DECEMBER 3RD, 2024
Pumpkin Marriage Hits Rough Patch
Dybvig and Barnes
Appointed New CoDirectors of Beyond Boundaries Program
Matt Gaetz Sneaks Onto Stage for Turkey Pardoning
Greek Mythology Department Fires Head, Two More Grow Back
Elderly Narcissist’s Reference is Dating Himself
White House Relocated to 1900 Pennsylvania Ave, 500 feet From Nearest Elementary School
PRICE: BD ACYTE RECEIPT
own investigation and found a cause more sinister.
Have you found walking across campus different this December? Though the leaves have fallen, the sun still shines bright above. Students still prance about campus with exposed arms, wrapping discarded sweaters around their waists. And it's not just the usual suspects, like the men who insist on wearing shorts in 40 degree weather or the Sam Fox students doing anything for the fit. Students have even been spotted on Mudd Field as we approach winter, playing frisbee with friends or pretentiously reading The Stranger on a hammock. Though some attribute this unseasonable warmth to the conspiracy known as “climate change,” we conducted our
Mudd Field, the crown jewel of WashU admissions Instagram posts, becomes a barren land during winter months. Analytics from past years have revealed that the pool of diverse friend groups sitting on the grass quickly dwindles beginning in October, and that students become paler, losing their color so quickly that even the most ethnically ambiguous person appears Caucasian. In response to pressure from the “woke” crowd to improve its racial makeup, WashU has announced a Discrimination, Exclusion, and Indoctrination (DEI) initiative to maintain its image. The solution is simple: hot weather = tan students outdoors.
“Global warming was just a scapegoat,” said a SigEp brother. “I mean, last year it was freezing in November and now it's hot. I get burned easily! DEI has to stop.” The university has not yet addressed the issues of these young, disenfranchised members of WashU society.
WashU College Republicans have come up with a countermeasure. Though the sun may shine brightly, a wind gust that threatens to pick you up like Dorothy’s house is bound to discourage your photosynthesizing tendencies. Member of the College Republicans and Olin student Peter Fitzluben said:
“The Teeny Tiny Tornado™, can chill even the hottest day. Who’s going to bask in sunlight when their Apple ecosystem is getting blown away? Soon we’ll go back to what’s white- I mean right. You’re not quoting me on that, are you? It was just a slip up. Hey, where are you going? Don’t run! IT WAS OFF THE RECORD.”
Despite their best efforts, it may be too late to reverse the impact of DEI Climate Change™. Melanated students can’t peacefully roam campus without being chased by flashing cameras and ogled by progressive campus-touring families. Nothing is sacred anymore, nothing is safe. DEI Daylights Savings™ is next.
Your alarm just went off, and you need a hit of dopamine to start your day. You instinctively open Instagram while hitting your Geek Bar. Instead of your typical morning Minecraft parkour Reddit stories, you are met with a rude awakening in the form of 640 Instagram stories. It is Spotify Wrapped day! To your surprise, everyone seems to be getting into artists so niche they are still working jobs in marketing. Meanwhile, your top five artists are so embarrassing you were hardly able to get out of bed. “Habits” by Tove Lo?? Really? “Congratulations” by Post Malone?? Still? “I Am Your Gummy Bear” by Gumibär?? Okay, that one might be valid, but overall you may be wishing this present stayed wrapped up a little tighter. Well, reader, today is your lucky day because this WUnderguide has seven foolproof ways to explain exactly what happened to your Spotify Wrapped this year.
1. You were hacked.
Yes it might seem far-fetched, but it happens to more than 100 million Americans. In fact, 350 million Americans were hacked this year. That is the actual amount Google told me when I looked it up, and I kind of thought there were only 330 million Americans, but I guess people just keep having babies. In any case this is a foolproof way to explain away your 864 hours of Drake. Your hacker was probably just white boy of the month.
2. You were listening ironically. Kanye West has certainly made some statements that might make your Spotify Wrapped seem unsalvageable. But when you reassure your friends, family, and
most importantly yourself, that you have been banging Vultures 2 out of pure irony you are smooth sailing. SS? Maybe choose a different acronym.
3. You were babysitting your mom’s coworker’s weird siamese twins.
It was a Wednesday afternoon and Jasmine and Yasmine just wouldn’t stop screaming slavic incantations. In a panic you shuffled your liked songs in hopes that the algorithm could save you, and “Dance Monkey” just lulled them right to sleep. Now your babysitting gig is a whole lot sweeter, as you get to beat levels of Candy Crush so long as “Dance Monkey” plays in the background. Too bad you can’t show anyone your Spotify Wrapped.
4. You have Apple Music. Yes, this one might come with some social pain, but anything to hide your true music taste from the world. And frankly, the world needs to hide from whatever you got going on in those headphones. Spooky.
5. You dropped your phone in the Mississippi River while drunk on the Riverboat Gambling Casino.
No, they must be reading that wrong. You thought my top genre was choral music? It was actually coral music. Salacious the sea snake who loves to jam out on your Spotify. How Salacious got your phone? Well, you took a tumble following your 6th espresso martini while taking in the beautiful views of the Cahokia Mounds.
6. You lost your phone in a bad bluff you made over a hand of Texas Hold ‘em while drunk on the Riverboat Gambling Casino. Really? 6, 4 off suit and you thought it was a good time to go all in? You put down all your chips, your phone, your shirt, and naming rights to your first child and of course now you lost. Now you are the shirtless idiot whose Spotify Wrapped says you spent your nights blasting Russian top 50 charts and Ed Sheeran. Good thing you can explain your way out of this one. Too bad you are never getting that shirt back and your daughter’s name is now Edna Sheeran.
7. You are a misunderstood genius. Nooooooo, they just don’t get it. “Closer” by The Chainsmokers is postmodern new wave psychedelic pop and a brilliant commentary on consumer culture. My roommate back in Boulder was actually an allegory for the role gender played in manifest destiny. And if that doesn’t make sense to you, you better not even look at the next four songs.
On the surface, I am your average WashU student. I’m an Ivy reject, I get decent grades, and I eat an açai bowl at Collins Farms every other Wednesday. My mother is a work-from-home gynecologist, and my father runs a multi-tier combined intercontinental cryptocurrency pyramid scheme and hedge fund. I am also on the recommended United Healthcare student medical insurance plan, which is why I thought everything was perfectly normal when I received an email from Habif urging me to sign up to get my flu shot. That flu shot, which I did not end up getting, changed my life. This is that story.
As someone who attends an R1 school, I believe in science. I have received every vaccination in the books, even the ones from those guys who hide behind that cookie place on the Loop. I was NOT about to let this influenza shot be an exception. I eagerly signed up the moment the message breached my inbox. When the day of the injection came, I arrived at my appointment on the second floor of the DUC about fifteen minutes early. When I knocked on the door, a short blonde woman wearing a stained apron and pantaloons peered out and handed me a neon pink iPod Touch. She told me that I would have to answer a few questions before I could continue with my immunization. I expected a questionnaire about my medical history, but the first and only question was “Have YOU ever been Across
the Aisle?” I did not know what that meant, so I selected the no button. I guess this was some sort of selection process because the moment my finger tapped the miniature screen I felt a cool pair of hands on my shoulders and was immediately ushered down a hallway into a dark room that was empty except for a towering man wearing an American flag hat standing behind a table with vials of some sort of clear liquid. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be meditating, repeating the same phrase over and over again. I stepped further into the room, confused about what this man had to do with my flu shot. His eyes opened and his voice began to grow louder with each repetition. He did not blink. Eventually, in a booming voice, he proclaimed, “If it is a flu shot that you seek, oxygen water you must drink!” This was unlike any shot I had ever had, so I asked, “What is oxygen water?” Immediately, his demeanor changed. He stood up straighter, flexed for a moment, and blinked a few times. Then, the man stated in a matterof-fact inside voice, “Well, it’s good for your gut and it’s quite hydrating as well. It’s water with extra oxygen!” I was sold. He sounded like he knew his stuff, and I’m always down to try new things. I picked up a vial and took a swig. I felt the effects immediately. I looked down, and I could see an eight-pack forming on my stomach through my shirt. I blinked, and my vision immediately became clearer. All of the colors on his hat were so vivid I felt a swell of patriotism in my soul. I could suddenly hear people talking miles away and knew immediately that I WAS going to get that Boeing job. My engineering degree wasn’t a waste, after all! “Thank you, oxygen water!” I was compelled to yelp. I felt like I was breathing fresh air for the first time.
The woman with the apron suddenly appeared again beside me.
“It’s time, darlin’!” she exclaimed. She took me into the next room with a twirl and a do-si-do. I was a bit confused because I thought I had just gotten the shot. What was that liquid? Anyway, a little boy wearing an EST sweatshirt was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, a big smile on his face. A pail full of syringes was tipped over next to him. “Hiya there, are you ready to get your flu shot?” he asked me in a squeaky prepubescent voice. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” I responded. “If you do, all of your newfound traits will disappear,” he told me. That got me. “Are you even in EST?” I asked him. “Are you?” he cocked his head, clicking a vaccine like a ballpoint pen. I stood there for a moment and looked at the floor, thinking to myself, “I could have an eight-pack AND the flu, or I could have neither.” With that, I looked up, thanked him, and walked out of the room. As I made my way back to my dorm, I could still hear the EST boy calling out to me that I had forgotten to take a sticker. Music to my ears. I had been Across the Aisle, and that was enough for me.
In a shocking turn of events, the student body received notice that their own governing body is bankrupt. In a tearful speech to students, Student Union Finance Chief Janet Yellenberg announced that the school no longer has the funds to support nonessential student organizations such as Uncle Joe’s and EST, deciding instead to allocate the remaining cash to the WashU butter churning club. Health and Wellness chair Riley Francis Kessley Jr. said, “We are putting our full faith in the power of unpasteurized buttermilk and removed additives on the student Body.”
As students grapple with the news, many have reported interesting Instagram DMs slamming their inboxes:
“Hey there, classy lady!��I’m Janet, an easygoing, ambitious, and nonchalant Finance Chief of Student Union who knows what she wants in life. I’m looking for a sophisticated, generous, and kind-hearted benefactor to share good vibes and mutual support. In return, you’ll get engaging conversations, loyalty, and plenty of appreciation for your generosity. I’m hoping for �� financial support for my goals (and maybe a few indulgences ��) mutual respect and understanding✨ and someone who enjoys the finer things in life
If this sounds like you, let’s connect! Shoot me a DM, we will be a match made in luxury. ��
Stay fabulous, Janet Yellenberg”
On a warm July night in the summer of 2024, a group of middle school nerds attending a WashU math camp heard something strange on the way back to their dorm from a pizza party in the Women's Building. “Waaaaahhhhhh, waaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!” A strange crying noise rang clear through the trees. They walked towards it slowly through the grass, taking the hypotenuse, of course. In the middle of the grass, they discovered her: a small ball of clay, nearly unidentifiable in the grass, but certainly alive. For the first moment in their high-achieving pick-me lives, they didn’t speak a word. Out of the crying came a name much like a mediocre slice of bread thrown on an even worse body part, “Rye Knee,” she squealed. Her name was Riney, she was a living ball of dirt, and these six little nerds would go on a life changing adventure to save her.
As they couldn’t quite take her back to the dorm, they decided to leave her by Wrighton Hall and go sleep for the night. They would hatch a plan in the morning. But poor Riney wouldn’t have another day to wait. Just when the young mathematicians scuttled back to the 40, an ominous figure emerged from the shadows. He had a shiny bald head, round glasses, and a newly straightened set of teeth. He marched over to Riney: “Well, well, well, what do we have here...” Supreme Leader Martin foamed at the mouth at the sounds of Riney. He knew he would finally have a brand new species to silence. But first he had to figure out what Riney was and why she was here. He picked up Riney but she let out a deafening roar and bit him on the head. Chancellor Martin quickly devised a plan with his board of trustees to keep anyone else away from his newest pet. Over night, they put up fences—*his signature move.* They placed an Amazon
overnight shipping order for fake bulldozers and hard hats to stage construction on a new building, which he fittingly named Riney Hall.
When the young mathletes returned to find Riney in the morning, she was trapped deep behind layers of fences. They all feared for what was happening to their new friend. They imagined horrible scenarios of Riney being bulldozed, or worse, rained on. Sadly, their young minds couldn’t conceive of the evil experimentation being unleashed onto poor Riney’s body. Throughout the day, evil henchmen dressed as construction workers poked and prodded at Riney, digging at her insides and squishing her to bits. Riney’s wails were not enough to save her over the deafening sound of the excavator.
In hopes of letting Riney know they were there, the math nerds returned at night with a Dirt Cup from Cherry Tree. Throwing it over the many fences separating them from Riney with a perfectly calculated parabolic trajectory, of course. Riney received the gift and happily slurped up the gummy worms, amassing more dirt. The kids cheered when they realized she got the gift, but they were still anxious
about the fate of Riney.
Nearly the entire portion of the senior class with upcoming investment banking jobs received the message this week alone. Our reporters overheard senior member of the Beta Theta Pi Fraternity Brad Bradey commenting unprompted, “Yo, I deadass would be so down to be a sugar daddy. I've got W rizz and Janet Yellenberg can most definitely hit.”
Now, with no funds left and all of their money in dairy creation, Student Union is relying on their prospective sugar parents and guardians to keep the governing body afloat. One might say they're putting all their eggs in one basket, that they might have benefitted from some separation of flours, or that they're cooked.
***payments can be made in Bear Bucks or raw butter
Every day this summer they repeated the process: they spent the day doing long division, and the night feeding Riney her dirt cup and praying for her safety behind the fences. All the while, Riney was getting large. It was the last day of camp, and the students realized they could see Riney peeking out from the innermost fence. She had grown so much from all the dirt cups they had been feeding her. They realized they couldn’t go home. Riney was too close to freedom. So they bought two trenchcoats, stacking three middle schoolers in each and enrolling the resulting two adults into WashU as math majors, of course.
margs with mud on the way through the Central West End and taking the world’s largest chess piece with them. Word of their journey began to spread as they tore through SLU’s campus. People hopped in and out of the wave and these six middle schoolers were soon the heroes of St. Louis. The journey seemed to be coming to an end as they neared the Mississippi River. But Riney was not stopping there. Something was calling her home across the river. She longed for the Cahokia Mounds.
WUnderground is WashU’s premier (only) satirical newspaper (est. 2004) and should be taken about as seriously as the roundearthers.
The news reported by this paper is fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living, ailing or dead is entirely intentional.
OVERLORDS
Presidents
Celia Rattner, Adam Kirsch
Editor-in-Chief
Ashna Ramiah
Treasurer
Neil Chavan
Social Chair
Ella Majd
Townsend Baird
Ashna Ramiah
Shira Aronow
Nicole Backal
Townsend Baird
Riley Card
Chirag Choudhary
Ruby Cover
Rafe Epstein
Hannah Gallin
Nina Giraldo
Emma Hait
Solveig Hicks
Paul Kuemmel
Solly Lerman
Jacob Libin
Eli Litman
Ellie Perlmutter
Patrick Riley
Sydney Schneider
Diya Shadaksharappa
Elie Weitzman
Alex Wills
Follow or block us on Instagram @wunderground.washu
The students were able to put two and two together, of course. And they all booked one way tickets on the Mississippi Riverboat Gambling Casino. The math nerds salivated at the opportunity to use knowledge of probability to take money from drunk gamblers, but the staff on the Mississippi Riverboat Gambling Casino wouldn’t let minors gamble. They were gracious enough to ferry Riney and the kids across to East St. Louis, where they finished the journey at Cahokia Mounds.
As the school year continued, Riney kept growing at unprecedented rates. Boy, was Chancellor Martin thrilled. He knew discovering a new species could be a legacy so large it would surpass arresting his own students. But he never would have expected what happened next. When the day for Riney’s escape came, the students in trenchcoats could hardly do simple addition. But they commenced their plan. They connected a firehose from that one fire hydrant on Mudd field, and flooded the construction site. Riney was able to swim up and out of every last fence. Now free on the other side, they had to run from WUPD, who was alerted to the commotion from their late night DUC and Donuts.
But the students were fast, surfing atop the mud(d) slide created by Riney’s escape down Brookings Hill and off the East end of campus. They surfed Riney through Forest Park, getting cheers from the night swimmers in the Art Hill basin. They continued east, splashing El Burro Loco
At the mounds was a family of dirt piles just like Riney. They all welcomed her with warm moss. The kids were proud of what they had accomplished, and knew they could finally go home. But they were sad to no longer be a part of Riney’s life. As they turned to head home, they heard a familiar sound: “Waaaaahhhhhhhh, wahhhhhhhhhhhhh.” While she might be a massive hill now, deep inside, she was still baby Riney. They all ran back and jumped into her gooey fudgy core. Riney let out one final goodbye: “Riney loves youuuuuuuuuuu.”
Those middle schoolers were later arrested by WUPD and suspended from campus.
December brings a lot of things— gifts, finals, and of course, cuffing season. With the cold seems to come the contagious desire for a boyfriend—and hey, we get it! Who doesn’t want someone to hold hands with in Whispers or hard launch on your Instagram story, earning you a whopping 32 shares? But as the love spreads around WashU, one group in particular is feeling a little left out: conventionally attractive men.
“It’s just, like, we’re invisible to the girls here,” says junior basketball player Chad Haughtee. “They only seem to want guys who are studying CompSci, weigh 72 pounds, do improv, and spend all day on Letterboxd.”
Certainly this couldn’t be true, I thought—why would WashU girls be attracted to these kinds of guys? But the more I talked to the WashU hunks, the more I realized there was some truth to what they were saying.
“My last girlfriend left me for a guy on the B league frisbee team,” says Josh Chandsum, a sophomore KSig brother with brilliant white teeth, perfectly tousled hair, and chiseled arms. “I mean, this guy is 5’6". He has transition lenses. I heard he has a hermit crab in his room he named Mommy to keep him company when he gets homesick.”
I tracked down Josh’s exgirlfriend, Sarah Nurdluver, to get her side of things. I found her in Hillman with her new man (used loosely), where she was cutting up pieces of empanada to feed him as he worked feverishly on his Matlab project.
“Josh didn’t understand me the way Rodney does,” Sarah said. “I don’t care that Josh had a ‘nice physique,’ or an ‘objectively attractive face,’ or ‘knew how to talk to girls.’ He’s not nearly as smart as my Rodney!” Hearing this, Rodney blushed and peed himself.
After some brief research, I realized Sarah wasn’t the only girl feeling this way. As reported in the StudLife February issue, 78% of straight female students at WashU said that the kind of guys they were attracted to changed drastically upon coming to college, shifting from “hot guys” to “awkward dweebs.” What could be driving this, I wondered?
Biology professor Lou Singhmai-Maind, who teamed up with a team of exotic plant researchers from the Missouri Botanical Garden, may have found an unexpected explanation:
“My research actually shows that the poopy smell on the walkway to the Loop may have something to do with why all of the girls here seem to like weird nerds,” SinghmaiMaind explained. “The smell is secreted from a rare species of plant known as Phugleemenicus Onleecus, which has been shown to suppress the body’s natural response to pheromones and other traditional indicators of attractiveness. In many cases, repeated exposure to the plant’s scent has been shown to temporarily invert female perception of a potential mate’s attractiveness, causing them to pursue men who they would otherwise be repulsed by. This temporary state of deluded attraction lasts around four years: the length of the undergraduate experience.”
So, if you’re one of the poor, minoritized WashU Hunks, don’t worry. WashU women will snap out of their obsession with these weirdos eventually, even if it is after college. But if you can’t wait that long, consider becoming a little uglier and/or stranger: grow a rattail, get a snake, get really into LARPing, etc. Cheers hotties!
The fateful day has finally arrived. You’re a STEM major who hasn’t had to submit a coherent sentence for a grade since College Writing: Technology & Selfhood (the latter being much harder to understand than the former). And yet now you’re here, a senior in your final semesters of college, scraping together your last few HUM credits in Creative Nonfiction Writing 1— the 8:30 AM section, no less, as it was the only time slot you could fit between your unpaid med campus lab job and the MCAT prep class your mom insisted you sign up for. You heard the writing department was an easy A—you should have known better than to trust your roommate with the writing minor; she acts like you’re the devil incarnate whenever you pull up ChatGPT.
The first month and a half of class was manageable. The only person actually reading your writing was your MFA student professor, Beatrix-with-an-X, and she’s too preoccupied with her own manuscript about orchestra camp to care much about the quality of yours. Workshop Day was always beyond the horizon until it wasn’t, and before you know it, it’s your turn to be radically scrutinized by your snooty Howard Nemerov
Scholar and Sigma Tau Delta (don’t they know their initials are STD?) classmates. They all hate you because your fun fact on the first day of class was that you’re in Beyond Boundaries (because what even is that?). You’ve also dropped your Stanley on the hard tile floor at least three separate times over the course of the semester and the Eads infrastructure can’t handle much more.
If you already submitted your piece (not an essay, a piece) for workshop, you’re successfully over the hump. The hardest part is well behind you. Hopefully you didn’t write about anything too intimate or revealing for your classmates to silently hold against you, like the time you copped a feel from your locker buddy in seventh grade P.E. A silence like that on Workshop Day can be deafening. Ideally, you wrote something novel but safe, but realistically you (like every other Creative Nonfiction Writing-er) probably wrote something generic about your fucked-up relationship with your dad. To prepare for those dreaded 30 minutes of class time devoted entirely to you and your inability to come up with enough clever synonyms for “said,” here’s some carefully crafted advice:
1. Arrive in an outfit that makes you feel hot in a humanities sort of
way (see Weil Hall or watch Dead Poets Society for inspiration).
2. Recite the words “imagery,” “diction,” “voice,” and “structure” aloud over and over until they do that thing where they sound like made up words.
3. Expect at least one of your fellow classmates to really resonate with your piece.
4. Don’t take offense when someone gets up to use the bathroom. They don’t think you suck. They just have to pee (or cry).
5. Pretend to understand the difference between the words levity and gravity. They’ll be thrown around liberally.
6. The only feedback (good or bad) that actually matters will be from Beatrix. Any “X” scribbled on your paper is likely just her way of reminding you how her name is spelled.
7. Feedback doesn’t actually matter. You’re a STEM major.
8. No one expects you to know how to write. You’re a STEM major.
On behalf of all of us at WUnderground, we wish you the best of luck. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Do you and your dad need a therapist?
7. Wire mother with milk
6. Cancerous lump of coal
5. Benign lump of coal
4. Make-a-Wish meeting with Dude Perfect
3. Mardi Gras beads you found in a puddle
2. 10 more presents 1. Unicycle Peleton
fictionalized, but this article is about 74% true.
Have you ever been joyriding on the shuttle, dreamily gazing out the window, and noticed something strange at the roundabout on the Loop? Have you ever joked that you’re the type to join a cult? If Punisher by Phoebe Bridgers is on your Spotify Wrapped, I’ve got great news for you. I went WUndercover at the Delmar Church of Scientology so you don’t have to.
When I walked in, a young man with a vapid stare asked if I would like a tour or personality test, sliding me a form to fill out. In the interest of safety, I’d been advised to give a fake name and address, so I provided the contact information of my College Writing sneaky link (fuck you, Alex).
The TV behind him declared that children in Mexico weren’t learning math, but a donation to the L. Ron Hubbard Foundation could remedy this. I was given a brief 286 question personality test. Inquiries such as “Do you enjoy killing small animals?,” “Are you good at doing accents?,” and “Are you willing to blindly take orders?” determined that I am “sometimes happy, sometimes not,” and in critical need of engram auditing. I was impressed.
Afterwards, a little old woman named Debbie appeared to serve as my guide. Despite the grandiose exterior, the ambiance of the two story building was serving low budget office, spare the inexplicable Tiffany lamps.
In the next room, there was a small machine with a dial and a meter. “This is what we call our stress test.” Debbie handed me two metal cylinders, attached with wires. When I wrapped my hands around them, the meter flew from left to right. “That means you’re stressed.”
As we shuffled down the hallway, I asked Debbie about her role as the local director of dianetics. She told me she used to be a nurse practitioner, and during the height of the pandemic, she found herself often having to strap people down in order to administer the nasal swab. However, after implementing amateur dianetic techniques, many of her patients were able to source their discomfort back to earlier memories, such as accidentally inhaling a mini M&M when tipping back the tube as a child. Addressing these episodes resolved the issue, and she was able to start leaving the bondage to the bedroom.
I was inspired by her story, and wanted to see more. She led me to a room they call the purification chamber. “Normally, this is
a paid service" she said, "but since most of our congregation is in Clearwater, Florida, trying to reach OT VIII, we could do a session.” With this act of generosity, I knew the world was wrong about the Scientologists; they weren’t after me for my money. When Debbie perked up after hearing I was a WashU student, it was because she admired my academic prowess, not because she anticipated the trust fund paying my tuition.
Debbie gave me a cocktail of what she called “vitamins,” then had me hop on an elliptical for a little while. As I began to break a sweat, my grasp on reality fractured, too. Debbie slowed me down, then guided me into the sauna to the right. “It’s okay, honey. Soon, things will be Clear.”
She closed the door, but I was not alone for long. Only a moment passed before the air began to shimmer, and- was that? Could it be? L. Ron Hubbard Himself appeared next to me.
“Hi, Alex,” He said with a wink. “You don’t know me, but I know you. You don’t think you need me, you have your sixteen Habif free sessions with a PhD student. But if those sessions were working, would you really be here? Why would you be wasting your time impersonating someone who seemed to like doing readings more than doing you?”
I shut my eyes to make Him go away, but He appeared inside my eyelids. “It’s okay. I can save you. But only once you decide to save yourself. By buying a $25 book.” Friends, stay on the shuttle. Save your bad trip for your dorm room. And if you want to join a cult that bad, spring Rush is coming up.
Point: Student admits to cheating to professor
Counterpoint: Student admits to cheating on professor
i
OP-ED: Christmas Just Isn’t The Same Anymore, and Frankly, It’s Time We All Did Something About It
By:
What happened to the holiday I love? Have we forgotten where we came from? Christmas is losing its magic, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Ask your neighbors, your coworkers, even ask your brown-furred four legged companion. And no, it’s not just about the gifts or the decorations. Christmas
is a time of cheer, joy, tradition, and generosity. It’s about being around friends and family, not iPad. I’m just an average guy who can see that the best holiday of the year is suffering from a severe lack of spirit and imagination, and I have to set things straight.
First of all, whatever happened to having a jolly Yuletide carol? I miss when people would go door-to-door and sing about how “Santa Claus is comin’ to town!” The guy used to be the bee’s knees, the celebrity that everyone loved! Now I don’t hear so much as a peep about the jolliest fellow on Earth.
Also, why have some people stopped putting out milk and cookies for the big guy? Do they not realize that he has to travel the whole WORLD in a single night? Just saying, if I were Santa (who I'm not, sadly), I would really appreciate some cookies and milk while I serve the
ungrateful public for free. And I don’t want to hear that you can’t afford them because of “Bidenflation,” or “we as the parents just eat them anyway." Excuses! Oh, and don’t even get me started on the lack of carrots for the reindeer; if this keeps up they’ll probably unionize!
And for Christmas’ sake, why have chimneys become so damn narrow? It seems like every single year in the month of November EVERYONE decides it's time to renovate their flue to be three inches narrower. If you dare say that “sAnTa’s jUsT gEtTiNg fAtTeR,” enjoy your heap of coal this 25th! Besides, he probably has to give away so much Ozempic that he has none left for himself, you selfish scrooges.
The gifts might be the worst part of this whole thing. Santa used to get a handwritten letter with stickers and everything, and now he just gets sent the link to an Amazon
wishlist with a single item on it. You could have just sent him the link to the actual item!
Now, this isn’t about me. I have no personal stake in the matter—I’m just a concerned citizen who’s seen Christmas lose its way. But if we all pull together with fewer Ring doorbells and requests for “crypto currency”— and, I don’t know, the occasional note of gratitude—we can bring back some of the cheer that made this holiday what it is, and MAKE CHRISTMAS GREAT AGAIN! Sadly, the reality of it is nobody’s gonna fucking listen. Whatever. You've all been on the naughty list since the Nixon administration anyway.
P.S. Stop asking Santa for sex toys. The elves are not comfortable testing them.