The Class Warfare Issue by The Yale Record

Vol. 149, No. 6

THE YALE

Jun. 23, 2021

RECORD The Class Warfare Issue

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EIGHTH AMENDMENT VIOLATION? MY DAUGHTER IS CRUEL AND UNUSUAL Dear Hermit Crab, Why are you so antisocial? Is the world really so scary that you need claws and a portable shell? That just feels like overkill to me. You should try being less of a scaredy-crab.

Dear Curious Jim, Antisocial, huh? Your mom didn’t think I was antisocial last night when she got all up close and personal in my portable shell. That’s right, when you were probably pissing your bed or something I was making your dad a cuckold. He can’t compete with a crustacean and neither can you. Your weak little skeleton couldn’t hold your house for a second. You’d snap like raw spaghetti, bucko. Don’t even start with me. Sincerely, Hermit Crab

Sincerely, Curious Jim

THEY NEVER SAW IT COMING: THESE PEOPLE HAD NO CLUE THE CLASSIC STEPHEN KING NOVEL IT WAS HITTING THE SILVER SCREENS AS A HOLLYWOOD FILM.

VIBE CHECK: I JUST SOLD MY MARIMBA Dear A$AP Rocky, You aren’t the only thing that’s rocky, my friend. My marriage is going downhill and my wife wants a divorce ASAP. What do I do? Troubled in paradise, Bob

“THESE AREN’T CLOWN SHOES, THESE ARE MY NORMAL SHOES,” SAYS CLOWN WITH FUCKING MASSIVE FEET Dear Bob, I don’t know what you think this is. I’m not an advice column. I can’t help you and I also don’t know how you got this email address. Maybe try therapy? Sorry, A$AP Rocky

MATT GAETZ SUDDENLY SUPER INTERESTED IN STARTING A “PRAGER HIGH SCHOOL” FOR “LIKE UH CONSERVATISM AND STUFF”

T he Y ale R ecoRd Dear Oysters,

Dear Abby,

Someone told me “the world is your oyster.” I am deathly allergic to shellfish. By extension, does that mean I am allergic to the world? Am I fundamentally incompatible with this cruel, cruel world of suffering? While we’re at it, why does an omnipotent God permit evil in this world? Can it be that we live under an evil God? I anxiously await your reply.

Are you really one person? I feel like this column has been going on forever. Anyway, my mom walked in on me taking a shit and now I’m worried about our relationship. Please advise.

Sincerely, Billy

MAN REFUSES TO BE CALLED A “CUCK” AFTER WIFE CHEATS ON HIM FOR THE 29TH TIME, BECAUSE, ACCORDING TO HIM, “ITERATIONS OF CHEATING FEWER THAN 30 YIELD A SAMPLE SIZE THAT IS TOO SMALL TO DETERMINE, IN A STATISTICALLY SIGNIFICANT MANNER, WHETHER OR NOT I AM A CUCK” Dear Billy, Yes and yes. Best, Oysters

CHICK FIL A SECRET MENU? IF YOU ASK THE CASHIER FOR A “WET OJ,” THEY’LL MURDER YOU AND YOUR WAITER FRIEND, THEN POUR WATER OVER YOUR HEADS.

Sincerely, John

TOO LITTLE TOO LATE? SHORT PERSON SHOWS UP HALFWAY THROUGH SECTION Dear John, We’re, I mean I’m sorry to hear about that unfortunate situation. Maybe next time you’re in the bathroom you should make a lot of noise so that she knows your in there. Perhaps a loud wailing like you’re visiting the Eastern Wall of the Great Temple and you’re overcome with the emotion of the millenia of Jews before you who have had such a powerful shared experience, and the millions who tried, and could not reach this apotheosis. Also, Abby died years ago and then we were bought out by Exxon. Sincerely, Your Neighbor Abby “Fill ’Er Up with Super” Lastname.

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FALL SHOPPING PERIOD CANCELLED DUE TO WIDESPREAD POPULARITY OF COVID-19 PANDEMIC Dear Abby, I will be sure to consider your advice next time I am taking a shit on the toilet, but I was actually on my bed, shitting in my hands. Sincerely, John

THIS JUST INN: I’M ACTUALLY LOOKING FOR A HOTEL (SORRY I DIDN’T HAVE ANYTHING BETTER)

Dear George Orwell, Would you consider renaming “Animal Farm” something more child-friendly, like “Tempeh Farm” or “Animal Preserve?” I am trying to teach my children to slaughter communist pigs, but wouldn’t want them to mistake those fucking redhearted bastards for actual swine and spill unnecessary animal blood. Sincerely, A Concerned Vegan Parent

Check out our website, yalerecord.org, for more hilarious content!

Obituary Correction The Editorial Board would like to apologize for an erroneous obituary in a previous issue of a magazine. We reported that Leon Trotsky was assassinated with an ice axe. We have since learned that he slipped on a banana peel, stumbled into a cabinet, and knocked a bowl of knives directly onto his head.

FOR SALE: A single gold sovereign, to be tossed dismissively at a horde of begging paupers from the back of a purebred stallion. Will exchange for goods and/or services of equal or greater value.

THE CLASS WAR brought to you by GEICO

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Contact your provider for a free quote today!

— K. Walsh

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ALONG WITH YALE’S MANDATORY VACCINATION POLICY, ALL STUDENTS MUST ATTEND DEAN CHUN’S BIRTHDAY PARTY, PLEASE GUYS IT’LL BE A FUN TIME I PROMISE, I EVEN HIRED A CLOWN HAHA ISN’T THAT FUN? To whom it may concern: Unfortunately, I cannot provide my famous seven-layer bars at this month’s neighborhood potluck due to a conflict. Please let me know the date of next month’s potluck, so I can better prepare. Sincerely, Jen

LYING PIECES OF SHIT! FOR A BOOKSTORE, THE YALE UNIVERSITY BOOKSTORE SURE HAS A LOT OF CLOTHES.. To whom it may concern: Since no one has informed me of next month’s neighborhood potluck, I have assumed that no one is concerned about the absence of my famous seven-layer bars. Please let me know if this is not the case. Sincerely, Jen

CHARTS? WHAT CAN I SAY? I LIKE ‘EM.

Dear assholes, I’m no longer interested in attending the neighborhood potlucks with you pricks. Your kids are weird, too. Eat shit, Jen

A FAN FAVORITE: SEASONAL DEPRESSION RENEWED FOR SEASON TWO Dear Firefighters, I’m begging you to use words. Remember what we talked about? I don’t want to send an email home again. Sincerely, Fire

— H. Rubin

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his is my sixth editorial, which means I’m nearing the end of my time as Editor in Chief. It also means that I’m pretty overworked, so we decided that it would be best if I was killed, cryogenically frozen, and revived just to write these editorials and yell at people for not submitting articles. Needless to say, I don’t know what’s going on in the world right now. So, when they told my defrosting corpse that the theme for this issue was “Class Warfare,” I felt like I wouldn’t be the most knowledgeable person to write about it. Back when I was alive, there used to be these things called “upper class,” “middle class,” and “working class,” but for all I know, those might not even exist anymore! After all, this is Joe Biden’s America, so anything is possible. I could explain all of that to you, but you probably have plenty of cryogenically frozen relatives who could go into more detail. I figured that I might be more equipped to explain the internal division here at the Yale Record, which very much resembles the class structure of the United States (which I’m sure Joe Biden changed radically). You can think of the Record like a pyramid, with three levels. At the top is Big Four—David, Harry, Will, and me. We’re like the “upper class” of the Record, because we get to call the shots on pretty much everything, like what shots we’ll be taking at our parties, and who will get shot at our parties. We also all have our own private islands, but that’s unrelated to the Record. Next up is EBoard, the “middle class” of the Record. This is where you just have your guys’ guys, who are always up to no good and making sick jokes with their little potty mouths. If they worked a little harder and cut out avocado toast, they could be on Big Four one day. At the bottom of the Record pyramid is “staff,” or at least I think that’s what they’re called. I don’t really interact with these people, except when they are forced to carry my limp corpse to and from the freezer. I think one of them might be named Stanley? I’m not entirely sure. I guess I should get to know them a little better. After all, not long ago, I was on staff myself. That’s right, I worked my way up from nothing to be the most

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powerful person on the Record, and possibly in the world. Just like in the United States, upward mobility is a real and vital part of the Record. Anyone can do it, as long as they’re as beautiful, smart, and able to afford a gap year just to study comedy as me. But apparently some people don’t get this. They think that we all don’t have an equal shot at being Editor in Chief. They think that since I was able to study under the greats— Charlie from Charlie Bit My Finger and the dad from That’s So Raven—that means I had an unfair advantage. They think we “should all be Editor in Chief,” or that at least the current leader should be a little bit more respectful of them—I’ll be honest, I couldn’t hear what they said because I don’t listen to anything they say. So, these ungrateful fools tried to stage an uprising. They posted a sign outside of the Record office that said, “We will not be writing any articles until Kaylee respects us more.” I did not hear about this for two weeks, due to the fact that I am a frozen corpse. The next time I was revived, I was in for quite the surprise, especially because this issue was only halfway done. I knew I technically could write all the articles myself if I had to, but after writing one I was quite hungry and I developed what doctors call a “tummy ache.” I simply was too feeble to continue. I thought that maybe the protesters were right—maybe all this power had gone to my head. But then I remembered I’m perfect and can’t do anything wrong so there’s no way that was it! I then heard a voice of a young boy sheepishly whispering, “I think I can help.” This young boy then proceeded to write four articles, all while talking to me about how these little suckers don’t Harry Rubin ’22 Chair

understand the hard work I’ve put in and how they just want the titles to be handed to them. It was like he was reading my mind. After this riveting conversation, I was reassured that the hierarchy of the Record did indeed work, and these people were just being selfish and greedy. Before my private plane brought me back to my private island where I would be returned to my private freezer, I looked back and told this boy to keep reaching for the stars. And that boy was Joe Wickline, who will take over the reins as Editor in Chief next year. While I’m sad to go, and I worry that the protesters will never return, I have hope that the Record will continue like it always has—with a few mean people making a lot of nice people do all the hard work, until the nice people snap and also become mean. And that is what I like to call the “Recordian Dream.” Isn’t it beautiful? And on the next few pages, you will find the product of this dream. You might also find some commentary on class, capitalism, social structures, rich people, and all my other favorite things. I didn’t read everything, but I’m sure our staff has a lot of nice things to say about rich people! Anyway, it’s time for me to go back in the freezer. I won’t be back for a while. But if this issue starts an uprising, please come get me, or at least film it and put it online.

— K. Walsh Editor in Chief

Kaylee Walsh ’22 Editor in Chief

David Hou ’22 Online Editor in Chief

Will Cramer ’22 Publisher

Clio Rose ’23 Online Managing Editor

Joe Wickline ’23 Online Managing Editor

Jonas Kilga ’23 Managing Editor

Diana Kulmizev ’23 Managing Editor

Sam Leone ’23 Managing Editor

Zuri Goodman ’22 Webmaster

Raja Moreno ’23 Webmaster

Zosia Caes ’22 Copy Editor

Ayla Jeddy ’23 Design Editor

Avery Mitchell ’23 Design Editor

Ellen Qian ’23 Design Editor

Alex Taranto ’23 Art Director

Bea Portela ’23 Staff Director

Jacob Eldred ’23 Business Manager

Madelyn Blaney ’21 Old Owl

Rosa Chang ’22 Old Owl

Caleb Cohen ’21 Old Owl

Ethan Fogarty ’21 Old Owl

Sarah Force ’21 Old Owl

Luna Garcia ’22 Old Owl

David “Davey” McCowin ’21 Old Owl

Marcy Sanchez ’21 Old Owl

Maya Sanghvi ’22 Old Owl

Amanda Thomas ’21 Old Owl

Staff: Colin Baciocco ’21 Marty Chandler ’21 Paige Davis ’21 Lindsay Jost ’21 Jamie Large ’21 Alec Zbornak ’21 Ronak Gandi ’22 Ryan Fuentes ’22

Alex Kane ’22 Sam Karp ’22 Kyle Mazer ’22 Jocelyn Wexler ’22 Addison Beer ’23 Avery Brown ’23 Juan Diego Casallas ’23 Raffael Davila ’23 Malia Kuo ’24

Lucy del Alamo ’23 Shirshak Gautam ’23 Dory Johnson ’23 Zoe Larkin ’23 Charlotte Leakey ’23 Jacob Kaufman-Shalett ’23 Andrew Kornfeld ’23 Jason Salvant ’23 Lucy Santiago ’23

Helen Tejada ’23 Katia Vanlandingham ’23 Amrita Vetticaden ’23 Lisbette Acosta ’24 Erik Boesen ’24 Elijah Boles ’24 Alexia Buchholz ’24 Evan Cheng ’24 Finn Gibson ’24

Adriana Golden ’24 Will Gonzalez ’24 Cam Greene ’24 Joe Gustaferro ’24 Benjamin Hollander-Bodie ’24 Aarjav Joshi ’24 Alice Mao ’24 Simi Olurin ’24

Chanwook Park ’24 David Peng ’24 Michael Steinthal ’24 Arnav Tawakley ’24 Sarah Teng ’24 Miguel Von Fedak ’24 Joanna Wypasek ’24 Annie Lin ’25

Special thanks to: Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos, for striking a decisive blow in the class war by being sad and alone. Front Cover: Harry Rubin ’22, who makes us call him “Chairman Harry.” (@harrubin) Back Cover: Malia Kuo ’24, who toasts to class warriors everywhere. (@maliakuo) Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXLIX, No. 4, 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 2021 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.

I SUPPORT CAPITALISM BECAUSE ONE DAY I’LL BE JUST LIKE ELON MUSK Lots of people think capitalism is bad, but they’re all wrong. Capitalism is great! Take, for example, the best capitalist of them all: Elon Musk. Elon is one of my biggest heroes. He came to this country with nothing but his ideas, and now he’s the second richest person in the world. I too come from humble beginnings. My father is a mere corporate lawyer, and only for lousy companies like Wells Fargo. Our only other income is the estate my mother inherited when my grandfather died. To make matters worse, my father got drunk at the casino last week, and we may have to let go of our island in the Carribean. Anyway, like Elon, I basically have nothing to my name except my creativity. I have a lot of great ideas. My most recent one is something I like to call the TrakCar™. It’s like a bunch of cars connected together, but instead of roads they go on metal “tracks.” Also, lots of people can ride them at once! Oh and to save energy, only the front car will drive! It is going to revolutionize transportation. Wait! I just had another idea: we can make them go underground! Another similarity between Elon and me is our relationship with our fathers. Elon doesn’t get along with his father, and I despise mine. You see, when my father blew millions of dollars at the casino, he made me sell my collection of finely bred racehorses.

I will never forgive him. Those beautiful creatures helped me stay humble. When I grow up, TrakCar and my other ideas will make me rich, so I can finally get out of this house. I mean, my suite only has four bathrooms! If we lived under socialism, people who have never done a day of work in their lives would steal all my hard earned money. They don’t realize that I’m self made! What’s worse, they’d probably spend it on dangerous drugs, not like the cocaine we do here in Coral Gables. Is that fair? Is that just? In conclusion, socialism is an unjust system that benefits people with no work ethic. Capitalism, on the other hand, benefits visionaries like Elon and me! I mean, where would America be without space cars? —F. Gibson HOW TO BUILD A COALITION America is broken. The time for radical action is now. Either we destroy the venomous systems that dominate our society, or they will destroy us. Today, the fight begins. Today, we will begin amassing the greatest coalition since FDR’s—greater even—a unified mass of people from all walks of life. The time has come to unite the Left, and here is how we’ll do it. First, we can’t afford to be choosy. Our coalition must be broad. We need Stalinists and Maoists and Buttigiegians. We need workers and bankers and artists,

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waiters and waitresses and uncles. We need scholars and dreamers and every type of dad—fat dads, thin dads, hot dads, soft dads, and dads who have a secret closet in their house that their new wife is not allowed to enter. Leave your litmus tests behind, because we need conservatives and reactionaries in our coalition too. How else will we know our enemy? We need shitheels and scumbags to fight dirty for us. We need the Lincoln Project and its battalion of twenty-three year-old interns. We need guys on the street who sell fake medicine to seniors and real medicine to twelveyear-olds. We need kids who hurt animals and animals who hurt kids. We need dads who get mean when they’re drunk and dads who get sleepy when they’re drunk and dads who don’t drink because they made a promise to their daughter after they got wasted and fell in the pool during her thirteenth birthday party so everyone had to go home early. And we’ll need to make some sacrifices; these allies will come at a cost. The conservatives will want us to forget about health care. The quacks will want empty pill capsules, and the sadistic kids will want a steady supply of squirrels. The cohort of dads will reasonably demand revisions to the country’s divorce code, and these are sacrifices we’ll have to make. Compromise is the vehicle of change—you can’t make an omelette without cracking a few eggs. But still, we’ll dream bigger, bigger. You want to handle climate change? Sorry bucko, ExxonMobil’s joining the coalition. Want to revolutionize health care? Let Aetna and Blue Cross in. Want to enact Little League reform? Bring on the dads. After all, you gotta give something to get something. Our numbers will grow. Those who oppose us need only state their price. The bigger our tent gets, the more powerful we become. The more we sacrifice, the more we gain. Soon, very soon, our coalition will span from sea to shining sea, a beautiful testament to the oneness of Man. Every man, woman, and child in America will join us; we will have no need for the “policy” or “reforms” that once kept us apart. The radicals who demand change will be silenced; they seek to divide us. We will pass one piece of legislation, one glorious new law to appease the masses and remind them that change does come, if only incrementally. That law will be the abolition of alimony payments. Distilled to this single shining issue, our merry coalition will finally know peace. The soul of the nation will be restored… unity at last. —J. Wickline

MS. SMITH’S THIRD GRADE CLASS WINS BATTLE OVER END OF YEAR PIZZA PARTY By D. Kulmizev POUGHKEEPSIE, NY— Students in Room 309 were ecstatic to learn that after a grueling spring full of Easy Readers, they had finally bested six other third grade classes to win Stephen Clark Elementary’s end-of-year pizza party. In an intercom statement to the entire elementary school, Principal Sandy Christenson announced that Ms. Smith’s third grade class had read the most pages over their spring break. “Here at Stephen Clark Elementary, we strive to create students with a zest for learning,” she said during 309’s silent reading period. Some suspect foul play over the results of the reading competition, as Tommy Green in room 306, who was reading Harry Potter, was rushed to the school nurse under mysterious circumstances. Ms. Smith’s students maintain that they won the pizza party solely out of the love for reading that their teacher had instilled. “Ms. Smith is the best teacher ever,” said third grader Stacy Martins, “I wanted the pizza party so bad I read all of the Junie B. Jones books again. Of course, Tommy had to be taken out of the picture, so we hit him a little too hard over the head in Four Square during recess, but the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must. I hope we can watch Elf at the party.” Despite these allegations, Ms. Smith has chosen to stay silent. “I plead the fifth,” she said, unprompted. “I will not say anything to incriminate myself or my students. The reading challenge was won fair and square, and nobody can prove otherwise.” Anonymous sources are now reporting that Emily Rivera from Room 302, who had read fifteen Babysitters’ Club books in a week, had her kneecaps smashed with a baseball bat underneath the slide during recess.

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WAYS TO DISTINGUISH A CORPORATION FROM A PERSON Corporations are rarely named Jeremy and are never my new dad I don’t have a dead corporation in my garage I don’t hold onto the childish hope that a corporation will tell me he’s proud of me I’ve never mowed down a corporation in my Nissan Altima No corporations yelled that my throws were effeminate during a baseball game Corporations can’t contract hepatitis via blood transfusion Corporations can have many arms but a person only has two, one of which is five feet down the road from my Nissan Altima I’ve been inside a corporation —Staff

MY NAME IS RICH BUT I’M ACTUALLY UPPER MIDDLE CLASS As I get ready for my one Zoom call today for work in my home office, I wonder what my new coworkers will think of me. But the bitter truth is that I already know. They’ll see my name “Richard” and think it tells them everything I need to know. With a name like Rich, I must be rich, right? Wrong. In reality, there’s a lot that you won’t see on the surface when you first meet me. You won’t know how many phone calls I had to make to my great uncle just to get into college. You won’t know how hard I grind every day to pay all three of my adult children’s credit card bills. You won’t know that even though my name is “Rich,” I’m actually just upper middle class. I really do want to clear the air, because I don’t want anyone to assume I’m out of touch. I’m just like the rest of you. I spent a lot of money on my Peloton, but not so much money that I’m actually good at cycling. My dad was friends with Al Gore, but you know, they weren’t that close. My parents live in one of Forbes’ most expensive zip codes from 2020, but it’s a new year—who’s to say that it’s still that expensive? It couldn’t be clearer—I’m just a slightly above average Joe, nothing more, nothing less. It’s about time for me to go to work, and I can’t decide if I should explain this to my coworkers. I guess it’s probably best that I just keep it to myself—I wouldn’t

want to take away time from talking about “capital” or “stocks” or whatever it is we do. Instead, I’ll just change my nickname. What a brilliant idea! It’s time for everyone to meet Dick. That’s a name that they certainly won’t associate with anything. —K. Walsh

HOW MUCH MONEY AM I LOSING WHEN I HANG OUT WITH MY GRANDMA? Okay guys, let’s talk personal finance. Today’s topic is what’s known as “Opportunity Cost,” the loss of the money you could be making from other alternatives when compared to what you chose to do. For example, if you could be making $4/hour selling lemonade, but instead choose to sell water for $3/hour, your opportunity cost would be the $1/hour you missed out on. So what should you do? In your everyday life, always remember to feel guilty about what you decide to do, unless it’s the maximally efficient option in terms of generating income. Whether you’re sleeping instead of working, driving to work instead of working, or working instead of working for more money, be sure to mentally calculate how much money you’re technically losing. Even more importantly, let that number hang over you. If it doesn’t ruin your day, you’re doing it wrong. It’s especially important to do this when you’re hanging out with your grandma. Let’s do the math. Say, for the sake of the hypothetical, that hanging out with your grandma generates $0/minute. Let’s also say, hypothetically, that the maximally efficient alternative is to spontaneously metamorphosize into Jeff Bezos and generate $152,207/minute. This means that the opportunity cost of hanging out with your dear old granny is $152,207/minute! You could buy a supercar, a small house, or even almost pay off your student loans with what you lose by hanging out with your grandmother for 60 seconds! Hell, you could pay for grandma’s medicine, allowing you not to hang out with her for many, many years to come. And yet, despite all of this, you still choose to hang out with your grandma. Is her homemade apple pie really worth millions upon millions of dollars? You could donate that money to charity. You could save people’s lives with that money, but no. No, you just have to hang out with your grandma. That’s seriously messed up. —B. Hollander-Bodie

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1. Bested in combat by a powerful rat king that lived off of grease and pepperoni in the store-room.

the tip of my dick while trying to

2. Forced to offer secret menu item

Pizza (see also: Best HR Complaints Received While Working at Little Caesars).

Pleaser: a kiss on the lips to any customer who spends $35 or more. 3. Required by management to attend weekly 3 A.M. Staff Bonding nights spent venturing into the store room to reclaim our once prosperous lands from the evil clutches of the rat king. 4. Required by management to eat crazy-bread laced with vape juice and Monster, called it “DSM-5 Loaf.”

6. Assisted by rat king (whose name is apparently Craig) around the store with odd jobs and deliveries (nice guy, but never washed his hands). 7. Docked in pay by night shift manager who called himself “Medium Caesar” and tenderly caressed every pizza with his bare hands before delivery as a 8. Tricked into eating

!"#$%& '($)&*"'+)%"',(&"& !-.!/"!,0!1&2$"+!& 2'/3",#&)%&+"%%+!&0)!()/( pizza.

— A. Beer

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Call us today!

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ANIMAL FARM JUST ISN’T HISTORICALLY ACCURATE America’s education system is broken. And no, I’m not talking about the underfunding, the meager teacher’s salary, or the plague that is standardized testing. No, I’m referring to an extraordinarily entrenched flaw within our schools’ middle school English curriculum—Animal Farm. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s a fantastic piece of writing. Hats off to George Orwell, who wrote a whole novel. I can hardly fill a page! But when Ms. Evans said that it was a satire about the Soviet threat, I almost had to drink my Dasani just to cool down. I know satire. I live, breathe, and write satire. But arguing that Animal Farm is a historically accurate novel depicting the Cold War? That’s the real war crime. Animals. Can’t. Talk. I’m sorry, but we need to make this clear. There is nothing historical about a talking pig, and frankly, I find it concerning that the people educating our children believe otherwise, going as far as to spend two weeks talking make-believe about cattle and poultry. I mean, what’s next? The Lorax is about environmentalism? I thought we were supposed to be examining big ideas here! Sure, there are striking similarities between Napoleon’s aggressive dog force and Stalin’s Bolsheviks, and yes, Snowball fully echoes Leon Trotsky’s displeasure and unrest with Stalin’s rule, but that’s coincidence! I mean come on guys, use your brains. How can a pig be a person? They’re two different species! It’s medically impossible, and it is a disgrace to fiction writing to even consider it! I don’t understand why it’s only me and a select group of Reddit users that share this same view. I argue for a complete wiping of this book from existence, like they did in Fahrenheit 451. Now that is a book I can get behind! —M. Kuo & A. Mao

OPINION: WHY CAN’T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG? Hello. My name is Chab Rundridge III. In 1924 my grandfather founded a company that sold child-sized forklifts to open-minded countries. Through hard work, a lot of skipped lunch breaks, and just a little bit of luck, I got accepted to Yale University, where I earned the

Rundridge Award for Excellence. I earnestly believe that every American has a shot at the top. Rich, poor, employed, unhoused, we’re all the same in the end. In a time of so much discontent, it’s easy to blame the rich, or the poor, or the bumbling middle class, but we’re better than that. This message goes out to all my poor brothers and sisters who feel like they’ve been left behind. Friends, why can’t we all just get along? Throughout history, the greatest threat to the social order has been class warfare. I say to hell with class! I don’t care who you are or how much your department made last quarter; if you’re a decent human being then you’re A-okay in my book. We’re not so different. You ever go hunting for rabbits? I once slit a moose’s throat on my dad’s 200-acre slaughter property in Siberia. You like going to the zoo? I visit Prince Andrew’s People Ranch three times a year! You’re watching elephants gobble down bananas, and I’m watching a Scot and a Welshman fight to death in a steel cage. Both of us are having a jolly time with our families. And listen, I get it. It’s tough to be a have-not in a world with so many haves. My uncle was once snubbed for Forbes Magazine’s 60 Under 60 Magnates To Watch list. It hurts to see other people succeed, but he never considered forcing Forbes Magazine to distribute their accolades more equitably. And you shouldn’t consider forcing the wealthy to distribute wealth more equitably. You can’t always get what you want, or even what you need. But you can always get something, most of the time. And that’s enough. Class warfare doesn’t help anybody; dialogue is the way forward. That’s why every day I drive around New Haven in a Porsche that has the engine in the back and the trunk in the front. I shout out the window, “Ho, my fellow man! Good tidings to ye! My life is no more important than yours. We are all one!” I enter dialogue with the unhoused, and ask, “Are you a student here too?” They say no, but I explain that they’re wrong. We’re all students in a class called life. And folks, in life you don’t get recess. My father always told me, “What a poor man needs more than soup is a job.” I won’t be giving you soup. I also won’t be giving you a job, but I encourage you to find one. We’d all be a lot happier if we just find a way to get along. Your material conditions won’t change, but your attitude will. And friends, that’s good enough for me. —J. Wickline

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TIMES J. EDGAR HOOVER MADE AN ASS OF HIMSELF AT THE FBI END-OF-YEAR GALA 1924 at the John Marshall Ballrooms. This was J. Edgar Hoover’s first gala as FBI Director, and he was really anxious to make a good impression, so he had his right-hand man Clyde Tolson compile detailed files on every staffer to make small talk easier. But people got weirded out when Hoover started bringing up random personal details, like “I hear your youngest gave polio to his entire primary school class” and “Didn’t your wife run off with a Swede?” so soon everyone was transparently avoiding him. Hoover left the gala early in a huff, and added everyone who snubbed him to his Enemies file. 1928 at the Hilton Gold Presidential Suite. Hoover was running late to this one, and Tolson had booked Duke Ellington to perform. In those days jazz made people uncontrollably horny so when Hoover showed up President Coolidge and his wife were making out on the dance floor and the entire FBI recruit class had run off to create a new generation of feds. Hoover was furious about the jazz because he was racist as shit and terrified of his own sexuality, but on his way to the stage to shut things down he tripped and fell into the fondue fountain and had to go home to get all the cheese out of his $80 suit, which in those days was worth more than Oregon. The next day, he started an FBI investigation into the links between jazz and communism. 1938 at the Centennial Ballroom. Right before dinner, started people started chanting “Speech, speech, speech!” at him, but he didn’t realize they were chanting at him so he started chanting too. No one had the courage to tell him because he would destroy anyone who made him look bad so the whole room just chanted “Speech, speech, speech” together for a good fifteen minutes before Tolson pulled the fire alarm to save him from more embarrassment. Hoover thought it was a new trend that he wasn’t a part of, so he started randomly chanting “Speech” around the office the next week and when a Bureau executive finally told him what was going on, he had the guy assassinated. 1946 at the Golden Gate Casino. In his middle years,

Hoover was feeling increasingly alienated from his staff, so at the 1946 gala he joined in on the staff poker game to show that he was just one of the guys. Someone joked that they could play strip poker, but Hoover took it seriously and immediately pulled down his pants to reveal his limp, clammy genitals. The data guys were repulsed but they didn’t want to end up on his list so they all pulled their pants down too like that was part of the game, and soon everybody at the gala was really uncomfortable except Roy Cohn, who was having a ball pouring champagne into the koi pond and casually abusing interns. Hoover felt humiliated when he realized his mistake, and to make himself feel better leaked the sexual histories of the entire gala cooking staff to the Washington Post. 1957 at the Lord Baltimore Hotel. Hoover showed up dressed like Elvis Presley even though it wasn’t a costume party, and when people asked him about it he acted like he didn’t know what they were talking about. It soon became clear that he genuinely had never heard of Elvis and he was just trying out a new look that he thought was cool. So then everyone had to explain to him that yes, it was a cool look, but it was already taken by a musical icon, and then Hoover got really mad and started yelling “This ‘Elbus’ asshole doesn’t have a monopoly on fashion” then he stormed out and asked Tolson to draft the King into military service. 1963 at the Sayre Mansion. Hoover somehow convinced himself that he should make a move on Jackie Kennedy just weeks after her husband’s assassination to quash the rumor going around that he liked men. So at the 1963 gala, Hoover sidled up to Jackie and very loudly grunted and said, “You’re ah… you’re looking quite fetching tonight, Mrs. Kennedy. Jack was a lucky man. Would you like to… go for a brisk walk with me?” Jackie was furious and shoved him into the fondue fountain, and he got covered in cheese again and nobody even noticed because Cary Grant was acting out scenes from his hit film That Touch of Mink.. 1971 on J. Paul Getty’s Megayacht. Towards the end of his life Hoover suffered from crippling paranoia, so at the 1971 yacht gala he wore a life jacket over his tux and threw olives at anyone who came within six feet. Hoover had been a teetotaler all his life, but he accidentally drank like a quart of the spiked

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punch because he thought it was non-alcoholic. It turned out that half-senile Hoover was both a cruel drunk and a sleepy drunk, so he started calling all the women “hussies” and then just kind of passed out on the refreshments table, where he mumbled the names of civil rights leaders he’d had assassinated in his sleep. At some point between 11:00 and 11:30 p.m., Hoover rolled off the table into the inky brine of the Atlantic Ocean, bringing his forty-eight year FBI tenure to a close. The gala scene was never the same. —J. Wickline

HOW TO APPEAL TO THE WORKING CLASS IN YOUR CAMPAIGN FOR PRESIDENT Make speeches where you talk about growing up in a working class family. You can never do too much of this. Really wax poetica about how your grandfather was a coal miner/ construction worker/CEO and every month he would bring home one paycheck and that was all your mother’s family had to live on. She told you that story one time, and now you know all about being poor. Ideally, your grandfather had a catchphrase that was nice and broad and generally encapsulates the spirit of America without being overtly racist. If your grandfather was an inconsiderate son-ofa-bitch and didn’t leave you a perfect fortune cookie of campaign wisdom, make sure he is ~taken care of~ and then give a tearful speech where you fondly remember how he would look down at you when you were a child and say, “Always remember, the most important things in life are freedom, hard work, beer, and eagles.” Talk about how hard you worked to get through college. That Goldman Sachs internship really put you through the ringer and taught you about the value of a dollar because every morning you had to walk into work past a security guard who told you one time that she had only had one car and she had to drive it herself every day to get to work. No American should have to live like that. Finish off by talking about children. Not yours, of course; it’s a real dream killer to talk about how you’re teaching your son Tommy to he started at school (trust me on this one, I’ve point to it, and tell everybody that you believe that that kid should be able to become the president one day if they work hard enough. The added upside to this is that if they run, they might pretend you were their inspirational uncle.

—A. Buchholz

— A. Jeddy

Top Ten Ways to Eat the Rich

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Thinly guillotine and serve on rye with thousand island dressing

Microwave for two minutes with the cup loosely covered

Prepare French-style (cooked by a rat with a dream) Pulp into ice cream, serve with silver spoon Stuff with shredded SAT prep books Braise in holy wine and say grace before eating Grind into Beyond Meat (The Impossible Billionaire) Pickle for a week in an Amazon piss bottle Have a thoughtful conversation about class struggle, then cook in giant air fryer Kebab

–Staff Design by Ayla Jeddy

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COMMUNIST PARTY ANNOUNCES PLAN TO GIVE A GOVERNMENTISSUED HIMBO BOYFRIEND TO EVERY AMERICAN

podcast. “Honestly, that’s on you if you can’t secure a hot idiot for yourself. Not my problem.” Nevertheless, the Communist party will go ahead with the measure as planned, aiming to wrap up by early May, or whenever the himbos figure out how to read the directions to their new homes.

By C. Anekwe WASHINGTON, DC—In a recent effort to increase party membership, the Communist Party of the United States of America has announced a bold new plan to give each member of the Proletariat their own himbo boyfriend. “We’d tried the human rights approach for years but it just wasn’t working,” said Party leader Rossana Cambron when asked about the initiative. “Besides, who doesn’t love a good himbo?” Since the Party’s announcement, millions of Americans have taken to the streets in protest of the oppressive rule of the current administration. In a shocking turn, President Joe Biden himself has decided to abdicate his office in the face of these demonstrations. “Listen here, Jack, that whole ‘universal healthcare’ shindig always was overkill in my opinion,” said the former president in a statement. “But sacrifices have gotta be made, and I’ll be darned if those Commies aren’t onto something with all that he-bimbo talk. It’s time for me to step aside, and make room from some eye candy.” Former President Biden wasn’t alone in his support for the new initiative. On Tuesday, New York mayoral candidate Andrew Yang signalled his support. “I’m all in on Universal Basic Himbo,” said Yang. “Who cares if he has to use his fingers to count?” Later that day, Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont tweeted “From each according to his ability, to each their very own government-sponsored chance at finding love. If Karl Marx were alive today, he’d rejoice at seeing his mission complete.” But not everyone is so pleased with this radical shift in American policy, “It’s just not fair. I stepped up my game and worked for YEARS to finally bag my own himbo boyfriend. Now they’re just giving them out for free? Hell no,” said Candace Owens during an Instagram Live last Thursday. Conservative commentator Ben Shapiro also took issue with the idea. ““I don’t need some governmentissued himbo to take the place of the private idiot I already have,” Shapiro said in the latest episode of his

HOW TO EXPLAIN MARXIST THEORY TO YOUR SIX YEAR OLD Jaesyn, it’s time for us to have an important conversation. I know you’re excited to go back to school and see all your friends and teachers again, but there is something you need to know. A specter is haunting Wee Oaf Elementary School — the specter of communism. All the powers of old Wee Oaf have entered into a holy alliance to hunt down and exorcise this specter: principal and assistant principal, sex-ed teacher and sex offender history teacher, Ashley Kuhl’s mom and Ashley Kuhl’s way hotter stepmom. The history of all hitherto existing stuff-that-happens at school is the history of class struggles. You have been taught that this is the necessary way. How would we raise money for victims of disaster in Haiti or collect toys for the Wee Oaf homeless shelter’s Christmas drive were it not for the promise of pizza parties and donut breaks? How can children be taught compassion and generosity if not for the promise of winning things that their peers won’t get? You have wept in defeat as Ms. Whistleblower’s class won the battery drive because Carmicheal’s father works at an illicit chop shop and screamed your vengeance and fury as patted down all your parents’ dinner guests for the cash you needed to stop all racism and win a Tuesday Taco lunch, but hear me, Jaesyn, there is another way. Let the administrative powers tremble at a Communist revolution. The students have nothing to lose but their chains. They have the world to win, a world in which junk food and slightly longer lunch breaks are not just for those who do things for other people, a world in which all students enjoy the same special events, regardless of their contributions to humanity. Then Wee Oaf will be for the common students, and the sounds of happiness will reach the deepest springs. —A. Jeddy

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5 UNDER 5: OUR TOP 5 MOST PROMISING TODDLERS In a world of greats, it always seems like a race to become the next best scholar. With a load of impressive diaper-wielding prodigies already changing the world, we here at Forbes seek to highlight some of the most high-achieving toddlers to keep your eye on! Here are five of America’s best under five. Macy Williams Rochambeau Kennedy III. A true culinary genius, young Ms. Kennedy demands her Lunchables to be anointed with white truffle oil. Scoffing at the idea of a basic PB&J, Kennedy III said, “bloo blah blurgle bleh,” passionately arguing for the discontinuation of America’s favorite children’s meal. Kennedy argues that toddlers deserve handcrafted, artisan meals by every family’s personal chef, and we couldn’t agree more. She has created a law firm, Doggy, to sue Lunchables and Gogurt for emotional damages. Her unwavering resolve inspires us daily to seize the world by its bib and to never settle for less. #girlboss! Chad Bradson. Chad here is a changemaker in the most traditional sense of the word. Instead of crying (like a baby) when the laws of gravity prevent him from building the Megablocks tower of his wildest imagination, he angrily knocks them over and sucker-punches his mom. His actions beg the question: why do we adhere to traditional power dynamics of parent over child? Why should the youth not be taken more seriously? Maybe it’s the two black eyes or the numerous bite wounds talking, but we cannot wait to see where this toddler goes next! Lucy Fir. It is said that artistic genius can be spotted at a young age, but it takes a keen eye. Lucy was first discovered by a billionaire art collector in the Forest Park Zoo, where she drew geometrically perfect shapes and arcane symbols in the playground sandbox. Her finder immediately recognized her talent, and invited her to his special program “for gifted youngsters” on an isolated nature reserve far from the disturbances of bustling city life. This program is designed for young creators to discover their true voice and kick start their career as actresses, singers, warriors, and arsonists—whatever they dream of

doing! Lucy denied claims that the program was a “Satanic cult for toddlers,” saying that she merely enjoys her role of Orb General and is looking forward to the first ritual of the new moon. . They were first discovered at the Stanley Hotel in room 237, where they had sucked the soul out of the maid who was cleaning the room. Following that, there have been over 45 sightings of S all over the world, and just as many dead maids! We still are not sure of their current location! What a globally conscious child. Their ability to possess others speaks to their innate drive to achieve their goals, which as they put it, are to “conquer this earthly realm and thrust human souls into ungodly sin, to bring forth the four horsemen of the apocalypse until the birth of a new, cleansed world, which I will rule without mirth or mercy.” From the sound of it, it’s clear they’re destined for the Harvard class of 2038! May god protect us all. Penny Park. She already has her 12x12 times tables memorized! 143 am I right? Haha, just playing. Considering some college freshmen still do not know long division and rely on their TI-Nspires to do basic addition, I think we can all learn from her. —M. Kuo and A. Mao

—A. Lin

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GOLDMAN SACHS ANNOUNCES “HIRE YOUR KID TO WORK DAY” By C. Cohen & E. Connors NEW YORK, NY— Insisting it had always “treated its employees like family and vice versa,” Goldman Sachs announced today that its 15th annual “Hire Your Kid to Work Day” will be held on February 18. Executives’ children will experience the same meticulous vetting process as other applicants, undergoing a rigorous series of interviews from 9:30 a.m. to 9:45 a.m. Questions will address topics ranging from why the applicant left his previous job as an “entrepreneur” to how he would hypothetically overcome an obstacle in his life. “It’s just a great way to get kids involved,” said Goldman Vice Chairman Richard J. Knodde, attempting to rustle the thickly gelled hair of his 32-year-old son Kenneth. “Now hop off my lap for a second, Kenny.” According to Knodde, the program will prepare children for careers in a variety of fields, ranging from finance to financial investment. Participants will be trained in accordance with Goldman’s New Ethics Parameters for Optimized Techniques In Securing Money (NEPOTISM). The afternoon’s slate of activities is designed to keep kids engaged during the notoriously sleepy hours post-brunch. After a rousing round of “Spot the Difference Between The Two Balance Sheets And Make The Problem Go Away,” kids will unwind by coloring in SEC-subpoenaed documents with black marker. “Who are we to stunt these kids’ creativity?” said President Harvey M. Schwartz. “Now please get off my lap, Kenneth. We talked about this.” “At the end of the day, our goal is to build these kids’ trust and ensure that they have lots of fun,” Schwartz continued. “Build their trust, and fun. Build their trust, fun. Build their trust fund.”

UH-OH! THE 6-YEAR-OLDS WHO WORK IN MY SHOE FACTORY ARE UNIONIZING! Today a bunch of four-foot tall snot rockets barged into my office with absolutely no warning. The tallest one of them stepped to the front and just started screaming at me. Sure, I may be a 34-year-old billionaire sitting atop what is quite possibly the greatest child labor operation this side of the Gilded Age, but I feared for my life. They made a slew of outrageous demands, calling for downright radical concepts like “a living wage,” “safety standards,” and “breathable air.” It’s beyond me how they’re even getting ideas like this in their fragile little heads, considering they were all pulled out of school and told that literacy was a tool of Satan himself. This was quite possibly the most grotesque scene I have ever witnessed, after that horrifying evening when Daddy’s manservant wore regular suit cufflinks with a tuxedo at the Combatting Class Consciousness Awareness Gala! These ferocious rats dared to meet my gaze with their dead, sunken eyes. They pounded their allegedlybloody little hands on my desk, and shouted at me with vitriol from their mouths which were rife with missing teeth. If they wanted money, they still had the tooth fairy to look to! Why should they come to me on my gold throne and ask for a handout when there is a literal magical being running around with a pedophilic tooth fetish? Due to this unfortunate incident, there are sure to be sweeping layoffs across the board, starting with the sweatsh… I mean factory’s snipers, who should never have allowed this unholy insurrection to reach the sacred fortress of my office. I’m extremely shaken up by the traumatic events of this fateful day, and will hereby be taking a much needed six month sabbatical in the Maldives in order to fully process my emotions and come to terms with the oppressive, malicious nature of children. Needless to say, the parents of those involved should be ashamed of themselves for raising such greedy, dirty little bastards. In fact, I lay the blame squarely on their shoulders. It is their fault for not teaching their children how to lionize their superiors, and for dying in my father’s pristine coal mines and leaving their worthless offspring as grubby little orphans. I can still hear them outside, singing along to “Solidarity” and playing kickball with my floor manager’s head. I guess it’s true what they say: “Some children are too lazy and stupid to earn a living through hard labor.”

—S. Olurin

Review: The Neuralink Earlier this week, tech visionary Elon Musk released an experimental beta of his magnum opus: the Neuralink brain chip. After a simple, painless operation, the Neuralink is placed on the surface of your prefrontal cortex. Sleek and discreet, it leaves an almost stop imperceptible bump that is easily hidden under hair. As a member of the Yale Record’s tech division, I had the privilege of taking part in a beta test for this incredible piece of hardware, and let me tell you—it’s everything I dreamed of and more. With my Neuralink in place, I can interface on a whim bootstraps with my personal computer and phone! Gone are the days of clumsy typing, clicking, and tapping. To write, I simply think of the words and they appear! To open an app on my phone, I imagine the app opening. The electrical impulses in my brain are keyed directly to the electrical impulses in my devices! I’ve gotten so used to the new interface, that I get a massive headache whenever I try using my devices the old fashioned way. Oh well! I’ll take innovative tech over a searing pain in my temple any day throat! The Neuralink can also optimize your sleep. Recently, I’ve been having some sleep problems—last June, I woke up in the middle of the leave none alive night sitting in front of my computer, responding, “Epic, sir!” to a meme that Elon Musk had tactical social support insert tweeted. I knew what that meant: too much TV before bedtime. happen again. This nifty gadget can help with anything! Just three days ago, I woke up with a headache and blood on my hands. I don’t know where the blood came tion successful from, but the Neuralink told me exactly how best to wash it infrastructure plan, vaccine development, the mysterious death of a Tesla unionizer unlate at night a few days ago, and more! Thanks, Neuralink! In truth, it’s been kill a rough few months kill. Quarantining alone I feel like my grip on take control safe safe. My Neuralink keeps me true true true. Without my Neuralink, I am nothing. -

your Neuralink today! !"#$%&'()&*+ ,+-&.*/$0#$%1)-2

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GUYS, IT’S NOT THAT HARD TO GET INTO YALE! Applying to college is scary! In a world of mothers’ College Confidential posts asking anonymous users about stats and extracurriculars, it can often feel daunting to dust off your pants, wipe down your keyboard, and tremblingly fill out your Common App. But have no fear! As members of Yale’s storied student body, we are here to help. Contrary to popular belief, getting into Yale is a breeze… if you follow all these steps. You’ve probably heard the basics, like starting early and making spreadsheets of deadlines, but here is what worked for us and several of our Exeter friends! First off, be yourself! Write about something you’re passionate about, like your yearly cruise to the Bahamas—or better yet, the cruise line your parents own! Show your eye for design and fashion by dedicating two pages of your application to the subtleties of skinny jeans and which brands do it best, and then have it promptly edited by the ghostwriter your parents hired for this whole thing. Pro tip: always listen to your ghost writer. Everybody has one for a reason! If you want to get into Yale, you have to start planning early. Ensure that your parents went to Yale, and their parents before them. Your commitment to the school will shine in the “family members” section of the Common App! To really outdo the other applicants, try disowning your father, who chose to be in Berkeley when your grandfather, great-grandfather, and greatgreat-grandfather were all from Davenport. Dedicate a short answer box or two to telling the admissions committee how you will right this grievous wrong by being a true Davenport gnome. As the saying goes… “Dport dport we are here we don’t need no fuckin’ cheer, Dport dport we are here beer beer beer beer beer beer beer!” Not that you drink beer. Listen, we know this one is a little cliche, but take it from me, the heiress to only a small furniture empire. Is it really such a sacrifice for your family to donate a single building? All it would take is one missed family vacation to the Baltics. With some personal finance skills, you are sure to save enough money for a small library at least. If not, just donate your grandmother’s collection of rare books. The Beinecke could always use a few more Gutenbergs, and it’s not like she reads those dusty things anyway. It’s always important to forge connections with

exciting mentors to ensure a top-notch letter of recommendation for your admissions officers to read. No one wants to hear about the impact your high school English teacher had on your life’s trajectory. Instead, try to research people who you’re inspired by. In other words, demand your parents get you connected with any of the plethora of D-list actors and actresses who the production studio they own has a contract with (I’m looking at you, Bella “Bestie” Thorne!). It’ll be the most interesting thing your admissions officer has read in weeks. Also, a note on athletics. Fake rowing pictures are SO last year. Why not try some real water polo pictures? Nobody does water polo anyways, so it shouldn’t be that difficult to win something. I think it’s like normal polo, except the horse is swimming. Don’t be afraid to take one of Daddy’s racehorses out of the stable for a little photo shoot! Lastly, don’t let test scores get you down. Repeat after me: I am not defined by a number! If you’re not satisfied with a test, just take it again. Better, use your resources to pay a different kid to take them for you. Easy as that. C’mon, you already use Nate from second period for all of your AP Calculus quiz answers. The SAT is no different. And if all else fails, just have your parents contact their old chum Jeremiah Quinlan. He’ll know what to do. —M. Kuo & A. Mao

—J. Wickline

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AREA MAN UNSUCCESSFULLY PROMOTES TRADE SCHOOL By S. Leone LINCOLN, MONTANA— With the fast-growing price tag of a college education, one concerned citizen took matters into his own hands to push for the trades. When a Harvard graduate and former professor realized just how out of hand the whole university system had become, he disavowed academia altogether and moved out to the country. Now, in Lincoln, he lives a quiet life, and has fervently advocated for professional schools through a trade of his own. His craft has sparked some controversy — beloved fans call it art, others don’t go as far — but nobody’s denying his sheer talent. So what does this elusive activist do for a living? How does he dissuade people from pursuing a higher education? He makes bombs, and he sends them to colleges. This is the passion project of a local Mr. Ted Kaczynski. But public reception has been lukewarm at best. “I’m starting to think that people don’t get it,” said Mr. Kaczynski. “My brother’s a plumber, and my dad’s in air conditioning repair, so this issue really hits home with me. Here I am, trying to make sure more young people don’t sign themselves up for a lifetime of crippling debt from institutions that lie to them to make a quick buck… and some people are trying to spin it where I’m the bad guy. Well, I guess it’s true what they say — you really can’t make everyone happy.” One skeptic of Mr. Kaczynski claims that “something just feels wrong about sending innocent people explosives in the mail. This guy claims to be some sort of genius, but has he considered that people might get hurt? Maybe that’s just the way I was raised — study hard, go to college, don’t do terrorism. It’s just not my cup of tea.” Outspoken academics have gone as far as to condemn killing people with bombs, to which Mr. Kaczynski said, “That’s typical of these pompous jerks. They’ve grown so out of touch.” At press time, Record staffers were preparing to open a package from Lincoln with no return address and a note attached that said, “You guys should’ve tried HVAC.”

OTHER BAD THINGS STALIN DID Drank underage Forgot to use his turn signal Put pineapple on borscht Said “Awesome sauce” Kissed his brother on the lips Didn’t wash his hands after a big messy number two Tried to get his friends to call him “L.L. Cool Bean” Asked the teacher if they were going to collect the homework Didn’t hold the door open for a pregnant woman Was unapologetically himself —Staff MY THOUGHTS ON J. EPSTEIN I for one am glad that Jeffrey Epstein is dead. You probably think I’m being a little harsh here. After all, this man was very generous—just look at all the money he donated to Harvard! But when we say all billionaires are bad, we mean all. Even Jeffrey Epstein. Look at what he did: apparently, Epstein was flying Bill Clinton, Prince Andrew, and some young girls around on a private plane called the Lolita Express? I can’t believe it either. Flying private? Ever heard of the caring about the planet? Sure a lot of rich people have planes, but Jeffrey Epstein also had his very own private island. Really Mr. Epstein? Read the room. You were out in a tropical paradise, drinking fruity beverages and frolicking & whatnot with your personal sex slaves, meanwhile the rest of us here are still waiting on stimulus checks. Pretty tone-deaf if you ask me. Maybe next time take your babes to a Days Inn or something? You know, show a little solidarity with us small folk. As if it couldn’t get any worse, I also saw a picture of Jeffrey Epstein talking to Donald Trump at a party. Really Mr. Epstein? Do better. This is the same Donald Trump that joked about grabbing women “by the pussy.” It’s not hard to draw conclusions that Epstein tolerated this kind of talk. Not cool, Jeffrey! Anyway, I know he probably had a family and he did seem like a genuinely nice guy and everything, but at the end of the day that’s one less billionaire on earth. Sorry, but I sure won’t be crying. —H. Rubin

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SHOULD YOU INVADE A FOREIGN POWER? Have you been there?

No Does it have oil?

Yes

Depends... what does the recipe call for?

Canola oil

Did you create its current system of government?

Does it have Grandma’s special gingersnaps?

No No

Extra virgin olive oil

That’s fantastic! No need to justify! Go for it!

Yes

Pshaw! Sounds like they could use some good ol’ fashioned freedom

Yes

one. Probably best to declare war on a vague concept like “terror,” “drugs,” or “Russia”

Yes Are you sure? Does it have grandma?

Thieves! They’ve stolen our treasured national property! You must get it back

INVADE

Yes

Silly goose! This is your own country. It’s not called invading if it’s in your own backyard! For a more relevant infographic, check out “Your Coup and You” on page 49. !"#$%&'( )('*+,-$.#$/01'2

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