Two Minutes’ Hate: Who was nursing you?
George W. Bush, the worst President in the history of the United States not named Millard Fillmore. Bradford Bishop, former United States Foreign Service officer, wanted for murdering his family of five. Gene Siskel, the albatross that hung around the neck of the more talented, recently departed Roger Ebert.
What do these three men have in common? Aside from being the scourge of everything America stands for, they were all educated — for lack of a more appropriate term — at the Ringo Starr of Ivy League schools, Yale University.
Yale. The house that Eli built (poorly), and a borderline boardinghouse where trust fund babies to commiserate and complain about their Harvard rejection letters.
Thursday, when Yale futilely takes the ice against Lowell in the NCAA Frozen Four semifinals, it will continue to represent its school and infamous alumni in a manner to which the university has grown rather accustomed over the years: as losers who should just be happy that the rest of society acknowledges their existence.
Located in crime-riddled New Haven, Connecticut, Yale has been a source of great shame and embarrassment for the city, the state and our great nation since it was first named for the corrupt Governor of the East India Trading Company back in 1718. Yale was doomed to fail from its inglorious beginnings. First, take the location. Connecticut is well known to be the sorriest of the New England states, and its greatest asset to the people of the region is its use as a rest stop on one’s way to a more interesting, civilized destination. Which is to say, anywhere. It is nicknamed “The Constitution State,” mainly because it takes a mighty strong one to stomach the place for more than a few hours, and is also most fittingly compared with that kid who was always picked last for kickball. The only reason Connecticut is even included in the New England states is because New York and the rest of the tri-state area held their collective breath and stomped their feet until we agreed to take it. It certainly wasn’t the proudest moment for anyone involved, but since New England was stuck with this barren stretch that makes most distopian wastelands look accommodating, sometimes pride has to be sacrificed for the greater good.
And, if you ever have the unique misfortune to find yourself in Connecticut — and if you do we hope you’ll stick to the major highways — the thing you should probably try hardest to avoid the Silent Hill-esque city of New Haven. Rivaling only Mogadishu as a place you don’t want to be caught in after dark, New Haven is best left to those with flamethrowers or, barring that, those who have lost all will to continue to exist on this God-forsaken rock.
At the center of this hedge maze of depravity and sleaze is the aforementioned Yale University. Cloaked as much in secrecy as mediocrity, and fertilized by the flood of tears of students on whom Columbia has routinely and rightly turned its back for a couple of centuries, Yale has known little in the way of success in the past 364 years. One of the more interesting facts about Yale is that it has a rich history of harboring secret societies, which you’ll be shocked to learn, as we were, does not include all students who want to hide from the world their shame at not having been admitted to Princeton.
There are, in fact, several senior class secret societies on campus, including Scroll and Key, Wolf’s Head, Book and Snake and, most famously, Skull and Bones. We’re not going to get into the assuredly immoral activities conducted by these groups, except to say it would not shock us to learn that the ritual blood sacrifice of poor migrant workers is a key component. We do find it interesting that these groups meet in windowless stone buildings known as Tombs, if only thematically. Skull and Bones. Tombs. It’s almost like they knew the day would eventually come when their pathetic classmates would have to step on to the ice against Chad Ruhwedel, Riley Wetmore, and the rest of the River Hawks. We’re not saying that Lowell is literally going to kill the Yale players and make a Goonies-style pipe organs out of their bones, but… well, yes, actually that’s exactly what we’re saying.
In the world of college hockey, Yale is invisible even to afterthought schools like Quinnipiac and St. Cloud. Sure, they’ve previously been to a Frozen Four in the past, and not just as spectators as we very reasonably assumed. However, we’ve heard rumors that then-President Harry S. Truman, a borderline war criminal and one of the few presidents who didn’t hold a college degree, was in attendance. But since the television remote control was invented in 1955, Yale has been as worthless as a degree from Yale.
Playing in the ECAC, which will unfortunately be only the second-worst conference in the country as long as Atlantic Hockey is allowed to operate, these frauds and the rest of the Ivy League schools don’t even begin playing until 20 days after the rest of Div. 1. We figure the teams are all too busy sitting around a fireplace somewhere on campus, wearing velvet smoking jackets and drinking fine brandy out of snifters while discussing the importance of the Pacific Rim economies as they relate to their well-diversified stock holdings. We’d submit that this time could be better spent practicing hockey, but then we don’t own any dressage horses. The Ivy League teams play, on average five or six, fewer regular season games than everyone else in the country, and that actually makes sense to us, anyway. We wouldn’t want Tagg and Jody to be on a level playing field with those other schools. Perish the thought! If money can’t buy you an easier path toward the end of Div. 1 hockey season (but the start of sailing season!), what good is being ridiculously rich and spoiled?
The mascot for this brigade of blighted bourgeoisie is the common bulldog, an ugly, low creature known for his health problems and an inbreeding problem (which is appropriate, given the types of cross-eyed, upper-crust castoffs who couldn’t sneak past Penn’s admissions board who end up going there). However, the odd selection of this canine mascot — the only thing on campus more jowly than its coeds — has brought great joy to us in recent days. In researching the many ways in which Yale is inferior to Lowell, we learned that one of the school’s real fight songs includes the following lyrics, and we’ll say in advance that we wish we were joking:
“Bulldogs, Bulldogs, bow-wow-wow, Eli Yale!”
It’s a good thing the future ponzi scheme fraudsters in the Yale student section, with their houndstooth coats and riding pants, have parents who can afford plenty of elective plastic surgery, because that’s the only way anyone could seriously say this tripe out loud with a straight face.
There’s no simply comparing the noble River Hawk to the lowly bulldog. One soars majestically above the crashing river, ever watchful for bountiful prey. The other drools, snores, and farts in a disgusting display of self-indulgence. The former has no natural predators. The latter is regularly put to sleep with a big, green needle because its quality of is so remarkably poor. It’s clearly no coincidence that these mascots aptly reflect the schools which they represent.
A hideous campus burrowed like an undetected tick inside the borders of a desolate city encased in a hell-hole of a state. A spotted, questionable practice of admitting those with a large checkbook, regardless of their ability. A history of graduating those with loose ethics and even looser convictions. A poor hockey team, playing over its head, about to come face to face with a living, breathing nightmare. A childish fight song. A dumb mascot. As much as there is to love about Lowell, there’s an equal amount to loathe about Yale.
In the Cole Porter musical “Anything Goes,” one of the characters, speaking about a former colleague during the stock market crash of 1929 says, “He jumped like a Yale man!” While we’re not quite sure how one’s college affects the way he takes a swan dive off a building when all hope seems lost — except where embarrassment is concerned — we do hope this serves as a warning to the fine people of Pittsburgh: Thursday evening, around 7:15 p.m., it’s probably wise to stay off the streets. It’ll be raining Yale men.