The Flat Earth Issue by The Yale Record

Vol. 147, No. 2

THE YALE

Oct. 5, 2018

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REPORT: EVERY WEEKEND PARENTS’ WEEKEND WHEN MOMMY PICKS OUT YOUR PARTY OUTFITS Dear Alex Trebek, What are your plans for retirement? Sincerely, An Adoring Fan

HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT: TURNS OUT HANDSOME DAN’S SUPPOSEDLY NEUTERED BALLS WERE JUST IN HIS MOUTH THE WHOLE TIME Dear Alex Trebek, I’m sorry. That’s incorect. With Remorse, Alex Trebek

Dear O.J., Unfortunately, we cannot produce yor sitcom, “If I Did Do It?” Best of luck in your future ventures. Sincerely, Nickelodeon

“REDISCOVER YOURSELF,” SAYS WOMAN WHO JUST SHAVED OFF HER EYEBROWS AND DREW INFINITY SIGNS IN THEIR PLACE Dear Reader You’ll want to delete your search history after seeing these uncensored pictures of Connecticut’s heaviest electricians. The CT Electricians’ Alliance

DOG WITH NO LEGS CONFUSINGLY MISSING

FEMINISM WIN! 43 PERCENT OF CEOS HAVE HAD MULTIPLE WIVES Dear Mom, It’s not just a phase!

Sincerely, The Moon

“IT’S A MATTER OF DETERRENCE,” Obituary ANNOUNCES LOCALCorrection MAN WHO HAS LICKED ALL THE COCAINE IN TOWN SO NO ONE ELSE TOUCHES IT The Yale Record Editorial Board would like to apologize for an erroneous obituary in a previous issue of the magazine. The editors confused Stephen Hawking with skateboarder Tony Hawk, misidentifying the late theoretical physicist as “X Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom HuckJam’ BMX freestyle motocross tour.”

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

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Dear audience, The law says you cannot touch, but I think I see a lot of lawbreakers up in this house. Sincerely, Matthew Mcconaughey

DYNAMIC DUO! PARENTS HAVE SEX Dear Matthew, Wooooooh!

Sincerely, Audience members

HAS THE VEGAN AGENDA GONE TOO FAR? THE MAINTENANCE PEOPLE SAY I AM NO LONGER ALLOWED TO MILK MY PUDGY SON JEREMY ON THE LAWN Dear audience members, You are complicit in criminal activity and are hereby under arrest! Sincerely, “The Shirtless Sheriff ”

NEW STUDY FINDS RATS WHO ARE GIVEN COCAINE ARE MORE LIKELY TO DEVELOP DISEASES, ALSO MORE LIKELY TO BE THE COOLEST FUCKING RAT IN THE CAGE Dear Shirtless Sheriff, Are you a real shirtless sheriff or a fake shirtless sheriff? It’s difficult to tell given the context. Sincerely, Audience

FIRST YEAR TERRIFIED OF USING “FUCK” IN ESSAY ABOUT LOLITA Dear audience, I am a fake shirtless sheriff, I apologize for the confusion. Sincerely, Shirtless Sheriff

CAN YOU TELL WHICH OF THESE PEOPLE ARE BRUSHING THEIR TEETH AND WHICH JUST HAVE TOOTHBRUSHES IN THEIR MOUTHS? Dear Shirtless Sheriff, Cut! That isn’t the script you piece of shit! Sincerely, Director Steven Soderberg

REPORT: ASBESTOS MORE FUN TO SAY THAN EAT Dear Steven, The law says you cannot touch, but I think I see a lot of lawbreakers up in this house! And by a lot, I mean one. Please step away from the shirtless sheriff. There’s no need for violence. Sincerely, Shirtless Sheriff

FALSE ADVERTISING: I SNORTED 18 PACKS OF EMERGEN-C AND NOW MY NOSE AND THROAT FEEL WAY WORSE THAN BEFORE

uld like to a previous ed Stephen y Hawk, cist as “X oom Boom ”

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STRANGE, BUT TRUE: OFF-CAMPUS STUDENT STILL DEPRESSED

Obituary Correction

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

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YOUR AD LOCAL 5-YEAR-OLD BOY BANNED CAN'T GO HERE FROM RECESS AFTER REPEATEDLY SAYING “IT’S PLAYTIME” IN DEEP RASPING VOICE CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS

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Dear Shakespeare, needto to “GreatYou for Normal Oilychoose Skin!” -- me, or iambic pentameter. Sincerely, Anne Hathaway

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SOMMELIER RECOMMENDS PAIRING WHITE WINE WITH FIVE MORE GLASSES OF WHITE WINE AND KARAOKE Dearest Anne, I would be most aggrieved to see you go. Sincerely,

yalerecord.org, for more hilarious content!

ESTATE SALE:

Area 51, Lincoln County, Nevada Everything must go! Time is running out.

KEN,

—S. Ruiz

T he Y ale R ecoRd

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Dear Lazlo, It’s time for your pitch. This better be good. Sincerely, The Board of Directors Dear Board of Directors, Move electronics. Deter global warming. Sincerely, Lazlo Dear Lazlo, *Deafening applause.* *Old Man Wallingford claps so hard that his hands fall off.* *Old Man Alfonso sees Old Man Wallingford’s hands fall off and clutches his chest—it’s a heart attack.*

*Slow zoom on Lazlo’s face, a small smile as he watches Old Man Alfonso writhe.* *Flashback: Middle-Aged Man Alfonso is approached by Young Lazlo, his clothes dirty and torn, an ugly scar stretched across his left cheek.* “Please sir. My mother is sick. You’re the richest man in town. Can you help her get the medicine she needs?” *Middle-Aged Man Alfonso slaps the boy’s hands away.* “Out of my way, boy. Your family’s suffering is nothing to me.” *Close on Young Lazlo, his jaw set, hatred in his eyes.*

*Present day: Old Man Alfonso gasps for air.* “Please, Lazlo, the defibrillator.” *Lazlo, his eyes wild with murderous delight, reaches a wet napkin up to his face and slowly wipes, revealing the scar hidden under the tan make-up.* “Remember me, Old Man Alfonso?” *Horror spreads across his face as Old Man Alfonso collapses, dead.* Best, Board of Directors

—I. Almor

Emmy Waldman ‘11

aybe it’s because I’m really smart, but I’ve never believed in any of the “classic” conspiracy theories. I don’t believe in the “Illuminati” or the “New World Order.” I don’t believe JFK’s assassination was meant to be a “harmless prank.” I don’t believe Amelia Earhart just took a little bit longer than people expected to circumnavigate the globe and then when she finally tried to land she accidentally hit the first tower of the World Trade Center on September 11, 1972. I don’t believe that the government covered the crash up by building a second tower to hide the spot where she hit the first one. I don’t believe that when they realized they had to make it seem like it was the plan all along to build two towers, some dumbass was like “Let’s just call them ‘The Twin Towers’!” I don’t believe Earhart crashed because she was fighting with her navigator over whether she deserved another pair of Kids’ Wings for what was “basically a done deal of a landing.” I don’t believe George W. Bush planned 9/11 as a way to announce his new national holiday, Welcome Back Amelia Day!, a day celebrating “women’s best efforts in STEM,” but then blamed it on Al Qaeda when everybody got mad. I don’t believe he also sent a plane to hit the Pentagon because he thought it should only have four walls “like every other damn building.” I don’t believe the Navy disposed of Osama bin Laden’s body in the ocean to inspire a “fear of the sea” among millenials who had “lost touch with the fearsome sea.” I don’t believe Navy officials ever issued a statement saying “not to be insensitive, but the greatest terrorist of all is the sea. Weird that everyone is only freaking out now even though the sea has been here for as long as any of us here at the Navy can remember.” I don’t believe that the Navy also said that “wave pools are basically terrorists too” because they “fool people into thinking the sea is their friend.” I don’t believe the Navy pissed in every wave pool in America to “teach people a lesson.” I don’t believe the CIA is keeping bin Laden alive because he’s “actually really vulnerable” and they’re convinced they “can change him.” I don’t believe he ever told them

T he TChe orporate A merica F lat E arth I ssueI ssue that his “relationship with his father was basically like 9/11 every day, except worse.” I don’t believe bin Laden faked his death to “build up hype” for a surprise midnight release of his comeback album “Has-Been Laden” nor do I believe NBC is preserving his corpse for the series finale of The Voice so that the moment his daughter, a finalist, nails her last riff, they can spin Blake Shelton’s chair around to reveal that her father’s corpse has been sitting on Blake’s lap and listening the whole time, bringing her to tears. I don’t believe this would be the “perfect ending” to a “perfect show,” nor do I think it’s what “the victims of 9/11 would have wanted.” I don’t believe that Osama bin Laden’s daughter and corpse will then do a follow-up interview on Fallon in which Fallon will forgive Osama bin Laden on behalf of all Americans, especially the troops. I don’t believe that Fallon will offer bin Laden’s daughter a spot in The Roots to show that “children should not be held accountable for the sins of their father” before looking directly at announcer Steve Higgins. I don’t believe that Steve Higgins is Jimmy Fallon’s biological father and that he is on the Tonight Show as part of a custody agreement. I don’t believe Jimmy will look at Steve and mouth “This could’ve been us if you’d stuck around.” I don’t believe the camera will pan to Questlove who will be shaking his head like “I don’t get paid enough for this.” I don’t believe the Roots will play the bin Laden family off with a slow-jam version of the diss track “Saddam Who-ssein?” off the surprising chart-topper “Has-Been Laden.” I don’t really believe in love, and not in the trite way that lovelorn teenagers say they don’t believe in love. I don’t believe I will ever be able to love someone else the way that I love myself, or at least invest in someone in the way that I am invested in my own Ellen Yang ’20 Chair

success and happiness. I don’t believe I will ever quell my anxiety enough to be sustainably okay with where I’m at, and because of that, I don’t believe I will ever be able to give myself reliably and fully to someone else. But I also don’t believe that what I think now will be what I think forever, and though I don’t believe that “hoping” and “believing” are the same, I am trying to be more proactive about turning my hopes into resolutions. I don’t always believe in myself. I don’t always believe I’m not the greatest conspiracy of them all, just the product of a lot of people believing in me and talking about me and listing off facts about me to prove that I’m real. I don’t always believe I have a sense of self beyond accepting what people have told me. But I believe them, and that counts for a lot. I believe in other people. I believe in telling them the things I believe about them so that they can believe it for themselves. For everything that I don’t believe there’s something I believe with equal conviction. I don’t believe FDR contracted polio as a publicity stunt, but I do believe the wheelchair was a little much. I don’t believe in fluoride, but I do believe in Christ, our eternal savior, for His is the kingdom, the power and the glory, now and forever more. I don’t believe in my friends, but I do believe in my friends’ parents, because they are already successful. I don’t believe in conspiracy theories, but I do believe in the people that believe them, or just enjoy them. We hope you enjoy this issue.

—E. Connors

Editor in Chief, Chaplain

Elliot Connors ’20 Editor in Chief

Jake Houston ’19 Online Editor in Chief

Chloe Prendergast ’20 Publisher

Noah Amsel ’20 Webmaster

Caleb Cohen ’21 Managing Editor

Dylan Schifrin ’20 Director of Online Content

Anastasia Dalianis ’21 Art Director

Simon Custer ’20 Business Manager

Brian Beitler MD ’22 Medical Counsel

Walker Caplan ’20 Online Managing Editor

Mariah Kreutter ’20 Managing Editor

Harry Rubin ’21 Managing Editor

Marcy Sanchez ’21 Design Editor

Maya Vasquez ’21 Design Editor

Maddy Blaney ’21 Staff Director

Adam Chase Director of Special Projects

Nathan Ewing-Crystal ’19 Old Owl

Liz Kingsley ’19 Old Owl

Adam Lessing ’19 Old Owl

Vicky Liu ’19 Old Owl

Lane Unsworth ’19 Old Owl

Staff: Colin Baciocco ’21 Ethan Fogarty ’21 Sonia Gadre ’20

Dalia Moallem ’21 Veena Muraleetharan ’20 Max Nobel ’21

Itai Almor ’20

Paige Davis ’21

Jocelyn Wexler ’21 Grace Wynter ’20 Sarah Force ’20

Alex Hoganson ’20 Alec Zbornak ’21 Laura Koech ’21

Sahaj Sankaran ’20 Yonatan Greenberg ’21

Vivek Suri ’20

Rosa Chang ‘22

Contributors: Sonia Ruiz ’21

Special thanks to: Our Lord Almighty who may grant unto us the Earth in whatever form pleases Him. May He and His son Jesus Christ bless this nondenominational publication forever and ever. Amen. Front Cover: Sonia Ruiz ’21, who took our modest idea for a cover and kind of screwed it up, honestly. Back Cover: Itai “Sweet Guy”Almor ’20 Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXLVII, No. 2, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2018 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.

I AM A FLAT EARTHER BUT ONLY IN THE SENSE THAT FLAT STANLEY IS MY WHOLE WORLD The fact that no novel in Jeff Brown’s Flat Stanley collection, a heartwarming series about a boy absolutely pulverized by a falling bulletin board, has won a Pulitzer Prize yet is perhaps the greatest tragedy in literary history. Flat Stanley is not merely a children’s book character, but a metaphor for the human condition. We are all crushed by the weight of societal expectations; flattened by a pervasive feeling of worthlessness; able to fold ourselves into a letter and mail ourselves across the country to avoid going to our Aunt Bertha’s Biannual Holiday Observance. We are all Flat Stanley, and he us. I want to clarify that I am not crazy. I do not believe the Earth or anyone that inhabits it is actually flat; that would be silly. I simply believe that one day Flat Stanley will come to me in the night, proceed to fold himself into a paper airplane and offer to whisk me away on a passing breeze. “The world has gotten too wide,” he will tell me. “There are too many problems, too much depth below the surface of things. Everything is much simpler when you have no dimension. Come with me and you too can be flat!” “But I have a family here, Stanley. A family that values my plumpness and rotundity. I could never leave them,” I will reply. But I know this is not true. Downstairs, my parents are shouting. Night after night, I lie on the bottom bunk of my bunk bed, wishing the top bunk would fall and flatten me. Maybe then I could slip between the narrow space between my parents as they constantly fight and make love, alternating endlessly, their bodies barring any escape. Maybe I know what Stanley means when he says that there

is too much depth in the world. But the bunk bed is wellbuilt, and so I remain plump as hell. On a whim, I will go with him. I will hold his paper-thin hand as he drops the bulletin board on me. I will be nervous at first, but then I will be flat, numb to the pain of the world, just like Stanley. And for the first time in my life, I will hear nothing but quiet. And then we’ll fuck like rabbits, Stanley and I. There will be no room for anything but love between us. —D. Schifrin

SIGNS YOUR DAD MIGHT BE A FURRY He loves picking you up by the scruff of your neck. He refuses to call an exterminator for the raccoon in the attic, claiming he can “dominate it all by himself.” He’s all for horseplay. He is banned for life from the San Diego Zoo but refuses to talk about it beyond mentioning that he “tried to have sex with one of the animals.” He hates starring as Old Deuteronomy in Cats on Broadway because he “doesn’t like to shit where he eats.” He gave you one of his fur coats to wear to prom and then purred when you put it on. He often reminisces about his days at the San Diego Zoo before he was banned for “trying to have sex with one of the animals.” He loves you like the human son he never expected to have. —A. Zbornak

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TOP ALIENS TO BE PROBED BY Yoda: Three fingers on each hand means a less invasive probing than your traditional 5-digit examination. Nasty fingernails though. E.T.: I personally would rather die than get probed by this ugly little rat, but all you self-proclaimed “film buffs” would be at my throat if this list didn’t include America’s most beloved wrinkled scrotum. Ben 10: Not sure if this is an alien (my parents never let me watch cartoons), but sounds close enough! We’ve got to get this thing to print! Alien Farkas: He keeps telling everyone in class his name was supposed to be Allen but there was a mistake on his birth certificate. I think he’s full of shit, but his social clout is through the roof. If it takes a probing to get him to be my friend, it would be completely worth it. Alf: This lovable creature’s soft brown fur would feel nice in my rectum. —H. Rubin YOUR OFFICIAL GUIDE TO WHAT IS AND IS NOT FLAT

Things That Are Flat: Your father’s ass The rates for Flat Rate Shipping™ at USPS Your mother’s ass Your mother’s EKG line Stanley Things That Are Not Flat: Science Hill The rates for comparable shipping services at DHL Your son’s ass Stanley before the bulletin board fell on him and he sold out Stanley’s brother’s ass —H. Rubin

IM COMMUNITY ROCKED BY DOPING SCANDAL BY N. EWING-CRYSTAL

NEW HAVEN, CT—Shockwaves rollicked the Yale intramural community last week as wiretapped conversations between IM Secretaries shed light on the largest doping scandal to ever afflict the University’s premier recreational sports community. As many as one athlete, David Trout MC ’20, were implicated in the events now known as Hydrocortisone-Gate, named after the topical steroid which instigated the crisis. Yale University is reportedly considering suspending the athlete—whose name will not be published out of respect for his family, the Trout family— from IM sports for at least one and a half weeks. The University will also strip Morse College of its 2018 IM table tennis title in light of the violation. “Some people will try to defend him. ‘It was just for his eczema. That’s different from real steroids.’ But we have no respect and, frankly, no time for that sort of criminal apologetics,” said Yale Intramural Narcotics Enforcement Task Force Committee Chair (YINETFCC) Jill Fonda. Other students with eczema echoed Fonda’s sentiment. “It’s really unfair,” reported Alice Mackerel DC ’19. “You don’t see any of us running around sticking needles in our asses just because our skin itches a little.” Those close to the athlete, however, have called for an appeal of the decision. “This whole thing is being blown way out of proportion,” said roommate Ellen Flounder MC ’20. “Nobody cared when he verbatim copied my English 120 Essay. Why is he being put on trial for a little gym candy?” Nevertheless, Yale has indicated that its response will only change if so recommended by the newly christened CERRLDSIMH (Committee to Evaluate the Reevaluation of the Response to the Largest Doping Scandal in IM History). In the interim, a statement from the National Eczema Association has recommended that IM athletes forego anti-inflammatory topical creams in favor of meth, “Eczema’s newest, most experimental treatment.”

T he Y ale R ecord

BUSH DIDN’T DO 9/11, BUT HE SURE AS HELL DID A #2 IN THE WASHING MACHINE Listen Georgie, I’m not here to discuss that nasty September eleventh kerfuffle. That’s between you and the nice folks over at 4Chan. I’m here to talk about what we both know you did to my fine linens. Maybe we could have both pretended that it was a random incident not indicative of larger socio-political conditions for which you are responsible. However, I have found irrefutable evidence that you were in the laundry room at the time of the attack. The thin layer of fecal matter that has now dried into my Porthault “Jours de Paris” bedding set was a premeditated act of biological warfare. Georgie, you’re a 72 year old man—I shouldn’t have to manifest my spirit on the corporeal plane just to tell you not to shit in the washing machine. You need to confess the truth about these WMDs (Washing Machine Dookies). And people up here are saying you’ve been doing this since college?! Does the name “The Poopetrator” ring a bell? Shame on you. Eternally yours, Barbara Bush —G. Wynter

VACCINES MADE MY SON STUPID My hideous son Andreas has been in the news lately. After running away from home and living in the desert for forty days and forty nights, he began a clandestine campaign to unseat Rep. Mark Takano (D-CA), of California’s 41st district. Now he has curried the favor of all three Koch brothers, Elon Musk, and McGruff the Crime Dog. In his most recent campaign ad, Andreas ate a piece of Pittsburgh-style German chocolate cake while murmuring about universal healthcare. This behavior only started after I began vaccinating the boy. Before he ran away from home four months ago, I would take him to the veterinary clinic every third Tuesday to get his tetanus shot. During that time, Andreas was relatively silent and very obedient. Now, he appears on Morning Joe to discuss immigration policy and fart on live television. I know it was the vaccines that did this to him. They ruined his brain and are probably the reason he ran away in the first place. Last spring, I got a scientist who studies Arctic tern migration patterns to tag him. If you see a boy with an armband reading TI5-I93, please do not hesitate to call the police or shoot on site. And whatever you do, please do not vaccinate your children if you want them to behave.

—P. Davis

—J. Houston

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TUPAC ISN’T DEAD! HE TAUGHT ME HOW TO READ HAFTARAH For my upcoming Bar Mitzvah, I was given the daunting task of chanting from the holy Jewish scriptures. Everything was going just fine until I reached the first word, the name of the holy text itself: haf·tar·ah. So, I called my dear friend and tutor, Tupac Shakur, who is still alive. I think my main problem with the word was the double-h. It’s the same letter but it does two different things. Tupac told me to just imagine the H as Superman’s utility belt, because it can function in many different ways. I tried to tell him that Batman had a utility belt, not Superman, to which he just faintly whispered to himself, “I’m Batman.” I was also stumbling over the three A’s. I haven’t seen that many A’s in a row since my drunk dad started going to those meetings at church where insurance representatives tried to trick the Alzheimer’s Anonymous members into getting Triple-A for the ninth time. To cope with my fear of the vowel, Tupac had me scream, which at first felt counterintuitive. Only later did I realize the simple genius of this technique. A good AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH has at least 5 A’s in it. After a while, my AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH’s of fear morphed into AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH’s of power. Just when I had the H’s and A’s mastered, that sneaky little “T” crept up on me out of nowhere, throwing me for a loop. Like always, though, T knew just what to say. He reminded me that “T” makes a “tuh” sound, and I realized it checked out. With the tricky letters out of the way, I decided to put it all together. But suddenly I forgot everything that Rabbi Pac taught me. I became overwhelmed by the hodgepodge of letters, symbols with no meaning. That’s when T-pizzle told me to just think of the name of my ex-girlfriend, Hharfata, and rearrange the letters. Finally, I was ready to tackle the word. I nailed it on my first try. And just like that, I realized the magic of summer. Pac helped me on my journey to manhood, but more importantly, I helped him feel like a kid again, the greatest gift a rapper could ever receive.

I knew that I had made the genius behind such hits as “Hotel California” and “Beethoven’s Ninth” proud. And finally, I could read Shæftorpino. Thanks, 2Pac! —A. Zbornak 5 CONSPIRACY THEORIES I’M CONVINCED MY MOM’S NEW BOYFRIEND BILL BELIEVES The moon landing was faked: I’m going to start this list with one I’m fairly confident about. I had just finished making a diorama for school about the surface of the moon and I was adding the finishing touch: an American flag. When Bill stopped by before helping my mom go upstairs to her bedroom, though, he removed the flag to “make it more accurate.” 9/11 was an inside job: Ok, I’ll admit my evidence for this one is pretty thin since the topic doesn’t come up very often. However, a couple times before heading upstairs with my mom, he’s mentioned the fact that even jet fuel couldn’t melt “the steel beam he was sporting.” Santa Claus is real: I know that this isn’t exactly a conspiracy theory, but I am starting to suspect that Bill actually believes in Santa Claus. Bill stayed with us in December to “give your mother the kind of presents that Santa couldn’t bring down a chimney.” Christmas morning, when he saw there were no presents underneath our tree, he started running around our living room screaming and accusing us of closing the chimney flue the night before. Obama is a Kenyan Muslim: Bill has a bumper sticker that says “Obama is a Kenyan Muslim.” I know because sometimes he makes me wash his truck while he and my mom “utilize the whole house.” Shooter on the grassy knoll: Bill definitely thinks JFK was shot by at least two gunmen. Sometimes he will sprint out of my mom’s room wearing nothing but a towel and begin to write furiously in his “JFK Book.” I’ve flipped through the book, and it is filled with various references to a second shooter, multiple incorrectly-drawn maps of Dealey Plaza, and three doodles of a stick figure with bulging muscles labeled “Strong Bill.” —B. Beitler

POINT/COUNTERPOINT: EARTH IS AN OBLATE SPHEROID Point: Hundreds of years of scientific evidence prove that the Earth is an oblate spheroid. Look, I don’t even know how this is still a discussion. You know how people, and by people I mean second-grade teachers because they’re the only demographic on God’s green (oblate, spheroid) Earth that should still be having this discussion, say that Columbus wanted to prove the earth is round? Well, much like Washington’s cherry tree, the United States’ unambiguous moral imperative during Counterthe Cold War, and everything else you learned in point: This great elementary school history class, that’s total bullshit. blue sea before me People already knew the earth was round when stretches flat and true Columbus sailed off on his little genocidal to the horizon. tantrum. The Greeks figured it out in 600 B.C., along with democracy and lube, You speak of facts and figures and histoand the fact that people are still ry, yet have you ever spent a month on the fucking up all three of those open sea? All that is and has been vanishes; there things in 2018 is a disgrace. is no history, no context, no self, no point of view. All of you should be Man dies and is reborn as a thing that works the sails, embarrassed. I have component and dependent, knowing only port and stara goddamn PhD. board, rope and grommet; and in this state of listless vacancy, this opium-like death of ego and unconscious mystic detachment, only that which is visible is real: the deep, blue, bottomless soul of the ocean, the celestial emptiness of the sky, and the seam that binds them, a straight line, joining two half-seen, elusive points at the edge of sight. A round globe? Nay, such thoughts are for the shore. At sea the earth is flat, and if thy mind wanders beyond the expanse it might fall over the edge, into blackness.

—M. Kreutter

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COINCIDENCE OR CONSPIRACY? ALL OF THE SKELETONS IN THE GROVE STREET CEMETERY ARE EXTREMELY SEXY Look—I’m a pretty regular guy. All things considered, my life is pretty standard. Every weekday, I wake up at 6:30 a.m., pour myself a cup of joe, grab my grave-digging shovel, and head out to the Grove Street Cemetery. I’ve always been as normal as the next guy—I put on my grave-robbing pants one grave-robbing leg at a time. None of this is to say I haven’t met my fair share of crazies. Many of my colleagues got into grave-robbing to uncover facts about fictional conspiracy groups like “The Illuminati” and “The Daughters of Liberty.” Frankly, they’ve all got bats in their belfries. I’m too busy making an honest living to worry about finding artifacts of “The Freemasons” or “The Native Americans.”

my father, tormenting me one last time from beyond the grave? Whoever it is, how are they able to so expertly distinguish the incredibly fuckable corpses from the fabled “unerotic bodies,” (which I have yet to see)? Suddenly, I am embroiled in my own conspiracy theory, forced to unearth skeleton after beautiful skeleton in search of clues. This psychopath has even driven me to sleep in the cemetery and fuck countless corpses in a desperate attempt to understand his deeply troubled psychology. I have not seen my unbelievably plain-looking wife in weeks and I worry I’ll never be able to return home. I will not stop until this conspiracy (and all of these gorgeous bodies) are finally laid to rest. It’s about time we finally catch this creep. —C. Cohen

I was just about ready to write off conspiracy theories altogether when I started to notice something strange about the bodies I was unearthing from the Grove Street Cemetery. Regardless of their state of decay or dismemberment, every single skeleton I pulled up was incredibly, almost frighteningly sexy. Yep, you heard me right. Every. Single. One. At first, I didn’t suspect a thing. Everyone knows that some people, alive or dead, are just sexier than others, so it’s completely normal to hit a streak of three or four consecutive skeletons that are abnormally hot. But after uncovering seventeen—SEVENTEEN—achingly beautiful corpses in a row, I knew something was up. Now I know what you’re thinking: these skeletons were probably all just part of the same jaw-droppingly sexy family, all buried in the same plot. Nope. Each skeleton’s bone structure was distinctly erotic, suggesting that they came from seventeen separate anatomically endowed lineages. The way I see it, there are three possible explanations. The first is that I am being turned on by something else in the cemetery and misattributing my erotic stimulation to the skeletons. However, even when I lie in my bedroom with my eyes shut, thinking about the skeletons for hours on end, I am still extremely aroused. The second is that I’m a necrophile. This is also impossible, as we’ve established I am in every respect a completely normal guy. And finally, the most plausible option: someone is loading up the Grove Street cemetery with sexy skeletons in an elaborate conspiracy to derail my life. The question thus arises: who is this psycho who’s been moving all the sexiest skeletons directly into the cemetery closest to my house? Is it God? Satan? Or perhaps

—P. Davis

Global warming real and T Y isn’t R I’m talking the global part

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To the 97% of scientists who believe in “Global Warming”: Sorry, but it’s not a thing. Now before you furiously crumple up this letter and throw it into your little compost pile, you should know I’m not like our current president or that neighbor who keeps trying to run over your Prius with his 2007 Hummer but always runs out of gas right after he pulls out of his driveway and then just pisses on your Prius instead. No, I truly believe that humans are causing the Earth’s temperature to rise unsustainably as CO2 emissions perforate our ozone layer. I’m not dumb. However, the Earth is flat. You see, if the Earth was a three-dimensional object—for example, a globe—only the hemisphere facing the sun would increase in temperature. The other hemisphere would experience an inverse effect, as cold currents from the moon wafted in through the antipodal hole in the ozone, as shown in Figure A. Figure A: Thus, a contradiction arises. The Earth cannot be round and universally heating up. Conversely, if the Earth was flat, holes in the ozone would only face one direction, allowing for symmetric heat diffusion as seen in Figure B. Figure B:

Thus, it is clear that we are not experiencing global warming but instead surface warming. This is the reason I write to you today. While I am glad that you are not part of the 3% of scientists who sold out to oil companies, I would appreciate a nomenclature change so that this false narrative of a multi-dimensional Earth is no longer thrust upon our impressionable children; or should I say, your impressionable children. I am barren. Warm regards, Neil Degrasse Tyson -P. Davis

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SIGNS YOUR BOYFRIEND IS A LIZARD MAN There comes a time in many relationships when it’s really important to take a second and think, “Am I dating a lizard man?” If this incredibly specific question has ever crossed your mind, you probably are! Take a look at this list of tell-tail (pun intended) signs to see if you’re shacking up with a reptoid: He claims his scaly skin is just a really bad case of eczema: No matter how many bottles of Cetaphil he has crammed in his medicine cabinet, we both know that scaly exterior isn’t going away anytime soon. And who says that’s a bad thing? Everytime he sheds his skin and accidentally leaves it at your place, lucky you gets to wear it around the house so you can smell like your boo even when he’s away. He took you out to see “The Shape of Water” six times: He says it’s because he appreciates the visual storytelling of Guillermo del Toro, but we all know that watery romance is basically softcore porn for him (and for Academy voters, apparently). He won’t eat you out because he’s “self-conscious about his tongue”: Oldest trick in the book, ladies. Shut it down! You keep getting lost in his beautiful, yellow eyes: When it’s just you and him and you’re gazing into those dark slits on the sides of his head, it’s all too easy to forget where you are. Seriously. One time you were with him and the next moment you woke up in a dimlylit cavern surrounded by hooded figures. Sure, he was nowhere to be found and you had to spend $43 on a Lyft to get back home, but that’s just how he shows his adventurous side. Besides, what’s sexier than mystery? He won’t introduce you to his family because they’re a race of shape-shifting reptilians with plans to infiltrate and conquer the human race from within: So he’s a little shy. Big frickin’ deal! You’ve got yourself a powerful man/creature who knows what he wants. And if you play your cards right, you might just be kept alive as a serf of the reptilian overlords! If any of these signs sound at all like your boyfriend and he has something resembling fingers, you better put a ring on it—and fast. That is, if he gets over the tongue thing! —M. Blaney

—P. Davis

NOTABLE FLAT-EARTH ADVOCATE AND NBA ALL-STAR KYRIE IRVING STIRS CONTROVERSY By H. RUBIN BOSTON, MA—“Basketballs are also flat,” Celtics star Kyrie Irving proclaimed in a postgame locker-room interview Wednesday. “Nobody’s ever seen the other side of a basketball, so how are we supposed to know it’s round?” “And before you ask, I don’t want to hear any of that ‘If it’s flat how do you play basketball with it’ bull-shit. If an overweight young professional can toss a frisbee into a basket, why shouldn’t a top-level athlete such as myself be able to complete a similar task?” Irving asked. “I won’t be taking questions at this time. Thanks so much for coming out. It really means a lot.” Teammate Aron Baynes echoed Irving’s sentiment. “When I was a kid, I used to always get the ‘Round Balls’ catalog in the mail and the balls looked pretty round in the pictures, but when I finally put together the money and ordered a basketball, it arrived and it was much less round than I had anticipated. I guess being disappointed is a part of growing up.” Other teammates expressed reservations about Irving’s convictions but proved too afraid to confront the star. “I made fun of him for being a vegan once and he threw a bowl of roasted jackfruit at me. I cried and now he only refers to me as ‘Baby Al,’ so no way I’m ever mentioning flat balls to his face,” teammate Al Horford said. At press time, Irving was “royally pissed” after a reporter asked if soccer balls are also flat, asking how exactly “one might kick a flat ball.”

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THEORIES ABOUT WHERE LOU BEGA’S OTHER FOUR MAMBOS ARE Gary Cohn removed them from Lou Bega’s desk in the interest of national security. They are strewn throughout the universe. Whoever possesses them wields unimaginable power. Collecting all the Mambos will be the plot of the 4th Avengers film. Lou Bega destroyed them, as the mix of women was incorrect until the fifth. The first had far too much Sandra in the Sun. The second was almost exclusively Mary All Night Long. The third focused solely on “Francis My Hot Aunt,” who was ultimately cut altogether. The fourth lacked any Tina, which as the fifth reveals, was really all he needed. They are hiding in plain sight. For example, “Mambo No. 2” is known to us as “Party in the USA.” Mambo No. 4? “Here I Am Lord.” What other four mambos? On Shkreli’s Wu-Tang album They’re hidden somewhere nobody would ever look— episodes of the USA Network original series Necessary Roughness. Ronan Farrow is sitting on them until Bega runs for public office. —A. Chase

—C. Prendergast OTHER BODY PARTS TO WRAP IN TINFOIL All 1.5 of my kidneys The skin between the big toe and whatever that second toe is called A good old-fashioned knee cap The growth on my lower back that my X-ray technician CANNOT find out about Eyelashes, individually My antenna, I mean, nose Fuck it, how about elbows Head —E. Yang

—P. Davis

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UNDER LOX AND KEY: BEHIND THE SECRETIVE CABAL THAT CONTROLS SLIFKA In a nondescript building on Sunday mornings, Yale students brave long lines and mild hangovers for the promise of free bagels and smoked salmon. But here at the Joseph Slifka Center for Jewish Life at Yale, there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Behind the glossy posters of Jerusalem and the Dead Sea, a hidden group is pulling the strings to serve its own sinister interests. The harder you look, the more alarming evidence you’ll find. Where are the Hebrew professors sneaking off during lunchtime? Slifka. Where was Peter Salovey on Yom Kippur this fall? Slifka. “They practically have Wall Street in their pocket,” one source reported. “Well, at least 80 Wall Street. I think Phil’s Hair Styles has the rest of the block on lock.”

and student centers with operations at every major university in the country. One Washington University student describes her college as “totally overrun. It seems like every time I walk into the Barry H. Levites Chabad House I’m surrounded by people with something to hide.” Worse yet, the cabal may extend beyond college campuses. “So I go to visit my grandma at the Hebrew Home for the Aged, right?” one student reported. “There on the wall, I see a copy of Great Jews in Doowop and Ragtime, Vol. III. And I’m like, ‘That’s odd, where have I seen this before?’” Where indeed. So next time you feel like walking to Wall Street and piling your plate with smoked salmon, ask yourself, “Who’s really on the menu?” —N.Amsel

Slifka’s pernicious influence on campus is felt everywhere. Many describe the looming four-story edifice as “Yale’s 15th best dining option” and “a place to pee.” Others have accepted seemingly innocuous invitations to dinner, only to be plied with copious amounts of grape juice and questioned at length about summer camp. “People think Skull and Bones’ tomb is secret, but it’s nothing compared to Slifka,” said a source close to the center that spoke on condition of anonymity. The Zucker Reading Room, located on the third floor, is rumored to contain such priceless texts as The Big Book of Jewish Sports Heroes, 2006 Edition and The Complete Encyclopedia of American Jewish Acrobats. Slifka’s arcane initiation rituals are another source of mystery. According to our source, “They go way beyond the other secret societies. You have to cut off a piece of your penis with a knife. And that’s just the first round! Some people wait 13 years before finally getting tapped.” Look at the mainstream Yale media. You may think the dozens of student publications collecting dust outside your dining hall are just resume padding. But dig deeper into the pile and you’ll find the Slifka agenda, lying in wait for someone who got to the dining hall too early and has to wait around for a while. Don’t believe me? Consider the fact that Slifka’s exclusive, 10,000-member panlist includes the chief editors of the New Journal, the Politic, the Yale Herald, the Yale Record, the Yale Seinfeld, the Yale Elder of Zion, and—worst of all—the Yale Daily “Jews.” You heard me right. But Yale is not the only campus that’s been infiltrated. Some say Slifka is part of a vast network of organizations

—I. Almor

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LEAKED GOVERNMENT DOCUMENTS REVEAL SECRET PLANS TO LAUNCH INTO ORBIT A BEAUTIFUL MARBLE BUST OF DANNY DEVITO PLAYING A CHILD-SIZED UPRIGHT BASS By C. COHEN WASHINGTON, D.C.—In what is being touted as the most damning government leak since Watergate, an unnamed employee at the Department of Defense has blown the cover off a top-secret military project to carve and launch into orbit a beautiful, 70-foot tall marble bust of actor and filmmaker Danny DeVito playing a child-sized upright bass. The sub rosa initiative, nearly 15 years in the making, was unveiled to the public by an anonymous whistleblower earlier today. “What began as plans for a counterterrorism missile defense system spiraled into something slightly different but nonetheless beautiful” reported Secretary of Defense James Mattis. “Say what you will, but the bust is gorgeous, if that’s the kind of thing you’re into.” Many on the left have blasted the project as a waste of public funds. Senator Katherine O’Neil (D-CA) referred to the launch as “yet another example of exorbitant military spending that forsakes the many civilians struggling to get by here at home.” Senate Republicans, however, have touted the bust as a necessary replacement for the melting lifesized ice sculpture of a naked Jonah Hill doing the spread-eagle Da Vinci pose, which has been orbiting alongside the International Space Station since the 2007 release of Superbad. Advocacy groups have claimed that the launch plans violate the Outer Space Treaty, a 1967 UN agreement governing the launch of weapons of mass destruction into Earth’s orbit. According to Andrea Katz, a representative for the organization Humans United Against WMDs, launching a stunning marble bust of such terrific size into low Earth orbit would constitute a legitimate threat to human life, should it crash into a spacecraft or otherwise distract astronauts with its delicate contours and striking verisimilitude. In response, DoD officials have promised to end the initiative and start immediately on a new project to launch

two equally beautiful half-sized busts of halfsized Danny DeVitos playing half-sized-childsized upright basses. Activists are hopeful that public backlash towards the DoD initiative could spur a domino effect against other intrusive U.S. foreign policies. At press time, the Department of Homeland Security was backtracking on a private contract to send a vocally asexual Bob Saget robot to build schools in Iraq.

ACOLYTES OF THE WORLD, UNITE! In the past, any enterprising young worker could find work in the local secret society. If you were willing to put in a little extra elbow grease and looked halfway-decent in a cloak, you could confidently expect to become a supreme grand master and own your very own Hyundai. But times have changed. In this, the information age, ministration of the deep rituals has become corporatized, and a Hyundai is no longer considered a luxury automobile. As we become more and more focused on the bottom line, we’ve lost sight of the human factor, the special relationship between a hidden cabal and its mysterious devotees. The corporate structure of modern conspiracy harms the common conspirator, and it’s about time we join gloved hands in solidarity. Consider healthcare: since 1954, the price of unholy healing philtres, the ingredients of which must never be named, has risen by 58%, adjusted for inflation. Meanwhile, alembics, phlogistons, and fax machines have fallen in price and grown in efficiency. Over the same time period, the industry-standard starting wage for a wizard’s errand boy has remained stagnant at its pre-Nixonian level. The working acolyte has become even more invisible than intended. Whether you serve a dreadlord, hooded priests whose faces are perpetually in shadow, the keepers of ancient scrolls, or Sam’s Club, you need not negotiate your wages alone anymore. We accept members from every chapter, guild hall, coven, or Quizno’s in the world where mysterious figures collude in hiding. Let the downtrodden disciples of this Flat Earth rise up as one! Join the Hidden Acolytes of the World! You have nothing to lose but your cowls! —M. Nobel

QUIZ: ARE YOU A CONSPIRACY THEORIST?

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Do you believe men have walked on the moon?

mYes mNo Who was responsible for the horrific 9/11 attacks?

mOsama bin Laden, Saudi businessman and leader of Al-Qaeda mGeorge W. Bush

How many shooters were on the grassy knoll the day John F. Kennedy died?

mWait, what? JFK’s dead?

Oh, God. I’m so sorry. It’s been nearly fifty years, man.

mI just thought they didn’t show him on T.V. anymore because he got polio or something. Wow. I need a second.

Take your time. This quiz isn’t going anywhere. Just...don’t do anything rash, ok?

mThere’s no reason to live anymore. Democracy is dead. Hold your wives and children close. Has anyone told Jackie? Are you kidding me? She’s dead too, man.

mJesus Christ. Next you’re going to tell me Lee Harvey Oswald’s dead.

How the fuck do you know who Lee Harvey Oswald is but not that JFK died?

mMutual friend.

—Archives

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PROOF OF REINCARNATION? THESE LEO MEMBERS HAVE VAGUE MEMORIES OF A PAST LIFE IN WHICH THEY WERE “BROTHERS” OF SOMETHING CALLED “SAE” People who remember their past lives aren’t hard to find. Just last week I came across three different fouryear-olds who all said they died in 9/11, a three-year-old who said he remembered getting crushed to death in the hydraulic systems of his father’s pencil factory, and a two-year-old who also died in 9/11. But I had dismissed these stories as nothing more than those of beautiful children with gifted imaginations, until last week, when I encountered a dozen adult males at Yale University with similar powers of recollection. All these men happen to be part of the same extracurricular club called LEO. But they have something stranger in common: they all vaguely remember a past life in which they were “brothers” of something known as “SAE.” “I’ve been having this recurring dream for weeks now,” recounts Tyler Schmidt ES ’20. “I’m standing on the porch of this house that kind of resembles our house, you know, the LEO house. But something’s off that I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s unclear when the dream takes place because everyone is wearing 90s NBA jerseys but I’m checking an iPhone 6. Anyways, people are coming up to me and I’m making them show me a Yale ID, when suddenly I say ‘Welcome to SAE.’ And then I wake up in a cold sweat. My pants are always wet and I think I’ve peed myself before realizing that with all the thrashing, I just spilled the 4Loko I had saved to wake me up in the morning. ” Others have vivid memories of events and voices. As Austin Draper HC ’22, explains, “There’s these voices in my head constantly whispering things like ‘sexual misconduct.’ It’s particularly haunting because I have no idea what these phrases mean, let alone what they mean in relation to my life. Luckily, I have a clearer memory of my past self, a happy one. I can picture this man, wearing a suit — I don’t know why, but I think his name is Dean — speaking with a warm voice, ‘... no evidence of systematic discrimination found in my investigation of SAE.’ It’s so simple but it always brings me this incredible sense of relief. Sometimes when I feel overwhelmed, I just like to close my eyes and imagine what it was like for my past self to be assuaged of all his fears and stress at once.” These stories may seem unremarkable, yet ten others, all of whom are members of LEO, shared similar

memories and dreams involving “SAE.” Though this alone may seem like a coincidence, the phenomenon extends further, to a physical dimension. In other reincarnation cases, I’ve seen reports of birthmarks in spots of stabbings and freckles where piercings once were, but never anything quite like this: all twelve men’s right buttcheeks are somehow branded with the letters “SAE.” Could these young men all have been stabbed by alphabet cookie cutters in their past lives? There are too many pieces to this puzzle I simply can’t put together. For example, several upperclassmen at Yale recall seeing eerily-similar looking men at a fraternity called Sigma Alpha Epsilon in May 2016, before it disbanded amidst complaints of sexual misconduct and racial discrimination. Strangely enough, May 2016 is the date many of the supposedly reincarnated reported as the beginning of their lives as LEO members. Could the “SAE” these men vaguely recall have any connection to the Yale fraternity, however tangential? How could they have been reincarnated as adult men in just two years? All of this might just be the tip of the iceberg. A new batch of young men are now beginning to have flashbacks to life in a different organization, known as DKE. Stay tuned for my next investigation, as we see how deep this rabbit hole goes. —H.Rubin

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THINGS THAT CAN ONLY BE EXPLAINED BY DEEP-STATE INTERVENTION The Yoga Revolution: Why is it that so many Bikram “hot” yoga studios have sprung up in the United States lately? The lamestream media mistakenly attributes this trend to “millennial consumers” and an increasingly healthconscious demographic, but in fact, the Prime Minister of India, Narendra Modi, is waging a bloodless, brilliant, and sweaty war to take over the world. Every U.S. yoga studio built in the past five years is owned by shell companies with ties to the Indian Deep State. So, next Tuesday, when you’re doing “downward facing dog” before wine, books, and wine club, know that Modi and his cronies have you exactly where they want you: bowing at their feet.

consciously want to defend the United States’ honor. Thus, every person that would’ve become a construction worker will instead enlist in a combat unit, eliminating the need for a draft. The mysterious underwear with an enormous shitstain hanging in the third floor bathroom of Silliman Entryway B: Nobody knows how it got there, and everyone is freaking the fuck out. As for culprits, we’ve ruled out everyone in my suite, including me, of course. Hell, I’m the one who found it! Looks like we’ll have to just chock this one up to Deep State intervention and call it a day. —S. Custer

The guy in New York wearing a construction vest who dry humps postcards of the Statue of Liberty he finds lying on the ground: You all probably already get the gist of this one, but just to make sure we’re on the same page, the CIA is piloting a Deep-State program to increase military enrollment. They’re hoping that when you see this impostor construction worker defiling Lady Liberty, you will sub-

— R. Chang

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AN OPEN LETTER TO THE PEOPLE WHO READ MY “I SPEAK FLUENT SARCASM” SHIRT AND LOOKED AWAY. I AM JESUS; THIS WAS A TEST AND YOU HAVE FAILED To the patrons of this Jamba Juice: I am the man behind you in line wearing the T-shirt that says “I SPEAK FLUENT SARCASM.” I bet you thought I wouldn’t notice when you read my shirt, looked at my stubbled face, smirked faintly, and looked away. Well hear ye, cumsluts: You have made an irreparable mistake. For I am Jesus. This was a test of your tolerance, and you have failed. I (Jesus Christ) have arrived in my glory to separate people as the shepherd separates the sheep from the goats (Matthew 25:32). I distinguish the tolerant from the intolerant, the Sir Nice-A-Lots from the bullies. Most importantly, I gaze upon your treatment of the most unfortunate, outwardly repulsive of men, e.g. me, in this shirt. My disguise is meticulously crafted. I smell of Juul pods and hubris. I have an ear piercing (in the non-gay ear). And every time I open my mouth to speak, a puff of my beard hair blows into the wind like a dandelion seed. Wherever it lands, a can of PBR sprouts from the soil. Alarmed? Looks like you’re headed to the Bozos Corner. Unfortunately for you, the Bozos Corner is located right in Hell. As Matthew 7:1 reads, “Judge not, that you be not judged.” Similarly, the inside cover of the copy of Infinite Jest I keep in my JanSport reads, “Dear Lydia, Thought this might expand your mind :).” Tolerate me or be cast into darkness. Love me as I have loved you. Dance like nobody, not anybody, is watching. My beard is long like Samson’s. My arms are frail because guys who workout have nothing else to live for. One day, I will have a daughter. She will realize she doesn’t respect me, but I won’t mind. I will have other things to live for. Psych. Or have you forgotten? I speak fluent sarcasm. Smell you later, Christ P.S.: “FEMALE BODY INSPECTOR” and “MY BOYFRIEND IS PIZZA” t-shirt wearers are going to hell. -W. Caplan