Scene: an administration building at a college in the Midwest. An angry crowd has gathered around the building, holding signs and demanding the firing of several people. Effigies burn. Inside the building, an old, white man stares out the window, grave concern on his face. A desperately optimistic assistant sits nearby at a desk.
What's wrong, Father?
This was not supposed to happen. Our fans were supposed to embrace the new video. It was supposed to elevate our athletic department beyond the Big Ten! We were supposed to have the ultimate ace in the hole for independence! The world was supposed to understand!
And this happens instead. A spastic, sickly albino and his awful little song.
Don't forget the rapping virgin!
I have not forgotten, Assistant Boy. I could never forget.
Who was responsible for this video, again? We stayed in house for it, yes?
We did. The producer was Ted Mandell. He's a video editing professor here.
I need his personnel file.
But Father, finding that will take months, if not years. Unless you suggest...
I AM VATICOM.
(doesn't have the heart to tell the chancellor that "Vaticom" is really an 11-year-old iMac with Bonzi Buddy installed and an "Automatic For The Papal" sticker on the side)
Vaticom, access the personnel file for Ted Mandell.
Ted Mandell teaches film and video production with specific interests in digital post-production.
He is in charge of the annual Notre Dame Student Film Festival and also pens a regular column on all things media-related for the Indianapolis Star.
I know that!
He is also author of the multimedia book/CD Heart Stoppers and Hail Marys: 100 of the Greatest College Football Finishes, and the children's book I Play for Notre Dame.
And a Notre Dame alumnus?
I'm afraid not.
M.A., University of Iowa
(tells some shitty stupid joke and demands payment for better jokes)
Assistant Boy, we have a very serious situation. Gather security, and have them escort you and me to Mr. Mandrell's office.
We are right here.
At Mandrell's office...
OPEN UP, MANDELL!
YES, AT ONCE, OR WE SHOOT TO KILL!
Wait, you didn't say "kirr."
We've been working on our cartoonish speech affectations.
(busts door down)
Why, it's... empty.
He must have knew we were coming.
There's nothing but his desk... and a note atop it.
The note's just three lines of that Grantland Rice poem. It says,
When the Great Scorer comes
to write against our name,
He won't write whether we won or lost...
...but how come we got gypped at Notre Dame.
Sir, those aren't the words.
Ah, but they are in Iowa City.
They got even, those Iowa bastards. They finally got even.
Meanwhile, in heaven...
Nice work, Mr. Evashevski, but I'm afraid there's no cigar smoking up here.
God, I hate this fucking place.