It has come to our attention that Shepard Residential College does not actually know what they have done. It has also come to our attention that neither does Willard.
Let us skim through the usual statements about Willard: we all know that Frances Willard was an occasionally-racist Prohibitionist bitch. We all know that Willard has bedbugs. We all know that the residents of Willard (known as the Woo, because an illiterate dyslexic made it up) take a pledge as part of their annual cannibalistic sacrifice to wear only one pair of underwear per quarter, without even turning it inside-out. To be fair, Willard and its residents have lots of sporadic positive qualities, including the fact that it spawned Sherman Avenue* and hosts Fran’s Cafe, the wellspring of coffee for late-night paper-writing and fried food for drunken heinousfests. And let it never be said that Willard’s dining hall has inferior Mac n’ cheese.
But it is time the world knew the truth about Northwestern’s two nonthematic residential colleges.
Once upon the late 1800s, there was a young woman named Margaret Bowen Shepard, (also known as MB Shepzizzle, Magushka, Magz, and Mar-Great) who had vowed to protect humanity from whatever may threaten its survival, including evil, Miley Cyrus, and ill-intentioned stupidity exemplified in the statement “if we outlaw fun, kids will stop having it.”**
Frances Willard embraced all of the above.
Rather than give in to the temptations of alcohol, Frances drank the blood of children under age two, subsisting on a steady diet of other peoples’ babies, which is wrong because that’s stealing. In between crusading against fun of all kinds, Frances conducted secret DNA experiments with rodents deep in an underground laboratory, in an attempt to create the world’s ugliest creature. She fooled authorities into funding these useless endeavors with Northwestern grants, thus depriving the individual who would have cured both cancer and the common cold of the money that would have allowed him to do so.
But Frances wasn’t satisfied with this level of heinousness. She was worried that someday, under leadership with blouses less crisply starched than her own, Northwestern might become a haven for two things she hated more irrationally than anyone has ever irrationally hated anything: debauchery and young adults who wish to live with more than three unrelated roommates. So on the day of the gibbous moon, she set off to prevent an Evanston where such things could happen.
Margaret Shepard, with her incredible sheepy senses, knew that something was wrong. Her gut told her to Jewel-Osco, but she was skeptical.
“For realsies?” she asked her gut. “Are you sure we’re not just slightly hungry?”
Seriously, go the fuck to Jewel, said her gut. Have ever I let you down?
Margaret grabbed her rewards card and started the long trek to Jewel, arriving as the sun prepared to sleep and the college kids prepared to wake up. She had barely walked in when she saw it. She gasped: the scene before her was more incongruent and unbelievable than a well-trained mole winning the Olympic gold in steeplechase.
Frances Willard was at the self-checkout, furtively buying a shit-ton of oral contraceptives.
She couldn’t be buying them for a raging sex life. Lips that touch liquor did not touch hers, and lips that didn’t touch liquor would rather insert a toothpick into their urethra. She highly doubted that it was for painful periods or bad acne. She hid behind the Redbox and watched Frances exit the store, then followed until she stopped at the Arch. Margaret watched.
Under the light of the gibbous moon, Frances was shrinking, growing fur, a long nose, and… were her teeth shifting sideways? Was that a mullet growing behind her slightly-lumpier-than-usual skull? That was definitely a flaccid chode she had somehow grown, and it belonged about seven inches away from where it was situated on her body. Frannie’s current shape made her human form look like the best pieces of Mila Kunis and Scarlett Johansson combined and observed through beer goggles.
“GROSS!” Margaret cried, revealing herself. “The fuck are you?!”
“Dearest Margie-poo, thou should know that the experiments I have long conducted with rodent DNA have caused me to change on the night of the gibbous moon into a WereRat, the ugliest creature known to mankind. Usually I just run around freaking the fuck out of people. But tonight, the grandmother of a child destined to be Northwestern’s greatest president was conceived as the result of Captain Morgan and creatively improper use of a frisbee. I am going to travel to that home and exchange the mother’s daily multivitamins with a morning-after pill. The President’s grandmother will never be born…and neither will he!”
“I should have suspected as much from a baby-killer and Back to the Future enthusiast such as yourself, Frances Willard!”
“What ist thou, some sort of pro-life activist?” Frances snarled.
“No! This entire tale only accidentally has a sort of pro-lifey feel to it! The authors apologize and are in no way advocating either side of the abortion debate! And anyways, you don’t belong in either camp – you’re taking away her choice and you’re killing babies!”
“And there is nothing thou can do to stop me!” howled Rat-Frances dramatically. She scurried away into a rat hole, which led to a series of underground tunnels, which led to the house of our future leader’s great-grandparents.
Margaret, however, had no idea who Frannie’s target could be. Whose lineage could produce such a great leader? thought Margaret. And who the fuck actually takes multivitamins past ten years old?
Your cousin, dipshit, said her gut.
Right. Mary Shepard was the kind of perfect human specimen who always had an emergency breath mint in her pocket and never realized she was out of flour in the middle of baking. Of course she would take vitamins and spawn Northwestern presidents. Margaret ran.
To make things interesting for menfolk, an obligatory chase sentence has been included: shit exploded, horse-and-buggies were crashed, and Margaret inexplicably acquired a teapot for the purpose of either defense or disguise. It took most of the night, but Margaret finally arrived at her cousin’s house. This was the 1800s, when everyone kept their doors unlocked, so Margaret quietly but dramatically burst into the house. Rat-Frances was the kitchen table, menacingly approaching the container of Mary’s multivitamins.***
“STOP!” A thousand thoughts leapt onto Margaret’s tongue, skipping the brain-mouth filter entirely. “You will never succeed! Holy shit! How do you know my family’s future? Were morning-after pills, Jewel-Osco, and DNA experimentation even around in the late 1800s? Holy fuck! You’re a geniusly evil bastard! How does one improperly use a frisbee? NOOOOOOOOOO!”
Margaret knocked the WereRat into the teapot, seizing the multivitamin container in an attempt to twist it open.
“It’s no use, Shepresentative!” a muffled gloat floated out of the teapot. “The cap is adult-proof! It can only be opened by a child, your cousin’s conveniently small hands, or-” she cackled, “-a rat!”
Through the perfectly-shined east window, dawn was trying to climb over the horizon.
Frances sighed metallically. “Dammit. That was so easy it was boring. I will allow thee to consider me vanquished mentally, physically, and sexually if thee can answer one riddle. If thee answers wrongly, thee must surrender to myself and my minions. Dost thou accept the challenge?”
“I do,” answered the brave Margaret Shepard.
“Very well!” Frances cleared her rat-throat. “What, to me, is the only difference between a dead baby and a watermelon?”
Margaret didn’t even have to consult her gut. “You wouldn’t fuck a watermelon before you ate it!” she cried, as she heaved the tainted pills across the room, thrust open a new jar of multivitamins, and deftly removed the cottony shit at the top, just as the first beams of sunlight raced across Evanston.
The rest is history. Morgan Shepard- Mary’s child and Morty’s grandmother- was born nine months later and Shepard Residential College stands on the location of Mary’s home as a reminder of that fateful day. After learning of the great danger they had been in, Mary and Morgan changed their name to Shepiro and moved to Massachusetts to hide from further potential attacks. The name was later bastardized into Schapiro by Massholes who couldn’t spell, but the Shepiros were too polite to correct them. There is still a sect of Woo that are WereRats (there is speculation that this is why the Woo have such small penises, but no factual evidence). The famed Rat Trap is used to seclude these unfortunate abominations during the gibbous moon. Frances Willard is still in the teapot, but it was stolen from the Shepard kitchen and no one knows what has become of it.
And that, dearest readers, is what Shepard has done and continues to do: saving the world (and more importantly, Northwestern) from Willard.
*Jury’s still out on whether this should be considered a positive thing. Jury will remain out until after December 21st of this year.
**In this respect, the thinking patterns of Frances Willard and Mayor Elizabeth Tisdahl are quite similar.
***It should be noted that these were not actually multivitamins but superbabystregnth pills. Morty’s great-grandmother knew that when she conceived, she would be starting an extraordinary lineage.