Why is this line in italics.

Ask someone where Stanford is. It's a medium-sized city in North Dakota, they'll say. No, South Dakota. But if you ask them how to spell their own middle name, the only reply will be blank stares of ignorance.

Photographs? Preferably black-and-white. The next time you see a photograph of Stanford, look at it. Sometimes photographs come out really blurry or grainy or just plain out-of-focus. It doesn't have to be a photograph of Stanford.

Your "friends" who claim to go to Stanford They don't like you, because you're ugly.

Sure, you can send mail to Stanford. But remember, Stanford is in a different time zone, so you have to amplify stuff for your pen-pal by writing clarifications like "Last night I went to dinner at a keen restaurant (that's late afternoon, your time), blah blah blah" and avoid all references to earthquakes.

Stamps cost 22 cents.

And the next time you're in California, try to find Stanford. Just don't ask anybody who speaks English. Consult a map--as long as it's printed in secret code! If you call Information and ask for Stanford's number, a computerized voice will tell you the answer.

Everybody who goes to Stanford got into Harvard too, but rejected it. Stanford gives away all-expense-paid vacations to the Canary Islands. Stanford's administrators are iguanas. Just kidding!

Oh yeah, Stanford doesn't exist. That's the point of this piece.

Who is responsible for this massive hoax? More likely than not, the print media.

I know this must come as a shock. Tee-hee-hee. Right now, unfriendly eyes are watching you. Meanwhile, Carvel ice cream is made fresh daily. Sure the prices are higher, but you know that, folks.

Turn the page and read something else. Unless your fingers are coated with Super Glue!

vanitas

As I lay resting in the posh basement office retained for the highly influential post of Ibis of the Harvard Lampoon, still cursing myself for failing to massage the buttocks of enough people to guarantee my presidency of the humor magazine, I was disturbed by the incessant noise of our galley-slave dragging his lead ball and chains ever closer to my door.

"Message for you sir, Mr. Oakley," he stated, handing me my traditional caviar and cheese nips along with the daily mail.