HAMILTON, NY— Screams erupted throughout Hamilton on the fateful August afternoon as the upperclassmen returned to campus with nothing to hope for but the unconditional love and inevitable heartburn that radiates from a proper slice. In the distance, sirens rang against the wilderness (although that may have just been a drill conducted by campo to bust incoming students for weed and alcohol). As I peered at the prices of that ever-praised establishment, I recalled the words of famed modernist T. S. Eliot:
“This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.”
Because staring back at my innocent eyes was that demented three-digit number, a spit in the face of my bank account. “A dollar fucking seventy-five for a single slice of pizza,” I thought to myself, a single tear running down my cheek, “what kind of lawyer’s son one-percenter bullshit is this?”
By no means was my case unique; countless students had succumbed to the symptoms of the newly-dubbed “Slices Syndrome,” a state of lethargy and complete disregard for the world around them as they milled across the Academic Quad like freshmen after their first night at the Jug. As of press time, a meme in the “Colgate jUgz” Facebook group pertaining to the topic has reached an astounding 374 reacts, and the comment section has turned into an utter free-for-all of grief and anxiety for the future to come. “I’m still in shock, I feel betrayed and abused,” writes an exasperated student, clinging onto the golden days of cheaper college-town pizza. Tensions even turned political when another student dared to claim, “A slice was $1.50 before Trump,” receiving a grand total of three angry reacts.
As the Slices Syndrome epidemic reaches record-highs and the campus prepares to reach a breaking point, again, for like the fourth time or something – I don’t know, I’m new here – one can only imagine the rather underwhelming boycott against Slices that will inevitably wither out after like, what, a week? Hell, people here pay ten bucks to get into some weird dude’s awkwardly cramped bar and then willingly give this enigma of a grandfather eleven more dollars to drink what might as well be pisswater in a pitcher. Is your night out really in jeopardy if you have to shell out another twenty-five cents on top of the twenty-or-so dollars that you’ve already spent? Probably, but greasy food is greasy food, and it’s not like anyone can keep track of the quarter from the change they get back after slurring at a completely pissed Lou Ann who just wants to go home after a long day of work and really doesn’t give half of a shit about how many xans you popped in the bathroom. I bet you didn’t even know that she’s been helping to keep that place running for forty years, prick. Gotta make ends meet, and rich white kids are the target demographic for selling overpriced things to.
The Monthly Rag 
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