Found in my old BYU papers. Was this a cry for help?

Dear Friend,

Hi-dee-ho neighbors and fellow Zoobies.

Unless you’ve been underwater for the past few years, you might have noticed something. We Zoobies are getting a bad rap. For some reason, the phrase “Zoobie” has become about as popular as a Tahitian Noni salesman. The meaning of Zoobie now brings negative connotations and eye-shifting silence, almost as if we are self-righteous dorks. We’re not, of course (self-righteous, that is. I’ll be the better man and let any Zoobie-hater out there call me a dork, if that makes their black inner souls happy).

Normally, I am just a normal go-to-my-ballroom-dance-class-minding-my-own-business type of guy, but experience after experience has changed all that. The straw that broke the Cosmo’s back occurred a few weeks ago, when I heard a U of U student say “Zoobie” in a tone so snooty, I had to readjust my glasses to confirm that I wasn’t talking to Rick Majerus or Alex Smith. After that day, I knew I had to do something—write a letter to the New Era, picket outside Wasatch Front stake centers, or at least complain to my three awesome roommates (Spencer K. Ball, Ben Ezra Taftson, Alma Richards, and Walley Chessler). My rants turned to rage, my rage turned to fury, and my fury turned to sound. I stopped for a day to read some Faulkner, and then decided to make this post. Here I can protect the good and faithful name of Zoobie, the Lord’s University, and President and Sister Samuelson’s honor.

Yes siree, Bob, I want to tell the world that I’m 100% Zoobie—true blue, through and through. I was born a Zoobie and I’ll die a Zoobie. When I pass on, I hope to be buried in Cougartown, with my headstone facing east—-my heart towards the Y, the mountains, and Zion.

So, blend together a scoop of Lavell Vanilla, some caffeine-free Hershey’s syrup (you can buy it off the internet) and indulge yourself with a malted shake too thick for a straw. Rise and shout—it’s Zoobie time! The Cougars are

Out,

D.B. Heywood