By Josh Payong

8th AVENUEAs a result of the arctic blast that ravaged Grinnell a few days before the start of the spring semester, hills and mounds of snow caked upon campus grounds piqued the interest of José S. Cruz ‘27. He was ecstatic for the opportunity to do all the things he’d heard about on the Grinnell Instagram page: have snowball fights, make snow angels, fuck some snowmen, have snowball fights while fucking snowmen in a field littered with snow angels…Luckily for him, there was a massive grey pile of frosty goodness right outside the JRC, of what he presumed to be of the A&W Cream Soda Jelly Bean variety, from which Cruz took a little nibble.

“To be completely honest, it didn’t even taste that bad,” Cruz recounts, “kinda like a mix between D-Hall Pumpkin Mousse and Worcestershire sauce. What I saw afterward was far, FAR more difficult to put into words. Like trying to pronounce Worcestershire sauce.”

The sights, sounds, and smells that Cruz proceeded to describe would be scenarios only someone high out of their mind could ever conceptualize. In his 396-page book recounting the experience, “Lost in the Sauce”, he states: 

“The texture of my skin acutely felt like a spectrogram of Avicii’s ‘Waiting For Love’. I was suspended in a murky white liquid, with a halo of little blonde babies circling above my head whilst dancing to the Macarena at specifically 188 bpm. Most strangely, I’d say, were the socks on my feet. They – forgive the graphic detail – were neon green, tight-fitting toe socks with an immensely grippy surface on the soles.”

“He and I had a real heart-to-heart. God, that is,” Cruz claims in our exclusive interview, “and it turns out, he’s a sporto. A sporto snowman. A sporto snowman that loves fucking other snowmen. Real chiller of a dude.” 

After completing his pilgrimage into the great unknowns that the “magic snow” introduced, Cruz began to perform miraculous feats as Grinnell’s local prophet (or Grophet, as he has been endearingly nicknamed). Deeds such as turning one-eighth of weed into one pound at a party, or turning a gallon of water into a handle of Hawkeye and nine six-packs of Old Milwaukee (also at a party), have earned him an astonishing degree of reverence at the College (which is ranked #3 in terms of marijuana consumption per capita, according to The Princeton Review). 

Looking to expand his band of wintry psychedelic enthusiasts, the holy Grophet picked up twelve devout followers – his Grisciples – eager to partake in the revelatory “white rock” themselves, preach the word of the sporto snowman god, and show off their blindingly neon grippy toe socks. He spends much of his days tabling outside d-hall, spreading the word of his book instead of going to class. 

However, one does not achieve Cruz’s level of fame without making some enemies. One day, during an inconspicuous group dinner in the whale room, Cruz augured his downfall – foreseen, of course, through the consumption of his “silvery ambrosia” – at the hands of one of his Grisciples, Jonas I. Scrotium ‘26. 

“Jonas will soon alert Anne Harris of my activities here on campus, in exchange for a guaranteed cot for the start of the next Fall semester,” Cruz ordained, “and I will be suspended for three days.” 

As of the time of publishing of this issue, YikYak has yet to stop gossiping about this betrayal, with some stating “wouldn’t let that shit happen to me, tbh” and “Jonas rebelling is literally so, like, edgy. It gives 2008 Twilight bad boy era. It lowkey makes him so much hotter tho”.

The recent melting of the snow on Mac Field has led the Grisciples on a downward spiral. As the month of March draws ever nearer, Cruz and his lackeys have taken to the streets of Grinnell to prophesize the end times. The picket sign-bearing devotees riot every day in front of the JRC to protest the coming of the Spring season, begging Anne Harris to bring about a year of eternal snow. Grinnell’s President has, unfortunately, yet to respond to these demands.