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The Dartmouth
February 22, 2024 | Latest Issue
The Dartmouth

Dummies for I-Banking

So you've made it this far. You're at Dartmouth. Ivy League and all that. No matter what else happens you can hang that attractive diploma on the wall of your car dealership or potato farm or whatever, and people will look at it and say, "I can't read a damn thing on that sheepskin, that guy must be smart. And stuff." Don't worry. They won't find out. They'll never know. Just keep your mouth shut and point to the diploma. Whatever you do, don't let on that you, also, cannot read a damn thing on your diploma. In case you were wondering, it says, "Hire me for whatever. I'm wicked smart." But in Latin. Or Greek. Or something. It doesn't really matter as long as the commoners can't read it.

Anyway, you're here. That much we have established. You might even be a student. Do you go to class? Yes? Probably not a student then. Not a good one anyway. I'm a great student. I even went to Career Services recently. They didn't really know what to do with me. I swear the woman I was talking to was looking for a box to put me in or something. I imagine that Career Services must have some kind of disposal box for philosophy majors. You walk in and say "Hello! I would like to not I-bank." Suddenly people start to panic, and from the back you hear a muffled voice say, "Get the box!" Next thing you know you're en route to the nearest mud-farming training facility via third-class mail, maybe with four days supply of south-of-the-border wraps in the box with you. Or maybe with a couple of those weird little pizzas from the Hop. (They are very unnatural, don't you think? Like midgets. But with sauce.)

Personally, I don't mind the box. I enjoy those beastly little creatures (Hop pizzas, midgets, all of them) immensely. Which got me thinking, what if there are other people here who also really want to not I-bank for a career, but they don't know how? I mean, what if you're a budding I-banker, and you don't even know it?! Disastrous! So I have compiled a list of the top 10 warning signs that you might be an I-banker in training.

  1. You are currently enrolled as a student of Dartmouth College.

  2. You ever utter subtle but telling phrases such as "I would like to go into I-banking," or "I'm looking for something in finance," or maybe the most telling, "Hi, I go to Dartmouth."

  3. You have any kind of clue as to what the hell a "consultant" actually does.

  4. You check Blitz every single freaking time you pass a computer because of your paralyzing fear that you might "miss a key bulletin."

  5. You get a second or maybe third "professional" opinion about whether the spacing on the left margin of the third page of your resume makes the whole thing just looks a bit too cluttered.

  6. You pay for sex.

  7. You can't dance to save your life. More than that, musicians of all sorts avoid you, fearing that "it might rub off."

  8. When you turn around you see a large metal pole kind of dangling behind you.

  9. You've slashed your friend's tires or killed his dog or something to make him miss an interview for a job that you also want.

  10. You realize that the "friend" from No. 2 wasn't really a friend, because you don't have any since you've been to busy working on your networking to make meaningful relationships of any kind whatsoever.

If you exhibit any of these traits, you might be on your way to becoming an I-banker. But don't panic! I also have a few surefire methods to get yourself off the track. First thing to do is: stop going to class. Nancy Reagan, man. Just say no. To class. No matter how badly you dance, I promise, you won't get hired. Or, firmly convince yourself that I-banking is some kind of new Apple product. I-book, I-pod, I-bank. Go into your interview with this opinion strongly entrenched in your psyche. Say things like "So, what kind of battery life does this I-bank get," or, "can I get this I-bank in blueberry?"

Finally, you could get a large tattoo on your arm? No. Leg? No. Back? No. Ah, I know. Get a tattoo on your face. Get a nice big penis on your cheek. Say that your buddies always used to draw one right there with a sharpie when you'd get drunk and pass out, so you just decided, hey, why not, might as well save them the trouble. Do any one of these three things, and you have my guarantee that career services will give you the box. But don't worry. You've got that diploma. In Cyrillic. Or something. No one can read it. So you're still wicked smart. Hang it up at the mud farm.