The Classy Issue

Vol. 141, No. 6

TH E YALE

Jan. 30, 2013

RECORD

The Secret’s Out:

JOIN SKULL & BONES! Are you a Yale student who wants to belong to something special? Would you like to gain superior social status only eleven other people will ever acknowledge? Would you like the chance to “accidentally” reveal that status to your family, closest friends, other friends, one-night stands, and potential employers? Do you think you’re just as good as—maybe, God forbid, even better than—George Bush? If you answered “yes” or “maybe” to any of these questions, you should join Skull & Bones!

As a member of Skull and Bones, you can…

Make valuable connections with the soonto-be most successful people on the planet through the enhanced social paradigm of a secret society!

Gain access to other secrets that only a handful of world leaders know, like the secret Skull & Bones handshake, or the spiced flan recipe of Calvin Jameson, CC ’73.

Learn the extraordinary, distinguished, life stories of other members of Skull & Bones, which they most definitely do not talk about on a daily basis.

…and much, much more!

So if you think you can keep a secret but probably won’t, come to our informational meeting at Skull & Bones’ secret meeting building (located at 64 High Street) at 3 PM on February 22nd. Refreshments will be served—but only members of Skull & Bones will know what they are before the meeting! Neener neener!

If you’re interested in joining, but can’t come to the meeting, e-mail one of our members at one of the following ambiguous e-mail addresses: lincoln.sedlacek@yale.edu, michelle.taylor@yale.edu, jack.newsham@yale.edu, sydney.shea@yale.edu, mitchell.nobel@yale.edu, zach.schloss@yale.edu, aaron.gertler@yale.edu, emily.sandford@yale.edu, daniel.fraser@yale.edu, ilana.strauss@yale.edu, natey.weinstein@yale.edu.

TELL NO ONE. (But invite your friends!)

Written by L. Sedlacek

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ININTHE THEHEART HEARTOFOFYALE; YALE;NOW NOWDELIVERING DELIVERINGININTHE THECHAPEL CHAPELAREA! AREA! Dear man making my burrito, Guacamole? Not on my watch!

—Someone who wants the guacamole in his burrito, not on his watch Dear Jake and Suzy, Oh, great, you’re finally here! Hey, wanna hear a joke? Okay, so an EP&E major and a WGSS major walk into a bar. Everyone else leaves.

Bye, Jean

BRITISH WOMAN LOSES TEN POUNDS IN ONE DAY, FINDS IT IN HER WASHING MACHINE Dear guy who just got the last roll of toilet paper in Welch, Well, I’m glad one of us is excited about this.

—The last roll of toilet paper in Welch

Dear Little Engine That Could, Sometimes thinking isn’t enough.

Fuck you and your little hill.

Disdainfully, Sisyphus

CAROLERS STILL IN FRONT OF LOCAL HOME SINGING “WE WON’T GO UNTIL WE GET SOME”

HORSES VOTE NAY ON APPROPRIATIONS BILL

Dear Harkness Tower, How come everyone makes all the penis jokes about you? I’m way bigger than you are, and I’m just as phallic. Is it because I’m all the way up Sci-Hi, out of sight of the average Yale student?

Disappointedly, Killer Boner Tower

Dear American Red Cross, It has come to my attention that you teach the Heimlich maneuver in all your life-saving courses. Well, in my opinion, it is just as important to teach the Dan maneuver, another life-saving procedure.

To do the Dan maneuver, you pop, lock, and drop it, then moonwalk across the room. I can tell you from personal experience that it has saved the life of the party many times.

You’re welcome, Dan Phillips, BK ’15

Dear literary critics, How come Shakespeare is so praised for stuffing words he made up into his writing, but when I sarjurjur rubzit you don’t even coltfly tambo?

Borgsatch, Toby

SLOW NEWS DAY

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T he Y ale R ecord Dear Dumbledore, You know that nice little time-turner you gave Hermione so she could make it to Herbology AND Transfiguration?

Yeah, what about using that to make us, like, not dead? Just a thought.

Sincerely, All victims of Lord Voldemort Dear passengers, Welcome to Philadelphia, PA. We’ve just landed and are almost ready for you to start exiting the plane. In the interest of making the exiting process as quick and easy as possible, we would like to start with any passengers who have large, unwieldy pieces of overhead luggage to unload—specifically, the slow-moving, slightly-obese 89-year-old man in the front row. Thank you for traveling with North American Air. —Your stewardess, Patricia Dear George Lucas, It’s a bummer you sold LucasFilms to Disney. You should be the one to write and direct the next three films.

Sincerely, No one ever

RETAIL STORES PREPARE TO PUT UP POST-VALENTINE’S DAY CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS Dear gays, We’ll make you a deal. We’ll give you guys marriage if you promise to stop making more seasons of Glee. Deal?

—The Christian Right

Wanted: Sex.

Dear Christian Right, So, what, just because we’re gay you think we control the production of Glee?

Fuck you guys—we just control Dancing with the Stars and Ace of Cakes. Glee turned us down.

—The gays

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T he C la ssy I ssue The Yale Record

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W

hen people ask me to describe The Yale Record, “classy” isn’t the first word that comes to mind.

“Hilarious”? Yes. “Honest”? Debatably.

“Murdery”? I wouldn’t say we are, although if someone’s willing to help me move a large, heavy trash bag after our staff meeting this Monday without asking too many questions, that person will automatically make staff.

But classy? Well, that’s hard to say.

On one hand, the Record has been known to publish some very classy humor in its time. Many of our writers and cartoonists have gone on to work at such esteemed publications as The New Yorker and Esquire.

Many of our pieces in last year’s Electoral Issue were both amusing and a cutting commentary on the current state of American politics. And in 2005, USA Today called The Yale Record “the classiest magazine in America to date.”

On the other hand, many of our writers and cartoonists have also gone on to star on America’s Most Wanted. The Electoral Issue also included non-political, PETA-lawsuit-inducing pieces like the inside-cover feature “Pictures of Dogs We’ve Put Down This Year.”

And USA Today later went on to correct their former typo and declare The Yale Record to be “the crassest magazine in America to date,” a statement which I totally disagree with 100%, although I was too busy watching Jack on

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America’s Most Wanted to write a response article.

If the magazine itself is a mixed bag, class-wise, the staff is even more so. Michelle’s a huge fan of Eliot, but she’s also been pushing for the Record to write the Poop & Weed Issue for a solid year now. Daniel wears a full tuxedo to every meeting, but the pants of the tuxedo are tear-away, for reasons he’s never fully explained.

And Ilana sometimes uses words like “avant-garde” and “anilingus,” which sound awfully sophisticated to me, but she also commonly sneaks into the office before E-Board meetings to hide whoopee cushions under everyone’s seats.

The fact of the matter is, it’s impossible for a great humor magazine to be really, truly, 100% “classy.”

Yes, it can avoid crude language and bodily humor whenever possible, and yes, it can stop trying to sneak Editor-in-Chief Lincoln Sedlacek’s phone number into every issue in a pathetic attempt to relieve his endless romantic deprivation. But a magazine that’s always completely proper—and never the least bit offensive— will give you that satisfactory little chuckle, but never the explosive cackle that comes from reading a piece called, “Why Is Morale So Low at My Baby Coffin Factory?”

Classiness may be a requisite for highbrow humor, but the punchiest jokes often come from standing upon that

Chairman: Michelle Taylor ’13

pedestal of sophistication and diving, head-first, into an endless sea of boobies and butts.

That is what this—the Classy Issue of The Yale Record—is all about. If, after reading it, you decide that you’d like to be a part of the magnificent tradition that is The Yale Record, e-mail chairman@yalerecord.edu.

Or come to one of our staff meetings, which take place Mondays at 9 PM in LC 208. Or, if you can’t come to meetings but still want to read the magazine, e-mail recordsubscribe@gmail.com to receive notifications when issues are distributed to dining halls, along with a link to the online version of each issue! If you have trouble opening the link, call me at 618-292-1384. I sometimes make intimate, candlelit appointments for tech support on Saturday nights at Sushi Mizu.

But for now, settle back between the wings of your favorite chintz armchair, ask your butler to bring you a bottle of your finest Zinfandel, turn up the soft glow of your LED chandelier, and enjoy the Classy Issue.

It’s fucking awesome.

—L. Sedlacek The Yale Record February 2013

Editor-in-Chief: Lincoln Sedlacek ’13

Publisher: Jack Newsham ’14

Design Editor: Sydney Shea ’14 Managing Editors: Aaron Gertler ’15, Mitchell Nobel ’13, Zachary Schloss ’15 Art Director & Publicity Manager: Ilana Strauss ’13

Video Director: Natey Weinstein ’14

Online Editor & Supplementals Editor: Emily Sandford ’14

Staff Director: Daniel Fraser II ’14

Staff Writers, Artists, & Designers: Allie Beizer ’15, Ethan Campbell-Taylor ’16, Ben Garfinkel ’16, Nicholas Goel ’16, Ian Gonzalez ’16, Victoria Kim ’15, Spencer Katz ’13, Becky Marvin ’16, Travis Reginal ’16, Claudia Shin ’16, Scott Stern ’15, Autumn Von Plinsky ’13, Sylvia Zhang ’15, Claire Zhang ’15 Old Owls: David Kemper ’13, Jerry Wang ’13

Senior Editors: Alli Hugi ’13

Contributing Writers, Artists, & Designers: Karolina Ksiazek ’15

Special Thanks to: Michael Gerber, Gwyneth Tuckett, and doilies.

Cover: This month’s cover was illustrated by Ilana Strauss ’13, who’s bringing back the pompadour.

Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXLI, No. 6, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.com/magazine • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2012 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.

HOW TO APPRECIATE THE FINER THINGS The first step to appreciating the finer things is, without a doubt, the soft ‘c.’ As in ‘appreciate.’ Say it with me now. Ah-PREE-see-ate. Ah. Yes. Ah-PREEEEEEsssssee-ate. Ah-ah-ah-preee—ohhhh, YES!!! Like that. Savor the ‘c’ on your palette, pupils: appreciate.

Let it diffuse through the air, enhancing the room like the fine natural musk of a ripe pygmy daschund in heat.

Appreciate.

The second step to appreciating the finer things is posture. The best posture—which is absolutely requisite for appreciating the finest things—is supine, splayed on your back, with the fine thing dangling in the space between one’s nostrils and one’s quivering upper lip. One’s eyes, of course, must be shut. Peeping is permissible but only if belabored and accompanied by a slight, desirous straining noise from deep within the gut. Like so: unnghhhhhghhhghh. Very good.

It is also permissible, whilst in the supine position, to extend one’s tongue in the direction of the finer thing, that one may gingerly acquire a gustatory appreciation of said finer thing via the act of licking. But one must be very careful when licking finer things: it is a dainty maneuver to be performed only with the most hesitant and intricate lingual choreography. We should not wish to lick our

things like courtesans, or, worse, the bourgeoisie. Those who work for a living or—it pains me to think of it— care for their own children simply are not capable of appreciation, pupils—as I’m sure you all know.

The last step to appreciating finer things—and the step most difficult for a novice appreciateur—is to ignore those finer things. One may ignore a finer thing in several ways. One could stare angrily at a white wall with one’s back to the thing, willing the finer thing resentfully out of existence, but knowing that, ultimately, one will never resist it; one might also reach with searching fingers for the finer thing, complaining that it is too miniscule to find; and one may also talk loudly in the general direction of the fine, fine thing, speaking only of concerns unrelated to the finer thing, even if you think it the finest of things, as if the f-f-f-f—the thing had never crossed one’s mind, or indeed ever existed at all. In fact, you must wish it had never existed! This appreciatory technique is especially effective if the finer thing happens to in fact overwhelm one with the sheer, unspeakable magnitude of its f-f-f-ffiiiinenessss. Yessssss.

Finally, pupils, I should like to remind you that it would be uncouth to smile, laugh, or experience any “joy” or “pleasure” in the presence of a finer thing.

Remember: happiness is for plebs.

— M. Taylor

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ETIQUETTE FOR YOUR CANNIBAL DINNER PARTY

Mo’ Money, Fewer Problems, It Turns Out Guess How Much We Paid for This Sample? Now Add a Zero New York and Chicago: Both Perfectly Fine Cities But Man, Fuck LA We Made This One in a Hovercraft!

Thanks to Our Powerful Radio Transmitters, This Track Will Be the First Thing Aliens Hear from Earth K.A.P.C. (Kidnapping All Potential Challengers) (feat.

Lil’ Wayne, Drake, A$AP Rocky, Wiz Khalifa, T. Pain) Commercial Break (feat. the refreshing taste of Absolut Vodka) Ménage a Trois (feat. Beyoncé) Jay-Z and Beyoncé Having Sex (feat. Kanye West with a video camera) Alphabet (feat. Adele, Beyoncé, Chris Brown, David Guetta, Eminem, Florence Welch, Gotye, Herbie Hancock, Imagine Dragons, Justin Bieber, Kelis, Lil’ Jon, Mozart, Nicki Minaj, Otis Redding, Pitbull, Q-tip, Rihanna, Snoop Dogg, Taylor Swift, Usher, Vivaldi, will.i.am, the XX, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Ziggy Marley)

1. When you arrive at the party, don’t peg yourself as one of “those people” who makes the same old, clichéd jokes that get made at every cannibal dinner party. Ones to avoid include, “So, who are we having for dinner?” or, “Well, Jake always did want an invitation to one of your get-togethers—I guess he can’t complain now.”

2. Traditionally, Bloody Marys are made using the blood of a woman named Mary, but it is considered impolite to comment if the name of the source was actually “Marie” or “Maria.” It is, however, completely acceptable to refuse a glass of someone with some trashy name like “Maryann.”

3. When pouring someone else a beverage, never jokingly say, “This is my blood, shed for your sins—take and drink.” You don’t want to offend any Christians in the room.

4. If dinner is served buffet-style and the person in front of you takes the last baby, don’t make a scene. This is a civil function; you’re gentlemen, not animals.

5. Your napkin goes in your lap.

6. Don’t try to start small talk with lines like, “It’s a shame your wife/husband couldn’t join us tonight,” before taking a good look at the entrée’s face.

7. Never lick the fingers; this could be taken as a negative statement about the quality of the meal the host has provided.

8. If, during after-dinner drinks, you begin planning a future get-together, remember that it’s bad form to suggest the ex of one of those present as next time’s entrée unless they’ve been separated for at least two weeks—three, if they were engaged. There’s no waiting period for divorcees, though.

9. If you experience symptoms of an STI the week after the dinner party, it is considered good form not to contact everyone who was at the dinner, but rather to contact the host and let him or her contact the guests him- or herself.

10. Sometime during the meal, make sure to get the name of the guest of honor so that you can remember not to ask your friends about him/her anymore.

— A. Gertler

— L. Sedlacek

—V. Kim

TRACKS LEFT OFF OF WATCH THE THRONE

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HOW TO SNEAK INTO A GALA 1. Dress the part. For gentlemen, this means a top hat, tails (the bit that sticks out the back of your jacket, for those new to gala-crashing), a solid gold pocket watch, and a wad of bills conspicuously stuffed in your coat pocket (Franklin on top, lots of Washington underneath).

Tap shoes are optional, but encouraged. Ladies should wear a mink stole over a floor-length evening gown with a diamond surface density of approximately four carats per square inch. This is known as the Windsor Density, and it provides enough glitter to mark you as a galaworthy guest, while remaining light enough that you can physically carry your dress.

2. Prepare a fake identity. Odds are, your actual name is not fancy enough for you to avoid suspicion at the door. If you worry that you will not remember the new name, try spicing up your current one—James Stevens, for example, could become Sir Dr. James van Stevensford IV, MBE, Ph.D. If anyone questions this identity, threaten to have them “sacked” or “ruined.”

3. Study gala rules and customs. It is customary to quiz gala attendees about the minutiae of etiquette to weed out potential gala-crashers. You are already ahead of the game here by knowing about the Windsor Density.

4. Practice facial expressions in the mirror.

In order of importance: Haughty Disdain, Smug SelfCongratulation, and General Snootiness. Honorable mentions go to Judgmental Once-Over and Casual Superiority. Winking is a must if you hope to be life of the party. But be careful! At no time during the evening must you appear Impressed, Shocked, or otherwise Interested in Your Surroundings.

5. Learn to lose money with a smile. If anyone sees you express regret at a loss of less than $5 million, they will know that you do not belong at the gala. The learning process might involve: betting on horses, greyhounds, or cockfighting; blindfold no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em blindfolded; and tossing paper airplanes folded from increasingly hefty sums of paper money over Niagara Falls. The latter is a tradition amongst wealthy families of New England and will give you something to discuss with other guests.

— E. Sandford

The company’s biggest problem was that nobody had lived in the coastal city of Jameson since the tsunami had hit it the previous year.

−L. Sedlacek

RELATIONSHIP STATUSES I WOULD LIKE AS FACEBOOK OPTIONS Single, but I get around In a hostile domestic situation with In a hostile, foreign, and militarized situation with Single, but probably sleeping with your boyfriend Sexually and emotionally unfulfilled by In a relationship, but just for the sex with In a relationship, but just for the money of Single as Fuck Loves him, but wishes there was a bigger penis on In a relationship, but just to fulfill my psychopathic need for a relationship SO FUCKING SINGLE Single BECAUSE JAMES FRANCO IS AN ASSHOLE AND LINCOLN SEDLACEK IS A CHEATING ASSHOLE Wouldn’t you like to know?

For the love of God, fuck me, I’m single But seriously folks, the author of this piece is single ­—M. Taylor

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THE TALES OF LIONEL PETTIBANKS WITHERBOTTOM Folklore is filled with well-loved protagonists, from Anansi the Spider to Brer Rabbit. The most sophisticated among us follow the adventures of one Lionel Pettibanks Witherbottom.

The Origins of the Monocle Lionel Pettibanks Witherbottom found himself at another cotillion, socializing with a slew of pretentious young drips. “Pish posh,” he heard one of his peers say. “How droll.”

Lionel rolled his eyes. These fuckers were always saying “droll.”

“This dance is busted,” Lionel muttered to himself. It was too hot in the banquet hall to be wearing tails, the ladies were sevens at best, and whatever he was drinking was not of a high enough proof to compensate for these egregious shortcomings.

A bead of sweat escaped from underneath Lionel’s top hat. It migrated down his forehead to the front of his glasses, shmearing the left lens. This was the last straw. He didn’t even need glasses! But spectacles were à la mode and he was thus obliged to wear them to these so-called highbrow events.

“Whatever,” he sneered, removing his glasses and snapping them in half. He put one of the lenses in front of his eyes. “Look guys, so droll, amirite?”

The other young men glanced at him quizzically. “Lionel, what is this hogwash?” asked Francis Twillingbanks, a particularly nebbishy, irksome fellow.

“She digs it,” said Lionel, giving a passing debutante a head nod and a wink. She blushed.

The Idea for Yachts The young gentlemen sat in the parlor with their cigars, comparing the merits of bourbon and scotch.

“The smoky blend of scotch possesses profound olfactory appeal,” explained Percy Peddlebright.

“But one cannot overlook the satisfactory malty undertones found in bourbon,” countered Regis Worthingcroft III. “You know what would be awesome,” interrupted Lionel. “If we all lived on a boat.”

“You mean like…a houseboat?” offered Percy. “I think Crazy Hawkins Magee lives by the docks.”

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“I actually heard he inhabits the abandoned lighthouse over by the lagoon,” corrected Francis Twillingbanks.

“No, guys,” said Lionel with a scoff. “Like, if we could each have a boat in addition to our mansions. A super-fly floating crib, with a pool and a servant staff and a pimpedout speaker system so we could all rage.”

A silence descended on the company. “Rage?” repeated Regis with a blank stare.

“Lionel, your cigar smells awfully funny,” commented Francis. “And your eyes are all red and bleary. Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Lionel from the middle of a cloud of smoke.

The Creation of “Whom” At Percy Peddlebright’s Boxing Day celebration, Lionel Pettibanks Witherbottom had consumed a tad too much of both bourbon and scotch and was currently crossing over from pleasantly to belligerently drunk.

“I love Boxing Day,” chimed Percy. “It is so rewarding to give the underlings our used boxes from our Christmas packages.” He gestured to the stack of discarded cardboard containers beside him.

“Oh, is that what we do on Boxing Day?” inquired Regis Worthingcroft III. “I was never quite sure.”

Percy looked down at his oxford loafers. “It is a tad unclear,” he admitted. “Does anyone know what we actually celebrate today?” Everyone looked away bashfully.

“I don’t give anybody gifts, any day,” slurred Lionel.

“Not to him. Not to you,” he said, gesticulating wildly at the others and spilling some of his drink in the process. “I don’t care who, hmm? I don’t care whoooommm. Whom.”

Lionel giggled to himself and hiccupped.

“Whom,” repeated Francis Twillingbanks thoughtfully.

“That has a nice ring to it.”

“IT’S MINE! I THOUGHT OF IT FIRST!” shouted Lionel. He threw the remaining contents of his glass in Francis’ well-meaning face and proceeded to vomit in the pile of boxes.

— A. Beizer

Interpretations of Modern Art Written by M. Nobel • Designed by S. Shea • Some photography by M. Taylor

Exhibit A: “In the Middle”

Exhibit B: “Tetris”

In Jack Han’s In the Middle, the artist has captured, with exquisite mastery, the tumultuous, lugubrious, ever-flowing nature of modern existence. The foreground correctly focuses on the application of awesome colorful swirls—which depict the bright, happy personas we all project in our daily lives, whether we’re at a cocktail party, flirting with our most attractive TA, in bed with our third-most-attractive TA, or writing guides to modern art. But behind the smiles lie darkness, and chaos, which represent our collective disappointment that we never made it in art school and now have to write for the Record until we get tenure, goddammit.

Here, the artist depicts social interaction at its most primal. We are nothing but an ill-formed and heterogeneous collection of squares, unstable and yet somehow enduring in misery, watching episodes of Say Yes to the Dress in our sweatpants and crying. The cruel universe sends not death, but instead more and more and more and more and more…shapes, which fail to match our needs, like that asshole Professor Robins, who thinks Renaissance art is so fucking important, even though it’s just a bunch of Christs.

Exhibit C: “Sunset” To the layman, this may seem to be a mere sunset, presented for its supposed “beauty” rather than as a profound and moving work of truly modern art. But it takes a true critic, his craft honed in a lonely office while everyone else was playing Foosball in the rec center, to see that this is in fact an abstract self-portrait of the artist. Indeed, the true “sunset” is the creation of this painting—a glorious flash (in the pan) before the artist is consigned to eternal solitude. And despair.

Art can be intimidating and confusing. For your edification, the Record has hired J. Edgerton Moseby, the cheapest critic on Craiglist, to guide you through the world of Modernism.

Exhibit D: “LOLcat”

Exhibit E: “McDonald’s”

Here, the artist cruelly mocks the human tendency for anthropomorphization, showing that, even if the cat’s thoughts could be read, they would flaunt our pitiful grammatical conventions. Thus, they are no more suitable as companions than our parents, who continue to insist art criticism isn’t a “real job” or say things like, “Ain’t no accountant ever lived in his mother’s basement when he was 32 years old, Jonah Moseby.” Also, this cat will be dead soon. Maybe even before me.

Exhibit F: “Stalker” Here we see the profound and devastating performance art of Sally Ryan, who illustrates the callousness of the modern world—nay, of life itself—by ignoring me for weeks, even though we had a very nice conversation once about how long the line at Starbucks was. By denying her obvious attraction to such a dapper assistant professor, Sally forces me to climb the tree outside her bedroom window in order to observe her careful performance. Some critics have even speculated that she may have begun to date that one guy with the stupid hair, although others have noted that, Jesus Christ, there’s no way that’s true; that guy’s a tool. She wouldn’t… He just walked in. With a bouquet.

Why, God? Why?

In time, so shall we all be cast down onto the earth, remembered only for the junk we left behind, or the permanent impression our fat ass began to leave in the sofa cushions after a year of having Mickey D’s for dinner six nights a week. The artist also evokes the many times in which each of us has woken up in a park, surrounded by refuse and hastily scribbled notes about composition and color balance, as well as the fact that we would not be waking up in such parks if we had the self-confidence to be able to go home with girls.

Schedule of Batman’s Butler, Alfred Written by Ian Gonzalez. Designed by Scott Stern 6:45 AM – I am awoken by the 60s Batman theme. Master Bruce still refuses to give me an alarm clock that uses any other tone. Making a note to ask him about it again today.

7:30 AM – I prepare breakfast for Master Bruce and take it in to him. He refuses to wake up, then demands I make him bat pancakes. I cut his pancakes into rough bat shapes and he is briefly placated. Perhaps today isn’t the best day to ask him about the alarm clock.

8:26 AM – I make my morning rounds of the Wayne estate. About halfway through, I hear the sound of splashing water. Master Bruce is urinating off the balcony of his bedroom again. I give him a stern look of disapproval, and he reminds me which one of us is the goddamn Batman.

10:04 AM – Master Bruce comes to me, panicked, saying he can’t find the remote clicker that opens the Batcave. I find it in the pocket of the cape he wore yesterday within minutes.

10:30 AM – I remind Master Bruce that he has an appointment with a client in half an hour. He responds, “I am the night. I do not hold appointments,” in his gravelly voice. He is still wearing a bathrobe. I cancel the appointment.

12:15 PM – Master Bruce does not respond to my call for lunch. I find him crying in the bathroom with a half-full bottle of whiskey at his side. He slurs something incoherent about his dead parents. I sigh and take the bottle away from him.

1:42 PM – The alcohol having taken hold, Master Bruce is now trying to shatter the 15th century Chinese vases in the main hall with Batarangs. He is far too drunk to actually hit them, so I withdraw from the situation.

2:58 PM – Master Bruce tells me he’s going out for a drive in the Batmobile. I fail to convince him that this is a terrible idea. Luckily, he’s lost the remote clicker to open the Batcave again.

3:20 PM – A reporter comes to the door asking for an interview with Mr. Wayne. I tell him he’s sick. The sound of Master Bruce singing, “NANANANANANANA…MEEE!” from behind me creates a brief moment of awkwardness before I shut the door.

4:17 PM – Master Bruce collapses in a heap on the floor. After refusing to allow me to take him back to bed, he allows me to bring some pillows and sheets to make a “blanket fort” on the floor and quickly falls asleep in it.

6:01 PM – Master Bruce awakens and asks for more Batcakes. I oblige him.

7:00 PM – As a conciliatory gesture, Master Bruce takes me out to dinner. On the way to the restaurant, I make a joke about how I need a pay raise. He just laughs. Bollocks.

7:28 PM – We’re in the fancy restaurant. The waiter regretfully informs us that they cannot serve steak in the shape of a bat, nor is bat-steak on the menu. Master Bruce seems to be enjoying himself nevertheless.

10:00 PM – Master Bruce goes out to fight crime, and I change all the locks on the liquor cabinets for the second time this month. It’s been a long day.

The New Yorker Caption Contest Written by A. Gertler • Illustrated by I. Strauss • Designed by N. Goel

Each week, the New Yorker provides a cartoon in need of a caption. You, the reader, may submit a caption and vote for your favorite. The following are the winning submissions for last month’s contests:

contest #1

3rd Place:

contest #2

“Why are you asking about my problems?

You’re the one who took all that expired LSD.”

3rd Place:

“Why are you asking about my problems?

You’re the one who took all that expired LSD.”

2nd Place: “ You, doctor! YOU are guilty of the murder of

2nd Place:

“I’m here to tell you about the Jesus Christ Church of Latter-Day Saints!”

1st Place:

1st Place:

“ You gonna ax me any more questions?”

Ivan Pavlov!”

“Woof! Woof!”

contest #3

3rd Place:

Herman realizes his invisibility potion, while it let him escape on a stolen lifeboat, will make attracting help more difficult.

2nd Place:

For some reason, the tree had been a little bit lonely ever since Gary Larson stopped producing original work.

1st Place:

“Why are you asking about my problems? You’re the one who took all that expired LSD.” Note: After much deliberation, the Editor actually decided to run not the first place caption, but the following: The New Yorker celebrates its 1000th “desert island” cartoon!

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−I. Strauss

PICK-UP LINES TO USE AT THE CLUBS IN NEWPORT

THINGS YOUR NANNY SAYS TO YOUR CHILDREN WHILE YOU’RE ON HOLIDAY

Why the bifocals, you ask? They let me try more... positions.

People tell me I remind them of a corset—touch the right button and everything comes off.

Wanna take a pull on my cigar?

My ball gown is so billowy, it feels like I’m wearing nothing at all.

My new Bentley vibrates when you turn it on.

My pinkie always rises when I hold your glass.

I’ve got a monocle somewhere else, too.

There’s always a seat for you at my grand piano.

Were you born into a peerage? Because you can enter my House of Lords anytime. Or at least your penis can.

Mommy isn’t the first “Mommy” who hung around the estate—just the first who turned out to be fertile.

These bedrooms are haunted by the ghosts of the slaves who built them.

Smokey the racehorse didn’t run away to join the circus; he failed to place one too many times and Daddy sold him for glue.

The worldwide socialist revolution is imminent.

Do you know what Daddy had me put in Grandpa’s food after he threatened to cut Daddy out of his will? Oh. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t say.

Mommy and the gardener weren’t “wrestling” the night you heard those grunting noises.

Batman, the coolest superhero ever, could only become Batman once somebody murdered his wealthy parents. Isn’t that interesting?

—I. Strauss WAYS TO BE MORE ECCENTRIC Wear two monocles instead of glasses Start offering people “friendship bracelets” woven from your own hair Read books upside-down because “it’s better for your eyes” Deliberately misquote Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, and Ke$ha in everyday speech Use only deodorant made from crushed mung beans Rather than music, fill your iPod with Tibetan throat chanting End all of your texts with, “Sincerely, X” Build a moat around your house filled with plastic balls Start using a chamber pot despite your access to a real bathroom —I. Gonzalez

— A. Gertler WHAT ARE RICH PEOPLE HIDING UNDER THEIR TOP HATS? Greasy toupees Lice Giant foreheads Smaller top hats Pet mice The real Osama Bin Laden The pet mice’s turds Things to throw at homeless people A bad hair cut The fact that they’re bald —B. Marvin

T he C la ssy I ssue

THE STALKING LOG OF WINSTON EVERETT PENNYDOLLAR IV September 19, 2:02 pm: I saw Ginevra again. I was at the club, polishing my clubs and inspecting my balls, when she strode right out in front of me. For a second, I thought she had seen me. But then she walked on. As usual, I followed.

September 20, 9:31 am: Ginevra steps out of her gleaming, chrome shower. The windows are all fogged up, of course, but my top-of-the-line hidden camera sees all. How beautiful she looks, in her cashmere robe and Prada slippers.

September 21, 1:15 pm: So she’s out to lunch again—with Wellington. How droll. And eating some beef wellington…Freud would have a field day with that one. It’s not like he can even take her to that nice a place.

I mean, the depth of their wine cellar does not make up for its poor vintages! The lighting is dim, but when Ginevra entered, the room just lit up. Strange that the other patrons didn’t even seem to notice.

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September 23, 10:14 pm: Well, that ought to teach him! I placed a call to the main house, informing him that his yacht had come unmoored. Yes, that’s right.

Oh, your chauffer was just unexpectedly called away?

How unfortunate. Run, plebe, run.

September 23, 10:17 pm: The plan has backfired.

Stranded, Wellington returned inside, where, I’m afraid, the evening is progressing. He has prioritized Ginevra over his boat…he must mean business. This is most unwanted. He must be stopped.

September 23, 10:25 pm: After eight minutes of brainstorming, I’m still out of ideas. Unless…no I shan’t.

September 23, 10:26 pm: Well, that could’ve gone better. Alas, I am not as good a shot as I once was.

Ah, those must be sirens. I am off! Where’s a chauffer when you need one?

September 26, 12:13 pm: Minerva looked so fetching at today’s funeral. Black is really her color. And now, with her best friend and “lover” murdered in some freak accident, surely she needs new companionship… beef wellington, my love?

—S. Stern

September 22, 3:07 pm: Tennis at the club. How I love watching her run and sweat.

September 23, 10:00 pm: She has settled in for a nice evening of sherry and Haydn. I can see her through the small window of her study. No camera needed this time. How I love her.

September 23, 10:08 pm: That harlot! Wellington has come over, and she kissed him so saucily in greeting.

What would her finishing school headmistress think?

Oh, I see the suitor has brought some red wine. What an ignoramus—how could he not know that Ginevra loves white?

September 23, 10:12 pm: She’s mine, you cur, she’s mine! Our love is like the smooth aftertaste of 1968 Zinfandel—not that your palette would appreciate it. All your palette can seem to focus on is the sweet taste of my Ginevra’s lips! You are acting like a dog, Wellington! You think no one can see, but I see all!

TIMES NOT TO SAY, “OH, HOW DROLL!” When listening to the daily specials at a restaurant In a DS paper After a murder After a eulogy As someone is confessing to a murder After being asked for your license and vehicle registration After blowing a .25 After being asked on a date During sex After an action movie one-liner In an empty room Any time or place except 19th century Britain —E. Campbell-Taylor

T he C la ssy I ssue

Dear children, Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb, Mary had a little lamb, and then she had lamb chops.

Sincerely, How the world actually works

TRAFFIC ACCIDENT LEAVES TWO DEAD, FOUR LATE TO “WRECK-IT RALPH” Dear Jessica, I know you’ve been feeling “not so special” lately, but I want to show you something. See those snowflakes falling outside? They might all look the same, but they all have their own unique shape, making every single one of them beautiful in their own special way. Of course, nobody ever really sees that or cares, and their differences never affect anything in any meaningful way. But their differences are still there…just at an unimportant level.

—Dad

FRESHMAN ENGLISH MAJOR MAKES REALLY DEEP OBSERVATION, EVERYONE ELSE SUPER IMPRESSED Dear Puxatawney Phil, I didn’t see my shadow either, but nobody made a big deal about it.

Sincerely, Hellen Keller Dear drug dealers, Do you have any love? Because love is the sweetest drug of all.

Sincerely, Someone who calls heroin “love”

LIQUOR AD INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM ACTION MOVIE Dear teaspoon, What kind of name is that? You’re not always used to drink tea! What a ridiculous misnomer.

—Tablespoon

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Dear Clara, What’s that? You think you’ll never recover from this illness? Well, not with that attitude! Not without it, either, though. It’s terminal and incurable.

—Dr. Mansfield

WALDEN PEER COUNSELING TURNS OUT TO JUST BE SKULL AND BONES Dear Microsoft Word, Yeah, you can go ahead and autocorrect “tihs” to “this.” And by all means, keep asking me every single fucking time. You know how I like to be reminded of my poor typing skills.

Sinceerly, Brdaley, ES ’16 Dear humanity, I can fight my own battles! Stop advocating for me.

—The Devil

ELDERLY PLUMBER IS GETTING TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT

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Fine Indian Cuisine “A Treat for the senses” —Hartford Courant “Amid elegance, a variety of Indian dishes” —New York Times Hours Lunch Monday - Saturday: 11:30 AM - 2:30 PM Sunday: 12:00 PM - 3:00 PM Dinner Sunday - Thursday: 5:00 PM - 10:00 PM Friday - Saturday: 5:00 PM - 10:30 PM

Every Day Lunch Buffet 148 York Street, New Haven, CT 06511 203-776-8644 www.zaroka.com

Lost: fun for the whole family. If found, please return to Yahtzee.

Lost: Psychiatric patient.

Answers to “Abe Lincoln.”

Dear Rihanna, If you were actually the only girl in the world, mankind would go extinct except for the babies you produced. Since that’s how you want me to make you feel, I scheduled your septuple in-vitro fertilization for Friday. Hope you make it to menopause okay!

Love, Literal Chris Brown Dear literary world, I think you may have missed the point: the book is about how dementia ruins lives.

—Cervantes

HULU CAN’T UNDERSTAND WHY SOMEONE WATCHING “THE NEW NORMAL” WOULD CARE WHAT AD EXPERIENCE THEY GOT Dear everyone, It’s Christmas time, and something something love! Something sleighbells, blah blah snow, and also underneath the tree! More lyrics containing children with positive emotions.

Happy holidays!

The one guy who writes the lyrics for every Christmas song ever

Zoi’s

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You: a conundrum there’s no way for us to fix this time!

Me: a convenient plot device.

Dear girl who sells seashells by the seashore, Have you ever considered moving your business inland? Seashells are much rarer there, and by the laws of supply and demand, you’d be sure to make a higher profit. And “She sells seashells at a kiosk in the local shopping mall” has a pretty nice ring to it, too.

Sincerely, Mark Walters, Consultant

OWNER’S SADISTIC CURIOUSITY KILLED THE CAT

Proud, American, Illiterate

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YALE SHOP

ON CAMPUS

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T he Y ale R ecord Dear class, Calc you later, alligators!

THE OLDEST

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Sincerely, Your math TA, who doesn’t have the best grasp of English idioms

EVOLUTION NOT THE ONLY LEGITIMATE VIEW, SAY TEA PARTIERS, PIKACHU Dear game theory professor, Well, you’ve really got me in a dilemma. If I cooperate with my study group on this problem set, then we’ll all have less work to do. If, on the other hand, I betray them and do no work at all, then I’ll have the advantage, because they’ll be stuck picking up my slack. But on the other hand, if we all betray each other, then the outcome will be worse for everyone, because no one will have done the problem set! Ugh. If only we weren’t all rational selfinterested people.

Sincerely, Timmy McDonough, TC ’15 Dear Annapolis, Nice town, but a little mainstream, don’t you think?

Sincerely, Indianapolis

Dear Swanson’s Chicken Broth, In your commercials, you say that I should look for your product in the “broth aisle.” First of all: There is no such thing as a broth aisle. What the fuck kind of grocery stores are you shopping at, Swason’s? Grocery stores where every aisle only has one product?

That kind of grocery store would have literally thousands of aisles! It would be miles and miles and wide! You would have to have those conveyor belt-type walkway things like they have in airports just to shop at one! That would be insanity. Secondly, even if there were such a grocery store, why would I look in literally any place other than the broth aisle? How dumb do you think I am?

Respectfully, Joe Cartman, TC ’13

SEMICOLON DECLARES COMMA JUST KEEPS MISSING THE POINT Dear high school integration, You suck. I hate you.

—A man who is either really racist or has a relatively common view of difficult math courses

ŀ

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THE YALE RECORD AND PIERSON COLLEGE PRESENT

A Master’s Tea with:

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4:00 PM THURSDAY, MARCH 7, 2013 PIERSON COLLEGE MASTER'S HOUSE