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The Carletonian

Eye-Opening: This is what Stevie P.’s presidency would look like if he were a Tide Pod

It’s as ubiquitous as knock-knock jokes at Carleton: “What would Stevie P’s presidency look like if he were a Tide Pod?”

For those unaware, Tide Pods are dissolvable pods of Tide laundry detergent that are designated for washing clothes. Many—in particular, teenage populations—have noticed the capsules’ visual similarity to candy (a “forbidden fruit”) and, in addition, have voiced wishes to consume them, despite their widely-known health hazards and aggressive corporate campaigning against the trend (e.g. Rob Gronkowski’s “What the heck is going on, people? Use Tide Pods for washing. Not eating. Do not eat. In the meantime, join the DD Perks app and start earning awards right away, like Free Dunkin’ Beverages all year long and access to On-the-Go Mobile Ordering!

But if anything has plagued Stevie P.’s tenure (beyond rampant 69-related jokes and “Happy 420” wishes), it has been the ever-pressing question of what his presidency would look like if he were a Tide Pod.

While not necessarily intuitive, the answer is, given at least a miniscule amount of thought, pretty self-explanatory and understandable if you’re not an idiot. (The fact you had to sit me down and ask me to answer this makes you insufferably stupid and, frankly, it’s embarrassing.)

One of the most ineluctable aspects of Poskanzer’s Tide Pod Presidency would be his ability to stick to certain surfaces. Instead of, say, efficiently walking from meeting to meeting (for example, from his First Laird office to his Nutting House home), if Stevie P. were a Tide Pod, he would most likely stick to many surfaces he runs into and accrue lots of materials on said surfaces. 

Specifically, Poskanzer would likely attempt to open the door leading from his office to the Laird lobby and, while doing so, fall to the ground as his attempt to turn the handle would end up fruitless due to his embarrassingly low body mass and lack of hands, fingers, and opposable thumbs. Once a staff member opens the door, Stevie P. would likely roll out of the doorframe into the Laird lobby. While, unfortunately, he would accumulate uncomfortable amounts of dust and other floor-residue while doing so, this would also advance Poskanzer several feet into the room, giving him a head start in leaving it. Following this, Stevie P. would likely take a sharp right turn and slowly (so as to not burst) hop slash roll down the stairs exiting the building. Since, once again, Poskanzer is merely an index finger–sized, flimsy plastic object, he would be unable to actually push open or turn the handle of the Laird front door so, unfortunately (and embarrassingly) he would have to once again get the assistance of a staff member to allow him to exit the premises. Following this, Stevie P. would likely hop slash roll down the stairs outside of Laird leading down to one of the concrete walking paths. Once here, he would have to carefully maneuver the dangerous environment of distracted student commuters’ feet in order to avoid being stepped on—the pressure of which, due to his small, vulnerable stature, would most likely lead to his explosion and demise. If Poskanzer were able to efficiently avoid the haphazard feet of the unwashed masses he would be able to roll approximately 1,056 feet south to the intersection of Winona St and First St East. However, now that he is outside, he would most likely accrue different sorts of sediment than he would while inside—specifically, he might pick up flecks of grass and small, near-microscopic bugs crawling about in Stevie P.’s path (but, unavoidably, they are to promptly be picked up by Poskanzer’s adhesive surface because Carleton is inevitable and unstoppable; we wait for nobody; we’re like a speeding truck of insatiable prowess that catches the attention of employers, grad schools and peer institutions alike worldwide; anybody who doesn’t blindly and wholly love Carleton deserves to repeat their current grade as a first-year track recruit at Brandeis University in Waltham, Massachusetts). Once at the intersection of 1st and Winona, Poskanzer would (most likely) take a sharp right and continue west on First St East for about 1,584 feet until he arrives at Home Sweet Nutting House. (Some more geographically-savvy Carls than myself might add that walking 1,584 feet west of the First Winona intersection would take you right into the Cannon River! (Very astute! Very apropos! You must be an economics major from the D.C. suburbs (with an Outcome Capital Investment Bank internship, to boot), with a steel-trap, insightful mind like that!) Indeed, walking west for that long would, indeed, leave you to a drowning demise (and, in Poskanzer’s case, dissolution in a large body of water, leading to the probable cessation of his tenure as president). However, an even more geographically-savvy Carl would probably understand that First St East actually turns and gradually shifts into Union St via a gradual curve over by the townhouses. In that case, Stevie P. Would likely be able to roll in a relatively straight trajectory and still get to his destination of Nutting House.) Once at Nutting House, his wife (Jane Poskanzer) would most likely wash him with care to remove his accumulated residue—after which she would (according to my research) tuck him in and read him Episode 18 of Ulysses (for uncultured swine: the “Penelope” stream-of-consciousness poem). And, with Molly’s final “and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes,” Poskanzer would likely begin to fall asleep at around 10:00 p.m. as Jane would slowly close the novel in order to not wake him (as, is widely known, Stevie P. is a very light sleeper and, although the ending of Ulysses is quite satisfying and thought-provoking, it tends to leave him a little restless for the first few hours of his slumber); he is a busy man (or, really, Tide Pod but, frankly, mention of that is degrading and almost embarrassing) and has a packed day tomorrow; but, before he falls completely asleep, in his half-asleep and semi-lucid state, he (the chivalrous gentleman he is) manages to offer his wife one last loving message of “Gee, thanks for reading me that, honey! I love you very much and I can’t wait to see which modernist Irish author you elect to read to me at bedtime tomorrow! Goodnight, and I hope you have a nice sleep.”

It is also important to note that, if he were a Tide Pod, Stevie P. would be unable to speak. So, frankly, it doesn’t really seem clear how exactly he would have been elected to that position in the first place.

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