The MQ Volume 24 Issue 6

mq yorker PRICELESS

the

MAY 9, 2018

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THE

MQ YORKER MAY 9, 2018 3

THE MAIL FOOD AND DRINK A Dish Fit For The Gods A Brief History of This 3000 Year Old Exotic Food

James Wilson

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Rhys Shriver

Monkey’s Business A Thousand Monkeys on Typewriters Wrote This Article A Lost Cause Searching For Peace in the Middle East When You Can’t Even Find Your Car Keys

Hannah Lykins

In Poor Taste My Attempts to Gentrify Poor Culture

Sage Cristal

5

Steven Zhou

Here’s a Tho(ugh)t An Interview with the Reigning Thot Competition Winner

Mishelle Arakelian

An Economy in Bloom What the Tulip Bulb Bubble Can Teach Us About Cryptocurrencies

Stephen Lightfoot

The Emperor’s New Groove The Secret Dance Life of Napoleon 6,7 8

GOINGS ON ABOUT TOWN POINTS Vomit: Art? Tour de Force How the Trip to France That My Dad Paid for Exposed Me to the Entire World

Steven Zhou

Don’t Worry Cambridge Analytica Says Your Data is Worthless

Declan Sullivan

Middle of the Aisle A Moderate’s Guide to Avoiding Challenging Political Debate

Elizabeth Niculescu

Quoc Tran

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Realization in Aisle 12 I Went to Kmart and a Stranger Changed my Life Save Your Skin Reviving the Ancient Art of Converting My Skin into Leather and Then Using It to Bind Copies of My Autobiography

Sage Cristal

The MQ Yorker, May 9, 2018

contributors

City Skyline Sketcher......................Hannah Rosenblatt Interpretive Dance Critic .........................Daniel Clinton Artisanal Caffeine Consumer..................Hannah Lykins Tote Bag Distributor....................................Sage Cristal Prince of Queens.............................................Chris Jin Mad Manhattaner..................................Dan Kaliblotzky Literate Reader...........................................Jay Noonan Canadian Ambassador ..................Sophia Landaverde Subway Saxophonist...................................Jessica Ma Sandwich Connoisseur..........................Stephen Lightfoot Middle-Class Correspondent.....................Rhys Shriver Your Biggest Critic...............................Samantha Cane Stock Market Tarot Interpreter........Matthew McMahon Resident Charcuterie Board Expert..Mishelle Arakelian Resident Oenologist.......................David Vereau Gorbitz Fellow American.....................................Lawrence Lee Foie Gras Technician...............................Alex Vollhardt Literary Landscaper..................................Jaz Twersky Resident Know-It-All.............................Ann Hawthorne Rachel Berge Isaac Canada Ashley Chen Daniel Chit Ethan Coston Summer Davis Frances Debrunner Paola Diaz Chris Doherty Daniel Eliyahu Amin Fozi Levi Friley Jonathan Funes Leo Grabowski Cole Greenbaun Katie Hallsten Tiffany Hamilton Rowan HernandezCosme

Jade Hookham Ikran Ibrahim Dylan Knutson Daniel Kupor Sam Leaman Chris Lee Nicholas Martin Ryan Martinez Rene Mejia Brandon Moguel Natalie Moy Sara Masud Sahil Nayyar Natalia Nenn Annie Nguyen Elizabeth Niculescu Matt Olson Tez Padhee Laura Pedrosa

Aniyah Pleasant Kavita Poduri Tanner Prater Rohan Rangray Catri Robertson Aaron Rohozinski Pilan Scruggs Parth Sean Declan Sullivan Angelica Sun Jasmine Terhall Quoc Tran Luke Tribble Sarah Wernher Michael Ye Ricky Zhao Steven Zhou

Guilty of Being a Human Being A Q&A Session with the Jersey Shitter

Stephen Lightfoot

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THE CRITICS

11,12 FICTION

haiku I

of the Anglican Republican Church: Jesus Christ our Lord Antidisestablishmentarianism

by David Vereau Gorbitz Resident Oenologist

The MQ is proud to be a Muir College student organization. Printing funds for The MQ are generously provided by the Muir College Council.

Satire comes with great dental.

All content is copyright © 2018 by The MQ unless superceded by previous condition of copyright, license, or trade dress. No portion of this paper may be reproduced, transcribed, or otherwise retransmitted without the express written consent of the Editor-in-Chief of The MQ. What started as easily the most hectic production we’ve been through has easily become the most enjoyable and rewarding. The New Yorker has been tossed around for a long time as the special issue, but also requires a lot of special attention to voice, and a more radical change in layout than other magazines we’ve tackled. Our previously fine-tuned processes of communication and workflow were quickly scrapped in the first two days of this production to make way for new formats and types of content. The flexibility and determination of this group has amazed me beyond end, and as we are quickly running towards final print out, a little before 1 am, I am suddenly the one that everyone is waiting on (it’s taking me a while to finish this note, I’m almost done Sage, calm down). I can’t wait to see what you all accomplish and share together next, and it is so entertaining and uplifting to see you truly make this org your own. I am so happy to sit back and enjoy the rest of this ride, and am honored to call you all my friends.

Tuesdays at 6 p.m. in Half Dome Lounge.

booster club

Thank you Mishelle, Jessica, Dswizzle, Stephen, David, Rhys, and Sam for fighting the tyranny of HDH by providing your dining dollars to a noble cause. Thanks Jay for spending actual money. Thanks Chris for being the dad we never had by giving us orange slices. And thanks Matt for the red vines and ice cream and cookies! Also, Ethan for the Quadratinis.

The MQ Yorker, May 9, 2018

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the mail

Oodles of Wealth

French Coffee Preparation

My name is Christopher Jacobs, and I am so glad to finally be writing to you after how much you’ve changed my life since the last issue. I have gone from being an average worker to being a very wealthy man in a very short amount of time, and it was all thanks to your advice! To think, I would have never gotten where I am today if you hadn’t written the article, “How to Become Wealthy by Distancing Yourself From Loved Ones.”

I was once foolish enough to have friends; so many of them! I kept them around because we had shared meaningless things like childhood memories. Now I know that there is no financial value in emotional support and that caring for others just impairs your ability to look out for yourself! After all that, I divorced my wife of five years, and I even made sure not to look her in the eye during our divorce hearing.

Then, after doing all these things, I made sure to go directly where you said in the article. After that one trip, I no longer feel guilt and am incredibly wealthy! Trust me, selling my soul was the smartest financial decision that I have ever made, and I’m surprised that there were only a few other people I saw doing the same. Either way, I don’t need a mortal soul when I have a brand new Lamborghini! Thanks again!

Normally, I don’t pay much attention to how people prepare their morning cup of bean water. However, I must passionately respond that while the French have undoubtedly left a lasting imprint in the culinary arts, their form of coffee-pressing is quite regrettably inferior to the Italian method of percolation.

I regularly visit Sur La Table, and a French Press there can be purchased for around $30 while a typical percolator costs at least $70. Judging by cost, it’s quite apparent that it’s much more expensive to percolate coffee, thus making it superior to pressing it. Also, when one thinks of all the names for different coffees — cappuccino, mocha, latte, and Frappuccino to name a few — all of them share Italian roots while the only coffee term we have from French is “cafe.”

Therefore, I think it’s safe to say the Italians are better at making coffee than the French. The French have perfected the art of preparing escargot, foie gras, souffles, croissants, and fries. However, when it comes to coffee, io lo preparero in modo italiano, per favore.

Christopher Jacobs Miami, Florida

You Just Didn’t Get It Mr. Woodman (if that’s even your real name) — Last issue, you reviewed my off-broadway play “The Trees Have Eyes” which followed the Second Wood War of Alabama. I think you lack the general historical context that any American would know which explains most of your issues with the play.

When you criticized the lighting for being exclusively a brown spotlight on the center of the stage that doesn’t usually light the characters, I think you missed some of the symbolism. By that, I mean you missed all of the symbolism.

Also, when you argued that it’s false that Mars is now covered completely with a mix of Oak and Redwood, I just have to question your education. Really, all I have to say is that you need to learn how to use Google and then watch it again. Or, at least Part One. We’ve stopped performing Part Two because the wooden flamethrower kept sending the actors and the audience to the hospital, and that’s a “health liability.”

Jack Lumberchuck That one cardboard box on Broadway and 38th with the welcome mat that says,“Home is where the purpleheart is,” NY

Pigeon Population in Pittsburgh Data Completely False

Gerald Fandalay Phoenix, Arizona

I am usually not one to nitpick over minor errors in articles.

However, I can not help but report the utter misrepresentation of data I came across in this supposedly “prestigious” publication this past Sunday. I consider myself to be an avid supporter of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, which is why I was so shocked when I came across this blatant oversight.

I was appalled at the thought of comparing the majestic Fairy Swallow and English Trumpeter Young (of which, both have remarkable foot plumage) to the likes of a Frillback. However, it seems that the reporter you picked to cover this story lacks all conception to the basic features dividing these radically different birds. Not only does this represent a true lack of thorough research and investigation, but it also detracts from the rarity and value of feather-footed breeds.

I cannot help but express my disappointment in the conduct of this publication, along with its lack of resources for those wishing to cite a complaint. After seeing this egregious blemish, I had to search for a solid hour online to find an appropriate form to submit my claim, and I still have a feeling that my views will not be seen by those at fault.

My Good for Nothing Nephews

Charles Marlin Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Your magazine is a blight upon my life, and you are the exact reason my good for nothing nephews are the way that they are. My terrible nephews are always hanging around me all day, trying to get ahold of my massive fortune, and I have no one to blame but you and your recent piece about millenials and inheritance. Now, thanks to you, my three color-coded nephews seem to think that they deserve my money just because they’re family and “need” it.

I did not amass this fortune, create this enormous bank vault tower, and become a world renowned adventurer just so my three awful nephews can nose their way in and steal my life’s work! Do you know how hard I worked to get this money, MQ Yorker? I explored ancient ruins and fought mummies, walked on the seafloor and the moon, and I’ve saved every penny I’ve ever made. What have these three boys done? They’ve annoyed my maid, turned my favorite scientist into a weird unicycle cyborg, and continued to spend my money on frivolous things because they don’t know the value of a good gold coin.

At this rate, I won’t have enough gold coins in my vault to cushion my daily money dives. I worked hard to swim in these coins, MQ Yorker, and this is your fault.

Distraught In Duckburg Duckburg, Calisota

Inspiring a New Life Change I have a serious issue with your paper — I can never pick which section I like best! Every week, I receive a copy of your wonderful paper at my doorstep, and I am constantly amazed at what I read. Last week, specifically, was really what got me. Your article, “Packing Up Your Life and Moving to the Only City That Matters” was really inspiring and made a lot of excellent points.

So many, in fact, that I did just that: I moved to New York City!

You were absolutely right; New York is the only city that matters. The people here are friendly sometimes, all the rats I’ve seen on the streets haven’t bitten me much, and I should be able to afford my fourth of the rent in just a few months! I used to live in a three-story house with a basketball court and infinity pool, but boring Kansas City just can’t compete. I mean, who needs running water when you get to live in the city that never sleeps?

Now that I’m here, I’m making it my mission to go to all the wonderful restaurants you’ve reviewed — once I have enough money to buy food, of course! Thank you for inspiring this new chapter in my life.

Donovan Charles Sharing a room with three other people, NY

a dish fit for the gods A Brief History of This 3000-Year-Old Exotic Food By james wilson

Proud, Cultured Idaho Resident

bars to visit From Harlem’s hottest highly illegal 13+ bars to the newest BDSM Bouncy House sweeping Queens, New York has the most interesting, trendy bars for you to try. Here are our picks for bars any tourist can drop by for a good time!

zip-lock and key

Located in a Container Store on the second floor of a halfburned down Crate and Barrel in SoHo (now, simply known as “and Barrel”).

Ask for the manager then grip their shoulders and stare into their eyes as you ask for the key to their heart, and they will unlock a janitor’s closet in the back of the store. Inside, you’ll find a room exclusively decorated with plastic where you can get your drink on. Enjoy your night with their bottomless peanut butter/Xanax vodka in branded Ziploc bags!

cold war, colder brews

T

ime to say goodbye to quinoa and kale; to superfoods with 234 kinds of vitamins, spanning from A1 to Z9; to dietary choices with enough fiber to print “War and Peace” in large print; to every kind of essential oil, peanut to petroleum, canola to kerosene — the newest superfood on the block is the exotic yet simple Eastern cultivar known as the hotdog. From its humble invention nearly 3000 years ago in feudal Japan, the hotdog has remained a mainstay on its home islands, and it is finally making the long voyage to Western shores.

Recent attention has turned to the hotdog, long been revered in Japan for its medicinal properties, and

researchers have found that the hotdog is the end-all and be-all of solid foods. A simple tube of meat enveloped by a soft bun, the hotdog is a root vegetable best grown in the summer. It can be easily identified by its natural wrapping of aluminum foil. Scientists initially doubted the supposed health benefits of the Japanese delicacy, but preliminary studies have proven the hotdog to be a superfood. These studies show the hotdog to be high in sodium, a necessary part of nerve and muscle function, and fat, used by the body to store energy.

The hotdog was first cultivated during the reign of Emperor Jimmu in the sixth century BC. The crop proved

to be easy to grow due to its relative lack of reliance on sunlight, water, or soil. Often, farmers would leave seeds in storage over the winter for the following season but come back to find them fully grown and dressed with ketchup and mustard. This easy-growing crop proved to be vital to the rise of the Japanese empire, nourishing the samurai in their repelling of multiple attacks from Russia and China throughout Japan’s history. By the first century, the hotdog had spread throughout eastern Asia, reaching as far as India, though it took 22 centuries more to arrive in the West. The hotdog eventually became baked into Japanese history, culture, and mytholo-

gy; many consider it a gift from the gods of creation, Izanagi and Izanami.

Today, the hotdog remains a niche food, but its versatility and health benefits are bringing it to the forefront of clean eating. The hotdog can be baked, boiled, fried, poached, roasted, mashed, or toasted.

Each hotdog is packed full of nutrition and can be prepared in minutes or just eaten raw!

A traditional Japanese recipe for the hotdog simply involves boiling until cooked then serving with wasabi and soy sauce. For a fully authentic experience, be sure to use your fingers instead of chopsticks and eat the whole hotdog in one bite. ◆

Located inside an abandoned Vietnam War antique shop in Staten Island.

The developers of CWCB converted authentic Vietcong AK-47s into a party. You can get in front of one and have your friend shoot their special tequila-filled gushers into your mouth in semi-automatic fire! Come on Sundays for their happy hour/historical fiction book club. Next week, they analyze how access to fruit-flavored liquor would have changed Toni Morrison’s “Beloved.”

SPL@@SH!

Located outside “The Lion King,” masquerading as a hot dog stand.

Buy a hot dog “Danny DeVito Style” to get the key to a warehouse in the Bronx that has a water slide of Mountain Dew leading into a hot tub under the Hudson filled with Danny DeVito impersonators where they serve 24 drinks, primarily using their ham-flavored rum.

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monkey’s business

theMQ.org

The MQ Yorker, May 9, 2018

a lost cause

Searching For Peace in the Middle East When You Can’t Even Find Your Car Keys

A Thousand Monkeys on Typewriters Wrote This Article

by Rhys Shriver

Middle-Class Correspondent

by Hannah Lykins

W

T

here’s an archaic philosophical hypothesis which posits: If one puts 1000 monkeys on just as many typewriters, eventually they will type out every possible combination of characters, including ageold classics like Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” or Stephenie Meyer’s “Eclipse.” To test this theory, local scholars took 975 monkeys and 25 kindergarteners — because the zoo stopped replacing monkeys after the last one was stolen — and put them in the NYU computer lab for two days to see if it was true. As of May 7, this article in its entirety is what they typed at random, including this introductory paragraph which effectively tricked the editors into thinking that we put some effort into this.

In order to jumpstart this

project, all the monkeys and schoolchildren were sat down onto some stools — with back support of course, lest thalskjpipzxxcvve insufferable animal rights activists get in on this situation and shut it down — and strapped them down so they didn’t try to escape. Naturally, as descendants of the monkeys, we retained their excellent hand-eye coordination and dexterity in our genetics, as well as the ability to type at at least 65 words-per-minute, so we shaved off some costs on paying for Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing lessons.

On an entirely unrelated note, I could really use a banana. They’re shockingly high in potassium, as the epitome of the science-fiction genre, “Honey We Shrunk Ourselves,” has taught us.

Approximately halfway through our experimental

period, several concerned parents came to pick up their children, as apparently going two days without rest or large meals is “toxic to the health of the younger generation,” a “violation of child labor laws,” or “because it keeps them from cleaning my house.” In lieu of catching more schoolchildren to continue our project, we instead got our college interns to fill their place, seeing as they’re basically neanderthals and we don’t have to pretend to pay them or give them sippy-cups with grape juice.

With only about half an hour to go, we sent in a few editors to check out their progress, and by that point they had apparently written two copieasdfjhxls of “King Lear,” one-third of the sixth “Harry Potter” book (but with all the changes that J. K. Rowling has announced post-

mortem), and an incredibly poorly-written erotic “Twilight” fanfiction titled “Fifteen Shades of a Mundane Color.”

As of the release date of this article, the monkeys have typed approximately twenty different books, 1,290,349 incoherent characters, 22 articles, and have thrown their poop quite childishly on, at least, five different occasions. With this data, we do believe that, despite most philosophical arguments being largely rhetorical and more for the sake of considering the argument itself than finding a definitive answer, the age-old philosophical hypothetical IS correct, so Nietzsche, Russell, and that guy Frank from accounting can take that knowledge and shove it right up their asses. ◆

Artisanal Caffeine Consumer

ith the recent strikes carried out against Syria, people all across the United States — all across the world really — are struggling to decide where they stand in the face of such imminent danger. With the president and government proving to be incompetent again, citizens are wondering what they can do in light of this humanitarian crisis.

I, however, have barely had the time to worry about preventing the impending threat of war in the U.S. because I can’t find my car keys.

When I first found out about the strikes on Syria, I knew immediately that great minds like myself could be the only ones to solve a situation like this. I know that the crisis in Syria is an immensely bigger problem than anything I’ve experienced in my life, and I understand that I live a very privileged life, so of course I’m grateful for that.

But I’d like to take a moment to explain something: losing my car keys is very inconvenient and stressful, and I don’t think I can handle dealing with a war when misplacing my keys disrupts my entire day.

I am reminded of one morning I had a few weeks ago. I think it was a Thursday morning, and I was about to drive to Columbia University, where I teach international business to the bright minds of the future. But as I was queueing up a RadioLab podcast and grabbing my morning coffee, I

realized that I had misplaced my keys. Now, you would think that a woman of my status wouldn’t be bothered by these trivial issues, but day after day I lose my car keys among my other appurtenances. And in a situation where I can’t find my own belongings, I certainly couldn’t be expected to de-escalate an international crisis.

I’d like to put a few things into perspective. Nuclear weapons were first tested in 1945, chemical warfare technically dates back to ancient history, and the production of autonomous cars has been in the making for decades. Hell, I can buy groceries with my iPhone while my Tesla drives me home from work.

So if we can be bombing countries from overseas, there’s really no reason that scientists couldn’t have invented a way to keep my keys on me at all times. If I can’t trust technology to help me do that, I might as well quit my well-paid, tenured position as head of the Columbia Business School.

And another thing: I keep losing the lids to my reusable coffee mugs. How can a professional woman be asked to demilitarize a warzone when she can’t even save the earth one cup of coffee at a time? Yet another dilemma that I cannot solve alone. This disaster in Syria really can’t be on me if I can’t even put my keys on a key hook. ◆

in poor taste My Attempts To Gentrify Poor Culture

by Sage Cristal

I

t was 50 years ago, when I was only nine years old, that I found my cause.

Father was taking me into the inner city to mingle with the local shop owners, and it was once I stepped out of my family limo onto a strange gum-strewn concrete, I first laid eyes on what my dad told me was a “homeless person.” The being standing before me was decorated in filthy rags, smelling of a cologne both pungent and horrific, and gnawing on a discarded bagel they found in the nearest trash can.

The year was 1968 and Father and I happened upon the unsightly person who looked like hell and smelled like what I can only imagine to also be hell if Satan rolled around in his own feces for hours on end. I asked Father if the circus was in town, and if I gave the clown a dollar would he make me a balloon animal. But Father explained to me that this person was “homeless,” meaning not only did they not have a yacht or a litter of prize-winning purebred dalmatians, but they couldn’t even afford a three-story townhouse on the outskirts of Brooklyn!

It was at that moment that I set my jaw and knew that I would devote the rest of my life to cleaning up these poor people.

At the ripe age of 20 I graduated from Harvard with a degree in Urban Planning, and went to work on changing the poor culture that had homeless individuals digging through gutters for change with which to purchase horridly ugly winter coats or extremely unhealthy sandwiches from McDonald’s.

With a small loan from my Father, I was able to create a nonprofit organization named “Disinfect the Destitute” which sought to give homeless people stylish wardrobes, set

Tote Bag Distributor

s at Call u 8839 879(512)

SC’ONE them up with nice apartments, and teach them how to cook healthy alternatives to their favorite meals.

I began my work in Brooklyn by having a few of my assistants visit local homeless shelters in order to find my subjects of charity. I would ask every homeless person I worked with to do a short runway wearing outfits that they thought best exemplified their style. Next, I would rid the individuals of all their shaggy, stained attire, later taking the person on a shopping spree at the nearest Nordstrom, allocating them $5000 with which to purchase an entirely new wardrobe.

Once that was said and done, I would find the individuals nice apartments in Brooklyn that were tailored towards their needs. If a person lived with three mutts, I would find them a place close to a dog park that was dog-friendly.

If a person was living in the alleyway of a Starbucks, then I found them a one bedroom

apartment that had exposed brick. Despite my help, the homeless people had difficulty paying even those meager prices to rent.

When the individuals I worked with had their new clothes and living conditions sorted out, I showed them how to cook healthy food. I brought in my childhood nanny to teach them how to prepare avocado toast, kale smoothies, and farm-fresh steak with asparagus.

Although the poor people I worked with didn’t have the funds to purchase the necessary ingredients, I’m still elated to know that they have the knowledge with which to create flavorful and fat-free meals.

In the end, Disinfect the Destitute did not retain the results I had hoped for, but at least I can rest easy knowing that I helped at least one person achieve their dreams for a better life. Now that Father has expressed his satisfaction in my work, I can die a happy, wealthy man. ◆

Artisan Scones

Greenwich Village 8th Ave. & W 14th St.

Not to toot our sc’own horn, but...

Moby Dick: The Musical Walter Kerr Theatre 219 W. 48th St.

The only Broadway show with a splash zone!

The MQ Yorker, May 9, 2018

theMQ.org

here’s a tho(ugh)t

haiku II

of the Anglican Republican Church: Bless the monarchy Antidisestablishmentarianism

by David Vereau Gorbitz Resident Oenologist

“TOP Ten”

things to do with inheritance trust fund money 10. Pay some of your taxes 9. Efficiently dispose of the murder weapon 8. Recreate the Stanford prison experiment

just because you can 7. Put all of it in a trust fund for your kids so you can see what two generations of trust funds look like 6. Start a nonprofit so other people can pay your taxes 5. Hire poor people to open doors for you since that’s a poor person’s job 4. Fund an Oprah giveaway 3. Purchase a lifetime subscription to The MQ Yorker 2. Run for a political office you’re completely unqualified for 1. Pay off your student loans

Page 5

An Interview With the Reigning Thot Competition Winner

by Steven Zhou

Resident Trust Fund Baby

B

orn in Spread Eagle, Wisconsin, Vanessa Sparkles is the proud winner of the Reigning Thot Competition in the country, displacing Chadley Bradwin from the year before. We were able to locate Sparkles and ask questions about her incredible life.

Q: How and when did you decide to change your lifestyle to that of a thot?

A: Growing up in Spread Eagle with my family was probably my biggest influence in pursuing the thot title.

Spread Eagle is not exactly the most urban place in the country, and my family lived a relatively rural lifestyle, so we had many filthy hoes lying around our farm. One day as a child, I remember jokingly telling my mother, “When I grow up, I wanna be a hoe,” and to my surprise, my mother simply replied, “You do you, sweetie.” So that prompted me to look up exactly what being hoe meant in modern society, and here I am now.

Q: What lead you to choose the hoe lifestyle over the rake lifestyle?

A: A common misconception associated with hoes is that they don’t care what holes they dive into. Rakes are more generalist in the sense that they will uproot anything that’s dirty and churn up holes. I prefer the hoe lifestyle because it gives me control over exactly where I want my hole, and what types of seeds I want to put in the hole.

Q: In what ways has your

life changed now that you are the Reigning Thot?

A: Honestly, my day-today life is fairly similar to what it was before. I still get up every day at 8 a.m. as I have been for years. I go to work, come home, maybe go to the gym every other day, go to bed, and repeat for the next day.

The only difference is now I’m a thot, so I get noticed a

lot more on the streets. I don’t mind the attention though.

I find it appealing, actually, that so many average people want to take a selfie with an average thot. And no, I’m not being humble, I truly believe I am average for a typical thot which is why this award was so surprising for me!

Q: What advice would you like to give to aspiring thots who are not sure if it’s the

right lifestyle for them?

A: Go for it! My dad always told me, “You never know how good you are until you try,” and often times, people think being a thot is too hard and opt for the tsot (that shovel over there) path. Believe in yourself, put in hard work, and I promise that one day you will eventually become the thot you’ve always wanted to be! ◆

an economy in bloom

the emperor’s new groove

by Mishelle Arakelian

The Secret Dance Life of Napoleon

What the Tulip Bulb Bubble Can Teach Us About Cryptocurrencies Resident Charcuterie Board Expert

by Stephen Lightfoot

A

T

ulip Mania refers to the period in the Dutch Golden Age of the 1600’s in which contract prices for fashionable tulip flower bulbs skyrocketed exorbitantly high. At one point, it has been said that 12 acres of land had been offered for a singular “Semper Augustus” bulb. The sharp decline of these prices in 1637 has lead it to be generally considered the first speculative bubble and one that was probably more stable than the turnip prices of the “stalk market” in “Animal Crossing.”

Like many bubbles, prices in the 1600’s were driven by greed, the fear of missing out, or the desire to appease your emotionally unavailable Calvinist father by demonstrating some sense of a Protestant work ethic.

Speculators were buying bulbs with the hope that they could sell them at an even higher price and establish a healthy relationship with their distant parent. Again, it didn’t last. Specifically, a flurry of

sales caused a domino effect, resulting in collapsed prices, exacerbated insecurities, and broken hearts.

Now, it is the duty of historians to warn modern investors of the trials and tribulations of the past, especially when it comes to the modern challenges of investing in cryptocurrencies. Dr. Alfred Rue Knowles, the Columbia University Professor of Economics and History and the guy I ran into at Blue Bottle Coffee in the Meatpacking District, has compiled compelling research concerning the similarities between the Tulip Mania and the current Bitcoin craze. A required reading for his lower-division courses, Dr. Knowles’ recently published 400-page novel includes his inquiries and conclusions in regards to this seemingly odd comparison.

In this novel, Dr. Knowles analyzes the socioeconomic implications of investing in something that is risky and almost intangible. Tulip bulbs

— whose survival is aided by the essential elements: water, sun, and oxygen — are symbolic of human nature’s most simplistic desires. He continues to explain that in the 1600’s, the beginning threads of Enlightened ideas began to weave the fabric of sense in order to understand what had been important to the individual man, subsequently highlighting the importance of rational thought. The crux of the matter, as Knowles explains, is that the time period evolved and gained greater rationale as the Enlightenment era grew greater roots and began to blossom — and what’s more rational than acknowledging that a tulip bulb is not worth using your house as collateral payment?

This all boils down to Knowles’ proposed theory: When people are more rational, they will make more rational decisions.

This shocking revelation

by Dr. Knowles has already sparked major acclaim and buzz in the academic com-

munity. Knowles furthers his comparison by describing mankind’s “sobering up” into reality, especially after traumatic events such as war, political disillusionment, or the inescapably disturbing imagery of a presidential sex scandal.

Thus, as society has become less rational in recent years, so has its investment patterns. The surge of Bitcoin would not have happened without the surge of a general disinterest in logic, facts, or any shred of a rational compass.

But there are still some who disagree with Knowles’ findings, and they argue that the era of logic and rationale still continues today. Some major Fortune 500 leaders have pointed out that Enlightenment ideals are still alive in the persistence of physical currency. Wishing to be anonymous, one CEO explained, “It’s simple. You can’t snort high-grade cocaine with Bitcoin.” ◆

Sandwich Connoisseur

lthough Napoleon’s might and political power are known by many, few know about his personal life.

However, a peculiar detail has recently been uncovered by historians: his unquenchable thirst for dance. Although the particular type of dance is unknown, it has been referred to in soldiers’ journals as “breathtaking,” “indescribable,” and “powerful enough to keep the troops warm during the harsh Russian winter.”

So was this just another quirky aspect of Napoleon’s life? According to most historians, this new, albeit bizarre, detail sheds incredible light on Napoleon’s military genius.

Connections between dance moves and French troop formations are being furiously analyzed at universities across the globe. A new potential explanation as to why Napoleon was welcomed back so quickly after his escape from his initial exile in Elba is also being formed. One historian by the name of Fred Maitland has even gone so far as to theorize that the Napoleon’s success during his military campaigns was due to “his enemies getting caught up in the beauty of his dance.”

It’s also been discovered that Napoleon was more or less uncaring about France.

Instead, his role as emperor was simply a way to enforce what he thought was the “correct” way to dance.

This is emphasized in the widely misquoted “Vive La France” which is now known to be the misheard “Vive La Danse,” or “Long live dance.”

Towards the end of his life, Napoleon’s physician noted that his dances had become sluggish and weak which lead to even further degradation of his own self-image and, consequently, his mental health.

The self-image of France

itself has also seemingly taken a hit, despite foreign investment skyrocketing due to the new discoveries. “I feel … comment dites-vous … shocked,” said one woman living in Paris. “How can I be patriotic if everything my country was founded on the love of dance? We’re already the laughing stock of Europe, and now we’re being ridiculed by the entire world even more than usual. Napoleon, one of the greatest French generals of all time, is constantly made fun of because he wasn’t even French. Now, we can’t even say that he was a general.”

Despite many expressing a similar sentiment, there is also a vocal minority that is a bit more enthusiastic about the discovery. “I, for one, am blessed that I have the opportunity to study the work of dance from such an influential historical figure,” said a student studying theater and performance at The American University of Paris.

“I’m keeping up with all the new research that’s coming out so that I can hopefully emulate the beauty that Napoleon created. I don’t expect to be able to encapsulate all of his incredible abilities, but I feel as though I would be doing my country a disservice to not at least try.”

Regardless of what one thinks of the new developments, it’s clear that Napoleon’s image has been forever altered in the minds of many. Napoleon isn’t the end, however, as history’s most notable figures have been put under the microscope for potential dance-related connections. At the time of writing, researchers at NYU have theorized that Winston Churchill was able to do a primitive version of the Cha-Cha Slide and that King Tutankhamun’s death was a direct result of his inability to dance La Macarena. ◆

Page 6

The MQ Yorker, May 9, 2018

theMQ.org

MAY 4

- 10, 2018

GOINGS ON ABOUT TOWN

New York encompasses a wide domain; with the rate at which trends rise and fall, it can be difficult to find a lasting, enjoyable place to visit that isn’t as ephemeral as the seasons. To help with this, here is a compilation of several exciting locales for your brisk Saturday night escapades.

theatre

fashion

“High Fashion”

To recapitulate the wise words of David Bowie, “Fashion! Turn to the left! Fashion!

Turn to the right!” The use of basic directions in fashion has become a necessary element ever since the stoned-hobo-chic look has become the exciting trend of Givenuccyi’s Fall/ Winter 2018/2019 couture fashion show, and everyone has become too high to act out basic motor functions such as walking. Givenuccyi has set the standard for high fashion shows by making sure all of the participants are “stoned as fuck”: the models on the catwalk, the Instagram models in the fourth row, and the rich NYU-educated socialites who seemed to be already stoned. By putting the “high” in high fashion, Givenuccyi has created an innovative new line of CBD infused Baja hoodies and marijuana leaf knee high socks. Givenuccyi’s cosmetic line includes cannabutter lip balm and sativa infused mascara to perk up your already drooping eyes. Green kush eyeshadow dons all of the models on the catwalk, as it is

used to bring out the red color of the eyes. Despite the exciting show, it ended quickly when the models got a serious case of the munchies and took their overpriced Baja hoodies to Taco Bell to grab some Mountain Dew® Baja Blasts.

A Jazzy Rendition of “Waiting for Godot”

Over this past weekend, a symphony of sorts graced the Broadway stage as two master musicians dueled over a three hour time period that felt like it flew by in the blink of an eye. Marlon Montgomery, armed with only a saxophone and a neat suit, brought Vladimir to life with the swinging tempos and bumping notes that could only be classified as heart-wrenching. His partner in crime, Johnny Holloway, shined bright with his trumpet as Estragon. The musical conversation that took place between the two was deep, introspective, and functioned as the ultimate discussion about God, yes God. Definitely God. And our impermanence. The part that made me cry more than others was when the two geniuses played their brass to, what I assume, was an argument on the slavery of man to commodification. At the end, I would have given the show a standing ovation if my legs hadn’t given out from all the foot-tapping I did to all 64 songs. This show is a must-see for anyone who cares about jazz or existentialism.

⁷

the weekly crossword How well can you name an obscure phrase based on an equally obscure hint?

Test your skills with the MQ Yorker’s Crossword! It’s as cryptic as it is a crossword! The answers are upside down directly under the crossword — but people are incapable of reading upside down — so good luck doing this without cheating!

Hints

Across: 3. Funny joke 5. Fun thing to do in Alabama 6. One for all, all for one 8. Fish of the day 10. Blank, white, emptiness 12. Word that rhymes with “cat” 14. Small Dick 15. Hint not found 16. Empire State Building’s wifi password 17. Number to call in case of emergency 19. War, what is it good for?

20. A man, a plan, a canal

7

Down: 1. It’s obvious 2. Ball drop 2009 4. Clang klong bang 7. Knock knock 9. Inside job 11. Approximately 22/7 13. Answer 18. Female dogs Across: 3. Haha 5. Leave 6. Communism 8. Trout 10.

Economy 20. Suez

12. ?at 14. Little Richard 15. 404 16. K57D4P5 19.

Answers: Down: 1. Obvious 2. Puberty 4. Hydro Flask 7. Its the police 9. Janitor 11. 3.14159265358979323... 13. Hint 17.

15128798839 18. Dogs

theMQ.org

The MQ Yorker, May 9, 2018

THE

MQ YORKER

Page 7

A Modern Love Story in the Age of Flying

It’s not often that you get to watch a love story unfold in real life, but sometimes one is lucky enough to stumble upon □□ YES, I’d love 25 issuesthe forclassic only $3confession each setup while waiting for one’s plane back □□ OF COURSE, nothing to would make day alike 25 Richmondmyafter four-hour layover. It was like the pioneer issues for $3.25 would of the genre, Ross and Rachel from “Friends,” or like some□□ NO, I actually want 50 issues for $5 a piece thing straight from a Nicholas Sparks novel-to-movie. On a Brooke Lynn fine, snowy Saturday evening, there happened to be a young man PRINT running past the Einstein’s Bros. Bagels where an intrepid Name PLEASE reporter was waiting for their spinach florentine bagel in the 0315 E. Atlantic direction St. of gate A12. The young man ran up to the waiting line for a young long-haired brunette and began to tell her, Address Apt. what I interpreted to be, a long-awaited love confession. He Atlantic NY then went in 50022 for what could only be a hug — but the young woman attempted City State Zip to push him away, crying. Had they fought the night before about money troubles, or had they been argupapaslittleheiress@gmail.com ing about whether to adopt a child or have one on their own?

Whatever they had bickered about, the man ran away from E-mail the crying woman with a silk handbag. At this time, several Bonus: To get a free sense of moralTSA superiority muscular agents ran up to her, clearly to console her after Venmo @thenewyorker $10 this unfortunately-timed confession and began to chase after Subscribe and we will only sell your information □ □ Payment enclosed □ □ Please bill me the young man, clearly to force the two to confront their issues to people with pockets deeper than yours. head-on.

What lovely to have witnessed while waiting Side effects include itching, sneezing, bleeding out ofayour eyes, event and slight drowsiness. Do not take before driving or while pregnant. to return home for the yearly family reunion.

art The New Art Exhibit: Xsanguinashion red paint on the ground of an otherwise mundane

In what audiences have dubbed an overnight sensation, a mystery artist has created one of the greatest art exhibitions of our generation. What is now being referred to as Xsanguinashion by critics, this series of pieces spanning the city details what looks, at first glance, like a string of crime scenes. But for those willing to look a little deeper, these “simple” graffiti scenes aren’t so simple at all. At each site, the shape of a human figure has been meticulously outlined by a dark

alley while layers of paint coat the surrounding area in passionate splatters. Viewers have praised the exhibition for its intimate take on New York street life while critics have commended the artist for their impeccable use of color, notably for their ability to make the same sanguine color at each site. At this time, no one has been able to identify the artist though many have suspected famed New York street artist Zephyr. One viewer believes they might have caught a glimpse of the mysterious artist during the night, but the figure was masked and holding an object described as “sharp, pointy, and probably not a can of spray paint.”

The Most Intellectually and Culturally Rich Chunk of Metal in NYC Is Where You’d Least Expect It

New York can, without a doubt, be described as a place of hidden treasures. However, some of the most valuable and interesting

entertainment

pieces are often those least expected and also appear in the form of a melted down cylinder of metal. Beneath the feet of disgruntled businessmen and the tires of dated taxi cabs lies a manhole cover like no other. The cover in the crosswalk between Hanover St. and Exchange Pl. was recently determined by a well-versed history buff to be a conglomerate of random nuts, bolts, forks, and pieces of scrap metal found in Leonardo Da Vinci’s primary residence.This large hunk of slightly rusted pieces of aluminum and iron represents an important part of intellectual history and development, and it also confirms beliefs that all or part of Da Vinci’s house was looted by thieves who later fled to the U.S. The original use of the individual metal pieces is mostly unknown, but archeologists have predicted that they came from several prototypes for dirt-powered engines and more efficient solar panels. Who knew that these pieces of junk in largely useless tinkerings of Da Vinci would later grow to serve such a great purpose of history preservation in the middle of a busy New York street?

This just goes to show the importance of mindfulness while walking over otherwise-ignored sewage covers.

will not, and both actors portray their anguish so well, it seems practically authentic.

Unexpected Street Performance on 41st poorest. In a fiery rendition of Les Misera- Two Dogs Are Eating Like “Lady & the A passionate, theatrical street performance bles, the characters of Jean Valjean and Fan- Tramp” and It Is Slowly Killing Them left the pedestrians of actor’s rage and tears. amongst the throng of an all-out competition

41st St. jarred by the Two friends quarreled confused onlookers in of which one was the

tine we’ve all come to adore are reimagined as Sketchers and Levi’s clad souls. Between the various assertions of debt and bankruptcy from both characters, their unprecedented shouting in the streets left viewers speechless by their seemingly shameless act of personal disclosure. It didn’t occur to any of them that their act of “airing dirty laundry” in public was — in actuality — a thoughtprovoking, modern day interpretation of a story about the impoverished, depressed people of France. Here, the young pair expressed their plight as middle-wage workers that, coincidentally, applied for the same job, causing them to go head to head once they realized who their competition was. Paralleling the character arcs of Fantine and Jean, one will become rich and the other

Cruel, harrowing, and grievous. The alley between 47th and Madison Ave. provides a contemporary, innovative, mechanical, and unchanging rendition of that one scene from “The Lady and the Tramp” that everybody reminisces about.

Doug Barkley re-portrays the 1955 romance between a cocker spaniel and a schnauzer in an appropriately lit, bleak alley. Drawing inspiration from Franz Kafka, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and John Grisham, virtues like hope, humility, and true love resurface in the spectacle while the dreary realization that the show is slowly and inevitably killing the dogs really highlights the duality of man. Whether you are looking for a cheap date, an easy getaway, or an escape from your real life troubles, come every first and third Thursday of each month and experience a roller coaster of emotions. Hurry, because word is circulating that Barkley is collaborating with several other artists to produce a rendition of another Disney classic, “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves,” as he is finally managing to put together a cast and because the dogs are really close to dying.

Page 8

theMQ.org

vomit: art?

By Sarah Bracken

teve Erof, a local “artist,” recently opened up an “art” exhibition presenting his vomit collection. I went to the opening and I can confidently conclude that what Erof is doing is not art.

I have always been fascinated with the concept of what is and what is not art.

In kindergarten, I was berated for telling a classmate that her macaroni art was “nonsensical drivel” and “the farthest thing from art.”

I am infatuated with true artists like Mozart, Picasso, and that elephant that can paint with its trunk. This new wave of young people calling themselves “artists” makes me want to vomit. As a teenager, my art teacher told

me, “If something was made with passion and vision, then that is art.” That imbecile's comment couldn’t be farther from the truth.

She never watched an adult down a two liter bottle of Sprite, shove two bananas in their mouth, and proceed to projectile vomit all over a canvas. She has never seen a canvas slowly decompose on your wall as the stomach acid Cheeto mash mix gradually turns into a moldy mess. Cleaning up that mess has scarred me for life, and from this experience, I can confidently tell you that Steve Erof vomiting on canvases is not art. ◆

S

teve Erof’s new art exhibit on the futility of keeping food down is the most important art movement of the last 20 years.

At the opening ceremony, Erof took the stage — vomit still on his sleeves — and instead of giving a speech, he vomited all over the crowd.

Steve Erof is truly a master of his craft and the truest form of what an artist should be.

Erof is able to take the harshness of vomit and contrast it with the beauty of the world.

You will never look at your vomit the same way again.

When you are drunkenly vomiting into a toilet from drinking too much wine at an art gala, you will realize that one of the few common

connectors of the human race is regurgitation. The beauty of Erof’s art is that he combined upchucking last night’s dinner with a plain white canvas. Truly a revolutionary form of art.

Critics of Erof say that he is just a man vomiting on a canvas. How can that be art? Erof isn’t just showing you canvases with vomit on them. He’s showing you a portrait of his internal turmoil and a map of his digestive tract. That being said, can you believe you can buy a two by two inch piece of vomit canvas for only $150? You can buy them with free shipping from steveerofart.com. ◆

Contributor

D

o you find yourself uncomfortable when your colleagues with strong ideological convictions begin to discuss current events? Are you afraid of the intellectual rigor and bravery required for productive civic discourse?

Look no further: I have compiled a list of evasive, squarein-the-middle, relevant yet irrelevant opinions for the average moderate to use in every political debate.

Gun Control: When it comes to discussing gun control without talking about guns, mental health diagnosis and treatment is the name of the game. Why challenge the constitution or discuss the necessity of a lethal weapon when you can just endorse something almost universally supported?

Immigration: Keeping your nose clean in a discussion about immigration is simple so long as one stresses that the entire system is in dire need of reform but avoids addressing the estimated 12.5 million illegal immigrants already in the United States.

Poverty/The Economy: In a discussion about poverty in America, stick to a jobsfocused dialogue for the most painless conversation possible. The same advice applies to discussion about the econ-

omy. Welfare and taxation are areas to steer clear of if you are truly striving for a middleof-the-road political identity.

Climate Change: A moderate’s best bet in a climate change discussion is to bring up Elon Musk. A self-made billionaire who also does good things for the environment, Musk is beloved by individuals on both sides of the aisle and is always doing exciting things that will distract from any mention of scientific research or Chinese conspiracy.

Foreign Policy: Foreign policy is a daunting subject for many moderates because of how many different issues fall under this category. A prudent moderate knows which are safe to discuss and which are best avoided. Defeating ISIS and having church groups raise money to build schools in Africa are two home runs. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict and Russia are no man’s land if you are trying to remain neutral.

Now more than ever, centrists across the nation are feeling the heat of growing political controversy. I hope that this article may provide some escape hatches for any between-the-aisles individual who may find themself surrounded by intellectual firebrands who insist on challenging each others’ viewpoints. ◆

tour de force How the Trip to France That My

Dad Paid for Exposed Me to the Entire World

By Declan Sullivan

bY sTEVEN zHOU

Contributor

W

bY Elizabeth Niculescu

By Teve Rof

Cambridge Analytica Says Your Data is Worthless

cryptic messages about your personal life that you won’t explain, not even Cambridge Analytica, so maybe lay off that.

You also seem to be complaining a lot about how you knew something like this would happen, that your data would be leaked, but do you really care? You still have Facebook installed when you could have deleted it a while ago. My phone only uses a modded platform called “VisageLivre” that uses French internet, but you don’t even care enough to not use the same password for every website you frequent. You could go change those right now, or you could put it off but still get angry when your one password is released in a future hack.

Maybe this hack is a good thing for you. Maybe it will open your eyes to a squint, so that you can change your disgusting ways just a little. How about you add some featured photos, post a status every once in a while, unfriend your mother. Or, alternatively, you can read a headline, ignore the rest, become outraged for a minute, then see that your friend tagged you in a meme and completely forget everything you just thought you read. I’ll just be here, updating my winetasting Facebook TV series.◆

A Moderate’s Guide to Avoiding Challenging Political Debate

Why This Man Vomiting on a Canvas Is the Most Important Art Movement

don’t worry

hen I heard that my Facebook data may have been taken, I was mortified. I have a very complex and deliberate social circle and the political articles I share say a lot about me as a great thinker of this technological age. Should you be worried about the Cambridge Analytica hack of Facebook?

No. Who would your targeted ads be from, a clothing line for homeless people? On top of that, your user data is worthless. Nobody cares about that person you poked by mistake in 2014. Everyone ignored your requests to play flash games with them a few years prior. You uploaded pictures of yourself that you regret, but it’s not like this hack brought them back. If anyone had even looked at your profile they would have found them anyway. Surprisingly, you weren’t even cute as a baby.

You are so obsessed with yourself and your image that you have ended up thinking ridiculously highly of yourself. Stop that. You aren’t that big a deal. You think your lazy profile has any worth? I update my profile picture twice a month. Yours still has the “Je suis Charlie” filter. People friended you out of courtesy.

They don’t care whether you “Like” Coldplay or not. Those allusive posts you make aren’t all that interesting either. People don’t want to be reading

middle of the aisle

COUNTERPOINT

POINT

Why This Man Vomiting on a Canvas Isn’t Art

S

The MQ Yorker, May 9, 2018

I

t’s been a tumultuous year for me, to say the least. I recently moved to Manhattan to take a job offer I got from my family’s company after getting a BA in Arctic Studies at Dartmouth College. For some reason, however, I felt an emptiness in my soul that a sixfigure-salary job couldn’t fill.

Attending Dartmouth exposed me to people from all walks of life that made me thirsty for experiencing cultures different from mine: How do people survive in a house smaller than 5000 square feet? How do people know how to speak languages other than English?

Why do people need financial aid when they can just charge it on their parents’ credit cards? All this pressure finally got to me, and three weeks ago, I decided to immerse myself in a foreign culture by taking an all-expenses-paid journey to France — courtesy of my father — to satisfy my child-like curiosity that awakened over the past few stressful months of living on Fifth Avenue.

I decided to start with La Ville Lumiere: Paris. Being the cultural and fashion capital of France and arguably the world, this city was the most logical choice to discover people from all walks of life. The French friend I made in college recommended walking around the streetscape to see the diversity of Caucasians (in retrospect, he may have said it ironically, but I was too dis-

Resident Trust Fund Baby

tracted by his French accent to remember exactly). I was tempted to follow his advice, but I decided to take a taxi everywhere to avoid staining my brand new Jimmy Choos.

Immediately, I noticed the Eiffel Tower looming over the city center, emanating francophone culture upon those caught within its radius. I was truly mesmerized by the city.

I’ve seen photos of Paris in the French class I took during my boarding school years, but to be truly absorbed into the Parisian energy whilst holding my shopping bags from Champs-Elysees was an ethereal experience.

Any trip to Paris would obviously be incomplete without going to the Louvre, so there I went. I honestly found most of

it quite boring. All of the pictures’ artists were long dead, so I couldn’t connect to any of them, and all the descriptions were in French, so I couldn’t read them (I spent most of my time in French class asleep or in the bathroom, so my lessons were no help). I went in and out in about 30 minutes which seemed to surprise the lady checking everyone in, but I felt like looking at pictures for that long gave me more than enough culture for my trip.

My time in Paris eventually came to an end, and I hopped on a plane back to New York.

Before takeoff, I suddenly remembered that I planned on going to Nice, Marseille, and Lyon as well, but I decided Paris was a good representation of the 67 million people

in France, and the other cities were super small so I could skip them without a problem.

From my free trip to France, I finally felt like I could confidently say people who live in other countries have incredibly different lifestyles from mine. At last, I understand what people mean when they say they are a citizen of the world.

Would I travel again? Time will tell, but given Europe’s vastness, I’m fairly certain I will be asking my father for another few thousand dollars to spend in Europe. But I wouldn’t spend any time in South America, Africa, or Asia. Their cultures don’t seem as interesting to me.◆

The MQ Yorker, May 9, 2018

theMQ.org

proposed plan for new york's steinway tower

Page 9

save your skin

Reviving the Ancient Art of Converting My Skin into Leather and Then Using It To Bind Copies of My Autobiography

By Sage Cristal Tote Bag Distributor

“I

Floor 6: Secretary desks and a glass ceiling Floor 5: Endless hedge maze Floor 4: Always under construction Floor 3: Cream filled layer Floor 2: Used to be a homeless shelter, now used to age fine cheeses Floor 1: "Storage" Floor B: Basement where the interns are kept

want to connect to you, my reader. I want you to feel me, and for me to feel you. I not only want our skin to brush, but I want your sweat droplets decorating my skin like Christmas ornaments decorating a velvet, pale pine tree.”

That’s the first line of my new novel titled “Intertwined” that follows the story of an up-and-coming reporter in her mid-20s named Ashley and her love affair with her local barista. But things eventually take a dark turn after Ashley learns that her lover has strange interests, including sewing their skin together in order to remain close together.

Despite the rave reviews my novel has earned so far from internationally renowned critics, I wanted to ensure the average reader could connect to my story on a personal level. Keeping with the plot of “Intertwined,” I saw skin as a universal connector. After doing some research about the incorporation of skin into literature, I found an interesting Wikipedia page about anthropodermic bibliopegy which is the ancient practice of binding books in human skin.

That is where I got my inspiration for my next undertaking.

While heeding the safety instructions of scarification — the art of modifying one’s appearance by cutting

By Quoc Tran Contributor

I

t’s the mundane, the routine, that most often leads to surprises and, sometimes, leads to wonderful and unexpected change. My trip to Kmart was one such mundane event. I was on my way home from my weekly grocery shopping trip and needed to pick up a waffle iron. My current iron only had the capacity for one waffle at a time and, as a busy individual, I couldn’t wait an extra three minutes every morning that I wanted to eat a couple of waffles. As an aspiring stockbroker on eTrade, I knew that this small investment would save me hours of my time each year.

The sun was fast fading as I stepped up to the automatic doors of the Kmart.

The doors, as expected, opened without me doing anything, allowing me to step through the threshold, entering the store. Quickly, I headed to their home goods aisle and was faced with a vast array of blenders, coffee makers, toasters, and waffle makers. I had, of course, been to Kmart before, but I had never strayed into the home goods aisle; I usually only came by to browse the latest and greatest in electronics or pick up a few seasonal decorations. The amount of choices in waffle makers was staggering!

Everything from automatic timers to internet connectivity were options, not to mention the variety of colors!

A man next to me, it seemed, had much the same predicament. He was middle-aged and, from observation, seemed to have a new 2017 Ford Focus and a beautiful wife, but they were unable to conceive, leading to much marital discord. The man stared, mouth agape, at the toasters. And how could I blame him? The toasters

on display at Kmart, like the waffle makers, were state-ofthe-art. The man looked over at me, as well, and, recognizing my problem, spoke up, “I have the Farberware Removable Plate Waffle Maker, Two Slice, Silver, Nonstick, which has three and half stars out of the 74 ratings online,” pointing at the model on the shelf. I thanked him for this thoughts and studied the model he had mentioned.

It was indeed able to make two waffles at the same time, and, as the name implied, was silver, nonstick, and had a removable plate. It seemed the perfect waffle maker for me, but there was a problem.

There always seems to be one when taking unsolicited advice from an infertile man on waffle makers in a Kmart.

The waffles that the machine made would be square and I had always eaten circular waffles. Ever since I was a child, my mother would always make circular waffles; I could expect a nice round waffle on the kitchen table every morning. Even in my college dining halls, where the quality of the food was inconsistent, the waffles were always circular. I had never had a square waffle before. On one hand, I felt that the harsh right angles along the perimeter of the waffle were a betrayal to the idea of a waffle itself, but, then again, the Farberware Removable Plate Waffle Maker, Two Slice, Silver, Nonstick was my perfect waffle maker. I spent a moment or two in an internal debate, but I ultimately decided that I had been living too sheltered a life. I grabbed the box, thanked the man, wishing him luck in conceiving a child, walked to the front of the Kmart, and paid for the waffle maker. I drove home in anticipation for the next morning, when I would have square waffles for the first time. ◆

my own skin. Alternatively, you can use your own skin for only $29.99 per square foot from your favorite appendage, along with a health

waiver form excluding me from responsibility in case you lose too much blood. ◆

guilty of being a human being

realization in aisle 12 I Went to Kmart and a Stranger Changed My Life

chunks of skin out of the body — I armed myself with only a knife, some bandaids, and a Benadryl. Then I went to work on my own skin.

After 12 hours of hacking away at my own appendages, I finished with enough skin to be able to bind six books, but it would have been seven if I didn’t botch the one on my right arm. After being turned away from 16 local tanneries, I took my specimens to South America where I was able to get my skin tanned. No questions asked.

Once I received my tanned skin, I used all of my knowledge on sewing and working hot glue guns to join my literature with my skin, thereby giving my audience a reading experience that allowed them a glimpse inside my mind, as well as outside my mind: on my skin.

After the many blood transfusions and skin grafts I received following my artistry, I can honestly say that “Intertwined” both literally and metaphorically contains my blood, sweat, and tears.

For those whose interest I have peaked by describing my own experience with the painstaking process of anthropodermic bibliopegy, you can find my novel on Amazon.com for $19.99 in hardback, and bound to

A Q&A Session with the Jersey Shitter

BY Stephen Lightfoot Sandwich Connoisseur

I

f you’ve been in New York over the past year, you’ve probably heard of the Jersey Shitter: a mysterious man wearing a New Jersey hat who relieves himself in public spaces. After a particularly bad attack where he openly defecated on several pedestrians in Central Park, he achieved internet stardom.

But beyond the headlines, few have wondered what makes the Jersey Shitter tick.

Why would he violently defecate in public spaces? And more importantly, why travel all the way from New Jersey?

After being released from jail due to gutting a subway rat whilst high on PCP, the Jersey Shitter sat down for an interview about humility and selfimage. A partial transcript of the interview is as follows:

Q: Thank you for sitting down with us today. How was the drive over from Jersey?

A: It was fine. I mean, kind of long, but that’s how it is.

Q: Do you have a name,

Mr…?

A: Oh, right. Sorry. Call me Peter.

Q: Is that your first or last

name?

A: First name, but if I’m not mistaken I have several warrants out for my arrest. So I’d prefer to keep it on a firstname basis.

Q: You’re incredibly well spoken for what many may see as a “chaotic” member of society. Do you think people have labeled you at all?

A: Oh absolutely. Many people don’t know it, but I got a BA in English from UC Berkeley. I think that there’s quite a lot of attention being given to the negative sides of people, you know? You save three kids from a tsunami and you have a two-minute segment on the local news. But you shit on several bystanders in Central Park and CNN won’t stop raving about it for the

whole day. I’m just saying that the good has gotta be considered as much as the bad.

Q: So essentially, you want people to know that you’re just as much of a person as anyone else?

A: Yeah, I’d say that about sums it up. I’m not some sort of cosmic deity, you know?

I have a wife and kids. I buy groceries. I’m much more than “just the Jersey Shitter” deep down, and my family reminds me of that.

Q: Why, then, continue to do what you do? Why live up to the “Jersey Shitter” name?

A: Oh, because it’s hilarious. I may not be “just” the Jersey Shitter, but I’m still the goddamn Jersey Shitter.

New Yorkers constantly shit on Jersey, so I decided I gotta shit right back.

Q: I see. So do you resent people for treating you

negatively then?

A: You know, I can’t say that I do. To a third party, I’m sure my behavior is odd at best. And I want to apologize to the victims — there are plenty of people who love Jersey who have gotten caught in my attack.

But on the other hand, if you’ve constantly been attacking my state, then you just have to understand that I’m gonna attack your state.

Q: Very well said. To wrap things up, if you could say something to the public — one thing you really want them to hear — what … Pardon me, what are you doing?

At this point in the interview, the the Jersey Shitter got up and began to evacuate his bowels in the general direction of the interviewer. A mere 30 minutes after the interview, the Jersey Shitter was finally arrested on four counts of public indecency, resisting arrest, and jaywalking. ◆

“TOP Ten”

great ways to sound more intellectual than your coworker

10. Begin each of your sentences with "Experts agree ... " 9. Buy a bunch of shirts representing Ivy Leagues that you never went to 8. Say everything they just said but act like it's your idea 7. Stand in places where the light reflects off your glasses menacingly 6. Compare everyone around you to at least one Tolstoy character 5. Reference Vivaldi in mundane conversation at least once a day 4. Ask them where they got their PhD “Ever since he discovered the 3. Always wear shoulder pads red tile his work has been so 2. Whenever they try to speak to you, say, "You would say that" derivative.”

1. Have social privilege

Page 10

theMQ.org

The MQ Yorker, May 9, 2018

spongebob orangepants

briefly noted

by Dan Kaliblotzky

Many bookstores have recently taken to stocking up on uninteresting, derivative paperback romance novels about “dukes” and “ex-cops,” so it might be difficult to find something that suits your literary fancy. In the event you can’t find anything like that either, here are some top picks that are almost up to cut!

"Spongebob Squarepants: The Musical" Gives Kids a Fun, Nuanced View of Mass Incarceration Mad Manhattaner

Guide To Helping People Who Are Addicted To Reading, by Tristan Hayes (Random House).

This delightful self-help book is a wonderful guide in assisting those that have been caught in the common trap of excessive reading. Odds are, if you’re reading this book description, you most likely have an addiction to reading, and it is highly recommended you try to read this book. It is very helpful in learning hints and strategies to keep your nose out of your most recent book, and there’s a short section in the very back about how to start your very own book burning, a la the great (and former) Library of Alexandria!

I

walked in the Palace Theatre last week thinking that if “Spongebob” was done well, it would probably still simply be a fun, family-favorite musical along the lines of “Aladdin” or “Wicked.” What I and the audience full of sixyear-olds with their mothers did not expect to find was the most complex, daring, and emotional work I’ve seen on Broadway in years.

Director Tina Landau has struck gold in the form of a yellow and porous children’s show character. Sea creatures of all shapes and sizes are conceived onstage by David Zinn who designed costumes to portray the characters we know and love in a disappointingly indirect fashion. I wanted to see giant extravagant starfish and crab costumes, but Zinn went for a conservative choice with his neon pink wigs and giant red boxing gloves.

Despite this artistic struggle, the dynamic between the different races under the sea shines beautifully.

The plot of this musical

centers around the imminent destruction of Bikini Bottom by an active volcano, but the real shining moments of the story center on the side plots expressing the struggles and desires of our beloved undersea species. The choice to include an unresolved side plot of Mr. Krabs — played

by Brian Ray Norris in a respectful attempt to continue Krabs’ obsession with money without reducing him to the swindling crab stereotype that the show has always tiptoed around — trying to push his whale daughter Pearl into a management job reflects the attention to detail that is reserved only for topics as complex as race relations in America.

Additionally, I feel it would be a disservice to ignore the heartbreaking separation of Spongebob and Sea Star Patrick as well as the subsequent worship of Patrick as a cult leader in “Sea Star Superstar,” leading to the successful joining of the pair in “(I Guess) I Miss You” in which the crys-

tal clear metaphor of White privilege and its dynamics with class immobility in Black communities shines through as clear as the sun through the ocean surface.

You cannot review a musical like this without mentioning its varied songwriting cast. With every song being written by a different artist, including the likes of Panic!

At the Disco’s “Just a Simple Sponge” and Sara Bareilles' “Poor Pirates,” there is a surprisingly fresh take on the overplayed subject of pirate discrimination, a social justice anthem I’m sure will be carried beyond the show.

The plethora of artists is skillfully combined into a cohesive score by orchestrator Tom Kitt, and it allows all side characters their own spotlight in this spectacle of only 180 minutes. In fact, I could have stayed longer to see what happened to rock band “The Electric Skates” after their standout “Bikini Bottom Boogie.” Did the brightly-dressed guitarist ever defeat his ad-

diction to kelp? I still find myself in awe that Landau and Jarrow managed to present what they did on drug use in impoverished communities in his five minute appearance. But I digress.

I have yet to commend the brilliant portrayal of Spongebob Squarepants

by Ethan Slater and the astounding, immersive performance of scientist/karate master/Texan squirrel Sandy Cheeks by Lilli Cooper. Defying the growing racism against squirrels as a scapegoat in the apocalyptic Bikini Bottom, Cheeks and Squarepants find sympathy and science to be the answer and manage to save the day and end racism. I know it sounds impossible that anyone could have tackled this issue so perfectly, but I have a Black friend who told me I was right, so there you have it. Broadway’s “Spongebob Squarepants: The Musical” has tickets available now. ◆

identity, revelry, romance, and friendship 14 Years Later, A Look Back at The Jimmy Timmy Power Hour

by Cole Greenbaun Contributor

I

t’s May 7, 2004. Summer is almost here, your mother just ordered a Domino's pizza for delivery with a liter of orange soda. Today in class, you watched a Bill Nye episode on gravity. Life is good. Then, as if the heavens aligned to create the most perfect day, it starts to play on Nickelodeon. “The Jimmy Timmy Power Hour.” Here at last.

“The Jimmy Timmy Power Hour” was the combined brainchild of genius auteurs Butch Hartman and John A. Davis. Both having created the hit shows “The Fairly Oddparents” and “Jimmy Neutron: Boy Genius,” respectively, the two industry titans came together in attempt to create something

unique: an animated television special where the characters of Timmy Turner and Jimmy Neutron would cross over into each other’s worlds, causing chaos, hilarity, and just a bit of introspective, psychological self reflection.

“It was fate,” Hartman said, sipping on a whiskey poured out of a collectible Timmy Turner shaped glass bottle. “John and I had long joked about collaborating on a special together, but it wasn’t until we snorted some slime backstage at the Kid’s Choice Awards that we decided to do it for real. Almost instantaneously we knew that it was going to be big. Bigger than Jesus, and even bigger than The Beatles.”

But the power of the special was not so well received at the time. The dynamic of each character crossing dimensions, befriending strangers, and even falling in love was so new and groundbreaking that reports at the time said many people viewing the program turned off their televisions for the entire 68 minutes it was on air. They were reportedly unable to understand what was happening.

Since then, public opinion has changed, and I thoroughly believe that “The Jimmy Timmy Power Hour” was not just a tour de force children’s cartoon special but rather was an artistic triumph that broke barriers in the filmmaking industry that have reverberated.

Beyond the technical skill, “The Jimmy Timmy Power Hour” dealt with powerful themes that transcended traditional children’s television. By swapping Jimmy and Timmy and by having them interact with their counterpart’s friends and family, the special tackled the central theme of the idea of the self. Animated in the opposite art style and being commonly mistaken for each other (Sheen calling Timmy “Small-Headed Jimmy”), “The Jimmy Timmy Power Hour” drew comparisons between the two main characters by highlighting the similarity in their hubris despite their differing levels of intelligence. Without their magic and science, who really is “Jimmy” and who really is “Timmy”?

By stripping away the facades of fairies and laboratories, the two TV shows were essentially the same.

Both were about two adolescent white, middle class boys whose prides constantly put

themselves and those who they love in danger, often without any severe consequences. “The Jimmy Timmy Power Hour” not only asked us to look at how we defined our version of the self, but reached further and pointed out the flaws in contemporary American parenting and who our children are being raised to become.

Since that infamous day 14 years ago, times have significantly changed. “The Fairly Oddparents” still runs on television but has since lost its creator Butch Hartman. “Jimmy Neutron: Boy Genius,” ended many years ago, being followed by a spinoff “Planet Sheen” that can only be described as the controversial, French New-Wave baby brother to the original series. While independent film is taking many strides to become mainstream, bringing to the masses powerful themes of love and self identity in films such as “Moonlight,” “The Shape of Water,” or “The Florida Project,” we must recognize what started it all: a small, indie hour long film about two boys swapping places, fighting a video-game possessed robot, and in the end learning a bit about one another. ◆

The Boldness of Italics, by Kristin Icarus (Penguin Books). Never

again will you find a book that pinpoints the complex relationship between font choice, text type, and introspective revelations so precisely.

Icarus explains the impacts that a text detail, as profound as letter slant, can have on both your child’s psychological development and whether or not your boss invites you to his next Friday happy hour. Exploring the use of italics in everything from ancient Rome to Jeffrey Dahmer’s personal diaries, Icarus gives a complete and thorough view of how most major strides and developments in human history would have been mere pipe dreams without the development of a typography tilted between four and 14 degrees.

I Know Why the Caged Bear Gets Angry When I Poke Him With a Stick, by Mya Angelou (Hatchette). This incredibly heart-

wrenching autobiography follows the life of Mya Angelou, a young woman of color, who is working to navigate race and gender while training to be a bear-tamer in her local circus district. She beautifully draws parallels between her familial relations and the bear’s relationship with her cubs. She also artfully compares the danger of bear-taming with the danger of being a black woman in America. The most compelling element of this novel is when Angelou struggles with the moral problem of poking a bear with a stick for commercial gain. This is a must-read for all fans of Angelou!

Meditations on Watching Paint Dry, by Miranda Pinturaseca (Simon and Schuster). Pinturaseca

demonstrates, once again, why she is the premier voice of the modern philosophical zeitgeist with this riveting, contemplative odyssey that will keep you on the edge of your seat.

The fresh coat of paint on Pinturaseca’s studio apartment walls serves as her muse as she stares deep into the eggshell void and ponders our place and purpose in an uncaring, apathetic universe. Fans of Pinturaseca’s previous work, “Lessons from a Lukewarm Glass of Water,” will be happy to know that Pinturaseca continues her tour de force in this thriller.

haiku IV

of the Anglican Republican Church: Long live the Great King Antidisestablishmentarianism

by David Vereau Gorbitz Resident Oenologist

theMQ.org

The MQ Yorker, May 9, 2018

tranquil ponderings during a sunday morning stroll through a meat processing plant

Page 11

groceries and the mundane by daniel clinton Interpretive Dance Critic

by hannah Rosenblatt City Skyline Sketcher

I

D

ecomposition is a funny thing. Almost as funny as our massive aversion to it. Which, in itself, is almost as funny as the promise of its inevitability. Sure, we try frequently to prevent it, preserve the freshness and youthfulness for as long as possible. Keep our fruit ripe, our pores tight, our sheets sharp, and our meat red.

But we never really stop the creeping sense of eventual decay. Meat surrounds me.

I come to the Happy Valley Meat Processing Plant on West 32nd St. frequently. I’ll pass through the expansive aisles where heads and torsos mix with indistinguishable pinkish blobs, laced with sinew and the occasional tendon. Today is comfortably typical. I just finished my normal morning coffee, and felt the familiar urge to stretch my legs that usually comes around mid-mornings on slower weekend days. Not too long afterwards, I found myself drawn towards the old, crumbling brick walls a few blocks from my apartment.

More decomposition, housing one of our best attempts

at food preservation.

The plant is empty of other living things on Sundays.

Only the dead, not dying, frames of once-conscious beings remain, hanging like reminders of the superficiality of their extended life on a grocery store shelf.

Now, don’t get me wrong.

This is not meant to be a reflection on dietary choices; vegetarianism, organic, gluten free, or otherwise. I’ll save that discourse for the foodies and health nuts in Brooklyn.

Rather, this is meant to be an observation of the combination of things that happen to be occupying a particular space at 10:23 a.m. on one Sunday in early May. I am the one living thing who could have once shared this same space with these same forms, but while they were alive too.

What an oddity, that they are still distinguishable. Not yet deteriorated. Preserved in the cool air for a little longer.

How many before me, also living, have walked down these same aisles? Occupying the same physical space, but thinking drastically different thoughts. The blurred meat

the raven (As told from the perspective of the Raven) ‘Twas a night that I was cold Had eaten bread, it had some mold I came across a knocker on the door I flew up and grabbed it with my beak Hoping something neat I’d seek Even if it was a bit of a chore The door opened, inside felt warm I flew in, away from the storm And I sat on a bust above the door And then the strange man who was seeking Saw me and began shrieking Wanting to find out what I was there for I spoke the only word I knew: “Nevermore” He was sadder and sadder still As we talked, I thought we were chill But he stared at me, and into my soul his eyes bore And even to this very day He still has not looked away And I cannot leave, less he opens the door Shall I be free once again?

Quoth the human: “Nevermore” - Rowan Cosme Contributor

passed by them the same way it did to me, but perhaps they were thinking about how they needed to pick up more soap on the way home from work.

Wondering about whether or not they should make room in the budget for a new hire. This corner is where they decided that they would ask their old friend to see a movie with them that weekend. The aisle over there is where they realized they forgot their lunch that day, left on the kitchen counter at home. What a revelation to be living in nothing but the present. Following in the footsteps of so many other people who happen to not be currently present.

Decomposition is still inevitable. The desperation for preservation still tangible in the way that we treat our foods. The denseness of philosophical ponderings taints the thick air, along with vaporized fluids. However, it is also just a very typical Sunday and nothing more. It’s 11:48 a.m. in a building with crumbling brick walls in New York City, and I am currently here.

What a time to be alive. ◆

cough. The night brushes my shoulders. A cold chill runs down my spine.

My breath swirls like dragons fighting on the streets of Brooklyn. I’m reminded of long summer nights in Arkansas, sitting on my back porch while trying to hold back my mother's hair as she vomits on her petunias. On the day of her funeral, I ripped those motherfuckers out of the ground.

She always loved those flowers more than me.

A lady in a fuschia dress drops her bag. She stands perfectly still, staring at her failure. All her missed opportunities have manifested in her dropped Gucci handbag.

I crumple my shopping list in my jacket. Each crease turns my half-legible note more and more into a mashed paper crane. I become enveloped in thought. My mind races as it lays out this mundane occurrence into a creative writ-

ing piece that could get third place at a state fair — if I managed to bribe the judges.

I run directly into the shellshocked woman.

“Sorry,” I whisper under my breath, barely loud enough for her to hear.

“What?” She blurts out, still phased from a 23 year-old with a sole patch running directly into her like a bird discovering glass.

“Sorry,” I repeat again, just like I did in the third grade.

She does not respond except with a half-assed shrug that she makes every week when looking at her losing lottery ticket.

After showing the most miniscule amount of empathy for a woman going through a mid-walk crisis, I take a sharp turn down an ally. I take a shortcut I discovered my first night in New York. That night, I got lost and ended up getting shit-faced with a nice group of

Russians visiting for the week.

Now, all I have to remember from that night are fleeting memories and a tramp stamp.

The neon lights of the 24hour grocery store sign flicker.

Half the letters burnt out half a decade ago in a time when those things mattered.

Half the items on my shopping list have been lost in time and in the folds of the paper. I buy the items I recognize and mourn for the items that are gone. The thin plastic bags I paid five cents each for rub against my leg.

On my way back, I pass the fuschia woman who is still motionless. We nod at each other in remembrance of our shared history. In my apartment, a milkless bowl of cereal stares at me. I half-assedly look in my bag like I don’t instantly know my fate. I close my door, ready to remember the mundane. ◆

“Nobody move or the anchovy gets it.”

a charming enigma Jeffrey free, as in the vivacious earth Goldblum bloom, as in a bright poppy The jurassic nature park of life - Mishelle Arakelian Resident Charcuterie Board Expert

balance away

last words from a tree before it was cut down to make this paper This ‘X’ on my bark marks the spot where cleaved, I will be.

You’re barking up the wrong tree.

Instead of the oxygen and life I bestow you humans would rather choke and die.

How can I live with this catastrophe?

Every situation I see, I cry Numbers whittlin’ away unhappily Is the patriarchy the reason why?

At least I tried

Or those who keep their job long past their age?

Hoarding money as though it was candy Spewing words to create a binding cage All said with a smile that appears uncanny

but hey, those are alternative facts.

Since I am stuck with my hopes in the dump Dry my tears with my avocado toast For sure this is no cause to be abash While others look on as they boast

but one last time, I must ask

to save you all before the smog and heat smother the world and melt the caps,

This ‘X’ on my bark marks the spot where my soul will meet the axe,

that you leaf me alone, tree-t me well,

It seemed I’ll never reach my apex Composed on my humble iPhone X - Sophia Landaverde Canadian Ambassador

and let me stand.

- Steven Zhou Resident Trust Fund Baby

the butt of everyone’s jokes

by Dan kaliblotzky

M

Mad Manhattaner

y job is not the one I grew up wishing I’d have.

The first thought I remember about my career is when I imagined myself in a massage parlor.

I was surrounded by smiling people all day and gave them an opportunity to relax as they forgot all about their pain as soon as I touched their skin.

That was my image of success for a while, but after my parents got new boring office jobs, I figured I finally needed to wrap my head around what was realistic.

Why would someone spend their entire day being the epitome of mundanity, nothing more than a liaison for boring people waiting to do boring things. Though it might offend them, I honestly think my parents function as nothing more than a waiting room for people looking to move on to more important things. I never wanted to be like that, but here we are.

The highlight of my day yesterday was seeing some interesting jeans on a woman who sat next to me.

Along the leg, it seemed like she had embroidered her own spiraling pink pattern. Intersected at various points were some embroidered oranges. I looked further up and the oranges turned to grapefruits, then the grapefruits to lemons. I knew I would never wear something like that in my life. My

crude upholstery that I called clothing was just the same itchy black cotton I wore day after day. I began to imagine her in an artist’s studio, decked out in a denim beret with embroidered strawberries, a denim jacket with embroidered melons, and a denim shirt with embroidered tangelos. That may sound like your nightmare, but in the middle of another boring day, that’s what I call an exciting thought. I began to pay more attention to peoples’ pants that day.

One day, a man sat on me in parachute pants, and I couldn’t complain because, at that point, I was just looking for something — anything — new. This was a new experience. I felt the unfamiliar swish as he sat down, and, as he got up, a now-familiar swoosh of the glittery, bright purple fabric that revealed itself on his backside. It was then that I realized the beauty in being a chair in the lobby of a doctor’s office. I realized how little I had appreciated the life of reclinable servitude. Thank you, Dr. Mendel, for giving me the quiet life; a life of thought and purpose. Thanks Mom and Dad for showing me the dignity in your position as Dr. Johnson’s infamous waiting room loveseat. I would never wish reupholstery on you in the world. I thank you by the fabric of my cushion. ◆

cursing those who curse cursing Though many say I swear too much, I do not give a frick.

They say I use it as a crutch, but they can suck an egg.

I articulate my thoughts with ease, and though they may be blunt, They’re truthful. And, as you can see, I’m not a thoughtless person.

So please refrain from calling names, and may you keep your wit!

But please don’t tell me not to swear, or else I’ll lose my mind.

By Stephen Lightfoot Sandwich Connisseur

coming in first — a haiku

Sweat drips down my face I have won the race — but now?

I sleep on the couch

by Stephen Lightfoot Sandwich Connoisseur

Ode to Jayachamarajendra Wadiya Bespoke the belly of the beast, Smoke and mirrors, I crossed the windowpane Pain, an element of mobility and jeer Jayachamarajendra Wadiyar, the Maharaja of Mysore Princely, royal pain, musicologist, and philosophy Torn down water Styrofoam compromises to maintain order Carnatic music flows strictly Midnight’s children are listening No rush to die, reading Salman Rushdie Prosperity and property interlock Royalty and remnants keep the king Reprisal and democracy, a twisted freedom A fate unknown.

by MISHELLE ARAKELIAN

Resident Charcuterie Board Expert

dirty media There once was a thinkpiece from Time Which discussed the climate of crime Print media’s scarred Don’t think of it too hard Lest your conscious be covered in grime

by Rhys Shriver

Middle-Class Correspondent

cartoon caption contest this week’s contest

the finalists

“Leather, beef, it all comes from the same animal.”

Gerald May, Nashville, TN “The recipe called for six cups of Chuck Taylors.”

Mikaela Long, Honolulu, HI “This dish is a complete shoe in to get me that next Michelin Star.”

Peter Gynt, Fucking, Austria

the winning caption

“Jane sees Spot, Jane sees Spot crush the life out of 50 sailors.”

Max Williams, Salt Lake City, UT