Editor’s Note: This article is purely satirical and fictitious. All attributions in this article are not genuine, and this story should be read in the context of pure entertainment only.
Author’s note: Mom, dad, don’t read this one.
The headache? Horrendous! The drowsiness? Unspeakable! The drunk texts? Utterly and totally regrettable. This is the unfortunate aftermath of TreeHouse’s infamous margs. What have we become? In the Civil Rights Era, our predecessors turned their grass-smoking into a grassroots movement to add ethnic housing and cultural resource centers. Stanford grads have acid-tripped their way to the steps of the Senate. We invented Juul, dammit! We, as a community, must stand up to Big Marg and the profound cultural damage it has imposed on our campus.
It’s no secret that Stanford’s culture has undergone some fundamental changes in recent years. In many ways, we’ve lost our laid-back charm and replaced it with LinkedIn cringe — the kind of social clout chasing that makes you question your decision to attend college altogether. The cause? Our turn away from the tried and true vices of Stanford past in favor of a campus-wide pub-crawl. The solution? Smoke a joint! Light a cig! Huff that glue! Just – and I mean this wholeheartedly – kick your drinks to the side and light one up, big boy. We need it!
“Why is this a humor article?” you may ask. Well, my dear reader, I find myself asking the same question. Quite frankly, our collective alcoholism is anything but funny. Stanford is Nerd Nation, where we ought to be expanding our minds using psychedelic drugs and aesthetic cancer sticks. Good, friendly, social drugs conducive to Laffer-curving and Nvidia-founding. The last good thing a drunkard did in this country was become Secretary of Defense. Who came to Stanford just to become secretary for some second-rate reality star from the early 2000s?
Let’s compromise. Maybe you’re not the smoking type. Maybe you have big dreams of becoming a Broadway star and need your belting lungs intact for your breakthrough role in the next life. I get it, but that’s no excuse for participating in our destructive culture of alcoholism. Instead, my most delicate-lunged friends, I propose to you the humble magic mushroom. A timeless classic, this little guy packs a punch and provides the fastest way to escape the Stanford bubble without one of those pesky ZipCars. Plus, most of us could probably use some time away from the ol’ Freudian ego.
In 2025, we at Stanford ask ourselves many questions. What difference can we possibly make on this burning planet? How can I get paid 6 figures after graduation? If I just go to sleep, will that spider on my dorm-room ceiling just go away and leave me alone? Well, my friends, I invite you to continue asking these questions in a state of being where all the answers are that much closer. Ditch the pre-midterm margarita in favor of a post-final high. This worry-free philosophy is truly the gateway to an easier life with less questions and more answers.