In Memoriam:
The Bike Rack in Netherlands South By The Bike Rack in Netherlands South
ry o m e ing m
In lov
S
o what’s your plan, Hofstra? Are you gonna put a waterpark in my place? Allow the Freshies to arrive at Welcome Week bright eyed and bushy tailed with a waterpark in Netherlands South for their disposal now that I’m gone? What about another one of those sketchy elevators, except this time, it’s just décor—you know, art? Or even better, another goddamn green space? Maybe just build a house for those Hofstra cats I’ve heard so much about. Look, I’ve put up with a lot for you, Hofstra. You renovated all of Netherlands South for these Class of 2019 hippy liberals and blue haired brats and left me in the dust, rotting and decaying. I’m getting old, I know, but you can’t kick me and my family out. We have resided in this spot for generations, from my father to his great-grandfather, his great-great grandfather and to his great-greatgreat grandfather. You get the point. It’s been a home for me, my half-brothers and step-sisters, to second cousins twice removed, and even my mom’s friend who we always called Aunt Linda. We have been here long before 1935 is what I’m saying. I remember when my great-uncle told me how Amsterdam was first erected in memorial for those fallen in what was recorded as the first Dutch Oven. Here lies Mrs. Hofstra. Stayed too long, gone too soon.
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It’s also been said that this site once held a Dutch glue factory. Known as the Belgian Re-Conference, it was designed to reattach the pieces of Africa following that Apartheid business. The company went under after the Science Department came to realize that there would never be a glue strong enough to erase the mistakes that were made. Despite what your $700 history textbooks might say, this very site was once home to the theater President Lincoln had attended on the very last day in office. That’s right. This spot right here is where Mrs. Lincoln shot President Lincoln in a jealous rage after catching him in the act with not only John Wilkes Booth but also Mr. Hofstra. When Mrs. Lincoln turned the gun on Booth, he immediately decided to take the blame in order to save face; he knew he always looked better with a beard anyway. Of course, this was also the home to the Native American reservation, burial ground—and later— casino, which was inevitably torn down by the Hofstra administration. Their spirits still fuck with the input settings on the flatscreen in Rotterdam to this day. But, more importantly, historians have evidence that the last Apache warrior was sent away by Stu Rabinowitz himself, with the excuse that there just wasn’t enough room in the budget. And the most unfortunate of all, it was this very spot where Fran Drescher caught her very first sinus infection and never really kicked it. See? We’ve been here for longer than Hofstra ever had been. My parents had me here, you know. How do you feel taking away the place where I was released from my mother’s own vagina? What? You’re saying that since I’m a bike rack I wasn’t actually birthed? You take that back, my mom was au natural, buddy. I was even conceived here before your mom conceived you on some drunk one night stand. That may have been out of line. Sorry to your mom, but not you. Your bold Calibri text and stark white piece of paper does not scare me. I made it through rain, sleet, and snow, only a bit scathed while your sheltered white child out front has a weather guard and everything. He still cries when it thunders. What a momma’s boy. He was always your favorite. I don’t know where I’m going with this anymore, but what I do know is that I’m going, unlike the rusted wheels of your bike now laying in the grass.