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THE PERFECT LIFEFORM? YALE
SCHOOL OF THE ENVIRONMENT
TEACHES FISH HOW TO CLIMB A TREE AMBITIOUS SEMINAR PARTICIPANT ACCIDENTALLY BREAKS THURMOND’S 1957 FILIBUSTER RECORD
“LIKE THE GUY WHO ROLLS THE BOULDER UP THE HILL?” SAYS PERFORMATIVE MALE DIAGNOSED WITH SYPHILIS
“BEAUTY IS IN THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER,” SAYS SEXY BEEKEEPER
Dear Park Ranger John,
Do I spray myself with bear spray before or after I see the bear?
From, Billy
LOUVRE JEWELS FOUND IN THE PEABODY MUSEUM
Dear Billy, I hope you get selected by nature.
From, Park Ranger John
MAN WHO “LIVES IN THE MOMENT” CRUSHED BY GRANDFATHER CLOCK
“BABY, I WAS BORN THIS WAY!” SHOUTS MAN WHO IS NAKED, CRYING, AND COVERED IN GOO
PALANTIR STOCK SKYROCKETS AFTER RELEASING NEW “PEOPLE-EATING ROBOT”
“YAOI ! ” THAT’S THE SOUND I MAKE WHEN I STUB MY TOE
Dear Hunter Therapist, I feel targeted in this session.
Best, Client
TEA BAG IN HOT WATER WISHES EVERYONE COULD JUST GET OOLONG
Dear Client/Prey,
Can you take a few steps to the right? Yeah, right there. Don’t mind the red dot on your forehead.
Best, Hunter Therapist
MONSTERS ACTUALLY NOT THAT SCARY WHEN YOU’RE A BIG KID
Dear Barber,
Shave me like one of your French girls ;)
Best, Louis
Dear John, I hate how good your selective hearing is.
Sincerely, Bob
Dear Bob, I, too, hate how good my hearing is.
Sincerely, John
THE NEW TROJAN HORSE? I JUST ATE THREE THOUSAND ANTS
AM I CRAZY, OR IS HORSE CENTIPEDE A GOOD IDEA? YA KNOW, LIKE THE HUMAN CENTIPEDE?
MAN IN GENDER STUDIES CLASS HAS SOMETHING TO SAY THAT NO ONE HAS EVER HEARD BEFORE
FOR SALE:
Barrel of Radioactive Goop (Geiger Counter Sold Separately).
WANTED
Someone to Cannibalize.
Obituary Correction
Me! I survived the nuclear blast, guys! Can you please let me into the bunker? I’m only a big green freak now.
Did You Know?
I haven’t been bitten by a zombie. And even if I have — let’s just entertain it — even if I have, like, what if I’m immune? Like, we just wouldn’t know unless we waited it out. Anyway, can I eat your brains?
My father once told me, “The End is nigh, the End is nigh!” while shaking me awake in the middle of the night like a hungry bear. We didn’t always have the best relationship, but I took that lesson to heart. Whether it’s nuclear war, the zombie outbreak, or your meth head father, you have to be prepared for anything. Ever since that night, for instance, I’ve slept with a hammer underneath my pillow.
That’s not all I’ve done to prepare. Although nuclear war, much like me, would last for only a few seconds, it would decimate the population, level cities, and — in general — be really inconvenient for everyone. So, I’ve spent the last six months converting my bedroom into a nuke-proof shelter. I reinforced the walls with three inches of aluminum foil, stocked the closet with three years’ supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and — as of yesterday — barricaded myself in with seventeen volumes of 20th-century feminist literature. And I’m already halfway through the Pabst.
Frankly, I’ve done too much work for the apocalypse not to happen. Every day, I’ve been calling the UN to stoke the flames of global annihilation, impersonating world leaders like your friend who thinks it’s still OK to do accents. Today, I was the President of Latvia. I called Estonia’s office, and when the clerk picked up, I said, “Hello, Estonia, President Rink ē vičs on the line.” The clerk responded, “Rink ē vičs? Millele ma selle rõõmu võlgnen?” Then I said, “Loser says what?” And the clerk said, “Mida?” Then I said, “Haha got ’em” and hung up. I think he got the gist.
Given the rapidly escalating global tensions, I’d recommend making a plan for when the bombs finally do drop. It’s not like I’m letting you into my shelter — there’s only enough beer in here for one alcoholic. And if you somehow find a way inside, I’m beating you to death with my hammer. That’s the #1 rule of the apocalypse: Don’t mess with hammers. Now, if you listen to my other rules, you might just have a shot at survival.
Rule #2 of the apocalypse: Eat your friends. I think I’m speaking for everyone when I say that the only thing stopping us from being cannibals is the law. I know we’ve all been there: You’re sitting alone with your buddy, and the sunlight hits them just right, causing a bead of sweat to glisten down their sumptuous face, like the universe is on its knees, begging you to eat them. Your stomach growls pleadingly. You lick your lips. If stupid laws weren’t in the way, you’d leap across the table and devour them in one sloppy gulp. Well, in the apocalypse, laws don’t exist! The social contract is nothing more than a napkin.
Rule #3: Radioactive water is actually good for you. Think about it: The only thing that would make regular water better is if it gave you superpowers. You’ve seen the movies. If you drank glowing green water, you’d almost certainly become “water man,” and if Hollywood still existed in the smouldering ruins of Los Angeles, you’d be entitled to a three-movie deal. Then, after a lucrative career of squirting irradiated water from your wrists, you’d retire in Malibu and microdose ketamine in peace.
Rule #4: Have fun! These rules are listed in order of importance, so before you have fun, make sure you’ve dealt with the hammers. Simone De Behaviour once said, “I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life. I want to be a woman and to be a man, to have many friends and to have loneliness, to work much and write good books, to travel and enjoy myself, to be selfish and to be unselfish,” which, if you peel back the layers, basically means “have fun!” Trust me: I’m three volumes into my 20th-century feminist literature, and I think I’m getting the hang of it.
What are some ways you could have fun in the apocalypse? War, or you could chill with your friends! Well, no — you should’ve eaten them by now. Perhaps you need new, less edible friends, like a clan of coked-up raiders who pillage shanty towns and never shower. You’d wear spiky clothes, drive spikier cars, and worship the lord of your clan, whose name would probably be something like “Spikiest Johnson.” You can’t help but admire Spikiest Johnson. After all, his leather leotard, which is made of human skin, is much spikier than everyone else’s. Whenever you and your mates go out
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on the town, razing cabins and slaughtering vagrants, your eyes are inexplicably drawn to Spikiest Johnson. What’s so special about him? The way gore glistens off his chest spikes? The way he lunges at hapless survivors, screaming, “Give us a hug!”? His smile? Yeah, that must be it.
After a busy day of massacring villagers, you and your mates pile the bodies in the center of town for a good ol’ bonfire. Your musical mate Ban-Joe, who’s missing an eye but has three opposable thumbs, whips out his battle-axe/guitar and launches into a merry diddy, the lead single from his debut LP, “I Am About to Kill You.” Spikiest Johnson is electric. He swirls around the bonfire like Tonya Harding — if Tonya Harding wore her enemies’ skins.
Suddenly, Spikiest Johnson stops spinning and stares right into your puppy-dog eyes. “Oh my God,” you mutter yearningly, your lungs squeezing out air like a saggy balloon. An invisible, aching force compels you forward as Spikiest Johnson slings an imaginary lasso around your waist and reels you in. Your mates start howling with laughter, but you don’t care. As you watch the fire dance in Spikiest Johnson’s crazed, bloodred eyes, it feels like the universe was made just for you.
Spikiest Johnson then bludgeons you with the hammer he was hiding behind his back. Goddamit, dude, it’s rule #1 for a reason!
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POINT: SAVE YOURSELF
Dear reader,
The days of judgment have arrived! It is time to test your mettle against the horde of savages pounding up against your bunker door and see if you can outlast them. Yes, you! You were burdened with the beautiful purpose of ensuring the survival of the human race. Saving yourself means saving humanity. You and your stockpile of canned food, a satellite radio, and eye bags that continue to darken. Hundreds of millions have died, but not you. No, you are too smart to die, too prepared, too cunning.
You are stronger than you think. Strong enough to power through, to live on—indefinitely—underground, with bunkermates no one else would take. But you’re above that! Sure, your roommate never washes his hands, but we have bigger problems. You are the chosen among the fold: stay indoors, disinfect your wounds, purify the water you find, ration the powdered milk you have, and sit real tight. There are books to read, artworks to make, songs to sing! You need to live on, so that you can pass on your wisdom to your children, ones destined to be born with the hope of one day reclaiming the wasteland that was Connecticut.
We humans have so much to live for! Right?
COUNTERPOINT:
NOT THAT MUCH TO LIVE FOR
years of bunker life? Worst-case scenario: you smolder and go out anyway. I’m no econ major, but there is something to be said for the cost-benefit analysis here. There is no grace in dying of tetanus. Being bitten by a zombie? Sounds pretty rad to me.
Furthermore, being a zombie sounds kinda chill? They’re rarely alone. Just picture it: you and the gang, roaming the streets, a shared goal in mind? To eat others’ minds? Call that community.
I’ll try anything once.
1Jaden Smith, circa 2018.
ANNUAL LETTER TO MCKINSEY SHAREHOLDERS 2026
Dude,
Given the political and economic state of the world right now1, this may be your top bet. Best-case scenario, ten more
This year has not been easy. We’ve seen the start of a global zombie outbreak; widespread food, water, and energy shortages; and most concerningly, severe market volatility. These conditions are challenging to governments, companies, and citizens alike. As always, we have partnered with our clients and communities to respond, and we are proud to announce that this year, we helped our clients build nearly 200 new businesses, creating more than 20,000 jobs and $140 billion in value. These comprise some of the most important companies in our new world order, including but
—N. Belongie
not limited to Hilton Shelter Services, Marriott Supremely Safe Shelters, and Holiday Inn’s Budget Shelter Lodgings, which together constitute over 90% of the shelters currently operating. These groups have also switched to an innovative biweekly subscription model at our behest, resulting in over $80 billion in profits for our clients.
While we are excited by this, we are even more motivated by it. We are continually raising our sights, with every client engagement, every day: How can we drive even more economic growth and innovation? One of our partners, Pfizer Biowarfare, has taken this innovative approach to heart and has come up with something truly revolutionary. With their new BiteAway technology, just two shots a month can delay the effects of a zombie bite, something that previously meant transformation within the week. We have worked extensively with them on the pricing and rollout of this drug, and we feel confident that the cost of just $800 per shot should maximize profits while maintaining affordability just enough to keep our customers satisfied with their experience of life.
For those who do end up transforming, we have found incredible success in employing these individuals in low-skill jobs. As they are not strictly “alive,” legally, we do not have to pay them. We have learned they are highly motivated by food, which we have provided them through our brain donation program, generously contributed to by those who have found themselves unable to keep up with their shelter subscriptions. Due to the stigma surrounding these individuals that has at times prevented our living employees from wanting to work alongside them, we recommend immediate workplace training modules educating people about the correct ways to refer to these individuals. We recommend “unalived” or “transformed.” We at McKinsey work hard to ensure our employees don’t feel discriminated against, especially not the unalived.
As many of you are aware, we were approached at the onset of the outbreak by a group of researchers claiming to have found a cure for zombism, which we quickly purchased. We have found our decision to delay the release of said cure has been incredibly fruitful, as our food, water, shelter, and BiteAway pricing models have proved that the value we can bring our stakeholders is much greater than a one-time cure, which would likely eradicate most of the virus and lose the loyal customer base we have built strong relationships with. At this time, we have decided to cancel any release plans for the cure. However, should any of our valued stakeholders desire it for personal use, it could absolutely be made available.
Stay safe, McKinsey & Company
— A. Feldman
POINT: WE SHOULD NOT LET ZOMBIES INTO OUR BUNKER
Dearest Bunker Residents,
It is with mild distress that I must protest the recent suggestion that we allow zombies into our secure, painstakingly deodorized bunker.
While I appreciate the spirit of diversity, equity, and inclusivity, I would like to remind everyone that zombies are literally the reason we are underground eating expired spam in the first place. They are, by all observable metrics:
1. Aggressive.
2. Gassy.
3. Extremely loyal to the Hannibal Lecter diet.
4. Incapable of playing even one respectful round of Catan.
Studies (citation: me, watching Greg get mauled) have shown that zombies do not contribute meaningfully to a communal living space. They don’t do chores. They don’t engage in non-lethal group activities. They don’t even pretend to recycle. In fact, the last time we invited one in “just for a chat,” Greg lost two fingers and a promising relationship with the girl from the radio.
To conclude: if we let them in, we die. I will not die in a pile of bean cans because someone felt “bad for the gooey man at the window.” I urge you to reconsider.
Respectfully and still in possession of all limbs, Steve
COUNTERPOINT: I’M HUNGRY
Hi all,
I just licked a scented candle to see if it would trick my brain into thinking it was birthday cake, and I’m not doing well. So let me be very clear: I am going to eat a zombie.
This isn’t a debate anymore. They are meat. I don’t care if it twitches. I want it to twitch. That means it’s fresh.
Also, sidenote: if someone doesn’t do something soon, I will be eating Steve. He keeps calling his spam “charcuterie,” and I’m at my limit.
Forks up, Desperate and Starving
10-day forecast
—S. Abbasi
MY LIFE AS THE MOST CHARISMATIC APOCALYPSE SURVIVOR
I hear a lot of nonsense that the best skill to have in an Apocalypse is something other than charisma. Like combat skills, resourcefulness, quick thinking… I disagree. As a pro apocalypse survivor (on my sixth as we speak), I can confidently say charisma is the undefeated, uncontested, ultimate champion of apocalypse skills. If someone tells you anything else, they are either stupid or just plain lyin’. Don’t believe me? Here are two different examples where I came out on top purely because of my charisma.
Apocalypse #2: The Nuclear Food Swap
Food is scarce after a nuclear fallout. Everything is growing a third toe or a second head. Like, do you really want to try to eat that sentient, screaming bag of Doritos? Absolutely not. So this one time, we were all chilling in the bunker. I’m tryna pull Crystal, this hot girl. So I go to a random bunkermate’s room, and I just turn on the ol’ rizz, you know?
“What’s good, my brother from another bunker?”(Smooth opener, I know.)
The guy just stared at me. “Who are you?”
Any pro Apocalypse Survivor knows the right time to avoid a question. “Hey, you know that girl living under the abandoned fire station, Crystal?”
The guy’s eyes lit up. “Yes, yes, I do. What about her?”
“Well, I heard her favorite food was…” I scanned his shelf. “Korean cup noodles, the one with the raccoon logo.”
“Oh! I have that right here.”
“What a coincidence. I think she would really appreciate it if you gave it to her.” I said with a wink.
After that, I just went straight to Crystal and told her: “My delivery boy will give you something special in the next couple days. Courtesy of yours truly, of course.” And I winked at her as well.
Soon enough, Crystal came running back to me, kissed me on the cheek, and thanked me for the food.
Two days later, we were cuddling in bed, and all three of her legs were wrapped around me. Easy peasy nuclear squeezy.
Apocalypse #5: The Zombie Sacrifice
Let me set the scene: a road full of zombies, a department store stocked with food lying on the other side of the zombie horde, and some random guy named Derek sitting next to me. Anyways, we had all done our little calculations in our head, and realized that if one person just ran on ahead, the zombies would all go for them. So I opened my mouth and started straight yapping.
“Hey Derek, do you love your mother?” I asked.
“Uhmmmm, yeah…?” Derek said.
“Okay, well, do you want to make her proud?”
“Yeah…”
So I put on the most serious, inspiring Napoleon face I could, and said, “You know, Derek, if you really want to make your mother proud, you would lead the group across the road. Show some damn initiative like a real man.” I gave him a stern smack on the back.
Derek smiled. “Yeah, you’re right.”
And that dumb freaking idiot did it. He stood up, proud as a peacock, and charged into the fray. We all went the other direction and didn’t look back when the screaming started.
Clearly, in all scenarios, no other weak, puny, sad skill would have helped me. But charisma, charisma is the key to living a fun life in an apocalypse. Before I go, though, could you deliver that can of soup to Katty? The cutie with six toes? I hear she likes you ;)
WORST
WAYS TO DIE IN THE APOCALYPSE
1. Slowly
2. In France
3. Backstabby bunker buddy
4. Vigilante toddler
5. A meteor hits you as a nuclear bomb goes off while a zombie eats your brain
6. Voted most delicious in friend group
7. AI girlfriend betrays you
8. Alone. So alone.
9. Falling radioactive anvil
10. On the wrong side of history
11. Ceiling blocks you from being raptured
12. Forgot to put apocalypse in GCal
13. In vain
— A. Lee
— S. Grouf
— A. Phan
IS YOUR BUNKER-MATE A PERFORMATIVE MALE?
Hey ladies! The apocalypse sure is tough, but you know what’s tougher? Distinguishing genuine intellectual depth and emotional availability from the pretensions of Labubu-sporting, vinyl-collecting, Sappho-misquoting poseurs. Luckily, I’m here to help! Here are six signs your bunker-mate might be a performative male.
1. He insists on trekking to the ruins of your local used bookstore for charred fragments of The Bell Jar.
When asked about his favorite part, he stammers, “Uh… like… the jar? And the bell?”
2. He claims that the apocalypse wouldn’t have happened if the government had provided free menstrual products.
… Because maybe then women would have had more goodwill towards humanity and channeled their PMS rage into fighting for our survival instead of nagging their boyfriends for putting the dishes away wrong. (“Kidding! Babe, I’m kidding. Jeez. Must be someone’s time of the month.”)
3. As a feminist, he thinks women are actually better
than men at killing zombies. He goes on to explain that this is why you should be the one to risk life and limb foraging for supplies while he hangs out in the bunker sipping a matcha latte.
4. He wears a “thrifted” bulletproof vest (that he stole from his ex girlfriend).
Yes, they’re still friends. No, it’s not weird. It’s so sad that society has conditioned you to think men and women can’t be friends.
5. Actually, all of his friends are women. Conveniently, they have all been eaten by zombies, so he can’t introduce you.
6. He wears wire headphones. Music streaming doesn’t exist anymore, but that doesn’t stop him from tucking his dead iPod into the pocket of his jorts, nodding along to some imaginary Clairo song, and pretending not to hear you when you call him out on his bullshit.
— A. Parker
THINGS I MISS ABOUT THE PRE-APOCALYPTIC WORLD
• How the birds would chirp in the morning as I’d sit on the porch with my coffee and wave to my neighbor leaving for work.
• Those little spontaneous interactions while running errands. I’d always bump into Brian, the guy next door, at the grocery store, and he’d laugh, and then I’d laugh!
• The smell of fresh bread from the corner bakery.
• Freshly baked lasagna, just pulled out of the oven. I don’t cook, but the smell would always waft over from Brian’s place.
• Watching the leaves change color with the turn of the season.
• Watching Brian rake the leaves.
• The crisp breeze hitting my face on the hikes I’d take down to the gorge.
• Running into Brian on the way back. He’d ask how many times it was this week that we’d run into each other, and then I’d laugh. Spontaneity!
• Probably the birds. Let’s just do the birds again.
• Doing little neighborly favors. You know, like lending an egg, watering someone’s plants. I just love that look in someone’s eyes when you’ve just done them a solid. Like, all those weekends working on the bunker just felt SO worth it when Brian came rushing into my backyard, explaining he had nowhere else to shelter from the impending nuclear explosion. Now I’ll finally get that lasagna recipe out of him!
— O. Dartley
HOW TO PROFIT DURING THE APOCALYPSE
Hey, you there! Yes, I’m talking to you. Are you feeling down because the world is about to end? Well, womp womp. Humanity is coming to a close, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Throw out your dreams of curing cancer or raking it in on Wall Street and get real. My advice: adopt the hustler’s mindset. Think about how much you can benefit from the mass suffering all around you! While everyone else is freaking out, recognize the incredible opportunity that has been gifted to you to profit.
Here are different ways to take advantage of others in these troubling times:
1. Constantly remind people of their imminent demise. You can get them to do basically anything for you when it helps put off their existential dread. #YOLO.
2. Exploit people’s heightened emotions and get some play. Your ex is going to want one more spin when they think about losing you forever.
3. Pull the classic Create-A-Problem-And-Solve-It to become rich. “Have you heard about the apocalypticacne epidemic? For just $49.99 my cream will have you covered.”
4. Monopolize the supply of pharmaceuticals. While most people are feeling down bad, selling them your supply of Xanax will keep you up good.
5. Abuse the “I’ve got a lot on my mind” to excuse all of your shitty behaviour (fake crying helps here).
6. Sacrifice people for fun.
7. Use the panic to loot, steal, and rob. Most people will be apathetic to this anyways.
THE UNETHECIST
By H. Lowitz, PhD
I am delighted to kick off my brand-new column with answers to your most pressing moral, philosophical, actionable, and, chiefly, ethical questions. Life is difficult. At times, we must make decisions. Strawberry or blueberry? Green or blue? Cake or fake? With my guidance, I aim to help as many people as possible. My peer-reviewed advice is yours for the taking, and if you don’t take it, well, um, just, you know, just think about what that says about you. Erm, anyway, let’s get right into it.
“I asked my boyfriend if he’d still love me if I were a zombie, and he said no! What should I do?” — Anonymous, 18 Troubling, troubling. I am of the opinion that your boyfriend is already a zombie, and this is his way of keeping you off his trail. There is no other logical explanation, given that it would cost him nothing to say yes, and yet he said no. Now that we have established that your boyfriend is a zombie, you must answer a complicated yet common question amongst my clients: Should you let him bite you so that you can be zombies together and have more similar interests with which to fill conversations? If you don’t love him now that you know he’s a zombie, there are WikiHow articles that can help you. I am only so knowledgeable.
“Can there be sexism against men?” — Sarah, 27 Great question. The answer is absolutely, Sarah! Here are some great ways to be sexist toward the men in your life:
1. Stomping
2. Ask them to smile for you
3. Insult their intelligence
4. Insult their looks
5. Pay them less
“Is it wrong to lie about my height?” — Frank, 24
Frank, that is preposterous, and you are a vile, vile man for considering this. Lying is sick and twisted in any context and in any form. I suggest you look at yourself in the mirror and spit at yourself. Spit again and again and again. Then maybe lie down and spit upwards so it falls back down on you. Feel the shame. Feel it. Then, I suggest you book a flight to Istanbul.
LOVE LETTER TO MY POST-NUCLEAR CRUSH
Dear Blake,
It is imperceptible, the small changes in this defiant new era, not entirely unlike the pulsing heat of a sun storm, the smoke dripping in green tones over my bare skin. So it was when I realized that you had seeped into my bloodstream without notice. The alarms did not sound for my minuscule revelations. But I began to dream (that was the change, the difference). I only met you once, my love, in a glance from across the communal mess hall, but I can already tell that you are the one for me. I dream of wildflowers and a terrestrial sunset, of raised cityscapes; I floated amongst warm bodies, and we sat on curbsides together waiting for hordes of my zombified situationships. You reach for me in a kitchen where we rehydrate MREs, and I pull you in while we’re standing in front of the cabinets with the Tajin and the rat preserves. In my wild visions, we go aboveground tonight, swimming in the gooey green water, and when I pull you onto the shoreline, you are glowing — with radiation poisoning. You glow like the roaches I see from my bunker window, glow like my heart as it beats arrhythmiatically for you. It really enhances the way your subtly green flesh sits on your bones, methinks. And who cares what my parents will think? So what if you’ve been freakishly mutated with a thumb where your nose should be? All’s fair in love and nuclear war…
Yours for all eternity (or at least until the planet explodes), Annie
— G. Xu
WHERE ARE THEY NOW? POLITICIANS AFTER THE ALIEN INVASION
1. Donald Trump : Unsurprisingly, President Trump did not fare well. Not only was he physically unfit to outrun the aliens, but he also believed the clawing masses outside the White House were “January 6 patriots” returning to secure his third term.
2. JD Vance : Ever the opportunist, JD offered to work for the aliens, describing his change in employment as “strategically aligned with my Appalachian roots.” He now commands a mid-level unit in the alien militia and has already written the foreword to Hillbilly Elegy II: A Memoir of an Apocalypse and a Man in Crisis .
3. Bernie Sanders : Bernie was last seen lecturing bewildered Martian foot soldiers about the urgent need
for a wealth tax on intergalactic billionaires. During his speech, a solar flare suddenly shot down and incinerated Sanders. Talk about feeling the Bern.
4. The Obamas : The aliens adore the Obamas. Barack now serves as senior advisor on universal healthcare for extraterrestrials, rebranding it “obamacare and it’s completely different but also still obamacare.” Michelle has begun drafting her next bestseller, Abducting , a hopeful account of family life under gentle extraterrestrial surveillance. Their daughters are reportedly also thriving and enjoying a secret service-free life.
5. Elon Musk : Musk attempted to flee in a prototype flying Cybertruck. His advisors encouraged him to think about bringing his fourteen children and their four mothers, to which Musk replied, “Who?” Intercepted by alien patrols, Musk quickly devised a plan to colonize their spaceship via mass procreation.
6. Sydney Sweeney : The aliens, though initially unimpressed by Sweeney’s phenotype, spared her because they particularly enjoyed watching Euphoria . Their tolerance waned after an officer tried her “Bathwater Bliss Bar Soap” and had an allergic reaction so severe, they declared her a planetary biohazard. Sweeney now resides in interstellar solitary confinement, reportedly negotiating a TV deal with TruthSocial to stream her captivity.
— S. Herbert
SOBER BUDDY SURVIVES THE APOCALYPSE
DELETE THE DATING APPS: WHY I WORSHIP THE RADIOACTIVE FISH BOY
Being a stripper is a losing game in the apocalypse. You’d think, with all the stress, that people would want something to get it out of their system – but no, business is bad. Trust me, I tried to hold out hope, but eventually, I had to close up shop. The zombies just kept banging on my boarded-up windows, asking for brains, and not the kind I charge for. (Though my profession might lead you to assume otherwise, I typically hold out until the third date.)
I made it two weeks before the zombies broke through the front doors and started swarming me. I was like, please, one at a time, gentlemen. Thank God the pole was still intact, albeit mildly irradiated. I pulled out some of my best moves to distract them while I grabbed the shotgun from under the front counter. Some of their guts got stuck on the point of my stilettos, which were such a pain to clean.
Since then, I’ve been holed up in the aquarium next door to the club. They built it before shit hit the fan, something about ethical urban development and consolidating business personnel. It smells just like my old place — fishy. Not many survivors come through here, though. When I can get the radio to work, I hear there’s been another spill. More government yucky chemicals. New strain of something or other. Blah blah. I don’t care all that much, though I wouldn’t mind some company. Reader, I confess it’s been lonely. I wish the fish could talk, or at least find me attractive. They just don’t have the taste that humans do. Plus, I’ve been spear fishing them every night for dinner, so they’re probably afraid of me.
But anyway, one night, just after I’d finished my daily pilates routine, I started hearing this flopping noise. Something wet. Something moaning. Possibly the good kind. It sounded like it was coming from the main tanks. I wiped the sweat off my brow, adjusted my bra, and grabbed the shotgun to investigate. It was this yellow thing, flopping about. He had gills, webbed feet, a human face, and other human parts. “Looks like I’m eating seafood tonight,” I whispered.
He winked at me from his puddle of radiation and rasped out something about water. I caught the hint. So, I took a swig from my canteen, gave him sloppy mouth-to-mouth, and threw him back into the tank. Once he started swimming around, the color really came back to his scales. The excess radiation hurt like hell, though. By the time it stopped burning, alligator scales had grown over the tops of my hands. ‘Tis the price of love. We took things slow. I had nothing better to do, and he literally could not leave. And I don’t wanna hear about Stockholm syndrome. Like, let a girl be with her fish-man in peace. I give him nightly performances. He teaches me bubble language. I still don’t understand it, but I’m learning. Or should I say oo
Oo oOOooo OOOoo o o o o. The point is, if you’re tired of matching with zombies on dating apps, you could always go for the sexy fish freak.
— A. Siciliano
THE RECORD ASKS: WHO CAN DO THE BEST IMPRESSION OF A ZOMBIE WHO IS ALSO AN EVIL CYBORG WHO IS ALSO A NUCLEAR BOMB?
SQUIRREL emotes, “������”
CHRISTINA remarks, “Yum, I love eating brains/cyborg parts/uranium.”
AARON powers up,W“Ooooouuuuruguruuuzooooooooommm mKAAAABLAAAAAMMMM!”
ANNA cartoonishly falls over, “Uggggh-bleaggh-clang-clatterKERPOW!”
CALLUM screams, “Buuhhhh-my-existance-is-paiBOOOM.”
SOFIA types, *insert Minecraft zombie noises*
AN admits, “Hello, I am Elon Musk.”
SIERRA apologizes, “Bleahaerihihgrohregohre. But wait, also, so sorry I’m submitting this late. I completely forgot because I was in DC all day!”
ELIZABETH scats, “TickBEEPtickBORPtickBRAI NStickRUUGUHHAHtick[silence of initial impact] BOOM!”
ERIC clanks, “DOOOOO DOOOOOO DOOOOO KABLOOOOEYYYYYYY — As an AI assistant, I am unable to help you with your request.”
— Staff
“Remember when Jason peed his pants in front of the class?” — N. Belongie
SWITCHBOARD
A beat-up sign made of corrugated tin: The Switchman’s Booth. There are a few of ‘em all over the land, generally in peaceful, well-to-do areas. Tall wooden posts driven into the ground connect buzzing black elastic to some gizmo at the back of the booth; some engineer 400 acres away might know how to fix it. The posts are all over, as if some deity up above shot them in without a care for accuracy or precision.
It’s unassuming, and the roving bands of raiders tend to avoid it. Probably because the sign out back reads “[2][1][8] DEAD FROM ELECTROCUTION. ARE YOU NEXT?” Back in the days of highways, drivers without their seatbelts wouldn’t give a damn about messages such as these, but the raiders care more about leaving Genghis Khan-sized legacy of children than to end up dead with only seven.
Don’t be fooled by its meekness. This little booth is the most important piece of infrastructure post-reclamation, and by God, it’s a miracle that this shoddy box exists in the first place. I took it for granted myself, until one day, ol’ Gramps Ned parked his ‘19 F150 out front and procured a snarl of copper serving as a nest to some telephone-whatchamacallit unit resting above.
“Them posts came up,” Gramps arches his back and nearly drops the telephone, balancing with his hands outstretched like a worn scarecrow.
“Posts?”
“Look ‘round ya’. They’re everywhere.”
I step off the porch and see wood rising from the ground everywhere. I lived by the sea in the before-times, and pictures of many wooden masts from those days faded in and out of my vision.
Gramps follows me to one of those posts, a little copper tap at the bottom like those faucets the government water used to come from. The copper split into many ends and ended with a little plastic nibblet, which inserted into the back of the phone-dingledongle. It jingles upon insertion. Ol’ Ned gives me a look, and I let the speaker-piece graze my ear to listen.
“SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS”
I slam down the handle. “Th’ fuck?”
“Is static,” says Gramps. “Press the zero with it to your ear.”
I try again, this time bearing the knowledge of Ol’ Ned, and I hear a man on the other side.
“Operator switchman.”
“What?”
“Operator switchman. Ya’ called for me, no?”
“This is my first time using the telephone-whatchamacallit.”
“Well, alright. Ya’ must be a youngin’, figures.”
“Yesssir, ‘bout as ol’ as a teethin’ super mutant.”
“This telephone lets ya’ dial anyone in the county. Though you didn’t hear it from me, I can get ya’ connected with some extra special people away from this neck of the woods.”
“Surprise me then.”
“Right, one moment.”
A dial tone plays, massaging the hole where my ear used to be before the radiation melted it off.
“Hi there, my name’s Mike with LifeAlert™! Did you know that if you give me your information within the next twenty minutes, I can ship you a free-”
I slam down the phone.
“Whatcha’ do that for?” Ol’ Ned shouts.
“Huh?”
“I needed that LifeAlert™ thingamajig. I’m old, frail, an’ my bones don’t work as well as they used to.”
“They be wantin’ our money. They ain’t legit.”
“No one’s legit in this day and age. How do ya’ think I got this telephone-whatchamacallit?”
WHAT I PUT IN MY BUNKER
1. Spam
2. Twenty cases of Sparkling Peach Vibe Celsius
3. Lifetime supply of Twinkies
4. Twink
5. Great-Grandma’s ashes (if the food situation becomes desperate)
6. The Care and Keeping of You by Valorie Schaefer
7. Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? box set DVD + player
8. Morphine
9. Hull’s Cough Drops (blue)
10. Microbrewery how-to guide
11. Frozen breast milk
12. “Live Laugh Love” poster
— E. Song
— S. Grouf
h wretched fiend who plagues our darkest night!
A creature worse than nightmares yet could make, Could you possess an unforeseen de light?
A charm my mortal heart just begs to take?
Your rotting skin a darling vomit green, Your gut’ral moan that takes my heart in flight, Your putrid stench, your one eye’s blackened sheen,
The way you make my comrades run in fright!
I yearn to feel the maggots on your lips, Which sultry whisper “braaaaaiiiiiins” into my ear, I wonder what it would be like to kiss, A creature that has been deceased for years. Come closer, please, my decomposing hunk,
I wonder if a zombie knows to – wait oh no no no stop that what are you –AHHHHH! AHHH!
—S. Lanz
TOP FIVE NEW HAVEN LOCATIONS FOR LAST GOON!
5. Your Dorm Room
Is it comfy? Yes. Does it have privacy? Ehh, most of the time. Does it lack originality? Most definitely. However, we can’t leave out this classic when it comes to the legacy of goonery. The faint smell of mildew and lack of fresh air pleasantly reminds any gooner of their homeland: mother’s basement.
4. The New Haven Green
Are you ready to try something new, to add a little bit of spice to your last goon? Then get ready to touch some grass for the first time! With the added publicity and lack of civil order, the New Haven Green is the perfect place to prepare for the apocalypse during the most important five minutes of your day.
3. Connecticut Financial Tower Rooftop
Do you want to stick it to the man—or rather, stick it up to the man? Defy your capitalist overlords that started this apocalypse in the only way you know how: gooning. Will this help anything? No! Were you useful to pre-apocalyptic society? Also no, but at least you get to use your only skill to scorn the unjust status quo.
2. Benjamin Franklin College Benjamin Franklin Statue Bench
Let’s face it: by now, you are cold and lonely in the apocalypse. But let’s be honest: you were cold and lonely before the apocalypse, too. Leave that in the past, and just be cold! With good ol’ Ben Frank beside you, you don’t have to be alone for your final apogée.
1. East Rock
The view of New Haven looks so beautiful, especially while gooning. Might as well drop your pants before the bombs and enjoy it.
— C. Kuwahara
SURVIVAL KIT UNBOXING, TOP TEN PULLS
1. Rations that actually taste good (Trader Joes Takis)
2. Crank powered flashlight
3. Gas mask
4. Medical supplies (extra benzodiazepines — yippee!)
5. A hatchet to fight the zombies outside
6. Bandaids perfect for covering bite wounds
7. Handbook: “How to Identify Bite Wounds”
8. Handbook: “How to Lie to Your Friends About Being Bitten by a Zombie”
9. Handbook: “What to do When Your Friends Start Looking
Really Tasty”
10. Canned brains–I mean Spam–I mean brains–braaaaaaiiinnsss
SIGNS YOUR TINDER DATE MIGHT ACTUALLY BE A ZOMBIE
1. He’s missing more than one or two limbs.
2. Uses common English phrases out of context—when you agree to go thrifting with him and ask if you can bring a friend, he says, “Two heads are better than one!”
3. His favorite show is The Walking Dead
4. Or his favorite show is Joey, the failed Friends spinoff .
5. Returns to Joey even after you say you haven’t watched it. “God, I could just eat Joey up!” he says, and somehow you think maybe he’s referring to more than just the joy and whimsy in Matt LeBlanc’s eyes.
6. He drinks Pepsi to wash down the human brains he’s eating, even when Coke is available. Weird!
—
O. Dartley
HOW TO THRIVE IN THE APOCALYPSE
I vividly remember when the apocalypse began. 1700 hours. It was dark. It was warm. It was wet. My breathing was hampered and heavy. My heart thumped its way up my throat, making my forehead pulsate with dizzying pressure. I remember the cold porcelain tiles pressing against my feet as I intensely flexed every fiber of muscle in my abdomen. My only light source: Instagram Reels. (I can’t concentrate without it.) That’s right — before the bombs
— C. Legendre
— A. Caccam
dropped, I was trying to drop bombs of my own. I was so incredibly constipated.
My phone suddenly started blowing up with notifications: CDC WARNING; VIRUS OUTBREAK; GOVERNMENT CONTAINMENT SAFETY MEASURES FAIL; EVERYONE FOR THEMSELVES. Panic rose in my chest. “How will I ever survive?” I thought. “Also, which of my bum-ass roommates used all the toilet paper?”
The next 12 hours were a shit show. Hazmat teams were deployed, and tasers only tickled the infected. A Beijing Woman’s feet were eaten off, #FreakyAhFootZombies flooded Twitter, and the ‘PissOnZombie’ challenge went viral. By hour twelve, all airports had closed and ChatGPT had shut down, unleashing mass confusion.
That was eight years ago. I haven’t showered in nine, and yet, I’m still alive. One thing you learn while on the constant run from hungry zombies is the value of teamwork and having a trusted crew you can always rely on, preferably one that is much slower than you on foot. Nevertheless, I learned that true leadership means recognizing everyone’s value and bringing out their best. In the early days of the fallout, my team and I were starving, on the verge of death. So, I stepped up. Calculating everyone’s individual strengths and weaknesses, I delegated the hunting and gathering to my teammates, burdening the hardest job — Chief Nutrient Consumer and Holder Down of Fort — to myself. Leadership isn’t easy, but neither is protecting the crib on a full belly.
Getting brutally ambushed and looted for the first time taught me the importance of good sportsmanship and forgiveness. Getting brutally ambushed and looted every day repeatedly for the next 5 years taught me to stay true to myself and never listen to my haters, and also that camping at the bottom of an incredibly accessible ditch was sort of not a good idea.
Trying, learning from your mistakes, and exiling teammates who use too much goddamn TP are quintessential survival skills. I’m not afraid to admit that transitioning from my cozy pre-apocalyptic life to my non-cozy apocalyptic one was not an easy process. Things got off to a rocky start when I realized I couldn’t check Insta while pooping anymore. I also got sticky yucky zombie booger juice on my Uggs day one, and the candles we used to keep warm and light our bunker weren’t even scented. But eventually, I got used to it.
I didn’t quit when we lost all of our food to sneaky bitchass zombie ninjas. I didn’t quit practicing my marksmanship after friendly firing a second time in the same day. I didn’t quit complaining about TP usage. When I failed to start a fire the first time, I tried again, exemplifying my ability to persist through hard times. When that also ultimately failed, I threw my hands up, stomped my feet, and told someone else to do it, exemplifying my superb teamwork abilities.
All these experiences have sculpted the hardened survivalist
I am today. In the end, I’ve realized that whether it’s accidentally shooting someone I know or running from a zombie I just peed on for clout, what matters most isn’t how many mistakes I’ve made — it’s how I choose to respond to my mistakes. I choose to learn. I learned that teamwork is about trust; persistence is about not giving up, even on your one hundredth wipe; and adaptability is about finding the light in the dark, scented or not. Looking back, I would have never gained any of these skills without one thing that I now realize I’ve always had within me since day one: constant patience. Consti-patience helped me find and pick myself up after all my failures. And now, looking to the future, I hope to exemplify all the skills I have learned as I approach life, all while being incredibly consti-patienced.
— A. Caccam
MY LIFE AS A VEGAN ZOMBIE
It’s 2025, and most zombies are still eating brains. It’s disgusting. You need the protein, they say. Moaning and milling around consumes a lot of calories, they say. They must have lost their minds. Zombies need to have some empathy. People have feelings. People have good days, bad days, laugh and cry; they deserve to live life, just like us. We can’t let our base instincts mess with another life.
So I’ve developed a way to ethically get our daily food. I call it “GrainsNotBrains.” It’s essentially a mixture of oats, wheat, and barley with some ramen soup packets. Take one bite, and you’ll never want another brain again. Chasing after the poor humans, watching them cry and whine as you take off their head and harvest their juicy, slimy, bloody, deliciou- I mean disgusting brains. That life will be far, far behind you. Much better to get some GNBs.
So every day, in the morning, I make as many GNBs as possible. Then, I go to protest. I stand tall in front of the hoards.
“Eat Grains, not Brains!” I shout. Unfortunately, the mention of brains just makes the hoard hungrier. “Don’t you think how you’re treating humans is cruel!” I cry out. “It’s not sustainable! The human population is rapidly dwindling!”
They’ll only come to my side when the last human skull is emptied. A species will be extinct because of our endless greed. It breaks my heart. Though my heart’s already been run through by the end of a lamppost (don’t ask, bad memories).
So that’s how I spend every single day of my life. Pleading my case, occasionally shoving my pamphlets into zombies’ faces. I know that the fight must go on…unless…just one bite of brain couldn’t hurt, could it?
— A. Lee
PLEASE DO NOT CONSUME PAPER FOR NUTRIENTS. THIS PAPER IS TOXIC. PLEASE DO NOT CONSUME PAPER TO GET
Can We Improve Upon GDP Forecasts of PostApocalyptic Economies?
Matthew Sprintson October 2025
Three months ago, a survey was conducted among citizens in Subregion 385 (restricted to previous evacuees of Bunker 1701.10.9).
In this paper, the results of the survey are presented alongside the foundations of modeling architecture to forecast the GDP of postapocalyptic countries. The authors of this piece could only find one actual piece of paper, so we put this paper into a bottle and threw it in the great green sludge river. Once you finish reading, please throw it back.
Section 1: Survey Results
The survey consisted of approximately 60 items, with an average completion time of 17.3 seconds. Among respondents, 85% were forced to complete the survey because I pressed a rusty metal scrap against their lower jaw. 14.875% I scavenged from mortally wounded travellers who needed to kill some time before succumbing. The other percentage was me (my results are the best ones).
When asked, “Where do you come from?” respondents answered:
When asked, “What have you produced in the last year?” Respondents answered:
In total, respondents created roughly $21,000 in the previous year (~$8 USD in 2024 US Dollars). This amounts to a GDP per capita of roughly $26.25. When asked if they are happier now with a decreased GDP per capita, respondents answered:
Uncertain
Section 3: Discussion
(Gladys, Tyrranical Warlord Robbing Me)
Dunno. I never finished skool or lurned эkonomika - which is what all my cool Czech buddies call it now. I think, if everyone really wants to make this GDP number go up, I have a few ideas:
4e+05
3e+05
2e+05
1e+05
0e+00
GDP GDP if we made more things GDP if we doubled all prices
GDP if everyone owned neighbor’s home and everyone paid rent
GDP if we doubled money then bought a rock and burned the money
GDP if we all agree it’s pretty good (it’s all mental)
Clearly, the green line goes above the red line when GDP is $330,128. This is a good thing, I think — don’t quite know what the red line is. Because of economics, that must be the incontrovertible societal optimum. So, we should set our GDP to that. We’ll still have the exact same living conditions, but that number will be prettttty high. It might be worth asking if it was worthwhile to devote our society to making that big number go higher, and not to other metrics that incorporate quality of life, welfare, equity, or sustainability. Clearly, the answer is yes: it was worth it. The big number makes me, personally, very happy. And that’s all that matters.
CALIFORNIA DREAMIN’
… so I’d like to bring us to our next tune, an old classic from way, way back. My grandpa actually passed this disc down generation to generation, so of course, we’ll be playing California Dreamin’ by The Mamas and The Papas, for the land that my ancestors once had a share in.
[Acoustic guitar rolls.]
Again, you’re listening to the Central’s favorite pirate radio station, with me, DJ Arty, nonstop music to keep us all sane in this insane world.
All the leaves are brown…
And the sky is gray I’ve been for a walk
On a winter’s day
I reach across a rusted sink that spews out brown water on a good day to grab a tin of baked beans that I’d left there before I rested my head on this piece of polished granite and sank into dreams of a bean throne in a bean kingdom with me as bean king. The ragged aluminum was not ideal for comfort, yet the presence of all the food was comforting. My dream ended how it always did, of course: the cans impossible to open without my trusty knife, a split tooth, the corrugated metal now covered in blood, and a collapsing throne. I drowned in an ocean of Heinz-branded goop.
With my right arm clutching the can of beans, I brush my left hand over the ridges on my face. As I bring it to my eyes, I can see no blood. At this discovery, my muscles relax, before I tense them again to swing my legs over the edge of the counter, kicking them giddily as I swig the beans like I used to with cans of Cola from St. George. (Oh, sweet, sweet St. George. How I miss you.) My tongue dances around the beans, feeling the buzz of high-fructose corn syrup before I crush them with the roof of my mouth and shovel them down the chute.
Stopped into a church I passed along the way
Well, I got down on my knees
And I pretend to pray
The beans are my God. I have nowhere else to turn. I’m supposed to be miserable: a decrepit farmhouse, no creature comforts, no romantic partner, no time to self-indulge, just vinegar soup, mushy oblongs, and my trusty radio. Yet I feel free and liberated, never more alive, truly responsible for everything that has been thrown my way. I triumph, getting on my knees as I nearly finish the can and bow my head with a certain fondness I lacked for any other object, let alone a human being.
A sudden knock — I unbow my head and look around calm-
ly. I get up and walk through the center stairwell to the main door, radio in one hand, bean can in the other. It’s redundant at this point: it’s easy to talk to outsiders through the gaping holes in the walls, which make package delivery easy and convenient.
A truck is already running when I open the door, one of those cargo trucks that the army boys drive. The man at the door is no soldier, though. He’s a three-eyed man with custom-made glasses, a business-casual button-up shirt, jeans with pockets full of… something. I don’t know. He has crawler-legs connected to his hairy crawler-feet.
I ask what the issue is. He responds with a declaration that my house contains substances known to the State of California to cause cancer, and that I was being fined. It’s like they always say: the only truths of post-apocalyptic life are man-eating rats and taxes. He points to my van in the driveway and says that my vehicle was not road-legal and had to be impounded. He takes the bean can and tells me that its dimensions were not regulation and, thus, according to the New California Department of Agriculture, would have to be destroyed.
I tell him to suck my bean can and sock him in the liver. He doubles over, and I use the opportunity to fireman-carry him past the broken chain-link fence to the acre-yard, where the bean-plants are a-growing. He shouts no no no as I throw him into the FertilizA-Tron. I still hear him shouting and banging on the chute door when I pull the lever. Then, the machinery overpowers his feeble noises, and my bean plants make happy noises as his fertilizer sprinkles onto the dirt patches. They shoot their beans out in appreciation, and I collect them up, putting the handfuls of beans into the can and ladling in some Heinz sauce for a zesty finish. Survival isn’t easy for the meek. It certainly is easy for me, free and liberated. Truly the epitome of liberty in our time.
California dreamin’
On such a winter’s day
WIGS FOR ZOMBIES
— E. Song
— G. Xu
“How Did It End?”: Taylor Swift’s Retirement Sparks Global Apocalypse
BY AINSLEE GARCIA STAFF REPORTER
NEW YORK CITY—At 6 a.m. EST this morning, Taylor Swift announced on Instagram that she would “never, ever, ever” write another album, release another video, or perform at another concert following a series of extreme fan interactions, one of which involved the death of her cat Meredith Gray. This announcement triggered a series of fan meltdowns
on X (formerly Twitter), with #why_bother_existing_when_Taylor_won’t_ make_music_anymore trending in 190 countries, mass arson events across the world, and massive espionage events to discover the singer’s location.
While vandalizing the factory that created the Eras Tour merchandise, Carrie Goldspringer told our reporter, “Like with all her album releases, I’m about to make this everyone else’s problem. This is my end-
game.” The Swifties, which include everyone from Eras Tour attendees to NFL fanatics, are threatening global carnage with hopes to force the singer out of retirement. Self-proclaimed #1 Swiftie Flavor Flav said, “We’re painting the streets red.”
The general populace has renounced the violence, with the president of NATO calling it “dramatic,” adding, “You need to calm down. It’s overblown.” He was promptly shot by Swift-
ie group 131312. The group released a statement calling themselves “innocent.” The interim head of the United Nations reflected on the treacherous situation, reminding the populace that “Everything has changed, and the world will be forever different.” The global death toll currently stands at 13,000,000. If the situation changes, that’s when we will provide more up-to-date information.
Swifties burn notable landmarks from Swift’s discography, including Cornelia Street, New York City, Los Angeles, Olive Garden, London, and India.
YDN Special Report: America Falls to Zombies Within Hours
BY SOFIA HERBERT STAFF REPORTER
Good afternoon, America. We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you the only thing scarier than government-run social welfare programs: the fall of civilization.
Brain-eating zombies made landfall in the Northeast just before dawn, plowing through Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, dramatically reducing crime in those Democrat-run cesspools. The Midwest held out marginally longer, warding the hordes off with a barrage of passive-aggressive neigh-
borhood watch groups, a barricade of post-church minivans clogging every Costco entrance, and drunk Packers fans. The rest of the country fell shortly thereafter.
To everyone’s bewilderment, the Deep South remains entirely unscathed. Perhaps the residents’ stockpile of rifles and other constitutionally protected firearms have rightfully deterred these monsters.
Just as we thought the outbreak was fizzling, the zombies finished off by diving headfirst into the Ivy Leagues.
At Yale University, their first target was the pre-
meds. Reports confirm one zombie complained on site that their amygdalas tasted “too sour” due to sleep deprivation and chronic stress. He told viewers that he “wouldn’t particularly recommend this assortment of brain matter” before decapitating Barbie™, our top blonde news anchor.
Next, they went after the YPU (they didn’t single out any party in particular) (zombies are non-partisan). We speculate that the combination of exceeding pretentiousness and consistently high BAC proved irresistible, but we cannot say for certain because we are not zombies.
Last on the menu were the humanities majors. Oddly enough, the zombies specifically sought out the archetypal humanities men. Their leather letterman bags slung over one shoulder, wire headphones, and seventeen unreleased Lana Del Rey MP3s saved on their iPhones apparently could not save them. One zombie in the Sterling Library explained that they rid humanity of these men as a gesture of goodwill.
He then decapitated our replacement anchor.
So, in just a few hours, over half of the United States population has perished.
And breaking just now—hold on, this can’t be right—our sources confirm a group of large-sized, mostly college-aged-looking men have actually survived in a singular dingy house on High Street in New Haven. The house belongs to an upstanding Yale fraternity: DKE.
Experts here at The Yale Daily News are baffled as to why both the Deep South and this singular fraternity house remain unscathed, but are optimistic that these groups will help bring back a traditional masculinity greatly needed in these hard times.
Zombies Permitted on College Campuses in Groundbreaking 6-3 Decision
BY BRYCE FALKOFF STAFF REPORTER
In a landmark 6-3 decision, the Supreme Court of the United States has finally reached a ruling on Zombies for Fair Admissions v. Harvard University. In the majority opinion, Chief Justice Clarence Zombhas wrote:
“With an increasing number of Post-Vital Individuals in our nation, it is more crucial than ever to ensure we remain a great melting pot, where one is not discriminated against on the basis of race, sex, orientation, or whether or not they hunger for brains. The
29th Amendment has been utilized as precedent, stating “United States citizens deprived of life are entitled to equal protection under the law.”
In the dissenting opinion, Justice Ruth Bader Ghoul-sburg, a former life insurance C.E.O., wrote: “The amount of brains they consume is ungodly, and the constant import of human livestock is truly damaging our economy.
Working-class live families can no longer afford brain subsidies. And like, they don’t even think, drink, or have sex, so how can we expect them to thrive in a uni-
versity environment?”
Clearly, this case has been a divisive one, so the Post-York Times has taken the liberty to interview key individuals affected by the ruling.
“I worked my way to the top of my class fair and square,” said Zeke Mortalimer, a zombie valedictorian from Des Moines. “And for the record, I only eat lowGPA brains; it’s called academic integrity.”
One concerned parent, Marjorie Klein of Brookline, fumed outside Harvard Yard: “My daughter didn’t apply here so she could be issued a mandatory rein-
forced skull cap. Tuition’s already fifty grand a year… now I have to buy her medieval armor?”
Dean Leonard Crenshaw, Vice Provost of Academic Innovation, was upbeat: “We are proud to launch our new Department of Brains Studies, which will be interdisciplinary, rigorous, and, in a very literal sense, hands-on.” (1)
Dining hall chef Arturo Jimenez commented on the school’s recent menu updates. “They told me to swap out chicken nuggets for sauteed hippocampus. Weekly, our meals start with ‘fresh, locally-sourced amygdalas’.
This is not what I went to culinary school for.” (2) At press time, Clarence Zombhas was caught devouring Ghouls-burg for lunch.
1. Harvard’s official admissions statement clarifies that applicants must still submit SAT scores, personal essays, and “evidence of restraint in consuming admissions officers.”
2. The university dining service is currently facing a class-action lawsuit over mislabeled dishes, including a vegan option that was later identified as “lightly braised cerebellum.”
Ask Old Owl!
Dear Old Owl,
I only have one hour before my house is obliterated by a nuclear bomb. How do I decide which of my prized possessions to bring into the bunker?
Dear Owlet,
Last time the wife sent me to sleep in the garage, all I needed was a few dozen packs of zyns and my favorite foreign tabloids. As for you? Forget the bunker, honey. Just send the kids and the missus down there to sort themselves out. The radiation will give you a glow like no other, and just think of the peace and quiet. Let them fight over the last can of Spam while you finally get to sit on your porch (or what’s left of it) and read the paper in peace.
Dear Old Owl,
Hello. Me is Commander Trilvak of Glorious Zhyrn Empire. I come to the Earth planet with many fire-hungry desires to scorch puny human continents, but now I drown in Central Command’s HR-mandated impact assessments and approval forms. How can I rekindle my passion for planet-smashings or secure quiet reassignment without shame of weak conqueror?
Dear Owlet,
Oh, honey, we’ve all been there. The new job seems so exciting — new species to subjugate, new monuments to vaporize — and then you find yourself bogged down in the paperwork. Let me tell you, if the spark is gone, it’s gone. I remember
Old Owl is the anthropomorphic mascot of the Yale Record, an alcoholic, nicotine-addicted nightbird that roams campus desperately scrounging for vestiges of the relevance he enjoyed in the magazine’s heyday. He now offers advice to you the students, free of charge. If you’d like to Ask Old Owl for advice about your weird life, email askoldowl@yalerecord.com.
a pop-up cured meat tasting lounge in a strip mall with my good buddy, Darryl. 20 years of life savings, seven pastramirelated restraining orders, but none of that mattered. I realized my heart just wasn’t in the game. Sure, the health department had shut us down for “excessive dangling meats,” but that’s a small detail. Forcing yourself to lay waste to a planet just for the resume boost is a one-way ticket to burnout. My advice? Fake an interspace tapeworm infection and demand medical leave. That’s how I escaped directing the
