"That will be all, Cyrus. Now get back to The Crimson and finish pounding out those license plates, or those movie reviews, or whatever it is that you do, I always get them confused," I commanded and began sorting through the day's missives. I leafed quickly past the rejection letters from humor magazines whom I had told that I was a shoo-in for the presidency. They all tended to read the same: "Dear Mr. Oakley, you told us you were going to be president, but we hear that you were absent-minded and forgot where you placed $100,000 of Lampoon money. Thanks for your interest in our publication, but we don't care how prestigious your organization is. If you can't even massage enough buttocks to gain the presidency, we don't need you working for us. Thanks for your time. Now get lost."

I came next to a letter from some plebeian staff member at Late Night with David Letterman. Most of it was a typewritten form letter, with the usual blank spaces for personalization--like "Dear blank", "thank you for your interest blank", "thanks for your time blank", and "now get lost blank"--except for the handwritten note at the end of the letter, which read "as a result of your application Mr. Blank, we have decided to stop hiring graduates of the Harvard Lampoon until your publication can show that it is capable of producing people who are both funny and can massage Mr. Letterman's buttocks.

The last letter was a tiny envelope with stamps from countries I had never heard of. It was addressed to Wilhelm Orkley, but I assumed it was for me. The return address said it was from some place called Stanford. Having never heard of Stanford, I took the letter to the Lampoon's special Opening Letters That May Contain Bombs Room and soaked it in lamb's vomit before opening it. (For those of you not familiar with the Lampoon, I should explain that we are so rich, we have rooms for everything, and we have such wild parties, that we almost always collect lamb's vomit at them.)

Secure in the belief that this letter contained no threat to the Lampoon's time-honored tradition of having group sex in large vats of fettucini, I opened it.

It turned out to be from some fellow at the not-so-nearly-prestigious institution of higher education which claims to exist in California. The author claimed to be the editor of some humor magazine called the Stanford Chaparral. Fearing another rejection letter, I tucked it into the pocket of my silk robe and commanded one of the rickshaw drivers outside the Castle to escort me back to my palacial suite in Eliot House.

When I arrived home, I noticed that my houseboy Marquand had failed to carry out his orders for the day.

"Marquand, how many times have I told you that you must clean all the lint from the oriental rug and build a station wagon out of it before I get home?

He said nothing and scurried to get my smoking jacket before I could get the blunt instrument with which I usually struck him repeatedly on the side of the face.

I retired to the smoking lounge to select from one of the 267 brands of tobacco that I bought with the $100,000 that I squandered from the Lampoon (don't print this, boys).

In the midst of deciding between Almond Roca and smoked beaver, Marquand interrupted my inner sanctum. "Phone for you, oh financial wizard."

I returned to the drawing room to answer the telephone. "Wilhelm, it's Josh from Stanford. Did you get my missive old chum?" said a voice on the other end of the phone.

"What are you talking about kind sir," I replied. "I do not know of anyone named Josh and I don't recall receiving a letter from you. Is this one of those ridiculous pranks from those losers at the Crimson?"

"Josh" reassured me that he was not a member of the evil empire that publishes daily lies about Harvard and Cambridge, and that he was in fact my best friend in high school and now the editor of the humor magazine at Stanford University.

I reached into my pocket and found the letter which I had earlier soaked in the lamb's vomit. I opened it again and found that the author was the same "Josh."

"Why yes, I did receive a letter from you, old chum," I replied and began scanning the paper quickly. It read as follows "blah blah blah blah, blah, blah." But my eyes lit up when I came to the part that said "I heard you didn't massage enough people's buttocks to become president. Sounds like a shame. I have a great idea for staging a coup to get rid of Cohen, though. If you'd like to hear about it, give me a call."