The Family Values Issue

Vol. 150, No. 3

THE YALE

Nov. 16, 2021

RECORD Family Values Issue

140 Howe Street www.eatpataka.com

“The Nation’s Oldest Humor Magazine” or

“The Nation’s Most Humorous Old Magazine” Join us.

chair@yalerecord.com

HELP! HELP! I CAN’T DISTINGUISH BETWEEN EMERGENCIES AND NON-EMERGENCIES Dear God, Please cure my daughter. She’s all I have left in this world.

Love, Adult Charlie Brown

Dear Trash Cans, Thanks for always being there for me. One time, at camp, the counselors told us that a true best friend is the one who lets you cry on their shoulder, the one who keeps your secrets, the one who would help you bury a body with no questions asked. I then announced that my best friend is a trash can.

Everyone thought that was super weird, which is why they are not my friends. They wouldn’t even be able to hold a corpse if they tried. They would probably throw up if they saw a corpse, while trash cans don’t have a gag reflex.

Best, Burt

Dear Charles Brown, We are sorry to hear of your dependent’s passing. Repossession of your house will take place this Wednesday.

Best, Aetna

MERCY: I AM FAILING FRENCH! FUCK. MERCI.

“THE RADIATOR’S BEEN MAKING THIS FUNNY NOISE,” REPORTS ROOMMATE WHO APPARENTLY EXPECTS YOU TO PERFORM RADIATOR MAINTENANCE

ECONOMICAL TOWN STRETCHES SINGLE MURDER INTO MULTIPLE GENERATIONS OF URBAN LEGEND Dear George Orwell, What was your inspiration for 1984?

Tucker Carlson Dear Tucker Carlson, I was asked to leave Chuck E. Cheese due to public intoxication.

George Orwell

ADMINISTRATION A LITTLE TOO EXCITED TO ACKNOWLEDGE YALE’S HISTORICAL TIES TO RACISM

The Yale Record

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YALE RECORD The Family Values Issue November 16th, 2021

1 | Mailbags and Snews 6 | The Family Values Editorial 8 | Shorts 12 | Feature Families Come In All Shapes And Sizes 14 | Shorts 21 | Feature AITA? Not My Brother's Keeper 22 | News The Cartwrights Got A New Color TV • Roommate’s Fake Backstory Exposed • Handsome Dan DNA Found In 5% Of Students • Grandma Just Keeps Getting Older • Legacy Denounces Family History 24 | Shorts 26 | Feature History Of A Name 30 | The Record After Dark Your Dad Loves You Very Much

FIRST YEAR READS LOTS OF NEWS, KNOWS LOTS OF THINGS, IS VERY SMART. PRAISE HIM. PRAISE HIM O LORD. Dear Santa Claus, After sneaking downstairs on Christmas Eve to see my fat dad eating cookies in front of the fireplace, I am convinced that you do not exist.

Please write back to confirm or refute this hypothesis.

Thanks, Randy Dear Randy,

FOR SALE: One Son Defective Can’t throw a ball or catch for shit I’ve got no use for him anymore

DANGEROUS SICKO ALERT? MEET THE MAN GENUINELY CURIOUS ABOUT YOUR RESIDENTIAL COLLEGE Dear God, I’m balding, I have a combover, and I need a job. What shall I do?

Yours truly, Man

“North Pole” isn’t a valid address you fucking idiot.

Best, United States Postal Service Obituary Correction In the First-Year Issue, we erroneously reported that the Yale Daily News killed and ate a physics TA who wandered onto the wrong side of York Street. This was, in fact just a salacious rumor; it was actually a chemistry TA.

“I GUESS I’LL JUST HAVE TO SPANK MYSELF” SAYS FRESHMAN AFTER FAMILY WEEKEND CANCELED Dear Coast Guard, I was not drowning. I was just practicing my aquatic interpretive dance.

With a flourish, Desmond

Dear Man, Apply to be Yale professor immediately.

Cheers, God

“OH FACEBOOK IS DOWN I DIDN’T EVEN NOTICE CAUSE I DELETED ALL MY SOCIAL MEDIA” SAYS GUY WHO DELETED ALL HIS SOCIAL MEDIA Dear Weasels, U Up?

Sincerely, An Interested Admirer

Dear Interested Admirer, No. We are sleeping.

Sincerely, Weasels

The Family Values Issue

BEATBOXER CONFIDENT HE’LL SOUND BETTER ONCE HE UPGRADES FROM CHEAP STARTER MOUTH

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WANTED A Sex Ed freelancer to

come to my house and teach my idiot son where the boob goes during sex.

Dear Cash4Gold, I recently exchanged my engagement ring for $1000. That interaction was not cash for gold, but was in fact gold for cash. I want my ring back.

Best, Loyal Customer

KID WITH BAD HEARING SUCCESSFULLY PUTS ON THE FRESHMAN FIFTY

Dear Cliffhangers,

BETTER SAFE THAN SORRY: I TAKE PLAN B BEFORE I OPEN TINDER

Dear Loyal Customer, Despite our misleading name, we exchange both cash for gold and gold for cash. It seems the real problem is your inability to commit to your engagement.

Best, Cash4Gold

“YEAH I’M BASICALLY FROM LA” SAYS GUY FROM WESTERN ARIZONA Dear Cash4Gold, How dare you question my engagement? My fiancé, Herm Strumboldt, is the tallest man in the San Fernando Valley! You will be hearing from his lawyers.

Curtly, Loyal Customer

—S. Spaner

The Yale Record

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r/AmItheAsshole 4.8k

Posted by u/CainGenesis48 6000 years ago

AITA? Not My Brother’s Keeper

Hey, Redditors. Looking for insight on this sticky situation.

So I [26M] am a farmer and my brother [26M] works in the livestock industry. It’s not much but it’s the family business. Our boss is usually pretty providing but he sometimes sets unreasonable expectations. The only reason my family farms in the first place (we used to be pretty well off) is because my parents pissed our boss off and everything went to shit, but that’s a story for another time.

Essentially at the end of the season we always have a little office party and we each give our boss a nice present. My brother got him this really nice shank of lamb, kind of pseudo-hipster, back to basics, farm to table type shit, wrapped in that brown waxy paper—you know what I’m talking about.

Anyway the boss goes wild. He fucking loves it, he’s like “This is gonna be so succulent.” So then it’s my turn and I look like a fucking idiot cause all I got him was fruits of the soil. You know, like an edible arrangement. I cut all the fruit into little shapes. I had the damn skewers and everything. Like, I tried pretty hard. I wanted to impress the boss. Let’s just say it did not go over well. He said thanks but he didn’t seem like he meant it, and by the end of night when I went to upchuck, I saw it in the trashcan.

Anyway, next day at work all my boss could fucking say was how juicy that cut of lamb was, and how tender and succulent and delightful, whatever.

If that man could have made sweet love to that fucking lamb shank… you get the picture. So like, I’m pissed. I worked so damn hard on that edible arrangement and all my brother did was kill a baby sheep. To make things worse, my brother was bragging all damn day.

So next day I’m sitting in my cubicle sorting my fucking bananas when my boss comes in, and he’s all like “I said thank you, you didn’t have to get so pissed. You’re a good guy, keep doing good, and you know I love you.” Then he picks up one of my ripest, plumpest, curviest bananas. He peels it open, takes one bite, then throws the rest away in my fucking recycling bin.

So I page my brother on the company telecom, tell him to meet me outside, and smash his brains in with a bigass rock. I mean, what the hell else was I supposed to do?

Anyway, Reddit, Am I The Asshole? Thanks guys.

—L. Egger & L. Santiago Design by L. Dorstewitz

The Family Values Issue

NO NUT NOVEMBER! I HAVEN’T EATEN ANY PEANUTS THIS NOVEMBER AND ALSO I WAS CASTRATED FOR HUMPING TABLE LEGS

Dear Little Jimmy, From the folks here at General Mills, we’d like to wish you a happy birthday!

You’re one of our top buyers of Trix cereal. Here’s a coupon for a free box!

General Mills Dear General Mills,

FOR SALE: Baby shoes, never worn by the baby they were intended for because its mother unexpectedly lost the baby, which is really sad. If you’d like to buy these baby shoes, let us know!

JURASSIC PARK IN REAL LIFE? I SAW A BIRD ON CROSS CAMPUS

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Thank you so much! I couldn’t have asked for a better gift on my 18th birthday. I can’t wait to enjoy a bowl of delicious Trix.

Jimmy

Did You Know?

The average American family has 1.93 children. The .07 missing from the second child is usually the soul, but is sometimes just a chunk of the thigh.

Dear Jimmy, Did you say you’re 18? Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids! And you, you are not a kid. You’re just a lame ass adult. You don’t deserve our cereal. Go to hell.

General Mills

—C. Sattler

The Yale Record

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T

he sun is hovering just below the blue tint at the top of the windshield and there’s glare. I’m moving thirty under the speed limit. No way am I going sixty. The drivers behind me honk and shout slurs based on whatever race they think my driving entails, but I’m not speeding up. My kid’s in the car, and he gets nauseous at high speeds. Nauseous at low speeds too, little knucklehead. I love him more than life itself.

Picture two nieces and an aunt, playing “monkey in the middle” with the skull of their great-great-grandfather.

Picture a divorce in reverse.

April always called it a windscreen. London talk. I used to make fun of her for that, back when things were easy. We don’t talk much anymore. Our lawyers talk all the time, though. They’ve really hit it off. I think they’re seeing each other on the side, but I don’t really mind. Love is love. It ebbs and flows.

Picture a baby with a flip phone.

Picture a little girl on a swingset, patiently teaching her father how to lie.

This morning I packed up and left. Fifty miles down the road I heard a gurgle from the backseat. It was Levi, that little stowaway. He loves his dad, can’t blame him, but now I’ve got to drive him back. Back to a home that isn’t my home. I’ve got to drive him back to April so I can drive away from her again. Waze says I will get there in 35 minutes. I don’t want to get there.

Picture an upside down family tree, where you can be your own boss and sell dietary supplements on your own schedule.

Picture a Thanksgiving breakfast.

It might surprise you to know that I have a kid, but it’s not actually that weird. I’m 29 years old, took eight gap years to retroactively protest the Vietnam War. During that time, I met April and had three beautiful children: Winston, Levi, and Beezus.

Fast forward to now, and I’m pretending to be a Zoomer at some rinky-dink college magazine. Beezus is a biter, Levi’s a creep, and Winston is “a pleasure to have in class.”

April hasn’t changed a bit. I don’t think I’ve changed either, but I guess April

The Family Values Issue would disagree.

Picture two sets of triplets falling in love with three sets of twins.

Picture a married couple, cooing over a crib filled to the brim with twenty-dollar bills.

This is the Family Values Issue. The need for it should be apparent. The American family is a crumbling institution. Gone are the days when Papa could drink rubbing alcohol by a roaring fire while the kids fought with steak knives and Mama dry sobbed in the parlor. Now, things are fractured. People meet people, accidents happen, wives hit it off with jerks from the bait and tackle shop. Things break.

Picture a picture of a family that you can’t really picture, not anymore.

The cars want to pass me, but I’m in the left lane and there’s a sixteen wheeler to the right. We’re driving at the same speed.

Every few minutes I crane my neck to try and make eye contact with the guy chugging away at a liter of Coke Zero in the driver’s seat, but his eyes are always locked on the road. I admire his professionalism and don’t take it personally.

Picture half a mother double adopting a child who’s already hers.

Actually that one doesn’t make sense. Picture a normal niece.

Last week, I caught Beezus with a cigarette in her mouth. I sat her down and made her watch me smoke the whole pack.

Picture a gaggle of scary uncles, gleefully casting bets at an underground nephew-fighting ring.

Picture the oldest baby you’ve ever seen.

“Dad, I’m a frog on a lily pad.” I glance at my rearview mirror and see that Levi has wedged himself deep between the leather cushions of the back seat, wrapped tightly in seatbelts torn from their anchors in the ceiling and the floor. The seams which Sam Leone ’23 Chair Jonas Kilga ’23 Online Managing Editor

Zosia Caes ’22 Old Owl Raja Moreno ’24 Old Owl

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bind the cushions to the seats have popped, and it’s clear that it’ll take a good twenty minutes to extricate Levi when we finally make it to April’s for the dropoff. Knucklehead. I don’t have any energy left, so I chuckle and say, “That’s right, kiddo.”

Picture a husband without a wife, a father without a son, a man on a rock in a void with no plan, no job, no prospects.

Picture Homer Simpson with a gun in his hand and sin on his mind.

Privately, I don’t think it’s right. I think it’s wrong that my kid likes tying himself up in impossibly tight spaces and then wriggling like a worm on a hook. I think it’s wrong that my ex-wife won’t look me in the eye, except when she’s calling me a coward, in which case she refuses to not look me in the eye. I think it’s wrong that Judge Willoughby was put on our case even though he plays bridge with April’s cousin. I think $3000 a month of alimony is wrong. I think it’s wrong that the world is wrong, that I’m right in a wrong world that makes my rightness wrong and April’s wrongness right. Wrong wrong wrong.

Picture a man staring down the barrel of his fourth decade on earth, on the long road back to his lost love’s home because his creepy kid crawled into the backseat there’s no room for a kid where he’s going.

Picture a fool trying to fit a rectangular magazine into a human-shaped hole in his heart.

Picture this.

Levi ribbits quietly and thrashes against his bonds. He makes my heart so full. My heart will only be full on weekends now.

Twice a month.

Huh. —J. Wickline Editor in Chief

Joe Wickline ’23 Editor in Chief

Diana Kulmizev ’23 Online Editor in Chief

Ayla Jeddy ’23 Publisher

Avery Brown ’23 Online Managing Editor

Clio Rose ’23 Managing Editor

Joe Gustaferro ’24 Managing Editor

Joanna Wypasek ’24 Managing Editor

Adriana Golden ’24 Copy Editor

Annie Lin ’25 Art Director

Erik Boesen ’24 Webmaster

Addison Beer ’23 Staff Director

Aarjav Joshi ’24 Business Manager

Jacob Eldred ’24 Merch Manager

Rosa Chang ’23 Old Owl Bea Portela ’24 Old Owl

Will Cramer ’22 Old Owl Ellen Qian ’23 Old Owl

Ethan Fogarty ’22 Luna Garcia ’23 Zuri Goodman ’22 Old Owl Old Owl Old Owl Harry Rubin ’22 Marcy Sanchez ’22 Maya Sanghvi ’23 Old Owl Old Owl Old Owl

Arnav Tawakley ’24 Copy Editor

David Hou ’22 Old Owl Alex Taranto ’23 Old Owl

Avery Mitchell ’23 Old Owl Kaylee Walsh ’22 Old Owl

Staff: Jocelyn Wexler ’22 Evan Cheng ’24 Raffael Davila ’23 Lily Dorstewitz ’24 Leo Egger ’23 Finn Gibson ’24 Jacob Kaufman-Shalett ’23 Benjamin Hollander-Bodie ’24 Lucy Santiago ’23 Malia Kuo ’24 Claire Sattler ’23 Alice Mao ’24 Katia Vanlandingham ’23 Simi Olurin ’24 Alexia Buchholz ’24 Dom Alberts ’25

Joel Banks ’25 Ari Berke ’25 Tara Bhat ’25 Edward Bohannon ’25 Lillian Broeksmit ’25 Adam Burch ’25 Emily Cai ’25 Evan Calderon ’25 Lizzie Conklin ’25

Andrew Cramer ’25 Madelyn Dawson ’25 Jackson Downey ’25 Larry Dunn ’25 Mari Elliott ’25 Grace Ellis ’25 Annette Forchoh ’25 Odessa Goldberg ’25 Evan Gorelick ’25

Audrey Hempel ’25 Rena Howard ’25 Ishikaa Kothari ’25 Betty Kubovy-Weiss ’25 Emma Madsen ’25 Jacob Mansfield ’25 Alejandro Mayagoitia ’25 Maya Melnik ’25 Tyler Norsworthy ’25

Megan Sadler ’25 Tyler Schroeder ’25 Sophie Spaner ’25 Josephine Stark ’25 Lawrence Tang ’25 Cormac Thorpe ’25 Emmitt Thulin ’25 Natasha Weiss ’25

Contributors: Mark Matera ’25, Josh Bock ’25, Iris Tsouris ’25, Idone Rhodes ’25 Special thanks to: the many uncles of the Record, for their conditional love and support.

Front Cover: Emily Cai ’25 (@loremily_ipsum), who would never eat a baby in real life.

Back Cover: Lizzie Conklin ’25 (@lizzieconklin), who only had time to draw half a house.

Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CL, No. 1, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year All contents copyright 2021 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.

I PUT FOOD ON THE TABLE Look, son, I know I’m not perfect. I know I’ve made mistakes. It’s true: I shouldn’t have kicked your door in because I was tired of having to open it every time to get into your room. I shouldn’t have rooted against your sports teams all those years to “help you build character.” I also shouldn’t have spilled lemonade on the white carpet and then accused you of peeing there. But guess what? At the end of the day, I still put food on the table.

Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to legally change your name to “Pee Pee Boy” after the aforementioned incident, and maybe I shouldn’t have spilled lemonade a second time and pulled the exact same trick. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested that your mother was probably having a stroke when she smelled lemons instead of urine. But I love lemonade, I have poor coordination, and most importantly?

I put food on the table.

And yeah, perhaps refusing to drive my own wife to the hospital after suggesting that she was experiencing a stroke, which caused her to think I was trying to kill her and sent her spiralling into a psychotic episode, was not the right choice in hindsight. But on the other hand, I hadn’t driven in a while at the time, and I wasn’t going to let this change that. And you’re forgetting one key detail: I put food on the table.

When your mother had to take a break from work due to her breakdown in which she wholeheartedly believed that her own husband was about to let her die, I didn’t find a job myself, but can you guess what I did do? I put food on the table.

Sure, I may not pay for the food. I may not bring

ingredients back from the grocery store. I may not cook it.

If it’s takeout, I may not even drive to go pick it up. I don’t like driving! But you can be sure that once it’s here, I will move it from wherever it is right onto the goddamn table.

Oh, now you want some napkins too? Go fuck yourself.

—B. Hollander-Bodie

—E. Cai

The Family Values Issue

TOP FIVE CREEPIEST UNCLES IN SEATTLE 1. Uncle Ronnie McDaniels — Uncle Ronnie’s balding mullet is always a hit with the local Seattle barflies.

He’s sure to show up with a new lady at every family gathering. Ronnie’s go-to pick-up line is that he used to be a roadie for Nirvana in the summer of ’92. (He didn’t.) Just don’t ask him to roll up his sleeves— Ronnie’s arms are covered in misspelled tattoos and dead veins from his heroin addiction in the summer of ’92.

2. Uncle Herm Garrison — Uncle Herm had always been a loner. He never so much as made eye contact with the waitress when your family went out to eat at Applebee’s, so everyone was shocked when he suddenly took a vacation to Eastern Europe and returned with a former Soviet-state sweetheart who doesn’t speak a lick of English and is 30 years his junior. Everyone’s happy Herm has found true love, but it’s hard to ignore when Svetlana Ivanovic rubs his crotch under the table while the food is being blessed.

3. Uncle Jason Cox — Uncle Jason Cox was the pride of the family: Cornell grad, Rhodes scholar, and rising-star congressman from Washington’s Second District. After an unexpected pregnancy in her 40s, his wife was stuck with postpartum weight that she couldn’t seem to shed. That’s when Uncle Jason started texting some classmates from his daughter’s eighth-grade geography class. Needless to say, Uncle Jason’s no longer serving the second district and isn’t allowed to have internet in his house.

4. Uncle Jeff Gumbles — Uncle Jeff lives a pretty normal life. He runs a rental car business in town, loves the Seahawks, and enjoys driving his kids to school. The twist? He hosts swinger parties every third Wednesday of the month at the Motor Motel off of I-5. Though he keeps telling you “to come on by, you’ll have a good time,” the only thing you’ll have by the end of the night is chlamydia.

5. Uncle Merv Wilson — Uncle Merv constantly reminds the family of the impending doomsday crisis. Uncle Merv loves to bring his famous MRE-ration Jambalaya to the family potlucks, but Uncle Merv can’t stay for long since the government loves to target traditional family gatherings in an effort to destroy the American way of life. Uncle Merv insists on being called “Uncle Merv” but has neither nieces nor nephews.

—E. Bohannon

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SORRY LIBS, TRADITIONAL FAMILY STRUCTURES WORK

By A. Cramer Since the dawn of time, the traditional family structure has been the cornerstone of human greatness. Sure, there have been the occasional quirky offshoots, but for the most part, we all know what a good American family looks like. Recently, though, the delusional libs have declared war on the family, claiming that two women or even a single man can raise a child. But we all know that there are only a few tried-and-true familial structures that work: it’s time we return to our roots.

Let’s start with the absolute original: two kids raised by one she-wolf in the wilderness. If it worked for Romulus, it can work for anyone. How else are your kids supposed to grow up to build one of the greatest empires of all time? To say that Cheryl and Jo from the neighborhood can provide the powerful mentorship of a she-wolf is just absurd. Kids these days are soft, and that’s thanks to the libs.

If a she-wolf is hard to come by, then look no further than 19th century England. The Victorian family is easy to replicate—just abandon your child, and hope that they hit the orphanage jackpot. Look at Oliver Twist. Orphanages hit the child-rearing trifecta: they develop a happy-go-lucky attitude in children, give them that tender, loving care, and build a community that lasts a lifetime.

If you’re afraid of orphanages, I get it. Some of them don’t even feature corporal punishment anymore. The great American South is a paragon of efficient familial composition: some call it a “Normal Family,” but I believe the colloquial name is the “Mommy and Daddy have the same mommy” method. Keep your family truly tight-knit. If you’re truly destined for greatness, don’t let some foolhardy outsiders pollute your bloodline.

So enough of this gay-partners-single-momhusband-and-wife nonsense. It’s like my mother’s famous stew: if you don’t stir in the bones of recently-slain prey with your powerful snout, it doesn’t taste quite as delicious. Don’t mess with the recipe, libs. The cold, hard, logic of traditionalism wins again.

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The Yale Record

SOMETHING CAME UP Hey, kiddo, I know this is bad timing, given that it’s your first game off the bench following Big Eddie’s cleat incident, but something came up and I can’t make it anymore. It’s really no big deal, just a dumb work thing.

You know, adult stuff. I have to get through all of these letters in time or else I’ll be in the hole a couple thousand bucks. I thought I had more time but the wheels in my head just keep spinning and I don’t know how to proceed with this.

I know this is hard to hear, since I promised I’d come to your very first game and we made matching “Eat Shit, Eddie” t-shirts, but I really am puzzled with my work right now. My boss handed me a report and asked me to write up “my take” on it but it’s all numbers and I don’t know what any of them mean. I tried to tell him again and again that I’m a letters man and not a numbers man but he just doesn’t understand me the way Pat Sajak does.

For now, focus on playing your best and we’ll have our nightly Wheel of Fortune watch party when you get home. I can’t wait for tonight so I can give you a big Sajak, I mean Pat, (haha), on the back to celebrate your big win. I’m so fortunate to have a son like you. Now go get ‘em tiger!

P.S. Tell your sister that our plans for later might be in Jeopardy, (haha), the fifth-graders next door are talking trash and I can’t let them beat me in the final round again.

—M. Matera

—A. Hempel

SON, LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT A LITTLE THING CALLED THE CONSTITUTION

By A. Burch Intro: Listen, son, I get it. You don’t realize just how lucky you are. I mean, how could you? You’re spoiled by having grown up here, by never having seen your neighbor desaparecida—snap, just like that—for some picayune comment made in the privacy of her own home. By never having untold thousands of your country’s best hopes and brightest lights shot dead in broad daylight by the very same people still writing your Five-Year Plans today.

Transition: But in this country, in the United States of America, there’s a little piece of parchment sitting in a bulletproof glass case at the very top of the Washington Monument. And that document—though you clearly don’t understand this just yet, or you wouldn’t be yelling at me for trying to get some play out of that seventeen-year-old—that document means something.

Body: You know, when the Constitution was ratified?

Smart money was, the whole damn venture’d fall apart inside ten years. It’s really nothing short of a miracle that such a vague, prevaricating mess of compromises has bound together the greatest military and economic power on the face of the Earth for three centuries, all without taking away one single solitary person’s God-given rights. So when you oh-so-nobly stand in the way of my forming a more perfect union with Clarabelle, don’t think I’m just going to sit here and take it. Don’t think I’ll turn my back on those miles of white crosses standing at eternal attention across the rolling hills of Arlington and break things off with a mature, serious girl—captain of the cheer team, for crying out loud—just because I started balding three years before she was born.

Conclusion: Maybe the Fourteenth Amendment is nothing special to you, maybe you’ve never seen someone beaten for demanding a fair shot, but equality is more than a fancy word to me. I’ve never told a man he wasn’t white enough to work, never told a girl she wasn’t old enough to think for herself, and I’m not about to start now. Now go to your room, think about what we talked about, and for the love of God, don’t tell your mother.

The Family Values Issue

10 CONVERSATION STARTERS TO INSTANTLY DERAIL YOUR FAMILY DINNER Family dinner: a soothing candlelit ritual. But not in a cult way. Like in an everyone-has-to-be-there-untilexcused-and-one-mustn’t-provoke-the-wrath-of-the-tableElder way. I know what you’re thinking: how can I fuck this up? Don’t be modest. Ask instead how will you fuck this up. The power is entirely in your hands. Your dinner table is more fuck-up-able than you can even imagine.

Here are some strategies to instantly derail for family dinner, with guaranteed results: 1. Looking to get the job done fast? Wear ripped jeans to the table. How can any self-respecting uncle not share his opinion?

2. Holiday special! Try this hot take: “Okay, but why is Jesus kind of hot…I would totally smash Jesus. Thoughts?” If you get into serious trouble with that one, just remind everyone that you’re talking about crucifixion-era Jesus, not baby Jesus. Crisis averted!

3. Looking for a more contemporary take on blasphemy?

Try this: “Do you know what WAP stands for?”

Bonus points if you then explain what WAP stands for.

4. Say literally anything about The Washington Football Team.

5. Leave your phone conspicuously on the table with its ringer on. Works best if seated next to a boomer. It’s helpful, though not necessary, to have friends. If nobody ever texts you, New York Times notifications will suffice.

6. Try proposing a fun after-dinner activity! Think outside the box here. “How about the men wash the dishes this time?” is sure to delight!

7. Got to stay updated! Ask your brother if he’s bagging any bitches these days. Don’t forget to remind him of bitches he has bagged in the past. Show that you’ve been listening; list as many as you can remember. And who could forget that pregnancy scare?!

8. Family members look out for one another. Especially if one of those members is getting a little pudgy. “Easy on the gravy there, Aunt Shelly” is a great segue into the world of nutrition.

9. Declare the following unprovoked: “Stop asking me if I have a boyfriend yet. You know very well that I have a wife and three adopted children.” Works every time. Bonus points if said

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children are in attendance.

10. If all else fails, go with The Nuclear Option. Make sure you arrive to the after-dinner sports-watching on time, so you can kneel in front of the TV for the national anthem.

—L. Broeksmit POST-PANDEMIC EXCUSES TO AVOID YOUR FAMILY You’re running to a community theater class that starts at 4 p.m. and you’ve been waiting for “Introduction to the Art of Mime” all month, so you won’t be able to go to Jimmy’s Little League game with everyone else.

You’re busy getting on a flight for the World-HistoricalAssociation-sponsored expedition to dig out a newly found Mayan acropolis ruin in south Yucatán.

You have a news interview scheduled on Channel 4 to discuss the clip of you getting stuck in an invisible box that went viral and got 12.2 million views.

You’re running to rehearsal because a prominent Broadway director has asked you to be the star of a one-person miming production of Les Mis that opens in two weeks.

Your roommate’s feeling really down after her puppy fighting ring was broken up by the Yale P.D. Animal Control Division, and you have to be there to support her.

The raging success of your Broadway show has caused Paramount to cast you as the star of a dramedy biopic about the life of French mime Marcel Marceau and you have a table read at 11 a.m. so you can’t make Sunday Brunch.

You got a flat tire and it turns out the spare tire in the back of your car was actually an antique wooden wagon wheel.

You’re going to have to attend the Oscars afterparty of your 98% Rotten-Tomatoes-rated film Marcel’s Farewell so you can’t go to the family’s Oscar Viewing Party of your 98% Rotten-Tomatoes-rated film Marcel’s Farewell.

Your miming career has caused you to take up an oath of silence, to show the world that only through the Covenant of the Silent Clown can one achieve true bliss, so you won’t be much fun at Family Trivia Night and it’s probably best for everyone if you just don’t go.

You’re feeling sick and can’t make it.

—N. Weiss

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14

The Yale Record

HOW TO MAKE SURE YOUR KID’S SMUT IS UP TO GRADE READING LEVEL 1. Do a vocabulary check — Make sure your child is using grade-appropriate words in their writing. Instead of “coochie” and “willy,” suggest more intellectual terms like “python of love” or “sweet cocoon of passion and nectar” to get those creative juices flowing.

2. Assess their reading comprehension — A family-guided reading of a tasteful orgy fanfiction can sharpen your child’s understanding of key terms and concepts. Consider starting a book club with some neighbors to discuss the subversive power of tentacles and cuckolding in fiction.

3. Try some narrative exercises — Help your child work through key elements of storytelling like exposition and denouement. Is the exhibitionist foreplay paced smoothly? What happens after the climax? How can they resolve the erectile dysfunction sub-plot? Challenge your young writer with these questions and push them into literary excellence.

4. Explore diverse figurative language — George Orwell once said to “never use a … figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print,” and the same policy applies to erotica. Say goodbye to trite expressions like “fireworks” and “waves of pleasure.” Try something new like comparing cunnilingus to the Normandy landings or dinosaurs at a watering hole.

5. Stage a re-enactment of your child’s work with your neighbor to give them a visual understanding of their writing — This creative trial by fire might seem intimidating, but remember that pressure makes diamonds and you want only the best for your future author.

—M. Melnik THE WORLD WANTS TO MAKE YOUR SON GAY This country is being overrun by rainbows. Not the kind of rainbow you see in the sky, which has a quiet beauty to it, but the kind that’s plastered on the discounted clothing at every department store. How am I supposed to go into a Claire’s to buy my son and I new accessories when the man behind the counter has PRIDE pins and long dangly earrings on? It makes me sick when I see all of these men’s perfectly toned, rippling abdominal muscles in crop tops.

Why is gay the new trend? Why is it not cool to be hetero, no mo? I miss seeing a man and a woman making out in the middle of the street as I drive my son to Little League practice.

I miss seeing a man smack a woman’s ass in the workplace and

say “looking good Susan.” Do you want a car that drives left, right, and every which way? Or do you want a car that drives straight and true no matter what the road throws at it? Hell, I know which one I’d choose.

That is all I want for my son and it’s what you should want for yours. He should be allowed to give his friends a hug, a sensual massage, or a quick peck on the forehead before they hit the volleyball court without people questioning his sexuality. That’s how things were in the good old days. That’s how the Topeka Tigers bumped, set, and spiked our way to victory in the spring of ’88.

The world wants to make your son gay, and it is your duty to fight back. Talk to your kids about the birds and the bees.

Show them Disney movies from before 2014. Above all else, make sure they never watch that “Call Me By Your Name” music video, especially the really awful scene where Lil Nas X gives Satan a lap dance (time stamp 2:31). When I die, I’ll be up there in God’s warm, intimate embrace with my face nuzzled into his silvery beard, unlike Mr. Nas X. That’s because I lived my life on the right path, the straight one.

—E. Thulin I DON’T WANT TO MUFASA MY DAD I just saw the bestest movie, and I really liked it a lot! It was an awesome movie and very very fun to watch. I liked the singing and the songs and the talking animals and the themes of social class structure in conjunction with the loss of morals in the pursuit of political power. It is called The Lion King, and I watched it with my mommy and daddy. I liked it so much that I watched it again and again on my iPad! But there is one part that always scares me.

In the movie, Simba thinks he accidentally killed his dad who is also a lion named Mufasa. I don’t want to Mufasa my dad! If I accidentally killed him by causing a big stampede, he would probably be really upset and disappointed with me.

Then he would be dead and that would be really really sad and mommy would probably be very very mad at me.

This would play into Sigmund Freud’s Oedipus complex theory and make it appear that I harbored resentment towards my father because of the subconscious desire I feel for my mother. I don’t want to be an example of Mr. Freud’s refuted, irreplicable theories of psychosexual development! I don’t like Mr. Freud, I don’t want to be associated with any of his asinine theories and, most importantly, I don’t want my daddy to be like Mufasa and get all trampled to death by a lot of big angry deer.

Hakuna Matata is my favorite song from the movie.

—A. Beer

The Family Values Issue

15

HOW TO DISTRACT YOUR PARENTS FROM THEIR FAILING MARRIAGE

By M. Elliott When Fido went from dressing up as a ghost to being one last Halloween, I feared I would never recover from his unexpected passing. But as my family and I sat around the dinner table that fateful night, staring at our luke-warm cheese dip through eyes clouded by salty tears, a realization struck: for the first time in years, my parents were within six feet of each other and not fighting.

I have since developed a foolproof plan for all the other children whose moms and dads haven’t slept in the same room for six years: always have a dying pet.

Now, I am not saying you have to go out and murder animals—I’m a vegetarian for Christ’s sake—but some animals can handle this part all on their own. If you adopt something like a fish, let’s say, you can have a death every 7-14 days. I have also come to the conclusion that a pet plant will work in a pinch, but you really have to sell it. You can probably only use a “plant death” once, and pet rocks are out of the question.

But even with these scheduled deaths, it is critical to preserve shock value or the tragedies might lose their bonding power. Each death must be increasingly traumatizing for both you and your parents. For the first week, go ahead and say Flounder died of natural causes.

The next week, ask your mom to feed your fish but only remind her about half the time, so that she is responsible for their malnourishment and untimely death.

The guilt will eat her alive, and who will she seek out for comfort? The man she foolishly chose to conceive with eighteen years ago.

If you aren’t comfortable with actually killing the creatures, there are some easy alternatives to pet genocide. My solution: simply hide your scaly/leafy/slimy friends somewhere else. You can set up an additional secret fishtank in your room or, if your parents are particularly nosy, just keep them in your toilet and never flush.

Don’t worry about this being an inconvenience. If it works, it’s worth it. If it doesn’t, then you’ll have two homes with two bathrooms soon enough.

—J. Wickline FROM LOVERS TO COUSINS Annalise was beautiful. She had strawberry blonde hair, just like my sister. She had brilliant, azure eyes, just like my sister. Her breasts were noticeably smaller than my sister’s, but that could be fixed for a small price. There was really only one issue: she wasn’t my sister. Hell, she wasn’t even my second cousin thrice removed.

That’s right. Our family trees were completely un-intertwined.

When I realized I loved her, I cried for a month. Not just at the prospect of her having to change her name, but because this love went against everything my upbringing stood for. I knew my family would never accept it, but I was determined to rewrite the stars and find us a happy ending somehow.

My grandmother had been lonely ever since her twenty-six year old husband bled out from a severe paper cut. So, I brought in Annalise’s father, who was also feeling abandoned after his mother’s passing. Each day, I had them sit together. Talk. Relate. And eventually, I started slipping the idea of adoption into my grandmother’s ear during my daily sensual massages. From there, things moved quickly. Annalise’s father accepted. The papers went through. I danced with glee upon hearing the news.

I was finally able to hold my dearest Annalise in my arms, knowing that not only were we lovers, but also at long last, we were cousins. Something that had begun so wrong was finally going right.

—M. Kuo

16

The Yale Record YOUR MOTHER AND I ARE SEPARATING

Hey, son, do you have a second? I know things have been crazy lately, so I just wanted to sit down and have a talk. Lay it all out there, y’know? Just so you don’t get the wrong idea about all this.

To be clear, your mother and I are separating. We know these past few weeks have been hard for you, so I just wanted to make one thing clear: it is completely your fault.

You see, we never planned on having a child. The plan was always to get a motorboat. A silver one—the kind that shimmers in the sun. The kind that’s perfect for when you want to crack open a beer, crank the engine, and hear it go brrrrrrrrrrrr vrooooom vrooooooom. The kind you name after an ex-girlfriend your mother doesn’t know about until she asks “Hey, who’s Shaylee?” You know the type. Then you came around, but we didn’t have any money for an abortion because we spent it all on a down payment for the boat.

Non-refundable, I should add.

So now here we are. No boat and a son who asks us about signing permission slips for “debate competitions” instead of going vroom vroom on the water like Shaylee would’ve. But I want to make it very clear that this whole situation isn’t your mother’s fault or mine—it’s yours. And though this may be tough, don’t think anything’s going to change: your mother and I will still act vaguely indifferent toward your very existence no matter what.

Oh, and just so you know, that “hey, Mom and Dad I wrote a song for you” shit? That drove us fucking crazy.

—J. Bock

GAM GAM FUCKS TOO: HOW TO HAVE SEX POSITIVE CONVERSATIONS WITH YOUR SLUTTY GRANDMOTHER Tip #1: Give Her Space to Share Freely — “Gamma, no one wants to hear about World War II Dave’s missile-shaped dick!” You’re probably used to hearing similar exclamations over the dinner table.

But it’s important to let your grandma express her sexuality judgement-free, even if you don’t want to hear about how WWII D drilled her like the hull of a Japanese warship. Try asking a follow up question: “Did you like that, Gam Gam?” Show that you’ve been listening and ask her to elaborate: “I remember you said Vietnam John’s dick was longer than the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Tell me more about that.”

Tip #2: Use Sex Positive Language — Sex positivity means being open and honest about the realities of sex. The more accurate the language, the better.

So when your grandma confides in you about Cold War Carl’s erectile dysfunction, push her to be specific: “How soft was he, on a scale of hard-asthe-iron-curtain to flaccid-as-Nixon’s-1972-policy-ofdétente?”

Tip #3 Address Her Fears — It’s natural to fear sex, especially as you grow older. These fears are completely justified, especially considering that after age 35 the likelihood that your partner will die on top of you triples annually. It’s your job to make your grandmother feel safe by lying to her. So when she calls you in the middle of the night, screaming, “Dead on arrival! WWII D is dead on arrival!” simply remind her that many men prefer to rest after orgasm. Continue to assure her that it’s no big deal as you call Big Ed’s Family Funeral Home for the Sexually Diseased.

Tip #4: Be Encouraging — As the pallbearers lower WWII D’s coffin into the ground, be sure to turn to Gam Gam and give her a big thumbs up. She has successfully conquered the final slut phase of her life! As the congregation sings Danny Boy and Dave’s widow weeps, give yourself a pat on the back too. Gam Gam couldn’t have done it without you.

—L. Conklin

—G. Ellis

The Family Values Issue

REASONS WHY BUYING CIGARETTES IS TAKING DAD SO LONG Reason 1: Dad got caught in traffic, which has delayed his return by several weeks.

Reason 2: Dad has transitioned to crack after looking for healthier alternatives to nicotine. His skin has never looked better!

Reason 3: Dad’s smoking-induced mouth tumors have become sentient, and he has given them names. Welcome Walter, Kevin, Bob, Dave, Stuart, and Josephina to the family!

Reason 4: Kevin, an especially feisty tumor, is taking up a lot of dad’s time and energy right now, so he’s gonna be a bit late.

Reason 5: Dad got sidetracked and accidentally started a new family.

Reason 6: Walter, another one of dad’s tumors, is now controlling dad like the rat from Ratatouille.

Reason 7: Dad is taking a gap year from being a dad so he can “find himself ” in Lima, Peru.

Reason 8: Walter and dad are now facing seven counts of vehicular manslaughter and three counts of drug trafficking. Walter is a bad influence.

Reason 9: Dad left because he couldn’t handle the pressure of being a father. He tried for a few years— making peanut butter sandwiches, driving the kids to school, working a 9 to 5 job—but it always felt like a pantomime, like he was going through the motions of a life that he could never truly live, all to stay with a wife who doesn’t love him anymore and an ungrateful snot factory of a kid. So he lied through his teeth about cigarettes because he was too chickenshit to say goodbye and then disappeared without another word.

Reason 10: Dad got sidetracked and is now looking for milk.

17

sound out all the words, and he didn’t even correct her when she did it wrong. It was adorable.

He’s also a proud supporter of women and always tries to lift me up, physically and emotionally. Whenever we go out to dinner, he totally flips the script and gives me the menu without even bothering to look at it. He says I always know just the right thing to order him, which basically means I order him the entire menu. He’s a growing boy, after all!

We spend mornings together, and I read him the newspaper. It is sort of strange that he gets upset whenever I try to do the Sunday crossword with him. Like last week I asked for a seven-letter word for “courage,” and he completely freaked out, chugged his protein shake, and left the room, saying he needed to “get his workout in before school.” I was admittedly a little confused since there’s no work on Sundays.

He knows I don’t like it when he storms off like that. But he’ll be back with some white roses in those big, huge arms, and all will be forgiven. What can I say? He can read me like a book.

SON OF ZEUS

—I. Rhodes

—A. Mayagoitia I LOVE MY BIG STRONG HUSBAND The first time I ever saw my husband, I remember thinking, “Wow, that guy is strong.” And that’s pretty much all I’ve noticed about him since. If you asked me about the color of his eyes, all that would come to mind is the shape of his massive biceps. I mean, he carries all the groceries inside in just one trip; need I say more?

He’s a kindergarten teacher, which is so inspiring. One time I decided to give him a little surprise visit at school, and I got to watch him help a little girl read Jack & Jill.

They worked together so well, it almost seemed like she was teaching him. To make her feel more comfortable, he let her

—I. Tsouris

18

The Yale Record

HOW TO STOP YOUR SIBLINGS FROM OVERSHADOWING YOU 1. Believe in yourself — Try to remember that you have your own skills and talents, and that your worth isn’t defined by comparison. It’s like my mom said when I asked her if I was handsome: “you are so unique.”

2. Diversify Activities — So your high school Science Olympiad coach thought your brother was a better captain and Jessica C. from Comparative Literature thought he was the hotter one. Have you ever considered just joining Mock Trial instead? If you don’t join the same clubs, take the same classes, and chase the same girls as your siblings, you won’t feel their dominating presence as much. I mean, Jessica G. from AP Physics is pretty cute too.

3. Distance yourself — If you guys go to different places, other people can’t compare you two anymore. Like, if your brother’s going to Bovine University and you get deferred and then rejected from Bovine University but then get into Yale, like, go to Yale. Yale is better anyway.

Falwell Family Photo

Like, Bovine who? Seriously.

4. Overtake them — At Science Olympiad practice, ensure that your mousetrap vehicle goes farther than theirs.

Flirt harder with Jessica C.—tell her she looks unique or something. Even if your parents only wear Bovine merch now, if you work hard enough, maybe they’ll invest in a Yale Dad t-shirt.

5. Destroy them — Okay—you gave it your best shot, but your mousetrap vehicle fell apart at the last Olympiad invitational and your father keeps wearing his stupid Bovine Dad sweatshirt around. It’s time to pull out the big guns. Commit yourself to doing everything in your control to ruin your sibling’s existence. Put shaving cream in their Oreos, turn off their alarms before interviews, put arsenic in their orange juice—simple pranks like that.

6. Nip it in the bud — I never had to deal with being overshadowed by my siblings. Why, you may ask? Because I worked smarter, not harder. If you’re a twin, like me, all you’ve got to do is eat them in the womb. Problem solved.

—T. Bhat TOP BABY NAMES OF 2021 Olivia Richard (Dick for short) Liam (Dick for short) Son Jemima Mandrew X Æ A-12 Hugh Janus Hugh J’Butthole

Lt. Col. Clem Garvey Junior Jr. Mr. Baby Lil Pump Lil Pimp Lil Debbie xXxVirginSlayerxXx Sam Dick (Liam for short) —Staff

—J. Gustaferro

The Family Values Issue

WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE...

By J. Mansfield When I first entered our quaint suite, I was convinced I had taken a wrong turn into some woebegone corner of the Sterling Memorial Library. My newfound suitemate, who had just magnanimously tipped two upperclassmen for carrying his luggage, emerged from his room with a gramophone he’d brought to avoid “whatever garbage the kids listen to these days” and laid it by a mahogany rocking chair he assured me “had stood the test of time” for several decades.

He introduced himself as Thomas, but humbly insisted I call him Gramps. Upon immediate questioning, Gramps revealed his refined cultural palate to be a product of the “life-changing” backpacking trip through Montana he’d taken in the summer of his gap year.

Utterly floored by this pillar of ancient wisdom, I begged him to be so generous as to share his bountiful insight. I struggled to hear him through the muffling sound of the long white beard he stroked at repeated intervals, but I was fascinated by the black-and-white photographs he unveiled and gestured to with his wooden pipe.

“When I was your age,” he began, “we knew real struggle. You young’uns don’t know how good you have it. All this coronavirus hassle for nothing— in my day, a manly man died from cholera with his head held high. You’ll understand this one day. For now, just focus on your studies and find yourself a wife.”

Where had this voice of reason been my entire childhood? I promptly asked him to join me at the Schwarzman Center for lunch. However, he wisely advised against challenging his arthritis and retreated to the comfort of his four-poster bed. There was a twinkle in his rheumatic eyes as he spoke of his high school years “so far behind him now” and a maturity in his tone when he reminisced over lifelong friends from April.

It brings tears to my eyes that brave men like him slave a career away for “three months as a Target cashier over the fall” to no recognition from today’s youth. And I was beyond confused when he was immediately carded on our first night outside campus for a beer.

19 WELCOME TO CANDY LAND

KING KANDY: Gloppy, you’ve gotta quit whining every time you move backwards.

[Gloppy, a disgusting mess of brown goo and teeth, whimpers and sneezes.]

PRINCESS LOLI: Nice! A red one. Maybe that’s the pill that’ll get me out of here.

KING KANDY: Shut up and move. I have too many picture cards and can’t play them all.

GRANDMA NUTT (chonking on a pocketful of peanuts): Honey, that’s not how the game works. You can only pick up and play one card at a time.

KING KANDY (slamming his scepter on the ground): Morons! I’m supposed to be the king of this game, but somehow I just can’t figure it out. That’s my castle we’re looking at, and I’m starting to realize that after all that time pent up in there I’ve lost the basic logic skills I need for a game designed for five year olds.

GRANDMA NUTT (heaving a mountain of peanuts onto the table): Out exploring the world for the first time? I guess we’ve always gone to your gardens when you’ve called me over…

PRINCESS LOLI (puking): Dad, is this homewrecking peanut fucker the reason I’ve opened my school lunch in Cupcake Commons to “PB&PB sandwiches” every day?

[Gloppy mops up the vomit with the chubby part of his forearm and grins.]

KING KANDY: Loli, you’re supposed to be (reading game description) “in a cloud of twinkling light, fluttering and happily waving your magical lollipop scepter.” Eat your lollipop and go explore the Woods. Let me focus on figuring out where to pick up my next card.

PRINCESS LOLI: Dad, I’m basically an adult. I waited in the Licorice Lagoon DMV line for three hours just to get my shitty permit picture. I have early-onset spondylosis in L3 from these wings. And I even got excited about those dancing peanut socks you gave me for my birthday… (to Grandma Nutt) OH you fucker.

GRANDMA NUTT (hurling peanut shells at Princess Loli): Pipe down. Your charming father and I are just getting started. Now let’s see how I can get through this shortcut back to the castle.

[Grandma Nutt swings her basket, accidentally gashing Globby’s head. He smiles, slobbers, and passes out.]

KING KANDY: Alright Nutter, let’s see if I can roll a six to walk over that gumdrop bridge that surely exists.

PRINCESS LOLI: You’re a fucking idiot.

[Gloppy wakes up, sneezes, and starts crying.]

—C. Thorpe

NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT • TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 2021 • VOL. LXVIII, NO. 3 • yaledailynews.biz

The Cartwrights Just Got Themselves One Of Those Color TVs With The Bend In The Middle wrights.”

However, some are more displeased with MASON CITY, IA— this situation than JenMiddle-class man Mur- kins. ray Jenkins was left “That hussy Mary speechless this morning Cartwright knew exactly after he saw a new TV in what she was doing buythe Cartwrights’ living ing that new TV,” stated room across the street.

Lisa Jenkins, the wife of “Well I’ll be Murray Jenkins. “Just damned,” commented the other day I was talkJenkins, “Cartwrights’ ing to her and the girls dealership must’ve had a about having a wine and heck of a month for him cheese night at my place to afford that beauty. so we could watch The They say the bend makes Real Housewives of New it seem like the actors are Jersey on our perfectly right there in the room good Sony X80 TV, but with ya.” now she’s gone and made Jenkins now hopes sure she has the best TV to be able to go over and on the block! I tried to watch the big game at the tell Murray that if we’re Cartwrights’ this Sunday. gonna be hosting girls “Well, I’ve got a good night then we need to ol’ Sony X80, a fine TV upgrade our TV to make mind you. Even got that sure it has one of those new 4K LED picture fancy curves.” you’re always hearing Murray, however, about on the adverts. But dismissed Lisa’s ask imshe just doesn’t compare mediately. to the picture quality “Listen, I told her you’ll get over at Cart- whaddya think I am,

BY ARI BERKE STAFF REPORTER

made of money? This stuff doesn’t just grow on trees, Lisa. The Sony is a perfectly fine piece of machinery. Besides, I don’t see why she can’t just start having ladies night at the Cartwrights.

It would sure save me a lotta headache, plus I’d finally get to watch NCIS: Hawaii live instead of having to record it and watch it the next night.”

Murray and Lisa’s son, Matt, is the most excited by this new development.

“Me and Jake [Cartwright] like to take shrooms and watch “Robot Chicken” at his place, so now it’ll be even trippier because it’s basically in 3D.” Lisa was not thrilled about Jake’s comment.

“Murray, tell your son to stop publicizing the illegal drugs he takes all over the Internet. I mean seriously, Matt,

Wow! Look at that. Gotta be at least sixty inches. What is that, 4K? Never seen such a clear picture. FBI: Most Wanted would look great on there, Tuesdays 8/7 Central on CBS.

how are you ever gonna get a job if they know you’re a criminal drug offender?”

“Lisa I’ve told you I have no control over the boy. He’s 26 years old for God’s sake.”

The Cartwrights

were unavailable for comment, as they were too busy watching Michael Strahan’s teeth gap on the curved part of their TV.

Roommate’s Parents Expose Fake British Backstory

BY DOM ALBERTS STAFF REPORTER NEW HAVEN, CT— In what some are calling “the most significant British-American conflict in history,” firstyear Kevin Bruce ’25 was shocked to discover Tuesday that roommate Ned Sharp ’25 had been pretending to be British

since move-in.

“I can’t believe it,” said Bruce, “I spent hours a week looking up British slang online just to get through a conversation with him.” Pulling up his search history, Bruce recounted his poor attempts to translate colloquialisms such as “peng ting,” “detty tune” and “rah, where’s my baccy?”

“I’ve never doubted myself so much,” Bruce lamented, “I’m literally an English major.”

The truth emerged when Sharp’s parents arrived for Family Weekend.

“I studied for the interaction for days, poring over a notes document detailing UK geography, cultural landmarks, and

the names of all past winners of Love Island,” Bruce explained. “You can imagine my surprise when they pulled up to Phelps Gate in a pickup truck and neither of them were wearing those fancy hats you always see at Wimbledon.”

When asked to comment on the controversy, Sharp told The Record:

“I never even said I was British, I just told him I was on the crew team and then he wouldn’t stop asking me if I’d ever met the Queen.”

Sharp’s parents were unable to weigh in on the scandal, having already returned home to London, Ohio.

NEWS

“I’ve achieved a lot in my life, and there’s a lot I’m proud of. But absolutely nothing compares to the joy I feel every day from being a dad. Kiddos, you complete me.”

JOSEPH STALIN FATHER

Study: 5% Of Yalies Share DNA With Handsome Dan

BY EVAN GORELICK STAFF REPORTER NEW HAVEN, CT—On Tuesday, the Yale Laboratory for Human Transgene Research concluded its groundbreaking study entitled “The Empirical Influences of the Handsome Dan Lineage on the Yale Student Experience.” Though the study began as an effort to catalogue Handsome Dan’s contributions to the Yale community over the years, the Lab’s Principal Investigator was stunned to find that Dan has done more than enrich student’s lives—he’s created them.

“Handsome Dan I was a creature of incredible intimacy and immense sexual gravitas, and by his very na-

ture could not be confined to a single lover,” says Yale historian George Thompson, who collaborated on the project.

Using nasal swabs from the University’s COVID-19 Screening Program, the Lab found that Handsome Dan I’s DNA is present in 5% of current Yale students’ genomes.

Though the recently-adopted University custom of neutering incoming Dans makes it highly unlikely that any Dan after Dan XIII could have had the requisite libido to reproduce with a student, before 1994, it was considered commonplace for bold students to enter brief, passionate trysts with Yale’s resident pooch.

“The late 80s were wild,” says a Yale alumnus who asked to remain anonymous. “I took many partners during my undergraduate years, and, while I don’t recall specifics, it would be presumptuous of me to assume that Dan wasn’t one of them.”

The alumnus’s son, a current undergraduate, participated in the study but would not reveal his DNA test results when asked: “My private information is my private information,” says Chris Cuomo, Jr. ’23.

Interestingly, the report also found that the presence of canine DNA Handsome Dan I poses with Scott Scott (Davenport Class of 1896), his almost always coincided “handler” and intimate partner for the with a student’s legacy afbetter part of a decade. filiation.

“Current students—5%, to be exact— have the potential to carry Dan’s DNA to future generations of Yalies,” said Lab Spokesperson Christopher Carlsen ’92. “If current Yale students had as much fun as we had in my day, the Dan legacy might live on in the Yale student body—literally and figuratively.”

Carlsen also advised readers to be on the lookout for the lab’s soon-to-bereleased follow-up study.

“Though the findings are not official yet, we have strong reason to believe that Yale legacy students are disproportionately prone to color blindness, excessive scratching behind the ears, and unprompted private-part sniffing.”

Grandma Keeps Getting Older Legacy Denounces Family Past

BY SOPHIE SPANER STAFF REPORTER GUILFORD, CT — From the wrinkles on her face to the creak in her knees, it has become inarguably evident that the rumors are true: Grandma just keeps getting older.

88-year-old Pauline Dansinger spends her days sitting in a rocking chair that her husband built and smiling out the window, watching what appears to be nothing in particular with great focus.

Sometimes, she takes her glasses off and wipes them down with the hem of her shirt, smearing fingerprints all over the lenses “Grandma’s always been old,” sa Dansinger’s grandson Brad. “At first, I thought her face was just weird. But it’s not just her face. It’s

also her voice and her body and the way she acts. She smells like a dead cat and she only talks about newspaper coupons and her stupid dead husband. I say it’s time for her to kick the bucket and join him.”

Brad’s younger sister Suzy was no more charitable. “Grandma doesn’t even have Cartoon Network on her TV,” she complained.

“All my other friends’ grandmas have Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon and Disney Channel—and they’re allowed to watch The Simpsons. But of course, with my luck, I get the stupid grandma who only watches Antiques Roadshow. ” When asked for her comment, Grandma Dansinger just smiled. “I am so lucky to have such a loving family,” she said. “Such sweethearts.”

Cross Campus IT’S A HARD KNOCK WIFE

Visiting children protested squalid conditions at the Orange Orphanage For Displaced Parents this week. “They’re feeding mommies and daddies gruel and making them scrub the floors with a toothbrush,” said Brayden P., 6. “I wish I could adopt all of them, but I only have room at my house for two.”

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BY JOSEPHINE STARK STAFF REPORTER NEW HAVEN, CT—John Caldwell James Harrington Calhoun VIII, Hopper ’22.5, is receiving university-wide praise after publicly denouncing his family’s controversial past. “I just want to make one thing clear,” announced Calhoun, “I understand the trauma that my ancestors put innocent human beings through. And that is why I am dedicating my life to making a difference.”

Calhoun went on: “I understand that I will never understand.

However, I stand.”

Calhoun claims he knew such a strenuous moral decision was looming in his future: “I definitely felt the pressure,” Calhoun explained, “but the thought of con-

Inside The News Local milkman Carl The Milkman retired this week after almost seventy years of trying unsuccessfully to deliver milk and bed suburban wives. “Nobody wants my milk or my love these days,” Carl told the News. “They just to the grocery store, or to websites like dilf-link.biz. I’m irrelevant.”

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tinuing that legacy just didn’t feel right for me, for the person I want to become, or for the world I want John Caldwell James Harrington Calhoun IX to inherit someday.”

But things became tense in Calhoun’s New York penthouse when he explained his decision to his father, John Caldwell James Harrington Calhoun VII. “My dad said I was giving up my dream, but I had to be frank with him and say, ‘No, Dad, I’m giving up yours,’” Calhoun VIII explained. “I refuse to work at a corrupt and elitist institution like Goldman Sachs. It doesn’t align with my social conscience. I want to make a difference in the world, and that’s why I’ll be accepting a position at Morgan Stanley.”

DADS

CULTURE

LIFESTYLE

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Breaking: Local Dad Doesn’t Say “Let’s Rock And Roll”

Opinion: Same-Sex Friendship On TV Is Destroying America

Life Hack!

Crafting A Fake Child Out Of Mud And Sticks Produces As Much Serotonin As Being A Real Father

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The Yale Record

HOW TO FIGURE OUT IF YOUR STEP MOM WANTS TO FUCK YOU If she smiled at you when you first met, which means that she couldn’t wait to see you.

If she mentioned that “it would be cool if you could call me Mom, but if you’re not comfortable with that, you can just call me Meredith. I know things have been hard since your mother passed, but we can forge a new family together.”

If she ever makes you breakfast. Trader Joe’s toaster-ready hashbrowns are quite the aphrodisiac.

If her feet ever point in your direction while you’re having a conversation. This is a clear sign of interest if you know how to read body language.

If she married your dad. I mean c’mon, you share half the man’s DNA. Could she make it any more obvious?

—M. Kuo MY OVERBEARING SUITEMATE SENT ME TO MY ROOM It all started when my suitemate posted a list of rules on my door. They started pretty simple: 1. Empty your trash regularly 2. Bed must be made by 8:30 a.m.

3. Lights out at 11:30 p.m.

I assumed all suitemates exchanged rules like these, so I tried to respect them. But one night, I lost track of time and walked in a bit later than I planned. Just a little late. Not really late at all. 11:35 pm. But there she was anyway, with her arms crossed and her hair in curlers, aggressively tapping her watch.

“You’ve violated the rules.”

“I know, I know, I lost track of time.”

She arched her brow: “This is your first warning.”

Come the next morning, a new set of rules was posted on my door.

4. Brush your teeth for at least thirty seconds 5. Finish your plate at mealtimes Usually, I’m pretty good at just taking what I want, but one night I scooped a little too much lasagna. When I got back to the room, there she was again.

“Would you like to explain what happened at dinner tonight?”

I tried to duck around her, but the stamp of her foot caught me off guard. “I have had enough of you disrespecting me.” Her fingernails tapped against the developmental psychology textbook she’s always carting around. “You’re GROUNDED. Go to your room.” To smooth things over,

I went.

But the rules only grew more specific and the punishments more dire. Soon she brought out the whip, the brazen bull, the Catapelta, and the cattle prod.

I got out of bed at 8:32 am this morning with her face looming over me and her pocket watch ticking against my ear.

“Good morning...it’s time for your punishment.”

I walk out to find that she had installed a giant cross in our common room, propped alongside the minifridge. “It’s time for crucifixion,” she sing-songed.

After a few hours up there, I decided it had finally gone too far. I knew I had to take it to the dean.

—O. Goldberg ERASING THE EVIDENCE: HOW TO MAKE YOUR SUITE “FAMILY FRIENDLY” IN TIME FOR YOUR PARENTS’ VISIT Step 1: Take stock of what needs to be done: Are there pizza boxes on the floor? Have you done laundry recently, or is the basket overflowing with dirty, crusty socks? Is the mysterious stain on the couch taken care of or have you just put a random pillow over it? Any condom wrappers that missed the trash can? Have you gone nose blind and may need to address the smell of despondency with some overpowering floral Febreeze?

Is your suitemate’s collection of toenail clippings still on the coffee table? Are there any bottles in the fridge (or freezer) that might suggest to your parents that you did not, in fact, know your limits last Saturday and most definitely do, in fact, remember the name of that guy?

Step 2: Once you have your list, throw it in the trash (but miss). Your parents’ aren’t visiting in person anytime soon.

Step 3: Live freely in filth.

—A. Hempel

Ask Old Owl! Dear Old Owl, It has been 11 damn years and my stupid fucking kids have yet to “Parent Trap” me with my ex-wife Sharon.

When I found out we were having twins, I figured I struck gold. I had been wanting to fuck my assistant Linda ever since I hired her straight out of UCSB, but as a family man I didn’t want to just throw away my little slice of domestic bliss for a hot piece of ass without a contingency plan, ya know?

But here I had two identical getout-of-jail-free cards, a couple of bargain price Lohans to throw up the scaffolding if my marriage ever fractured.

Send ‘em off to day camp in a few years and boom I’m back with Sha-

Old Owl is the mascot of the Yale Record, an alcoholic, nicotine-addicted nightbird that roams campus scrounging for vestiges of the relevance he once enjoyed.

ron and Linda’s out of my system. So I splurged on divorce lawyers to lock down the coveted no-contact divided full custody and I studied the hell out of Pavlov to classically condition the twin I won in the settlement to have all the same quirks as her sister.

I won’t lie to you, it was tough to synthesize a shellfish allergy, but with enough persistence the psychosomatic symptoms pretty much covered it. I littered the house with old polaroids and explicit letters, alongside some unpaid alimony checks to give my little sleuth plenty to work with. I also committed to the role: 25 pounds and three inches of beard later it was pretty clear that I wanted some help.

But when I came to camp pick-up day there was my kid, elbow rash and all! They hadn’t even tried to pull the wool over my eyes. And there was Sharon with her new husband Dan, looking all happy in their 2019 Prius with a “Coexist” sticker on the back. They took their kid back with them and even offered that mine join them in the Cape for the last week of August.

What did I do wrong?

Dear Owlet, You have fallen victim to the allure of movie magic. This plan actually only works with triplets and involves a complex rotation-based system. Your marriage is lost forever. Better luck next time!

14 billion years ago God creates the name “Jeff ” and chooses it for himself due to its absolute perfection.

177 million years ago:The first dinosaur named Jeff, “Jeffreysaurus,” is born.

841 A.D. Medieval English king “Goofy the Terrible” changes his name to “Geoffrey” in an attempt to gain the respect of his subjects. He is respected even less.

Parents begin to name their children “Geoffrey” in order to ensure they remain humble.

177 - 2 million years ago The worst of the Jeff Dark Ages commences, as millions of years pass without anything like a Jeff.

2 million years ago Giraffes emerge. Definitely a step down from “Jeffreysaurus,” but for the first time in millions of years, another animal with a name sounding vaguely like “Jeff ” walks the earth.

1500 B.C. Some idiot mishears “Jeffrey” as “Yahweh,” and an opportunity to spread the most glorious name to ever exist is snuffed out forever.

841 - 1800 Another Jeff Dark Age, wherein the name Jeff is mistakenly spelled “Geoff ” all across the world. God weeps.

The History Of A Name A Timeline

1800 Thomas Jefferson becomes the first president of the United States whose name includes “Jeff,” popularizing the name Jeff and setting the stage for a Jeff Golden Age.

—B. Hollander-Bodie Design by A. Jeddy

January 1952 A Pennsylvania couple is visited by an angel, who instructs them to immediately conceive a child and name him “Jeff.”

July 2021 Just found out about Jeffrey Dahmer. Damn.

177 million years ago The first dinosaur named Jeff, “Jeffreysaurus,” is a total loser and dies without his bones sinking into some kind of swampland, destroying his chances of fossilizing and being remembered by generations to come.

October 22, 1952 Jeff Goldblum is born.

January 2017 Suddenly, all those times watching Jurassic Park late into the wee hours of the night paint a different picture.

I’m no longer just named Jeff because some lady felt like it. I’m Jeff, named after the great Jeff Goldblum.

I’m heir to a legacy whose scope is barely comprehensible. I carry God’s chosen name during the Golden Age of Jeffrey history. I’m Jeff.

June 1993 Jurassic Park, starring Jeff Goldblum, premieres in theaters, marking the peak of the Jeff Golden Age. 1993-2000 My mother, unbeknownst to all but herself, harbors a deep lust for Jeff Goldblum and names me “Jeff ” out of a combination of longing and self-mockery.

December 2016 My mother dies in a tragic car accident. Her last words are “Jeff Goldblum.”