Why I Love Moffitt Undergraduate Library

I have a special affection in my heart for Moffitt Library. The undergraduate library is, after all, the only place where we undergrads can lord our exclusivity over other groups. Often one can see skulking packs of low-browed and beady-eyed graduate students plotting and scheming like the Trix Rabbit, desperate to get a delicious fruity bowl full of Moffitt Library. The art history TAs who have class in the classrooms are especially jealous that they cannot follow their students after class as they go youthful and laughing into the library for a grand afternoon. Like nasty vermin attempting to enter a sacred place, they are shooed out with brooms. We call this defensive membrane our Security Staff, chosen from crack units of Israeli Defense Forces. Woe to the grad who attempts to get by these Ubermenschen with the power to see stolen books through backpacks. Again like the Trix Rabbit (good metaphor here), they are destined to experience only frustration. (I will bet that the Trix Rabbit could get through, though.)

Once inside the patron is joyous to see the Information Gateway, as well as the career counselor at that cramped little table. Do you ever think that the student library workers really have nice roomy tables and only give the counselor the small ones so they can laugh about it after closing while they smoke dope and race trucks? Anyway, back to the computer resource center which is actually sponsored by Pacific Bell. This is important because the students there are not just lingering in the hopes that everyone else will leave so they can visit www.hugeass.com. They are actually researchers chosen from crack units of Israeli Defensive Forces. These brave individuals are working in conjunction with Pac Bell until 2 AM every night to invent the 35 cent coin so that the rest of us can use their goddamn pay phones. Thus far they figure heads will be Clinton and tails will be a tail.

The other great thing about this library actually takes place outside of it. That’s right; I’m talking about late night Club Moffitt under the neon glow of the computer facility: the last place where smoking still makes you look cool. We need no music here, cause we got the beat of the young, man. Everyone who is anyone shows ups, except for one researcher masturbating furiously in the comer. And now, instead of thinking why do I waste my time reading the last lamest columns in the Squelch when I could be writing things on bathroom walls, perhaps you too will have a fortunate encounter with books or something.