You may have been on campus for two, three, even four years by this point, but that doesn’t mean you don’t still have questions about this place and the secrets it holds. The Princeton Tiger recently acquired a set of sensitive documents that should put some of these questions to bed for good.
Why does Princeton use steam for everything?
Oh, you still believe that story? What if I told you that Princeton’s heating system uses no steam? That, in fact, it is powered by a radical new energy source? Believe it or not, it’s totally true. Princeton gets all of its heat solely from the friction generated in Chris Eisgruber’s Cuddle Castle! You’re probably calling bullshit right now — there’s no way a single underground facility can generate that much heat, right? Well, with some impressive advancements in ventilation and filtering technology, it’s totally possible!
So why does my heater clank at night?
Unfortunately, there’s one drawback to this system. The advanced circulation systems used to carry the heat to every corner of campus don’t work properly if they are lined with sound dampeners, so the sounds of the, er, heat generation carry through every heater on campus. (Don’t ask us why they’re louder in the evenings — even we don’t know that!)
What’s up with that hallway leading off from the Terrace tap room?
If you’ve ever been to Terrace during a waxing gibbous moon, you may have noticed that the short hallway leading off from the taproom is darker than usual, and its walls seem to be composed of a smooth, ash-like substance. On these nights, Terrace changes and becomes bigger on the inside than on the outside. Those who go into the hallway and successfully return speak of a horrifying space whose corridors constantly shift on them and of a deep growl that echoes through the whole building. Of course, it may be that our sources were super high at the time and just got lost on their way to the dance floor.
What is that old building on Nassau Street between Green and Robertson Halls?
Why, that used to be called Frick Lab, but now it is known only as “20”. Turns out it is merely the most prominent sufferer of the slow rot that Kappa Alpha Theta’s presence imposes on all things. Its condition is severely advanced: even the name has gone now. (Don’t listen to those who say the name was changed to accommodate the new Frick Chemistry Lab — Theta’s resources are vast, and they can control the campus discourse however they wish.)
Why the heck does Campus Club still have a taproom?
You’d think the University would have refitted it by now, seeing as it sure ain’t being used for drinking. Well, turns out it’s still being used as a taproom — but a very different kind of tapping goes on there now, if you know what I mean. Turns out the Tapcats use the room frequently. Why, you ask? Well, as the most silent and lifeless space on this campus, the room is the ideal location for the Tapcats to draw the pentagram for their highly percussive Satanic rituals.
What’s up with the south of campus? Why is it all curvy and shit?
The border between Bloomberg, Scully, and Icahn and the adjacent fields is curved for what you probably think is no good reason. As it turns out, however, the borders of Pardee Field, Poe Field, and 1895 Field describe a pair of nearly perfect golden spirals when viewed from the air. Legend has it that if you start at the end of either one of these spirals and start tracing inward until you reach its point of origin, you will eventually reach a small patch of shiny yellow earth. Have a shovel ready. At the center of the east spiral, you will find the hatch leading to Princeton’s lost city of subterranean frat houses, which long ago succumbed to Theta decay and sank below ground. Here, generations of abandoned Zete-Pi Phi hookup babies wander sticky, Keystone Light-soaked tunnels and die without ever having seen the light of day. In the west spiral, you’ll find a crate holding — if no one else has reached it before you — five point two tons of grade-A, FDA-approved, Chechen black-tar krokodil.
Why is Wilson College so ugly?
You may have heard rumors about the college’s hideous dorms being due to riot-proofing measures back when they were constructed. As it turns out, this is patently false. The awful design came about because resources intended for the dorms’ construction were diverted to the construction of the Arts and Transit Neighborhood. Even the University’s gigantic endowment has its limits, it turns out, and so the administration had to dip into the past. This left a minimal amount of material and architectural know-how to be leveraged to build Wilson, and it’s cheaper to build random 90-degree bends in every hallway than to put any effort into actually designing living space.
Wait a second. How the hell could the University go back in time to fund the Arts and Transit Neighborhood?
Well, it seems that Eisgruber, foreseeing the need for such a structure, sent the mandate for its construction back in time, so that it would be complete by the time he assumed the mantle of the presidency. However, as you can clearly see, he got the calculations quite wrong.
How is that even possible?
As you may have inferred, Chris Eisgruber has a time machine. Shirley had a weather machine, Chris has a time machine. Fair’s fair.
Eisgruber has a time machine?!
Yes, he does! It’s something the University has been working on for a while, and they’re really quite proud of it. Shirley wanted one — she thought it necessary to counter the baleful influence of the Greek organizations on campus — but the technology just wasn’t there. Now, however, Eisgruber can flit from epoch to epoch with impunity, at every turn fixing the damage caused by Theta decay. Soon, he will bend the campus to his image, the Hellenic empire will fall, and the Macedonians shall reign for ten thousand years.
– AKS ’15. Illustrated by AZ ’16.