Editor’s note: The contents of this column are intended for satirical and entertainment purposes and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the IDS or its staffers. The scenarios mentioned are fictional.
The Indiana Daily Stupid has intercepted an intergalactic transmission from Indiana University’s first squirrel launched into space.
Early this morning, reporters downloaded the communication onto a hard drive they rushed to Wright Dining Hall, where they burst into the kitchen, commandeered several pans and spoons and laboriously unscrambled the data, to the chagrin of dining hall workers they brandished press passes to instead of scanning in.
Serving the unscrambled hard drive — now prepared over easy — to a news editor on a plate, the editor plugged it into her laptop. Audio of Mike Woodchip’s squeaky voice played.
Woodchip, a campus squirrel and longtime resident of the big Bur Oak overlooking the Indiana Memorial Union, signed onto Indiana University President Pamela Whitten’s Starbucks-funded moon mission earlier this year. Shortly after Woodchip’s departure from Earth three weeks ago, debris from Artemis II — which he found in the way of his flight trajectory due to an amateur blast-off that defied numerous federal and state aviation and fire codes — sent his space capsule off course and into a wormhole. This stranded him on an alternate Earth.
At the time of receiving this transmission, it had been over a week since Woodchip’s latest communication.
Woodchip’s fellow rodents feared he had perished. Though the eventual interstellar message from Woodchip quelled these fears, it raised new ones. Not-IU was home to a glaring lack of squirrels, Woodchip had told the Daily Stupid in his last transmission. Not-Fernando Mendoza and his not-uncles were noted for their edacity to eat squirrel instead of pork. But luckily, Woodchip escaped a cosmic end — and an alien handballer’s appetite — by the skin of his buck teeth.
The mission’s organizers had stowed a life-sized statue of Coach Curt Cignetti aboard Cig I to offer as a gift to the extraterrestrial civilizations Woodchip insisted he might encounter. In a bid for survival, Woodchip attached wheels to the statue’s base and drew a scowl on its face. When a fork and knife-wielding not-Mendoza appeared outside the downed capsule, Woodchip wheeled out the displeased statue and put on his best Cignetti impression: “Do not eat this squirrel.”
Mendoza cheerily obliged with a “Yes, not-Coach!”
But a new problem quickly presented itself to IU’s furry space traveler. Shortly after he eluded this first instance of near-death, Woodchip wandered to not-Tenth Street, a place twice as dangerous as its earthly counterpart. Two-ton machines raced down not only its streets, but its sidewalks, too.
Woodchip darted back and forth to dodge the boxes of metal as they whizzed by. The not-students that surrounded him were not-so lucky, especially those not-going to class.
IU’s bushy-tailed astronaut then jumped into a tree. Perched on a branch, he watched a platoon of the automatons zip into not-Hodge Hall. Quietly, he dropped back onto the sidewalk and sneakily padded his way to a not-Hodge not-classroom. One robot rolled to the front of it.
“Wel-come to K-2-0-1,” it cybernetically announced. “To-day, we will be dis-cuss-ing the prop-er use-s of art-i-fic-ial in-tell-i-gence in the bus-i-ness sec-tor.”
Quickly bored by its monotone audio, Woodchip leapt from his hiding spot and pounced on a startled student’s shoulder. At full speed, he climbed into her hair and began yanking at it, as a squirrel wishing to stir up trouble is wont to do.
“Professor!” she shrieked.
At a snail’s pace, the robot wheeled around and zoomed its ocular device in on the erupting scene. The student shot up from her seat and grabbed Woodchip, whirling in circles to try to shake the tree-dwelling rodent while he only latched on tighter.
Another student cried, “That squirrel is disrupting the class! I want to learn about business technology!”
“I’m not disrupting the class!” Woodchip blared.
The robot nodded one gear at a time. “That’s right. You’re not disrupting the class. You’re asserting your uniqueness.”
Woodchip hopped onto a desk.
“Huh?” he said. “My uniqueness…?”
Professor Bolts beeped affirmatively.
“Yes, in today’s fast-paced and ever-changing world, it is essential to remember that every challenge also represents an opportunity for growth, collaboration and meaningful transformation,” Bolts said. “Disruption is not a destination — it is a complex journey shaped by unique individuals who come together with a shared vision and a common purpose that can create a brighter tomorrow for everyone involved. When stakeholders align around shared goals and embrace forward-thinking solutions, even unexpected squirrel-related events can become catalysts for long-term success.”
The students’ faces lit up at the AI-generated lesson. Bolts turned it into the day’s unit.
“By leveraging innovative strategies and data-driven insights, organizations can unlock their full potential in today’s competitive environment,” the artificial intelligence continued. “At the end of the day, success is not about avoiding disruption, but about turning disruption into actionable outcomes through synergy, adaptability and a commitment to excellence. Together, we can build a future where every voice is heard and every acorn is optimized.”
At the end of class, Professor Bolts sent an obviously AI-generated email to students apologizing for the “unforeseen squirrel incident that occurred in class” before opening LinkedIn to type posts for the rest of his scheduled waking hours.
Eric Cannon (he/him) is a sophomore studying philosophy and political science and currently serves as a member of IU Student Government. The squirrels flock to him to talk shop about satire when he eats lunch near Dunn Meadow.
