The Read It and Weep Issue

Vol. 152, No. 4

THE YALE

Jan. 28, 2024

RECORD

“The World’s Oldest Humor Magazine” or

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

chair@yalerecord.org

E.R. DOCTOR NOT GIVING YOU STITCHES UNTIL YOU EXPLAIN WHAT YOU’LL DO DIFFERENTLY NEXT TIME Hi Jimmy Carter, How did you make it to 99 years old? What’s your secret?

Sincerely, Jeremy

Dear God, Hey, I’m your child, right? Why didn’t I inherit your omnipotence?

Joe Biscuit

INSUBORDINATE DAWN EMPLOYEE TARRED, FEATHERED, CLEANED OFF WITH DISH SOAP Dear Joe Biscuit,

ZINGER INTERRUPTED BY FUNERAL Dear Jeremy, I’m gonna live until 2048, so I can hit 2048 in the hit game 2048 in the year 2048.

Sincerely, Jimmy Carter

I tried making a universe where you were omnipotent, and you swapped people’s fingers with their toes. Not even in the way you’d expect, either. You put the thumb toe in the place where the pinky finger would go and vice versa.

Honestly, it would’ve been forgivable otherwise, but that was just the last straw. I had to just destroy that universe and start over.

With eternal love, God

“YOU CAN’T CORRECT ME ON HOW TO PRONOUNCE A PROPER NOUN. THERE’S NO RIGHT OR WRONG WAY TO PRONOUNCE PROPER NOUNS, DUDE,” SAYS MAN WHO PRONOUNCES IT “PHILLYDELPHIA” Dear Mime, We need to talk.

Sincerely, Monk

VIDEO FROM POOR COUNTRY HEARTWARMING REMINDER THAT THEY SING OVER THERE, TOO

The Yale Record

2

YALE RECORD The Read It and Weep Issue January 28, 2024

MAN WHO JUST WANTED FRUITY COCKTAIL PRETENDS TO BE COMFORTABLE IN HIS MASCULINITY

Dear Boyfriend,

Dear Soviet Government,

DETAINED MALE GYNECOLOGIST SUBJECTED TO SLIGHT DISCOMFORT

I feel unsatisfied.

Soviet Comrade

1 | Mailbags and Snews 6 | The Read it and Weep Editorial 8 | Shorts 12 | Feature The Saddest Story Ever 13 |Shorts 14 | Poetry Corner

PROFESSIONAL FLIGHT-DELAYER EXECUTES FOURTH SHIT ON TARMAC WITH GRACE, POISE Dear Soviet Comrade, Come pick up the communal butt plug — let us know if that changes anything.

20 | Shorts 21 | Feature Confessions of a Therapist 22 | Feature Misfortune Cookies 23 | Shorts 28 | Ask Old Owl

Best, Therapist

Dear Therapist, My girlfriend would NOT be cool with infidelity. That being said, is she bad?

Best, A Boyfriend Who is Reconsidering His Level of Commitment

MURDERER REVEALED TO BE ONLY BIG-NAME ACTOR IN EPISODE

Soviet Government

16 | Quiz Corner 17 | News Corpse Skips Funeral, Hires Stunt Double to Attend in Place• Curious George Dies in Captivity • Report: MaleLoneliness Problem Actually Just You

Have you tried Lexapro?

Dear Linguists,

BEST BUDS: WEATHERMAN CALLS UP GOD EACH MORNING TO FIND OUT THE FUTURE

Why is it that if I lie under oath I’m perjuring myself and not perjuring others? And why is it that if I commit fraud I’m “defrauding Geico” and not “frauding Geico?”

Best, Pete

Dear Therapist, Nothing has been the same since I stuttered in her ear during freaky talk.

Any advice?

Best, A Boyfriend Who is Trying Really Hard and Sweating More Than Usual

COURTROOM SKETCH ARTIST TRIES TO SNEAK FUN BLUE BUNNY IN

CALIFORNIA GIRL FORGETTABLE Dear Pete, Why is it that if I call you a loser, you are a loser? But if you’re a bigger loser, you’re not a loserer? And if you’re the biggest loser, should you not be the losest?

Best, Linguists

T he R ead I t and W eep I ssue Dear Professor,

Dear Professor,

I cannot complete this assignment due to unforeseen circumstances and require an extension.

My hair is perfectly fine in its natural state, thank you very much.

Best, Student

Offended, Student

“I’M IN THE TRENCHES,” SAYS YALIE IN MIDTERM SEASON TO 95-YEAR-OLD MAN WHO CLUTCHED HEART-SHAPED LOCKET ON WESTERN FRONT

JAMES BOND, JR. DIES OF SHAKEN BABY SYNDROME, NOT STIRRED BABY SYNDROME

Dear Student, Please see my attached policy on extensions.

Best, Professor

3

Obituary Correction The 2023 Editorial Board would like to apologize for an obituary which appeared in last month’s “All About You Issue,” where we reported that you died surrounded by family and friends. We have since been informed that the people in your hospital room were nurses who were using it as a “chill zone,” and that they unplugged your life support in favor of a “sick ass lava lamp.”

FOR SALE: Baby, never worn.

— E. Chen

heR Read eadItI tand and eep I ssue TThe WW eep Issue

BEST CHRISTMAS EVER! I AM 11 YEARS OLD, AND THAT’S HOW THINGS WORK Dear Jeff Bezos, We need to talk. I don’t think it’s okay for you to own the means by which all goods are bought and sold in society, I think that’s too much power in the hands of one person.

Best, Concerned

CHATTY GUY ON TRAIN PROBABLY TRYING TO INFECT YOU Dear Concerned, You will die of sudden heart failure on March 14th, 2025. Also, your package is on its way!

Best, Jeff Bezos

5

Did You Know?

I cried a river of tears for you and it bolstered the local ecosystem.

I’m pretty much over it now but I have to keep crying or water fowl populations will decline.

VOYEUR ALSO ON PHONE WANTED

CLASSY LANDLORD TIES BOW ON EVICTION NOTICE

A therapist who doesn’t charge me because my life is very interesting and they see me as more of a friend.

— E. Hettinger

Emmy Waldman ‘11

Dear Reader, I write with a heavy heart, bloodshot eyes, and snot running from my nose to my toes.

You might think to yourself, Dom always has bloodshot eyes and snot running from his nose to his toes, that’s his whole thing! Well, reader, you’d mostly be right, and I appreciate your attention to detail. However, you forget that my heart is normally light and filled with air, like a lost balloon or a well-executed meringue. But not today. Today my heart is a Dwayne Johnson impersonator; like a rock. For today has been the worst day ever.

I woke this morning as I always do, on my tenth alarm, in a silk nightgown, waiting for little birds to dress me and comb my hair. But today, I lay pinned under splintered wooden posts and a carcinogenic Yale mattress, for my bunk bed had collapsed overnight. When my roommate awoke atop the debris, he ignored my groans and left in a hurry. I continued to call out, but my efforts were futile; it was apricot kolach day in the dining hall, and he had bigger priorities.

I tried chewing my arm off like a coyote, but my teeth are terribly soft, and my bones are terribly strong. Instead, I wriggled and wriggled, the bottom half of my nightgown tearing as I finally broke free. I breathed a sigh of relief, but the second I opened my mouth, one of my dressing birds defecated from above and hit the back of my throat with startling accuracy.

Unfortunately, my unorthodox breakfast was the highlight of my day. I ran to the dining hall to secure the last apricot kolach but found the tray empty. Scooping watery oatmeal, I was met with hoots and hollers from students and dining staff alike. I figured it was my usual morning glow and that my day was looking up, but looking down, I realized I was still wearing my torn nightie, and I spilled oatmeal down my front in surprise. The yellow smiley faces patterning my briefs were exposed, and, contrary to the message printed across my underwear’s behind, it was not “all smiles ;)” today.

On my journey up Science Hill, a fleet of hockey players ran me over with their scooters. As I lay on the concrete, a squirrel leaped onto my back and shuffled back and forth. Apparently, its movements bore a resemblance to the Gangnam Style dance, as passersby gathered around, clapped to the beat of its rhythmic moves, and filmed the jiving rodent atop me. I called my mother in tears, but she told me she had already seen videos of the dancing squirrel on Fizz and was disowning me to claim the squirrel as her son instead.

The Read It and Weep Issue “I’ve seen Stuart Little,” she told me, “and I know an opportunity when it’s right in front of my face.”

When I entered my class, the professor announced a pop quiz and asked for “the oat-ridden, tire-marked student” to hand out the exams. After handing out all 300 papers, I opened the test, but was deeply confused.

“Why is this all in French?” I asked after raising my hand.

The other students erupted in laughter, pointing at me and singing a menacing rendition of “Frère Jacques” in a three-part round. The professor threw a syllabus, folded into a paper airplane, to land stuck between my glasses. I read the bolded letters at the top of the page: Fluid Mechanics for Mechanical Engineers.

Prerequisites: French at Level 5 or native speaker.

I ran from the lecture hall sobbing, snot and oatmeal trailing behind me as I sped down Science Hill. I threw myself onto a bench, and with my head in my hands yelled, “Why God? Why have you brought such misfortune to my door?” Then, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Raising my head, I came face to face with a haggard old man sitting beside me, his long white hair blowing in the gentle breeze.

“Tell me your troubles, boy,” he said in a hushed tone, his bright blue eyes staring straight into my soul.

I recounted the terrible events of my terrible day, and when I was done, he flashed a perfect smile.

Natasha Weiss ’25 Chair Jacob Mansfield ’25 Online Managing Editor

Leah Burch ’25 Copy Editor

Online Managing Editor

Copy Editor

Art Director

Arav Dalwani ’26 Webmaster

Adriana Golden ’24 Old Owl Maya Sanghvi ’23 Old Owl

“My boy,” he said, “think of all the good you have caused!

Your roommate is afraid of heights, and now he has the bottom bunk of his dreams. Many students in that dining hall were self-conscious about their outfits, and you gave them the confidence to face the world in whatever garments they choose. Those hockey players have been falling on the ice all season, but as they skidded over your snapping body, they found the agility to stay on their feet. That squirrel would have starved in the hard winter, but with its newfound fame and adoptive family, it can afford to eat fine non-GMO West African peanuts through brand sponsorships and brave the cold from the comfort of your childhood bedroom. Your zero on that pop quiz contributed to the curve that allowed a French exchange student to pass his first exam of the year. Smile, my boy, for you have brought joy to everyone who has crossed your path.”

Sniffling, I began to respond, but he pressed a finger to my lips.

“Close your eyes.” he said, “Picture their smiling faces.”

I shut my eyes, and grin after grin flashed behind my eyelids.

When I opened my eyes, the old man had vanished. He had taken my phone, wallet, backpack, and shoes. A smile spread across my face, and I winked to God in the sky. For some old man just had the best robbery of his life.

––D. Alberts Editor in Chief

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

Amelia Herrmann ’26 Lillian Broeksmit ’25

Emmitt Thulin ’25 Social Media Manager

7

Samad Hakani ’26 Staff Director

Arnav Tawakley ’24 Old Owl

Jacob Eldred ’24 Old Owl

Larry Dunn ’25 Design Editor

Joe Gustaferro ’24 Old Owl

Managing Editor

Erita Chen ’26 Design Editor

Matt Neissen ’26 Business Manager

Benjamin Hollander-Bodie ’24 Old Owl Grace Ellis ’25 Old Owl

Andrew Cramer ’25 Publisher Debbie Lilly ’26

Emily Cai ’25 Old Owl

Managing Editor

Dash Beber-Turkel ’26

Sophie Spaner ’25 Supplementals Editor

Design Editor

Alejandro Mayagoitia ’25 Merch Manager Joanna Wypasek ’24 Old Owl

Joel Banks ’25 Prank Czar Edward Bohannon ’25 Old Owl

Josephine Stark ’25 Emma Madsen ’25 Old Owl Old Owl

Annie Lin ’25 Old Owl

Staff: Alice Mao ’24 Colson Jones ’24 Edwin Perez ’24 Kara Carey ’24 Lily Dorstewitz ’24 Malia Kuo ’24 Simi Olurin ’24 Ari Berke ’25 Audrey Hempel ’25 Betty Kubovy-Weiss ’25 Cormac Thorpe ’25 Chet Hewitt ’25 Evan Calderon ’25 Ezzat Abouleish ’25 Isabel Arroyo ’25 Jacob Kao ’25

Mari Elliott ’25 Maya Melnik ’25 Neil Sachdeva ’25 Rena Howard ’25 Theo Schiminovich ’25 Tyler Schroder ’25 Adham Hussein ’26 Aidan Gibson ’26 AJ Tapia-Wylie ’26 Alejandro Rojas ’26 Alexa Druyanoff ’26 Alexis Ramirez-Hardy ’26 Alice Khomski ’26 Amanda Budejen ’26 Andie Gately ’26 Andrew Lake ’26

Ariel Kirman ’26 Bella Panico ’26 Brennan Columbia-Walsh ’26 Caroline Utermann ’26 Elio Wentzel ’26 Emily Hettinger ’26 Emmet Houghton ’26 Grace Davis ’26 Helen Shanefield ’26 Jimmy Ruskell ’26 Linden Skalak ’26 Mia Cortés Castro ’26 Natasha Khazzam ’26 Owen Curtin ’26 Oz Gitelson ’26 Paola Milbank ’26

Sam Kumar ’26 Sivan Almogy ’26 Thomas Varghese ’26 Toby Salmon ’26 Tristan Hernandez ’26 William Wang ’26 Wolf Boone ’26 Zadie Winthrop ’26 Zoe Halaban ’26 Adam Hagens ’27 Ainslee Garcia ’27 Ami Gillon ’27 Anna Calkins ’27 Anna Feldman ’27 Anna Lehman ’27 Anna Papakirk ’27

Audrey Jiang ’27 Avery Lenihan ’27 Avery Misner ’27 Bipul Soti ’27 Braeden Cullen ’27 Chloe Budakian ’27 Daniel Wang ’27 Devika Kothari ’27 Ellen Windels ’27 Elora Sparnicht ’27 Emma Upson ’27 Gabriella Cohen ’27 Gha Yuan Ng ’27 Gustavo Dominguez ’27 Harper Murray-Nelson ’27 Jaylynn Cortes ’27

Juliette Propp ’27 Katya Agrawal ’27 Lucas Ranfranz ’27 Lucas Santos ’27 Max Watzky ’27 Nava Feder ’27 Rohan Shivakumar ’27 Samhita Kumar ’27 Sofia Morfin ’27 Sui Yu ’27 Terence Harris ’27 Tom Commander ’27 Victoria Mnatsakanyan ’27 Vidhi Bhartiya ’27 Will Sussbauer ’27 Ge Yu

Contributors: Clio Rose ’23, Joe Wickline ’23, Ava Dadvand ’25 Special thanks to: Clio, Joe and Alexia, who we shot at a farm upstate.

Front Cover: Lizzie Conklin ’25, who dropped the last scoop of ice cream on Earth.

Back Cover: Erita Chen ’26, who hasn’t put a baby on a conveyor belt in years Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CLII, No. 4, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year All contents copyright 2023 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: Letters should be addressed to: Chair, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chair@yalerecord.org. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.

EMBARRASSING WAYS TO DIE Falling into a large, cavernous pit Getting shot by someone shorter than you Slowly eaten alive by a turtle Choking on a raisin Having 1,000 venomous snakes dropped on you by someone not stuck in a large, cavernous pit In hypochondriac recovery Crucifixion Hyperventilating during hot yoga In an assassination on June 28th, 1914 Absorbed by your twin in the womb In a discussion section for PHIL 179: Life Starvation after being stuck in a Chinese finger trap for four days Succumbing to your injuries Succumbing to your injuries in New Jersey —Staff EMBARRASSED COW WETS BED

—D. Kothari

TRANSCRIPT: TALK SHOW INTERVIEWS WITH EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER ROMANTICALLY REJECTED YOU ANNA (HOST): Good morning, America! It’s a bright and sunny day, and I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling emotionally stable on this fine morning — a rare occurrence!

Today, we’ve got a one-of-a-kind, personal show prepared for you. Our topic for today: “Rejection Chronicles: Delving into Exactly What Makes Me So Incredibly Undesirable to Undeserving Men.” As always, I’m your host, Anna, and together, we’re about to embark on a vulnerable journey of self-discovery.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Boy, it sounds awfully inappropriate to be probing every former partner who told you “Thanks, but no thanks.” And to that, I say: Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.

In the next segment, I look forward to bringing you stories filled with laughter, reflection, and hopefully some goddamned closure! Joining us now is our first guest, Mark.

Mark, welcome to the show!

MARK: Thank you, Anna. It’s a real pleasure to be here, and let me just say, the outfit? GIRL! I’m literally drooling, seizing, rolling on the floor right now. The lace, the shoulderpads, the rhinestones? Gagged.

ANNA: Gosh, Mark, you’ve still got it — still making me blush like that chubby little girl I once was. You’ve always had a way with words. Ugh! Look at me, already all hot and bothered. Enough of this, though. Let’s get right to it. Mark, you were the first person to reject me back in middle school, and I took it really poorly — I’ve got two tear-stained diaries and a Lana Del Rey playlist to prove it. Tell me, what was it about me that turned you off?

The Read It and Weep Issue MARK: To be honest, it wasn’t you — it was the orthodontist. The day you got your power chains put on, I knew the jig was up. As fun as our stairwell makeout sessions after play rehearsal were, I couldn’t tell my mother that the gashes on my upper lip were braceinduced, you know?

ANNA: I totally understand, it was just a case of, “Right person, wrong time.”

MARK: Yeah… wrong time, wrong mood stabilizers, wrong gender…

ANNA: WOW! Thank you, Mark. For our next guest, I’d like to introduce Sam, the man who used the “Yale 2027” Instagram page like it was Tinder, talked to me like I was his future wife all summer long, and ghosted me upon our arrival to campus. Sam, come on in!

SAM: Anna, thanks for reaching out. When I saw your text about this interview, I immediately cleared my schedule.

The hoes, the Heineken, all of it can wait.

ANNA: What a man. Just so the audience is clear about “us,” we spent every night on Facetime, talking for hours and hours until move-in. After we met at the a cappella mixer during Bulldog Days, I thought you were the one.

Oh, that voice — that sweet, silken voice — how it wooed me. But we got to campus, and you ghosted. What happened, Sam? SAM: I had a girlfriend back home the whole time.

ANNA: Oh, Go– SAM: And I love her very much.

ANNA: I look forward to the wedding. Finally, I’d like to introduce Tyler.

TYLER: Sup. ANNA: Tyler, for the sake of all things good and holy, explain yourself.

TYLER: [frat boy chuckle] idunnoijustkindalikebruhhhhhhiliter allydontknowwhyyouresopressedbruh.

ANNA: Tyler, you took me on a date, kissed me goodnight, and had sex with my best friend an hour later?

TYLER: Nah it’s not like that bruh it’s not that deep literally just not that deep bruh. I don’t know how many times I need to say that we weren’t exclusive and also I totally did not do what you said I did and you’re actually insane you psycho obsessive bitch!

ANNA: Women from the live audience are throwing chairs at the stage, and you know what that means — we’re all out of time! Thanks for tuning in, folks. I’ll see you all next week, where I’ll be addressing “Random Itches and Red Bumps.”

9

—K. Agrawal HOW TO FIX MEEMAW’S POKER ADDICTION Uh oh, Meemaw lost all of her retirement savings playing games on the Internet again! Here are some easy steps to fix things that worked last time.

Have a long talk with Meemaw about her poker addiction. Sit her down and get to the root of the problem to figure out what motivates her online gambling cravings.

Gamble with her once or twice to observe her problem firsthand and prevent her from doing anything too risky.

Realize that poker is actually pretty fun, even if it is a little risky.

She could probably play every now and then as a treat.

Reevaluate your worldview. Wisdom comes with age, so Meemaw is probably right about poker. It’s only a problem when you lose anyways.

Quit your job and sell your car.

Each bet you lose just means you and Meemaw are one step closer to the big win. The dawn of your unstoppable gambling empire is coming!

Vegas. Women. Cocaine. Repeat.

Put Meemaw to rest after her poor old heart couldn’t take all the excitement. Bury her with some chips, so she can gamble with Betty White in heaven.

Collect her life insurance. Put it all on red.

—A. Hagens TAROT CARD READING

—– A. Lehman

—C. Utermann

10

The Yale Record REASONS I DIDN’T TELL YOU THERE WAS SPINACH IN YOUR TEETH

GIRAFFE’S NECK TOO SHORT

I didn’t see it The sun was in my eye I was distracted by a passing dog I was busy hiding from the enemy The very cute dog came up to me, and I was being present while petting it I thought the spinach was a good distraction from the giant piece of broccoli also stuck in your teeth I was lost in thought, remembering that I’m severely allergic to dogs I was sneezing I was busy being carted off in an ambulance as —S. Morfin emergency responders swiftly administered an epinephrine injection to my upper thigh to suppress SCAMS GRANDMA FELL FOR my rapid pulse, widespread hives, and closing A strange man impersonated her grandson in jail asking for airways bail.

I do not like you very much Paying for her daughter’s college tuition (the daughter is —A. Garcia an established professional and graduated from college 34 years ago).

A CURSE ON THE READER OF THIS ISSUE Spending $3,000 on a fake title of nobility to be passed down to her progeny.

The Record will eat up the substance of your lands with Going online and sponsoring the education of an Iraqi the beasts of our herds and the beasts of our neighbors’ herds. child who ended up being a communications major The Record will topple the walls of you and your fathers, with a cocaine addiction. and the walls of your friends where you seek refuge, until Buying “healthy, organic, and life-giving” cigarettes for you are turned out into the wilderness, until your friends $500 to try and relive her glory days before the smoker refuse you from their high walls and the boatsmen refuse you lines set in. passage, and you must rest under a rock or cave or similar.

Sending weekly payments to her online boyfriend of many The Record will marry your daughters to far-flung lands, months who has the same bank account information as marry them far away and with little dowry, and the Record’s her grandson. elephants will stomp your sons’ testicles so hard they die.

That dumb bitch spent $20 on a frat car wash. They The Record will afflict you with a pox. didn’t even clean her rims.

The Record will demand of you a reason why you didn’t —T. Commander read the Little Critters issue, or the Scouts issue, or the FirstYear issue, and the reason you give will be found wanting, BEST-SELLING HALLMARK CARD and your tongue will be cut from your throat, and you will be given back copies of the Little Critters and Scouts and FirstYear issues.

The Record will destroy your sacred things and your sacred texts, and take photographs of them, and our children and our grandchildren will learn your sacred languages, and they will write many monographs describing your beliefs as precursors to the Record’s human-rights framework of international justice.

Great indeed was the mistake you make in opening this issue, reader, for all these things we have written and a thousandfold more will surely assail you.

—L. Burch

—A. Herrmann

The Read It and Weep Issue

EULOGY FOR GLEN JOHNSON BY HIS GRANDSON, GLEN JOHNSON THE THIRD

By A. Calkins Good morning everyone, and thank you all for attending my grandfather’s funeral. My dad, Glen Johnson II, asked me to give a eulogy for my late grandfather, and I bet you’re all expecting some kind words about a great man.

Well too bad, you old coots! I’m GLAD Grandpa Glen died.

When I was just a few days old, Gassy Glen tickled my feet. It is my earliest memory. I was filled with such intense rage that I discovered crying from emotion, not just as a response to being cast out of my mother’s womb.

Months later, he pinched my cheeks. On that day, I learned to throw a punch. Not well, but I learned. He didn’t even fight back, the old coward.

This foolishness continued for many years, until finally, on my 8th birthday, he booped my nose. I screamed, and I cried, and I waved my fists around until he stopped trying to boop my nose or tickle my feet or pinch my cheeks. That’s when the birthday money stopped coming in. Then, the Christmas money. There was no question that Grumpy Glen wouldn’t be giving any gifts for my 8th-grade graduation.

I’ve done the math, people. I am 28 years old. That’s 20 years of birthday money I didn’t receive from Greedy Glen. I might have eventually let the booping slide, but pulling the plug on my only source of childhood income?

That was it. Well, as far as pulling plugs go, who got the last laugh there, Gone in the Ground Glen?

11

CREDIT CARD DECLINED ON FIRST DATE STEVEN: Hey you! Psssst! Over here! Nononono, over here!

Yes, yes, good.

Enter WAITER: What seems to be the problem, sir?

STEVEN (Aside): My good friend, what’s your name?

WAITER: Gustavo.

STEVEN: GUSTAVO! I had a friend with your name once.

See, it’s like we already know each other.

WAITER: Once?

STEVEN: Anyway, I’m trying to impress my date -whispers- I don’t even know why. She smells repugnant, almost like burning eggshells.

JENNIFER (Aghast): I heard everything you just said. This is a very small table.

STEVEN: Haha, sweetie, you always crack me up. (Whispering behind a hand to the waiter): Anyway, I know I ordered this fancy meal, but my card just declined. Can you let this one slide, for ol’ time’s sake, Gustav’? I promise I have a good reason…

WAITER: No. JENNIFER: Your card declined?

STEVEN: Don’t ask me that. Please respect my boundaries.

JENNIFER: You took me to an IHOP. For dinner. On our first date. And your card declined.

STEVEN: Nonono, everything’s fine, honey.

STEVEN slips a $2 bill into WAITER’S pocket.

STEVEN: You know they don’t make those anymore…so whaddya say?

WAITER: All-you-can-eat pancakes are $50 per person. You owe $100. I only say that because I know you won’t tip.

JENNIFER: I’ll pay, it’s fine.

STEVEN: I think it’s actually feminist of me not to pay.

WAITER: Thank you. Have a good night.

STEVEN: Wait, can I have my $2 bill back? That sold for $30,000 at an auction once.

—T. Harris

YOU CAN ALWAYS GET ANOTHER

So I’m glad Grouchy Glen is dead. He may have left me no part of the inheritance, but now, I no longer have to live with the sting of his disrespect every year on December 25th and May 3rd.

Anyway, folks, thank you all for being here today.

A reception will be held out in the back garden at Gluttonous Glen’s house following the ceremony. In his honor, please enjoy a lovely selection of marmalade sandwiches and mai tais, both virgin and alcoholic, just like the only people who could stand my dear old Grandpa Glen. May he rest in peace.

—E. Upson

THE LONGEST SADDEST SHORT SAD STORY EVER WRITTEN The American stares into his dog’s milky eyes. “Shake,” he says. The dog stares dumbly back at him. The American taught the dog to shake many years ago, but at some point in the sickness it lost the ability or the inclination. He has filled its bowl with expensive bonbons from a heart-shaped candy box. Tomorrow is a big day for the dog. The last day. The American wants it to have a good night at home. It eats the chocolates without much enthusiasm, coughing a little on the clusters of nuts and creamy liqueurs. The American thinks the dog might be enjoying it. It hasn’t wagged its tail in months. The American tidies the squares of colorful tinsel that are used to wrap the candies. There’s a chance they could be useful for one of his son’s art projects. His son worked hard on a Dust Bowl diorama for his history class. The American was proud to see him cutting out paper farmers with such precision. At this rate, he tells his son, the boy’s art will someday be good enough to join the American’s own drawings on the fridge. The son of the American enters wordlessly. He is wearing his new used light-up sneakers. The American got them for his birthday, for the day after his birthday, and he had worn them every day since. The son of the American needs these shoes, for school. Tomorrow night, he will dance in his middle school’s interdisciplinary Dust Bowl dance recital. The American will watch from the audience, if he has time. The American hands his son the scraps. “Maybe you can do something with this,” he says. The son thinks this is a command, and throws the scraps away for his father. The American doesn’t correct him. The boy slinks off to his room. The American hears a throaty retching sound behind him. The dog has thrown up the bonbons in his son’s diorama. The sick is blending with sawdust to fill the shoebox with gummy brown mess. The American thinks he can maybe save the project if he acts fast. He cups the sludge and carries it to the sink, dripping only a little on the linoleum. It sits in the sink for a while, bubbling softly in the basin. The American presses the Insinkerator button until he hears a metal screech. The American looks down the drain and sees his wedding ring. It is scratched and bent and out of reach. The American decides to leave it. His wife would be upset at his carelessness if she found out. But the American’s wife seems upset anyway when she gets home. The American sees her wipe a tear after finding the receipt for the heart-shaped chocolates in the recycling bin. She is going to miss the dog terribly. The American decides to give his wife space. He doesn’t want her to have to ask him for it. He will sleep on the sofa in the den tonight. He does this whenever his wife is upset. She has many complicated routines each night and each morning. Countless creams, powders, sprays, pills, and such. Once, the American mistook one of her products for toothpaste. This mistake stained his lips and ruined the makeup. He bought her a more expensive lipstick and left it as a surprise in the cabinet. The American’s wife never thanked him for the gift. He didn’t mind. He did see her staring at it a few days later, so he knew she found it. The American worries about his wife tonight, but he knows it is best to give her space. She knows best what she needs. He knows her well enough to know that she needs space when she gets sad. The sadder she is, the further away he stays. The American brings his pillow out to the den. Work starts early, and he has been late too many times.

His dog whimpers. The American tries to turn on the TV. The remote is dead. He walks to the kitchen. It smells like vomit and dust and a little like chocolate. The American rummages in the junk drawer. An open safety pin stabs the underside of his fingernail. There is only one AAA battery and many safety pins. The American swaps out one of the batteries in the remote. The TV turns on this time. The American flips to his favorite program. The episode of “Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader?” is halfway over. Fourth Grade Social Studies flashes on the screen: “Who wrote the national anthem of the United States of America?” The American thinks: Betsy Ross? Angela, age 8, buzzes in “Francis Scott Key” with a heart over the I. The American smiles. He never gets the answers right, but the show makes him hopeful for the future. Those kids know so much more than he does. They’re going to change the world when they grow up. One of them might invent the flying car, or a new kind of iPhone, or maybe even a cure for canine kidney failure that costs less than $200. The American googles the host, Jeff Foxworthy, and discovers that he is dead. Must be a rerun, he thinks.

When the American’s alarm goes off, he is dreaming about a day at the lake. He stumbles off the couch and hits his elbow on the corner of the coffee table. When he rises to his feet, he can’t remember what the lake looked like. He’s late for work, because he forgot about Daylight Savings Time, so he runs out of the house without making breakfast for himself or his son. His car is making noises.

On the highway, he turns nine hundred flies into gray goo. The window wipers are out of fluid. The American opens his window to let in some fresh air. He inhales cigarette fumes from the open window of the truck ahead. The smell reminds him of his old habit, long since kicked. Surely now he isn’t addicted, he thinks. Perhaps soon he will pick it up again, in moderation. When the American arrives at his job, his car is almost out of gas. He works at a zoo, in the petting zoo part of the zoo. His job is security. His job is to keep the children from hitting the animals, from pinching the animals, from feeding them keys and coins, from gnawing on their horns and hooves. Each day, the American ejects many children from the petting zoo. Each day, he argues with their parents. These children are nothing like the children on “Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?” The American fights children every day and comes home smelling of straw. He sneezes. He doesn’t know if he’s allergic to goats or hay, but he knows that when he works for more than two hours his eyes turn red and blurry. His shift, four days a week, is six hours long. On Fridays, it’s seven. He wishes he could transfer to another department, but the work he does is too important. The other employees are sympathetic to the children. They allow two or three goose-slaps before they intervene. The American cares about the animals. He can’t let that happen. But every day, he does. He has to. The zoo administration won’t let him ban particular children from the petting zoo, even the repeat offenders.

Today, the boy with the big forehead is here. His parents are by the lion pit; they dote on his newborn brother. It is already clear that his brother will not have a very big forehead when he is older. It is already clear that his brother will get more gifts from his parents when he is older. In the lion pit, the single elderly lion stares patiently at the baby with the normal-sized forehead. He is hungry, but the baby with the normal-sized forehead cannot enter the lion pit. His parents have tied him to the stroller, to weaken his squirming. The boy with the big forehead likes to pull on goats’ tails.

He gallops around the petting zoo, skinning his knees and blaming the straw. Sometimes he falls on purpose, to make his parents look. Usually they are too far away to hear his shouts. The American hates the boy with the big forehead. He knows that it is not right to hate a child, but he hates him all the same. The boy with the big forehead likes the American. He thinks his security uniform is cool. To get the American’s attention, the boy with the big forehead pulls on a goat’s tail. The American blows his whistle. The American has a taser too, but he is not allowed to use it on children.

He is only allowed to use it if one of the gorillas remembers it can climb. The boy with the big forehead sticks his tongue out. He calls out for his father. His father is in the zoo restroom, forgetting to wash his hands. The American shouts at the boy. He isn’t supposed to shout at the boy, but he shouts. He asks the boy why he does what he does. He asks the boy why he hurts the goats, who have never hurt him. The boy says he doesn’t know. The boy really doesn’t know. Things just seem to happen, to the boy. He watches himself do things, a passive observer to his own transgressions.

Sometimes, the boy with the big forehead thinks life is like a movie. But in the movies, everything is smooth and colorful, and in real life the details of the day are almost too intricate to bear. The American tells the boy he has to leave. A well-behaved girl nearby thinks the American is talking to her and plods away sadly. She will tell her parents she was expelled from the zoo, and they will never return again. The American stands, and works, and stands some more. He gives a treat to his favorite goat, Hilda. Hilda has no sense of taste, but there is no way for the American to know that.

As the sky darkens, the American realizes it is later than he realized. He planned to leave the zoo early to make it on time to his son’s recital. The American is proud of his son for participating in the end-of-year middle school showcase. The American never did anything like that when he was a boy. He was bowlegged when he was young and could never dance gracefully enough to feel comfortable performing. He is still a little bowlegged, but it matters less now. The American can blow his whistle bowlegged, and shout at children bowlegged, and drive on the gray highway bowlegged. The American hasn’t danced in a long time. The American starts his car. The gas is low. It isn’t so low that he won’t reach his destination, but he notices it anyway. He turns on the radio and flips it to the news in Spanish. The American has been trying to teach himself Spanish by listening to the radio. He knows this method works for people who watch different language TV programs. He doesn’t understand what the hosts and correspondents say, but he likes that the sounds are becoming familiar. The American hears the words “mucho tráfico” and recognizes them. He doesn’t catch the words around them. The American refuses to switch to the English radio. Giving up is never the answer. He doesn’t know where the “tráfico” is, but he knows he should probably change course. The American turns onto a sideroad. He knows a shortcut to the middle school. It is dark on the sideroad, but the American finds it peaceful. A deer waits patiently on the side of the road as he approaches, then leaps in front of his car. It doesn’t die, but it bleeds. The deer stares up through the windshield with sad eyes. It reminds the American of Hilda at the zoo. Only a little, though, because they are different animals. The American remembers the boy with the big forehead. Even at his cruelest, the boy has never hurt an animal this badly before. The deer limps off the road awkwardly, bending its legs at unnatural angles. It reminds the American of himself. Only a little, though, because he is a man and his life is very good. It will be okay, he decides. Animals are strong, he decides, even when their tails are pulled or their kidneys fail or they are hit by cars. He keeps driving. The American pulls into the parking lot of the middle school at 5:57, with three minutes to spare. The car has just enough gas. There was no need to be worried. He runs into the auditorium just as the show is starting and stands in the back. He knows his wife saved him a seat, but he does not want to block the view of all the other parents by wandering around and looking for her. He plans to find her at intermission, and thank her for saving a seat. The American does not notice the small uncle standing directly behind him, trapped in the corner by his bulk. The small uncle says nothing, because he is meek. The performers file out onto the stage. They prance and pirouette, and the American is confused. It’s so much more professional than he expected. He smiles. Maybe he has underestimated his son. Maybe he really is a very good dancer. As the dance goes on, the American struggles to see how it relates to the Dust Bowl. Many of the dancing children are dressed like sailors and the others are dressed like fish. The American shrugs. Perhaps the water theme is ironic. He knows he doesn’t know history all that well. A dancer dressed as a crab leaps out of a cardboard clam. The American feels his stomach drop. He knows that dancer. He knows his big forehead and his beady evil eyes. And he knows that the boy with the big forehead does not go to his son’s school. The American runs out of the auditorium. He is at the wrong middle school. This is the middle school that always beats his son’s middle school at flag football. He can never keep the two straight. His car won’t start and the windshield is covered with deer blood and bits of fly. The American gets out of the car, and decides to run. He will return to pick up the car tomorrow, and find it has been towed. The Dust Bowl recital is nearly done by the time the American arrives. According to the printed playbill, he has missed an entire sequence on poor agricultural practices. The playbill says the American’s son is one of eight dancers playing the Wind. Their number is the finale. The music changes and the lights go out. Seven pairs of glowing sneakers tiptoe out onto the stage. They proceed to leap and twist and what must be cartwheel in the darkness to the sound of wind chimes. The American appreciates the synchronization of their dancing. It must be difficult in the darkness. At the end of the piece, the fourteen shoes stand in a line and the light comes on. The audience stands up and claps. There is an eighth dancer at the end of the line, whose shoes are not twinkling at all. The American realizes he never looked into the battery life of light-up sneakers. He thought that sort of thing lasted forever. He thought that’s why you couldn’t put them in landfills. It occurs to the American that nothing lasts forever. Nothing he likes, anyway. The American’s son smiles up on stage.

He thinks he has danced like the wind in front of his entire school. He doesn’t know that his father made him invisible. The American will tell him what happened, later. He believes in being honest with children. He was honest with his son about the dog, about the process by which the dog’s suffering would be ended, and he will be honest about this. The American meets his wife and son in the lobby of the middle school. His wife congratulates their son on his performance. She tells him he danced beautifully. The American tells him the truth. They have different parenting styles and that is what makes their relationship work so well. He is glad that they trust each other enough to disagree. His son’s face falls, and the American offers him some reassurance. “It’s certainly possible you danced beautifully,” he says, gripping his son’s arm for consolation. “Anything is possible. Anything at all.” The American offers to take his family out to dinner after the recital. There is one restaurant within walking distance and the American is friends with the hostess. She brings her kids to the petting zoo and they are well-behaved. When they arrive, the hostess greets the American with a hug and he kisses her on the cheek. Whenever he goes to her restaurant, she brings extra free bread to his table. It makes the American feel special. It makes him feel like he’s part of a community. The American’s wife doesn’t smile at the hostess. The American wonders why she has been in such a funk lately. It must be something at her job. She works so hard. He makes a mental note to give her extra space this week. The American’s son is silent for the whole dinner. He pushes his mashed potatoes around on his plate. The plate reminds the American of the ruined diorama sitting in the kitchen. His son must be tired. Dancing takes so much energy. Or maybe he’s worried he made a mistake, that he embarrassed himself in public. The American was always embarrassed when he did things wrong. The American tells his son that no one could see him on stage, so he shouldn’t be worried if he isn’t good at dancing. His son doesn’t smile. That’s okay, the American thinks. It takes time and maturity to realize this sort of thing. When he was a kid, he thought everyone was looking at his bowlegs. But it turned out nobody was ever looking at him at all. The American’s wife orders a glass of wine. And then another. The American’s wife clutches the American’s left hand. She tells him that she loves him and will stay by his side no matter what. Even if he feels like he needs to—her voice breaks. Even if he has to do whatever he’s been doing. She tells him that she wants their son to have a whole home. The American smiles. That is what he wants too.

He is glad they have the same values. Family is the most important thing in the world.

—C. Rose and J. Wickline

The Read It and Weep Issue TOP FUNERAL SWAG TO MAKE THIS ONE TO REMEMBER Snack Bag — Your loved one is gone, and that’s sad. But funerals never serve good food, and that’s even sadder.

People will thank you for this one.

Custom Urn — You’ll want to snag your fair share of Gam Gam’s ashes for your spice rack, so this is practical and stylish!

The Deceased’s Possessions — Don’t pretend you’re not excited to dig into that stash. “You can’t take it with you” only applies to the dead. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and the solid gold commode to me.

Yale Sweatshirt — Because you should never lose out on an opportunity to remind people that you’re still alive. And you’re a winner. (Also single, by the way.)

—N. Feder DON’T CRY OVER SPILLED MILK

13

with me in the bed we bought seven years ago. I know it is an awful thing to say, but I felt no other way out. It was like the rubber band that held us together had finally snapped. And I planned to use the remains to slingshot me into the arms of someone else.

I direct-messaged the account that had posted the ad, and they helped me get in touch with the sender. I quickly sent a reply and arranged a meeting, my palms sweating from the guilt and –– could it be? — the thrill of deceit.

The clock strikes noon, and I take the first steps to escape the boredom of my domestic confines at O’Malley’s, a seedy bar forty minutes north of my sad little life. I walk in, the cigarette haze blurring my vision, but what I see is something that I have spent the last seven years staring at— seen at every restaurant, every party, every kitchen, every bedroom, every bathroom, I had seen those eyes. The eyes of my own lovely lady.

In that bar, two would-be adulterers’ eyes meet. She smiles softly, and I sigh.

“One Piña Colada, please,” I say to the bartender, before walking right past her to meet the woman I actually intend to cheat with.

—A. Herrmann BALLOON LOSES CHILD

—K. Agrawal

FAILED ESCAPE I was tired of my lady. We have been together since she agreed to date me seven years ago. At the time it seemed like one of those things you are sure about. But now, I have started to lose faith in my love for her.

My feelings for her were something I had wanted to believe more than anything that I truly felt. I contemplated leaving her, but I couldn’t bear to part with our wellestablished mutual friend group. Instead, I remained cowardly and stayed in the relationship.

One night, her body still beside me, I struggled to push aside my faithless thoughts. Seeking reprieve from my wretched heart, I was basking in the cool glow of the Instagram Explore page when I saw that fateful sponsored ad. It called out for a lover who enjoys tropical alcoholic beverages, the bone-soaking chill of a flash rainstorm, and dirty, sandy sex on the beach. Attributes that I have.

Attributes that my lady could never love me for. The ad asked for someone to write back, calling to me in a way my wife never did, because she thought calling was “oldfashioned.” So I didn’t think twice about the woman laying

—E. Upson

poetry corner haiku in a mcdonald’s parking lot B-I-N-G-o God is just a bingo caller Because you never know What is coming next But you hope You get the round robin You always dreamed of

I am a dandelion People call me a weed But I know I am dandy

i learned one thing in organic chemistry and that was how to draw hexagons Life is like benzene: It spins It smells And I do not know What happens If you add Hg(OAc)2

loss You give them Everything Your phone number Your Snapchat Your social security And what do they give you?

An empty Club Penguin home.

to the custodial staff of 1500 main st, newark, ohio, and their negligence concerning the 3rd floor bathroom to the left of the stairs Is there anything more terrible Than living in this world And realizing, too late, The stall you inhabit Is out of toilet paper It may be you and your air-drying asshole against the world, but just know, triple-ply costs too much

—A. Herrmann and A. Budejen

Why Must the Willow Weep?

Tara Bhat

Dear Mister Willow, why must you weep?

Is it because you hath not enough sleep?

If I bring you a tissue to wipe all your tears, Would that help to reduce your drear?

Dear Mister Willow, it hurts me so To see you in this state, you know They call me an “empath,” it must be true My tears for you have turned me blue Young little boy, go stop your whining Without my tears, the great big world would start unaligning Without the water that drips from my leaves There would be no germination of all the plants’ seeds A young woman trying to hide her tears Can conceal her depression for many years By sitting ‘neath my leaves, each afternoon So please stop all this lamenting soon Actually, let’s drop this poetic language Young little boy, you’ve left me in a state of anguish Stop asking these philosophical questions So shut the fuck up, that’s my suggestion

I dropped the ashes, and I am so very sorry.

Erita Chen

I dropped the ashes, for I was bereft with grief.

I dropped the ashes, for I had no other outlet to express my anguish.

I dropped the ashes, for they were heavy.

I dropped the ashes, for Uncle Gary had sweaty palms and couldn’t stop shaking my hand to share his sorrow.

I dropped the ashes, for the family decided I had to carry them, despite being grandma’s third least-favorite.

I dropped the ashes, for I was hungry.

I dropped the ashes, for Uncle Gary swore he heard something rumbling in that darn solid gold urn.

I dropped the ashes, for the family shelled out for a darn solid gold urn embedded with 24-carat diamonds yet still refused to pay for my student loans.

I dropped the ashes, for I was really, really hungry.

I dropped the ashes, for grandma long swore she would haunt me if I didn’t finish the pot of her famous 5-bean stew, featuring garbanzo, fava, pinto, lima, and kidney.

I dropped the ashes, for the rehearsal dinner honored grandma by serving only her famous 5-bean stew.

I dropped the ashes, for I was truly, very, outstandingly hungry.

I dropped the ashes, but it’s all right, for the memorial floor was so clean one could eat straight off it.

I ate the ashes, and grandma was delicious.

THE RECORD QUIZ CORNER WHICH WORD ENDING IN -AD ARE YOU?

DO ALL YOUR FRIENDS ACTUALLY HATE YOU?

—-R. Shivakumar

Mostly B’s: You’re really more of a side acquaintance. You’re always the first one to text. You’re at the end of the invitation list, the last person your friends would turn to for anything. But that’s okay!

As long as you know your role.

Mostly A’s: Yep, your friends hate you. In fact, everyone does. If you dropped off the face of the Earth, nothing would really change.

A. Aye B. Nay 6. Satis eruditionis habesne ut significantia pulchritudineque huius 1. Can you read this? sententiae apisci fruique possis?

A. Yes A. Sic B. No B. Non 2. Do you comprehend the meaning 7. εἶς άναγιγνώσκοντα, ὅντινα λίαν behind this sentence? σαφῆ· ποῖον ἰσχὺν ἔχει σοι ἡ τεχνή; ἦ A. Yes ῥά νύ μοι ἑρμηνεύειν οὐκ δύνασαι τόνδε B. No λόγον γραψάμενον ἐν τῇ γλώσσῃ 3. Could you apprehend the signification encapsulated within the πυκνῇ ἣν νῦν φοβοῦνται διδάσκειν οἱ διδάσκαλοι. confines of this intricate sentence?

A. καταλαμβάνειν δύναμαι A. Yes B. καταλαμβάνειν ού δύναμαι B. No 8. 01000011 01100001 01101110 4. May I beseech your capacity to 00100000 01111001 01101111 apprehend the profundity enshrined within the intricacies of this particular 01110101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100100 expression?

00100000 01110100 01101000 A. Yes 01101001 01110011 B. No A. 1 5. Hark, doth thy discernment extend B. 0 to unravelling the significations clandestine in the winding depths of —D. Wang this proclamation?

Mostly C’s: You may think based on your answers that your friends love you, but really they are sucking up to you (or just sucking you) because they think you’ll be rich one day. Better than nothing.

WHAT’S YOUR READING LEVEL?

Mostly D’s: You have bountiful loving friendships!

—J. Propp

1. Do your friends tell you they love you?

A. No. B. Every now and then.

C. Often.

2. Have you ever been left hanging for a crisp high five?

A. Many, many times.

B. Once in a while.

C. Never, my friends always seize the opportunity for skin to skin contact.

3. Have your friends ever invited you on an all-expensespaid trip to the Serengeti to view the wonders of the Tanzanian savannah?

A. They went without me :( B. My friends don’t stack paper like that.

C. But of course!

4. Friend group orgies?

A. They went without me :( B. Ew! I don’t see them that way.

C. What happens in the Tanzanian savannah stays in the Tanzanian savannah.

5. Have you ever felt lonely even once?

A. Regularly.

B. Obviously, everyone does sometimes.

C. No, loneliness is an unnatural feeling and also a sign of witchcraft.

0: I believe you are illiterate.

1: Good job buddy! You are a 1st grader.

Go practice your flashcards.

2: Congratulations! You have the answers):

“καταλαμβάνειν δύναμαι”, and “1”

Results (add all “Yes”, “Aye”, “Sic”,

reading level of a 4th grader. Go hit a chapter book.

3: 10th grade has treated you well.

4: That was pretty good! You must be an undergraduate English major. You’re probably worried that an “MFA in English would make your writing style impersonal.”

5: This one didn’t even make sense to me! You might be a professor.

6: Lux et veritas!

7: Reading Percy Jackson at a young age gave you a love of books and a terrible personality.

8: 00111010 00101001

NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT • SUNDAY, JANUARY 28, 2024

• VOL. CLII, NO. 4

• yaledailynews.biz

Plague Kills Off All Hot Villagers

BY HELEN SHANEFIELD STAFF REPORTER CANTERBURY, ENGLAND — Local peasants

confirmed on Saturday that the Black Death had arrived in Southeast England, robbing the county of its handsomest youths.

“The plague hath not spared a single fair maiden in all the land!” spake blacksmith Edmund Turner. “The only village’s only lady-survivor is that unsightly old hag loitering ’round the square. What is she, 14? Good heavens!”

While doctors have tried everything to stop the outbreak, from prayers to poultices to even more

prayers, their efforts have been fruitless.

“There were some decent knights around before the plague, but now, thou cannot see a scurvyfree lad for miles,” the local tavern wench reported.

“In my day there were able-bodied eight-yearolds ‘round every corner, but the plague has taken its toll.”

Many villagers believe that this sickness is a curse placed upon the town by the local witch. When asked for comment, all she had to say in her defense was, “Ow ow ow yeowch ow that burns.”

Though common folk have borne the brunt of

the plague, the upper class has also experienced significant hardship in its wake. “Mother says I must wed Sir Hugh, but his most recent bout of dysentery hath left him quite repugnant,” said Lady Beatrice, while playing with her dolls. “If we really have to marry, I shall just send him on the next crusade.

Oh, how I miss Sir John and his dashing smile!”

At press time, Sir John was the last remaining villager to have more than 10 teeth.

Local villager Filithus Swarmhog hides his ugly, ugly face behind a rather fashionable mask.

Student Pantsing Reveals Underwear with Hearts on Them

BY AVERY MISNER STAFF REPORTER NAPLES, FL — Yesterday, at 12:31 p.m. EST, 6thgrader Michael Lenel was pantsed by 7th grader Danny Williams en route to the middle school lunchline.

The unprecedented attack sent shockwaves through the region, and locals have since taken to social media to voice their discontent.

On Williams’s most recent post, featuring his attempt to shotgun a bottle of PRIME energy drink, fellow 7th grader Genie Matherson left the following comment: “TBH: Idk u but i heard u literally ripped off Mikey’s plaid cargo shorts. rate 6.5.”

Williams has not responded to our request for a comment.

The Times first report-

ed tensions in the Kickball region of Lincoln Middle School in August, detailing intermittent skirmishes between the Traditionalist 8th-graders and the Progressive 7th-graders.

We sat down with middle school foreign-policy expert Dr. Blaine, who explained why this recent attack stood out among the near weekly pantsings reported at Lincoln Middle School.

“In the past, violence had exclusively occurred between the ruling 8thgraders and their rival 7thgraders, but the attack on a 6th-grader could be the tipping point for all out playground warfare. With all of these pantsings ricocheting around, one must stop and wonder, are even the esteemed foreign-policy

experts among us safe from losing our pants?” Blaine queried as he tightened his belt.

Witnesses confirm that Lenel wore pink underwear with a pattern of purple hearts. Intelligence experts believe that the attack was premeditated with inside information. Joane Caldwell, former CIA analyst, told The Times, “Underwear with hearts signals Lenel had no other choice while his mom did his laundry. The pantsing occurred while Lenel was defenseless as he was holding his lunch tray. To commit such a violent act on laundry day means one thing: There must have been an intel leak.”

In response to the incident, Lincoln Middle School staff announced that

they will increase the presence of hall monitors during all hours. Lenel’s reputation has been placed in intensive care due to the fact that his crush was allegedly present

for the pantsing.

At press time, Michael Lenel’s mom was almost done folding his clean, heartless underwear.

6th grader Hannah Walters provided an artist interpretation of the pantsing.

Sources report that Walters is going through a phase.

NEWS Corpse Skips Funeral, Hires Stunt Double to Attend Instead

BY DEVIKA KOTHARI STAFF REPORTER CLEVELAND HEIGHTS, OH — In a startling turn of events, mourners at the late Bertram Brooks’ funeral were astonished to discover a stunt double had assumed the deceased’s position in the casket. Brooks’ family and friends were bewildered when a sneeze rang out from their loved one’s casket. It appears the stunt double — though bearing uncanny resemblance to Brooks — is allergic to hydrangeas.

“I just knew immediately that that man wasn’t

my husband,” claimed Belinda Brooks. “In my 37 years of marriage to Bertie, I never once heard him sneeze.”

“I thought something was off when the corpse winked at me,” stated a mourner who has requested to remain unnamed. “But I just assumed I was reliving our torrid affair from six years ago.”

The reason Brooks hired a stunt double to assume his place remains a mystery, as Brooks himself was not present at his funeral. As the man known for “mischief” and “shenanigans” throughout the town, it seems likely the trickster was

keen to execute one last scheme.

Brooks’ disappearing act elicited extreme responses from mourners.

While some believe the trickster to be alive and

executing an elaborate hoax, others question the ethicality of calling someone a “stunt double” when all their stunt involves is “taking a nap in a casket.”

The stunt double has remained stationary in the casket and did not respond to our requests for a comment.

The Male-Loneliness Problem Isn’t a Problem, It’s Just You

BY LUCAS RANFRANZ you. Mike Coxlong of the fraternity LEO was STAFF REPORTER eager to comment.

“Dude, he’s such a NEW HAVEN, CT freaking loser. I mean, — Redditors, X-ers, we let him into a party and Fizzers alike have once. All the cool guys long theorized the showed girls their high existence of a “male- school sports highlight loneliness epidemic.” reels and made out The Record has investi- with the other drunk gated these claims and men. And he didn’t has come to a definitive wanna do any of that, conclusion. No such I mean it’s no wonder epidemic exists: YOU he’s such a freaking are the problem. loner boner.”

In the extensive Mike’s friend, Jenresearch that led up na Tolls, chimed in to to our findings, we in- agree. “He approached terviewed numerous me at the party and members of the Yale told me that since the community that know guys don’t want to be

his friend, maybe a girl can. Yuck! He’s embarrassingly short at only six foot, he must have a Napoleon complex to even think about coming up to me.”

Branching out even further, we approached your priest, Father Smith, during his smoke break for further comment. “He doesn’t partake in any of the cardinal sins, not even greed — have you seen how fucking generous that guy is?

Everyone knows that J-Man, our Lord and Savior, will only accept bad boys into His King-

dom.”

Leading psychologists have posited that your inflated ego may lead you to believe that these anecdotal analyses are insufficient to prove how insufferable you are.

Following their advice we gathered hard, empirical evidence to get it through your dumb, thick head.

Data compiled from the Pew-PewSkitty-Skitty-BangBang Research Center shows that of maleidentifying students on campus, 99.99% report not being lonely.

The data breakdown shows that even the first-years who beg for cuddle buddies on Fizz have friends. That .01% remaining, then?

That’s you, you total fucking loser. You’re the problem.

CITY Small Town in Crisis: Man Thinks Goatee Looks Good

BY ELLEN WINDELS STAFF REPORTER GRASSY PINES, CA — This past Thursday afternoon, screams echoed through downtown Grassy Pines when a man, now identified as physics teacher Kyle Johnson, walked into the Starbucks at 3:07 pm with a goatee and unnatural swagger. A quick-thinking and heroic fifteen-year-old barista immediately called 911.

The police arrived on the scene at 3:17 pm and promptly arrested the perpetrator. 33-year-old Johnson now sits in the county jail, awaiting trial for his crimes. The verdict is predicted to be a swift and unanimous guilty for all three charges: Public Indecency, Disturbing the Peace, and Ugly.

Although no one was injured during the incident, witnesses described a harrowing scene in the ten minutes it took for au-

thorities to arrive.

Local stay-at-home mother Julie Bredford arrived at Starbucks after picking up her quintuplets from rhythmic baby yoga.

“They were so excited because I let them order their drinks themselves,” she tearfully recalled. “Those seasonal half-caff nofoam extra-drizzle Cookies and Cream Frappuccinos should have brought them joy, but this was a day that only knew pain.”

The perpetrator entered, dressed in a newsboy cap, skinny jeans, and a leather jacket. He “coughed obnoxiously,” according to multiple witnesses, which first alerted them to the terrible display.

One of Bredford’s sons started sobbing immediately. “At that point, I dragged all five of them under the booth,” Bredford explained. “My kids could tell how serious it was because they didn’t

even bother to grab their frappuccinos and immediately assumed Tornado Drill formation, all clambering on top of one another and shielding each other’s heads.”

“My heart dropped when he actually walked up to the counter,” explained the barista, who has asked to remain anonymous. “Up close, his goatee was shockingly patchy and kinda-blondish in color. It took me a second to even realize there was a mustache attached to his puny beard, but once I did, I knew that only the authorities could help us.”

Johnson ordered a black coffee. His smile, the barista said, was the scariest part. “He was just so confident. How could he possibly look in the mirror and still decide to leave his house? This is a school zone, for God’s sake!”

Approximately four minutes after he ordered, the police burst in and

tackled Johnson, bagging his head to avoid further damage on the street outside.

Next week, a charity silent auction will take place in the basement of Trinity Church, 1701 Fifth Street, with all proceeds going to group therapy for the victims and a campaign calling for the nationwide

ban on men styling their own facial hair.

At press time, the Starbucks had yet to reopen, and Johnson was awaiting trial in solitary confinement, to protect the other inmates’ Eighth Amendment right against cruel and unusual punishment.

CONTENT WARNING: VIOLENCE — Hardened criminal Kyle Johnson visually assaults a clean-shaven community.

Curious George Dies in Captivity

to his fellow monkeys at campaign of yellow-hat

BY SAMHITA KUMAR wasn’t throwing banan- George’s passing. as, he was throwing out “ S C R E E C H the Bronx Zoo to “en- hacking against ShacklSTAFF REPORTER thought-provoking in- SCREECH SCREECH,” sure the financial stabil- eford’s online holdings. avowed Sally “Creative” ity of the proletariat” as NEW YORK, NY— quiries.”

“He was such a George, a second cousin they begin an extended Fans worldwide were delicate and inquisitive of the late Mr. George. dismayed to learn that Curious George, an in- soul,” sobbed Theo- This idiomatic monkey ternational symbol of dore Shackleford, bet- expression loosely transpeace and inquisitive- ter known by his stage lates to, “He was a warness, recently passed name, The Man in the rior of truth. He knew away after a banana-in- Yellow Hat. “He’d ask me those vaccines were evil, duced coma at the Bronx why I was a washed-up and look what they did loser whose only friend to him!”

Zoo. At press time, CreZoo officials and was a captive monkey. residents alike de- He always knew the ative, the executor of the George estate, was draftscribed the illustrious right thing to say.”

However, seving plans to honor her monkey as “lighting up every enclosure he en- eral prominent mon- cousin’s parting wishes tered. When the primate keys have raised con- by donating 95 percent Insatiable child star Curious George devours a banana, ruins his summer cerns about foul play in of his “bananas” fortune body, and immediately dies.

20

The Yale Record WORST PLACES TO BREAK UP

The library An escape room During a tandem skydive On a game show, during the phone-a-friend portion At your place, cuddling on the couch while watching a Hallmark movie about finding true love and living happily ever after The Popemobile The al fresco dining area of their family’s private yacht In the middle of your marriage proposal Ohio —A. Gillon THINGS SADDER THAN A DOG DYING World hunger The end of Zootopia My parents getting a divorce Your parents getting a divorce Both parents refusing to take custody of you The realization that your parents lied about you being their favorite child Your parents and your beautiful, accomplished sister pointing and laughing when you ask if they were lying about Santa Claus too Two dogs dying —S. Kumar I TRIED TO MAMMA MIA MY WEDDING The moment that John popped the question, I knew this was my chance to finally live out my ABBA-jukebox-musical-fueled dreams. I would send letters to my mother’s numerous former suitors in the hopes that one of them would reveal themselves to be my true father at my wedding. Sophie had a much easier time finding her potential fathers, as her mother detailed every raucous night in a diary. Unfortunately, my own mother focused more on the raucous nights than the detailing.

Forced to forge my own path to paternity, I spent weeks poring over my mother’s inexplicable Facebook friends, crossreferencing their age, locations, and innate sexual desirability. It took many months, but I finally did it. I was going to have the father I had always wanted. Not just the father who missed my first steps. Not just the father that wasn’t there to sit and read with me each night when I was in danger of getting sent back a grade.

Not just the father that had cemented his legacy in the formation of my life 27 years ago by raucously plowing my mother. I would have the father who would be there when it truly mattered: my wedding day (if I was a man, it would be graduation).

I purchased 70 stamps, wrote 70 letters, and sent them to the 70 men who raucously bedded my mother. Then, there was nothing to do but wait. On the day of my wedding, I watched the clock hands tick to the exact time they were asked to arrive and

prepared myself for the inevitable confrontation over the identity of my real father.

But mamma mia, no one showed.

The church is eerily quiet. I stand still at the bottom of that aisle waiting for someone to take my bent right arm and lead me into the next chapter of my life. But no one steps forward.

The guests are all still, for this sacred duty isn’t theirs. I see John standing at the altar, his eyes silently pleading for me to just step forward. I step forward almost daily, so it should be an easy action, but I just can’t move. I thought for sure that, given the span of men my mother had raucously conquered in her early 30s, at least one of them would show up and claim me as his own.

I guess I will just have to let Dave, my so-called biological father who is clearly too ugly to bear any relation to me, walk me down the aisle. Or maybe I’ll just call the whole thing off.

—A. Herrmann KICKING THE CAN

—J. Cortes HOW I KNOW MY DAD IS PROUD OF ME Last weekend, when I walked into the room, he looked up and almost made eye contact.

He never talks over me, which gives me the opportunity to fill him in on my life and achievements.

Sometimes he doesn’t even respond, to make sure he doesn’t minimize my achievements and goals.

Instead of just displaying my achievements on the fridge like a boring parent, he keeps a shrine in a waterlogged cardboard box in the corner of the attic with all of my medals and awards.

He doesn’t overwhelm me with words of praise because he knows my love language is acts of service.

He doesn’t carry out acts of service because he has so much respect for my independence.

He gave me daddy issues because he knows I’m interested in psychology and wanted to give me first-hand insight into my academic passions.

The word “father” will probably be on his tombstone, so he obviously isn’t ashamed to be associated with me.

—S. Morfin

Confessions of a Therapist Tilly Switzer: Session 397: November 12, 2023 • She has crust around her mouth, I wonder what it smells like • She wore the same outfit last sesh • Recommend personal hygiene tactics next time • Crazy Tilly Switzer: Session 398: November 13, 2023 • She’s aggressively caressing the couch, service animal recommendation?

• Do I say it?

• Should I ask her now?

• Is she ready for this?

• Can she handle it?

• I asked “so how did that make you feel?” then she cried for 15 minutes • Pick an easier question next time • Restock tissues

Tilly Switzer: Session 399: November 14, 2023 • Affirmations for Tilly: - You were not an accident - Those middle schoolers were not laughing at you –– they thought you were cool!

- Your dog prefers you over your deceased mother - You don’t need to send feet pics to be worthy of love • She surely can’t mind-read, but her accuracy goes crazy - Note to self: line scarf with tinfoil just in case - Note to Tilly if you can hear me: Pay the 900 from last week in addition to todays 450 • Is anyone beyond help?

—H. Murray-Nelson

MISFORTUNE

COOKIES

—A. Herrmann and A. Budejen

The Read It and Weep Issue

THE TERRIFYING TRUE STORY BEHIND YOUR TOT’S FAVORITE TALES

By H. Murray-Nelson The Rainbow Fish by Marcus Pfister A loser fish spends too much time in the sun without SPF and is diagnosed with melanoma.

Due to limited medical services and untreated delusions, he attempts to rid himself of the disease by ripping off his skin and offering it to the other fish at his school, who are unable to stop him. This book was written by one of his former classmates as a form of art therapy to help cope with the trauma of watching him die.

Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson A 5-year-old boy breaks into his parents’ acid stash — they were big Deadheads back in the day and forgot to lock up the goods. The little boy has an incredible trip; he interacts with numerous entities and experiences ego death. Unfortunately, he never comes down and is now a 32-year-old resident in a psych ward who, to this day, is terrified of touching pen to paper and can only wear onesies.

23

RORSCHACH TEST Rorschach Test Hmmm

I think I

i

FDiggyy

see

in

0 D

tank

—A. Papakirk WAYS GOLDFISH DIE Eating goldfish crackers. My beloved Swim Shady had to learn that the hard way.

Their human bringing the fish tank into bed and snuggling with it like a stuffed animal.

Being taken on playdates with the surprisingly carnivorous striped bass population of the Long Island Sound.

Their human forgetting where they moved their goldfish to when cleaning the tank. Ste-fin Colbert’s caretaker did NOT realize that bong rip would smoke his fish and is prepared to prove this in court.

Being shot.

—M. Elliott D.S. BOOKS

Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans A little orphan is forced to conform to French beauty standards and develops appendicitis due to the stress of her boarding school’s grind culture.

Despite her symptoms, she chooses not to visit the ER in favor of an interview with her school’s consulting club and is hospitalized as a result. She dies due to surgical complications.

Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown A sweet little boy has obsessive-compulsivedisorder. He can’t sleep until he says goodnight to everything in his room, as he worries something terrible will happen otherwise. Unfortunately, he forgets to wish the monster under his bed a good night, and the second he closes his eyes, his parents drop dead. This reinforces a terrible sentiment, but it’s always nice to be proven right!

—N. Feder

24

The Yale Record MONA LOT’S CRYING TOWEL

PROFESSOR: Before you leave, just a reminder about the midterm. You are allowed to bring a pencil, eraser, and clear water bottle, nothing else. Alright, you’re dismissed!

See you Monday.

MONA LOT: Um, excuse me, Professor?

PROFESSOR: Yes, Ms. Lot? MONA: I know we’re only allowed to bring a pencil, eraser, and clear water bottle, but I was wondering if I could bring my crying towel to the midterm on Monday.

PROFESSOR: Your what?

MONA: My crying towel. You know, so that I can wipe my eyes when I start to cry.

PROFESSOR: Ms. Lot, I announced at the beginning of this course that Student Accommodation requests had to be in by last week. Why can’t you just use a tissue?

MONA: Well, you see, using tissues would be very wasteful, especially considering how many I would use. Frankly, I doubt the department has the budget for it. My crying towel is completely reusable and absorbs lots of moisture.

Mona sniffles, trying to hold back the tears, but it’s too late. The waterworks begin.

PROFESSOR: Okay, okay! Please don’t cry! You can use this, this crying towel of yours on the midterm. You wouldn’t use it to cheat, would you?

MONA: Absolutely not, Professor! The only markings on it

are mascara stains from last time. Oh god, last time….

Mona begins to cry once more, turning her sweater around and blowing her nose into the hood.

PROFESSOR: Alright, well I guess you have my permission, but you better not try and pull a fast one on me.

MONA: Of course not! Thank you again for your time. I’ll see you on Monday, and I’ll wear absorbent clothes!

Mona, back turned to the professor, exits the classroom, her feigned frown turning into a grin as she pulls her crying towel out of her backpack…

made

q.EE I G

LET

v8

—A. Papakirk

LOVE LANGUAGES

—A. Garcia —H. Murray-Nelson

The Read It and Weep Issue IS YOUR GAMBLING ADDICTION UNHEALTHY?

25

LARGE CHILD BAD AT HIDE AND SEEK

Do you participate in gambling more than six days a week?

Are you able to enjoy your son’s Little League games and track meets without feeling like betting on the outcome?

Once you start gambling, do you feel compelled to keep going, even if things aren’t going your way?

Have you ever lost more than $159 to a Danny Devito lookalike because he promised he could get Hamilton Middle School in Madison, WI to throw their baseball game on November 6, 2022?

Have you cut ties with your family over the outcome of a highstakes match of Settlers of Catan?

Do you feel your gambling gets in the way of your personal relationships?

Do you feel your personal relationships get in the way of your gambling?

Have you ever felt compelled to bet on the outcome of a children’s beauty pageant and subsequently sent a strongly worded email to Theresa Spooner, Executive Director of the 2017 Sunburst Pageant in Tallahassee, because Susia Adams was ROBBED of first place and you, in turn, were robbed of several thousand dollars?

If you answered yes to four or more of the above questions, you may have a gambling problem. However, you can still WIN BIG and try again RIGHT NOW by venmoing $5 to The Yale Record (@yalerecord)!

—A. Feldman

—A. Garcia

The Yale Record

26

EUPHEMISMS TO YELL WHEN HANDSOME DAN DIES Went to run around with Handsome Dans I-XVIII on a farm upstate Journeyed with Salovey into retirement Danced at Soads Checked into the Omni Hotel in the sky Touched the toe of God Joined a consulting group Sipped from the Women’s Table Climbed over (the) Fence Club Was brutally hit by the Yuttle in front of a crowd of first-years and eventually scraped off the pavement by city officials —E. Hettinger SMILE THROUGH IT

—J. Propp

—E. Windels

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.

The Read It and Weep Issue

27

SHOW YOUR

YALE ID

FOR 10% OFF REGULAR ADMISSION

Now booking teams, clubs, and group events!

Located 5 min away from campus, just off I-95!

(203) 812-9981 | itatjordans.com | 40 Sargent Drive, New Haven, CT 06511

Ask Old Owl! Dear Old Owl, I’m a lonely woman stuck in an Edward Hopper painting. I keep looking forlorn out the window, but no one looks back at me. Am I invisible to the world? Does one even exist when nobody knows of one’s existence? Oh, tragic life… will I have to wear this nondescript white dress forever? Will God allow me to shed a tear, or am I trapped in a life where I can only look beautifully melancholic?

ing it yet. But as a woman in the real world, you would have to watch it, even if Greta Gerwig’s descent into corporate filmmaking disgusts you, and you think that the emotional impact of the faux-feminism is weak-kneed and uninteresting.

Besides, it’s not like you had much of a childhood attachment to Barbie, because most of your childhood was spent having to grow up too fast, becoming an adult when Mom and Dad couldn’t step up to the plate after hitting the bottle too hard.

Again, I haven’t gotten around to watching it yet. But I’m pretty sure the message Dear Owlet, is: Be grateful you live in a fantasy. The Tough nuts, chickie — you’ve got real world is a lot worse. it a lot better than a lot of other ladies.

Imagine having to interact on the daily Dear Old Owl, with your loud children and your cloyI didn’t know that my hamster ing husband and your unimpressive Ins- was pregnant and then my hamster tagram following. A modern woman has gave birth to eight babies but then got to make everyone happy, like Barbie, two of them died and they got their I guess. I haven’t gotten around to watch- dead smell all over the other ham-

sters, and then my hamster ate all the babies whole, and now I can’t sleep because I think my hamster might eat me too, but I know she’s only an animal, and I’m like her mom and if I were a good mom, wouldn’t I let her eat me even if it makes me die?

Dear Owlet, The greatest thing about children is that you can change your mind about whether or not you want them, and one day you can release your child into the wild and force it to fend for itself. Parenthood has a great return policy, it just takes guts. I say, let your hamster see the world from which it has been hidden. It’s like going to college, but inexpensive and generally frowned upon. If she loves you, she’ll come back someday. If not, she might be lost in New York. Either way, that’s what being a parent is all about: letting go.

Yale’s Favorite Printer!

 Booklets, Catalogs & Magazines  Square Fold Saddle Stitch & Perfect Binding  Event Printing & Signage

Your one-stop for printing, signage, direct mail, and marketing communications... since 1970.

27 Whitney Ave (corner of Grove) New Haven, CT 06510 203-776-6000 info@docuprintnow.com

Proud to be Yale’s Favorite Printer

 Posters, Signs & Banners  Large Format Fabric Printing  Vinyl Custom Shape Stickers  Promotional Products  Ultra Fast Turnaround Time  Student & Nonprofit Discounts  High Quality Printing & Friendly Service!

A R T

O F

S T O R Y T E L L I N G

T H R U . . . .

1209 CHAPEL STREET, NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT, 06511 | T H E T A B L E A N D G A L L E R Y. C O M

INSTAGRAM: @THETABLEANDGALLERY