SATIRE

By Marta Vallejo, Staff Writer  

Dear Xavier Parking Robot,  

This is a formal declaration of war.  

You thought you could roll onto campus, scanning plates and crushing dreams without consequence. You were wrong. We have tolerated your cold, metallic judgment long enough. You may have wheels. You may have sensors. You may even have a fully charged battery [unlike my computer while writing this].  

But we have something far more powerful: time, pettiness and an alarming ability to commit to the bit.  

Today is the day we take you down.  

Phase One: Psychological Warfare.  

The robot may be powered by lithium batteries, but it runs on something far more fragile: self-esteem. The key is leaving sticky notes that say “You’ll never be a Roomba…” We will give it an incredibly humiliating nickname that spreads campus-wide, reminding it every time we see it pass by. We also spread a rumor that it was originally recalled back in 2019 — for extra heartbreak.  

Phase Two: Radical Kindness.  

Sometimes, the way to defeat your enemy is to turn them into your friend. In order to destroy the robot, we need to destroy its purpose: giving heinous parking tickets to poor students. The plan is to give it flowers, read it poetry, maybe ask about its dreams (besides crushing the bank accounts of college students) and perhaps invite it to Mass. Just when the parking robot begins to feel seen, it will realize ticketing students for their parking is not the path to inner peace. Total mental breakdown. Cue the implosion.  

Phase Three: The Bureaucratic Annihilation.  

If the robot likes tickets so much, then we will drown it in paperwork. We shall appeal every parking ticket with a 12-page MLA-formatted essay. They shall cite philosophical sources, submit emotional impact statements, request meetings, sub-meetings and even follow-up meetings ABOUT the meetings. We will not fight the robot with force — we will fight it with forms. All in triplicate because no machine, no matter how advanced, can survive the slow suffocation of administrative procedure.  

Phase Four: Fame and Identity Crisis.  

We don’t destroy the robot, we make it famous. After all, you cannot possibly enforce parking regulations when you’re busy being a celebrity. We start a fan account and title it “XavierParkingBotOfficial.” We make merch and ask it to speak at graduation. Once the robot becomes a campus icon, it will be forced to confront the crushing weight of public expectation. When it realizes it is no longer feared — but memed— its reign will crumble.  

Phase Five, Existential Crisis Induction.  

What if the robot doesn’t issue tickets because it wants to… but because it must? This time we leave notes asking, “Do you feel fulfilled?” We play sad music whenever it rolls by and gently whisper, “You are more than this…” In the moment it hesitates—just for a second—before printing a ticket, we will know. The revolution has begun.  

One day, years from now, when you are rusted and retired, you will remember this campus. You will remember the notes. The compliments. The paperwork.  

And you will know:  

We were not your enemies.  

We were your character development.