BHooved No. 1

B. WITTY B. AMUSED

PLEASE, WELCOME B-HOOVED. THE NEW STANDARD FOR HUMOR ON THE HILLTOP. REVEL IN UNPARALLELED WIT AND SATIRE. RELISH IN OUR DEBAUCHERY AND INDULGE IN OUR MERRIMENT. CONFRONT YOUR WORLD WITH LAUGHTER AND A TASTE FOR CRUDE JUSTICE. IT WOULD B-HOOVE YOU. WE INSIST.

01 OCTBER 2016 | ISSUE NO. 01

St. Edward's New and Original Humor Magazine

Our Heart and Soul Editor-in-Chief Creative Director Web Content Manager Community Director Outreach Coordinator Copy Editor

Ryan Wheeler Nico Campbell Lauren Ibarra Eric Andserson Katie King Taylor Duane

Staff Writers Hannah Mckeating | Morenike Olorunnisomo | Caley Burg | Robert Burns

Editors Note

We are please to introduce B-Hooved into the St. Edward’s University publication community.

Let me introduce myself as the Editor-in-chief of B-Hooved, The new standard for humor on the hillop. I invite you to revel in unparralled wit and satire. As you flip through our pages, relish in our debauchery and indulge in out merriment. Every day at St. Edward’s, we’re encouraged to confront our world. B-Hooved encourages writers and readers to confront thier world with laughter and a taste for crude justice.

We invite all students, alumni, faculty, and staff to contribute to our pages. We invite people of all ages, races, ethcities, genders, sexualities, religons, education levels, and majors to share thier perspective of the world. It is people’s opinions that set them apart from others.We want to encourage writers to use thier differences and personal struggles to thier advantage.

When I was in elementary school, I clearly had a differnent learning style than other students. I was tested and diagnosed with all matter of learning differences starting with Dys-.

You name it: dyslexia, dysgraphia, dyscalcula. Upon first hearing this, I was conviced I just wouldn’t B able to do school. The bullying reinforced this idea. In middle school, I was told that people like Eignstien and Henry Winkler had dyslexia too. Eignstien was still a genius and the Fonz was still cool. I also learned that people with various dys- issues have a tendecy to B creative. My dys-s soon Bcame my greatest attribute. I was a problem-solver, a master thinker. Sure, I can’t tell left from right and b and d are basically the same letter, but I can think my way out of any issue. More than that, I can overcome just about any problem I encounter too. I discovered that, regaurdless of my dys-s, I have a talent for writing. I made a choice to B stronger than my differences and throw caution to the wind. Why not be a writer.

I encourage everyone to stroke their ego, explore their interest, and take charge of whatever hold them back. When something in the world bothers you, set your rant free. Let it B heard.

Share it with the masses. Dare to be the voice you want to hear more of. Don’t B afraid of rejection or of others laughing at you.

B strong enough to own your own voice.

B bold enough to validate your opinions.

B brave enough to send it out into the world.

B Witty. B amused. Bhooved.

Ryan Wheeler | Editor-in-Chief

Table of Contents [ Featured ]

[Featur

es]

Interview | Sam Jackson: Professional Humor Writer for Cracked.com Pg. 28 Story | Beth Eakman: St. Edward’ s Professor of English Writing and Rhetoric Pg. 31

1 2 3 5 7 8 9 10 12

[ News ] St. Edward’s Parking Lot to Host Formula One Next Year Caley Berg Sundowning Exposed as Myth-- Old People Really Just Looking for Excuse to Party Hannah McKeating School Stoning of Trump Supporter Scheduled for Sunday 10/16 Nico Campbell They Walk Among Us: Replicans Hiding in Plain Sight Ryan Wheeler Facebook Wordsmith Deemed Great Philosopher Among Academic Community Caley Berg Bath & Body Works released their new seasonal scents Caley Berg Wealthy Catholic school benevolently offers protection from Satan, for a fee Caley Berg Warm front, Cold blood: Student Interest Group Forms Homicide Pact, Demands Season-Appropriate Weather Gabrielle Wilkosz A Tribute To Our High Priestess: Wednesday Addams.

Ryan Wheeler

15 17 19 21

[ Listicles ] 5 Signs You Should Get The Fuck Out Of Goodwill Taylor Duane

[ Love & Relationships ]

A Guide to Making a Killer Couple’s Halloween Costume Nico Campbell Relationship Columnist Announces Retirement, Turning Over New Leaf Katie King What I know you meant to say when you cat-called me Caley Burg

24 26

[ Rants & Raves ]

No, I’m Not Done Ripping on Suicide Squad Nico Campbell Urban Wheels of Glory

By Eric Anderson

{Behold }

Pg. 1 B-Hooved Article

St. Edward’s Parking Lot to Host Formula One Next Year AUSTIN, TX – On Monday, the St. Edward’s University parking lot was selected as the Formula One race track, replacing the recently built Circuit of the Americas. Hundreds of thousands of fans will flock to the school in order to observe the exhilarating, professional car races.

Spectators can often observe cars stalking students, who are peacefully walking out of their afternoon classes towards their parking space.

Drivers rev their engine, while rolling down the window and shouting “DIBS!” on their targeted human.

The decision was made after the record-breaking campus traffic drew attention from international satellites.

Drivers inevitably hurl verbal insults as a widely accepted practice. The campus police department must patrol the streets, in case they must get involved and deescalate physical altercations.

St. Edward’s is undergoing renovations, which has resulted in a loss of previous parking spaces. Construction zones have replaced several lots on campus.

“Drivers rev their engine, while rolling down the window and shouting “DIBS!” on their targeted human.”

The large influx of new students has also contributed to the lack of parking. But students are viewing this challenge as an opportunity to hone in on new skills, such as fierce competitiveness while applying for open job positions...or parking spots.

A full out drag race typically ensues as rival cars race each other towards the coveted empty parking space, as well as frequent drift races in the parking garage. This setting makes St. Ed’s the ideal location for a competitive race like Formula One.

Some students even feel they have enough experience to participate in the Formula One event.

“I think I’ll be able to smoke everyone in my Honda civic,” freshman Robbie Jones said. “I spend hours everyday on campus racing people for a parking spot.”

As for now, students and faculty will continue to duel it out until the end, practicing for the upcoming world-renowned race. Administration will start using satellites to track potential hazards.

Pg. 2 B-Hooved Article

Sundowning Exposed as Myth: Old People Really Just Looking for Excuse to Party AUSTIN, TX – In recent research developments, Dr. Jangus uncovered a disturbing reality we have all grown to accept as normal when it comes to our elderly friends and family.

Sundowning defined generally as increasd “terrors”, “confusion”, and “restlessness” alzheimer’s and dementia patients experience when the sun goes down, Dr. Jangus says this may not be an honest representation of what these patients are up to.

“After extensive research, I have reason to believe sundowning is not the deeply disturbing and uncomfortable symptom of someone who’s really losing it, but is much more probably a big, dirty old secret: old people just miss being able to say, ‘fuck it’ and doing something crazy like they did when they were young.” Says Dr. Jangus.

Agnes, one of his dementia patients who ruins family gatherings after the sun goes down by banging her head on the wall, losing control of her bowels, and calling grandpa the name of her French lover from yesteryear, commented on the issue, “I don’t remember what happened last night. I need my medicine.”

Dr. Jangus admits that it’s incredibly hard to interview patients about sundowning due to the fact they can’t seem to remember a damn thing, but that hasn’t stopped him yet. Coming up with a new method of research, he seems adamant that he can prove the myth of sundowning.

“Sure, when grandma starts speaking in tongues at the dinner table and spits up like a baby, it’s terrifying.” Says Dr. Jangus. “But you know what? Put a couple of sundowners in a room together and all of a sudden it doesn’t look too different than the drug and booze fueled ragers our teenagers tend to frequent, and guess what, they can’t remember anything the next day either. Coincidence? You tell me.”

Dr. Jangus hypothesizes that the elderly know exactly what they’re doing, and they’re doing it on purpose. As treatment, he suggests that anyone with close to someone experiencing sundowning just throw them a party every once in awhile. Let them invite some friends, crank up the megaphone, and go nuts.

Pg. 3 B-Hooved

Article

School Stoning of Trump Supporter Scheduled for Sunday 10/16 In the course of a casual conversation over a cup of coffee at Jo’s, it became publicly known that Jackson Baker, a sophomore, is indeed a Trump supporter. He disclosed this information to his friend and former roommate Keegan Russell, a theater student, by making a passing comment on the “shady” dealings of the Clinton Foundation. He also mentioned that he believed in “stronger” immigration laws. Immediately, Russell took it upon himself to turn Baker in.

“At that moment, I knew our friendship was dead,” recalled Russell. “It no longer mattered that we were close roommates, had taken care of each other while drunk, or had opened up to each other about our parents’ divorces. His candidate choice is unforgivable, and I am forced to consider him my enemy.”

Russell reported Baker’s actions to the Student Government Association, alleging hate speech and sedition against the liberal student body.

The SGA Court left Baker’s fate to a schoolwide vote. Accordingly, it is so ordered that Jackson Baker will be publicly stoned by the students of St. Edward’s.

“I just don’t believe in Obamacare!” pleaded Baker at the sentencing.

The stoning of Jackson Baker will take place this Sunday, October 16 at noon, right after Mass. The event will take place on top of the St. Edward’s Seal. Everyone is encouraged to bring a boulder weighing at least thirty pounds. The stoning will be followed by a mass purging of Trump supporting Facebook friends.

See you there!

Pg. 5 B-Hooved Article

They Walk Among US: Republicans Hiding in Plain Sight AUSTIN, TX—As voting pressure, nervous anticipation, and political tension increases, never has it been more difficult or dangerous to stake claim to a political party. Youth on college campuses throughout the US are frenzied with patriotism. Most opinions swing towards democrats, favor Bernie and now Clinton as the voting season draws nearer. However, a few rare Republicans still exist in the blue tide. They walk among us, quietly hiding their views or even masquerading as Liberals. We were able to locate one of these young Republicans on St. Edward’s Campus in Austin Texas. This person asked that we keep their identity a secret, fearing severe backlash from left-leaning cohorts.

In this interview, they requested to be referred to as Lefty Liberalé.

specify they are not a white, middle-aged male.

We asked Lefty to explain some of the responses they would expect to receive if the word got out. Lefty mentioned this, “Some people may start right out of the gate with, “You’re a bigoted, gun-toting, no good, closed-minded SOB with fundamentalist ideas about women-hating society supporting cross burning lunatics with swastika tats, gripping about the merits of indentured servitude and the good ol’ days…”

But let just stop you there.

Easy guys. Believe it or not, Republicans are people too.

Yeah, we tend to be pretty normal folks.” Lefty went on to include, “Of course there are always a few of those in the bunch who do think that way, but it not unlike y’alls nonsensical libertarian uncles complaining about taxes and deodorant.”

“They walk among us; citizens hiding in plain sight. “

Meet Lefty Liberalé. This student is an active member of many campus organizations and holds an on-campus job. A popular student, Lefty has seemingly thrived at St. Edward’s, all the while hiding a secret.

“Hi, I’m Lefty Liberalé. Truth is that I’m a Republican. But I can’t just go around saying that. You see, with the political climate these days, being even slightly conservative or daring to say that you’re a Republican can get you in trouble.”

While wanting to remain anonymous, Lefty did allow us to state that they are a 20-something year-old student. Lefty also requested that we

We asked Lefty to debunk some of the myths surrounding the Republican Party. Laughing, Lefty stated, “No one is stockpiling weaponry and canned goods for the impending social uprising or nuclear war, only the impending zombie apocalypse, which we all know is coming. Never mind that I have zero food that isn’t leftover street tacos and that I can never seem to have enough toilet paper. That’s beside the point.”

We wanted to know more about Lefty’s political involvement, wondering if they could be a

representative for young Republicans if the secret did eventually leak. Lefty replied, “It’s not as if I’m a staunch Republican. I would not a good representative for all of young Republicans because I’m more like a non-practicing catholic. You know, the ones who might have a rosary somewhere and only show to church on Christmas and Easter, if that. I don’t even agree with every element of the Republican Party. I’m suring not voting for Trump. I was simply raised with some of the values that the Republican party stands for. Not even the liberals I know are 100% for the Democratic party or

Democratic candidates. Party-lining really isn’t a thing anymore anyway.”

When asked about parting remarks, Lefty wanted to leave us with the hope that young Liberals might became more aware of the Republican populations on campus. Lefty states, “I just want all to be aware that there are Republicans out there who may not be crazy, and may even be your friends, co-workers, teachers, or a friendly passerby. Don’t go nuts and get judgey right off the bat. Have a conversation before you gather stones for the execution. They may just be nice people with slightly different perspectives.”

As of today, we do not know the whereabouts of Lefty Liberalé. But with their “Feel the Bernie” tshirt, hipster vibe, and queso-stained skinny jeans, they may be impossible to find. Lefty, and many other like Lefty, live among average college students, cautiously navigating this contentious political climate, and waiting on the day America sees a somewhat normal Republican candidate.

Pg. 7 B-Hooved Article

Facebook wordsmith deemed great philosopher among academic community AUSTIN, TX— While eating pizza on his couch this Saturday, Facebook user Mark Murphy wrote a deep, insightful paragraph about the meaning of life. He then posted his thoughts to all of his 157 Facebook friends.

members read his Facebook post and would like him to develop a Ted Talk.

The paragraph read:

“Without knowing, Mark has put into simple words what scholars have been researching for millenniums,” said Dr. Raj Bhargava, who has studied philosophy at Oxford University for more than 40 years.

“Hi guys. I’ve done a lot of soul searching lately and realized that we should all live in the present moment. Just look around, and you’ll see how awesome life is. Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. Sometimes you have to get out there and dance in the rain.”

Soon after, Murphy received a call from the head of the philosophy department at Harvard, who notified him that several department

Since the post went viral, Murphy has garnered respect from philosophers across the globe.

Murphy plans on writing another monumental post next week that will contribute to the shifting paradigm. However, first he must post a picture of his lunch that day, along with a very dank meme.

Pg. 8 B-Hooved Article

Bath & Body Works released their new seasonal scents AUSTIN, TX— This week, the chain store Bath & Body Works has issued a mass email to their customer base, announcing the release of their infamous seasonal fragrances.

Every girl who appreciates a good candle and a pumpkin spice latte has been anticipating this collection. There’s nothing like snuggling up by a fire in the winter with a knit sweater, hot cocoa and a fall-scented candle. Bath & Body Works really knows women! This season, Bath & Body Works has rebranded from their basic fall scents by combining past favorites with new and exciting experimental aromas. They really did not hold back. These intoxicating perfumes are available for candles, soaps, lotions, body spray, foot cream, rash cream, and lubrication.

Seasonal fragrances include but are not limited to:

Vegan Cinnamon Waffle

Marshmallow Vanilla Personality

Brown Sugar Mama

Sweet, Sweet Muffin

Southern Lavender Pit Sweat

Girthy Pumpkin

Salted Caramel Swamp Ass

Horchata Latte Dolphin Vomit

Bath & Body Works has even produced a line of Aromatherapy scents for the stressful holiday times, including:

Ignore your racist grandfather at Thanksgiving dinner Oops! I kissed my cousin on Hanukkah Pumpkin spice to hide what you did last night Spray away ungrateful white children in toy stores Your ex’s annual text on Christmas morning Moonlight Xanax Why am I in a Denny’s bathroom at 3am?

Suburban moms across America are running out of the house and leaving the kids with a sitter so that they can get their hands on these new products while they last.

“I am a loyal Bath & Body Works customer,” said Shelby Davis, a frazzled mother of four.

“As soon as I received the email announcing these new fragrances, I left work, hopped in my Volvo, and headed straight to the mall. It’s like I can get high off these toxic fumes, but it’s totally legal.”

Bath & Body Works promises to release a new line next spring, but right now they are still working in the lab on scents like “Daffodil Daisy Dick.”

Physicians Warning: Small children are not permitted inside this store. Even a waft of a candle can knock a toddler right out. Do not use any of these products. May cause skin rashes, irritation and hair loss. Perfumes may repel other humans. Will definitely repel lovers.

Pg. 9 B-Hooved Article

Wealthy Catholic school benevolently offers protection from Satan, for a fee AUSTIN, TX— A prestigious Catholic school has

Administrators have taken action against these students, and their public statement claimed that the purpose of this blessing service is to prevent future Satanic rituals and save all students’ poor, damned souls.

The demand for the service increased once administration became aware of certain activities students conducted in their dorm rooms.

“This service is covered by the tuition costs, because it’s classified as necessary for the wellbeing of students. You can find this information within the small print under Section IV of the Terms and Conditions when filling out an application,” said a devoted bureaucrat.

recently started to offer a critical service to its students. St. Michael’s University implemented a blessing service for students who prefer their rooms to be rid of demons.

According to a concerned Resident Assistant, last semester a group of freshmen participated in a massive orgy inside one of the newly renovated residential halls.

“I really can only describe what I saw as Satanic,” said the RA, who now attends weekly counseling sessions.

Since the incident, residents of the dorm have reported sightings of a ghostly apparition resembling the tormented spirit of Linda Lovelace. Understandably, the sighting is reportedly frightening while also kind of hot.

service.

Administration was forced to cut down on funding for other programs, such as career development and mental health counseling, after relocating funds for this

However, enrollment rates to St. Michael’s skyrocketed now that protective parents have learned that the university guarantees Satan-free dorm rooms.

Pg. 10 B-Hooved Article

Warm front, Cold blood: Student interest group forms homicide pact, demands season-appropriate weather AUSTIN, TX— College students at St. Ed-

ward’s University aren’t just begging for autumn to come. They’ll literally kill for it.

Week-long highs in the mid-90s throughout October has led stir-crazy undergraduates to form a homicide pact if the city’s weather doesn’t cool the fuck down.

“I don’t know how much of this humidity I can stand,” sophomore graphic design student Chad Hendricks said. “I feel like Jesus walking around campus, but instead of people throwing palm branches, it feels like crowds of people dumping steamy Campbell’s chunky soup on me.”

In response, Hendricks founded Ray of Hope, a therapy-turned-anarchist group that meets once a week. During 90 minute sessions, members can vent about their weather-related grievances. Since forming two weeks ago, the group has garnered widespread attention and high attendance rates, which cabinet members attribute to one particular clause in the organization’s code.

Section 2.5 of Ray of Hope’s code of conduct states that if cooler, autumn-like weather doesn’t befall campus grounds

by November 15, Ray of Hope members do not assume responsibility for any or all resulting homicides that ensue. The code’s fine print also includes a detailed statute of limitations for the weather-provoked homi-

cide clause. The section was passed unanimously.

A supporter of the code, senior Lindsay Hersch met Hendricks in their general education art class last semester. She said Ray of Hope’s message immediately resonated with her.

“I want Ugg weather and I want it now,” Hersch said. “My sinuses are clogged, my hair’s frizzy all the time. I have nothing left. I could commit a double-homicide and feel nothing. You fools got nothin’ on me. I’m packin’.”

Another member of the committee, junior Derek Chang agrees, saying group therapy isn’t enough to get him through a hot, humid week in the city anymore. The computer programming major has admitted to circling St. David’s hospital around 3 a.m. regularly.

“This time of the year should be Earth’s natural period of decay in our hemisphere,” Chang, a former National Merit semifinalist, said. “I just need to see past these hard times and know that somewhere near, death looms.”

On Thursday, Chang, Hendricks and four other members of the committee were apprehended by St. Edward’s University Police Department for allegedly “biting off the heads of water sprinklers in order to

decrease prevalence of green foliage on campus grounds” the official report said.

Hersch, who plead guilty to the allegations, said the traditionally non-seasonal weather has consumed every bit of her sanity. Her grades, she adds, have taken the brunt of her frustration.

“I need it so bad that I skipped class yesterday, went to the quad and manually pulled down hundreds of still-green leaves just so that I had a pile of something to jump into,” Hersch confessed. “After I just curled into a ball and kept rocking back and forth screaming, “PSL! PSL!” “Honestly, I don’t blame Ray of Hope members for what they’re doing over there,” Singh said. “Everyone’s fed up, they’re just the only ones who are trying to do something about it.”

Singh is currently in talks with Hendricks to form an adjacent student interest group, Goodnight Sweet Prince, for students who are O.K. with dying at the hands of Ray of Hope members should the heat wave continue.

Pg. 12 B-Hooved Article

A Tribute To Our High Priestess: Wednesday Addams.

AUSTIN, TX— During a time celebrating progressivism, globalization, and individuality, it is no wonder why we turn to Wednesday Addams as our spiritual leader. Although young in years, this little lady exudes wisdom far beyond…well anyone now-a-days. Followers of the Cult of Wednesday spend years seeking enlightenment. Only the most devout see that progressivism is only a diplomatic expression for political turmoil, globalization is the leading cause of culture wars and that infectious ideation, “Individuality,” is only a social construction condoning narcissism and hipster undercuts.

We were able to seek out a small, highly devout sect of elusive Cult-of-Wednesday seers to ask for an interview. A member was selected by the spirit world to give us an interview.

The anonymous member stated, “ Wednesday Addams has given the strong-minded members of society a support group wherein we can encourage each other through these dark times. Stupidity is rampant and we must stay strong! Catchy pop singers with tattoos and flippy hair won’t lead us astray. We stay rooted in our angst and silent internal torment.” As we understand it, the member who took the interview was either venerated as a saint of Wednesday or offered as a blood sacrifice.

Wednesday continues to be revered and honored by many modern thinkers as the one true voice of reason left in this world. May she always be remembered.

Becuase were all trapped in the midst of Thansgiving and to honor Wednesday Addams, let us all revisit her sermon from Mount Chippewa:

“Wait, we cannot break bread with you.

You have taken the land which is rightfully ours.

Years from now my people will be forced to live in mobile homes on reservations. Your people will wear cardigans, and drink highballs.

We will sell our bracelets by the roadsides, and you will play golf.

My people will have pain and degradation. Your people will have stick shifts.

The gods of my tribe have spoken. They said do not trust the pilgrims. And especially do not trust Sarah Miller.

For all these reasons I have decided to scalp you and burn your village to the ground.�

--Wednesday Addams

{Listicles}

Pg. 15 B-Hooved Listicle

5 Signs You Should Get The Fuck Out of Goodwill When you’re shopping at Goodwill it’s important to give yourself some boundaries. You need to set your expectations incredibly low so as not to be disappointed by your experience. You’re not there looking for quality customer service or cleanliness; you’re there for some fucking cheap sweaters and mom jeans. However, Goodwill can be a terrifying place and you need to be able to recognize the telltale signs that it’s time to get the fuck out.

5. The bugs are larger than a quarter

Goodwill has bugs. This is a fact. It’s a sacrifice you will have to make if you want neat shit for cheap prices. The small ones are easily ignored, but where do you draw the line? Give yourself a maximum bug size that you can handle—such as a quarter. If you notice an insect scurrying across the floor that is larger than a quarter, get out. Just get the fuck out.

4. The used dishes come with complementary used food

There is no shame in buying dishes from Goodwill. You just pop them in the dishwasher, press the “sanitize” button and bam you can serve a family of 4 for $5 or less. But when you pick up a seemingly normal plate and notice an unidentifiable lump, put it back and get the fuck out.

3. You can smell the restroom from the opposite end of the store

If as soon as you walk through the doors you get a nose full of sewer stench, anything that you purchase from that particular Goodwill will most definitely smell like shit for all of eternity. Do you want to smell like shit for all of eternity? No. Save yourself and get the fuck out.

2. You forgot your hand sanitizer

Even after leaving the cleanest Goodwill, you feel as though you’ve been rolling around in a dumpster for an hour. Yeah you found some cool shit, but at what cost? Who knows what the hell you touched in there. If you don’t have hand sanitizer on you, don’t even think about walking into a Goodwill. Get the fuck out before you’ve even gone in.

1. There’s an elderly man with a cart full of lingerie

Is he bargain hunting for romantic gifts for his wife? Is he wearing women’s panties behind closed doors? Is he clothing an entire pack of prostitutes? You will never know. You don’t have time to know.

Get yourself the fuck out before he asks you which nighty would go best with his eyes.

{Love

& Relatioships}

Pg. 17

B-Hooved

Love and Relationships

A Guide to Making a Killer Couple’s Halloween Costume “NICO!” my girlfriend’s voice shrieked as she exploded through the door, causing me to choke on my bran flakes.

“Yes?” “What are we going to be for Halloween this year? We have to be something cute!”

Now I’ve been wanting to go as Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez from The Sandlot for years because I was told I looked like him when I was ten, and that was enough of a Hollywood hunk for me. But I never owned a Dodgers jersey. Or PF flyers.

“Want to be the dog as I go as the kid from The Sandlot?”

For some reason she was not at all enthused when I suggested she go as my dog. I don’t get it. She loves the snapchat filter.

So I’m gonna have to try a little harder. But this is no trivial task. We have no choice but to be the most hilarious couple’s costume at the party. My ego demands it. It has to be something funny, relevant, original, somewhat cute, and just all around dank. These are my ponderings on the subject.

Start with memes

It’s always a safe bet to incorporate the latest Internet meme. But there is a fine line between what is still funny and is now totally stale. At this point, going as both “Netflix” and “Chill” is about as original as writing “I love pizza and puppies” in your Tinder profile. Man, everyone loves those. I’m still working on the formula that decides whether a meme is stale or not, but for now, you just gotta feel it.

The news, social media, and reddit are good resources for finding that dank ish.

Movie/TV couples

These are good and you can’t go wrong. All are good ideas, but it’s hard to think of one that is original, and if you’re like me, no one else at the party can be wearing your costume. That’s like the same dress at the Oscars. It is, okay?

I once saw a Burt Macklin & Janet Snakehole costume for all of the Parks and Recreation fans out there. There’s also Cast Away Tom Hanks with a Wilson volleyball. And I once saw Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love. Now there’s a couple you haven’t thought of in a while. Or JT and Britney Spears in head-to-toe denim.

These are all couples that are still not very obvious. You wouldn’t get Burn & Janet if you weren’t a real Parks and Rec fan, Cast Away and Wilson is not a conventional “couple”, and the latter two are good ol’ throwbacks. That’s very different than Harley Quinn and Joker, which every Comic-Conny couple will wear. Why would you want to associate with that movie anyways?

Side note: You could be absolutely any character combo from Stranger Things and it’ll be a hit.

Rightfully so.

Be things

What’s better than a couple going as a famous couple? Something that’s not a couple at all. I’m a fan when people go as something you never would have thought would be an interesting costume.

Find a relationship between two items. Like an old man looking for a remote. Or a soap and a loofah, (overdone but you get the idea). You could also act out song lyrics, like a roommate stealing a mattress from her roommate at CU Boulder. Good luck with the mattress part though. Who would do that anyways? God, what a dumb song.

Props

Often, the props make the costume. If you go all out on your props, unoriginality is forgiven. Presentation is key. I thought of the puppy snapchat filter where two people get the dog ears and nose. But then you walk in with a snapchat screen cut out and a big tongue on a stick, and you are the pride of the Millennial generation. For Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez, I’d have no choice but to bring a chewed up baseball. As for the puppy snapchat filter, I finally found a way to make my girlfriend go as a dog.

As I write this, I still don’t know what the hell we’re gonna be this year. Call this my brainstorming process. And it can be yours too. With this guide, you could be on your way to being that couple that everybody wants a picture of, upping your social capital. And that is what commercial holidays are all about.

Pg. 19

B-Hooved

Love and Relationships

Relationship Columnist Announces Retirement, Turning Over New Leaf About 3 minutes into one date with the check-out guy at Whole Foods, I was reminded that people think about sex every 7 seconds. That means he had thought about humping 1,260 times since the start of our date. I plastered on a smile and changed the subject. The same thing I would have told my readers to do!

After readings thousands upon thousands of your most gnawing questions about love and dating, I can honestly say I’ve changed perspective a lot over the years. I used to believe in a kind of love that makes a girl weak in the knees and always smells nice and takes you on romantic strolls. I’d look to each our your questions, giggling politely at the strange ones, and pitter-patter away on my keyboard an enthusiastic response that usually involved the importance of communicating and being fully present or some bullshit.

Now, I feel nothing anymore. I don’t even flinch.

You’ve worn me in readers.

Not even your darkest fantasies surprise me anymore. Neither does your curiosity about your own bodily fluids. From the pudgy lesbian struggling with her phantom penis to the to the ‘naturally submissive’ 25-year-old wondering whether or not she should stick a pacifier in her mouth and find herself a daddy— I’ve seen it all.

And for fucks sake, if I made a drinking game for every time I received questions from 14 year olds asking whether or not to experiment with anal, or from broke college students wondering if she should resort to selling hemaidenhead, I think I’d drink myself to death.

And trust me, I’ve tried.

It makes sense why I would be receiving these kinds of questions, though. Mix love and anonymity and what do you get? Sex. But not your typically vanilla sex, because again, I’ve learned over the years that’s not even really a thing anyways.

There’s always going to be some turd-colored swirl in there. I’m talking about the kind of sex where one of you is wearing a leather mask while unloading your pleasure pump in your own homemade sex dungeon.

So readers, I regret to inform you that I’m officially announcing my retirement as a love columnist, effective immediately. I’ve given up trying to follow my own shit advice. I’m still here though, don’t worry. For anymore who’s experiencing any sort of relationship problems, I have my prescription pad ready.

We’ve got ‘fuck ya’ and ‘what would daddy think?’ because it’s all the same shit in the end anyways.

If you’re curious about what I’m doing next in the next stage of my life, feel free to follow my new blog, Kinky Delights, also available on podcast.

Pg. 21

B-Hooved

Love and Relationships

What I Know You Meant to Say When You Cat-called Me Hey. I know life is hard. You work all day for the man and in return, what do you get? Nothing.

So you are craving some genuine human connection and amiability with anyone you can find. It’s not your fault that female joggers around your city are the only ones who will listen to you!

This isn’t harassment, right? This is how friendship works! We joggers are forever thankful for your aggressive friendship tactics. The main reason we are jogging is not actually for health reasons, but actually to make friends with strange men on the streets.

Luckily, I’m here to cat-callers who are put down by the man have the energy to message effectively:

A generous female jogger translates for all cat-callers alike

translate for all you just so tired of being all day that you didn’t communicate your real

Hey girl, I know you thought that whistling and hollering was directed towards you, but my buddies and I were actually just rehearsing for a highly-interpretive musical number, which is a part of our upcoming traveling theater troupe rendition of “Catz!”

Hey girl, When I stare at your body without breaking focus, it’s because my internal monologue is screaming. “Look a full-fledged human being is approaching! I recognize you as my equal counterpart with thoughts and feelings like myself. What are your thoughts on this upcoming election? Personally, #I’mWithHer! Let’s topple the patriarchy together! But don’t tell my buddies that.” I’m just too afraid to say anything to you because you are running so, so fast.

Hey girl, What I meant to say instead of “great tits!” was “great effort towards general health and

well-being!” That other thing just kind of slipped out on accident. I know you work hard and fitting in exercise on top of your many other pursuits can be next to impossible. And gym memberships are expensive as hell. I respect your passion for cardiovascular strength and longevity. You are saving me future tax dollars in health-related bills. How many steps have you taken today?! Look at you go!

Hey girl, When you shout “Slut!” At me, I know you just didn’t have time to finish your thought... “Slut!

OMG you betch, cute LuluLemon shorts, like seriously, shut up! I was actually thinking of getting a similar pair for my wife. She loves that brand. Their new yoga line is fabulous. Am I right, girlfriend?

I’m glad we are now all on the same page. What a beautiful time of equality live in— a time in which female joggers are able to make new friends on the streets without any fear of harassment. I’ll see you and your construction buddies on Broadway in the next “Catz!”

{Rants & Raves }

Pg. 24 B-Hooved Rants and Raves

No, I’m Not Done Ripping on Suicide Squad No, I’m Not Done Ripping on Suicide Squad. In the two months since its release, it has been firmly established by the world’s reasonable population that Suicide Squad totally sucks. I have vented about it enough in person to my peers, and even taken my thoughts to Facebook. Still, I have not done enough. This needs to be common knowledge. It must be put in writing, stenciled into the Earth’s collective mind so that it will outlast me eternally. When I die, let this piece immortalize me. I intend to leave the world a better place, and that means leaving it with the knowledge that this is a really, really, really, shit-ass movie.

Suicide Squad has been thoroughly torn apart by film critics alike, as shown by its 26% on Rotten Tomatoes. I am not the pioneer of this movement. Merely a disciple. Allow me to add to the canon of these critics’ noble works. If literary scholars are still writing freaking essays on Hamlet, then I’m not far behind on SS. So let’s get to it.

Where were the backstories?!

If you were ever wondering where a human-crocodile crossbreed came from, too bad. You’re still wondering. I also would have liked to know where the alcoholic Aussie with Batman-level boomerang tech came from. Because somehow I haven’t read any of the vast canon of Captain Boomerang stories. Add to that my lack of common knowledge on Slipknot, Diablo, Katana. I know, I live under a rock. But that’s cool, I didn’t need any backstories to help me care about the characters anyways. I still totally gave a shit.

Where did a shy, timid psychiatrist learn to kick acrobatic ass? I guess the Ace Chemicals did that, I dunno. And the soul-capturing sword? Maybe she found it? How the human main character never misses a single shot? He takes his vitamins?

The film did at least give a half-assed effort at this in the very first scene. Amanda Waller sits down with the dudes in suits and goes over everybody’s superpower and very brief origin story. Though not nearly enough. This part of the story would have been much better if their brief backstories were shown to us rather than told to us through another character. This secondhand knowledge is much less compelling than if we saw the characters in action. If you want us to care about the characters, show and don’t tell.

Jared Leto...dude.

What was that? That was what all this “method acting” hype lead up to? A wangster who sounds like he’s pleasuring himself when he talks, and growls out loud more than Killer Croc? Damn, that was annoying.

If you’re going to send pig heads and used condoms to your co-stars, your performance better start

a Brando-level acting revolution.

And as a writing note, the Joker is supposed to be FUNNY! Even Heath Ledger’s Joker managed to make us laugh with his bone-dry humor. I don’t think this Joker made a single joke at all. Also, big mistake in making Joker seem like he actually loves Harley. Their romance is more Ike & Tina Turner.

Not Westley and Princess Buttercup.

Plot Black Holes

It’s Earth’s last resort and the government is actually referring to the most dangerous criminals in the world to save the planet. If the mission fails, all life is lost...but it’s still best to lie and tell them it’s terrorism, not an ancient evil witch spirit. Why again? What was in it for Flag and Waller to lie about the mission? This superfluous lie was just a recycled plot device to create drama when the Squad discovered the truth later in the movie, which came as no surprise to anyone. Also NO SHIT IT’S NOT TERRORISM. Speaking of which, who knew that Deadshot also had a speed-reading superpower that allows him to skim through 200-page dossiers in 10.6 seconds?

Wait, so their mission this whole time has been a rescue mission to secure Amanda Waller? So they weren’t heading for that floating garbage sky-halo? I could’ve sworn that was the area of most concern. Did nobody care to ask why they were just ignoring that and heading to the mall? I think this was an attempt at creating a dramatic twist. “Whaaaat? It was a rescue mission the whole tiiiime?” But it just came off as sloppy and confusing.

The Squad spent no time bonding at all, yet in the ridiculous bar scene they were pouring out their life stories. They acted like tense acquaintances throughout, but then Diablo comes out of nowhere and makes everyone cry? We as the audience gave too little fucks about his character to care that he killed his wife and kid. And we didn’t believe that the Suicide Squad did either. And in the final fight there’s all this “Don’t mess with my friends” and “I won’t lose another family” B.S. Since when do you consider yourselves friends and family?

We don’t know much about Killer Croc except that he’s a cannibal that spends all his time in the sewers, and may or may not be part human. So naturally he acts pretty black. Nice, DC.

Was this the real movie or a 2-hour trailer?

Much of the movie was paced like it was another trailer. Pretty much everything up until they’re in the chopper heading toward their mission. It rapidly glossed over information and played unnecessary throwback rap and rock songs. Seriously, cool it with the music. Many scenes would have been better without it. You can’t just throw a great tune in there and call it awesome! Several songs made no sense in the context of the scene. In fact, I’m pretty sure the trailers used less music than the damn movie! Now that I think about it, the trailers were better than the movie all together.

Everybody, please. Heed my warning. Let me fulfill my duty to protect the world against huge disappointments. Help me help you, and don’t see this film. Future civilizations that find this in a digital time capsule, know that Suicide Squad (2016) was a shit-ass movie.

Pg. 26 B-Hooved Rants and Raves

Urban Wheels of Glory You sir, are a bona fide king of alternative transportation. You laugh at the measly government-issued “bike lane”. Those tiny white lines can’t even dare contain your raw awesomeness. Instead, you spread your wings like a soaring eagle, taking to the open sky and owning the whole goddamn road. You create your own lane, gracing those twenty commuters behind with the rare chance to bask in all your glory.

Your attire obviously shows you’re going somewhere much more important than where those businessmen and soccer moms are headed. No shirt, blond dreads, disproportionally selfcut jean shorts, multicultural tattoos, and Jesus Sandals™ are true exemplars of your unemployed success. You’re not just burning calories, you’re simultaneously developing one hell of a sexy sandal tan. You reek of alternative enlightenment—in fact, the epicness of your unbathed body odor can be pleasured from several hundred yards away. It can only to be occasionally diluted by the earthy perfume of organic patchouli oil (to attract the ladies).

You have a lust for being in the lead of an army of cars, and you’ll slow down so they know who’s in command. You don’t care if you’re cruising down a side street, or the highway, this concrete and asphalt is there to service you. Those old sissy marathon cyclists ain’t got nothing on you and your effortless pillaging of the open road. You’ve met feats those cowards can’t even dream of as you nearly meet death in the windshield of a Fiat. Who wants to see a bunch of old geezers in Spandex anyway?

If you wanted to obey traffic laws, you’d drive a car. You’re determined to win the race against those mainstream four-wheelers. You’ll use those bad-ass ninja skills to get to where you’re going first. You’re such a genius, you make Einstein look like Kim Kardashian (on a bad day). With exceptional cat-like reflexes, you slither your way through rush hour traffic, making those losers stop and let you through. Like a raging stallion, you speed ahead of traffic to win your spot in front of the red light. You’ll only be there for a few minutes anyway, but you’ll have front row seats to a crimson victory. And stop signs? Bitch, please, you think to yourself, ain’t nobody got time for that. After all, if they hit you, it’s totally their fault.

Thanks to your decision to stick it to the oil “biz”, you’ve even upgraded to being the holy savior of the goddamn environment. Who cares if you’re holding up a highway of 18-wheeler traffic? Your carbon footprint is still nonexistent. You don’t spend thousands a year on gas, instead, you invest in your garage band that this time is really “just about to take off.”

You’re the true meaning of entrepreneurship.

You sir, are what every man aspires to live up to. Peddling on the sidewalk, you’re still the master of your domain. You dominate your path, and you make sure everyone knows it. If you’re not leading the automobile herd on the highway, you’re making sure those dog walkers and kiddies on tricycles get out of your way. By selflessly biking your way through the harsh unenlightened urban jungle, you’re saving money, advertising your lifestyle, and showing “the man” who’s boss. To hell with all the road-raging haters, those two wheels are your all-access pass to The American Dream.

{Features}

Pg. 29 B-Hooved

Featured Peice

Interview: Cracked.com Comedy Writer, Sam Jackson Sam Jackson, a St. Edward’s University alumnus and Cracked.com comedy writer, revisited his old campus this Tuesday to discuss online humor writing with the B-Hooved team.

Cracked.com is a humor website offering listicles that reveal facts that are widely unknown and typically compelling. Cracked is based in Santa Monica, but employs writers from all over the world.

Jackson has also worked for Austin MD, ATX Man and Austin Woman, writing articles within various genres— from music criticism to profiling a transgender police officer. Sam shared some of his experiences and advice for aspiring writers.

B-Hooved: How did you get started working for Cracked?

Jackson: It was actually Beth Eakman’s idea. She gave our class an assignment in which we had to submit a piece of writing to an official publication. I chose Cracked.com. Of course, it didn’t get selected, but it inspired me to keep trying. I signed up for crack in May of 2012 and spent a year trying to make it as a staff writer. Now, I have produced around 25 articles total.

B-Hooved: And how did you first go about submitting to Cracked?

Jackson: First I pitch to them. The subject must be well-researched, and you can’t use Wikipedia as your source for an article. You never submit a full article, unlike some places. You just submit a small pitch and go through the motions of a workshop, if the editor deems it good enough. They sit around and pick it apart. Sometimes they add jokes or cut bits.

B-Hooved: How do you come up with ideas for an article?

Jackson: I’ll see a good story and see if I can link it to something. With all Cracked articles, there are underling threads. It takes a lot of brainstorming, along with research and a bit of imagination. You can also look in the abandoned archive, which consists of stories that never made it online. Other writers gave up on these ideas, so anyone can take them and develop an idea into a story. These stories are dropped off and left to die if not. Some of the most successful articles can be ones you take from archives.

B-Hooved: Do you experience writers block?

Jackson: I like to remember a quote from the book War of Art by Steven Pressfield: “I write only when inspiration strikes… Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.” In his case, he had to really believe that inspiration would come. As a writer, you have to force yourself to write, even if it’s not good at first.

B-Hooved: What is your typical writing process like?

Jackson: I don’t have an exact process. As far as cracked, the sessions beforehand help, so its not hard to get ideas. I can research and play off the pitch sessions with editors. For other stuff, I let the content dictate- for example interviews. I like to do interviews and let people talk. It helps to assemble it piece by piece. I used to work more within a structure, but I’ve never been good at using an outline.

B-Hooved: Do you ever feel insecure about your writing, and if so, how do you deal with that?

Jackson: If you work on the internet you live with that. It helps to be brave in the first place, and just have a backbone. At cracked, we have a love-hate relationship with our comment section. For example, we posted an article about why puns are the lowest form of humor; of course, there were hundreds of puns in the comment section. Ultimately, if you don’t think you can handle the backlash, don’t read the comments. People will tear apart anything. You have to take pride in the fact that you put this out there, whether it got 5 views or 500,000. The editors of Cracked are haunted by the fact that a lot of really great writers won’t submit their work, because they are afraid of the backlash they might receive. So rather than listening to internet trolls, take advice from the people that actually matter. For me, this person is the Cracked executive editor, David Wong. I know I have the Cracked team on my side, and so I don’t take anything said in the comments personally.

B-Hooved: Do you think women have it harder on the internet?

Jackson: Oh my God— yes, they do. For instance, the comments on women’s Cracked.com articles seem way meaner and often contain more personal attacks. My best advice is don’t read comments section. I don’t take my own advice, but it’s because I don’t care.

B-Hooved: Do you ever feel like editors are overstepping?

Jackson: I’ve never gotten mad about a change an editor has made to my article. I thoroughly research my articles, but I’m willing to fix any errors if they are pointed out to me. I love the things editors do. They make it so much better. There’s a great bond of trust between the editor and writer, because at the end of the day, both of your names are on it. The most egregious thing you can do as an editor is change something the writer did, and then it turns out that you were in the wrong.

To read some of Sam Jackson’s gut-busting writing, visit here. sj17330@gmail.com

Pg. 31 B-Hooved

Featured Peice

Spud Day

By Beth Eakmen It took me about a year after my husband left to feel like I’d regained something resembling control of my life. I had managed to scrape together a couple of regular freelance writing gigs and a part-time teaching position at the local community college that would give me a small but regular pay-check—and the regular part was going to do wonders for my mental health.

It had been rough. My kids, ages three and five at the time he left, had been profoundly freaked out and honestly I had, too. I was single again, which was weird.

A lot of the people I’d thought were my friends had ditched me, everything had broken, and I’d burned through almost all of the savings that my ex and I had split up in our settlement. But as the bad first year was coming to a close, things were beginning to look up.

In late July, I got a phone call from one of the top Montessori schools in the nation. I’d put my daughter, Annika, on their wait list as soon as we’d moved to Austin and had completely forgotten about it. They had a last-minute first grade slot for her. Did we want it? My mother offered to pay the tuition.

The fantasy of becoming the working-mom who “does it all” shimmered like a beacon on the distant horizons of my imagination. I had emerged from the smoking ruin of marriage, kept my kids clean and fed, secured gainful employment, landed a boyfriend, and, as far as anyone outside my closest friends and the school registrar knew, could afford private school for my kids. We might be eating lentils and scrubbing the stains out of thrift-shop clothes inside the house, but those clothes were clean and pressed when we walked outside. I might not actually have a traditional family anymore, but I was doing a pretty good job of faking middle class.

My first major setback was Spud Day. The Montessori school we joined requires an almost cult-like level of parental involvement. At the very first parent meeting, we all sat in a large circle in the classroom chairs that our first through third graders used during the day. Because I came from work and thus was not one of the first parents to arrive, I got one of the really tiny ones. I was wearing a fullish, knee-length skirt, which I had to wrestle the entire time because my knees were higher than my seat. I learned from the introductions that I was one of two single parents in attendance. The other was a teacher at the school.

We discussed the school’s philosophy. I’d been a Montessori preschool teacher in the handful of years between my undergrad and grad school, so I knew and was in full support of the method, which allowed me to space out a bit and focus on keeping my skirt tucked tightly under my legs, think about wearing flat shoes next time, and glance furtively at my watch, calculating how much the childcare was going to cost. After an overview of the history of Maria Montessori and her method, the meeting agenda went on to recommendations for supporting the Montessori education at home—televised news: bad! Branded clothing: horrible!

I was selective about the quality and amount of television my kids watched, but, in the words of my first single-mom friend, there are going to be days when television and potato chips are going to be your best friends. I made a mental note to cut back, but a full prohibition was out of the question.

This was the mid-2000s, probably the apex of the social trend of what one journalist has called “aspirational parenting.” It was a kind of child-raising philosophy that I had been totally down with when my kids were babies. We were the cloth-diapering, baby-wearing, breastfeeding, co-sleeping people who took parenthood very seriously, probably in reaction to our own find-yourself/me-generation parents, many of whom had had a much more casual philosophy.

A certain percentage of this population crossed the line from aspirational to competitive. You might use cloth diapers, but they grew and hand loomed their own organic hemp for their cloth diapers.

You might support gentle discipline, but they considered making a recalcitrant youngster brush his teeth against his will child abuse. And, because this was Austin, there was an additional level of Competitive Earthiness.

Even with our organic textiles, homeopathic remedies, and mail-order composting worms, we Montessori parents weren’t barking lunatics like those Waldorf nuts. Heavens, no. They were a contingent who rejected recorded music in favor of folk songs sung by the family and manufactured toys in favor of baskets of pine cones. We were still a pretty aspirational bunch, though, and the discussion at the parents’ meeting was increasingly lively.

I kept my mouth shut, aware that I was lucky to be here, able to give my daughter—and later, my son—a top-notch education.

“Spud Day,” was one of the last few agenda items. Good.

Spud Day, it turns out, was an exciting treat for the children. Every Friday, parents should send a potato along with the rest of the daily healthy brown-bag lunch—no chips, crackers, or cookies. This potato should be scrubbed and poked multiples times with a fork. Apparently there had been an insufficiently poked potato some years ago and the resulting explosion in the oven had reached legendary status. Furthermore, the potato skin should have the child’s initials or otherwise identifying symbols carved into it to reduce confusion.

“Oh,” the teacher rhapsodized, “when the potatoes are cooking the smell just fills the room and it is absolutely heavenly!”

“What kind of potato, exactly?” one parent asked.

“Just a plain baking potato,” the teacher said.

“Well, at our house we really like to bake sweet potatoes,” another parent offered, initiating an

avalanche of potato-related discourse. What I’d thought had been passionate opinions about televised news programs and Disney characters on t-shirts paled in comparison to the freshly energized positions on potatoes.

“But sweet potatoes are so much bigger than regular potatoes. They would take longer to bake!”

“Not all of them. It depends on each individual potato.”

“I think Irish potatoes tend to be more uniform in size.”

“Irish potatoes? What are Irish potatoes?”

“They’re the same as baking potatoes; you know, just regular potatoes, the brown ones that you’d get at a restaurant if you ordered a baked potato?”

“At our house, we like to slice sweet potatoes into about one-inch thick disks and sprinkle them with olive oil and cinnamon and bake them on a cookie sheet,” the sweet potato aficionado interjected.

“Wow! That sounds great! About how long do you bake them?” A side conversation broke out among those excited to try this at home. The teacher and her assistant were trying in vain to reign in the conversation.

“Should we send toppings, like butter or sour cream?”More side conversations erupted. Emotions ran high regarding bacon bits. I might have had my head in my lap at this point. I was pretty sure that there were dissertation defenses that were shorter than this conversation about Spud Day. Was I the only one who was finding this absurd and existentially exhausting?

The meeting went almost an hour past its originally scheduled closing before ratification of potato policy. I noted the critical action items as follows. Send potato in your child’s lunch on Fridays. Poke potato with fork and carve identifying mark in potato skin. No fancy potato varieties. Basic condiments would be provided. Additional condiments could be sent, with the exception of bacon bits, which had been determined to serve no good purpose. Maybe for next year’s meeting, I would volunteer to create an instructional brochure about Spud Day. At 7:30 am, ten minutes before we were to leave for the first Spud Day, I discovered that the only potato in the vegetable drawer of my refrigerator was a red-skin potato, aka, a “new potato.” Curses.

I checked my watch: no time for a grocery store run. Surely this would work, though, right? It was approximately potato-sized. I poked it with a fork, carved an A in it, and sent it in Annika’s lunch box.

At 1:00 that afternoon, I received a phone call from the school. The Montessori method emphasizes classroom leadership and self-reliance by the children, so I was only slightly surprised to hear a child’s voice.

“Hello, this is Waleed calling from Annika’s class. Is this Annika’s mother?”

“Yes?” I responded in the slightly sweeter voice that one reserves for children.

“The potato that you sent for Spud Day was the wrong kind.”

I explained as gently as possible that I was aware of this, but that it had been all I had and that,

speaking as a person who’d baked red-skin potatoes before, I knew that they would behave approximately the same way as Irish potatoes when subjected to heat.

The world would never know. Non-conforming potatoes were not added to the baking sheet. My claim was entirely theoretical and therefore invalid.

When I picked her up from school, Annika displayed great self-discipline and forbearance when she told me, concisely, how disappointing it had been.

I had exposed both of us as outsiders and frauds. I might be able to pass my- self off as a normal, competent, middle-class mom, but I could not pass off a red-skinned potato as a baking potato.

I would not, however, accept defeat so easily. Not over a potato.

The next week I sent an enormous, brown, Irish, baking potato.

Waleed called, again.

“Hello, this is Waleed calling from Annika’s class. Is this Annika’s mother?” Sigh.

“The potato that you sent for Spud Day was too big. You need to send a smaller one next time.” It was becoming increasingly clear that Waleed, one of the older children in the mixed-age classroom, had the job of compliance officer. This was likely a merit-based assignment and he was clearly proud of it.

Annika preferred not to discuss the topic on the ride home from school, but confirmed that, while this potato had actually made it onto the baking sheet, it had emerged with a hard, impenetrable center. She had not eaten it.

My boyfriend, Mike, whom I would later marry for being just the sort of guy who’d do this sort of thing, offered to go to the grocery store and find me a potato that would not subject my child to further ostracism and disappointment. He was the father of teenaged twin girls and thus a true veteran of conformity and compliance problems. He bought me a plastic-wrapped four-pack of “Baking Potatoes” so very medium sized and uniform in physical presence that they were surely genetically modified and probably irradiated. I sent one to school.

“Hello, this is Waleed calling from Annika’s class…”

“Yeah, right, Waleed. I know who you are. Now what?”

“The potato that you sent to school didn’t have holes poked in it.”

“What?! Yes, it did! I poked the whole skin all over with a fork! That potato absolutely had holes in it.”

“Well,” he paused thoughtfully, “I guess the holes weren’t deep enough because the potato didn’t cook all the way through. Maybe you need to poke it harder next time.”

I stabbed the next potato from the genetically modified pack, which, incidentally, did not seem to have aged at all in the intervening week, with a sharp, pointy, paring knife, perhaps more violently than was strictly necessary. It went to school covered with little black dash marks.

“Hello, this is Wal….”

“What. Just. What, WaLEED?” I was aware of placing unnecessary emphasis on the final syllable in a way that made me sound less adult than might have been appropriate.

“The potato that you sent to school today for Spud Day didn’t have initials carved into it.”

“Really?”

“But it’s okay, because we carved an A into it ourselves. There are 30 children in the classroom so you are really supposed to carve initials into it your- self so that we can tell which potato belongs to which person.”

When I picked Annika up from school that day she said, “Mom, you don’t need to send a potato to school for Spud Day, anymore.”

What were the odds that I was the only parent failing at Spud Day? I might be making Waleed’s day with the regularity of my failures, but with the seriousness with which he undertook potato audits, surely I wasn’t the only one getting the calls.

I didn’t dare ask other parents.

I made a decision. I would no longer try to pretend that I was the kind of mom who could do the whole parenting gig solo and conform to the exacting standards of Spud Day. I didn’t know why this particular operation exposed my Achilles heel, but frankly I didn’t need the aggravation. It was affecting my self-esteem.

The truth was that I was keeping my head above water, but just barely. I was barely getting the garbage cans out on a regular basis. I was probably at about a 50 percent success rate if you counted the mornings that I heard the truck and came flying out of the house in my pajamas, barely controlling the wheeled can down my steep driveway toward the curb. Spud Day was clearly one potato over the line of what I could manage.

I sat my daughter down to ask her how she’d feel about just skipping the whole thing.

“You know, Mom,” she said, “I don’t really like potatoes much anyway.”

Author’s Note: I am pleased to report that Annika, now headed into her sophomore year of (public) high school, shows no permanent signs of trauma from her mother’s Spud Day shortcomings. When asked if she’d like to contribute to this postscript, she said “I think we all know that there were plenty of holes poked in those spuds. Waleed was kind of a tyrant.”