The Masculinity Issue

RECORD

“The Nation’s Oldest Humor Magazine” or

“The Nation’s Most Humorous Old Magazine”

Join us. chair@yalerecord.com

COOL GUY ALERT! HE VOTED FOR HILLARY IN 2016 AND 2020

Dear Husband,

I’m leaving. I know about the other woman. She may have been a symptom of our crumbling marriage, but I can’t be with someone unfaithful.

Goodbye, Wife

“ANYONE WHO CAN DO THE WORM IS COOL AS SHIT,” SAYS FOURTH GRADER

Dear Wife,

I’m so sorry – I was trying to set up a Piña Colada song situation. I was sure you’d show up at that bar, but instead, a younger, more beautiful, more fertile woman showed up. What’s a man to do?

Confused, Husband

JUSTICE FOR FORMULA BABIES:

THEY HAD NO SHOT AT GETTING BITCHES SINCE THEY WEREN’T ON THAT TIDDY MILK GRIND FROM DAY ONE. COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS.

Dear Bop It,

What gives you the authority to tell me what to do? Are you a representative of the federal government? If a representative of the federal government wants me to Bop, Twist, or Pull them, then I’ll do my civic duty. But I’m gonna need to see some ID first.

Best, Sam

BETTER SAFE THAN SORRY: I SEWED MY MOUTH SHUT SO I HAVE TO BE AT THE FRONT OF A HUMAN CENTIPEDE

Dear Jeremiah Quinlan,

What goes through your head when you select the incoming first-year class?

Curious, Edward Schneebli, MY ‘26

CONFUSED DETECTIVE PROBABLY GOING TO GIVE UP NOW

Dear Mr. Schneebli,

At the Yale Undergraduate Admissions office, we have multiple concerns about incoming class caliber, socioeconomic, cultural and racial diversity, and taking into account the varying resources available to each prospective Yale student and the degree to which they explored these. To this end, we have a few questions we like to ask when considering a possible applicant: do it fart? do it grip the meat? what color, the inside? your booty real wet?

Sincerely, Jeremiah Quinlan

How

When I’m Allowed to Mow

HEARTBREAKING! DJ THINKS PEOPLE LIKE HIM

Dear Pool Cover Operator,

Hey! I think this pool cover is closing over the pool, but I’m still in here. Any chance you could get it to stop?

GOOD NEWS! HANDSOME DAN WASN’T NEUTERED, HE JUST GOT A DOG VASECTOMY SO HE CAN STILL FUCK

Dear Madam President, Yeah right.

Best, Mike

DEVASTATING! DJ ONLY PICKED UP NEW HOBBY TO MAKE FRIENDS

Dear Pool Cover Operator,

Oh this is not good. The pool cover is closed, and I’m stuck here, but there isn’t really a lot of room to breathe. Help would be much appreciated.

Best, Mike

FUTURE COG IN THE GREAT MACHINE FOLLOWING LEGO SET INSTRUCTIONS

Dear Pool Cover Operator, Not a lot of breathe left. Help, please.

Best, Mike

DO YOU GUYS THINK GREG HEFFLEY MADE IT TO 30?

Dear Pool Cover Operator, Gurgle, help, gurgle

Best, Mike

PEOPLE WITH SWEATY HANDS CELEBRATE 94% HUMIDITY AS THE GREAT EQUALIZER

Dear People with glasses, CAN YOU READ THIS?

Best, People without glasses

INSPIRING: HISTORIANS REPORT THAT ANCIENT CARTHAGINIANS WOULD HAVE BEEN PRETTY STOKED TO LEARN ABOUT TUNISIA GAINING INDEPENDENCE

FROM FRANCE IN 1956

Dear Strong Men, Could you lift this for me?

Best, Weak Men

DOWN. IT’S ALL IN YOUR HEAD, MAN. IT’S ALL PSYCHOLOGICAL,” SAYS PSYCHOLOGIST ABOUT PSYCHOLOGY

Dear Weak Men,

That looks reeeeaaally heavy. I bet I could do it. Haha, wow, that IS heavy. Do you think you could find a stronger man? Or a gorilla?

Best, Strong Men

ENVIRONMENTALISM FTW! CALIFORNIA’S NEW DEFORESTATION PLAN WILL REDUCE WILDFIRES BY 100 %

Dear Strong Men,

You call yourselves “strong.” You don’t know the meaning of strength until you destroy something precious, something fragile. Or until you peel 300 bananas in 1 hour. You are probably pretty strong if you can do that.

Best, Gorilla who attacks children

CHILDREN, AND PARENTS, ALL OVER THE WORLD FINDING THEMSELVES WITH SHIT ON THEIR HANDS AFTER BEING POORLY POTTY TRAINED BY STUPID, LAZY, AVOCADO TOAST-LOVING, GOOD-FORNOTHING MILLENNIALS

Hey boys,

How’s about we get togetha for some cavin’ this afternoon? There’s that new hole out west. Terrence says it’s a fool’s errand, but I betcha we can prove the old codger wrong.

Best, Garrick

Obituary Correction

The 2022 Editorial Board would like to apologize for an obituary which appeared in last year’s “Stained Glass and Phat Ass Issue,” which erroneously reported that forest monk Bartlemebus had died. He did not die, despite our best efforts, and continues to haunt our steps.

—L. Conklin

Hey Garrick,

I think that’d be just dandy. I’ve got a cravin’ for some cavin’, if you will. Count me in.

Cheers, Greg

REPORT: CANCER CURED WITH QUALITY TIME WITH THE GUYS AND A COUPLE CIGARETTES.

Hey lads,

Make that the three of us. Me wife’s got Frederick at his football practice and the wee laddie won’t even know I’m gone.

Cheers, Cameron

\ HELP: I EMAILED A PROFESSOR ASKING TO GET INTO HIS CLASS AND HE DEFENESTRATED PRAGUE AND CALLED MY MOM A TURKEYNECKED BITCH

Garrick,

Aargh!! Cameron’s gone and stuck ‘imself in that wee passage and I’ve got his massive hairy arse in my face. Gimme that there lamp so I can wiggle us out.

Cheers, Greg

Greg,

You bloody idiot! I’m ahead of you and Cameron is behind you, you moron! Watch what you say about my behind, or we’ll hafta sort this out in the pub later.

Mad, Garrick

I DON’T THINK GREG HEFFLEY MADE IT TO THIRTY

WANTED

The sweeT high of slapping

The Top of a door frame. whew. ThaT’s really like noThing else. shiT, man. i’ll be riding ThaT all day.

Did You Know?

I could probably bench you. What are you, 130, 140? Oh, yeah, I could totally bench you, no problem.

—B. Hollander-Bodie

HUSTLE CULTURE GONE TOO FAR? BRITISH MAN TAKES MOTHER’S JOB MOMENTS AFTER SHE LOST IT

With the title of Editor in Chief comes year-long custody of the Record Boy. I wasn’t aware of this when I first applied, and was taken aback when a chipper child showed up at my door wearing basketball shorts and asking if I had any games on my phone. He carries certain traits from each Editor with him from year to year; he’s still a little fragile from all of his maladies last year, and his posture is perfect from the time his guardian entered him in all-boys Zoom pageants. This year, the Boy has lots of stomach aches and worries too much about email sign-offs.

The Boy, while generally agreeable and docile after a sugar crash, can be fairly immature. He has been known to flip Catan boards, and last month he peed in all our houseplants after I confiscated his Nintendo Switch for changing his username to “boobiez69.” Never having grown into a young man myself, many of my parenting attempts have been a little misguided. I tried to send him out on a coming-of-age journey, only to remember that he is only 10, and many of those themes are too mature for him.

I wasn’t prepared for the challenges of raising a young man in the modern world. Bastions of masculinity that have held strong for millennia are wavering all around the globe. For instance, the name Nigel went extinct in England and Wales, with no new Nigels born in 2021 or 2022. Nowadays, it is both tricky and unethical to wrestle an alligator, as most are conscientiously practicing non-violence. Instead of showing the necessary deference and respect to sailor uniforms, millennials are putting them on their miniature schnauzers and calling them Admiral Horatio Fluffbutt; even mastering the wild mistress of the sea doesn’t command the respect it once did.

The Boy taught me that it’s harder than ever before to be a man in today’s society. Animal rights activists made it nearly impossible for him to twirl worms on a fork like spaghetti and fool his peers into slurping up little critters when they thought they were in for a delicious plate of noodles. When he tried to jump up and slap the top of a revolving door, he smacked his face and got trapped in one of the door chambers. The sides were transparent, too, so people saw him from all sides wildly scratching at the door panels like an enraged ape.

And that’s just the obvious stuff. Grass lawns in high-drought areas are being replaced

with unmowable succulents. People don’t take P.E. as seriously as they once did. Demolition isn’t cool anymore. Sometimes people put real bullets in Nerf guns and Nerf bullets in real guns, though neither is particularly effective. Electric trucks aren’t as loud as maybe they should be.

Anti-male rhetoric even trickles into our language. Take, for example, the existence of the color “baby blue.” What people seem to miss is that blue is a very grown-up manly color. A baby wouldn’t wear blue. A baby would probably wear pink or be naked or something.

These days, animals have a stronger sense of manliness than mankind. Echidnas have four-headed penises. Seahorses are able to raise their children as involved and loving fathers, nurturing them without the societal pressure to maintain emotional distance. Fish dads often eat their babies if they’re weak, or if they just look tasty, something we haven’t done since everyone and their mother went vegan.

At this point, there are barely any perks to being a man. They’re letting all sorts of non-men do things that used to be reserved for the boys. They can own and till a tract of land, market permitting; they can play professional sports with a pretty nice allowance; hell, they can even write comedy if they ask very nicely and don’t all try to do it at once. Despite these major losses, the media misleads the layperson, offering empty promises like “Saturdays are for the boys.” This messaging is disingenuous and performative. I’ve seen so many women on Saturdays. Sometimes even more than on Sundays.

It’s time to fight back. I can proudly say that the Yale Record will no longer pass the Bechdel test — and given the number of women on staff this is no small feat. Our staffers have started on the noble mission to rewrite every feminist novel with a strong male lead.

Each day our male members are getting stronger by lifting heavy things at the gym, and our women and non-binary members are drafting new ways to apologize.

As a pioneer of this ambitious goal, in recent weeks I have been doing my best to implement similar changes in my personal life. I’ve CC’ed arnav.tawakley@yale.edu on every email regardless of topic or audience, and I’ve mentioned Sam’s winning personality and dashing smile in every conversation. Whenever I dare to stray from my cloister, I bring my small friend and chaperone Bernard to keep me in check.

We have been passive in the fight for far too long, and I am ready to commit to reclaiming the Record, Yale, and the world for men everywhere. It’s the least I can do to ensure a bright future for the Boy and all his buddies.

If you are still planning to read this magazine, I must entreat you to reconsider. We’re doing our best, but we can’t compete with all the truly manly publications out there. Have you ever heard of Men’s Health? Town & Country? Golf Digest? Hombre? The Family Handyman? Buck? Cigar Aficionado? The heroes at those publications are putting in the real journalistic work. Right now, those are the only magazines I let the Boy read. But I hope that someday — with a lot of hard work, Old Spice, and elbow grease — the Record can join their ranks.

—C. Rose Editor in Chief

Alexia Buchholz ’23 Social Media Manager Emma Madsen ’25 Webmaster Josephine Stark ’25 Staff Director Natasha Weiss ’25 Business Manager Jacob Eldred ’24 Merch Manager

Joe Gustaferro ’24 Old Owl Joe Wickline ’23 Old Owl Joanna Wypasek ’24 Old Owl Ayla Jeddy ’23 Old Owl Maya Sanghvi ’23 Old Owl Avery Brown ’23 Old Owl Diana Kulmizev ’23 Old Owl Avery Mitchell ’23 Old Owl Raja Moreno ’24 Old Owl Bea Portela ’24 Old Owl Ellen Qian ’23 Old Owl Annie Lin ’25 Old Owl Rosa Chang ’23 Old Owl Luna Garcia ’23 Old Owl Alex Taranto ’23 Old Owl Jonas Kilga ’23 Old Owl

Will Cramer ’22 Old Owl

Kaufman-Shalett

Santiago

Sattler

Cheng

Lily Dorstewitz ’24 Finn Gibson ’24 Malia Kuo ’24

Mao ’24 Simi Olurin

Joel Banks ’25 Ari Berke ’25 Lillian Broeksmit ’25 Evan Calderon ’25 Madelyn Dawson ’25

Jackson Downey ’25 Mari Elliott ’25 Odessa Goldberg ’25 Evan Gorelick ’25 Audrey Hempel ’25

Contributors: Patrick Chappel ’23

Rena Howard ’25 Ishikaa Kothari ’25 Betty Kubovy-Weiss ’25 Alejandro Mayagoitia ’25 Maya Melnik ’25

Tyler Norsworthy ’25 Megan Sadler ’25 Tyler Schroeder ’25 Cormac Thorpe ’25 Emmitt Thulin ’25

Special thanks to: All the men that stepped up and were better uncles to their sons than their brothers ever were.

Front Cover: Sophie Spaner ’25, who offers the cleanest lawnmower shave east of the Mississippi.

Back Cover: Lillian Broeksmit ’25, who helpfully pointed out the ladder to the beefy men in jorts, but was ignored because she’s a silly little lady.

Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CLI, No. 2, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. P.O. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year

right to correspond: letters should be addressed to: Chair, The Yale Record, P.O. 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.

STUFF I THINK IS MANLY

Bush’s Baked Beans. Turner Classic Movies. Clint Eastwood. Steve Jobs (not Bill Gates). Toyota Tacoma Trucks. Road Rage. Getting Pulled Over. Showing Up To Your Court Date. Going To Court-Mandated Therapy. Opening Up. Crying.

Understanding Anger Issues Are Often A Result Of Unresolved Trauma. Realizing You Never Had A Real Father Figure And Dissecting How This Affects The Way You Form Relationships, Even Today.

Going Home. Kissing Your Wife On Her Lips. Loving Your Son The Way You Never Were Loved. Becoming A Better Father, A Better Man. Letting Your Wife Try That Thing She Always Wanted To Try In The Bedroom. Bush’s Baked Beans: Brown Sugar Hickory Flavor.

—C. Rose

TEAR DOWN THE WALL

Brothers, today I call on each and every one of you in plea of a cause that I hold dearly. We must not shake our responsibility to each other, must not zip our mouths shut and stand for the injustice at hand. Now more than ever, it is important to interrogate the arbitrary, isolating boundaries erected between us. One day, when you grow old and weary, when our lives are but yellowing pages in history books, this fight is the story those books will tell. Brothers, today I call on all of mankind to join me in my pursuit to tear down the wall!

What is this wall really? What authority does it have to divide us other than the authority we allow it to have, that we willingly cede? This wall is unnatural: dividing the landscape, splitting streams. 100 years ago, it did not exist. Our fathers, their fathers, their fathers’ fathers, all of these men lived in a world where such artificial partitions did not divide us. They lived in a world of freedom, a world of mobility, a world of brothers standing shoulder to shoulder in unity.

Today we stand beside this wall, oblivious to and estranged from the men merely five inches away (a gap I argue is in itself already impressively long). We must reach out towards our brothers on the other side, grasp their hands, and destroy this abomination together. And when we finally succeed – for it is not a question of if, but when – we must turn to one another and stare into our brothers’ eyes, never looking down on them, no matter what we hear or smell.

Frankly brothers, I am pissed off. We have been shafted too long by this separationist regime. So today I ask you to join me, harden your resolve, and abolish urinal dividers once and for all!

—D. Alberts

—E. Madsen

IMPORTANT MEN THEY DIDN’T TEACH YOU ABOUT IN SCHOOL

By J. Mansfield

Anthony B. Susan – This little-known men’s rights ad vocate from the mid-19th century was one of the first to argue for men to lose their suffrage, writing, “the impassioned throes of the male psyche prevent us from acting rationally in our hallowed democratic sphere.”

Tony Morrison – This Pulitzer prize-winning author is a master of the written word, and extensively explored the reverse-racist history of the U.S and burden of the white male in works such as The Ditty of Solomon. He was presented with two Presidential Medals of Freedom by President Obama in 2012.

Joeprah Winfrey – This charismatic talk show host and billionaire philanthropist started working at his local radio in high school and soon became a dominant industry figure, despite his race and appearance. In a 1988 profile, Time Magazine lauded Joeprah’s suc cess: “In a field dominated by black females, he was a white male with ample bulk.”

Lord Gaga – This beloved pop icon of the late 2000s is well-known for his dazzling hits “Crazy Eights Face” and “Negative Romance.” At the 2010 MTV Video Music Awards, Lord made an appearance wearing nothing but a loincloth made of raw buffalo meat. This choice was surprisingly hailed by animal rights advo cates – one PETA spokesperson said, “I know we’re against slaughter and stuff, but damn! Save me some of the meat under that meat – he packin’!”

ASK THE LOVE DOCTOR

Question from Mark J. from Idaho: “Am I enough of a man for Jessica?”

Answer: “The Record says no.”

MOVIES THAT NEED ALL-MALE REMAKES

Ocean’s Eight A League of Their Own Magic Mike Mean Girls Wonder Woman

Legally Blonde G.I. Jane Sex and the City Battle of the Sexes Kissing Booth 2 Black Widow RBG

Dead Poets’ Society Gone Girl The Handmaid’s Tale

— Staff

MALE ALTERNATIVES TO VOTING

Modern political philosophers disagree on whether casting a ballot is juvenile, feminine, or just gay, but regardless, it’s always safest for guys to channel their political energy elsewhere. Yale’s Department of Political Science recommends that nice young men like yourself stick to the following techniques: Contact your congressional representative — Let them know you’re paying attention. Don’t be too explicit: A couple of details from their kid’s weekend schedule should be plenty. Maybe use a friend’s phone.

Sidewalk chalk — Cursing, lying, jokes — there are no limits to the power of words. Avoid compound colors (orange, purple, green) and lowercase letters, and remember that rhyming lines should end on a stressed syllable.

A long walk — North border’s not what it used to be. No draft, universal healthcare, and a way slicker bad guy.

Nonviolence — Movements using this imposing strategy are uniquely immune to being stonewalled, co-opted, or otherwise neutralized, which is why politicians spend so much time advocating against it.

Start a third party — Everyone can win. All we have to do is compromise.

Call every question a hypothetical — Look, they’re going to go after you on some of these rulings, but we have the votes locked down. You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to answer— just get ready for the big robes.

Buy some senators — Like voting, but it works.

—A. Burch

ULTIMUM

Well well well. Hello, Ms. Charlene de CarvalhoHeineken. I see you and your Beer empire and all of your Beer subsidiaries. You call the shots. You wear the brass pants. And here’s I am, and what’s more is I have an Ultimum.

You see, Ms. Charlene de Carvalho-Heineken, I and my friends am an addict. I and them am addicted to drinking two Heineken beers twice a week after pick-up squash game at YMCA. Yes, Ms. Charlene de Carvalho-Heineken. I could never lie to you. Today there was pick-up squash game at YMCA. The thing about Heineken beer that I like most is it tastes like magic and makes me want to kill the president. It feels like I just won an Oscar for Best Smile. It makes dogs seems like they’re just little guys down there Woof! It makes middle school seem like forever ago. I like it so so much, and I drink two of it twice a week and it makes me sleepy and it makes me call you, Ms. Charlene de Carvalho-Heineken, whom’s number I did found on famousphomenumbers dot com

You see, Ms. Charlene de Carvalho-Heineken, I and my friends can’tnot live like this no more. It has been okay when I was thirty, but now I am almost thirty-one. I am up for a big promotion at Bain Capital. I care for many droughtresistant succulents. I have a future wife to think about, and I won’t be able to meet her if I am high on two beers twice a week.

So here, Ms. Charlene de Carvalho-Heineken, is my ultimum: make all Heineken beer taste bad like tomato so I might maybe not want to as much to drink it. This is the only way me and my friends we will stop drinking two beers twice a week. We hate tomato, and we love love love your thick cold beer. If you don’t make all Heineken beer taste bad I will be forced to do a M. Night Shyamalan Old movie situation to your young thin nephew whom I know from Bain Capital whom works in the billing department. Using technology I will make your nephew old like in the movie Old. Don’t believe me? Are you confident in that? Confident enough to risk your young thin nephew’s age?

The choice is yours, Ms. Charlene de CarvalhoHeineken. Order? Or chaos?

Which will it be?

Hello?

Hello? Hello?

WHY I SUPPORT WOMEN’S RIGHTS

Picture this: you, a high value man, are at your place of work, trying to make a living, when your phone starts blowing up with your wife asking what to make you for dinner. Sounds familiar, right?

Fellas, situations like these are why we have to stand up for a woman’s right to choose. If women are allowed to decide what to make for dinner, it would eliminate nearly 50% of all their potential talking.This means less nagging, less grind time wasted talking to your old lady, and less headaches overall…

Now I know what you’re wondering. If I can’t tell her what I want, then how can I be sure that my dinner will be yummy? Excellent question, my brother in machismo. The answer is simple: if she’s worth half a damn, she’ll already know what you want. Remember guys, if she doesn’t read your mind to anticipate all of your wants, needs, and bodily limitations, then she’s a resident of the streets.

To all my ladies who may be reading this, remember that taking initiative is sexy. Don’t wait for him to tell you. He shouldn’t have to. Try putting yourself in your king’s shoes for once: he’s either at the gym or trading stocks or baking crypto — you wouldn’t get it — for hours on end, improving himself, and now you’re in his ear talking about, “standard French four-course or Thanksgiving dinner?” These are game-time decisions you must be prepared to make. Face them with courage.

—B. Hollander-Bodie

BCE – First naughty, naughty boy

1761 – First man to put on a dog costume and make his buddies smack him with sticks (see also: second naughty, naughty boy)

First man to imple

Important Male Firsts

History is written by the winners, and, while most historical winners are men, so are a lot of historical losers. This means that whole swaths of male history are forgotten, glossed over, or overshadowed by flashier, more exciting stories of cooler and stronger men. We at the Record have taken it upon ourselves to highlight some of the most important mo ments for the little guys throughout men’s history.

—Staff

First real man

1969 – First Presbyterian on the Moon

First male queen

The first man to coopt Mansamusanomics and claim it was his own idea

men

1984

tame

Breaking: Aidan Is Not About to Cry

BY DOM ALBERTS STAFF REPORTER

WOONSOCKET, RI —

Media outlets na tionwide have ceased all regular programming fol lowing the breaking news that Woonsocket middle schooler Aidan Johnson is actually not about to cry.

Eyewitnesses com mented on a conspicuous lack of tears from Johnson after tripping and falling in a game of touch football at recess. “He was look ing straight up at the sky and sniffling for like five minutes,” a source told us, “but he most definitely wasn’t crying. In fact, he said he wasn’t crying over and over, so there’s no way he could have been.”

According to some

of Johnson’s teammates who saw him not cry, he’s “such a team player that he was probably watching the clouds to check if it was gonna rain. And everyone knows his allergies get re ally bad in the winter, so I bet that’s why he was sniffling.” Another player described Johnson as “a modern-day Achilles,” ex plaining how unlucky it was that he fell on his knee when his basketball shorts and lacrosse socks covered him everywhere else.

The Woonsocket War bler consulted a medical professional to investigate allegations of an unidenti fied fluid streaming from Johnson’s eyes on the scene. “Aidan is an elite athlete, so he was prob ably just sweating from his

eyes,” the school nurse ex plained. “I also heard that it looked like it was going to rain, so that may ex plain the false appearance of tears.”

Other students on the playground spoke to The Warbler about the cover age Johnson has received in tabloids, claiming it unfairly insinuates that he sobbed like a little baby. “It’s just crazy how quickly fake news spreads these days,” one student told us. “I mean, Aidan’s the fast est guy in our grade – if ac cusations like this can be made about him, how can any of us be safe?”

When we reached out to Johnson for comment, he clarified the situation, explaining how he “didn’t cry,” that he “[hasn’t] cried

in years so why would [he] cry now,” and clarified that “[he] never cries, you were the one who cried, haha, yeah you totally cried dur

ing that game, you’re such a fucking wimp.” This is an ongoing story.

Local Man Makes It To Airport With Only 8 Hours To Spare

BY ADRIANA GOLDEN STAFF REPORTER

LOS ANGELES, CA—

Sources alerted the The News that Douglas Jansen, a Pasadena-based father of three, arrived at LAX for Flight 524 to Denver a mere eight hours before the first boarding call.

“I’ve never been more relieved in my life,” Jansen said while doubled over a pile of his sons’ Sesame Street duffle bags, exhaust ed from his sprint to Gate 26. “I know Southwest Airlines says they begin boarding 30 minutes be

fore departure, but some times they’ll pull a fast one on you and move your flight up four hours. And the airline can’t notify me because I can’t receive calls on my Blackberry.”

Airline employees confirmed that Jansen pro ceeded to kill seven hours by telling his sons to settle down, watching the closecaptioned CNN Newsroom feed on the gate monitor, and walking around the gate to break in his loafers.

TSA Officer Teresa Valdez responded to a dis tress call from a saleswom an stationed at the maga

zine kiosk across from Gate 26. The saleswoman had observed a middle-aged man with a dark hoodie, loose pants, and an over sized backpack pacing in front of the boarding area for five consecutive hours. She had also observed him repeatedly adjusting the dial of a device strapped to his wrist, which she wor ried was a bomb. Valdez neutralized the threat, as certaining that the back pack contained only pret zel-and-raisin mix and the device was a Costco-brand wristwatch.

“We have a strict ‘If

you see something, say something’ policy here at LAX,” Valdez commented while lighting a cigarette, despite a NO SMOKING IN THE TERMINAL sign.

“But please stop saying something when it’s a false alarm. I hate my job.” Val dez blew a perfect smoke ring. “If an anxious, over prepared dad looks like a terrorist, then I guess this airport would be Osama bin Laden’s wildest fan tasy. Excuse me.” Valdez departed abruptly, looking bored by the world.

According to National Air Traffic Control, Flight

Security footage from Gate 26 524 took off twenty min utes ahead of schedule, vindicating Jansen and fa thers across the nation.

Johnson moments after the initial contact.

I REALLY WAS GETTING MILK, SON

Look, son, I’m sorry I missed eight years of your life. But I really was just getting milk. Maybe it would help if I explained why it took so long.

It all started when I opened the fridge and saw that there wasn’t any milk. I figured, if I don’t go and buy milk, then we won’t have any milk. Your mother was busy cooking you dinner. I wasn’t doing anything. I figured, I’ll go get some milk. So I said to you and your mother, “I’ll go get some milk.” Then I left to go get some milk.

My troubles began when I arrived at the grocery store. I walked up to the milk aisle, grabbed a carton of milk, and then proceeded to checkout. The problem is that, unbeknownst to myself, my fingers were particularly slippery that day, and I dropped the carton, which splattered all over the floor. Even worse, in my rush to get the milk I had also forgotten my wallet and phone.

But you know what they say: you don’t cry over spilt milk, you work hard over it. I’m no thief. I decided that the best course of action was to work at the grocery store to pay off the milk carton I had destroyed. It was only after I had agreed to do it, however, when they told me that the grocery store I had been shopping in was actually run by volunteers as a front for an American branch of the IRA. The workers there (among whose ranks I found myself) were not paid any salary, and so unfortunately it would take infinite time to pay off that carton of milk.

You must understand, son, I’m an honest man. If I didn’t agree to work at that grocery store for all eternity, I would’ve been a thief. And without a cell phone, there was no way to tell you or your mother where I was. I could have fled, yes. But coming home a thief would have been worse than never coming home at all.

Anyway, after working at O’Figgery’s Grocery Emporium for a few months, I became good friends with the owner, Finnigan O’Figgery. When it came time to celebrate my fortieth, Finnigan informed me that my birthday, January 30th, 1972, was a date called “Bloody Sunday.” He swore that it was my “destiny” to join the fight against the British.

Shortly after, he decided it was time for me to participate in my first real operation. An important British dignitary was visiting, and we were going to put a bomb in his car. But there was a mole. As soon as we had all the equipment laid out, the cops busted down the door. Finnigan shot first, but we were outnumbered and outgunned. I watched all seven of my comrades bleed out on that linoleum floor before I was clubbed in the head.

When I came to, some MI6 agents informed me that

I was the only survivor, that I had been unconscious for an entire week, and that they desperately needed my help to take down the IRA. Apparently, Finnigan had been a major player, and they wanted to know if I had any insight into what his phone PIN could have been. I told them what Finnigan always told me: Remember Bloody Sunday. 013072. They promised me immunity for such valuable information and sent me into witness protection. They put me on a boat back “across the pond” and sent me on my way with a polite yet firm warning never to get involved with the IRA again.

Unfortunately, my way was interrupted. You know that old saying about two ships passing in the night? Well, sometimes, two ships crash into each other in the night instead. I was the only survivor. After drifting on a convenient piece of wood for two days, I washed up on a mostly uninhabited island. There was one other guy already there. I think his name was something with a G. He was a little bit weird, so we didn’t really get along. For six long years I survived on that island. The coconuts provided me with coconut water, which is pretty much as good as real water, and the sea provided me with the sea’s bounty.

One time, pretty early on, G-man and I got into an argument about which coconut trees were whose. I wanted to divide the island in half: my half and his half. He said that he got there first, so he shouldn’t have to share the island. We never really settled that argument, but he was super passive aggressive for the next five and a half years. Eventually a passing ship saw my smoke, and I was rescued.

The problem is, my rescuers were Canadian. I didn’t speak any Canadian, and so I couldn’t explain where I came from. Can’t hate ‘em for that, though. And they fed me well. Canadian bacon, Canadian goose meat, and Canadian water, which is maple syrup, and which is also pretty much as good as real water. They dropped me off at Montreal, and so I began the long hike back to America. I walked and walked and walked. I prayed every day that you had not forgotten me. I scavenged for what little food I could find along the way. I mean, son, if fistfighting raccoons for scraps of dumpster food was an Olympic sport, I’d have a gold medal by now. I looked every day for another human being who spoke my language. It took four years to finally find my way.

But now, my son, I’m finally back. After all these years, I’m back. I’m so sorry that I was gone so long. And I’m even more sorry that I didn’t bring back any milk.

B. Hollander-Bodie

NOT AN EAGLE SCOUT; STILL A MAN

“On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.”

You know what that “code” doesn’t include? Being a man. Boy Scouts of America teaches you more about wearing clashing khaki than true masculinity. Sure, I failed to pass muster in the Cub Scouts, and I left scout camp early to watch the last episode of The Legend of Korra, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less than the perfect image of the male form.

I am sick and tired of being questioned by some nerd who collects coins and roleplays Survivor in knee high socks.

I’ll say it proudly: I wasn’t an Eagle Scout, and I sure as hell didn’t spend my time on some useless project making butterfly gardens for the geriatric descendants of veterans of the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. No, I didn’t do any of those things. You know what I did? I watched the finale of The Legend of Korra before my bunkmates and spoiled it for them the day I came back. They called me weak and intellectually bankrupt, so I spent 10 years compensating with a PhD in gender theory focusing on the intersectional experiences of boyhood in the American literary wilderness. I could start a fire as well as any Scout (I have a lovely tie-dye lighter), but ask them to read Judith Butler and tell me if they still feel confident about their role in the theater of masculinity.

I could have easily abandoned the Scouts for football, rugby, or competitive hot dog eating (I’m looking at you former Life Scout and National Eating Champion Long John Silver). I could have shot a bow and arrow at an image of the Communist god-hater Gorbachev like a good American boy. But I didn’t want to do those things. No, I was called to the ivory tower and it was there I found my masculinity, and there I summarily deconstructed it.

—P. Chappel

INSIDE THE LOCKER ROOM

JOSH: I was telling Jessica the other day that I don’t want her parading around in those little shirts that I can see her shoulders in, and she got all mad at me.

KEVIN: I can’t believe she’d get mad at you for that. Maybe you should suggest she use sunscreen next time, or something like that? Shoulder sunburns can be super painful.

JOSH: No, dumbass. I just don’t like the idea of other guys looking at her like that.

KEVIN: Oh, you don’t want other guys to look at her if she’s sunburnt? Maybe you could get her an ointment or something.

JOSH: Are you some type of idiot? I’m talking about her shoulders, are you fucking dense?

GUY STUFFED INSIDE A LOCKER: Hello? Is someone out there? Could you let me out?

KEVIN: Holy shit! Did you hear that?

JOSH: Hear what? And no need to “holy shit” me dude, this is just locker room talk.

KEVIN: Yeah, did you hear the locker talk?

GUY STUFFED INSIDE A LOCKER: Please, I could really use some help. It’s awfully claustrophobic in here.

JOSH: Yeah, like I just said, this is just a little locker room talk. Anyway, I told her and she just flipped out at me.

KEVIN: That’s so weird of her to get mad. If you’re worried her shoulders are cold, why don’t you get her a sweater or something?

JOSH: Are you listening to me? I don’t like the idea of other guys looking at her like that. I don’t care if she’s cold. No way in hell I’d drop a penny on her do I look like a simp to you?

KEVIN: Ohh, I see now. You don’t want to spend money. Wait, what does that have to do with the shoulders? Maybe you could give her one of your sweaters?

GUY STUFFED INSIDE A LOCKER: Seriously guys, please, I need help. This isn’t funny! I’m begging you. Let me out.

JOSH: Are you fucking stupid, Kevin? This is not about sweaters. I just don’t want other guys seeing my girlfriend looking like a skank and getting perverted ideas in their horny little pea brains.

GUY STUFFED INSIDE A LOCKER: Whoa, that’s kind of fucked up man. Stop policing women’s bodies.

JOSH: Jeez, calm down. What are you saying, “policing women’s bodies?” It’s just a little locker room talk.

KEVIN: I know, I heard the locker talk too. Should we do something?

— B. Kubovy-Weiss

THREE DUDES WITH MICROPENISES WALK INTO A BAR

Three dudes with micropenises walk into a bar. And I mean very small penises. Each one is smaller than the last. We’re talking about some extremely tiny material here. Doesn’t matter whether you use metric or imperial, you’re rounding to zero. Even calling any of them ‘the needle’ would be a massive overstatement of length, although an understatement of girth. After all, we’re still operating within the realm of realistic biology here. Don’t get me wrong, these are three very small penises, but they could feasibly exist. I’m talking cartoonishly small, but not so cartoonish that they could literally only exist within a cartoon. Just like, you know, really damn small. Like, if you were having a child and it was a baby boy, you’d look at it and still be relatively unimpressed. But you’d be able to tell what it was at least. That’s the type of penis these three dudes have, except they’re adults. That’s the realm of smallness we’re talking about here. Anyway, where was I going with this?

B. Hollander-Bodie

WHAT GUYS TALK ABOUT ON FISHING TRIPS

GUY: Golly, I sure love fishin’!

DUDE: Ain’t that the truth. Get some time to myself, see some nifty fish and leave my nagging wife for a minute. Nothing better.

GUY: Amen to that.

DUDE: Hey, if you were a fish, what fish would you be?

GUY: Hmmm… Well, I don’t know. Guess I’ve never really thought about it.

DUDE: Awww come on! You have to know. You’re just like my wife. She’s so indecisive she can’t ever choose what she wants to cook for dinner or what jeans to buy me. She says she “just can’t figure out what I’m into.” God, it infuriates me. If you asked me any question I could give you an answer immediately.

GUY: Fine then, what fish would you–

DUDE: Oscar from Shark Tale .

GUY: Oh, I didn’t think fictional fish were an opDUDE: I mean, when you think about it, it’s the perfect answer. I’d be a top-notch hustler, I would be voiced by Will Smith, and I would get Lola and all the other fish ladies. No family, no job, just me and my scaly babes in the big blue sea. Honestly, I don’t think there’s any fish that has it better than that.

GUY: Yeah, that would be pretty cool. I thi-

DUDE: No, no but really think about it. I would get all the females. Salmon, guppies, lumpsuckers! Every. Single. One.

GUY: I mean, sure Oscar from Shark Tale has game, but like, my mind just doesn’t immediately jump to fish vagina, you know?

DUDE: Ever tried it? No? Then shut up. God.

GUY: Jeez, sorry, I just like fishin’ man. I don’t wanna fuck the things! I mean, if you’re into aquatic coochie that’s fine, but that’s just not me, bro.

DUDE: Don’t knock it till you try it.

GUY: What?

DUDE: Just… Don’t knock it till you try it, that’s all…

GUY: Right… My bad, I guess.

DUDE: So… If you could fuck any movie character, who would it be?

GUY: Ever seen A Bug’s Life ?

—A. Mayagoita

MY LIFE AS A MAN IN STEM

You know what I’m sick of? Being a part of the underappreciated majority. As a white man in STEM, my daily trials and tribulations are always brushed under the rug. Look, it’s not easy being handed opportunities willy-nilly. I have trouble with indecision, and this last application season really put me to the test. No longer will I sit idly by while the oppressive minority puts ideas in the heads of society.

Every morning I wake up, preparing myself for an arduous day of balancing chemical equations and looking good while doing it, just to be reminded that I actually don’t have to do any of that. In this field, I can express myself as a man, maybe talk a little sports, and never have to lift a finger. Do you know how debilitating that is? To never have to work hard for anything that I have?

Just the other day, I went to NYC to interview for an internship at Lockheed Martin, and I was absolutely humiliated. The interviewer barely scanned my impressive résume before asking where I think the Knicks are going this season. I came to find out that the rich, white interviewer plays fantasy football with my equally rich, equally white father. And just like that, the position was mine! I didn’t even get a chance to mention my extensive history as a seasoned golfer. Can I never achieve anything based on my own merit? Will I be stuck effortlessly floating through the ranks like this forever?

I mean, between you and me, I haven’t had to solve a mathematical equation since the summer of 2011. It was right before my dad had the “our family name can do great things for you” talk with me. You wouldn’t get it, I know. They never do.

At my core, I’m a fixer. So, in order to eliminate this totally unfair and completely deranged bias, I have put together an inclusive and rigorous summer camp in order to serve white men and boys everywhere. For the small price of just $800 a day, these guys are provided with a space to be their true selves, men in STEM, with other guys who just get it. It is important now more than ever that us white men stick together.

R. Howard

AMERICA’S FAVORITE PASTIME

I’m going to be totally frank with you. I’m pissed.

Pissed by way of a couple of Dale’s shitty IPAs, of which I will mention only FOUR were cold! How am I supposed to watch this trainwreck with only some lukewarm piss to drown my shame? It’s infuriating, especially considering that my so-called son seems hell-bent on driving me into an early grave.

Apparently, those heartwarming stories about “tossing the ball with your son” and he turns out to be the next fucking Derek Jeter are all just a load of horseshit. Honestly.

And despite Jeanine’s “everyone’s a winner” bullshit, this is embarrassing. My son is playing so badly, I wouldn’t blame Coach Jackson if he sends his bookie to break MY kneecaps. I know he’s got money on these second graders’ Little League games, but I don’t care about that. He’s not hurting anyone, except himself maybe. Honestly, I only care about what a degenerate scumbag my child is.

He gets his noodle arms from JEANINE! I come from a long line of throwers. But you can be sure as hell it’ll somehow be my fault in the divorce. I know it’s coming, I can smell it. After this game? Forget about it. This kid has single-handedly shattered any hopes I ever had of giving a shred of honor to this name.

I’ll probably go into hiding after this. Fake my death. Just kind of blow away into the wind and —

Jesus, here goes Jeanine again. She’s all worked up about how I’m shouting every word that I’m saying at full volume, and she’s going on about how I should’ve just gone home after I wet my pants in the outfield instead of trying to hide it by burying myself under second base. Something about “rock bottom” and “fourth time in three months.”

Perfect, now the cops are charging at me with danger in their eyes and violence in their hearts. She probably called them. Typical. Bringing the law into everything. Now I have to shove this confused 7-year-old to the ground and steal his bat — best player on the team by the way, I mean, just a pure athlete, unlike my little whimpering excuse for an offspring.

And wouldn’t ya know it, now I’m seizing on the ground as the electrical current from the taser makes me see God for a few seconds.

—S. Olurin

ICARUS COMES PREPARED

L. Conklin

Buddy Tales

The Fastest Knife in Pittsfield by S. Leone

We at The Record thought there was no better place than the Masculinity Issue to highlight some of the beautiful stories of male friendship we hear about every day. Here are just a few:

According to the internet, Anesthesiologist is the #1 highest paid job in the U.S. That money comes from somewhere. And guess what, that somewhere is you: the well-meaning, god-fearing, hard-working American. Every injury is a penny out of your wallet and a dime into theirs. This is a problem. People can no longer afford to live life, to play rock-kick or spoke-fall or bear-cubtake. Forget breaking bones, I’m talking about breaking the bank.

Me and my buddy David are male nurses up here at the Pittsfield Teaching Hospital. And don’t get us wrong, we love the job of male nurse. But it’s not because of anesthesiologists, no sir. It’s because of the people like you, the patients, the little guys. These people are hurting. They come to us in God knows what shape — legs for arms, torn in half, face turned inside-out, you name it. And these mangled people beg to us from their hospital beds, saying they can’t afford to pay for pricey ‘conventional surgery,’ and the doctors say they have no other choice. But those smug white-coat-wearing assholes are wrong.

That’s where we come in. Every day, me and my buddy David take off our scrubs, leave the hospital, and drive off. But we don’t drive home, no sir. We do a few donuts in ambulance parking and drive to the back of the buildingthe entrance to the morgue. I know what you’re thinking: dead people are spooky. But not to me and my buddy David. We’re in the business of the living. We sneak into the ICU and wheel those poor, screaming souls down to the basement, into our “workstation” — the morgue break room. Not even 30 minutes later, they’re back in their hospital bed, maybe fixed up, and the anesthesiologists call it an act of God, or the wrath of God — something something God for sure.

Most patients are a little nervous at first. And, hey, we don’t blame ‘em. No one likes going to the doctor, especially when those doctors don’t have medical licenses. We may not have their charts, and the folding table we operate on isn’t exactly “well-lit,” but I’ll be damned if we don’t care. See, me and my buddy David know the best cookies are made with love, and tonight? We’re baking life-saving procedures. And on top of that, we do it in record time. Everyone thinks the idea of a “fast surgeon” died along with the wild West. What those people don’t understand is that there is a thriving black market for in-andout procedures

that won’t cost more than a cup of coffee. And no one delivers like we do. There isn’t an M.D. on this side of the lake who could take off both arms in the time it takes to say “howdeedoo.” Hell, there isn’t even one who would try. That’s how good we are.

And no, we’ve never failed, not once. Every appendectomy ends with the appendix out of the body, alive or dead. You see, this idea of saving life at any expense is blatantly corporate. Going out of your way to accommodate a patient? That sounds like how you treat a customer. Me and my buddy David would never be so patronizing. Us and our clients see each other as friends, friends who make mistakes, who lose in dodge-knife, mis-trust-fall, or hornet-tag. And we feel strongly that friends don’t gouge friends, at least financially. No, we don’t require payment. All we ask is to spread the good word, and if possible, help on cleanup duty. We are male nurses, and we moonlight as amateur surgeons in the basement of the Pittsfield Teaching Hospital. And you know what? We have a damn good time doing it.

Me and Buddy Dug a Hole

by J. Wickline

Come on down. Come on by. Every weekend, you can find me and my buddy in the sideyard. The hole started small, but that’s just the way it goes with holes. Now it’s deep, and we’re still at it. A few weeks back we hit groundwater. Made a day of it, swim trunks and piña coladas. Felt like Christmas in July. Now we’re back at it — diked up the aquifer and kept on digging. Hit some sort of bedrock Sunday, but that’s no problem. My buddy’s cousin has a couple jackhammers, so we’ll come at it hard at the end of the workweek.

Down, down, down. Down so deep God’s own self can’t see the bottom. One day maybe we’ll hit the center of the earth. Maybe we’ll just burn up there, amongst all the lavas and magmas and whathaveyou. But whatever goes down down there, if I’m there with my buddy and he’s there with me, I’ll be okay, I think. Maybe we’ll make it through, make it all the way to China, sample some fine cuisines.

Hyeah. I’d like that.

Me and My Buddy Spent a Day Supporting Women

by R. Howard

When it comes to women’s rights in America, things aren’t looking too great these days. And you know what? That doesn’t sit right with my buddy ‘n me. So we decided that, for one day only, we were going to support women in every way we could think of. To start off our morning, we decided to grab some breakfast woman-style. My buddy loves breakfast burritos, but I told him we should go down to Starbucks and order Grande iced vanilla lattes with four pumps of vanilla and sweet cream cold foam instead, because we are allies. I threw mine at the barista in a fit of rage because there were five pumps of vanilla. Unbelievable, the things women deal with! Our efforts continued with a brisk walk (in tight-fitting Lulus of course) down to our local Planned Parenthood. Once we got there, we told the pro-life protesters outside the building, “Hey guys, any other day, sure. Today, we’re supporting women. So, go ahead and take the day off.”After a quick hot yoga sesh with Armando (he works wonders), me ‘n my buddy decided to finish off the day by winding down with a glass of Barefoot Moscato and a good cry, just like my ex-wife used to every night. Me ‘n my buddy, we were a part of history today.

Me and My Buddy Went A-Prospectin’ by C. Rose

Look, I ain’t got no fancy tales ‘bout no bear huntin’ or nothin’ real manly and such, but I do have the one time me an’ my buddy Jericho went a-prospectin’. We weren’t tied down to no womenfolk back in Virginia and we thought to ourselves, “Jed an’ Jericho? Get yourselves ‘cross that big beautiful country a yers and pan them rivers ‘til ya pans’re lookin’ as sparklin’ as the neck of that Missus Vanderbilt. Then you get yerselves the perdiest women on that there West Coast’n all them boys back at the grist mill’ll be gawkin’ at your lil’ ladies.”

Our journey was ‘bout as smooth as river rapids but we stuck with it and with each other. When my ankle was bit by a swamp viper, Jericho done sucked the poison right out. When Jericho sprained his wrist salutin’ the flag too hard, I fashioned a splint outta my own personal pickaxe.

Now I know not all them who got up and settled down in ol’ San Francisco got what they’d been lookin’ for. But, gee, my buddy Jericho and me sure did strike it big. I bought me a Appaloosa stallion named Fortune and Jericho wrangled himself a Mustang mare named Fame. We had mighty wild times ridin’ those bangtails and spendin’ our rocks wherever we could. But the highest quality gold nugget I did find in all my years pannin’, siftin’, and rushin’ was the beautiful friendship I built with my pal Jericho.

TRANSCRIPT: THE SLEEPOVER AT FRANKIE’S

JAKE: Hey, Frankie. Thanks for inviting me for a sleepover.

FRANKIE: Yeah, no problem. Happy to have you.

JAKE: Your room is sweet. I dig all the magic books. You know any tricks?

FRANKIE: Ah, I haven’t touched those in years. That’s not who I am anymore.

JAKE: …Huh?

FRANKIE: I don’t like the man I become with those cards in my hand.

JAKE: What the hell are you talking about?

FRANKIE: Listen, man. Bad stuff happens. You don’t wanna know. We shouldn’t even be talking about this.

JAKE: Okay, jeez, dude. Um… you’ve got… cool LEGOs? Is that the Millenium Falcon?

FRANKIE: LEGO is child’s play compared to the rush of holding that wand with those fake flowers inside. The gentle caress of those silk scarves. The thrill of wearing that hat.

JAKE: Hat?

FRANKIE: I can feel the adrenaline in my blood. It feels hot. And kinda spicy. The power… it’s unparalleled.

JAKE: …

FRANKIE: You should leave.

JAKE: I’m sorry, Frankie, what? I just got here.

FRANKIE: I’m getting dangerous again.

JAKE: Dude, what the hell are you talking about?

FRANKIE: The show starts soon.

JAKE: A magic show?

FRANKIE: It’s five hours long. No intermission. Once I start, I can’t stop. Franklin Fantastic stops for no man. The cards are all that matters. Ten of hearts. Twenty of clubs.

JAKE: I’m pretty sure there’s no twenties in a deck of cards. Also, “Franklin Fantastic?”

FRANKE: My mom picked it out for me, asshole. You know what? Maybe you deserve this, you ungrateful jerk. You didn’t even thank her for the pizza she bought us.

JAKE: Frankie, come on.

FRANKIE: That’s Franklin Fantastic to you. I hope you didn’t expect to do something fun, like play video games or build that brand-new LEGO set I have, or chase fireflies in the night and talk until dawn about our most intimate thoughts and feelings.

JAKE: Wait, was that the plan for tonight?

FRANKIE: Not anymore! Now it’s showtime. And you don’t even know the scariest part. I only know one trick: The Flying Buttress. And it only works half the time. Buckle up. I hope you peed before the show started.

JAKE: I did not.

S. Spaner

PHRASES TO DROP WHILE WATCHING FOOTBALL

Do you consider yourself a man’s man? Then you know that football is the sport to know. Not that sissy game that the Euros call fútbol, but good, rugged old-fashioned American pigskin football. For those looking to refine their knowledge of the gridiron-arts, I’ve put together the ultimate phrase list to help you mansplain that next Thanksgiving football game:

“Knocked it out of the park” - You get more points if you kick a field goal out of the park and into the parking lot. Double points for hitting an opposing team’s windshield.

“Ahead in the count” - Each team has a limited number of footballs they can go through in a game. The team that has more balls left at the end of the game gets bonus points.

“Touch base” - While these two words strike fear into any email reader, they actually claim their origin from football! When a team catches the ball from the kickoff, they cannot be tackled when touching the base (endzone).

“They’re playing hardball!” - As demonstrated a few years ago by football inflation expert and quarterback Tom Brady, the football is a naturally soft, pliant object. If both teams agree, during overtime the referees can inflate the balls to extralarge size, and the team that pops it loses the game. [For additional information, see “Great Football Burst of the 1953 Super Bowl.”]

“Worse than The Slump” - A way to express that your team is doing poorly, with equivalent performances to the 1989 Cleveland Spiders or any-year Arizona Cardinals all-time loss records.

“Inside Baseball” - The name of the 3-inning baseball game played simultaneously on the field during the third quarter to keep the players on their toes and the audience from falling asleep during yet another commercial break.

—T. Schroder

—G.

Jerry of "Tom and Jerry" On the vices of stardom, being a mouse in a human-dominated industry, and fatherhood in the 21st century

BY L. CONKLIN

Jerry and I first met at a fundraiser on the Up per East Side. We were seated at the same table by chance. He joked with the waitstaff, cleaned up the water that he knocked over with excited ges ticulations (followed by many sincere and embar rassed apologies), and unbuttoned his jacket after the third course. If it weren’t for the fact that he is an animated mouse, I would have never known he was a star. “My wife hates these new suits — the ones that look just a little too tight. Now I guess I hate them too.”

We met again at a cafe overlooking the Hud son. He hurried to our table. “I’m so sorry I’m late. It’s never fair to waste someone’s time, and that’s exactly what I’ve done.”

“Mr. Jerry,” I said. “You’re exactly on time.”

“Please, just Jerry,” he winked. “And if you’re on time, you’re late.”

It is this precision that catapulted Jerry to stardom in the early 40s — his timing, his cha risma, and his innate star power are nothing if not powered by sweat. “The physical strain that show took on my body — I still feel it. You gotta be in good shape to do those kinds of stunts. Now, people hire doubles, but we didn’t have the budget back then. It’s fun at first, but after six takes, the anvil that crushes your entire skeleton starts to hurt a little. I’m paying for it now with the arthritis.”

“The usual?” our waiter asked.

“Thanks, Don.” Jerry turned to me, “My kids turned me onto oat milk — my system can’t take

dairy anymore. I’ve had to give up my favorite vice — cheese — because of my stomach. I was suspicious of the non-dairy stuff, but I’ll admit, it’s actually good. It’s creamy.” He brought our drinks to the table, and Jerry asked Don about night school and his commute. They talked until Don was hollered back to the kitchen. “Good guy — works real hard. I was a busboy when I first went out to LA — lost my job almost immedi ately, you know. It’s hard to balance six cups and plates when you’re a guy my size. Wasn’t all bad, though. Actually, Joey [Joseph Barbera, creator of Tom and Jerry ] saw me doing it, and that’s how I got the gig.” I pressed him on the early days while he sipped his coffee. Most pilots barely make it to a table read, but Jerry knew this show was special all along. He has an instinct about these things. “I always wanted to direct. Acting was never my passion — it was creating, you know? Breathing life into something. And Joey and all let me do it my way. They let me take the character where I wanted to. There’s a lot of me in Jerry. They trusted me.”

Jerry finished his coffee before I had even drank half of mine. He scurried across the table to peek over my cup and looked up at me. “God, I drank that fast. My wife gets on me about it — says it isn’t good for the heart. But caffeine is my only indulgence now, you know, so I let out all my addiction in a cold brew.” He chuckled. Since his recovery, Jerry has been open about his

struggles with addiction. He was even Scrat’s sponsor after the Ice Age fame fizzled out.

“You’re working an 18 hour day during film ing, and that’s just not doable. Until they hand you a pill that they say is gonna keep you up as long as you need. And then you need something to pull you back down when it’s time to sleep. And the parties. And the women — pretty mice from the city, you know, with long tails and soft hips — next thing you know, you’re in your hotel room alone, sulking in the fluorescence of those bathroom lights, and all you see reflected in the mirror is a stranger.”

“When you realize that only you can make the change in yourself — only you can stop taking what you’re taking — it’s quick. I wanted to be a father to my children. Wanted to see little Junebug scurry across her first counter. Want to teach little Tommy Jr. to chew electrical wires and ruin a house’s founda tion. I wanted to live a long life — to meet my grand children.”

This does not come without its caveats, though. “We live in a world where mice are murdered day in day out for the sake of “science.” I’m actually the only surviving member of my graduating class. You get to an age where you’re watching your friends die, and you realize that living a long life isn’t all it’s chalked up to be, you know? I’ve aged out of most roles, too. Hollywood doesn’t have a place for old mice like me. They asked me to do a Tom and Jerry reboot the other year — like they’re doing now with just about every show from the 90s — and I said no. Couldn’t do it without Tom.” He swallowed.

“It’s been a rough couple of years without Tom my.” The waiter interrupted us, and Jerry put on a smile that couldn’t stretch to his eyes. He grabbed the check before I could even try. The pen was too big for his hands, though, so I had to sign for him. He didn’t want me to see, but he left a cash tip that rolled up to be the size of his body. I have no idea how he carried it.

We walked along the Hudson, and I asked once more about Tom. “God, I miss that cat. It was all a ruse, you know, the fighting. The whole cat and mouse bit. He was a vegetarian and the godfather to my children.” I tentatively asked about their final exchange. “I’ll tell you what he said to me. It was over the phone. He was in Barcelona with his wife. He al ways wanted to see Catalonia, see his roots, see where cats came from. He called me, saying he just wanted

to hear my voice. Had some overwhelming urge to talk to me or something.” His shining eyes stared at the pavement.

“We were talking about the show, which we never talked about. I don’t know why he brought it up. Maybe he knew, had a premonition, you know.” His voice faltered. “He said, ‘You gave me a reason to get up — you gave me something to chase. Well, Jer, I finally caught you. As my friend. Think of me from time to time.’ He passed the next day. With his wife by his side.”

We stopped at a bench — he was slowing down. His pixels were more defined than they were when the evening began. I helped him onto the seat. “He was an artist, you know? He never hated a damn thing in his life, but he could put it on when the cameras came out. And the audience believed it. They loved him. He was a true creative.”

“You’re a creative too, Jerry.” I said. “It was the two of you — Tom and Jerry — that made the show magical. It’s timeless. Kids still watch it to this day.” His twinkly, swollen eyes squinted. Jerry was humble and earnest. He had no pretense. Unlike most inter viewees, he wasn’t trying to tell me a story. He was telling me the truth.

“If I’m being honest, I didn’t even do it for the kids. I didn’t do it for fame, or money, or God, or even myself. I did it because I couldn’t do anything but cre ate.”

A tiny car came to pick him up.

AN ORAL HISTORY OF THE GREAT BBQ BLOOD FEUD OF 2004

Todd, homeowner of 7426 Linda Ave., Tullahoma, TN 37388: It was just an ordinary summer day back in — oh it was so long ago, I can barely even remember — I wanna say it was around 5p.m. on Saturday, June 17th in ‘04. My kids and their friends were all sitting together in my freshly mowed backyard — and let me tell you it was pristine — so we could have some nice afternoon hot dogs.

Brad, homeowner of 7428 Linda Ave., Tullahoma, TN 37388: So Todd was manning the grill, and he said he wasn’t making burgers. Who hosts a ‘cue with no burgers? The audacity!

Todd: Listen, there are times for dogs and times for burgs, and some people just don’t understand that. A good rule of thumb is Thursday Burgsday and saving weiners for the weekend. And even if it was a day for burgs — which it wasn’t cause it was a Saturday — so what? There are basic BBQ ethics, and host’s discretion is rule number one.

According to the common retelling of the incident, the situation escalated as Brad took a wild swing at Todd, missing by a significant margin. The incident could have ended there if not for Todd’s taunt, “Old Man Jenkins punches better than that.”

Old Man Jenkins: I wasn’t there, so I didn’t see the punch, but I’m sure it’s true. Brad’s a wimp. In the Great Little League Brawl of ‘64, while I was out there knocking kids out from home plate to the outfield, he didn’t even leave the dugout.

Rather than throw another right hook and risk the shame of missing again, Brad grabbed his foe and the two began to grapple.

Todd: There were kids there, for goodness sakes. I didn’t want to resort to violence, but he left me no choice.

Brad: He’d had it coming for years. His pool was never the right temperature. At Home Depot, he stole the last Husqvarna 24 inch 460 Rancher Gas Chainsaw right outta my hands. He seduced Sarah while I was out competing for my bowling league championship. The small things just added up, ya know, and this was the last straw.

The tussle ended when another BBQ attendee split the two up. While there were no winners, most spectators agree that Todd had the upper hand.

Old Man Jenkins: Ha. Can’t say I’m surprised. Once a wimp, always a wimp.

Jessica, wife of Todd: They’re idiots. It’s burgers and hot dogs. Why can’t we just enjoy our God-given

American freedom and share some good grub as the kids play wiffle ball? Is that too much to ask?

Sarah, wife of Brad: I don’t want to get involved in this. On the one hand, Todd shoulda had burgers there. Obviously. But also Brad makes a scene like this every time, and I’m sick of it. At least Todd can be a man about it and take action. Such a strong, powerful man about it…

Todd: We haven’t talked since.

Brad: I just don’t know how I can trust a man who would sleep with my wife without giving me so much as a quarter pounder in return. What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.

—A. Cramer

GRANDPA JEFF’S MANY NICKNAMES

Gramps

Big Papi

Skinny Pop Pop (he’s obese)

The Walking Dead

My Inheritance

Mom Sugar Daddy

The Clap King of Ketamine POTUS Slut

—Staff it

Joel's self portrait

Banks

TACTICAL MANEUVERS TO PREVENT YOUR GIRLFRIEND FROM STEALING YOUR HOODIE

Lads and gents – we’ve all been there. You’re taking your clothes out of the Trumbull laundry machine and you think to yourself that there’s no way that’s all you put in.

Limited edition surfing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles trousers? Check.

Graphic tee that says, “Sarcastic Comment Loading?” Check.

A single gray sock whose sole-mate has been lost months ago, but you keep holding out hope that maybe you’ll find it, that maybe Melissa will call you back and forgive you for suggesting that she name her pet hamster “Nique” instead of “Nick?”

Check.

But where’s your favorite hoodie? You know, that hoodie you’ve worn since before the Iraq War, permanently sweat-stained from track practice and a dozen Baja Blast spills. Where, oh where did it go?

The realist in you already knows – the part of you that always, in fact, has a sarcastic comment loading. Your girlfriend (not Melissa), stole it.

Lads, gents – Women are coming for our hoodies. Pitter patter – that’s the sound of their tiny elf-like feet scuttering towards your closet. But what’s a man, a real masculine man, the subject of this magazine’s issue, to do?

The gentleman could employ a Scorched Earth Policy : Simply don’t wear stealable clothes. There are plenty of stylish fits that cannot be physically removed from the body. Consider a morph suit, Megan Fox’s engagement ring, or simply painting clothes onto the gentleman’s body (no one will notice).

Point of weakness: technically banned under the 1977 Geneva Convention.

If the gentleman finds himself in the remarkable minority who’s skittish about war crimes, he may consider Appeasement : Buy her a hoodie as a gift. If she has her own hoodie, why would she steal yours?

Point of weakness: Hitler still invaded Czechoslovakia.

And for the moderates: Pre-emptive Strike . Take her clothes first. Set ‘em on fire or return them one by one. Either way, she’ll be so focused on getting back her own clothes, she won’t have time to pursue an offensive objective.

Point of weakness: you will no longer have a girlfriend.

Author’s Note : These tactical maneuvers are unproven and may not result with actual success on the field. Melissa, if you’re reading this, I know it wasn’t about the Nique thing. I’m sorry for calling you a cow because you took the last Nilla wafer.

— A. Buchholz

DAD’S NOT DEPRESSED, HE’S JUST A SERIOUS GUY

Has your dad been laying around the house, cutting his own bangs, and complaining about persistently feeling sad, anxious, and empty? Did he do that thing where he watches Baby Looney Toons for hours while sobbing into the Super Dad mug you gave him for Father’s Day? Don’t worry bud. Chances are, your dad’s just got some grown-up business on his mind.

Maybe your dad’s favorite soccer team had another horrible season this year. Maybe he’s having trouble coming to terms with the condition of his aging body, like his growing bald spot and bad back from operating that old rusty lawnmower. Maybe he’s seen too many Vineyard Vines shirts at work that reminded him of the ghastly sperm whale that has long been haunting his dreams. As frequently recounted by your dad, its “snow-white wrinkled forehead” and “high, pyramidical white hump” towering menacingly over him, ballooning into gentle blobs of sperm blubber in the shape of rugged sailors’ hands that massage his entire body while chanting, “Squeeze! Squeeze! Squeeze!” The nightscape melds him with the white sperm blubber and turns them into one before wrenching him from his slumber in cold sweat.

If you really want to help out your Pa, go get him a can of cold, refreshing beer. You know what, kid? Help yourself to one while you’re at it. Just don’t tell your mother. Or do; what do I care? It doesn’t even matter at this point. Anyway, the alcohol will ease his mind, remind him of his true purpose as a man, and in no time he’ll return to his old fiery ways. It will be almost as if his phases of violent sobbing and unexplained lethargy never happened.

You may find this period of his life concerning, but your dad is definitely not depressed. They didn’t even have “depression” back in his day – that’s just something you kids made up on your TikTok app, like oat milk or the moon landing. And if he snaps out of it, he might finally invest in that newfangled electric lawn mower from Home Depot and start revitalizing his 10-square-foot plot of lawn. He might even splurge on a toupee.

—A. Lin

Ask Old Owl!

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

Dear Old Owl,

I think I am having a midlife crisis. I bought a sexy new sports car, I got a hair transplant, and I have started seeing a much younger woman who only loves me because of my money. All this, and I still don’t feel fulfilled. How can I find satisfaction in this empty life?

Dear Owlet,

Hey, we’ve all been there. When I suffered my midlife crisis, I pur chased Ernest Hemingway’s family home and burned everything to the ground just to feel something. As I watched the house where this beloved American author wrote To Have and Have Not burst into flames, I shed a single tear. From those ashes, I was reborn. All of a sudden my life was restored. I held my wife close for the first night in months that night as we did ecstasy for the first time. There was some hand stuff, too. Only later was it revealed to me that there were some one-of-a-kind manuscripts that were left inside the home. But even through the arson hearings my mind was set on one thing: you only live once. In saying this, I recognize that it is impossible to recreate my expe rience of what the Post called “ab horrent behavior resulting in the loss of treasured and irreplaceable writ ings.” Because I already did that. But, hey, there’s always Vegas.

Dear Old Owl, I grow weary of this neverending war. The fighting is tough andhe wind beats heavy upon my face. Gunshots and explosions across the minefield ring hollow through the night, and the day isn’t much different. I look at my brothers, desperately trying to survive this war which plagues our nation. I shed one tear a day for all the great men whose lives have been destroyed by meaningless violence and cruelty, and I keep it in a glass vial marked “Sad Memories”. I later drink the tears, to reinvigorate the memory, and also for sustenance. How can I memorialize these men in a way that is more permanent?

Dear Owlet,

Not to be, like, super ignorant, but… is there a war happening right now? Because if there is, I totally had no clue. Haha, that’s actually so weird. Also, aren’t there women in the military now, too? I remember seeing some hotties in uniform back in the early days of Afghanistan, but that’s beside the point. The best way to memorialize is to drink one shot per dead friend, then just raw dog an absolutely bangin’ eulogy. I would know, a bunch of my friends “drank the Kool-Aid” in ‘78. At the time, I was dieting, so I passed on the Kool-Aid in favor of a refresh ing cold water, and ended up being the only one who left Guyana in one piece. I got a standing O at the ser vice. Let ‘er rip. Cry it out. Quote Inglourious Basterds . You’ll be a hit.

Dear Old Owl,

I am starting a new job as a stationary assistant in an office. Unfortunately, my male colleagues ridicule and belittle me for being a “beta bitch secretary” with an “Ellen haircut”. How can I prove to them that masculinity stems not from a job title, but from within?

Dear Owlet,

You have to show these ruffians that just because you’re a male sec retary doesn’t mean you’re not mas culine. In fact, “male secretary” has “male” in the name. I would recom mend you keep a variety of knives and guns on you at all times, and frequently mention the bald eagle you shot and stuffed in 2014. You could even bring it to the office as a statement piece for your desk. Talk about things like whiskey and war, and whenever the subject changes you can just scowl into the distance dramatically. Read a lot of Bu kowski, and be sure to occasionally quote Abraham Lincoln. If you are ever prompted to share your feelings, don’t! It’s a trap, and your coworkers will catch you at your most vulner able, and therefore least masculine. Learn a lot about one of the fol lowing topics to deflect: fly fishing, centrism in modern-day America, leather and leather manufacturing, boxers from the early 20th century, or actresses with large breasts. Your macho officemates will see that you are a man, and will respect you for it. Godspeed, beta bitch.

The Homeowners Association Wants To Tell Me How and When I’m Allowed to Mow My Own Damn Lawn

Very little gets me going these days. A lot of people like to talk, but no one never says nothing. When I get out onto my four-wheel drive lawn mower every morning at 4:45 a.m, the last thing I want is for some busybody to stick their nose in my business. Nobody appreciates the value of hard work no more. America is going down the toilet. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. Crooks all over the White House. I don’t trust ‘em. I’d like to see ‘em come down from their fancy houses and mow this lawn. The gas prices, too. Do you know how much gas it takes to run my lawn mower? She’s a beaut. Got her in the summer of ‘96 and haven’t had to buy a new one in twenty-six years. When she breaks down, I just get in there with my toolbox and figure it out. Back in the day, people used to just figure things out. You go in there with your wrench and you use your brain. It’s not hard. It’s common sense. Nothing but common sense. Now people call mechanics for every little issue. All of it, everything. It all has to be accounted for. Like the damn doctor’s office. Tests for this and tests for that. I don’t need any damn nitroglycerin. I just need your mother to stop whining about my blood pressure. Salt and raw meat ain’t ever killed a man. Salt will fix just about any problem. Like those damn icy roads. Useless Joe Biden can’t even salt our damn roads anymore. You can bet he’ll be sitting pretty in D.C. without any icy roads to worry about down there, no sirree. I don’t even know why I voted for that sleepy tool. It made your mother happy and I had a grill to worry about. Which needs gas too, I’ll have you know. You think it’s easy to support this family? Every other Sunday, I have to sit on the porch for half an hour to grill that damn squash your mother buys at the Whole Foods. I don’t know why we even shop at Whole Foods. They’ve got those bullshit vegans running the place. Organic this and organic that. You think they make organic lawn mowers? Of course not. It’s all bullshit. Organic doesn’t mean nothing. If I wanted food without pesticides, I’d grow it myself. Just me and the soil out there, like it was meant to be. Maybe someday I’ll get myself a little farm out West. There’s peace in a simple life. A man doesn’t need anything but to till his soil and look out over the horizon. A fridge stocked full of Irish beer. None of this kombucha shit your mother buys. She says it’s better for my liver. My liver can take a beating, goddamnit. Hell, I need the beers to get through that lawn. One before and one after, on ice. I could mow the lawn at any time I please with two beers in me. So what if I mowed the lawn at 11 p.m on a Friday? Those meddlers at our town HOA need to mind their own damn business. It was going to rain! I had to cut it before those weeds got out of control. The HOA wants to tell me how and when I’m allowed to mow my own damn lawn. Some people just need to leave a man alone sometimes. I started with nothing but the clothes on my back and built all this, and you think I’m going to stand there and let Susan walk all over me and my pride and joy? Not a chance. Her heels would get stuck in the dirt anyways. Tear up the sod. No, she won’t be running shit while I live here, that’s for damn sure. Did you know I wasn’t even given my clothes as a kid? My parents made me buy them myself with the money I earned from working at the deli after school. You think I got a degree in accounting with hand-me-downs? Every sock on my body was my own sweat and blood. People just don’t want to work nowadays. What’s so bad about the office? Just get in your damn car and get to work. All these soft kids who want to sit in bed and “work from home.” If it was fun, it wouldn’t be called work. Not like I have any choice. 4.85 a gallon, but what am I going to do? Not buy gas? Your mother and I have worked so hard for this family, it’d be nice to get some damn recognition every once in a while. At least some damn peace and quiet. Let me kick back in my chair and watch submarine movies, goddamnit. The only time I’ve ever shed a tear was at the end of Das Boot. I could’ve made it in a World War 2 submarine. My dream one day was to join the French Foreign Legion. Did you know they’re one of the only military organizations that will take felons? You can start your whole life over with them. Magical. One time I lived off of beans for a week to see if I could hack it. Not like that’s something you would ever do. You would never make it in the French Foreign Legion. Definitely not after that shoddy performance chopping firewood last weekend. Weakest damn fire I’ve ever seen. It’s getting late and I’d like a goddamn meal. Go help your mother with supper.

— J. Mansfield