Oftentimes when I go out and look at this fine campus’s pristine lawncare, it really gets the brain juices flowing. The grass around Jones Hall and the practice field always looks like it’s freshly manicured. Now, how on earth can people keep those stretches of grass looking so perfect? I’ve come to the realization that it is indeed not the work of man, but the work of our small robotic counterparts.
Upon taking to the streets to get an idea of the public’s view of such creatures, I was told that they “…make me feel maternal.” If that’s not one of the most precious things that those robots could be doing, I’m not qualified to say what is. Every time I see one of those bad boys going at it around Jones, I am instilled with a bone-deep sense of pride; in fact, I have Jones in my bones. At Jones, anyone can do whatever they wish to achieve, and operating as a maintenance fleet of droids is one of the available options here. Such inclusivity hasn’t been seen since our Lord’s sacrifice for His believers.
To come to terms with the robots, colloquially named Abraham Lawncoln, Theodore Mowsevelt, and Alexander Hamilawn is to come to terms with the universe itself. Their coordination, their drive, and their ability is unmatched by any lawncare team that I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing. One campus dweller told me while on the street that, “At first I thought they were somebody rolling around on the ground.” Even students across campus are reported to have looked upon these divine entities with the utmost respect and honor, observing their organic flow across this school’s grounds with the awe of onlookers getting glimpses at angels mentioned in the Bible. These professionals of their craft are what hold this school together. They transcend their work. They simply… are.
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I have never found a body of water better-protected than the lake at Jones College. Where campus police are bogged down by calls of dorm malfunctions and disturbances, the loyal branta canadenses that dot the lake’s countryside are vestibules of safety and serenity for any of those who meander through the walkways around their aquatic environment. One disgruntled Ellisvilian was overheard to even say, ”I think that the geese should replace the bobcat as the school mascot.” As far as I have seen, at least in my short time here at Jones, there is not a single bobcat anywhere to be found. Trust me, I have looked in all the possible hiding spots for a predator like a bobcat, but it seems that the only ones we have are symbolic ideas of power and skill as far as our sport teams go. We have no real bobcats.
In reality, the Jones campus would be much better suited by a goose mascot. Given that the geese migrate to all sorts of places across the south and even lower than the Hospitality State, the humble goose represents the average Jones enrollee. With the new slogan “All Roads Lead to Jones,” I – as well as a slew of other students – believe that the goose represents the choice of life and the many avenues that Jones can lead to. Despite all of the positive aspects of the branta canadensis, some people just cannot be swayed. “They crap too much” – quipped one Jones student on the plight of the underutilized avian mascot option. They are simply natural creatures, though societal norms of decency compound even onto that of the untamed. The notion of putting civilized expectations on the great wild only furthers my point that these geese are truly wonders of the world, nay… the universe. Once we learn to adopt the goose as the image of success, we shall truly learn to grow and prosper as a people.
Walker Robinson
