Vol. 140, No. 9
THE YALE
May 20, 2012
RECORD
Hey Seniors! Unsure of what to expect once you graduate from Yale? Don’t know what those slots in the machines at the laundromat are? Don’t know how to buy your own alcohol or condoms?
Bulldog Daze is an event designed to bring you back to Earth (the real one, that is) and to teach you how the world outside the Yale Bubble works. Bulldog Daze will be held in Brooklyn. As part of your orientation, transportation will not be provided or paid for. Take it from recent graduates:
g o d l l u B aze D “Imagine my shock when I learned that Dean’s Excuses were invalid outside of Yale! In fact, we don’t even have deans! Thanks to Bulldog Daze, I’ve been thoroughly disillusioned with the expectations of work facing me postgraduation.” - Dan Wilson, CC ‘09 “If it weren’t for Bulldog Daze, I never would’ve figured out how to cook my own food with a stove.”
“Bulldog Daze taught me several important lessons. Did you know that avowed homophobes and racists exist in the real world?” - Allison Cho, TD ‘07
“Did you know you have to pay for the bus? I did not. Nor did I attend Bulldog Daze.” - Maria Fitzgerald, DC ‘08
- Geoff Elliot, ES ‘10 How to eat without bursaring - dating - buying insurance - getting tested for STIs - driving a car that is not a Zipcar - fixing your computer without a student tech - being insulted and not complaining about it going to parties with clothes on - using light switches - paying money for world-class entertainment - being friends, but not on Facebook working for eight hours a day - using laundry detergent - buying a bed - meeting conservatives - using shorter words
Bulldog Daze will teach you all this and more, but mind that Bulldog Daze is limited to 500 participants. Your orientation will not include sustainable farming, culturally diverse foods, or bonding with people you just met while hiking through beautiful mountains, so leave the swimsuit and boots at home. Register by sending an e-mail to bulldog.daze@ yale.edu with your name, college, and phone number, and do so quickly; the deadline will not be extended, and you cannot register late and pay a nominal fee for doing so.
Breakfast is plain bagels, just like at real corporate meetings. No omelets or steel-cut oats.
Seating will consist of cold metal chairs.
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HANNUKAH INTRODUCES TWO NEW SPELLINGS Arr, scallywag, Walk the plank! That’s right, you heard me – that plank right there. What’s that? Aye, I know it’s just me first mate planking on the edge of the ship. We ran out of wood. How does he balance, you ask? Interesting que— AIEEEEE! I’ve fallen overboard! Arr, not again. Nautically nonsensical, Captain Redbeard Dear Caesar’s Palace, Yes, I’d like to book a room for three nights of nonstop remorse, jealousy and penny-pinching. We Buddhists need to let loose once in a while, and Sin City seems like—wait, you only deal in Christian sins? Fuck! Where am I supposed to vacation now? May you reincarnate as a dung beetle, Monk Chen
Dear housing broker, Thank you for your call regarding what kinds of amenities I’m looking for in an apartment next year. Honestly, I’ve only lived in dorms up until now, so I don’t really have a lot of necessities. Based on my college experience, though, I think it would be great to have an apartment with a few key furnishings, like a printing press, a loom, and two to sixteen treadmills. It would also be lovely if the building included a dance studio, a woodshop, and a theater that seats at least a hundred people. Most residential colleges at Yale have these facilities, and I honestly think they’re pretty essential. Sincerely, Angelo Dear Katy, I know you’re worried that I make you look like a nerdy loser. But can I be honest? I think you make me look like a loser. You and your ugly, pimply, headgear-endowed face. —Your glasses
GIGGLING, RED-EYED SOLDIER APPARENTLY MISINTERPRETED “FIGHTING THE WAR ON DRUGS” Dear tissue, You know, I’ve used your brother and sister tissues for a lot of things today. There was that time when I had to blow my nose, and that other time when I had a cut earlier and I was bleeding… I’m sorry that you weren’t one of those tissues. I really am. Because now you are the unluckiest tissue in the entire world. —A man downloading porn
DUMB BLONDE WALKS INTO A BAR, GETS SHOT SIX TIMES, DIES OF KIDNEY FAILURE
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Dear warm weather, Congratulations. You’ve got everyone else fooled. But I know what you’re really about. Someone has stuck the earth in a giant microwave, and it’s only a matter of time until we explode into hot pockets. Well, I sure as hell won’t be around for that cheesy goodness. To the spaceship! Sincerely, A man who started hallucinating in the middle of making hot pockets Dear AIDS Walk, I don’t get it—how did you convince everyone that a five to ten mile walk would help fight AIDS? I would appreciate any advice. —Alzheimer’s Potato Sack Race
EGYPTOLOGY BREAKTHROUGH REVEALS 40 PERCENT OF HIEROGLYPHICS TO BE SPAM RECRUITING GULLIBLE SLAVES FOR PYRAMID SCHEME Dear people who call me sexist because I don’t write female characters well, Relax, relax. I don’t write male characters well either. —Author whose protagonists are all hermaphrodites Dear Peter, There’s an elephant in the room I’m not sure how to talk about, but here goes: I’m leaving you if you don’t add a fourth ring to your circus. I need personal space! Free of pachyderms! Love, Sally Barnum
You: a kind, handsome man dealing with a nasty break-up. Me: bourbon.
Slimy, Satisfying, Copyrighted
The Yale Record
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Dear art student, Wow, you drew all those squiggles on your notepad in only a month? The repetitive dots all over the page make me think about life or something. You’re like, the next Van Gogh. Sincerely, Someone who wants to sleep with an art student
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Dear Hollywood, I got an idea for you: Car Talk: The Movie! Sincerely, Ira Glass
NIKE LAUNCHES NEW CONDOM LINE WITH AD SLOGAN: “HOTTIES: THEY’RE WHAT YOU DO” Dear Puerto Ricans, Every year I watch your Independence Day in awe. Can you advise me on how to obtain freedom from our overlords using Jennifer Lopez singles and rum? Sincerely, Tibet
Dear people who didn’t get that last joke, Listen to NPR, pedants. Yours, Ira Glass
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S
o, at last, we have come to this moment: my last Record editorial of the year. I thought my past would have caught up with me by now, but it seems the police never thought to look for me amidst a pile of hastily written “your mom” jokes and poorly fashioned literary puns. They’ll never find those children now. Joking aside, though, it’s with a heavy heart that I write this editorial. Coming into college, I never thought that I would become so attached to a discipline I had never attempted in high school, but the Record has come to define who I am—not just someone who still doesn’t know enough about current events, but someone who can now make jokes about them to cover up her ignorance. And I can assure you that there’s no crowd pleaser like a Moammar Gadhafi knock-knock joke. The Record has taught me a lot, and most of it hasn’t necessarily been about humor writing. Fittingly, this magazine espouses many of the most critical lessons that I have learned from Yale: Don’t take anything too seriously. Treasure those unexpected moments of hilarity and intimacy. A Harold Bloom joke saves any creative endeavor. Most importantly though, the Record has given me the chance to love and grow with an institution and
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a community to which I am both deeply indebted and attached. Ever since I joined the Record staff, I have been continually impressed by the talent and passion of its writers, artists, designers, and businesspeople. Even at Yale, it’s rare to be a part of a group that cares so much about its mission and its members. I’m lucky enough to have joined one that does, and that also buys lacy red underwear and self-tanner for Bulldog Days every year. So in the space that I have left, I would like to pay homage to some of the best memories I have of the Record. I’ve always strenuously avoided inside jokes in every editorial up until this one, but by the time everyone else reads this, I’ll have escaped across the border into the Real World, far away from editorial conventions and vengeful readers. So in no particular order, I’d like to toast to: the Pope game, stacks, the Sydney Shea Chronicles, makin’ memories, Happier Fun Time, Tanning Everyday All day, hooting, screeing, Twerking for Endangered Animals, That’s Enough Already, a baby inside a burrito, “but something funny,” licking our lips at Daniel, pineapple pizza, rich frosted holes, and yes, even the Saybrook dining hall. I will miss the Record dearly. Even now I can hear the strains of Alphaville’s “Forever Young” playing
in the background as I envision myself and Old Owl frolicking through a meadow, sprawling joyfully across the grass and gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. But the sadness of budding nostalgia is mitigated by the knowledge that I will be leaving the Record in excellent hands. Lincoln Sedlacek has already proven himself a superb Editor-in-Chief and a ruthless Straight Chicken player. Michelle Taylor puts the “James Merrill fangirl” in Chairman. And Publisher Jack Newsham has been stealing a brick a day from the YDN and selling them for cash on Amazon. I have no doubt that they, the Record Editorial Board, and the Record Staff will continue to make this magazine the incredible humor-writing and phallic-imagery-providing institution that it is. So here’s to the Record’s past, of which I am happily becoming a part, and to the Record’s future, into which I plan to sneak, mostly for the occasional free pizza. It’s been an incredible three years, everybody. Hoot hoot! —D. Zhu The Yale Record May 2012
Chairman: David Kemper ’13
Editor-in-Chief: Dana Zhu ’12 Publisher: Jerry Wang ’13 Design Editor: Sydney Shea ’14 Managing Editors: Alli Hugi ’13, Lincoln Sedlacek ’13, Michelle Taylor ’13 Art Director: Paul Robalino ’12 Online Editor: Jack Newsham ’14 Publicity Manager: Daniel Fraser II ’14 Staff Writers & Artists: Juliet deButts ’14, Aaron Gertler ’15, Ben Green ’14, Vic Hall ’15, Spencer Katz ’13, Yoonjoo Lee ’12, Mitchell Nobel ’13, Tiffany Pang ’12, Emily Sandford ’14, Zach Schloss ’15, Andrew Sobotka ’15, Ilana Strauss ’13, Ellen Su ’13, Autumn Von Plinsky ’13, Natey Weinstein ’14, Catherine White ’13, Sylvia Zhang ’15 Contributing Writers, Artists, & Designers: Nina Beizer ’12, Binh Hoang ’15, Jordy Greenblatt ’11, Mike Shear ’98, Ngozi Ukazu ’13, Maria Yagoda ’12
Special Thanks to: Michael Gerber, Gwyneth Tuckett, and Dana’s easily-bribed senior thesis advisor Cover: This month’s cover was illustrated by Yoonjoo Lee, who has been hiding her pet cassowary in Harkness since freshman year Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXL, No. 9, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.com/magazine • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2012 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: Chairman, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chairman@yalerecord.com. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.
GRADUATING FROM YALE A LITTLE LESS DUMB THAN WHEN I STARTED I didn’t stop writing backwards “S’s” until third grade. In fifth grade I was in the slow reading group and still played with Pokémon cards, daily. In seventh grade, I was eliminated from the spelling bee because, when given the word “snowshoe,” I spelled S-N-O-W-B-O-X. Just the other day, I learned that there is no “o” in “maneuvered” and that “colloquially” does not mean “formally.” For these reasons, along with the quantitative reasoning requirement, Yale was never an obvious fit for me. I never was the sort of person who felt comfortable using the word “juxtaposition” in conversation. Yet when I visited Yale, it felt right. People didn’t judge me for preferring the film version of Fight Club to the book because the film involved visuals of Brad Pitt’s body. They didn’t judge me for keeping the top button of my jeggings undone when I felt bloated, which was always. They didn’t judge me for thinking French philosophy was pretty awesome and vaguely relevant. I was deferred and then waitlisted to Yale, which means that I was the incoming freshman that the university was the most indifferent about. But I didn’t let this discourage me. That summer, I made a list of books I should read to make me smart enough. Things like Lolita, Crime and Punishment, and some poetry. I even toyed with the idea of teaching myself a language, maybe Yoruba. I never taught myself Yoruba or read the books (I was still sort of into Pokémon), but, fortunately, I didn’t need to. Because when I arrived at Yale, I found that most people also thought they weren’t smart enough, which was great,
because it allowed us to all move past the whole “smart” thing and do what we loved. Eat over-priced snacks from Durfee’s until we felt ill. Talk about Foucault at a party and not get drinks thrown at us. Post esoteric Facebook statuses and get at least a few likes. Run naked through a library throwing candy. You know, things we’d always dreamed of doing. But it still took a while to feel like I belonged amongst all these people who said things like “amongst.” I hadn’t had any books published. I hadn’t discovered a new protein, or even known what a protein was, outside of meat that I ate. I even got a bunch of B’s. The past four years have been full of crushing moments. All those times I found out that super cute guy in section was gay. All those times I got caught nibbling from the G-Heav buffet. All those times I fell asleep with a Wenzel on my face. All those times mice have started a life in my room and shat on everything I owned. I would do it all again, though: the mouse defecation, the little failures, the G-Heav nibbling fines. Because I became a person who believes that she might be smart, that it might not matter that she will never, ever use “juxtaposition” in a sentence. One night of my freshman year, I slept on a pew in Battell Chapel, to avoid getting shot by a water gun during a college-wide game of assassins. I believe it was this night, as I lay sprawled out on a cold and hard pew under some issues of the YDN for warmth, that I realized: “Hey, I might not be that smart, or have any weird talents, or even like Wenzels that much, but damnit, I belong here.” —M. Yagoda
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I’M SO GLAD I MAJORED IN ENGLISH I majored in English at Yale, even though everyone told me not to. I was told that literature was a dying artistic form. I was told that David Kastan does not love easily. And, of course, I was told that I wouldn’t find a job. Ignoring their advice, I majored in English. During my four years at Yale, I confirmed that literature is indeed a dying form, and David Kastan’s heart is a cold, cold icebox that I never managed to unthaw. But guess what, assholes. I found a job. Oh yes, I found a job. Eight hours a day, three days a week, I am the most hard-working, precise, and well-educated fry cook McDonald’s has ever seen. Well, that’s not actually true. The guy who works the shift before me was a music major at Princeton. But as I was saying, I regret nothing about my academic choices. Sure, McDonald’s was the only job I could find with a B.A. in English. But it is a job that lets me feel, on a daily basis, as though I am doing meaningful work. Good food is the cornerstone of a stable, prosperous society, because good food nourishes both the body and the soul. While McDonald’s food does neither of those things, it happens to be delicious. People like delicious things. And I, McDonald’s fry cook, give them that deliciousness.
Now, some of the haters who told me not to major in English have not been silenced by the fact that I did, in fact, find a job. They argue that my current job is a waste of my expensive Yale education. Simply put, they are wrong! They doth protest too much, methinks. As you can see, I regularly use the skills I learned as an English major. One such example is that I am able to incorporate Shakespeare and other famous literature quotes into everyday conversations. You know the joy you feel when you are given the perfect, delicious cheeseburger you ordered? Now imagine that the person who gave you that cheeseburger said, as he placed that beautiful sandwich into your hand, “How now, Horatio? You tremble and look pale. You might be anemic. Good thing you are about to eat this cheeseburger.” Or imagine ordering a fish filet. “My mother is a fish.” See what I did there? That was Faulkner. It might not necessarily make you enjoy your Filet-o-Fish sandwich more. In fact, you might enjoy it less. But souls do not feed on Filet-o-Fish. They feed on literature. You’re welcome. So, in short, I’m glad I was an English major. I like my job, I like my life, and I like sounding pretentious in completely inappropriate situations. I’ve got it all figured out. Well, almost. There is the fact that I’m rapidly declining into obesity. Those French fries are like crack. —N. Beizer
−Y. Lee
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HOW I SAVED AFRICA: A COLLEGE ADMISSIONS ESSAY
Why did I secretly use my parents’ MasterCard to buy a plane ticket to Lagos, Nigeria, instead of going to my senior prom? Simple, really. I had come to realize that most Americans wouldn’t care if Africa just vanished into thin air. The nerve! I may only be an intelligent, blonde, skinny, athletic, well-endowed girl in the one percent, but you can bet your bottom dollar (and for those in Africa, likely your only dollar) that I care more about Africa than my African-American neighbors! My goal? Saving Africa. My strategy? Give away my money (technically my parents’ money) to as many Africans as possible. By making small grants to individual Africans, I would be providing resources they could use to improve their small businesses. It was like microfinance, except they wouldn’t pay me back. I called it “microcharity.” But by the first night of my stay, I was practically in tears. I thought that everything in Africa would be cheap, especially for a rich American girl like me. How MTV lied to me! By the time I’d paid for my presidential suite, maid service, limousine, chauffeur, daily cheese platters, and hand-crafted African clothing, I was way over my allotted budget; I only had $20 left. After spending a few hours calming myself down with the entire box of luxury chocolates sitting on top of the minibar, I decided I would cut my losses and give the money to the first African I saw. It was a foolproof plan. The next morning, I walked outside for fresh air when an African woman approached me with a wagon full of coconuts. She asked in broken English if I wanted one. I told her I was allergic, and the woman began to wheel her wagon away. “Stop!” I shouted. I pulled out my $20 and put it in her hand. Just as I expected, she started dancing and hugging me, and told me her name was “Kubwa Nozi Mwanamke”—literally, “Big Coconut Woman” in Swahili. Chuckling, because everyone from home called me “Girl with Big Coconuts,” I chatted with her about my life in America—how hard it was being both my school’s star polo player and president of student council. Finally, I snapped an iPhone photo with her, Instagrammed it, and bid her adieu. On the flight back, I thought about the impact I had made on Africa that day and how I’d positively changed that poor woman’s life forever. According to fundamental
microfinance theory, her expanding coconut industry will not only put Africa on the path to being an economic superpower, but also provide Africa with sufficient funds to eradicate poverty and hunger—especially if Africans were to primarily eat coconuts. And that success will be my doing! To this day, I keep my picture with Big Coconut Woman framed above my bed, a reminder of how anyone who really cares can make a difference. I did it—I saved Africa. Next up: the Middle East! —B. Hoang
Pimp and Circumstance —S. Katz
OP-ED
OFF THE RECORD
Point, Counterpoint: Majoring in Economics POINT:
I should have majored in
Economics and made lots of money.
S
o, it turns out that, while taking an Art History course that focuses exclusively on brush strokes as indicators of veiled political sentiment in post-industrial Russia may provide analytical practice, employers don’t actually care when you write, “Expert on Slavik MinimalMaximumism,” on your resume. It turns out that they’d rather just have someone with actual skills and proficiencies or whatever. Knowing about Van Gogh’s brush stroke tendencies gets me a couple of polite nods at cocktail parties, but also a couple
“ It turns out that they’d rather just have someone with
COUNTERPOINT:
No, you were screwed either way.
F
our years of torture. Seriously, while all the English majors were Sparknoting Hamlet and all the art majors were finger-painting and calling it modern art, I was using my textbook as a pillow to get the information through osmosis and slipping pot brownies into HGS so my TA would forget to time my exams. You think I wanted to learn multivariable calculus? Hell no. I can’t stand math. I wanted to go to awesome house parties and maybe even kiss a girl or two. But I figured that if I could just suffer through a few years, I could go
“You think I wanted to learn multivariable calculus? Hell no. ”
actual skills and proficiencies or whatever.”
of strange looks at cocktail parties when I stuff the contents of an entire cheese plate into my pockets because I can’t afford to stock the fridge. When I was still an undergraduate, I always felt bad for Economics majors. I figured they were selling their souls to suffer through the best four years of their lives. But now, I get it. If I’d been an Economics major, I would have gotten a job right after graduating. I wouldn’t have to keep the rent low by sharing a tiny, single-bedroom apartment with a weird roommate who never talks.
Ilana Strauss Writes Point, Counterpoint
into finance, become a millionaire, and have, like, five beautiful wives. That’s right, five. I’d move to Utah – money wouldn’t be an issue. But now that I’m working in the “paradise” of midtown, I realize that while my office’s location on the 60th floor might be impressive, it kind of sucks for someone with a crippling fear of heights like me. And, honestly, I haven’t left the office in a few weeks, so I don’t know how those five wives are coming along. I’m still in debt, and I don’t even have any awesome college memories to show for it. And you know that weird roommate of yours? That’s me. I never talk because I caught you crying over Finding Nemo last week and I’ve been uncomfortable around you ever since.
could not only be the biggest cat found in your ceiling, but the most illiterate cat. Cats in ur ceiling, watching u do all sorts of weird things that you do not want a cat to see, are a huge problem today. They are sneaky, annoying, and
WHERE YOUR MAJOR WILL GET YOU… When you were little, your parents probably told you that you could be whatever you wanted to be when you grew up. My parents, on the other hand, told me I had the choice between flipping burgers and being a prostitute. This is a choice I’m still trying to make, but you, Mr. Seniorpants, are graduating. You’ve declared a major, and by golly you’re stuck with it, meaning your future career options are pretty limited. And you’re all about to become astronauts and paleontologists and cowboys just like you said in kindergarten…oh wait, that’s total baloney. Because there’s no bigger difference in the world than that between the job you want your major to get you and the job you’ll actually get. To help disillusion you, here’s a handy list of majors, the jobs you want to obtain with them, and where they will actually land you…
HISTORY Preferred Career: Running around like Indiana Jones, rescuing priceless historical artifacts and fighting Nazis! Actual Career: Poring over dusty old documents trying to figure out what species of leeks were grown in Sweden during the 1820s.
POLITICA L SCIENCE
Preferred Career: Becoming President of the United States, ending poverty and hunger, eliminating the national debt, and finally getting the Middle East to take a chill pill. Actual Career: If you’re lucky, becoming a representative whom nobody knows or cares about. If you’re unlucky, becoming a representative nobody cares about until they find out about his scandalous love affair. And if you have wealthy, well-connected parents, becoming the President of the United States who will be hated for a variety of sound and constructive reasons, ranging from “things are too expensive” to “Glenn Beck shouted something about you being a papist.”
ENG LISH
Preferred Career: Writing New York Times bestselling novels about finding true love in the wake of your father’s tragic death. Actual Career: Living in a box, editing law briefs in exchange for sandwiches.
MARINE BIO LOGY Preferred Career: Scuba diving through coral reefs filled with multi-colored schools of fish and open chests of sunken treasure. Actual Career: Examining thousands of nearly identical samples of blue-green algae.
THEA TER STUDIES Preferred Career: Acting as the lead in an award winning Broadway musical, like Cats, or Phantom of the Opera, or that one where everyone’s pissed off and swearing and one of the main characters dies of AIDS at the end. What’s that one called again? Oh, yeah: Annie. Actual Career: Barely scraping by with a part-time job as a high school drama teacher while you volunteer to direct your local church’s Christmas pageant every year, which usually ends with one of the wise men wetting himself.
LINGUISTICS
Preferred Career: Working in the FBI, breaking impossible codes and occasionally blowing a case wide open by realizing that the small word written in the margin of a letter between drug lords is Somali for “blackbird.” Actual Career: Teaching a 2nd grader how to speak without lisping his S’s.
PHILO SOPHY Preferred Career: Getting paid big bucks to have deep thoughts about Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. Actual Career: Getting paid jack squat to have deep thoughts about why employers keep laughing at your resume.
PRE-M ED ICINE Preferred Career: Saving the lives of countless individuals with intriguingly obscure House-plotline-worthy diseases. Actual Career: Going straight from Yale to medical school, where you will be treated to four years without sleep, friends, or respect as a brief reprieve before you begin working 120 hour weeks filling out endless piles of paperwork, because even though robots will have taken over all medical procedures, you’ll still have to record everything on paper.
—Written and Designed by L. Sedlacek
OUT OF OFFICE AUTOREPLY | By M. Shear, ‘98 | Designed by S. Shea Delete | Reply | Reply to All | View Thread | Add Attachment | Forward | Save as | Print From: Raymond Pringle, Director, Internal Sales Cc: Jennifer Perez, Vice-Director, Internal Sales Date: Monday, May 9, 9:15am Subject: Out of Office AutoReply I will be out of the office from Mon, 5/9 to Fri, 5/13. I will have no access to email, as I will be off in my new sailboat! Anchors aweigh! If you need immediate assistance, please contact my colleague Jennifer Perez. Sent from Ray’s NEW WHITE IPHONE 4!
From: Jennifer Perez, Vice-Director, Internal Sales Cc: Helen Jenkins, Internal Sales Associate Date: Monday, May 9, 9:16am Subject: Out of Office AutoReply Since my boss is on the high seas, I will be working a lighter than usual load this week, mostly from home, and partly from Las Vegas. While I'm out, you should try Helen, our recently promoted sales associate who I'm sure is going to do a super job! Make me proud, Helen!
From: Helen Jenkins, Internal Sales Associate Cc: Hank Rosenblum, Co-Internal Sales Associate Date: Monday, May 9, 9:17am ***Jennifer is feeling ;-) Subject: Out of Office AutoReply
Ugh. Feeling sick - likely keep me out of the office all week. Pls refer all q's 2 my new officemate Hank Rosenblum. From: Hank Rosenblum, Co-Internal Sales Associate Cc: Helen Jenkins, Internal Sales Associate Date: Monday, May 9, 9:18am Subject: Auto-Responder: Two Weeks Notice In light of recent staffing decisions, I have decided to take the next step in my career and leave the company. I will be cleaning out my office very slowly for the next two weeks. If you need any assistance, my new office mate Helen Jenkins can help you, even though she started as an intern last month. From: Raymond Pringle To: <Group-Internal Sales> Date: Monday, May 9, 6:30pm Subject: Re: Out of Office AutoReply
From: Jennifer Perez To: Helen Jenkins, Hank Rosenblum Date: Tuesday, May 10, 3:08am Subject: Whoopsie!
Information overload! End of day one, and mailbox is really loaded up! Won’t read anything until I’m back on land, but in the meantime, Jennifer hop on my computer and sort through some of these emails for me. Thanks Jen! Any issues involving Thursday’s sales call should be referred directly to Jennifer as well. Sent from Ray’s NEW WHITE IPHONE 4!
Oh Lordy! Who would have thought a guy on a boat would be checking email! Had a run of bad luck at the tables, and need to spend a lot of time at the slots to build my bankroll back up. Helen can run the Thursday sales call from home even if she has the flu. Make me proud, Helen! Also, Helen – you worked for Raymond for at least a few weeks before he promoted you, so do you happen to know his password? Maybe Hank can log in and clear up what’s going on. Jennifer is feeling :-S From: Helen Jenkins To: Jennifer Perez, Hank Rosenblum Date: Tuesday, May 10, 5:09pm Subject: Re: Whoopsie! It recently came 2 my attention that thr is sum confusion abt tasks while i'm home sick. Was able 2 touch base w/ Ray who said that Jennifer & Hank shld run the Thurs call tgthr. Also, Raymond’s password is rayandhelen69. Random! Sent from Ray’s NEW WHITE IPHONE 4!
Delete | Reply | Reply to All | View Thread | Add Attachment | Forward | Save as | Print From: Hank Rosenblum To: <Group--Internal Sales>, <Group-Human Resources> Date: Wednesday, May 11, 10:10am Subject: Auto-Responder: No Really, I Quit Please remove me from all lists relating to the Internal Sales team. Also, Raymond's wife thinks he's on a business trip this week. How odd. I've alerted Human Resources, who should be able to clear up this From: Human Resources Auto Responder confusion. Cc: Raymond Pringle Date: Wednesday, May 11, 10:11am Subject: Email Feedback Auto-Reply Thank you for your input regarding your safety, working conditions and/or overtime. We will refer this issue to your department head, Raymond Pringle, who will have an opportunity to handle it internally before we get involved. From: Raymond Pringle To: Jennifer Perez Date: Wednesday, May 11, 7:07pm Subject: Where are you? Are you in the office? Couldn’t reach you. Please handle Hank situation tomorrow. Sent from Ray’s NEW WHITE IPHONE 4! From: Helen Jenkins Cc: Jennifer Perez, Hank Rosenblum Date: Wednesday, May 11, 7:34pm Subject: Raymond Pringle Out of Communication Raymond cn no longer reply 2 emails as his iPhone fell off his boat. I was nowhere near the boat when ths happened. He just got me ths msg somehow. Wanted 2 pass it along. Still sick. (Cough) Sent from Ray’s NEW WHITE IPHONE 4! From: Jennifer Perez To: <Group-All Departments> Date: Thursday, May 12, 11:25pm Subject: FW: Raymond Pringle out of Communication Hank -- Helen seems preoccupied. Can you do the sales call by yourself? Also, anything interesting on Raymond’s computer? If you’re having trouble, maybe IT can help you. Jennifer is feeling :-O
From: Hank Rosenblum, Interim Director, Internal Sales To: <Group-Internal Sales> Date: Thursday, May 12, 3:09pm Subject: Sales Call minutes
From: IT Department To: Helen Jenkins Date: Thursday, May 12, 10:44am Subject: Awesome pics! Tell Raymond that putting doesn't mean it's deleted.
something
in
the
trash
This week's sales call was the most fun in a long time. The boys from IT joined in, and I think everyone learned a lot about our department. Raymond's wife even made a brief appearance! When Raymond hits land, tell him I'd love to see where he might fit in the new department. Jennifer can’t wait for you to get back next week. What a mess! And Helen -- Raymond might need to crash at your place. Is your apartment pet friendly? His wife put his dog up on Craigslist, but I think you can still snatch it if you hustle.
From: Helen Jenkins To: Hank Rosenblum Date: Thursday, May 12, 4:15pm Subject: Crazy week! U busy Saturday?
Dear Mr. Greenblatt, I regret to inform you tha t we have decided to hir for the position as a Ch e a different candidate inese-to-English translat or for the United Nations York. I know this proba in New bly comes as a disappoint ment, but based on your application, it should no t come as a surprise. Af ter closely reading your translation exercise, it is sample clear to us that you snuc k a Chinese menu into the testing center and, for ea ch term, wrote down the meal description of the that sounded the closest. item We even figured out tha By J. G t it was the menu from Ti Noodle on Canal and M reen ger ott.
Reject
ion Letter s
We still have your photo on file so please do not building or you may be try and enter the incarcerated for a durat ion of up to five years. You have , Dear Mr. Greenblatt
Design
blatt ’1 1 ed by S. She a
Sincerely,
“astrold apply for the position of cou u yo nk thi to u yo led David I am not entirely sure what assume that you meant t it does not exist. I would tha u yo ure ass I t bu , SA knight” here at NA alified), except that your and educationally underqu ly cal ysi ph are u yo ich wh evision “astronaut” (for d chivalry as well as the tel an es Ag le dd Mi the to s reference applications had numerous miniseries “Merlin.” to contact us will against you so any attempt er Dear Mr. G ord ng ini tra res a for d file reeFu nbrth latt erm , ore, we have t extent of be prosecuted to the fulles I am sorry to tell you that Mr. Sp There was no opening ielberg doe s not need p o s te d anywhere the letter fi a new assis rst. and of cou tant. rse, as his assistant, I re ad Needless to say, I did n irresponsib o t a p p reciate bein le dickwee g referred d” or “a la you insulte to as “an zy little bit d my Czec c h .” I a m h p a a n rt d ic Austrian h ularly offen spied on m eritage, an ded that e long eno d greatly d ugh to bec isturbed th ome aware at you of it. I have con tacted the FBI and if Mr. Spielbe you harass rg yourself me or try to , you will b ecome a ta get in touc rget of a fe h with deral inves tigation Regards, Dear Mr. Greenblatt,
Timothy A bernathy
Assistant to Steven Spi elberg
I am unable to offer you a position here at Pink Flowers Female Escort Service in Las Vegas. Even if the name of the service was not enough of a tip off, a quick look at our website or brochure would have revealed that we only hire women. Furthermore, as an escort service, we are not particularly looking for people with major intimacy issues and an irrational fear of human contact. In fact, I would venture to say that these are both prohibitive attributes in an escort. We keep a number of bulky guards and bouncers in the building so it would be a very bad idea for you to come back or we will have Ramón and Buzz take you to the cellar andtape your legs death.
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Graduated Cylinders
—S. Shea
NERD BECOMES BOSS, JOCKS AND FRAT BROS COWER IN FEAR Pandemonium struck Goldvine, Inc. Sunday morning when Yale alumnus Daniel Goldberg ’05 was officially promoted to CEO, sending many employees into a state of panic. Goldberg, whose Facebook page lists his interests as “robotics,” “Magic: The Gathering,” and “pimples,” was ecstatic to be promoted, claiming that his years of nerdiness and geekhood had finally paid off. “Yale was a rough four years for me,” he said, adjusting his pants to soothe the chronic groin pain he experiences as the result of an especially vicious wedgie from his freshman September. “I wasn’t necessarily the most popular guy. In fact, I may have been the least popular. It was worse than high school. In high school, I was just stuffed into lockers. At Yale, my friends would tie me to the top of Harkness before they started ringing the bells. I could never get into parties. Oh, and Toad’s paid me not to show up on Wednesdays. Is that how it usually works?” Many employees—especially Goldberg’s former Yale classmates—reacted in fear to the news of Goldberg’s assumption of absolute power within the company. “I’m fucking terrified,” said Luke Thomas ’05, former Yale starting point guard and Sigma Chi brother, from the fetal position he had assumed under his desk. “Not that Moldberg...I mean Goldberg...won’t do a great job. It’s just...err...uhh...he’ll do great. I mean he’s a great guy. I’m
sorry for everything! I mean, not that I did anything…shit, let him know he’s welcome at the frat now if he wants. Not that he wasn’t before—it’s just—FUCK.” Other employees shared similar sentiments. “Look, honestly, it was never my idea to bully the poor twerp—I mean, CEO,” said Ryan Slepko ’04, former Yale starting quarterback and treasurer of Delta Kappa Epsilon. I mean maybe the swirlies were my idea, but those were all in good fun, right? No hard feelings?” Goldberg, however, claimed that his college years are behind him, and that he will hold no grudges in his new position. Still, his implementation of a “Wet Willy of the Month” program drew criticism from Goldvine’s puzzled Board of Directors. But while the company’s beta males are taking cold showers to prepare for the painful payback they anticipate, other employees have responded quite differently. Receptionist Kelly Watson ’04 explained that now that Goldberg is the highest-paid man in the company, she hoped to “get on him” and “tap that.” “Look, I think everyone is just really overreacting. I’m just glad to be promoted, and that has nothing to do with my former college peers who work here,” explained Goldberg, collecting a fresh batch of “Kick Me” signs from his personal printer. “Do I still resent them? No, of course not. That would be juvenile. Now please excuse me. I have some firings and titty twisters to attend to.” —Z. Schloss SUPERLATIVES IT’S BETTER NOT TO SEE WITH YOUR NAME Most Average Least Likely to Succeed Moistest “Smallest” Frat Bro Most Conductive Biggest Sellout The Deadliest Catch Most “Phlegmboyant” Least Conversational Second-Best All Around Most Likely to Write Thrilling Articles about Other People’s Success Worst —L. Sedlacek
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YALE BUCKET LIST Eat an entire pan of magic bars Ride the Peabody Museum’s triceratops Get mistaken for a law student Fill a hole in your residential college’s courtyard with dirt from your rival college Fill a hole in your rival college’s courtyard with landmines and shrapnel Go to section sober Hand in the pages of your senior thesis (in order) Kidnap the entire Harvard football team so that Yale will finally win the Game (7-3) Complete the infamous residential college buttery crawl Lose all of the weight from the infamous residential college buttery crawl Come out as a straight male Eat whatever your belief system forbids you (the Record recommends G-Heav’s famous Cheesy Beef-‘n’Bacon Wenzel with Blood Sauce, cooked over an American flag) Make the front page of the YDN (preferably with a headline including the phrases “honored for,” “esteemed professor,” and “squirrel sodomy”) —Staff
WAYS TO COPE WITH THE ABSENCE OF YALE’S HOOKUP CULTURE Become a bartender at Toad’s Grind up on strangers Hire a prostitute Masturbate – more than usual, I mean Refuse to move out of your frat house Become a prostitute Grind up on stop signs Sneak into Safety Dance every year Work in a department store and fall for a mannequin; she can’t talk, but her eyes say yes Fall in love Become celibate Go to grad school at Quinnipiac University —Z. Schloss
USES FOR YOUR SENIOR THESIS AFTER GRADUATION Graduation party confetti Hamster cage liner Toilet paper Turn it into [Title of Your Senior Thesis]: The Musical! Piñata! Phone Walden Peer Counseling and read them the whole thing Inflict a painful death of 1000 paper cuts upon that architecture TA you always hated Sell the movie rights Write the much-anticipated sequel that fails to live up to expectations Save it to hit muggers when you’re a grad student walking alone at night in New Haven Prop up a wobbly table Fact-check it “Let me guess, you lived on-campus all four years.”
−Y. Lee
—Staff
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ININTHE THEHEART HEARTOFOFYALE; YALE;NOW NOWDELIVERING DELIVERINGININTHE THECHAPEL CHAPELAREA! AREA! CHINESE ROLLER COASTER ADMITS ONE CHILD ONLY Dear senior thesis, You thought you’d be the most pressing issue afflicting the class of 2012, didn’t you? The only one disrupting the lives of so many, the only serious problem that persists throughout the year? Well, think again. —Day drinking, weekday drinking, drinking before section, and running out of alcohol Dear Bedknobs and Broomsticks, From your title, I gather that you are either a delightful movie for children or a really kinky porno. I hope it’s the latter. About to watch you with my three kids, Bill Garner
Dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, I really hope you don’t open this letter and read it. That would be really awkward, seeing as this is an order for your executions. But as long as you give it to England without looking at it yourselves first, everything will be fine. And if you guys do sneak a peek, could you please go ahead and tell England to behead you anyway? —Claudius, King of Denmark, and most definitely not actually Hamlet just pretending to be Claudius
RISE OF E-BOOKS LEAVES NATION’S SEXY LIBRARIANS IGNORED, BEGGING FOR IT Dear everyone, We’ve seen you naked.
Sincerely, Obstetricians United
Dear cute girl sitting on bench, Hey, you want to get coffee sometime? Sincerely, Guy who says the things I only think to myself while pretending to be listening to my iPod
TERRORIST JUST AS FRUSTRATED AS EVERYONE ELSE ABOUT LAYOVER IN CLEVELAND Dear Jesus, If you didn’t want me to giggle in church, you shouldn’t have loaded “The Apostle’s Creed” with so many references to Garfield the cat. —A man who, due to the peyote, has confused “The Apostle’s Creed” with the Sunday comics
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T he Y ale R ecord Dear Indian style, You think you’re a great way to sit? All you’re doing is crossing your legs! Let me teach you, and I can enlighten you in the ways of doing much greater things. —Missionary style
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Lost: suitcase containing a small nuclear warhead. If found, please call 618-2921384.
Dear end of college wistfulness, I can’t believe this is it. It seems like yesterday I was moving furniture into an empty room in Bingham like Phoebe in that episode of Friends where she tries to move in with her boyfriend Mike. But now it’s like the series finale of Boy Meets World when Mr. Feeny stands alone in a classroom and says, “Class dismissed,” quietly to himself. I don’t think I’m ready to enter the real world like Sabrina and her college friends did in Sabrina the Teenage Witch. —A guy who just discovered Netflix Watch Instantly and is feeling a little insecure in his masculinity after admitting that those were the shows he used to watch
THE OLDEST
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CRONIES DECRY NEGATIVE MEDIA PORTRAYAL Dear Kacy, When I told you I wanted exotic male dancers with “total anacondas” for the bachelorette party, I was thinking more along the lines of some hunky, wellendowed French strippers. I was not thinking of (admittedly sexy) Brazilian men with actual anacondas from the Amazon River Basin. And now, after seeing all the fatal snake bites, crushed ribcages, and pools of blood last night, I have to ask you: Did you really think that was what I meant? —Jeanette
NUDIST WITH ASSAULT RIFLE GOES COMMANDO IN TWO WAYS AT ONCE
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UNPUBLISHED AUSTEN MANUSCRIPT DISCOVERED, SCHOLARS SKEPTICAL OF DIGNITY AND DOUCHEBAGS’S AUTHENTICITY Dear Janice, Yeah, I know this game. I say, “Hey Janice, when’s the baby due?” and then you say, “What baby?” and pretend that you’re not pregnant. Then you spend the next five minutes making me feel guilty before finally laughing in my face and telling me you were just kidding all along. Well guess what? I’m one step ahead of you. I checked with your doctor before coming to this party and I know for a fact that YOU’RE NOT PREGNANT. So, without further ado… “Hey Janice, you’re fat!” —Trey Dear Professor García, Ha HA! This semester is OVER! Remember those times you told me to work more on my diction? Remember that C+ I got on my first quiz? Well, FUCK YOU! —A Spanish student who has forgotten that he has to meet his professor for an oral exam later that week
Dear Professor Pfeifer, You don’t know me, but I’m a senior in your New Testament lecture. This week is my last week of classes ever at Yale, and your class is the last one I’ll be attending, so I’d really like to make it a memorable experience that sums up how I feel about the entirety of my Yale education. So you should know that I’ll be showing up wearing a wet suit, a coconut bra and an oversized stethoscope. I’ll also be simultaneously playing the vuvuzela and an accordion. While singing the South African national anthem. Best, Dana
REPUBLICANS ANGERED THAT OBAMA WANTS TO IMPINGE UPON THEIR RIGHT TO CONTROL EVERYONE ELSE’S MARRIAGE PRACTICES
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DIARY OF A DISILLUSIONED ETHICS, POLITICS AND ECONOMICS MAJOR
October 17, 2011 They told me that I could have it all—I did not need to decide between my undying love of both the Leviathan and utility curves, nor my passions for the categorical imperative and Electoral College system. As soon as I was accepted into this highly competitive major (indeed, the hardest to get into at Yale), I knew that I was set. All of us EP&E majors would meet thrice a week in the TD dining hall to reminisce about our days in DS, dissect James Joyce’s use of punctuation in Ulysses, and bask in the glow of the admiring (and yes, a little jealous) glances thrown at us from all of the lesser students in the room. Life would be as good as it could be in a world built upon such a perilous state of nature as that which we have inherited. What they did not tell me was that no employer outside of Yale has any idea what the hell EP&E stands for, nor do they appreciate my status as a member of the most exclusive major at Yale. Goldman Sachs told me, via email no less, that “this skill set does not demonstrably meet those needed for the most entry level position at this firm, or McDonalds” and Morgan Stanley suggested that I “take a couple of 100 level classes in basic business management at a local community college before wasting any more of our time.” TFA informed me that I had not spent enough time teaching English to girls in underdeveloped countries to merit the honor of filling out an application, although if I wanted to build my resume, they were willing to find me a position in a hostile war zone. The Trump/Palin and Obama/Biden campaigns both told me that I had to hone my Photoshop skills if I wanted to blackmail them into giving me an unpaid summer internship with pictures of me and their vice presidential candidates in compromising situations. I was perplexed by the responses I received from these clearly state school “educated” individuals, but luckily I had a silver bullet: I sent my applications to Harvard, Yale and Stanford grad schools, condescending to waste time applying to Princeton as a safety. My three top choices asked me to explain to them how my pastiche of random classes constituted a major before they would honor my alleged B.A. Princeton said they would accept me on the condition that I sacrificed a puppy, bought the President’s daughter a unicorn, and donated the money to construct a 50-foot tall statue of Woodrow Wilson on their central campus. Imagine! I deign to apply to Princeton, and they expect me to jump through hoops. But have no fear: I have emerged unscathed even from the Sisyphean hardships I’ve been made to endure since graduation. Bikram yoga, Martha Stewart and Meatloaf have all been empowering me to take control of my life and move forward from these humiliating rejections. I went to Yale—I can do anything. Everyone must want me and my “overly broad, unspecific and pretentious” skill set (Stanford’s words, and with that kind of compliment, I was truly confused that they so summarily rejected me). Anyway, Uncle Madoff has promised me that as soon as his promotion goes through, he’ll get me a great job making copies of important documents for Congressman Ferrance. For now, I’m just going to enjoy dinner— Mom says that it’s macaroni night!
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