by Dan McDonough, '99

A few weeks ago, as I'm sure you all noticed, Notre Dame played its final home football game of the year. For many students it was a time to get blissfully wasted. Unfortunately, some students are more wasted than others. I am speaking of the ignorant fools who joined together in a pointless and malicious marshmallow attack against I, Dan McDonough.

For I, Dan McDonough, the final home football game is a cause for worry. You see, every guy on campus who even remotely smells like teen spirit feels the need to attack I, Dan McDonough when they know that they have the security of an entire campus that hates my guts. Wedgies are inflicted, my clothing is in disarray until my mom can arrive the following week, and people get hurt, last year I sustained a sprained index finger that kept me out of on-line pornography for five days.

This year, the last football game coincided with the visit of my hometown girlfriend, Jen O'Donnell. The classy men of the other dorms decided that just because I had a date attempting to eat some nachos that was no excuse to postpone the annual attack on Dan McDonough. They didn't just throw snowballs, they also flung epitaphs. Epitaphs that made me cry like a girl-child. Way to be classy, classy people.

We are all privileged enough to attend one of the finest universities in the nation, founded on Christian ideals. Instead of uniting around the message of Jesus set forth in the gospels, these members of our community decided to rally around hoisting my underwear over my head. Have any of you, and you know who you are, questioned why you hate me? I was once told that a secret flap in all admission packets simply tell the freshmen, "Oh yeah, hate Dan McDonough." While I understand that rivalries are fun, hating me is a mockery of the Lady On The Dome, and makes me feel like crap. My message to you spineless, want-to-be-tough guys, is if you have a problem with Dan McDonough, that's fine. Root against me, impune my professional responsibility, even beat me within an inch of my life (which you have on many occasions). What you fail to understand is I don't care what you do. I wouldn't be writing this editorial if I did. I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU DO! I realize that you have serious self-esteem and identity problems, and wish to find someone who has even greater self-esteem and identity problems. But I don't care, you bastards. Of course I am getting worked up myself, but it does get a little old. I understand that some people were not trying to be malicious, but all of you were. But that's okay. I don't care. I just don't. Really. I have a challenge for all of you malicious people. I challenge all of you to come by my dorm sometimes, maybe knock back a few beers and watch some Voyager. For the women out there, you can show me you're sorry by screwing me till I'm blind. If you choose not to take up my offer, be warned, as there is some Bible passage somewhere (I can't find it right now) that gives me the right -- nay, the obligation -- to kill you all in a psychotic rage. Deal?