March 31, 2022 by The Daily Pennsylvanian

THE INDEPENDENT SATIRE NEWSPAPER OF THE UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA • FOUNDED 1885 • THIS ISSUE IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY UNDER THE BUTTON VOL. CXXXVIII

PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 2022

NO. 10

University of Pennsylvania implements ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy with COVID-19 positivity

PHOTO BY THE DAILY PENNSYLVANIAN WITH EDITS

All it took to defeat COVID-19 was ending the testing mandate! LILA SHERMETA AND MAYA KREGER A Documentary Maker’s Dream and an Uninspired Young Woman

Change is a dismaying process. That’s why we’re taking it one step at a time. At the beginning of this semester, we each diligently set our reminders to get tested for the novel coronavirus every two weeks. We never ate, drank, smoked, brushed our teeth, or swapped saliva within 30 minutes of each and every test. Our mouths were clean, our spirits dry. Yet, somehow, with more tests, came more cases. The University even created an exclusive program community for those who had tested positive for

Editorial | Penn very good school This message is not sponsored by the University of Pennsylvania (we are lying) JACKSON PARLI AND GRACE GINSBURG 5’4” with a Stank Attitude and Long-haired Girl

eyy there, it’s me. Anonymous. You don’t know who I am. I am not affiliated with your school. I’m just your friend. I don’t even know a school even is! But it looks soooo damn good. Again, I am not a part of your school nor a member of your school, and I am certainly not paid by your school. This is just my opinion! Is that even allowed anymore? Cancel culture. Am I right? I am laughing! May you please send a kiss to Penn? And by kiss we mean money. Kisses filled with money! Put a bunch of money in those lips for your school that’s so dang good! Don’t you think a school this good needs a big kiss full of your mouth money? Let’s talk about this. I think it’s good because, first of all, there’s lots of stuff such as libraries and big statues (I think). In the library, there are so many books. And if you try to take a book without asking nice, there’s a lady who can shoot you at the exit. No stealing! Penn also good because if you have like a Jewish hat (yarmulke), you are allowed to wear it. You would never be allowed to do that at Liberty University, but you can wear it here. Free speech! You can wear it even in the dining hall. I am Jewish but I don’t usually wear one, but I could if I wanted to.

COVID-19, aptly dubbed “The 3.1 Star University Sheraton.” Even Interim Provost Beth Winkelstein contracted the egregious omicron variant. That’s why on the ides of March, everything changed. Don’t be dismayed, Interim Provost Beth Winkelstein. On March 15, Wendell Pritchett, Beth Winklestein, Craig Cannoli, Jan van Wagtendonk, and James Larry Jameson came up with a flawless plan to drop campuswide positivity rates to zero. Insiders for The Slayly Pennsylvanian, we, were in the room where it happened. Interim President Wendell Pritchett (By the way, congrats little guy!) was recorded saying, “We are bringing these positivity rates to the ground — this is the hill that I die on. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Don’t say COVID-19.” The atmosphere of the room was both electrifying and intoxicating. The sexual tension between Interim President Wendell Pritchett My favorite Penn item is the buildings. I like that there are big buildings everywhere. Big buildings (cafeteria) and small buildings like the Kelly Writers House. Aw! Such a tiny and cute house! We aren’t totally sure what goes on in that little house, but we see a lot of girls going in and out of there. Maybe in there they are texting. Or taking a bath! Have you ever heard of classes? Yeah, I thought so. Op-ed inside my op-ed: Penn has the coolest classes like COMM 898: “Communication,” and ARCH 205: “Huntsman Building Building” (where you learn how to be building the Huntsman Building.). You know what they say! ABC: Always Be Building (the Huntsman Building). Lest we forget about the best class: writing sem! I can’t even say how much I learned in writing sem (except the word “lest”) because the list is so long! But I’ll try: citation, op-ed, writing, sem, friendship, rhetoricle (sp?), girl from my freshman hall, teacher in a nice sweater, portfolio. Resume! Oh yes, sweet, sweet resume! I definitely know what those are. Another big huge part of Penn: clubs! I’m in six clubs. Penn Run (running club), Penn Jump (jumping club), Penn Sit (sitting club), Penn slide (sliding club), Penn Yell (yelling club), and Bloomers (Hamilton club). I love to be in club because go to meetings, and sometimes snacks. In this tiny, tiny article we talked about some big, big, good, good stuff: this school! I’m smiling right now because I am happy to think about Penn. Wish I could give you a high five. So, just remember: Penn good. Your money good. Give Penn your sweet money to say thank you for all she gave you. THIS ARTICLE WAS NOT PAID FOR NOR WRITTEN BY THE UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA. April Fools

PHOTO BY MAYA PRATT

BY TYLER KLIEM

/ CCO

and his breakthrough discovery was palpable. A Message To The Penn Community containing this new policy was immediately blasted to the Penn student body. Seconds later, the campuswide positivity rate fell to zero. There was a silence so deafening that the entire campus emulated the Moelis Family Grand Reading Room. Interim President Wendell Pritchett breathed a sigh of relief — and let’s be real, babes deserved it. The results have been so immediate and profound that other Ivy League institutions are considering implementing the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy. Yale is especially excited. We visited Interim President Wendell Pritchett’s West Philadelphia brownstone (Very nice, Wendell! We love what you’ve done with the place!) to interview him about single-handedly and effortlessly ending COVID-19-19. He replied, with a grin a mile wide, “It’s crazy to think that after two years

Only one thing can bring U.S. and China together: dance The U.S. and China are in a cold war — a beef unlike anything since Laura Ingraham told Guy Fieri to “shut up and nibble” HILLEL WEITZMAN Catholic

Close your eyes and picture a world where America and China stand hand in hand, ear to ear, dick to ass, shakin’ what our mamas gave us like we’re back in the Year of the Monkey. Now open your stupid little eyes. It is with a heavy heart and flaccid penis that I remind you that this world exists only in our dreams — in our wildest, dirtiest dreams. In reality, the United States and China are in a cold war – a beef unlike anything since Laura Ingraham told Guy Fieri to “shut up and nibble.” We’re losing time here, guys, and drastic times call for drastic measures. The only thing that can heal this divide with our brothers and sisters in the east is the ancient practice of Dance. Listen, I don’t claim to be an expert of geopolitics, but I do know a thing or two about gettin’ jiggy wit it. I’ve seen Dirty Dancing four times and it’s still my favorite documentary. Dance has been and always will be the great equalizer. When Pharaoh allowed the Israelites out of Egypt a few hundred years ago, it was not because God spiked the Nile River with laxatives like the Bible says. It’s because Moses, aka Mos Funky, CottonEye-Joe’d for Pharaoh, and game respect game. This is proven. When my mom kicked me out of her house for “stealing $600 from her bedside table to pay for my friend Pablo’s lump removal,” she didn’t even care that Pablo said I could keep the lump in return, and clearly was

of masking, Zoom classes, social distancing, phone sex, [sic], and three booster shots, all it took to defeat COVID-19 was ending the testing mandate. ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ is the best thing to happen to America since the ‘90s.” We didn’t stop there. We also asked hard-hitting questions, such as what his feelings were on the climbing positivity rates of the greater West Philadelphia area. To this, Interim President Wendell Pritchett responded bluntly, “I don’t understand the question, that doesn’t seem like my problem.” We could tell the energy in the room had shifted from awfully god-embracing to embracingly godawful. We had to get out of there! “There” being Interim President Wendell Pritchett’s West Philadelphia brownstone. Once again, love the feng shui, Wendell! In the endless pursuit of answers, we emailed Interim Provost Beth Winklestein’s team, “The Winkle-Stans.” Neither a representative nor Winklestein herself has issued a statement thus far. (Brain fog much? These pesky COVID-19 symptoms don’t seem to be leaving her system.) Life on Penn’s campus has morphed into a shape unrecognizable for those who joined the Penn community during the pandemic. Students are reported to be feeling “zestful” and “rife with the everlasting joy that comes with a campuswide positivity rate of zero.” The now-defunct Dubois/Rodin Field Testing Tent is to be converted into a safe space for Wharton students facing family legal troubles. The tubes used for saliva-based testing are to be upcycled into shot glasses for American Girl Doll “Teen Edition,” a side hustle of Interim President Wendell Pritchett. Everyone employed by PennCares, Penn’s COVID-19 Response Team, has been laid off, effective immediately, with no severance package. Sorry if this is how you had to find out! These changes may be dismaying, but they will lead to a euphoric campus environment. Rejoice, Wendell! You earned it. If there’s one thing we’ve learned from the pandemic, it’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”

PHOTO FROM PIXABAY WITH EDITS / CCO

not hip to what those things are reselling for these days. But when I woke my mom up at 4 a.m., pickled Pablo lump in hand, doing the most pungent stanky leg on this side of the Mississippi, my mom knew I wouldn’t last a day on the streets and let me back home. Dance heals. Period. This other time I was at the doctor with Pablo, and the doctor wasn’t very helpful when I asked if he had any to-go boxes. I fastened my apple bottom jeans and dropped it to the flo for the man, and he was practically begging me to take the little hunk of Pablo cancer off his hands. I know what you’re all thinking. “Hillel, obviously, if you danced for Xi Jinping, our relations with China would be salvaged, but you’re the funkiest in all of the land — how can anybody else, especially that ungainly gaffer sitting in the White House, be expected to twerk his way out of this pickle?” Y’all are right in thinking these correct and honest thoughts. I am our only hope. So, this is what I propose. From what I hear, Xi Jinping is a nerd and won’t take well to this diplomatic approach. But I also hear that Xi loves violating international human rights law — which we can work with. Here is how it’s gonna go down. President Joe Biden is going to invite Xi over on the pretense that they will be stripping rights from underrepresented groups. Little does Xi know, though, that the only thing that’s being stripped are all of Biden’s clothes. When Xi gets there, Biden is going to sit him down in his office and then tell him he has to go “drop a butt shuttle immediately or else Jill is going to take away his panty privileges.” (In reality, Biden doesn’t have to poop, nor is he wearing his wife’s undergarments. This is all a believable lie to deceive Xi.). Biden waddles out of the room. The lights shut off. The lights shut on. Boom. There I am, right in front of Xi, Biden sitting on my shoulders in his wife’s underwear (I lied. He is wearing them.). Sitting on Xi’s shoulders is Chinese billionaire Jack Ma. Xi thinks we’re about to chicken fight, settling our cold war right then and there, pollo y pollo. But no. Biden screams, “Chicken dance off,” and we four dance the night away, and then walk off into the sun. Four best friends, bonded by the boogie.

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THE JOKE ISSUE

2 NEWS

THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 2022

Cock-a-doodledoo! Chick-Fil-A to open pop-up in the LGBT Center Slay your way into a spicy chicken sandwich combo with a side of Kate Bush’s greatest hits! DANIEL SCANLON Italian /SRS

The second-oldest LGBT center in the country, the Penn LGBT Center, is one with the beating pulse of queer cultural production. Ever since Japanese Breakfast graced the stage of the Kelly Writers House, or when 100 Gecs ordered a caviar pizza to Mask and Wig’s offcampus apartment, bisexuals and Italians alike have yearned for a cultural marvel that could fill the big-dayfor-annoying-people-shaped hole on campus. Enter Chick-fil-A … /srs. Are you salivating yet? Hold on diva: This isn’t your run-of-the-mill chick’n hut: The doll takes Dining Dollars. Take that, Drexel Shake Shack! There’s a new queercoded, overpriced eatery in town. Set to open concurrently with Philly Pride, University

staff stopped at nothing to ensure that the pop-up’s opening day would consecrate itself in history books alongside the Stonewall Riots and “Paris Is Burning.” Officiating the rainbow ribbon-cutting ceremony will be none other than noted homophobe RuPaul Charles dressed as Big Bird. She can now add Ivy League homophobia soft launches to her long list of pinkwashed business foibles! In addition to the restaurant’s current staples, you can slay your way into a spicy chicken sandwich combo with a side of Kate Bush’s greatest hits, poppers, and boots the house down! The perfect mid-afternoon pick-me-up after a grueling morning of trying on every pair of pants and putting on a floral romper instead. The environmentally minded portion of our readership will be glad to discover that these chickens were raised on Phoebe Bridgers’ vast swaths of pasture in central Virginia, where, before slaughter, they enjoyed a daily routine of bullet journaling, hugging (homosocial bonding), and engaging in meaningful dialogue with their inner chick. The Center will raffle off each chicken’s personally crafted crochet sweater — all funds to go to Penn College Republicans. Gone are the days of trudging to 34th and Race streets to indulge in morally loaded morsels of chickeny goodness. Raising Cane’s might be opening down the street, but what’s a chicken sandwich without Evangelistic subtext? Gays are all about ambience, and no establishment reflects such aesthetic emphasis like blurbs of fiery gospel splayed on all four of the pop-up’s walls. Adam and Steve were brothers (in Christ), of course! See CHICK-FIL-A, page 6

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Report: Billions of years of carbon-based life-forms yet you exist during the same time as Interim President Wendell Pritchett This is the best possible world, and it’s made even better by Interim President Wendell Pritchett. My love, your ontology was kissed by God. LIWA SUN Area Chinese Woman

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Our life on Earth is a miracle. It is a pure wow. We manage to embody this stint of existence in the gargantuan, unutterable magnitude of the spacetime continuum that we live in. Within the diameter of 93 billion light years of the observable universe, we happen to find ourselves in this solar system. Not a tad too far nor a tad too close, the Earth sits on exactly the golden spot in our solar system that is habitable. Where is everyone else? Who are the other entities which each of us is himself, also denoted as the Dasein, in the two trillion galaxies in the observable universe? We stare up the sky and we reach with our hands. There’s nothing else. There is no one else, there is nowhere else. There is only us. And we are here right now. Our sacred simultaneity

shudders across the world faster than the speed of light. You know what’s more magnificent than existence? It is the fact that among the vast possibilities of time-space combinations in the history and future of carbon-based life-forms on our planet, you have the fortune to exist during the same time as Interim President Wendell Pritchett. Think about it. Imagine if your father had just one less Mai Tai that night in summer 2001 and managed to put on the condom correctly — you wouldn’t be here. Imagine if Interim President Wendell Pritchett’s father, Wendell Pritchett Sr., had not taken the time to stop on his way home from work that afternoon to smell the cherry blossoms outside the train station — he would not have conceived Interim President Wendell Pritchett at the exact moment in time that he did, and Interim President Wendell Pritchett would not be here. Imagine if the An Lushan Rebellion against the Tang Dynasty of China in 755 A.D. did not happen. China’s political and military decay would not have been exacerbated to the point of pure capitulation to Genghis Khan’s relentless power. Imagine if Mishima Yukio did not write Kinkaku-ji. Imagine if former United States President Donald J. Trump didn’t tweet, “Despite the constant negative press covfefe.” Imagine all the people. Living for today. Ah-ahhh. Tweak one infinitesimally small detail, and you would have never had the honor of being a contemporary of Interim President Wendell Pritchett. Even worse than that — you would not even have the slightest inkling of what could have been: existing during the same time as Interim President Wendell Pritchett. Which is worse? To have loved and lost or to have never loved at all? Felicitously, this is not a hypothetical worthy of entertaining. This is the best possible world, and it’s made even better by Interim President Wendell Pritchett. My love, your ontology was kissed by God. The love we made in your Tribeca studio apartment makes the end of the world a dance in the park. The promise of a future bliss bleeds into the ever present. At every moment we are doused in the rapture of the liminal distance between this second and the next. We finally wake up in the Garden of Eden. Seen through the great works of death, you are greater. You are emptying the world so we can be alone. I love you.

3/10/2022 4:18:27 PM

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Completion of fraternity hazing proven to turn strong, blond men to LGBT Just weeks ago, these men were normal students. Now, they are gay. JOSH MUKHERJEE Stupid Whoreish Twink

Recent studies conducted by the University of Pennsylvania have left muscular, attractive, heterosexual men in a panic. Qualitative evidence has been uncovered suggesting that fraternity organizations operate in a manner similar to that of conversion camps, but in reverse. The hazing process is making boys like other boys!

NEWS 3

THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 2022

Multiple members of this year’s pledge class for St. Anthony’s Hall were interviewed. One student (medium height, kind eyes, and a cherubic face) said, “I can’t really remember for sure if kissing boys is something we have to do for pledging, but I’m going to keep doing it just in case.” Another brother (chiseled arms, strong jawline), with whom he was holding hands for the entirety of the interview, chimed in: “Yeah, I’ve started watching videos of boys kissing on the YouTube.” He had no explanation as to why. The brothers spoke in graphic, intense detail of their experiences entering their basement, getting shirtless, and drinking liquor off of each other’s bare bodies. At this point, the interviewers stood quiet and had stopped asking questions. The fraternity members decided to share more — they began giggling and whispering about their last sleepover, at which all the brothers had a girly pillow fight at their chapter house after being “forced” to spend the night there. The Slayly Pennsylvanian interviewers were completely silent and prepared to leave, but the members of Hall had more to say. They continued to express excitement at the thought of other men. Someone else (tall, blond, white) gave the following

explanation: “We were supposed to download Tinder and buy their premium package as part of a hazing activity, but I ended up accidentally paying for a yearlong subscription to Grindr. At this point, I may as well just use it.” The changes in attitude and sexuality have strong implications for fraternity culture on campus. Standard conventions for getting into parties have changed entirely. Now, for a pretty boy to make his way past the door, he has to give each brother a gentle, tender, but somewhat passionate kiss on the mouth. Tongue optional, but recommended. It must be delicate, but have weight to it. It must incite love, but also fear. These are the expectations that the members of Hall now have. Just weeks ago, these men were normal students. Now, they are gay. After spending all their time playing with boys, their minds have been chemically altered to appreciate the company of other men. The University of Pennsylvania has been made aware of these recent developments, and the administration has launched several programs to reverse the damage. Re-conversion is the first step, and it is a necessary step. We at The Slayly Pennsylvanian hope everyone just goes back to being regular soon enough.

Board of Trustees investigated, here is what we found We’ve got it all wrong. They’re not old or out of touch. They’re absolute fucking chillers. MIKAYLA GOLUB Propaganda Specialist

The Board of Trustees has been a constant target of student criticism, most notably over issues such as Penn’s refusal to pay PILOTs and continuous investment in fossil fuels. But what do we really know about them? What are their actual opinions on Penn’s policies? Which of their children is their favorite? Do they believe in God? Under the Button sent me as an undercover agent to infiltrate the Board of Trustees and find out the truth about them. I walked into a conference room at The Inn at Penn wearing an inconspicuous gray pantsuit. I noticed that around the table were printed nameplates denoting the seating arrangement. I took out a piece of notebook paper from my backpack and scribbled my name onto said piece of paper with a glitter pen in the most adult handwriting I could muster. From then on, no one questioned my status as trustee. During the meeting, we discussed three super boring resolutions: Penn’s COVID-19 policy, endowment allocation, and resources for FGLI students. Each resolution was debated for five

PHOTO COURTESY OF DANIEL BURKE

minutes before all the members shrugged their shoulders and said, “Maybe we just push this to the next meeting?” To adjourn, Scott L. Bok, chairman of the Board of Trustees and esteemed investment bank Greenhill & Co., Inc., turned down the lights, brought a mic to his lips, and screamed: “Y’all ready to party?!” Handles and handles of vodka appeared. All of a sudden, I was doing body shots off of Julie Breier Seaman while Alan D. Schnitzer was doing body shots off of me. Perry Golkin brought out a bong to take some rips, but John P. Shoemaker said: “That’s some pussy ass shit, Perry. We’re the Board of Trustees, man.” From there, we went to West & Down. Scotty Bok, my guy, bought us a round of well tequila. By the time we rolled up at Smokes’, neither Massi Khadjenouri nor Susanna E. Lachs had shirts on, and Harlan M. Stone couldn’t stop saying: “That new Drake album really hit.” We carved our names into the wall and exchanged

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numbers, taking funny photos for our contact pictures. The night started to blur around the time that Lynn J. Jerath and Mark B. Werner were making out at the bar, and I don’t remember how I got home. What did I learn from my time infiltrating the Board of Trustees? We’ve got it all wrong. They’re not old or out of touch. They’re absolute fucking chillers. You think Scotty L. Bok, my Scotty, could invest $30 million in Exxon Mobile? Nah, he’s too busy doing keg stands and making the most beautiful jello shots you’ve ever seen. Janet F. Haas keeps proposing more aggressive efforts to gentrify West Philadelphia? This is a woman who just loves to laugh and listen to reggae. At the end of the day, being trustees is just a job for these people. What does it say about us as students if we judge them based on their policy and investment decisions instead of how fucking hard they go?

Report: Penn Abroad to offer zero destinations in Wasia Little did he know that even after 25 years of existence and expansion, Penn Abroad still offers zero (0) destinations in Wasia for its undergraduate and graduate student body JUSTINE ORGEL AND LIWA SUN White Girl (The Chinese Kind) and Area Chinese Woman

From Birthright to Uganda, studying abroad provides a great opportunity for Penn students to learn about other people of the less-privileged world or to connect with their roots! College sophomore Karly Trinity ref lects on her experience studying abroad in little stick houses in Cameroon through popula r program, Whites Take Flights: “Ultimately, going to Cameroon made me more grateful for the bounty that God blessed my family with.” Despite what Penn has adver tised as a robust, abundant, worldly program, some students are not as thrilled with Penn Abroad as Trinity and all of the other people who have had life-changing experiences in Italy and Africa are. Meet college fifth-year senior Ari Goldberg. Goldberg, the son of Avi Goldberg, a Penn alumnus, and May Chen, a Chinese person, who met while Goldberg was completing a financial internship in Shanghai through Wharton Abroad, is unhappy with the lack of Wasian destinations offered by Penn Abroad. “What people don’t know about my dad is that he also got to go to Israel and look for a Jewish wife. Meeting my mom was just serendipitous. Israel was for culture. China was for play. My mom was privileged to be born in her country and connect with her roots early on,” said Goldberg. “I have always felt disconnected from my own country. Nobody immediately assumes that I am Wasian, nor will anyone speak Wasian with me. Nobody understands how it felt to discover my father’s porn search history.” In Goldberg’s meticulous seven-year graduation plan, he had eagerly placed “Study Abroad” in his seventh-year fall semester. A son of diaspora, a naked angel of the pain of cultural alienation and identity fragmentation, Goldberg has always dreamt of Wasia as his abroad destination. He yearns to regain a bond See WASIA, page 6

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4 OPINION

THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 2022

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Opinion I got splashed with Schuylkill water and now I see in 256 dimensions ICONOCLASM WITH IAN | In an instant, all of life’s disparate relationships seamlessly gravitated together, as if pulled by simple twine. Simply put: I began to see.

od damn it! Last Tuesday, when I was taking a pleasant walk by the riverbank, some asshole in a kayak splashed me in the face with a helping of pure Schuylkill water. And now, I see in 256 dimensions. Here’s how it happened: As my apparent executioner paddled quickly over the horizon without a care in the whole wide world, the freshly vaulted Schuylkill fluid forced its way into my unshielded orifices and made a beeline for my brain’s cingulate gyrus. “Fuck!” rang my internal monologue as I crashed to the ground in agony. Honestly, the first post-splash symptoms weren’t a huge deal: clammy hands, nausea, and a sense of impending doom. I mean, that’s just every Tuesday for me. But there was no way for me to prepare myself for what came next. It was at the fourth minute that the Schuylkillinduced hallucinations really kicked in. The effects of the fetid Philly fluid on my already tenuous connection to reality made getting home

somewhat challenging. “No problem,” I thought as the world began to swim around me. I would just do the sensible, straightforward thing: follow the fluffy, 50-feet-tall, wisecracking golden retriever past the spinster discotheque on 32nd Street until we finally reached the Burning Gates of Zormak. Hey, so sue me for not taking the scenic route. Once you get to the six-legged deer with the face of your estranged uncle, you’ll know you’re on the right track. “We’re going home, baby!” I called out. “No liquid, not even the rotten, polluted reserves of the Schuylkill, can stop me!” But then — just when I’d thought I was in the clear — the brackish northeastern river water delivered its final, fabled payload. Oh, and what a payload it was. In an instant, all of life’s disparate relationships seamlessly gravitated together, as if pulled by simple twine. Simply put: I began to see. I realized that it was the 21st minute after the initial assault. Yes, 21 … twenty-one, the Schuylkill,

Philadelphia, UPenn, Quakers … oh yes, it all made sense now … 21, 2.1 meters … height, Gritty’s height, Gritty … goodness, it’s all clear! By Jove, it’s all connected! The asshole kayakist, my mom cutting me out of the will last Thursday, the reason why I had even made the daft decision of being within a one-mile radius of the Schuylkill in the first place; everything just … came together. Beautifully. I unlocked arcane knowledge, things no human should ever know. I could finally spell “Schuylkill.” Flawlessly, forwards and backwards. S-C-H-U-YL-K-I-L-L. Easy peasy. L-L-I-K-L-Y-U-H-C-S. A cakewalk. But that’s not all I discovered. No, no. Exactly one hour after that fateful spritz of bayou bile, I could see everything. And I mean everything: In an instant, I saw the confines of my world, saw how it started, and saw how it would inevitably end. I despaired at the hypocrisy of it all, the empty words, the truths, the lies, the simulacra, the artifice. I saw the desert of the real grow as it sprawled outward, revealing the profound banality of expression and teasing at the sumptuous gossamers of pretension. I saw art for what art is, no longer a perfunctory entity relegated to the shallow margins of life. Blinking quickly, I saw the person reading my story, and I saw the person writing it. I saw the cliches that bound my life, and I saw the economic framework which ultimately impelled each and every one of my idiosyncratic behaviors, defined who I was, determined when it was time to crack a joke, when it was time to listen, and to feel. I saw my past, a dreary past which reflected across time to form my supposed hopes and dreams … and I saw people, people who I could recognize … but did I know them? I looked

behind the clouded figures and yanked back the thin veils of reality to reveal quite the frightening sight: a shimmering network of symbols spanning the firmament above — Could it be? Language! — Looking closer, I saw just how deep this informational apparatus ran: I saw language spill out of a troubled mind and onto the page, a flimsy piece of paper charged with containing the human experience, and, zooming out, I saw the absurdity of the entire enterprise, the fallibility of words, the instability of narratives, the nullity of concepts — the complete and utter irrelevance of writing. And then, as if it were all a bad dream, I woke up in a familiar place: a musty Harnwell dorm room. On the screen in front of me shone an exhausting 900word document. In my dazed state, I attempted to reread the publication-ready account. The Schuylkill water still fresh on my lips, I struggled to reconstruct any semblance of satire, or even just a storyline, but it was hopeless. Defeated, I shrugged and took another messy swig out of the now half-empty Mason jar of festering, flowing substance, as clear as the night was young. Damn … I really gotta lay off this stuff. Logging onto Canvas, I quickly reminded my students that their creative writing narratives were due this Friday at 5 p.m. before shortly passing out in my comfy leather armchair. IAN ONG is the name for a ragtag band of people that the real Ian hired on Fiverr to churn out pages upon pages of drivel for release to the hoi polloi. And no, he still hasn’t paid us.

Let’s play mermaids in the BioPond JURISPRUDENCIALITY WITH JACKSON | Just me, you, the fish that

live in the biopond, and a whole lot of adventure

ey man, I just got out of my neuro lab and I’m trying to blow off some steam. I know we usually smoke up there, but actually, I was just wondering if you might want to play mermaids in the biopond? I really think it would be super fun. My mermaid name is “Aquarion,” and I can shoot spikes out of my tail. King Neptunius is the evil emperor, and he stole my prized golden gill that has brought peace and prosperity to the kingdom. Your

mermaid name can be “Aquamarina,” and you can even choose the color of your tail. But you can’t have green, that’s mine. What do you mean that sounds lame? Nah dude, it’ll be way more fun than your frat’s Champagne and Shackles party tonight. Just me, you, the fish that live in the biopond, and a whole lot of adventure. I even have an extra towel you can borrow. If we don’t get the gill back, everything in the town will melt into a slimy goo that the snail-monsters feast on.

See MERMAIDS, page 7

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OPINION 5

THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 2022

Senior societies should be more open to students who are insufferable, friendless MARKETABLE GARBAGE WITH MG | I never even got tapped while playing Seven-Up in middle school, how am I expected to

get tapped by a senior society?

ne of the things I admire the most about Penn is the ability of its students to form small, tight-knit communities within such a large and lonely campus environment. Penn puts a lot of emphasis on diversity and inclusion, and rightly so. But when will these DEI initiatives think to include the students who continue to exist on the periphery of campus life: the ones who have no friends? Senior societies are supposed to bring together like-minded students and provide an opportunity to foster new friendships in your final year at Penn. How can these societies, with clear conscience, claim to be dutifully fulfilling that role when they cut applicants (me, hypothetically) based on the mere fact that my “vibes were atrocious” or that I “just brought down the whole room?” Obviously I am speaking in hypothetical terms here, as I have only ever received positive feedback on the surveys I send out to my peers about how much they like me. But still, as an empath (one of my positive qualities, according to survey results), I can imagine how much it must hurt for others to realize through this process that they are universally reviled by their classmates. Even Feb Club, a series of events open to all seniors, is still exclusive, considering that certain students (and in no way do I relate to this experience, it’s just what I’ve heard) skip certain events because they have no

PHOTO FROM PIXABAY / CC0

one to hang out with while there. Can an event really be considered inclusive if I — for the sake of this hypothetical situation, as clearly I am very popular and well-liked on this campus — am forced to hover on the outskirts of conversation circles before inevitably returning to standing by the snack table all night? This is not a new problem. Most students who have no friends have been struggling with social isolation for eons. I spoke with one student, Marie Jane (C ‘22), who is her own person and most definitely not the author of this opinion piece, about her experience. “At the very beginning of my time at Penn, I remember everyone being so friendly and open to meeting new people.

But the more time I spent with these new friends, usually after about a week, they became more distant. At first I thought I had done something wrong, but what? Did they not appreciate the times I pointed out the flaws in their outfits? Did they not enjoy the way I kept them informed on the latest memes from r/Funny? Maybe what my mommy always tells me is true: They were just jealous of my infinite beauty and sparkling personality.” I think, personally, in my opinion, based on my own thoughts and feelings, what I believe, is that things need to change. Penn needs to take accountability for the fact that it attracts large numbers of students who are simply unlikable. Penn cannot continue to draw in such irritating

douchebags without ensuring there are systems in place to provide for their inevitable loneliness. I propose that senior societies should be just as inclusive as this University itself. They should not be limited to students who are talented, driven, or popular among their peers; societies should also consider the innate value provided by legacy students and other students with extremely rich and well-connected parents. These students, after being coddled and handed everything their entire lives, were left totally out to dry when they were thrust into the Penn social scene with no preparation regarding how to make friends who don’t need to use them for the pool in their backyard. In a way, these students are the true underprivileged members of our campus community. And no, I am not in a senior society. Not because I got cut from all the ones I applied to though; obviously that wouldn’t happen. I just didn’t try to join one based on principle; if my most obnoxious and unbearable classmates can’t join a senior society, then I won’t either. MARY GRACE MEREDITH is a silly little girl that studies very little in the College of Arts and Sciences. She’s not very pretty, she’s not very talented, and she’s not very bright.

I spoil the Wordle for people and also I have a small penis TAYLOR’S HEINOUS TABOOS | It’s a power like no other, and I enjoy it to my wit’s end because I, along with everyone else who spoils the Wordle, am just that much of a piece of shit

(18 M) wake up. It is a beautiful spring morning: Music is in the air, and I am ready to start the day. As I enter my first class, I see a group of people waiting for the professor, engaging in the unofficial official Penn pastime: Wordle. Now, essential to your understanding of this story is the knowledge that I have a tiny penis. An infinitesimally miniscule sex organ lies between my legs. My penis is so small that my parents didn’t even know I was a boy until I spoke my first words. My penis is so incomprehensibly meager that there is only one thing that fills the hole left by my pint-sized penis.

i am alice

My diminutive penis gets off on spoiling the Wordle. There is no greater joy for me and my tiny penis than the thrill of looking over someone’s shoulder and taking away the little joy they get from a completed Wordle. I live for the theft of serotonin from those around me, and I have found that being a Wordle-spoiler allows me to express this side of myself to its fullest extent. I can make a man crumble, bring him to his knees, and completely revoke his will to live just by uttering the word “LINEN.” Five simple letters, and I can break a man. It’s a power like no other, and I enjoy it to my wit’s end because I, along with

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Those disgusting alcoves are our homes, those dank dungeons are our element, and if you come anywhere near us, we will spoil the Wordle. Just a word of warning. Oh, and by the way, on the day of the publication of this newspaper, Thursday, March 31, the Wordle is “LOWLY.” XOXO TAYLOR WHITEHEAD is a “student” at the University of Pennsylvania. In reality, he is a homeless man who scammed his way onto Under the Button and now writes the occasional article.

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everyone else who spoils the Wordle, am just that much of a piece of shit. Trust me, we all know each other. Everyone who has ever breathed down your neck and uttered that two-syllable word moments before you got it for yourself, everyone who has ever seen you toiling away, the gears in your brain grinding harder than they ever have before, and stolen the bliss from you moments before your mental climax — they are all good friends of mine, and they too have scanty little penises. We are everywhere. Anywhere that you find pathetic losers looking to ruin the fun of those around them, you will find us spoilers.

6 NEWS

THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 2022 CHICK-FIL-A, from page 2

WASIA, from page 3

The University of Pennsylvania’s LGBT Center was a formless void. Then God said, “Let there be those ugly LED strips that you control with that app on your phone,” and there was light. And God saw that the light was good. God called the light Day, and the darkness Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day. And God said, “Let there be a Chick-fil-A in the midst of the gays, and let it separate the ironic consumers from the homophobes.” So God made the Chick-fil-A and separated the gays that ate Phoebe Bridgers-pasture-raised chicken from the gays that didn’t. And it was so. The second day. And God said, “Let the hyperpop streamers under the sky be gathered together into one place, and let the dry land appear.” And it was so. God called the dry land The University of Pennsylvania Chick-fil-A Pop-Up, and the waters that were gathered together he called the BioPond (the first mikvah). And God saw that it was good. Then God said, “Does anyone remember when Kelly Osbourne was on ‘The View’? Oh, she still is? Hm.” And it was so. The Chick-fil-A brought forth a cultural reset: stomachs yielding sauces of every kind, and rainbow packaging of every kind bearing Adobe Illustrator-generated logos with gradients overlaid. And God saw that it was good.

with his rich, plentiful homeland. Little did he know that even after 25 years of existence a nd expa nsion, Penn Abroad still offers zero (0) destinations in Wasia for its undergraduate and graduate student body. Not only that, none of the academic departments in any of the schools affiliated with the University engage in any form of academic or professional correspondence with the vast continent of Wasia. “I’m not losing hope,” Goldberg declared after our journalist asked about his feelings regarding years upon years of frustration and disappointment over Penn Abroad’s inaction. “I’m sure by the time my seventh year rolls around, Penn Abroad will have rectified this gross oversight. “If not,” Goldberg continued, “I will take it upon myself to go to Wasia and ameliorate any animosity between our two entities. Perhaps I can bond with the citizens of UCLA over our love for Panda Express. And we could also connect on the basis of our shared professional experience at Elite SAT Prep Center (Upper Darby Branch). Some other Wasian locations I’m considering include Columbia University Statistics Department, Sephora (in front of the Fenty kiosk), or Meta Headquarters (under the altar).”

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Report: My Nana thinks I should headline Fling We need to take action and let the fate of one of this University’s most celebrated traditions lie in the hands of one woman: my Nana MAYA KREGER An Uninspired Woman

In recent weeks, the student body has been called upon to pick this year’s Spring Fling performers. In an unprecedented act of democracy, these performers will represent the will of the people. While many students did not submit suggestions, the performers were still picked by the students, for the students. This must change. On Wednesday, March 23, the Spring Fling performers were announced: Flo Milli and Cheat Codes are to headline Spring Fling 2022. While the opinion of the study body is important, only one woman’s opinion really matters: my Nana’s. As a longtime advocate of the arts and myself, my Nana did not take well the decision to have these performers headline, as she firmly believes that I should be headlining Fling. She has been known to say that “[I] really have a true talent that no one understands.” Let’s give my Nana what she wants and let the world finally understand my talent: let me headline Spring Fling. Look, I’m by no means saying that Flo Milli and Cheat Codes don’t deserve to perform. They are both great musicians, I think. However, they are both critically lacking

UPennAlert: Girl with devastatingly high ponytail traverses Spruce Street Use caution. See www.publicsafety. upenn.edu for details. GRACE GINSBURG Long COVID Activist

Issued at 4/1/2022 at 10:31 a.m. WARNING. Grace Ginsburg (C ‘22) was just found traversing Spruce Street wearing giant, giant pants, a teeny, tiny shirt, circle glasses, and an extraordinarily high ponytail. Her luscious

Semitic locks (thick, wavy, black as night, pouring down her olive-skinned back like a waterfall) have been gathered on the top of her head, secured by that one kind of ponytail holder with a knot that was trendy for six months in 2017. This has the potential to be a dangerous situation for all passersby, as the reverberations of the ponytail’s swing generate enough force to knock down Harrison, Harnwell, and the High Rise/DuBois COVID-19 Testing Tent. All residents have been asked to evacuate. This ponytail has reached a height achieved by few of the famous slaytresses that came before her, eviscerating Ariana Grande’s signature look and Beyoncé’s “I Dream of Jeannie” updo from the 2015 Met Gala. Members of the Ella Emhoff Institute of Postmodern Fashion and Aesthetics declined to comment — the state of affairs “too shocking” and “too dangerous” for their liking. This situation is only exacerbated by Ginsburg’s robust upper body and an athleticism that usually warrants a “you can run pretty fast for a girl.” Use caution. See www.publicsafety.upenn.edu for details.

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in one department: my Nana’s approval. Neither of them has the undying support nor the unconditional love of my Nana. I know that my Nana’s words might not traditionally have sway in the decision-making process of deciding who is to perform at Fling. That’s why I’m calling for change and the rejection of the status quo. We need to take action and let the fate of one of this University’s most celebrated traditions lie in the hands of one woman: my Nana. I have an extensive musical repertoire that I would be happy to share with the student body at Fling that I had previously only shown to my Nana. From my gorgeous rendition of the classic tune “Hot Cross Buns” on the piano in her living room to my “nearly constantly perfect whistle pitch,” the quality of my entertainment skills had my Nana firmly believing that I would be the best Fling since Chance the Rapper in 2016. She has been witness to several of my renowned high school orchestra performances and some middle school piano recitals, so she knows the caliber to which I perform at. From my performance at my brother’s high school graduation to my brief yet genre-bending solo of “The Rainbow Connection” by Kermit the Frog in elementary school, I captivate the audience with my sweet, sweet songs and intoxicating melodies. Furthermore, my Nana does not know who Flo Milli or Cheat Codes are, but she knows me. Sure, Flo Milli has some popular songs like “Roaring 20s,” and Cheat Codes supposedly has over 14 million monthly listeners on Spotify (likely bots), but what they do not have is my Nana. My Nana has never been heard saying that Flo Milli is a “beautiful granddaughter,” nor has she said that Cheat Codes “looks just like her.” However, she has said both of these things about me. If you want to be entertained and hear some really great sounds and noises, there is really only one solution. Listen, I don’t really understand what the issue is. I’m not asking for much. All I want is for my Nana to decide who performs at Spring Fling this year, and that performer just happens to be me. So, let’s give the people what they want (by people I mean my Nana) ,and let me headline Spring Fling.

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OPINION 7

THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 2022 MERMAIDS, from page 4

It’s a dangerous quest, but only we can do it! The biopond is fine to swim in! I do it all the time. I’ve had to pick worms out of my butt crack twice, but it’s worth it for such a swashbuckling great time. Actually, last time I swam there I caught a toad. I know it died because I kept it in my backpack, but it was so cool while it was alive. Plus, the doctors say that it’s unlikely that I get the same flesh-eating bacteria twice from the same pond. Honestly, I feel like it helped build up my natural immunity. Super important while we’re in a pandemic. Fine, enjoy your stupid date night. When I asked you to be my roommate because you posted in the Incoming Penn Freshman Facebook group that you “loved little adventures,” I thought you really meant it. Honestly, I don’t know who you are anymore. Is sushi even your favorite food? Is your favorite TV show actually “The Office?” I feel like I’m a stranger in my own Quad dorm.

Mermaids is much more fun to play by myself anyway. I bet you’re too big to get in the biopond. And honestly, you’re probably just scared that I’d beat you in the Great Mermaid Race. Gonna go cry about it to your mommy? Sounds like you’re a chicken. Whatever, jerk. Being shackled to a “really cool girl” who you’ve been “seeing for a couple of months now” and “introducing her to your friends” sounds awful. I thought it was bros before hoes! Or bro-maids before hoe-maids? Because of mermaids? Ok, whatever, I’ll reread our roommate contract. Enjoy your night. JACKSON PARLI is gay and Jewish (in that order) and has no other traits. Fan mail for him can be sent to the DP office.

OP-ED: I literally love you THIN THOUGHTS WITH SCOTT | The world is ending and you’re forming a marketing committee? What the fuck is wrong with you.

acques Derrida once said “In this sense, differánce is not preceded by the originary and indivisible unity of a present possibility.” We’re shifting into absolute movement mode. Digitized relationships inevitably dampen the f lames of passion and culminate in the total erosion of eros. Many have begun to describe themselves as “post-love,” an untenable philosophical position given its inability to sublate and ultimately reconcile the contradictions of postmodern desire. To quote esteemed female Chinese writer and prominent theorist Liwa Sun, “I can only live through empty impersonations of love, and you are accelerating towards extinction.” In a transgressive maneuver, I have returned to earnest identification with the semiotic framework of traditional romance and must proclaim: “I literally love you.” Our bodies are extinguished and this is hell but all I see are angels. Confronting chaotic terror, I can only smile in the presence of violent truth. Lacan must be annihilated before we can assess the situation and determine its “absolute vibe.” An intrepid reader might ask how this is possible if Jacques Lacan died in 1981, but the task ahead is to escape linear rationalizations of memory and annihilate his totemic presence in our collective unconscious. The world is ending and I’ve never touched anything beautiful, but beauty perished in the distant past. The world is ending and you’re forming a marketing committee? What the fuck is wrong with you. Try harder. Regress into infinite recursion and embrace the love trapped within your absent form. I literally love you and it pains me to see you

like this. I literally love you but you ended the world. Punch me in the face so I can feel something. Punch me in the face so I can embody the revenge of the Real. My love, why are you hurting me right now? I cower in the corner because that’s the only thing I know. Let me in, let me feel the unbearable burden of our shared union. Optimism conditions our reception of the final signifier, the culmination of lives consecrated by a determination to build a system of pure communication. Stephane Mallarmé was the inversion of eros directed towards logical exhaustion. The world is ending and we’re dancing in the flames of weltgeist declaring our love for one another. Derrida sighs and my GPA drops. Love me so that I can finally get off the waitlist for former President Donald Trump’s social media platform, Truth Social. Love me so we can reinvent digital payment platforms for financially precarious youths, empowering them through the potential of microfinance. Network spirituality promises a return to authentic belief, but belief ended when you went to that consulting info session. My body convulses in your absence, a soft reminder of that emotive power you wield in this chopped up, flip-flopped dance we call “love.” Love me so we can go to Shen Yun together and bask in 5,000 years of Chinese civilization.

SCOTT NEWMAN is a College senior who believes in everything and can contemplate the world’s infinte mystery.

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PHOTO BY PENN TODAY AND EVERYTHING MERMAID, EDITS BY JACKSON PARLI // CC BY 2.0

QUIZ: Should women be professors? MERESA GARCIA Brown

1. What is your gender? A. Wrong B. Even more wrong C. Wrongest D. Wronger 2. How often do you think of your mother when you have sex? A. Sometimes B. Always C. Always D. Harry Potter 3. What is the most important quality? A. Ass B. Tiddies C. Ass and tiddies D. An empath 4. Homosexuality is on the rise. A. It’s okay, I have gay friends B. Don’t worry C. My dog is gay D. I wouldn’t say no to anal 5. Have you learned anything from a woman (mom included)? A. Yes, what a guy wants B. Yes, how to lose a guy in 10 days C. Unfortunately, I have never seen one D. I have an Uma Thurman poster

6. Should I get a nose job? A. No, you’re perfect the way you are! B. You’re skinnier than Timothée Chamalet! C. You’re so super skinny, I’m so jealous! D. Bestie, I know a doctor (this is the wrong answer) 7. Girl of your dreams. Would you date her if she only ate hot dogs? A. Yeah, but head only B. Does she have a sister? C. Papi no likey D. She is my sister 8. ¿Por qué me abandonó mi papá? A. I’m mid, but I am free B. Wee-wee wa-wa C. It’s a good thing he’s so handsome D. Women: misogynists? 9. What is giving? A. All I think about is you B. Late nights in the middle of June C. Heat waves been faking me out D. Can’t make you happier now 10. Have you ever seen a woman? A. Only in my dreams B. I wish :( C. I might’ve, in the movies D. I think once in a basement somewhere

Now tally up your score to see what you got! Mostly As: Impossible, there isn’t a female equivalent to the word professor Mostly Bs: No, there aren’t any now, so there can’t be any in the future Mostly Cs: Yes, but only in the off-season Mostly Ds: Stupid question, my mother loves me Thanks for playing! Be sure to look out for our next quiz: How to Know if You’re a Simp or Not. (You are!)

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PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, MARCH 31, 2022

VOL. CXXXVIII

NO. 10

Penn men’s basketball allocates remaining funds to VR headsets to pretend to be in March Madness final this Saturday “Hurrah for the Red and the Blue! Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! Hurrah for the Red and Blue!”

ball team starting at the basement of DRL and ending at the doors of the palestra. Here students are encouraged to come with signs dedicated to their favorite players (mine’s Wendell Moore at Duke!) or to bring treats for the players’ perilous journey. The men’s basketball team is hoping for an okay-sized just about say so maybe half-full gym so come as tickets are going at a moderate pace! It’s almost religious, isn’t it? Finally seeing the insignia of our university traverse the steps of the Final Four stage. Like a young bird hopping off its perch and into the mouth of a lion! Only to be freed through a crutch. We. Are. Here. To. Fight! So, Quakers, as we descend into the pit of Dante’s Inferno and enter into the ninth and final ring before victory, let us come together and sing: “Hurrah for the Red and the Blue! Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! Hurrah for the Red and Blue!”

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In a shocking turn of events and upsets in the last week involving the yearly March Madness Tournament, Penn is heading to the semifinals (but, like, in a vicarious way)! Reflective of the current pandemic, in which everyone took to the digital world for everyday life, Penn’s men’s basketball team is in a hot pursuit. With the purchase of 19 virtual reality headsets, an overall feeling of nostalgia and a burning drive to be included, Penn’s short and pocket-sized 43-year hiatus into the final rounds of the tournament are finally coming to an end. Faculty, staff, students, and families of the players are invited to come and watch in the Palestra this Saturday, April 2. A surround sound system has been set up to play commonly heard sound effects in a normal basketball game like dribbling, oohs and aahs, and even the occasional Grindr (© 2022) notification chime from the man a couple seats away. However, like mice in a maze but completely blindfolded, the players will all be allowed to act out the moves of the player they’re watching to practice and create the “squeak-seek-eek” sounds of their shoes all on their own.

PHOTO WITH EDITS FROM PENN TODAY

Since the experience will have a gargantuan emotional payoff most likely altering the reality of the entire team (comparable to Peeta Mellark being brainwashed by the Capitol), the team will have to undergo a strict reality-confirming workshop to remember that it’s all fictitious. This news came shortly after Penn decided not to throw all its eggs in one basket and allocate players to each watch through the perspective of one of the Final Four teams. Although many critics are against what

could turn into a barbaric civil war between brothers and fathers in arms, the coaches have decided to see it on to the finish. Starting as far back as one month ago, players were required to follow the 24/48-hour rule when pertaining to practice and preventative therapy, respectively. On top of all this, players were required to no longer ride their scooters for any distances shorter than the Lower Quad gates to Williams. Penn will be hosting a giant send-off for the basket-

Au, contraire. I actually corralled a bunch of gremlins, trolls, and sea creatures that I found traversing the murky bottoms of the Schuylkill River. I lured them all into my office (a room in the Center City WeWork space), and bribed them with kombucha on draft and zany laptop stickers that say “Bears, Beets, Battlestar Galactica” and “Namastay in Bed.” Once they all sat before me, I brought them into the neoliberal war room (still the WeWork space, but with computers), strapped them to their seats, and locked them in the room with nothing but Trader Joes cauliflower gnocchi to munch on, frozen, like Dippin’ Dots. I said, write, bedlamites! Oh boy, write they did. For days they wrote, with no access to the outside world nor forms of entertainment other than Far East Movement’s hit track “Like a G6” on continuous loop. While they wrote, I slapped their wrists with rulers as I screamed at them over the music. I screamed loudly and gutturally about the importance of social distancing and wearing a mask, the need for diversity chairs in corporate spaces, and why being bisexual is actually harder than being normal gay.

Map of Penn’s Campus nails, nibbles, bar

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April fools. Fuck you. And read www.underthebutton.com. Sent, with love, from my 13-inch M1 2020 MacBook Pro,

GRACE GINSBURG Chief Executive Officer and CEO of Under the Buttion Incorporated

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THE JOKE ISSUE

OSCAR EICHMANN Activist, Model

Always moving, always growing. Always changing, always flowing. Together, we are the diaspora.

___ It was an early 11 AM on a brisk Monday morning. The soft wash of light over me filled my senses. I saw birds flying. My migration that day made me feel like those birds. I am a bird. From afar, I could see the cold and uninviting white shell. It was a snail, moving slowly forward, and for so long I struggled yet to reach it. The gravel crunch beneath my feel tickles my sense of journey, excitement, and of titillation.

I yearn for my apotheosis. Where is my meeting with a goddess? Where is the crossing of the liminal threshold? Where is my colostomy bag? Lost in the waves of the ever-flowing ocean of transgression across novel perspectives and beginnings. A shame, truly. He greeted me with open arms. Some say those arms were too wide open. Alas, I wouldn’t have known. I lay down. Soft white chair. Rest at last! Long work has passed. O tempora, o mores!

Penn Med Mermaid Containment Zone

Snip, Snip: A Diaspora Poem Detailing My Vasectomy Journey

I am on my Road of Trials, yet it is coming to a close. One day. Actually, that day is today.

free nail polish

CVS NEVER ENTER!!!

safe space

And it worked. They spewed pure petroleum from the depths of their frontal lobes, creating content ghastlier than my gastrointestinal system after two cold brews, a harvest bowl, and the fiber gummies I eat to be a better empath for homosexual men. The results were darker and more twisted than I could ever have imagined. I know that’s right. So, I’m sorry, reader, to have pulled a fast one over you. It isn’t ladylike to joke, and it certainly isn’t ladylike to prank. But I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

MAURA PINDER A lover not a fighter

Sweetgreen

Huntsman

Smokes

Urban Outﬁtters

We pitched several more “Sport” articles, but apparently crocheting and being wanderlust in the grass do not count as “Sport” in the eyes of The Daily Pennsylvanian. We spend far too much time being hot and pursuing infinite academic knowledge to write silly little articles about a “touchdown” or “defense.” Sorry :/

Poem of the Year

Letter from the Editor Dear Reader, I come to you with a heavy heart and my tail between my legs. I am sorry. I am so sorry, I am so, so, sorry, angel, because none of what you just read was real. I am going to give you a second to process. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. I threw one extra Mississippi in there for good measure. Are you okay? Do you want to cry? Do you want to have a crying party? Should we invite Bella Hadid? Do you need to be hooked up to a ventilator or some other medical device? Yeah. None of that was real. It was all a joke. I didn’t mean a single word of it. Nary a single piece of text on the newspaper that sits in your hands was truthful. It was all a lie! (I mean, all of it, except the solution to the U.S.-China conflict. That was 100% true, and that was substantiated by some of the nation’s top international relations strategists like Colin Powell and Tyler Oakley. Dance heals, and we must make space for that!) So yeah, it was all one big prank. This was NOT a run-of-the-mill issue of The Daily Pennsylvanian.

* Honestly, this is kind of all we really got.

I found myself beginning the assimilation. Is this the end of my puerile youth? Is this the ultimate boon? Will I lose who I was? Who I will be? Who even am I, Marco Polo? When I clenched tight, expecting anesthesia like a cool vice around my culture to fill my sweet lungs Dr. Sergei Maslow opened my mind to the possibilities of migration. He went snip snip. My ears, wings, went flip flip. I spread my legs. The diaspora spread into my mind. Now I leave sweet Sergei, learnèd, changèd. Without a seed to shoot forth to find another land, I sit idle. Peace and calm wash over me like water. I am out of the washing machine. And I satiate my desire, To travel no more, And to nut, With cashews.