Okay, okay. The truth is out. The only reason we do this column is to get our very own Mufti sticker. We, the Inland Emperors, have always wanted a Mufti sticker about us, and we figured that the most direct route to Mufti attention would be a Student Life column, seeing as Mufti is the TSL editorial board. So, every night we stay up late drinking MeisterBrau waiting for Mufti to come by. And every morning we put the empty MeisterBrau boxes on our heads (yes, that’s right, like a coupla comedians) and go scouring the campus looking for our stickers. And every morning we’re disappointed. But a few weeks ago, as Drew was looking under the O.E. cap to see if he was an instant winner, Richard cracked the code. "Hey. [burp] [people laugh at his unabashed crudosity] I cracked the code. Mufti is so secret and covert that they aren’t even stickering Pomona College any more. I’ll bet they’re doing Cal Poly Pomona." Somewhere, off in the distance, lightning crashed.

Richard Caperton The Emperors Reignin': Cold lampin' in the kingdom.

We didn’t know how we were gonna infiltrate Cal Poly’s campus without gettin’ caught. We decided we’d use a secret disguise. So we went into the bathroom and came out wearin’ tan trench coats, Sherlock Holmes hats, and moustaches. Tee hee, now nobody’s gonna know who we are! But then Drew peed his pants and we had to change. Then we came out wearing mime outfits. Now not only would we blend in, but we’d also be the "funny kids" on campus. Then Drew peed his pants again. So we decided to use our last resort, the secret weapon, the trump card, if you will, or what have you, as it were. Who’da thunk that the best disguise to wear to Cal Poly Pomona would be the "Cal Poly Pomona Student Disguise?" We each had faded, white bar tee shirts, "No Fear" plaid shorts, and flip-flops with white Adidas socks. Richard put his eighty dollar sunglasses on his ears behind his head and Drew put his under his chin. Then we held our breath and closed our eyes and grew goatees. That’s hella dope, brah! We were ready to infiltrate Cal Poly Pomona!

We took the 10 West to Kellogg. Then we followed the signs to Cal Poly. We parked the car and hopped out to survey the situation. Drew pulled a forty from his Genuine Leather Olde English Holster (Christmas came early for Drew, and he got just what he asked for: a Genuine Leather Olde English Holster), and held its icy-cold goodness up to his forehead to counteract the blazing Cal Poly sun. Apparently Cal Poly Pomona has one building. But that’s cool, as it’ll make our Mufti search that much easier. We thought we saw a Mufti sticker on the one building (from now on, we’ll refer to the one building as the building) and we ran towards it in the triumphal slo-mo Chariots of Fire style. Aw nuts, it was just a flier for the animal husbandry social. Now, for the uninitiated, animal husbandry is the science of breeding, feeding and tending domestic animals, especially farm animals. Damn, that’s hot! So it wasn’t a total loss.

We were running out of time and 40s. Drew’s sunglasses were slipping down his temples with the sweat from the Cal Poly sun, and Richard’s Adidas socks were bunching up down near his sandals. So we decided we’d use a more direct technique. "Scuse me, bro...um, I mean, brah." We consulted our Claremont-speak to Cal Poly Pomona-speak dictionary as we approached a strapping young lad with a PornStar shirt and a goatee just like ours. "Yeah brah?" he replied. "Um, we were wondering, brah, if you were in Mufti, brah. Are you in Mufti, brah?" "No, brah." Then he kicked Richard’s ass.

Richard Caperton One of Pomona's asses throws em' down with another.

Richard cried like a baby while Drew dressed his wounds with his mother’s home remedy: a dab of Olde English malt liquor. "One for your scraped knee, one for me. One for your swollen kidneys, one for me. One for your bitten-off earlobe, one for me." We had found our way to one of ten thousand fields on the Cal Poly campus. A stray horsie smelled that forty was in the air and galloped over to us. We knew that we had failed. "Hey horsie brah. Are you in Mufti, horsie brah?" Of course, horsies don’t talk, so all we got from horsie was, "Neigh, brah." Then horsie galloped away, and what do you know, but on horsie’s tookus was a small white rectangle that said, "The Inland Emperors are some pretty cool brahs. Signed, Mufti." There it was, right there on horsie’s ass. With our goatees and our silly grins, we musta looked like a coupla dumbfounded frat boys! So we did some overtly homoerotic stuff, like high-fiving, pouring malt liquor all over each other, patting each other on the tooshie, and french kissing. Inland Emperors rule, brah!