Like many, I discovered the University of Michigan’s esteemed satire publication entirely by accident. Desperate for escape from all the sex clubs I mistakenly signed up for at my freshman-year Festifall, by the second week of September 2016 I was already trapped in a prison of my own making, spending my first semester of college wondering where it all went wrong. Only the headline “Harbaugh Demands Traditional ‘Go Blue’ Banner Be Replaced With 20-Foot Brick Wall” — spotted while rummaging through the Mason Hall garbage bins for Blue Books — could save me from my humiliating days pre-The Every Three Weekly.
Fast-forward four years, and I’ve had the pleasure of following Joseph Clemente home after every meeting against his wishes and wondering out-loud if my professors shaved down there. My time on the paper has also afforded me the opportunity to spend days perfecting “4 Of Tommy’s Offensive Jokes You Will Laugh At Because His Dick Drives You Into Heat,” and mere minutes on my senior thesis. I even got to write a “menses” article that my mom liked! Still, none of these joys can hold a candle to meeting, befriending, then completely fucking over the greatest comedic minds at this university.
Let it be known that I was driven only by the absolute hilarity of someone with no charisma or interest in working in entertainment crushing the dreams of a generation of aspiring humorists. Whenever work, academic, or familial responsibilities began to get out of hand, I could always count on a steady flow of writing submissions to threeweeks@umich.edu to brutally disfigure to my liking, and to tell myself that I was the master of my own — and others’ — destinies.
Yes, writers, I was only in it for the gatekeeping. Don’t get me wrong, though — a few of you starry-eyed dreamers will still manage to scrape by. Surely, the best of the bunch will make it big after graduation, leaving your mark in some metropolitan center despite all the crushing rejections I relished in dishing out to you during your time on the E3W staff. But, tragically, as I’m sure you all know, not everyone on the paper can be Brendan Dewley.
Ultimately, these four years have taught me that nothing can compare to the high of telling this paper’s bright young writership that their jokes were not sufficient based on my arbitrary personal standard. To the former editors who cut the crème de la crème of my satire corpus: let me say “Fuck you” to get it out of my system, but also, you were in the right — your pupil has learned well. I look forward to joining you in the haze of post-grad depression brought on by having to leave behind your most cherished college memories.
My Dearest The Every Three Weekly, we’ve come a long way since freshman year. Much love and infinite kisses to thy Sacred Mug and Rag.
