By Josh Payong

 Dear Binston Swongo,

I (34M) was recently divorced and am struggling to get back into the college dating scene. My ex-wife and I were students at Grinnell as members of the class of ‘11, but dropped out to engage in the artistic pursuit of being a Feetfinder Connoisseur. However, as my toes wrinkled and my soles turned a sickening yellow, my wife (38F) stopped finding pleasure in sucking them. Thus, our relationship has ended, and I have returned to Grinnell to finish my studies.

But alas! Nobody here likes what they used to back in my day. No grape stomping. No shoeless football. Hell, people stopped playing strip frisbee! What happened to Institutional Memory? How am I supposed to get diggity-down if I’m this disconnected from my peers?

Kind regards,

A lonely Super-Duper-Ultra-Mega Senior

I’m glad you asked, my soulful friend. You see, I, too, really don’t see eye-to-eye with today’s generation. These kids spend all day on social media liking pictures of singing heads in toilets. Pitiful.

Back in 1846 when the college was first founded (I know, it probably only feels like yesterday to you!) and we held the first Grinnell block party, my boy Seven-Balls Pratt ‘49 showed off his six balls (he inflated his numbers to…compensate) to everyone there. Using this fascinating mutation, he managed to sex up everyone there! So the dating advice this story provides is: strut your stuff, show off your quirks, and tell everyone that you’re cooler than you really are!

Seven-Balls really didn’t mind that he had six balls. You’d think, “Wow, carrying thrice the testicular load must mean thrice the testicular pain!” Seven-Balls turned that pain into strength. Strength he channeled into tearing down the Berlin Wall, playing as an offensive lineman for the Chiefs, and fending off the mole people.

During the battle for Noyce 1612, while constraining seven mole people in a massive suplex bouquet, one rodent warrior stabbed four of Seven-Balls’ gonads like a kebab skewer, all while playing beer die. This drained him and turned him into a mere mortal. This blasphemous act angered Glorbulgaroth, the outer deity that granted Seven-Balls his powers. Glorbulgaroth then demolished the building with a ‘family jewel’ ten times the size of the Reiman Gardens Concrete Garden Gnome. 

Seven-Balls didn’t have much will to live after that battle. Without six balls, he lost all sense of identity, of purpose. I found him holed up in an abandoned building in town past midnight. He lay flat on the ground, palms raised upwards to the deity that had left him behind.

Seven-Balls woefully fondled his groin, eyes voided. He was a tree that had lost its leaves in the winter and refused to grow them back.

“Seven-Balls, you are more than what you lost. We need you back to lay some pipe. Without you, it’s…it’s just–” He cut me off, sat up straight, and twiddled with his ancient relic: a fidget spinner.

“My lifeforce is almost depleted, Binston. Soon, I’ll be nothing but dust, fated to be taken by the wind like an autumn leaf. I’ll be gone before sunrise, my friend.” I fell to my knees. Why was bro yapping like that? English major dialogue.

Seven-Balls was named the patron saint of Grinnell on the 20th of April, 1952. At the site on which he took his last breath, there now stands a beloved coffee shop. That’s why it’s called Saint’s Rest.

I hope this helps. If you’ll excuse me, I need to scream in the middle of Mac Field in honor of the greatest man this college has ever known.