As an Adams man, I would fight for interhouse dining restrictions, perhaps not quite to the death, but at least to the breaking of any bones which would not affect my ability to climb stairs or play one-armed basketball. We live in a society. There are rules. I respect that.
Each year on the Thursday before spring break, the gods make a judgment regarding your freshman year conduct. If you acted like a cool sophomore or at least a moderately popular junior, they reward you with Adams. On the other hand, if you used a baby picture for your facebook.com profile to look cute to girls, they give you Cabot. Thus, dining hall restrictions reinforce the Will of the Gods.
However, there are fair critiques of some houses’ restrictions. Hey, Eliot, you aren’t fooling anyone. We don’t want what you’re selling. Quincy, your panini grill is hot on all sides, not just the grill side. It burns people, and no one likes you. Dear Kirkland, nice face. Lowell, I’m just going to accuse you of having cockroaches.
Yet Adams deserves every ounce of prestige credited to it. So, if you stroll in like you are the cock of the walk, despite being a freshman or, even grosser, a Dunster resident, and a handsome gentleman in a lifeguard chair re-stolen from the MAC blows a whistle, mocks you on a megaphone, and leads two hundred people hand-picked by the gods in booing you, deal with it. Turn around and go to Mather. Don’t try coming in the back, either. I used to sneak into dining halls too, then my dad got a job.
