Travesty! The Dining Hall Pasta is in The Horrible Shape

MORRISON HALL—After an arduous week of classes, the weary, hungry masses gathered in the one place that grants them respite, where the turbulence of life gives way to comforting predictability and dependable mediocrity: The Morrison Pasta Station. However, today, a cruel shock shattered this spaghetti sanctuary and the already-paper-thin wills of many students. 

“I have been having the worst day today and the only thing I thought I could depend on was the simple plate of pasta from Morrison,” said Marcus Bai ‘27. “You know, those wholesome seashell-shaped noodles that lovingly cradle the sauce as tenderly as a mother would her infant child? Instead, I get these spiteful little slippery spiral fucks, these nefarious corkscrews of pure hate. I burn in the fiery flames of this fusilli hellscape.”

While Morrison Dining Hall descended into puttanesca pandemonium, a handful of students and staff members exchanged knowing, solemn looks. Both parties acknowledged a shared understanding that this marinara misery is a necessary evil and a burden they must bear together. 

“I am fated to scoop at this fucked up little noodle,” explained Patrick Richards ‘26. “I am Hercules and this is my Hydra. Each time I attempt to stab it, another pathetic little fragment of pasta breaks away and where there was only one pitiful excuse for a noodle there are now two, and so on and so on, forever.”

Disappointed patrons left the dining hall dejected but dreaming of a better day, a brighter day, a day when the pasta is in the glorious shape.

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