Backpage's Voyage Through the Annals of History

By Tim Faust & Eric Doctor     12/4/08 6:00pm

Welcome to the Backpage's Voyage Through the Annals of History! Because the Backpage can't go online each week, we've chosen to dig up an article from the Thresher's past and put it online for the world to rediscover. We've also recorded two audio readings in case all these words get too burdensome for your eyes. Please enjoy and send any comment to backpage@rice.eduThis week's article comes from the October 16, 1947, issue of the Thresher and is divided into two ?rst-person accounts. All of the original text has been reproduced, including misspellings and grammatical errors.

Click here to have Tim read you the story.

Click here to have Doc read you the story.

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Slimes Have Their Own Opinions of Activities

I Marched in the Slime Parade-and Survived

by Alfred Groner

"I survived-- the true story of a slime who paraded."

The date is Oct. 10; the place is Main street, Houston; the person is I, a slime; the time is 7-10 p.m. At 7, clad in pajamas that would make any haberdasher's dream come true, fellow half-humans and myself were herded into three "black mariahs" disguised as buses. We were roughly seized by ghouls and ogres known as sophomores, and our beautiful features were marred with lipstick, grease-paint, soot and kindred unsavory products.

Around 7:15 the screams of the fallen faded into the background, as the caravan, preceded by a heavily-armed truck carrying Sammy plus the sophomore president, turned into Main. Armed sophomores guarded all entrances. About half way to town the lead bus' brakes began smoking, and we nearly perished in the smoke. The sophomores insisted it was an accident, but we know di?erently!

Fiends at the Rice

There, some ?end kept shrieking at us from the front ?oor roof, and we kept shrieking back. I also seem to remember a more or less quiet interlude when someone recalled the glories of some football team called the Owls. Throughout this period we were continually getting up and sitting down in close formation, and not a few were trampled underfoot.

The sophomore president was saved only by our loyalty to Rice, since we had our storm squads ready to take him at any time, but we didn't want to cause a riot. Immediately afterwards we were reloaded, and shipped back to Rice without incidents. The sophomores tried to escape immediately after arrival; but several pair of pants, distinctly

smelling of sophomores, have been seen hanging in the trophy rooms of freshmen. One cannot say that the slime parade is without merit. Slimes have been studying much harder - they don't want to be freshmen next year.

I Fought in the Shoe Scramble-and Lost!

by David Miller

The twenty-third running of the traditional shoe scramble derby was held by 300 rice "slimes" last Saturday between halves of the Rice-Tulane football game.

That brief statement sums up the proceedings tersely and accurately - almost! It fails to give the drama of the situation, the emotions of the "slimes" who provided the afternoon's entertainment. For them, it was a glittering aftermath to the slime parade. They wore the same paint-smeared pajamas which had seen them through the night before - pajamas which will long remain etched in the memories of the class of '51. How do I know? I was in there pitching, and I ought to know!

How It Began

It all began when we assembled behind South hall at 1:45 p.m. There, we were briefed by the upper classmen. Next, we formed two lines and were marched "chain gang style" up Main Street. All the while, we were yelling R-I-C-E, R-I-C-E. There was one fellow in a big Cadillac who seemed to get a big kick out of the spectacle. We didn't. When we reached the stadium, we marched around the ?eld and took our positions as the backbone of the cheering section.

Two Groups

At halftime, we divided and line up on the two goal lines. While the Tulane band was showing its wares, we prepared to show ours by pulling our shoes o? an piling them in the arms of the upper classmen. The shoes were then deposited in a huge pile on the 50 yard line. There was supposed to be a signal to sent us on our way; but we must have "jumped the gun," for I suddenly found myself in the center of a swirling, yelling mass of humanity.

Shifting into high gear, I raced down the ?eld, and reached the object of our quest in the second wave. Here, I was deafened by the fanatical screams of the upper classmen: "Throw those shoes out! Scatter 'em across the ?eld!" After surveying the situation, I decided that my best bet would be to burrow under the pile. This venture was soon discouraged when, with my body halfway into the milling mass, someone who must have scaled 200 pounds landed with crushing e?ect upon my back. Quickly extricating myself from this precarious position, I decided to try football tactics, and went raging inot the pile-up.

Center of Action

Finding myself suddenly in the center of action, I was smitten with the spirit of things, and wildly began to ?ing shoes right and left. My e?orts were rewarded in part, for I found my left shoe. Slipping it on, I began a frantic search for its mate. I was prodded on by the howls of the upper classmen: "Get o? the ?eld! Here comes the teams!" So, broken, beaten, and half-shot, I hobbled from the ?eld, searching all the while for my other shoe, and took my place in the stands.

They tell me that Willie Lummis was the ?rst "slime" to recover his brogans, and he certainly deserves a pat on the back for his e?orts.

The rest of the "slimes" appeard to think it was great fun, but there is one thing I want to know:

Who has my right shoe?

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