Best of Job: That Stupid Little Von Dutch Hat

May 14, 2008, 10:00 am; posted by
Filed under Articles, Featured, Job  | 2 Comments

Originally published March 6, 2007.

Von Dutch hatHe wore it all the time. Legend was he even slept in it. And hating him, we hated that hat. So we came to the decision one night, over IBC root beer and Oatmeal Creme Pies, that the hat had to die, and die spectacularly. No simple grab and run, throw on the top of a roof scenario. We desired a true, live-wire Mafia hit.

But it never left his smarmy little skull. We knew we’d have to bide our time.

For an entire semester we did just that. He was from the other dorm, South Hall, and was one of their pedigree front men. Our disdain for him had to be carefully veiled, lest we upset the precious balance that kept relations between the two houses of Houghton at a somewhat reasonable peace. Oh, to be sure, he hated us just as much. In fact, we two vied for the affections of the same young doe-eyed lass. But the passive observer would’ve thought we served in ‘Nam together or something, with our back-slapping brand of camaraderie; elliptical orbits taking us in and out of the same groups of friends.

His mistake was the Homecoming Dinner, or rather going to the Homecoming Dinner…the type of event one does not normally wear a stupid little Von Dutch hat to.

My friend (we’ll call him Rick, although this was not even remotely his name) and I made eye-contact over a row of tables when we saw him enter the cafeteria, hatless, but compensating with some doe eyes on his arm.

We knew the time was now. I was Homecoming King, of all the freaks of nature, and Rick had the prettiest girl at the dinner, but we knew the moment demanded an expediency of action that superseded these elements.

I nodded. He nodded back.

What began over IBC and Creme Pies was finished by abandoning sparkling cider and filet mignon. We excused ourselves and reconnoitered by the coats, breathless. Down the trail to South Hall we ran, the campus eerily empty.

Into the hated hall, somewhat confused by the unfamiliar layout, we found the hunted’s lair.

Inhale, exhale.
Looked to the left.
Looked to the right.
Still breathless.

The door was unlocked!

We bum-rushed the room, expecting a difficult search — but there, like the golden chalice, sat the stupid little Von Dutch hat on top of his Aiwa stereo.

Our hearts pounded a jungle beat. I was blinded with opportunity, revenge choking my vision. Those doe eyes squeezing shut with the laugh he had just given her.

Rick to the rescue. A pair or scissors glinted under the light of the Lava Lamp.

Deftly, smoothly; more for me than for him.

A gray, sweat-stained Von Dutch hat cut neatly into three pieces.

They spelled out, on his pillow case:


Our filet mignon was still warm.


2 Comments to “Best of Job: That Stupid Little Von Dutch Hat”

  1. Hoss on May 14th, 2008 11:23 am

    … You sir, are a master of crime, and will always be a hero in my eyes. For your amazing act of mafia like killing i… i.. i. have no words for your great actions.

  2. Dsweetgoober on May 15th, 2008 12:45 pm

    Was this the same guy who had a library book planted in his back pack by any chance? Brilliant stuff.

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