So that’s that, then! YUSU elections are over. I was there on results night, quietly indulging my alcoholism in the corner as I watched the Charge of the White Brigade (as no-one calls it, except me just now) and most people seemed pretty pleased with the results! Except for all those presidential candidates who lost to Ron Weasley. Who said democracy was dead?
Judging by the ecstatic reaction Chris Wall got, he’s going to follow up getting elected by turning lead into gold, or walking on water – which you could probably actually do on our lake at this point, to be fair.
And as for new YUSU President and famed Disney princess Ben Leatham, well, he seems nice. Though I’m sure we can still accuse him of being secretly born in Kenya. Where’s your birth certificate, Ben?! SHOW US THE TRUTH!!
And then there’s Tron. The final boss of Yik Yak, and perhaps its secret overlord. He can swim through land, the users cried! He completed Grand Theft Auto without killing anyone! He can transform into a car!
For those who don’t know, by the way, Yik Yak is the internet’s newest way to stare at the thoughts of strangers. It’s like Twitter, with more anonymity, which on reflection sounds like the worst way to advertise a website ever devised.
It seems that the most upvoted comments tend to involve the phrase “basically my life”, or things having sex with other things. Or, like one enterprising user, using the “FREE STUFF” cheat code and offering to give away cupcakes in Market Square.
Mind you, my own Yik Yak offerings – all two of them – were apparently pretty pitiful. The first was a generic slander against York St. John that my own smug fingers fell asleep halfway through typing, and the other was a pun (mountain ranges are funny – in fact they’re hill areas!) that languished for a bit before dying a quiet death. Based solely on these experiences, I can only conclude that letting jokes loose on Yik Yak works like raising a child and then releasing it into the sea.
And then someone told me “gg no re”. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know if humans should know what that means. I think you hear it in your head, sung in chorus, at the end of the world.
So I’ve resigned myself to watching. Standing outside, in my joke poverty, like a Victorian orphan pressed against the windows of a toy shop. Maybe Yik Yak just isn’t for me.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get these punk kids off my lawn.