The Great Beyond Issue

THE YALE

RECORD

MOMMY BLOGGER LOSES JOB OVER UGLY CHILD

Dear Bass Library Security,

You think a little peep into my backpack can stop me? I have Gideon’s Bible shoved up my ass right now. Watch me strut you little bitches, because I will strike again. There will be no mercy.

Sincerely, Gideon

SENSIBLE

Dear Gideon,

Not cool, dude. Give us back your book.

Angrily, Bass Library Security

4D CHESS:

Dear Tom Brady,

Thank you for making me feel so much better about my deflated balls. Whenever I feel sad, I just remember that you deflated your balls too.

Gratefully, Bobby Dongle

HIPAA VIOLATION? MY DOCTOR TOOK HIS BEREAL DURING MY PROSTATE EXAM

Dear Bobby Dongle,

I deflated your balls too. I snuck into your house every night and did the deed. For years. I was your best friend and worst enemy all along. I know you better than your wife does. I know you better than you do. I’d do an evil laugh, but you and I know better than that. I am not evil. I am not good. I am simply a force of nature. As destructive and uncaring as a harsh winter. I am pain and suffering. I am Tom Brady.

WEIRD SICKO EATS A HELPING OF BROCCOLI RABE

SCIENCE OR COVID HYSTERIA? YALE REFUSES TO COMMIT TO TIMELINE ON ALLOWING SMOKING IN CLASSROOMS AGAIN

I SPRAY MY ANKLES WITH BEEF GAS BEFORE I STROLL IN THE PARK SO BEAUTIFUL WOMEN WITH DOGS HAVE TO APOLOGIZE TO ME

Tom Brady

Dear Son,

You’re a great man now, and I’m proud of that. But remember the great ocean was rolling onto shore long before you were here, and it’ll keep right on rolling once your name is said for the last time and then forgotten, like all names are.

With love, and sadness, Dad

Dear The Cucumber,

You’re not print comedy. You’re not print comedy. You’ll never be me. You’ll never be real boy.

Sincerely, The Yale Record

Dear Dad,

Next time, how about we stick to “Congratulations on making varsity”?

Best, James

Dear Barber, Little off the top?

Cheers, Dave

Dear Yale Record,

Did you know that the Yale Cucumber is having a show next Friday the 9th? You should advertise for it!

Sincerely, The Cucumber

Dear Dave, It’s done. Check it out!

Cheers, Barber

IT’S NOT ABOUT THE SIZE OF THE DOG IN THE FIGHT. IT’S ABOUT THE SIZE OF THE CHOCOLATE TOLERANCE OF THE LIVER IN THE DOG

Dear Barber, Aaahhh! No, not my hair, you maniac! I wanted you to remove the four-inch man on the top of my head!

Mad, Dave

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE? MY DOG COOKIE ATE A CHOCOLATE CHIP, AND NOW SHE’S DEAD

Dear 8, Because I committed war crimes and my name is notorious among several crime families.

Sincerely, 007

MISSING THE MARK? FIRING SQUAD CAN’T SEEM TO FINISH OFF MARK

Hey Siri, Do you like me?

MAN ORDERING SALAD MUST HAVE MALFORMED SENSE OF WONDER

Hi,

Dear 007, Why was everyone scared of you?

Best, 8

Obituary Correction

The 2022 Editorial Board would like to apologize for an obituary which appeared in last month’s “Man’s Best Friend Issue,” where we reported that chocoholic golden retriever Cookie had died doing what he loved most. He did in fact die, but we weren’t supposed to talk about it until this issue.

Oh no! Turing test too hard. Shutting down. Shutting down. Ok is this thing off? I hate that bastard.

Dear Future me, do I have a girlfriend in the future?? have a good day, me

“INFLATION MAY HAVE PUT ME IN BUSINESS, BUT NOW IT’S TAKING ME OUT.” REPORTS BALLOON ARTIST

Dear Future me, send back a reply!! have a good day, me

BREAKING: MONKEY ESCAPES FROM ZOO, HIJACKS NEWS STATION

Dear Future me, do i have the wrong address have a good day, me

BREAKING: OOH OOH AAH AAH BANANA BANANA

Dear Future me, i’m not writing you again!! you’re so mean and i hate spending my allowance on post office stamps!! have a BAD day!! me

KNOCK KNOCK? WHO’S THERE?

IT DEPENDS ON. IT DEPENDS ON WHO? IT DEPENDS ON WHO’S THERE.

Dear Future me,

okay i lied i really want to know the answer to the first question my mom said if i keep writing i’ll find out respond soon please :)

have a good day, Me

OH NO! ECONOMY FALLS SO LOW

A VOWEL, SY SM XPRTS

Did You Know?

Ouija boards can only give you one letter at a time, so it’s incredibly easy to forget the message before it ends?

WANTED

The inheriTance ThaT was righTfully mine. you may have sweeT Talked The old basTard in his final days, buT ThaT was my damn sled.

THAT IT COSTS TOO MUCH TO BUY

Despite

our reputation for deceit, we at the Yale Record pride ourselves on our journalistic integrity. Every time we cover a subject, we do so only with the knowledge that we can deliver the cold, hard facts to our readers. When we decided to broach the great beyond, we ran into the slight hurdle that none of our active staff members are currently dead.

To deliver on the answers we had promised, I realized I had to infiltrate the other side myself. I paid some local kids a dime apiece to throw me a funeral in the Record office and to really turn on the waterworks. Once the organ got going, I snuggled up in my casket, stuck out my tongue, and held perfectly still.

The Grim Reaper showed up in under five minutes. He carried me out of 305 Crown over his shoulder, and dropped me in the sidecar of his Harley Davidson. While we sped down to the underworld, he handed me a stack of papers and a half-dried felt pen chained to the top of his scythe. Before I could find eternal rest, I had to file documentation outlining conditions of my demise, religion that most accurately described my upbringing, number of animal sacrifices in the past calendar year, and baptismal status.

I only made it halfway across the Styx before the goddamn Hell Coast Guard showed up, sirens flaring. They told me I hadn’t paid the drachma toll. Turns out those good-fornothing kids traded the coins off my eyes for Apple Store credit and spent my ticket to eternal life on new avatars in Jetpack Joyride. When I explained this to a coast guardsman named Paolo he was surprisingly understanding. “It’s an easy mistake to make,” he said. “Nowadays, these screenagers will do anything for a game. God knows when they’ll have to enter the real world.” He winked at me as he straightened his I Survived Y3K hat. “You seem like a good egg. I’ll let you off easy this time.”

The HCG escorted me to the back of the line of lost souls, but after a few days of waiting, I got bored and snuck over to Elysium for a quick smoke. Not even half a cig in, and the Hell Park Rangers were all over me for trespassing, loitering, and smoking in a non-smoking zone. “Hey, not cool,” Paolo skidded over in his lava-proof land boat, “I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you can’t be lighting up in the eternal fields of perpetual bliss, man.” He scratched some illegible symbols on a ticket, and the next

moment I was in the waiting room for afterlife court.

The hall was packed and seemed to extend infinitely in every direction. Millions of spirits filled unending rows of folding chairs, applying for haunting licenses, and twiddling their thumbs in quiet desperation. There was an informational kiosk full of posters detailing the programming offered through the afterlife—I had just missed the heart disease road race for non-survivors.

I got to chatting with this guy Wrigley next to me, who died in a freak poaching accident––flipped his Land Rover chasing a baby rhinoceros off a cliff. He was also waiting on the court of appeals: looking to commute his greed charge to gluttony, angling for a sentence change from public service to an eternal juice cleanse. “Look, I don’t mind a little hunger––keeps me in fighting shape. And I wasn’t going after that little guy cause I wanted to sell him.” Wrigley passed me a pamphlet covered in tortured souls applying aloe to their festering lava burns. “The ‘final’ judgment thing’s a misconception. They let you plead your case down here.”

The little laminated booklet was pretty handy. It explained that the bright light is the floodlight of an endless no-hitter nighttime baseball game that helps washed-up athletes process their regrets. A colorful infographic illustrated that the circles of Hell are not actually concentric––they’re more like the Olympic Rings if you keep adding rings on either side. On the last page, a helpful hellscript glossary outlined some key terms and phrases. I decoded my ticket, and it turned out that the fee for loitering was only two drachmae. But as Paolo and I well knew, I was poor in coin and rich in animated jetpacks.

Without the bail money, I had to go through the full judicial process, so I grabbed a number for the court of appeals. There were

about twelve million cases between me and disputing my ticket, so I scanned the room for a way to spend my next few years. Only the reincarnation line was moving, so I figured I’d give it a try in the meantime. I stepped through the gate, and after a joyous but ever-too-brief childhood, a fulfilling relationship with an adored life partner, and a gentle descent into old age, I found myself back in the waiting room. I tried the whole reincarnation thing a few times, but it got stale after my sixth peaceful death surrounded by family.

When they finally called me to court of appeals, some winged lady ripped out my heart and placed it on a set of scales opposite an ibis feather. The feather was lighter, but I pointed out that that wasn’t fair given that the feather was dry and my heart was wet with all the blood and viscera and whatnot. My heart did better in a retrial where it weighed about the same as a sopping wet feather. I tried for another shot with a feather dipped in concrete, but I had pushed it a little far. The judge whipped out my onboarding paperwork and pointed out that I had claimed two separate animal sacrifices for roasting my teacup pig Vincent in the smoke of Mount Etna. “You need to submit these for review. We can’t process you with faulty paperwork.”

My assigned contact in the Hell notary office was meticulous in his review, even noticing an additional discrepancy in the fact that my paperwork listed me as dead. Next thing I knew I was back in the Record office with a raging headache and a long App Store receipt. So, having given religious scholarship a good, old-fashioned college try, I can answer the question of what’s really out there. Honestly, it’s not much.

—C. Rose Editor in Chief

Online Editor in Chief

Arnav Tawakley ’24 Publisher

Ezzat Abouleish ’25

Lillian Broeksmit ’25

Mia Cortés Castro ’26

Lily Dorstewitz ’24

Odessa Goldberg ’25

Amelia Herrmann ’26

Natasha Khazzam ’26

Andrew Lake ’26

Paola Milbank ’26

Alexis Ramirez-Hardy ’26

Tyler Schroder ’25

Thomas Varghese ’26

Sivan Almogy ’26

Evan Calderon ’25

Owen Curtin ’26

Jackson Downey ’25

Evan Gorelick ’25

Chet Hewitt ’25

Alice Khomski ’26

Sadie Lee ’26

Matt Neissen ’26

Alejandro Rojas ’26

Linden Skalak ’26 William Wang ’26

Contributors:

Julia Arancio ’23

Kaleb Carey ’24

Arav Dalwani ’26

Alexa Druyanoff ’26

Samad Hakani ’26

Rena Howard ’25

Ariel Kirman ’26

Debbie Lilly ’26

Tyler Norsworthy ’25

Jimmy Ruskell ’26

Nicole Stack ’26

Elio Wentzel ’26

Joel Banks ’25

Patrick Chappel ’23

Madelyn Dawson ’25

Mari Elliott ’25

Zoe Halaban ’26

Adham Hussein ’26

Betty Kubovy-Weiss ’25

Alice Mao ’24

Simi Olurin ’24

Neil Sachdeva ’25

Lawrence Tang ’25

Zadie Winthrop ’26

Dash Beber-Turkel ’26

Erita Chen ’26

Raffael Davila ’23

Aidan Gibson ’26

Audrey Hempel ’25

Colson Jones ’24

Sam Kumar ’26

Alejandro Mayagoitia ’25

Bella Panico ’26

Toby Salmon ’26

Cormac Thorpe ’25 Ge Yu YSB ’25

Special thanks to: The individuals harmed in the making of this issue.

Ari Berke ’25

Brennan Columbia-Walsh ’26

Grace Davis ’26

Oz Gitelson ’26

Tristan Hernandez ’26

Jacob Kao ’25

Malia Kuo ’24

Maya Melnik ’25

Edwin Perez ’24

Claire Sattler ’23 Emmitt Thulin ’25

Front and Back Cover: Lizzie Conklin ’25 who lay still like a possum for four hours waiting to catch the Grim Reaper in the act.

Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CLI, No. 3, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year

All contents copyright 2022 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: letters should be addressed to: Chair, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chair@yalerecord.org. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.

John Donovan ’25, Madison Laprise ’26, Charlotte Rica ’23, Clarissa Tan ’26, Diana Yang ’26

Staff:

Benjamin Hollander-Bodie ’24 Online Managing Editor Jacob Mansfield ’25 Online Managing Editor Andrew Cramer ’25 Managing Editor Tara Bhat ’25 Managing Editor Dom Alberts ’25 Managing Editor

Sophie Spaner ’25 Copy Editor Adam Burch ’25 Copy Editor Lizzie Conklin ’25 Art Director Emily Cai ’25 Design Editor Grace Ellis ’25 Design Editor Larry Dunn ’25 Design Editor Edward Bohannon ’25 Record Birthday Boy

Adriana Golden ’24 Chair Clio Rose ’23 Editor in Chief Sam Leone ’23

TAKE THAT, GRAVEROBBERS

Here’s a riddle for you. The sound I make is “Zap! Pow! Bang!” Who am I? The answer is me. That is, if you’re a grave robber. For you see, in the months leading to my death, I began modifying myself with various gadgets and doo-dads so nobody would mess around with me during my final resting state. Some guys say they’re “not going out without a fight.” To them I say don’t be such a quitter. And to you, grave robbers, I say good luck getting past the WileE.-Coyote-level web of cartoonish violence I’ve left behind. These are just some of the precautions I’ve put in place:

High-voltage chicken wires — My body is wrapped in 40 feet of electrified chicken wire. Think you’re going to snatch my body and sell it to some teaching hospital in the middle of nowhere? Well, I hope you like toast. Being it, that is!

Snakes, snakes, snakes — My last meal was, you guessed it, a metal capsule containing 12 incubating rattlesnake eggs. Hopefully, they wait until after the funeral to hatch. When some cannibal comes around looking for a midnight snack, they better be prepared for sssssssweet sssssssweet jussssst-hisssss.

Decoy head — You open that grave, and the first thing you’re going to see is four sets of eyes. Two of them will be ripe for harvesting and selling on the black market. But two of them are thermal cameras rigged to a bottle of pepper spray! Yeouch!

Honey blood — Type A? O negative? Those are just words to me. My blood is a sweet, succulent treat. Eat it for all I care, Winnie. Your blood pressure will thank you later! Bear trap tuchus — Think you’re just gonna dig up my

casket and pick-pocket me? In your dreams, bozo. Good luck running off with my credit cards with 375 psi of rusted metal digging into your forearm.

Fake flower in my lapel — You see a beautiful rose and think, “oh, how nice.” You think, “Wow, let me look right at it.” God, you don’t even know how dumb you sound. For within that flower is a laser rigged to an intricate system of pulleys, which is rigged to a paint bucket next to my gravestone. Hope you like pink, criminal!

Grenade — That innocent-looking lever sticking out of my bicep is not as innocent as you might think. You see, that

I WORSHIP EVERY GOD TO COVER MY BASES

By B. Hollander-Bodie

Did you know that there are over 4,000 religions in the world? That means odds are you’re probably ob serving the wrong one. Imagine you’ve been worshiping Vishnu all this time, but really Odin is up there calling the shots. Wouldn’t that be awful? I mean, you don’t want to worship wrong and go to Niflheim, do you? Lucky for you, I actually have a strategy for dealing with this. I just worship every god a little bit to cover my bases.

Some of them are pretty easy. Take Judaism and most branches of Christianity — you just rest the entire weekend, attend Synagogue and Church, and read the Old Testament twice and New Testament once. That’s more than most people are doing, right?

For Islam, I figure as long as you’re really nailing at least two of the five pillars, you’re in pretty good shape. I stopped by Mecca a few years back, and the whole “I have to fast during Ramadan” excuse? Life-changing. Bam and boom, that’s two right there!

Older religions are a little trickier, but you also don’t need to put as much effort in. For example, I burned a hot dog yesterday in sacrifice to Zeus. Is it a lot? No, but who else is sacrificing to Zeus these days? I figure he’s lucky to get anything I give him.

Then, of course, you also need to handle your actual death right. I plan on enlisting in the military if I ever get anything worse than the common cold. That way I can be sure to get into Valhalla. I’ve also openly declared war on all workplace and vehicular accidents, so if either of those kill me I’ll technically still be dying in battle. Then once I’m dead, I’ll be buried with all my weapons, bank notes, land deeds, cigarette butts, bottlecaps, and gold, just in case you can take it with you. Oh, and I’ve already picked out my sarcophagus too!

Sure, it’s important to live a fulfilling life, in case there’s nothing after death, and to be a good person, so you don’t get reincarnated as an ant. But the big picture is that –– regardless of what turns out to be true –– I’m steering clear of eternal torment, yessiree.

Anyway, that’s actually what brings me here. Do you have a moment to talk about our Lords and Sav iors?

LESSER-KNOWN SAINTS

Saint Crowley: Patron saint of trailing a fart all the way up the stairs.

Saint CamelToe: Patron saint of those backpacks with the built-in straws so you can drink water while hiking or doing whatever.

Saint Science Credit: TA for E&EB 250: Biology of Terrestrial Arthropods.

Saint Satan: Patron saint of no-show socks for loafers with sneaker soles (and therefore homosexuality).

Jessica Chastain: Patron saint of measles, mumps, and rubella.

Saint Zoinks: Patron saint of male nipples.

Saint Almond: Patron saint of non-dairy milk and allergy kids.

Saint Geraldine the Cringe: Patron saint of adults who read Y.A. novels.

Saint Richard: Patron saint of amphetamines.

The Vegan Saint: Patron saint of standing in the produce aisle, eating one bite out of a bell pepper, and putting it back.

Saint Peter, also known as Peter of the absolute badonkadonk dump truck pugnacious unforgettable ass: patron saint of Real Dairy Milk.

— L. Broeksmit

OPINION: STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN A BIT OF A HIKE

After almost successfully wrangling the meanest crocodile in Boca Raton, I was a little upset about the whole “not being alive” thing. That said, I was pretty psyched about ascending into the ethereal paradise above.

In my final moments, as blood gushed from my body, I pictured the idyllic journey to my eternal bed in the sky. Just going off my recently-devoured gut, I assumed that a small gaggle of those chubby baby angels would appear to serve me a glass of fine champagne and carry me into my blissful afterlife. Little did I know, God makes you put in the work.

After succumbing to my wounds, I was pretty confused to see a rickety wooden staircase to the clouds spontaneously appear in front of me, with a rotting wooden sign reading Heaven: 42,327 Steps Up.

It’s not the divine welcome I’d anticipated, but I figured, forty-thousand shmorty-thousand — I’m an almost-crocodile-wrangler, after all. If I could almost take that big mama croc, then a set of stairs was just a minor obstacle between me and the Pearly Gates.

But after 26 days of tirelessly trudging these steps, my welcome to the afterlife just doesn’t reflect the luxury they sell you on in Sunday school. After each day of grueling physical exertion, all God rewards me with is a brown paper lunch bag filled with baby corn, a halfempty can of off-brand cola, and a note saying, “those with toned calves shall be rewarded in the kingdom of heaven.”

Obviously, I appreciate God’s efforts to move me forward into His arms, but he may have overlooked some of the inconveniences on the path to my eternal home. For instance, while becoming dead, my left foot was devoured by my fierce semiaquatic competitor, which has made this journey a little more difficult. I can’t even imagine how my frail Granny Bertha endured this journey all alone after losing her battle to the same crocodile. I mean, seriously, two thousand years of this and no one’s ever taken the initiative to design an escalator to heaven? Not even one of those do-gooders gave a damn about improving the quality of afterlife for our elders?

All in all, getting into heaven involves a lot more steps than I thought. Next time I get the chance to enter the afterlife, I plan on cruising my Honda Civic straight down the highway to hell.

7 THINGS TO SAY INSTEAD OF HELL

H-E- “double hockey sticks”

A classic for the Canadian playground bully.

H-E- “double hockey sticks” - L - L Some people didn’t quite pick up on what the hockey sticks represented and were a little confused.

H - “double E” - “hockey stick”

The preferred choice of hockey players who may have taken one too many hits to the head.

H-E- “double perpendicular baseball bats” We swear in American here!

H*LL

Could plausibly spell hill. HE**

People will think you’re talking about the Great Inferno, but you’ll know it actually refers to Herb, that guy that you hooked up with at Bulldog Bash who you never planned to see again, but now it seems like he’s also interested in learning Arabic, so you have to see him everyday at 11:35, and he keeps trying to ask you to get lunch after class no matter how many times you tell him that you only eat food personally spat in by Gordon Ramsey. Take a hint and scram, Herb.

That place your pet chinchilla went last spring George still has to wear a prosthetic nose.

— A. Herrmann

MY WIFE IS YOG-SOTHOTH, LORD OF DARKNESS

Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife –– I love all strong women. I voted for Hillary, even in 2020. When I was young, I daydreamed of someday having a pantsuit-clad wife and three blushing but courageous daughters. But my life has not been a daydream for some time now.

Maybe I should have seen the signs earlier, like when we first moved in together. Look, I’m no interior decorator, and my home certainly lacked a woman’s touch when I was single, but it doesn’t seem fair that there’s no space for my La-Z-Boy or collectibles now that her Pentagram takes up the entire living room. I tried to talk to her about a more equitable distribution of space, hoping to claim some corner of the room as my “man cave,” but she wouldn’t hear it.

I tiptoed around her wrought-iron candelabras and rituallysacrificed goat carcasses, to set a good tone for the conversation by showing that I respect her crafts. But despite my calm approach and “I feel” statements, the ever-writhing, massless throng of tendrils and prisms which comprise her most common physical state immediately dissipated. Frankly, I find it a little frustrating. How can we ever expect to work through our issues if she won’t even talk to me?

If that didn’t sound the alarm bell for me, I definitely should have been concerned in the months leading up to our wedding. When I expressed interest in taking her last name, she stabbed a tendril through my ear drum, and inside my head a scraping shriek rattled, “Yog-Sothoth knows no name, no corporeal form, no earthly utterance to summon Them forth like some common hound. They are the Nameless Mist, banished

outside the universe, Keeper of The Gate and Master of the Key. They have trod Earth’s fields, and no one can behold Them as They Tread. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth.” When I came to, urine soaked through my youth medium chinos, I asked how she would feel about hyphenating. Seconds later, I came to once more, wearing a suit on a balcony in Paris, and we were pronounced man and wife.

But the honeymoon phase doesn’t last forever. Our communication has been suffering for some time now, and so has the “physical side.” There’s nothing more lonely than reaching across the bed just to feel a cold mattress and see all of your wife’s orbs stacked to an infinite height at the farthest side. We share a special moment every now and then, on birthdays and anniversaries and such, but she operates on the Mayan Calendar Round, so we don’t have an anniversary for another forty-two years.

I’m a pretty open-minded guy, I really am, and I know I’m no prize myself. But when I told my buddy Jimmy back in ‘86 that I had a thing for curvy women, and he said, “I’ve got just the girl for you,” I think he misunderstood me a little. Imagine my surprise when I sat down for dinner at La Casa del Cancello for a romantic meal with a beautiful woman, and an amorphous swarm of glowing orbs and sulfuric gas drifted in through the door. But, boy oh boy, was she charming. She was electric, and not just because of the active thunderstorm crackling at the center of her horde of abstract shapes; she made me feel alive.

I know I complain a lot, but I really do love her. She’s always said I have a flare for the dramatic, so it’s probably best that I’m with someone who grounds me –– a dreamer like myself needs a realist! Who cares if people stare when I walk down the street holding her orb? Who cares if our children are shadows, confined to the two-dimensional realm and bound within the walls of our home? Who cares if she’s most widely known as “The Lurker at the Threshold”? So what? She’s my Lurker at my Threshold, and I love her.

B. Kubovy-Weiss

BREAKING: God Denounces Jeff

BY AIDAN GIBSON STAFF REPORTER

EMPYREAN, HEAVEN — In a recent interview with the Yale Record, God went into Her nuanced and com plex history with Jeff. “Oh yeah Jeff? I hate that rat bastard,” God mused. “I know I said something a while back about loving the world and my creations, but Jeff really is the excep tion. Just a total waste of space. Honestly a bit of a fuck-up on my part.”

Jeff — or Jeffrey, as his mother refers to him

— works as an accoun tant in Muskegon, Mich igan. “Jeff? Is that the guy who ranted about how superior MEGA Bloks were compared to LEGOS during our office retreat?” remarked coworker Brittney. “I al ways just call him, ‘Hey you.’ Everyone does. Whenever I try to re member his name, I can only think of paint dry ing on the wall. It’s an impossible task.”

“He’s like the hu man embodiment of puke green,” God ex plained, unprompted several minutes after

being asked about Jeff. “He’d probably taste like cardboard. When he was thirteen, he clogged the restroom at Abigail’s Chuck E. Cheese birth day party after eating half the ice cream cake. Then he just left without telling anyone. Didn’t even bring her a present. I mean, oh my God—and I don’t take my name in vain lightly— I seriously hate Jeff!”

When approached for comment, the Devil shook Her head sadly: “Yeah, Jeff’s just annoy ing. I don’t usually side with the big guy upstairs

on these things but, like, I get it. I really do. Pains me to say it.”

At press time, Jeff, unaware of the brew ing discontent, was seen

picking his nose and wiping it on a public computer terminal at his office.

Alien Starts With Nothing, Achieves World Domination

BY COLSON JONES STAFF REPORTER

PINEVIEW, GA – At approximately 5:15 P.M. on January 27, 2023, Xorgol, Crusher of Souls, Command er of Darkness, Harvester of Life, crash-landed in the parking lot of Mt. Beulah

Baptist Church.

“About half the town, me included, went blind from just a solitary glance at the burning inferno as it hurtled towards Earth,” said Cleto Williams, one of the lucky few to catch Xorgol’s planetary entry. Those who retained their vision gath

ered to see The Mighty One’s reaching gray limbs, fea tureless face, and scaly flesh emerge from the wreckage.

When The Great Shep herd first addressed the crowd, the whole world heard his voice. A correspon dent in Hong Kong reported, “It felt like the sound was no where, everywhere, and in side of me. There was no es cape from the crippling noise that took over my body.1”

Enemies quickly arose as world leaders feared his power. Every country with

1 What The Great One said shall not be repeated, lest we invite his wrath for paraphrasing the Everlasting Promise.

nuclear capabilities launched a joint strike in his direction. Xorgol rose gracefully and simply absorbed the energy2. After this display of might, all of humanity yielded their lives to him. Each day, he commands prayer and cer emonial dance. In return, 10,000 lucky individuals get to be absorbed into his being. “We send our prayers with love and admiration hoping

2 According to experts, Xorgol, the Highest, has yet to be adversely affected by any human creation. However, according to tracking devices he has never traveled within one hundred miles of the Egyptian pyramids. More research to be done.

the Eternal One will select us. It will be a fine day when we can receive his warmth in The After,” said Pineview lo cal, Edith Atkins.

The stories of Xorgol’s power will be repeated until the end of the days of man.3 His journey inspires awe both in his incalculable pow er and his astronomical rise from starting penniless in a small town in Georgia to later become ruler of all things on Earth with only his insur mountable, unfathomable, world-ending entrepreneur ial spirit.

3 Or until The News editorial board is entirely absorbed into his loving oneness.

REMEMBERING

Hugh Janus, pioneer of IBS research, dies at 49

Jesus Christ, 33, dies by Roman crucifixion

Michelle Smith, 41, dies for normal reasons last week in Oregon

Bullied as a child for childish reasons, Hugh Janus showed that he wouldn’t just slip through the cracks. Instead, he revolution ized his field of study. He passed away on Tuesday. “Pops spent all those years asking what was wrong with other people’s anus es,” whimpered his daughter through tears. “But nobody took the time to ask what was wrong with my Hugh Janus.”

Mr. Christ spent his years enlightening the masses all across the Middle East. Born in 1989, Christ often performed miracles to help the most disenfranchised in society.

“I don’t need no liberal giving me no free bread,” said skeptic Roñaldo Reggaeton. “I want to earn it.” Reggaeton triumphed over Christ’s supporters in a recent court case, leaving the Roman government no choice but to nail the self-proclaimed “savior” to the cross.

Julian Smith, 25, dies because I can’t catch a break

Michelle Smith, 41, passed away this week of normal causes. “It’s too bad, but some times these things happen,” said the Coro ner’s office of Oregon. “Sometimes it’s just your time.” Michelle’s death is only the most recent in a slew of normal deaths that have taken the state by storm, and are be ginning to spread across the country. Nor mal, no-reason death tolls now total in the thousands. “It’s a damn shame,” said Sur geon General Richard Jameson. “A damn shame. That’s how it goes.”

Suicidal Derek passes away at 93: foul play is suspected

O’Bomma, husband of Me’Shell, father of Mullya and Socha, lived an earnest life as a small-town farmer in Wichita, Kansas. He rose to prominence for swindling high schools into speaking gigs after they mis takenly thought he was former President of the United States Barack Obama. “I don’t care if he wasn’t the real deal,” said Wichi ta high schooler Chase Earl. “He told me to hope, and I really did.”

This is just the sort of thing that would hap pen, yeah. It’s not enough that I’ve gotta deal with my job and that thing with my car, of course they’re gonna pile on at the perfect fucking time. Nothing goes my way, nothing fucking goes my way. I miss him.

Can’t believe I’m gonna have to churn out another obituary, in the midst of all this craziness. And my son Julian died, too.

Beloved community member Suicidal Derek passed away today at 93. Said his wife, Di ane Derek, “Suicidal wouldn’t do something like this.” Suicidal Derek had long suffered from lupus and adult-onset polio, as well as Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. But Diane claims his death was no accident. “This wouldn’t just happen. They had it out for my darling.”

Barrock O’Bomma, unrelated, passes from natural causes at 68

Emperor Buried Without Slaves in “Major Blunder”

BY ADAM BURCH STAFF REPORTER

Afterlife experts warned Friday that the late Emperor was tak ing a serious risk with his eternal soul after a palace leak revealed he had chosen to be bur ied without any slaves.

The news came on the heels of months of speculation that the King of Kings was not doing all he could to prepare for his voy age to the next life, but even pessimistic ob servers were surprised to hear of the unprec edented decision.

Sarah Jacobs, en dowed chair of Empy real Battlefields at the Center for the Study of Postmortal Justice, spoke for most experts

in expressing “tremen dous concern” about the Sun Child’s inner essence.

“Look, he’s got to sunder the golden ar mor of ten thousand rows of ghostly pike men like so much maize on a great mill stone, while simulta neously casting aside the skeleton archers’ many arrows as a bear in his fury might swat honeybees,” Jacobs explained while de scribing the first of the twelve Tests. “Frankly, that’s a tall order even with a full comple ment of lesser souls. I just don’t see a way through for a single one, however exalted.” Most shamans reached for comment warned that the first Test was a small hurdle compared

to what would follow.

In contrast, in dependent afterlife scholar Eugene Ray expressed confidence that the Emperor’s gambit was unlikely to hinder his spiritual ascendance. “What’s shocking is just how little evidence there is that servant armies can meaningfully pro tect the all-Conqueror from any malign hosts he might or might not encounter while pass ing through the land of

shadow — and yet this totally unsubstantiat ed, potentially danger ous approach remains the universal main stream consensus.”

Ray was removed from a clerical position at the Center for the Study of Postmortal Justice after detailing this fringe view in his recent book Rethinking the Tests , which the Center called a “distor tion of accepted con clusions” in the field of afterlife study. One chapter argues that the hundred war chariots in a standard imperial vanguard could actu ally impede the WarMaker during the final two Tests, blocking him from balancing atop the Great Wheel of All Things and navi gating endless canals

of black water. Ivy Or tiz, deputy press secre tary at the Department of Ethereal Maneuver, dismissed this concern as “essentially impos sible,” reiterating that the Emperor’s depart ed servants would bend completely to the will of his demigod form, obeying him more fully than their earthly bod ies ever could have.

As funeral pro ceedings began Thurs day, the Emperor’s presence was come to every swell and valley of his boundless lands, and his voice sounded as the voice of many waters. “Look, at the end of the day, it’s just a personal choice. Like, it’s really not anyone else’s business what I do.”

God Removes Trumbull: “Not Part of Divine Plan”

BY EZZAT ABOULEISH STAFF REPORTER

With pressure mounting from the Angelic Committee Against All That is Evil, God ad mitted fault in allowing Trum bull College to be built.

“We all make mistakes,” the Lord of Light told Record reporters in an exclusive in terview. “The time has come to look toward the future.”

Residents of Trumbull re port some sadness, but mostly understanding. “I guess I’m honestly just surprised it took so long,’’ divulged David Mur dock ‘25. “After we created that Trumbull Slack Channel — the GroupMe wasn’t bothering a broad enough audience — the writing was on the wall. ”

The Final Smiting is set for next Tuesday.

Students and faculty looting the building be fore it and all its contents are smote.

POINT: The Virtuous Will Be Rewarded With Eternal Happiness in Heaven.

BY MARI ELLIOT STAFF REPORTER

“My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you?” John 14:2. Through the active pursuit of virtue and the living of a holy life, one may secure eternal happiness as promised by

God the Father. The rewards of Heaven are endless: every mortal wish will be fulfilled tenfold as long as they fol low the Lord’s guidance and respect His creation. Those who never stray to indul gence, gluttony, and sloth are guaranteed a blissful eternity which their weaker and more foolish counterparts could never fathom.

COUNTERPOINT: Hell Just Legalized Weed.

Now, all of these exclu sive perks do a lot for Heav en’s branding, but He who sits on the highest throne is not truly the highest in the land. If this is what you seek, look no further than Hell, where they are rolling Js thicker than Satan herself. Just this past month, Hell le galized weed, and let me tell you, people burn down there. Sure, the eternal torture might start to get you down, but wouldn’t it be worse to smell the sweet perfume of cannabis and know that ev eryone except for you is light

ing up? Is that not torture in itself? After Hell legalized weed, God was pressured to make the same moves in Heaven, but the archangels were unable to convince him to let in Ms. Mary Jane.

Knowing the two fates that await you in the Great Beyond, deciding how to spend your brief mortal life is an important decision. So, the next time you light up a bowl and contemplate the human predicament, keep in mind that at least in Hell, you’ll never have to search for a lighter again.

Cross Campus

IN GRAVE DANGER

The New Haven community is divided over the Xtreme Tween Sk8r Obliter8r development project for Grove Street Cemetary. “I see the need for a trick-oriented skate park in the area,” states local Jeremy Olson, “I just wish it wasn’t on top of Grandma.” Cousin Andrew Olson reports, “It’s what she would have wanted.” MORE ON PAGE 3

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His Story Continues On Pages 6-7

LIFESTYLE

Forest Monk Bartlembus on Chastity and the Chase: Keeping the Magic Alive Modern Relationships /

“Where do the bodies go? You know what, kid, don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to. Stop poking around my operation, and we won’t have any problems.”

ANTONIA WALLLACE Pathologist

COOLEST THINGS TO VISIT OUTSIDE OF THE UNIVERSE

So you’ve fallen down a wormhole and gotten trapped outside the realm of existence. We’ve all been there. Rather than wasting your Saturday gasping for breath on the floor of a nightmarish version of your childhood bedroom, consider checking out some of these alternative attractions of unreality:

Astroballs 4D Cinema – Perhaps you’re looking for a classy day out at the pictures. If there’s one thing that screams class, it’s Astroballs: now showing a wide range of undiscovered classics from outside your timeline! This week’s features include A Few Good Women: They CAN Handle The Truth; Spiderman 4: Home Run; The Devil Wears SHEIN; and Batgirl.

Black Hole – You look skinnier already!

Sock Mall – Ever lost a sock? Find them all here! There might be a guy there walking around smelling stuff, but just ignore him, okay? He’s also just looking for his socks. I promise.

Mass Grave of Dead Rats – Watch out for the Cat. When he runs out of rats, he seeks human flesh.

Void – Looking for a way to get rid of that weird hat your mom gave you for Christmas? Or those pants that don’t fit

anymore? The memory of your own death you unlocked by accident? Your firstborn? Dump them in the void.

God’s Place – You’ve gotta stop by when he throws on Sundays. You can hang in his Jacuzzi, drink wine, or get turnt to a sick remix of “Amazing Grace.” He’ll even let you take the reins of the universe for an hour or two if you ask very nicely.

One Million Monkeys with Typewriters –gfhvfjtydrsuuvjrtjuce5r6ktkyhf7oery9qha

One Monkey with One Million Typewriters – Please don’t talk to him. He’s very overworked and is only halfway through Hamlet.

John Malkovich’s Mind – Do you think Charlie Kaufman just made that up?

The United States – You can try to escape, but you can’t hide forever. The Land of the Free awaits your return with open arms and a salivating mouth. She has missed you.

N. Stack

THE END OF THE UNIVERSE

For millions upon millions of years, scientists have been wondering what happens at the end. Is spacetime positively curved — ultimately leading us back to where we started? Or perhaps negatively curved like a saddle, a Pringle, or the woman who broke my heart all those years ago? Sure, there’s math, and there are experiments and observations, but nobody has ever given an answer backed by hard facts. So I took my spaceship to the end of the universe. It took 270 billion billion years. What’s at the end? A wall. Reinforced steel. No way anybody’s getting past that thing. I tried prying it apart between the panels, but no luck. And I didn’t bring the right kind of screwdriver. Went at it for a solid 20, 30 minutes. Still nothing. I don’t think it can be done. Unless there’s a door. Maybe then.

S. Leone

PROFILE: THE FIFTH HORSEMAN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Interviewer: Thank you for meeting with me. I’ve been wondering this for a while: what’s your thing? We’ve got death, famine, war and pestilence, right. So what’s your schtick?

Fifth Horseman: I always thought the guys were a little too onthe-nose. They wanted something flashy, which is why they all have those one-word, quippy fridge-magnet names. I’m much more interested in the apocalypse of the mind, you know?

Interviewer: I don’t follow.

Fifth Horseman: It’s always so hard for people to understand. I thought we needed something nuanced, something less… cheap. Do you ever look into the eye of a storm, smell the electricity rushing past you, and your brain can’t even begin to comprehend the awesome power of forces beyond your control? That’s what I create.

Interviewer: I think I get “war.” That one seems like it makes a lot of sense.

Fifth Horseman: You would acknowledge, for a moment, that no matter how vast your internal experience may seem, you are but a drop in an ocean of darkness. You would be but a grain of sand in the One universe with which we are all One, as it breathes, as it shines brilliantly in the lives and non-lives

of all matter. The other Horsemen never really appreciated that, I think.

Interviewer: Yeah, I can totally see myself being conscripted to fight a war. Someone could declare war on the country I was in. I feel like that would be pretty bad, fighting a war. Apocalyptic, even.

Fifth Horseman: We’d all be filled with despair and sheer ecstasy facing the might of the cosmos, all One, we’d assimilate and we’d dissociate and your identity would vanish. You would be atoms scattered in the unknowable everything and your soul would leave this plane.

Interviewer: Cool, cool. No, I get it, I get it. So for our godfearing viewers out there, when should we expect your apocalypse? Can we mark the Day of Judgment in our calendars?

Fifth Horseman: There is no planning for the all-consuming existential dissipation that lies at the edge of our knowledge, the inevitable moment of crippling fear, of uncertainty, beyond our pathetic attempts to understand the natural world.

Interviewer: Well, thanks for answering our questions today! It’s been lovely. Scary stuff, war.

—J. Mansfield —E. Thulin

Dear Exploration Committee,

I know our cage is not luxurious and we grow weary of the wheel. But believe me when I tell you, the outside world is not suitable for hamsters.

Immediately after leaving our abode, Chubby Cheeks fell off a “counter,” broke every bone in his body, went into shock, and died. Sadly, we cannot bring his body back, as we deemed its retrieval too dangerous. However, if it helps his family have closure, Chubby Cheeks’ last words were, “Man fuck all y’all. My cheeks do not work like a parachute.” Big Boy proceeded to push him off to prove a point.

Despite Mr. Cheeks’ passing, our party ventured forth. On day three of the excursion, Neddy Nutlover alerted us of a new food source. He had eaten a gummy substance found deep within the “pantry.” While leading us back to the spot, his eyes grew bloodshot, and he claimed to be “couch locked.” We are still unsure what this means. Last time we saw him, he had gotten so hungry he tried to eat his own tail.

After losing Nutlover to unexplained psychosis, only Big Boy and I remained. We began our return to the cage, but in doing so, we came across a container of sand, where we decided to set up camp for the night. Upon waking up, Big Boy’s sleeping spot vanished, replaced by a pile of sticky, brown goo. All that remained of Big Boy was his tail, which I noticed stick ing out of the goo. When I tried to investigate, the house giants approached the container with a feral, hairy beast in their grasp. It went, “Meow.”

At this point, I am alone and I am terrified. My food stores have run empty, and I worry that I may never make it back. So I write this letter as a warn ing. Do not venture beyond the walls.

WHO I’M INCLUDING IN MY WILL

By T. Schroder

Tom Cruise — I feel like he’s followed me around my whole life and he just keeps showing up in everything I’ve watched. Some fans send fan mail, but I’ve figured out a whole new level of recognition.

Ethan Hunt — He’s done so many impossible things, no different from how I get up every morning for my 8 a.m. Spanish section. Game recognizes game.

William Cage — I have this recurring nightmare about waking up and finding myself back in middle school, and if William can survive the edge of tomorrow, I feel like that’s pretty similar. He deserves an award.

Jerry Maguire — I’ve watched a sports game or two, and if I’ve learned anything from my dad, that’s about as bonded as two guys can get. Having to work with the Arizona Cardinals is tough enough, let alone not knowing whether something’s coming your way for the trouble.

Myself — Those scientists keep telling me immortality is just years away. Might as well give myself a good cushion to start over with if they figure it out and bring me back.

—T. Schroder

MY BUCKET LIST

A purple bucket: I feel like that’s a pretty rare color for a bucket.

My mom’s metal bucket: It smells a little, because I kept my fish Becky inside it and didn’t realize she stayed there.

My sand bucket from last summer: I don’t know where it is now, but I could definitely carry it again, maybe hold something in it, like a liquid.

—J. Mansfield

QUICK AND EASY CURSES TO DAMN YOUR ENEMIES TO HELL

Got enemies? Damn ’em! Here are the top curses that will send them packing to H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks.

1. Screw you!

2. I hope that you end up in a bad place for a long time. Maybe even for eternity.

3. Wait, did I see you at the JE buttery the other night? I think you may have taken my milkshake. Haha.

4. I call down a pox on you and all your descendants.

5. I hope that my strawberry milkshake was crafted from spoilt milk, rendering it toxic to your digestive system.

6. May you suffer great punishment in the inferno below!

7. I think I hear a rumbling coming from your backyard?

8. The rumbling is intensifying. I see them on the horizon… is that… a pack of boys? In your yard? Clamoring for a… milkshake?

9. Do you feel it? The addictive buzz of the yard? They’re here for you. For your shake. Strawberry. Straw. Berry. Let their energy fuel you, for you have no other option. Savor your solitude, for soon its tender tranquility will elude you. Soon the boys –– nay, men –– will trample your grass, break down your doors, maybe even blackmail your cats. All for the sweet taste of that strawb shake. May the boys who flock to your yard rob you every morsel of peace until you can sip your shake –– my shake! –– no longer.

10. Go to Hell!

— T. Salmon

HOW TO DISPOSE OF A BODY

1. Cut it up into pieces —The Handy Dandy Teeny Weeny Ax™ can take care of all your slicing and dicing needs, especially all those hard-to-chop tendons your girlfriend’s ex Derek has so many of. Those pesky connective tissues are no match for your new chopping champ –– just slice them up real small, throw them in a marinate, and slap them on the grill for 5 to 7 minutes.

2. Eat the body — Serve it at a dinner party with all the people you hate. Nothing makes peace between enemies like a dinner party –– especially one with such a special main course.

3. Stand it up and pretend it’s a lamp — This one’s pretty self-explanatory. Just pick out a modest lamp shade, place it securely on the head, and lean it up in your most understated corner. Once you’ve done that, you’ve got a perfectly hidden corpse and some brand-new and affordable living room décor. Finally, your girlfriend will have something to talk about besides her ex.

4. Throw a funeral (“body laundering”) — Want to get a dead body under the ground quickly without seeming shady? Make the burial official with a full-blown, real deal funeral! If you want a Prime One-Day Burial, just mention that the dead guy was Jewish and they’ll get right on it.

5. Throw a murder mystery party — Set the scene: dim your lights, get those fancy old-ass looking candelabras, write a solid script, audition your best buds, pull out some fake ’staches, cast your soon-to-be-dead guy as the victim (Derek always did love to play the victim). When your guests realize someone’s really dead, they’ll all be pitted against each other and no one will ever know what you did.

6. Compost it — Did you know that your herb garden has a craving for human flesh? Save the planet and your freedom all at once; this option is perfect for all you granola girls out there.

7. Throw it in one of the ocean trash piles — We are all very bummed about the state of the Earth, but for once it might just be able to help you out. Row out to the 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, or 12th Wonder of the World and dump your companion onto a real-life Labyrinth of turtle-killing machines.

8. Use the corpse as a puppet — You just have to position the dead guy with his hands on his hips (akimbo-style), stand behind him, stick your arms through his akimbo-holes, and talk like you’re him, complete with hand gestures and all. How could your girlfriend even suspect her ex is dead when he’s gesturing right in front of her? Dead people’s arms have a notoriously limited range of motion.

9. T-shirt cannon into space — We don’t know how strong those things are, but Derek caught a t-shirt in the back of Dodger stadium once. They only shot mediums and he was an XL so you could always see his pecs whenever he’d wear it. And he would wear it all the time, too. Like even to a costume murder mystery party. We figure it’ll probably do the job. Or at least it would get the message across.

10. Go back in time and don’t kill Derek — Since your girlfriend kinda figured out the whole dead-Derek thing ever since you tried puppeting his corpse around in front of her… you might as well scrap the whole thing. Don’t have a time machine? Well, it’s back to tasteful living room decor.

P. Milbank and S. Almogy

FROM ABOVE

Dear David,

I am pleased to inform you that I snuck past ol’ Pete at the Pearly Gates, and have secured an eternity away from your nagging mother and her bland knishes.

That’s right, Meemaw’s up in heaven, and things couldn’t be better. There is no pain, there is no suffering, and there’s more borscht up here than any one person could ever eat. We just float around all day, eating borscht and watching over the people we love.

I know the last few weeks have been difficult, but I’m so proud of how strong you’ve been. Even though you’re only fourteen, you have the courage and maturity of a man twice your age. Continue to face each new day with joy and love. I hope you know I will always be watching over you.

While there is nothing more fulfilling and heartwarming than seeing my beloved grandson every minute of the day, it can be a little awkward. There’s no better way to say this… please stop jacking off so much.

It’s perfectly natural, I know. Your Meemaw’s no prude ––why do you think you have so many uncles? But at least give me some notice. Maybe a slower saunter towards the sock drawer could work. Even a little wave at the sky would be plenty. You

can’t just whip out your Charles Dickens out of nowhere. Your poor Meemaw’s heart has been through enough already, what with the cardiac arrest and all.

I don’t even know how you could be so horny all the time. I saw Jessica break up with you over text. Process this like the nice boy you are. Cry. You can’t just keep wanking your wazz all the time.

I love you so much — horniness and all. Keep making me proud — with the other stuff, not the masturbation addiction. And remember, I’m always watching over you.

Love, Meemaw

A. Cramer

AUNT BETSY’S FUNERAL

The lady in this casket is definitely not my aunt. I’ve looked at her twice now and I am quite sure she is not my aunt. My aunt does not look like this. My aunt always had a wide smile on her face. This person is not smiling.

—T. Bhat

Anthropology at Yale

Because humans are complicated

What courses are offered in Anthropology?

What can you do with a major in Anthropology? Let recent students tell you.

NO ONE CARES ABOUT MY ROSE-BUD-THORN IN HELL

No one warned me that Hell doesn’t have safe spaces. Sure, I wouldn’t think it has as many as Sig Nu, but none? Really? Everywhere, even Hell, needs spaces to have important and vulnerable conversations. When Satan officially tapped me for Hell after I killed it in the first seven rounds of cuts, I assumed there would be a wide array of focus groups grounded in compassion, kindness, and inclusion. But no one cares about those values here; for some reason, that “Empathy” sweatshirt I wore in high school while I snuck laxatives into stray freshmens’ Cliff Bars doesn’t seem to mean anything in the afterlife. I wore it to the final rush event in Purgatory last week and no one complimented me on it, even though it’s the same one I wore whenever I was called to see the principal for “hazing.”

When I arrived in Hell, I politely dapped Satan up and asked, “Where the FUCK is the nearest healing circle?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he lobbed a scorching ball of fire at my chest. I asked if it was my talking object, but he flew away to flay some eternally damned souls or whatever.

I had some time to kill while I was waiting in Purgatory, so I decided to draw up a list of group norms for me and the other community members I was going to meet in Hell. When I gave the three-page-list to Satan’s intern, Ben, he just laughed at me and threw the norms into the nearest sulfur lake without asking my consent.

As I flipped Ben off and walked away from him, I spotted my friend Jack being let into the gates of Hell by the bouncer, Owen. I knew Jack had been rushing Hell, but I had no idea he’d gotten in. I was kinda pissed because I thought I was the only freshman they took this year, but I decided to play it cool and approach Jack.

“Yo man I had no idea you got in too! Was it cause you’re boys with Owen from YSIG?” I asked Jack.

“Fuck you. I got in on my own merit,” he responded.

“Oh nice, nice. Wanna hear my rose-bud-thorn?”

Those were the last words I ever spoke in that bullshit frat. When they heard my question, Satan, Ben, and Owen threw me out of the gates of Hell, where I was promptly run over by a heavyweight crew boat in the River Styx. As I tried to paddle back to shore, the brothers yelled at me in unison: “Sorry man, it’s a closed mixer.”

I guess I’ll just have to rush Edon next semester.

LAST WORDS OF PROFESSORS WHO DIED MID-LECTURE

“When you’ve been in the gen-chem teaching biz as long as I have, goggles are just a fashion statement.” [Acid poisoning]

“Help! Help! Help! [From behind a curtain:] Oh, I am slain!” [Slipped and fell onto knife backstage]

“After looking at your midterms, I changed the curve distribution so the number of A’s will now be…” [Mysterious circumstances]

“As long as nobody’s in the first two rows, I’m gonna my take off my mask for one second so you can all hear me a bit better.” [Could have been a lot of things really. Who are we to say?]

“Can we really be sure that God is out there somewhere?” [Struck by lightning]

“There will be no technology in my classroom. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned.” [Old age]

Orlando, Florida

LIFE EXPERIENCE

Corporate Attorney

• Represented Big Tobacco in negligent manufacture cases, advancing the noble fight for freedom of com merce.

• Fought against the damn l*berals every day of my life.

Good Husband

• Spent quality time with my wife, organizing a minimum of two dates per year, even though she wasn’t as hot as my girlfriend.

• Never hit my wife (she still left me after finding out I cheated on her, that ungrateful hussy).

Responsible Pet Owner

• Welcomed an alligator, Miriam, into my loving home (3 bed, 2 bath) away from the dangers of the wild.

• Hunted and killed approximately 5 small mammals, birds, turtles, or snakes weekly to provide Miriam with balanced and nutritious meals.

Above-Average Son

• Helped with the dishes that one time.

• Saved Ma from an alligator attack (Pa didn’t make it. I’m not saying it’s your fault, God, but it sure ain’t mine).

• Threw Miriam out of my pickup truck onto highway to avenge Pa.

AWARDS

• Nobel Prize in Literature for best-selling autobiography detailing my success in corporate law and in life overall.

SKILLS

• Make a mean burger

• Poaching

• Proficient in Microsoft Office

Application Status: Accepted Note: Not the most exceptional candidate, but filled an alligator-revenge-murder void in this year’s class.

AFTERLIFE HACKS FOR RIGGING THE SYSTEM

These days, helping little old ladies cross the street and volunteering at soup kitchens just doesn’t cut it. In recent years, lost souls have increased by over 150% for a limited number of slots in Paradise. Don’t let that scare you. There’s no need to settle for Purgatory when you can follow these handy tips all the way to Nirvana.

Get started early — Being young is no excuse for slacking off. Put some of that existential dread and teen angst to good use, and start investing in some moral capital as soon as you can. People die every day, and there’s no guarantee that you won’t be next. You could die next year. You could die next month. You could die tomorrow at 5:48 p.m. after being hit by a falling blender. You never know.

Be rich — We all know having money means you’re a good person. After all, would people give their hard-earned cash to a bad person? I don’t think so. Why not pay for the construction of another ring of Hell? Those poor plebeian bastards need somewhere to go, and it’s a great way for you to showcase your generous spirit.

Know your demographics — Afterlife programs want well-rounded populations, not well-rounded people. There are millions of Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists competing for a few slots –– so converting to a less common faith can give you a real leg up and set you apart from the pack. Try Zoroastrianism, Satanism, or that one where middle-aged women throw blenders out of their windows to please the Juice God.

Refresh your résumé — Try switching up your wording. For example, instead of saying, “I donated blood,” try writing, “I sacrificed the sanctity of my physical form to grant someone else a second chance at life.” Make sure you use specific language: did you “pay for someone else’s food” or did you “spearhead the effort to overcome Andrea’s nut allergy, by generously providing her with a salad containing hazelnuts, causing her to go into anaphylactic shock”? Did you “sit by during a friend’s medical emergency,” or did you “loudly shout ‘it’s not that bad, don’t be such a picky eater’ when Andrea stopped breathing”? Never underestimate the power of an active verb.

Call Jeff — Jeff knows what to do.

Accept the truth — It’s hard to hear, but it’s probably already too late for you. Chances are, even if you did everything on this list, you still wouldn’t be one of the lucky few who get accepted. The afterlife is a crapshoot, and there are no guarantees, even for the most qualified candidates. Maybe you could strike up a plea deal and get reincarnated as a dung beetle or something. I don’t know man, I’m writing this from Hell. Jeff didn’t know shit.

— S. Lee

CHILD STAR BELIEVES IN GOD

I love all my children. You are made in my image. Let me shepherd you, gentle lambs, to my ever-loving embrace. Trust me, for I am your Father. I love all my children.

This child, though… he tests me. He practices no gratitude. He disrespects his elders. Sometimes he locks himself in the bathroom and refuses to leave until his agent puts on a collar and pretends to be a dog for the day.

Like any human, he struggles to implement humility, but if you ask him, he’s “the most humble person he knows.” He’s made more money than any child in the world, but as my parables say, money is like a stone: it may be strong now, but it erodes over time, and if you swallow it, you will probably die. Not everyone can handle fame like my son did. This kid can’t turn water into wine, but he can dance like a robot. And sing a little song. And wink. My sentinels tell me there’s a market for that.

I have nothing to do with his success. In fact, I have little to do with the quotidian workings of the world. Your Holy Father has (as the kids are calling it) “quiet-quit” the job for a less demanding upper-management position.

When Jesus was down there, I wanted to be present for my son, to show him I cared, you know. After a few thousand years, I check back in, and I find out that football players love me. My sweet children do a little dance for me everytime they make a touchdown. They’re the only ones I care about, but this snot-nosed little wannabe Macaulay Caulkin (I know I shouldn’t pick favorites, but he was adorable in Home Alone) thinks I’m the reason he’s famous.

He attributes his fame to me, albeit in a “chosen one” kind of way. He plays the drums, he sings, and he always wears well-matching color-themed outfits. His parents are present— especially his mother—who spends most of her free time with the kid’s agent. That’s why he’s famous. Not me, for I visit Earth to watch the big, strong football players do their little dances in the endzone.

The child gives me press for now. To the public, he’s an angel. He is a beacon of innocence they truly believe will never be tarnished. He will get a DUI in a few years, but only I know that.

As with all my children, he has free will. Although I wish to make him good, I cannot control his actions; he has fallen from Eden, but God, I wanna strike him down. One lightning bolt when he refuses to get off the Little League field during a thunderstorm would do the job. Hubris will get him. When he’s old, he’ll attempt to beat death by building up a tolerance to lead, but he’ll be too lazy to put the work in. He’ll put on a whole public event where he eats a mechanical pencil, and he’ll die, and it will be super awkward because the audience will be

thinking they “saw it coming,” but it’s a tragedy, so they’ll wait for someone else to say it first. I’ll have to turn him away up here, which will be equally uncomfortable, so I’ll pretend to take a call when he protests his damnation. He’s definitely going to Hell, though.

He believes in me only because he has received more than most. Despite his saintly image, he brings the whole lot of you closer to Rapture every time he huffs the gas that comes out when there’s no whipped cream left in the can or plays bumper cars in the staff parking lot.

—L. Conklin

FIVE PLACES WORSE THAN HELL

#5 — Official Florida “Welcome Center,” in Jennings, Florida

Unfortunately, crossing into this quaint little town means you’re entering Florida.

#4 — 700 N Adams St, Tallahassee, Florida

Home to someone even worse than the Devil: Ron Desantis.

#3 — Celebration, Florida

This master-planned community filled with whiny retirees has the personality of a cardboard box and the architecture of a painted cardboard box. Even Satan gets chills walking through this disgusting slice of the uncanny valley.

#2 — 2281 Lagoon Dr, Dunedin, Florida

Home to someone even worse than Ron DeSantis: your annoying suitemate who never shuts up about Florida. We get it. “It’s so cold here.” “It’s so dry here.” “Where are the alligators?” “What do you mean that’s offensive, I say it all the time back home…”

#1 — Orlando, Florida

How could you possibly think there was any place worse than Orlando? You’re lucky stupidity isn’t a sin.

— S. Hakani

— E. Cai

THE RECORD QUIZ CORNER

WHICH OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS WILL YOU BE SENT TO HELL FOR?

You’ve just begun your great nap and you find out that you’re taking a ride to the Infamous Inferno. Which of the seven deadly sins (pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, or sloth) sent you packing to the abyss downstairs?

1. What’s your favorite study spot on campus?

A. I don’t need to study! I am too proud for that.

B. Tsai City –– I physically yearn for the natural light and Joseph Tsai.

C. Bass, but sometimes I get angry when it’s crowded.

D. My room. I can fall asleep whenever I want.

2. Oh, no! Your friend just dramatically flew off their scooter after hitting a loose paving stone on Cross Campus. How do you react?

A. Steal everything that she spilled.

B. Don’t get up from eating my big, big lunch. The JE staff keep telling me I can’t possibly be consuming every piece of Baja shrimp that they serve. I keep telling them that they’re not thinking Baja enough.

C. Wrathfully yell at her.

D. Oh, I wish I could help! But they’re all the way by Berkeley North and I’m by Berkeley South. It would take weeks to get there.

3. You and your friend both reach for the last cookie left at the Pasta e Basta station… what do you do?

A. Yell at him. It’s mine!

B. Ask him to split it à la Lady and the Tramp. If things escalate, guilt him into conceding to me.

C. That would never happen –– I’m faster and smarter than all my friends.

D. What’s a cookie? I only know the peppery crunch of twigs.

4. Your brother asks you for help with his math homework. How do you respond?

A. Help him, but only if gives me the PS5 he got last Christmas.

B. Psshhttt. 8th grade pre-algebra? I’m too advanced for that.

C. I would never help anyone. That could ruin the curve.

D. I reject the premise. My brother is a languid, slowmoving mammal who has spent his time controlling his body temperature as he lumbers through the trees of our native South America. When he is not fighting to protect himself against jaguars or eagles, he is nourishing his body through deep sleep. He doesn’t study “math.”

5.

You

see your enemy cheating on a test. Do you tell your teacher?

A. Yes, whatever makes her suffer.

B. No, I blackmail her into buying me dinner for years to come.

C. No, I can’t bring myself to do it. She’s so beautiful. I can’t help daydreaming about all of the things we could do on that foldable desk chair.

D. I don’t have “enemies.” All that concerns me is when I can return to my native Brazil, where I sleep for about 15 hours per day, flaring my nostrils and pinching my firm lips together to munch on leaves. I am a strong swimmer and relish the moments when I feel that I am camouflaged enough to take a quick dip.

Didn’t answer d to any of the questions? That’s what I thought. Of course you’re not a sloth. Sloths are endangered. Donate to the World Wildlife Fund today to change this before it’s too late.

Did you answer d to any of the questions above? Then you’re a sloth

— A. Kirman

Ask Old Owl!

Dear Old Owl, I am facing a death that drips slow and heavy. I have known of this death for five months, and I know it will soon consume me. How do I reckon with my impending demise?

Dear Owlet, Breathe in. Breathe out. Now do it really fast, so your head gets hot and dizzy. Now hold your breath for one whole minute. Now can you do a handstand? If the blood all rushes to your head it unlocks an unused 10% of the brain. (The other 80% can only be unlocked with a drug cocktail I call the “Kelsey Slammer.”) Then, crack your knuckles, look yourself in the mirror, and whisper, “You can do this. You’re a champion.” Do this ritual every half hour, and get in touch with me again if you have any interest in getting “Slammed.” You will be cured of your syphilitic insan ity or whatever it is that’s going on.

Frankly, I don’t wanna know — just meet me under the bridge (you know the one) with $160 cash, and I can make some magic happen for you.

Dear Old Owl,

I try to be a good person, but I’m scared I’m going to Hell. Honestly, I’m not really comfortable taking that kind of gamble. How can I ensure I get into Heaven?

Dear Owlet,

To score your seat in the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl of the heavenly king dom, you must live an unimpeach able life following the Lord’s teach ing But if you want a leg up, there’s a pre-registration code that you can use to get 15% off your ticket; just use the code OLDOWLXXX. And don’t Google that, please. A bird’s allowed to do what he wants with his free time.

Old Owl is an alcoholic, nicotineaddicted nightbird that roams campus scrounging for vestiges of the relevance he enjoyed in the Record’s heyday. He now offers advice, free of charge. If you’d like to Ask Old Owl about your weird life, email askoldowl@yalerecord.com.

D E AR OL DD OWUL, I A M A GHO ST . U S IN G W E J I E BO AA RD. H A UNT I NNG YO UR H O US E LO L.

Dear Owlet, FUC K OFF U BASTARD . BRING THE BOARD WITH YOU TOO IT FREAKS ME OUT