The Ye Olde Issue

The Yale Record Ye Olde Issue

UGLY CHILD SOOTHED BY FABLE

Dear David,

Male-pattern baldness is something to be proud of. The samurai of Japan thought balding was manly and would shave the tops of their heads prematurely to achieve what I have naturally.

Kevin

BLUB BLUB BLUB... THAT’S WHAT I WOULD SAY IF I WERE A FISH. BUT I’M NOT. I’M RESTRICTED TO THESE COMPLEX HUMAN PHONEMES. OH TO BE A FISH SWIMMING IN THE OPEN WATER.

BLUB BLUB BLUB...

Dear Baldy,

Me and your wife are kissing and she likes it a lot. I have a strong hairline and I dunk.103 is amount of points I will score on you.

David

SUPREME COURT BANS OPPOSITE DAY, CITING BAFFLED BRETT KAVANAUGH

Dear Big-Eyed Cassie,

22-YEAR-OLD

DISMAYED

TO LEARN YOU MUST BE 21 TO DRINK IN THE STATE OF CONNECTICUT

Dear Lonely Men on the Railroad,

I’m sure you could use a little nighttime lovin’ after working those hard days in the hot sun. If you need a friend, you can find me at the saloon. It don’t have a name but it’s the only joint worth a penny in this one-horse town.

Sincerely, Big-eyed Cassie from the saloon

Though we do find the prospect of some much-missed nighttime lovin’ — maybe even a smooch or an embrace from someone other than that no-good One Horse and his big horse lips — we’re kind of on a roll with this whole railroad thing, and we find your freakishly large eyes unnerving.

Sincerely, Lonely men on the railroad

KAVANAUGH DANCES NAKED LIKE MAD JESTER AFTER SUPREME COURT BANS OPPOSITE DAY ON OPPOSITE DAY

ATTEMPTED MURDER? MOTHER CROW EXPECTING QUADRUPLETS SEEKS ABORTION

Dear Audience,

We’re sorry to say that animals were in fact harmed during the making of this film. But it was an accident. Does that make it okay? We did use the shot that we accidentally harmed them in. Can we be forgiven? Are we morally irredeemable? The ethics of filmmaking can be such a minefield at times. Apologetically, Production team of Exploding Kittens: The Movie

CHILD UNDER 2 HAVING DIFFICULTIES

READING THE WARNING LABEL ON DAD’S PILL BOTTLE

Dear Production,

Wait, so that scene where one kitten graphically blows up a dozen other kittens was… improvised?! That is SO COOL! Can’t wait to bring up this “Movie Detail” to all my friends next time we go see this movie on the big screen!

To the Montrose Middle School 6th Grade Class of 2014:

Consider this a formal notice that I am suing you all. My chronic diarrhea is a private health condition, and calling me “Poopy Pants Pete” for years, in addition to causing long-lasting psychological trauma, is a violation of my HIPAA rights. Expect to hear from my legal team within the week.

— Peter D. Poundstone

OLD MCDONALD ELECTED SORORITY PRESIDENT OF CAMPUS CHAPTER EIEIO

From the Montrose Middle School 6th Grade Class of 2014:

Fuck you, Principal Poopy Pants!

“I LOVE YOU,” SAYS SUITEMATE WHO DOESN’T UNDERSTAND FRIENDSHIP OF CONVENIENCE

Dear Birthday Boy,

Seriously? In Women’s History Month?

Disappointedly, Your Mother

“ME TOO,” SAYS GOD PUZZLED BY EVIL

Excitedly, Bobby Twoeyes

NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED: MY ANEMIC FRIENDS HATE WHEN I GIVE THEM SCREWS TO LICK AT MEALTIMES

OPTIMISTIC USDA

ANNOUNCES

COUNTRY NEAR VICTORY IN WAR AGAINST BEES

Dear Hot Breakfast,

Why are you so scary at airport hotels? You are great in concept but so jiggly and tepid in reality. You promise a meal; you deliver a hardboiled egg served in a microwave tray. Me? I keep it classy. I know not to date out of my league. You hear my name, and you don’t expect anything more than a goddamn bagel.

Uncordially, Continental Breakfast

EMOTIONALLY MATURE CHILD UNDERPERFORMS AFTER PARENTS DIVORCE

Dear Babies, Goo goo gah gah. Sounds dumb when you read it back, huh? Learn to filter yourselves.

From Andrew

Obituary Correction

The 2023 Editorial Board would like to apologize for an obituary which appeared in last month’s “Record’s World Records Issue” where it was reported that the world’s oldest man, Bartholomew Brickmaker IV, had succumbed to the bubonic plauge. Brickmaker, it turns out, always looks like that.

Dear Babies, Goo goo gah gah! Waaaahhh waaahhhh!

Love, Dom

SHORT-STORY CHARACTER PROBABLY IN FOR PRETTY REGULAR DAY

Dear Dom,

We always knew you wanted to be one of us, ya fuckin’ immature buffoon. Well guess what? You never will be.

Love, Babies

MISSING LIMB FOUND

FOR SALE:

A spot in heaven! Skip the purgatory line with just a small donation today!

—J. Donovan

Dear Cinderella,

I Can I keep the glass slipper? It smells really good.

Prince Charming

BIDEN VOWS U.S. WILL DEVELOP BALLOON CAPABILITIES BY 2030

Dear Prince Charming,

Are you sure you don’t want to meet up/ marry me?

Cinderella

MISLEADING WORLD MAP SHOWS AFRICA AT ONE TWENTY-FOURMILLIONTH ITS TRUE SIZE

Dear Cinderella, Nah. Just want to smell your feet, not whatever’s attached.

Love, Prince Charming

WHAT’S UP WITH TINFOIL? IT’S MADE OF METAL BUT YOU CAN JUST RIP IT? I’M NOT THAT STRONG. I SHOULDN’T BE ABLE TO RIP METAL

WEAK AND DISPOSABLE BOY FEARS DUCK

WANTED

YOn scurvY knave whO haTh sTOlen The flOw ’ r Of mY daughTer ‘n made her genTleman suITOr aOnghus ‘bandOn hIs marITal Offer.

CLASS PRETENDS TO GRIEVE FOR DUCK-SAVAGED BOY\

Did You Know?

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, but even heavier is the head of the royal crown-wearer who has to wear all the inactive crowns at once.

Ihear dark tells of perfidy most foul, A poison squawk from beak of ev’ry owl. In deep of night, snakes slither through these halls, And nipping at my heel, a jackal crawls.

Our fortune ill is due in full to Them, Not godly wrath nor my surplus of phlegm, At ev’ry turn I feel their burning eyes, Unknown en’mies conspiring my demise.

Be it the court astronomer I fired? (His mystic service no longer requir’d!) Unrelated to his heliocentric chatter; I just thought stars and planets don’t much matter.

Or sailor brave I banish’d from the navy, That turn’d a mermaid’s bones into a gravy?

First took the lady for a manatee, then burn’d her blub’ry skin in mutiny.

Perhaps the Left of Hand some thirty strong I banish’d to the wood for being wrong? Or wolves that roam the same wood seeking meat, Who loathe the fact I send them freaks to eat?

Town oaf Gawain my naming doth resent, He claims that “oaf” is to his detriment. When this he broach’d aloud at harvest feast, I quick declar’d his mole mark of the beast.

The chef doth stuff my pies with mince long spoilt, My serfs leave rye unsown and slog untoil’d. I’ve foes galore among the union fools, Demanding dental care and clown’ry schools.

My barons carry scepters of their own. ‘Tis legal, fair, but sets a nasty tone. A kingly scepter’s neither means nor end, And has no place in hand of worthy friend.

The flue lad Bate, naive and cheap to buy, In chimneys lay for three groat as my spy. Alas, ere he caught a single whisper; His bones were ash, and sinews even crisper.

Once after gruesome error hunting pheasant, My solstice feast serv’d up a roast’d peasant. When spiced Scott pie left ev’ry guest aghast I knew ‘twas time to rebuild image fast.

‘Tis not the first time that I’ve faced lash back, Ere now my court’s seen much unjust attack. To quell the rage we held a repent tourney, A sage idea, but recourse hath been thorny.

A fête, while fun, drains the royal coffers, And so we ran it using budget offers. The stripper prince did stay a warted frog, Six hundred men did share one keg of grog.

To save on a piñata’s costly fees, I found a hive to hit, stuff’d with live bees. One poor duke underwent anaphylaxis, Albeit a gap in theory and praxis.

But listen now, hear what I telleth thee: It’s better than it could and may soon be. The current setup’s really not so bad. Democracy was Greco-Roman fad.

While this may seem the untrue spin of lore, It is, in fact, extended metaphor.

‘Tis true! Aplenty murmurs of depose, the hitherto unchalleng’d Clio Rose.

Fie! What crook’d, false Ed’torial Board, Conspires while I still wield the Record sword. I could declare I’d stay in charge forev’r––Though they’d shoot back something harsh and clever.

Or we could skip the needless strain and strife, Give ourselves to the nat’ral cycle of life. The axis of the world has once-full turn’d, And now I’ll share to you what I have learn’d:

Ages dark make strong men, Strong men make good times, Good times, in turn, make weak men

Who choose to write in rhymes.

C. Rose Editor in Chief

Raja

Claire Sattler ’23

Julia Arancio ’23

Patrick Chappel ’23

Raffael Davila ’23

Alice Mao ’24

Colson Jones ’24

Edwin Perez ’24

Kaleb Carey ’24

Lily Dorstewitz ’24

Malia Kuo ’24

Simi Olurin ’24

Alejandro Mayagoitia ’25

Ari Berke ’25

Audrey Hempel ’25

Betty Kubovy-Weiss ’25

Cormac Thorpe ’25

Chet Hewitt ’25

Lillian Broeksmit ’25

Emmitt Thulin ’25

Evan Calderon ’25

Ezzat Abouleish ’25

Isabel Arroyo ’25

Jacob Kao ’25

Joel Banks ’25

Mari Elliott ’25

Maya Melnik ’25

Neil Sachdeva ’25

Rena Howard ’25

Tyler Schroder ’25

Adham Hussein ’26

Aidan Gibson ’26

Alejandro Rojas ’26

Alexa Druyanoff ’26

Alexis Ramirez-Hardy ’26

Alice Khomski ’26

Amelia Herrmann ’26

Andrew Lake ’26

Arav Dalwani ’26

Ariel Kirman ’26

Bella Panico ’26

Brennan Columbia-Walsh ’26

Dash Beber-Turkel ’26

Debbie Lilly ’26

Elio Wentzel ’26

Erita Chen ’26

Grace Davis ’26

Jimmy Ruskell ’26

Linden Skalak ’26

Matt Neissen ’26

Mia Cortés Castro ’26

Natasha Khazzam ’26

Nicole Stack ’26

Owen Curtin ’26

Oz Gitelson ’26

Paola Milbank ’26

Contributors: Logan Ledman ’23, John Donovan ’25, and Amanda Budejen ’26

Special thanks to: The Order of Saint Benedict, whose monks who hand-wrote each copy of this issue.

Front Cover: John Donovan ’25, who realized our year-long dream of printing stained glass and phat ass.

Back Cover: Sophie Spaner ’25, who just gets it.

Sadie Lee ’26

Samad Hakani ’26

Sam Kumar ’26

Sivan Almogy ’26

Thomas Varghese ’26

Toby Salmon ’26

Tristan Hernandez ’26

William Wang ’26

Zadie Winthrop ’26

Zoe Halaban ’26

Ge Yu SOM ’24

Staff:

Benjamin Hollander-Bodie ’24 Online Managing Editor Jacob Mansfield ’25 Online Managing Editor Andrew Cramer ’25 Managing Editor Tara Bhat ’25 Managing Editor Dom Alberts ’25 Managing Editor

Sophie Spaner ’25 Copy Editor Adam Burch ’25 Copy Editor Lizzie Conklin ’25 Art Director Emily Cai ’25 Design Editor

Grace Ellis ’25 Design Editor

Larry Dunn ’25 Design Editor

Edward Bohannon ’25 Record Squire

Adriana Golden ’24 Chair

Clio Rose ’23 Editor in Chief

Sam Leone ’23 Online Editor in Chief Arnav Tawakley ’24 Publisher

Joe Gustaferro ’24 Old Owl

Joe Wickline ’23 Old Owl

Joanna Wypasek ’24 Old Owl

Ayla Jeddy ’23 Old Owl

Maya Sanghvi ’23 Old Owl

Avery Brown ’23 Old Owl

Diana Kulmizev ’23 Old Owl

Avery Mitchell ’23 Old Owl

Moreno ’24 Old Owl

Bea Portela ’24 Old Owl

Ellen Qian ’23 Old Owl Annie Lin ’25 Old Owl

Rosa Chang ’23 Old Owl

Luna Garcia ’23 Old Owl

Alex Taranto ’23 Old Owl Jonas Kilga ’23 Old Owl

Alexia Buchholz ’23 Social Media Manager

Emma Madsen ’25 Webmaster

Josephine Stark ’25 Staff Director

Natasha Weiss ’25 Business Manager

Jacob Eldred ’24 Merchant

JOBS I THINK WILL EXIST IN THE FUTURE

Freelance Jester

Sailor With Flying Boat

Lady King (farfetched)

Pope Gregory II

Elected Representative

Waspkeeper

Foot Model (Cobbler’s Apprentice)

Pope Gregory III

Guild Personality Hire

Electric Wench

Man In His Fifties

—D. Alberts

KING ARTHUR AND THE ROUND TABLE

IKEA SALESMAN: Excuse me, Your Highness, have you taken a look at the KRAGSTA round table? I think this one will suit your needs nicely.

ARTHUR: This “KRAGSTA” is much too small. I want something bigger.

SALESMAN: I see. How many people are you looking to sit, approximately?

ARTHUR: All the bravest, most noble knights on this great, green Earth will have a seat at my round table.

SALESMAN: Right. But how many knights? 4? 6? 8?

ARTHUR: The number is unbeknownst to me. This table should be fit for the Brotherhood.

SALESMAN: Okay. So when you say “brotherhood,” I think maybe you have a larger party you need to accommodate. What do you think of this

KROKOLMEN round table? It seats 10 people.

ARTHUR: Absolutely not. My knights are far from KROKOL men. This table is not fit for them.

SALESMAN: No, King Arthur, KROKHOLMEN is just the name of the table.

ARTHUR: Dear sir, I assure you that any table of mine will be named by me. I don’t know who this “KROKOLMEN” fellow is, but he will not prosper.

SALESMAN: Of course, my apologies, sire. What do you think about this LISTERBY table? It seats 12, and it’s finished with gold. God, what a gorgeous table.

ARTHUR: This table is, well, it is…

SALESMAN: Yes?

ARTHUR: It is, well, it’s too…it’s too round.

SALESMAN: Too round?

ARTHUR: Yes. I’m not at all comfortable with this. Much too round.

SALESMAN: Okay sire, my bad. Have you considered a rectangular table? Or a square table? Actually, mathematically, they have a larger area and can seat more people.

ARTHUR: I said I want a round table.

SALESMAN: Of course, King Arthur, my liege. Your wish is IKEA’s demand. You know what? I think I have the perfect table for you. Oh, you’re going to love this one. It seats 14 people and is made of mahogany wood. Look right over here, the VEAKARTER table.

ARTHUR: What the fuck did you just call me?

—S. Hakani

VIEWS FROM THE DUNCE CAGE, 1348

Hello i am gregor. It is so Dark here but there are stripes of Light through the top of the Dunce Cage. sad I am not too good at school or Educate and I do never think about Ones and Twos or dare even, never a Three. Sad I make so much mistake but it is not yet allow at school for Selling My Goods or perform with my puppets , make from dinner ham and the string on Father’s robe. My teaching woman is never like me. I bring gifts of wheat and my baby brother tooth, , my only Valuable Asset. Still she never like me , and yell and yell in my ears because she does not like me to bring my ham to school Or say my poem in the school yard. I know she jealous my ham.

“Old dog. Howl. He has eat his own excrete. And in a way i find this as beautiful, because he is able of sustaining his own health and body. Cycles and circles are every where in life. Wheels , plate, small round boys in the yard. Moon and Sun. My old dog , he throw up in our bed where I and my Mother and Father and my Many little brothers, and also some Girl brothers.

As of a sudden, life seems not so beautiful. I clean bed and sell my girl brother tooth for coins for ham.”

Teach woman she yell and say , Gregor you must go to dunce cage if you continue spout this absurd things. Usually it is Petor in the dunce cage and so now I think, Oh Lord. Now i must share this small cage for two people . And the thing is Petor is big boy, and have often sat upon other students in acts of torture and accident. So naturally i am scared for this. But she , the woman, she say at Petor that he is now free and i Gregor am not longer free, so far from my ham puppet. So inside i am writing these poem and i finish many poem, for sure. The dunce cage can never be none worse, it is worst place in the room. I commit an Act of Rebellion and i say my poems so loud. Old dog old dog and she is on fire in her mind so angry. Dunce cage , say many boys. We all know dunce Cage is pretty much worst. but she say ,, NO NO. It get Worse. But no is possible. it is pretty bad already , every body know this, and still no ham puppet. i feel i can smell the Ham from here. And so now I am still in Dunce cage but with sheet over top. Suddenly it is all dark. i write later when all is good again.

S. Spaner

IS MY MULE POSSESSED?

It ain’t every day that I get a funny kind of story to tell, but me mule Shelley gave me a real scare this mornin’. She was firs’ actin’ queer with her feed so I suspected summat was off, because my mule Shelley, she gets in that feed like there’s not gonna be any feed tomorrow, let me tell you, she mus’ be the hungriest darn mule in the shire, I seen my Shelley an’ her luscious lips goin’ to town on that feed, I –– anyway, then, all of a sudden, she turn to me and, get this, she says, “William, I must raise the issue that Thomas Aquinas’ efforts to reconcile Aristotelian thought with existing Catholic dogma will expose the lack of metaphysical consistency within Catholicism and trigger intellectual changes leading to the decline in coercive power of religion through a veritable Enlightenment of humanity.” I said, “Now Shelley, that Aquinas fella is a real smart one an’ I think you’ve got it twisted, he’s addin’ Aristotle’s argumentative rigor to be provin’ God exists, that prime mover stuff blows all of Anselm’s darn ontological argumentin’ right outta the water. You silly goose, what did I put in your feed?” Since then she’s been a lil’ touchy with the mule work and I don’t know what’s gotten inta her. Oh Lord, I pray it ain’t some vagrant spirit that has weaseled its way into her little mule brain, not my Shelley! Tomorrow I’ll take ‘er down to the pastor and sen’ that evil demon packin’ with some good ol’ exorcisin’.

—J. Mansfield

POINT: YOU ARE HEREBY EXCOMMUNICATED

I, Cardinal Humbert of Silva Candida, Order of Saint Benedict, on behalf of Pope Leo IX, Bishop of Rome and Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, hereby declare you, Michael I Cerularius, to be ex communicatio from the Roman Catholic Church for your refusal to recognize the Pope’s recipe for the Eucharist bread. You shall be cut off from the holy sacraments unless you repent and immediately rectify this egregious and heretical action. Submit or burn in Hell.

—B. Hollander-Bodie

COUNTERPOINT: NUH UH, YOU’RE EXCOMMUNICATED

I, Michael I Keroularios, Archbishop of Constantinople and Ecumenical Patriarch, hereby declare you to be a little bitch. Tell that stupid Leo motherfucker to come over here and excommunicate me himself.* You little shits are so poor you can’t even afford yeast for your Eucharist bread. And don’t come at me when everyone knows you originally pulled up to beg the real Roman Emperor to protect you from the Normans. The barbarians are attacking Rome? Ask your stupid fucking “Holy Roman Emperor” for help. Oh, he sent a small army but then recalled it when they ran out of — you guessed it — bread? Bread they were leavening? Well boo fucking hoo.

Guess what, buddy? I’m about to make your day even worse. Now you’re excommunicated from my church. Feels pretty shitty, huh? And there’s no fucking take-backs, so now you’re just going to have to really hope that your way is what God intended. Because if God likes yeast in his bread? You’re fucking screwed.

*Note: This would not have been possible, as Leo IX was at this point, unbeknownst to either party, already dead.

—B. Hollander-Bodie

LESSER-KNOWN ROLES OF THE ROYAL COURT

Hawaiian Sweet Role

Minor Noble We Behead To Make A Point

(May)Pole Dancer

Lady in Waiting #6

Lady Who Won’t Wait

Court-erback

Earl of Flatbreads (Earl of Sandwich’s Cousin)

Sexy Abbot

Commoner Who Got Lost Looking For the Bathroom. Oh wait, there was no bathroom. Yeah, I guess he’ll just find some sort of cesspit? Do you know where he could find the nearest cesspit? Oh, it’s for customers only? Bit of a pickle, innit.

A. Buchholz

THE ORIGINAL STAINED GLASS WINDOWS OF NOTRE-AME CATHEDRAL, C. 1163

—D. Lilly

Lord Relkas The exhorTaTions of

by Logan Ledman and Joe Wickline

You there! Boy. Come hither.

The son of the coachman, yes?

Cat got your tongue? Free it!

That limpid trill may serve you now…

Two farthings bright might yet be yours!

…if you give me the information I seek.

Now.

Are you AcquAinted with the LAdy ArrAbeLLA?

The flower of Castile?

The handsomest creature in all the King’s court?

My love, my darling?

My darling love?

Well, boy, know ye this:

The Lady Arrabella has sundry suitors…

Why, just this week —

– a zealous missive from the Sheikh of Wales!

– a docile leopard from the Marquis de France and Spain!

– a joint suit from the Twin Dukes Duncan!

I seek her hand as well, boy!

Pallid, feverish, I tremble at the thought…

…of her wrists… her mind

…her ears…

…arrested at each turn by stings of vipers!

Like Cumberland, the blind lecher… ...ever fondling his own shoulders and knees...

And clever Judge Mathers…

…who thrice brought the Lady to trial for larceny… …of his own heart.

Or Little Lucius the Unborn!

The heir to Leeds! And Stratford-upon-Leeds! He gestates still, but already seeks her hand… …through intermediaries!

Even Handsome Budgey!

The castle mudswiller!

(Who’s bedded many beauties in his time… …though covered head to heel in sludge and grime…)

But heart! Some rivals cow me not.

Porfini the Dancing Thief…

He’ll dance no more!

He crept inside her iron safe — — to leave a single rose

But lo – was trapped inside! And now that wretch… ...he rots alive!

Some whisper of Linde Lieke, the Dutch Duchess… …who knows the Lady intimately… …and idles many hours in her boudoir. But love is told in words, not deeds… And Linde Lieke speaks only speak-of-the-Dutch!

Is that a smile, boy?

Does it shock you that I feel?

That I, the Lord of House Relkas… ...the King’s most loyal bursar

…have a heart?

So there ye have it.

The Lady’s suitors are thus! No more know I… no more besides.

Now, boy, tell it true –Do you think I have a shot?

The Town Crier

Catholics Take Game Three of Holy Crusades

BY ANDREW CRAMER STAFF REPORTER

IBERIA, Holy Roman Empire — Following a crushing defeat at the hands of the Muslims in Game 2 of the Crusades World Series at the city of Damascus, the Catholics responded with a resounding victory in Game 3.

We caught up with head coach King Richard the Lionheart after the game to get his thoughts on his team’s performance.

“I was disappointed with our sieging efforts last time out,” the Lionheart told The Town Crier. “I was proud of the way we responded this time. We knew we would face adversity in this series, but we took their best punch and then we were able to punch back. I thought our blade work was much cleaner.”

The stats support the Lionheart’s claim, as the Crusaders had a 39% stab success rate, as compared to the Muslims’ seasonlow 28% SSR.

The homecourt advantage seemed to play a factor. In their previous matchup, assistant coach Louis VII of France struggled to adjust to the conditions in Damascus, including some extreme weather events. His men seemed rattled from the onset, and the game got away with them as they abandoned their early game plan.

Sir Richard Turner of Cromwellshire earned the Crusader of the Game award, with a Herculean performance on offense.

Sir Richard finished with 29 stabs, four blocks, and one inspirational speech.

“You know I just have to give all glory to God,” he

said in his postgame onthe-battlefield interview.

“Without Him guiding my blade, I wouldn’t be able to achieve any of this. And, of course, I have to shout out my teammates. They al-

ways have my back, making sure nobody slices me open from behind. A great team win. But now we just have to stay hungry for the next one, which shouldn’t be too difficult with the on-

World’s Oldest Man Dies

BY OZ GITELSON STAFF REPORTER

Hark! For the priest has just brought news that Bartholomew Brickmaker IV has been taken into the Lord’s embrace. He passed peacefully of pox a fortnight ago. At the age of forty, he was without question the oldest man who has ever lived. He is survived by his two remaining sons, Bartholomew Brickmaker V and Bartholomew Woodcutter, and twenty-three grandchildren.

Bartholomew was born in the village countless decades ago to Bartholomew

Brickmaker III and his mother, whose name has been lost to the ages. Bartholomew III served as chief brickmaker to the baron, and met his wife at the age of 14 when his parents arranged the marriage. Bartholomew IV was their fifth child, but the first son to survive past the age of two. As such, he took the family name, and was trusted to take up the family business.

From his first apprenticeship as a six-year-old boy, he took well to the evolving field of brickmaking. He pursued his career diligently, and designed bricks of all shapes known to man – both

circular and square. As a result of his commitment to craftsmanship, he did not meet his wife, Matilda, until well into his middle age at nineteen years old.

Bartholomew was a staple of village life for as long as anyone can remember. We will all remember the joyous sound of his hacking cough echoing through the marketplace. Like his square bricks, Bartholomew Brickmaker IV was sturdy and reliable, and like his circular bricks, he will not be easily replaced.

William the Wheelwright will now claim the title of oldest living man at the ripe age of thirty-six.

going famine.”

At press time, the “infidels” from Damascus were getting some extra practice reps and rallying their second unit for a critical Game 4.

BY ERITA CHEN STAFF REPORTER

When local apothecary Miriam Plowright welcomed me to her humble village shoppe, I was overwhelmed with a sense of comfort and ease. Her tuft of white hair, milky grey eyes, and welcoming smile reminded me of my own grandmother, as I requested a restorative for my most grievous of headaches. She offered me a sample of her most popular herbal tea, infused with a variety of mushrooms

Plowright described as “magical,” a most cosy concoction she said was sure to clear my troubled head, rebalance my four humors, and protect against oxidative photodamage – supporting overall wellness in the process.

Characteristic of her much-lauded kindly bedside manner, when I noted a slight feeling of nausea, she offered some ginger for me to chew as she gave me a tour of her exotic plants, powders, and tonics. She then proceeded to split herself into two, as the floor gave way to a purple slime. My fingers turned into individual hands, and their fingers turned into more hands with more fingers that turned into more hands. My hand became a never-ending chain of hands on top of hands on top of hands, towering over us both before splintering into crystallisations of butterflies and rainbows and more slime.

The slime seeped into my eyes and the room turned dark. Plowright’s disembodied voice grew

weaker and weaker as I stood above the expansive cosmos, giant, teetering on the brink of transcendence

and enlightenment. A pair of interlocking gold wheels hovered before me, their rims flaming with the fire

of one thousand suns and covered with ten thousand eyes of all shapes and sizes.

“Be not afraid,” the wheels said, and I knew not to be, for I knew them to be of an exalted plane beyond our mortal coil.

“‘Kay,” I said, and the eyes blinked, transmitting the Divine Will of Him, the Saviour, into my unworthy human consciousness.

I slid down a slide of starlight to return to Plowright’s hut in the glories of the fine day. Repent dear sinners! The kingdom of the Lord is nigh, and we are but spiders dangling off the palm of His hand. I, his chosen prophet, would have bought mushrooms for all to convince you of His holiest of holies. Alas, mushrooms are not covered by His Insurance.

Woke Culture Cancels Jesters

BY SADIE LEE STAFF REPORTER

This past half-moon, Jester Feste the Piffling made a statement criticizing “woke culture” for “killing the art of comedy.”

Feste has a point. Recently, our kingdom’s beloved clowns have been increasingly “called out” for “problematic” humor. Feste himself has been attacked for likening Queen

Catherine “Babyface” the III to a “tiny little eggy toe.” The queen declined to comment, but a source close to the crown said, “I mean, anyone would find that offensive. Her Majesty is very sensitive right now, as she only just turned 14. Also, ‘eggy toe’? What does that even mean? It makes no sense. Everyone knows peasants can’t afford eggs — it’s uninformed comedy.”

Feste has stood by his original statement, but this has not come without consequences. The woke mob continues to go after him, attempting to crucify one of the most beloved jesters of our time. In their last attempt, Feste escaped with only minimal injury, as the mob was unable to source enough wood to construct a proper crucifix.

In times like these, it’s important for us to remember why exactly we have jesters in the first place. After all, who else is capable of pushing the limits of our thinking? Was it not Binky who convinced King Henry “Third Day” VI to only ex-

Town Square

Robin Robbin’ The Hood?

ecute dissenters every third day with his set on the difference between wenches and barmaids? Did Bobo not revolutionize our default technique for butter churning? And lest we forget, Frederick Smith singlehandedly jumpstarted the kingdom-wide conversation on raising the age for proper child sacrifice. Names like Bobo, Binky, and Frederick Smith will go down in history not just as clowns, but as kingmakers.

Feste ended his statement to the Town Crier with a view toward the future: “It’s just sad to see. So many aspiring, talented jesters will be discouraged by the

Renowned philanthropist Robin of Loxley celebrated for his hands-on approach to effective altruism has taken a nosedive in public opinion this past week. Despite his reported transparency in the famous “Steal from the rich, give to the poor,” business model, a whistleblower in Hood’s organization leaked accounting scrolls showing that this was actually a predatory loan strategy. Exassociate Little John (now under the protection of the Nottingham Sheriff’s department) told the Town Crier, “Look, I’m no saint. I worked with Rob for years. But I just couldn’t take it any longer. I mean these are peasants we’re talking about.”

woke mob. It’s a witch hunt, and it needs to be stopped. To be clear, I mean the metaphorical witch hunt. The metaphorical witch hunt which hunts jesters, not witches. Not actual witch hunters. Those guys shouldn’t change a thing. But the figurative witch hunters and the literal mobs are ruining the field. Jesting is a dying art, and these heartless fools are trying to strike the killing blow. Not professional fools, though. The metaphorical type.”

At press time, Feste was accepting donations to his GoFundMe in both silver groat and shillings.

OPINION

Gen B is Too Slutty

CULTURE

POINT: We Cannot Allow These Mongols to Invade

BY BENJAMIN HOLLANDER-BODIE STAFF REPORTER

Brothers, to arms!

We must halt the barbaric Mongol menace at once! If we fail in the Levant, the fiends will surely tear through the entire Muslim world, onward into Africa, and to all corners of God’s earth. We cannot let Dar al-Islam fall under the heel of the savage Khan. The Mongol advance ends here.

COUNTERPOINT: They’ve Come a Long Way

BY BENJAMIN HOLLANDER-BODIE STAFF REPORTER

Look, I get it. I’m not the number one Mongol fan in the world or anything. In fact, I hate ‘em just as much as the next guy. And on a normal day, I’d say that no, I don’t want to get plundered or pillaged. But this is like their whole thing, man. And you have to admit, they’ve come a long way. Over a thousand parasang, in fact. Imagine if you traveled that far to sack some cities and the locals didn’t let you. Come on, we gotta let ‘em do it.

OPINION:Perhaps Our Noble King is Being a Little Reckless With His Soldiers’ Lives

BY JACOB MANSFIELD STAFF REPORTER

Serving as an adviser to our beloved King Richard (blessed be his reign) has offered me the privilege of proximity to his divine deliberation. However, I must confess that some of his strategic decisions in our war to the north have provoked my concern.

King Richard (blessed be his bountiful wisdom) explained to me that he declared war on our northern neighbors for their abundance of quail tongues. I was unsure of the wider economic benefits this would bring to the kingdom, as King Richard has made the consumption and sale of quail tongues among the common folk

punishable by hanging.

Beyond this, I feel as though our King (blessed be his word) referring to soldiers as “maggots” does not strengthen troop morale. I understand the burden of kingship is heavy, but ordering troops to “pile up the weaklings in front of your spears to form a meat wall” seems rather questionable.

Perhaps I am being too harsh on a man (long may he live) unjustly plagued by indigestion from some bad quail tongues served at last night’s banquet. His Majesty (anointed by God and beloved by his people) did deserve a night of revelry to drown our sorrows; we had lost the valley in a bloody skirmish. He maintained

stoic composure at the news that we had lost four score good men, and shed only a single tear when we told him the quaileries of the region were burned in the conflict.

This morning, King Richard (of great cardiovascular fitness) visited our front line before the assault on the fort. He was a solemn and inspiring presence, but unfortunately had to leave to handle a pressing diplomatic crisis after the court painter finished his portrait in front of the battlefield. We were confused by this decision, but in awe at his timing. Truly, I have much to learn about politics.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER WORDSMITH Hoardcorp Celebrity Partner

Local Quack Thinks Leeches Aren’t Good Medicine

BY SAMAD HAKANI STAFF REPORTER

Leeches. We all know and love them. They’re right up there with bloodletting, herbal teas, and praying for God to heal us. Hundreds of successful years behind the technique, but what did I see in The Town Crier this past week? Some “doctor” (if we can even call him that) claims that leeches aren’t as effective as we think

they are. I mean, come on, what’s next? Forgetting about the four humors entirely? Letting women wear pants? Where will this new-age liberal knavery end?

This so-called medical practitioner also advocates for changing the way we perform surgery. Move out of the way, triedand-true practices we’ve established for hundreds of years, here comes some bozo who doesn’t even be-

lieve in leeches. Wasting precious water on washing our hands? Come on! A little dirt in the body never hurt anyone. Neither did a little leeching. Just look at me — 30 years of monthly leeches and I still have half of my teeth!

”Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

TOP TEN MONARCH NICKNAMES

At the end of the day, isn’t the guy (or gal) on the throne just one of us laymen? These are the most deferential nicknames to give to your benevolent monarch.

Your Majesty

Your Highness

The One Whom I Did Not Vote For (Because No One Voted Since the Crown is Inherited And We Are But Serfs in a Monarchy)

We Should Have a Say in Government

Heaven’s Senator

We Should Have a Say in Government, Or Else

Meet in the carpenter’s shack tonight (21 Ale Serpent Lane). Hark tavern girls, smithies, and “doctors” alike, tonight is the night that we overthrow those devils that call themselves our rulers. For too long we have suffered at the hands of injustice, servitude, and serfdom. For too long we have paid our reliefs while those in power feast on the fruits of our labor. For too long we have suffered mockery from our nobles who call us “malnourished” and “scurvy-ridden” though it is they who have taken all our fruit. Tonight is the end of all injustice, and the beginning of a new day.

O Holy One, Blessed With Divine Right to Rule and Imbued With The Wisdom of God

Bring warm grog tonight, and courage come morning.

— A. Kirman

WHAT WOULD I DO IF I WERE KING

What would I do if I were king? Me? Humble Bartholomew? Oh, man… well, I guess…

I would create democratic institutions, tax reforms, and give power to the people. I would have sex with the queen, several times and in several positions. Have enough barley to eat. Accuse my bitch ex-wife Alba of witchcraft and my annoying neighbor Bartlemebus of aiding and abetting, then watch the two of them burn at the stake.

I would have a torrid affair with our town prostitute, Bertha. Then I would get my driver’s license. I would live a life of luxury: learn to read, bathe monthly, hunt peasants for sport, kiss peasants for pleasure, knight my goldfish, Garth.

I would resent the Queen after finding out she was sleeping with my cousin, but not say anything at first. I would find healthy releases for my anger, like hunting more peasants, murdering my cousins, and launching the Ninth Crusade.

I would sleep with more women to one-up the Queen. I would bask for a while in my divine right to rule and then hunt

wild boars in addition to peasants. And I would move forward, backward, sideways, and diagonally — but only ever one square at a time.

And then, at last, when I had done all of that, I would outlaw class mobility, kill off all the competing powers, and get an annulment from my whore wife. She would beg and beg, but I would feel no empathy.

I would hunt a few more peasants for sport, and then call it a day.

Yeah, that’s what I would do if I were king.

— Staff

— A. Hermann

TEN HOTTEST CILPs (CITIES I’D LIKE TO PILLAGE)

—J. Stark

1. Constantinople

2. Nördlingen

3. York (New)

4. York (Old)

5. The Enchanted Forest

6. The City of Dreams (Shaftesbury)

7. The Windy City (Canterbury)

8. London, Ontario

9. The Holy Land; City of God; Abraham’s Bosom; Shangrila; Cradle of Human Faith and House of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit

10. Minneapolis

THE STRONGEST MAN IN STÖLGARTEN

I am brave. I am strong. I am the strongest man in Stölgarten. My fellow serfs feed on sawdust and what little barley chaff Viscount Stölgar leaves them after his share. They are malnourished, weak, cowardly. They stand only four feet above God’s ground, and their elbows bend back when they lift large sacks of flour.

I am not cowardly. I am not weak. I feed on the finest food in the village. My fellow serfs give me loaves of real bread, boiled eggs, and the occasional possum. Well-fed, well-bred, I tower five feet above God’s ground. Every village in the duchy has a five-foot Thing like me, who protects the weak from other five-foot Things like me.

I am brave. I am strong. I have never left Stölgarten. Sometimes I wonder what life would be were I as brittle and broken as the blacksmith Johannes. I watch him struggle to lift his cast-iron smelting tongs. I watch him leap childishly up at the lever to his bellows, which protrudes six feet above God’s ground.

If I were like Johannes, I would be afraid. I would be afraid of the wolves that howl at night, and I would be afraid of the dogs that yip by day. I would be afraid of the Viscount’s men, who carouse and make merry with our village’s four-foot prostitutes.

But I am not afraid. I am called “The Tree” by our local bard, who stands three feet above God’s ground. I fight with a great big hammer instead of a sword, which makes me even more intimidating in some circles.

Some of the serfs speak of Vikings, pale and heartless men from the frozen North. They say these Vikings are masters of pillage and plunder, and that some of them stand six feet above God’s ground. I do not believe these rumors. I am the largest man in the world. I am happy here. I eat hard-boiled eggs and make love to the blacksmith’s wife and smash battle dummies to bits with my great big hammer.

I am brave. I am strong. And soon, the day shall come when I am called to battle for the first time. I will not flinch, I will not yield. And if I fall to hordes of lesser men, one thousand angels will grasp my slippery, powerful tendons and drag me skyward to meet my God. He will stand five feet, six inches above His own ground and he will tell me how brave and large and strong I am.

I will guard His kingdom for all eternity, feasting on cake, boiled Angel eggs, and the occasional divine rabbit. When the Devil comes rattling out of the Pit at the End of Days, he will taste my hammer. I am brave. I am strong. My soul will never die.

— J. Wickline

VIEWS FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE WELL

it is Gregor again so yes. Some ways better but also many other ways , less better. i for Sure am not longer in the dunce Cage, the cage in that teaching woman put the many dunce of school. Stupid boys and with small heads and Lesions on skin, unlikable mostly. However the case is i write from a dark wet place right now, worse maybe than the Dunce cage. my Mother and Father have did sent me to fetch water. For soup of course. And for bath of month. And so yes, i do that. It is only now that I am finding my own self in the bottom of the well, for i thought i did smell something flavorful from the top. A sweet treat maybe some meat and sugar. I was so trying to have care and not fall as so many of mine own brothers have done. So yes i am tempted and i begin climb down, down. That smell so sweet, i follow to the bottom.

It so turns that this is all not real. I realize so only as my belly is thundering and the hole of light is become like tiny point upon the needle like mine mother does poke us with when we are so sick. This game she calls “Confuse the pain .” Confused i am now that I cannot find none way back up, for the walls are too slimed and wet like frog that is wet and slimed.

Mine poem from the bottom, “pindrop of light grows many darker as hours go.

In unfortunateness, there is absolute none fish or frogs or even many bugs to be with friends. The ham smell now is only in mine mind and heart and i say my words to no one.

In these times i have many wishes: more ham than none. And claws. and some one of mine girl brothers that i love so we of Course can build Tall ladder of children. Many of them probably will never make it out, but

maybe i will have at least one chance.”

Night now and i pretty much am imagine eating the cheese moon. As usually, write later when all is good again.

Meet England’s Top Dragon’s Hoard Asset Manager

For generations, Fellclaw, the Terror of Black Keep, has ravaged the villages of Plumbbage with fiery breath and bloody tooth. She has demanded tribute in the form of precious metals and gems, sacred relics, livestock, and even human sacrifice. Any man that has dared oppose her has been brutally tortured to death, drowned in molten metal while forced to watch his village burn.

But according to Babbitty Frink, CEO of Hoardcorp, Fellclaw’s real crime is that she contributes essentially nothing to the economy.

“Capital,” Frink begins to explain, “is not a word many people have heard of yet. But it essentially boils down to value that can be put to work creating more value. We live in rapidly accelerating times. Capital is at the heart of that, and if you’re just hoarding, you’re standing in the way of progress.”

development, and economics. They really just want loot. I try to meet them halfway. For example, we recently financed a crusade that came back with an entire Byzantine city’s worth of treasure. These tangible loot returns, especially gold, are usually very comforting to skeptical new clients. But there are always some stubborn, irrational actors like Fellclaw who won’t part with their hoard even for an instant. Economic behavior like that is, in my opinion, truly despicable: she is taking a huge amount of capital out of the economy and refusing to allow it to be put to any good use at all.”

Frink considers it his job to make loans and investments that align with the dragons’ core values and result in substantial returns. “What we do at Hoardcorp is connect our clients with those who can use their wealth most productively. And ethically, for dragons. For example, three of our clients and I collaborated to fund the construction of a new windmill over in Beanton. This project is so much more efficient compared to a peasant-based system, which requires continual feeding.”

Hoardcorp has faced human criticism as well, but Frink has a message for his doubters: “Chivalry and adventure are on their way out, and it’s time all you gallivanting knights wake up from this whole ‘kill all the dragons’ fantasy and work within the system we have.”

During day-to-day operations, however, dragons like Fellclaw and human critics such as the Knights of the Round Table are more of a theoretical concern than a direct obstacle. It’s angry clientele that pose the most frequently pressing problem. “Sometimes it can get tricky when an investment doesn’t really work out. You can try to explain basic principles like risk to a dragon all you want, but most of them are just naturally vengeful beings and someone is going to have to die. Usually, we just throw them an intern or two.”

“Usually, we just throw them an intern or two.”

We concluded the interview by asking Frink what he would like to accomplish in the next decade. “Oh, that’s easy,” Frink responds. “I’d like to become a dragon.”

Frink explained that this is not an idea that all dragons are immediately on board with. “Many dragons do not really care about ideas like expansion, growth, —S. Hyphe

“Many dragons do not really care about ideas like expansion, growth, development, and economics.”

“Capital … essentially boils down to value that can be put to work creating more value.”

“What we do at Hoardcorp is connect our clients with those who can use their wealth most productively.”

The Life Of a Rock

By Sophie Spaner

THE RECORD’S TRUSTY GUIDE TO COMMON MEDIEVAL PHRASES

Hark! A damfel wor’hy of mine admirable gaze. Thy beauty and radiance glimmereth from yonder mountaines to ye darkeft quarters — Damn baby girl, you fine as hell.

Unruly cur, pleasfæ scurr’ yonder — Ew, please don’t talk to me.

Ich’ede lǒve ta’ lay mine eyes upon thy faire feetlings I’d like to see your toes.

Compofe thy poif’n tongue and bæ gone, bedfwerver! Get away from her, creep!

Sin guī intranficiọ̄n ain hedge-born dalcop, Ich can’Þ believæ hæ afketh hauen thy feetlings That guy is such an asshole, I can’t believe he asked to see your toes.

Grievoufly perexcellentlī rudæ. Hæ knowth hẹ̄ feī̆ple off durende mīn firfÞ bouÞ ophe th’ būbō. Hẹ̄ art mīn biggefÞ infecuritī Seriously, he’s so rude. Everyone knows my toes fell off during my first bout of the plague. They’re my biggest insecurity.

M. Neissen

WHAT I WOULD DO IF I WERE A PEASANT

If I, King Ivan III, were a peasant… Well, the first thing I would do is say, “What am I doing as a peasant? I’m supposed to be the King!”

But after that, I guess I would work really hard, pay my taxes, and, above all else, respect the king. If he asked me to empty his chamber pot, I would jump at the opportunity.

But I’d do so much more than that. I would not starve, barter for an hour with the town prostitute, and know my damn place in society. I would get cholera and live to tell the story. I would play around with my buddies after a night of too much ale and accidentally end up nearly decapitating myself in the guillotine.

I would dream of a better life. I would learn how to read. If I couldn’t figure that out, I think I’d try my luck on Medieval Europe’s Got Talent and make a name for myself as a jester. And if it didn’t work out, I would drink even more ale, crush my kids’ aspirations of upward mobility, divorce my cousin, and neglect my ailing mother.

If I could do all that, I know I would live and die happily knowing I played my part in making the Empire a better place.

But mostly, I wouldn’t be a peasant because God chose me, and He doesn’t make mistakes.

— Staff

EVIDENCE DRAGONS ARE REAL

1. Geoffrey (the miller’s son) said they’re real. It’s obvious that Geoffrey (the miller’s son) is never wrong, because Geoffrey (the miller’s son) can read. Can you read? Didn’t think so.

2. Geoffrey (the miller’s son) went to go slay a dragon, and we haven’t seen or heard from him since.

3. Something’s been taking the five sheep we leave yearly on the mountaintop. It would be a real waste if dragons didn’t exist. It’s a good thing they do.

4. Look, with the number of princesses that go missing every month, there are three possible culprits: enemy machinations to destabilize our government, the princesses attempting to flee from their courtly duties, or the existence of giant flying reptiles that can breathe fire and exclusively target the female children of royalty. Let’s be realistic here.

5. There are scrolls and paintings with dragons on them. How would the artists have known what they looked like if they weren’t real?

6. Dragons are obsessed with gold, and the kingdom is rapidly running out of gold. Lord Corruptus the Honest says it has nothing to do with him. So it has to be dragons.

7. Geoffrey (the miller’s son) came back with a nasty scar across his neck and arm. He says he got it fighting a dragon, and that wouldn’t be very easy to do if dragons weren’t real.

8. You have no proof they don’t exist.

9. Come to think of it, you don’t have any proof that you exist, do you? How is it you can come forth with these

absurd allegations, denying the reality of established fact, and yet refuse to think of yourself in the same terms?

10. Lizards.

—A. Budejen

MEDIEVAL ALTERNATIVES TO MODERN INVENTIONS

Getting a car for your 16th birthday: Marrying a 45-year-old man

Youtuber apology videos: Church indulgences

Gynecology equipment: Anvils

Russia: Prussia

Paper cuts: Amputees

Pedophilia in the Catholic Church: Pedophilia in the Catholic Church

Goth girlfriends: Gothic girlfriends

Safes: A really big hill

Nancy Reagan: Leeches

Leeches: Nancy Reagan

Youtube: DVRs

Potatoes: Famine

Movie piracy: Sea piracy

Mindfulness: Lobotomies

Virtual reality: Hysteria

Math: Guessing

EDM: DM

Near-sighted kids with peanut allergies: Strong, rugged children who feast on poison

Nicki Minaj: Ismene the Warbling Temptress

MARTIN LUTHER ERRS

Lord Relkas The alarums of

by Logan Ledman and Joe Wickline

Halt! Oh.

Hallo, boy…

Speak not of Arrabella!

She stole away with Lieke her amour… …and dashed my heart upon a foreign shore…

But no matter!

We have… other business…

I’ve espied you, boy –– slinking about, – scampering up trellises, – skulking in crannies and catacombs, Quite the little adventurer, eh boy?

So pay heed!

Where’er your wanderings wend…

dAre not treAd yon curséd wood.

Know ye what lies within? Know ye?

Ach! Fool!

Damn fool!

Centaurs, boy, with heads of horses!

Bats that run!

Knives that think!

A baleful land-whale the size of a goat!

And Old Hesh, that one-eyed grizzly…

…hairless claw to maw...

. ..no teeth, needle-sharp gums …

Soft! Listen close…

Beastly beasts roam glens and groves— —in hordes and throngs and pairs.

A boneless hog! A boneless hog!

All flesh and rage, rolling and roiling out th’ dark! And blind Goodie Craddock, the crone... . ..stirring her cauldron.

But what’s that aboil?

It’s leg soup!

Her ladle is a leg too, boy!

Can you imagine?

Can you think to imagine?

A dog-eating dog, eating dog…

A babe as old as the sea…

The ghost of poor King Obe—the King! Who died— —when branch of tallest tree gave way to pride!

The wretch was fain to vainly rob the prize… …that was not his… fresh honey from the hive…

Even the trees…

Ho! Your doltish stare. You haven’t an inkling. Nary an inkling of an inkling. Were-trees, boy!

Come full moon… A forest of wolves!

A thousand thousand wolves!

Hungry for boy, boy!

And the nymphs…

Oh God, oh God.

God help ye…

See ye now, boy?

Yon forest brims!

Dangers and delights!

Perils and pleasures! Were I as young as ye I’d not resist…

Well?

Why d’ye hold stock-still a-lingering?

Haven’t ye somewheres to be?

WHO WOULD WIN IF THE ROMANS FOUGHT THE VIKINGS

Bro. I have a question for you. Who do you think would win if the ROMANS fought the VIKINGS? The biggest badasses of the B.C.s versus the notorious naval Norse! It would be so fucking sick, man. Just think about how cool it would be if they had fought each other!

So, who do you think would win, dude? Oh, I guess you’re right that it depends on the circumstances of the battle. Since the ROMANS were a land-based empire and the VIKINGS were more mobile raiders, let’s say the ROMANS are on their home turf, but let’s give the VIKINGS the advantage of prep time AND choice of when to attack.

Where are they attacking? Good question, bro. Maybe this is happening in the later EASTERN Roman Empire, so that the technology is more comparable. The VIKINGS, specifically the KIEVAN RUS’, sail down the Dnieper, into the Black Sea. Like, let’s be real, it only makes sense that the VIKINGS would want to have this be a naval fight. And because the VIKINGS have the

element of surprise, let’s say the ROMAN FLEET and the ROMAN ARMY are both off fighting the Arabs or something in 941 A.D.-ish, so Constantinople is totally unprotected. Then the VIKINGS lay siege to the city. It would be so fucking terrifying — the fearsome VIKINGS advancing on a nearly undefended city. Like, it would only be a matter of time until they could, you know, breach the walls. But that’s not even the half of it, dude.

At the last possible moment, EMPEROR ROMANOS I LEKAPENOS would, like, send his advisor out with nothing but fifteen totally jank ships and some Greek fire and, using their superior technology, the ROMANS would totally shellack the VIKINGS.

Then the VIKINGS would try to follow up with a land invasion, maybe somewhere in Asia Minor, like Bithynia? But they would be easily mopped up by the ROMAN ARMY under GENERAL IOANNES KOURKOUAS, who was just returning from dunking on the Arabs and being an overall fucking legend. So, uh, yeah. I think that’s who would win.

—B. Hollander-Bodie

SELF-CARE WHEN YOU’RE KING

Let me tell you, this painting is far from reality. I spent two hours wrangling the little ones in with promises of cuisses de grenouille, a second story at bedtime, and one serf of their choice to slaughter at dawn, and even then they couldn’t all sit still. Raising a family isn’t easy. We’re messy. We get mad. We dance. We fight. We laugh. We kill. We love. We piece ourselves together when the portraitist comes out, but every time he rests his arm, we’re at each other’s throats.

We posed for this painting 40 hours total, backs aching, and I did not blink a single time.

I was half way through pulling a Henry VIII, but after letting through a few leeches to get my yellow bile in check and steeping in a hot bath, I decided to call off my wife’s execution. It’s important to be alone. It’s hard to be reasonable when you have to be “on” all the time.

When you raise a family and work in the same place, it’s downright impossible to find a moment of peace, and if you catch me before I’ve had my coffee, I might accidentally send you to the convent. We converted the spare torture chamber into an at-castle office, and I go in at least once a day to feed my imported songbirds. Sure, I don’t get the physical distinction of the carriage commute, but it’s still good for me. I can tell the birds to sing a jaunty tune and they will, no bribery required. They’ll be delicious in a year.

Most days at the office, I write poems. Barons and Bishops barrage me with never ending requests, like “hey can I borrow your oil lamp really quickly?” and “Can you sign this birthday card?” I, a benevolent ruler, sometimes even personalize a small message.

Writing is my passion. In writing, I can escape the reign. It is my UMBRELLA from the RAIN. No more PAIN. On paper, I am SANE. In real life, I have LUPUS which inhibits my COGNITIVE ABILITIES.

I am the king of my pen. It even rivals the sword; swords can kill, but only the pen can force you to confront “the self,” and my Mage says that’s the only way to become whole. He warns me against those with swords, insisting there’s a target on my back, but I’m not scared. I like swords too. They make me feel like I’m in charge.

I doubt myself sometimes, though, and when I’m really

feeling down, I talk to my mage. While he mixes potions, I lose myself in thought, talking about my childhood, my absent father, my history of torturing animals, and my feelings. He asks me questions he knows the answer to. He’s my only real friend. He’s on my payroll, but that doesn’t mean what we have is fake, and he reassures me of this every time he asks for a raise.

He gives me potions that come in orange cylindrical containers, and he says I should take them to feel happy. Usually, he takes them out of the LEXAPRO and WELLBUTRIN apothecary jars, but when I went in for a refill last week, he took them out of an unidentified jar, hands shaking and sweat dripping down his neck. He kept saying he was sorry, and I didn’t know why. I offered him a raise. This made him cry. He sent me away, and two outlaws walked into his shack. I heard him weep. Anyways, gonna go take those pills.

L. Conklin

VIEWS FROM THE RAT DEN

Once more again yes it is Gregor.

I am surrounded by warm rats that lick my body. The love of the rats is superior to most love i have ever been known. Finally no more yells from mine mother nor mine teaching woman , telling me No gregor You can never be making problems . or mistakes. this is very hard thing to be. Especially while there are so many expectations and dreams for what i will do. Maybe own mine own goat. Maybe dance for The king. Mine mother always does tell me that I have a Dancer’s Body.

But now with rats , i not any longer will need mine Earthly Things. I do no longer need to have been reduced to one collection of mine mistakes, simply i can be a Being and be and not worry for eating too much ham or none other sweet meat. Because the rats do never care for who you are, for them it does never matter even once. And Me i am optimist so i think this is beautiful.

Mine poem.

“ friends in millions hot fur bodies keep me warm. Mine body and head are very so hot and the World is not so clear but In mine heart am i so happy. for once

Mine life

Seems , for once, to go forward. Luck if such a thing be real is by mine side.”

This Goat is Absolutely Useless at Defending my Castle

Oh lord, what an absolute DISGRACE this goat has turned out to be!! I am DEAF in 1.5 ears due to EXCESSIVE INBREEDING and have really STRUGGLED TO HEAR the approach of invading armies, so my TRUSTED knight commander recommended that I order a goat as a layer of defense around the perimeter of my GRAND estate!!! But alas, this GOODFOR-NOTHING goat scuttled off within MERE HOURS of being positioned outside the castle keep!! A gong farmer found him eating grass down in the VILLAGE, which only proves how much of a DUNCE he is, considering that my castle is completely surrounded by the FINEST grass on all sides!! And, of course, he had neither the PRUDENCE nor RESPECT to clean up the DUNG which he left all around my VAST and WALKABLE grounds!! Which, by the way, UPSET my many mistresses who sneak into the castle in the wee hours of night, which then upset ME because my mistresses all smelled of FECAL MATTER!!!! Oh, and don’t get me started on the 400,000 gallons of water WASTING away in an ENORMOUS shipping container outside the castle because the product listing claimed that this goat would require 400,000 GALLONS of water, which, come to think of it, seems like an UNREASONABLE amount of water for even the THIRSTIEST of livestock!!! I was also DUPED into buying a TOP-OF-THE-LINE footbridge made from IMPORTED WALNUT because the arms peddler claimed it was a recommended add-on to the purchase of a defensive goat!!! Frankly, I don’t know why I would ever WANT to step over the goat in the first place because he’s very easy to walk around!!!! When the invading army arrives, they’ll probably just turn this UNGRATEFUL and EMBARRASSING excuse for a defense system into some GARLIC ROSEMARY GOAT CHOPS and LURE me out of my safe and comfortable chambers with their DELICIOUS COOKING! Heed my warning: I would NOT recommend a goat to protect your keep!!!! It would honestly be more effective to just force my servants to dig a wide DITCH around my castle’s border and fill it with water!!! Oh, but what a FOOLISH idea, for this would surely result in the DROWNING of my goat!!!

REDISCOVERED VOYNICH MANUSCRIPT

—J. Donovan

THE RECORD QUIZ CORNER

IS YOUR NEIGHBOR A WITCH?

So, your neighbor is an unmarried woman living alone, and you’ve decided that an act of such repugnant evil can only be cleansed at the stake. Sure, it’s an imposition, but is your neighbor really a witch? Take this quiz and find out.

1. Does your neighbor own any animals? (Dogs? Cats? A particularly unfriendly pig?)

A.Yes.

B. No.

C. There are lots of animals around the house, but I don’t know if they’re tame.

2. Have you ever seen your neighbor holding a wandlike item? (A shifty-looking stick? A spoon? A writing utensil to record her rituals?)

A. Well... now that you mention it... yes, just the other day.

B. My neighbor has never held a long cylindrical object in her life.

C. Not recently. Maybe a few years back.

3.Tie your neighbor to a chair and toss her into a nearby body of water. Does she float?

A. By golly, she does!

B. She keeps escaping before I can throw her in the lake…

C. Instructions unclear, neighbor has drowned.

4. Does your neighbor have any birthmarks? (Moles? Scars? A sinister freckle?)

A. Yes! ‘Tis the mark of the beast!

B. I have examined every inch of my neighbor’s body (for research purposes) and it is absolutely flawless.

C. Yes, patches of her skin seem to be covered in strange blisters.

5. Prick your neighbor repeatedly with a needle. Are there any spots that don’t bleed?

A. Yes, actually…

B. No, and look at the mess she’s made, bleeding all across the table.

C. Neighbor has bled to death, please advise.

6. Is your neighbor a woman?

A. Yes.

B. No.

C. She was.

least you won’t have to deal with her anymore. I heard she was a witch anyways.

If you picked mostly C’s: Your neighbor is already dead! It’s unfortunate, but at

If you picked mostly B’s: Your neighbor might not be a witch, but who wants to take that chance? Burn her at the stake to be safe. Better safe than sorry!

If you picked mostly A’s: Your neighbor is a witch! Scandal! Drag her to the town square and get your marshmallows ready for a bonfire to remember. Your neighborhood thanks you for your hard work to get rid of such a dangerous and wicked person.

— A. Budejenv

Ask Old Owl!

Dear Old Owl, My horse ran away so I can’t go to the wedding of my granddaughter, who is thirteen. She has the consumption. I know not what a horse such as my horse could want more than all the dirt I feed him. It is full of salty rocks. Why does everyone I love leave?

Lost, Peasant

Dear Peasant, If you love something, you must follow it into the night. Through the forest you must go, and to your horse, you must run. Love persists. Love is so big right now. Your granddaughter will be happily married for many months, and you and your horse will resolve your issues and prosper. Follow him!

Dear Old Owl, My stupid owner finally left the pasture gate open so I trotted off into the night. At first, I was like, this is awesome because now I can learn a valuable trade. I took an apprenticeship with the cobbler, but my fumbling horse hands are no good. If not cobbling, what is my purpose?

Confused, Horse

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

Dear Horse, I can tell you are a sensitive, soulful beast. Your heart seems more suited to the poetic arts. Find love and write your tale in the dirt. Maybe one day, someone will read it. Probably not, but a horse can hope.

Anthropology at Yale

Because humans are complicated

What courses are offered in Anthropology?

What can you do with a major in Anthropology? Let recent students tell you.