RECORD
DENTIST CLEARLY CAN’T WAIT TO FLOSS YOU
GLOBAL WARMING TURNS ALL CHILI DOGS INTO HOT DOGS
DENTIST CLOSES DOOR TO FLOSS YOU
LINGUISTICS DEPARTMENT
FUNDING QUADRUPLED AFTER SPELLING “WITHHOLD”
CORRECTLY AT SPELLING BEE
YALE STUDENT SCHEDULES
2-MINUTE BATHROOM BREAK ON GOOGLE CALENDAR
Join us! Email chair@yalerecord.org
AN IRISH HELLO: I ENTERED YOUR HOUSE WITHOUT PERMISSION
Dear Friend,
We’re doing food-based Halloween costumes. Can you be a pig in a blanket?
Sincerely, Other Friend
GUY DOING CONCEPTUAL COSTUME JUST LOVES ANSWERING QUESTIONS
Dear Other Friend,
Like a cop in a pashmina?
Best, Friend
TRUMP SOMETHING WHATEVER
EXPERTS SAYING BASICALLY SAME THING AS GIRL WHO READ TWO ARTICLES
HALLOWEEN JUST A NORMAL DAY IN MAN’S TWISTED REALITY
SKYDIVERS’ UNION DEMANDS PARACHUTES
CLASSIC EUROPE: THERE IS WATER WHERE STREETS SHOULD BE
BUT BANANA BREAD AT FUCKING WORK DUDE HELL YEAH
IN THIS POLITICAL CLIMATE? MAN SAYS SOMETHING
Dear Father O’Malley,
I hope this letter finds you well, spiritually fortified, and in a particularly charitable mood. I’m writing with a rather unique request.
I am in desperate need of a costume for Halloween. Specifically, a priest costume. Not just any priest costume, but a *sexy* priest costume. In today’s market, the tacky material of Amazon and Shein can no longer help me to find my greater purpose.Your clerical vestments are precisely the statement piece I need: authentic, refined, yet they send a clear message... “undress me.” Would you consider lending me a robe or two, perhaps with an accessory like a cassock collar? Bedazzled would be great. I am partial to the classy pink holographic rhinestone.
Thanks!
Mary-Ellen Jenkins
[POETRY BE LIKE: NO PROSE, ALL CONS
Dear Mary-Ellen,
While I commend your initiative in “outreach,” I must, alas, decline.
My vestments are, after all, consecrated attire, reserved for services other than those involving spirits (the kind found in glasses), or “sexy” anything. The Lord provides in mysterious ways, but in this case, He may prompt a trip to Spirit Halloween.
Might I provide a suggestion? I have seen many a successful sexy habit in my day. The Sisters haven’t yet received such a request, and I sense they might be more… understanding of your female needs.
Regrettably, Father O’Malley
Obituary Correction
Humpty Dumpty survived by his wife, Mrs. Jennifer Dumpty, who has been charged with involuntary manslaughter; she was not enough for him.
WANTED:
Golden Touch, but only selective. I don’t want to turn people to gold when I pat them on the back for doing a good job. It would undermine my intent.
LOW-RANKING FRIEND SOMEHOW GETS COOL PART OF THE GROUP COSTUME
— S. Morfin
FOR SALE:
The tortoise’s racing shoes, signed. He is liquidating his assets. Debt catches up to you, especially if you’re slow and steady.
Did You Know?
Every Fable is based on a true story about you, the Reader.
Dear Reader,
You carry the dishes to the sink, scraping the leftover sludge off their plate, running the sink until it’s hot. The disintegrating plastic smells like mold; the last person to use it didn’t wring it out, leaving you to face the consequences of a festering sponge with so many bacteria bacchanalizing the surface that it might be alive. You want to sit down. Instead, you whisper cutting comments to your sister to make her laugh while you scrub dried gravy off someone else’s plate.
Most fables insist that, when in dire need, a man will save you from a hazardous predicament, but for some reason, only women do the dishes after Thanksgiving. And by women I mean my sister and I. I have started to believe that all women want is to be saved, like Cinderella, who never did a dish in her life after she married the right guy. But nothing is that easy.
Let The Record show that I know good men who do dishes, including my father. But as soon as men do favors for women, it all smells too much like chivalry (and a sponge that is not wrung out at the end of the night). What, you think women can’t do dishes? Because we’re intellectually inferior? Listen to yourself. The fables were wrong. We’ve modernized.
How can we yank fables into the present day, when Cinderella had a fairy godmother instead of “Rent the Runway,” and the boy who cried wolf couldn’t use a phone? This editorial is turning into a sermon a priest gives when he doesn’t know what to say, but I mean it. Morals hold up, but at what point should a traditional tale stop being told, or be replaced by one that suits our present situation better, like Hamilton, or the Nicole Kidman movie theater ad?
We as humans are technically allowed to make up phrases whenever we want to. One time—nay, once upon a time—I was doing the dishes. I volunteered to do them, but I didn’t really mean it, so when no one stopped me, I begrudgingly cleared their plates, and brought them to the sink. I had been experimenting on a stinky sponge, in an attempt to salvage the microbiome that writhed within, all while eliminating the stench. I had poured vinegar on it earlier, then alcohol, then apple cider vinegar, praying my background in the lab (I’m an art major) would give me SOME practical skill. I approached the sponge. I
poked it. Like a chemist or sommelier, I wafted the fumes toward my nose. The sponge still smelled. Moral: the only way to save a stinky sponge is to throw it out. Boom. Phrase created. Can be generalized to mean that some people are simply bad people. Can’t save them. Use it with friends. Put it online. Will change the way we approach our lives, and save a lot of people from wasting their time.
No matter how hard we try, we cannot predict much. We can barely forecast the weather. Hindsight, however, is addictive, and makes it hard to fall asleep, or hard to resist texting your ex, or hard to put toothpaste back into a tube, unless you are a toothpaste factory. Despite the neurons that link in our brain when we learn things, we cut through them as if they’re obstructing our view of right and wrong, and make decisions that become mistakes. Navelgazing doesn’t help, unless you’re part of the Belly Button Biodiversity Project, cataloging the expansive, galactic scope of our individual microbiomes. Then it’s your job. We tend to rationalize actions post-hoc. We pulled a loose string out of our shirt because we were curious. We have a baby because we wanted to save our marriage. We robbed a bank because we didn’t have a protein-rich breakfast. We are vessels of our mood, but that has never stopped anyone from justifying their actions.
Right now, retroactive analysis is easier than ever. We can scroll to an exact date on our camera roll and rehash it, or look through old texts, and look at the exact punctuation we used to say “uh ok” or “uwu,” and rejoice or cringe at it, wasting our time in the past, or transporting ourselves to a mentality we want to replicate. We learn from the past, but we should really be learning from the future.
Fables, tales, proverbs, try to warn us against doing stupid things. Sleeping Beauty reminds us to stay awake at all times, but I try to go to bed every night. Humpty Dumpty wants us to avoid high surfaces, but cats and frat boys persist. We have lots of plastic on earth, but people still use stinky sponges. We can tell ourselves not to make mistakes, but often, you must make them to learn not to. It’s a feedback loop. In praise of navel-gazing, looking at ourselves helps us learn. Either we make mistakes, or live in utter fear of the world. I choose the latter.
L. Conklin Editor in Chief
Amelia Herrmann ’26 Chair
Adam Hagens ’27 Online Managing Editor
Issy Arroyo ’25 Copy Editor
Lizzie
Conklin ’25
Editor in Chief
Gabi Cohen ’27 Online Managing Editor
Avery Misner ’27 Copy Editor Katya Agrawal ’27 Art Director
Daniel Wang ’27 Social Media Manager Oz Gitelson ’26 Webmaster
Dom Alberts ‘25 Old Owl
Joel Banks ‘25 Old Owl
Debbie Lilly
’26
Online Editor in Chief
Terence Harris ’27 Managing Editor
Dash Beber-Turkel ’26 Lead Design Editor
Anna Lehman ’27 Staff Director
Tara Bhat ‘25 Old Owl
Emma Madsen ’25 Old Owl Alejandro Mayagoitia ‘25 Old Owl Josephine Stark ’25 Old Owl
Ari Berke ’25
Audrey Hempel ’25
Betty Kubovy-Weiss ’25
Cormac Thorpe ’25
Chet Hewitt ’25
Evan Calderon ’25
Ezzat Abouleish ’25
Jacob Kao ’25
Mari Elliott ’25
Maya Melnik ’25
Neil Sachdeva ’25
Theo Schiminovich ’25
Tyler Schroder ’25
Adham Hussein ’26
Aidan Gibson ’26
AJ Tapia-Wylie ’26
Alejandro Rojas ’26
Alexa Druyanoff ’26
Alexis Ramirez-Hardy ’26
Alice Khomski ’26
Amanda Budejen ’26
Andie Gately ’26
Andrew Lake ’26
Ariel Kirman ’26
Bella Panico ’26
Brennan Columbia-Walsh ’26
Erita Chen
’26
Publisher
Devika Kothari ’27 Managing Editor
Harper Murray Nelson ’27 Design Editor
Emmet Houghton ’26 Business Manager
Leah Burch ‘25 Old Owl
Edward Bohannon ’25 Old Owl
Staff:
Caroline Utermann ’26
Elio Wentzel ’26
Emily Hettinger ’26
Emmet Houghton ’26
Grace Davis ’26
Helen Shanefield ’26
Jimmy Ruskell ’26
Linden Skalak ’26
Mia Cortés Castro ’26
Natasha Khazzam ’26
Owen Curtin ’26
Oz Gitelson ’26
Paola Milbank ’26
Emily Cai ’25 Old Owl
Annie Lin ’25 Old Owl
Sam Kumar ’26
Sivan Almogy ’26
Thomas Varghese ’26
Toby Salmon ’26
Tristan Hernandez ’26
William Wang ’26
Wolf Boone ’26
Zadie Winthrop ’26
Zoe Halaban ’26
Ami Gillon ’27
Anna Calkins ’27
Anna Feldman ’27
Anna Papakirk ’27
Emma Upson ’27 Design Editor
Ainslee Garcia ’27 Merchant
Andrew Cramer ‘25 Old Owl
Natasha Weiss ‘25 Old Owl
Audrey Jiang ’27
Avery Lenihan ’27
Braeden Cullen ’27
Ellen Windels ’27
Elora Sparnicht ’27
Gha Yuan Ng ’27
Gustavo Dominguez ’27
Jaylynn Cortes ’27
Juliette Propp ’27
Lucas Ranfranz ’27
Lucas Santos ’27
Max Watzky ’27
Nava Feder ’27
Special thanks to: Writers, who give us fables to write about, which make new, useless fables. Front Cover and Back Cover: Alexa Druyanoff, a canvasser for the Connecticut House Hares.
Bipul Soti ’27 Managing Editor
Sadie Lee ’26 Supplementals Editor
Sofia Morfin ’27 Prank Czar
Grace Ellis ’25 Old Owl
Emmit Thulin ‘25 Old Owl
Rohan Shivakumar ’27
Samhita Kumar ’27
Sui Yu ’27
Tom Commander ’27
Victoria Mnatsakanyan ’27
Vidhi Bhartiya ’27
Will Sussbauer ’27
Ge Yu
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um...?
By Mrs. Aesop and the Sisters Grimm
You are the Giant from Jack and the Beanstalk, and all you want is for someone to recognise that you’re not like other giants. Everyone seems to think that you’re this big, stoic caveman with no emotions. But you’re a gentle giant. Deep within, all you want is to find someone you have a genuine connection with. Could that someone be her majesty, Princess Winnifred the Woebegone? You think she’s just the sensitive soul for you. After all, she could feel a pea through a hundred mattresses. You know the two of you would be very compatible, and all you want to do is get to know her better.
This morning is special. After eating raw beans and peas, your favourite breakfast dish, you take extra care getting ready. Her Majesty has invited you to paint porcelain ceramics together at her pottery studio for a date. You better paint the best pot of your life. You know how delicate and poised the Princess is, and you must impress her, even though you are very clumsy.
Blushing each time you make eye contact with the princess, you reach for the nearest paintbrush. Hold on, why is she looking at you weird? Oh. It appears you have picked up a broom. CLUMSY, CLUMSY, CLUMSY. In a panic, you rush to put the broom down and play it cool, but you knock over a tiny shot glass on the Princess’ gilded table.
“MR. GIANT, THAT IS MY FAVOURITE, BIGGEST VASE! IT TOOK ME 16 YEARS TO PAINT!” wails the Princess, flushed and teary. Oh no. What have you done??? You must fix it.
What do you do?
CHOICE 1: “I promise I’ll be gentler with you.” (Turn to Page 9)
CHOICE 2: Begin sobbing because the loud noise scared you, flooding the entire studio and destroying everything in it. (Turn to Page 12)
—T. Harris, D. Kothari, B. Soti, & Zavian Valedón
STUPID FREAKING BEANS
A magical man gave me his beans, He said they’d sprout tall, beyond my dreams. I planted my treats deep in the ground, Hoping my beans would sprout safe and sound.
Since that day, I waited and waited, Heart racing fast, I anticipated The rise of my magical beans.
I salivated, Heart palpitated, As I lusted for my beautiful beans.
I saved a bean to nibble on, It tasted like rubber. Wait, hold on. I ate another, lo and behold, Carmel Corn or Cheese with Mold?!
When I opened that cursed sack, Expecting enchantment for my snack, I was Bean Boozled! Not magic! I want my money back.
The warlock swore if I waited in line, They’d grow higher than Avelo Airlines. I dreamt they’d become a strong man, To lead me straight to the Promised Land (Suburbia, housewife, with a McMansion).
I planted them all, expecting to reap, But found that the warlock was a lying creep. He robbed me blind, stole my innocence, And left me with just $10.99.
Stupid freaking beans.
You promised me heights, But sold me lies. You foretold delights, And left me with cries—
And, even worse, No freaking skies.
AESOP’S FABLES MORALS THEY DIDN’T TEACH YOU IN SCHOOL
1. Don’t bite the hand that’s in your mouth.
2. The grass is always redder if you’re colorblind.
3. The early bird is clearly trying too hard.
4. The pen is wetter than the sword.
5. If the shoe is on the wrong foot, tread lightly.
6. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, even for dentistry.
7. If no man is blind, no gift horse receives dentistry.
8. In the land of the blind, each gift horse has a dentist.
9. A lucky clock is right a few times a day.
11. The unwatched pot on your stove is overflowing, turn it off.
12. The man in the zoo is not your friend.
13. Once bitten, twice shy; twice bitten, freaky?
14. A poison apple a day keeps the doctors in business.
15. Take out a subprime mortgage in the year 2006.
16. Slow and steady won one race in particular.
17. A day lived is a day wasted.
18. Never trust a moral.
—E. Upson
—J. Banks & R. Shivakumar
BREAKING THE GLASS SLIPPER: CINDERELLA COMES FORWARD
Hear ye! Hear ye! It is I, Cinderella. Just this once, I stand upon this ledge at a time when women’s rights are generally replaced by men’s wrongs. We live in a world where stalking and pimping are commonplace. I speak to you today to declare my divorce from the prince and explain its occurrence.
When I was a mere sixteen years of age — problematic, I know — a strange woman emerged in my garden and clad me in the most promiscuous of garments. At the time, I did not know that I was being fattened up like a sow to the slaughter. The whole ordeal was to please Prince Pervert, who, by the way, is thirty years my senior! That night, I lived in constant fear of the vanishing curse that woman put on my dress. I tried to flee, but the prince wouldn’t let me leave. He just kept asking me, “Where my hug at?” To escape, I threw my slipper through a window and climbed out, leaving it behind in my haste. He followed me relentlessly, harassing my sisters and female neighbors until I yielded.
After our arranged marriage, I sought out the prince’s ex-victims. Your prince drugged Aurora, and she too is sharing her story in her memoir: Roofied and Radiant. This speaks to a culture that should not persist. Time to wake up, princesses. You don’t need a prince to save you. It’s, dare I say, a Fables-enomenon. Our stories aren’t your fairytale!
—H. Murray-Nelson
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um…?
continued from page 6
What the fuck were you thinking? The princess looks angry. Her eyebrows are arched and her face is flushed. Just break through the door while you’re at it, you screwup. But… wait… she’s smiling? That’s weird, why would she be so red and angry but smili– Wait a minute. Does she want you? You think she might want you.
What do you do?
CHOICE A: May I enter my fine lady’s famous bedchamber? (Turn to page 15)
CHOICE B: “You wanna ‘climb my beanstalk’ and head back to my place?” (Turn to Page 16)
BEST WAYS TO GET OFF A HORSE
Ladder
With poise, as is becoming of a faire maiden
Move in direction of gravity
Big tsunami
Ascend onto bigger horse and/or short giraffe
Ask nicely with intention of asking not nicely if unsuccessful
If horse is high horse, humble yourself
If horse is high horse, wait for it to calm down
Tickle fight
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair
Jump onto consecutively smaller horses; limit approaches 0
Round shape + physics
Invent car
Ride into low bridge
Premise flawed, the horse is your best friend now.
ALTERNATIVE HORNS
— Staff
—H. Murray-Nelson
MEMBERS OF THE SEVEN DWARFS FINALLY
SPEAK OUT
Members of the notorious “Seven Dwarfs” gang spoke out this weekend, commenting on recent reports that their ringleader, Snow White, was the mastermind behind international jewel-mining crime ring “Red Delicious.”
Bashful, the primary defector, was quick to strike a plea deal with the police. He is now living large under house arrest, Delvey-style, with his partner Doc. “Mr. Bashful is safe following Ms. White’s sentencing and spends an hour a day standing in the corner thinking about his actions,” revealed his press team in a recent statement. In other news, police have received several complaints filed against Bashful’s residence for excessive noise.
Happy, who was diagnosed with clinical depression last month, has spoken out about his experience working under Ms. White on his podcast, Painted Smiles and F*****g Lies: Reduced to an Adjective. In his own words, “Everybody just assumed that I was happy all the time. They didn’t give me any room to actually be myself, you know? It’s all that turd Snow White’s fault–it was always, ‘What the f**k are you doing, Happy? Keep that f*****g smile on your face, Happy! Sweet talk the press, Happy!’ and never ‘How are you doing today, Happy?’ She needed someone to be her champion and deal with the authorities time after time, so I stepped up for the rest of the gang. Now that everything’s out in the open, I just can’t do it anymore.”
Sneezy has pressed charges against Snow White for chronic allergies and the physical and emotional damages caused by working in the mines. Deemed “expendable” by Ms. White due to his sensitive composition, Sneezy was forced to serve as the gang’s canary and was kept in a cage in the caverns. When asked whether he wished to comment on his legal proceedings, he said, “I just want people to know that I do more than sneeze. I–I also knit my–my cat’s…” He was unable to finish his statement as he descended into a violent fit of sneezing.
During a recent press conference, Dopey, MD, resisted questions. Fellow gang member Grumpy had this to say: “Dopey? More like Doped-Up. He was only a part of the gang to pay for med school. He didn’t do squat in the mines. We tolerated his sarcasm ’cause he stitched Sleepy back together after an ill-timed nap on the rail. Things changed when he got hooked on prescription painkillers after, in his words, he ‘blew out his back from carrying the weight of being the funniest guy in the kingdom.’”
When asked to comment, Dopey flipped the press the double-bird and blew a raspberry in their direction.
— E. Richards
HUMPTY DUMPTY FALLS ON WRONG SIDE OF WALL, DENIED CITIZENSHIP
THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE WALL – At 12:00 PM on October 19, Humpty Dumpty, of nursery rhyme fame, made national headlines following a political stunt gone wrong. Dumpty, a proud advocate of the Movement for Eggs Laid on National Soil (MELONS), drew a crowd of onlookers last Saturday as he climbed atop the border wall for a “sit-on.” This comes at a time of rising tensions over the national egg population consistently being perceived as a national security threat for being “too oval to pass through metal detectors.”
Dumpty’s “sit-on” had steadily progressed since Saturday evening, with a crowd of supporters catapulting food up to where he was perched. “Sir Dumpty was magnificent,” claims Bubby Wubby, a staunch MELONS supporter. “But then a pigeon laid an egg beside him, and he screamed so loud, he fell off! Everybody knows how babies are born, but nobody really wants to see it. He’s one of those guys who faints a lot. Low iron. Rich in vitamin D, though, and a great source of protein,” Wubby told the news. The news has not been able to contact Dumpty since the fall, and his current state of being is unknown. Government officials were quick to respond. “Sir Dumpty appears to have fallen into territory beyond our jurisdiction and fails to meet our citizenship criteria,” claimed the King, who has allegedly referred to Dumpty as a “rotten egg” in private. “Besides, it simply isn’t in the budget to add an oval option to metal detectors nationwide. Keep that last statement off the record,” he said to the news, who owes it to the public to let them know. Dumpty’s press secretary, Spatula, will give a brief at 8:00 PM tomorrow.
— D. Kothari
— D. Kothari
REJECTED NAMES FOR THE SEVEN DWARVES
responded:
“Who youse think youse are, telling me when and where to show my face? I could move this napkin, and youse’d see my normal-sized nose (the napkin moves slightly), but I don’t think I will. As long as I’m governor, I’ll support the freedom of every man and woman to wear whatever he or she wishes (napkin moves again). God bless the United States of America.”
This discovery places many of Pinocchio’s previous statements into question, such as his claims that he had “ended all crime in New York” and “beaten Hulk Hogan in an arm wrestle competition with ease.” Skeptics are even beginning to wonder if Pinocchio truly “invented politics” as he has claimed for so long. As of October 12th, Pinocchio’s doctors decline to to comment on whether or not he intends to get a nose job.
— A. Hagens
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um…?
continued from page 6
LYING WHILE HIS NOSE STANDS UP: PINOCCHIO ON TRIAL FOR PERJURY
At 8:00 PM on the evening of October 9th, New York Governor Pinocchio finally came forward to address the allegations of perjury made against him by thirteen officials in the New York state legislature. In a shocking turn of events, medical researchers confirmed the plaintiffs’ growing suspicions, revealing that Pinocchio’s nose lengthens upon telling a lie; countering the claim that it lengthens upon telling the truth as he had previously claimed. While holding a large napkin in front of his nose for an undisclosed purpose, Pinocchio further commented on completing his term as New York’s governor, stating that he was still confident he could win back the trust of his constituents. When asked to move the napkin, Pinocchio
The Princess looks at you indignantly. “Good Heavens!” she shrieks. “I made these clay pots and pans for a local orphanage of blind mice, and now you’ve gone and destroyed them all. How could you?” Her comments stab you as an Englishman would, and you feel more tears welling up. “Lock in, big man,” you mutter, sniffling profusely.
What do you do?
CHOICE C: Go to the nearest river. Drain it of water. Crush the silt, rocks, and boulders nearby together to create fresh clay for the princess to use. (Turn to Page 19)
CHOICE D: Feel embarrassed and sorry for yourself. Go home and wallow. (Turn to Page 24)
Staff
AESOP’S LETTER TO THE EDITOR
Recipient: Aesop’s Fables Incorporated
Sender: Aesop
Dear Editor,
I hope my carrier pigeon finds you in good health, free of malaria and consumption. I recently had the chance to peruse your publication, Aesop’s Fables: 2000th Anniversary Edition, and might I say, I was taken aback. I have, as the youths say, lived beneath a boulder. I did not realize the bedtime stories I wrote for my pets are… popular and hip, even today?
I kindly request that you do not misinterpret my sentiment. Though I am deeply humbled by this fame (is it still practice to compensate successful writers with numerous lumps of refined gold? I can provide the location of my cavern), it appears that someone extracted the wrong meaning from one of my works. You have incorrectly attributed the saying “slow and steady wins the race” to me. That is preposterous. Fast wins the race. In my time, I was an award-winning student of physics, and disdain that such a quote would mislead my readers to believe I am a dunce. I know the principles of velocity. I creatively manufactured the tale that an apple fell on Newton’s head;
I’m the fable guy. In any case, it appears that the original material of my works has been tampered with. The origin of this misattributed “saying” seems to be The Tortoise and the Hare, which I wrote for Lettuce, my pet rabbit with insomnia. This tale most clearly elucidates the benefits of speedy siestas, which liberate people from the torturous shackles of competition. Indeed, the tortoise is most conclusively the loser all along.
That the memory of poor, sleepless Lettuce is thus tarnished by a misleading “moral” has me beside myself. I urge you to open your eyes to the atrocity of your actions. Tell me, oh Editor, what will it take for you to see reason? How many innocent children must begin a sprint by tiptoeing? How many chariots must traverse race tracks in reverse? How many infants should try to crawl before they start walking?
Please respond at your earliest convenience. My pigeon will peck at you until you do.
Sincerely,
Aesop
P.S. All can be remedied with lumps of gold. I remain open to negotiation.
—D. Kothari
—E. Upson
PUTTING HUMPTY DUMPTY BACK TOGETHER AGAIN
When he woke up, he was no longer on the wall. Where was it? Who was he? Humpty, if that was even his name, had no answers. In his eggheadedness, he kept thinking of these questions rather than inspecting his surroundings.
Strange figures with tall, pleated hats surrounded Humpty. They shouted in relief when they saw Humpty moving. Humpty said nothing. Maybe he wasn’t broken on the outside anymore, but it was a different story on the inside.
A hard-boiled figure entered the operegging room and closed the door behind him. “Can you remember anything from before you woke up?” the figure asked.
“Who are you?” Humpty egged him on, intending to crack his outer shell.
“We’ll tackle that later. I need to find out what happened to you.”
“Well, I.. I don’t know. I sat on a wall, and.. And I… I don’t know.
“Keep going,” said the egg in a labcoat. “Try to remember.”
“I… I…” Humpty’s eyelids fluttered. He saw the sky, the gray sky, that clouded over him, before… before…
“I had a great fall!” Humpty broke down into yolky tears. “ I thought I was done for. And lo and behold, I’m awake, in some loopy land where people have tall funny hats.”
Humpty tried to move his arms, but he couldn’t. He noticed a machine beeping next to him. The beeping sped up.”
“Just tell me what’s going on,” pleaded the broken egg.
The figure sighed. “You do this every time you wake up. I’m from a team of scientists working to make your shell as tough as possible so that someday, you won’t have to be rescued by all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.”
“That sounds eggscellent to me.” The doctor cringed.
“What did you feel when you fell off the wall?”
“When I fell off that wall, I thought everything was over, easy. My whites and yolk were spewing everywhere, and Sir Lancelot had to pick out bits of my shell with a really large fork. He gave up, rushed back to Camelot, and fetched all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, but even they couldn’t unscramble me. Who’s kidding who, I can’t even unscramble myself. My world went dark.”
The figure, writing down Humpty’s anecdote, finishes his chickenscratch scrawl. “Interesting. But you survived. One moment.”
The figure left the room, and Humpty closed his eyes.
A few minutes later, others entered the room. One started pushing buttons on a panel on the side of the room.
“What’s going on?” Humpty asked.
“Relax. We’re making you stronger.”
Humpty felt the feeling of darkness creep back up again. He tried lifting his egg-arms and found himself too exhausted to do so. He tried to cry out, but again, found his body too exhausted to listen to his mental beck and call. His vision faded. He rested.
The figures whispered with an excited fervor. They had done it. They had designed the drop-proof egg.
Within weeks, Eggland’s Best™ Shatter-Resistant Eggs were on display at supermarkets around the United States. Maybe it was for science. Maybe it was for the future of eggs. Maybe it was for the greater good, but Humpty felt used.
Humpty Dumpty lay in the stomachs of Eggland’s Best™ researchers, having had a delicious meal of scrambled eggs for breakfast.
The crowds at the Egg Research Conference 2024 give a standing ovation to their innovative research process in novel egg design, but at the cost of Humpty’s eggsistence. .
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um...?
continued from page 9
The princess nods, giggling as she leads you down the hallway and into her room. You’re about to get on her bed, but it’s a queen. You need a 5x king, at least. The gentleman you are, you lay on the floor and give her the mattress. You’re down bad for her, but it’s hard to tell what exactly she wants…
What do you do?
FINAL CHOICE: Play Candyland together all night long. (Turn to Page 25) FINAL CHOICE: “So… we banging or what?” (Turn to Page 26)
—E. Song
SAVING PRIVATE TWIDDLYWHISKERS
The following excerpts were taken from the field journal of Lieutenant Cutieface McGee, who sacrificed his life for his family, God, and country on his mission to find and rescue Private Twiddlywhiskers and return him to his fairy Godmother in the woods.
12/25
Fairytale Christmas — it used to be something worth celebrating. Instead, I can do little but gaze upon the frozen bodies of my cuddlers-in-arms — pools of rainbow-colored blood stretching for miles in each direction. I almost laugh. There is no God out here — no Squirrel Jesus. There is only war. I need a candy cigarette, goddammit.
1/12
Where is Private Twiddlywhiskers? They said we would have found him by now, yet here I am — camping out in a half-eaten gingerbread house miles behind enemy lines. It looks like the Giants got it before me — bastards. This place reeks of Big. And — hold on. I think a flying monkey spotted me — That damned Wicked Witch. I’m being watched.
2/13
I finally have a lead. Last night, I stumbled upon a recently abandoned campsite, complete with empty acorn shells and a map that appeared to be hastily drawn with a purple crayon. He shouldn’t be more than a day away as the talking crow flies.
There’s a village nearby — I hear there’s going to be a ball tomorrow.
2/14
He was roadkill when I found him — Private Twiddlywhiskers. Toothpasted by some klutz princess in a Pumpkin carriage. Right in time for Valentine’s Day, too. Goddmmnit, where’s a candy cigarette when you need one?
—T. Harris
HUMANISM
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um...?
continued from page 9
She is intrigued and accepts. You bring her majesty up the beanstalk and to your place. It is large. She is not. You want to make sure she’s comfortable, so you decide to show her around. You lead her through the kitchen where the bowls are bigger than her head. She asks to use the bathroom where the toilet’s bigger than her bed. Meanwhile, you must make a crucial decision…
What do you do?
FINAL CHOICE: Take her majesty to your bedroom. (Turn to Page 26)
FINAL CHOICE: Take her majesty back to the kitchen. (Turn to Page 28)
—A. Garcia
“ This is temporary, right?”
—G. Buchta
ABSTRACT: A NOVEL PROTOCOL FOR THE
TOTAL SYNTHESIS OF A FABERGÉ EGG
Rumplestiltskin and Son of the Queen (1888). Annals of Contemporary Alchemy.
In his 1870 publication “The Interconversion of Straw to Gold,” Rumplestiltskin related a revolutionary method for the interconversion of straw to gold. This was, despite a 300% increase in the kingdom’s GDP, met with great controversy regarding the “ethical horror” of the so-called “child theft” necessary for the protocol. This manuscript expands upon the foundations laid down by Rumplestiltskin. Having been threatened with execution by the Queen if he failed to comply, the first author granted the second author permission to join in this endeavor “because the idiot already failed necromancy and divination..” One of the authors has worked tirelessly towards generating a Fabergé egg, while the other doom-scrolled his companions’ carrier pigeon posts. Beginning with boiling the hair of a “stolen” child (which the second author managed to bungle, despite using his own hair) and ending with dissolving the tears of the second author’s unfaithful father, a successful means for the total synthesis of a 24-karat gold Fabergé egg has been demonstrated. Despite the King’s threat of executing the first author if rumor of his infidelity breaks, the egg is magically inscribed with the characters “I RELISH THE UPCOMING DIVORCE OF YOUR PARENTS.”
The authors expect this innovative catalytic process to make significant headway in future alchemy work. Whether or not the first author will retain his head is a matter of future discourse. Frankly, if it takes him away from the second author, the first author would welcome it.
—B. Soti
KING MIDAS CAUSES RECORD INFLATION
Inflation of the USD has soared to a record high following the surge in gold production that resulted from the resurrection of King Midas. The monarch has produced approximately 10,000,000 kg of the precious metal in the last two weeks, increasing the total amount of capital in the US by almost $1tn. The origins of this story are in the federal government’s sponsorship of a group of selected researchers on the ‘Midas
Project’ since 2019, in the hopes it would allow them to move the dollar back onto the gold standard. However, this plan has since proven to be short-sighted. The unceasing flow of gold generated by the resurrected King Midas has since drastically diminished the dollar’s value and sent commodity values spiraling. “We knew you can’t just print more money,” claimed the spokesperson for the Midas Project. “Why didn’t they say we couldn’t grow more gold too?”
The economy has experienced particularly strong effects. With the dollar near-defunct, alternative mediums of exchange have developed in different segments of the United States. popular substitutes have included chips of the “Cloud Gate” Bean in Illinois, the few iPhone Fours in California, and a pigeon-backed cryptocurrency in New York.
Midas intends to hold a press conference tomorrow, wearing gloves.
—M. Hitchin
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um...?
continued from page 12
The new clay you gifted to the Princess is of very poor quality. After all, you crushed it with your big, stodgy hands. True pottery clay is made in a yearslong process that takes the lives of thousands of Dwarven workers, but that’s hardly what’s on your mind as the Princess opens her mouth. “This abominable clay will never replace the treasure I have lost,” she sniffles. She rummages through the clay and shrieks. “Egads, a pea!” she says, picking it up. “How dare ye?” You have no idea how it got there, but you feel utterly defeated.
What do you do?
FINAL CHOICE: You set out on a trip around the world. You exterminate every individual species of peas until there’s none left anywhere to offend the princess. (Turn to page 25)
FINAL CHOICE: “I’m weawy sowwy.” (Turn to page 28)
one fish
fish
fish i swam by your side
one fish
two fish
fish
blue fish
i begged you to stay but you found a new fish
red
OZ REPORTS: THE WICKED WITCH
Two journalists take on the same subject to elucidate the dangers of biased reporting.
Other Liquids The Wicked Witch is Weak To
BY GABI COHEN STAFF REPORTER
MARGARITAS —
Not even a nasty, decrepit spellcaster from the West can have just one. They just make her feel so bad.
LIQUID FOUNDATION — Despite a recent push for cosmetics skintone inclusivity, it seems neither MAC nor Maybelline have expanded into sickly green.
SOUP — It turns out that if you look past all the meat and vegetables, soup is just water.
BLOOD, SWEAT, TEARS, URINE, ETC.
—Refer to Wizard of Oz.
This gal doesn’t engage in ANY water-involved bodily processes.
REALLY HOT SOUP — Same deal as the soup, but this one literally just came out of the microwave.
PANERA
CHARGED LEMONADE — When life hands you lemons, Panera kills you with them.
BIG HOUSE — Not necessarily a liquid, but it sure does liquify any Witch it falls on.
Expanded List of Things the Wicked Witch is Allergic To
BY ZAVIAN VALEDÓN STAFF REPORTER
1. Water.
2. Vegemite.
3. Gluten.
4. McDonald’s Sprite.
5. Arsenic.
6. Flint, Michigan Tap Water.
7. Lava Lamp (the inside part).
8. Peanuts, but it’s fine if you eat them around her; she just shouldn’t herself.
9. Oobleck.
10. Molten Pumpkin Gingersnap Ice Cream.
11. The Leftists, the
Looters, the Anarchists.
12. The left-handed.
13. Insulin (in doses of 31mg or higher).
14. Liberal Tears.
15. All the experiments we did to attain this information.
16. Shellfish.
The Wicked Witch, West.
The Wicked Witch, West, melting.
I JUST CAN’T KEEP DOING THIS
I mean, what ARE we, really? I spend all day trying to push forward with you, with US, and you? You just roll away.. It’s a sick pattern: push, roll, repeat. Sometimes I wonder if you’d stay still if I just… pushed a little harder. Would you finally allow us to make progress? Or would you just –-surprise!– roll back down again? Where does this end? With my body flattened on the pavement, and you on top? Oh-ho! I think not! Relationships are a two way street ya know?
I know what people say about us. My friends say, “Sisyphus, buddy, you’re the only one putting in any work here.” And maybe they’re right. I do all of the heavy lifting in this relationship. This is supposed to be MUTUAL, isn’t it?? This is not a molehill– it’s a godsdamned mountain.
The other day we got so close. The sun was shining (probably), the souls of the damned were shrieking (laughing at me I’m sure), and I thought, “This is it! This time, we’re finally going to get to the top.” I gave it my all, leaned my shoulder into you, and felt a glimmer of hope. Hope! Imagine that! And for one glorious moment, you actually budged. I thought we were making progress. I was dreaming of the summit, of stability, of... you know, maybe even flat
ground.
But no. Suddenly, you just let go. Out of nowhere, you pulled your classic “roll-out” move, and I’m left a pathetic cuckold. Do you have any idea how it feels? This constant push and push? Me chasing after you every time until we’re back where we started? It’s degrading. It’s undignified.
And don’t even get me started on the communication issues. Every time I TRY to talk to you, I get nothing. Nada. Zilch. μηδέν. It’s like talking to a brick wall. I mean, come on! I know things between us are rocky right now, but can’t we at least discuss why we keep repeating this cycle? But no. You’re silent. Always. And I stand here hoping for an answer, knowing it’s fruitless. I GUESS I’ll just be here FOREVER, pushing and pushing, with you pushing back like we’re nothing.
Well, here we finally are. I’ve reached the end of my rope. Next time you tumble down, I’ll let you keep rolling and rolling until you’re in the past. Maybe I’ll pick up a new hobby. Pottery? Carving? Sculpting? Something with a rock I can actually shape.
“I’ve asked the witch to let us out a couple times... I’m sure she’ll be back”
—S. Morfin
A CAPPELLA STANDARDS TOO HIGH FOR ARIEL
I fought tooth and fin for my place in the Class of 2028, and you know how hard that is for international students. Especially for those of us more… aquatically inclined. Besides the long hours and havoc Division 1 sports have wreaked on my body, the swim team gives me some community. After crossing oceans and trading my immortal soul to a sea-witch to get to New Haven, I finally felt like I’d earned my place as a Yale student. I never really felt at home in Atlantica, and I thought that, here, I could finally meet people as enthralled by the everyday marvels of the human world as I was.
Imagine my shock, then, when I received my rejection emails from Mixed Company, Doox of Yale, and The Society of Orpheus and Bacchus—and cried so much I almost drowned myself. Yale University is lauded everywhere as a beacon of inclusivity, where any young mermaid can find like-minded friends if she just has enough grit. But, after tap night, I do not feel like part of your world.
I really did pour my heart out, belting into that weird doohickey. But whenever I’d sing, my fish friends would jump out of the ocean to hear me, and then they’d asphyxiate and freak everyone out.
I can’t believe I shucked schoolwork and forgot about my social life for two tumultuous weeks of hazing, all for a glorified gang of orca whales on a power trip. I mean, Ursula literally committed identity fraud, misdemeanor theft, and attempted mass murder because she was so down bad for my singing voice. And a college a capella group didn’t want me?
If no one’s going to let me into their stupid group, I might as well just join The Record.
REPORT: TORTOISE OF “TORTOISE AND HARE” ON STEROIDS
Paris - FR: It was an ugly sight indeed for the International Olympic Committee: the Tortoise, famed champion of the multi-species 800m, unconscious in a bathtub with needles stuck in his shell and dozens of unlabeled vials strewn about. Known for his famous upset against the Hare, opponents and admirers alike have always wondered the secret behind that historic race. Now, it’s clear — performance-enhancing drugs.
As the Olympics and Paralympics season comes to a close, and preparations begin for the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics (projected to be the most insufferable event in history), questions have been raised about athletes’ true abilities. The Olympics are home to a number of fast and carnivorous species (the last part does not always end well) as well as a tortoise. This is not the first time doubts have been raised regarding how the 170-year-old reptile (history buffs may remember his debut and racially charged epithets at the 1936 Olympics with Jesse Owens) was able to beat a 3-year-old rabbit.
Previous doping screenings tested positive for performance-enhancing drugs; however, the Tortoise claimed repeatedly that the results were due to a poppy seed bagel, absolutely necessary testosterone prescriptions, and a fibrous herbivore diet. The Hare continued to investigate these claims despite threats that the IOC would revoke their ability to host the 2036 Games in his hometown, the whimsical meadow beside the stream.
A century after his demise, the Hare has been vindicated; all 347 of his grandchildren rejoice and celebrate as it becomes clear that the Tortoise’s barrier-breaking record, used to justify the failures of nerds, losers, and slow children everywhere, was a sham. To those who were told “slow and steady wins the race,” adjust your mindset: slow, steady, and anabolic steroids such as trenbolone, oxymetholone, methandrostenolone, nandrolone, stanozolol, boldenone, and oxandrolone win the race.
—A. Geldzahler
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um...?
continued from page 12
You waddle back to your room, ruminating on the fact that you fee, fi, fo, fumbled. You try falling asleep, but you can’t. Something is missing. You feel empty. You crave the delicate touch of Her Majesty. After a sleepless night, you decide it’s time you get your shit together. For three long days, you try to convince yourself you’re better suited to another giant, but in vain. Each night you dream of her majesty, waking up in a cold sweat at 3:00am. You have no choice but to ask for a second chance. You summon up the courage to text her. What do you do?
—J. Jackson
FINAL CHOICE: “You up? Thinkin’ about you — pull up to my place.” (Turn to page 26)
FINAL CHOICE: “Hey I’m so sorry about everything that happened; I really want to make it up to you. Can I get a do over?” (Turn to page 6)
GREEK LIFE (IMMORTAL EDITION)
Zeus is obviously in DKE. Though famously terrifying and considered a scourge, he is unfortunately very well-established. Zeus messes with getting angry, maintaining gender ratios at every function, and making people feel uncomfortable in his presence.
Hera is a proud sister of Theta. Her every move is calculated, and everyone is slightly terrified of her. Her boyfriend is a massive prick, and she knows it. Still, they look hot together on the Instagram grid, and she’s found a ton of LinkedIn mutuals through him. She figures he’s worth keeping (for now).
Poseidon is a brother of Sig Nu. Although he lowkey has the same problems as his brother, Zeus, Poseidon has a chiller demeanor. Everyone pretends to have neutral opinions about him, but dive just below the surface, and things get really murky…
Hades is lukewarmly in Sig Chi. Some find him intimidating with the whole “King of Hell” shtick he has going on, but he’s actually a lot chiller than his brothers;, and at the end of the day, he’s just trying his best. Unfortunately, he has a reputation for being a little boring, but you’re 100% going to see him eventually.
Demeter is a sister of APhi. Generally nice and mostly in it for the funsies, people seem to think less of her than her sister, Hera. Go to the function, take E&EB classes, hang out at the Yale Farm, use that one Instagram filter on every photo. Life’s good.
Hermes is the Chi Psi nice guy. A little shorter than average (but with a big heart to make up for it), people treat Hermes like he’s lesser, even though he’s the least strange of the bunch. He thinks he’s well traveled, hence the random flags he put up in the yard.
Ares is on Heavyweight Crew. Say two prayers and hold onto a friend when you talk to him, because you’re going to need backup support. Spending even five minutes with this guy is like taking three steroid cycles
at once while huffing whip-its.
Aphrodite is in Edon. Her mind is an unassailable fortress, and everyone’s a little scared she’ll implode at any moment. Aphrodite makes people like her, but once you look into her life as it truly is, it just feels so… exhausting.
Artemis and Apollo are both in Fence. They’re significantly chiller than Aphrodite, and everyone still knows about them, but they’re ~just a little indie~. They have enough silver jewelry to fix the Greek economy and won’t listen to artists with more than 10 monthly listeners.
Dionysus is happily in AEPi. Everyone seems to like this guy, and he’ll never say no to hosting a party. Some of the people he surrounds himself with can be… odd…, but for the most part, he’s just about having fun with as many people as possible.
Persephone is in Aeris. Bless her heart, she was the one behind the “Women+!” debacle.
Hephaestus is taking CPSC 323 and CENG 314. Just… give him some space. For a guy who calls his bedroom “The Forge,” he’s not cooking up anything more than a C- average. He needs to turn in his p-sets and go to bed.
—B. Soti
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um...?
continued from page 15 or 19
Your true love for one another becomes apparent. Two years and nine months later you, the Princess and your pet grizzly bear welcome a new addition into your family. She’s a beautiful blonde haired baby girl, a perfect mix of you and the princess that is “just right.” You name her Goldilocks.
HOW THE SCHWARZMAN CENTER CAME TO BE
A friend of mine was scrolling Instagram in the Saybrook dining hall one fine morning when the most peculiar old gentleman approached him. He slammed his hand against the table. “You damned screenagers,” he chided. “You just want to sit there with those rectangles! You there, with the hair and the teeth, and that hair!”
“Little ol’ me?” my friend responded, alarmed.
“Don’t backsass me, boy! Let me see your phone. TWELVE HOUR SCREENTIME? WHAT IS A BRAWL STARS? They oughta do research on you, boy. Useless kids… I bet you don’t even know how the Schwarzman Center got its name!
You see, once upon a time there lived a man named John Davenport. Disgusted by the Harvard stench, Davenport dreamed of founding a college in New Haven.
He failed, but we can’t blame him — he was from Harvard, and failure is to be expected of them. However, years later, a man named John Pierpont took up his mantle and, with a group of five youths began a collegiate school in Saybrook that would move to New Haven after the founders realized there was not nearly enough crime in Saybrook. Pierpont was a tough man born with a skin disease that caused him to grow warts all over his body. Nonetheless, he was a true leader — a man like no other. You may not know it, boy, but you owe him your life.
However, as the group approached their new campus, they saw that a group of Harvard men were in their way. Pierpont stepped forward and politely approached the group like a true Yale man. ‘Could you all vacate, please?’
‘Hey Warts-Man,’ the Harvard brat squealed. ‘You’re going to threaten us? You know what we do to people who threaten us?’
‘Nothing!’ Another Harvard man chimed in, ‘They’re usually stronger. Run for it!’
As the Harvard men retreated, their faces shrouded in crimson shame, Pierpont rallied the group and walked toward their campus. As he began climbing a tree to make a speech, someone in the crowd yelled, ‘Everyone! Hush Now! Warts Man is in the middle!’
‘What?’
‘Shush! Warts man’s center!’
‘Sh-shwartsman center?’
And the Shwarzman Center has been there ever since.” “Huh?” my friend said, finally glancing up from his phone. “Just got a new high score in Brawl Stars.”
—M. Sprintson
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um...?
continued from page 15
Oh yeah. She’s red again and she just took off her slippers. You’re not really into that, but you’ll go wi— fuck, she’s throwing them at you. You start running. She just grabbed a broom and is now shooing you like a cockroach. “I DON’T ‘BANG,’ MR. GIANT, I ENGAGE IN INTIMATE COITUS.” What the hell were you thinking? You go back to your beanstalk, lonely and empty-handed.
The End
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um...?
continued from page 16 or 24
Surprisingly, she accepts, and you lead her to your bedroom. Huzzah! Your opportunity has arizzen. She proceeds to feel under your bed to see if she can find a stepping stool and, against all odds, makes a devastating discovery. You may have gotten your shit together, but you did not get your peas together. You forgot to clean up your peas! Her majesty feels the pea and is very disappointed. She storms out, and you’re lonely once more.
The End
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um...?
continued from page 16
You hunger, and you want snackies before the freak. But she’s ready, and she’s a lot freakier than you. You call it off when she suggests “using” the oversized silverware.
The End
Fee, Fi, Fo, Um...?
continued from page 19
She’s red again and she just took off her slippers. You’re not really into that, but you’ll go wi— fuck, she’s throwing them at you. You start running. She just grabbed a broom and is shoo-ing you like a cockroach. “YOU’RE SORRY? I’LL SHOW YOU HOW TO BE SORRY!” What the hell were you thinking? You go back to your beanstalk, lonely and empty-handed.
The End
Ask Old Owl!
Dear Old Owl,
My stupid dog barks all through the day while I am trying to work on my figurines in peace, and my temper is growing short. I’ve tried obedience school, but they told me I had to come back with a dog, and I’m trying to spend as little time with that fucker as possible. Now I just yell at him a bunch, but it seems like while he hears me, he never listens. How do I get through to him?
Dear Owlet,
This reminds me of an old fable my dear Mama used to read me before the city changed her. A dog carries a slab of raw meat he has stolen from the butcher, and sees his reflection in a puddle on the way home. Thinking the other dog (his reflection) has a superior piece of meat, he opens his mouth and lunges at the other dog, dropping his meat in the dirty puddle water. If you need me to spell it out for you, the moral of the sto-
ry is that you should take your dog to a hall of mirrors and leave him there. While he discovers the horrors of his own reflection, you can finally find out how many of those figurines you can swallow in goddamn silence.
Dear Old Owl,
Before I start, lemme say this is all LEGAL. I’ve found myself in a predicament: I have two loving wives, one very young and the other hopelessly old. This itself would be no problem at all, were it not for their conflicting lifestyles and how I seem to land in the middle. Before bed each night, my young wife plucks the gray hairs from my head, eradicating any signs of our age gap. Before I wake each morning, my old wife plucks all of the dark hairs from my head, eradicating any signs of our age gap. Though I appreciate their loving attention to my follicles, winter is coming and my entirely bald head is beginning to chap in the frost.
Should I bring this to their attention, or might I find myself sleeping on the couch?
Dear Owlet,
Here’s what I’m hearing: one of them is a piece of young, hot tail. The other, you love her ’cause you love her, but she’s not the best in bed, and sometimes when you wake up you find yourself less and less attracted to her, and more and more bald. But you love the old broad. If I’m being frank, as I often am, this is my dream set-up, and if I were you’d I’d take life as it comes. But I understand for some, two wives “aren’t enough.” So here’s my advice: sneak out of the bed after you’ve all had your nightly threesome or whatever you do, and let them pluck each other’s hairs until you’re all bald and happy together. Remember, hair grows back, but your old wife has five years left at best.
