A More Open Letter to President Roth

It was the summer of 1953. I was a pimply, lustful freshman. She was a worldly senior, my chubby broad. It all started when one of my nipples casually brushed against her meaty shoulder at the swimming hole off-campus, at a party hosted by a friend of a mutual friend before the start of the school year. Our eyes met, and I watched her devour four hot dogs like a bitch in heat. So we courted on and off for the beginning of that semester: I would maybe take her to the sock hop on the weekends, or the ice cream parlor downtown. The one thing that remained constant: we would fuck every Saturday night after two-for-one popcorn at the drive-in, like a pair of wild animals let loose on each other for the sole purpose of sowing our seed. I would ravage that beautiful, bestial body until only the almighty hand of God Himself was able to put a stop to our other-worldly passion. You see, Michael, I too learned what it was like to be goosed by my first crush.

One night, we saw that there was a full moon, and my swollen member was primed for action. I was in a trance, Michael, and that evening I laid my woman down on the steps of South College, and she took me to coital heights unexplored, performing acrobatic feats of lovemaking not to be duplicated in this temporal world. I straddled her magnificent girth; her cries of ecstasy were at once terrible and arousing, and legend has it that they reached the house of the President of Wesleyan himself. But no one could have stood in the way of what was to be perpetrated that night.

So, Michael, you’re probably wondering why I’ve chosen to share this with you. Listen, your denim-clad student body is bright; they would have eventually figured out the prophecy. Your current position is no coincidence: I am your biological father. You were conceived on campus during a rare alignment of the planets, and both of our lives have played out thus far according to a grand design that I have only just begun to understand. The criticism in my last letter was an elaborate front: I may be growing old, but now that Ted Kennedy is dead, you and I must rule together. Don’t turn your back on destiny, or on Sarah Palin in 2012.

-Bartin Menjamin ’57