Ask not what Ican do for you … but what you can do for me

You decide that making the speech might be worthwhile after all, since the disgruntled students seem to know something about the man.
Hesitantly, you wade through to the center of the protesters and grab the megaphone. Your hands shake uncontrollably for a few seconds, then you find the courage to speak.
“I have reason to believe that the man has taken something from me. I also think that he hit me over the head with a bag of books an hour ago,” you say. “If I don’t find the man, I can’t go on spring break to Baja! This trip has been the only thing that’s kept me going for the last few months!”
You are overcome with emotion and raise your free hand over your head as you start the chant, “Hey, ho, the man has got to go!”
The forty bald protesters stand up with you and chant. Amid the noise you can just barely hear a siren. Thinking that it’s just another fire in one of the residence halls, you continue to yell, shaking your fist over your head.
The chanting starts to die down, and through the parting crowd you see three uniformed police officers, armed with billy clubs and tear gas, coming toward you.
The leader of the group grabs your arm and drags you from the crowd and you follow him, running toward the stairs to Comstock Hall. Just as you think you are going to get away, you feel a hand on your arm.
A female officer asks, “Are you the leader of this group?”
“No, I swear, I just got here,” you plead.
“Then why are you holding that megaphone?”
This is clearly a time for finesse. For charm. You produce your most winsome smile. “What. this? Oh, well … Actually, officer, I’m a political-protest supplies salesperson, and I was just cutting across campus on my way home from work –“
You feel the cold metal on your skin, and realize you’re being handcuffed. So much for winsome. Time to try a different tack. Begging.
“Please,” you whine. “I need to find the man! He has my plane ticket!”
The officer apologizes, and drags you to the police car. As she pushes you into the back seat, you think, “Oh, well, I guess I’ll have to try out some pick-up lines while I drink my sorrows away at Sally’s this spring break. Maybe I just wasn’t meant to go to Baja.”

THE END