Take the Wheel, Annoying As Shit Cornell Alum

Eds. Note: This is the third installment of our ongoing series of guest appearances by cultural heavyweights.

That's right, baby. The Big Red is all up in that motherfucker--as in the Sweet Sixteen. And to be brutally honest I haven't felt this alive since I played No Hands Tug of War during Alpha Zeta Upsilon Hell Week 1997.

Good times.

And to the teeming masses of bucktoothed Heartlanders huddling in front of space heaters in their doublewides utterly alack at what they just saw on the hardwood--I say suck it! Suck it deep, partner.

I get it. With your morose, Scandinavian-esque Midwestern winters and slim procreational pickings, your collegiate roundball has come to represent honey-tinged manna for your otherwise hopeless Jayhawk, Badger and Gopher souls. A brief yet hollow respite from your she-whiskered goblin of a wife. A safe, ready hiding place from your 30 plus years of hand-washing tillers for $6.00 an hour at the South Madison Farm & Fleet.

Whatever we want to call it, it's utterly devoid of the kind of brainy, cannabis-fueled existentialist debates that I engaged in nightly from1997-2001 with Jake, Peter, Dave, Colin and the Callahan Twins. Intellectual sparring that comes in quite handy for me each day as a partner track mergers and acquisitions attorney at a New York law firm so powerful it could have you killed tomorrow.

But then you didn't go to Cornell, did you?  The new "it" address for all things basketball and/or intellectual and/or sexual. Just say it, mortal--you want a big heaping slab of The 607.  Well I think not.

"But Wisconsin is a Public Ivy," you say.  Sweet, innocent child.  That's like saying something is a "penis vagina."  Silly, isn't it? Of course it is.

What? Before tonight you've never heard me say one solitary thing about Cornell athletics in my 30 odd years on earth? Please. I was just keeping it uptown. Cornell Men don't paint chests. We don't jump around. We don't make out with our sisters when our football team scores a goal. Or when our baseball squad wins in overtime. So you're sniffing up the wrong pant-leg here, Oliver Stone.

But what I did do tonight is stick my broad, Brooks Brothers-suited, Anglo-Saxon chest out a bit more than usual as the Dale and Whittman show (Pre-Med and genetics majors, respectively, average GPA 3.94)  excreted hardwood excellence all over Hughes and Bohannon (communication arts majors, average GPA 3.09). I'm even going to take the lads from work out for an evening of Cosmo-gasms at some point in the future when this goddamn case settles. And when I do I'm going to rock your body, baby. I'm going to rock it so right!

I'll leave the tears in beers for our Grizzly Adams-loving neighbors hailing from where the fuck is that shithole (not that I fucking care)?, USA.  Drink up, hosers.

Now, I need to get back to this motion I'm working on for the Delessandro case. If things break right I should be out of here in 45 minutes so I can hit a late "dinner" at Madame Tashihara's to celebrate this triumphant evening properly.

Go Big Red!

Gavin Baker Allandale, III
Cornell Class of 2001