April 4, 1840- My word, the Princeton boys just buried me in a field behind that old hall of theirs… what was it called? Ah, well, I’m sure the Rutgers chaps have quite the elaborate prank planned; what a shame that I’ll be gone before I ever find out. This bitter, active rivalry truly is timeless!
April 11, 1840- This plan must be even more nuanced than I had guessed. I bet they’ll use pigs. It’s ALWAYS funny when someone lets some pigs loose on a campus. Almost as funny as when they brought a woman.
June 29, 1840- Apparently they decided that summer was the ideal time to break me out. An odd move, considering that no one is actually on campus anymore… But still, love makes one do crazy things. And how could they not love me? I’m the cannon! I’m a goddamn institution! I’d give it a month, maximum, before I’m being carted merrily back to New Brunswick amid song, cakes, and ale at my triumphant return.
March 23, 1875: Day 12,767. I’m beginning to have the sneaking suspicion that my triumphant return has been slightly delayed. In fact, what if they never come? Can it be that I, the cannon, the pride and joy of New Jersey’s highest forums, have been forgotten?
March 24, 1875- Huzzah, for my gloom was misplaced! The Rutgers boys have returned, shouting “Cannon! Cannon! Cannon!” Finally, freedom from this ground cage! My liberators… are grabbing the small cannon? Ah, they must be moving it out of the path of my… they left?!? They LEFT?!?
April 4, 1875- The Princeton chaps have proceeded to bury the other cannon. I fear for the safety of my family. I shall now try to contact the other cannon, using messages sent by the rabbits that infest this earthen cell. Perhaps, if we can properly coordinate, we can develop a strategy for escape. My hope lies with that other cannon. Godspeed, little rabbit.
April 6, 1875: That other cannon is a prick.
November 19, 1905: Little jerk just asked me if I heard the most recent speech by Woodrow Wilson; he thinks he’s going to be big. What a joke! If he ends up farther in life than Andrew Fleming West, I’ll let the rabbits that keep pawing at my barrel take up residency inside.
June 29, 2098: My earthy prison is finally beginning to crush in on me. The weight of ages of trampling feet, drunkenly stumbling home, pounding the dirt deeper and deeper into my worn barrel, overtakes me at last. Perhaps, someday, a Rutgers or Princeton student will come across a pile of black dust, with a plaque commerating me, a landmark from a forgotten age. But, here ends my journey; even now, my barrel is beginning to cave inwards from the weight of all the alcohol-rich, urine-soaked soil that the eating clubs have damned me to endure. My collapse is inevitable; I see only the enclosing blackness of unbiased death.
At least I can stop hearing about grade deflation.
Don’t get it? You might benefit from a refresher on your Princeton history.