The GatewayGuba: Kill
It’s the Friday before your first day of uni. You’ve been invited to this thing called “Orientation” (which, you will later learn, is really just a cult). You’re nervous, you’re unsure – you stumbled your way through high school, and goddammit you have to make up for that. New faces, new sights and smells, the very spirit of newness permeates the air around you as you set foot for the first time on North Campus.
Maybe you’ve lived in YEG your whole life and couldn’t afford to escape. Maybe you’ve driven down from Calgary to half-assedly avoid your parents. Hell, maybe you’ve flown across the globe, all the way from Beijing, to make a four-year home in a foreign land. In any case, you have a spring in your step, a smile on your face, and new sneakers on your feet. The day passes harmlessly, a presentation here, a pizza lunch there, until that most sugary and unholy of events: Presidents’ Address. You follow the hype tunnel across the Butterdome floor. And then you see him. You see it. Something between a man and an angry golden retriever, or maybe a lion? But the tour guide said our team was the Golden Bears..? Lol dafuq, that’s a bear?
He locks you in place with those menacing eyes, weathered and hardened from years of getting wrecked in the world of college sports – and you think, what the fuck is this thing? You ask someone in a sweaty bandana. “Oh, that’s Guba! Guba, my boiiii!” You shudder at the poor mascot design and unwarranted hype. Those eyes, you discover, will follow you for the rest of your undergrad. Look down at a crosswalk? There’s Guba. Volunteer at literally any event? There’s Guba. Shake the Chancellor’s hand when you finally convocated? Behind him waits another hand, or paw, rather, sweaty and furry. There is that uncanny motherfucker. And in one last breath, you dream the dream of countless students before you: you want to KILL. GUBA.
Patches: Marry
Not to be confused with the (equally wholesome) Students’ Union vice-president of the same name, Patches is kind of like Guba’s nice older sister, the one you have a crush on in middle school. Like let’s say Guba is the playground bully who stole your Beyblades in Grade 5: Patches undoubtedly made sure he gave them back and wrote out a hasty Spacey-esque apology in crayon.
This is the heart of Patches as a character, as a critical actor in the drama of UAlberta culture. Patches is the cool one. Patches is the first-year prof who gives half the classes A+s. Guba is the broken summer term sessional who doesn’t post the syllabus till 1 a.m. the night before. Patches is your (and everyone’s) UAlberta soulmate. In short, MARRY PATCHES.
The Jacket Potato Man: Fuck
You’ve gotten rid of the golden bear. You’ve tied the knot with the panda. Who’s left? With our two official mascots allocated, who’s left to sort? Many food outlets and student groups across campus have their own cooky characters, both on their staff or executive and in their Brand. But there is one who towers above the rest… One who eclipses all known measures of somehow both greasy student lifestyle and freakish sex appeal. He goes by one name: he is the Jacket Potato Man.
A distant cousin of Mr. Peanut, Mr. P. Man’s family escaped the Irish Potato Famine of 1845, living in Halifax before emigrating to Alberta in 1860s. Building a small fortune on a slightly out of place Irish cuisine shop in Little Italy, the Man Clan moved south of the river in the 1970s to set up shop in the exciting new shopping district of HUB Mall and Residence. Inheriting the business from his father, the Baked Tater Man, the Jacket Potato Man grew popular with students due to his hearty food, which is literally just loaded potatoes, and his taboo allure. From his suave tuxedo to his impish grin, the Jacket Potato Man has it all: success, power, thicc-ness. So go ahead, give in. Make J.P.M. your tater daddy. FUCK THE JACKET POTATO MAN.
