GAVE’S SOAPBOX

I have heard there is a place on Temple’s fine campus where, much like Colombia, anything goes. A place where prostitutes and drug smugglers rub elbows with kidney thieves and weapons dealers. A place where one can decompress after a test with a bag of low quality Afghani marijuana and a file folder labeled “Eyes Only: Alien Invasion Contingency Plan.” A place for Arabian camels and college students alike to partake in illicit sex and unfettered “backyard wrestling.”

Of course, I’m speaking of the roof bridging Anderson and Gladfelter Halls. That wonder of Templonic architecture ranks up there with the twisted pole masquerading as sculpture in front of Gladfelter, which by the way is signed “Sisko,” probably a previous incarnation of the devout creator of the “Thong Song.”

Obviously, I felt it my journalistic duty to check out this harem of filth and condemnation, if only to insure that the prostitutes are as Zagat’s touts them to be: “raucous, bodacious, chewy . . . a sobering experience akin to eating lead filings…”

However, my greatest dreams– much like my dream of sleeping with all of the girls in Calcutta — were once again dashed. What transpires on the roof, my friends, is nothing but the most marginal of illegal activities. Instead of being greeted by a throbbing mob of necrophiles, juiced-up illegal immigrants and escaped Death Row inmates (or at least Dr. Dre), I found only a lone sophomore smoking weed, a same sex couple making out, and an elderly professor distributing Communist literature.

It appeared that nothing even remotely “bad” had gone on up on the roof in a very long time. Temple’s crime scene had once again disappointed me. “First they don’t mug me at the train station and now this!” I yelled defeated.

Could this be a campus so safe that even the slightest felony could not occur on the roof? Surely there must be a place where the criminals of Temple gather!

I walked home dejected, SWAT helmet in hand, with a roll of crisp twenties in my pocket begging to be bartered for a six shooter, some Vicotin and a vibrator so big it’s illegal in 14 of the 48 contiguous states. Maybe one day I’ll discover the seamy underbelly of our university, but until then I’ll have to stick to those most victimless of crimes: pushing over lunch trucks and defiling soft pretzels.