Vol. 146, No. 4
THE YALE
Dec. 7, 2017
RECORD
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THE TF IS CALLING ATTENDANCE, AND HONESTLY, I’M HERE FOR IT Dear Dad, I’d appreciate if you drunk your milk from the cow like everyone else. You and Uncle Sam are depleting my resources. —Your three month old son.
“INCONCEIVABLE!” SHOUTS DOCTOR AT FERTILITY CLINIC Dear Kevin, Thanks for letting me piggyback off of you. —Classmate on your shoulders
ENVIRONMENT WIN! THIS CONDOM DISSOLVES AS YOU USE IT
“HOW WAS YOUR BREAK?” SURPASSES “SO, WHAT COLLEGE ARE YOU IN?” ON BILLBOARD’S TOP 40 CONVERSATION STARTERS FOR FIRST-YEARS Dear Jeffrey, I’m feeling groovy! —A ruffles potato chip Dear Ruffle, You have ridges, not grooves. I guess what they say about you potato chips being brainless inanimate objects is true after all. —Jeffrey
FUNGUS ENTERS YALE, STUDIES THE MODERN MIDDLE YEAST
FOR SALE: Vowels! A, E, I, O, U, and Y (seasonally)!
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BEING TOTALLY CHILL AMONG LEADING CAUSES OF FROSTBITE IN US
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FINANCIALLY MINDED 5-YEAR-OLD ANNOUNCES PLANS TO PIGGYBANK OFF OF THAT
Dear local stone mason, Let’s just firm up the dates before we set anything in stone. Sincerely, The local date farmer
CRIMINALLY SLOW READER GIVEN REDUCED SENTENCE Dear local date farmer, That was low hanging fruit. Rock on, The local stone mason
NET NEUTRALITY OVERTURNED; INTERNET DECLARES ITSELF SOCIALLY LIBERAL, FISCALLY CONSERVATIVE ON MOST ISSUES Dear Lauren, Can you please, for the love of god, stop breathing so fucking loudly? Stop bragging about your respiratory health, bitch. —The girl on the mat next to you at yoga
LOCAL MAN OVERDOSES ON VIAGRA, HAS HARD TIME FITTING INTO DESK FOR SALE: Anacondas. Since you might be swallowed whole eventually, why not make it now?
—J. Yoder-Schrock
T he “T hat ’ s A ncient H istory ” I ssue
CHICAGO-STYLE PIZZA LOCALLY SOURCED WITH FOOTNOTES “SHE JUST RUBS ME THE WRONG WAY,” SAYS MAN OF UNCOORDINATED MASSEUSE
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UH OH! AFTER POLIO AND PALEO MIX UP, NEW JURASSIC PARK MUCH DARKER DONALD TRUMP TAPS BILLIONAIRE TOBACCO MOGUL IN WHITE HOUSE GAME OF DUCK DUCK GOOSE
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FIRST YEAR HAS FIRM CONCEPTUAL GRASP OF THE MALE PENIS SECRET AGENT LOOKS BOTH WAYS BEFORE DOUBLE CROSSING THE STREET
RIGHT HANDED STUDENTS CONCERNED ABOUT LEFTIST AGENDA
FOR SALE:
Feet. Because sometimes you deserve other people’s feet more than they do.
—P. Davis
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Dear Yale Admissions Committee, I’m having trouble remembering all of the stages of grief, I know denial, anger, bargainning, depression, and...? Sincerely, Tommy
CONFUSED YALE STUDENT SPENT ALL OF NOVEMBER RECESS AT THE NEW HAVEN PLAYGROUND, WHICH WAS TOTALLY DESERTED
FOOT JUST ANOTHER APPENDAGE OF THE MILITARY INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX Dear Tommy, Haha, you almost got us, but you should start back at stage one. Sincerely, Admissions Committee
LAWYER TYING SHOE FINDS LOOPHOLE
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GOD’S WILL REVEALED: LEAVES TO POPE THE FINE CHINA AND SILVERWARE SEARCH FOR BURIED TREASURE ENDS IN THE DISCOVERY THAT THE GREATEST BURIED TREASURE OF ALL WAS FRIENDSHIP AFTER FIRST MATE IS BURIED ALIVE
Emmy Waldman ‘11
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t was 5 a.m. on a Tuesday, and I was pulling an all-nighter in the Morse Librar y when an object str uck the back of my head – a copy of The Record’s recent Space Issue. “What is this garbage?” demanded the assailant. I had always taken great editorial care with our content to avoid offending readers, but as I turned to defend my publication, I was rendered speechless by the bearded, white-robed, ethereally-glowing religious figure who stood before me. I was hesitant to address him, unsure which faith this incarnate god represented. People tend to be touchy about religion stuff. “See, that’s your problem,” said Generic Man-Deity, reading my mind. “You and your magazine are so concerned about upsetting people that you avoid really hard-hitting humor and write about space instead. Would it kill you to make a Trump joke once in a while?” He continued before I could respond. “You need to tell your people to get aggressive, or I’m sending you to the version of Hell that corresponds with my religion.” In a flash, he was gone. Was I confused? Sure. Scared of being damned? Yeah, a little. But I knew a divine mandate when I saw one, and boy had I just received a blank check from a higher authority… “Alright everyone,” I announced at our next Editorial Board meeting. “Take off your comedy caps and put on your conquering caps. We’re going on a holy mission to reclaim Yale in the name of The Record.” “What?” replied Noah, who had just bought a new comedy cap. “Wait, I’m sorry,” interjected Liz. “Did you say holy mission? People tend to be touchy about religious warfare stuff.” “See, that’s our problem,” I elaborated. “People at this school don’t respect us because we aren’t distasteful. We need to fight back, like they used to do in the old days. It’ll be like in Gladiator when Russell Crowe fought the tiger in the Colosseum, except we’ll be the tiger and kill Russell Crowe before he ruins Les Misérables.” I was finally speaking everyone’s language. We began brainstorming how to become truly egotistical. Chloe suggested that we buy loud motorcycles and drive them down Elm Street at night, but none of us knew how or wanted tinnitus. Adam recommended joining debate, but that would require us to wear suits unironically. However, when Lane finally proposed that we turn our publication into an opinion column, we knew that we
T he “T hat ’ s A ncient H istory ” I ssue were about to go, as it were, on the offensive. Vicky, our Publisher, protested, saying that a publication peddling uninformed opinions could never be financially viable. But as she spoke, Archie jumped in with an Op-Ed headline: “Timothy Dwight? More Like Tremendously Dumb!” And that was that. Within days, one would’ve been hard-pressed to find a corner of Yale that hadn’t been razed to the ground – metaphorically speaking – by our horrific roasts and burns. Those who had once demeaned us now dreaded the day when our sharp comedic sensibilities would be turned on them. It was like in 300, except we were the Persian army slaughtering the Spartan protagonists. Back at the office, our conquest continued. Jake wrote an article calling all gym-going students “Lame Whitney.” Ellen, Dylan, and Elliot competed to see who could Managing Edit the most non-sequiturs into their respective drafts. Meanwhile, our seniors, who had previously seen Facebook in the wake of controversial opinion pieces, headed to Bass to sit this one out. It was a cold, grey morning when Yale’s last untouched subject, its beloved canine mascot, fell to our takedown piece on “Blandsome Dan.” And despite all the ill-will we had bred, readership and subscriptions had inexplicably skyrocketed. But as I stepped over the rubble that my war had left in its wake – metaphorically speaking – I felt hollow, unfulfilled, regretful. Entering the office for our victory celebration, I asked the Editorial Board to divert the new funds to take The Record back to themed issues, like we used to do in the old days. There was nothing left to gain. But everyone was intent on spending the money on something else: loud motorcycles to drive down Liz Kingsley ’19 Chairman
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Elm Street. Despite my protests, they rebutted by claiming I was using “reductive logic.” And when I noticed that everyone was wearing suits unironically, I knew their egos had grown to truly dangerous levels. In one last bid, I pleaded to Rishi, an all-around reasonable person, to give me the PIN for our bank account. I was the only one left who could save us from ourselves. “6423,” he said solemnly. But before I could respond, I felt several cold steel jabs between my shoulders, and turning, saw that everyone had stabbed me in the back. “This is like…” I began, but failed to think of an appropriate historical analogy for the situation, as my knowledge on these matters was limited to big-budget period films. Darkness closing in, I accepted whichever version of Hell was awaiting me. But when I awoke, I found myself back in the Morse Library – only fifteen minutes had passed. Had this all really just been a dream? As I looked at my computer, however, the emptied bank account on the screen told a different story. If you think life is like the movies, you’re absolutely right. Sure, maybe Russell Crowe never fought a tiger. And what are the chances that 300 Spartans actually battled a Persian army? But when a Generic Man-Deity puts you in an Inception dream to steal your publication’s bank PIN and savings, that’s not a holy mission or a call for opinion pieces. It’s a warning to steer clear. History always repeats itself, folks. And boy have I learned a thing or two from it.
—M. Abuzalaf Editor in Chief
Matt Abuzalaf ’18 Editor in Chief
Archie Kinnane ’18 Online Editor in Chief
Vicky Liu ’19 Publisher
Noah Amsel ’20 Webmaster
Dylan Schifrin ’20 Managing Editor
Nathan Ewing-Crystal ’19 Director of Online Content
Chloe Prendergast ’20 Art Director
Rishi Mirchandani ’19 Business Manager
Elliot Connors ’20 Online Managing Editor
Ellen Yang ’20 Managing Editor
Adam Lessing ’19 Design Editor
Lane Unsworth ’19 Staff Director
Jake Houston ’19 Publicity Manager
Graham Ambrose ’18 Old Owl
Brian Beitler ’18 Old Owl
Alex Ringlein ’18 Old Owl
Chasan Hall ’18 Old Owl
Louisa Cone ’18 Old Owl
Staff: Spencer Birney ’18 Emma Chanen ’19 Amanda Corcoran ’18 Sonia Gadre ’20 Andrew Gamzon ’20 Timur Guler ’18 Carina Hahn ’20 Sami Hakani ’18 Carter Helschien ’18
Contributors: Alex Hoganson ’20 Susanqi Jiang ’19 Shea Ketsdever ’19 Katie Kidney ’19 Mariah Kreutter ’20 Roger Lopez ’18 Andrew Megerian ’18 Veena Muraleetharan ’20 Leila Murphy ’19
Micah Osler ’18 Noah Rae-Grant ‘18 Henry Robinson ’19 Jonathan Rutter ’18 Natalya Sanghvi ’18 Sahaj Sankaran ’20 Justin Shi ’18 Eve Sneider ’19 Xavier Sottile ’19
Sarah Sukin ’18 Teddy Thum ’18 Rachel Treisman ’19 Alissa Wang ’19 Grace Wynter ’20 Ashton Winters ’20 Alex Zhang ’18
Caleb Cohen ’21 Paige Davis ’21 Nicole Eskow ’19 Zach Gold ’21 Mindy Le ’19 Dalia Moallem ’21 Max Nobel ’21 Harry Rubin ’21 Marcy Sanchez ‘21
Sophie To SPH ‘19 Maya Vasquez ‘21 Jacob Yoder-Schrock ‘21 Alec Zbornak ‘21 Kelly Zhou ‘21
Special thanks to: Before the Common(s at Schwarzman Center) Era. Front and Back Cover: Chloe Prendergast ‘20 Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXLVI, No. 4, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2017 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: letters should be addressed to: Chairman, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chairman@yalerecord.com. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.
THE TWELVE MORE ARDUOUS LABORS OF HECULES 1. Growing the giant peach from James and the Giant Peach 2. Grocery shopping for a 20,000 calorie diet 3. Dealing with the knowledge that he could never know, let alone overcome, the greatest labor of all: prenatal labor 4. Living with the smell of that lion skin everyone expected him to wear around 5. Going to midwife school to try to understand the true nature of labor 6. Learning to read as an adult 7. Writing favorable online reviews of the 1997 Disney movie about his life to increase its Rotten Tomatoes score from 83% 8. Convincing Zeus that midwifery was his true calling 9. Forgiving his son for accidently crashing the chariot into a nearby Hesperide 10. Finding clients as a mythical demigod amateur midwife 11. Confronting his own implicit biases about giant beasts and coming to recognize them as equally deserving of a fulfilling life 12. Delivering baby Jesus —N. Ewing-Crystal
I HAVE THE BODY OF A GREEK GOD Let me rephrase that. My body doesn’t just resemble that of a Greek god. My body itself is a Greek god, to which I, an extra, vestigial head, am attached. This, as one can imagine, makes for quite the ill-fated quality of life. For one thing, people don’t usually invite me over anymore. This is probably because previous situations of this sort have typically begun with my body calmly entering my Aunt Bertha’s apartment complex, seeing that other guests have brought her wine or green bean casserole and, not to be outdone, exclaiming, “I HAVE BROUGHT THE GIFT OF FIRE” as he subsequently incinerates everything in sight. There comes a point where you just can’t laugh something like that off anymore. Living with my god-body isn’t all bad, though. My body can fly, which is cool. He can also lament the curse that is his own immortality and the interminable agony of witnessing everyone he has ever loved succumb to the relentless march of time, which I’ve trained him to do for treats. Would I relinquish my state as an earthly head connected to a heavenly being in exchange for a body of my own? It’s hard to say. My Greek god body certainly comes with its fair share of challenges. But, like anyone’s relationship with their body, I’m sure mine still has many unforeseen developments in store. —D. Schifrin
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OP-ED: WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO AMERICA’S CAMBRIAN PERIOD VALUES? Listen up, liberal snowflakes. I’m a graduate student, which means I’ve been around for a while. And I’m here to give you some advice, because there’s no way I’m going to let the mightiest country in the world get taken over by the giant, hook-mouthed Anomalocaris while you leftist hacks debate the merits of maintaining our nation’s Cambrian Period value system. First off, enough with the identity politics. Back in my day, we didn’t see race, gender, sexual orientation, or species. It didn’t matter if you were Pikaia or Haikouichythes, trilobite or worm. We all got along, fucking, killing, and eating one another indiscriminately. Nowadays, all you left-wing radicals label and divide everyone so much that you’ve lost sight of what unites us: our common quest to vanquish Anomalocaris, the vicious beast that preys on us all. Secondly, stop ramming your “health food” and “ethically sourced” agenda down my throat. I remember the days when I could eat anything I wanted. Now, if I so much as salivate around a neighbor’s child, one of you snot-nosed social justice warriors calls the police on me. They waste hours locking me up, only to discover that my body is a microbial mat that can easily disintegrate, escape through the bars of a cell, and re-form. Why should our boys in blue waste precious hours detaining me when they could be preparing for Anomalocaris’ next rampage? Oh yeah, there’s one more thing. Stop kneeling during the national anthem. Back in my day, no one would dare to do it. Granted, we didn’t have a national anthem, nor did we have knees, but even if we did, we wouldn’t have used them to protest. We would have used them to knee Anomalocaris, or some shit like that. So there you have it, libs. Call me old-fashioned, but these are the values that my parent cells instilled in me. And if you crybabies had been raised like me, you would never have forsaken the vision that our Founding Fathers had for this country: “We hold these truths to be selfevident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, we must fucking annihilate that bastard, Anomalocaris.” –S. To
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TOP FIVE AGES 5. The Gilded Age: I took my immense son Andreas to see The Breakers, and he would not stop screaming. 4. The Stone Age: Andreas had a large can of lard for breakfast when we visited the Ggantija temples. 3. The Space Age: We had to get Andreas’ stomach pumped after he ate all the museum’s astronaut ice cream. 2. The Jet Age: Our family is no longer allowed on Jet Blue flights because Andreas snuck his boa constrictor Doris on the plane. 1. Age of Oil: Andreas fell into the La Brea Tar Pits and became too slippery to apprehend. Now he lives in the woods. –J. Houston
TWO-YEAR SIEGE REVEALED AS TEAM-BUILDING EXERCISE
KAIFENG, CHINA—At dawn on Tuesday, the multi-year siege of Kaifeng was revealed to be an extended team-building exercise for the Mongolian military unit stationed in North China. The announcement came in a statement directly from the tent of Field Commander Tolui Khan. “We started to notice a drop in morale, which correlates to a drop in military effectiveness. When you’re so focused on conquering all of Eurasia, it becomes easy to forget how important teamwork is,” said General Mongke. “But, as the saying goes, a khanate is only as strong as its weakest link.” To help emphasize creative problem solving and communication skills, the Mongols revamped their traditional siege strategies for purposes of the exercise. Popular tactics included the Trust Launch, in which blindfolded trebuchet operators were guided only by verbal cues from their peers, and the ThreeLegged Advance, wherein soldiers would push siege engines into the city walls with their ankles tied together. The results have proven to be successful for officers and foot soldiers alike. According to one anonymous soldier, the siege has motivated the army to continue the Grand Khan’s mission. Another added that he feels more connected to his fellow archers and that it was “pretty rad” that they got to plunder the city afterwards. Genghis Khan, allegedly in the middle of a very important round of Two Troops and a Spy, was not available for comment.
–E. Yang
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ARMLESS CLASSICAL STATUES: ANOTHER UNREALISTIC BEAUTY STANDARD The word “patriarchy” has a Greek root, and it’s no surprise. In fact, “patriarkhes” basically translates literally to “setting unrealistic standards for sexualized figures.” And that’s what we’ve been hearing for 2,300 years: classical statues represent the epitome of human beauty. Well, guess what? We’ve had enough. This is just another unrealistic beauty standard engrained in our social psyche. The cold hard truth, Mr. Patriarkhes, is that most people have arms. Most people aren’t made of marble. Most people don’t know what a discus is. It’s time to put our fleshy feet down and resist these expectations. Enough. Is. Enough. If we took all Greek beauty standards as fact, we wouldn’t have noses or genitalia. That’s right, the human race would go extinct. And also, we wouldn’t be able to smell things. Who’s being unrealistic now? So here it is: if you don’t lack arms, you are beautiful too. This statement may sound bold, but that’s only because of the insane standards we’ve blindly accepted from the Greek patriarchy for far, far too long. Our girls deserve to grow up in a world where they can feel comfortable in their own arms. It’s time to take a stand—and our legs are just a start. –L. Kingsley
ARCHEOLOGISTS UNEARTH TABLET DOCUMENTING TWINKIE PRODUCTION KUWAIT CITY, KUWAIT – In a literally groundbreaking discovery, archaeologists have excavated a 3,000-year-old tablet documenting the production of Twinkies. “The writings on the stone confirm what we have suspected for a long time,” said Smithsonian historian James Dent. “We can finally say with certainty that all Twinkies currently in existence were made by the Mesopotamians circa 1000 B.C.” Given Twinkies’ remarkable shelf life, nutritionists had expected the recipe to be incredibly complex. The tablet reveals, however, that production of the famous cream-filled golden sponge cake was, in fact, astoundingly simple. “Apparently, all you need is a golden sponge, sugar, and pure fat,” says Brenda Collins of Yale Dining. “These are all items that would have been readily available to the Mesopotamians, who, when not establishing the foundations of modern human civilization, were always hard at work on their sponge and fat farms.” “This new discovery totally re-contextualizes almost every major historical event,” noted Dent. “The Crusades, for instance, probably wouldn’t have happened if Jerusalem wasn’t the Twinkie Capital of the World in the 11th century,” he continued, noting that the so-called “cross” sigil on Crusaders’ shields actually depicts two overlapping Twinkies. Dent adds, “I really hope they keep digging. If they go deep enough under Egypt, I’m sure they’ll find the prophesied mine of Everlasting Gobstoppers.”
–R. Mirchandani
“On this week’s epiosde of Judge Jaxatosaurus...” —H. Rubin
—C. Prendergast
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IT WAS ME, I STARTED THE BUBONIC PLAGUE Okay, I’ll admit it. I really goofed up this time, you guys. I may have sort of, accidentally, and in a completely unforeseen twist of fate, started the Bubonic Plague. My bad. I guess the worst part about my little “faux pas,” if you will, is that I don’t really know exactly how it happened. But, since it seems like pointing fingers at me is everyone’s new favorite pastime – other than randomly dropping dead, of course – I guess it’s all I can do to rack my brain and try to the bottom of this “slight blunder.” I really don’t see how this is relevant at all, but a few months ago, I had the genius idea to quit my unfulfilling day job in cobbling and kickstart my own business enterprise: the first International Traveling Flea Circus! So I bred and raised over 175,000 of the little fellas, and after arduous weeks of hard training, we finally took our show all across continental Europe for the world to see. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t want to watch fleas riding on the backs of rodents and doing all sorts of neat tricks? Our acts are so daring that we leave audiences in a feverish sweat, so exhilarating that they vomit in over-stimulation, and so unbelievable that their lymph nodes swell gleefully with interstitial fluid. Yet, despite all this merriment, everyone keeps blaming me for this stupid Black Death. Honestly, I think they’re just being melodramatic. “Oh no, your fleas keep biting us! Help, we feel sickly after going to your shows! You sick bastard, fifty million people died because of you!” People need to stop being such crybabies and get over themselves. As far as I’m concerned, the only thing that my flea circus spreads is joy, and I couldn’t be prouder of it. –A. Zbornak
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THE GREAT REALITY TV SHOWS OF THE ANCIENT WORLD Rome’s Next Top Gladiator Euphrates Shore Dancing with the Pharaohs RuPaul’s Chariot Race Keeping Up With The Khufu Pimp My Pyramid The Real Housewives of King Solomon Survivor —N. Eskow
REPORT: XERXES IS THE MOST BADASS NAME
CAMBRIDGE, MA – Marking a major advancement in onomatological research, linguistics experts at MIT announced today that the ancient Persian king Xerxes had and probably will forever have the most badass name in existence. “It took years of parsing through historical records and analyzing various names’ cachets, but we have finally concluded that ‘Xerxes’ is just so fucking awesome, it probably can’t be topped,” said team leader Dr. Carl Bradshaw. “And while this whole process has been incredibly rewarding, it’s honestly made me feel like kind of a dunce. What were my parents thinking? Carl? Come on, guys.” While the team devised numerous algorithms to computationally evaluate names on the basis of etymology, phonetics, and syllabic structure, their conclusions ultimately hinged on “mouth-feel,” according to researcher Sarah Hines. “Don’t those x’s just zing off your tongue? Xerxes. Xer. Xxxeerr. Say it with me now. Xerxes. Xer. Xer. Xe, xe, xe, Xerxes. Don’t be shy. Xeerrrrrxes. Xerxes. Xerxes. Do you feel appropriately fearful and reverent of the God-King? Xerxes. Xerrrrrrrrrxxxes.” Hines was quick to note, however, that their process was not entirely subjective. “We wanted to make sure that ‘Xerxes’ was empirically sick at the atomic level,” she clarified. “So we used an electron microscope and some other MIT shit, and yep, it checked out on all fronts.” The team hopes that their work will not only guide future research but also shape contemporary culture. “In fact, our research has already begun to impact American naming conventions,” said lab assistant Xerxes Johnson. At press time, researchers were reportedly “going absolutely nuts” after hearing about the name Maximus for the first time.
–K. Zhou
LESSER-KNOWN RIDDLES OF THE SPHINX How many Scythians does it take to change a candelabrum?
What idiot decided that togas made sense as clothing? have you ever thought about the word “bronze�? Like, really thought about it? What do you call two Babylonians interrupting each other in a river? How many claws am I holding up? What do you get if you take a chariot and replace the wheels with two smaller horses? If a merchant leaves Persepolis on the Ides of July, and an army marches from Sardis eight days before the Kalends of August, who will reach the Lydian empire first? So, where are you interning this summer?
Writing: M. Nobel | Art: K. Zhou | Design: P. Davis
SEVEN COOLER WAYS TO DRAG HECTOR’S LIFELESS BODY AROUND THE GATES OF TROY 1. UBERPOOL Budget a little tight this month? Use uberPool to share your ride!
The decaying husk of the Trojan prince at your side will serve as a great conversation starter.
2. PROFESSIONAL DOGSLED TEAM Scared of horses? Try attaching your freshly killed corpse to a fleet of elite Alaskan Malamutes. Mush!
3. TAKE HIM THROUGH THE CARPOOL LANE It’s not every day
you get to have a second body in the car, so take advantage of this rare opportunity to leave the house a little later and still make the circuit around the great Greek city before 9:00 AM.
4. THE MAGIC SCHOOL BUS “Please let this be a normal corpse drag-
ging…” With the Frizz? No way!
5. WEINER DOG CHARIOT It might take forever and seem more than slightly morbid, but gosh darn do those little suckers look adorable doing it. Bet Achilles wishes he thought of this one!
6. ELM CITY PARTY BIKE Imagine the body of King Priam’s first-born son
skidding along as you drink margaritas while pedaling with twelve of your best buds! Such fun!thought of this one!
7. ATTACH HIM TO YOUR OWN BODY This one’s for all you student athletes out there! Increase your speed and core strength by wearing the carcass of Troy’s finest warrior as a backpack while you do your sprints. The cost? Just the ever-present voice of existential guilt that stems from killing a man with your own two hands!
Writing: M. Vasquez | Design: M. Sanchez
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ACHILLES: “YOU TOOK MY HEELARMOR AGAIN AND NOW LOOK WHAT HAPPENED Dear Agamemnon, This morning, while I was preparing for battle in my tent, I was unable to locate my heel-armor. Luckily enough, I was able to find some on a Trojan whom I slew and dragged into camp last night. When I asked my concubine Briseis about the heel-armor, she told me that you had peeked into our tent before I woke up and asked to “borrow it—just for a quick spin.” Is this true? If so, please return the heel-armor to me at your earliest convenience so that I may continue to pillage the Troad in safety and style. Your loyal companion, Warlike Achilles, son of Peleus
Dear Agamemnon, While anointing my head and chest with fragrant oils yesterday, I discovered that my new heel-armor was once again missing. This confused and distressed me greatly, since I clearly remembered removing it and storing it with my other armor in an unnaturally large painted urn. My spear and shield were untouched, as were my silver chalice, my fleece collection, and the human kebab of Trojan soldiers I slew yesterday. If you have seen my heel-armor, please return it. As my mother Thetis said, “It’s all fun and gore until someone gets shot in the heel.”
heel armor was somehow not on my heels. I immediately roused the Myrmidons to assembly and ordered them to search the camp for heel-armor. No one could find mine, but they did say that a mysterious crone named Aggy, claiming to be a priestess of Apollo, had visited camp last night. “Aggy” appeared outside my tent, leapt into the air, clicked her armored heels together, and loudly tapdanced away to the tune of “Footloose.” I am not screwing around, Agamemnon. I really need my heel-armor back. Your warlike friend, Warlike Achilles the lionhearted, breaker of men, son of Peleus
Dear Agamemnon, I have been shot in the heel with a poisoned arrow. The last words I heard before I died were, “Why didn’t you just put some armor on it?” I swear, if future historians misconstrue my naked heel as a symbol of my own hubris, I’m going to make kebabs of them all. Your corpselike friend, Achilles —N. Amsel
Your godlike friend, Godlike Achilles, son of Peleus
Dear Agamemnon, I have been wearing my heel-armor, day and night, for the past month. I have neither oiled my calves nor bathed my feet in warm goat’s milk since Book 16, as I was afraid that my heel-armor would disappear again the moment I took it off. And yet when I woke up this morning, my
—L. Kingsley
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PICK-UP LINES TO USE IF YOUR ONLY ROMANTIC EXPERIENCE WAS SEEING THE GUTENBERG BIBLE IN BEINECKE LIBRARY Baby, I’m like Gutenberg Bible in Beinecke Library: heavily illuminated. I want to make love to you, but only with my eyes. Baby, I’m like the Gutenberg Bible in Beinecke Library: given to Yale by Austrian monks. Did it hurt when the words contained inside you fell down from heaven? Baby, I’m like the Gutenberg Bible in Beinecke Library: I’ll have you hollering “Careful not to tear the vellum!” Say, is that a priceless tome of holy scripture, produced using the original printing press in 15th-century Europe and which would hundreds of years later find its way to the rare book archives of one of the world’s great universities in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? Huh, that’s interesting. I, too, am into binding. —L. Unsworth
—P. Davis
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T he “T hat ’ s A ncient H istory ” I ssue
WILL HISTORY REMEMBER ME FIRST AS AN INSURANCE CLAIMS REPRESENTATIVE OR A CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANT? At a certain point, everyone examines their lives in the grander scope of time and asks themselves earnestly how history will remember their existence. This proves a particularly potent question for the Renaissance men and women who possess the rare capacity to leave a double legacy. And while I frankly never expected to find myself in such a situation, recent career developments have forced me to consider whether history will remember me first as an insurance claims representative or as a certified public accountant. I suppose I’ll start from the beginning, as history so often does. After getting my degree in Business Administration from DePauw University, I knew that I was headed towards a lucrative, if inconsequential, career as a low-level claims adjuster at Ernst and Young. Little did I know that I would soon secure my place in the annals of insurance claims representation when I identified a major source of claims leakage in a prominent client’s account. And while I am not at liberty to divulge the specifics of the case, I can assure you that the settlement proceedings packed even more drama and intrigue than you might expect from the settlement proceedings of a major claims leakage case. News quickly spread, and other adjusters flocked to my cubicle to sing my praises or otherwise ask me to clean the microwave, as my curry had apparently splattered a bit. Either way, they were talking, and they were talking about me. I half-expected a plaque to be installed outside the conference room where I first noticed the account discrepancy, but unfortunately, our office manager never responded to my emails about a commemoration ceremony. She realized that my legacy would be better preserved by the great oral tradition, the huddled masses around the Keurig machine, recounting in whispered awe the lore of Jeff. In short, it was the most exhilarating four and a half hours of my life. And that’s why I decided to leave it all behind. Yes, you heard me right. I closed out of my Excel worksheet without saving and walked right out the door. Sure, I could have easily settled for the flashy lifestyle of a claims case manager, content with the modest legacy of a footnote or two in American History textbooks. But once you’ve changed the game, how do you go back to just
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playing it? So I packed my things and left Ernst and Young without ever looking back. The next morning, I found myself once again surfing the DePauw business administration career portal, an adrenaline junkie itching for his next high, when suddenly I found an opening for a certified public accountant at Ernst and Young. And just like that, I was back in my old cubicle. Sitting in that hallowed swivel chair, I was intimidated by the man that had occupied it before, a legendary claims adjuster known around the Keurig machine as Jeff. I am referring, of course, to myself. What if I couldn’t top the greatness he had already attained here? Maybe I should have never left and subsequently returned to Ernst and Young. But as I looked at the pictures of my family that I had neglected to take down the day before, I realized that our legacies aren’t defined by the account discrepancies we identify or the damage spreadsheets we consolidate. They are defined by the legacies of the people we touch in our lives, and the legacies of the people they touch, all our threads interwoven to create an intricate tapestry of history that swaddles our kin as they are birthed into the unknown wonder of the world. So as I overhauled my team’s antiquated, hierarchical file system to improve efficiency and transparency, I did not think about the plaque or footnotes this practice certainly merited. Instead, I thought of my children, waiting for me at home, eager to pick up the needle and sew. —E. Connors
—C. Cohen
"Adulthood changed my life! Now it's worse!"
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"I'm really invested in The Good Wife! She's not really such a good wife, and that's what makes it compelling."
"Since I tried adulthood, I've felt more sluggish and fat! Wow!"
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VII ROMAN NAMES THAT DEFINITELY AREN’T COMPENSATING FOR SOMETHING I. Julius Caesar: We get it. You’re a salad guy. II. Gnaeus: Fun fact—only the most perceptive people will notice that your name is one “G” away from being an anagram of “Egg Anus.” III. Marcus Cornelius Publius Cornelius Aurelius Africanus Gallia: You know what they say. Bigger is always better. IV. Lentulus Ligarius Lusius: We get it. You’re an alliteration guy. V. Decimus: This name means “Tenth Son.” As such, two conclusions readily become apparent: either your parents really liked numbers or they were too busy having children to bother naming you something more creative. VI. Mark Antony: We get it. You’re a “Fools himself into believing that Cleopatra isn’t still thinking about ‘The Salad Guy’ in bed” guy. VII. Handsome Dan XVIII
—Z. Gold
Design: M. Vasquez
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T he Y ale R ecord
DEAR DIARY: NON-JESUS BLOOD CAN’T BE TURNED INTO WINE
Wednesday, April 5th, 2017 Dear Diary, You won’t believe what I found today. Remember that dinner party I’m hosting this weekend? Well, I found the perfect sangria recipe. It calls for “strawberries, oranges, a splash of lemon juice, and the blood of your local messiah.” If I follow the recipe, it says that the mixture will taste “just like your favorite merlot.” Who knew God Housekeeping would have just what I needed? Yours truly, Martin
Friday, April 7th, 2017 Dear Diary, The party’s tomorrow, everyone has RSVP’d, but I still don’t have the blood! Silvia’s going to be there and, well, you know that I can’t mess this one up. Even Bigmouth Reggie said he can’t wait to try the sangria. I bet he’s just dying to tell me how bad it is. Anyway, who knew that holy blood was so hard to find? I haven’t given up just yet. Messiah or not, I still have one last resort.
I went back into the kitchen to slice oranges, and Reggie soon returned with the tablecloth. Pointing to the dining room table, I told him that he could lay it out there. Then, well… let’s just say that people, like oranges, can make quite a mess. The guests came at six and, although I had several candles burning, the smell of Clorox was still quite strong. The sangria had been incubating for two hours, at which point the recipe said that my guests would be able “to taste heaven on their tongues.” However, when everyone tasted my creation, their responses weren’t quite as enthusiastic. Beatrice fainted. Jeffrey might’ve coughed it up a little bit. Silvia ran to the bathroom, holding her hand to her mouth. She screamed, and I realized then that I’d forgotten to dispose of our friend’s “orange rinds” from the bathtub. Diary, I write to you now from Cell #0875 at Lovelock Correctional Center, barred from accessing even a toilet in fear that I’d use it to make more wine. I’ll definitely be sending a strongly-worded letter to the editor of God Housekeeping regarding their recipe selection. Until then, my friend. Sweet dreams, Martin —M. Le
Wish me luck, Martin
Wednesday, April 12th, 2017 Dear Diary, The dinner party didn’t quite go as expected. Reggie came over around three, eager as ever to “help a poor boy out.” Ignoring his comment, I asked him to set the table and showed him to my linen closet. “We’re setting up pretty early, eh?” he asked, before adding, with that awful laugh of his, “I guess it makes sense for someone as slow as you, Marty.” I held my tongue.
—K. Zhou
T he “T hat ’ s A ncient H istory ” I ssue
COLLAPSE OF ROMAN EMPIRE CAUSED BY POORLYCONSTUCTED COLUMNS BYZANTIUM – The Roman Empire, fondly remembered for its refreshingly bloody gladiator fights and incestuous gods, fell last Thursday, and investigators are pointing to Imperial Chief Architect Gluteus Maximus as the primary culprit. Some have labeled Maximus’s actions as a domestic terror attack, while others believe he was simply unqualified and should never have been hired in the first place. Meanwhile, historians are looking for new idioms to incorporate into daily use, as “All roads lead to a 496-square-mile heap of collapsed marble shards” simply doesn’t have the same ring to it. Maximus, a former student at the Roman Institutional School of Design, graduated “With Highest Honors,” which in common language translates to “Summa Cum Laude,” before he was asked to construct the Empire. A few anonymous Roman officials admit they were confused when Maximus showed them his blueprints, as they consisted only of hollowed-out columns. They further claim that they thought Maximus was “just really bad at sketching blueprints,” which, they add, “is totally fair, given that we do all our drawing by scratching wax with sticks.” The blueprints also indicate that the columns were meant to be narrow at the bottom, wide on top, and repeatedly berated by a sledgehammer every half hour, all of which Maximus defended as his “signature style.” However, construction workers from this project, who were also employed to build the still-standing Pyramids of Giza, say that these blueprints were “complete garbage” and that “Gluteus Maximus is a giant ass.” Reported one worker, “The obvious choice when building an empire is Corinthian columns, but Maximus insisted on Doric, a complete dick move to anyone with any knowledge of anything.” Reporters have attempted to contact Maximus, but at press time, he has not responded. Our sources believe that he has fled to his self-constructed villa in Greece, where he is most likely lying dead beneath several tons of rubble.
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ONLY 1890S KIDS WILL REMEMBER THESE
Four-day horse and buggy rides to the next town. Back in my day, we used to have a little thing called walking. Your favorite source of entertainment being Rugrats, the rodents in the carpet with a ravenous taste for human flesh. The frosted tips on your hair that would form when your house was poorly insulated but you still had to bathe in a bucket. Complaining about boy bands, the marauding groups of youngsters who pelted local homesteads with slingshotted pebbles. Spending the whole week waiting for Saturday morning cartons, which were always fresh since the cows were milked on Fridays. Grueling trips to Blockbusters to chop up your blocks of ice into more manageably sized blocks of ice. The Sherman Antitrust Act —Z. Gold
—D. Moallem
—V. Liu
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PETA INTERRUPTS SALOVEY SPEECH, PROTESTS “TOO MANY ANIMAL METAPHORS”
“I GUESS I’LL ALWAYS WORK IN THE OL’ FACTORY,” REPORTS OCCUPATIONALLY UNFULFILLED NOSE
Dear Gwen, I am so sorry I have let you down. You tried to teach me all these years, but I just did not listen. Now I shall never know. —Someone who still gets confused about the spelling of banana
MURDERS ON THE RISE IN PRISON SPACESHIP SELF-CONSCIOUS CORPORATION DEVELOPS INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX
TRAFFIC SCHOOL STUDENTS ENROLLED IN INTERSECTIONALITY COURSE
“VIOLA!” SHOUTS ORCHESTRAL MAGICIAN
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“SIR, THAT’S NOT THE KIND OF BAGGAGE WE TAKE HERE” PROCLAIMS FLUSTERED FLIGHT ATTENDANT AT MAN UNPACKING HIS CHILDHOOD TRAUMA
China Opportunities Fair
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Dear Tyger, Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Sincerely, William Blake
IPHONE CHARGED IN BATTERY ASSAULT
Lunch Info Sessions* Thursday, Sept. 14 | 12:00-1:00PM Friday, Sept. 15 | 12:00-1:00PM
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Exchange App Deadline Friday, Sept. 29 | 5:00PM
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Dear William Blake, Nope, two horny tigers made me. rawr xD, Tyger
Friday, Dec. 1 | midnight
Evening Info Sessions* Thursday, Jan. 18 | 8:00-9:00PM Wednesday, Jan. 31 | 8:00-9:00PM Register at education@yalechina.org
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T he “T hat ’ s A ncient H istory ” I ssue
From Celebrated Literary-Crossover Novelist
Lincoln Sedlacek
Comes a Whale of a Tale You Can Finish by Bedtime “For a long time, I’ve searched for books that would teach my grandchildren about counting, colors, and the dangers of letting a quest for revenge consume you. Finally, I have a book that does it all.” —Judy Blume “As fun as The Cat of Monte Cristo and as deeply moving as Green Eggs and Hamlet.” —Oprah “When I read the section: Ahab looked down at his feet. / Ahab whispered, in defeat, / ‘One leg. / Two leg. / Peg leg. / Food leg’... Well, it was the first time a book has ever brought me to tears.” —Malcolm Gladwell “I’ll say one thing about this book—it was written and published on schedule!” —George R. R. Martin
Catch It in Bookstores January 2018!
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