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BOARD OF EDITORS Courtney G. Bowman '11, President Benjamin U. Steiner '10-'11, Ibis William C. Schaub '11, Narthex N.H. Stein '10 R. R. Rojer'09-'10 J. B. Owen '10 A. S. Goldfeder ' 10 N.C. Jacoby '10 K. Sweeney '10 A.M. Geary ' 10 S. H. Lernberg'10 K. M. Mack ' 10

L. M. Fang'10 C. F. Frazier'll K.R.Yee '10 I. M. T. Bethel' 11 K. A . Escobedo '12 M.P. Eskenazi '06-' 11 S. A. Levin-Gesundheit '11 0. T. L. Bates ' 13 D. K. Sonoiki '13

Lillian Yu '11, Nave Jessica L. Fleischer'10, Sackbut Caitlin A. Meares '10, Sackbut Zachariah P. Hughes '12, Hautbois Kathryn C. Ryan '13, Hautbois Allison L. A verill '12, Sanctum Charles A. Sui/ '12, Sanctum Kyle M. Mack '10, Librarian Jonathan P. Finn-Gamino '12, Blot Daniei N. Ashwood '10, VanitAshwood M atthew K. Grzecki '10, Vanitas Kevin P. Bartley'10-'11, Vanitas

BUSINESS BOARD Y i Cai '11, Treasurer Pedro M. de A. V. F. de Moura '09-'11, Business Manager Tony W. Wang '11, Advertising Manager Daniel L. Liss '11, Circulation Manager

A. M. Rohr '11 A. H . Podolsky'10 L. B. Hawkins '11 S. E. Wick '10 E. M. Sobel '12 Joseph F. H ickey, Grand Curator Ad-Infinitum ISSUE EDITOR John B. Owen '10 ART EDITOR D anie/ N. Ashwood'10



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The Harvard Lampoon is published five times during the academic year by The Harvard Lampoon,lnc. Principal office 44 Bow Street, Cambridge, MA 02138. Third-class postage paid at Cambridge, MA. U.S. subscription: $20 for five issues, $35 for ten, $50 for fifteen. Overseas subscriptions: call for rates. Postmaster: send address changes to Harvard Lampoon, 44 Bow Street, Cambridge, MA 02138. © 2010 Harvard Lampoon, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduction in any form without written permission is prohibited. Phone: (6 17) 495· 7801. Fax: (61 7) 495· 1668. URL: The Harvard Lam· poon cannot consider unsolicited manuscripts. The Lampoon is a registered trademark of The Harvard Lampoon,lnc. To the people who are against JFH, you are idiotic. You have done infinitely less for The Harvard Lampoon, Jnc. To the other enemies of The Harvard Lampoon, Inc., including BB· Bandiers, out·of-the-loop decision-makers making crazy decisions based only on weird personal whims, the editors of The Harvard Crimson Newspaper who enjoy choking the guests of their parties and hitting their glasses off of their faces, Former Dean Judith Kidd, and the oppressors of this world: Hell is real. You will spend eternity there. The Harvard Lampoon, Inc. will be looking down at you from Heaven while you experience an eternity of torture. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is.

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What would happen if Tyler Lipton, the man with the world's smallest bladder, was on the bus in the movie Speed?

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lllccaarcqlllllllllllca I never wanted to be a construction worker when I grew up but I guess I didn't really have a choice. My father gave me three presents for my seventh birthday - an expired coupon packet, a leather tool belt, and a book, which was mine but he'd taken it to use the pages as napkins. Then he left me and put all the food on the roof so I had to construction work my way up there to survive. Ever since that fateful day I always think about my father and why he left. Then I quickly leave the Porta-potty because the smell is intolerable. Every day, I bring my own gear to work - my construction hat, a slightly harder hat to keep my tools in, and my new Lakers cap to look good when we start building. After a quick glance at the site blueprint, we then take a longer look, and finally a prolonged stare. The first person to blink has to buy doughnuts. We get a few breaks on the job but they're never long. I usually spend my time doing things like nail hammering, hammer fixing, building, power hammering, and swearing. Afterwards, I go to the food truck by the site. The only food they serve is an acidic, bubbling gruel. The kind of gruel that makes your hands uncomfortably sticky - a

Tyler: Hey guys? Guys! I ... I really need to go to the bathroom. Jack: Are you serious? You know we can't stop, you're going to have to hold it.

Tyler: No ... you don't understand. I really have to pee. degree of stickiness which no hand-washing Right now. can remove. If only you could erase your Jack: We're under a bomb threat coupled with a hostage memory and forget your hands existed. situation and you're worried about urinating? Most of the day, the guys at work compare workout regimens and muscle mass. The construction we do is often justa side product of on site weight-lifting competitions. I eat a lot of fibers and protein at home but I also dabble in various sandwich meats and the occasional iron filing. Last time I went to the doctor I found out I'm 20% muscle, 80% hammer. He also told me I was diabetic but I don't feel diabetic so I think it's just a phase.

Tyler: Well, it's kind of hard to explain ... I have the world's smallest bladder. Jack: Really? How do they measure that? Is it based on size and weight or more along the lines of fluid capacity? Tyler: It's kind of a combination. They put you in an electronic harness that slowly squeezes your mid-section until you urinate and whoever pees last and the least goes on to the next round. Jack: What's the next round?

Tyler: Truthfully, I don't really remember. I passed out and My firm does a lot of contract work and found myself already in the final round. I do most of the really creative projects. I Jack: What was the final round? once had to construct a house for people I hadn't even met before. That was after Tyler: Peeing as little as possible. I built a pagoda, and I don't even know Jack: I can't believe I'm here, right now, meeting a real life what that is. I'm pretty handy but I work world record holder. best with materials like mahogany and Tyler: Hey, can I just get off here? I'm pretty sure there's a sledgehammers. bathroom in that restaurant. Probably the toughest day I ever had was Jack: If we stop, the bus explodes. You know that, right? when my boss told me they found my Even if we slow down, everyone will die. father's body in the river. Then I had to build Tyler: I'm more worried about the bomb in my body. his coffin out of metal and steel. Jack: How can you make jokes at a time like this? Look, I can try to help but since I'm always on the move, all I have are these empty travel-sized bottles for shampoo. Tyler: [whispering] I ... I can't go in front of all these people. Jack: Oh, let me help - OH MY GOD! LOOK EVERYONE - IT'S A HELICOPTER THAT'S COME TO SAVE US! Tyler: Ohhhhhh man that feels great. Oh .. . Oh no ... uh, I'm going to need more bottles. Jack: I've never seen anyone have to pee so much at once. I thought you had the smallest bladder, how can it hold so much liquid? Tyler: Right before I got on the bus I was at a tour of the local water-bottling plant. They give you free samples at the end. So much free water. That and I have the world's largest throat. Please, I need more bottles. Jack: Can't you empty one out of the window or something? Tyler: At the speed we're going I'm pretty sure most of it will just spray backwards into my face if I try. It's not worth it. Jack: I don't have any more bottles. All I have is this bag with various classified documents and my my bomb diffuser. Here, take it. Tyler: Ohhhhhhh, thank you. Oh that feels so good. Jack: Thank God. Now all I have to do is save all of these people from a bomb explosion. Tyler: Another bag, please.

Long lime no ink. p"'""

Hmph. 27 years to date in fact. To the best of my memory, the last time I picked up a writing utensil for anything was 18 years ago, and that had been to cross something out. Now, over a quarter of a century later, I sit here at this desk wondering where the words and the sense of wonder have gone. That same power that made you the late 1970s' and early 1980s' grittiest, edgiest children's book writer? It ends up shooting you in the foot, like a sentient bear trap that has been taught how to operate a gun. In fact, I think it's been longer than 27 years since my writer's instinct last suggested I write something that didn't reopen old wounds with the local PTA. It seemed 1983 saw me unable to write another sentence without another neighborhood dad approaching my house with lit torch, telling me to take my legal pads, my pens, my writing helmet, and throw it all into a toilet and flush it down the drain for a while. Fortunately, implied was the notion that in a couple of years I could go plodding through the sewers looking for my lost items. But let me tell you something. Let enough rust accumulate in your writing arm and it starts operating like a mongoloid boy's hind leg, which means that it's baby step after baby step getting the old fuck rocket back into throwing condition if you know what I mean. Quick note: The last time I checked, which was 27 years ago in 1983, any children's book writer worth his sack of tits called his writing arm Puck Rocket or in some cases el Fucko Rocketa. I think this practice is still used. So here it goes, world. This piece begins the second chapter of my career; the slow, arduous reacquainting process of mind and word, hand and ink, writer dick and children's book agent ass, writer dick and children's book publisher ass, writer dick and children's bookstore ass. The lead up to this momentous day began several weeks ago, when I began the process of coaching the old horse clicks (fingers) to pick up a pen, gradually moving on to writing letters. Here are some of the early letters I wrote: w, m, M, S, i. A couple of days ago I called myself up to the minor leagues for some single A ball: sentences. Taking words and arranging them so that the syntax was right and the letters were nice. You know. In some cases, some words in the same sentences ended up starting with the same letters. And I don't quite remember if that is frowned upon or not. Regardless, here are some sentences I wrote when I was just getting started again: -The savannah grew still with the dying rectal spasms of the lion cubs. -The previously retired Lakers guard hobbled down the basketball field, little bits of the gay cancer in each step. -Whispering Willows farm was a coyote's howl from the gentle brook where the Overland Trail Elementary School dograpes were to occur. (Okay, this is actually a revised passage from something I had published previously) In several days I begin my next project. I think the best way to describe it is that it's just a book about a school of aardvarks in this dimension where a gun has just been created that is capable of shooting and raping at the same time.


I've never understood rap. Is it singing or is it talking? Is it poetry or is it a novel? Is it an offshoot of hip-hop, soul, blues, spoken word jazz poetry, and disco, or is it what I just said but without the disco? These are questions no one will ever be able to answer.


One important aspect of rap is how the words and syllables interact with the beat. For example, take this line of rap by famous rapper Tupac: I'm gay I I like men I I'm really gay. With no beat, these are just random words that anyone could say. But now, listen to how much better it sounds with a beat: We living a Drug Life, Thug Life, each day could be my--w.~ last I Will I blast when it's time to shoot? Don't even ask. Obviously it's a bit hard to convey this on the page, but I think you've got the gist.

â&#x20AC;˘yRaammatc Luke: I think my roommate's a serial killer. He's always leaving the room and coming back at odd times. Zach: It's called class and homework. Luke: But he's really violent too. He punched a hole through the wall. Zach: Doesn't make him a serial killer. Luke: But he says really weird stuff sometimes. When he gets mad he never uses regular insults. He just calls everyone a "hooker:' Zach: Hooker? Luke: Yeah, like "you fat hooker;' or "you dumb hooker;'"you lazy hooker;' or "I am going to kill a damn hooker:' Zach: Maybe they just say that where he's from. Luke: He really hates lazy hookers. He's always like hey, I bet you didn't make any money tonight, I bet you just sat there on the corner instead of getting a real job or selling any sex. Zach: You're paranoid. I've met jack, he's a real nice guy. Luke: But he always measures things by the number of hookers he'd kill to get them. just the other day he said ''I'd kill nine hookers to get an A on this test:' Zach: So? Freedom of speech. Luke: What about that string of murders? Nine prostitutes dead. Zach: If your roommate can be in the glee club, on the crew team, on club tennis, President of the Yiddish Men's Forum, and still kill nine prostitutes, he mtl~ be really efficient. (laughs) Luke: Stop. People are dying. Whenever he goes home for the weekend, another hooker dies. Zach: Coincidence. Luke: W hat about the bloody clothes he's always laundering? And the gloves? The sketchy 'Van? Damn it, what about the hookers moaning and dying in his corner of the room right there? Zach: Doesn't make him a murderer (checks pulse). This one isn't even dead yet. (she dies) Luke: She's dead. Zach: It doesn't mean he's a serial killer. He's killed at most one person, and that's an assumption. She could easily have wandered in here and stabbed herself.. .(counts) seventeen times.





In 1999- I think this was around the time Monica and Chandler got married on Friends, if you need a reference point- I lost my mind and moved to the wilderness of Yellowstone National Park. Just some quick reasons why this happened, without sounding too dramatic. My soul was torched by the exploding wheels of commerce, barrelling down a highway of anti-trust in flaming evil. And the hours. I was an artist in high school. Then senior year of college, on-campus recruiters scouted me for investment banking. In meetings they burned 1,000 dollar bills for any question they couldn't answer, and even for this one that they could. Meanwhile no recruiters came from Art. I had no choice. Much like the Native Americans, who were tricked into giving away their land in exchange for smallpox, I was tricked into ruthlessly climbing over people to advance up a never-ending social beanstalk made out of golden leaves and silvershit. While a huge amount of money and only a small amount of smallpox would have been like a dream come true for the Native Americans, I was never one to think very Indian. I think that's just an Indian thing. I eat the leaves of some plants, and I think back on these things. I didn't love my job, but I worked harder on that than on anything else I'd ever worked. Some nights I'd go h ome at 3am, and be back in the office at ?am. But those were only on slow nights like Saturday. Any free time I had went to working another job so I could keep getting bottle service at Pangaea, which was ranked as the 3rd most powerful nightclub for that weekend. I got to talk to some of the most beautiful Serbian models, but when the bouncer woke me up they were gone, and my cranberry juice cost five thousand dollars. 1tell 'f<i,l love it here. It never gets too hot (except during forest fires and summers), and it never gets too cold (except at higher altitudes and whenever night falls). The only two things that I ever worry about now are how to enjoy my evenings and drought! Yep, an outcast's life for me. I may someday go back. Sure. I've thought of it. But things will be different. Truer. No games, no phoniness. I'm thinking about going into consulting. Meanwhile, you don't even know what friendship is. You have too much anger.




~·-=··j···l Wrote Before I U

Letters Worked Dear Governor, Dear Table, Thank you for everything.

Dear sneeze,

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Sincerely, Charlie

I hope you don't

mind if I call you governor, table. Love, Charlie



Health &Science Just How Smallloes aCold Shower Make Your Penis? by Belinda Luscombe Penis size is a constant concern amongst men of all ages. It is also something that can affect your marriage, for good or worse. So when I heard that a cold shower can shrink a man's penis, albeit temporarily, I knew I had to test this theory. I decided to experiment on my husband, Tom. Tom, who is unassuming - maybe even a little bit boring - works at a grocery store and has a normalsized penis. He is also my best friend. I decided that I would turn the shower water to 62 degrees Fahrenheit and then lure Tom into I locked the door. Here were my findings:

lmin.: -----> 3min.: <---Smin.: <--7min.: <-Looks like this experiment is going to be over soon. 8min.: <lOmin.: ---> Hey, wait a minute. 12min.: -----------------> Ohmygod. 15min.: <---------Okay phew! 16min.: ---------------------------> Sweet Jesus, Tom, get out of the shower! 17min.: --------------------------------------------- > Tom , get out of there now! "Baby, come in the shower:' 18min.: ------------------------------------------------- > Tom, are you crazy? You're going to kill me with that thing! "It's nice in here babe:' 19min.: ------------------------------------------------- > Listen, honey. You start wrapping that... that thing you've got in there with you and I'll think about coming in. "But babe:' 20m in.: ------------------------------------------------- > Tom, ba-habe! 2lmin.: -----&-----&-----&-----&-----> Okay, real clever, Thomas, but how do I know that's not just going to unravel the second I open this door? 22min.: --&--&--&--&--&--> Tom Luscombe wasn't fooling me one bit with his penis knots. I had to wait probably 15 minutes or so until he fell asleep and at that point his body had begun to pack in its belongings. The problem was that he was still in those knots. 47min.: -&&&-&&&-> This proved very painful for Tom when he woke up. What I hope however is that other wives can learn from my near-death experience with a cold shower penis. Next week I will lure Tom into the hot tub to test the effects of hot water on his male penis. Wish m e luck.


~- .--


The Time I Murdered a Unfair Obligations Carilla

- Having to stay with your girlfriend even after she tells you that she is a man because her parents already think you're kind of homophobic as it is.

I will never forget the way that gorilla died - smiling, signing "goodbye" with its hands.


- Having to carry your basketball team the whole season because you are the most talented player on your basketball team.

Excuses ta Have aParty Hunting Far Treasure 1. Someone's birthday 2. Two people's half-birthdays 3. Three people's half-birthdays, one person ill 4. Five dead, two in true love ' ' ~ -~"~ 5. Miscarriage (sought~ ~~ - -~ . ,.,;v ~// .



I'm not a treasure hunter by any means. The very idea sickens me! Anyway, here are some tips.


Mall Rat Being a mall rat is gonna get me killed one of these days. Ever since 5th grade I've been holding down my turf in the Food Pavillion-Sbarro all the way to Taco Bell Express. My older sister was in charge first, back when Aeropostale was Pac Sun. That was 2003. Now I want it to be known: this is my time. I try to keep my group of girls tight, but these security guards are always hassling us. "Five plus, break it up;' says the red-faced woman. The mall doesn't want more than five of us hanging together at one time, as if five or fewer girls can't assault a fellow teen, record it on a phone, and put it on YouTube. All the same, I send my sixth girl to go steal me a toe ring from Claires. It's sandal season soon, and those things are mad expensive. Since I'm trying to keep a low profile, I move my crew around to eat some chicken teriyaki samples. Loretta gets cinnamon sugar all over my shirt and I'm about to choke her ass on that pretzel, when the guard comes back. "You roughhouse, you're out!" she says. I'd say something back, but I'm not one to curse when there are babies in strollers riding around. Plus, I'm pretty sure that chick's face is red because she got burned or something. Today we'll finally take out the Wet Seal crew for knocking over my Birthday Remix cone last Saturday. Those girls may be older than us, but they have higher centers of gravity on account of their fat heads. I'm going for belly button rings and g-strings, no mercy. Loretta brought a brass knuckle ring that says SUCK. My girls are in a hurry to battle, but I teach them a little something about the virtue of patience. We wait. We make sure the mall walkers are clear to the other side, so no innocent people have to get caught up in this. I feed another dollar into this massage chair. Somebody brings me a gumball; I don't know who. Then we go. After those skanks have been good and sliced, I go outside and my dad picks me up.




-Good Babysitter or Great Actor Who Hates Your Child -Road Rules vs. Deep Sea Excursion Rules -Cultural Burial Custom Swap -Survivor: Penis Mansion -America's Next Top Celebrity Looking For an Affair With Someone Quiet

ever been in the water, you know that shark attacks are virtually guaranteed. They can happen at any time and in any place, except on land or at midnight. Here are a few tips for defending yourself against a shark attack. - Play dead. Sharks have a primitive sensory system based mainly on movement, and let's face it, how are they even going to find the cemetery? - Disguise yourself as a shark by attaching a fin to your head and breathing through your gills. This disguise will fool the other humans, who will flee the

beach in terror, but not the sharks, who will be offended by your simplistic caricature and eat you with relish. - Before you go in the water, swallow two cyanide capsules. When a shark eats your already lifeless body, it will experience an unpleasant aftertaste. - Before you go in the water, swallow two hydrogen bombs. Sharks are allergic to hydrogen. - If you see a shark attacking you, try to punch it in the nose before it finishes digesting your abdomen. If you don't see a shark attacking you, it has already eaten your eyeballs. - Sometimes sharks will attack in pairs. Look out! - A common misconception about sharks is that if they stop moving, they die. In reality, if they stop moving, they cry. Sharks are immortal.

Marriage It's the same old story. Graduate college, wait five years, go to the weddings of one or two college friends, become convinced you'll be alone for the rest of your life because there's no way you could kiss a girl in front of that many people, call up your other college buddies and ask them if they're close to getting married, do everything you can to ruin their relationships if you sense that they are, lose all of your friends, start thinking now you'll really be alone for the rest of your life because now you really have nobody not even your college buddies, call mom and dad, ask them how their marriage is going, get jealous of your dad for marrying your mom, talk to your mom about it, she'll understand because she's perfect, go back to your apartment in the city because your dad doesn't want you coming home any more, call up some old college buddies, when they pick up shout at them for not answering soon enough, if they answer soon enough congragulate them ironically then hang up. But wait! Who is this man! Who is this charming, charming man! He's coming up to me on the street corner and he looks like he's got it all figured out! He's talking to me about stocks and bonds and the weather! I'm making some agreeable remarks and he's smiling! He's pointing at my face and kind of winking and saying that he thinks we're on the same wavelength! He's saying that maybe we should get married and I'm joking that we can't because we live in a state where it's illegal for two men to get married! He gets deadly serious all of a sudden and tells me that marriage has nothing to do with the government. He's tells me that marriage is all about ceremony and our age doesn't know what a true marriage ceremony is. He really emphasizes the 'true' part and he isn't laughing any more at all. He tells me to follow him and I do and he leads me downstairs to this really nice room like it's a palace underground and there are a lot of important people there like congressmen and so many priests like seventy priests. He tells me that we are married now and that I'm his property and the property of his family and he points at all of the celebrities and priests to signify that they are his family too. He tells me that corporations are the enemy and that this is what God wants. He laughs to signify that he doesn't really believe in God at all though and that he's kind of just doing this as a joke that has gotten way out of hand. He looks at me and I look at him and that moment we are in love but it's kind of awkward because even when you love somebody it is sometimes kind of awkward to look at them directly in the eyes especially if they're giving the priests the 'hang him now' sign.

CAS Call me old-fashioned, but I think a woman's place is in the kitchen, seated in her favorite chair, enjoying a turkey dinner cooked by her stay-at-home husband.

BUS I wish I had a goal in life. Then I'd be able to swim out of these rapids.

CCB I wish I had known the real meaning of "HD:' Then I wouldn't have spent $500 on this 42 inch hot dog.

DIS Murdering people in cold blood? I don't do it often, but when I do it, it is good. It is good and it is kind.


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I couldn't keep going. I had to set up camp and get some rest if I had any chance of survival. But as I surveyed the area, I could tell that rest would be hard to come by: the logging road next to me was lit with floodlights and filled with workers and their chainsaws and animal burners. I wanted to ask for their help, but that would go against every rule of responsible rainforest travel. I would have to make do. But before I did that, I decided to narrate/ think some more of my recent memories out into nothingness.

The troubles had begun almost immediately. When I reached into my bag at the beginning of the fourteen hour flight, I realized that the only thing I had brought to read was an old US Airways magazine. I did my best to stay positive. This won't be so bad, I thought. I can memorize the plane's movie lineups and find out about ways to schedule things. I can study the floor plans of different airports at the back and learn about their gate-arrangement patterns and so forth ! But as I soon as I started reading, it became clear that this was no Delta Horizons- even more of its articles were about items in Skymall, and instead of Sudoku they were trying to promote a "US Airways Box Puzzling Game:' which was like it but sort of trapezoidal and used irregular numbers. Things started to go wrong again almost as soon as the Sovietera plane touched down, in flames and on Lake Tanganyika. When I finally reached the airport in Kinsasha after having spent months in a burn unit back home and losing all my skin and becoming a monster, I was sent straight to the military checkpoints. After spending many tense hours in those, I had to go to the "free checkpoint area:' a fenced -in patch of red mud where civilians were allowed submit visitors to their own taxes and tax systems. I was immediately engulfed by a crowd of people telling me that if I did not give them my millions of dollars I would be court-martialed, or that if I couldn't produce the proper papers they would have the death squads who chop off the heads of gay people kill me. But the personal courts of the Congolese are notoriously slow in filing charges, and those squads now spend most of their time macheteing albinos and grinding their bones into sex powder. Henrik and Dominik had caught my attention when they asked me if I had come to find the Mahu. I enlisted them immediately, because I realized that the knowledge of local experts might prove invaluable in my quest. As it turned out, they were actually just such inept businessmen that their sole idea for making money had been to ask visitors if they were looking for an obscure (possibly apocryphal) tribe that disappeared centuries ago. On our way into town, they started telling me about themselves. The main thing I took away from it was that they hated being twins, because "everybody always expects twins to succeed:' and that they were originally from South Africa but had been kicked out for "crimes:' Things didn't begin much better with Dr. Holmgren, an anthropologist who was traveling with us in order to find evidence that humans everywhere act like humans. We met him at the inn we would be staying in that night. He was answering a question of mine about his research when I burst out and said something like, "Bow down and worship, slave!" I don't know why I did it. There was nothing objectionable whatsoever about what he was saying. The rest of our crew consisted of several porters, a local cook named Belt, and one fat teenager whose mom had told him he was going on a canoeing trip in Maine. He kept it together pretty well in the day, but at night we could hear him doing zombie-moans of crying. I know it's bad, but we sort of steered clear of him. As we were standing outside the fences on the jungle barrier the next day, I got a grim sense of foreboding as I looked down at a list of some of the diseases I might contract within: catastrophic headsoftness, termitization of the legs, utter skin transparency disease, Laughing Sickness (results in death). But I calmed down when I saw that I was actually reading the warning on a packet of Somalian cigarettes. I took a delicious puff. They were strong, all right-much more poop than normal was instantly created in my mouth. We ventured in. The jungle is like nothing you've ever seen before. It's so stunning that it's almost indescribable. How can you capture something so massive, so

vital, so primal, in our sadly impoverished tongue? Besides, remember that in reality I'm just someone in college. I have lots of other things to do, like classes and friends. Obviously I can't spend all my time writing some jungle scene. Another thing I should probably tell you is that about halfway through the trip I had my eyes replaced with wood. It was a dumb idea, and I don't know why I did it. If I could go back and change it, I would. But our universe doesn't work that way. What had I been thinking, coming here? Why had I forgotten that nature is only good for is looking out of a window at some weather happening and getting a vague sense of wanting to be there? If only I were home - home in America, a land founded so we could live free, and to a lesser extent so bears and deer could eat garbage instead of fo rest things. Meanwhile, I could hear the cries of the Mahu. They were approaching. Either that or some animals were jinallt burning out

We had just finished rafting some of the most grueling rapids on the Congo River. Like all rapids, it was literally impossible that anybody could ever raft on them and survive-and these ones were even more like that. As if to prove this, Dr. Holmgren had fallen overboard and drowned, and so had my fourteen-year-old son whom I forgot to mention before had begged to come along. That was a hard time. We did the best we could. The fat kid stopped making noise when he cried, but that was sort of worse. You'd think it was okay to look at him again, but when you did he'd be staring at you , silently gaping his mouth around. And the twins were becoming a real problem. Neither of them had gone to the bathroom yet and they were getting irritable. "Where's the kerosene:' Dominick said to me in the middle of a trek. "In my pack. Why? "I need to put my sunglasses in their chiller:' "Is that what this is?" I asked, pulling out the huge steel box Dominik had been making me carry. "That's just some apparatus or other:' he said. "Don't look at I told him that if he wanted to carry it he could, but that I certainly wasn't going to any longer. He mumbled something about the "logistics not working out:' so we left it behind. All he did for the rest of the day was complain about his sunglasses. "In South Africa everybody has nicer sunglasses than this. Even a baby has nicer sunglasses. Every baby has two pairs of sunglasses, and one is much nicer than this. One is worse, but that's for the purpose of keeping tradition. You don't even know about tradition:' "I can't wait to kill you:' he added. A few days later, Belt had us stop at a jungle trading center. It was actually similar to an American mall. The main difference was that it only sold bushmeat. Dozens of bamboo cages hung from the branches of the trees, slowly turning back and forth. The planks groaned as shiny black hands wormed their way between them. The vines used to hang the cages were covered in thick, black bristles, which was part of the reason they had gained the name "spider huts:' The other part was that the cages were filled with spiders, to keep the monkeys in terror. "Spider terror makes vigorous meat" is something of a local motto, and also serves as the Congolese national motto. When Belt told me to pick which monkey would be our dinner that evening, my stomach turned. I was hardly keen on eating another primate. However, foreigners consider it an insult when you won't do something disgusting for someone you've just met, so I picked the only one that looked most delicious. "Pleasing - don't:' I heard him whisper as they put him into a sack. I prayed it was a "monkey see, monkey do" type thing. But right in the middle, I realized I was praying to Mujitsi, high god of the jungle! What was happening to me? Suddenly, I heard something whiz by my ear and thud into the tree behind me. It was an arrow, and its tip was coated in some sort of dark liquid. Thank God, I thought. Medicine arrows!




e~~ra e~~~E DAILY TIMES Aatllor:~atftanie[j. stein The Virtuoso in Concert

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The virtuoso enters the stage to a thunderous ovation. So enthused is the audience that it shows no sign of quieting its applause even after eight deliberately spaced bows, several pleading hand waves, and a carefully dispersed shower of chloroform. Finally, the onlookers relent, after the virtuoso- his bows growing increasingly contorted-manages a pirouette, causing the crowd to think of the ballet and become lugubrious. They fall silent; he takes his place at the piano. BACH SELECTIONS FROM DAS WOHLTEMPERIRTE CLAVIER - The master opens his program with Bach. His internal metronome sparkles as if newly polished; the perfection of the counterpoint makes some in the audience uneasy, especially the crazies. Critics later laud the rendition, claiming that Bach himself would have raucously approved, but for being dead and possibly anti -Semitic. BEETHOVEN SONATA OP. 13 "PATHETIQUE"- Following Bach with Beethoven causes the audience to sense an emerging pattern, as if the artist now illuminates the complexity of the preceding baroque masterpiece by juxtaposing it with the agonistic quality of this nascent romanticism, or else possibly alphabetical order by composer. The two schools of thought quickly form, and make plans to debate later over coffee. What cannot be argued is that the master has made a bold statement, which is also conveniently reprinted in the program: "Thank you for coming to my concert:' HAYDN VARIATIONS -The virtuoso rounds out his opening act with Haydn's F minor variations, famous for its power to conjure images in the listener of every possible coloration of boredom. This rendition achieves the status of legend when, it is discovered, two diagnosed insomniacs have been cured. The miracle performed, the virtuoso exits the stage to grateful applause. INTERMISSION - An historic moment in classical performances occurs- sparking comparisons to Barenboim conducting Wagner in Israel- when the concession stand sells a record number ofT-shirts. SCHUMANN KINDERSZENEN For the first time in the performance, the virtuoso reveals his humanity, exhibiting an undeniable restlessness which is possibly the result of the record lines at the men's room during intermission. Yet he eventually settles down into a calming regularity, which he breaks only occasionally to do brief sets of jumping jacks. For the last three minutes of the piece, he avoids all the black notes, in what is later revealed to be a strange but touching tribute to the suffering coal industry.

Hop on, please!

CHOPIN BALLADES NOS. 1 AND 4 - Here the performance is elevated to truly rarefied territory. The virtuoso seems not just to play the notes, but also to inhabit them, filling them with quirky artifacts from abroad and subletting them in the summer. Chopin's lyricism shines through, and when the final note is struck, the concert hall is left with a seemingly undying resonance, either real or imagined, but certainly imagined for the deaf people. ENCORES - He returns for three encores, two of which, disappointingly, are mimed. The other is a meticulous rendition of a Chekhov short story via Morse Code, using middle C. The concert-goers leave somewhat mystified, but smile later when they find that the memory of the concert grows with time, and also that their ticket stubs have a coupon on the back.


ectton two kl'fe J. mack: fje straigfjt


What if when you're saving a woman from the sex dungeon where her father has been keeping her for twenty years, you find that she has built her own mini-dungeon for one of her little babies? Can you really blan1e her? Because in this case, both her environment and her genetics are telling her to make a secret dungeon. This is why we should have two sets of laws in our country.



Cbast Adventures Ghosts don't have fun adventures. They don't even have regular adventures. This is because ghosts can't see anything except other ghosts and dead bodies. And their own dead body is the only thing that they can see in color, so when they do take a small child on an adventure, they always end up leading the kid to the hidden ditch where their corpse is rotting, or to some sort of Habitat for Humanity house because a murderer put their bone dust in the cement. I should mention that, to a ghost, a small child looks like a shadow because ghosts can sense innocence and imagination. But even when they befriend a small child who is the 'new kid at school' (because new kids have the most imagination of all kids), their communication is limited. Ghosts only have the power to make the air slightly colder and to make the color red more noticeable. Basically, if you feel cold it might mean that a ghost is trying to talk to you, and if you see the color red more than usual it means a ghost is really mad at you. When I was seven years old, a ghost came through my window and took me on an adventure. If I followed the cold air, I would always end up in the forest in my , standing over the dead body of this guy who had his head smashed in. Every night, the ghost would come and try to take me on adventures, but they always involved looking at the body with the smashed head. The head was so smashed up, part of the face was inside-out. Eventually I stopped going on the ghost's adventures. Over the years, I would sometimes wake up late at night and see children walking into the forest, no doubt to look at the smashed up body. I guess the ghost just needed someone to bury the body and ease his pain, but small children really aren't equipped with the skills to bury a human. The point of the story is that a few days ago I was watching this old video that had been posted on the Internet where this guy gets taken to a forest and has his head smashed in by two teenagers. It made me think of the ghost, and his dead body.


A 54






o M"'h 27'', 1960 Si' Gm'<' Cl«by mmpl<t'd h;, joum'y Aota"t;ca\ muthw'" passage, setting the speed record for a continental crossing, and establishing himself as one of the British Empire's most revered explorers. To commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of his risky expedition, he has granted his first interview in thirty five years. SIR GEORGE, FIFTY YEARS LATER, WHAT DOES YOUR FAMED EXPEDITION MEAN TO YOU NOW? I ate my closest friend in the world on that expedition and I think about that every day. I guess I'm thinking about that right now.




Yes to your first question. With regard to your second question, I hope no one will ever have to go through what I've been through.




It was actually a Royal pardon for any crimes I might have, and did, commit during my Antarctic expedi-

SIR GEORGE, HOW DO YOU DEFINE LEADERSHIP? I'm sorry; I just want to clarify. As an internationally recognized neutral entity, Antarctica is what's called an "unincorporated free zone:' I can't be prosecuted for eating the parts of Cecil Lloyd that I ate on the continent. We can agree on this much.


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The Queen graciously issued the Royal pardon because there was some question as to whether I had committed a customs violation by bringing back preserved strips of meat from the body of my partner, Cecil Lloyd. In retrospect, I should have declared it as part of my cargo.

SIR GEORGE, WHAT HAS YOUR LIFE BEEN LIKE SINCE YOUR TRIUMPHANT RETURN? I've stayed active in the research community, advising over two-dozen expeditions. And every year on the anniversary of my trip I lock myself in a freezer, where I force myself to eat some of the human flesh I cut from Cecil Lloyd, whom I miss very much.


But also very stringy. I want to emphasize that.




I am not a scientist, and I am not a hero. I am only a man and I'm still struggling to decide what that really means.




It happens on a daily basis. The children are the hardest.



DNA thanks JBO and the complete Lampy staff of '07-'10 (with an extra special thank you to JFH), his roommates, his friends, his girlfriend, his dad Bill, his brother Andrew, his mother Bev, his extended family, his extended friend-family, the month of April, MCArdenskillz, HFAI, Rainbow Symphony, the future, Richard Downing, Ruth Lingford, Glenn Naka's living pedigree, and viewers like you. JBO thanks DNA for a pleasant ten months. He thanks PMdeAVFdeM for the class where we learned about butterflies and went on a field trip to catch and kill some. JBO thanks MCA '09. He thanks all the rest of Ma Lampy, too, and "especially thanks" HHD '08-'09, RIP '09, EFM '09, SWT '08-'09, NHS, MKG, SEW, KMM, AMG, CAM, AHP, KPB, and YC. He thanks his mamma, papa, and sesah "and the rest" and Beanie and Moxie. He thanks the magic castle that believed him into existence. He thanks Jace, Perry, Evan, and the friends who were bad. He thanks Baris. He thanks the Immedies and he thanks the Tays. He thanks his great friends at Harvard. He thanks great Serena. He thanks the members of the Bee Club. He thanks JFH most.

Ma Lampy would like Ia announce the fallowing changes Ia her board: Courtney G. Bowman '11, President; Benjamin U. Steiner '10-'ll,Ibis; Kyle. M. Mack ' 10, Librarian; & Kevin P. Bartley '10-' 11, Vanitas. 58


One Head in the Killmachine - In 3D!  
One Head in the Killmachine - In 3D!  

One Head in the Killmachine