The Sports Issue

Vol. 139, No. 2

TH E YALE

Sept. 20, 2010

RECORD The Sports Issue

Writers, Artists, Designers, Business-Minded People

Jokes and Free Pizza!

STAFF meettingS EVERY MONDAY, Mondays at9PM 9pmWLH 112 Email: staffdirector@yalerecord.com

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ININTHE THEHEART HEARTOFOFYALE; YALE;NOW NOWDELIVERING DELIVERINGININTHE THECHAPEL CHAPELAREA! AREA!

Dear Paul McCartney, Show some respect! Just because I’ve been dead for thirty years doesn’t mean you can perform songs I wrote without you.

Sincerely, Al Gore P.S. I’m on PCP

Dear John Schmidt, You’re half the man I’ll ever be.

—John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt

Dear Bear Grylls, I know you suggested drinking your own urine to avoid dehydration in the wild, but I have got to stop following your advice.

—Bear Grylls

Dear E-Z Pass, Your large, squarish pill isn’t working.

Sincerely, A Severely Constipated Man

Scientists Rediscover Cure for Amnesia

Wife Realizes Husband Was Made of Cheese the Entire Time

Dear Feline Association of America, I was going to write a sequel, but your “Lolcatita” proposal has convinced me to never take up pen and paper again.

Sincerely, Vladimir Nabokov

Dear Roommate, Ha! You should’ve seen your face when you walked in on me masturbating. No, I’m not embarrassed. Am I going to stop masturbating? Soon, but I think the real question is, why haven’t you walked out horrified yet? Um, this is getting awkward.

—Anonymous Dear Literature, Enclosed is my Odyssey fanfiction.

Sincerely, Virgil

Stiles Students Thrilled to Hear College Renovation Will Include Electrical Outlets and Hot Water

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WE DELIVER Lil Wayne Credits Sigmund Freud’s Study of Psychosexual Stages with Inspiration for Musical Career Dear Freshmen, Welcome to Yale! You’ll be seeing a lot of me. Allow me to introduce myself: my friends call me Steve.

—Herpes

Dear James Franco, You look so good wearing a leather jacket in the sweltering heat. You are the Fonzie of the Ivy League.

Sincerely, James Franco Dear Fantasy Football, Where are the shirtless pics? Oh, wait, wrong fantasy...

Linguists Debate on Whether Thesauri Are “Useful” or “Handy” Dear Student, An error has occurred: you have been inactive for 30 seconds. You are now logged off.

Sincerely, OCS

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The Yale Record Dear Scientific American, Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself!

—Bully American

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Senior Citizen Finally Learns How to Use Internet Only to Discover Urbandictionary.com Dear Walgreens, When you reorganized your store to make way for back to school stuff, you moved the protein powder. Now people give me weird looks when I leave the feminine product section.

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hen I announced at the Record meeting that we would be doing a Sports issue, a collective groan rose from the staff: “But, Melissa, comedy writers can’t play sports!”

“I sprain my ankle just thinking about foosball!”

“I thought this was an AA meeting.”

With such an enthusiastic response, I embarked on a journey to educate them about the exciting world of sports.

We started with football. Coming from Texas, football was a big part of my life, as my parents would always take me to the scoliosis overlooking the Dallas Cowboys stadium. But with intensive study of the television series Friday Night Lights, I was able to teach the staff that football is played on a football field with a football and that sex scenes are way more interesting than football scenes on TV. The staff, dumbfounded by the simple elegance of my findings, asked if this was all I had to say on the subject. Of course not!

I added that football players often slap each other playfully on the butt, a practice that I thought the Record would do well to adopt.

When I asked for volunteers to demonstrate, Jordy yelled, “Look, a talking dog!” and everyone ran from the office while I was dis-

9 T he Y ale R ecord

tracted. How could I have missed that talking dog?

The staff was obviously unable to understand sports from my straightforward explanations, so it was suggested that we do a more “hands-on, interactive” activity to get in the mindset of an athlete. When I suggested butt slapping as such an activity, the staff decided to go play mini-golf without me. I understood; they were intimidated by my physical prowess.

When we convened at our next meeting, I asked how mini-golf went. “Awesome!” reported River, “I got a one in hole!” I corrected him: “Oh, you mean a hole in one?”

“No, no, I managed to get my ball in one of the holes once.

That’s one out of eighteen, which is a pretty good success rate in the grand scheme of things.” Dana excitedly added, “You know how there are random objects on the course?

Like a windmill?” “Yeah,” I answered, “You’re supposed to avoid the blades of the windmill to get the ball to the hole.” “Oh, so that’s how it works!” I was beginning to suspect that the staff had only a superficial interest in sports.

I thought perhaps we would have more success if we tried a collaborative team sport, so I organized a shirts vs. skins basketball game at Payne Whitney. I realized I should have explained the concept of shirts and skins better when the skins team showed up clad in leather jackets and pants.

While the “Leather Daddies” may have won major style points with those outfits, they still had to prove themselves on the court. After an hour of granny shots, double dribbling, and “I’m pretty sure that was a foul, so we should just take a water break for twenty minutes,” the shirts emerged victorious, and they gladly accepted the bottled water I proffered them. My butt slaps were not as well received, but then when has a new tradition ever been established without its detractors?

After the basketball game, the staff had had enough. I distinctly remember the cool touch of a badminton racket against my throat as I settled into my seat in Physics one day. “This sports madness has got to end. You’ve been warned. Also, do you have the notes from Friday’s lecture?” I agreed without question. It wasn’t worth giving up my wonderful staff just so that we could talk knowingly about Wayne Gretzky’s ERA. He plays for the Knicks, right?

—M. Chiasson

Chairman: Jordy Greenblatt ’11

Editor-in-Chief: Melissa Chiasson ’11 Publisher: Jerry Wang ’13 Design Editor: Ngozi Ukazu ’13 Managing Editors: River Clegg ’11, Jacob Paul ’13, Dana Zhu ’12 Art Director: Paul Robalino ’12 Staff Director: David Kemper ’13 Supplementals Editor: Nina Beizer ’12 Online Editor: Wesley Bolin ’12 Business Manager: Alli Hugi ’13 Publicity Manager: Lincoln Sedlacek ’13

Staff Writers & Artists: Ari Berkowitz ’12, Dounia Bredes ’11, Simon Chaffetz ‘12, Tasha Garcia ‘11, Zack Kagin ‘11, Adi Kamdar ’12, Nell Klugman ’12, Stephanie Naratil ’11, Valerie Naratil ’11, Brendan Ternus ’12, Bill Toth ’11 Contributing Writers & Artists: Serrena Iyer ’12, Darell Koh ’11, Babe Liberman ’11, Ellen Su ‘13, Lydia Stepanek ’12, Autumn Von Plinsky

’13, Kaan Vural ’12

Old Owls: Judd Rosenblatt ’11 Senior Editors: Jessica Bolhack ‘11, Alison Gates ‘11, Emily Sigman ’11 Special Thanks to: Michael Gerber, Gwyneth Tuckett and shuttlecocks everywhere

Cover: This month’s cover was illustrated by Ngozi Ukazu, who enjoys a good game of water pong.

Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXXXX, No. 2, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.com • Subscriptions: $30/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2009 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: letters should be addressed to: Chairman, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chairman@yalerecord.com. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.

The Sports Guru: What sport do you coach?

Welcome to another edition of the Sports Guru, the man with the answers to all things sports. Among my past columns have been classics like Water Polo or Regular Polo: Why No One Cares, and Is That a Football in Your Pants or Do You Just Have Prostate Cancer?

But today I’ll address a truly desperate class of readers: those of you who, despite your best efforts to maintain control over your life, have forgotten what sport you coach.

We’ve all been there. You wake up in a haze, a homemade bottle of 90-proof Gatorade on the nightstand. You remember nothing from last night other than how pretty that cheerleader was, and how strange her excuse was for not going home with you. It was something like “But the game isn’t over yet,” or “This is a girls’ middle school volleyball game and I’m only fourteen,” or “Sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”

So you’re awake. Also, you’re pretty sure you coach a sport. But which one? Here’s where I can help. Do you own any books entitled How to Coach Hockey? If so, you probably coach football, but cannot read.

Football coaches can’t read.

Maybe you coach wrestling. Would you describe your tolerance for homoerotic groping as “moderately

high” to “wrestling coach high”? Do you like sports, but dislike distractions such as balls, nets, and spectators?

Or maybe you coach fencing. Does it annoy you when people don’t take your duel challenges seriously?

Have you been searching for an excuse to wear a mask, cape, or mask-cape combination? Are you a sultry Spanish rogue trying to prevent General Montero from illegally annexing California’s gold mining territory?

Here’s an idea: check the gym bag next to your bed. Are there any lacrosse sticks in there? If so, you probably coach football, but stole the lacrosse coach’s equipment.

Football coaches steal things.

Of course, you might coach something else entirely, like croquet. (To find out, quickly calculate your argyle sweater vest to lime-green-pants-with-lobsters-on-them ratio. If you possess at least one of each item, you coach croquet.)

That’s all for the Sports Guru today – I hope this has been helpful. Also, if you happen to coach basketball, please send me an explanation of that halfcircle painted under the rim. It has always mystified me.

—R. Clegg

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The Lesser Buds Not all puppies get to become international sports superstars like Airbud. Here’s how the rest of the litter ended up: Bare Bud – Infamous Streaker Hair Bud – Hair Stylist Nair Bud – Lack of Hair Stylist Snare Bud – Master Hunter D.A.R.E. Bud – Anti-Drug Activist Éclair Bud – Dessert Chef Au Contraire Bud – Annoying Debater Bel Air Bud – West Philadelphia, Born and Raised Con Air Bud – President, Nicholas Cage Fan Club Be Prepared Bud – Boy Scout Safety Instructor Spare Bud – Unloved Runt —W. Bolin

OLYMPIC COMMITTEE DEFENDS DECISION TO ALLOW PARAPLEGIC, ENGINE PROPELLED SPRINTER TO COMPETE IN 2012 GAMES. Juan Barreros, 21, the paraplegic sprinter with a heart of gold and an internal combustion engine of steel, was officially given permission by the International Olympic Committee (IOC) yesterday to compete in the 2012 Summer Olympics.

Although Mr. Barreros lost both legs and severed his spine in a car accident four years ago, the implantation of an internal combustion engine in his chest cavity has allowed him to continue pursuing his dream of being an Olympic sprinter. “This is a great day not just for me,” Mr. Barreros claimed at a press conference, “but for all people who have ever been excluded from the Olympics due to having no lower body whatsoever.”

“The injustice stops today,” he added.

Critics of the Olympic Athletic Selection Committee (OASC) have called it unfair to admit a competitor who has no need to train athletically. “The Olympics have traditionally tested the physical and mental endurance of competitors,”protested Geoffrey Lee, spokesperson for the Alliance Against Performance Enhancing Engines.

“Questions of horsepower and RPMs have no place in these Games.”

OASC Chairman Johann Strinberg defended the verdict reached by the committee. “Fuel for athletes has evolved throughout history, from water to Gatorade to protein shakes,” Strinberg said. “Who are we to say that electricity or Diesel fuel shouldn’t be added to that list?” As a show of solidarity with the new sprinter, Mr. Strinberg then drank a pint of what appeared to be battery acid.

He is unavailable for further comment.

The last person to attempt what Mr. Barreros has now achieved was California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, in 1983. His applicatin was denied because the IOC deemed his ceaseless references to “finding Sarah Connor” incompatible with the spirit of the Olympics.

—D. Zhu

Unorthodox Ways to Rig a Sporting Event — Using stairs to pole vault — Replacing golf holes with black holes — Grafting a dolphin onto your body during the 200m butterfly — Substituting Roomba for curling puck — Using root beer in beer pong — Eating Wheaties the morning of the event — Shanking opponents at all possible moments — Replacing sand in beach volleyball with quicksand — Using a pre-killed bull in a bull-fight — Spiking opponents’ water with Everclear — Running too fast —Staff

12 T he Y ale R ecord

Tiger Woods’s Other Secrets Pictures golf balls as kitten heads Wrote the song “Mambo No. 5” Leaves seat up Favorite show: Charmed Drinks two liters of Fanta a day Has a nice singing voice Avid stamp collector

today, we dine in heck! Well not really, we’re going to Gary’s house for dinner after the game. Don’t forget to at least pat down your underarms before you go, because you all know how Gary is allergic to the smell of perspiration.

And, let’s admit it, we do sweat an awful bunch out on that field. Because we are awesome.

—N. Beizer —Staff

Symptoms of Steroid Use Band Geek Pep Talk

S. & V. Naratil

All right, fellow band warriors, look. Today’s the big game, and everyone’s counting on us. – the players, the cheerleaders, the fans, pretty much anyone who is interested in freedom for the free world. Granted, we can’t actually win or affect who wins the sports game in any way. If we try to interfere on the actual football field I’m pretty sure we would suffer nasty injuries to ourselves and to our instruments. In fact, why don’t we just stay the hell away from the field unless it’s specially designated band time? I’m talking about the half time show, those beautiful fifteen minutes we are allowed to shine and impress people with our highly synchronized stepping. That’s it. That’s the only time you’re allowed on the field, and then you run the hell away when it’s over, because otherwise you will die and probably destroy any brass instruments you may be holding, is that clear?

Anyway. I guess what I’m trying to say is that this game is a matter of life and death. We gotta play our little hearts out, and if we play so hard that they burst in the midst of our musical fervor, then we will be forever remembered in eternal glory. And let’s face it – band geeks like us don’t often get a shot at eternal glory. That normally goes to, I don’t know, well, good football players. And rocket scientists, I suppose. And ballers in general, which we are not. But we will be, dangit, if our triangles are struck at precisely the moment at which the universe is crying out for them to be struck. They will resonate with the frequency of a thousand gamma rays, and they will resonate in the hearts of our enemies, and our enemies will cower in fear.

Band geeks! Ready your reeds and blow hearty. For

Playing for the Yankees Masturbating to Bowflex infomercials Beheading mom for buying Gatorade instead of Powerade Using English majors as javelins 32” neck, 2” penis —Staff

“Quidditch updates its equipment to mixed reviews.”

13 T he Y ale R ecord

Lesser Known Mascots Notre Dame Child Molester Duke Arsonists Arizona State Scholars Cincinnati People of Color who Lived in America Before Those Stupid Europeans Came and Gave Everybody Smallpox Wellesley Lumberjacks LA Lakers Sammy the Subpoena BYU Wives University of Hawaii First Black Presidents Chicago Graft Monkeys Liberty University Gay Prostitutes (who voted Democratic in the last election and abort babies as a hobby) Rice Krispies Harvard Booger Butts —Staff

For the Respect of Moto Pacers The race is over. Once again, I’ve crossed the finish line first. My pulse is racing, my face sweaty and my throat parched. But no one cheers, no one congratulates me, no one offers me water. I am the most underappreciated person in the world of competitive cycling: the moto pacer.

Whenever I bemoan this fact, I am ruthlessly mocked.

I ride a motorcycle at the front of a pack of world-class cyclists edging a pace of 30 mph, and I’m the one who deserves respect?

I can answer that question with one word: yes.

Have you ever experienced the terror of being chased by a pack of 50 cyclists hopped up on steroids and (I suspect) crack? If so, then you’ll agree that it is only slightly less frightening than the prospect of receiving a root canal from Mussolini. I wake up at least four times a week in a cold sweat convinced that, this time, they’ve caught me. Each of the 17 therapists I have visited has laughed me out of his office.

But let me tell you, this is no laughing matter. My job is to make sure nothing bad happens to the poor little baby racers, like a car driving at them. Well, let me tell you, no

one is there to make sure that no car drives at ME. With the number of close calls I’ve had, I’m lucky I only wet my bed twice a week.

What really pisses me off is that people are always like, “Oh poor cyclists, what a dangerous sport, look how bad those crashes are.” My god! When those guys crash, a fifteen pound bike lands on them. Fifteen pounds— that’s what, an oversized infant? When I crash, a freaking motorcycle lands on me! My long-distance girlfriend always reassures me that I have never actually crashed, but that is so not the point.

They’re also racing for what, forty-five minutes? I am out there all day. I have to pace the damn intro riders who practically still need training wheels and all the women who think they even deserve to race. I am on my bike for 7 hours a day and the cyclists think their asses hurt? And let me tell you, that cream that cyclists put in their shorts to avoid chafing—totally does not work with jeans.

For awhile, I thought it was the clothes. Everyone loves those stupid jerseys cyclists wear. Maybe if I dressed like the other riders, people would love me just as much. But when I debuted my colorful new spandex and shaved legs, I had waffles thrown at me. They were delicious. But they also made me cry.

Now, I’m not asking for pity. I know that no one will ever ask me to head a cancer foundation. All I ask is that next time I cross the finish line, you applaud.

—A. Hugi

Regions of Spain With Soup Names Madridestrone Chowderlonia Granoodle Borschtalona Andastewcia Bisque Country

—J. Greenblatt

New Xtreme Sports Illustra ted by Tasha Garcia

Rock Vaulting

Innertube Ice Fishing

Competitive Fire Eating

Kayakparachuting

Luge Archery

Adventures of

by River Clegg Illustrated by Ngozi Ukazu

Part I: Mischievous Mussolini and the Gotham Bank Heist

D

eep underground below Camp David, we find our crime-fighting duo in the hastily named Underground Below Camp David Cave. The leader stands patiently, taut biceps stretching his modest argyle golf sweater to the breaking point. It is he, the former Supreme Allied Commander of the Western Front and thirty-fourth President of the United States, Dwight D. Eisenhower. Pacing nearby in his customary black trunks is his trusted sidekick, former Heavyweight Champion of the World Mike Tyson. Each is formidable in his own right, but together they become the unstoppable duo feared by petty thugs and arch-criminals in equal measure – the team known as Mike & Ike. The video screen before them scrambles to reveal a man’s face. “It’s the Commissioner,” squeaks Mike. Ike nods sternly.

“What’s the situation?” Eisenhower demands.

“It’s your old nemesis, Mischievous Mussolini.

Up to his old tricks, this time at Gotham Bank.

You two are the city’s only hope.”

“Understood, Commissioner. We’ll be there.”

Our heroes arrive on the scene in the Ike-Mobile and find the Gotham Bank lobby filled with bound hostages. “We better untie them,” squeaks Mike, who then spots a pretty blonde tied up near the corner. “Except for her.”

“There’s no time for that now,” Ike says as several of Mussolini’s hench-soldiers appear before our heroes. “Don’t be fooled because those soldiers are Italian,” Ike cautions Mike. “There’s still a chance they’ve learned how to fight.”

“Get-a them, boys!” yells the lead goon, and at once our heroes are set upon by the thugs.

“Don’t worry Ike, I got this,” squeaks Mike.

He then winds up for a knockout punch and lets

it fly, felling the lead soldier in one stroke and sending the rest scattering in retreat.

“Good work, Mike, good work,” Ike says as he gives his sidekick a perfectly heterosexual pat on the bottom. “If we’d had you at Normandy, we might’ve taken that beach even sooner.” Our leader pauses. “If D-Day were a boxing match.”

But our heroes’ troubles are only beginning.

Before them now, flanked by two large Italian troops, appears none other than Mischievous Mussolini. Clutching a large bag with a dollar sign in each hand, he calls out to our heroes. “That-a Mike Tyson may-a have beaten my other men, but you-a still can’t-a foil my plan.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, see,” retorts Ike, producing a golf club from his utility belt. “Today, the only train that will run on time is the one taking you to prison.” With that, he begins advancing on his nemesis with tortoise-like determination and speed.

“Look out!” squeaks Mike as the first large henchman throws a bocce ball at Ike, which strikes him directly in the forehead and knocks him to the ground.

Avenging his fellow crime-fighter, Mike charges the henchmen and drops each with a knockout blow to the jaw. Our leader then rises to his feet, rubbing his head.

“He must’ve headed for the roof, and with Gotham Bank’s money,” Ike says gravely.

“You know, why do they call it Gotham Bank?

It just confuses us with Batm—” “Quiet!” Ike cuts our sidekick off. “We need to get that money back!”

“KA-POW!”

Arriving at the roof, our heroes find our villain escaping in our helicopter. “Oh no you don’t,” says Ike coolly, who pulls a golf ball from his belt and drops it to the ground. Scanning the distance and testing the wind, he winds up his golf club and swings. A straight shot, the ball strikes Mussolini’s skull with a great KA-POW! and brings him to the floor, the helicopter leaving him to the mercy of our heroes.

“I guess your mischief didn’t work out this time, did it, Mussolini?” says Ike as he looks down at his vanquished foe. He then kneels down to the Italian dictator and continues. “And now I’m going to eat your children.”

“Hey!” squeaks Mike, “that’s my line!”

And our heroes and villain laugh, each having learned an important lesson about friendship. n

Tiger Woods

Tonya Harding

The Enquirer reported Tiger strayed from his wife, The love of his heart, The love of his life, The ladies stepped forward, Dozens in all, And when Tiger confirmed, He made sponsors bawl

Marion Jones When Marion won Running in Sydney People noticed she might be Stronger than she should be So she goes to court And to steroids admits

Tonya saw Nancy Skate so perfectly That she hired someone To hit her in the knee By pleading guilty She got out of the scrape And, redeemed from her shame, She made a sex tape

Sport Scandal

Poetry Corner By Jordy Greenblatt Melissa Chiasson Illustrated by Autumn Von Plinsky

With hair on her chin And mosquito-bite tits Mike Tyson In the MGM Grand Battled two of the greats Tyson and Holyfield The top heavyweights But when the crowd screamed Holyfield couldn’t hear He was down on all fours In search of his ear

19 T he Y ale R ecord

Alternate Sports Slang Home Dunk 5th Base Hole in 8 Zero-point conversion Shake and bake and stab

—Staff

The World’s Worst Stenographer DEFENSE ATTORNEY: In conclusion I would like the jury to keep Mr. Wilson’s testimony in mind while—is that bothering anyone else?

JUDGE: What is the problem, Mr. Thorpe?

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: The stenographer is typing very loudly and it’s driving me nuts. Is there anything we can do about this, your Honor?

JUDGE: Perhaps if you speak louder you can drown out the typewriter.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: AS I WAS SAYING, MR. WILSON’S TESTIMONY SEEMS TO INDICATE—WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? WHY DID IT JUST GET EVEN LOUDER? STENOGRAPHER: You were speaking louder so I had to write in all capitals. My CAPS Lock and Shift keys are both jammed.

PROSECUTER: I think this is only fair since that thing was roaring when I had the floor. Plus the stenographer wouldn’t stop sneezing.

JUDGE: Stenographer, please read back the segment to which Mr. O’ Connor is referring.

STENOGRAPHER: PROSECUTER: And where was this alleged rendezvous on the night of the— STENOGRAPHER: (sneeze) MR. WILSON: I’m sorry; I didn’t catch that.

PROSECUTER: I said where was the alleged— STENOGRAPHER: (sneeze) MR. WILSON: Would you please repeat that for me one more time?

PROSECUTER: Where was this alleged rendezvous on—

STENOGRAPHER: Wait, wait, I think I’m about to—ahh—ahh—nope, it went away. It one of those back of the nose things. You know, like where— JUDGE: Stenographer, please be quiet; we have to continue. We’re already behind schedule.

STENOGRAPHER: I’m sorry your Honor. Sorry everyone!

JUDGE: STENOGRAPHER! (pause) Why did your typing just get louder?

JUDGE: Thank you Stenographer; that’s enough.

Mr. Thorpe, please try to tune out the stenographer as best you can.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: All I was trying to say is that I would like the jury to keep Mr. Wilson’s testimony in mind while deliberating and that— STENOGRAPHER: Your Honor, when will there be a bathroom break?

—J. Greenblatt

Rejected Olympic Sports — Waterboarding — Summer bobsled — Smoking weed with Michael Phelps — Slip n Slide races — Competitive cannon-balling — Cow tipping — Capture the Flag — Chariot racing — Jamaican bobsled crashing — Gladiator tournaments — Easter egg hunt — Russian roulette — Snake charming — Log rolling — Rick rolling — Extreme knitting

—Staff

20 T he Y ale R ecord

Stock Car Racing Is So Easy, a ThreeYear-Old Could Do It By a Three-Year-Old Stock car racing. I’ve seen it. I’ve breathed it, felt it in my bones. All I want to do is live it everyday, but because I’m three years old, some people find this objectionable.

“Why would anyone in his or her right mind allow a three-year-old to drive a 750 horsepower racecar?” they say. “His feet wouldn’t even reach the pedals!” they crow.

“Unless that child writes an opinion piece explaining how safe stock car racing is for a toddler, I’m not changing my mind!” they declare.

Well here’s your editorial, motherfuckers.

Stock car racing has its roots in the prohibition era of the 1920s when moonshine runners banded together in cars to outrun the cops. Didn’t think a three-year-old would know that, did you? Another interesting fact: you’re all agist assholes. Anyway, these bootleggers eventually started racing each other. In 1948 Bill France, Sr., established NASCAR to standardize stock car races, and today it’s a cutting-edge business making billions of dollars from selling wife beaters and “Who farted?” t-shirts.

involvement in the deaths of 18 fellow racers, but it was a freak coincidence. People always love to blame a baby.

Behind the wheel, Grandpa would always give me the same advice, “Alright, Junior, the gas pedal’s to your right, brake’s to your left. Let me know if I taped your hands to tight to the wheel or if the stilts on your legs ain’t staying. Be calm, stay focused. Always blow under a .08 on the breathalyzer and you’ll be right as rain. Oh shit, there are the cops. I could go away for a long time letting a toddler drive and all.”

And I still stand by that advice today: brake’s to the left, gas is to the right, the clutch is somewhere down there. If you can’t see the windshield, just imagine what’s out there and race. What’s the worst that could happen?

I wouldn’t be the top stock car racer in my age group if I didn’t know how to drive. So next time you’re about to tear this three-year-old down for doing what he loves, you’d better expect to finish it on the racetrack. But first I’m going to need a diaper change. ­—M. Chiasson

I grew up in a stock car culture. My grandfather, Jimmy “Hubcap” Jones, raced mules on his farm in Missouri.

Once car technology made it to Missouri around 1980, he bought himself a real nice Ford Fiesta and fixed it up with a V8 engine and rocket launchers. Fast forward five years, he had become the stock car racing champ of Missouri and a storied womanizer, a modern day George Washington.

Grandpa was always disappointed in my father, on account of his not being interested in racing and being a huge dick. But Grandpa saw a spark of talent in me, and I took to driving like a goat takes to water. I spent hours of my childhood in a car, crying, pooping myself, and sometimes touching the steering wheel. It’s the only way to learn how to drive.

N. Ukazu

I was 18 months at my first race, and despite some spit up problems on the last 100 laps (you try eating creamed corn before a race), it was a safe ride and I was in control the entire time. I do feel bad for my incidental

“I thought we were going to play catch.”

21 T he Y ale R ecord

A Letter

How I Spent My Summer

Dear Evangelical Guy Trying to Convert me Outside Hoagie Haven,

Dear Fellowships Office, I wanted to present my fellowship report to you in a creative way, so I hope you enjoy this short play that aptly details what I did over the summer months.

I get that you’re trying to help me, and I’ll admit that it’s not often I meet someone with enough compassion to worry about the wellbeing of a complete stranger.

Furthermore, I have nothing against Jesus or Christians, and I have no problem with your belief system. But the fact is I’m a secular Jew, and I plan on holding on to that label.

To put it plainly, being Jewish kicks ass. First of all, not to toot my own horn, but I look like dynamite in a yarmulke. Whether it’s one of those woven ones you get on the street in Israel or the leather ones from up-scale bar mitzvahs, they make me look like one rockin’ Hebrew.

Furthermore, I thoroughly enjoy turning to Jewish friends, rolling my eyes, and saying “oy, goyim” whenever someone says something uninformed about Judaism.

More that that, I don’t know if you’ve heard the good news, but we’ve been voted “God’s chosen people” for like the 3000th year in a row. That means that God looked at all the people in the world, noticed Abraham, and thought to himself, “Well he seems like a bang-up kind of guy, I want to bless his descendents for ALL OF ETERNITY!” Why would I voluntarily give that up? I relish my heritage. I take pride in everyone from Maimonides to Einstein and everything from mezuzahs to yarmulkes, in which I look pretty killer.

Here you are preaching to me, but take a good look at what you’re saying. Like that stuff about all my gay friends and relatives roasting in hell for the rest of time? I have a feeling that if God is infinitely wise, he’s probably focusing more on war in the Middle East, oppression in China, starvation in Africa—even the Yankees/Sox game—than on my cousin’s two daddies.

And what all-knowing God would want me to ditch my collection of fashionable yarmulkes?

I’m not trying to start a fight here, buddy. You don’t see me coming up to you on the street and asking, “Have you been circumcised?” So please, let us all live in peace, safe from your harangues of divine smiting and cruel vengeance from above. All I ask is that you don’t attack my worldview and you stay away from my personal beliefs.

And yarmulkes.

—J. Greenblatt

We open with our two protagonists, Melissa and Jorge, sitting at a table in a small jungle shack, dimly lit by the rays of a beautifully setting sun.

Melissa: Thanks so much for answering my questions about sustainable farming practices here in Colombia, Jorge. And you really didn’t have to give me a gift.

Melissa pulls the gift, a small plastic baggie, out of her pocket.

Jorge: De nada.

Jorge takes a swig from a flask and gestures for Melissa to pour the contents of the plastic baggie on the back of a dead hooker. Melissa thinks to herself that this must be a quaint local custom.

Melissa: This is such a unique learning experience. I never thought you would need so many armed guards and machine guns for sustainable farming, but I don’t farm myself, so how would I know?

Jorge nods, seemingly uninterested in what Melissa has to say. He gestures to Melissa to sniff the white powder off the dead hooker’s back. Melissa, not wanting to break some cultural more, obliges.

Melissa: Yikes, that burns! Muy caliente, no?

Jorge just rolls his eyes.

Melissa: Okay, well, I guess I better get going now.

Thanks for showing me around, hope the corn harvest is plentiful!

Melissa makes for the door, but Jorge puts Melissa in a chokehold, the locals’ way of saying goodbye to one another. She lays unconscious on the floor.

Fast forward through two months of hostage negotiations and diplomatic wrangling, and we find Melissa sitting in a therapist’s office.

Therapist: Well, perhaps you could find a creative way of expressing your feelings about these past few months.

Melissa: But how can I deftly describe the summer while also emphasizing how much I hate the Fellowships Office?

Therapist: That’s a question only you can answer.

END SCENE

—M. Chiasson

OP-ED

OFF THE RECORD

Point, Counterpoint: Refereeing COUNTER-POINT:

POINT:

Point: Ref, you are so biased.

R

ef, you’ve gotta get your eyes examined. That call was bullshit! Their point guard was clearly in possession of the ball and everyone could see he steppedover the line. You heard the booing. The entire audience saw it! You are completely biased and you’re treating us totally unfairly.

Remember that call in the first quarter when Will Bates shoved me and nearly knocked me over but you still said it

“You are completely biased and you’re treating us totally unfairly.”

didn’t count as a foul?

How is it fair that suddenly you remember how to call a foul when I knocked him over two minutes later when his feet WEREN’T EVEN PLANTED ON THE GROUND? You gave him three goddamn shots. That’s a load of crap.

Look, man, I’m not asking for much. I’m not asking for special treatment and I’m not trying to get your sympathy.

“I just want you to cut this out.”

I just want you to cut this out. Your job is to act as arbiter and make sure everyone plays by the rules. That’s not going to happen as long as you keep making such biased calls.

Jordan Greenblatt Writes Point, Counter-point

Counterpoint: You’re right, I hate your fucking team.

Y

ou’re right. I think your team is a bunch of whiny ass pussies and I really want you to lose.

I am doing everything in my power to ensure

“I think your team is a bunch of whiny ass pussies and I really want you to lose.” that that happens.

Aww, was baby upset when Will Bates shoved him?

Tough titties, dickhead. That was hilarious! My only regret is that you didn’t turn your ankle when you fell.

Oh yeah, and their point guard definitely stepped over the line. No doubt about that one.

Look, it’s not your fault that I hate your rotten guts.

From the moment you asswipes walked out onto the floor, I knew I was going to bend every rule I promised to uphold in order to fuck you over. I never even gave you a chance.

“I never even gave you a chance.”

In conclusion, you really hit the nail on the head, genius. You’re absolutely correct that I want you to fail and that I have been, and will continue to be, making sure that you do. It will bring me endless pleasure to see you and your posse of cunty little bitches mope off the court at the end of the game. I just hope I have a chance to pee in your Gatorade during halftime. could not only be the biggest cat found in your ceiling, but the most illiterate cat. Cats in ur ceiling, watching u do all sorts of weird things that you do not want a cat to see, are a huge problem today. They are sneaky, annoying, and furry

23

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Dear Campus Brochure Writers, Apparel Apparel “Consent is sexy”? That’s really the Cold Cold Weather Weather Gear Gear best you could do? I guess “You are Cycling Cycling Shorts Shorts Protective legally obligated to ask for consent before Protective Equipment Equipment engaging in sexual intercourse with Accessories Accessories Dear of Man Enticing Me into His Car Full Bicycle Accessories anyone or you can be charged with rape” Full Selection Selection of Bicycle Accessories with the Promise of Candy, is long-winded, but I’m pretty sure “is Sorry, a puppy really would have sealed sexy” doesn’t connote that. What about the deal.

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Dear Tour Group, To your right you will see Sterling Memorial Library. Constructed in 400 BC by the Egyptian pharaohs, Sterling served as the sacred site where bodies were mummified and then later packaged into hovercraft to be taken back to Africa. Interesting fact: it is still a requirement of Yale College today to kill and mummify one person to honor this ancient tradition. Now, you won’t hear this on any other Yale tour, but I just want to share these special institutional secrets with you.

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Dear Bain Recruiters, Thanks for the fancy dinner! I’m still unsure about whether consulting is the right choice for me. Maybe if we got together for dinner tomorrow? And the next night? I have a lot of questions.

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Dear Seminar on Aesthetics, Please disregard the projection of my computer’s background on the screen before you. It appears some mischievous sprite has replaced my regular background of frolicking lion cubs with a photo of a woman fondling her breasts and licking her lips seductively. Yes, it may be inappropriate, but we can at least agree as scholars that it is hot.

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How to Sound Like You Know Something about Sports

by Kaan Vural Imagine your life as it probably is now: solitary, meaningless, and generally pathetic.

Now imagine another kind of life: one in which all your romantic, bro-mantic, and – dare I say it – DiMaggio-mantic aspirations are within your grasp. Welcome to the world of sports knowledge. As the writer of this guide, I personally guarantee that after reading this article you'll be swilling booze and scoring broads left and right, and for one simple reason: you'll be able to talk about sports on par with the finest commentators of our generation.

What's my secret? The following simple heuristic: Words + Confidence = IMPRESSIVE SPORTS KNOWLEDGE How do you exploit this? For starters, try stringing together long sequences of sports terms in no particular order. As long as you deliver your lines with confidence and bravado, you can get away with murder. Let's take the following conversation snippet as an example, with the suggested comment underlined: “Nadal's been having a tough year, what with his injuries and all.”

“Yes, although the action in that overhead ball boy spanks any love game, usually when Federer mixes doubles to backhanding a bagel.”

“That is so true! I've always thought that.”

I encourage you to use the above sentence in any

tennis-related conversation, even if Roger Federer is not actually involved.

The reason this works is that any sports fan worth his salt would rather agree with surreal non-sequiturs than risk being found out as ignorant of key sports concepts. He will therefore pretend to agree with you in a desperate attempt to mask his confusion as to what the hell you're going on about.

Another cunning strategy is to state the obvious with as much volume, bravado, and vocabulary as possible. Take note of such gems as: If the team is losing: “These guys have got to get ahead of the game, because if they don't, by the time the game is done, they've basically, y'know, lost the game.”

If the team is winning: “Now that they have the lead, the important thing is not to waste it.

If they waste that lead, then the other guys are gonna take over, and, y'know, they'll win.”

If a team is losing but is also popular: “They've got heart, and that's the most important thing in a game like this.”

Wild orgies are sure to ensue if you cap off a night with this doozy: “You just can't ignore the psychological factors in this game.”

And that's it! You now have a solid understanding of the guiding principles behind sports commentary. Hope to see you out on the basketball courts three-point shooting a post basket lay-up dunk windmill!

Ben Greenman

Editor at The New Yorker, Author of Superbad and Superworse, Journalist and Essayist A Davenport Master’s Tea Thursday, September 24th, 4:00pm