FROM THE MOMENT I saw the word "beloved," I knew something was fishy. My parents have never used that adjective to describe me. Maybe "ungrateful" or "sarcastic" or, if they mean to be affectionate, "our little Joshie." But "beloved"?

So it came as no surprise to hear the conspirators--my roommates--fess up. In typically courageous fashion, they had waited for the one night I was not at The Crimson to loose The Ad on the world.

I took it well.

I laughed. I called my parents and they laughed. I called my friends at other schools and they, too, laughed. As the weeks wore on, I had nothing but sympathy for my roommates' lingering feelings of guilt and recurring nightmares. I never once abandoned the moral high ground to retaliate against those scrawny, balding weenies who just wish they had won the Weldon Fair Play Cup.

I just figured that I would ride out the scandal like Lee Iacocca managed to survive his embarrassing little "Pinto" episode. Keep a low profile. Wear dark sunglasses around campus. It wasn't too difficult. I had a thesis to write.

But with every passing day, the legend of The Ad grew stronger. A team of Widener librarians called The Crimson to settle a bet about whether The Ad was real. A friend said she saw The Ad next to someone's toilet in Winthrop House (with a caption I will refrain from mentioning here). Someone posted The Ad inside the Economics 10 Unit Test grading office.

And I became an instant celebrity at the Office of Career Services.

MY ROOMMATES will say I had it coming. They'll claim it was I who hung Dan's underwear out our window during our first year along with a sign noting his name and phone number. They'll accuse me of falsely inserting an award from Eliot in the Leverett House newsletter, so that everyone expected to see him honored on national television. They'll blaming me for convincing Joe to ask for "coed rooming information" from the house master. Lies. All lies.

But even if I had perpetrated these hilarious, cleverly conceived pranks, would I deserve campus-wide humiliation? Don't answer until you understand the extent of my embarrassment.

Consider: the admissions director of Harvard Medical School came to Leverett for a panel discussion and left with a copy of The Ad to put in my file. I had to beg my parents not to write a letter to The Crimson complaining that The Ad omitted some of my elementary school accomplishments (blue ribbon, kindergarten bike rodeo...). And people still stop me on the street to tell me they're sorry I didn't win the Marshall.

To set the record straight: my parents did not place The Ad, that was not my MCAT score, those were not my grades, and that horribly pompous picture was taken without my consent. My only memory is being fed grainy applesauce and waking up hours later in a dark suit.

If nothing else, I can take solace in the few beneficial effects The Ad has had on my life. I no longer have to introduce myself to people around Harvard. At least my peers will remember me for something. And most important: nobody can ever tell me that I can dish it out but can't take it.

Before he graduates, Joshua M. Sharfstein '91 would like to apologize to everyone he has ever played a practical joke on--except his roommates.

How a cheap practical joke changed my life.