Penn: Still not our rival

As is the tradition for such a momentous game as tonight's showdown in the Palestra, The Daily Princetonian and The Daily Pennsylvanian exchange columns bashing each other. It's the usual column — Penn sucks, Princeton rules, etc. It is a fairly antiquated tradition that doesn't really matter to us that much, since we are after all more concerned about our main rivals, Harvard and Yale. But since The Daily Pennsylvanian gave us a call to continue it, who are we to knock tradition?

So, let's start by looking at the history behind this so-called rivalry. Whereas H-Y-P (the only true one) exists across sports, academics, politics, not to mention national rankings (yeah, you know you're bothered whenever we mention it), the rivalry between Princeton and Penn only takes place on the hardwood floor of the basketball court. Other than that, there really isn't much to it.

We don't think much of Penn, and when we say we don't think much of Penn it means we don't dislike it all that much. We've never actually been there, but from what we hear it really ain't that bad.

Some compare a semester at your campus, we've heard, to a string of nights at the State Penitentiary. Aside from what we've seen in the movies, with the advice to get to them first before they get to you, only in a jail, it would seem, would a group of hooligans beat up a kid, force him to bathe in motor oil and then attempt to light him on fire (geniuses, that stuff doesn't light!). I mean, what is this, fascist Italy?

On the court, though, there certainly exists a bitter enmity between these two schools. In the last 14 years of Ivy League basketball, either you or we have won the title and gone to the Big Dance. Needless to say, there really isn't much to Ivy League basketball aside from the Tigers and those crazy Quackers.

Oh, and a quick digression — a Quaker? Your mascot is a Quaker? We just shiver in fear when we hear that a Quaker is going to get us. Now mind you, the rest of the Ivy League has probably the worst and most uncreative mascots in college sports — with names like the Crimson, the Big Red, the Big Green and lest we forget, the Elis — but in terms of weak mascots, the Quakers take the cake. Oh no, they're going to sic a bunch of pacifists on us.

Sorry, back to basketball.

This year's game promises to be one to remember. Kind of like the one back in 1999 at the Palestra. Oh, you don't remember? Here's a refresher: both teams came in to the game undefeated in the Ivy League. The score at halftime: 33-9 in favor of Penn. The score with 15 minutes to play: 40-13 in favor of the Quackers. Final score: 50-49 in favor of the Tigers. Since then the game has been dubbed "The Miracle at the Palestra".

But historical analogies cannot be followed religiously, lest we force ourselves into the vicious cycle of history simply repeating itself. To translate into Quacker-talk: that's not the only reason why the Tigers are going to whoop some pacifist tail.

We've come to fight, and we put a handful of our best men forward to exact revenge.

We need not remind your that our men are our best, most skilled sharpshooters. They aim to kill, and their agent of destruction is something far less innocuous than Castrol GTX. They fire three-pointers, and jump shots, and even move in from close range if you so desire. And while Thompson's men might not — no, will not — aim to kill, at least in the strictest sense, when they leave the Palestra, they will have committed a far more serious crime than assault, as far as you're concerned at least. See, when our men's basketball team leaves your arena and returns home Tuesday night, they will have ripped the very heart and soul out of both your basketball team and the university which takes such pride in it. They will have turned the giant Archibong into a barely five-foot tall cocktail waitress named Laverne, transformed the strong Onyekwe into a mutt with his tail 'twixt his legs, made Toole finally realize what his name really is, let Schiffner know that white men can't — that is, cannot — jump, and let Klatsky know that no, you're not Hurley, you're not even Wojo.

All in all, our basketball team will have destroyed your perfect record, annihilated your momentum, and killed your hopes at another Ivy League title, which is far worse than having a bunch of punks pour motor oil on us any day of the week.