It’s a great time of year: You can’t walk to class without running into the TA whose section you just skipped or crossing the street to avoid last weekend’s mistake and… oh wait, actually, you can’t walk to class at all, because even if you avoid being road-killed by an aggressive biker (probably an engineer), all the sidewalks are completely blocked by herds of Ugg-shuffling, toe-dragging high schoolers looking sullen as they listen to a backwards-walking actor babble over-enthusiastically about the fine merits of Northwestern. Sweet.
It’s not like you actually want to be on time for Chem 101 or anything, but seriously, there are like 30 billion awkward kids with their parents. In your way. And while you might secretly miss your own mommy and daddy, no one wants to be stuck behind a crowd of “too-cool” teenagers trying hard not to associate with their parents. They are a whole new breed of yuppie academic-obsessed tourists invading the serenity of our grassy quads and bike-infested sidewalks.
Really, the opportunity to mess with tour groups is just way too good to pass up. Hordes of impressionable, virginal, un-hazed, still-shiny-with-optimism youngsters just waiting, eager-eyed, to be pranked. They’ve yet to experience the blur that was New Student Week, accept our key-jangling traditions or become semi-neurotic on a steady diet of all-nighters and BK. Plus, their parents are in tow, scouring for evidence of drinking (gasp) and other unmentionable debauchery. Yes, they are prospies. We love them, we hate them, and we love to hate them.
The easiest way to befuddle tour groups and cause mayhem is to abruptly switch your conversation, whether on the phone or with a friend, to some notes about campus the tour guide may have missed. It goes something like this:
Lame Friend: “And then, like, I decided to wear my gray leggings instead of my black leggings! OMG! And it was like, the second best decision I’ve ever made in my life…”
[Tour group mosies up alongside of you, blathering on about “distinctive landmarks” and comparing Deering Library to Hogwarts]
You [Loudly]: Did you hear about the cockroach infestation in Allison? They’re EVERYWHERE. [Nonchalantly] At least it’s not as bad as the rats in Bobb last year — I heard this boy got the bubonic plague.”
Lame Friend, Prospies and Parents [In Unison]: GASP!
Remember: Make stuff up, and be sure to be over-the-top; you don’t want them to believe you 100 percent (well, maybe…). Be creative, be funny and channel that inner theater major.
The more people in on the prank, the more shocked “where-am-I?” faces you are going to get — which is, of course, the aim. A tried and true scheme is the prospie-imposter plan, when a student fakes being a prospie (think surplus Northwestern attire, rolling suitcase) and then gets fake-kidnapped or fake-ambushed by cohorts in on the trick. This is usually so disturbing to the real prospies that they won’t leave without assurance that yes, it is just a joke, and no, that wasn’t actually a fellow high schooler who we just grabbed, handcuffed to a bike rack and silly-stringed.
One of the greatest pranks is the now infamous “Drinkin’ Time,” masterminded by the brilliant, alcoholic students of Dartmouth. Seriously, watch the video. The beginning is dull (which is what you too will become if you O.D. on beer pong) but the prank itself is golden. The enthusiasm of the students popping out miraculously from behind trees and pillars, shouting, “Drinking time??” elicits a priceless reaction on the faces of the prospies and parents alike. Hands down, it is the magnificent orchestration and mass numbers involved that make this prank so good. Northwestern might not have a keg as its unofficial mascot to lead a tequila cha-cha line, but we certainly have the brilliance and goofiness to mastermind a prank of equal merit.
Oh, dear, sweet prospies. They may be weird and awkward and disgustingly obsessed with those 3-letter acronyms I aim to avoid (GPA, SAT, ACT… ICK) but you were there once too. Deep down, we really do want prospies to fall in love with Northwestern as much as we have, but if they can’t appreciate the finer points of some excellent practical jokes, they might be better off at the fun cemetery they call University of Chicago.