Vol. 147, No. 4
THE YALE
Dec. 7, 2018
“The Nation’s Oldest Humor Magazine” or
“The Nation’s Most Humorous Old Magazine” Join us.
chair@yalerecord.org
MAKING AMENDS: STARBUCKS JUST CRUCIFIED THE ARTIST RESPONSIBLE FOR ITS GENERIC HOLIDAY CUPS Dear humans, Please stop using your third wish to wish for infinite wishes. We miss our families. Sincerely, Genies
Dear Editor, I noticed that your previous issue referred to a goose as a “large bird.” I request an immediate retraction. A goose is merely sizable at best. Sincerely, Reader
SHOWING CLEAR LIBERAL HOLLYWOOD BIAS, UNIVERSAL STUDIOS ENTERS 106TH CONSECUTIVE YEAR WITHOUT MAKING A MOVIE TECHNOLOGY FTW! I TESTED MY ELECTRICAL OUTLETS WITH A FORK, ABOUT CLEVE, MY RACIST UNCLE FROM ARKANSAS AND THEY ALL WORK REALLY WELL
Dear Genies, We wish you a Merry Christmas with your loved ones. Warmly, Humans P.S. We also wish for delicious cocaine.
Dear Reader, We were unable to find any mention of “goose” or “large bird.” Perhaps you were thinking of when we referred to chickens as “bigly cluckers.” Best, Editor
IN HONOR OF COLUMBUS DAY, WHITE PEOPLE DISCOVER AFFIRMATIVE ACTION Dear Editor, No, I am most certainly not thinking of that. Chickens are bigly cluckers so I would have no issue with you referring to them as such. I can’t believe you are insinuating that I don’t know theObituary differenceCorrection between a goose Record This Editorial wouldstraw. like to andThea Yale chicken. is Board the last apologize for an erroneous obituary in a previous I will no longer be subscribing to issue of the magazine. The editors confused Stephen Hawking with skateboarder Tony Hawk, Highlights Magazine. misidentifying the late theoretical physicist as “X Sincerely, Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom HuckJam’ BMX freestyle motocross tour.” Reader
YOUR AD CAN'T GO HERE CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS
NEW:
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AREA MAN’S FAVORITE CHRISTMAS MOVIE FUCKING DIE HARD Dear students, I did not choose to be neutered. Please stop making fun of my removed organs. Sincerely, Handsome Dan
Dear Dan, Because of complications from the surgery, my dad can no longer participate in the Turkey Trot “Gobble Gobble Fun Run.” The only thing you can no longer do is hump trees. Don’t you make fun of my dad or me ever again. Best, Alex
PRODUCT PLACEMENT FTW! THE END OF AN ERA: JIMMY KIMMEL HAS VATICAN HAS ANNOUNCED THAT IT RESIGNED AFTER ASKING PARENTS WILL START BAPTIZING BABIES WITH TO POST PICTURES OF THEIR A REFRESHING CAN OF MELLO YELLO CHILDREN’S FEET TO TWITTER AND TAG HIM Dear Stephanie Meyer, Dear Handsome Dan, Ever since you made fun of my dad for losing a kidney, your balls are fair game. Best, Alex, GH ’20
“SOMETIMES THE JOURNEY IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE DESTINATION,” REPORTS OBGYN AFTER BOTCHED C-SECTION Dear Alex, Your dad still has a kidney. I have zero balls. Sincerely, Dan
OPPOSITES ATTRACT? THIS FIREFIGHTER MARRIED A FEMALE FIREFIGHTER
Why were there no black people in Twilight? Sincerely, An Ally
LOCAL HERO REFUSES TO BRUSH TEETH UNTIL AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION DECLARES ELBOWS THE KNEES OF THE UPPER BODY Dear An Ally, Are vampires BLACK?
Best, Stephanie Meyers
THE PLACEBO EFFECT ISN’T REAL: I TOLD MY FOUR-YEAR-OLD SON THAT I’VE BEEN FEEDING HIM GROWTH PILLS WHILE HE SLEEPS AND HE STILL ISN’T HEAVY ENOUGH TO WRESTLE ME
like to previous Stephen Hawk, as “X m Boom
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Dear Chief Ronnell Higgins, I know you’re cheating on me. Sincerely, The Slimy Ghost of Nathan Hale
LOST IN TRANSLATION: I TRIED SHOWING MY FAVORITE MR. POTATO HEAD PORN TO A SLOVENIAN CHILD AND HE CRIED NEW: Old Spice Men’s 5 in 1 Shower Gel --Shampoo---Conditioner---Body Wash---Lighter Fluid---Is Self-Aware And Can Do Your Taxes-“Great for Normal to Oily Skin!”
Dear the Slimy Ghost of Nathan Hale, First of all, we were never exclusive, and second of all, you are one of the worst ghosts I have ever smooched, even worse than the Slippery Ghost of Eli Whitney. Sincerely, Chief Ronnell Higgins Dear Chief Ronnell Higgins and the Slimy Ghost of Nathan Hale, I would appreciate if you did not talk about me behind my back. You both know I am trying to put my sordid past of sensual adventures behind me as I move forward into a brand new and clean future. Sincerely, The Slippery Ghost of Eli Whitney
Check out our website, yalerecord.org, for more primo content!
NOT PICTURED: Muhammad. Duh.
RE
EN,
—R. Chang
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“OH SHIT, IT’S 2 A.M.” SAYS GUY IN CHAIR THAT LOOKS LIKE AN EGG Dear Jeff Bezos, Is Alexa sentient?
Sincerely, A 5-year-old child
THE PLACEBO EFFECT ISN’T REAL: I SWITCHED MY SON’S CALCIUM SUPPLEMENTS WITH FROZEN BUTTER AND NOW ALL HIS BONES HAVE DISSOLVED AND HE HAS TO BE CARRIED AROUND IN A WHEELBARROW
Dear 5-year-old child, Are women sentient? Sincerely, Jeff Bezos
TOO SOON? MAYBE “ENCHANTING SEPTEMBER AT THE TWIN TOWERS” WASN’T THE BEST FALL-RELATED THEME FOR THIS HIGH SCHOOL’S HOMECOMING DANCE Dear Dr. Phil, Can you tell me what these yellow warts on the bottom of my feet are? It hurts when I put my weight on them. Thanks, Ricky
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EMPOWERMENT WIN! AS PART OF THEIR INNER-BEAUTY MARKETING CAMPAIGN, DOVE IS NOW SELLING BONE-BLEACHING AGENTS Dear Ricky, You’ve got popcorn toes, my boy! All the best, Dr. Phil
X-RAYS REVEAL THAT POLLOCK DISCOVERED SPLATTER TECHNIQUE IN DESPERATE ATTEMPT TO COVER UP MASSIVE NUDE SELF-PORTRAIT
—P. Davis
Emmy Waldman ‘11
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am writing this editorial in the library of Saint Thomas More Chapel, the “stomping grounds” of Catholics at Yale so to speak. Being here, it is hard to remember that Christianity is under constant attack, because this place fucking rocks. It is almost as big as my family’s second home and nearly half as nice. Their kitchen is stocked with various flavors of Deep River chips, an assortment of teas, and countless cookies, all of which I assume have been pre-transubstantiated by a minister into the body and blood of Christ. The center even has a life-sized cardboard cutout of the Pope which is almost better than the real Pope because you can kiss this one on the mouth instead of just the ring. But Saint Thomas More isn’t just a place for students to hang out and get baptized if they want, chaplain Father Robert Beloin tells me. In fact, impromptu adult baptisms constitute just forty percent of his work at the center. Beloin spends most of his time on campus outreach, trying to convince students that virginity is better than fucking. In its array of free services and events, Saint Thomas More is essentially a Planned Parenthood for Catholics. Yet when I ask Father Beloin whether he has considered trademarking the slogan “Saint Thomas More: It’s Like Planned Parenthood, But Even Better,” he informs me that there is actually a deep rift between the Catholic Church and Planned Parenthood, dating back to the organization’s inception in 1916 when it controversially coined its New York headquarters “The Vatican of Abortions.” Beloin proceeds to tell me a Catholic parable about a pregnant woman who went to an “inn” (read, Planned Parenthood center) in search of a “room to deliver her child” (read, late-term abortion) on Christmas Eve. Fortunately, the “inn” was already so full of people getting abortions and then immediately regretting it that she was turned away, leading her to give birth to her child in a barn. The twist? That pregnant woman was Mary Christ. The even bigger twist? Her nearly aborted child went on to become a little someone called Jesus Christ. Shivers run down my spine as I realize the impli-
T A merica ssue The he C Worporate ar O n C hristma s IIssue cations of this story. Had Mary aborted Jesus, neither of them would have received any frankincense or myrrh from the wise men. It is a sobering tale which reminds us that abortions do not come without a cost, namely, the cost of frankincense and myrrh. Father Beloin then takes me to the “abortion” section of Saint Thomas More’s library. The name is a misnomer, I soon realize, as no abortions are performed in this section, or any other section of the library, for that matter. In fact, Father Beloin informs me that the entire chapel is an “abortion-free zone”. The “abortion” section of the library simply houses books which condemn abortion, including a short read entitled Abortion: The Silent Holocaust. “Oh, I get it. This is a joke,” I say, holding up the book. “This is just one of those silly, edgy Record jokes.” “No no no,” he replies. “This is an actual book in the Saint Thomas More library. It is in the abortion section, which is an actual section in our library, and its call number is HQ767. P695.” “Oh, ok.” I say. “Thanks!” I am a little bit skeptical of Abortion: The Silent Holocaust, but not for the reasons you’d expect: I am skeptical of it because it refers to abortions as “The Silent Holocaust.” However, the back cover assures me that in the book, “John Powell addresses a highly emotional issue with words of love and peace, not anger. He believes that each of us has an important message to deliver, a song to sing, a unique act of love to warm the world.” Obviously, this is a huge relief, as I did not realize that the book was just Powell’s unique act of love. Still, I am weary of his credentials, even though by age thirty he “had accumulated so many academic degrees [he] felt like ‘Father Fahrenheit’” (Powell 16). After all,
Ellen Yang ’20 Chair
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even Powell acknowledges that while fifteen years of Jesuit training are of course a necessary step towards being informed about the trials of pregnancy and childbirth, as a man, he was still missing one crucial experience, namely, that of watching a woman undergo these trials from a safe distance. So to round out his seminary education, Powell attended the birth of a baby boy in Akron, Ohio, a revelatory experience he recounts in the chapter, “From Akron to Dachau.” Unfortunately, as a true God-fearing Catholic, I have never looked at a pregnant woman, let alone witnessed the miracle of childbirth, leaving me without a frame of reference to say whether Powell’s account is accurate. Though the title of the book is jarring, in Powell’s defense, he waited until 1981 to publish it, by which point the Holocaust was all but a distant memory. Even so, it seems questionable for one religious group on our campus to house a book so clearly dismissive of another’s genocide. I wonder if Saint Thomas More sees it this way, and if they do, how they reconcile their implicit endorsement of such an antagonistic text with the beatific vision of Christian love Powell himself promotes. As the back cover explains, “For Powell...Love does not ask, ‘Are you handicapped? [or] will you be a financial burden?” referring of course to the infamous first two questions of the New York Times’ “36 Questions That Lead To Love.” “Love says only, ‘You are one of our human family, and we love you.” Merry Christmas, from my human family to yours.
—E. Connors Editor in Chief
Elliot Connors ’20 Editor in Chief
Jake Houston ’19 Online Editor in Chief
Chloe Prendergast ’20 Publisher
Noah Amsel ’20 Webmaster
Caleb Cohen ’21 Managing Editor
Dylan Schifrin ’20 Director of Online Content
Anastasia Dalianis ’21 Art Director
Simon Custer ’20 Business Manager
Brian Beitler MD ’22 Medical Counsel
Walker Caplan ’20 Online Managing Editor
Mariah Kreutter ’20 Managing Editor
Harry Rubin ’21 Managing Editor
Marcy Sanchez ’21 Design Editor
Adam Chase ’19 Director of Special Projects
Maddy Blaney ’21 Staff Director
Nathan Ewing-Crystal ’19 Old Owl
Liz Kingsley ’19 Old Owl
Adam Lessing ’19 Old Owl
Colin Baciocco ’21 Ethan Fogarty ’21
Dalia Moallem ’21 Veena Muraleetharan ’20
Jocelyn Wexler ’21 Grace Wynter ’20
Itai Almor ’20 David Hou ‘22
Paige Davis ’21 Alex Kane ‘22
Alex Hoganson ‘20 Amanda Thomas ‘21
Staff:
Vicky Liu ’19 Old Owl
Sarah Force ’20 Alec Zbornak ’21
Lane Unsworth ’19 Old Owl
Max Nobel ’21 Kiran Chokshi ’20
Laura Koech ’21 Yonatan Greenberg ’21
Rosa Chang ‘22 Tom Battles ‘20
Valerie Pavilonis ‘22 Victoria Chen ‘21
Contributors: Ryan Ofman ‘22 Cameron Berg ‘22
Honorable mention to: the War on Drugs, the War in Iraq, the Civil War, Pearl Harbor, Storage Wars, etc. Front Cover: Rosa Chang ‘22, whose unseemly depiction of Christ’s exposed leg is certainly the most sacrilegious part of this issue. Back Cover: Itai “Neat Guy”Almor ‘20 Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXLVII, No. 3, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2018 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.
THE LIBERALS ARE HIDING CAMERAS IN OUR ELVES ON THE SHELVES The liberals are hiding cameras in our Elves on the Shelves so they can watch our kids take baths. I have been using Elf on the Shelf for the past 4 years to keep an eye on my boy while he washes at night. He wasn’t cleaning himself very thoroughly and I kept finding Cap’n Crunch residue on his backside, so I put a webcam in my little elf buddy on the shower rail to give my son the encouragement he needs to wash those hard-to-reach places. Now, I don’t even have to inspect his freshly washed body because “the elf always knows.” However, I have reason to believe that the the loony lefties have been utilizing the same technology to turn Elves on the Shelves into secret lib-cameras. First, the liberals love to watch our children bathe. I first noticed this back in August when I took my boy and a few of his friends to Six Flags. As soon as my son took a fatty dump in the wave pool, a Clinton Foundation-funded “life guard” was right there with his hands all over the boy’s soft body to “rescue” him. Second, the liberals love planting cameras in figurines. When I felt up the mechanical rat at Chuck-E-Cheese during my niece’s gender reveal party, “security” rounded me up and brought me into the Soros-funded police station; but not before I discovered a little liberal webcam peeking out of the rat’s shorts. Third, the liberals love destroying the sanctity of Christmas. How do I know? Well, for the past five years I’ve been taking my boy to “Uncle Richie’s XXX-Mas Spectacular” over at the Pleasure Palace off I-44. This year, however, I pulled into the parking lot to find that they’ve renamed the
event to the “Holiday Hoe-Down.” Uncle Richie would never forget the true reason for the season, so it must have been one of those damned satanic libs who forced him to take the Christ out of Christmas. If these liberals are willing to disrespect the Lord, what’s stopping them from abusing the sanctity of our Elves on the Shelves, figurines made in the Lord’s image? So next time you set up your Elf on the Shelf to make sure your little man is bathing thoroughly, be careful. Chances are, you’re not the only one watching. —H. Rubin
GREETINGS OTHER THAN “MERRY CHRISTMAS” FOR THIS YEAR’S HOLIDAY CARD Happy 2018th Birthday To Our Favorite Man (Christ) Your Body Is A Winter Wonderland. This Card Doubles As My Divorce Announcement. Ski-son’s Greetings, From Our Upper Middle Class Family To Yours Behold! Here Is How Large My Children Are Now. Another Holiday Season, Another Joyous New Year: Time Flies When You’re Deep In Prayer! A Warm Belated Easter, To You and Yours Let’s Get This Body Of Christ —S. Force
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FINDING INNER PEACE THIS HOLIDAY SEASON This Thanksgiving, my vegan friends and I decided to host our own dinner dedicated to clean eating. The idea came to us right before our respective families requested we not join them for Thanksgiving this year, so it actually worked out perfectly and literally nobody was offended. Apparently, our “vegan moralism” and “anecdotes from recent abortions” put a damper on last year’s festivities, but I have no regrets. Anyways, as my friends and I chowed down on “smart mac and cheese,” which is steamed cauliflower with no oil or salt or cheese, we talked about how clean-eating isn’t just a meal-to-meal commitment. It’s a cult. So, after dinner, we headed to Target to pick up copies of Erin Willow’s manifesto, Mindfulness, Medicine, and Eating Your Way to Inner Peace. Little did we know, the Black Friday mayhem had already begun. The sight of so many Lululemon-clad women sucked into a capitalist frenzy made me sick to my stomach. It’s like, Athleta? Ever heard of it, ladies? I resolved to make my purchase peacefully and leave, only to find every copy of Willow’s book pillaged by these heathens. Suddenly, I was overcome by a strange hunger, as if I hadn’t eaten all day. Granted, we purposefully undercooked the cauliflower so that we would burn more calories chewing than we’d consume, but this was a different type of hunger. Without thinking, I grabbed the nearest high-pony and yanked hard. The rest of the night was a blur. I remember only the screaming, her screaming. And the laughing, my laughing. And the blood, her blood. I was finally at peace, like in those movie fight scenes where everything slows down and tranquil music plays. I used to think directors who did that were just lazy, but now I get it. It’s like Tolstoy wrote: “Sometimes, war is the greatest peace of all. The end.” So thank you, Erin, for teaching me how to eat my way to inner peace this holiday season. It wasn’t the lesson I was expecting but one that will certainly serve me well in my notoriously violent cell block. And friends, if you’re reading this, don’t worry about me. I have made peace with the judge’s ruling. In fact, I wish both her and the bailiff a safe and speedy recovery. As for the wounds I inflicted upon the prosecuting attorney, however, I have no regrets. I should have aborted. him when I had the chance. Happy holidays. —C. Prendergast
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STARBUCKS RELEASES SEASONAL “HAIL SATAN” MUG BY A. HOGANSON
SEATTLE, WA—In conjunction with its seasonal green and white cup, Starbucks on Friday unveiled its newest holiday-themed container, an unaccountably heavy, slightly glowing “Hail Satan” mug. The mug will be available in both hellfire red and eternal black. “We are always looking for ways to make our customers feel valued before the End of Days,” reported Chief Marketing Officer Matthew Ryan. “However, limited supplies of fetal pig’s blood mean that our hellfire red mugs are in short supply, so order today!” Chief Executive Officer Kevin Johnson emphasized that “no matter our customers’ race, religion, or creed, Starbucks will always be a welcoming community for those who hail the Prince of Darkness as their rightful God Below.” As for those “uninitiated to the mercy of the antichrist,” Johnson announced that all Starbucks locations will be closed on Tuesday, December 25 to “ordain baristas in the baptismal rites.” According to artist Shogo Ota, “The pentagrams, upside-down crosses, and festive scenes of suffering are designed to summon unholy curses upon our financial competitors and mystically bind our coffee drinkers’ souls even closer to that of our satanic mermaid overlord.” Ota added that his favorite part of the mug is the line of eldritch runes circling the rim, imploring Ba’al the Soul-Eater to only roast organic coffee beans in the fires of Hell. To the company’s surprise, however, many Catholics have decried Ota’s design as sacrilegious. Protestors have already gathered around Starbucks’ headquarters in Seattle to condemn the Lucifer-inspired cup as yet another attack in “the leftists’ continued war on Christmas.” Yet an inside source at Starbucks’ corporate office rebuffed the demonstrators’ claims. “No, we haven’t declared war on Christmas yet. The Final Battle for the End of Days isn’t until next quarter. These protesters are just uninformed bigots.” At press time, the company was reconsidering the release of its “Fuck Christ” cup.
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GRANDMA GOT RUN OVER BY A REINDEER
Alright, I’m gonna be straight with you. She didn’t technically get hit by a reindeer. She got run over by a tractor on the way to her Thursday evening sewing club. And it wasn’t because she had “too much eggnog,” unless you count the horse tranquilizer I put in her eggnog. But this whole grandma episode is honestly the last thing on my mind ever since my wife left with the kids. Fuck you, Meaghan. So what your husband has an earlobe fetish. I obviously wasn’t attracted to my own kids’ earlobes. They’re basically just like mine which I can look at anytime I want. I would’ve been fine if she just took Molly and Jack, but Kevin too? The other two were snot-nosed little shits. At least Kevin can throw a fucking spiral and isn’t ugly. I can only hope that if I cry enough about my grandmother’s “accident” the judge will give me visitation rights. Kevin, if you’re reading this, just know that I love you and I will tear you from your mother’s hawklike talons with my bare hands if I have to. I’ll see you at Christmas, buddy, but know that since your mom took all my money, and Granny left me nothing but a concerningly large collection of Jesus figurines and $15,000 in cash, I won’t be able to buy you that new Xbox. Daddy needs all the coke money he can get. —A. Kane
—V. Chen
TIPS FOR BREAKING THE SANTA NEWS TO YOUR KIDS Wait until your children are old enough to handle it. Acclimate them to the idea with a few test runs at the local mall. Try sitting on the fake Santa’s lap and shouting “This isn’t the real deal!” to see how they react. Remind them that one upside of the news is you can make sure they’re never on the naughty list again. After all, good parenting is all about positive reinforcement. Leave Steve out of it. He’s taking the divorce pretty hard and the last thing the kids need is to hear him trashtalking their new father. Remember that the elves are kind of your kids too, now, and they’re going to need to be let down easy about Mrs. Claus’s unfortunate “accident.” Make sure to bring your kiddos back with you after your family trip to the North Pole. Daddy has visiting rights and refuses to exercise them above the 83rd North Latitude. Santa may be real, but so are Steve’s divorce attorneys. —G. Wynter THINGS I FOUND IN MY PARENTS’ CLOSET WHILE LOOKING FOR PRESENTS All my childhood drawings of Che Guevara Roughly half of the weed my mom “confiscated” two weeks ago A box of baby teeth All my unsent letters to Santa begging for the new Lego Death Star All my mom’s unsent letters to the mall Santa begging him to take her back All my dad’s unsent nudes to the mall Santa begging him to take him back A correspondence between my parents’ attorneys indicating my parents are finally filing for divorce after years of languishing in a dead-end marriage held tenuously together by some sort of traumatic “accident” only referred to by the codename “Ethan” and now I’m realizing the accident is me. I’m the accident. A box of adult teeth marked “Our Spoils” A new Lego Death Star! —E. Fogarty
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I ACCIDENTALLY USED FROSTY’S MAGIC HAT TO RESURRECT HITLER My friends and I learned a lot from Frosty during our adventures to the North Pole. In the winter, he taught us that the real magic was inside us all along. In the summer, he taught us that snowmen can scream just like humans. It was always a laugh with Frosty by our side. To honor Frosty’s legacy, we decided to share his magic hat among ourselves. Jimmy used it to bring back his beloved German Shepherd, Rex. Little Betsy-Ann used it to repeatedly revive and kill her teddy bear, Mr. Tickles. But me, I was different. Because when it was my turn to use the magic hat, I accidentally revived Adolf Hitler. You know what they say: it’s all fun and games until someone goes and resurrects the Fuhrer. I realized I’d dug a pretty deep ditch for myself, and I don’t just mean the unearthed grave in Magdeburg, Germany where I found myself standing face-to-face with the leader of the Third Reich. Part of me knew that I couldn’t just let the most evil man in history “get a do-over” like he kept asking for. At the same time, redemption is a fundamental tenet of Judaism. And in a strange, paternal way, I couldn’t bring myself to destroy that which I had created. Hitler seemed harmless, almost vulnerable. I mean, you don’t just leave a stray dog in the streets without encasing it in seran wrap and declaring it as luggage on your flight back to Boise. So, I decided to let Hitler live with me in a cage I constructed by welding together old menorahs. When he’s cold, I wrap him in my bar mitzvah tallit. When he’s bored, I let him watch my Mel Brooks DVDs. He is furious all the time. But whenever he threatens to “blitzkrieg me like I’ve never been blitzkrieged before,” I just remember the wise words of my late friend Frosty: “I’M LITERALLY MELTING INTO OBLIVION AND YOU SADISTIC FUCKS ARE JUST STANDING THERE SINGING ABOUT MY CORNCOB PIPE.” Wait, not those ones. The ones right before that, about how people can change, or whatever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s Hitler’s feeding time. I made his favorite: a heaping bowl of gefilte fish. If he complains about the taste, I’ll just offer him his favorite seasoning: cyanide. He likes this joke. He tells me I am funnier than Mel Brooks. I tell him that’s anti-semitic but he reminds me that I am also Jewish so it’s not. He is changing after all. —P. Davis
—D. Schifrin
MISSING ANDREAS AT CHRISTMAS My son Andreas has been missing for the past seven months, and this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had. Usually, my fat hog would stick his hand in the fireplace to try and go to his favorite place on Earth, the urgent care center at our local children’s hospital. The last time I saw Andreas he was shaving his head in solidarity with Emma Gonzalez. That means that if he were to go to the hospital this year, everyone would think he had cancer. But thank goodness he is at large instead of in my house. Also, I don’t know what I would do this year if he were to give himself a serious burn, because he was banned from the children’s hospital last year after screaming at the volunteer dressed as Spider-Man and calling him gay. This year I can just relax in front of the television and watch Judge Joe Brown yell at widows. Merry Christmas to everyone except my son Andreas; I hope he is dead.
Written by J. Houston
Design by M. Sanchez
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ON SECOND THOUGHT, I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T HAVE GOTTEN JIMBO AN ORANGE SWATCH FOR SECRET SANTA At first, I was excited when I pulled Jimbo’s name out of the boss man’s Santa Hat. Jimbo seemed like an interesting dude, always wearing slick, black trench coats and cracking walnuts on his forehead. He even had all sorts of great catchphrases that he muttered under his breath, like “Children should be heard and not seen,” “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” and “Hasta la vista, baby.” So I went out and bought him this neat, orange Swatch from the outlets. That was my first mistake. Wrapping it in orange paper was mistake number two, and signing the card “Cheers!” was strike three. The first hint of trouble came Thursday, the eve of the big office party, when Jimbo purple nurpled our boss until he admitted time was a construct. Mr. Crispy’s nipples still chafe horribly and hang three inches lower than they ought to hang. The second clue came when I noticed Jimbo’s neck tattoo that says “Fuck the Color Orange.” I guess I’d never noticed it under his much larger face tattoo of Michael Cera wearing a leopard-print singlet. I definitely should have reconsidered the note when Margaret from accounting told Jimbo that they were a “total Sam and Diane,” like from Cheers. He told her he hated Cheers and shivved her forty-six times in the back because he’s “twice the man Brutus ever was.” By this point, I genuinely feared for my life, but I’d lost the receipt and the Swatch store is notoriously difficult about returns, so there was no turning back. “Jimbo, you’re up,” the boss said, instinctively guarding his nipples. As Jimbo sauntered over to the tree to “claim his prize,” I knew my time had come. To make matters worse, I couldn’t even stand up to defend myself because I was incredibly aroused. After opening the present and realizing what I’d done, Jimbo began to approach me. I closed my eyes and braced for impact, only for Jimbo to lean forward, kiss me tenderly on the forehead, and peel off his flesh-colored skin suit, revealing an incredibly tall toddler in a leopard-print singlet. “You passed the test,” he said. “While I hate orange, time, and Cheers on their own, when joined together, much like the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, they form a perfect Trinity. You have shown bravery and fortitude, and for that, I, Michael Cera, will teach you the true meaning of Christmas.” Then, Michael Cera beat the shit out of me and I saw Christ for the very first time. —A. Zbornak
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TOP NURSING HOME RESIDENTS TO TRAMPLE FOR A DISCOUNTED TV Each year, shopaholics and the elderly line up outside Walmart at the ass crack of dawn on Black Friday to do the two things they both love: yelling at minimum-wage employees and shitting in public restrooms. But Black Friday is also about violence. So, without further adieu, here are the residents of your grandparents’ nursing home you should stampede for that 50% off Samsung next year: Gertrude: Everyone’s seen Gertrude, but no one’s ever talked to her. She’s always either asleep, watching Fox News, or in yet another “medically-induced coma.” If her extensive medical history is any indication, chances are she’ll fake a stroke for attention as you’re both lunging for that LG Smart TV. Don’t let it faze you. Richard: Apparently, Richard’s friends called him “Big Dickie” back in high school, when he was the star power forward for his hometown basketball team, the Galveston County Gamecocks. Now, you can’t help but watch with pity every time he scratches his balls, yells “KOBE!” and shoots his dentures into their container. Big Dickie has severe glaucoma which means you’ve gotten hit by a sopping set of dentures more times than you can count, but on the plus side, you won’t have to worry about him making a play on that top-shelf Vizio P Series LCD Display. Joe: Joe beat you in ping pong once and won’t let you live it down. Also, he’s a racist. Joe might be good at ping pong and shouting racial slurs, but you’re good at dusting him on your way to a Samsung 50 inch plasma. Fuck you, Joe. Susan: You’ll never forget the first time you smelled Susan’s fresh apple pie. The scent of cinnamon hit you in the face like a Big Dickie dentures shot. How could you trample such an innocent soul? Then you remember that Susan owns a Ted Cruz body pillow and keeps introducing it to people as her husband. Just put the woman out of her misery. Your own grandparents: They’re the reason you’ve had to meet all these shitty people. Might as well take that sweet birthday cash and bull rush them on your way to a brand new television set this holiday season. —D. Hou
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A Christmas Apology Hi. It’s me, Emily, or as you know me on Twitter, @HarryStylesCupcake. As many of you have heard, I’ve been facing significant backlash recently for tweets I made that were apparently not in the “holiday spirit.” “Harry doesn’t even know who you are,” “You should probably open a book at some point in your life,” and “That’s not how you spell ‘I autoerotically asphyxiate myself to Harry every night’ you ignorant shitfaced bitch” are just a few of the messages of hate I have received. While I have ignored many of these attacks, I would be remiss not to address the person who told me to “get my Fat Albert looking ass off the Internet.” I looked up Fat Albert, and I’m not even black, so that’s probably insensitive to the community. Even my own mother has asked me to delete my account she is so ashamed. Need I remind you, mother, that your other child was featured on Beyond Scared Straight for beating up a VCR repairman? All of this, however is beside the point. I am not vlogging today to indict others’ actions but rather to take ownership of my own. So here goes: When I wrote “Harry Styles is more important than Nelson Mandela,” I meant that Harry is more important than Nelson Mandela RIGHT NOW because I hadn’t heard about Nelson Mandela doing anything in a long time. Obviously, after I started receiving messages of hate, I looked him up some more, and apparently he helped with apartheid and racism in South Africa and went on to be the president, but I didn’t know that at the time. Now that I am fully informed, I regret what I said, though I still think Harry Styles is more important to me and my friends because we don’t really know or care a lot about South Africa, and it’s easier for us to relate to someone like Harry Styles, who is from a country where they speak English. I hope my explanation has helped put my tweets in context. I didn’t mean to offend the South Africans. However, I will not apologize for saying “Nelson Mandela can choke and die for all I care.” Apparently, he is already dead, so that tweet was not offensive.
Written by A. Thomas Design by M. Sanchez
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I SAW MOMMY KISSING DADDY KISSING SANTA Uncle Morty, I have to tell you something scary. I had a nightmare last night and I went to mommy’s room for cuddles and I don’t even know how to tell you what I saw. Normally on Christmas Eve I just see daddy grabbing Santa’s big fat ass in the living room, but last night *sniffles* mommy was with Santa too. But mommy wasn’t being normal mommy. She was lying on top of Santa who in turn was crushing daddy’s face, and she was blushing so hard that her face turned the color of Santa’s hat. Meanwhile, Santa had his luscious red lips wrapped around her neck. I could hear daddy muffling under Santa’s ass that he was “Santa’s little fucking slut.” Uncle Morty, can I be Santa’s little fucking slut too? —S. Custer
—I. Almor
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CHRISTIANS OUTRAGED BY GWEN STEFANI COVER OF “SANTA BABY,” PRAISING “DIVINE, IMMUTABLE, GOD-GIVEN” ORIGINAL BY M. KREUTTER
TOPEKA, KS—Decrying it as a “sacrilegious and Satanic distortion of the Word of God,” evangelical Christian groups around the tri-state area called Tuesday for a boycott of Gwen Stefani’s cover of “Santa Baby,” which they claim has been playing on loop at the West Ridge Mall Hallmark since mid-November. Critics, most vocally Topeka Tea Party leader Mindy Gruss, claim the song “has no place in our churches, schools, public spaces, or even—no, especially—our greeting card chains,” calling for a universal reinstatement of the “divinely anointed” Eartha Kitt original. Church officials have echoed Gruss’s sentiment. “As we all know, the Bible is the direct and unyielding word of God, written by His hand, and should never be altered,” said Reverend Joe Clark of United Life Ministry, an evangelical megachurch in Wichita. “And what are sexy Christmas carols but addendums to the Gospel of the Lord? To cover ‘Santa Baby’ is to presume one can speak for Jesus Christ Himself, which is a sin of the highest order.” “In fact,” Clark continued, “Jesus told me last night in a dream that Gwen Stefani is going straight to hell, unlike United Life’s Platinum and Diamond-level sponsors. As for our Gold-level members, it’s frankly a toss up, so best to just go with the Platinum.” At a recent protest of the Hallmark in question, Tea Party members and parishioners hoisted signs featuring slogans such as “‘Santa Baby’? More like Satan Baby!’” and “Make ‘Santa Baby’ Holy Again.” According to sources, the crowd reached a fever pitch as news spread that Gwen Stefani might not be a virgin. At press time, both Gruss and Reverend Clark were “revisiting their positions” after receiving news that Eartha Kitt is black.
SIGNS YOUR TEENAGER IS SEXTING SANTA
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Teenagers today navigate a treacherous online landscape. Between the pressure cooker of social media slacktivism, targeted ads for egg donations and Birthright trips, and the unattainable standards of living up to your rising sign, young people are under a lot of stress. As a result, it’s sometimes hard to differentiate between normal teenage malaise and a more serious problem.
ur going on my naughty list for sure this yr
As a self-proclaimed “hip” mom, I thought I’d seen it all. I understood sexy snapchats and horned-up tweets as healthy milestones in my teen’s sexual development. I raised my kid right: sex-positive, carbon-neutral and dairy-free. But nothing could have prepared me for my daughter’s disgusting obsession with one milk-guzzling, reindeer-abusing, organized religion-peddling, capitalist chub-daddy. That’s right: my teen was sexting Santa. Turns out, I wasn’t alone. Each year during Mariah Carey’s inevitable two month reign, mothers across the globe uncover lewd texts sent from our children’s phones, forwarded to us by some good samaritan hacker organization known as “iCloud.” No one ever thinks their kid will be the next “Santa baby,” but it’s important to recognize the following warning signs: All of your candy cane-flavored lingerie is gone: Unlike your own C.L.A.U.S. (Coitally Lacking And Unavailable Spouse), Santa never gets tired of this flavor. Their texting vernacular has changed: Words like “Sleigh” and “Ho” may seem like normal slang appropriated by your child from the black LGBT community, but don’t be fooled: “Vixen” is not reclamatory. You receive a nude from your child followed by a text that says “Sorry, I thought you were Santa”: At this point you need to take action. If cementing the chimney and replacing the eggnog with oat milk doesn’t work, you can always convert to Judaism, though remember that Satan finds ways to defile every religion. Be sure to check out my next article, “4 Signs Your Teen is Using Dreidels as Buttplugs.”
- T. Battles Design: C. Prendergast
omg sleigh me santa, u are the tru sugar daddy i can make u all the cookies you want and we can eat them at night together <3
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WHAT AM I THANKFUL FOR? Now that it’s my turn to say what I’m thankful for, I’d like to draw everyone’s attention to the bountiful food on this beautiful Thanksgiving table. I see mashed potatoes (bland), asparagus (limp), and something we’re apparently calling “Auntie K’s gluten-free candlenut stuffing.” What I don’t see is a single dish that even holds a candle to my motherfucking cranberry sauce. Now I know what some of you are probably thinking: “Cranberry sauce? That isn’t even a real dish. It’s just a sauce!” Bullshit. You fuckers crush more cranberries than an Ocean Spray factory. Sure, you take a portion of the other dishes to be polite, but we all know what you’re really here for. I see the way you look at my sauce. I know what you say behind my back: “More sauce bro!” and “Scoop me some sauce fam!” and “Sauce me up again Uncle Mike!” I don’t understand why you keep taking large portions of it to the bathroom with you, but it brings me a sense of smug satisfaction anyway. I don’t want to come off as ungrateful, so let me put it this way. My cranberry sauce is like the First Thanksgiving, when Pilgrims and Indians came together in harmony. Your dishes are like every subsequent Thanksgiving in Wampanoag history: well-intentioned but mostly just horrific. Yes, Louisa, especially yours. What the fuck is “penne alla Wampum”? Once again, I was told not to bother making the cranberry sauce this year. “There’s so much food already!” you said, gesturing to your dry-ass collection of beige meats and breads. “Besides, Maggie is bringing a cranberry tagine that’s to die for.” Needless to say, the congealed tagine is still sitting on the sidelines while my sweet, sweet sauce takes another victory lap around the table. Although a magician typically never reveals his secrets, I have decided to pass on my legendary recipe so that you people will have something to eat next year should this rhubarb soup prove fatal to me. You will need: 1 can cranberry sauce (large) 1 pinch not giving a fuck when the entire family belittles you for making cranberry sauce and tries to talk you into cooking some bullshit they found on Pinterest (large) Psych, motherfuckers. I’m taking the real recipe to my grave. So even more than my cranberry sauce, be thankful for me this Thanksgiving. Because if I go, the sauce goes with me. —N. Amsel
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HOMETOWN HERO! THIS ELECTRICIAN PUT THE “CHMA” BACK IN CHRISTMAS BY L. KINGSLEY
SHAWNEE, OK—Get ready, because this story is about to warm your heart more than any mug of hot cocoa could. Meet Joseph Cramble. To most people, he might seem like an ordinary electrician, but to the residents of Shawnee, Oklahoma, Cramble is a hometown hero who repaired the local Save-a-Lot’s neon holiday signage to put the “Chma” back in “Christmas”! Responding to a call late Monday night, Cramble was seen courageously testing fate on a wobbly ladder, all to bring back the true meaning of the holiday season for his fellow Shawneeans. With just a pinch of smarts, a dash of technical skill, and a whole lot of Christmas spirit, Cramble transformed a flickering “Merry rist s!” into a bright beacon of winter cheer. Faith in electricity restored! For Cramble’s holiday heroism, Mayor Robert Pinley awarded him a key to the city, praising his efforts at a town-wide ceremony Tuesday. “When I saw the sign at Save-A-Lot, I was absolutely distraught. I thought someone had stolen the missing letters, like a real-life Grinch. Now though, after talking to my good friend Joe here, I understand that sometimes light bulbs die. Thankfully, we have light doctors—excuse me, electricians—to bring them back to life. We’re so lucky to have you, Joe.” Reverend Peter Prendergast echoed Pinley’s praise. “Simply put, without ‘Chma,’ there is no Christmas. Same goes for ‘stm,’ ‘h,’ and, incidentally, ‘Christ.’” The ceremony ended with a touching sentiment from Mayor Pinley’s 7-year-old son, Billy. “When Mr. Cramble soldered together those wires, I think he soldered his way into all of our hearts.” Does it get any sweeter than that? Though he’s an electrician, Joe doesn’t care much for the limelight. As he said to reporters, “I’m no hero. I’m just an electrician doing my job. Seriously, I was paid to do this.” Sounds like we could all learn a lesson from Joseph Cramble about humility, selflessness, and the effects of falling icicles on exposed wiring this holiday season!
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INCLUSIVITY WIN: THIS TOWN DISPLAYED JESUS CRUCIFIED ON A MENORAH BY C. BERG
NOBLESVILLE, IN—Community spirit is thriving this holiday season in Noblesville, Indiana, where Jewish and Christian residents have come together to create an incredible interfaith display: an effigy of the Son of God himself—festively nicknamed Jesus H. Chutzpah—crucified on a giant Hanukkah menorah. “Stapling a yarmulke to everyone in the Nativity scene was over budget by a few staples,” Noblesville Mayor Christopher Silverstein explained, “and the mayor of Lewisburg already booked the guy who throws latkes at a virgin. So we decided to just go with a perennial family favorite: the Hanukrucifixion!” Looking to promote a more family friendly holiday celebration after last year’s controversial public bris of a mall santa, members of both religions teamed up to ensure a successful multicultural display this year; and boy were they successful! “The Jews already had a big menorah,” reported chaplain Don Ervolino, “and us Christians had a conspicuously lifesized, graphically detailed replica of Christ’s crucified body. The rest is history! Well, not exactly history, but you get the idea.” Jewish and Christian residents alike are thrilled with the display. “Before, I had to cover my kids’ eyes as we drove through town so that they wouldn’t see any cross iconography,” recounted Jewish mother Leila Chinn. “Now that Jesus Christ’s bloodied, near-naked figure hangs off our candelabra, my children feel safe, because I can now keep my hands on the wheel and also because I’m not drinking as much.” As resident Keith Falk put it, “On the first night of Hanukkah, everyone was kind of confused. But by the fifth night, when there was enough light from the menorah, everyone was like ‘Yup, that’s definitely crucified Jesus.’ People were fucking psyched.” Motivated by their striking success, Noblesville plans to ramp up the inclusivity for
next year’s holiday season. The town has already patented a dreidel with sides depicting “The Father”, “The Son”, “The Holy Ghost”, and “Gimel”; and according to sources within Town Hall, inclusivity might even make an appearance this spring with a crossover EasterPassover celebration. “We’re going to make the Easter Bunny eat unleavened bread,” said Mayor Silverstein. Uh, how do you say Mazel Tov in Christian?! I AM SANTA CLAUS AND I AM MERELY A MAN This is a cry for help. Please let this madness end. I am only a man. An old, old man who has a small workshop in the North Pole. I made gifts for a few children in local Scandinavian towns and now things have gotten deeply out of hand. I receive letter after letter and I do not want to let anyone down, but please, a man can only take so much. I cannot make any of the things that you want. I can only make basic wooden toys. Sleds, whistles, simple dollhouses—these I can make for you from the plentiful wood around my home. But you want none of these. Instead you wish for so very many Legos and iPhones and Nintendo 3DSs and Bratz. My god, the nightmares I have had about your beloved Bratz. You must understand that these are all mass-produced, high-tech, branded products. I cannot make them. I must purchase them online and distribute them at a massive personal cost. Even with Amazon Prime this is not costeffective. I am in enormous legal, financial, and personal jeopardy. Doctors say I have six months to live, or at least that is what I imagine they would say if I could afford healthcare. I have no natural income at all. I have taken out incredible loans to purchase the oil from OPEC necessary to fuel my deliveries. You might have thought my sleigh runs on “Christmas Spirit,” but crude petroleum burns longer and is easier to find on the black market. In order to pay for fuel, I have become the kingpin of a massive criminal empire. I have sold so many drugs and murdered so many law enforcement agents so that I may get you your precious Webkinz. There are no elves. The elves are a lie. There is only me, Mrs. Claus, and a single toy-making dwarf we keep on as an unpaid intern. I am a husk of a man who is begging you to cease this endless torture. I am so tired. I beg of you, wake me from this endless nightmare. —A. Chase
NEIGHBORHOOD BULLETIN he F a shion I ssue I ssue T he CTorporate A merica
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Don’t Define Me By My Elf Fetish. Define Me My Beautiful Half Elf FamiLy. I am first and foremost a famiLy man. I have a lovely elf-wife and two wonderful half-elf chiLdren. They are the pride of my life. My wife and I see a lot of ourselves in them.
Our eldest son has taken after my love of chess and the outdoors and my wife’s love of hollowing out trees to bake cookies in. Our youngest daughter looks like both of us: she has my black curly hair and her mother’s leathery feet. She is not a “dirty mutt.”
Stop posting on the Nextdoor app about the “guy with the elf-fetish.” Start posting about the guy with the beautiful half-elf famiLy. —H. Rubin
Design by A. Thomas
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Open seven days a week
Lunch Dinner Late Night
Enjoy two large screen TVs in our back room!
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SECRET SANTA GIFTS FOR KAREN FROM ACCOUNTING You know three things about her: her name is Karen, she works in accounting, and you’ve been tasked with buying her a Secret Santa gift. Here is the Yale Record’s official guide for what to get her: A framed photo of Karen’s family from her cubicle: This one is pretty self-explanatory, but could require some logistical planning. You’ll need to figure out when Karen eats lunch, which cubicle is hers, and which picture of her family is her favorite. You’ll also need to make it clear to her cubicle-mates that you’re stealing the picture as a Secret Santa gift and not because you just like to look at pictures of her kids. Try making a face that expresses your distaste for her children’s appearance so that your intentions are clear. One of those cookie-recipe-in-a-mason-jar things: The cookie-in-a-jar thing is pretty cliche, so add a personal touch by taking some liberties with the recipe. For example, instead of depositing ingredients in exact amounts, just layer in flour and cocoa powder until it looks nice. You want Karen to at least fake a smile when she opens it, like she did last year when Charles from HR gave her a candle. Jesus, Charles. How desperate do you have to be to give someone a candle for Secret Santa? Literally anything that you stole from her cubicle and wrapped up: If you want to make things easy, just sweep the contents of her desk into a fancy gift basket. A candle: Listen, we’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel on this one. The only thing you know about Karen is that she’s going through a brutal divorce after a blowout with her husband at the Wisconsin Dells Kalahari Waterpark Resort last March, information you only heard secondhand from her son Jimmy after you found him sobbing in front of the water fountain on Take Your Kid To
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Work Day. Just keep it simple and go with the candle. Heck, you probably already have one buried in your closet from last year’s Secret Santa. Not only will you be giving Karen the fresh yet comforting scent of Apple Cinnamon Pine Mint Fireplace, you’ll also be giving her a dynamite backup present for next year. Literally the gift that keeps on giving. —A. Dalianis
PLACES SANTA WON’T DELIVER TO THIS CHRISTMAS Your Jewish suitemate’s room. I’ll deliver them to his P.O. Box, though. I’m not anti-Semitic or anything. Antarctica. It’s the inferior pole. I don’t care that it’s technically a “continent” with “permanent landmass” that “won’t be destroyed by melting ice caps during the impending climate crisis.” Prison. I’m never going back there. The mall Santa’s house. If you’re going to make me look like some fatass who likes kids then you can get your own damn presents. Israel. Their missile defense took out 200 reindeer last year alone. Again, to be perfectly clear, this has nothing to do with anti-Semitism. Alex Jones’s house. He never lets me drink milk because he’s worried the calcium will turn me gay. Rehab. They still don’t believe the white powder in my beard is just snow. —R. Ofman
— V. Pavilonis
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WHY I HATE HAVING MY BIRTHDAY ON A HOLIDAY On almost every day of the year, I make a conscientious effort to put others first. I hold the door open for old people. I make Thank You cards for the lunch ladies who clean up my vomit each Sloppy Joe Thursday and Get Well Soon cards for the ones who slip on it and have to be hospitalized. Hell, I even pledged to donate my liver if I die before eighth grade (after eighth grade, that thing’s going to be totally shot). But on my birthday, it’d be nice to have things be about me for a change. And while Christmas babies know that being born on a holiday means a little less attention, a little more church time, and worst of all, half the presents (aside from those lucky little fucks whose parents are divorced), nothing compares to the struggle of having your birthday on all eight days of Chanukah. Allow me to explain. “Chanukah” is an alternate spelling of “Hanukkah.” Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I can tell you about my eight-day birth. When my mother went into labor, it became clear very quickly that I wasn’t going out the way I came in, if you know what I mean. What I am trying to say is that
I was too wide for a vaginal birth. In fact, the doctors said I was the widest baby they’d ever seen, nbd. However, my mother didn’t want a C-section because she thought the scar would make her stomach look like a smiley face, frightening and confusing my father who had grown accustomed to a wife with one face. Just like that, her labor turned into an excruciating, week-long ordeal. The doctors thought the amniotic fluid would only lubricate my exit for one day but it lasted a full eight, though unfortunately they could not set it on fire. All this is to say that when my birthday rolls around each year, I can usually expect an eight-pack of double-A batteries given to me one-by-one over the course of a week and a snide comment from my dad about how I “ruined a real good thing mom had going on, Wide Boy.” Still, as we fire up the menorah, I am reminded that sometimes the greatest of tribulations produce the greatest of miracles, be they of childbirth or of light. —M. Blaney
A DAVENPORT COLLEGE TEA
Tommy Orange Thursday, January 31st, 4:30pm Davenport Common Room
— I. Almor
Call us today!
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â&#x20AC;&#x201D; I. Almor
WHAT YOUR FAVORITE JONAS BROTHER SAYS ABOUT WHICH JONAS BROTHER IS THE MOST CONVENTIONALLY ATTRACTIVE Take a break from listening to the classic Jonas Brothers song “All I Want For Christmas is the Girl of My Dreams” on repeat to see what your favorite Jonas Brother says about which Jonas Brother is the most conventionally attractive.
If it’s Kevin
If it’s Joe
If it’s Nick
Written by A. Thomas
NICK. Hey, we get it. You like Kevin. Maybe it’s that he’s the oldest, or that he’s a family man with a conventionally attractive wife, or that he’s good at playing whatever instrument he plays. But if we’re talking conventional attractiveness, sorry, but Nick just checks all the boxes: tan skin, full lips, 149 pounds. If Nick is JFK, Kevin is Robert: People just wouldn’t care as much if he got assassinated because he already sort of looks fucked up.
NICK JONAS. Are you kidding me? Sure, Joe has that whole “I’m cool again” campaign going on, and he’s in DNCE now which makes music I guess, but Nick is just so good-looking. It’s well established. Multiple websites have confirmed that Nick is the hottest. Meanwhile, Kevin and Joe look like they got fused in the womb and the surgeon botched the separation.
YOU’RE FUCKING RIGHT IT’S NICK. NICK IS THE HOTTEST! EVERYDAY WE DREAM OF BEING CHOKED IN THE BEAUTIFUL PANIC OF HIS MUSCULAR YET SUPPLE HANDS. HE HAS BEEN A ROLE MODEL FOR MANY GOOD CAUSES AND HE EVEN HAD HIS OWN BAND, NICK JONAS AND THE ADMINISTRATION! ALSO NICK’S NUDES ARE ON THE INTERNET FOR EVERYONE TO SEE SO THERE IS OBJECTIVE EVIDENCE! STOP BEING SHEEP TO THE SLAUGHTER! ALSO, FUCK YOU PRIYANKA CHOPRA! NILEY FOREVER! Design by M. Sanchez