BU-sebumps: A Collection of Campus Creeps

By: Luciano Foranoce

Is this sweltering heat the depths of H-E-double-hockey-sticks? Or is it just a Bay State brownstone? As much as I’d like to take credit for our spooky flickering lights, it’s actually because Facilities hasn’t processed our maintenance request. As soon as they learned they couldn’t paint over it, it got put to the grave. Regardless, I’ve apparated here to regale you with tales of horrors past. So sit back, relax if you can, and don your adult diaper for these pants-pissing Campus Creeps.

The Headless Heckler

We all know that one guy, right? He doesn’t just participate in class, he’s gotta make some kind of point. Every 5 minutes. I’ve affectionately named this type of guy “The Heckler,” because, well, he heckles. Crazy idea, am I right? And sometimes you can’t tell if it's genuine interest, or disgust, or a little bit of both? I just wish the professor would shut this guy down, just one time. So he could realize that maybe,  just for a second, that nobody really cares what he has to say. Or at least… I wished for one time.

It was a dark and stormy night (4 PM in December and windy as hell), as I approached the dreaded “Mandatory-Attendance Lecture for a HUB Class”. Not my usual haunt, but I’d missed so many that if I didn’t go, my grade wouldn't be the only thing 6-feet-under (my mom would get mad at me). There in the front row, he sat. He goes by many names in many classes: The Devil’s Advocate, The Contrarian, The Mansplainer, The Yapper… The Heckler. Adorned in his camping backpack and mismatched suit, he was furiously typing away at an assignment definitely not for this class. This should be a good thing, right? I naively thought that if he wasn’t paying attention, he couldn’t chirp up… oh how wrong I was.

Our professor introduced us to the final project, very clearly laying out exactly how much work needed to be done to get each grade point, and referring us to the rubric on the syllabus.

Outside, lightning crackled.

“So, like, how much work should I do to just pass for hub credits?” A dreaded Heckle. At this point, a different laptop tab has opened for yet another different class, this time some sort of graphic design?

The professor reminded him to check the syllabus, then remarked that the class has a no-laptop policy. He frowns and goes silent. But that last comment from the professor… did I sense a hint of… shade? Was she finally going to bite back?

“Well, that’s a stupid policy. It’s 2023, Karen, and I type faster than I write.” Another heckle and… True horror. Did he make a point that I… agreed with? This couldn’t be…. I rapidly changed my personality and perspective on the manner to not associate myself with this… this beast. Laptops rot your brain. Blue light is bad for your health! Screen time only makes you dumber. Maybe handwriting isn’t so bad after all, especially if it’s the professor’s express wish. Everyone else is doing it too, after all. Well… almost everyone else.

The professor took a moment to herself, and responded, “If you disagree with the policy, you’re more than welcome to drop the class. After all, I’m sure other courses offer these same HUB units….” Holy shit. It was officially happening. As they locked eyes, the malice in the room was almost palpable. As he went to speak again, lightning struck outside once more. When the flash subsided, he had tape over his mouth. The professor stood in the same place, with a roll of terrier-printed duct tape in her hands. “Now that that’s over….” She proceeded with the lesson.

The tape didn’t stop him trying to pipe up, however. I noticed that each time I heard his muffled voice, his head got just a little bit bigger. At the rate he was going, this was about to look like a Sims mod. By the end of class, I couldn’t even see to the front of the room anymore. He walked to the professor’s podium, carefully balancing his blimp of a head as he approached. 

There, beet-read, he looked like he was about to lay into her. To put this into perspective, imagine a suburban Trump 2024 voter is in line at Starbucks, and the person in front of him has just ordered the most complicated frappuccino known to man. Now imagine that he orders a black coffee and receives a latte. Now skip forward and imagine the store in ruins. Now imagine boobs. You’re welcome.

Anyway, as he looked ready to scream, the blood in his face pooling towards his cheeks was boiling. No, literally, boiling. Steam was escaping his ears cartoonishly until I heard a Pop!

Needless to say, the next lecture went a lot smoother.

Going Down

On a Halloween night not unlike tonight, a junior stuck in Myles was stirring, itching to fulfill an urge deep within him— a boo-ty call. But like many of us, he’s not walking all the way to West campus past 9PM on a Sunday night. Alas, checking Terrier Transit (jumpscare) reveals a lone Late Night bus headed his way in 2 minutes. He throws on his finest gray sweatpants, t-shirt, and Canada Goose jacket to keep warm, and dashes to the elevator. He waits in agony for what feels like eons, as he ages and is born anew at these cold steel gates. Exactly 46 seconds after arriving there, he gets on an elevator from the 8th floor. To his dismay, it’s full and going up— but only one floor, right? Right, as the elevator crests the top of the 9th floor, those poor souls depart, as our junior descends. 

8. 

7. 

6. 

Ding! He taps his foot anxiously as two others step onto the elevator. As he goes to press the door closed, he looks up at them— their pumpkin head costumes are so 2020. They meet his gaze and press two buttons, going down to the 5th and 4th floors. He watches in dread as the bus nears closer on the live map. It’s the only one for the rest of the night! And these two assholes are taking the elevator one floor down? Who does that? 

5.

Ding! One steps out, leaving only our junior and one more of these pumpkin-heads. He lets out a sigh, as the pumpkin-head turns towards him.

“You got a problem, bud?” Our junior doesn’t know what to say. Of course, he’s mad, but so is everyone when this kinda thing happens, right? He stays silent.

4.

Ding! Finally, he’s left alone. And just in time, too, as the bus has just passed Danielsen.

3.

2.

Ding! “You have got to be kidding me,” he exclaims, as yet another pumpkin-headed individual enters the elevator, “Seriously dude? Just take the fucking stairs!”

They lock eyes. The elevator’s lights go out, and the door opens to reveal the Myles lobby. What the actual fuck just happened. Was that a dream? Did the voices finally win? He sprints to the bus, which was just about to leave, and journeys to StuVi.

That should be the end of our story. He should’ve had a good night. But as our junior goes to do the deed, he’s met with one last fright. A pumpkin head. He screams. She screams. It screams. Everyone screams. You’re screaming. 

Late Nite Parasite

It’s gummy time. And gummy time means Late Nite quesadilla time. Or at least, that's what Giacomo Officio (CAS ‘24) believes in. As he pops the gummy, he goes to order his favorite delicacy.

“It’s the only good thing they have at Warren Late Nite. I live in a Brownstone but I’ll still make the commute for something that good.” Giacomo, or Giac, as he goes by, was all too eager to share his story with The Bunion, the only news outlet that would listen.

The air is brisk. The mouth is dry. The scene is set for a relaxing trip. At least, until his phone buzzes with a Grubhub notification: Order Canceled. This can’t be! How is he supposed to enjoy his gummy without his munchy snack? And how is he supposed to enjoy his munchy snack without his YouTube queue?

As time quickens, he frantically checks his phone for an alternative. West? Fenway? Too far? Bay State Underground? Yeah right, their quesadillas taste like shit compared to the real deal. And don’t get me started on the churros. But something else catches his eye. Under the East Campus menu is another option: Bay State Under-Underground. 

“I know BU has gotten weird and gimmicky with their naming recently, but like? Is this another one of those Questrom student-CEO things?”

As he works his way to Marciano, a figure in a black hoodie and sunglasses approaches him. “Order for Giac? Come right downstairs.” He follows down the normal set of stairs to Bay State Underground, then into the back kitchen, then to a chute. The figure gestures for him to enter. As he does, he sees one of those ads they put up about food waste and portion sizes.

As he’s jettisoned downwards, he enters a stinky, cold room. Turning on his phone flashlight reveals a putrid form. Food waste. Steamed broccoli, weirdly-topped pizzas, and uncooked rice. All the worst aspects of college dining rolled into one.

“Hello, Giacomo, you want a quesadilla? Why don’t you want any of us? Why does no one want any of us?” He realizes what he says next is make or break. Luckily, this contrived situation has a sensible and easy solution.

“Well, I think if you work with students to see what they like to eat, you can control portion sizes and mitigate food waste. Like, maybe if you kept metrics at the food stations you could see what items students are averse to and maybe give more diverse options that people actually like. After all, the hike in dining plan prices should be enough of an overhead to do just that, but I guess BU as a facility would rather spend money on hand-waving entrances?”

Apparently, this large conglomerate entity didn’t like that answer and didn’t want to listen. It called him ungrateful and spewed trash in his mouth until he passed out.

And that’s his story. Or at least it was. The Bunion has acquired CCTV footage of Giac walking to Warren, spinning in circles for 5 minutes, and then walking to Marciano. On his way, he passed a dumpster and proceeded to eat the food waste until he threw up. Eventually, he found a quesadilla and fought over it with a rat. Unfortunately, the rat won.

But we here at The Bunion believe Giacomo is a victim of a larger problem. A larger problem that— I’ve been told we will no longer receive Allocations Board funding if I remain on this topic. Good night everyone. Happy Halloween.