Freshman Guide to Morty Fuckin’ Schapiro
Morton Owen Schapiro; Mr. Northwestern; El Presidente; The Sheridan Snowman; Mort The Wart—these are just a few of the names belonging to our dear commander-in-chief, Morty. Idle freshman, before you march through The Arch, before you begin your classes, before you start fornicating indiscriminately in the streets, you must learn about this man and his distinction. Due to his mysteriousness and multidimensionality, Sherman Ave has provided a guide to his essential components; read them, accept them, understand them, and always remember: without Morty fuckin’ Schapiro, there can be no fuckin’ Northwestern.
1. The Swagger
Before you even lay eyes on the man, you’ll feel his presence. There will be a swift drop in temperature, followed by cool gust of wind. And then you’ll hear the drums, my God, the drums. Louder, and louder, and louder, until your ears catch fire and your brain starts melting and your head just can’t take it anymore and then suddenly!—silence. Enter President Schapiro, a silver man so goddamn confident that even when he spikes the tuition every year, I can’t help but respect him for doing it. He’s a paradox of authority; Big Brother with a dick ring. The man does not “walk”—he struts. He does not “make love”—he fucks. And finally, Morton Schapiro does not “have Purple Pride ”—he is Purple Pride.
2. The Spotlight
FADE IN: Bright lights. Fog machines. Ecstatic stadium crowd. The scene is set; the curtain is drawn; a star is born. And so begins Morty’s typical fantasy, a daze of renovation announcements and off-the-cuff monologues. Yes, Morty loves the spotlight. Like the beefy mold feeding off the puke and feces in Bobb, Morty grows stronger with every gazing eye. He likes posting pictures with Kanye , delivering speeches that provoke every political corner of the Internet , and schmoozing with that guy who fucked a volleyball or something. Morty digs publicity, and he should, because he’s rich, he’s handsome, and he deserves it. All of it.
3. The Look
Each morning, only four predictions can be made with absolute certainty: the sun is rising, the waves are crashing, SAE, somewhere, is getting sued, and Morty Schapiro is wearing purple. Purple tie, black suit, purple sweater. Every. Goddamn. Day. Don’t believe me? Google ‘Morton Schapiro’ right now. Turn on Safe Search and view the images. Every. Goddamn. Day. But the dressing is meaningless without the anatomical salad. For the Shapiro Salad’s main ingredients, God mixed eyes from the Atlantic Ocean, skin from the purest alabaster, with a pinch of albinism. Beauty, power, and grace, all mixed up in a fresh bowl of purple panache. No croutons on this bitch.
4. The Job
On paper, Morty’s job fully sucks. His “duties” include meeting donors, signing documents, and a whole bunch of other Congressional shit, but our Morty isn’t made out of paper. Our Morty isn’t sitting at a desk drinking cucumber water; our Morty is in the shit. Skipping class, jaywalking Sheridan, stealing from Lisa’s—he is one of us. One day you’ll see him sliding around campus, Top Gun chic. You’ll feel the urge to greet him, with the faraway hope that if somehow the stars align and you don’t fuck up your name, he might add you on LinkedIn. But he doesn’t want to be your connection; he wants to be your friend. He wants to shotgun a brew with you and talk CTECs. He’s the human embodiment of Wildcat Welcome, minus the herpes. He’s also your president, but sometimes that’s easy to forget.
