ONION REALLY A METAPHOR FOR NUANCED AND LAYERED EXPERIENCE OF HELL, IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT
Dear Joe Verchüchen,
I was recently dining at one of your many ÜltraSlim™ restaurant franchises, and I couldn’t help but notice that even after several mouthfuls of your famous Amoürphus green sludge™, I still felt just as hungry as when I first arrived. What is actually in your food?
Sincerely,
DA Barb De La Croce
CURTIS SLAYWA
AL DENTE DEBUTS NEW DURIAN PIZZA, PERMANENTLY SILENCES PINEAPPLE FREAKS
Dear DA,
Do you, profane Americans, have no limit to your gluttony? Is there no limit to the grease and grime you will so willingly consume? You are a nation run on appetite. I came to this country to bring the virtue of moderation, of self-control, of temperance. If I have to sell you empty sludge, then that is what I will do, and that is what you ate. There’s also a bit of piss in it, but all in line with regulations.
Healthily, Verchüchen
NEW STUDIES INDICATE THAT 80 % OF NEW JERSEY’S ITALIANAMERICAN POPULATION COULD NOT LOCATE ITALY ON A MAP
Dear Governor of New Jersey,
Since when is cooking my pasta al dente considered grounds for remedial cooking lessons? This is literally how my ancestors did it in Naples.
Best, Al Dente (Restaurateur Extraordinaire)
Dear Miss Quotation,
I’m feeling pretty defeated lately. I’ve been trying so hard, but nothing seems to work. Do you have any words of wisdom for me?
WHITE WOMAN OVERWHELMED WITH ITALIAN CULTURE SCREAMS “MAMMA MIA!” IN OLIVE GARDEN
Dear Billy,
Dear Al,
You do not cook your pasta. There are also rats in your kitchen.
Sincerely, NJ Governor’s Office
It’s not about the size of the dog in the fight, it’s about the size of the dog in the fight.
Remember that.
Dear
Best, Miss Quotation
THIS IS MY IMPRESSION OF AN AMISH GUY WHO WOKE UP REALLY LATE AND MISSED THE SUNSET: “HEY, WHO TURNED OFF THE LIGHTS?” FOR SALE: The keys to Newark. No one else wants them. It is the city that God forgot.
Best, Billy
Did You Know?
Hell is made up of many layers. In this way, it is much like a cake. This is interesting because the day has many layers. These are called hours. There are 24 of them. I have never met a cake with 24 layers.
Infamous restaurateur Al Dente, who did not die, but merely got lost on the Jersey Turnpike.
—A. Caccam
“Abandon All Hope, Youse Who Enter ‘Ere.” - Freeway Sign to Newark, NJ
Hell is real. Anyone who’s read a book knows that, and it’s in all of Dr. Seuss’s books if you know where to look. But this tale isn’t about Dr. Seuss. It isn’t even about Dante Alighieri, who was the Dr. Seuss of Florence 2000 years ago. This is about Dente, and it happens right now. Buckle up.
Unlike Dante Alighieri, we do not live in a world inhabited by squabbling medieval peasants who remain fiercely loyal to their cities from birth unto death. That is, unless you live in New Jersey, which is the Medieval Italy of America. Enter Al Dente. Al Dente is a failed restaurateur from Hoboken, New Jersey, and one fateful afternoon, he takes a wrong turn on the Jersey Turnpike and ends up in Hell, which may or may not just be Newark. Well, anyone who’s been to Newark knows that Hell is an improvement, but that’s besides the point. Much like Dante, from whom we stole only a teensy weensy little bit, Dente has been appointed a guide, a great man of music, and — some might say — a boss. That’s right: Bruce Springsteen.
What happens next will blow your freaking mind. Or maybe it won’t, if the modern dopamine economy has fried your prefrontal cortex so thoroughly that you cannot appreciate this original story, only very loosely inspired by the ravings of a middle-class 13th-century Italian man. Whatever happens, you can’t sue us for false advertising. By reading this editorial, you have implicitly legally factually agreed not to sue us if this issue makes you laugh until you break every bone in your body, or have a psychotic episode, or end up thinking that you might actually be in Hell because our writers know how to capture the essence of unending torment in impressively vivid yet succinct witticisms. It’s a classic law move, you idiot. Gotcha.
All this talk of law reminds me that I still don’t have a summer internship. Wait a minute, I just realized: Does that mean I’m in Hell? How would I be able to tell? Looks like I can still rhyme in Hell. Oh, well, if I’m
truly in Hell, then it’s best not to dwell, so that I can remain just oh-so swell. But what is that smell? Ah, it’s the catering we ordered 7 hours ago that no one ate. At least it’s not Taco Bell.
Perhaps I’m not in Hell after all. But I’m still suspicious, based on what smarter people have to say about Hell. Google AI writes that Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–1980) was a towering 20th-century French philosopher, playwright, and novelist who pioneered existentialism. He also famously said that Hell is other people, which is weird because other people helped me with this issue. There were writers, designers, fantastic artists, great comedians all around, people whom I enjoy spending time with — but other people nonetheless. I will investigate further.
I have moved to another room where there aren’t any other people, and now I am sad. If Hell is other people, and no people are Hell, then what am I supposed to do?
Answer that, Sartre! Oh, wait, he can’t. According to Google AI, “Yes, Sartre died on April 15, 1980, at age 74 in Paris from pulmonary edema.” Drats.
I have moved back to the room that I came from originally. My friends and compatriots are fast asleep, which is making me very jealous because I have to stay awake to write this editorial. Feel bad yet? I am suffering
Devika Kothari ’27 Chair
Avery Misner ’27 Online Managing Editor
Jaelyn Jackson ’28 Copy Editor
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for your pleasure. And isn’t that what Hell is all about? Suffering is pleasure when pleasure is the pain of the reader of the pleasure. I’d like to see Sartre come up with that.
But who cares about Sartre? Philosophers? Yeah, not the real ones. When he said his famous quote and then died from pleasurable EDM, he never could have predicted that one day, 20 so-called comedians would gather in the TD Buttery for 24 hours to write a Bruce Springsteen fanfic starring an OC who is every single episode of The Sopranos amalgamated into one man. And that is why Hell isn’t other people. Heaven is. More specifically, heaven is when it’s suddenly 4:07 AM, and someone hands you two weighted plushies, one of whom is named Timothy, and the other, Dwight. And one day, when this issue is over, when Bruce has returned to the gas station in Limbo from whence he came, when Al’s brand-new restaurant in Santorini, Italy, has gotten off the ground, and as the man who invented Hawaiian pizza is chewed up in Chef Boyardee’s mouth for all eternity in the bottommost layer of Hell, Timothy, Dwight, and I will rise up and once again emerge to see the stars, e quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle. Heck yeah.
—T. Harris Editor in Chief
Bipul Soti ’27 Online Editor in Chief
Elizabeth Richards ’28 Managing Editor
Audrey Stankunas ’28 Design Editor
Zavian Valedón ’27 Staff Director
Sadie Lee ’26 Old Owl
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Staff:
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William Wang ’26
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Zoe Halaban ’26
Abigail Murphy ’27
Ami Gillon ’27
Anna Calkins ’27
Anna Feldman ’27
Anna Papakirk ’27
Audrey Jiang ’27
Avery Lenihan ’27
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Braeden Cullen ’27
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Ge Yu ’27
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Lucas Ranfranz ’27
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Max Watzky ’27
Nava Feder ’27
Samhita Kumar ’27
Sui Yu ’27
Special thanks to: Dante Alighieri, for inventing Hell and Italy.
Front Cover: Gaya Buchta, ’27, who’s never missed an exit.
Squirrel Lanz ’28 Managing Editor
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Matt Sprintson ’28 Business Manager
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Leandro Menchu-Sajche ’28
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Richard Wong ’28
Back Cover: Grace Xu, ’29, who prefers Florence, Greece, over Santorini, Italy.
Contributors: Our divine muses.
Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CLIV, No. 5, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year
Daniel Wang ’27 Old Owl
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An Phan ’29
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Christina Yu ’29
Eva Wonsowicz ’29
Grace Xu ’29
Graham Houghton ’29
Nico Belongie ’29
Siena Grouf ’29
Sierra Abbasi ’29
Yoo-Min Koh ’29
All contents copyright 2023 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: Letters should be addressed to: Chair, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chair@yalerecord.org. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.
LIMBO
Enter thee a world of sin and sauce, Where with fate Al Dente meets at last, With Springsteen at his side, he soon will cross The threshold at the station selling gas. At politician’s will, he’ll fall to hell
To meet and reconcile with friends and kin. Can he free himself from his own spell? What should one man suffer for his sins?
UNSUCCESSFUL BRIBES GIVEN TO TONY TWO-TONGUES
Half a cannoli
Angel food cake (he prefers devil)
A third tongue (legally obtained)
Scepter from Walmart
Broken taillight
Trip down to Georgia
An offer he can refuse
MAN, IT SEEMS LIKE I’VE BEEN HERE FOREVER
— E. Wonsowicz
— R. Shivakumar
DENTE’S INFERNO: A SONG BY BRUCE
SPRINGSTEEN
[Verse 1]
Another day pumping gas in limbo
Watching cars of the sinners as they come and go I see a man take a left off the turnpike
He’s got no clue what to do with his life He rolls down his window as I walk to the gas pump I say, “Al, buddy, why so down in the dumps?” He tells me he can’t take the heat in the kitchen And I know I gotta send this guy on a mission
[Verse 2]
Ol’ Al forgot what it means to be Italian Can’t even tell a leek from a scallion I fill the gas of his ’06 deathtrap
Hang up the nozzle shut the fuel cap Hop in the car, shift that girl into drive Buckle in, darling, ‘cause you’re in for a ride What a shame, how far this Jersey boy fell It’s time for us to take a trip through hell
[Chorus]
The tank’s full and we’re ready to go Ready to go to Dente’s inferno
Yes, Al, buddy, we’re ready to go Ready to go to Dente’s inferno
[Verse 3]
I say “Al, I know just what you need
You gotta know the difference between oregano and weed Trouble is, you ain’t listenin’ to your heart
Sometimes you can only run away and restart We’re gonna take a trip through all nine levels
All the way down ‘til we reach the devil Man, do you think that you’re up for the task?” Al nodded his head and I hit the gas
[Chorus]
The tank’s full and we’re ready to go Ready to go to Dente’s inferno
Yes, Al, buddy, we’re ready to go Ready to go to Dente’s inferno
[Saxophone Solo] [Bridge]
From mother Italy to sweet Hoboken
Al doesn’t know what to do with his life
His ego needs a restaurant that stays open
But he needs to see through another man’s eyes
Oh, I can’t promise this journey will be easy
In fact, like your pasta, this will be hard
Some people you’ll meet will be pretty sleazy
And oh darling I can promise you’ll be coming out scarred
[Chorus]
The tank’s full and we’re ready to go
Ready to go to Dente’s inferno
Oh baby the tank’s all full and we’re ready to go
Ready to go to Dente’s inferno
The tank’s full and we’re ready to go Ready to go to Dente’s inferno
Yes, Al, buddy, we’re ready to go Ready to go to Dente’s inferno
HISTORY OF HOBOKEN
— S. Lanz
Along the eastern seaboard of the United States, one would be hard-pressed to find an original town name. The vast majority are boring regurgitations of the Old World, engaged in a futile attempt to usurp their superior European counterparts. On a short trip from New York to New London, one could count original names on one hand. The exception to the rule? Our ever glorious Hoboken. The story of this humble township begins on a windy day in November. Unlike Plymouth and other more well-known eastern seaboard settlements, our founders were not pious pilgrims in funny hats. In fact, we owe our existence to a much more complicated character: the legendary Hobo Ken.
Kendall R. Blinker, more commonly known as Hobo Ken, set out from Nova Scotia in the winter of 1642. Rather than taking the conventional method of transportation of the time, horse and buggy or ship, Ken decided to try something new. He set out on a walk, hoping to catch a ride with any kind travelers along the way. Two weeks into his trip, Ken was struck with the insight of a genius (for he himself was surely not one); he discovered that he could carry all his goods more efficiently by tying them to a stick. For his contribution to Hobo culture, Hobo Ken is lauded as the “Godfather of Hobo-ing,” especially given that his exploits were in the pre-boxcar era.
Finally, on August 15th, 1643, Ken arrived at the shoreline of the Hudson River. By this time, he had accumulated a sizable party of followers. After being asked if they would cross the river to the burgeoning village of New Amsterdam, Ken declared, “I scorn the simpletons who believe that great farce they call New Amsterdam.” With that, he declared the foundation of a new settlement that would “dwarf” its neighbor across the river. In 2026, it’s safe to say that Hobo Ken’s prophecy has been fulfilled.
Al Dente,
It is I, Frankie Schirrel, the divinely ordained gover- nor of the god-forsaken land of New Jersey, writing to notify you of your transgressions. As one of the Lord's chosen soldiers, it is my holy duty to purify and purge out all sin within the territories I oversee.
As I'm sure you must already know, your restau- rant plays a major role in New Jersey's high rate of sauce-related child mortality. Nobody likes you or your food, and God sent me a vision in my dreams yesterday telling me to kill you. Luck- ily for you, I am very merciful and also lazy, and have therefore decreed that you shall instead be sent to hell to reconnect with your Italian roots.
I hope that you will learn more about salt and pos- sibly even how to boil water during your travels.
Bon Voyage, Frankie Schirrel Governer of New Jersey
— A. Hagens
State of New Jersey
Restaurant Inspection Form
Date: 15 December, 2025 Inspector: Mary “Meatball Lover” D’Puttana
Restaurant: Al Dente’s Inferno
Criterion Grade Comments
Hospitality C Al asked me to cook my own meal, although he eventually made me “meatballs” (his quotes, not mine).
Sanitation D There was no dishwasher present. Al does not seem to understand that plates are reusable.
Food Quality B+ The meatballs were surprisingly fresh and weirdly gamey. Al told me not to worry about where they came from.
Worker Hygiene F Al claimed to have wet hair because he “just showered.” He was dripping with blood.
Rats A+ Al Dente’s Inferno passed this criterion with flying colors in the sense that there were tons of rats all over the place.
General Safety F The mountain of shattered glass on the kitchen floor is concerning and further suggests that Al has a shaky understanding of how reusable dishes work.
Fire Safety B+ Al repeatedly states, “It would really be a shame if this place burned down,” but he kept winking at me.
Overall Score D- The city of Hoboken cannot go forward like this…
Consensus: Al Dente’s Inferno must be closed by 1/1/2026, or face legal action We recommend that Al Dente pursue remedial cooking lessons if he intends to cook in the future.
Health Inspector: Mary D’Puttana District Attorney Signature: Craig Carpenito
— A. Hagens
LUST
We reach the land where lusty lives are left
A bagel shop where rapidly they shift
They’re always meeting lovers with no depth
Their lust a curse they yet see as a gift
Now how will Dente find his way beyond?
— R. Shivakumar
— G. Buchta
LOVE AND BAGELS
Shall I compare thee to a piece of toast? You say you feel as dry when we’re in bed But I declare — and I don’t mean to boast — You’re much more like another type of bread.
Forsooth, my sweet, perhaps a honey bun (Of which you have a very lovely pair). A bagel, though, must surely be the one To parallel your part in this affair.
I’ll thus continue with the utmost tact And gallant gentlemanly self-control: The crucial thing, my darling, is the fact That each and every bagel has a hole.
Although I’m on a roll, I’ll end my plea And ask, my darling: WYD?
— A. Parker
SPEED DATING PROFILES
Tony: Looking for a woman who can make sauce as good as my Nonna’s. Under 5’5” (I am a short king myself.) Should enjoy soccer, red wine, and poker. Accountant.
Toni: I want a man who respects my intelligence and takes me out. Please, mamma mia, don’t be living in your mother’s basement. I’ve dealt with too many of those. I love leopard print and Celine Dion. My man should learn to love all my quirks, like chain-smoking seven packs a day. If he doesn’t worship me, he’s not worth it. Hairdresser.
Tony S: I’m after a laid-back woman who knows how to eat, preferably with utensils. Ideally has her own friends, so she won’t mind my late hours and frequent meetings. A good business never sleeps, they say, and neither do I! Haha. She can take my credit card and run up a bill. Businessman.
Sofia: Wanna get spoiled. I’m a good time and a wild ride. You won’t sleep when I’m around, if you know what I mean. Kindergarten teacher.
Tony W: Plumber.
Isabella: I just want a kind guy who takes care of me and treats me well. And if you’re related to Sally and Joey’s kids, you’re my cousin, and I’m not doing that again. Nurse.
Leonardo: Looking for anyone, man or woman, who would want to make homemade sauce. I love making sauce because you get to squeeze the tomatoes, but I like to challenge myself and do it with my feet. Ideally, also willing to go on wine tours, but only red, because you get to squish the grapes with your feet. Preferably, should be a dancer, pedicurist, or foot model. Rack Room Shoes Manager.
— E. Richads
ODE TO MY DRAG QUEEN, LUCIA BELLA DONNA DELLA STRACCIATELLA
I was drunk and fitful in a haze When I beheld you, as if in a dream. Bright angels! For the brightness in your gaze May do to spoil the freshest cream.
Suddenly, life had direction again; My descent only serving to carve me Into the shape, that form of truer man So that I be regarded to serve thee.
Your timbre could make Saint Magdalene weep, Calling to sweet pastures of Sicily. Of “slay!” Of bless’d refrain! My soul to keep! Your bodiced charm begets my revelry!
If the Jersey Turnpike, my life must take, Your cut crease shall outlast eternity; May gelato melt, or spaghetti break, Our love will surpass ev’ry dynasty.
— G. Xu
GLUTTONY
THINGS I HATE ABOUT MY GRANDSON
1. 47 year olds are supposed to have a house, babies, and a blood pressure problem. He only has one… and let’s just say there aren’t any bambini in his apartment.
2. He only visits me once a week, right after Sunday morning mass for only seven hours.
3. He attends Sunday morning mass. That’s it. What happened to Wednesday mass? What happened to four hours of Saturday vigil?
4. He says I feed him too much. Feed him too much! When his grandfather was his age, he’d come home from a long day and eat up twelve plates of my lasagna. Bless his memory, the diabetes took him.
5. He’s got his hands all over dirty money. I don’t like it when big, bearded men in leather jackets and whips enter his restaurant late in the evening. I always worry they just finished hitting a man.
6. He’s never gone back to la madrepatria… How can you call yourself an Italian if you’ve never woken up and put a shot of limoncello in your coffee?
7. He’s a little ugly. I think this is the source of all his problems.
— B. Soti
O’ hungry masses of the world, unkindly move aside! For those who have too much, there is never having enough.
Arise from your pass-out, Dente, and come with Bruce, Nonna has made you much to eat; Olive Garden will stuff you.
This is how life is meant to be. Drive down the strip mall and do not get out.
— B. Soti
GOOGLE REVIEWS OF AL DENTE’S INFERNO
Mark W.
If it were possible to do negative stars, I would. Unfortunately, the lowest it goes is zero, and if I don’t post this now, may God damn me for eternity! New Jersey needs to know. Never, in all of my life, have I had worse food — and that’s saying something, because I lived in rural Norway for three years. Ever had lutefisk? It’s white fish cured in lye. Lye! And yet, the bolognese I ordered was so bad, I think it subtracted years off my life. How is it possible for something to be so spicy, and so sour, and yet still taste like wet socks?? I think I saw a piece of tennis ball in the sauce. Where the hell do you get tennis balls in Hoboken? Never again.
Jennie Sanders
Made my child cry. Nowhere else was open at 2 am, shoulda known. Food was bad. What’s with all the clown pictures btw??
Alice S.
why my chicken kinda look like wet carpet. gross. also freaky clown vibe??
Timothy D.
DO NOT GO HERE THEY WILL TAKE YOUR MONEY AND SERVE YOU HOT GARBAGE I TOOK MY FAMILY HERE TO TRY SOME ETHNIC FOOD AND INSTEAD
OF GNOCCHI GAVE ME WHAT I CAN ONLY DESCRIBE TO BE STRAIGHT BATTERY ACID IN A BOWL
MY WIFE GOT HIGH OFF OF HER PIZZA AND I MAYBE SAW A THUMB IN MY DAUGHTER’S SOUP TOO I ONLY GAVE ONE STAR BECAUSE THEY HAD A BATHROOM I COULD USE FOR FREE AND GOD DID I NEED IT AFTER EATING HERE
— E. Richards
SIGNATURE SPAGHETTI
— B. Falkoff AL’S
GREED
TRANSCRIPT: AL DENTE’S RUN IN WITH AN INSURANCE OFFICER
Insurance Agent: Do you know why I brought you in here today?
Al Dente: I don’t know nothin’. And what is this place anyway? Trenton?
IA: Very funny, Al, but let’s get to business.
AD: Well, I remember my guy Leo said youse was in league with them Gotti’s and Gambinos, and they’re always after average Joes like me.
IA: Your buddy likes to talk out of his ass if I remember him correctly. I’m here asking you about the first location of Dente’s Inferno, the train car which conveniently burned down two days before it was due to be reappraised.
AD: Whaddabout it? You musta seen the police reports, our new line cook left the stove on, and the whole place went up. Kablooey!
IA: And it saved you a pretty penny.
With a belly full of several starchy meals, Our hero wakes in a land of spinning wheels, Of kings and queens and, lights of flashing sevens, He wonders if he’s died and gone to heaven. No! In Atlantic City, be rid of all hope. Nothing can be won in Hell, you dope.
— T. Harris
AD: Saved me? Do you know how much I lost? My photos, my signature grease balls, my own Nonna’s ashes; Gone! Gone! Gone! It took a year to build back what I had.
IA: But you were quick to apply for coverage on that shack, weren’t you?
AD: Which you denied by the way!
IA: With your track record, how could I do anything else?
AD: ...
IA: Level with me, Al. I’m sick of the bullshit.
AD: I have rights! I don’t gotta say nuthin’.
Bruce Springsteen: Man, looks like you’re in some hot water this time, Al! That jazz with your restaurant reminds me of my song “I’m on Fire”.
IA: That’s a great song, Bruce.
AD: A great song.
IA: Well, legally I can’t hold you any longer, but I’m on your ass, Al.
AD: Why don’t you give it a kiss then, and tell your motha I said hi.
IA: Bye Al.
A demon flies down, snatches IA, and carries him off to be tortured for eternity. IA screams in terror and agony and anguish.
AD: Whudda day I’m havin’!
— R. Shivakumar
PASTA ALLA PEOPLE
INNOVATIONS IN GAMBLING
Bet on horses.
Bet on seahorses.
Bet on all the horses so you’re guaranteed to win something.
If you like betting on horses, you might as well just burn your money and smoke it like some kush for more enjoyment.
If you run out of chips, you can buy-in with a bag of plain Ruffles, the only chip in Hell.
If you like roulette, you might as well just burn your money and smoke it like some kush for more enjoyment.
ON CARD GAMES:
You can hide your cards better with a vat of melted cheese.
If you possess a subpar poker face, it’s better just to tell everyone your cards. Nobody would think you’re that fucking stupid. But you are.
The concept of entropy can help you greatly with card games.
ON BETS:
You don’t just have to bet money! You can bet on horses, spaghetti, sauerkraut, spicykraut, or sweetkraut.
If you like Russian Roulette, feel free to bet a couple of dollars on top of already existing bets. You have nothing more to lose.
You can bet God, but if you do lose, you may end up face-to-face with an angry Italian chef.
If you like slots, you might as well just burn your money and smoke it like some kush for more enjoyment.
A. Coelho
B. Falkoff
WRATH
TRANSCRIPT: NEWARK LIBERTY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT TRANSCRIPT
American 666: Newark Clearance, American 666.
Newark Clearance: American 666, standby.
Newark Clearance: Epstein 123, Newark Clearance is ready with your clearance.
Epstein 123: Newark Clearance, copy.
Newark Clearance: Epstein 123, you are cleared to the Little Saint James Airport via the GTFO1 departure, climb via SID, departure frequency 133.7, squawk 7500.
Epstein 123: Cleared to the Little Saint James Airport, GTFO1, departure 133.7, squawk 7500.
Newark Clearance: Epstein 123, readback correct, contact ground on 121.8 when ready for pushback.
American 666: Newark Clearance, American 666.
Newark Clearance: American 666, standby.
Newark Clearance: Spirit 101, Newark Clearance is ready with your clearance.
Spirit 101: Newark Clearance, copy.
Newark Clearance: Spirit 101, you are cleared to the Miami International Airport via the HELPME4 departure, descend via hell, departure frequency 133.7, squawk 7700.
Spirit 101: *screaming audible over frequency*
Newark Clearance: Spirit 101, please do not use the channel for irrelevant transmissions.
Advancing from the shining shores of gore, Our heroes come across the filthy core Of Hell — the city Newark — and within The people dwell in dreadful, stinking sin. A demon spots them walking to the gate And plans to end their journey with due hate. But before he can stops their passage through the town,
The New York Giants push him to the ground. Our heroes sent by God refused to die! To EWR, the ‘port where planes don’t fly!
— T. Harris
American 666: Newark Clearance, American 666. Newark Clearance: American 666, shut the fuck up.
— E. Song
THE NEW YORK GIANTS’ COVENANT WITH GOD
Being those borne for Al Dente in his quest for our Lord; Shall counter all divine threats by heart or by sword. Signor Dente himself, New York City he may spurn; But ‘twas indeed the Giants our great Father did discern. The field of our purpose lies not in MetLife but heaven; To deliver unto Jersey this nigh essential lesson. Our focus led us to a record of four and thirteen; A curs’d result, yet our good Lord hath foreseen. Though our purpose transcends what Earth doth sent; We yet glimpsed spiritual peace: prevailing over the Jets.
E. Wonsowicz
TOMMY CUTLETS SAVES THE DAY
In the Fifth Layer, where the River Styx runs thick with lukewarm canola oil and every television is permanently tuned to a Giants’ fourth (or second) quarter collapse, Al Dente encounters a demon wearing eye black and a chain the size of an 18-24 inch neck chain. Tom-
my Cutlets, taking center stage at MetLife stadium once again, lounges atop a pile of broken folding chairs, offering the damned taste of fleeting optimism.
“We’re driving,” he whispers, extending a massive chicken cutlet sandwich like a sacrament. Home’s where Tommy retreats every night to a freshly made bed, folded laundry, and a loving mother with a dream, against all evidence, that next Sunday will be different. For three plays, the soul feels alive again, until a screen pass is devoured by a linebacker on the near side. Bruce Springsteen places a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Kid,” he says softly, “in Jersey, hope ain’t a virtue. It’s a penalty.” Tommy shrugs. “What can I tell ya? I keep it competitive.”
They say Tommy wound up here because the Giants keep losing. Not as punishment exactly, but as a clerical error no one in Heaven has gotten around to fixing. Saving Al Dente, Bruce explains, is part of Tommy’s penance. A chance to put together at least one drive that doesn’t end in disaster.
Tonight, Bruce says, Tommy is calling once last drive not for the scoreboard, but to punch a hole through the Styx and carry Al Dente across before the collapse inevitably comes. Tommy tightens his gloves and says this one’s for his mom, because if he can get Al Dente out of here - maybe, - just maybe - he gets to go home for Sunday dinner.
— G. Houghton
THE “W” IN “EWR” STANDS FOR WRATH
—
A. Stankunas
HELL FROM THE BOTTOM UP —
HERESY
THE LEGEND OF FRANK SINATRA
Years ago, before I was ever trapped in this sorry excuse for a church, I’ve heard tales of a certain man that made a visit here. Sinatra, they called him. Frank Sinatra. They said he was a savoir, but we all know that’s not true. Maybe for some people, but what about us Italian-Americans who weren’t Italian enough for him? That man brought nothing but trouble. I wasn’t dead yet when he came to visit, but Mr. Joseph Smith over there can tell you exactly what happened.
It was an otherwise normal day in hell – people insulting your mother, breaking spaghetti in half, cheering on the Red Sox, the usual – when a man with a god-honest voice of an angel descended from heaven in a halo of light. He was so holy, and let’s be honest, this place is not, that every note he sang broke windows and every step he took caused one board of the woodwork to spontaneously combust.
He said he was there to save the sinners, right, and take them back to heaven with him. Fly them to the moon, is what he said. But the moment anyone who didn’t speak with their hands or couldn’t tell the difference between linguine and fettuccine tried to enter his light? Forget it. We belonged in hell. Whenever anyone tried to argue (which is very Ital -
On the only plane to ever leave the ‘port, Our heroes go to where the ideal sport, Croquet, is played in fields green and holey. Do not be fooled! This layer is not holy! (If you happen to be Catholic.)
Though a church arises from the hellish earth, A group of WASPs is singing there in mirth.
– T. Harris
ian, by the way!), he just said “fuck you, I’m doing this my way” and then launched himself back up to heaven with his chorus of angels. The place was a wreck for years after that, geesh.
Anyway, they say he’s gonna come back any day now just to cause more destruction and taunt us for not being able to play the mandolino. And I say? Let him come. We’ll be ready for him and kick his ass all the way back to Hoboken. Start spreading the news, boys, he’ll be leaving real soon.
– S. Lanz
SUBJECT: SINCEREST APOLOGY FOR HERESIES I HAVE COMMITTED
Dear Ma,
I didn’t think cheering for the Red Sox would end like this. I also didn’t think Hell would be as toasty as it is. It lowkey sucks ass here. The Devil said that if I said sorry for most of the stuff I did, I’d have to swim through the ball-biting snake river only five billion times instead of five billion and one times.
First of all, I’m sorry I said that you’re so stupid that I could lock you in a grocery store and you would still starve to death. I thought it was funny,
and, in my defense, you did think the buttons for the microwave controlled the temperature outside and for three years I was confused as to why the time to cook was always set to 84. That kinda fucked with me and my brother, Tony Luigi’s, head for a strong minute. Also, I didn’t mean it when I pointed at your belly and told you either we are getting a 6th brother or the potty is in for a wild ride. Pa also didn’t like that.
The Devil claimed that Jesus said “I’m here for a good time, not a long time” was bad, and that I should’ve known that phrases like “or something type shi” weren’t in the Bible. But on the lowkey, it wasn’t my fault though. Tony Luigi was giving me shit for getting a 2 on my SAT’s and I figured the Bible was big enough and had enough words in it that he wouldn’t know if I added six or seven more. But I digress, or as the Bible says, shove the poop back up my butt.
To rapid fire the rest, I’m sorry I used the crucifix as a ninja star to send an absolute piss rocket at Tony Luigi’s nose, I’m sorry I thought it would be funny to call the pope “the poop”, and I’m sorry I refused Ma’s cooking. I genuinely thought I was allergic to salt.
I need to go now, I believe it’s my turn to crawl on the pee coated poop floor. This brings me back to my frat hazing days.
Best, Timmy Luigi
– A. Caccam
VOWS FOR A MAFIA WEDDING (LUST PRELUDE)
My dear bridegroom,
I can’t believe we made it, especially because I have made several attempts on your father’s life. We are down here, so I was successful at least once! Just last night, he told me how much he respects me for being a woman in this male-dominated field. Being a mafiosa isn’t easy: my coat is too fluffy, and I forget I sewed my knife into the zipper handle. My sunglasses are big, and I sometimes forget that I hid my gun in the frame. My hair gets really poofy, and I forget that I hid my baseball bat in there. Two months ago, when I was combing through my hair in
case I left my other gun in there, I found a diamond ring instead. You can’t imagine how happy I was to learn it was from you!
You and I… I and you… We’re going to establish a laundromat that isn’t actually a laundromat. We’re going to lie to the Hell IRS. (It’s just like the normal IRS). We’re going to fill our pockets with money we printed all by ourselves. There have been people who’d do anything to tear us apart. FBI jackets and arrest warrants could never get between us. They’re gone now. All that’s left is our love and the uncountably many other people down here with equally violent and selfish intentions who want nothing more than to take whatever we may claim as our own.
My nonna up in lust asked me the other day, “Why do you still love that boy?” Why does a girl love her first machete? We can whack our enemies into the sunset… forever.
– B. Soti
POINT: CUTTING SPAGHETTI IS THE SAFEST OPTION
Reduces infection by ensuring all pasta is submerged in the water.
Reduces the risk of Spaghetti Transmitted Diseases (STDs).
Reduces the risk of stomach ulcers, aka stomach ouchies.
Improves hygiene by allowing the sauce to touch all the pasta without thorough scrubbing. Religiously, is imperative for Pastafarians.
COUNTERPOINT: SPAGHETTI CUTTING IS MUTILATION
Low necessity — the chances for Spaghetti Transmitted Diseases are already low.
Most spaghetti-related conditions are treatable without requiring sauce.
Risk of complication including bleeding, breaking the spaghetti, and dropping on the floor.
Reduces sensitivity and oral pleasure by removing spaghetti endings.
Longer is always better.
– B. Falkoff
VIOLENCE
MAFIA WAR
No one wins in war. At least that’s what my motha used to say. When you’re in this business as long as I am, you learn to not make any decision lightly. So it does weigh on my heart to ruin a young girl’s wedding, but they’re a buncha no good Camden Neopolitanos looking to spill some fine Bloomfield Siciliano blood. So that’s my wedding gift, twenty-two millimeters of lead.
It ain’t really my fault when you put it in perspective. Those sick fucks had a car of some of my best boys ran off the GW. So I planned the perfect hit, my undacover man has been sabotaging their security for months. All we gotta do is make our way in while they’re distracted by the cake and the wine and mow the suckas down.
There’s only one loose end that I just can’t quite crack. I heard that no-nuthin wannabe big-time small-time restaurateur Al Dente has been wandering around makin a mess of some easy hits. I can’t let him get in the way this time, no way, no way. But in war, you gotta keep one eye in the sky and the other on the ground, you never know whose is on your side and who’s a threat. Al Dente, man, stay far, far away.
—R. Shivakumar
Once Bruce and our hero left that dreadful church, They found the wedding of a stunning bride, Where two cruel mafia families would merge.
For true love’s sake, they have put their feud aside, But one rude remark, and all their guns are drawn. By this glad day’s end, how many will have died?
—S. Lanz
HELL LASAGNA
Mafia Bride Beginning to Suspect Fiance’s Interest Stems Entirely From Godfather Trilogy
BY ANNA PARKER STAFF REPORTER
Carmela Nunzia Immacolata Salvatore, daughter of Don Salvatore Salvatore of the Salvatore Mafia family and brideto-be of private equity associate Kevin Smith, has begun to suspect that her fiancé’s interest stems entirely from his repeated and impassioned viewings of the Godfather trilogy.
Speaking to a group of reporters as her wedding guests filed into Our Lady of Eternal Suffering, she paced around the dressing room with visible anxiety.“I don’t know what I’m
so worried about,” she said for the fifteenth time.
Her bridesmaids glanced at each other through their big square sunglasses.
“Kevin’s great,” she continued. “I love Kevin. It’s just that sometimes… I wonder… If he really likes me for me. You know? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy.”
Her bridesmaids shrugged their shoulders beneath their gigantic fur coats.
“Initially, I was kind of worried because all of his exes are from Mafia families, and I
felt like maybe organized crime was a… thing for him, you know? Like maybe all he saw in me was my father’s large-scale cruelty and chicanery.”
Her bridesmaids pursed their painted lips.
“But then he proposed — I don’t think he would propose if he didn’t love me. He got down on one knee, and he took out a ring, and he said, ‘I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’ Which was, like, kind of pushy and weird, but okay. It didn’t occur to me that he would lift his proposal from a
Francis Ford Coppola movie until he explained the reference. At length.”
Just then, a shadow flitted cinematically across the wedge of light left by the open door.
“That’s my dad,” Ms. Salvatore explained. “He doesn’t like Kevin much, because the first time Kevin went into my dad’s study, he made this big deal about him not stroking a cat when he turned around in his big swivel chair. It’s like, hello, can’t a Mafia boss be more of a dog person? Anyway, the next morning, my dad woke up to a
FRAUD
bloody cat head in his bed. Kevin was so proud of himself for embracing our culture. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was kind of coming across as kind of a psychopath. But I guess we are in Hell for a reason.”
At press time, Smith had fled to Hell Sicily and impulsively married a beautiful local girl in the hopes that she would blow up in a car bombing within a week and he could return to his Carmela a harder and wiser man.
Once Al escaped, and the wedding was long gone, They hopped onto the New Jersey Transit rail Renowned as the home of artifice and con.
None pays their fare, all have snake oil for sale, And a certain former Governor Christie Spins a bridge-gate into a scandalous tale.
—S. Lanz
We here at the Yale Record are frauds. We forgot to write anything for this section.
TREACHERY
CHEF BOYARDEE’S TOP 3 VICTIMS BY TASTE
Number 3: Rudy Giuliani
Has the texture of boiled chicken, with no discernable flavor. Not even my a’special Ragu could salvage a fettuccine made with him, although a bit of honey mustard somewhat remedied the taste.
Number 2: Mussolini
Has been in Hell for a while, and has aged like a wheel of parmigiano reggiano. As in death, he was roasted while hung upside down over the fires of Hell and stoned from below by minor demons. He gained a smoky aftertaste and a softness that would pair well with a ten-dollar Costco Cab. A natural aphrodisiac, Mussolini is perfect for a Valentine’s Day dinner.
Number 1: The Guy Who Invented Hawaiian Pizza
By far the most developed in terms of flavor palette. The Guy Who Invented Hawaiian Pizza begins as a flakey, buttery outer skin, akin to the crust of a proper shepherd’s pie. Then, the sweet, slightly acidic taste of pineapple floats over your tongue like the souls of the damned in the canola oil river. The Guy Who Invented Hawaiian Pizza is incredibly versatile, and would pair well with a Sauvignon blanc or the blood of sinners.
—G. Xu
The train drops them off in a place quite chilly Al’s own restaurant with the AC on blast Out steps his father; Al confronts his history
Here Al will face against the devil at last Chef Boyardee himself, devouring the damned Al must escape hell, and get out of there fast!
—S. Lanz
PIZZA TOPPINGS THAT WILL GET YOU SENT TO HELL
Ketchup
Drain cleaner
Northern Italian tomatoes
Your mother’s ashes
Escargot and brie
Monkey’s paw, head, foot, penis, etc.
Whole, live lobster
Asbestos
The concept of entropy Blockchain
LG 8.6-cu ft. Counter-Depth 22-in Wide TopFreezer Refrigerator (White) ENERGY STAR CERTIFIED
Kidney stones, kidney rocks, or kid rock
Teeth
RAP BATTLE BETWEEN SATAN AND AL DENTE
SATAN:
Good to meet you, Al Dente
It’s Boy-ar-dee, bro. So don’t get bored-of-me, ho!
A chef who can’t cook pasta?
No woman’s got you on their roster!
You had to come all the way to hell
To learn how to cook a Conchiglie shell
But look around, we’ve frozen your kitchen
Maybe now you’ll stop your Bitchin’
I’ve been on the stove, Yeah, I’ve been eating Come battle me? You’re in for a beatin’ Because after my rhymes, you’re going to be retreating
So we can sit around and wait For your inexorable capitulation
But frankly, I’ve gotta go
Because my balls are too full to be conversating
AL DENTE:
You think you’re so tough?
You probably are!
You know what I do to people who are stronger than me? Nothing! They’re stronger than me!
Look at you, uggo
You’ve got Mussolini in your mouth, I’ve got linguini in my mouth
I can take more shots than Mussolini on Lake Como And I’m more hung than Mussolini in the Piazzale Loreto
Through this journey, I’ve learned that cooking is more Than paying the bills or doing a chore
It’s about love, motherfucker
It’s about putting tomatoes in your lasagne and not kiwi, motherfucker
What you need, is love in your heart and cheese in your pasta Did you know there’s supposed to be cheese in your pasta? I’m going back to the motherland, I’ve found the light I don’t care what you want, I’ve finished this fight.
SATAN:
Man, I hate you and your lasagne
I’m about to put a wicked rhyme upon ya. I smell good…
Is that ‘yo girlfriend’s cologne?
You think you learned how to cook? Man, you could have read this in a book. What you need is to love your art Dente, that’s the missing part
You think you’ve been clever?
Now, you’re going to stay here forever Left or Right, it doesn’t matter it’s gone South. Now shut up, and get in my mouth.
Wait, what’s this? How are you getting out? No one escapes my cage, after they’ve lost this bout! Noooooooooooooooooooooo! You’ve grown too strong You know what? Whatever; go back to where you belong!
—B. Soti and M. Sprintson
PROSE: WHY NORTHERN ITALIAN TOMATOES ARE BETTER THAN SOUTHERN ITALIAN ONES
Wazzup. It’s-a me, Mr. Al Dente Sr. You’re probably wondering why I’m in the bottom-a layer of Hell, which is for da woist of the woist. I wouldn’t considah myself dat a-bad, but apparently, I betrayed my country or summtin’ by shiftin’ from Sicilian tomatahs to Northern Italian tomatahs.
Yah see, frankly, they a-just a lotta cheaper-a, aye? But that was enough to send me to this hellish rendition of my son’s bastardization of my humble Italian food cart, which he burned down for insurance fraud. A-godda-dammit.
So anyway, I was just-a chillin there in Hell, freezin’-a my ass-a off, when my stupid-a fuckin son walks by with non otha than BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN. It’s so cold in this goddama restaurant that my mustache was nearly-a frozen off, but even still, I managed to call-a outt-a his name.
“My boy, my boy! Bruce!” I said. He didn’t even toin my way. In fact, he stepped on my face-a, and my nose fell oiff! Gabagool — I mean, goddamnit. I hope he ends up in this godforsaken-a place someday.
—T. Harris
AL DENTE’S DIARY
Dear Diary,
What a day! I just had the craziest journey through all the layers of hell with — get this — BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN! What the Hell even was that? But you know, I think I learned a lot on our travels, no matter how harrowing they were. And honestly? The first eight levels of hell were not that bad. Met some cool guys, learned some new recipes, saw my Nonna. But the ninth layer? Mama mia, that was a doozie.
So I show up to this layer of Hell, and it’s my
own damn restaurant! That should be heaven! And to make matters worse, my Pops was there. Like good grief, I didn’t wanna see that man when he was alive. Why would I wanna see him when he’s dead? But that turned out to be the least of my worries, ‘cause as my good friend the Boss pointed out, Satan himself wanted to see me. Big fella, this guy, went by the name of Chef Boyardee. Kept on eating these guys, one after the other: Rudy Giuliani, Benito Mussolini, and the guy who first put pineapple on pizza. You know the type.
Anyway, this Boyardee guy tried to pick a fight with me, but I didn’t have the time for that. I had a restaurant to run. So the Boss and I made a break for it, escaped by climbing up the bodacious curves of Boyardee’s backside. We kept climbing and climbing, and — you’ll never guess — we ended up back on the surface! Not only that, but I finally, for the first time in my life, got to see my motherland. Ah, Italy, it’s so good to finally be home. Santorini is such a beautiful city, probably my favorite in Italy. Perfect spot to reconnect with my roots.
You know, through all of this, I think I learned the most important lesson is that cooking is about family. It doesn’t matter if I use salt or not, or if my meatballs are cooked all the way, or Hell, even if I cook the damn pasta. As long as I add love, that’s good enough for me. ‘Cause you know, it’s love that moves the sun and all the other stars. Which I get to see. Now that I’ve escaped Hell.
Smell ya later, Al
S. Lanz
(UN)SANCTIONED WAYS TO GET OUT OF HELL
Tie two demons together by their tails
Unionize
Create a distraction
All jump at the same time Deafen the devil with the screams of the damned Deafen the devil with an airhorn
Finally get the boulder over Wake up wake up wake up
NORTHERN ITALIAN TOMATAHS
LOVE LETTER TO LUCIA BELLA DONNA DELLA STRACCIATELLA
To My Lucia Bella Donna Della Stracciatella,
I humbly beseech you, my heavenly angel, to entreat my prayers. Although I am no more than a visitor at the club where you dance like a beautiful bird, I feel that I have known you for so much more. The possibility of your benedictions has outlasted me through a mafioso wedding, a particularly unholy airport wine-tasting, and even the destruction of my own restaurant in Hell. I have revived over and over the memory of your obnoxiously strong body mist, your family’s signature creamy gelato lingering in my mouth, just to keep myself company when Bruce Springsteen was silent, and the New York Giants were not there to save me.
E. Wonsowicz
My Lucia, we could build empires! I would lay all of Switzerland to waste at your feet, or eat pineapple on pizza — if only it pleased you, if only you would throw it back in the way you always do. Blessed lady, I have survived the trials of hell to win your hand. Sweet drag queen, I have seen the moon and the stars, yet you, my sun, have always been with
G. Buchta
me even in lightless depths. I shall be faint again if only I could gain your gaze.
Divine kindness hath led me to my Papà’s native lands of Santorini, Italy, perhaps to make right his sins. I’m asking you — let us join in a union and in a food establishment, and make ours the most delicious restaurant in existence! A spaghetti ice cream parlor!
Devotedly, Al Dente
THE RECORD ASKS: WHAT IS HELL TO YOU?
Terence misquotes, “Hell is Sartre - Other People.” Adam neighs, “Hell is where all horses eventually end up.”
Abram complains, “When I’m in the middle of a good YouTube video with super yummy food — chicken wings! — but then my mom walks in to talk because she misses me or whatever.”
Elizabeth agonizes, “Having to sit through a lecture that’s going over because the professor didn’t plan their time correctly.”
Graham grumbles, “No Taco Bell.”
Rohan rumbles, “No beer.”
Adam pipes up again, even though no one asked him to, “Hell is where the heart is.”
—Staff
THE FINAL POEM
At last from home — or hell? — our hero’s free To serve his food in Santorini, Italy, Far from Jersey follies did he flee.
Now that through hell’s trials he’s traversed, He finds himself in pastures all the greener; Across the land, foul pasta he’ll disperse.
So now, dear reader, you and I’ll depart; I’ll head back to touring on the road. Baby, I was born to run the chart. That being the Billboard Top 100. It was me Bruce Springsteen the whole time.
