All Hallows

To begin at the end:

This is Orson Welles, ladies and gentlemen, out of character to assure you that The War of The Worlds has no further significance than as the holiday offering it was intended to be. The Mercury Theatre’s own radio version of dressing up in a sheet and jumping out of a bush and saying Boo!

Starting now, we couldn’t soap all your windows and steal all your garden gates by tomorrow night… so we did the best next thing. We annihilated the world before your very ears, and utterly destroyed the C. B. S. You will be relieved, I hope, to learn that we didn’t mean it, and that both institutions are still open for business.

So goodbye everybody, and remember please, for the next day or so, the terrible lesson you learned tonight. That grinning, glowing, globular invader of your living room is an inhabitant of the pumpkin patch, and if your doorbell rings and nobody’s there, that was no Martian… it’s Halloween.

Tonight, if you aren’t spreading madness over the airwaves, as the Mercury Theatre did; if you’re not showing off comets as you hand out candy; if you’re not dressing up as an antiparticle seeking to annihilate with an attractive particle, as Jennifer Ouellette suggests; then you should at least have a song in your heart.

I wrote this one a few years ago, to welcome the incoming freshpersons to MIT. First, the tune:

Now, imagine the bouncing ball.

“This is MIT!”

Girls and boys who can’t make friends,
This is the place where your loneliness ends.
CalTech would’ve been ecstasy,
But we’ll settle for MIT!

That was M-I-T, that was M-I-T —
Hackers prowled on the roof each night.

That was M-I-T, pop a beer cap on your ring
Crank the bass till the neighbors file a noise complaint.
O-M-G, IHTFP
At our school of M-I-T. . . .

I’m the Professor with a Nobel Prize —
Didn’t win for teaching, as you might surmise.

We are the chemists in the basement lab,
Expanding your mind at the drop of a tab.

That was M-I-T, where is M-I-T
MIT! MIT! MIT! MIT!

No more freaks call it home;
Millennials are getting laid atop the Dome.

In this school, don’t we love it now?
Everybody’s watching their esteem decay.
Wells’ley women? No dating! Better off just masturbating.
‘Round comes a Friday, makes you say: L-S-C. . .

Sucks! This is M-I-T.
Red ‘n’ grey, and seldom green.

“Aren’t you scared?
Well that’s just fine!”
Stata Center, Simmons Hall,
Freshmen snorting Adderall —
Friday night tool under phosphor light.

Cream of the cream, cream of the cream!
At our school of M-I-T…

I am the girl who shot you down last week.
I’ll date a jerk cause he’s not so meek!

I’m the TA from 8.02.
Got a bad grade? You know what to do. . .

I am the cluster on a sleepless night,
Draining your blood to Hockfield‘s delight!

This is M-I-T, this is M-I-T
MIT! MIT! MIT! MIT!
MIT! MIT!

We’re your friends and what do we speak?
“Life’s no fun when you’re still unique!”
We’ll teach you con-form-i-ty,
At our school of M-I-T.

At this school, don’t we love it now,
Everybody’s watching their esteem de-cay.

Marilee Jones might nab you from a hack and
Feed you to a HASS-D
And then feast—up—on—your—soul!
This is MIT, everybody bleed!

You can do or die but you’ll never question why!

Our Dean Jones now rules the Millennials
Everyone bow to the Portly Queen!

This is M-I-T, this is M-I-T
MIT! MIT! MIT! MIT!

Join with us, sing our song —
Everyone melt in the faceless mob!

La la la — la la la la la, MIT! MIT!

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