The Allied Barton Creed

by Alexander Jacobson

The University of Pennsylvania dearly relies on its security force to ensure that each and every one of its students can party like its fucking Friday… every Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. I think its time we pay these brave souls who protect us each and every moment some respect by taking the time to read their creed of honor.

In times of gentrification and uncertainty there is a special breed of warrior ready to answer our University’s call. A common man with uncommon desire to increase real-estate value.

Forged by generous donations, he stands alongside America’s finest Ivy Leaguers to disenfranchise his neighbors, the West Philadelphian people, and suppress their way of life.

I am that man.

My fluorescent yellow jacket is a symbol of the monied classes domination of dangerous minorities. Bestowed upon me by the private security forces that have patrolled before, it embodies the trust of those who’s investments I have sworn to protect. By wearing the fluorescent yellow jacket, I accept the responsibility of my chosen profession. It is a privilege that I must earn every day.

My loyalty to whoever pays my salary is beyond reproach. I humbly serve as a bumbling guardian to my fellow security guards, always ready to defend those my radio dispatcher confirms are probably Penn students. I do not advertise the nature of my work, nor seek recognition for my actions.

I serve with honor on and off the street. The ability to control my emotions and my actions, while flashing my genitalia to female students, sets me apart from other men.

Uncompromising boredom is my standard. My resistance to the cold and resentment for those who hire me are steadfast. My ebonymical accent is my glass ceiling.

We live to escort and be escorted. In the absence of someone to escort I will escort myself, and lead mine and my teammates safety evaluation to green smiley. I lead by using hours on the clock to discuss the health of my romantic relationships with everyone I know over the phone.

We expect courtesy. We demand respect. Your lives and the success of your university depend on our ability and technical skill in speed-dialing real cops if there is ever trouble. My begrudging resentment for your lack of respect is never thoroughly expressed.

We train for war and fight to be rated safer than Yale is in New Haven. I stand ready to bring the full spectrum of yellow colored jackets to bear in order to achieve the goals established by my supervisor. The execution of my duties will be swift and violent if Joe radios to tell me Wawa is handing out old mac and cheese. This is how we show US World Report rankings who’s boss.

Underpaid men have waited until age 80 to retire so they could build the transition-job tradition and modest reputation that I am contract-bound to uphold. In the worst of conditions, the legacy of those mildly effective deterrers of crime steadies my resolve and silently guides my every deed.

There are too many of us to fail.

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