WUnderground WashU's Premier (only) Satirical Newspaper Est. 2004
If you’re like me, you may have assumed that Outing Club’s activities consisted entirely of pitching tents on Mudd Field, occupying every single hammock station on campus, and occasionally hugging trees, but apparently they actually hold meetings.
After failing to avoid eye contact as I trudged purposefully through the Activities Fair, I reluctantly relinquished my email address to a very convincing-looking Outing Club recruiter, clad in abnormally high waisted Patagonia Baggies and an ushanka in an obscure browngreenorange color despite the sun beaming down at a harsh 92 degrees. And as soon as I knew it, I was DRIVING to their discreet meeting location (so much for the environment), which turned out to just be REI in Brentwood Square. We crammed together between a bunch of kayaks of all different neon colors. Two particularly sinister-looking exec members asked everyone to go around in a circle and say our names, pronouns, majors, and sexualities, the latter leaving me extremely perplexed. But nonetheless we sheep obliged as the execs jotted notes on a repurposed piece of tree bark. As I looked around the circle, a scrawny guy in a Charli XCX shirt to my left and a pink-haired girl with fish earrings to my right, I wondered why no one else was spiraling out.
Following introductions, returning Outing Club members stood up simultaneously and began to distribute leaflets to us newcomers, each with the face of a WashU student. A few I recognized: my freshman year suitemate, that girl on EST who’s always disruptive on the third floor of Olin, this guy who auditioned for a capella with me last year and was rejected for messing up the lyrics to “Rehab” by Amy Winehouse. “These are the most recent students we’ve clocked,” said one of the exec members coolly. “In the next few days, you’ll all be required to scatter these photo prints around campus if you want to solidify your definitive membership into Outing Club.” I noticed some of the new recruits turning the leaflets over to their backsides, so I did the same. NEWLY GAY, one of them read. OUT TO A SELECT FEW CLOSE FRIENDS. I checked out another: CATCHER ON THE BASEBALL TEAM, HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT. Then a returning member came around and slapped these shimmery rainbow stickers onto each leaflet in my hands. She slapped one on my forehead, too.
Once the meeting was adjourned, I tapped one of the new recruits on the shoulder and led her away from the group, concealed behind a rack of Arc’teryx jackets. I asked her if she knew what was going on. “Well, duh, it’s Outing Club,” she replied with a funny look on her face. “In order to go out with them, you have to help them out.” And then we left REI, each with 15 leaflets in our hands. What a waste of paper.
