The 24-Hour Issue by The Yale Record

Vol. 148, No. 5

THE YALE

Feb. 8, 2020

RECORD

“The Nation’s Oldest Humor Magazine” or

“The Nation’s Most Humorous Old Magazine” Join us:

Chair@yalerecord.org

POSSIBLE, JONG-UN, AND KARDASHIAN: THE HOTTEST KIMS OF 2019 Dear Sigmund Freud, Dad’s Penis Sways In The Soft Morning Breeze. Shit, I Mean How Was Your Penis? Day! Shit. Penis. Shit! You Know What, Forget about it. Fuck! Sincerely, Hugh Janus

20 YEARS AGO TODAY: MR. PEPPER GRADUATES MED SCHOOL Dear Bumble, Very disappointed in the lack of beekeepers on this app. 2/5 stars. Will not download again. Sincerely, BeeztieBoy49

BEATING AROUND THE BUSH: THIS GUY IS TAKING FOREVER TO EXPLAIN WHY HE WAS JERKING OFF IN A BUSH Dear Yale first-years, Are you considering taking this class? You wish to suckle at my tit of knowledge? To bathe in my blood and drink my tears as I impart a deep and layered knowledge of the Iliad unto your soul? This class is capped at 8 people and priority will be given to second year masters students in geochemistry. Thank you, Professor Ross

FEMINISM IS TOXIC! I DRANK DIRECTLY FROM THE WOMEN’S TABLE AND GOT GIARDIA

PR DISASTER! UNIVERSAL STUDIOS TRIED TO SET UP A “PLATFORM 9 3/4” IN HARRY POTTER WORLD, BUT THE PORTAL ACCIDENTALLY SENT FANS TO A PARALLEL UNIVERSE WHERE THE SOUTH WON THE CIVIL WAR Dear The Owner of the Gold Chevrolet Impala Parked Out Front, Sometimes, things happen. More specifically, bad things happen. More specifically, sometimes my son Johnny violently defecates in random places. More specifically, on the windshield of your 2003 Chevrolet Impala. I would apologize, but I think you should be proud of your disgustinglyupholstered crapmobile. It’s finally as shitty on the outside as it is on the inside. —Karen

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“STARTED FROM THE BOTTOM NOW WE HERE!” SINGS CROWD FULL OF CHADS AT SIG EP Dear Online Therapist, My mom and dad are putting so much pressure on me and I’m scared I won’t get into college! I also put so much pressure on myself. :( Sincerely, Worried Will Dear Worried Will, You suck lol.

Sincerely, Online Therapist

RAGS TO RICHES? THIS SEWER RAT NOW LIVES IN SAYBROOK Dear Spork, Stop being so goddamn noncommital. Are you a spoon? A Fork? Pick a fucking utensil and stick to it. Angrily, Lisa Dear Lisa, I too am tortured by the pathetic ambiguity of my existence. Were it that I could fit in among the spoons or forks, I might not cry myself to sleep every night and consign myself to the dregs of society. Know that as much as my existence frustrates you, it is nothing compared to the daily existential woe that permeates my being. My most sincere apologies, Existential Spork

THE TABLES HAVE TURNED: THE BOTTOMS ARE COVERED IN GUM AND SHIT. IT’S DISGUSTING.

Dear Young Parents, Would wearing a condom really have felt worse than putting your hand in literal shit to change your child’s diaper? Just something to think about. Sincerely, Trojan

RADICAL ALLY: THIS STRAIGHT MAN SAYS HE COULD IMAGINE HIMSELF KISSING A DUDE Dear Mr. President, Frankly I’m sickened at how your administration has been handling affairs in our great country. Our people have never been so divided, and our government has never been so corrupt. I hope that you and the rest of your cabinet rot in hell. Sincerely, A disappointed citizen

YALE’S NEW VALENTINE’S DAY TOURS TO SHOWCASE NEW HAVEN’S HORNIEST SQUIRRELS Dear Disappointed Citizen, For the last time, this is not the address of the President of the United States. This is address of the President of Morgan’s Barbecue Pleasure Palace. If you wish to be slathered in our succulent seven spice sauce and delivered to another plane of sensual Barbecue Nirvana, please feel free to write, but if you wish to express your political thoughts please do so elsewhere. Sincerely, The President of Morgan’s Barbecue Pleasure Palace

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Obituary Correction The Yale Editorial would like to apologize The RecordBoard Editorial Board would like to for an erroneous obituaryobituary in a previous issue apologize for an erroneous in a previous of the magazine. misreported that issue of the magazine.The Theissue editors confused Stephen Archduke Franz after being Hawking with Ferdinand skateboarderdied Tony Hawk, shot point blank by Bosnian Gavrilo misidentifying the late theoreticalSerb physicist as “X Princip. The Archduke is actually still alive, Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom but hanging on by a thread due to his diet of HuckJam’ BMX freestyle motocross tour.” hot pockets and also the fact that he’s 156.

IS THE UNIYOUR TED STATES ADHEADING CAN'T GO HERE TOWARDS ANOTHER RECESSION? Obituary Correction HOW WOULD I KNOW, I’M JUST A MANNEQUIN IN A SEX SHOP WEARING ASSLESS-SUSPENDERS? The Yale Record Editorial Board would like to apologize for an THIS erroneous obituaryTAKEN, in a previous CLEARLY SPOT'S issue of the magazine. The editors confused Stephen DUMBASS Hawking with skateboarder Tony Hawk, misidentifying the late theoretical physicist as “X Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom HuckJam’ BMX freestyle motocross tour.”

YOUR AD CAN'T GO HERE CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS

Dear President of Morgan’s Barbecue Pleasure Palace, --Shampoo-Don’t --Conditioner-play coy with me. I know Wash--the government’s who’s really--Body pulling --Lighter Fluid-strings. You And may theTaxes-rest of the --Is Self-Aware Canhave Do Your masses fooled, but I know the truth. I Normalthis to Oily Skin!” know“Great howfordeep goes. Sincerely, Disappointed Citizen

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NEW: Old Spice Men’s 5 in 1 Shower Gel --Shampoo---Conditioner---Body Wash---Lighter Fluid---Is Self-Aware And Can Do Your Taxes--

Dear“Great Disappointed Citizen, for Normal to Oily Skin!” Listen here you little shit. You have no idea how deep this goes. You could never guess how far our tendrils extend. We see everything. We know your secrets. We’ve silenced dissenters before... and we’ll do it again. —The President of Morgan’s Barbecue Pleasure Palace

our website, yalerecord.org, for more hilarious content!

Obituary Correction FOR SALE: The Yale Record Editorial Board would like to apologize for an erroneous obituary in a previous issue of the magazine. The editors confused Stephen Hawking with skateboarder Tony Hawk, misidentifying the late theoretical physicist as “X Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom HuckJam’ BMX freestyle motocross tour.”

1872 College humor publication. Runs great, inspection report available. Minor fender bender. Cash only.

YOUR AD CAN'T GO HERE CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS

—I. Almor

NEW: O

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PSYCH EXPERIMENT SUBJECTS NEEDED: ARE YOU TALL, HOT, BLONDE, GREAT IN BED, AND ARE INTO UNCONVENTIONALLY ATTRACTIVE CS MAJORS? GET PAID TO GO ON A DATE WITH ME! 7AM3PM. $35. Dear Delta Airlines, Did you know that you’re #69 on the Fortune 500 list? Haha. Nice. —Bobby Dear Bobby, Did you know you’ll be in the 69th row on your next flight? Won’t be so “nice” sitting next to Diarrhea Steve. —Delta Airlines

TOO SPOOKY? I TRIED EMOTIONAL INTIMACY AND I WOKE UP IN A KIDDIE POOL FULL OF MAYONNAISE IN THE MIDDLE OF CROSS CAMPUS Obituary Correction The RecordBoard Editorial Board would like to The Yale Editorial would like to apologize for an erroneous obituary in lastinyear’s In apologize for an erroneous obituary a previous issue.The Theeditors issue misreported issueMemoriam of the magazine. confused Stephen Obituary Correction that famous chef, skateboarder entrepreneur and Hawking with Tonycriminal Hawk, Martha wastheoretical laidBoard to rest peacefully The Yale Stewart Record would like to misidentifying the Editorial late physicist as “X behind the family’s estate in Rhode Island. This Games champion and founder of the in ‘Boom Boom apologize for an erroneous obituary a previous was untrue on two accounts: the memorial was HuckJam’ freestyle tour.” Stephen issue of the BMX magazine. Themotocross editors confused interrupted by theskateboarder constructionTony of a jumbo Hawking with Hawk, McDonald’s nearby, and we have just recieved misidentifying the late theoretical physicist as “X evidence that Martha has risen from the grave Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom to promote her new line of skin cleansers and HuckJam’ BMX freestyle motocross tour.” facemasks.

YOUR AD CAN'T GO HERE YOUR AD MY GRANDPA SAID WHAT?! CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS GOHASHERE RACICAN'T ST GRANDPA A SPEECH

IMPEDIMENT

CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS

Dear God, Why do platypuses look like that? Love, Trevor Dear Trevor, I’m a comedian who pushes boundaries. I sometimes miss. If you go NEW: Old Spice Men’s 5 in 1ofShower Gel most of through my ten years comedy, it bad, you’re going to find a lot of bad --Shampoo-misses. My--Conditioner-intention is never to hurt --Body Wash-NEW: Old Spice Men’s 5 in 1 Shower Gel anyone but--Lighter I am Fluid-trying to be the best --Is Self-Aware--Shampoo-And Can Do Your Taxes-comedian I--Conditioner-can be and sometimes that --Body Wash-requires risks. “Great for Normal to Oily Skin!” --Lighter Fluid---Is Self-Aware And Can Do Your Taxes-- Regards, God “Great for Normal to Oily Skin!”

NUDITY GONE TOO FAR? I TOOK A LONG LOOK AT MYSELF IN THE MIRROR AFTER A SHOWER AND FELT A LITTLE BAD

—A. Mitchell

Emmy Waldman ‘11

very winter, the Yale Record publishes its 24 Hour Issue: an issue where the entirety of staff gets together in a room, and over the course of 24 hours we create an entire edition of the magazine from scratch. As the only successful daily publication on Yale’s campus, we see it as our duty to teach other journalistically-inclined Yalies how to crank out an issue in just one day. For reference, here is our schedule: 12:00-12:15 pm - Staff and Eboard set up their saline solution IVs. Hydration is key, but during the 24 Hour Issue, there’s no time for a water break. Make sure to put the needle in your non-dominant arm so that you can still type fast. 12:15-2:15 pm - Try desperately to think of any other Yale publications with the skill and determination to write an entire issue in just 24 hours. There’s that one little newspaper with the building on York Street, but we can’t remember its name. The “Yale Everyday Newspaper” or something. “Yale News of the Day.” “Each Day, the News of Yale.” “Yale News that Comes Out Once a Day.” 2:30 pm - Mozzarella sticks. 2:31 pm - Lactaid pills. 3:00-4:30 pm - Research facts for the issue. The Yale Everyday Newspaper isn’t the only campus publication that gets to end all their articles with fun little factoids that are only somewhat related to the piece. Anyone who reads the 24 Hour Issue this year will learn that the giant beaver was the largest rodent to ever roam North America, weighing as much as a black bear. 4:30-5:00 pm - Use the leftover budget to bid for classic antiques on Ebay. Most years, the Record uses its 24 Hour Issue operating budget on dinner, pizza, snacks, mixers, red solo cups, and extremely non-alcoholic drinks to put in those red solo cups. This year, Marcy made the executive decision to skimp on food and drinks, and to use the remaining budget to get something really rad on Ebay, like a grandfather clock or a sword. 5:00-5:15 pm - To save time and increase productivity, create an intricate colorcoding system for articles. Pieces with poop jokes go in the green folder, pieces without poop jokes go in the red folder, and pieces with only poop jokes go directly to print.

T he CTorporate A merica he 24 H our I ssue I ssue 5:15-6:00 pm - Sit in a big circle and laugh together as we read jokes from last year’s 24 Hour Issue. We were so young and innocent in January of 2019. Australia wasn’t on fire, World War III hadn’t begun, and Maddy hadn’t yet started using the Record as a recruiting ground for her new club, Smack-apella—Yale’s Premier Singing Group for Fans of WWE Smackdown. (The only instrument they use is the human voice, plus tables, ladders, and chairs.) 6:15 pm - Tug O’ War. Winners get dinner, losers get the scraps. Nothing gets handed to you on a silver platter at the 24 Hour Issue. 6:25 pm - Pre-dinner inspirational thought experiment. Imagine the tallest building you’ve ever seen. Really picture it. Okay. Now imagine a building just like that one, but even taller. Our capabilities are truly unknown and unknowable. 6:30 pm - Dinner. 7:00 pm - Scraps. 8:00 pm - Break something. Nothing keeps the new staffers on their toes like a big crashing noise and maybe even seeing someone fall over. This year, we’ll have Harry do a swan dive onto the foosball table. 8:30 pm - Bashfully call Yale facilities and ask them to come help us fix the foosball table. 9:00 pm - When facilities says no, score some quality bonding time by rebuilding the foosball table ourselves. 9:30-11:30 pm - Two hours of intense aerobic exercise. 12:00 am - Big 4 each take a double dose of non-drowsy dramamine for kids. After working on the 24 Hour Issue nonstop from noon to midnight, it can feel a bit like the room is spinning. Nothing stops the nausea quite like some motion sickness pills Maddy Blaney ’21 Chair

for children. Plus, the non-drowsy type is scientifically proven to prevent drowsiness for 12 hours. It’s either that or the caffeine powder Big 4 snorts at 11:59 pm. 12:30-1:00 am - Bluebook purging. It’s shopping period. Everyone on staff makes a collective decision on our science gut, so we all don’t have to shop both “Planets and Stars” and “Plants and People.” 2:00-4:00 am - Sell advertisements. Just because the rest of New Haven is fast asleep doesn’t mean the Record’s business grind can come to a stop. At two in the morning, we send Ethan out into the night to start knocking on the doors of local businesses. For the next two hours, he’ll be moving the needle, touching base, and maybe even setting up some one-on-ones. 5:00-6:00 am - Dream journaling. As an inspiration for new pieces, new staffers are forced to write down what their dreams might have been about that night if Big 4 had allowed them to sleep. 6:53-7:14 am - Nap time. Here at the 24 Hour Issue, we have a saying: you can sleep when you’re dead, or for exactly 21 minutes directly before the sun rises. Then, back to work. 7:15-7:30 am - Nap time is over, and staff needs an energy boost. Each staffer gets to eat a pack of Gatorade Prime Energy Chews™ and down a double shot of Five Hour Energy. Then we all listen to “My Humps” by the Black Eyed Peas on Harry’s boombox at full volume. 7:30 am-12:00 pm - Spend the next four and a half hours doing a final spell check. We’ve worked on this issue too goddamn long too have any typos.

—C. Cohen Editor in Chief

Caleb Cohen ’21 Editor in Chief

Harry Rubin ’21 Online Editor in Chief

Marcy Sanchez ’21 Publisher

Sarah Force ’21 Managing Editor

Amanda Thomas ’21 Managing Editor

Will Cramer ’22 Director of Online Content

Luna Garcia ’22 Director of Online Content

Kaylee Walsh ’22 Managing Editor

David Hou ’22 Online Managing Editor

Ethan Fogarty ’21 Business Manager

Davey McCowin ’21 Copy Editor

Vivek Suri ’20 Design Editor

Elliot Connors ’20 Design Editor

Rosa Chang ’22 Art Director

Maya Sanghvi ’22 Staff Director

Ellen Yang ’20 Old Owl

Chloe Prendergast ’20 Old Owl

Dylan Schifrin ’20 Old Owl

Noah Amsel ’20 Old Owl

Mariah Kreutter ’20 Old Owl

Simon Custer ’20 Old Owl

Walker Caplan ’20 Old Owl

Staff: Colin Basciocco ’21 Leo Egger ’23 Paige Davis ’21 Addison Beer ’23 Alex Taranto ’23 Jonas Kilga ’23 Juan Diego Casallas ’23 Tilly Brooks ’23

Alex Kane ’22 Amrita Vetticaden ’23 Andrew Kornfeld ’23 Avery Brown ’23 Avery Mitchell ’23 Katia Vanlandingham ’23 Lindsay Jost ’21 Zoe Larkin ’23

Jocelyn Wexler ’21 Bela Madrid ’22 Jacob Feit-Mann ’23 Adrianna Ballinger ’23 Ayla Jeddy ’23 Lucy Santiago ’23 Miguel Von Fedak ’23 Zosia Caes ’22

Alec Zbornak ’21 Bea Portela ’23 Clio Rose ’23 Diana Kulmivez ’23 Dory Johnson ’23 Raffael Davila ’23 Raja Moreno ’23 Jason Salvant ’23

Ronak Gandhi ’22 Zuri Goodman ’22 Ellen Qian ’23 Erik Bosen ’23 Eva Quittman ’23 Sam Karp ’22 Sam Leone ’23 Lucy Del Alamo ’23

Helen Tejada ’23 Finn Gibson ’23 Jacob Eldred ’23 Jacob Kaufman-Shalett ’23 Joe Wickline ’23 Simi Olurin ’23 Tanya Jomaa ’23 Shirshak Gautam ’23

Special thanks to: Ezra Stiles College for the snickerdoodle cookies. Front Cover: Avery Mitchell ’23, notorious ink spiller of the Yale Record. Back Cover: Alex Taranto ’23, drawer of hauntingly up-close faces (@adtaranto) Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXLVIII, No. 5, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2019 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: letters should be addressed to: Chair, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chair@yalerecord.org. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.

“You have 24 hours to live.” Not exactly the words you expected to hear during your weekly colonoscopy, but you must’ve had something whack up your rectum. If anyone had to tell you that you’d be dead in 24 hours, though, you’re glad it was your trusty family practitioner Dr. Love, Doctor of Medicine (and Love). You realize that everything you do today, you’ll be doing for the last time. Your last outfit: overalls and a Lehigh Valley Ironpigs baseball cap. Your last breakfast: adderall and muesli. Your last human contact: Doctor Love’s gloved hand rooting around in your bootyhole. How will you spend your final rotation on this earth? You’ve lived a life of triumphs and regrets; how will you compose your early coda? There are books to read, animals to eat, people to fuck, people to kill. You look up at Dr. Love. He looks back at you. This is your story now. 24 hours remain. Will you: KISS DR. LOVE (2), FUCK DR. LOVE (6), or WATCH THE IRISHMAN (4)?

Laying on the hospital bed in shock, you stare at the doctor, whose name tag reads “Dr. Love, Doctor of Medicine (and Love)” in comic sans. “Yeah, you’re gonna die,” the doctor repeats again. “In, uh, twenty-three hours and, let’s see here… fiftynine minutes.” As soon as Dr. Love finishes speaking, you feel an overwhelming impulse to grab his face and kiss him right on his goddamn lips. “Sorry, it’s twenty-three hours and… fifty-eight minutes now.”

Hearing him say such sweet nothings, you salivate uncontrollably in anticipation—but, you stop yourself. Is the doctor married? Maybe Dr. Love doesn’t love you back… After all, the last time you loved someone, you forever lost him when you left him in the snack section at Costco. That person being your son. But before you know it, you’ved lunged forward in your hospital bed and asked Dr. Love for clear, verbal consent to kiss him. And after he approves of your request, there’s no denying it— you love Dr. Love, and Dr. Love loves you. Do you: MARRY THE DOCTOR ON THE SPOT (3) or RECOMMIT TO PAST RELATIONSHIPS (5)?

Intimacy feels good, especially with Dr. Love. You love a good lab coat, and someone who can do that one Fortnite dance that looks like kicking and bonking someone on the head at the same time (kick-bonk dance). When you find someone who’s got both covered, you lock him down immediately. Dr. Love starts doing the kick-bonk dance after he tells you your prognosis. The prognosis is a bummer, but the dance is good. Real good. Good enough to text your other spouses that it’s over and propose to Dr. Love right then and there. You take your great grandmother’s ring out of your buttpocket and try to wedge it onto Dr. Love’s pudgy finger. Your grandmother had small fingers, which was good for party tricks but bad when the Small Finger Killer came to town. Dr. Love has big fingers, which is

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bad for surgery but good for his K-D ratio (10-2). The ring barely fits (euphemism), but you manage to get it on (turn of phrase). He says yes, and his love heals you. You and Dr. Love go on to settle down in the suburbs, have two children, and Fortnite dance together as a happy family. How lame! Try to be cooler this time and: RETURN TO YOUR PREVIOUS DECISION.

You now have 20 hours to live. Dumbass. Since you decided to watch The Irishman in front of the doctor and refused to let him leave the room for four hours, he’s properly pissed and challenges you to fisticuffs. If you had fought him before the movie, you would’ve had the strength and cunning of a young Robert “The Irishman” De Niro, and you would’ve defeated him. But now, you are as feeble as old, properly-aged Robert “The Irishman” De Niro, and you stand no chance against the doctor. He leaves you two options: exile yourself to the neighboring woods to wallow in your regret, or earn his favor back by competing in his favorite children’s show. Will you:

—K. Vanlandingham

You pull away from your kiss with Dr. Love. “Oh my goodness!” you say, in shock. Despite his extensive knowledge of the human body, that doctor is not a good kisser. You make yourself a vow: if you have less than twenty-four hours left to live, you’ll spend most of it with the people you love, and only a little of it with your physician. You are about to call Home Alone superstar Macaulay Culkin for advice on how to spend your final day, but as you finish dialing his number you remember your long-lost son and mother, the only two people you love more than Macaulay. Unfortunately, you have had no idea where your son is ever since you lost him at Costco, and your relationship with your mother has been strained ever since you realized that your love for her is more than familial. “Dang it!” you say to yourself. “This decision would be so much easier if I had the wisdom of an eightyear-old boy trapped at home on Christmas.” Do you:

With the rest of your life limited to a mere twentyfour hours, your heart begins to beat rapidly. Adrenaline is rushing through your veins. Your knees are weak. Your palms are sweaty. You ask your Doctor to please turn off the Eminem playing in the background so you can think. Dr. Love, your family practitioner, immediately turns the music off and apologizes profusely. He places his hand on your shoulder. How did he know that your love language is physical touch? You look into his eyes. “Doctor Love,” you say. “Do you love to make love?” “Yes,” he says eagerly. “And I’ve wanted you ever since I did your first colonoscopy.” You make fiery, passionate love on the hospital bed. Dr. Love may be a lover, not a fighter, but he’s also a damn good fucker. You try positions you’ve never tried before. You feel your doctor inside you for the first time (other than the colonoscopy). If an apple a day keeps the doctor away, you’ll never touch another apple. You finish together in perfect ecstasy. Satisfied, you put your hospital gown back on. Dr. Love leans over and whispers one last thing in your ear: “Your copay is $50.” You’ve never felt this way before and you wonder if you ever will again. Will you:

FIND YOUR LONG-LOST SON (17) or WRITE A LOVE LETTER TO MOM (9)?

MARRY YOUR DOCTOR (3) or GO ON A HORNY BINGE (10)?

WANDER IN THE WILDERNESS (7) or PRETEND YOU’RE 12 AND JOIN CHOPPED JUNIOR (8)?

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You find yourself in a dark wilderness. A mosquito buzzes around your head, and you swat at it for a while until it seems like it’s finally gone, and then it does that thing where it suddenly reappears really loudly in your ear and you’re like, okay you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. The last time you ate was before you started watching The Irishman, so obviously you are starving now. Deep between the trees you see the figure of a man approaching. The figure steps into the clearing, and you realize that it’s British survivalist, Bear Grylls. “Hello” says Bear Grylls. “I have a choice of two challenges for you, if you’re brave enough to accept.” “Okay, Bear Grylls,” you reply. “The first is some panda meat, freshly meated, for you to feast upon. The second, is—” “Wait, sorry, did you just say panda meat?” you interrupt. “Let me fucking finish,” says Bear Grylls. Suddenly you are ashamed of your foolishness, and you listen in silence. “The second is a map for a treasure, buried deep somewhere in the wilderness for you to dig up. You must decide.” Do you: EAT THE PANDA MEAT (11) or DIG FOR TREASURE (12)?

You’ve always dreamed of being featured on a cooking show, and on this show, you don’t even have to compete against grown-ups! After forging a birth certificate to say you’re 12, you march to the Chopped Junior studio kitchen, where you meet none other than beloved host Ted Allen. You demand to be let into the competition, promising to make him the best food of his life. Before you know it, you’re standing behind a wicker basket with three sweaty preteens awaiting his signal. As Allen summons you and your competitors to open the first basket, you quickly identify the slab of meat as freshly butchered panda, baby Bao Bao from the local preserve. The pink meat glistens on the plate. As your mind races through the possibilities of what you could do with this delicacy, Ted Allen reveals the evening’s judges. There, sitting among the ordinary restaurateurs and chefs, you see the chiseled jawline of the one and only Bear Grylls, legendary survivalist, and connoisseur of panda meat. The stakes are higher now than ever before. Your culinary mastery is surely sufficient to help you defeat some bitch-ass children, but will Bear himself be impressed with your skills? His approval would mean everything to you. You can’t decide if Bear would be

more wowed by an expertly cooked panda meat dinner, or if you just took a bite out of the uncooked panda meat survivalist-style. Do you: COOK THE PANDA MEAT (24) as instructed, or EAT IT RAW (11)?

You take out a stationary pad and begin to write: Dearest Mother, This morning I kissed my doctor, and it made me think of how much I miss you. In all my years of searching, I’ve never found anyone else who makes me feel the way you do. I never should have left the womb. I thought I needed space, but what I actually needed was to be closer to you. We were so good together; I know if you let me come back we could be even better. I’ve grown, Mama. I want to be there for you. I want to take care of you the way you took care of me. I understand now how wrong I was. We should be soulmates. Just like the Virgin Mary held her fallen baby when he came off the Cross, so too should we be together till death do us part. But alas, we cannot, due to incest laws or whatever. If I can’t find love with you, perhaps I can find it with Mary’s fallen baby, Mr. Christ. Good job. Now that you’ve turned towards religion, do you: CONFESS YOUR SINS (15) or TRY TO GET INTO HEAVEN (16)?

—K. Vanlandingham

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The exam-table paper leaves a criss-cross pattern on your back. You just fucked your medical practitioner, opening yet another can of sexual Pringles in this hospital, and God knows you can’t stop until you’ve fucked the whole stack. Upon “dressing” in your front-covering paper-blue hospital gown, you burst bare-assed out of the exam room while Dr. Love continues to recover from his postfuck fugue. You round the corner and you see a nurse. A nurse sees you. The two of you make passionate love. Doors rush past; your fevered sexual energy is giving you a headache. You continue, arriving at the front desk where sits a goateed receptionist. You don’t know if it’s the pheromones you’re furiously emitting or your bare ass hanging out of your gown, but he looks up and you lock eyes. You agree on a safeword (“Elihu”), and then dive into a steamy medical supply closet to screw. After the third smashed morphine vial, you realize that you’re chasing a high that you’ll never achieve through casual sex. You’re gonna need either hard drugs or some serious gambling. Do you :

entirely in Spanish. Looking back, you regret taking L1 Indonesian, but you at least know what a big red X means, so you start walking North. After fifteen minutes, you come across a giant red X painted on the ground next to a shovel and a wooden sign that says “PELIGRO: NO ENTRAR.” You scratch your head (because, again, you can’t read Spanish), but the X is big and red, so you start digging. Your shovel finally hits something solid. You’ve found a huge wooden chest, engraved with cryptic symbols, ancient runes. You slowly open it, shielding your eyes, fearful of what might lie within. You reach inside the chest, and you discover a fragile piece of rolled-up parchment. After carefully unfurling the scroll, you realize it’s a map, written entirely in Spanish. In the middle, a big red X. It’s the same map! Do you: GIVE UP (22) or KEEP DIGGING (23)?

You’ve fucked your way through the hospital. You’re feeling grimy and your genitals are on ACQUIRE DRUGS (13) or fire. But what’s the point of an STD test when GO TO THE RACETRACK (14)? you’re going to die anyway? You sigh and exit the hospital. You wonder if anyone can see death on your face. The moment has finally arrived. The mutilated You look through your phone for a supportive friend. corpse of Bao Bao the panda leaks blood and You find the number of your old college buddy/drug dealer guts all over your Allbirds. As your will battles Italian Marco. Italian Marco would understand. You give your gut, you try to focus. The only thing that matters him a call. He recognizes your voice immediately. now is the panda meat staring you in the face. “Meet me at the playground ASAP,” you say. “You You reflect on the last time you ate rancid meat— know the one. And bring the goods.” going down on your ex-boyfriend. This is different, You walk to the playground. You wait for ten minutes. though. This is survival. As you prepare to lay siege to Then twenty minutes. Maybe Italian Marco forgot your your stomach, an unsettling thought occurs to you: what playground. Maybe he didn’t care for you as much as you will this raw panda meat do to you? Whatever, you’re cared for him. Maybe he put a lasagna in the oven that he gonna die soon anyway. You take the first bite, and it couldn’t leave. You figure it’s time to go when you see a tastes different than you expected. Not better, not worse, man in the distance. just different. You want to know more, so you take a few “Italian Marco!” you say. more bites. Soon enough, you look down for another bite, “A quarter ounce of Sativa. Your favorite,” he says. only to find a barren carcass remaining. Wow, maybe that He looks the same. Tall and handsome with Tuscan was kinda good. As it drips from your lips, you turn to sun-baked skin. He hands you the weed. the left and gaze at Bear Grylls with hunger in your eyes. “This one’s on me,” he whispers in your ear. You’ve already eaten panda, so why stop there? It’s time How did he know gift-giving was your love language? to: You consider giving him one last kiss. But no, you must leave. Time is of the essence. CHOW DOWN ON BEAR (21). “Ciao!” you yell, as you run to the theatre on a mission. You’ll be damned if you die without finding the Bear Grylls hands you a faded, torn-up time to... treasure map, but unfortunately, the map was drawn by conquistadors and is written GET HIGH AND WATCH CATS (18).

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Neigh neigh, bitches. You may be dying, but at least you’re on your way out during horse racing season. After that Kentucky Derby of hook-ups you’ve just had, it’s about time you see something else get ridden. You push your way into the grandstand, and to fit in with the crowd you snag an elderly woman’s floppy hat. She looks like she’s on the way out, so you feel no remorse when you steal her popcorn too. You plop down and listen to a tear-jerking rendition of the National Anthem. It feels like ninthgrader Emmabelle Jones is singing just to you. As you hear the announcement that the horses are lining up, you realize you don’t know the slightest thing about horse racing. You tap the shoulder of the drunk white mom in front of you. “Which horse should I be rooting for?” you ask. “Fuck you,” she says. “Excuse me?” you say, dumping your popcorn on her pink satin hat. “That’s the name of the horse I’m betting on, shithead,” she replies. “Shithead is the name of a horse?” you ask. “No, ‘Fuck You’ is the horse, and you’re the shithead,” she retorts. She points to the horse with a green saddle. “He’s the horse right there next to the brown horse with a cast on its leg.” You go to look at the crippled horse she mentioned, but your gaze falls on a different man. He’s chasing down a floppy hat tumbling down the grandstand. He looks remarkably familiar. His chiseled features. His concerned, well-groomed eyebrows. Could he be… your long-lost son? You lose sight of him when the woman in front of you taps you on the shoulder. “If you wanna place a bet on the race, go down to the booth,” she says, pointing to a stern-looking man in a suit sitting behind a windowed stall. There’s no time to do both. Do you:

It’s time to confess your sins and start anew. You rush to your local Catholic church, running over a few squirrels on the way. Whatever, just one more thing to confess. You find the priest, Father Arby, and beg him to listen. “Alright, you may begin,” says Father Arby. It’s not long until a simple “forgive me, father” spirals into a thirty-minute vent session, as you recall every lie you’ve told, every squirrel you’ve killed, and every moment you’ve longed for your mother’s unholy touch. The priest, overwhelmed by your shrieking sobs, removes the thin screen separating you from him. Your loins burn as they never have before. “Do not worry, my child, God loves us all. No love is unholy.” You touch the priest’s hand through the opening where the screen used to be. The two of you lock eyes, and your horny (but chaste) ass has no choice:

TAKE YOUR LONG-LOST SON TO MAURY (20) or PLACE A WILD BET (19)?

Do you ORDER A PIZZA (26) or DOMESTICATE A BEAR (27)?

KISS THE PRIEST (25).

Despite a heart-palpitating letter that would make Oedipus blush, your mother was not receptive to your deep confession of love. She gasped as she read the letter in front of you, before sighing. “Son, I’m sorry but I just don’t think it would work out. I like you too much as a friend!” Storming out of the house, you decide that you want to leave this earth. Thinking about where to go, you browse Yelp a bit and see that heaven is rated a solid 4.5 out of 5. But how ever will you get there? Bears are strong. A bear might be able to hoist you up into heaven, you’d just have to train one first. But that sounds like hungry work… and you DO have a coupon for a Papa John’s Extra Cheesy Alfredo Pizza with Garlic Parmesan Crust.

Here are the best ways to find your son: a) Ask “are you my son?” to every male stranger you see. Every. Single. One. b) Wait for your son to wind up in a fish tank in a dentist’s office, where he will inevitably fake his own death. Then hope he will get accidentally catapulted into a sink and travel down the drainpipe back into the ocean, where you will be waiting for him with open fins. c) Take a selfie, then reverse Google Image search it to find people with similar faces. Pick the first one that looks anything like you and find that person’s Facebook profile. If he is 15 to 40 years younger than you and you have the same hair color, he is 100% your son. No DNA test needed. d) Your lack of commitment to any of the people you should care about most will lead you to a life of sloth, wrath, and prevarication. The only surefire way to find your missing son is to go where all sinful people go for vindication… GO ON MAURY (20).

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Sprocket, and Charlie Balls, (5) the over on 2.5 horses getting shot, and (6) the Celtics to win the opening tip. You need this win. If you’re going to die tonight, you’re going to die rich. You just bet all the money your mom put aside to get your cavities filled. You pat Winsome on the head. “Come on boy, let’s get this shmoney.” You go into the horse archives, looking for some way to make things happen. Searching through years of horse papers, you find it: a deranged horndog named Zach Moskow broke into the stables at Saratoga and made love to every horse in a weeklong binge. They fell in love, were heartbroken when Zach left, and never ran fast again. —A. Taranto If only there was some way to slow down Winsome’s competitors... After a euphoric, drug-fueled day, you finally set out to do what you’ve been meaning to do FUCK HORSES (29) to ensure you win the bet. since Christmas—watch the movie CATS. God, you can’t wait to see Jennifer Hudson belt out your favorite song, “Memory,” in feline form. “Memory” is You arrive in the green room of Maury, Middle objectively the best song of the musical (and the only song America’s third favorite daytime TV reality that makes any sense), and you’re willing to shell out the show (behind 16 and Pregnant and Duck big bucks to watch CATS in theater for this scene alone. Dynasty). Through the propped-open door, you catch You were in the live audience when Jennifer Hudson sight of mythical Maury himself walking to the stage. He’s performed “Memory” on The Voice Finale in 2019, and tall—taller than any man you’ve ever seen. Taller than Yao you would do anything for the sound of her pipes belting Ming, probably. TV is so strange, you think to yourself as out, pleading for a new life. At least that’s what you think a PA walks you to the stage. You make eye contact with the plot of CATS is, but you can’t be too sure. You’re not your long-lost son across the Maury set, and you feel at there for the plot. You’re there for the experience. home. Hundreds of views of the “Top Ten ‘You’re Not You remember exactly how your CATS obsession The Father’ Moments” compilation on WatchMojo’s started—with the Barbra Streisand vinyl Memories you Youtube page (not to be confused with the MsMojo owned as a kid that featured your favorite CATS song Youtube page: by females for females) are yours, but “Memory.” You admit that your first musical theatre you’ve never experienced it with your own eyes until now. love was Funny Girl, but there was an essential element You look into Maury’s blue eyes for the first time. missing—cats. Thank God there already existed a musical Behind the sad sacks of sagging skin, you see pain. Maury called just that. is just a man. Like you, or me, or Josh Gad. The two Getting high and watching movies always makes of you share a moment of solidarity. Two soldiers in a you feel some kind of way. Today might be the last lazy fight against time. Maury looks away, to the millions of afternoon of your life, but you’ll end it the same way Americans and tens of Canadians behind the camera. you’ve ended every other one: He opens an envelope and reads your name. When it comes to 14 year old Bubba… you... are the father! Your JACK OFF (28). son gets up and dabs toward the camera before doing a little dance. In WatchMojo’s “Top Ten ‘You’re Not The You look into the eyes of every horse... but Father’ Moments,” the dancing is accompanied by music, there’s something special about Winsome but it’s completely silent on set. You look at this whimsical Chocolat (listed 11-1). You don’t know what creature, body convulsing to unheard rhythms and wonder: you know, but you know. Do you: You take all your life’s savings. A six-way parlay: (1) Winsome to win, (2) Winsome to place, (3) Winsome FIGHT MAURY (30) or FORGET MAURY AND to show, (4) superfecta of Winsome, African Pharaoh, DO DRUGS WITH YOUR NEW SON (18)?

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With a quick blow to the trachea, you lay Bear Grylls out on the floor. You feel a little bad, but fuck it. You only have a few hours left to live, and it’s about damn time you tried person meat. Belly full of panda, you begin to feast on Bear Grylls. He may have famously drunk his own urine, but you’re about to go a step further and eat his bladder. It takes about an hour to strip every inch of flesh from the man’s bones, but you’re patient. Man-flesh is much more flavorful than panda, and has a melt-in-your-mouth quality that really can’t be beat. (DISCLAIMER: THIS IS NOT AN ENDORSEMENT OF CANNIBALISM. AT MOST, IT’S A SOFT RECOMMENDATION.) If you survive the day, you know that you’ll be making a few changes to your diet. Soon, though, you begin to feel sharp, stabbing pains in your abdomen. You’re not sure whether it’s the panda or the actual human man with a family, but something definitely fucked up your stomach. You tear open Bear’s satchel, desperate for something to ease your pain, and find two vials of pills: one labeled “Rancid Panda Meat Antidote” and the other “Rancid Bear Grylls Meat Antidote.” Bear clearly came prepared. But which meat was rancid? Which is causing you so much pain? You begin to hallucinate. You have to pick one because you probably shouldn’t mix medications—that doesn’t seem healthy. Your life depends on this decision. Do you: TAKE BEAR GRYLLS’S BEAR PILLS (32) or TAKE RANCID PANDADOTE (33)?

You’ve been digging for a grueling 13 seconds when you drop the shovel and wipe the sweat off your glistening brow. You see Bear out of the corner of your eye, his abnormally large nostrils flaring. You let your green plastic beach shovel fall to the ground and turn to Bear. “It’s too heavy… I can’t go on!” you say, pouting in the most sultry way you can muster. Lucky for you, the rugged Bear Grylls is ready to rescue you. He grabs the shovel by its ergonomic handle, extends his fingerless gloved hand to yours, and motions for you to jump on him. You stare at his beautifully sculpted back and cling onto his bulge. Bulging latissimus dorsi that is. You cling to Bear as he lurches forward, his Patagonia capilene polyblend rubbing against your shirt, the thin layer of fabric separating you and the love of your life. A flurry of dirt flies past you as Bear digs, and

you start to think of cute pet names for Bear: Teddy… Winnie… Malcolm… Suddenly, you and Bear pop out of the dirt straight into an enclosure filled with cute pandas. Your eyes adjust to the light, and you see a sign: “Welcome to China!” This is as close as you’ll ever get to studying abroad, so cherish this life-changing cultural experience. You eye the nearby panda bears. If you want to impress Bear Grylls, you’ll need to prove your survival skills in this foreign land. You rip the knife out of Bear’s side satchel and sprint towards the one they call “Bao Bao.” You only have one option: EAT THE PANDA (11).

Come on, did you really think that was gonna work? The same map? What a way to waste your last few hours. Go back and... TRY AGAIN (12).

And maybe download Google Translate while you’re at it.

You’ve prepared for this day your entire life. You quickly recall Grandma’s Famous Panda Bourguignon—a staple in your childhood home. You know the recipe like the back of your hand. 1. Sear the cubed panda meat in olive oil and garlic. You can tell the pan is hot enough if the meat’s sizzle sounds like quiet, pitiful screams. 2. Remove the panda from the heat, and leave it on a drying rack to rest. Lick up some of the excess panda grease from the pot to prevent your vegetables from getting too soggy (but mostly to taste the sweet, sweet panda for yourself). Sauteé the onion, garlic, and carrot in the remaining panda grease. 3. Deglaze pan with red wine (yes, exactly like they drink in The Irishman!). Add the meat back in and cover it with stock—ideally panda, but beef will do in a pinch. You whir through the kitchen like a machine, putting all those Chopped Junior babies to shame. Billy is floundering with his panda stir fry. Why is Emma crying? Who the fuck cares? You feel a strong sense of pride as the timer rings. Time’s up. The masterpiece before you is surely the finest Panda Bourguignon the world has ever known. Do the judges agree? You’ll have to: FIND OUT (31).

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“Come here,” you tell the priest, tenderly running your thumb over his lower lip. “Shhhhhhh, you’re safe with me.” Father Arby blushes and then whispers in your ear, “I also have a confession: you’re sexy.” He then sensually and consensually sucks on your thumb. “Kiss me father!” you moan, to which he eagerly obliges. “Mmm,” he says. “You taste sweeter than my favorite sacramental wine.” He pulls you closer and you melt in his arms. “I don’t need to go to heaven,” you reply. “All I need is you.” After spending a glorious eighteen hours with the priest, you die from a particularly aggressive strain of gonorrhea. You wake up in hell. To avoid this sexy, steamy, pontifical ending: GO BACK TO YOUR MOM (9)

You’ll start doing good deeds soon, but first, you’re kinda hungry, so you should order what could be your last meal. To no one’s surprise, you’re craving your favorite food in the entire world— better ingredients, better pizza, Papa John’s. Papa John might not be woke, but his pizza sure is tasty. And they fired him anyway, right? Wrong. A familiar face is at your door: you recognize the vengeance behind the eyes of your pizza delivery guy as none other than Papa “John” Schnatter himself. There are really only two ways to stop him from spewing his racist ideology all over town. You can kill him, and restore the world back to its peaceful state before that fateful day in 1961 when Papa entered the world. Or, you can try to turn him good, and achieve peace without blood on your hands. Time’s running out, so you have to act fast. Do you: KILL PAPA JOHN (37) or TRY TO TURN HIM GOOD (38)?

They say that dog is a man’s best friend, but you’ve always known otherwise. Dogs are stupid and smell bad. You’ve always preferred bears. Their gentle, caring faces. Their soft, human-like bodies. All the most lovable characters are bears: Paddington, the Care Bears, the Charmin Bears, Winnie the Pooh, Bear Grylls... You need to rack up a few more heaven points in your last few hours, and how better to do that than to free Susan, the grizzly bear from the local zoo? You know Susan wants to be free. You can see the desperation in her soft eyes: pleading for release. How better to redeem your sins than to free an innocent soul in need of rescue? And if Susan just happens to become your best friend and life (well, day) partner, well, all the better. You can see it now: candlelit dinners, paw in hand—but don’t get ahead of yourself. You get to the zoo. You know bears love honey, and you figure you should make yourself extra appealing to Susan so that she doesn’t see you as a threat. You lather yourself in artisan manuka honey, making sure to get every crevice covered with the sugary, thick goop. You wouldn’t mind if the night ends in Susan’s sandpapery tongue caressing your honey-caked skin. You pull on the bear costume you got from Party City a couple months ago for totally normal reasons. You can tell that Susan is angry, probably about being cooped up when she could be with you! Now for the extraction. You pry open the enclosure door with your bare hands. Susan lumbers towards you, arms wide open for an embrace. You run to her, but when you go for the hug, she goes for your arm. The pain is excruciating as blood pours from your empty shoulder socket. You can’t believe Susan would do this to you! Luckily for you, you happen to have a doctor on call. Quick! CALL THE DOCTOR (42)!

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28. LOCAL SHERIFF RESPONDS TO LATEST ROUND OF MOVIE THEATER MASTURBATION

29. HORSIN’ AROUND? LOCAL GAMBLER CAUGHT FUCKING HORSES AT KENTUCKY DERBY

By Staff

By M. Sanghvi

CANTON, OH—When reports surfaced of yet another individual caught rolling their coaster in an afternoon showing of the movie CATS, local sheriff Randall Richard began to feel like he was caught in his own version of Hollywood blockbuster Groundhog Day. But whereas Bill Murray escapes the time loop by renouncing his curmudgeon ways, Sheriff Richard has yet to break free from this nightmare cycle of public meat-beating incidents. “When it happened, I wanted to say ‘fuck me,’” said Richard, “but it seems I’ve been beaten to the punch.” Yesterday afternoon’s perpetrator was caught in the act right as Idris Elba’s character appeared on screen, something projectionist Chris Erling says is no coincidence. “It’s pretty much always around then. He has a scar, a tail, and a jaunty top hat. Honestly, it works for him.” Other theatergoers noted that the perpetrator had been engaging in the sexual act long before this scene. “I pretty much heard moans as soon as the opening credits started,” noted Valerie Grafton, who was at the screening. “It didn’t bother me all that much, but I can’t help but think of the dozens of children nationwide who saw the film having to endure these inappropriate noises.” As for the perpetrator, Richard remarked,“I hope they like jerking off in jail.” And while he hopes this recent example will put an end to the handfucking fad once and for all, Sheriff Richard still issued this warning to anyone considering repeating the stunt: “Think twice, because I’ll be watching. Wait…not like that, you fucking pervert.”

LOUISVILLE, KY—Attendees at the Kentucky Derby were surprised and appalled when an unnamed gambler engaged in sexual activities with several horses participating in the race. The gambler copulated with the horses from multiple angles, both in the stables and during the race itself. Displaying impressive stamina, the gambler was able to get through all competing horses, except for one—Winsome Chocolat, who went on to win the race. The gambler was immediately taken in for questioning, and is now being detained at the county jail. Little is known about the motive for such an act of beastiality, though some claim that it was a desperate attempt by the gambler to increase their betting odds. “I saw the gambler bet big on that horse named Winsome, even though it was an absolute long shot,” noted Karen Hinckley, a spectator at the race. “I guess it paid off!” Others report that the gambler had a different motivation for these heinous actions. Some spectators remarked hearing the gambler shout something about a “horny binge” while being escorted from the scene. Regardless of the motives, spectators at the Derby were appalled by the sight of these sexual acts. “I knew this gambler was bad news as soon as we first locked eyes,” explained Hinckley. “But I never expected it to go this far.” At press time, horses, jockeys, and spectators alike were being administered horse tranquilizers to combat their distress.

You’re disgusting… GO TO PRISON (34).

Beastiality is not only a sin—it’s also a federal crime. GO TO PRISON (34).

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30. FIGHT BREAKS OUT DURING FILMING OF MAURY By K. Walsh STAMFORD, CT—Audience members at today’s filming of Maury were shocked to see a physical altercation break out between an enraged audience member and the host himself, Maury Povich. Povich, who has hosted the show since 1991, was physically attacked immediately after announcing that the DNA tests between the guest and a potential son had matched. The guest became enraged after hearing the announcement, and proceeded to punch and slap Povich repeatedly in the face. “I couldn’t believe it,” remarked audience member Sophie Ashman. “How could someone attack one of midday television’s last remaining gems like that?” Ashman and many of her fellow audience members left the premises in tears. To the surprise of many, however, the 81-year-old Povich decided to fight back. Instead of taking the punches, Maury quickly retaliated by standing up and headbutting the guest to the ground. “I never knew Maury could do that,” explained Tim Herren, who has worked as a production assistant on Maury since 1998. “The old man really asserted his dominance. It almost seemed like he’s been doing the same ridiculous job dealing with nutcases on TV for the past 29 years, and the frustration finally boiled over, or something.” The guest has been taken into police custody and is currently being held at a local jail. After being questioned by police, Maury faced no further charges—partly due to claiming selfdefense, but mostly on account of his celebrity status. As Ashman wondered, “How on earth could you make any accusation against the Maury Povich? He’s a living legend!” At press time, the arrested guest’s new son had returned home, and continued binge watching Sex, Explained, just as he had been doing before the incident. You thought you could attack Maury on his own TV set and get away with it? Stupid. GO TO PRISON (34).

31. THIS YEAR’S CHOPPED JUNIOR FINALISTS, RANKED FROM BEST TO WORST Chef Kayla: This girlboss was born to be in the kitchen! We’ve all been obsessed with Kayla ever since she made her grandpa’s favorite oatmeal in episode two, and every dish since has consistently slapped. When crowned Head Chef in the season finale, she announced she’d be donating half her winnings to protecting endangered pandas. How woke! Chef Emma: We have to stan this She-E-O. We can’t help but melt when she talks about how she wants to own her own catering business, after college and puberty and all that. Just you wait, Chef Emma is gonna go down in herstory! Chef Billy: Let’s be honest here—we expected more from four-year-old cooking prodigy Billy when he came on the show. His meringues and soufflés certainly did not disappoint! But he lost a lot of his Billygoats when he said in an on-air interview that his two biggest inspirations were his mom and Dick Cheney. You: The age cutoff for the show is twelve, and as the other chefs brought to our attention, you are at least three feet taller than all of them. Talk about the opposite of a slay. Bye, You! Well shit, guess you gotta GO BACK TO CHOPPED JUNIOR (8) and try harder not to get caught.

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minutes, chap.” These words reverberate in your skull as you slowly come back to consciousness. WAIT AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS (44).

Did you chose wrong? Perhaps it was the actual human flesh of Bear Grylls that was fatally rancid, not the hallucination-inducing panda meat! A little hallucination never hurt anyone... Though the pandadote has cleared your head, that rotted Bear Grylls Burger poisoned your veins and your vision is blurring. You’re probably dying, but you can’t tell since you’re still hallucinating. The world narrows as your eyes start to swell and close up. Guess you’ll just have to... WAIT AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS (44).

You take the Bear Grylls antidote. You can feel it burn as it travels down your esophagus. You writhe in pain, falling to the ground as the liquid reaches your intestines. Suddenly, visions of Bear begin to appear in your mind as your body twitches on the floor. Bear gives you a soft stare as he hands you a steaming hot platter of Papa John’s Extra Cheesy Alfredo Pizza with Garlic Parmesan Crust™. (He had a coupon!) He’s looking especially dashing in a tight leather jacket that accentuates his rippling pectorals. There’s a soft halo of light surrounding his silhouette. He reaches out towards you, extending his hand through his fingerless gloves. You smile and take his half-naked fingers as he says, “Pip pip and cheerio, give it a few

You’ve been to jail before. During college, you stole the Volkswagen Beetle from Herbie: Fully Loaded. Fortunately, the judge ruled in your favor and agreed that you didn’t really commit a crime— the car was so ugly you were actually doing a favor for the poor bastard who owned it. But now, with only hours left to live and no benevolent judge to help you, you’re stuck in prison and about to die forgotten. You’ve decided: you’re going to break out of this place or die trying. Literally. Your stomach growls. You have to fuel up before your great escape, so you walk down to the mess hall. Holy shit, is that Bobby Shmurda sitting at the cool kids’ table? You remember what happened to Bobby in 2014—he seemed like a really swell guy, despite his conspiracy to commit murder. I mean, everyone’s thought about committing murder. When does thinking about killing your neighbor end and conspiracy to commit murder begin? But behind you in line, you spot another A-list celeb—Lori Laughlin! It’s Aunt Becky! Now’s your chance to decide: Will you: BE IMMORTALIZED THROUGH SONG BY BREAKING OUT OF PRISON WITH BOBBY SHMURDA (36), or BE IMMORTALIZED IN A MADE-FOR-TV MOVIE ABOUT LORI LAUGHLIN’S PRISON ESCAPE, EVEN THOUGH SHE PROBABLY ONLY HAS A 12 DAY SENTENCE (35)?

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After returning from the mess hall, stomach full of prison food, you lay down on your bottom bunk and doze off. Suddenly, you awaken to the guttural battle cry of your cellmate. “What’s going on?” you ask. “You mentioned you wanted out. Well, you got it, dude,” she asserts before prying the cell bars open with her bare hands. “Holy shit!” you exclaim, surprised by the surprisingly chiseled muscles of your cellmate: Lori Loughlin! “I’m cellmates with Lori Loughlin!” you say. “You play a TV aunt, why are you so massive?” “I was on the rowing team in high school,” she replies. ”Also, I’ve been eating a bunch of creatine, so my muscles are bloated with water weight. Anyway, enough chit chat—let’s escape!” Lori begins to run for the exit. You run after her, but your flabs are no match for her impressive physique. “Push yourself! It’s like I always tell my kids, you have to work hard to achieve your goals!” Just outside the prison gate, Lori turns a corner. You follow, and suddenly you’re surrounded by armed guards. The guards handcuff you, and pat Lori on the back. “This was too easy!” she says, as she tosses a couple cinder blocks ripped from off the wall, “Warden said I’d get out early if I became an informant. You’re going to solitary for attempted escape, and I’m going home! Thanks to you, I can finally bribe my way back onto Fuller House!” “But you were supposed to be there for me! Like Aunt Becky!” “Sorry, but you’re not my niece… you’re my bitch!” she cackles as the guards drag you back to your cell. You’re now in solitary confinement with no hope of escape. You spend the rest of your day whimpering broken lyrics about the milkman, the paperboy, and the evening TV as you descend into madness and ultimately, death. Looks like you made the wrong choice!

Need an inhaler, don’t respire easy, ho Tell my friends Shmurda ain’t breathin, ho Now I wanna eat a Greek Gyro, Greek Gyro” Then, he uses his inhaler and eats a Greek Gyro— two things of which he was deprived in the clink. To celebrate being a good fella and busting B-Shmurds out, you also sing a song: “Do you ever feel... like a union flag... Fighting for The North… Wanting to crush The South? ‘Cause Shmurda you’re a firework! Come show ‘em all your mirth! You’re out of prison, run! Go! Go! Kill the south and flee the town, town, town.” You and Shmurda congratulate each other on your excellent song parodies. Shmurda has cash in hand, and you both have time to kill. Only one thing to do now. SHMONEY TO THE STRIP CLUB (39).

Return to PRISON (34) to find another way out.

When the guards look away, you grab Bobby Shmurda’s hand and the two of you tiptoe out of prison through the back door. Upon reaching freedom, Shmurda sings in celebration: “Tell them people I’m kinda wheezy ho

—K. Vanlandingham

T he Y ale R ecord

You’ve decided that enough is enough. The world can no longer tolerate Papa John and his blatant racism. Papa John is an infectious disease, and you’re about to administer the cure. If you can manage to kill him, you’ll ascend to heaven; if you can’t, Papa John will make your final hours a living hell. You lock eyes with him while you slowly pull The Sword of Eternal Harmony out of its sheath. “Your reign of terror is over!” you shout, while plunging the blade straight through his blackened heart. Papa John stares back at you, expressionless. A small trickle of blood starts dripping from his mouth. Then a smile slowly creeps up on his face. “Did you really think this little toothpick would be strong enough to kill The Papa? This isn’t even my final form!” Papa John starts chanting in Latin, and all of his limbs transform into Lovecraftian tentacles. In one fluid motion, Papa John wraps one of his demonic tentacles around the hilt of your sword and he pulls it out of his grotesque, eldritch body. Now you’re defenseless, and you quickly realize your chances of surviving this fight are slim. But if you’re going to die, you’re sure as hell going to bring Papa John down with you. Papa lunges towards you with the sword and slashes your stomach, but with one final burst of energy, you pick up your Ikea Förnuftig lamp and smash it down upon Papa’s head, killing him instantly. As you succumb to your wounds, you smile, content with the knowledge that you were able to defeat the mighty Papa. ASCEND TO HEAVEN (40).

“Mr. Schnatter!” you cry. “No more racial slurs! You’re the face of the company!” “Call me Papa,” he replies, with a grin. Suddenly, he pulls out a slice of pepperoni pizza from his back pocket. Lightning splits the sky as he takes his first bite. You are unfazed. The Red Sea of Racism is upon you, and you are Moses Luther King, Jr., about to part it. Wrenching the pizza from his greasy, prejudiced fingers, you shout, “Please, Papa, embrace equality! It’s not too late to change!” Thunder booms in the distance, and The Papa’s grin widens into a sneer. You start to feel weak in the knees. Your thoughts seem to melt in his presence, and your skin feels crustier than usual. You look down at your body, and, to your horror, there is nothing but a round, crispy, oily, PEPPERONI PIZZA! It feels like a dream, but there is Papa John right in front of you, cackling, spluttering olive oil from his mouth with each guffaw. Lying helplessly on the sidewalk, still sizzling, you think to yourself: things can’t possibly get any worse! But just then, Papa reaches down, takes a slice of your pizza body, and bites down right where your ass would have been. It doesn’t really hurt, just itches a little, to be honest. But it’s all over now. You are dead, and your pizza-ed soul will soon be delivered to Heaven in one to three hours, depending on traffic. ASCEND TO HEAVEN (40) once the traffic clears up.

Your eyes well up with tears, and you turn to Bobby. A single drop rolls down your cheek, and Bobby puts his arm over your shoulder and squeezes. He puts his mouth to your ear and whispers in the voice of honey, “let’s get this shmoney.” How did he know your love language was words of affirmation? A chill runs throughout your body. Your hairs stand on end as an uncontrollable urge washes over you. Your right arm loosens and begins waving like seaweed in the moonlit wind. Your left hand follows, and gravity sends your whole body lurching forward. You grab your hat and fling it into the stratosphere, letting the shmoney take control. “Take my hand.” With Shmurda’s hand in yours, you shmoney across hills and valleys, through towns and villages, past cities that shine through the dark and forests whose trees hold more than darkness. The world looks different when traversed by shmoney, for the shmoney is a dance of joy. Your final day on earth has become a day of jubilation. Just as all roads lead to Rome, all shmoney dances lead to the strip club. And if anyone knows strip clubs, it is Robert J. Shmurda, Esq. You walk into Mark Twain’s TittyTown, the finest strip club in the city. A stripper wearing nothing but overalls and a straw hat approaches you. She takes out her corncob pipe and blows smoke across your face. “I’m Cynthia G. Has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like the President of Lithuania? He’s a regular here at Mark Twain’s TittyTown.” You begin to fade into in a dream of sex, shmoney, and Huck Finn when two neon words on the wall catch your eye: “NOW HIRING DANCERS.” You could enter a new profession for your final hours. Do you: BECOME A STRIPPER (41) or GO MEET YOUR DOPPELGANGER, THE PRESIDENT OF LITHUANIA (43)?

Torporate he 24 H our I ssue I ssue T he C A merica

As you approach heaven’s pearly gates, you are overcome with a deep sense of tranquility. Before you enter, however, Saint Peter taps you on the shoulder and tells you that you forgot to turn off the oven. With a flick of his halo, he sends you back to the land of the living. Go back and... TRY TO GET INTO HEAVEN (16).

Lights. Music. Curtains. It’s your time to finally step out onto the stage of Mark Twain’s TittyTown, the patchwork patronage of perverts and late-18th-century literature connoisseurs eagerly awaiting your every move. Tonight, you’re a sexy Pudd’nhead Wilson. Your improbably hairy right foot, dressed in a two-sizes-too-small Dillard’s brand heel, emerges on stage to a symphony of oohs and aahs. You work that pole like Ben Harper worked Tom Sawyer’s white fence—showered in cash. You could stand the job if it was just the dancing, sometimes even enjoying the attention. But being a stripper isn’t all fun and games, and the pay is shit. You’ll spend the rest of your life raising your 3-year old on a diet of early morning cartoons and carelessly discarded condom wrappers, eventually falling in love with your favorite patron Stu and eloping with him to the Marshall Islands, where you use your transferable job skills to serve as a volunteer firefighter and follow your lifelong passion of teaching math to underprivileged youths. But getting those kids to understand Taylor series? ‘Tis but a dream—you’ll be dead in three hours. You chose wrong. Go back and... SHMONEY INTO THE STRIP CLUB (39).

You stumble into Dr. Love’s office, blood pouring from your gaping stump. He furrows his brow in concern as he helps you onto the operating table. Dr. Love begins frantically bandaging your wounds. It’s twenty minutes to midnight—your time is almost up. Is this how you die? In a pooling puddle of blood and urine? There’s so much you haven’t done. You’ve never watched Toy Story 2 fully clothed. You’ve never solved a Rubik’s cube. You’ve never consumed the succulent flesh of a giant panda. But wait! Your wounds are speedily cleaned and bandaged, and soon you begin to stabilize. You’re exhausted, but alive! Everything is going to be okay. You turn to look at Dr. Love with a smile on your face. Dr. Love is grinning too. He also has a gun in his hand. He

glances down at his watch. “That’s twenty-four hours. Time’s up!” He presses his soft lips against yours one last time, and he pulls the trigger. Everything goes black. YOUR STORY HAS ENDED: You’ve been murdered by Dr. Love! Try again to get a DIFFERENT ENDING!

You’re up in the club, Shmurda to your left and Gitanas Nauseda, the President of Lithuania, to your right. Bobby looks puzzled. Suddenly, you realize why he is confused: you and President Nauseda look exactly alike. Everyone always said you bore a passing resemblance former Lithuanian President Algirdas Brazauskas, but you and the current President are like identical twins. After Nauseda leaves, you explain to Shmoney that the other man, though he resembles you, is clearly not you, as he wears glasses and is the president of a Baltic state. Suddenly, you have to go to the bathroom. You open the door and find the splayed body of the now former President of Lithuania, Gitanas Nauseda. A bullet has broken the mirror, and blood pools by the President’s head. There is a stethoscope on the floor. You look down at your watch: exactly 24 hours has passed since your prognosis. A shiver passes through your body… is someone coming for you? Fuck it—you could die at any moment now. Might as well live your final hours as the President of Lithuania. You grab his glasses, wallet, and phone. It’s all in Lithuanian, but you could probably still take that bad boy to a Metro PCS and buy a SIM card. As soon as you leave the bathroom, two buff bodyguards whisk you onto Lithuanian Air Force One, straight home to your wonderful Lithuanian wife and kids. You lay in bed, ready to begin your new life as President. Suddenly you hear footsteps downstairs. Your door explodes open. Your new wife screams. The intruders are wearing ski masks. This is a military coup, they say, and there will be a new president. Or something like that; you don’t know Lithuanian for shit. “No!” you protest, “I’m not the real President of Lithuania!” Below their ski masks, you see a grim smile grow over their faces. “No. No you are not.” The bullet kills you before you even realize it’s been fired. YOUR STORY HAS ENDED: You’ve been assassinated by rebel forces in the Lithuanian Presidential Palace. Try again to get a DIFFERENT ENDING!

T he Y ale R ecord

After a moment, the pain subsides, and you begin to feel invincible. You look down at your puny chicken legs, which have now swollen to the size of Bear Grylls’s entire torso. You feel the inner zen of a panda rush through your bloodstream. For a moment, you’re at peace. You feel a familiar, delicate tickle on your left shin. Could it be mutton chops? A stringy white mustache perhaps? You turn around, and just like you expected, Master Shifu from hit movie Kung Fu Panda 3 is there. His stubby arms hold the largest jar of Prego Three Cheese Italian Tomato Sauce you’ve seen in your life. You look Master Shifu in his wise blue eyes; he gives you a reassuring wink. Reaching down to accept your gift, you make the mistake of exposing your backside. It’s only for a second, but it’s a second too long. Master Shifu lets out a blood-curdling scream— “SKADOOSH!”—and in the blink of an eye, you are face-down, belly-up, as he scuttles through your legs. Before you can say “Wushi finger hold,” he jams the jar straight through your heart. Everything goes black... You open your eyes. You look around. You find yourself in an Italian restaurant. You’re wearing a chef ’s outfit, with the name “Chad” stitched on the left breast-pocket. Is this Hell? Upon further examination, you notice the words “Chad’s Ristorante” printed on a menu next to a cash register. You reach out to read it, but where you once had fingers, you now have paws. Black and white fur covers your pudgy body. You’re starting to process the situation when someone walks in.

It’s another Panda. Wait—is that… it couldn’t be… Oh my god. It’s Bao Bao, the Panda you ate in your past life! He walks right up to the register, and asks, “Can I get spaghetti with tomato sauce, Dad?” YOUR STORY HAS ENDED: You have died and been reincarnated as Bao Bao’s father, who happens to be an Italian restaurateur. Try again to get a DIFFERENT ENDING!

You walk into the sunlight—the alligators— there were a lot of alligators because alligators are kinda hot—big jaws, big teeth, big tails—alligators are like the horses of the animal kingdom. You say, “Wow, I can’t believe I made it through my own adventure—I really expected this one to go sideways!” Fortunately this is a humor magazine, so a happy ending is a more likely outcome. You then say, “the second person is a shitty tense” (this is getting really meta because it’s 1:30 am and I don’t even write for this weirdass magazine and the online editor just gave me his computer and I’m *completely sober*). You then see a face—it’s the face of your mother who is waiting for you at home—she has not baked anything because that’s stereotypical, but she is a nice person and you appreciate that about her. Good thing you made it home.

YOUR STORY HAS ENDED. Congratulations… you have reached the TRUE ENDING!

Call us today!

T he Y ale R ecord

WRITING CREDITS 1. C. Cohen & H. Rubin 2. D. Hou 3. A. Zbornak 4. D. McCowin 5. F. Gibson 6. A. Thomas 7. M. Blaney 8. A. Jeddy 9. A. Jeddy 10. C. Baciocco 11. R. Moreno 12. J. Eldred & Z. Goodman 13. A. Thomas 14. M. Chandler 15. M. Von Fedak 16. A. Beer 17. E. Quittman 18. M. Sanchez 19. D. McCowin & H. Rubin 20. W. Cramer 21. J. Wickline 22. C. Gainey, T. Jomaa, & E. Qian 23. D. McCowin & K. Walsh

24. C. Rose 25. T. Brooks 26. K. Walsh 27. C. Rose 28. Staff 29. M. Sanghvi 30. K. Walsh 31. S. Force 32. C. Gainey, T. Jomaa, & E. Qian 33. Z. Caes 34. V. Chen & C. Prendergast 35. A. Brown & J. Kaufman-Shalett 36. A. Zbornak 37. Z. Goodman 38. Z. Caes 39. H. Rubin 40. Z. Goodman 41. J. Kilga 42. J. Wickline 43. J. Eldred 44. T. Boger & J. Feit Mann 45. B. Grobman

WRITE YOUR OWN OBITUARY! , considered by many to be the of [Full Name] [superlative] [occupation] [time , died on Thursday in period]

. They were [place]

was known for

. Born in [age]

, [place] [Last Name]

all over the world. Wherever they went, they [verb ending in -ing]

brought to the local children, often just to see the on their faces. [noun] [plural noun] One time, when visiting Australia, was said to have put a thousand [Last Name] [plural out of their misery. They developed a reputation for phila animal]

[nthropy/ndering/

while in telism]

. In a [former British colony]

interview, they once told a reporter [year]

from

that they regretted [formerly well-regarded but currently dying print magazine]

nothing.

, however, disagreed. They said that [B-list celebrity known mainly in France] constantly

[Last Name]

in public, much to [verb in the past conditional tense]

the chagrin of the local pet population. They will be best remembered for their most famous quote: “ .” [Witty quip that can be read as sexy in a certain tone of voice] [Last Name]

had cat AIDS. They will be sorely missed. —

. [First Initial] [Last Name] —J. Eldred Design by V. Suri