concerned with McDonalds than Mick Jagger.
Well, now, I must go back to my boat where I will sleep on my voluminous bag of biscuits. I pray that my crew will not mutiny and exile me to an island of sentient horses again. Actually, I bet a few of the horse girls of Tufts would fuck with that place. Live and let die, readers.
Your friend,
Gullible
Wait, I mean Gulliver!
