by The Oracle of Delphic

Sing, Fates! Sing what will become of those most esteemed members of the Delphic! 

The gods on Olympus have blessed our club with the all the will of Zeus himself, that most high and hallowed king before which even the board of the Harvard Financial Analysts Club must kneel. Fortune beyond compare, even to all the gold in the wondrous halls of Crete, is theirs for the taking for those sophomores who do not take issue with using an atmosphere of exclusivity to attract unsuspecting women.  

I can see the Fates now! Their ivory gowns flow in the Western wind, white and unstained by Coors Lite, like the common togas in Buttchug Henry’s room. So like Helen, who sent a thousand ships, are the women who will now attend our most envied social gatherings, now that Bee girls invite all of their cool friends. Such a blessed ratio! Our hands are risen high to merciful Hera, queen of Gods, that the Fly kicked them out of their old clubhouse.

But neophyte — gear yourself for war! The drums of battle beat on even now, for it is said amongst the chattering students of Harvard that the PSK has a new sound system sicker than ours, and with a more banging bassline, and this slander may not lay undisturbed. For ours is the tradition of warring Mars! of fearsome Athena! of a graduate board of middle-aged alumni directing the social lives of men half their age! Victory shall be won in that most sacred name of Matt Damon, for the Fates foretell it.

Even the golden plunders of Troy, stacked high as the clouds on the day mighty Paris was slain, cannot rival the riches awaiting you after pong champion John Marshall ’13 gets you a job at J.P. Morgan. Should you join us, you will spend countless days admiring your estate and the trophies you have won through triumphant conquest. You will spend even more days hitting on Stephanie at the Harvard Club of New York City. Beware: your persistence is paramount, for like Aphrodite at Hephaestus’ constant efforts, she’ll for sure come around, bro. Trust me, bro.