Admit it. You’ve walked passed the legendary brick and mortar palace at 595 Commonwealth Ave. and wondered: what would it be like to be a School of Management student?
Well, peons, your opportunity has arrived, as today I shall use my 18-karat gold soap box — which I clearly purchased from The Daily Free Press with my Amex Black — to give you a glimpse into the lives of the creme-de-la-creme — those elite few lucky enough to call the Rafik B. Hariri Building their home.
Upon entering the exorbitantly tall doors — just perfect for our equally towering egos — you are greeted by the endless atrium of marble and brick. Now don’t be fooled — the floors are actually made out of solid gold, and the marble is just a less expensive covering to keep it clean. It’s also a theft deterrent used to stop those greedy journalism majors who will never bank more than $25,000 a year from attempting to chip off pieces and sell them.
In the center of the lobby sits what appears to be a giant globe, to remind us that we’re there to learn to conquer the world — and if we don’t, we’re failures. What few people know, however, is that it’s actually a miniature Death Star, protecting the building from those who do not belong.
Ever wonder why the front doors feel so heavy and nearly impossible to open? I don’t have a problem. The Death Star knows, and controls all. It’s probably trying to send you a message.
Most of us SMG students don’t even use the front entrance. Unfortunately, BU does schedule a small number of non-management classes in the building, and we don’t really like to mix castes.
Alternatively, we park our Lamborghinis, Maseratis, Porsches, BMWs and Range Rovers in the garage under the building. While our cars are cleaned and detailed by a full staff of illegal immigrants, we head off to learn things.
Now the luxury doesn’t end in the lobby. Our state-of-the-art classrooms are equipped with large oak desks, oversized comfy leather chairs and a special row of seats in the back for our personal butlers. They make frequent Starbucks runs for us during the class period, making sure we get our cappuccino fixes whenever we want them. And forget tent cards — our names are carved into diamond blocks that sit on our desks. Our multi-billionaire professors — yes, they’re all multi-billionaires — like to learn our names the classy way.
We SMG nobles have a rich variety of classes to choose from. Students have a number of favorites: UA 344 How to Kick Small Businesses to the Curb and Make It Hurt; SS 201 How to Look Like You are Wearing a $30,000 Suit on a $6,000 Budget; and HO 200 How to Eat Babies Without Getting Blood on Your Tie.
For the more traditional business-types, the men are offered a course in bagging the hottest trophy wife with the biggest rack, while the girls take Emasculation 101 How to Whip Your Stay-at-Home-Mom Husband.
My personal favorite class is LE 401k. Taken first semester senior year, this is the class where you get your job offer. Recruiters from different companies come in and present their compensation packages to you on silver platters and you pick one. Really, they’re handed out like hors d’oeuvres and garnished with a big, fat check. It’s actually quite simple. Every student leaves with at least a $175,000 contract and a $50,000 signing bonus.
When we’re not in class, we are treated to the luxuries of the 7th, 8th and 9th floors. Dubbed the John and Katherine Silber Administrative Center to not arouse suspicions from nosy students, these floors are not actually the home of President Brown’s offices. I can’t actually talk about what’s up there, because I’ve seen what the Death Star has done to traitors. I can tell you, however, that [content erased]. Those of you who have visited Harvard’s final clubs realize they’ve got nothing on us.
So now you have a better understanding of where we are coming from when we act like we’re better than you. It’s not that we act privileged — we are privileged. For those College of General Studies kids who want to trade one shiny-object-and-fun-noise-loving stereotype for a more attractive one by transferring into SMG, be my guest. We’ll roll out the gold-embossed red carpet for you.
If you’re worthy, I’ll be the first to welcome you to your new-and-improved life. I’ll show you to your parking spot and introduce you to your personal butler.
If you’re not, the Death Star will take care of you on the way out.
Brandon Epstein, a junior in the School of Management, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].