The Plates of Wrath

Over the past week, the communications office has been rolling out its new battle strategy against dishware thieves. You might have seen the posters with the oh-so-creative spaghetti font telling us that “[we] can dish it out, but [we] can’t take it.” Or the strange film noir-esque YouTube video. Or, you have no idea what I’m talking about. If so, go/auntdes. Then you will be even more confused.

Their tactic is three-pronged. First, it aims to make us feel guilty for our kleptomania when it comes to the rare species of white plates. Second, it tries to corner the WTF viral video market currently monopolized by the Bed Intruder song and Marcel the Shell by making up weird words that will soon pepper the commentary on every single WRMC show. Lastly, it seeks to jumpstart the campaign to get Director of Dining Services Matthew Biette a supporting actor Oscar. If you did not cry after hearing his culinary call-to-arms, you have no heart, or else you are an infamous dish snatcher.

The most mysterious part of this communications campaign however is its breakout star, Aunt Des. Who is she? Why is she so worked up about missing dishes? Why does she keep poking me on Facebook? If I send her a request to be “It’s complicated” with me on Facebook, will she accept?

I was sufficiently intrigued to try to learn more about this Aunt Des. I tried to look her up in the directory. Apparently, she doesn’t work at the College. Interesting. I tried to look her up on MIDCAT. I expanded my search onto NEXPRESS, and even filed an Iliad request, thinking that perhaps she was an oracle from another academic institution, or a traveling messiah, like Oprah. Apparently, her vibrant copper locks and Garden State accent aren’t distinctive enough to warrant scholarship. I waited near the stairwell of Hepburn for three hours, hoping she would rampage wildly through the hall in her signature black heels looking for sloppagees. She never came. I cried. I’m not sure whether it was because my mission failed or because of the pungent odor of the pile of plates flecked with wild Alaskan salmon and polenta squares, waiting expectantly for Aunt Des too. In either case, it was quite traumatic.

My quest to discover exactly who this Aunt Des is was a complete bust. My understanding of what wisdom was contained in the YouTube videos was limited to a renewed appreciation for Matthew Biette’s neckties, and a realization that the dishware refugee camps littered across campus are quite expensive. In order to replace these dishes, the College pays the equivalent of the comprehensive fee for one student.

It’s really quite unfair. Although I didn’t learn anything about Aunt Des on my search, I had the chance to observe the life of a plastic bowl stranded from its rightful place atop the salad bar. Part of our comprehensive fee goes towards paying the financial aid of this displaced dishware. However, it does not have to contribute to the Middlebury community in the same way we expect all other community members. Dishes do not have to fulfill distribution requirements. They do not need to go to discussion on Fridays. They don’t even need to get two gym credits. They just loaf around all day in the residence halls like a Rosser. The dishes are the sloppagees. Not us. So, although Aunt Des is hiding in the shadows, unwilling to lead the troops into battle against the invasion of fiesta-hued plates — which I pessimistically believe will take on Beauty and the Beast “Be Our Guest” proportions some time in the near future — I say we fight back. Don’t let the dishes slack off more than we are allowed to! Take them back to their rightful place in Proctor and Ross, and make them do their job! Make them dish it out.