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Changes
Added viewpoint from the trayless present
[[Category:Tradition]] ==Introduction==During 2008-2009, the College began phasing out trays in the dining halls in an effort to reduce waste of food and energy. Williams has been completely trayless since fall 2009 except in [[Whitman's Marketplace|Whitman's]]. Nevertheless, trays and their carvings were once an important part of campus life. Carvings generally fall into <s>three</s> <s>four</s> a bunch of categories: Wilbur trays, "Tray of" trays, tray puns, Cult of Tom trays, trays with pictures, and...other trays.
==Wilbur...==
* Wilbur Sucks I - LXII (beyond?)
* Wilbur worships false idols (Greylock)
* Wilbur sets up false idols (Greylock)
* Wilbur rides the night train (Driscoll)
* Wilbur is out of his element (Greylock)
* Goose Blows Goats (Wilbur Helps) (Greylock)
* Both Wilburs Suck (Mission)
* Wilbur is THAT guy (Greylock)
A few years ago, some students took it upon themselves to redeem Wilbur's image in the public eye by recording the following positive attributes.
* Wilbur Recycles (Mission)
* Wilbur Saves the Whales (Mission)
* Wilbur brakes for moose (Mission)
==Cult of Tom =I, WILBUR: The Truth Behind the Trays.=== I feel I must set the record straight. While well-meaning and reasonably thorough, the previous entry is incorrect at least partially. I write for and represent the group of individuals who began, begat, and beset upon the world the Wilbur Tray Series. At its pinnacle, the Series exceeded about 150 Trays and up to almost 20 people were involved in the creative process surrounding the manufacture of each Tray. We knew Wilbur. We were his roommates, his teammates, his friends. To begin with, Wilbur did not suck in many aspects of life. He worked hard at school and had, in my humble opinion, a solid GPA. He was a fast and strong lacrosse player, he dated a pretty, smart, athletic girl, and it’s rumored that he fucked DeRosa’s girlfriend. Of course, this is a highly simplified and generic view of Wilbur. In truth, he worked too hard and his scholastic diligence often caused him to miss nights of beirut and general tomfoolery. His lacrosse game relied upon his quick first step and he was oft-injured after his stellar junior year. His girlfriend throughout college was terrified of us and we substantiated rumors that Wilbur had cut her tongue out, eradicating her power of speech. Please forgive my candid tone. Wilbur was, is, our friend. He once drank a bottle of gin and insisted we shoot him point blank in the chest with a pellet gun, a request we obliged more than a few times. However, he also missed the amHerst game his senior year because he had to take the MCATs and would not reschedule them. It was also famed coach Renzie Lamb’s final home game. We won despite the absence of Wilbur’s power sweep and played amHerst again the following day in the first round of the playoffs. Back from his MCATs and freshly rested, Wilbur made it to the Herst to help us out with the speed we needed. We lost by 2 goals. Poor Wilbur, he will read this. However, he is emotionless. He has no pity, no remorse. It is what prompted his nickname: The Automaton. When we were sophomores, we lived in Mission Park. Dennett, 4th floor, to be exact. This was in ‘01-’02, prior to the renovations that made that cinder block a desirable place to live. We were often bored, cooped up in our hallway, with its firedoors and dull lighting. We had no common room. For the most part, we amused ourselves by imbibing inappropriate amounts of Fleischman’s gin and case after case of our beloved Busch Light and P.B.R. At the time, there were six of us: Bee, The Automaton, Radar, Rack, Kam, and me. I’m Mojo. I don’t recall the date specifically, but it was maybe mid-way through the first semester. September 11th had numbed us all. A couple of us had just ended long-standing relationships, others had begun new ones. All in all, we were reliant upon one another, as friends and cohabitants, for entertainment and solace both of which often occurred in the form of a mean bender. As I said before, Wilbur was sometimes a serious part of our steam-letting. More often than not, however, it seemed he was not. Living and eating in Mission while our friend was seldom around and not enthused by our shenanigans prompted us to adopt a mantra: Wilbur Sucks. We’d be at ‘family dinner’, when all 6 of us would be eating at that infamous, now famous, dining hall. “Where’s Wilbur?â€, someone would ask. “I think he and Kristin had to study and were having dinner at Doddâ€, someone would reply. “Man,†one of us would interject, “Wilbur SUCKS.†Everyone would nod in agreement over their Upscale Pizza or salad bowl. Please realize, this wasn’t said out of real spite or hatred. He was our friend. But he went above and beyond to piss us right off. So it began. Inspired by the occasional carving we’d see on those oddly-shaped Mission Trays (‘peneTraytion’ was a favorite) Kam and I set to writing “WILBUR SUCKS†into the Trays. Kam’s carving tool of choice was his fork, which he would rinse, in a short ritual, in the remains of his drinking water before scratching his lower-case print into the beige plastic. I carried a Swiss Army knife in my pocket attached to my keys. Its awl provided a precise sharp point with which I etched our legacy in a fine-lined, all-caps print. While Rack often had football practice, he enjoyed long meals and was present for much of our inscribing. Bee and Rade were fully loyal to the cause, brainstorming new ideas and even scratching out the occasional work for the good of our ouevre. So, in Mission it began. White flakes and filings curling from the already scratched Trays as our fingers ached under the pressure we applied to make our mark. We took pride when we’d get our own Trays at meals. We would reach for one of the stacks and flip the Tray over eagerly, anticipating a rare find like the elusive XVI or one of the original unnumbereds. Often times, right out of the wash, the marks were hard to read until the Tray dried. This was especially true of my narrower grooves. However, what we truly loved, what got us beaming from deepinside, was waiting in line for a new batch of chicken fingers to emerge from the scullery and hearing groups of friend around us delight in their finds. “Hey, Vlad, I got one of those Wilbur Trays!†“That’s great, Jeb, I got number twelve. Who is this poor bastard?†“I don’t know, Vladdy, but apparently he sucks, huh?†“Yup.†And so our days were brightened.
* Cult of Tom
* Cult of <s>Tom</s> Tom
:''and so on . . .''
*ult of om
* Tray of Prostitution (Driscoll)
* Tray of it's April 27th of my Senior Year and I still haven't carved a tray! (Greylock)
* Tray uv Illiteracy (Mission)
==Tray Puns==
* Penetraytion (Mission)
* Defenestraytion
* Titraytion (Driscoll)
* Libertray, Egalitray, Fraternitray (Mission; also says Wilbur Sucks LI)
* Take the A-Tray
* Tray of eMission (Mission)
* Traytor to your Countray (Driscoll)
* Night Trayn (Mission)
* Lazy Suntray (Tray That Double Tray) (Driscoll) '''new'''
==Mysterious Drawings==
==Other==
* Tray 3:16 (Mission)
*<math>e^({\pi)(i) }+ 1 = 0 </math> (Driscoll)
* Mea mecum ludit virginitas (Driscoll; this tray presumably commemorates the Concert Choir's 2004 performance of Orff's ''Carmina Burana'')
* Chuck Chuck / buh-Chuck / etc. / Fuck / etc. / Chuck! (Greylock)
* Monkeypo (Driscoll)
* GRUNDEL (Greylock; this tray suggests that the kind of person who wants to carve "Grundle" into a dining hall tray is also the kind of person who is too dumb to spell "Grundle" correctly.)
==Ideas for Carvings==
* Extray credit for puns
* Wilbur: Zuckerman's Traymous Pig (sucks)
* Et tu, Brutray? Then fall, Caesar salad.
* Tray the Earth Stood Still
* Auto-Traycheotomy