Vol. 140, No. 6
THE YALE
February 4, 2012
RECORD
T HE YALE RECORD PRESENTS
The Cucumber STAND UP COMEDY SAY BROOK UNDERBROOK F EBRUARY 12T H 2012
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CHICKEN/EGG DEBATE ENDS WHEN PHILOSOPHER GETS HUNGRY FOR SOME OMELETS Hey Arthur, Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? It must be a banana, because you have erectile dysfunction! Ha! Sucks to be you! —Your doctor Hey pumpkin, This little piggy went to market, and this little piggy went home. This little piggy had roast beef, and this little piggy had none. And this little piggy went wee-wee-OH GOD! THERE’S BLOOD EVERYWHERE! WHY DID YOU KEEP ON WIGGLING WHEN I’M TRYING TO CLIP YOUR TOENAILS YOU STUPID BABY!!! Speechless with horror, Your mother
My darling Linda, How could you? I thought we were together forever, but then you let HIM break into our house and carry you away. Well, I’m staying right here to think things over. Don’t come back, you whore. —Bob, who is about to die in a house fire
PHRASE “MY ANACONDA DON’T WANT NONE UNLESS YOU’VE GOT BUNS HUN” MAKES ABSOLUTELY NO SENSE WHEN INTERPRETED LITERALLY
UGLY SWEATER TURNS INTO BEAUTIFUL SWAN; OWNER COLD AND OUTRAGED
Dear manholes, Why do people make such a big deal about the fact that you’re round? It makes total sense. No one ever questions why a woman’s holes are the shape that they are. —Darren
Dear reading period, I thought you didn’t happen as long as a reading tampon is used. Sincerely, A guy who despite being in his fifth semester at Yale still has no idea what reading period is and has even less of an idea what an actual period is
Dear Mariah Carey, “Baby, all I want for Christmas is you”? “Baby, please come home”? Why is it that the only thing you want for Christmas is apparently to have a romantic relationship with a baby? You’re sick! —Adisa Okiro, DC ’15
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STUDENT TOLD NEVER TO USE HITLER AS AN EXAMPLE IN AN ARGUMENT STRUGGLES IN DEBATE ABOUT 20TH CENTURY GERMAN MILITARY HISTORY Dear founders of Black Friday, I find the fact that you’ve named this shopping holiday after African Americans extremely insulting. Black people don’t even like shopping more than other people! In order to balance everything out between the races, I think you should introduce a couple of other commercial holidays. For example, Yellow Tuesday, when math textbooks, pianos and vaccines for yellow fever are 50% off. Or White Wednesday, when argyle sweaters, 30 racks of PBR and Kenny Chesney CDs are on sale. You could even have Mixed Race Saturday, when some things are secretly on sale, but you have to ask politely and guess correctly, otherwise you kind of look like a presumptuous and creepy asshole. Let me know, Maria
STUDIES SHOW A MAJORITY CONSIDER “GOODBYE” TO BE THEIR FAVORITE PART OF A PHONE CONVERSATION Dear purchasers of Canadian diamonds, You think you’re buying conflictfree diamonds, but do you have any idea how much maple syrup had to be sacrificed to produce that diamond?! —A man who can only love maple syrup and has no idea how diamonds are produced
Lost: lost and found box. If found…?
Subliminal, Sublime, Sublemon
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Hey folks, And then I said, “Bomb Hiroshima? I don’t even know her oh shit I just killed thousands of people!” I’ll be here all night, Harry S Truman
CAUCASIAN CULTURAL HOUSE CELEBRATES LONG TRADITION OF EATING CORN DOGS
IMPORTED BEERS
WE DELIVER ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS: JUST ONE DRINK PROBABLY FINE Dear Julie, What do I think of your web comic? I think you’re going to be huge! ...Because the stress of writing is making you gain a really gross amount of weight. Haha, just kidding, it’s great! Love, Rob P.S. Fatso.
Dear smoochie-bear, You not beating me is one of the little things that makes our relationship work. Love, Fuzzykins P.S. Please let me out of the basement.
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very once in a while, the Record takes a break from dispensing your mom jokes and penis puns to ponder the deep questions of human existence. Where did we come from? How did things come to be the way they are? What is good and what is evil? Why is my poop green? This Myth and Legend Issue is the culmination of weeks of attempting to answer these critical questions while still generating the fart jokes that pay our bills. Myths and legends have always been inextricably bound up with the human struggle to understand the world. They answered our questions about the world at a time when we didn’t have the scientific resources to do so accurately. Today researchers might tell us that that seemingly harmless beaver lunged out of the river and dragged your sister into the watery depths because there’s been a recent decrease in the wood supply, and your sticklike sister looked like she would make the perfect finishing touch on his dam. But three thousand years ago, a wise village elder would probably have transformed your sister’s experience into a cautionary tale about the power of menstrual blood and ordered all women to wear skirts made out of beaver teeth during their periods. Such is the
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value and power of mythology and legends. The content of a culture’s myths and legends reveals what they were most fascinated by and most anxious about. The Greeks, it seems, were constantly tormented by the sex appeal of animals such as bulls, swans, ants and pigeons, and terrified of the effect of pomegranate seeds on their figures. The Chinese were perpetually on the lookout for cloud-surfing monkeys and thought that birds would make excellent bridgebuilding material (still a tenet of Chinese engineering today). Norse mythology tells us that men tend to overcompensate for their insecurities by carrying around overly large tools. Egyptian mythology examined our uncanny tendency to look just like our pets. And the Japanese thought one in six giant peaches came with a free baby inside. Sadly though, in our present day, myths and legends have lost much of their influence. Science has answered many of the questions we had before, but more importantly, people seem to be less interested on the whole in the lessons such stories can teach us. It’s not an altogether negative change—I had to abandon my
beaver tooth skirt after the last dry cleaning bill—but it does mean that we no longer have the living tradition of rich mythology that everyone used to take part in. Modern man subsists now on the paltry fare of urban legends and ghost stories, which, although continuing to trick generation after generation of gullible youngsters into thinking that the sound of their parents having sex is a giant fanged eggplant monster hopping up the stairs, is a far cry from the stories humans used to tell. No longer do we try to explain who we are or what we’re doing here; now we just try to see who can make Billy the most fearful of Grandma’s eggplant parmesan. So as you’re reading this Myth and Legend Issue, give a thought to the myths and legends of yore. And maybe the next time you’re telling a story, try to toss in a anthropomorphic hammer or a talking cabbage or two. At least one decayed ancient storyteller will smile creepily at you from the grave before a beaver lunges out of nowhere and drags you into the river. —D. Zhu The Yale Record February 2012
Chairman: David Kemper ’13
Editor-in-Chief: Dana Zhu ’12 Publisher: Jerry Wang ’13 Design Editor: Sydney Shea ’14 Managing Editors: Alli Hugi ’13, Lincoln Sedlacek ’13, Michelle Taylor ’13 Art Director: Paul Robalino ’12 Online Editor: Jack Newsham ’14 Publicity Manager: Daniel Fraser II ’14 Staff Writers & Artists: Juliet deButts ’14, Aaron Gertler ’15, Ben Green ’14, Vic Hall ’15, Spencer Katz ’13, Yoonjoo Lee ’12, Mitchell Nobel ’13, Tiffany Pang ’12, Emily Sandford ’14, Zach Schloss ’15, Andrew Sobotka ’15, Ilana Strauss ’13, Ellen Su ’13, Autumn Von Plinsky ’13, Natey Weinstein ’14, Catherine White ’13, Sylvia Zhang ’15 Contributing Writers & Artists: Madeleine Henry ’14
Special Thanks to: Michael Gerber, Gwyneth Tuckett, and Sasquatch Cover: This month’s cover was illustrated by Yoonjoo Lee, who can only be sighted during full moons Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXL, No. 6, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.com/magazine • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2012 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: letters should be addressed to: Chairman, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chairman@yalerecord.com. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.
AESOP’S LESS POPULAR FABLES The Zebra and the Horses Once upon a time, there was a field full of white horses. One day, a zebra walked into the field. “Hey,” the horses said, “why’re you so stripey?” “Oh,” said the zebra, “I’m a zebra; that’s just what I’m like.” “Well,” said the horses, “we don’t look like that here. You should leave.” “Oh no,” said the zebra, “I’m sure if we play we’ll learn that we’re all the same at heart.” This threatened the horses, so they beat the zebra to death with their hooves. Moral: Never be different. The Mouse, the Dog, the Zebra, the Armadillo, the Komodo Dragon, the Star Nosed Mole, and the Kori Bustard Once upon a time, there was a meeting of all the animals to determine how the jungle would be ruled. The Mouse wanted to make sure that he wouldn’t get eaten by the cats, so he brought the Dog along to form a favorable voting bloc. However, the Zebra insisted that animals form castes based on stripiness, insisting that stripes were clear signs of divine favor. Meanwhile the Komodo dragon refused to be productive until an amendment had been written putting him in charge, since he was the strongest. And all the while, the Star Nosed Mole, who felt that any sort of government was inappropriate, was just being a huge pain in the ass about the whole thing. Of course, the Kori Bustard was only there to sell copies of his autobiography, but nobody
cared, because what the fuck is a Kori Bustard? Then the Old Fox hobbled in, and everyone grew quiet. He looked around, smiling gently, and said in a soft voice, “Please be quiet. I’m trying to nap.” Moral: Probably something about, like, medieval politics or whatever…? The Man and the Tiger Once upon a time, a man was wandering through the woods, when he came across a strong and noble tiger whose paw had been caught in a bear trap. The man said, “Tiger, I am sympathetic to your pain, and I will free you, but you have to promise not to eat me when I do.” The tiger nodded solemnly, blinking his sage old eyes, and so the man freed him. As soon as the Tiger was free, he began to attack the man, ripping him limb from limb and feasting on the supple flesh of his legs. As he bled to death in agony, the man asked, “But why did you attack me, when I had shown such kindness to you?” The Tiger paused, wiping the blood from his savage mouth, and said, “Dear Man, you misunderstand. I am not a reasoning creature with the ability to negotiate. I’m just an animal. Your fallacy was in trying to reason with me at all; I can’t appreciate complex social situations of the sort you seem to desire. In fact, I’m not even talking right now; this is just your brain hallucinating while deprived of oxygen.” Moral: Don’t anthropomorphize animals.
—M. Nobel
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MYTHBUSTERS PICKS ON LESS OBVIOUS TARGETS 1+1 = 2: In their Season 10 debut, Adam and Jamie explore a myth that’s been circulating for years online and in classrooms nationwide. Does adding one thing to another thing really give you two things? Oil and Water: Adding oil to water gives you… oil and water! Strike one for today’s myth. Bunny Rabbits: Sent in by a reader who bought a boy bunny and a girl bunny right before a two-week vacation. She expected to find two bunnies when she returned, but as you can see from her footage, reality left the myth on its last legs; we’ve got eleven—make that twelve—bunnies in there! Pianos: A big thank you to Steinway for their donation of these fine baby grands. With Kari manning the crane, Adam and Jamie carefully position the other piano at the drop site. And…HERE WE GO! Bang! Did you see that? Let’s get that again in slow-mo, just so the disintegration…yeah. One plus one just equals a pile of polished lumber. Verdict: BUSTED Round Earth Theory: Starting with the secretive scribbles of Pythagoras, this myth was picked up by the infamous Ptolemy, who continued to spread it despite Biblical scholars’ sensible efforts to refute him. Have you seen the “curvature” of the Earth lately? Has anyone you know fallen off the bottom of the world and into space? Could our home planet really be…spherical??? Skateboarding: Adam stands on his board in some of the flattest places on Earth: the Arizona desert, Australia’s Nullarbor plain, and the Maldives. Does he roll? Nope! What if we push him? Wow! Should’ve worn a helmet, Adam. But we see the skateboard stop, which makes this whole “curve” idea seem pretty silly… Horizon: The Mythbusters hire a small sailboat, toss the captain overboard, and see how long it will take Grant and Kari to sail over the curve and vanish. After a few hours, the boat’s not very far off shore and seems to be slowing down. We’ll come back later. “Around the World”: Jamie and Adam hire a private helicopter to fly to Madagascar, on what should be the opposite side of the planet. The boys land, brace
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themselves, wait to fall…and nothing! Looks like another successful show— Horizon, Part II: Whoops, Grant and Kari on the line. Let’s listen in: “Oh my god we’re sinking we knew we shouldn’t have come out this far in this leaky little tub help!” It sounds like our intrepid assistants must have sailed straight to the edge of the world! According to this nice, flat map, that’s where the monsters live. Verdict: BUSTED E=mc2: In 1905, a manic physicist by the name of Albert Einstein inflamed the scientific underground with something called the “theory of general relativity.” With only five little symbols, Einstein claimed that—well… Um… Anyway, don’t worry about it. We’re sure it’s false. Look at that nutball’s hair, for Christ’s sake! Verdict: Who gives a damn? Gravity: Today, Adam and Jamie are exploring a myth that dates back to 1687, when a religious fanatic named Isaac Newton published a long, convoluted book called the Principia Mathematica. What is the truth behind the force that supposedly pulls objects down to Earth? Birds: The Humane Society wouldn’t return our calls, but Grant and Kari use drugged birdseed to capture a few pigeons for the Mythbusters. Next stop: the picturesque Golden Gate Bridge. We open the cage, spill them over the side—and off they fly! Looks like gravity doesn’t apply to pigeons… More Birds: …or does it? Adam notes the hefty remaining bird supply and plucks a few stillunconscious critters off of the pile. They certainly drop like something’s pulling them; score one for Newton! But they don’t make much of a splash, and Jamie is impatient to break the tie. Grant: The young associate Mythbuster takes one for the team and hops off the side, flapping his arms in case the lift becomes necessary. We’ll be putting that splash up on the Discovery Channel homepage; keep checking back! Verdict: CONFIRMED — A. Gertler
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I’M THE THIRD GRIMM BROTHER, AND I’M NOT BITTER The name’s Lancelot Grimm. Yes, I’m the less famous Lancelot, and, yes, I’m the less famous Grimm. And I’m not bitter. Sometimes though, it just really blows because I was always the smart one. Jacob Ludwig and Wilhelm are just plain dense, but everyone loves them. Everyone always nods their little airheads and says stupid crap like, “Oh really, Wilhelm? The frog turned into a prince, and then what happened?” Sure, it was cute when they were five. But they’re adults now. It’s weird. Whenever we’re at a dinner party and I try to bring up politics or have a discussion, I always get shushed by some busybody who wants to listen to the two nutcases struggle to string sentences together about fairies with pretty wings and shiny hair. It’s just wrong to let them babble on, with their shirts stained and buttoned wrong, and their eyes unfocused and wide. It’s like keeping a one-legged dog around because he’s just so cute. Take an average Monday at the Household Grimm. Wilhelm will be in his room, staring at his favorite floorboard. I have to visit him every couple of hours
to wipe the drool from his mouth, neck, and chest. He’ll usually be muttering some nonsense word like “Cinderella!” or various phrases like “pumpkin house!” or “mouse friends.” He likes to record his outbursts. I guess it breaks up the day. Jacob will be across the hall, trying to sharpen his quill by blowing on it. If ever I try to talk to him nowadays, he stares at me with squinted eyes and pursed lips until I speak slower and use exclusively one-syllable words. And then he’ll ask me some unrelated question, like, “What’s the word for ‘gold’?” And it’s not even as if my parents and I can bond over the charity cases. Just yesterday, they were talking my ear off about how surprising one of Jacob’s stories was. Yeah, things tend to be surprising when you live in the real world and you hear something UTTERLY IMPLAUSIBLE that violates EVERY KNOWN NATURAL LAW. But what can I do? Everyone is enchanted with the little idiots, while I’m forced to content myself with translating Aristotle and repeating positive affirmations. I know my story may not be extraordinary enough to make it into my brothers’ collection, but at least it makes an iota of sense. Not that I’m bitter. —M. Henry
“So that’s why they call you the minute-taur...” —S. Katz
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The Fountain of Youths
−A. Von Plinsky
THE MYSTERY CHILDREN OF YALE Their names are on the Yale Facebook. You know their alleged hometowns from the construction paper cutouts that FroCos paste on doors to create illusions of camaraderie. Maybe you’ve disturbed their sleep when belting out Blink-182 at 10:30 on a Saturday night. You could even have been in their econ section. Their names are there—but are there bodies to accompany the identities? One man (me) went on a quest to discover the truth about the mystery children of Yale. I entered the suite above mine with some trepidation. I wasn’t even sure the door would work—I’d never seen it open or close. Armed with Ziploc bags, a flashlight, SPF 40, and a sawed-off double barrel loaded with two silver slugs, I crossed the threshold into the unknown. First thought: their bathroom is unsettlingly hygienic. No puddles on the ground, no stench of fart. The Garnier Fructis shampoo container appears to be used, but I attribute that to evaporation and other natural processes that I’m sure also apply to artificially-manufactured mango-scented liquids. I take my first piece of evidence: a toothbrush. I lost mine and this seems easier than going all the way to Walgreens. The common room is next. Clean. Too clean. No TV, but a few posters of some of the lesser-known works
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of Matisse and Rembrandt. Possibly an illusion to trick someone less experienced into thinking that the existence of humanity in this suite is possible. The couch has no permanent imprint of human buttocks, but there is what appears to be a hair. I put it into a Ziploc, but not the same one as the toothbrush. That’d just be gross. I approach the softly humming refrigerator in the corner and open it slowly, hand on sunscreen. Empty. Not even a two-day old Wenzel or an Arizona Iced Tea. This fact nullifies the possible progress represented by the hair. The common room, like the bathroom, neither confirms nor denies the existence of humanity. All of the doors are closed. One appears to be decorated festively with Christmas wrapping paper. Some might see this as a breakthrough, but I deride such naïveté and continue searching, shining my flashlight under each door. And then: a sound. The drum of humanoid fingers tapping on the keys of a personal computer. Vivid images of my Green Beret days in ‘Nam flash before my eyes, but I regain my composure despite the temptation to run away and stress-eat FroYo. I put my ear against the door. The typing stops abruptly. I whip out my iPhone and quietly ask Siri to get Ronnell Higgins on the line, just in case. And then I brace myself and kick open the door, prepared for the worst. “Hello? You’re…Andrew, right? From downstairs?” —A. Sobotka
−P. Robalino
PRESS RELEASE: MARVEL COMICS REVEALS NEW SUPERHEROES FOR 2012
The Unknown Savior
Jonathan Ripken was just an average scientist, until he started working on Top Secret Project X. Then he was an average scientist with a slightly above average salary, and slightly longer work hours. For Top Secret Project X was also Super Important, as it was aimed at developing a new chemical that would make people more difficult to see, so that hosts of television prank shows could work more effectively. One night, when Jonathan was toiling away at his lab bench, the nefarious psychopath known only as The Jailman broke into Horizontech Labs while on the run from the police. Jonathan attempted to foil the robbery with the powers of science, but his graduated cylinders and frantic cries of “No! Stop that! Ow!” were no match for the Jailman’s brute physical strength, and Jonathan was forced into a vat of extremely powerful acid. He was never seen again, but since everyone knows that falling into vats of acid gives you superpowers, we know that Jonathan must now walk the earth invisible and intangible, righting wrongs as The Unknown Savior!!!
By M. Nobel Illustrated by P. Robalino Designed by S. Shea
Brian Higgins was an English student who, overwhelmed by exams, had forgotten about his final paper in Postmodern Literature and Critical Theory until the night before it was due. After two quadruple-shot venti mochas, 3 Nodozes, and 4 Red Bulls, he pretty much lost his shit. He began shouting random things about societal constructs and flailing madly, and never really stopped. So far this has been surprisingly effective against criminals, and so Brian has become The Avant Guard, whose battle-cry of “Fish!” can be heard wherever crime is near. He is often accompanied by his faithful companion, Dada Dog, who stupefies the enemy by saying “Meow.”
Your Mom
The Avant Guard
So feared that Freddy Krueger dresses as her for Halloween. So massive that she has her own gravitational pull. So unstoppable that when she got hit by a bus, she asked “Who threw that rock?” So trusted that when she walks into a bank, they turn off the cameras. So law-abiding that she even pays other people’s taxes, just in case. So powerful that when she jumps out the window, she goes UP. So beloved that her bedroom has a line stretching around the block. She is Your Mom, ever vigilant except for that hour with me last night.
Modern Mythical Creatures:
exerpts from
Encyclopedia Absurdia,2012
iginated of Pedobear (Fig. 69) or h yt m e th gh ou th Al . the PEDOBEAR curred almost solely in oc ve ha gs in ht sig nt in Japan, rece make up a significantly n re ild ch g un yo e er United States, wh do in Japan. Pedobear ey th an th n tio la pu po greater portion of the crying children, but of d un so e th to d te meone is known to be attrac d by the presence of so lle pe re be n ca he at th rple experts advise used with Barney the Pu nf co be to t no is e H ” who is “too old. a large dinosaur suit. in ile ph do pe a st ju Dinosaur, who is
edition
Fig. 69
CONSERATIVES AT YALE UNIVERSITY. Although some research claim that the conservativ ers e op-eds published in th e Yale Daily News (ref. pg confirm the creatures’ ex 821) istence, skeptics argue th at the absurdity of man these “conservative” artic y of les suggests that they ar e fakes planted as part elaborate hoax. Still, man of an y students have reportedl y spotted real, live conser on campus, whom they vatives identified by their tediou s rhetoric about family impeccable formal dress, an values, d uncontrollable thirst for the blood of newborn child ren.
Fig. 77
In recent years, PROJECTOR POLTERGEISTS. their technical people have begun to attribute (Fig. 77) to the difficulties with screen projectors sts, a recently interference of Projector Poltergei mon Pots-andevolved subspecies of the more com overwhelmingly pans Poltergeists. Hauntings are language teachers. reported by substitutes and foreign
Fig. 51
NUTELLAWORM. Thousands of college students across the country have claimed that their desire to consume buckets of Nutella (Fig. 51) is caused not by gluttony, but rather by the presence of parasitic Nutellaworms in their gut. In contrast to real tapeworms, which emaciate their victims, Nutellaw orms are often cited as the primary cause of the Freshm an Fifteen (ref. pg 184).
SOBER FORMER DISNEY CHANNEL STARS. Though many tabloids and websites have published photographic evidence of the existence of Sober Former Disney Channel Stars, careful investigations have revealed that the photos actually feature Former Disney Channel Stars Recently Released From Rehab (ref. pg 170), or Taylor Swift (ref. pg 561).
members of the y an M S. R E D N A COL Saints (ref. pg 102) Church of Ladle-Day r of man and all his hold that God, creato r create a bowl so utensils, would neve ld allow liquids to ou w it at th t ec rf pe im that the colander m ai cl ey Th it. of t ou run any colander fossils is a myth and that fakes planted by the (Fig. 22) found are with his fingers. Archfiend, who eats
Fig. 22
HUGO CHĂ VEZ. Is this dude for real?
written and designed by S. Zhang
OP-ED
OFF THE RECORD
Point, Counterpoint: Obama’s Birth Certificate POINT:
I found Obama’s birth certificate – and it’s a fake!
W
ell, here it is, Obama’s alleged “birth certificate.” More like birth certi-fake-it. Let’s start off with the most basic information, shall we? Born August 4, 1961 in Kalapana Hospital in Maili, Hawaii. More like Haw-I-pee my pants that’s so hilariously untrue. I’ve checked the records, and for starters, Kalapana Hospital wasn’t even called that until 1967; it was called St. Mary’s Hospital of Good Fortune until the smoke from the eruption of Mt. Napuai flooded the entire ward for patients with severe asthma, and they had to close it down and then reopen it under new management. I’m not done with my research yet, but I’m also skeptical of the existence of this so-called “Hawaii.” Next, let’s take a look at the material that the certificate is printed on. It seems to be some sort of shiny, almost foily sheet of paper. It makes me think of things that are smooth and good-looking, but used to conceal ugly, rotten things beneath. Like Taco Bell wrappers, or Joan Rivers’ makeup, or maybe, you know, the president’s supposed background. In any case, it’s not the sort of paper that a birth certificate is usually printed on. Probably made in China.
“I’m not done with my research yet, but I’m also skeptical of the existence of this so-called
‘Hawaii.’”
You’ll also notice that the certificate says “Race: Socialist Terroristian.” While this is definitely descriptive of our current president, the birth records of Kalapana Hospital show that no Socialist Terroristians were born in our country before 2009, the year I’m assuming our president signed a law letting them immigrate here. So this birth certificate must be a fake. Just like evolution, global warming, and the orgasm Obama’s mother thinks I had last night. BAM.
Lincoln Sedlacek Writes Point, Counterpoint
COUNTERPOINT:
Um, yeah, it’s a fake – and I have a feeling you made it.
A
m I really doing this? Again? We’ve been over it a million times, man—I’m a natural-born American citizen, and no amount of Glenn Beck is going to change that. But what the hell; let’s go through it again. Yes, this birth certificate you “found” is a fake. And I’m pretty sure you made it. Let’s get real here: even if I weren’t born in America, I’m still the president. I can afford some high quality stationery. Meaning if I ever decide to forge my own birth certificate, you can bet I’m at least going to use some cardstock. This, on the other hand…well, your analysis was spot-on. It looks like you bought a burrito and wrote on the inside of the wrapper. In fact, I just had the Secret Service do a little investigation of the Taco Bell across the street, and they found security footage of you writing this at the table behind the condiments station.
“For instance, look at this picture of you engaging in inappropriate acts with a goat.
”
Paper aside, did you put even the smallest amount of time or effort into making this believable? You misspelled my first name. And my middle name. As “Pussy.” You even wrote your own name on the signature line. Most of the effort you put in seems to be in making the font look like that of a 1960s typewriter, which doesn’t make sense as the entire thing was written in what appears to be a macaroni-and-cheese colored Crayola crayon. Also, if you’re trying to prove it’s a fake, why would you spend time on making the font look believable in the first place? So yeah, it’s a fake. Congratulations, I believe you. I’m sure the rest of the U.S. will too. But if you want everyone to believe it’s a fake that I made, well, you’re actually going to have to make it more convincing. For instance, look at this picture of you engaging in inappropriate acts with a goat. Now that’s a convincing fake.
could not only be the biggest cat found in your ceiling, but the most illiterate cat. Cats in ur ceiling, watching u do all sorts of weird things that you do not want a cat to see, are a huge problem today. They are sneaky, annoying, and
Written and Designed by J. Newsham
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LUCKY CHARMS LEPRECHAUN REVEALED TO BE SCOTTISH, LOSES JOB Minneapolis, MN – Lucky, the Lucky Charms leprechaun, lost his job today when officials at General Mills discovered he was not actually Irish. In a scandal that has rocked the breakfast foods industry, the longstanding cereal icon was revealed to actually be a Scotsman. The news first broke when a General Mills intern accidentally discovered the truth while filing employee resumes. Lucky had claimed to be Irish on his resume, but had accidentally included his true home address in Glasgow, Scotland. It is unclear why this fact was overlooked at the time of his hiring, but some have speculated that this oversight was a result of General Mills’ “lottery-style” hiring techniques. Krissie Goodlie, the intern who discovered the fraud, commented, “I was, like, so surprised, you know? And I couldn’t believe it at first. Because his accent sounds totally Irish. And I should know. I went to England last semester.” General Mills has issued a public apology to American children. “I assure you that this scandal has shaken all of us and forced us to reexamine the true nature of our heroes,” said General Mills CEO Donald Montgomery in front of a stadium of representative children who continued to ignore him and play games on their iPhones. “But rest assured that Lucky has been punished for his evil deeds and that this will never happen again.” Other parties, however, defended Lucky’s actions. Count Chocula, another well-known mascot, commented, “As a Count, I know quality. And Lucky is a vonderful, princely being. He vas absolutely not an alcoholi—vat? Zis is about his being Scottish? Ven vas he supposed to be Irish? I do not get it. Vat is the big deal?” And Chocula isn’t the only person standing by the leprechaun. Seventeen-year-old Constantine Phillips, founder of a Lucky fan club in Detroit, Michigan, said he doesn’t see a problem with Lucky’s nationality. “Lucky is an incredible man who has been an inspiration to so many at the breakfast table,” said Phillips. “Whatever he did to get his job doesn’t change the amazing work he’s done. Besides, what the hell is the difference between Scotland and Ireland? Aren’t they both cities in France?”
Lucky was committed to the Minneapolis County Correctional Facility on Wednesday after allegedly trying to flee the General Mills building with several pounds of stolen horseshoes, clovers, and red balloons, and several large bottles of Scotch. He could not be reached for comment. —I. Strauss
CTHULHU’S DIARY November 3rd: Waited dreaming. Eggs for breakfast, bit of a lie in. Am considering buying a bicycle. November 17th: Waited dreaming. Nothing good on eBay w/r/t bicycles. Better to wait until after Xmas? November 25th: Waited dreaming. Eggs again. Thought about calling Mom today. Didn’t. Have decided against the bicycle, at least for now. November 30th: Waited dreaming. Holiday decorations going up this weekend—mustn’t forget where I stored the lights. December 4th: Waited dreaming. Nice sandwich for lunch; tuna salad. December 11th: Awoke. Plunged the very sky to the depths of the seas, caused a great perturbation and boiling of the oceans, spread wrath and destruction across the lands. Wrecked destruction upon all living beings, brought unto them their final hours of pain and suffering before the great and eternal torment. Darkened the sun. Went for a nice walk—keep forgetting to call Mom. December 16th: Eggs again. Need a better recipe, as scrambled all the time is beginning to get a bit dull. —J. deButts
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AN ANCIENT MAN’S PRAYER TO THE GODS First off, just want to thank you guys for all you’ve done lately. Ending that 20-year-long famine was fantastic, especially since our high priest had us sacrifice half of our livestock to you, thus reducing what little we had to live off of by 50 percent. Now, I know we’re supposed to celebrate this bountiful harvest with an additional virgin sacrifice, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. The annual New Year’s sacrifice isn’t being disputed by anyone, as killing a virgin is obviously the only proper way to ensure our society survives until the year 2012, but frankly, the high priest’s recent proposals for new festival activities—such as “Hide and Seek (and Find and Sacrifice),” and “Red Rover, Red Rover, We Call _____ Over (to the Altar to Be Sacrificed)”—seem a bit excessive. It’s not that I don’t support you gods, but many of us in the community are concerned that we’re simply running out of virgins. Most sensible parents, such as myself, have instructed their daughters to be as slutty as possible in order to decrease their likelihood of being sacrificed. However, while my daughters certainly won’t be anywhere near the chopping block, girls whose parents were foolish enough to shelter them should not have to pay for their parents’ mistakes. Given this question of fairness, combined with the shortage of virgins in general, I humbly ask you if it’s in any way possible for us to honor you with something other than a virgin sacrifice. Maybe we could sacrifice a year-old lamb instead? They’re pretty pure and innocent, right? Or, how about that creepy naked guy covered in olive oil that keeps “accidentally” throwing his discus through my front window? I know he’s not exactly pure, but I don’t think anyone in the tribe would be particularly upset to see him go. Alternatively, we could offer up to you our village’s entire chess club, which, while all-male, otherwise meets your sacrifice criteria perfectly. Alas, I beg that you heed my plea, on behalf of the entire tribe of Quinnapaka, and once again send you my praises. —V. Hall
A BEDTIME STORY You want a bedtime story? Okay, how about this: Once upon a time there was a kid who wouldn’t stop bitching for a bedtime story from his father, whose patience was running quite thin. The kid’s eyes were wide and pleading, like that of a weakling soldier who is begging for his life to be spared. His lower lip was quivering, like the body of said soldier after he’s been run through with his enemy’s sword. Do you see where I’m going with this? Not yet? Okay, I’ll continue. Anyway, he kept asking for a story until his father finally gave in. But that’s when his father realized that he loathed telling stories. He hated them because most of his stories were ignored, like the story he told his wife about having an erection, or the one he told to his son in Macy’s about the green tie with the stripes and how Father’s Day was coming up. So he decided to talk long enough to distract his son while he prepared to CHLOROFORM HIM RIGHT IN THE FUCKING FACE!!! Shhhhh... Goodnight, kiddo. —L. Sedlacek
The Headless Horse-Man —P. Robalino
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THOUGHTS ON THE URBAN LEGENDS OF THE 90s 1. Consuming Pop-Rocks and Coke at the same time will kill you – This was always one of those things we’d try to get someone else to do—hoping fervently that the teachers wouldn’t end recess early just because little Jimmy Burton dropped dead on the playground—but would never be willing to try ourselves. As a result, we spent our childhoods in fear of anyone who happened to have those two deadly ingredients on hand. Even now, years after we’ve learned how it’s “scientifically impossible” to kill yourself doing this, I can’t help but cringe and feel terrified that I’m about to witness a horrific, sugary explosion every time I see a child eating Pop-Rocks and drinking Coke at the same time. 2. If you say “Bloody Mary” three times into a mirror, a ghost will appear and tear your face off – Damn, we were some morbid kids. For those of us who actually believed this one, congratulations on making it to Yale—we’ve certainly come a long way. It’s actually pretty hard to understand why we believed this one. Then again, if we were brought up by the parents who thought that the state of our nation would improve if we elected a man named “Bush” three times, maybe it’s not so hard to believe that we thought we could summon a ghost out of a mirror if we repeated her name three times. Back in the day though, this was some seriously scary shit, although looking back I really can’t see why we thought so. I can accept that we might have believed in ghosts, and even that they could be summoned by looking into a mirror while repeating their name three times, but still, I can’t believe we never asked ourselves, if everyone who had done it had been killed, how did we ever find out about it in the first place? Even if someone had tried it and somehow managed to escape from Bloody Mary’s wrath, why would that lucky soul choose to share this information exclusively with children under twelve? Yes, I did once get a gash across my face from trying this, but the lesson there is that it’s a bad idea to chant anything while moving a shaving razor across your upper lip. If a ghost appeared and tried to kill you, would you really not think to alert the authorities or the media, or at least maybe share how you managed to escape before terrifying an entire nation’s youth? I mean, anyone who had ever seen the movie Ghostbusters would have been pretty clear about who you should call in situations like
−S. Zhang
these. Instead, we kids spent many a Halloween doubledog daring each other to say it, while secretly hoping the all-powerful triple-dog dare would not be unleashed upon us, because again, in accordance with our 12-year-old logic, being murdered by a ghost named Bloody Mary was still better than all our friends thinking we were a wuss for ducking out on a triple-dog dare. 3. The Five-Second Rule – If you dropped anything you were eating on the floor, it would still be okay to eat it as long as you picked it up before five seconds had passed, because, umm, germs, you know, like, totally work like that. Whether it landed on a relatively clean kitchen floor, inside your gym shoes, or between the dirt-filled cracks of the cushions on your couch, we let ourselves believe that bacteria had an honor system that somehow included a notion of “giving us a head start.” Call it being immature, call it part of growing up, call it your inner voice shouting,“Come on, that’s totally the clean kind of dirt it landed in!”, for one reason or another, we all fell victim to believing in this crap. We all made it out alive though, and while this doesn’t make me believe in the five-second rule, it does guarantee that all our T-cells know how to go H.A.M. kicking germ ass. —V. Hall
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’Til me you were of all fields Champion, Lord of the sky and sea, the hill and plain, Of thumb wars, cook-offs, beauty pageants fain. But you have yet to beat me in Beer Pong.” CÚCHULAINN BATTLES THE REIGNING BEER PONG CHAMPION It is well-known that the Record archives are filled with surprises—surprises one should dispose of properly, using latex gloves and strict biohazard protocol. Yet even I was astonished to find, nestled in a file cabinet beneath a Sexy Dinosaur costume, this hitherto unheard of draft by none other than the great William Butler Yeats. Composed in 1885 and intended for inclusion with his other poems about the great Celtic hero CúChulainn, this draft was lost after Yeats visited New Haven and spent a typical night out with the Record’s editorial board. Now, over a century later, we are proud to publish, for the first time ever, W. B. Yeats’s “Cúchulainn Battles the Reigning Beer Pong Champion.” When all CúChulainn’s battles seemed yet won And every Irish mother’s blood-soaked son Returned at last to his home tavern dear, To peaceful drink—then did CúChulainn fear That yet on one front he had not been tested. He raged. And once his loyal crew had rested, CúChulainn led them, fiercely armed, to DKE, The Reigning Beer Pong Champion there to seek. On the fraternity’s front porch he sat, The Reigning Champion, leader of the frat, The very president of DKE, a man Who with one paw could crush a Bud Light can. He knew the reason for CúChulainn’s trip, And raising a cool forty to his lip, He thus addressed the mighty Irish lord: “We both know that I’ve never borne a sword In battle or sport. And even I’ll admit I never exercise my weakling wit. But in one field there’s none who can compete With me—save maybe you. And so we meet. “O son of Eire, I know why you have come:
CúChulainn nodded, and it was not long Before each pyramid of cups was set With shots—two!—of the purest grain. So met These mighty men. The rules arranged, the game Began. CúChulainn took his sober aim, Roaring with pride as the ball sailed across, Though next he’d take a shot. Toss after toss, For several adept rounds, the men drank up Their stuff. And then it struck: the first missed cup. Cuchulainn raged; he screamed for a re-rack So loudly that the wall still bears a crack From his fierce fit of spleen. The match went on. For hours straight, they fought, staggering, through dawn, Suffering the grain. With every swatted ball, The lurching lush fell, swinging with his all And slipping on the beer-wet floor. And so CúChulainn chanced to finally oust his foe. He rallied all his might and all his mind To get his double vision to align, To quell the nausea rising from below, To stand, to see, to balance, and to throw. Wondrous! CúChulainn’s mighty toss prevailed! Wondrous! The Champion’s cups he all assailed! He knelt in thanks and triumph—and he hurled. He spewed a sea, then fainted. All the world Shuddered beneath his crash. Then, to the West, Eire mourned her Beer Pong Champion to his rest. —M. Taylor
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A DIFFERENCE OF ONE This spring break, some students went on a trip to do community service in an underdeveloped country. And you know what? Although I didn’t go with them, I am so glad they went. The group, for which I never signed up and never even read the pamphlet they handed me, spent ten days teaching English in Bangladesh. Needless to say, they made unforgettable friendships and it was a formative experience for all, or at least I assume, even though I don’t know anyone who went and therefore obviously haven’t talked to them about it. People say, “One person can’t make a difference.” Well, I’d beg to differ, knowing that there are some people who take the time to do these kinds of things (probably because they’re not busy trying to catch up on season two of Bored to Death). And sure, one person who’s not me might not be able to make that big a dent. But what if there were a thousand people (not one of whom is me) all working together toward one goal, whether it be developing a source of clean drinking water or improving literacy rates? (I’m not clear on which it is since I was playing pool in the TD basement during the info session.) And anyway, working towards goals like these always starts with smaller, more realistic steps. Like, what if one of them just changes one other person’s life? Then it would all be worth it. It’s always amazed me how a complete stranger can have so much in common with another complete stranger in Bangladesh, especially since I don’t know if they had an interpreter and it seems pretty unlikely that any of them would speak Bengali. It seems like a common humanity really unites these people with the people they help. This past vacation, these students did great things in Bangladesh. I can only hope that many more students follow their lead, going places and doing things while I sleep in and watch movies. It doesn’t even have to be Bangladesh. They can go to Uzbekistan or Mali. Wherever! I’m sure either of those places could use their help. The point is, if other people who aren’t me make just a small sacrifice for a cause that’s greater than themselves, they might be able to change this sad old world for the better.
“My brains are pretty big too, you know.” −P. Robalino
Trouble in Atlantis
—N. Weinstein −S. Katz
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ININTHE THEHEART HEARTOFOFYALE; YALE;NOW NOWDELIVERING DELIVERINGININTHE THECHAPEL CHAPELAREA! AREA! Hey Megan, I really enjoyed getting to know you at the JE Screw — but I have to say, I’m pretty pissed about what happened afterward. Why did you storm off? When you agreed to go back to my single, what did you think was going to happen? I tried to be as polite and respectful as possible. All I have to say is, they shouldn’t call it a “screw” if you don’t even get to have any fun afterward. Sincerely, A freshman who succeeded in having sex with his date but whose proposals to incorporate thumbscrews into Round 2 were received with disgust
ALUMNA’S DIGNITY UNEARTHED, RETURNED, AFTER 30 YEARS IN BASEMENT OF DKE
CAT IN THE HAT ARRESTED AFTER SHOWING CHILDREN HIS “THING 1 AND THING 2” Dear Mars, Did you know that when I Google you, the first thing that comes up is the chocolate company? You know, those guys that make M&M’s? Come on man, you’re the red planet! You’ve got canals, volcanoes, Martians, and all that jazz. We need to get the word out. I’m talkin’ movie deals, sitcoms, tabloid scandals, the whole deal. We’re bringing you back, baby! Sincerely, Robby Stalwart, PR agent for celestial bodies Dear Robby Stalwart, Who the fuck needs to Google Mars? You’re an idiot, Mars
Dear reader, Well, this is slim pickin’s. —Someone who has to pick their nose, a scab, or whether to sleep with Newt Gingrich or Joan Rivers Dear Father, Son, and the HOLY SHIT!!! —A man who was about to start praying before getting mauled by a bear
POOL BOY BLAMES MEDIA PORTRAYAL FOR JOB DISSATISFACTION Dear Betsy, Get off your high horse, and take it to the doctor! Horses should not have that much marijuana. —Melinda
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Fine Indian Cuisine “A Treat for the senses” —Hartford Courant “Amid elegance, a variety of Indian dishes” —New York Times Hours Lunch Monday - Saturday: 11:30 AM - 2:30 PM Sunday: 12:00 PM - 3:00 PM Dinner Sunday - Thursday: 5:00 PM - 10:00 PM Friday - Saturday: 5:00 PM - 10:30 PM
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Wanted: racist homophobe to write insulting comments on innocuous videos of puppies
Dear person who was playing the piano in the Saybrook common room during dinner yesterday, I’m sorry about what happened last night. It’s just that you looked so mournful and lonely, just like in the movies, so I thought it would be appropriate to drape myself across the top of the piano and look at you sultrily. When you failed to pay attention to me, I thought you were insulting my looks, so of course my first reaction was to slap you across the face and storm off. Little did I know that you were a blind paraplegic who had been placed in front of the piano by your caretaker. Contritely, Lisa, JE ’13
THE OLDEST
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REPORTER DIAGNOSED WITH TOURETTE’S, DOESN’T MANIFEST WHEN WRITING HEADLINES Dear Botticelli, While I appreciate your painting of my naissance, I think you’re a little confused as to how babies are made. —Venus Dear girl I met at a party, I’m so sorry about what I said to you last night. You see, back in rural Wyoming, a “roofie” is a kiss you give to a girl who you really like while on a roof. So when I said, “We’ve had such a good time tonight; I’d really like to give you a roofie,” I didn’t expect you to slap me. —A man from rural Wyoming who was secretly hoping to slip a girl a roofie while kissing her on a roof
HERMAN MELVILLE PENS BOOK WITH LESS AMBIGUOUS NAME: GIANT COCK
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Zoi’s
Local breakfast & lunch café
s Zoi’ Orange on
We Cater Hours: Monday - Thursday 7 am - 6 pm Friday Saturday 7am - 3 pm
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Mouse seeks cookie, swears it doesn’t want a glass of milk
ENERGIZER BUNNY CAN MAKE IT LAST WITH A BATTERY, NOT WITH A WOMAN
Dear Jillian Michaels, Say I want to try a gluten-free diet... does that mean I also have to give up grain alcohol? —Rob Hwang
Dear Republican presidential candidates, If any of you asshats actually win this thing, I don’t think emigrating will be enough. I’ll need some kind of portal that takes me to another dimension. And by “portal,” I mean an AK47. And by “takes me to another dimension,” I mean my lawyer has advised me not to finish that sentence. Sincerely, John Revels, SY ’14
GERBIL TEACHES 3RD GRADERS ABOUT RESPONSIBILITY, TOXICITY OF SOAP
Dear Rosemary, Your theory is ridiculous. Do you seriously think Mom and Dad would name us after their favorite Italian seasonings? Don’t be so paranoid. Your brother, Parmesan
JESSICA SIMPSON SUES TABLOID FOR NOT PHOTOSHOPPING PICTURE ENOUGH
Dear Wheel of Fortune, Look, you gave me the clue “an inferior person” and the letters “blankU-N-T.” Did you honestly expect me to guess “runt” before anything else? —Karl Nitka, MC ’15 Dear apples, I’ve heard that one of you a day keeps the doctor away, but I’ve found it’s actually far more efficient to just move to Transylvania. Where all the doctors have been eaten by werewolves. Best, Joel
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