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Death by Apathy

by Walt Giersbach

Dear Former Classmate:

This morning the sun is rising over our beloved campus and a new day begins for young students living in the very halls where once we roamed, loved and lost, drank and passed out only to rise and love again. Imagine the bicycles parked along the quadrangle, the crisply cold mornings, and likely some lingering snowdrifts. Faculty are preparing for their lectures, shuffling into recital halls and scrabbling through stacks of yellowed notes in the very rooms we shared with our classmate Howard Jackson, a ghetto landlord who was defenestrated in a tenant rebellion last year; with Marjorie Allen, who is serving a short prison term over an accounting misunderstanding; and with Biff Orlando, who disappeared while surveying Mauna Loa in an ultralight of his own design.  

This same sun is also rising over Iraq. A very different day awakens there for citizens and soldiers in appallingly distasteful surroundings. Imagine the sounds of gunfire and the fear that exists in that depressing country! You and I can rejoice that weíve successfully passed the age test and canít be sucked into the next pre-emptive war to overturn a pissant Middle Eastern tyranny. You should say a prayer of thanks while writing a check to our school.

Which brings me to the point of this letter. I noticed that you havenít given to our collegeís annual fund since the government melted under President Trump.  Unfortunately, our beloved collegeís endowment also went south with the treasurerís zeal for buying collateralized mortgage obligations. Our alma mater may soon be foreclosed by the banks. In this time of reckoning Iím begging your help. Gird your loins against apathy, say sayonara to indifference, and put the kibosh on listlessness. Seize the moment now to send a check to your alma mater. Better yet, use your credit card.

Next year is our 25th reunion and Iím confidant you donít want your college going on the auction block to be turned into a WalMart or mental institution. Make your donation now! Give your school some money in memory of those scarred desks, second-hand bicycles and shuffling professors. Give in memory of Howard, Marjorie and Bill who can only be with us in spirit. Give now, because (God forbid) this might be your last day on earth and I know you havenít given a dime to the old school.


Your Class Agent

p.s. After 24 years, this is the last letter I will be writing you. A miracle occurred when my wife hit the Mega Million Lottery. Iím finally hanging it all up and heading for Costa Rica to write my novel.

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