Some of you may remember last year’s editor-in-chief, Daniel Kilkelly, aka Dan. Dan was a not only a handsome man (who once grabbed my butt), but a kind one as well. He cared greatly for The Spur and dedicated a large amount of his time toward the paper to keep it not only alive, but constantly improving.  The rest of us at The Spur could not have asked for a better editor-in-chief.

But he had something I wanted. Dan was known for his continued satirical column, The Sugar Beet. He was revered for his articles, often giving the student body a great reason to laugh.

But there was a dark side.

It was little known outside The Spur that Dan ruled the satire section with an iron fist. Any freshman that came into The Spur looking to write satire was promptly kidnapped and fed sugar beets until their death due to malnutrition (as it turns out, you cannot subsist entirely on beets).

I narrowly escaped my own death once as Dan caught me reading a copy of The Onion. I had to flee campus as a hundred sugar beets were launched in my direction. Dan took no chances with those who showed even a hint of interest in writing satire, knowing they could potentially try to replace him.

Late last semester, we knew his rule needed to come to an end. With the majority of my satire-loving freshmen allies dead, filled with brown vegetables, I alone hatched a plan to depose of Dan.

Late at night, on a rainy Monday during layout, I attacked. I had been spying on The Spur’s office for hours; Dan sat alone, working on his latest masterpiece for the Sugar Beet, “The Catholic Church Really, Really Loves Gays.” Knowing my moment was now or never, I kicked open the office door and promptly put seven Nerf darts into his skull. I then walked over and after shaking his hand, gave him a diploma and congratulated him on graduating.

I then did something unthinkable. Sometimes, I still question if it was the right thing. I walked past the dart-stricken Dan, over to the precious Sugar Beet that was always kept on the office wall. The very beet Dan had personally picked when he was 13-years-old on a soul-searching journey in Fargo.

As Dan watched in horror, the diploma shaking in his hands, I took the vegetable off the wall. And I ate it. Oh baby, did I ever eat it, being treated to that smelly, bitter taste that only a beet could provide the human palette. It was delicious.

“This happens all the time,” commented Spur Advisor Ruthe Thompson. “Honestly, I’m kind of sick of this bullshit. A talented writer takes over the satire section, installs a new stupid vegetable, and then within a year or two a different writer eats their vegetable and disposes of them in some over the top pseudo-violent way. It’s getting old. But I suppose it’s the circle of satire.”

It was finally over. With Dan graduated, the Sugar Beet eaten, and the freshman who once had interest in writing satire now nothing but piles of decayed vegetables, there was no one left to write satire. No one, that is, except me.

And that, kids, is how The Brussels Sprout was born.