Sent from a past we cannot conceptualize, this virile warrior seeks a fertile wench with whom he can birth powerful sons. Could you be the one?
When Pat Case unlocked its doors for hungry students, the undergraduates were shocked to find a grizzled man wearing chainmail with a sword plunged into his sheath. His face-covering helmet sat aside him as he viciously bit into his pickled cods. Fortunately, he was not quick to attack the enemy — they caught him on his lunch break.
Campus Security sought to detain this mysterious medieval fighter, but two of their officers’ attempts were in vain: the man released a warrior’s shout, stunning them, as he charged. The officers dodged his attack, looked at one another and promptly shrugged. They left the incomprehensive rabble for someone else to deal with; they’re already underfunded as it is, so they couldn’t give less of a shit about this than anything else.
Professors who spoke Old English were called onto the scene. The two swapped barbs from a distance, the warrior’s voice a gruff bellow. The man offered his name, Æthelwulf the Insipid, and said he would not leave until he found a ravishing, hips-swinging maiden with whom he could extend his family line. Until then, he promised to pillage and plunder this university for all it is worth.
“Well, when we heard his threat, we all kind of laughed,” said senior Jessica Sanchez. “Plundering TU for ‘all it is worth’? We’re, like, several million in debt, pal. What do you think you’ll get? $800 premium Lorton Hall parking permits?”
From there, Æthelwulf fell into old habits. Hunting for monks to brutally murder or sell into slavery, he searched for the Religion Department, only to find it already pretty gutted after the True Commitment fiasco.
“We tried to explain True Commitment to the guy, but like everyone else, he didn’t really give a shit,” said Philosophy major Peter Dempsey. “Eh, can’t say I blame him.”
Disappointed but nonetheless tenacious, Æthelwulf tracked down any sort of alcohol and once more received unfortunate news: The Hut was also closed years ago. So, faculty advised him to discuss his concerns—namely, the lack of ale and fertile wenches who do not scream and run away when he attempts to throw them over his shoulder — and report to the Student Association, which zealously promotes the well-being of students with tangible results. His attempt to voice his desires for the student body was delayed; plus, he had to compete with everyone else waiting in line to talk to SA so they could get pizza for their measly little clubs. Welcome to the real world, Æthelwulf. Bureaucratic red tape applies to you now, too.
In one last ploy to go home to his Anglo-Saxon community with a prized beauty, Æthelwulf found himself in a Women’s and Gender Studies course. Wide-eyed and dazed, he left the class session strangely meditative. Healthfully communicating with words like “discourse” and “duality,” Æthelwulf picked up his sword — what he now recognized as a representation of the powerful phallus and the homosocial nexus of battle and masculinity — and marched into the sunset, muttering to himself about the male gaze.
