The Mahogany Issue

Vol. 152, No. 2

THE YALE

Oct. 23, 2023

RECORD

“The World’s Oldest Humor Magazine” or

“The World’s Most Humorous Old Magazine” Join us! Email

chair@yalerecord.org

FRENCH GUY GOES ZHOPPING Dear Peter Salovey, I was saddened to learn that you are stepping down as President of Yale University in order to focus on your research but am excited to see what this new chapter brings you. What exciting fields will you be exploring in your new role?

DEATH COMES TO US ALL, BUT SHIRLEY COMES FOR NO ONE

Dear Brian,

Dear Arnav, Why did you gain so much weight over the summer?

I heard the weatherman say there is a storm headed for New Haven! Make sure to stay in and take it easy!

Sincerely, The Hater

Love, Mom

Best, Student

AMPHETAMINE DOCTOR THINKS AMPHETAMINES COULD REALLY HELP YOU OUT HERE

BEIGE FLAG ALERT! COLORBLIND SOLDIER TRIES TO SURRENDER

IRISH GOODBYE: SHY PERSON PUTS BOMB IN FRIEND’S CAR Dear mom,

Dear Student,

Dear The Hater,

Thanks for reaching out!

I will be exploring my body.

Because every time I sleep with your wife, she gives me a biscuit.

Take it sleazy, Pete

SEXISM OVER? MAN DATES WOMAN WITH A BOB

Crunch Crunch, Arnav

of corse i womt br gong out wenh its rsining!!! donr wtory i stahed im and did a math pseg.

Lobe, Briam

T he Y ale R ecord

2

YALE RECORD The Mahogany Issue October 23, 2023

1 | Mailbags and Snews 6 | The First-Year Editorial

CRISIS IN CONGRESS: GOP OFFICIALS PANIC AFTER LOSING MITCH MCCONNELL IN WAX MUSEUM

13 | Shorts 15 | Feature How to Use Summer as a Verb

From, Conor

“WHY AM I HITTING YOU? WHY AM I HITTING YOU?” TAUNTS BULLY WHO KEEPS THINGS SIMPLE Dear Conor,

18 | Photo Spread A Fancy Child’s Guide to the Alphabet

Dear Conor,

21 | Shorts 25 | Feature People Who Will Never Be Invited on My Yacht 26 | Shorts 32 | Feature Ask Old Owl!

From the moment I walked into your class, I knew you were the one for me. Teaching Assistant now has become Te Amo. This class may only be Spanish 1, but my love for you reaches L5.

Can you help me on this problem?

Also, why are your eyes red?

16 | Feature Tales of George Richie and George Butler

20 | Feature Talk of the Ton

Dear TA,

Dear TA,

8 | Shorts 10 | Feature Ten Rules of the Opera

FEMALE ER PATIENT’S DEATH PROBABLY JUST ANXIETY

Best, Samatha

SKEPTICAL GASTROENTEROLOGIST THINKS YOU’RE JUST FULL OF SHIT Dear Samantha,

So what u gotta do issss... unhh,.... so what you- what you got-

Dear CoDear,

What does Te Amo mean?

Warmly, Your Econ Professor

BIDEN ANNOUNCES 5-YEAR PLAN TO CONVERT E-GIRLS TO ILADIES

Dear uhh, Conor uhh.

So what u gott- so what you Dear Conor, so what u gotta do is Conor,

Dear Econ Professor,

Dear Conor, what u ... uh u... gotta. Do......

T

“SHE’S NOT REALLY MY TYPE” SAYS MAN WHO LIKES TO FUCK HIS 5 POUND JAR OF PEANUT BUTTER

Hello! It has come to my attention that I will have to, for scheduling reasons, drop this class. Thank you!

Best, Samantha

VILLAGE ELDER WRONG

T he T Che orporate merica F irst YA ear I ssueI ssue

PET NOT DOG OR CAT

3

WANTED: Virtuous maid with a distaste for precious metals.

Dear Mark, Why won’t you accept my friend request on Facebook?

Love, Dad

MECHANICAL BULL EXPLODES, SAVING THOUSANDS FROM GUYS IN LINE TO RIDE MECHANICAL BULL

Dearest Froco, I must bequest thy attention towards a matter, as I sit perched atop Toad’s Place, my heart longs for you.

Thou beauty has no match upon this earthly plane. Please return my letter via carrier pidgeon regarding my request for your accompaniment to Spring Fling.

With the passion of a thousand suns, Sam

FOR SALE: Dear Sam,

Dear Dad, Ugh, stop, you’re embarrassing me!

Also, it’s called Meta now.

Sincerely, Mark Zuckerberg

Holy shit! How drunk are you? I’m getting Yale Health, don’t move!

The no-good maid who ate all of my jewelry.

Concerned, Froco

— L. Conklin

F irst Y ear I ssue I ssue T heTChe orporate A merica

IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO: MY DOCTOR SAYS I WILL NEVER CUM AGAIN ONCE HE REMOVES MY LEFT TESTICLE

“THIS SCHOOL IS PRETTY WHITE,” SAYS WHITE PERSON MAKING SCHOOL WHITER Dear Gambler,

Dear Dealer,

5

Did You Know?

You're using a salad fork for your entrée and everyone is whispering about it.

99% stop right before they hit big.

What the fuck bro? I’ve hit like ten bad hands in a row, I’m down ten thousand, I’m taking out of my retirement savings, and I don’t know if my kids will be able to go to college anymore.

Give me a chance, Gambler

“I DIDN’T KNOW HAIR COULD GROW DOWN THERE!” SAYS LITTLE BOY LOOKING AT FATHER’S TOES

Best, Dealer

\ WEEWOO WEEWOO! MY LIFE ALERT BRACELET BRINGS ME SEXY HUNKS ANYTIME I WANT THEM!

Obituary Correction The 2023 Editorial Board would like to apologize for an obituary which appeared in last month’s “Ladies of the ’80s Issue,” where we reported that Celine Dion had passed away after a sudden cardiac arrest.

Hospital officials have since stated that her heart will go on.

— B. Hollander-Bodie

6

The Yale Record

“What is mahogany?” you ask me in a rumpled shirt and cap, crossing your legs and picking at the scab on your elbow as a pigeon would a grub.

I sit up from the chaise lounge, hack into a platinum spitoon, and pull back my lips to reveal a full set of antique wooden teeth. I chomp for emphasis; the clack of fine wood on fine wood rattling throughout the parlour, but you still don’t get it. I try using my words. “These teeth are made of pure mahogany, fashioned three hundred years ago for my eleventh-greatgrandfather, Richard the First, when the revolution snatched the pearls right out of his clam.”

I get a splinter in my tongue, and we pause for a moment while Joel, the butler, applies a warm cloth and removes it with ivory tweezers. Deborah, the spittoontress, raises the spitoon once more, and I dribble for several minutes, never once breaking eye contact.

“Why do you keep doing that?” you ask, squirming and crossing your legs more severely.

I scoff, as any gentleman would, at your naïvité. “Among many reasons,” I tell you, “I received my mother’s small mouth, and these bespoke dentures do not fit me at all.”

“Every first-born Record son since 1872 has removed their teeth in favour of these finer ones,” I explain, lighting the cigar in my mouth before swallowing it whole. “And tradition is not something one breaks lightly.”

“So that’s what the issue’s about?” you ask, rummaging through your threadbare mail sack for a copy unsullied by soot. “That’s all mahogany is… bloodlines and wooden teeth?”

Elizabeth, the manor chef, grinds Tellicherry peppercorns into the spitoon and raises it to my mouth as I tilt back my head and sip. Then I let out a chortle that echoes through the parlour and bounces off a scullery maid, for mahogany is about so much more.

Mahogany cannot be reduced to mere definition, but rather is exemplified by status, items, and commodities. Mahogany means country clubs, wineries, polo ponies. Private bodies of water, summering with lads named Chauncey, and yelling at all 43 members of your staff when they crowd surf you up the grand staircase at too slow a pace. It’s wearing gloves in the summertime, registering the estate as a charity, and knowing the correct fork with which to poke a poor person. It goes without saying that it’s old money and rich people, but it’s more than that. It’s also old people and rich money.

Mahogany is about the way you move through the world. It’s knowing that small purchases are to be paid with thousand dollar bills, but your daughter’s dowry is to be delivered

The Mahogany Issue as a yacht full of nickels. It’s adding a teaspoon of your eleventh-greatgrandfather Richard the First’s ashes to the tea before your butler checks it for poison, simply to test the sophistication of his palate. It’s spitting whenever you deem appropriate, but never through human teeth. It’s making mailboys listen to you ramble, even when you can tell that they desperately need to pee. It’s trapping Chauncey in the dumbwaiter at the Hamptons house, telling the maid that the wails in the walls are the ghost of the last maid who asked too many questions, then crying at Chauncey’s funeral and taking over his company because it’s “what he would have wanted.”

“I get it,” you say, “it’s about doing whatever you want because you know you’re already in charge.”

“Closer,” I smile, “but if you really want to understand mahogany, you’ll have to read this.”

Sadie, the porter, files into the parlour carrying a Fabergé egg atop a velvet cushion. I stand, she sets the egg on the chaise lounge, and when I sit back down, it shatters. You gasp. I produce from beneath me the yellowed scroll that has been encased in the Fabergé egg for generations. When Joel carries it over to you, he tips his top hat to reveal a tortoise hidden underneath, and you gasp again. Joel flips the tortoise upside down gracefully, sweeping Fabergé off of the lounge and onto the tortoise’s stomach, and arranges the shards in a thin line along the reptile’s underbelly. You unfurl the scroll, stare at its contents, and smirk.

Knowing a tortoise can only survive for three minutes on its back, I lean forward and place my nostril to the shell, the sweet sensation of Fabergé entering my airway as I inhale. But at the tortoise’s sternum, my nose strikes an obstacle. I pull back and see your finger on the shell, interrupting the Fabergé path, the smirk on your face even bigger. An unseemly odour fills the parlour, and a dripping noise echoes across the Natasha Weiss ’25 Chair Jacob Mansfield ’25 Online Managing Editor

Leah Burch ’25 Copy Editor Emmitt Thulin ’25 Social Media Manager Clio Rose ’23 Old Owl Alexia Buchholz ’23 Old Owl Grace Ellis ’25 Old Owl

7

tiled floor.

“You’ve ––” “Yes,” you say. “I’ve peed myself. I find it… appropriate” I nod, for you finally understand. You hold out your hand and, solemnly, I spit my ancestral wooden teeth into your palm. You pop them into your mouth. They fit perfectly, even around your unremoved teeth.

“Joel,” you say through the finest of woods, “I’ll be needing my chair. Why don’t you escort our friend here to the Hamptons house.”

My very own butler, now yours, scoops me into his arms and carries me out of the room, never to be seen again.

“Elizabeth,” you say, “I’ll be taking my tea now. Two spoons of Richard please.”

“Of course sir, but, if you don’t mind me asking, what on Earth just happened?”

“Mahogany, you see, is spectacle for spectacle’s sake: creating outrageous displays not just because you can, but so that someone else cannot. A gentleman only wears a monocle, for he already creates a spectacle wherever he goes.”

“Of course, Sir Richard XV,” she says, bowing.

“Oh, and Elizabeth? Send for a mailboy. We have an issue to put out.”

You recline on the chaise lounge, my empire now yours, and toss the scroll into the puddle of urine at your feet. It lands face-up, but no one would ever know, for it was empty all along.

––D. Alberts Editor in Chief

Dom Alberts ’25 Tara Bhat ’25 Editor in Chief Online Editor in Chief Nicole Stack ’26 Lizzie Conklin ’25 Sadie Lee ’26 Online Managing Editor

Managing Editor

Amelia Herrmann ’26 Lillian Broeksmit ’25

Copy Editor

Art Director

Arav Dalwani ’26 Webmaster

Larry Dunn ’25 Design Editor

Samad Hakani ’26 Staff Director

Joe Wickline ’23 Old Owl Maya Sanghvi ’23 Old Owl

Jacob Eldred ’24 Old Owl

Emma Madsen ’25 Old Owl

Managing Editor

Erita Chen ’26 Design Editor

Matt Neissen ’26 Business Manager

Adriana Golden ’24 Old Owl

Managing Editor

Dash Beber-Turkel ’26

Design Editor

Alejandro Mayagoitia ’25 Merch Manager Arnav Tawakley ’24 Old Owl

Joe Gustaferro ’24 Old Owl

Josephine Stark ’25 Old Owl

Andrew Cramer ’25 Publisher Debbie Lilly ’26 Sophie Spaner ’25 Supplementals Editor Joel Banks ’25 Prank Czar

Benjamin Hollander-Bodie ’24 Old Owl

Joanna Wypasek ’24 Old Owl

Edward Bohannon ’25 Old Owl

Emily Cai ’25 Old Owl Annie Lin ’25 Old Owl

Staff: Patrick Chappel ’23 Alice Mao ’24 Colson Jones ’24 Edwin Perez ’24 Kara Carey ’24 Lily Dorstewitz ’24 Malia Kuo ’24 Simi Olurin ’24 Ari Berke ’25

Audrey Hempel ’25 Betty Kubovy-Weiss ’25 Cormac Thorpe ’25 Chet Hewitt ’25 Evan Calderon ’25 Ezzat Abouleish ’25 Isabel Arroyo ’25 Jacob Kao ’25 Mari Elliott ’25

Maya Melnik ’25 Neil Sachdeva ’25 Rena Howard ’25 Tyler Schroder ’25 Adham Hussein ’26 Aidan Gibson ’26 Alejandro Rojas ’26 Alexa Druyanoff ’26 Alexis Ramirez-Hardy ’26

Alice Khomski ’26 Andrew Lake ’26 Ariel Kirman ’26 Bella Panico ’26 Brennan Columbia-Walsh ’26 Elio Wentzel ’26 Grace Davis ’26 Jimmy Ruskell ’26 Linden Skalak ’26

Mia Cortés Castro ’26 Natasha Khazzam ’26 Owen Curtin ’26 Oz Gitelson ’26 Paola Milbank ’26 Sam Kumar ’26 Sivan Almogy ’26 Thomas Varghese ’26 Toby Salmon ’26

Tristan Hernandez ’26 William Wang ’26 Zadie Winthrop ’26 Zoe Halaban ’26 Ge Yu

Contributors: Wolf Boone ’26 Special thanks to: Baron Philip von Stosch, who invented the monocle and inspired a generation Front Cover: Emily Cai ’25, who spent a summer butlering for the Reagans.

Back Cover: Lillian Broeksmit ’25, who uses a topiary body double to skip seminars.

Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CLII, No. 2, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year All contents copyright 2023 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.

MY PHILANTHROPIC MISSIONS Teaching at-risk youth croquet.

Removing trash and homeless people from the beach.

Installing bidets in underfunded public schools.

Retrieving art and ancient artifacts from foreign nations before looters can get to them.

Affixing ornate plaques with my name on them to culturally significant buildings.

Giving poor children tours of my recently curated private art and ancient artifacts room.

Teaching malnourished populations body confidence and the wonders of a slim figure.

Going to orphanages and buying the ugliest children large sun hats to obscure their unlovable faces.

Building high-end yachts to send the refugees back to where they came from.

Constructing a $13-million, tax-deductible oceanside estate for exhausted philanthropists to retire to after a long day’s work giving back to the community.

and he turned his linen closet into a Butler’s Quarters. We fell into a nice rhythm there. He served me, I served him.

Our weekly system became daily, then hourly, and pretty soon we were butlering each other willy-nilly. If it seemed like he’d had a long day, I’d make him a cup of tea. If he saw I’d forgotten to make my bed, he’d make it for me. Dinners were a collaborative affair; sometimes he’d wear the tails, sometimes I’d wear the trousers, and we’d feed each other soup in butlermaster master-butler bliss.

When he asked me to marry him, I slapped him in the face. We were each other’s employees. It just didn’t seem right.

—J. Wickline

FABERGÉ CHICKEN LAYING FABERGÉ EGGS

– D. Lilly MY BUTLER’S BUTLER Well me and Sam had this idea, see, that we could afford having butlers if we butlered for each other. So every other week I’d be round his place in a regulation tailcoat and trousers, talking “Yes sir, very good sir” and all that, and every other other week he’d be round mine doing the same. It went pretty good the first couple months, so we decided it’d be simpler to just live together. I moved out of my apartment,

— E. Chen

The Mahogany Issue

IMPORTANT CLAUSES IN MY WILL

9

BARTHOLEMEW IV’S POLO TRYOUTS

1. None of my money shall benefit the vegans.

2. Dig me up twice a year (I’m a heavy sleeper).

3. My hottest child is to be killed and laid to rest with me in a sidecar coffin.

4. Prior to the bequest of inheritances, all potential recipients’ text messages are to be audited by the family lawyer lest they have been talking shit about me.

5. The contents of my onshore bank accounts go to whoever cries for the longest at my funeral.

6. The contents of my offshore bank accounts go to whoever eats the most ashes (since I am to be buried, store-bought is fine).

7. My body is to be taxidermied and displayed in the town square twice a year.

8. Any person who sells family secrets to Jesse Armstrong and the like shall be struck from the will.

9. The company stocks are to be liquidated and consumed via keg stand.

10. Never dig up the rose bushes.

MONEY TASTING

“Today’s the day, Barty!” Mummy chirps, tucking my freshly ironed shirt into Grandpapa’s lucky riding belt.

I nod my head vigorously, for today is indeed “the day.” As my straw-hued locks bounce restlessly across a moist forehead, I only hope that my merry façade masks the solemn reality of the task that awaits — polo tryouts.

For most young lads, such an occasion is a rite to which they’ve looked forward for the entirety of their jolly lives. But for me, this condemnation of a day means saying goodbye to my secret and truest love: backup dancing.

Oh, to spend hours upon hours in my spacious bedroom rehearsing the illustrious grapevine and the elusive pivot turn! Oh, how my soul yearns to pop and lock behind the likes of Nicki Minaj and (dare I dream?) Queen B herself. And, oh! To slide gracefully to and fro, engulfed in an air of subtle confidence, my feet ignited by the courageous spirit of an early-2000s Britney Spears. My heart throbs against my narrow rib cage merely pondering the thought, a force of creativity longing to break free.

—Staff But alas! I cannot bear to be reminded of possibilities which shall never be, for joining the dastardly polo team entails two universal truths: 1. I shall no longer have the time to moonwalk, to body roll, to embark on the miraculous pilgrimage that is background dance. Instead, the daily 3 p.m. polo practice shall devour my spare time and hollow my spirit from within, condemning me to a lifetime of horse excrement and freshly mowed grass (to which I am deeply allergic).

2. I shall be expected to detest all things relating to dance and conform to my peers, who would rather lord over four foreign legs than unlock their native two. Stifled, I will be forced to conceal my one true passion behind a façade of aftershave and stiff Ralph Lauren collars.

Of course, dear reader, you might perceive my worries as being quite presumptuous — after all, trying out for the polo team does not necessarily entail making it. But this is where you err! My great-grandfather Bartholomew The First (best known amongst his contemporaries as Bartemus Prime) founded this very team. And so, it is only natural that my chances of attaining success are, indeed, quite high.

With such a legacy, my fate is fixed. Tomorrow, as I bid farewell to passions past, I will stare into the eyes of the thoroughbreds and wonder if they, too, dreamed of forging a path of their own.

— N. Khazzam

—N. Khazzam

The Mahogany Issue

11

QUIZ: SHOULD YOU PLAY POLO WITH CHARLES TOMORROW?

DINNER IS SERVED

—D. Alberts MONEY, MONEY, MONEY No, sweetie, we offered to pay for the dinner last night because it’s a nice thing to do. Those people are our friends, and it’s good for us to offer to pay for dinner.

They were just being polite. They have to try to stop us from paying. It’s like a little dance we do, as friends!

They try to pay, we try to pay. We have to fight them.

I’ll admit, it did get a little heated, yes. And, they’re not really our friends, no. But they paid last time!

That means they owed us like, eight hundred dollars!

Not owed us in terms of they actually owed us money, but more like… they owed us the right to pay them back eight hundred dollars. Not that complicated, is it sweetie?

No! We just… we can’t let them pay for us all the time! It’s not right.

You still don’t understand? Sweetie, if we let others pay for us, PEOPLE WILL THINK WE’RE POOR! —B. Hollander-Bodie COFFEE TABLE ESSENTIALS

Dear Barnaby, I cannot express the extent of my desire to participate in the traditional ball sport taken upon horseback with your esteemed company this forthcoming Thursday. The mere thought of us, adorned in our finest regalia, mounted atop those majestic stallions, draws me back to that idyllic summer in Monaco, when we would slip away from all the meetings regarding the workplace dress code violations of our child diamond miners, and simply live. Driving in that resplendent 1937 TalbotLago, its graceful aluminum curves reflecting the sunset as we promised to spend the next day together, and every day after that, seconds slipping away like a twilight dream forgotten upon waking. How could we have known that I would inherit my family’s piano patterned ivory bowtie empire after the sudden poisoning of my father and eldest brother? And how could I have known that you had run the competing ivory-based piano necktie corporation since winning the elaborate hunt your uncle outlined in his will? We went from planning our future together to renouncing our past in the course of an hour, happiness passing away like a beautifully-tusked elephant during the manufacturing season. A future lost because we could not deny our destinies as the leaders of competing piano-themed tie corporations. I know it has been 27 years since I promised to meet you behind the boathouse of our respective families’ fifth favorite yacht club. I know I stood you up then, but I was stung by your assertion that bowties were pedestrian and could not possibly showcase the piano design in the way it deserved.

However, should you be willing to meet me this Thursday at the Beaufort Club, we can rewind the grandfather clock. I will be there — pink carnation in my lapel and tears welling in my eyes. The decision to flavor them joyous or mournful is entirely yours. Forever yours, Charles QUIZ: Will you play polo with Charles on Thursday? a) Yes b) No RESULTS: If you answered mostly A’s, then you still believe in love and the mending of old wounds, and you’ve finally realized that all piano-based neckwear is dreadfully tacky, regardless of the garment’s ornate material.

If you answered mostly B’s, then you can rock a timeless, gentlemanly piano necktie, and all those who wish to prevent its excellence should perish in the waves of its radiance.

—E. Thulin

—A. Herrmann

12

The Yale Record

IMPORTANT NOTES IN WINE THAT ANY SOPHISTICATED PALATE SHOULD BE ABLE TO IDENTIFY 1. Oak 2. Red Currant 3. Bold 4. Summer rain on parched earth 5. Smoke 6. Ambergris 7. The taste of human oil from the smudge of a dirty finger on the inside of your glass 8. Ambien 9. Other wine 10. Caviar 11. Melancholy 12. Poison 13. Blackberry —C. Rose

—N. Weiss HOW TO RAISE A NEPO BABY Place one hand under their head and use the other to raise their bottom. Use a gentle scooping motion to lift them to your chest. Swaddle them in the finest silks from the linen closet. Do not prop them up without additional support, as you risk dropping the baby and shattering its fragile ego.

—E. Thulin

ANY FOUR-YEAR-OLD COULD DO IT

By Lizzie Conklin They didn’t believe who I was at the door.

“It’s me. This is my show. Let me in.” I felt my face flush. My gallerist Nathan spotted me through the glass.

“Are you kidding?” he questioned, intentionally humiliating the man with the list. “He’s with me.” He offered me a bubbly drink. Cameras flashed. Drinks splashed from tipping glasses. “They’re calling you an ingénue,” Nathan whispered, crouching to my ear. “They say you harness abstract expressionism to examine neoliberalism and its disguises.”

“They’re just scribbles,” I mutter. “They don’t mean anything.”

“Exactly –– by saying nothing, you’re saying something.”

Donors, gallerists, and buyers shuffled through, squinting at the art, supporting their chins with their palms. I crawled by, unnoticed, surveying the crowd. As they mull over my finger paintings with words like “materiality,” “juxtaposition,” and “joie de vivre.”

“The compositions… they’re intentionally ignorant,” I overhear in reference to a stain from mommy’s spaghetti bolognese. “It’s high art.” I turned red –– how did he know I made them in a high chair?

“They say any four-year-old could do this,” said a deep, authoritative voice. He was a critic for The Time. I nodded.

“But you’re the only one who has.”

I gasped. He’d blown my cover.

“You could tell?” I asked, pulling my thumb out of my mouth to take a swig of sparkling apple juice on the rocks.

“Yes, but not in the way you think. I can tell an artist when I see one.”

“Do you think they know?” I gestured to the orbiting crowds.

“What do you think?” he asked, amused.

I looked around. Women posed for pictures with the murals. Spectators questioned my muse. Crowds watching more crowds shuffle into the gallery became crowds begging for entrance. They drank what we gave them. They ate what we gave them. In a swarm of children, I was the only adult.

“If you have to ask, then you wouldn’t get it,” I contended, cutting the tone with a wry smile. “The art speaks for itself.”

TALES OF GEORGE RICHIE

This is the story of George Richie and George Butle Read along to hear about the places they go, the schemes they ge

George and Butler Fly A Kite, 2005

It was a glorious Sunday, a day where every window in George Richie’s mansion would be filled with beams of sunlight, and the sweet

laughter of young women in the park nearby would filter in over the mansion gates. In fact, it was the perfect day to fly a kite, and when George awoke that Sunday, he planned to do exactly that.

“Good morning, George Sir! Did you sleep well?” asked George Butler, George’s Butler.

“Mhm,” George mumbled, wiping the drowsiness out of his eyes. “I’d like to go fly kites today.”

“What a wonderful idea!” his butler responded, a glint in his eye. George Butler knew the real reason George liked to fly kites on Sunday. George — whether he was willing to admit it or not — fancied a schoolgirl from the next town over. On Sunday mornings, she would come to the park and fly a small pink kite. When George first caught sight of her, he was stunned. The following morning, he went to the finest kitemaker in the country and spent thousands of pounds on the most beautiful kite a man could dream of. It was navy blue and made from the finest silk, and George desperately hoped that one day, the lovely girl would notice his kite, and in turn, notice him. Although he was enormously rich, George was not enormously confident. He preferred to garner attention from his items, and despite training with the best seductresses and Don Juans from across the nation, he had trouble with women. So, after breakfast, George and George were off to the park with the beautiful blue kite in hand.

For the first hour, all was smooth sailing. George Richie played with his kite while George Butler held a parasol over George Richie to prevent an unsightly tan. George’s kite flitted through the air while George and George compared the beauty of the spew of colorful sailboats docking at the nearby shore against their own boat. But, suddenly, things went very wrong. A large Chihuahua ran and barked at George Richie. Richie, who was of the frail sort and spooked easily, jumped straight up into the air, and upon his descent, snagged his beautiful blue kite on a tree. He watched with dismay as his kite was shredded by a particularly sharp branch and did all he could to prevent himself from sobbing as his beloved entered the park. He swallowed down small sobs, not knowing what to do.

George Butler, a man trained to keep his cool, was not as bothered. “George,” he said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got an idea.” The butler proposed that with the fabric from George’s parasol and a shoelace from his boot, they could make a new kite of their own.

“But what if I develop an unsightly tan?” George asked with great concern.

“It doesn’t matter, George. You’re handsome either way.”

George Richie blushed and nodded sheepishly. “Ok, let’s do this.”

Richie watched as his butler deftly tore the fabric from his parasol and affixed it to his shoelace in a quick series of knots. In just a few minutes, it looked like a fairly nice kite, and the flying resumed. George, now flying the makeshift glider, glowed with renewed confidence.

In a mere moment, George Richie had changed. Without the blue silk kite, he almost looked like a regular man of average wealth. His shoulders were more relaxed, and his smile made him seem more approachable. As if on cue, Richie’s schoolgirl crush ambled over to him.

“You have such a lovely kite! Did you make it yourself?” she asked.

“No,” said George Richie. Then, George surprised both his butler and the young woman. “You are a beautiful woman, and I like your kite.”

She blushed, and George and George shared a knowing wink. George Butler slowly left the scene, with a big smile on his face, and his heart filled with pride for his rich boss. Meanwhile, Richie’s heart filled with gratitude for his trusty butler and only slight dismay that he would have to walk home instead of being carried in George’s loyal arms.

AND GEORGE BUTLER

er, a very rich man and his trusty butler. et up to, and the friendship they foster along the way.

George rge and Butler Get Married, 2008

It was a glorious Tuesday — the type of day where all of the city’s birds would sing aloud together in

a sweet choir: beautiful sound befit for a grand day. Little did George know that day something grand, indeed, would ensue.

“Good morning, George Sir! Did you sleep well?” asked George Butler, George’s Butler.

“Yes, George,” George said. His face lit up. “George?” George said, “What do you say we make some money today?”

Confused, but intrigued, the butler raised his brow. “Whatever do you mean, George Sir? You don’t think you have enough wealth?”

“George,” George explained, “there’s this sailing competition in the town today, and the winner gets one million pounds.”

The butler lit up. He and George often spent windy afternoons sailing together, enjoying the salty breeze in their hair. It all began when George Richie was a little boy. His parents were concerned that along with a distaste for school, he seemed to have no other interests aside from counting money. The butler had suggested that they try presenting George with different activities that would distract him from money, and only a few stuck. George picked up a love for juggling — he was always entranced by the magic of balls suspended in the air — and sailing.

Something about the sea made George feel free from everything. Nothing could trouble him, not even the jarring thought that money could be ephemeral, while he was in the water. Of course, sailing was a task for two, and Butler would dock, anchor, and guide the boat, while Richie would look out into the sea to make sure no sharks or whales were nearby. Loch Lomond was really less of a sea than it was a lake, and there were certainly no sharks or whales in the freshwater, but George’s task made him feel safe and important, which was what mattered most.

“But,” George continued, “there’s a catch. If two people are competing as a team, they have to be married.”

There was a moment’s silence. George Butler knew that Richie couldn’t possibly win the competition alone, mostly because George only really knew how to warn against sharks and whales and had never really bothered to learn anything else about sailing. Only the presence of his trusty butler could keep them truly at sea.

“So,” George went on “I—” “You’re right,” the butler said. “I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”

A few hours later, George and George left the mansion, both with huge smiles on their faces. Each was filled with joy for their future win at the sailing competition, but also for their future as Mr. and Mr. George Richie.

—T. Bhat

A Fancy Child’s Guide to:

The Alphabet Altruism Butler

Caviar

Dowry

First Wife

(effective)

Expat

Gwealth enerational Housekeeper Inheritance (paid under the table)

JQuoi e Ne Sais

K

ids must never touch the organic Persian rug

Live-in Chef

Mummy N Dearest

o Wife of Mine Shall Turn Fourty

Oligarchy Q

ueen Elizabeth

Poor

“People”

Reagan

II Did Nothing Wrong

Second

Trickle-down Upper-middle

Valet

Wimbledon Xenophobia

Youngest

Zoo (Personal)

Wife

Parking

Wife

Economics

class

Lord Thulin’s

Dearest Reader,

Talk of the Ton

You do not know who I am, but I live amongst you. Your ears may hear, but mine listen. I am everywhere, but you never see me. I am a reporter whose paper is funded by Morality. The words you share in private whispers flow from my pen to the page. And the gossip that I have stumbled on, well, ’tis most tantalizing in its nature.

Beinecke Plaza. The fifth day of September, 2023. A gaggle of first year students mounted the steps with Plato’s Republic in hand –– and the Devil’s cabbage in their satchels. All certified legacies of the university, they strode with a self-righteous swagger far too confident for their place in the social hierarchy. They contemplated individual justice and fulfillment aloud with decadent catering from Junzi as more seasoned Lords and Ladies of the ton await their decision to sell out for a summer internship.

And poor Sir Paulie, our lonely brother of the right honorable house of Chi Psi, thought he had struck gold on Tinder with a fine young chap named Eugene. With a date in the calendar for a sultry, fluorescent-lit dinner in the Pauli Murrée dining hall, he left his chastity belt at home, hoping to get lucky. After a devastating twenty-minute wait, all Paulie got was a slice of cold pizza and a note from an errand boy reading, “Sorry, I just got out of a situationship.” Paulie returned home to his chambers on his Razor chariot and wept like a babe ’til daybreak. Maybe he will find his betrothed some day, but for now, a private browser will have to suffice.

And our diamond of the season, who we once thought a woman of class and dignity, made a treacherous mistake yesterday eve. She is most usually one to be engaged in her academic material, but this semester her grades dipped to devastating levels — let’s just say our diamond won’t B happy. Try as she may, her TA could not budge on the grading policy, and her professor was unmoved by her… unorthodox advances during office hours. Heartbroken, our belle looked for a technological revelation, utilizing ChatGPT for her needs, but only dug herself deeper into academic despair. How could I in my right mind advocate for a woman of such questionable nature? Uninspired machinery is the most severe threat to the livelihood of an author of substance. No monetary exchange can subscribe one to my respect –– a lady must work for the endorsement of this author.

One fortnight ago at the house of Sigma Chi, the punch was devastatingly strong, and the crowd healthily hammered. Suitemates found themselves grinding up against each other in dark crevasses of the cellar. Despite their oath to the cause of bros over hoes, Sir Lewis found himself intertwined with the recently single Lady Vanessa on the dance floor to the song Hotel Room Service by the honorable Lord Pitbull. Ladies Violet and Lora furthered their friendship over a shared cup of the juice from the jungle, exploring each other’s bodies like the animals who drink it. And Sir Paulie sat upstairs in his solitude, drinking Natural Lites with the company of his right hand.

You have read all that I have to say, but this is not the last you will hear from little old me. As long as your lips remain talking, my pages will remain abuzz with the gossip you hold so closely to your chest. Your dirty laundry has been removed from the dryer sopping wet, for you did not grab it soon enough. Saturday is no day to do laundry, but you’ll find the afternoon perfect for this piping hot tea.

~ Lord E. Thulin

The Mahogany Issue

FATHER SAYS I MUSN’T Father says I musn’t slide down the bannister like a madman.

Father says I’ll break my neck!

But what Father doesn’t know can’t hurt him…

WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEauuuuh! Auh! Father!

Home so soon? I thought you were at the club!

With your war chums Dick Rummy and Pierre Sazerac!

I can explain! Father, I can explain!

I er … slipped! Yes, slipped … on … that raggedy rug!

We really ought to have that replaced, Father…

Have Holcroft fetch another from town!

I do love that crochety old Holcroft. Why, he’s almost part of the family!

The part that works for the rest of the family…

Well! I suppose that’s settled then.

I’ll just be on my way …

A punishment? No father!

Are you going to sternly thwack my bum three times with your hackberry badminton racquet?

Please, that would hurt!

The grommets are made of hound’s tooth! The strings are made of dove!

Anything but that! No plum pops for a week! No aperitifs for a month!

You know how I love aperitifs, Father!

Tell you what: I’ll sit in the sitting room corner and think about what I’ve done.

What a lesson that would teach me!

Oh, is the Victrola in that corner?

And my favorite John Phillips Sousa records too?

I’d forgotten…

Father, where are you going?

Oh, hello, Holcroft. Father just left.

He was going to punish me, but I think he changed his mind!

Hold on… Father, you’re back! And you’ve got my tortoise!

Put Lionel down Father! He’s mine!

Good Lord, stop painting him Father!

Stop painting him the most revolting shade of pink!

You brute! You beast!

Alright, I did it! Is that what you want to hear?

I slid down that bannister, and I loved it.

For three and a half seconds, I felt alive.

And I finally saw what an insignificant man you truly are.

You and your rules! You and your pride!

“Father the Vainglorious!”

19

(That’s what Sister and I call you, behind your back) (Funny, isn’t it? How the ones you love can hurt you most…)

You fear the bannister, don’t you Father?

You wouldn’t dare to truly live like I have.

All you do is work. And drink.

And yak it up at the club with your war chums Dick Rummy and Pierre Sazerac.

Sorry, war hospital chums.

I know you’ve never killed a man. Nurse.

Coward.

That’s right, walk away! Ta ta, Father!

Holcroft, we’ve done it! We’ve stood up to Father!

And it seems he’s decided not to punish me after all.

Let’s celebrate! Bring me a plum pop!

Hell, bring one for yourself as well…

Oh, Father’s back.

Oh, he’s holding his hackberry badminton racquet.

Oh NO! —J. Wickline MINK’S HUMAN FUR COAT

—E. Upson

The Yale Record

20

THINGS I’LL GET IN MY INHERITANCE The Maserati Grief A new lease on life Flashbacks A receding hairline Time to reflect The Blood Diamond My unmarried sisters Controlling shares in the company The kidney I needed Grandfather’s estate The knife I can no longer bear to use Father’s Swiss watches The true meaning of Macbeth

8. It’s not even our beach house. It’s Peepaw’s.

9. My thoroughbred shares a stable with my sister’s pony.

10. I went to public school.

11. When I transferred to private school, I was on the waiting list for 4 months.

—S. Lee THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE

—Staff REASONS I’M ACTUALLY UPPER MIDDLE CLASS 1. It’s a boat, not a yacht.

2. We moved here before the Lululemon opened down the block.

3. I know exactly how much a loaf of bread costs, I just won’t tell you out of principle.

4. We only go out to eat when Edith has the night off.

5. The jet is a timeshare.

6. We have to rent out our other properties just to make ends meet.

7. Our beach house is actually a 15-minute-walk from the beach.

Mahogany — God, it’s so rich. The scent, the sound of rattling your fingers across it, the knowledge that poor people will never have it. Nothing compares.

Vintage Wine — It’s like normal wine, but you’re not just drunk on wine. You’re drunk on superiority.

Ivory — Elephants feel emotion. They mourn the dead.

They play. They celebrate. Anyway, ivory is like if you could make butter carvings that never melt.

A Hole-In-One — I’m not talking about mere minigolf, no sirree. A toddler can get a hole-in-one in minigolf. I mean real golf. The sport of distinguished, highly athletic gentlemen.

Diamonds ­­— They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend, and if that’s true I sure am jealous. I wish my best friend (my wife) were half as sparklingly beautiful as a diamond.

Winning a Lawsuit ­­— In the old days, nothing was better than beating your enemy upside the head with a club.

These days, we are far more cultured and civilized. But that primal instinct remains.

—B. Hollander-Bodie

The Mahogany Issue

21

THE GENTLEMAN’S CODE 1. A gentleman never cheats on his lady nor his mistresses.

2. Having money is classy, but working for it is not. A true gentleman inherits his wealth and squanders it wisely.

3. When courting a lady, a gentleman must leave her messages on delivered for a minimum of 3 days (to maintain an aloof demeanor), but no more than 12 (lest he appear busy laboring for wages).

4. A gentleman mustn’t dirty himself with manual labor, including the laundering of his clothes. In the untenable situation wherein he runs out of freshly dry-cleaned garments, a gentleman must purchase new items from J Press and wear them until the matter is resolved by his laundress.

5. Opinions are low class and tactless. A gentleman, when prompted, says he has no interest in politics but votes for whomsoever might award him the largest tax break.

6. A gentleman always puts amicable business relationships first.

Should he require a cessation of correspondence –– be it the termination of courtship, a social cancellation, or a sour wager at Royal Ascot –– he may block the relevant personage on Snapchat or Instagram, but never LinkedIn. 7. Anyone can be a gentleman. The only true binary is “gentleman” and “poor.”

—D. Beber-Turkel

—A. Herrmann

The Yale Record

22

HOW TO MARRY RICH Look poor, godly, and savable.

Turn yourself into an NFT. Go to the gas station and give your number to anyone who buys a Powerball ticket.

Plan a blind date, but it’s a wedding.

Become a chef at an expensive restaurant and spike the truffle oil with a love potion.

Find an eligible bachelor with generational wealth at the opera.

Find an eligible bachelor with generational wealth at a polo match.

Find an eligible bachelor with generational wealth on Facebook Marketplace, impress him with your business savvy, and woo him with an antique footstool.

Marry your brother once he inherits the family fortune.

Fall in love with a man named Richard; make him shorten his name.

pouring for himself another glass of port. “But the chase is my passion. I needed a true challenge to go on living. I had to invent a new animal to hunt.”

“A new animal? You’re joking.”

“Not at all. Body of a polar bear, head of a tiger. Poisontipped claws and teeth. Vision in infrared and ultraviolet, all with the focus of a hawk. Two layers of bulletproof skin camouflaged underneath color-shifting fur. Lungs immune to all known toxic gases. Tungsten carbide reinforced skeleton.

Three sets of extra arms (that’s a whopping total of four sets!) and outfitted with a .50 caliber machine gun, a laser-guided rocket launcher, and a jetpack. Never eats, sleeps, or drinks. Can endure temperatures of up to 300 ℉ and as low as -200 ℉.

The beast has an IQ of 180 and received combat and survival training from the CIA, KGB, and Navy Seals. For the past two years, it has meticulously studied my weaknesses. And as we —Staff speak, it is being released somewhere on this very island.”

THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME “You see, even hunting my fellow man has become rather trivial for an intellect of my caliber,” the general plainly stated,

“That sounds pretty dangerous.”

“Indeed — it is… the most dangerous game.”

—B. Hollander-Bodie

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People Who Will Never Be Invited Onto My Yacht Be it known by those desiring my acquaintance that my habits, tastes, and indeed responsibilities all dictate an unusual discretion in the choice of my society, the which the vulgar and unformed mind might easily find to be shocking or incomprehensible. To facilitate a more general compliance with the standards I find myself compelled to enforce, then, do I hereby remove, alienate, and distinguish myself entirely from the company of some certain classes of persons, and advise all members of such classes that any attempts on their part at social intercourse with me shall have to be made against this express statement of my private volition and public interests:

None of the following: 1. Wisecrackers, muckrakers, troublemakers 2. Naysayers, gainsayers, doomsayers 3. Evolutionists, empiricists, Einsteinians 4. Sailors, teamsters, longshoremen 5. Poets, journalists, chroniclers 6. Naturals, hotshots, wunderkinds Nor any such: 7. Impressionists, Cubists, abstractionists 8. Gladhanders, snakenecks, ingratiators 9. The generally discombobulated Nor still any: 10. Revolutionists, reformers, progressives 11. Peddlers, hawkers, vendors 12. Eggheads, lockjaws, slickhats 13. Parliamentarians, declaimers, expostulators 14. Romantics, eccentrics, gallivants 15. Talents, virtuosos, maestros Much less the likes of: 16. Flimflammers, sophists, claptraps 17. Illusionists, contortionists, prestidigitators 18. Mafiosos, panini, carabinieri 19. The undereducated 20. The Methodists, the Jewish 21. The overeducated And certainly never, never, not a one: 22. Wastrels, scoundrels, foundlings 23. Accountants, bookkeepers, ledgerboys 24. Women over twenty-one 25. Anyone associated with any member of the “Algonquin round table” Signed

Jameson Marmalade

In this the Seventh month of the Umpteenth year of our Lord Jesus Christ –L. Burch

The Yale Record

24

LIFE IN THE SUN: PORTRAIT OF A LADY’S PARASOL My lady must protect Her skin’s porcelain hue From Apollo’s harsh glare — And her husband’s, too.

My lady drags me to windy beaches Where sands meet the sea, Its granules chafe, I wish to break free.

My delicate lace Yellowed by the sun, I offer no protection Other than from fun.

My lady’s love is strong But her boy cannot understand Why she must release his grip As she drinks rosé with her free hand.

If my lady is To rear her lonesome son, She must free a fist and Learn to wear sun Screen.

—E. Chen

—Anonymous

MY FAVORITE POOL SHAPES PHRASES TO CASUALLY SLIP INTO CONVERSATION Do you have a yacht party or a private art exhibition to attend? Are you wondering how you can fit in with all the upper crusters and hide the fact that you’re a goodfor-nothing commoner without a trust fund or family horse collection? Here are five phrases that are sure to help you blend in: “Oh us? We summer in Antibes” “It was a travesty –– the valet left the Mercedes in the south garage, so our chauffeur couldn’t deliver any pâte à choux to our estate in Neuilly-sur-Seine.”

“The escargot in Nantes look lovely this time of year.”

“Have you tried the vichyssoise in Roussillon? I hear they’re in season.”

“Je nais se quoi!”

—G. Clark

—S. Hakani

The Mahogany Issue

I ACCIDENTALLY TAXIDERMIED MY SON’S HAMSTER

25

tow my little terror back within the hour. Still, the finishing touches were incomplete: My husband had not yet managed to give the newly bionic Gerard a set of stable googly eyes.

It was a fine spring morning. Dew settled on the grass As our chauffeur opened the door to the Rolls Royce and as the sun woke up the sky. Feeding my son’s hamster, a Harold’s foot found the gravel, I solemnly realized that we womanly duty, had become a task I looked forward to –– were out of time to revive Gerard. until now. Yesterday morning, the poor rodent suddenly “Hello, son,” I said, warmly nodding in his general dropped dead. At that point, Gerard had already seemed to direction, concealing my worry. grow tired from his life of monotony. There are only so many “Mother,” he said, nodding back intimately. times one can take their wheel for a spin without losing the There was no telling if Gerard would be functioning by will to live. Despite his low spirits, however, I surmise that the time we walked into the foyer. How would dear Harold the witless animal choked on a bite of sirloin. react if he found his father hovered over Gerard, mangled My son, bless his heart, has little control over his by iron rods, copper wiring, and two AAA batteries? As temper. Harold’s catastrophic rage would have the dead we strolled through the front door, my panic reached its spirit of Genghis Khan quaking in his boots, and I would zenith. Harold brought his books and épée to his room while be willing to wager the family yacht to prove it. In many my husband and I waited for a word, a sigh, a scream — regards, my progeny is a force to be reckoned with, and I anything but silence. Suddenly, he yelled for us. lack the facilities to mitigate such a threat. I feared my life “I’m sorry, Harold,” I wept, “It was your father’s fault.” was in jeopardy –– at a mere seventeen years of age, Harold Harold ran towards us, breathless and wide-eyed. lacks the emotional skillset to handle such a loss with grace.

“Mother, Father, you must see this. Gerard just did a Having realized the apocalyptic nature of my error, I knew backflip!” there was only one viable solution to convince my son that his Gerard the Caged has found his wings. hamster remained the same stiff, unfeeling pet he had grown to love.

—W. Boone In his retirement, my husband has become quite the hobbyist. Goldman Sachs pays one to enjoy not life, but retirement. In his newfound freedom, Richard has explored croquet, model trains, and rodent taxidermy. I realized immediately that his skills and connections would prove invaluable in my quest to revive Gerard the Caged. As soon as I made my husband aware of the threat we faced, he knew the risks. “Pressure makes diamonds,” he always told me after a night of two hours’ sleep. For the first time in his life, my beloved rock had begun to crack. Richard tends towards brilliance, but this comes with its vices. Poring over schematics of stiff dogs with frisbees in their mouths and cats whose limbs now posthumously support the flight of a drone, he grew frustrated with such thin veils over death, throwing a 1:100-scale model of the Grand Canyon Railway across the sitting room in his rage. As miniature gears and levers spilled across the Persian rug, it struck him: Richard would have to combine his skillsets to revive Gerard. Simply put, Richard would mechanize the hamster until he was a fully functioning, self-automated animatronic similar to those at the fine establishment of Chuck E. Cheese.

While Harold was in school, playing piccolo with his tutor and fencing at the country club, Richard and I worked tirelessly to reanimate Gerard the Caged. A full day’s labor (three hours at a $900 hourly rate) later, the grandfather clock in the stairwell struck five, and I knew the driver would —S. Burte Nadkarni

The Yale Record

26

GOLF CLUB You? Feel out of place! Why, the Birdies of Paradise Golf Club is just like any exclusive space for the social elite. The fact that you even have to ask who’s who means that you’re barely allowed to be here. It’s not actually that complicated. Just like any proper golf club, ownership is split between feuding twin brothers Bartholomew Hamish III and Reece Hamish III, though Barty pays more attention to his underground, exotic parrot fighting ring, and Reece mostly focuses on floating dead in the pool. Other VIPs around the club include some nameless second wife who won her ring by throwing an exotic St. Petersburg Parrot into the pecking ring; Maggie, a woman who knows to place her bets on the Early Bird Special; and a poor bastard pool boy whose only friend is an alligator and dreams of making it in the MLB. The restaurant manager has a long history of managing all sorts of business. Scandals? Of course, there are plenty of scandals, to be sure. But they’d rather prefer it if you don’t bring it up. Rather uncouth to say such a thing in polite company.

Here’s a diagram, so you don’t have to make a fool of yourself asking again. It’s really all quite simple.

—Staff

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Ask Old Owl!

fund my wealthy desires, and often am stuck picking cereal out of my My butler Jehovian has been act- IKEA rugs and wearing flammable pajamas. How can I find a partner ing up recently — who is willing to pay the price of my love?

Dear Owlet, Dear Old Owl,

This guy seems like a real handful. I’ve had many experiences with some challenging street butlers, who are admittedly different from your day-to-day rich-man’s Cornellhotel-management-program-graduate butlers. Granted, my issues have been particularly personal, as I’m what they call a “difficult diner” and tend to leave the bungalow scattered with the hats I’ve been crocheting for bald animals. My advice? Be kind and carry forward. It’s all too easy to get frustrated with those we love — and here lies the crux of the issue: We must love our butlers, like family. I have learned to offer my butlers both my breast and my brotherhood. Sure, we fight at the Seder over who gets to keep the kids, but at the end of the day we all know we’re just gonna Lyft ‘em back to stay with Grandma and Grandpa in Poughkeepsie. Love is almost as valuable as money, but only in our hearts.

Dear Old Owl, Diamond rings, shiny things: I want to marry a millionaire! All my life I’ve had a lust for all things luxurious — rugs made of extinct animals, silken garments, and silken garments for my pets. However, I’ve found it nearly impossible to

Dear Owlet, I appreciate the struggle you are going through; I also have a taste for the finer things in life –– even sporting a few fine silken cravats in my day. And trust me, I’ve talked to these little worm guys, and they’re okay with it. No, I know. Even with the boiling stuff. Crazy, amiright?

But who am I to yuck their yum. And boy oh boy do I love the cool, sleek feeling of their yum on my feathers. But I digress. If you’re looking to land a landowner with a worthy net worth, you gotta own your own worth. You are a kind soul who prioritizes the needs of others — even better, you’ve got taste! I’ve seen Luna the Bichon Frisé rocking a midnight blue opera cloak, and she looked fly as hell. You’re a catch, and in order for you to marry a millionaire, all you have to do is look inwards and learn to value yourself. Or you could always spray yourself with mink pheromones if you’re really desperate.

Dear Old Owl, My neighbor Warren recently extended the grounds at his Newport manor by a whole two acres. He put in a tennis court, gazebo, and a hedge maze! Now he keeps riding around on his golf cart, heckling my gardener and threatening to buy up my land. My estate is not

Old Owl is an alcoholic, nicotineaddicted nightbird that roams campus scrounging for vestiges of the relevance he enjoyed in the Record’s heyday. He now offers advice, free of charge. If you’d like to Ask Old Owl about your weird life, email askoldowl@yalerecord.com. too shabby, but it’s hard to keep up with the times –– no one’s buying our bespoke dumbwaiters anymore. I told him I had work scheduled for the off-season when I’m in Majorca, but I can only keep the lie up for so long. How can I make it seem like I’m also expanding?

Dear Owlet, It’s definitely hard to buy up more property these days, I feel you there. I think your best bet is the power of illusion. People are a lot less smart than they think they are, and a monocle really throws off your depth perception. Starting by adding small freestanding mirrors in your own hedge maze will add to its appearance of depth and complexity. Next, investing in a few powerful smoke machines can create the effect of rolling fog that obscures the fence on the far side of your property. Not only does that make your grounds seem infinite, it also add some old-fashioned old-money spookiness to your land.

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