It has been only three months since militant townies first started making an appearance in Beta’s sacred lands. However, since that time and because of some lightning-fast tactical raids, the townies have managed to gain control of the gravel pit, the rope swing and Kyle Seasly’s guitar. Now, I know what many of you reading at home must be thinking: “Beta is a barren, worthless wasteland. Why should we care?” I was of a similar opinion until I was informed that Beta is one of the leading exporters of PBR, American Spirits, cynicism and many other raw materials upon which Whitman society is built. I traveled to this war-torn region of Whitman Campus on a drunken bender last weekend to analyze the geopolitical landscape further.
The night was dark and cold; however, I was warmed by my dear companion Franzia and the prospect of talking with the leader of the struggling beta regime. I met with General President Admiral Prime Minister Nathaniel Lack-o-doors in a secure bunker deep within the confines of Beta.
BP: So, your excellency, does the success of recent townie raids trouble you?
NL: Not in the slightest, by the will of the People of Beta, the old regime will triumph over these petty guerillas.
BP: Well, that may be true. However, given the history of atrocities which have occurred under your rule, many are wondering whether these lands might be better off under townie control.
NL: Nonsense, I have run for my position unopposed for the last fourteen terms, and Beta has done nothing but flourish. Why, just last month mattress burnings reached an all-time low, and our bathrooms have never been more hepatitis free.
I could see that talking to Lack-o-doors would get me nowhere in trying to assess the realities of Beta’s political turmoil. So with a heart full of courage and a liver brimming with cheap wine, I left the security of Lack-o-door’s inner sanctum and ventured deep into townie territory.
It was while urinating on a nearby Subaru that I first came into contact with the townie threat (in the form of an irate, baseball bat-wielding ex-marine). He came out of the darkness and inquired as to what the fuck I thought I was doing and whether or not I wanted to receive a thorough ass kicking. Finding myself embrace the ideals of pacifism with new vigor, I elected to answer neither of the previous two questions and drunkenly sprint across Issacs to safety. Feeling a new appreciation for an un-kicked ass, I reflected upon my experiences that evening. While the future of Beta is uncertain, one thing remains clear: Large, angry townies are never beneficial to one’s health.
