By Audrey Russell
A report published this year by the Bardvark (sources not cited; we’re a satirical publication) reveals a dramatic change in the demographic composition of Old Kline, once regarded as the ubiquitous and tolerable Maroon 5 of Bard dining halls. Despite Old Kline’s longstanding reputation as a humble and welcoming space for students of all kinds––from e-boys to Bard BoysTM to people that don’t know what either of those are––to eat in quiet contentment, it seems that the tables, stained as they are, have turned: It has become increasingly difficult for real people to actually find a fucking seat.
“This used to be a nice, reliable place where I could relax, grab a bite to eat, and hide behind my laptop screen so I didn’t have to make eye contact with anyone,” says former Old Kline patron and self-proclaimed normie Emily Gilson. “It wasn’t fancy, but it was something. Now, trying to find a seat is like trying to get around Times Square at night, but everyone is the guy in the Elmo suit.”
Later, BRAD Comedy equipped our very own Sylvia Burtswattle with a hidden mic and a disguise (Carhartts, jelly flats, and a Rolex) to investigate the severity of Gilson’s claims. She disappeared into the frenzied mob mere moments after her arrival. After two weeks of silence, we received an email from Burtswattle letting us know that she would not be continuing her stint at the Bardvark after meeting a handsome dentist, settling down under one of the Wi-Fi routers, and making plans to open up a cupcake shop.
To learn more about Burtswattle’s gruesome fate and the rapidly changing culture that facilitated it, a further cohort of reporters entered Kline, hoping that strength in numbers would allow them to Get The Scoop. However, hordes of former Old Kline patrons physically blocked the premises, leaving the reporters with scarring images burned into their minds: tens of “undecided, but maybe sociology” majors huddling on the stoops, reminiscing about who they once were, and tightly clutching paper cups undoubtedly filled with a harrowing combination of 4-Loko and decaf.
I was the only member of this team to make it inside (by way of force, obviously). I was determined to ask a single new resident about their experience. One, later identified as Sonja Ward, declined to comment, and blew a thin stream of cigarette smoke into my face. Defeated, I made my way home past a myriad of Hydroflasks and Airpods to cobble together what little information I’d gathered.
At press time, this reporter was still in shock that Sonja Ward got away with smoking in Kline.
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