RECORD
BREAKING: AI IS COMING FOR YOUR JOB AND YOUR WIFE
I’M SO GOOD AT SCRABBLE I COULD BEAT YOU WITH ONE HAND BEHIND MY BACK SEA HORSE? OF COURSE I DO IT’S REAL BIG
CAN’T TELL IF THE NEW HANDSOME DAN IS UGLY OR JUST REGULAR BULLDOG
THE LAST STRAW: MY STRAW HAT IS NO LONGER A HAT
Join us! Email chair@yalerecord.org
MAVERICK INSURER COVERS ANYTHING
Dear Celine,
Have you ever loved someone so much that you feel like you never want to be without them? That every waking moment you live is for them? Because that’s who you are to me. My everything, my world, my life.
Love, Randy
ANXIOUS STRIPPER PRETENDS
AUDIENCE IS NAKED TOO
Dear Randy,
You have been banned from our app for violating our community guidelines.
Best, The Tinder Team
DEAR INVISIBLE PEOPLE: TAKE THAT! AND THAT! AND THAT! POW!
POSTURE PERMANENTLY FIXED BY SITTING UP FOR A SECOND BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT OF IT
FOR A PLACE CALLED MAYO CLINIC, THESE SANDWICHES ARE PRETTY DRY NATION’S DEFIBRILLATORS REPLACED BY THINKING THERE WAS GONNA BE ANOTHER STEP AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRCASE
Dear human, It is first night on earth of mine. Who is man on screen he yell at me hard and I am scared.
From, Alien
I
Dear Alien,
It is John Oliver!
MAN MAKING TOOTHPICK CASTLE GOING TO LOSE IT WHEN HE FINDS OUT ABOUT BRICKS
Dear Bright-Eyed First Year, Congratulations! You’ve made it. You’re set for life. Feel free to take the foot off the gas. From now on, the only ‘A’ that matters is the one between the ‘Y’ and the ‘L.’
Sincerely, Cynical Fellow-Student Trying to Thin Out Competition for Law School
Dear Cynical Fellow-Student Trying to Thin Out Competition for Law School,
Hey, that’s a big relief. Thank you for watching out for me.
Best, Bright-Eyed First Year
“IT’S OKAY TO SET BOUNDARIES,” SAYS LLOYD AUSTIN’S THERAPIST
10,000 HOURS DEVOTED TO CAUSE, WOMAN STILL UNABLE
TO TWERK
CULTURAL MARXIST ACCEPTS RETURN OFFER FROM MCKINSEY
“WOMEN’S BRAINS AGE FIVE YEARS FASTER THAN MEN’S” SAYS MAN WHO WANTS TO DATE A MINOR
Dear First-Year,
Everyone can tell the worst thing about you. Right away, not even hard.
Cheers, Upperclassmen
RECESS 101
—A. Garcia
and peace
Obituary Correction
The 2024 Editorial Board would like to apologize for an obituary which appeared in last year’s first year issue: it appears that Professor Johnson survived by not only his wife but also his many beautiful, young mistresses.
OUT WITH TO-GO BOXES, IN WITH THEFT
Did You Know?
The vaccinations that were required for Yale admission are actually steroids to ensure that you can bring all your boxes into your dorm within your allotted time slot.
Hey there, champ. You’re all grown up. Last time I saw you, you were this tall (my hand is touching the top of my head), and you were throwing a fit because you were hungry. Oh no—that’s a mirror. Now I see you, with your Yale ‘2059 lanyard swinging from your shoulders like a fine jewel. You’re a freshman. You must be here to study college.
Shh… shh.. It’ll be okay. Get it out. Feel your feelings, especially if you’re a boy. If you’re a girl, get it under control. If you’re neither, I won’t tell you what to do because it’s not my place. I’m Lizzie. Now we are friends. At the ripe old age of 30, I’ve taken eight gap years to explore myself and get my hands dirty in a couple of Co-Ops, coops, and coupes. I founded a start-up that promptly slowed-down. I worked as a farmer until the lady chickens wanted to control their own eggs. I sold cars until I couldn’t stand wearing polos no more. Now, I’m back to double major in various acronyms, so I can rule the world after I graduate.
Enough about me—this whole “reading” thing takes two of us: one to write the words, and the other to pretend they’re reading them to look smart on the train. Together, we make a publication. The Record make the letters together to be readed and listend. The reader chews the words with their eyes, digests them in their brain, and spits them out through an occasional snort through their nose. In here, you’ll find “rejected designs for the women’s table,” and “Doors: How They Really Work” written by the bright minds that will one day whisper into the president’s ear. You could be one of them.
While racking my head for advice to bestow, I’ve consulted many a sage, who all settled on the same concept: don’t cheat with ChatGPT. Regardless, I asked ChatGPT what to write in the editorial. Here’s what the easy robot said:
“Greetings, first-years!
Congratulations on making it to Yale! You’ve survived the admissions process, and now you’re officially part of a campus that will soon become your new home. But before you get too comfortable in your new surroundings, allow us, the sage editors of The Yale Record, to offer you some invaluable advice and insights to help you navigate this new chapter of your life. After all, college is a complex labyrinth of academic challenges, social minefields, and the occasional existential crisis—and we’re here to help you find your way through it all… or at least provide some comic
relief along the way.”
Damn, it’s good. That thing knows what it’s doing, as long as it stays in this here gray box, and doesn’t start wearing our skin and making us fall in love with it… Chat GPT knows not the tenderness of touch, nor the smell of spring, nor the reason we laugh. We do. Right guys? Right? That’s what the Record is all about. I’m not even paid to say that.
Here, we write satire. This means that we lie, but we all know that we’re lying. Some people call this “treason.” I prefer to call it “my primary extracurricular.” If you want to join the Record, you’ll become a very, very, rich man, regardless of any competing evidence. If you’re an escapist, you’ve come to the right place. We are the Houdinis of the written word, save the skill and intrigue. We build the worlds we want to see, exploring why “Jesus Was Not a Big Birthday Guy” and why “Jimmy Carter Won’t Die.” Many a comedian has penned these pages, and many a fun architect who watched Middleditch and Schwartz has too. Many a true friend has thrown this magazine out after telling their roomate they “loved their piece.” That’s okay. Every time you do, we plant a tree.
Four years ago, hailing from Jacksonville, Florida, bright-eyed and freshly balayaged, I drove from Jacksonville, Florida to New Haven, Connecticut with an overnight stop in southeastern Pennsylvania. The Hilton lost our reservation, so we were actually turned away from an inn in Bethlehem, which worked pretty well for Mary and Joseph, so we took it in stride. I knew I wouldn’t miss my parents ‘til they dropped me off on Cross Campus, and I didn’t know my way home. Pulling the hair from my eyes and the binky out of my mouth, I picked up
Amelia Herrmann ’26
Chair
Adam Hagens ’27 Online Managing Editor
Issy Arroyo ’25 Copy Editor
Sadie Lee ‘26 Supplementals Editor
Emma Madsen ’25 Old Owl
Ari Berke ’25
Audrey Hempel ’25
Betty Kubovy-Weiss ’25
Cormac Thorpe ’25
Chet Hewitt ’25
Evan Calderon ’25
Ezzat Abouleish ’25
Isabel Arroyo ’25
Jacob Kao ’25
Mari Elliott ’25
Maya Melnik ’25
Neil Sachdeva ’25
Theo Schiminovich ’25
Lizzie Conklin ’25
Editor in Chief
Gabi Cohen ’27 Online Managing Editor
Avery Misner ’27 Copy Editor
Daniel Wang ‘27 Social Media Manager
Terence Harris ’27 Managing Editor
Katya Agrawal ’27 Art Director
Oz Gitelson ‘26 Webmaster
Josephine Stark ’25 Old Owl
Tyler Schroder ’25
Adham Hussein ’26
Aidan Gibson ’26
AJ Tapia-Wylie ’26
Alejandro Rojas ’26
Alexa Druyanoff ’26
Alexis Ramirez-Hardy ’26
Alice Khomski ’26
Amanda Budejen ’26
Andie Gately ’26
Andrew Lake ’26
Ariel Kirman ’26
Bella Panico ’26
my bags and followed my intuition, which some call “Google Maps.” I moseyed on over to my dorm, but I kept walking—for I couldn’t tell Franklin from Murray—until I found myself back in Jacksonville. When I realized that my art-deco home wasn’t imitation gothic architecture, I licked my wounds and turned right around, following the Harkness bells like the wise men followed the North Star to find the north side of campus (I think?).
Though you may not feel like it, you should be here. You’ll have imposter syndrome, and—knowing the CIA has their tendrils deep in Yale—you might well be one, but you won’t know until you test yourself. Try something new. Audition for an improv group even though you’re afraid to speak. Try out for the club basketball team even though your coach only ever told you that you’re “great at defense.” Come to the Record meeting. We will love you.
If you think you’re funny, come to laugh. If you don’t think you’re funny, come to realize that you are, or come to laugh, because we’re nothing without readers. The Record is a place for everyone. If you’re still reading this 1000 word editorial, you’re either my older sister or you want to join the Record. Follow your nose. If you smell pizza, run towards it, because it’s probably the pizza we get every Monday at 9:00 PM from Brick Oven in exchange for advertising and being betas. Come eat some pizza. It’ll help you grow big and strong.
L. Conklin Editor in Chief
Debbie Lilly ’26 Online Editor in Chief
Devika Kothari ’27 Managing Editor
Dash Beber-Turkel ’26 Lead Design Editor
Anna Lehman ‘27 Staff Director
Edward Bohannon ’25 Old Owl
Staff:
Brennan Columbia-Walsh ’26
Caroline Utermann ’26
Elio Wentzel ’26
Emily Hettinger ’26
Emmet Houghton ’26
Grace Davis ’26
Helen Shanefield ’26
Jimmy Ruskell ’26
Linden Skalak ’26
Mia Cortés Castro ’26
Natasha Khazzam ’26
Owen Curtin ’26
Oz Gitelson ’26
Erita Chen ’26 Publisher
Bipul Soti ’27 Managing Editor
Harper Murray Nelson ‘27 Design Editor
Emmet Houghton ‘27 Business Manager
Paola Milbank ’26
Sam Kumar ’26
Sivan Almogy ’26
Thomas Varghese ’26
Toby Salmon ’26
Tristan Hernandez ’26
William Wang ’26
Wolf Boone ’26
Zadie Winthrop ’26
Zoe Halaban ’26
Ami Gillon ’27
Anna Calkins ’27
Anna Feldman ’27
Special thanks to: Second years, who still matter.
Ainslee Garcia ‘27 Merchant
Annie Lin ’25 Old Owl
Anna Papakirk ’27
Audrey Jiang ’27
Avery Lenihan ’27
Braeden Cullen ’27
Ellen Windels ’27
Elora Sparnicht ’27
Gha Yuan Ng ’27
Gustavo Dominguez ’27
Jaylynn Cortes ’27
Juliette Propp ’27
Lucas Ranfranz ’27
Lucas Santos ’27
Max Watzky ’27
Emma Upson ’27 Design Editor
Sophia Morfin ‘27 Prank Czar
Natasha Weiss ‘25 Old Owl
Nava Feder ’27
Rohan Shivakumar ’27
Samhita Kumar ’27
Sofia Morfin ’27
Sui Yu ’27
Tom Commander ’27
Victoria Mnatsakanyan ’27
Vidhi Bhartiya ’27
Will Sussbauer ’27
Ge Yu
Front Cover: Gaya Buchta ’27, who was very shocked by what came out of her can of Campbell’s Alphabet Soup.
Back Cover: Katya Agrawal ’27, who hired a real life baby to sit as a model.
September 11, 1872 • Vol. CLII, No. 5,
Dom Alberts ‘25 Old Owl
Tara Bhat ‘25 Old Owl
Emily Cai ’25 Old Owl
Andrew Cramer ‘25 Old Owl
Grace Ellis ’25 Old Owl
Synergizing optimized task oriented Powerpoints: survey of corporate Yapology
Professor Name: Professor Brentwood Thompson IV Meeting Days/Times: 9:00 AM-11:00 PM (if you’ve finished your work)
Description:
Demonstrating the ability to utilize corporate jargon in anticipation of case studies despite the pressure to adapt to the use of normal language, targeting weak points such as behavioral, math, language, and illusion of empathy.
EVST 110: Touching Grass Consensually: Listening to what the environment wants
Professor Name: Professor V.E. Gan Meeting Days/Times: TTh 3:00-4:00 PM
Description:
How do we know what the environment wants? What if it’s okay with climate change, or even likes it? Who are we to judge? In this course, we will discuss the politics of environmental activism and what she (the environment) needs to say “yes.” We don’t know her story.
ENGL 499: Rebels without a Cause: Drafting Causes
Professor Name: Professor G. Washington Meeting Days/Times: Next fortnight when the great horned owl calls twice.
Description:
How to justify your rebellion to ensure that your manifesto reaches your target audience. Knowledge of Chicago style required.
2024 2025
2024 Yale Blue Book
Writing the Television Commercial
Professor Name: Dr. Doctor Meeting Days/Times: Commercial breaks during nightly news
Description:
What makes a buyer choose to take your cholesterol medication? How does one make a Viagra commercial without once mentioning the drug’s function? How quickly can you ramble on about deadly side effects of an antidepressant while a youthful senior dances in a gazebo? We’re here to teach you.
HUMS: What to do with your degree after college
Professor Name: Professor I. Needajob Meeting Days/Times: MTWThF 9:00-5:00 PM (for practice)
Description: Class that provides professor with employment. He will not respond to emails. He also is looking for a place to stay, so if you’re subletting let him know.
Fall Term, 2024
—Staff
PSYC 299: Psychology and the Fine Life: The Science of Being So Fucking Cool: ��
Professor Name: Professor André Charles (but please, call me André)
Meeting Days/Times: Whenever works for you :)
Description:
The science of je ne se quois.
SOCY 210: The Opiate of the Masses: Opium
Professor Name: Dr. K. Marx
Meeting Days/Times: MW
Description:
Investigating the opiate crisis through the lens of the opium metaphors.
ART 110: Painting wid yor widdle bwush
Professor Name: Me. I am the professor
Meeting Days/Times: I will figure this out tomorrow
Description:
Just doing stuff and figuring stuff out together as a community and connect spiritually and criticize your peer’s self-expression because you, my indie genius, know best
HUMS 399: Analyzing Dr. Bronner’s Bottles through the lens of the Wet Man in the Shower
Professor Name: Dr. Bronner
Meeting Days/Times: Morning or night, depending on when you shower
Description:
Despite their prevalence, length, and consistency of form, Dr. Bronner’s bottles have escaped the scrutiny of academia, until now.
Requirements: Come to class each day dripping wet.
CANCELED COURSES
• ENGL 212: How to Speak without Saying Anything
• PSYC 101: Thinking
• PHIL 101: Thinking about Thinking
• PHIL 137: Thinking about Thinking about Thinking about Thinking about Thinking abo...
• WGSS 121/ECON 412: Ethical Misogyny
• WOWW 036: So...So...Wowwww...
• DNCE 404: Intro to Party Rocking
• DNCE 405: Intro to Apologizing for Party Rocking
• INRL 312: Managing Long Distance
MHMM: Tactful ways to say no
Professor Name: Dr. N. Oh
Meeting Days/Times: Never
Description:
Let’s circle back to that Put a pin in that Hahaha no that’s awesome; I just don’t know if we have the resources for it
My higher up said we couldn’t
• TTYL 147: I’ll tell you later.
• WWJD 050: Religious Zealotry and Absurd Hypotheticals
• HUMS 497: Switching Gears into Consulting
• FILM 761: Topics in Smoking Weed and Watching Seth Rogan Movies
• ANAL 327: Topics in Analysis with a Focus on Unfortunate Acronyms
• P&E 101: We Never Cared About That First E Anyway.
• EVST: Plagiarism or Recycling?
REASONS GUARANTEED TO GET YOU A DEANS EXTENSION
1. Death of a grandparent 2. Actual death of a grandparent 4. Living in a man’s world 5. Conflict due to doctor’s appointment 6. Conflict due to discovery of new oil reserves 7. Prescheduled baptism 8. The sniffles, the goobers, The Big Achoo, etc. 9. Experiencing a “Jumanji Situation”
10. Pulling your Dean’s wrists in one direction and their ankles in the other while insisting that “there’s gonna be a Dean Extension today one way or another” and letting them choose which they’d prefer 11. Ennui
FINDING YOUR FIRST FRIEND
Do you feel that? The butterflies in your stomach? Or the faint adrenaline smoothly coursing up into your heart? Regardless, you know exactly why it’s there. You just arrived at Yale University. You are starting college. How exciting. Before you get to writing essays, and snorting Adderall and whatnot, one thing must be addressed: you need friends. Friends like that one “aunt” who drinks bottle after bottle of Costco Wholesale wine with your mom until they vomit in the bathtub, or that one “uncle” who you overhear retelling the same vaguely racist anecdotes with your father long after they think you’ve gone to bed. True friends. But as I look out at my classmates, one thing is very clear: if you don’t find these people in your first term you will never ever have friends like that.
—D. Alberts
Your first target should always be your roommate. In the first couple weeks, become attached to them at the hip. Surgically. While they sleep. But first, to facilitate the eventual biosynthesis, mimic their habits. Use their toothbrush, sleep in their bed, wait for them in the shower. You need to show your absolute dedication to your relationship. If this works, you can rest easy, but if they run at the sight of your suturing kit (the weak ones do), then it’s on to the next.
Find someone who reminds you of your ex (if you’ve never
been in a relationship, tough luck bucko). Tell them they’re different;, you’ve never met anyone like them,; they touch a part of your soul you didn’t know was there—, but with them, it’s so glaringly clear it’s been there all along. If things don’t work out, dump them. In the same ditch you dumped your ex. The one the cops will never find.
My final suggestion: be sincere. Tell potential friends about that fingernail collection of yours. Tell them they’re not your fingernails. Demand that they give you their fingernails. Use the chloroform you keep hidden under your Yatress. Tell the cops that people go missing all the time. Move on to the next friend, someone who might appreciate you for who you are. Because that someone is out there. But make haste! If you don’t find good friends soon, you will live the rest of your life alone. Forever. So carpe the diem., Ttake life by the reins. I believe in you frosh, even if you might not believe in yourself.
— R. Shivakumar
Are you hungry? Perhaps thirsty? Well oh boy do we have just the thing for you. Try some delicious olive oil!
Here at Yale Hospitality, we pride ourselves on giving our students the choice to decide what they eat. Based on frequent survey-taking and consistent dialogue with student foodies, we have learned just what you need to be happy and healthy. We listened, and Yalies asked us to gorge them on 6 times more olive oil than the average American. They did. They want it.
But you, my dear, young, and utterly naive, first-year, may be thinking that you don’t want all that olive oil. Perhaps you are worried about damaged blood vessels and atherosclerotic plaques. Do you doubt the democratic systems on which our dining halls are built? You
HOW TO FIND HUSBAND QUICK
1. Keep dropping books
2. Ask about crypto
3. “Tragically lose” high heel on steps of Leo at midnight
4. Be not like other girls
5. Big magnet
6. Even bigger dowry (the more goats fetched, the better)
7. Birdseed
8. Commit a crime together and demand spousal immunity
9. Wield childbearing hips
10. Yell “FIRE” in crowded theater
11. If woman: Fail “Am I Gay Yet” quiz
12. If not woman: Pass “Am I Gay Yet” quiz
13. Say “Kafka-esque” at Saturday brunch
14. Quantity over quality
15. Dance dance dance on elevated surface
16. Move to small town. Encounter wild stallion. Tame stallion. Heal the wounds from your mother’s passing. Win the big race. Defeat town bully. Save the farm. Marry horse.
sound so fucking stupid right now. Olive oil is good for you. It will make your skin shine with a golden hue like a Greek god, or a person with jaundice.
Regardless, your tune will soon change. When you go to the soda fountain and each dispenser only shoots forth the pure liquid gold of olive oil, you
will have no choice but to drink. But, like all those who came before you, your despair will quickly be replaced by joy. What else could you want when you have the calorically dense, antioxidant-filled nectar of Zeus in your glass?
So drink olive oil, bathe in it, and be baptized into your new world.
—A. Hagens
Olive Oil and YOU
WEIRD THINGS I’VE PUT IN THE WAFFLE MAKER
By Staff
Pancake Batter.
Single hazelnut.
Hope?
Horses — Ran out of Glue.
Smaller waffle maker
Delicious, Exfoliating Olive Oil.
Snails — I’m French.
Humpty Dumpty — Fell right in.
MeeMaw’s Ashes — It’s what she would have wanted.
Hydrogen Atom Spiller + One Hydrogen Atom.
Very Small Boy.
Cartoonish Bone-In Steak.
Sticks and Stones, Hold the Bones
Big, Saucy Mess.
Some Nice Cedar Wood for a Smoky Finish.
Waffle
FIRST DAY OF CLASSES FIT
—D. Kothari
TRANSCRIPT: YES, I’D LOVE TO SEE YOUR DOG PICS
FIRST YEAR: Hi! Are you a first-year?
ANOTHER FIRST YEAR: Yeah. Are you?
FIRST YEAR: Yeah. What’s your name? My name is Jeff!
ANOTHER FIRST YEAR: I’m Brian. What college are you in?
JEFF: Do you want to see a picture of my dog? JE.
BRIAN: Yeah! I’m in JE too. Wait, what entryway?
JEFF: She’s a golden doodle — probably the most beautiful dog you’d have ever seen. My mom sends me photos of her every morning and she’s like “Bongo misses you!” and it’s a picture of Bongo and Bongo is wagging her tail and I can tell because of the live photo feature. Entryway D.
BRIAN: This doesn’t look like my dog. I’m in entryway D too. What floor you on?
JEFF: And it’s like sweet, right, to see Bongo every day, but it’s also sad, you know? Like, I know that Bongo doesn’t actually miss me. She’s just wagging her tail because my mom’s telling her she’s a good girl. Not because she can visualize me in her mind and, like, feels yearning or wistful or sad or whatever. And also, even if she did feel sad and missed me, she wouldn’t wag her tail, you know? Like she would whine or something. I’m on the second floor.
BRIAN: Yeah, my dog’s name is not Bongo. This isn’t my dog, dude. I’m in D21. Do you play GTA?
JEFF: Yeah. And it’s also like, I’m pretty smart, you know. Like I know that dogs don’t wag their tail when they’re
sad. It just makes me feel, like, uncomfortable to think my mom would think I’d fall for that. I’ve just been thinking a lot, like, what if Bongo doesn’t remember me when I go back for fall break?
BRIAN: Dude, we have to play GTA. My dog’s tail got docked when he was little. He can’t wag. This photo is really not of my dog. I think you’re confused.
JEFF: For sure. And that’s, like, really painful, right? Because obviously, I’m not going to forget Bongo. My mom keeps texting me live photos of her, so I literally wouldn’t be able to. But she might forget me, and that’s like creating an imbalanced relationship between us.
BRIAN: This is my room. Here, choose a controller. Yeah dude, me and my dog have like a perfectly balanced relationship so this is definitely not my dog.
JEFF: Thanks. And, like, also an imbalance between the rest of my family, because she’ll remember all of them, and then they’ll have more power over me because of that, you know?
BRIAN: Boom. You just got crushed. In three seconds! I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s simply not my dog. He’s a German Shepherd.
JEFF: Oh, my bad, LOL. You wanna see some pics of your dog?
BRIAN: Holy shit, man! Mr. Cuddles is looking fresh as hell!
BRIAN: Wait, how did you find a picture of my dog?
JEFF: No, this is not my dog. My dog is named Bongo.
—T. Bhat
The Record Remembers
Weat the Yale Record struggle to capture the zeitgeist of our campus, so we’ve turned to the archives for help. One thing we know about time is that it is linear, so we don’t pretend to try to learn from the past, but we have compiled moments large and small from Yale’s past to paint a holistic picture of our history.
1915 First generation of Yale Bowtie Society pose for picture while holding marbles in hands, mouths, etc.
1918 Old men flash handsome grins after deciding that war prevents war.
1907 Rugby team serves unmitigated cunt.
1940 New Yale Polo recruit unaware of strict dress code and BYOH policy.
1910 Handsome Dan STUNS in a skimpy new collar, but his eyes say that he has seen atrocities.
1956 I can’t think of a caption for this one.
1974 Top English students practice reading together.
2014 Women take photo at table and add black and white filter.
2017 First group of female math majors count as high as they can.
1967 Short lad wins puffiest pants award, denies doping allegations.
1987 Closeted guy laughs with all-female friend group, unaware that everyone already knows.
2024 An AI-generated image of all the Yale legacy kids that would be if not for Plan B.
—S. Spaner
POINT: YOU SHOULD START A BAND.
Wow. You’ve finally finished your first few days of school and settled into The Yale Experience! But you feel a certain emptiness you aren’t sure how to fill. One Saturday afternoon, as you scamper from darty to darty on Frat Row looking to fill that void in your tiny freshman heart, you hear it calling to you. It sounds like the angel Gabriel strumming his heavenly harp, but it descends from around the corner in the form of live drums and a vague bass line as you stumble upon your first 17o1 block party. In all of your two days at Yale, you’ve never heard anything so…right. So perfect. Suddenly, it hits you: this is your purpose! Screw astrophysics. Why study stars when you can be one? It’s time for you to spread your wings and let your own music take flight. You even know the perfect people to recruit for your band — those emo (or were they new wave?) kids from your first-year seminar seem to know a few things about music. Why not give it a try?
I HEAR VOICES THROUGH THE WALLS
By E. Chen
I hear voices through the walls. They begin as I hum. First they are soft, like the whisper of an infant mouse – the runt of the litter, still wet behind its ears, ready for its first wild run through the Branford common rooms. Then, they crescendo, transforming into the inhuman wails of a Branford student discovering an infant mouse in their newly acquired Microfridges, courtesy of CSI Campus Specialties. Now, I have no other choice but to cease my siren call and cower under the sheets of my Bulldog Bed™ and wait out the night, that dark and fearsome mistress that sometimes stays forever, but usually just for twelve hours.
COUNTERPOINT: THE SOUND OF YOUR VOICE MAKES ME WANT TO RIP MY EARS OFF AND FORCE FEED THEM TO YOU!
Unlike the people running away from your concerts, your music will never “take flight”. You can’t sing, dumbass! Did Marge Simpson drink battery acid, pluck Gabriel’s wings right off his chubby, angelic body, and strangle herself with them, or is that you singing Riptide? Although the whole Midwest Emo, smoker-voice aesthetic may work for some, you should leave the scream-moaning thing you have going on to the professionals. You can’t play any instruments either — unless you count the finger cymbals you learned in the fourth grade, and let’s be honest, even that was pushing it. But hey, don’t feel bad — these things aren’t meant for everyone. You can always try SoundCloud rapping! Or a capella. Or pursue STEM.
— E. Upson
Sometimes, it’s a rapping sound, and that scares me most of all. By “rapping,” I do not mean that musical genre of rhythmic speech and vocal delivery, mind you. I have taken many a MUS seminars to appreciate such artistic endeavors, though I do prefer the stylings of Pitch Perfect and Glee in my personal time off –indeed, I am listening to “Smooth Criminal (Glee Cast Version) (feat. 2CELLOS)” as we speak; oh how I yearn to experience the chemistry of Sebastian and Santana.
Verily, by “rapping,” I refer to that knocking noise, that steady rat-tat-tat that now invades my waking hours – rarely do I obtain the optimal 8 hours of sleep to be fresh and alert for rush the next day. I once attempted to sing to those beats, to perhaps communicate with these ferocious beings through a free-flowing jazz improvisation. Yet, my melodic tunes did little to pacify these malevolent creatures.
Hark! I hear it now. What shall the voices from beyond insist upon me? I am frightened, I am exhilarated, I am awed. Prithee peace dear spirits! I am your humble servant. What is it that impels you to make manifest?
From beyond the wall, our narrator hears: HEY, CAN YOU STOP PRACTICING A CAPPELLA AT 3 IN THE MORNING???!!! I HAVE AN ORGO MIDTERM TOMORROW!!!
POINT: DEBUNK THE LANMANWRIGHT HALL BUNK BEDS
Few places in contemporary America are as reminiscent of late 19th century New York’s shanty hovels as the rooms of Lanman-Wright Hall. For a year, I climbed into the top bunk of my rickety L-dub bed and acrimoniously wailed myself to sleep. I hated my life and it was my allegedly “seventy-seven square foot” double room’s fault.
Seventeen times, my situationships laughed in my face, tossed my shoes at me, and left solely because my room was worse than theirs in Durfee, Farnam, Lawrence, Welch, Bingham, the other one in Bingham, Vandy, Silliman, TD, Ben Frank, and the four in Pauli Murray (all in one suite). Though I churlishly screamed their names in alphabetical order out the window every morning, I knew I could not blame them; despite my many charms, my L-dub double (and my L-dub double alone) drove them away.
The space is a cramped irregular hexagon, which makes you feel stupid for failing to utilize completely unusable space. Surveying my meager fiefdom from my less-than glorious castletop, I came to a realization. If I debunked the bed, I could completely maximize utility per square foot. In fact, if we debunk every L-dub bed, there would be just enough space left in each room for two cabinets, the cheapest IKEA lamp, and one grown human to stand very, very still. At that point, the space becomes a room of beds instead of a bedroom — maybe then, the future residents of L-dub won’t have shoes thrown at them.
Berkeley Student, Class of 2027
COUNTERPOINT: TRIPLE BUNK THE LANMAN-WRIGHT HALL BUNK BEDS
This student proposal asks us to defy countless decades of Yale tradition; shaming and throwing the shoes of the first-year students of two residential colleges for their perfectly acceptable and totally comfortable living circumstances is integral to the undergraduate experience. However, we, the administrators of Yale College, are hip with it and are willing to listen to the requests of our cash cows students. They spoke, we listened, and we put our thinking caps on. Thus, we have developed a plan which is twice – nay, thrice – as revolutionary. Yes, let us fit two beds into one “room of beds” but let us also stack three mattresses on each bed. In their proposal, the plaintiff student fails to recognize that if each resident were bestowed a generous six inches above their noses from mattress to mattress, we could easily have three money makers bright minds sleeping on top of each other. Imagine the possibilities — up to one million dollars in tuition fees twelve lifelong friends in one suite!
Yale College
BREAKING NEWS: Sober buddy gets DUI
BY TERENCE HARRIS STAFF REPORTER
NEW HAVEN—To the shock of the Yale Community, Sober Buddy — the prominent temperance activist — drunkenly crashed his Mercedes Benz into the Women’s Table last night.
Thankfully, New Haven police officers witnessed the incident on their way to Donut Crazy, where they “buy coffee, NOT donuts.” Harrowing bodycam footage cap-
tured Mr. Buddy stumbling out of his Mercedes Benz before belligerently flinging Miller Lite at the policemen. He currently faces a semester in the New Haven County Jail: the Watson basement.
Since his admission to Yale, Mr. Buddy has worked diligently to be a total loser and ruin the fun for everyone. In 2022 he lobbied Connecticut legislators to reratify the Eighteenth Amendment, only stopping when Handsome Dan — a notorious
alcoholic — threatened to expel him. In 2023 Mr. Buddy studied abroad in Ireland intending “to dry the river at its source” but was chased out of the country. In January Mr. Buddy began selling “Trustworthy Tea” — an alternative to Twisted Tea — at SigNu functions. Though AriZona curtailed Mr. Buddy’s operations with a cease-and-desist, his spirit (the non-alcoholic kind) persevered, and he vowed to continue his neverending war on “a good time.”
Over the summer, however, while protesting at a Grey Goose factory, Mr. Buddy slipped into a 100-gallon vat of distilled ethanol.
“He hasn’t been the same since,” confessed Mr. Buddy’s loyal sidekick, Dick Dryman. “Before Grey Goose, Sober would go to bed at 9 p.m. every night. Lately, though, I’d be lucky to see him before 2 a.m. World’s fucked-up, man.” “Sober Buddy? That guy fucking rocks!” opined SigNu
pledgemaster, Chet ‘Jaegermaster’ Hawkins. “I mean, like, he used to be lame and stuff — like, a pussy loser, and shit, and a virgin. But, like, the only way to be cool here is to drink until you forget everyone you ever loved. Looks like he figured that out and stuff.”
At press time, Mr. Buddy’s PR team tweeted, “Despite recent events, we assure you: Sober Buddy stands with women.”
HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES
WHERE’S THE PARTY TONIGHT?
By B. Soti
Durfee A32.
Timothy Dwight buttery.
Somewhere down the road.
Yale University Department of Chemistry (best drugs on campus).
The house of the brothers of AEΠ.
The house of the brothers of
Maurie McInnis’ house. Jump the fence.
The Apple store on Broadway. Tonight’s theme: Labor.
The largest suitcase we can find.
IKEA. Våra svenska köttbullar är sammansatta av människor!
The haunted mystery sludge room on the fourth floor of Osborne Memorial Laboratory.
Probably just Toad’s.
There exist two greatly different worlds at Yale. The first you are familiar with, that is, the lives of the masses. Together we endure the sweltering heat in Old Campus’ 200-yearold buildings on Old Campus. The black mold festering in the walls of Lawrence Hall strengthens our character the character of us all. We laugh together. We cry together. We dance together in the heart of campus. The hellish conditions you and your freshman-year roommate endure will make you extremely close (not only because your beds are less than a foot away). These experiences are the Yale that we all know.
However, there is a group that walks among us yet exists in completely different conditions. They may laugh along with the beginning of this article, but they couldn’t even name a single building on Old Campus.
They reside in the suburbs far away from you and me, commuting into the heart of campus when they desire to ogle at us commoners. These are the residents of gated communities colloquially known as “Franklin” and “Murray.” In these exclusive communities, the grass is truly greener; (the Homeowners Association mandates it). They lounge in their velvet robes, smoking cigars, discussing the latest YSIG quarterly reports. They have boycotted intramurals ever since polo was removed. Worst of all, their gyms consist exclusively of rowing machines. When I asked my Murray “friend” Lisa Hampton if she felt connected to New Haven, she looked puzzled. “What is a New Haven?” she inquired while sipping an $8 coffee from Steep. “Is that like a Tax Haven? If so, then yeah!”
Although you may struggle to identify these suburbanites in a crowd, certain tells give them away. Watch for disgusted looks when an Old College dining hall does not offer foie gras and lobster tails. Or uncomfortable glances when we commoners complain about the heat. The most obvious tell, though, is how squirmy they get when shown images of the LW tenement housing. It’s so hard to be a student at the third richest university in the United States.
—A. Misner
ROOMMATE MEDIATION
FROCO: (clears throat) Hey guys, I understand we’re here today because you are having some itsy bitsy issues. Rufus, why don’t you start?
RUFUS: Sure. I just can’t live with Wally anymore. This roommate situation is completely untenable.
FROCO: Completely untenable? Can you give me a specific problem?
RUFUS: OK, well, for one, he’s long-armed and freaky.
Wally whimpers
FROCO: Now Rufus, that’s not a kind thing to say or a valid roommate complai– oh wow he does have really long arms.
WALLY: My doctors say I’m normal, healthy even! One even commissioned me as an alternate for his double dutch team because of my flexibility.
FROCO: (quietly) …as the rope
RUFUS: (Snorts in disbelief) When I get up to pee at night, I always smack into his arms because they dangle down to the floor. It’s like a fleshy police line confining me to my bed.
FROCO: (Nervously glancing at Wally’s arms slowly inching closer towards her) Erm… I could see how that might be frustrating, why don’t you two talk me through some solutions you’ve discussed?
WALLY: Rufus wants me to sleep in a straitjacket of sorts, but my arms are normal. I just have very short legs, so they look long comparatively, but they really are normal!
FROCO: (Mumbles) What if I…
RUFUS: What was that?
FROCO: I was just thinking. My roommate is pre-med. She might be willing to… fix you up….
WALLY: What… like trim my arms?
FROCO: Yeah! She’s been looking for some good experience for her med school application, and surgeons love to see limbshortening hours these days. Don’t worry, I’ve heard arms are MUCH simpler than legs.
WALLY: I will not change my body for you; I am beautiful the way I am.
With his freakishly long arms, Wally embraces himself, literally and figuratively. Rufus and Froco applaud.
– S. Morfin
Question 1: What does the model to the right show?
a. The quantity offered by suppliers and the quantity demanded by customers at a given price
b. The relationship between demand and supply
c. How firms decide to hire or fire people
d. A ✨graph✨
Question 2: What is game theory?
a. RIP MatPat
b. Strategies for different board and card games
c. A section of mathematics that provides strategies for analyzing any situation with more than 2 players that make decisions
d. The logic behind how I’m so awesome at League
Question 3: Have you touched money?
a. Yes, and I’ve completed a transaction* all by myself using money
b. Yes, but I don’t know what to do with it
c. No, what’s money? I prefer to trade sheep when I must procure goods at market
d. I just use a credit card
*An interaction between my father and I where I ask my daddy to buy something
Question 4: What is your intended job after taking Econ 115?
a. Socially responsible investment advisor
b. Idk, something that makes money, I guess?
c. Wall Street trader
d. Goldman Sachs CEO, BlackRock CFO, and Janet Yellen herself, all at once
Question 5: Will an increase in prices result in a movement along or shift of the demand curve in a supply and demand model?
a. Movement along the curve towards a lower equilibrium quantity
b. Shift of the curve to the left
c. The curve will shift to the left and there will be movement towards a lower equilibrium quantity
d. Neither, prices aren’t related to the supply and demand model
Question 6: What is the best NYTimes game to play during class?
a. Sudoku
b. Crossword
c. Wordle
d. Connections
Question 7: Have you met Beyoncé?
a. No, I am worthless
b. No, and I cry about it every day
c. I’ve been in the same room as her
d. I’ve talked to her AND she complimented my outfit*
*If you didn’t get a compliment†, choose C
†And clearly you have terrible fashion taste so go fix that
Question 8: How much did you study for this exam?
About 10 hours during reading week and for at least 2 hours each week during the semester
a. Maybe an hour? I might have overdone it, to be honest.
b. I looked at a graph once while high
c. I looked at a graph once while crossed
Question 9: What is proper derivation for deadweight loss?
a. Um?
b. What?
c. Did we learn this?
d. 2+3=5!
Question 10: What is the net worth of your parents?
a. Under $100,000
b. Between $100,000 and $1,000,000
c. Between $1,000,000 and $100,000,000
d. I’m Scrooge McDuck I’m the love child of Elon Musk and Oprah Winfrey
Mostly D’s: My mom wants you to be her kid instead.
Mostly C’s: You don’t even need to be in this class, wow! A!
Mostly B’s: Good job, B at the lowest.
Mostly A’s: You’d barely get by with a C+
Answers:
AM I GAY YET?
How long have you been at college?
a. One month
b. Two months
c. Three months
d. Three months and eight days, or more
Mostly D’s: Yes.
Mostly C’s: Probably, unless you’re a late bloomer.
Mostly B’s: Maybe, if you’re an overachiever.
Mostly A’s: Only if you were gay before college.
Answers:
—S. Lee
—A. Garcia
I FOUND CHRIST AT WOADS
Until about a week ago, I wouldn’t have called myself religious. I worshiped only Kirkland-brand liquor, the Dow Jones, and my limited-edition golden effigy of Handsome Dan. My parents, though, their dream was for me to attend seminary school. When I got to Yale, my mother sobbed for hours because her “poor baby” was going to a “pagan institution.” How wrong she would turn out to be.
It happened at Woads — my Revelation. After a night of drinking, barfing, and washing it down by drinking again, I swayed in line, ready for more. I stumbled through the metal detectors and flashed my Western Australian fake ID at the bouncer. “Joeydingo Boomerang?” he grunted. “G-day, Mate,” I giggled as I slipped him a grenadinestained $2 bill. I was in.
Before Woads, I had snuck into St. Thomas More — the church by Pierson — to drink all the free liquor they had lying around. Those priests know how to party hard — cellars upon cellars of what they call Eucharist. I haven’t been able to find that brand since. So, when I reached the dance floor, I took out a bejeweled chalice I had pocketed and let the liquor flow like milk and honey. I had one drink, two drinks, a red drink, and a blue drink. Suddenly, my vision brightened from froggy green to holy white. Chappell Roan’s angelic voice blanketed my ears. The world began to spin, spin, spin.
Then, I saw Him.
He floated down, engulfed in a holy aura, dressed in a pristine white t-shirt and John Lennon spectacles. His wavy, surfer-dude hair frolicked as He gently lifted my weightless body off the ground.
“J-J-Jeebssus?” I gasped.
“Kyle, my child,” He replied, shaking me. “It’s me, your Froco. Are you having an alcohol emergency?”
“Praaaissse b-be,” I rejoiced, for I knew what He meant: You can find Christ in anyone. BLEEEEEGH.
SCRAPPED CAMP YALE PROGRAMS
By D. Kothari
The Bachelor / Bachelorette: Yale Edition
The perfect Camp Yale program for reality TV and romance lovers. Participating students maximize their chance of finding a (rich) companion to make memories (and money) with at Yale and later in life.
The OutdoorOEC Games
Over 300 bright-eyed Yalies make a trip to Yale’s Outdoor Education Center for a pleasant weekend of camping, kayaking, and picnicking. Unfortunately, only 3 return. They are now friends for life.
FOCUS
A program designed to engage current Yale students with the New Haven community through service, encouraging students to dissect the role of Yale University in greater New Haven. Students are encouraged to critique the role of Yale in the city to quell their guilty consciences, while benefiting entirely from the benefits the University leeches. They will like it here. They will like it. This program has been modified, not canceled.
—T. Harris
—M. Kohn
MY LAST CALL: ACTUALLY THIS TIME
Nary a fortnight ago, following a fleeting career as a one-woman, castañet-only band, I foreswore alcohol. Alas, even a stampede of offended flamenco dancers could not keep me from Woad’s hallowed hall. I sway rhythmless, shiftily avoiding eye contact with everyone whilst covertly stalking Cute Blinker of Econ 115. I thought one more President Busch Light might compel me to bat my eyelashes at him, thus demonstrating our undeniable compatibility. But, as I asymmetrically blink at the back of his head (left eye then right), sweating puddles, and then painfully blinking sweat from my eyes, I curse the pregame that brought me here. I chuckle to myself as I reach for the novelty Simpsons chalice and choke back tears as four-dollar vodka strips my throat of all flesh. I blink again, cheerfully noting that the alcohol lubricated my right eye, and I can now blink in unison. I scan the room till my recently mated gaze lands on the familiar back of a head. Eureka! I roll my coordinated peepers as I realize that I won’t attract Cute Blinker by appropriating his skill. I must make myself invaluable. I don my most professional smile, wipe my sopping palms on the back of an unsuspecting bouncer, and go to take my first step. I hath erred my first error. I lift-ith
my foot-ith and immediately careen-ith to the ground.
I land in incomprehensibly sticky Woads secretions, and realize that unfortunately, those wizened tolerance ophthalmologists were spot on with their warnings about unsynchronized nictation. I petition Sir Leeuwenhoek that when I come to my blinking remains harmonious, and in return vow never to drink again.
—S. Morfin
WHY I LICK THE BELLS
Listen up legacy kid, not everyone can afford those fancy-schmancy zinc supplements, okay? Gotta get your daily metals in somehow, and these ding-dong-bing-bongs are full of zinc, iron, phosphorus, and lead. No way am I gonna get suckered in by Yale Health’s “Basic Student Health Services” crap. All that dough for just a bout of anemia? A good morning licking’s all I need. Sluurrrrrrrpp.
—E. Chen
Ask Old Owl!
Dear Old Owl,
I saw the way she looked at me, criss-cross applesauce, and it certainly didn’t go unnoticed when we picked the same favorite fruit. What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic. You guessed it — I’m in love with my Froco, and I think the feeling is mutual.
Dear Owlet,
Hubba hubba. Brother, we’ve all been in your shoes — I will never forget my first cougar. Oh how she lounged by the poolside, hands peeking out of her tanning bed to throw ice at me, always worried about my “condition” on a hot summer day. We took Gatorade baths and Lady and the Tramped pool noodles until the August sun fell. She gave me my first cigarette, and we listened to Prince together while she complained about how the ice machine always seemed to be empty. But summer is fleeting, and she forgot about me as soon as her “real husband” came home from his nine-to-five doing “pediatric surgery.”Prince is dead. Love is ephemeral, and the good guy never gets the girl. Save yourself some trouble, keep things strictly physical.
Old Owl is an alcoholic, nicotine-addicted 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.
Dear Old Owl,
So the lanyard is cool, right? It’s my first day on Old Campus, it seems like everyone here wears them. Question is: how long does that last?
Dear Old Owl,
I’ve been having a hard time making friends. I dream of going to duty, but I’m worried people will think I’m weird if I show up alone. What should I do?
Dear Owlet,
A manly necklace is hard to find. I can’t tell you how many years I spent looking like Sarah Jessica Parker, all dolled up and sparkly, like a dressed-up hog the day after the fair. A lanyard makes a man feel like a real man, like a gentleman, or a janitor or something. It’s the intellectual’s accessory, for a lanyard can say so much about a man — his status, his proclivities, and how many keys he has. Never take it off. Never forget who you are — a distin guished virgin in a beautiful lanyard.
Dear Owlet,
A bird caged is like a life never lived. A bird hungry is like a life never born. The womb is comfortable, but the sky is vast. Much like the mighty cuckoo, if you want friends, you must lie, cheat, steal, and claim false parenthood. Nobody likes the guy who shows up to duty alone because he has no friends. Everyone is enamored with the guy who shows up to duty alone and takes a whole Papa John’s pizza “for his suite” because he’s “the only one who can hold his liquor” and “brother, those guys are on the floor.” Contrary to popular belief, Frocos feel underutilized, and appreciate it when you show up at 12:53 demanding 35 pancakes for “all the honeys who came back for afters.” The more obnoxious you are, the more your peers
