Vol. 148, No. 3
THE YALE
Nov. 8, 2019
RECORD
“The Nation’s Oldest Humor Magazine” or
“The Nation’s Most Humorous Old Magazine” Join us:
Chair@yalerecord.org
FREE SPEECH CRISIS?! MY MOM SAYS I CAN’T CALL MY STEPDAD AN ASSHOLE AT THE DINNER TABLE Dear Pastor Steve, Is heaven real? My grandpa died and I want to know where she is. Sincerely, Little Timmy Dear Little Timmy, Heaven’s real, but no fucking way your bitch-ass grandpa is there. Peace be upon you, Pastor Steve
PARENTS FLY IN FROM CALIFORNIA FOR FAMILY WEEKEND JUST TO REMEMBER THEY DON’T LIKE THEIR KID THAT MUCH
LAME! THIS KID DIED AND HE DIDN’T EVEN JUUL Dear Kellogg’s, You said that when I pour milk over my Rice Krispies, they’re supposed to make a snap, crackle & pop sound, but all I hear is my parents fighting over their messy divorce. What am I doing wrong? Thanks, Susie Dear Susie, Our last batch was sadly defective. This is our fault! (Not with the divorce thing, though. That’s on you.) Sincerely, Kellogg’s
WARREN PANDERS TO SANDERS’ BASE, HAS HEART ATTACK
MENTAL HEALTH FTW: THE GOOD LIFE CENTER JUST OPENED A SECOND SAND BOX THAT STUDENTS CAN PISS AND SHIT INTO LIKE CATS Dear Duolingo, Will your app teach me the vocabulary to talk about my depression with loved ones? Thank you, Ted Dear Ted, Only if you get Premium.
Best, The Duolingo Premium Team
OH HOW THE TABLES HAVE TURNED! I JUST BIT THE NEIGHBORHOOD DOG ON THE ASS
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A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION: THE NRA JUST LEARNED ABOUT SWORDS AND THEY ARE NOW ADVOCATING ON BEHALF OF SWORDS INSTEAD OF GUNS Dear Consumers, Tired of slapping your ass to see if your phone’s in your pocket? Allow me to help. For just $10 a pat, I’ll check your cheeks for you. Sincerely, Ass-slapping Steven Dear Ass-slapping Steven, As tempting as it is to let you to play our booties like beautiful bongos, in this economy, who can afford ten bucks a slap? Regretfully, Consumers Dear America, I hope this little vignette served to show you all the perils of unregulated capitalism. Maybe if Jeff Bezos was taxed a little more, the working-class American could afford some help with their daily butt slap. And don’t even get me started on how private insurers don’t cover regular asscancer screenings. My name is Bernie Sanders, and I approve this message. In solidarity, Bernie
EVOLUTION WIN! MY COUSIN GREW A SHARPER, HARDER BEAK THAN MINE AND IS THUS ABLE TO CRACK TASTY TREE NUTS AS OPPOSED TO SOFT BERRIES, MY PRIMARY SOURCE OF FOOD
Dear Universal Studios, If Mel Brooks directed Jaws, would it be called Jews?
Love, Tim
Dear Tim, No, it would be called Big-Ass Gefilte Fish: A Life. Warm regards, Universal Studios
FREUD WAS RIGHT! GATORADE TASTES MUCH BETTER OUT OF SQUEEZE BOTTLE THAT LOOKS LIKE A NIPPLE Dear Yale Daily News, I demand that you issue a correction of your grievous mischaracterization of my words. In a recent article, I am quoted as saying “I love fucking deer.” The full quote is, in fact, “I love fucking. Dear me, look at the time!” Please correct this as soon as possible. Sincerely, Seamus Dear Seamus, Apologies for the confusion. But if we’re going to split hairs, the full quote is “I love fucking. Dear me, look at the time! Specifically, I love fucking American white-tailed deer in the woods outside my house.” Regards, The Yale Daily News
COLLEGE SENIOR UNSURE OF CAREER PATH SIGNS UP TO BE AN I.M. SECRETARY, SEE WHAT MIDDLE MANAGEMENT FEELS LIKE
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STANDING UP TO BIG PHARMA: I HAVE CONTRACTED POLIO
Obituary Correction
NEW: Old Spice Men’s 5 in 1 Shower Gel
The Yale Editorial would like to apologize The RecordBoard Editorial Board would like to for an erroneous obituaryobituary in a previous issue apologize for an erroneous in a previous of the magazine. misreported that issue of the magazine.The Theissue editors confused Stephen Archduke Franz after being Hawking with Ferdinand skateboarderdied Tony Hawk, shot point blank by Bosnian Gavrilo misidentifying the late theoreticalSerb physicist as “X Princip. The Archduke is actually still alive, Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom but hanging on by a thread due to his diet of HuckJam’ BMX freestyle motocross tour.”
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hot pockets and also the fact that he’s 156.
Dear LiveSafe, YOUR Ahaha....u up?
AD CAN'T HEREBest, ObituaryGO Correction
Fuckboy
The Yale Record Editorial Board would like to apologize for an THIS erroneous obituaryTAKEN, in a previous CLEARLY SPOT'S issue of the magazine. The editors confused Stephen DUMBASS Hawking with skateboarder Tony Hawk, misidentifying the late theoretical physicist as “X Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom HuckJam’ BMX freestyle motocross tour.”
Dear Fuckboy, Please stop harassing us.
Sincerely, LiveSafe
YOUR AD CAN'T GO HERE CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS
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Dear Bird Scooters, “Great for Normal Oily Skin!” Scooters bad.to Not work good. Me fall off and get hurt. No likey. Bad, Alan NEW: Old Spice Men’s 5 in 1 Shower Gel
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Check out our website, yalerecord.org, for more hilarious content!
Obituary Correction FOR SALE: The gallons Yale Record Editorial Board would like to Two of Grade A unpasteurized whole apologize for an erroneous obituary in a previous milk in glass jugs. Drink as you please. Kindly issue of the magazine. The editors confused Stephen stir the remaining milk when done, Hawking with skateboarder Tonybreaking Hawk, up milk chunks liquid canphysicist flow freely misidentifying the until late theoretical as “X Games champion founder of Return the ‘Boom Boom from the mouth and of the bottle. within HuckJam’ BMX tour.” two weeks of freestyle pickup motocross or we will find you.
YOUR AD CAN'T GO HERE CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS
—A. Taranto
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FIRST YEAR SIGNED TO UNIVERSAL RECORDS AFTER STUDIO REP. HEARS ELECTRIFYING PERFORMANCE OF “DON’T STOP BELIEVIN’” IN THE BERKELEY COMMON ROOM Dear Yale Men, I have heard many, many things about you and your affiliates. I write to inquire how one acquires the moniker, “Yale Man.” I consider myself the manliest of men and the Yaliest of all Yalies, so if anybody is a “Yale Man,” it’s me. Is there a process for rushing or heeling? Is there a GroupMe, or Tinder, or whatever it’s called these days, for ”Yale Men”? If so, please “hook me up with that good shit.” Best, Peter Salovey
THE STRAW THAT BROKE THE CAMEL’S BACK: THIS WEAK-ASS CAMEL BITCH SHOULDN’T HAVE SKIPPED BACK DAY
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Dear Doctor, I have a sore throat and a bad cough, and I woke up with a fever this morning. What should I do? Best, Justin Dear Justin,
Obituary Correction The RecordBoard Editorial Board would like to The Yale Editorial would like to apologize for an erroneous obituary in lastinyear’s In apologize for an erroneous obituary a previous Memoriam issue. The misreported that issue of the magazine. Theissue editors confused Stephen Obituary Correction Supreme Court AntoninTony ScaliaHawk, died Hawking with Justice skateboarder peacefully in the bedEditorial of old age. Scalia actually The Yale Record Board would like to misidentifying late theoretical physicist as “X drowned theerroneous bathtub after falling Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom apologize forinan obituary in a asleep previous listening Joe freestyle Rogan on his water-resistant HuckJam’ BMX tour.” Stephen issue of theto magazine. Themotocross editors confused Kindle Fire.with Scalia’s live-in aideTony and suspected Hawking skateboarder Hawk, lover lifted him from the tub, dried off his misidentifying the late theoretical physicist as “X stiff body from head to toe, kissed his forehead, Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom and placed him in bed, where he was found by HuckJam’ BMX freestyle tour.”later. housekeeping staff motocross three hours
YOUR AD CAN'T GO HERE ADJOE BIDEN PANDERI NGYOUR TO HIS BASE: CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS GO HASCAN'T ANNOUNCED THATHERE HIS MIDDLE
NAME IS ALSO “HUSSEIN” CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS
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--Shampoo-- but first, I need to you some medicine, --Conditioner-know more--Body about your medical history. Wash-NEW: Old Spice Men’s 5 in 1 Shower Gel Fluid-- any bottles Have--Lighter you shared --Is Self-Aware--Shampoo-And Can Do Your Taxes-with anyone recently? Have you been --Conditioner---Body Wash-drinking? Is there anyone new you’ve “Great for Normal to Oily Skin!” --Lighter Fluid-been kissing,Andfrench or licking? --Is Self-Aware Can Dokissing, Your Taxes-Have you been sleeping around? How for Normal to Oily What Skin!” positions many“Great people a week? have you tried? Are there any videos you can send to me? Would you have sex with me if I asked? What if I told you I dream about you every night and want nothing more than to be in your arms? Yours forever, Doctor
—P. Davis
Emmy Waldman ‘11
I
have never learned to play the upright bass from jazz legend Charles Mingus. I have never written a love letter to my secret crush, kissed the note as I placed it into a beautifully carved mahogany box, and thrown it into the sun. I have never had a picnic in a hot air balloon over the New York Botanical Garden. I have never carved an ice sculpture for the royal wedding. I have never taken a cold shower in my dorm bathroom with no shoes on, letting my wrinkled toes grasp at the floor like so many fingers. I have never successfully brushed my teeth with my left hand. I have never practiced figure drawing until I could render a recognizable courtroom sketch of O.J. Simpson. I have never mustered the courage to remove “Microsoft Excel” or “proficiency in conversational Spanish” from the skills section of my resume. I have never actually read the New Yorker. I have never written an Incredibles fanfic where Frozone, Syndrome, and The Underminer become polyamorous life partners. I have never been invited to a funeral where the body was right out in the open. I have never been able to afford UberLUX or Duolingo Premium. I have never created a gameshow for network television called “Breadwinner,” where contestants compete to win large quantities of freshly baked bread. I have never experienced the agony of childbirth or the joy of holding my child for the first time. I have never won a fellowship, or figured out exactly what a fellowship is. I have never cried myself to sleep after a season finale of “Two and a Half Men” when the episode didn’t end the way I thought it was gonna. I have never been born in a one-room log cabin on Sinking Spring Farm near Hodgenville, Kentucky. I have never attended intermittent formal schooling in the rural midwest, educating myself by reading and rereading the King James Bible by the light of a single candle. I have never been lauded for my strength and agility after winning a wrestling match against the renowned leader of a
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group of ruffians known as “the Clary’s Grove boys.” I have never married the love of my life, Mary Todd. I have never run for the Illinois General Assembly on a platform of navigational improvements to the Sangamon River, but lost the election due to my lack of education, money, and powerful friends. I have never risen to political power, first as a Whig in the U.S. House of Representatives and later as a moderate Republican, eventually being elected President in 1860 only to be assassinated five years later by John Wilkes Booth. I have never tweeted a public apology. I have never planted a tree, or cut one down. I have never watched a movie without worrying about whether the other person watching the movie is also enjoying the movie. I have never crossed streams. I have never slept outside under the light of a thousand stars. I’ve never taken a job at Deloitte after college because the starting salary was good and accounting is actually not that bad. I’ve never gotten married, had two children, and lived life on the brink of divorce until the kids finally left for college and we were able to go our separate ways. I’ve never bought a sailboat but never had the time to take it out on the water ever since I became a Senior Associate. I’ve never made a dating profile on Match.com but realized I’m too old and out of touch to meet any women in my area. It’s true. I’ve never had a midlife crisis. But you know what I have done? I’ve written a rhyming, acrostic poem that fits perfectly with the theme of this issue. Enjoy.
Maddy Blaney ’21 Chair
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My life is halfway over, I’m feeling kind of down, Don’t ask me how I’m doing, Lately all I do is frown. I’ve got lots of regrets, For all the things I never did— End world hunger, solve world peace, Catch a shark, Rescue a squid. I know the clock is ticking, Slowly years will pass me by, I just hope I see my wife again, Someday before I die.
—C. Cohen Editor in Chief
Caleb Cohen ’21 Editor in Chief
Harry Rubin ’21 Online Editor in Chief
Marcy Sanchez ’21 Publisher
Sarah Force ’21 Managing Editor
Amanda Thomas ’21 Managing Editor
Will Cramer ’22 Director of Online Content
Luna Garcia ’22 Director of Online Content
Kaylee Walsh ’22 Managing Editor
David Hou ’22 Online Managing Editor
Ethan Fogarty ’21 Business Manager
Davey McCowin ’21 Copy Editor
Vivek Suri ’20 Design Editor
Elliot Connors ’20 Design Editor
Rosa Chang ’22 Art Director
Maya Sanghvi ’22 Staff Director
Ellen Yang ’20 Old Owl
Chloe Prendergast ’20 Old Owl
Dylan Schifrin ’20 Old Owl
Noah Amsel ’20 Old Owl
Mariah Kreutter ’20 Old Owl
Simon Custer ’20 Old Owl
Walker Caplan ’20 Old Owl
Staff: Colin Baciocco ’21 Itai Almor ’20 Paige Davis ’21 Nick Abuzalaf ’21
Dalia Moallem ’21 Veena Muraleetharan ’20 Alex Kane ’22 Ben Lauring ’22
Jocelyn Wexler ’21 Grace Wynter ’20 Kyle Mazer ’22 Ryan Fuentes ’22
Alec Zbornak ’21 Ryan Ofman ’22 Cameron Berg ’22 Jack Adam ’21
Max Nobel ’21 Jamie Large ’21 Tom Battles ’20 Zuri Goodman ’22
Laura Koech ’21 Yonatan Greenberg ’21 Omar Zakaria ’22 Victoria Chen ’21
Special thanks to: Smucker’s Jams and Jellies. The only jams and jellies company that smushes each piece of fruit between their forefinger and thumb and says a brief prayer as they drop the fruit in the jar. Smucker’s: fruits are friends, and friends are food. Front Cover: Rosa Chang ’22, who sketched out the covers on a chalkboard in about 20 seconds and made everyone audibly gasp (@rosart.c) Back Cover: Also Rosa Chang ’22, who is sprinting back from science hill and might be 5-10 minutes late (@rosart.c) Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXLVIII, No. 3, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2019 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: letters should be addressed to: Chair, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chair@yalerecord.org. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.
DAD LEFT MOM FOR A NEW CONVERTIBLE, AND NOW MY NEW STEP-SIBLINGS ARE TRANSFORMERS Dad left us when I was five years old. Mom said he went to Disneyland, and I believed her. A month ago, Dad finally came back. I barely recognized him. His hair was greasy and unkempt. He wore a tattered Jiffy Lube t-shirt and an AutoZone trucker hat. He smelled like gasoline and wiper fluid. He said he wanted to talk to me in private. I followed him outside to his new car: a 2006 Pontiac Solstice convertible. “Nice car,” I said. “Harold, please. She’s so much more than that.” He caressed the inside of the car door handle for an uncomfortably long time. “Her dark, Venetian red exterior is what caught my attention the first time I saw her. But her personality, son, is the reason why I stayed.” “Her personality?” I asked. Dad laughed and slapped the trunk. The car blinked its headlights seductively. “Yes, Harold. I have something to tell you. This is Carissa, my new girlfriend. And these are our children, Carmen, Carlton, and Jedediah.” Carissa popped open the backseat, and out jumped three human-car hybrids. They had two feet, two wheels, wide, bumper-shaped foreheads, soft fleshy bellies, headlights, and these weird, useless windshield-wiper appendages made of cartilage. Dad introduced me to my new step-siblings. At first I was afraid, but I slowly realized they’re just like me—
except that they are part car, part human, and their farts smell like exhaust. Take Carlton for instance. He’s six. He’s halfhuman, half-Olive Green Kia Soul, but we have a lot in common. I like playing video games, Carlton likes playing video games. I like watching Top Gear, Carlton likes watching Top Gear. When we watch it together I have to get the snacks because he can’t stand up and doesn’t have thumbs. I told Carlton that I used to have a race car bed growing up. Carlton told me he has a human one. It’s based on the actual bodily proportions of singer/actress Mandy Moore. I told him that’s really neat. My step-sister Carmen is thirteen. She can transform into a Silver Subaru Impreza. She likes driving along the beach, playing soccer, and getting Froyo with her friends. She can’t actually eat it so she just buys one and stares at it longingly. Like most teenagers, Carmen is going through an identity crisis. She keeps going to the shady parts of town and hanging with the host of the show Pimp My Ride on MTV. Carissa is trying to teach Carmen self-respect. When Dad first introduced me to Carrissa, I was skeptical. My mom said he was just going through a midlife crisis. I thought I could never accept what he was doing as normal. But now, after spending some time with my new siblings and hearing Dad explain the mechanics of how he and Carissa kiss, something has clicked. My family is transforming, but so am I. —J. Feit Mann and H. Tejada
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THE SAD HORSE i like watching the horse when he’s playing with friends he horses around the horse knows no ends but watching the horse, sometimes i feel bad because i’m like the horse and the horse is sad seasons come and they go but the horse never changes he wears the same sweater which is kinda strange cuz— horses do not wear clothes, much less sweaters and slacks but the horse pulls it off and he looks quite relaxed i shout “horse! i’m right here!” i shout “horse! it’s alright!” and my roommates all laugh heading out for the night i’ll be stuck on that couch until twenty past three because i need the horse and the horsey needs me the horsey feels lost like he’s gretel or hansel for the horse had a show but the show’s since been canceled his fans ooh and ahh, but they simply can’t see that to him it’s all fake just like life on tv the horse groans and he grumbles, he neighs and he yelps but the help that he’s needing just never does help the horse is depressed, it’s not tricky to see and i am depressed so the horse is like me —W. Cramer
—A. Mitchell
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TOAD’S ANNOUNCES EAGLES NIGHT EXCLUSIVELY FOR 54-YEAR-OLDS By K. Walsh NEW HAVEN, CT—Though it typically caters to an audience of college students and young adults, Toad’s Place has announced plans to launch a weekly dance party featuring live music by The Eagles, only open to people who are exactly 54-years-old. “54-year-old Eagles fans seems like a specific demographic, but these people are looking for a party,” said Mark Lloyd, owner of Toad’s Place. “They’re too old to be DILFs but too young to get the senior discount at IHOP. What better way to lure in middle-aged parents than with the sweet guitar pluckings of Joe Walsh and Glenn Frey?” The choice of music was no accident. According to data from Spotify and Apple Music, over 95% of 54-year-olds in 2018 had The Eagles as their top artist of the year. For some Yalies, the announcement hit a bit too close to home. “My mom lives in Guilford and she’s turning 54 next month,” said Jasmine Newsom ’22. “If you think I’m gonna take care of her drunk ass when she barges into my suite singing “Lyin’ Eyes” at 2 AM, you’ve got another thing coming.” Whether students like it or not, Lloyd is hopeful that Eagles Night will become a cash cow for Toad’s Place. “Wednesdays and Saturdays bring us the most business. We really want to keep up that momentum the rest of the week. And who knows? Maybe I’ll meet a friend or a new wife when I’m working the door.” Some Yalies were quick to notice that promotional flyers for Eagles Night did not include an end time for the dance party. When asked for clarification, owner Mark Lloyd smiled and said, “you can check out any time you like… but you can never leave.”
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goals of contracting black lung and losing every finger on their right hand have been achieved. 1913: Citizens of the world feeling listless due to not having lived through any, like, major historic events. 2013: No midlife crises exist, as for the first time in history nothing was wrong for anyone ever. 2080: Five-year-olds feel unaccomplished for not yet learning to ride a bike before impending mass extinction due to climate change. —D. Kulmizev
VIAGRA PRIDE: A PILL TO MAKE YOUR SON RESPECT YOU AGAIN
—A. Mitchell
MIDLIFE CRISES THROUGH THE AGES Archaean Eon: Prokaryotic bacteria cannot believe they’ve gone halfway through their twelve-minute lifespan without achieving their dream of becoming a conscious multicellular organism. 0 A.D.: Azariah of Bethlehem feels unaccomplished in his career as Sheep Herder, seeks career advancement to Associate Director of Sheep. 1351: Most 22 year olds in distress after symptoms of Bubonic Plague mistaken for really gross signs of aging (e.g. diarrhea, creaky bones, keeling over). 1532: Sad Catholics reinvent themselves, convert to Protestantism just to “feel something.” 1640: Puritans in Massachusetts Bay attempt to relive childhood by contracting diphtheria and doing chores as fast as they can. 1793: The overthrow of the monarchy and the risk of death by guillotine actually just French Proletariat’s last-ditch effort to spice up life. 1796: Americans install new democracy due to insecurity from the French being way more successful at overthrowing tyrannical governments. 1888: Industrial workers feeling listless now that career
Is your son cooler than you and all too aware of that fact? Do you no longer feel like the man of the house? Do you still have nightmares about the time he called you a fat cow and all his friends on Xbox Live laughed? Introducing: Viagra Pride. Just like regular old Viagra, Viagra Pride temporarily cures erectile dysfunction and relieves pulmonary hypertension. Unlike regular old Viagra, Viagra Pride also contains chemicals clinically proven to make your son treat you with the respect you deserve. This revolutionary medication will make your flesh and blood more impressive to the one who matters most—your insubordinate teenage boy. It’s time to take back your life. Walk into the kitchen every morning with a raging hard-on to remind that little punk who pays the bills around here. Make him forget the fact that you’ve been involuntarily celibate for a year and a half because your wife always says she’s tired but probably just doesn’t love you anymore. If you have a history of feelings of inadequacy, acute awareness of your mortality, or a constant fear that your son’s dick is bigger than yours, Viagra Pride may be the pill for you. While taking Viagra Pride, be mindful of fatal hubris, which may lead some to challenging their child to a game of pong, attempting a kickflip on a skateboard, or flirting with their wife’s hot friend from book club. Other side effects include: revitalized youth, overconfidence, difficulty putting on pants over your monster schlong, and an inability to think about anything other than how cool you are. Win back your house, your life, your son, and maybe even your wife with Viagra Pride today! Call your doctor immediately if your son respects you for longer than 4 hours. —S. Olurin
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BEST AND WORST ACHIEVEMENTS TO COME FROM A MIDLIFE CRISIS BEST: Mom’s first orgasm WORST: Community theater BEST: Dad pulling off above-the-knee khaki shorts WORST: The invasion of Poland BEST: Getting a legacy son into Yale WORST: Florida BEST: Purchasing a luxury John Deere lawn mower WORST: Late-life circumcision BEST: The invention of the fleshlight WORST: Buying the Spanish Rosetta Stone tapes for a girls trip to Barcelona BEST: Divorce WORST: Saying, “let’s rock and roll!” when you leave a restaurant BEST: Cubism WORST: Republicanism BEST: Eating the forbidden fruit, thus inventing sin WORST: Forgoing the forbidden fruit, thus living in boring old Eden for the rest of your fucking life BEST: The Declaration of Independence WORST: The Articles of Confederation BEST: The courage to take off your wedding ring in Vegas WORST: Changing your major to economics BEST: Water aerobics WORST: Land aerobics BEST: Socialism WORST: Losing your tenth consecutive shuffleboard championship BEST: The Real Housewives of New York City WORST: Implicitly racist disdain for hip hop BEST: Wikihow (with pictures) WORST: Saying “Hi Hungry, I’m Dad” BEST: Becoming a bestselling YA author WORST: Accidentally setting fire to the Hindenburg —Staff
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DOLLAR STORE VASECTOMY ALTERNATIVES Safety scissors will do the trick! Just remember to buy some “Grad 2019” napkins to clean up the mess. Tell Terry, the buff guy who keeps shopping in the rope section, that he looks funny. The pounding you’ll receive will ensure that you have no more children. Drink the store’s signature drink, “Dollar Ale!” The key ingredient, dihydrogen monoxide, is a super-powerful spermicide banned by the FDA for being too toxic. Tell all of your Tinder matches that you shop at the Dollar Store. Jerry, the assistant manager, is offering cheap vasectomies in the back alley behind the store. Just tell him you’re here for the old “chop to stop tots.” He charges $5 per kid you’re not having. Brute force! Most dollar stores sell wrenches and clamps in a pinch! This piece was written for satirical purposes. Please only get a vasectomy from a qualified medical professional at a hospital or licensed clinic. And if push comes to shove, just leave your kids at the Dollar Store! —S. Leone
—B. Ozsarac
Dear Diary, Tonightwas was night oflife. myEvery life. Every year, for Tonight thethe night ofofmyYale year, for the welcomed pastthe year,past thebyyear, the incoming class College has been a party incoming classparties. of YaleACollege hastobeen welcomed by a party to endtoall to end all shindig end all shindigs. A rager parties. A shindig to end all shindigs. A rager to end all ragers. I’mend all ragers. I’mother referring to world-famous none other than the world-famous referring to Bash none than the BullBulldog (or “The Bash, ” as I like to call dog Bash (or “The Bash,” as I like to call it). it). I’ve gone to toTheTheBash every year,year, for the past I’ve The gonestudents Basheven every year. don’t notice me,for or the the past year. The students don’t even tears of happiness in my eyes. They’re having too notice or the tears of in much fun,me, drinking Franzia fromhappiness their Nalgenes my eyes. They’re having too much fun, and pretending New Haven pizza is good. drinking Franzia from theirabout Nalgenes They don’t even stop to think the guyand pretending Haven who plannedNew this party of aapizza lifetime.is Igood. bet They don’t even stop to think the they’re thinking, “This mosh pit isabout only cool guy whonoplanned because one over this 50 isparty here,”ofora“Ilifetime. love I this betkickass they’reparty thinking, “This mosh is only cool because no one of awesome local bandspitand over 50 is here, ” or “I love this kickass party zesty flavors planned by our beloved Big Marv, ofbutawesome bands zesty flavors thank godlocal he’s not hereand to ruin it with his planned by our beloved Big Marv, but thank god he’s not oldness.” here to ruin it with his oldness.”
But I don’t see what’s wrong with me trying to relive my college
But I don’t see what’s wrong withon methetrying to relive my days. Everyone looks back longingly best four years of their college days. Everyone backtolongingly the best lives, and it certainly hurtslooks even more know that on I didn’t get four years andgot it certainly hurts to have mineofattheir Yale!lives, I never to do a classic Bigeven Marvmore keg tostand know that I didn’t get to have mine at Yale! I never at Sig Nu Formal. I never got to vomit in the LDub got to do a classic keg stand Sig Nu courtyard—at leastBignotMarv as a student. Andatonce, just Formal. once, I I want neverto got to vomit in the LDub courtyard—at be taken in an ambulance to Yale New Havenleast afternot asblacking a student. And once, just once, I want to be taken in out! an ambulance to Yale New Haven after blacking out!
One day, these kids will know what it’s like. To feel late August creeping in. To start craving New
One day, these will whatofit’s like. To feelExcept late August Haven-style foodkids paired withknow the music New Orleans. I won’tcreeping be there toin.giveToitstart to them craving with the musicheaven, of New Orleans. anymore.New I’ll Haven-style be dead, doingfood sciencepaired experiments in science wearing my science headphones Except I won’t be there to give it toBand’s them anymore. and listening to Funky Dawgz Brass greatest hits.I’ll be dead, doing science experiments in science heaven, wearing my science headphones and But listening Dawgz Band’sthis greatest hits. enoughtoofFunky that. The Bash Brass was amazing
year, just as it has been for the past one year. I’m
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Love, Big Marv —Z. Caes
Designed by: J. Eldred & B. Madrid
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IS MY SON A MIDDLE AGED MAN? Dear Miss Manners, I’m starting to think my son is middle-aged. Every day he comes home from his fifth-grade class, says “I feel stiff,” and heads straight to his bedroom. I discovered a bunch of Golf Digest magazines under his bed and all the coupons for fish oil pills were cut out. I almost caught him watching Frasier on his computer the other day, but he quickly switched tabs to porn when I walked in. I asked him if he had a crush on any girls in his class. He said, “What do I look like, a pedo? All the hot young babes are in college.” Whenever I pick him up from the rec center after kickball, he’s always in the sauna with a couple of Polish retirees. I don’t have a problem with my son hanging out with the Poles—they’re a friendly people. But I would prefer if they didn’t sit naked together and rub each other’s backs. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which one is my son through all the steam! What should I do? Should I confront my son? He keeps inviting the Poles over for scotch so he can show off his new riding lawn mower. I can’t take it much longer.
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I AM IMMORTAL Photograph, standard digital c. 2019, colorized (15 × 14 4/5 in, 38.1 × 37.5 cm) “Man with breasts crying softly” (unfinished)
Caption: My fascination with photographer Diane Arbus began when my mother exposed me to “Retired man and his wife at home in a nudist camp” as punishment for painting myself gold and exposing myself at her Oscar party. Now, whenever I consider acting out, I instinctively picture retired man’s plump contours and his wife’s elderly midriff, and I am at once calmed. With this piece, I sought to emulate Arbus’s effect, but I could never achieve the correct exposure in the developing room. Further complications arose when my lighting guy called and told me that my crying/breasted subject was not in fact a passing Bohemian but rather my heavyset production assistant Gerard, whom I compelled to tears by withholding his foot cream. But art is subjective and true art is controversial. It is work like this that will outlive me for eternity.
—H. Rubin
—D. Schifrin
I’VE NEVER HAD A MIDLIFE CRISIS When I was 12 years old, I set out a grand life plan for myself, and I’ve been following it to a T ever since. At 18, I was admitted to an elite east coast university. At 21, I landed a six-figure job at a boutique investment firm. At 25, I married the love of my life. At 27, we had our first and only child. At 45, our kid headed off to my alma mater. My next scheduled Major Life Event is my midlife crisis, scheduled for my 50th year of life. But tomorrow is my 51st birthday, and I haven’t had a crisis. How can I expect to retire to Fort Lauderdale at age 70 if I don’t have this midlife crisis first? I have never strayed from my Perfect Life Plan, and I don’t know what will happen if I do. Bad things. Terrible things. It’s not fair. All my friends have already had their midlife crises. Doug bought a motorcycle and signed his divorce papers. Boris is dating older women at his local water aerobics class. Harry started a brewery in his garage and has started microdosing on LSD to inspire new flavors. Meanwhile, the craziest thing I’ve done this week is mow the lawn right before it was supposed to start raining. All I want is a midlife crisis of my own. My dreams are filled with visions of an identity crisis. I crave for feelings of existential loss. I can’t go a second without doubting everything I’ve ever done up to this point in life. Who am I? Why am I here? Is God real? What did I do to deserve this? There’s a specific phrase for these emotions I’m feeling right now, but I can’t quite put my finger on it... I’m just hyperventilating over the fact that my life is way off track now, and I’ll never accomplish anything real. I must have gone wrong somewhere, somehow. Oh my God, am I experiencing… an equidistant-existence catastrophe??? I’m really off track now. I am currently spiraling into a dark void. THIS WAS NOT PART OF MY PERFECT LIFE PLAN. —E. Qian
THE MATH BEHIND YOUR MIDLIFE CRISIS T he Y ale R ecord
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The Midlife Crisis Equation: The age of a midlife crisis is a function of death age; more specifically, death age divided by two: 1
M(x) = x ÷ 2, where x is death age and 2 is the number 2.
EXAMPLE 1
If you live to be 100, then your midlife crisis occurs when you are 50.
EXAMPLE 2
If you live to be 80, then your midlife crisis occurs when you are 40.
EXAMPLE 3
If you live to be 30 at which point you die on the cross to save all of humanity, then your midlife crisis occurs when you are 15. And so on.
The Porsche Proof: PREMISE I
Guys who buy sweet Porsches get sweet, sweet handjobs in their sweet Porsches.
PREMISE II
I bought a sweet Porsche.
CONCLUSION PI and PII jointly imply that I will get a sweet, sweet handjob in my sweet new Porsche.
The Pythagorean Theorem: 2 a2 + b2 = c2 DEFINITION
The Pythagorean Theorem of Your Restraining Order after you throw a big fit at your 50th Birthday because the waiter brought you mild hot sauce even though you specifically ordered the El Diablo hot sauce because for once in your life you wanted to prove to yourself that you are a big strong man but then in the process of yelling at the waiter you accidentally rubbed your eyes and started crying and the busboys filmed you and put it on TikTok and now your son and his friend Charlie bully you nonstop and you still haven’t even gotten that sweet Porche handy and the likelihood of your being Jesus went down significantly 20 years ago and you still don’t completely understand the Pythagorean Theorem: The Buffalo Wild Wings on State Street c =100 yards a
—A. Zbornak Design by H. Tejada & R. Gandhi
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CURE FOR MIDLIFE CRISIS DISCOVERED: BECOME A FAMOUS MUSICIAN, DIE AT 27 By R. Moreno NEW HAVEN, CT—This Thursday, a team of researchers at Yale Medical School published a longitudinal study on various midlife crisis prevention strategies for millennials. The most effective midlife crisis cure by far was to become a famous musician and die tragically at age 27. Other successful prevention techniques for millennials included deleting that one Office joke from your Tinder profile, canceling your New Yorker subscription, and giving up on caring about climate change. But none of these strategies came close to becoming a world-famous musician at 27 and then dropping dead. Cited as evidence were the untimely demises of some of the most gifted musicians of the 20th century (Amy Winehouse, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain among them), who all successfully avoided the inevitable country-wide I-Ran-Out-Of-Money-After-I-Stopped-Being-Famous Tour for suburban moms and their second husbands by moving on to greener pastures at age 27. Dr. Trevor Wiley, the lead researcher on the paper, remarked that death at the age of 27 by barbiturate overdose after winning a Grammy proved to be a “surprisingly effective” strategy for avoiding the existential terror of buying a minivan. Other researchers remarked that the label “famous” turned out to be surprisingly vague. Some statistical analyses suggested that becoming “famous” enough to die in a blaze of musical glory at 27 only required being wellknown enough to have your songs played at the local bar’s abysmal karaoke night. Newer research, however, calls the new findings into question. Stanford psychologists have suggested that a tragic death at age 27 doesn’t negate the midlife crisis, it simply moves it earlier: to age 13. Researchers have found strong correlations between the new wave of 13-year-old midlife crises and the rise of TikTok, the Snapchat Generation, and slime videos.
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WHY IS MY SON PRACTICING THE VIOLA UPSTAIRS? It’s me again, Steve from Cincinnati, your favorite Data Specialist for Allstate Insurance (You’re in Good Hands). My two main responsibilities in life are sifting through insurance claim data and taking care of my son Fred. Fred is a nerd. On Wednesday night when I came home shitfaced, with globs of half-digested casserole bubbling up my throat, I heard Fred in his room practicing viola. Back when I was a teenager, Wednesday nights were about two things: snorting PCP and masturbating to Donna Summer’s Greatest Hits on my record player. My nostalgia for the good ol’ days seemed to mock me as I took a slug of Pepto Bismol and dribbled vomit on my favorite Allstate polo shirt. Disgust enveloped me and I felt old. I thought back to my college days. On Wednesday nights I would drink exactly six beers and then masturabte to Donna Summer’s “This Time I Know it’s For Real” on my Walkman. I only threw up once in college, and that had more to do with angel dust and a Peruvian pan flute band than with casserole and beers. And yet here I was vomiting into a dog bowl, listening to my nerd-bitch son Fred softly playing his nerdbitch viola upstairs. Fred has been feeling down in the dumps since his mother Shoshana left me. Shoshana tearfully told me that she still loved me, but that she needed me to go to rehab for my PCP addiction before we could be together. I laughed in her face, took a hit of PCP, and hallucinated all night while masturbating to Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” on the boombox in my bedroom. I don’t remember leaving my room that night, but Fred told me the next morning that I had run into the kitchen, shotgunned the boxed wine in the fridge, stuck two green beans in my mouth, and called myself “a horny walrus.” I guess my alcohol tolerance has gone to shit now that I’m getting older. I’m in the hospital with cirrhosis if anyone wants to send me a “Get Well” casserole. —L. Egger
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MY PARENTS SOLD ME ON CRAIGSLIST $12,760. That is my apparent value. At least that’s what my parents listed me for on Craigslist. They say I’m being sold to pay for dad’s herniated disc surgery (after the ATV incident), but I think there’s something more sinister at play. For the past few years, my father has been slowly peppering into conversation jokes about his own mortality, each more concerning than the last. Every “I’m getting too old for this shit,” or “when will the sweet siren song of death beckon me to its light,” was a red flag. But I never could have predicted this. My father seemed a bit too excited to sell me. He listed me for sale in the “Tools” category. I don’t know if it was because of all the yard work he makes me do, or just a personality projection from a guy who wears his sunglasses on the back of his head. Mom isn’t going through the same stuff as dad. The only red flag with mom was when she absent-mindedly embroidered “help me” onto a pillow. But we decided that everybody gets one goof before we start reassessing our stances on lobotomies. Anyway, now I’m going to meet a man named Carl in the Wendy’s parking lot, and I don’t think I’m ever coming back. It’s safe to assume that Carl is a murderer. I mean, this is Craigslist—wake up and smell the Jeffrey Dahmer wannabes. I assumed he’d be relatively seasoned in his craft if he’s willing to spring 12k. On the other hand, maybe he’s just a weak-willed coward who isn’t willing to go out and find his own victims. If I’m going to be chopped to pieces, I at least want the consolation that I’m being chopped by a professional. Either way, this story ends with me getting murdered. It’s a slippery slope allowing your parents to grow older. One day you’ll be happily living at home, and the next you’ll wake up and find yourself listed on Craigslist. So heed my advice children: end their shit now. —S. Olurin
BEST WAYS TO BEAT A MIDLIFE CRISIS Refer to your midlife tantrums as the “Halftime Show”: Attitude is everything! You’re killing it, just like the Black Eyed Peas did in 2011. Get a fake ID that says you’re 20: Feel the rush of illegal drinking again! Rekindle your relationship with your older brother by asking him to buy you Svedka from the gas station. Buy a motorcycle and name her Sandy 2.0: Forget about your first wife Sandy! Buy a sports car and name her Sandi 3.0: Forget about your second wife Sandi! Live forever: Half of infinity is still infinity. Catch me if you can, midlife crisis! Pursue a career in comedy: And you thought you wouldn’t feel the thrill of unemployment until retirement. —S. Force
EUPHEMISMS FOR HOSPICE TO CONVINCE DAD HE’S GOING ON A TROPICAL BEACH VACATION “Closing your eyes and waking up in paradise” “Views that will take your breath away” “The trip to end all trips” “So relaxing your heart rate will drop” “Being lei’d to rest” “Swimming with the angelfish” “A chance to immerse yourself in the culture of spoonfeeding and bed pans” “Watching the sunset while your sun sets” “A nice beach upstate, with plenty of other dads frolicking around” “Finally, a break from mom’s new husband Tony” “Some time to unplug”
—Staff
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HOW TO KEEP LOOKING HOT IN A BIKINI EVEN THOUGH YOU’RE A FIFTY-YEAR-OLD MAN
MY DAD DOESN’T KNOW I MOVED INTO HIS BASEMENT BECAUSE HE CAN’T DO STAIRS
Pair it with a cute, stylish cover-up. Or nothing at all, if you feel like it. Don’t worry about “the stigma” or “indecent exposure laws.” All that matters is that you’re comfortable. Be confident. The first time you go to the beach in your new bikini, people will keep saying things to you like, “I can’t even look you in the eyes right now, Walter,” or, “Sir, I don’t care how narrow your g-string is, you must keep your testicles inside the swimsuit at all times.” At first you might beat yourself up about it, but soon you’ll realize that negative comments are just a reflection of other people’s jealousy. All that matters is that you feel good. If you can learn to love the look of your sweaty balls being squeezed out of a bikini like so many almonds through a cold-press juicer, so can everyone else. Hydrate. Always drink plenty of fluids before heading to the beach. Try a Mike’s Hard Lemonade or some toilet bowl moonshine for an extra kick. Not only will it keep you hydrated, but it’ll also keep you from worrying too much about what other people think, or about rules prohibiting alcohol on this beach, or about your pending arrest warrants. Leave your wife. Never settle for someone who doesn’t support your fashion choices, or who won’t make the trek upstate for a conjugal visit. Learn how to resist arrest. They can’t stop you if they can’t catch you. Besides, what’s sexier than a run on the beach?
I’ve always had a rocky relationship with my dad. Come to think of it, there were a lot of red flags I didn’t notice as a kid. Dad would always forget little things, like what time karate was, or which dark alley he left me in, or my name. I sure as hell noticed when I started college, though. After we parked by Old Campus on move-in day, my dad tackled everyone standing in between him and my room, dropped my pile of boxes outside my building, and left without saying goodbye. I didn’t know if I was ever welcome back home, but I needed a place to stay this summer. He wasn’t too happy when I brought it up, though. At least I think that’s what “You aren’t welcome here. Lose this number,” was supposed to mean. But I had a trick up my sleeve. I remembered that fateful move-in day when Dad refused to walk my stuff upstairs. Ever since he shattered both his knees playing semi-professional rugby, he’s been going out of his way to “take it easy.” Dad simply wouldn’t do stairs. That’s how I devised my plan to move into the basement. And miraculously enough, it’s been working. I stocked up on food for the last month of school by skipping lunch and buying Cup Noodles and ionized water with my Durfee’s swipes. When the semester ended, I snuck back into the house at midnight. Since then, it’s just been me, my noodles, and the trash can that now doubles as my toilet. If you’re reading this and happen to own a sewage vacuum truck, the trash can is starting to get pretty full.
—T. Brooks
—R. Davila
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LOCAL PARENTS CONVERT COLLEGE FIRST-YEAR’S ROOM INTO SEX DUNGEON By M. Von Fedak FAIRFIELD CT—As their children go off to college, many parents seek out new ways to cope with pangs of empty-nest syndrome. But for Todd and Sherry Novak, coping came in an unconventional form—turning their only child’s bedroom into a sex dungeon. “At first we were deciding between a home gym, a home office, or a meditation room,” Todd recalled. “But then, after two wine drunk nights, we realized that what we really needed was to re-invigorate our dwindling sex life.” “I mean, it was a no-brainer once we thought of the idea,” said Sherry, the mother of a first-year at Yale University. “Neither of us exercise, so home gym didn’t make sense. And home office was out of the question— we’ve both stopped working now that our son is four short years away from his $80,000 starting salary at McKinsey.” Todd explained the couple’s motivation for gutting their son’s room and converting it into a full-time fuck palace. “The problem is that once you get to my age, your dick starts to kinda give up on you,” he said. “Having a few toys and a sex playground to work with can really help.” Sherry explained how the sex dungeon also served as revenge for all those times their son started crying right when they were about to make love. “That little fucker had a sixth sense for it,” she said. “There was never a moment of peace for us to get down and dirty.” The college first- in question chose to remain anonymous and declined to comment. His parents seem unconcerned with his preferences for how the room is renovated. Their only concern is a legal one—local building codes only allow three concealed dildos per resident.
QUIZ: DO MY JOINTS HURT BECAUSE I’M GETTING OLD OR BECAUSE MY WIFE KEEPS ME IN A CAGE? 1. How old are you? ☐ I’m over 50, meaning I am at an increased risk of osteoarthritis. ☐ I’m under 50, meaning I am at an increased risk of having a crumbling marriage. 2. What do you like to do for exercise? ☐ Whatever’s at my SilverSneaker Gym that day. ☐ Run on the human-sized hamster wheel my wife bought me. 3. Would you ever cheat on your wife? ☐ No way! I love my wife. ☐ Never again...never again. 4. Be honest about that last one. ☐ Okay, one time, Cindy accidentally kicked me in the dick during water aerobics, and I did have to change my shorts in front of her. One thing led to another, and eventually we were exchanging coupons for adult diapers. ☐ I couldn’t cheat if I wanted to...I don’t know the code for the lock. But if you happen to find the keys, then we can talk. 5. What if we told your wife you said that? ☐ I promise I’ll never do it again, honey! Cindy will probably die soon anyway! ☐ You can tell her I said that. I don’t give a shit. Go tell her, you fucking narc. And tell her to bring me a refill of carrots and grapes for my food bowl. 6. Will your wife ever arouse you again? ☐ I mean we’ve been together for so long. I feel like we’d have to try something new for it to work again. It just gets old after a certain point. ☐ I’m constantly aroused by my wife, but I think it’s because of the anabolic steroids she pumps into my IV to keep me running on the hamster wheel 12 hours a day. Did I mention I want to die? 7. Could you try out something new in bed? ☐ We could try bondage? Maybe a cage? ☐ Treating me like a human being. —K. Walsh
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SIGNS IT’S TIME TO GIVE DAD YOUR DEALER’S NUMBER He stops tucking in his t-shirts: The signature T-tuck is a dad staple that shows his life is at least a little together. If his shirt isn’t tucked in, he’s in dire need of fentanyl. He keeps saying, “This old grill just doesn’t cook patties like she used to”: This is a common phrase in the dad dialect that translates loosely to “I am in constant pain and I’d sell a kidney for even a moment’s release.” He stops resenting your mom for her four-year affair with that bellhop at the Littlefield Quality Inn: He knew something was up when Mom stayed in the hotel room 24/7 for every one of your 19 trips to the Grand Canyon. But now he couldn’t give a shit. He forgets the words to Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight”: This song is the cool dad anthem. If he can’t sing it start to finish, he probably just needs a little bump. He finally just hires a contractor to fix the deck: Statue #4713 of Dad Law states: “thou shalt stubbornly try fix everything that thou are not qualified to fix.” Any dad who doesn’t adhere to these rules probably wants heroin more than air. He asks you for your dealer’s number: Which, coincidentally, is the same number as the main desk for the Littlefield Quality Inn. —S. Leone
HOW TO BE COOLER THAN YOUR SON TRENT You’re the cool dad. It’s kind of your thing—and, sadly, it’s all you have left. You’re desperate to feel young again. And the older you get, the cooler your asshole-son Trent gets. Here are some handy tips and tricks to make sure you stay ahead. Get With Your Wife. No matter how many ladies Trent gets at school, you’ll always have the upper hand, because you had sex with his mom. Don’t ever let him forget that. Work on Your Social Media Presence. Put that minor in film studies to use! VSCO may be for girls, but Tik Tok is for men.
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Get a Sweet Ride. It can’t be too hard to buy a 1996 Chevy Malibu on Craigslist. Then every time you give Trent a ride, you can remind him that he was conceived in the back of one (when you had sex with his mom). Buy Alcohol. Trent might have a fake ID from Alaska, but you have an AA membership card. Do they sell those on the dark web? Didn’t think so, Trent. Rebel Against Your Parents. What are Ethel and Herbert gonna do? Hobble after you? Yeah I’d like to see them try. Be Counter-Cultural. For too long has the oppressive capitalist regime smothered the masses. The bourgeois feast while the proletariat are forced into submission, manipulated into believing that they can fight the entropy of modern society. Success is reserved for the aristocrats. The only way to disrupt the status quo is a brutal, bloody revolution. As a man of the people, it is your duty to lead your brethren into battle before that sack of shit Trent realizes class warfare is cool and becomes the king of the plebeians, or whatever. Get a Tattoo. Maybe a classic “I Had Sex With Your Mom” across the forehead, to remind Trent about the time(s) you made sweet, sweet love to his mom. —C. Rose
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4. Which is more important: success or friendship? If you value either, get out while you still can. 5. Why is anything a thing? 6. What is human beings’ purpose on this earth, besides to suffer in our own consciousness? 7. If a cable car is careening uncontrollably down a track towards five people, would you throw a switch to divert it to a track with one man standing on it? 8. Could you answer any of the past three questions? No you couldn’t. If you somehow think you did, continue, but know that you were wrong on all three. If you made it to the end of the quiz, you might actually have a shot! Congrats, nerd. Have fun reading Harry Potter or whatever. Otherwise, you should most definitely drop DS. Rest up, because you’ll need to take seven classes next semester. Have fun! —E. Quittman —P. Davis
QUIZ: SHOULD YOU DROP DS? Are you halfway through your first year at Yale? Did you enroll in Directed Studies, but you’re not sure if you should stick with it? Are you having a mid-year crisis? You’re in the right place! Use this quiz to help you determine the path of the rest of your college career. 1. Are you a STEM major? If not, continue to the next question. If so, stop reading and go work on your physics p-set. 2. Do you believe the unexamined life is worth living? If you’d like to find out the answer from history’s most pretentious virgins, continue to question 3. Otherwise, go be a normal person. 3. Do you believe in God? If you only do because Pascal says you have nothing to lose, mosey on ahead. Otherwise, quit now. Econ 115 section registration starts in five minutes.
—V. Pavilonis
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I GOT A VASECTOMY BUT I STILL GOT HERPES—A TWO STAR YELP REVIEW FOR UROLOGIST STEVEN COLAVITO, M.D. Doctor Colavito told me that if I got a vasectomy I would be safe. But now I have herpes. This is my story. Last March I got a vasectomy so I could finally ice my balls while watching March Madness. Every year when I watch March Madness I wish I could be icing my genitals at the same time. But I’ve never had a good reason, until after Doctor C. cut the cord. After I got clipped and snipped, I suddenly contracted herpes. Here’s how it happened. After a month of watching college basketball and sticking my balls in the freezer for 12 hours a day, I finally got to thaw my genitals. I was numb, but my phallus had grown considerably. That night, I had unprotected sex with my lovely spouse. I remained fully erect for three days. The next day, I went over to my buddy John’s house to play some foosball. One thing lead to another, and before I knew it, John and I were engaged in passionate coitus. At my next check-up, the doc told me I had herpes. How did I get herpes? The vasectomy was supposed to prevent that. Somehow John had herpes as well, even though he got a vasectomy too. My wife doesn’t have herpes, but she is extremely pregnant. I am very unhappy with my vasectomy experience. —A. Kane
—K. Vanlandingham
Stouffer’s New Half-Lasagna ™ for lonely divorcees!
You classic Stouffer’s Stouffer’slasagna lasagnaof Youremember remember the the classic ofyour yourchildhood. childhood.From From eatingit italone aloneininfront front eating of of the the because mommy and daddy were fighting TVTV because mommy and daddy were fighting louder louder than usual, to being old and split- a than usual, to being nine nine yearsyears old and splitting ting a burnt one with your father and his new friend burnt one with your father and his new friend KimKimmy, bowls of microwavable cheesy goodness my, ourour bowls of microwavable cheesy goodness have have been with you through thick and thin. been with you through thick and thin. And Andnow, now,we’re we’reunveiling unveilinga abrand brandnew newprodproduct uctthat’ll that’llshake shakeupupthe thefrozen frozenlasagna lasagnagame gamefor forgood. good. We’re talking even evencrazier crazierthan thanfive fivedifferent differentkinds kindsof I’m talking ofcheese. cheese. Introducing: the new Half-Sagna! That’s Introducing: the new Half-Sagna! That’s right, right, folks. Our scientists food scientists have engineered a folks. Our food have engineered a new lanew lasagna, the same remember sagna, with with the same saucysaucy tastetaste you you remember from from your childhood, except it’s already half-eaten! your childhood, except it’s already half-eaten! Gone Gone aredays the of days of heating up person a 4-5 person are the heating up a 4-5 family family lasagna lasagna toyour eat inunderpants your underpants on the only couch, to eat in on the couch, to only finish
tohalf finish it and keep the remainder on your of ithalf and of keep the remainder on your coffee table coffee table asreminder a festering reminder of nuclear your broken as a festering of your broken family. nuclear family. Now, does thegiving workyou for a Now, Stouffer’s does Stouffer’s the work for you, you, giving you already a lasagna that’s already half-eaten by lasagna that’s half-eaten by Chef Geronimo Chef Giuseppe Stouffer in his home kitchen, at just Stouffer in his home kitchen, at just ⅔ the original 2 price! /3 the original price! This somehow-boiling-on-the-edges-yet-stillThis somehow-boiling-on-the-edges-yetfrozen-in-the-middle midnight snack still-frozen-in-the-middle midnight snackis isthe theperfect persize for your newly-divorced tummy. We’ve even lowfect size for your newly-divorced tummy. We’ve even ered thethe sodium count, to compensate for your salty lowered sodium count, to compensate for your tearstears afterafter youryour ex forgets to drop off off Brandler and salty ex forgets to drop Brandler Piper for their weekend at Dad’s! You begged, and we and Piper for their weekend at Dad’s! You begged, listened. At Stouffer’s, it’s what’s on the that and we listened. At Stouffer’s, it’s what’s on inside the inside counts. And what’s inside Cholesterol that counts. And what’s insideyou youisis pain. pain. Cholesterand pain. ol and pain. —A. Beer
Design Designby byJ.J.Kilga Kilga&&A.A.Vetticaden Vetticaden