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IF TIKTOK GETS BANNED, WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO WATCH AT THE MOVIES?
SAD! BEAR SPRAY FOR REPELLING BEARS, NOT CREATING THEM SCIENTISTS WORKING ON LATEST MAN VARIANT CLAIM, “HE’S THE MOST DANIEL YET”
PERFORMATIVE FEMME LESBIAN PUTS THE MISS IN MISANDRY
Dear God,
Why, God? Why can’t I just be a muffin? A little chocolate chip muffin with those big crystals on top? The ones that smell so sweet and delicious and bring joy to all the little children? Why not, God? When will it be my turn?
Sending prayers,
The Man Who Wants to be a Muffin
“I’M ACTUALLY NORMAL,” SAYS MAN WEARING ANKLE SOCKS
Dear Man Who Wants to be a Muffin,
Do you think the muffin wishes not to be a man? Fool.
Rejecting prayers, God
HUMANLY POSSIBLE INVENTION MADE OF METAL AND STUFF LIKE THAT
AI NOW HAS TO ASK POLITELY BEFORE TAKING YOUR JOB
YPU GROUPS STOP THE FIGHTING, EXPLORE EACH OTHER’S BODIES
“YOU’RE
ENEMY,”
YOUR OWN WORST
SAYS THERAPIST TO KLEPTOMANIAC POLICE OFFICER
Dear Mommy and Daddy, Googoo gaga!
(Translation: Why have you imprisoned me in this crib, my own personal Hell? I want to drink my choco milk. I want to suckle on my pacifier. I want to eat my mushy peas and carrots, immediately barf them onto the floor, and eat them again while the family dog, Fido, also tries to eat them. Yet I cannot, because I am trapped here. What injustice have I committed?)
I bet I could beat you in a race. Yuh huh. My daddy’s rich and got me the new Sketchers, and sure, my parents may be divorced, but at least I’m not slow like you. I’m not crying, you’re crying. Shut up! Leave me alone, slowy slow slow!
ETHICS PROFESSOR UNDER SCRUTINY AFTER REAL LIFE TROLLEY PROBLEM DEMONSTRATION
A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH, AND A HAND IN THE BUSH IS WORTH A LOT TO THE POLICE LECTURE ON POSTMODERNISM
WANTED
Diamond-encrusted Gucci pacifier, which my stupid parents “can’t afford.”
When did glue stop tasting good? When did my parents stop loving me? When did I get that sick scar on my forehead from the evil wizard who tried to kill me? That may seem like a lot of questions — four, by my count — but they all share the same answer: Childhood.
But what is childhood exactly? The Catholics would say it ends at seven, the Age of Reason, when God finally lets you commit your first sin. When I turned seven, I sinned so gravely that God hasn’t answered my prayers since, or at least, I haven’t been hearing His voice in my head like everyone else. You must be thinking, “Wow, that’s pretty serious for a ‘lil guy like you.” To that, I’d say that I’m not so little anymore, bucko. I’m 5’11” and three-quarters, and I’m not insecure about it. Heck, I’m so tall that it may shock you to hear I was little once. But as the Catholics would say, even the littlest of children can commit the gravest of sins.
My seventh birthday began like any other day, which sucked because I was expecting some serious fanfare. When I opened my eyes, my parents weren’t standing at the foot of my bed with a brand-new puppy I would neglect and the Xbox 360 I would neglect my puppy for. In fact, after I dressed out of my birthday suit and into some real clothes, I couldn’t find my parents anywhere — not in their bedroom, the kitchen, or the closet where they hid from me whenever I threw tantrums. “Huh,” I wondered in my pre-pubescent voice, scratching my imaginary stubble like a grown-up. “Looks like Mommy and Daddy went to work early.” My parents, Mommy and Daddy, worked at the local Elmer’s glue factory, where they fell in love while euthanizing retired race horses — but that’s a story for another time.
Not seeing anything else to do, I packed my favorite lunch — three Elmer’s glue sticks and a Red Delicious apple — and skipped outside, where the bus was waiting for me. “Good morning, Glass-Eye Tommy!” I shrieked as I ran up the bus’s steps. Glass-Eye Tommy was the district’s only bus driver, and he was doing community service in lieu of a prison sentence. We called him that on account of his glass eye, but his real name was Sergio “The Shark” Scappaticci. But glancing up at the driver’s seat, I noticed Glass-Eye Tommy wasn’t there; it was just some old floozy. “Hello, deary,” she croaked. “Take a seat and I’ll give you a hard candy, eh?”
“Who the frick are you?” I asked. “Where the frick is Glass-Eye Tommy?”
“Oh, deary. Mr. Scappaticci won’t be driving anymore.”
Then I remembered that Glass-Eye Tommy was fired last week because he crashed the bus into a police car — after I shot a spitball into his one good eye. And, as they say, you can’t drive a school bus with two glass eyes.
Flipping off the new lady with my ring finger, I rounded the corner, stared down the aisle, and stopped dead in my tracks. Glass-Eye Tommy wasn’t the only one skipping school — the entire bus was empty! A sickening feeling
oozed down my throat and settled in my stomach like expired Elmer’s glue. “Maybe everyone’s parents drove them today,” I thought, taking a seat by the emergency exit with the broken handle. “Or maybe…everyone forgot about my birthday.”
The bus skidded to a halt in front of school, which looked as lifeless as the hamster in Ms. Taylor’s class after I fed it a Takis. The hallway wasn’t any livelier — lockers hung ajar like Ms. Taylor’s mouth after she found the class hamster. Heck, even Principal Johnson’s office was empty. I figured he had left early to cheat on his wife again. Not that I understood what that meant — I had only ever cheated on times table quizzes. Maybe Principal Johnson was bad at his 7s, too. “Well,” I sighed, realizing I was alone, “might as well enjoy myself. It’s my birthday, after all, which means I can do whatever I want.” I looked around to see if anyone had heard, but no one was listening. Happy birthday to me.
After a long day of defecating in urinals, drawing penises on all the whiteboards, and drinking all the glue in the art supplies closet, I figured it was time for this ol’ birthday boy to head home. I stumbled through the front door of my house, brandishing a bottle of Elmer’s glue. All the lights inside were off. “G-great!” I burped. “Even the fireflies that live in the lightbulbs hate me!” I flung my Elmer’s at the nearest lamp, shattering it, and fell to my adorable little knobbly knees. “Why, God?” I shouted, tearing off my macaroni necklace and letting the noodles spill across the floor. “What did I do to deserve this? Was it because of what I did to Glass-Eye Tommy and Ms. Taylor’s hamster? Was it because I told Principal Johnson’s wife that I saw him kissing Mommy? Oh, God, was it because I ate my twin in the womb?” Pulling myself together, I wiped the snot from my nose, put a thumb in my mouth, and flicked the light switch to wake up the fireflies.
“Diane, what?”
Devika Kothari ’27 Chair
Avery Misner ’27 Online Managing Editor
Jaelyn Jackson ’28 Copy Editor
Terence Harris ’27 Editor in Chief
Shivraj Singh ’28 Online Managing Editor
Gaya Buchta ’27 Art Director
Harry Lowitz ’28 Supplementals Editor Leo Rael ’28 Social Media Manager
Adham Hussein ’26
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Eric Song ’28 Webmaster
“John, I can explain!”
Right there, standing in the living room, were Mommy and Daddy! And beside them, all my classmates, Ms. Taylor, and Principal Johnson! “Oh, goody!” I yipped. “A surprise birthday party!” I pushed away some random puppy, ran up to Mommy and Daddy, and gave them a big hug. “I’m so glad you guys remembered!” I cried.
“Terence… I- Daddy and I have to talk for a moment, ok?”
“Goddammit, Diane, you’ve been sleeping with Principal Johnson?”
“We’re having a sleepover?” I gasped. “With all my friends? Yippie!”
Principal Johnson stepped up. “Now, John, let’s not be irrational here.” Then Daddy said a no-no word: “Shut up! Get the fuck out of my house!”
“John, not in front of the kids!”
Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Ms. Taylor!
“What did you do to Fluffball?” she whispered.
“I fed him a Takis, and you have to forgive me ‘cause it’s my birthday!” I said, sticking my tongue out. “Nanananana!”
“Oh-oh goodness. I’m gonna be sick.” Ms. Taylor turned green and ran out of the room. Then my classmates started crying, even though it was my birthday. “Jesus Christ!” I screamed. “Everybody stop! It’s my birthday, so can’t you just be happy? For me?” The room fell silent. “Son?” Daddy began, turning red like Ms. Taylor if it was opposite day. “Did you…Did you just say the Lord’s name in vain?”
And there ya have it, folks — my gravest sin. I can’t force it, but I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me.
T. Harris Editor in Chief
Bipul Soti ’27 Online Editor in Chief
Elizabeth Richards ’28 Managing Editor
Audrey Stankunas ’28 Design Editor
Zavian Valedón ’27 Staff Director
Squirrel Lanz ’28 Managing Editor
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Matt Sprintson ’28 Business Manager
Adam Hagens ’27 Publisher
Anna Siciliano ’28 Copy Editor
Gabi Cohen ’27 Supplementals Editor
Sean Lacalle ’28 Business Manager
Yana Tucker ‘25
Sam Kumar ’26
Staff:
Sivan Almogy ’26
Thomas Varghese ’26
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William Wang ’26
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Zadie Winthrop ’26
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Ami Gillon ’27
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Alex Geldzahler ‘28
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Alice Kasdan ‘28
Leandro Menchu-Sajche ‘28
Ember McMullen ‘28
Special thanks to: My 4th-grade English teacher, Mrs. Jackson, who never psychologically recovered from that year.
Front Cover: Grace O’Grady, ’27, who filmed the whole fight on her Nintendo 3DS. Back Cover: Jaelyn Jackson, ’28, who was last seen tri-cycling off into the sunset.
Contributors: Asha Goyal, ’27; Abigail Murphy, ’27; Grace O’Grady,’27; Ryann Schaffer, ’27; Sofia Herbert, ’27 All contents copyright 2023 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: Letters should be addressed to: Chair, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chair@yalerecord.org. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.
Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CLII, No. 5, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year
WHAT’S IN MY MILK BOTTLE
80% whole, unpasteurised ox milk (real babies power through salmonella)
10% liquid chaos. Notes of desperation, endless anxiety, and my parents’ tears
Dash of Vitamin D (for the skeleton)
Singular mysterious hair
3% protein powder—infancy is no excuse for weakness
Hint of chlorophyll, to photosynthesise
6% love (pairs well with 2 a.m. tantrums)
Microplastics. An unfortunate yet delicious commentary on the state of the world
1% whisky, to take the edge off
—D. Kothari
WHY I CRY: CONFESSIONS OF A BABY ON A PLANE
I sit in a metal tube thirty thousand feet into the atmosphere, and you wonder why I cry. The tube is pressurized against the outside air, which, if I were to be exposed to it, would cause me to suffocate within minutes. I am separated from this certain death by two layers of plastic and glass, and you wonder why I cry. To enter this abomination of a vehicle in the first place, you and your belongings must be thoroughly checked for explosives. Planes have blown up before, and probably will again. This plane in which I sit is as likely a candidate for destruction as any other, but you wonder why I cry. Below my seat, you will find an inflatable life jacket. It is not placed there for a group rafting activity at our destination. If our plane is forced to land in the middle of the ocean, which has happened plenty of times before, we are to use
life jackets to avoid death by drowning. And there are sharks in the ocean—sharks who would love to eat a scrumptious human baby. I was informed of this immediately before being launched in the air, and still you wonder why I cry. The toilet is louder than a gunshot, and you wonder why I cry. The amount of water provided is wholly inadequate, and you wonder why I cry. Each year, the fumes generated by these beasts contribute two and a half percent toward the chemical destruction of our only habitable planet; yet, I fly regardless, because it is the most affordable way to get from Toledo, Ohio, to Fort Worth, Texas. I did not choose this for myself, and you wonder why I cry. My iPad ran out of battery, and somehow you still wonder, even though I can no longer watch my favorite video of a smiling watermelon spinning around in a circle for two hours.
You wonder why I cry. I wonder how you hold it in.
FIRST CONTACT WITH EXISTENTIALISM
PAROLE REQUEST FROM THE MAN SLAUGHTERING YOUR STUFFED ANIMALS
Dear Honorable Members of the Parole Board:
My name is Rufus McKinley, and I am writing you again to respectfully request your consideration for parole. In light of the Board’s repeated rejections, I can only assume these rulings were made without the full context of my arrest. Please allow me to fill in the gaps.
There’s a simple reason why I’m in here: America hates hunters. I hunt plush toy bunnies, hand-knit monkeys, Mary Anne’s Little Lamb, stuffed ducks, and deer — once, I even took down a Build-A-Bear. The whole store. Stuffing everywhere, threads strewn like intestines. Have you ever gutted an animal and held its plastic heart in your bare hand? It changes you.
Hunting is not just a hobby. It’s a tradition as diverse as the animals we pursue. Some hunters catch cottontail rabbits; I catch rabbits of goddamn cotton. Some hunters taxidermize their prey; my prey comes like that. I know what you city-slicking snowflakes are thinking: What brutality! But I assure you, hunters are not monsters. I honor every part of my prey. What I don’t display, I reuse: stuffing for home insulation, button eyes stitched back onto jackets, pelts sewn into blankets. The prettiest plushies remain untouched. Half are trophies on my stairwell; the other half, I leave on my girlfriend Mary Anne’s porch. Their flesh sustains us until the next hunting season. Once Black Friday finally arrives, I’m back to my hunting grounds: toy stores, carnivals, claw-machines, the NICU.
Honorable Members of the Board, when you read that I’m a repeat offender, remember this: America hates hunters. During a hunting slump, I armed a troupe of toddlers with BB guns to track down a teddy bear. Good on me, getting the youth involved. Anyway, some nosy no-good must’ve seen me loading the kids into my Toyota Tacoma ‘cause next thing I know, there’s red and blue lights in my rearview mirror. My girlfriend had to bail me out.
“You’re a predator, Rufus.” Mary Anne told me on the drive home.
I just took off my cap, looked her in her lazy eye, and said: “Oh yes! And proud of it.”
She broke up with me the next day. Who can blame her? I wasn’t the predator she wanted. Not anymore. All I could hunt for her were some measly Beanie Boos from a Goodwill bin. I came to Mary Anne like a scraggly tabby dropping a finch at her feet. But she yearned for a hunky lion to hunt her a wildebeest. So I vowed to hunt her a wildebeest. And there’s only one place where jumbo plushies run wild… Disneyworld.
Disney would be a hunter’s paradise if it weren’t for the
damn government. If they let guns into the park, I would’ve done my hunting the proper way — in broad daylight, surrounded by K-6th graders. But instead, I had to wait in the employees-only parking lot until closing, then sneak through the staff gate in my neon camo. I cocked my rifle as the final firework exploded. It’s wabbit season.
Before I made it through the gate, a rustle of felt on concrete snagged my attention. And there it was — the greatest game of my life: a six-foot-tall Chip the Chipmunk. He lay slumped against a dumpster, an EPCOT beer can in one hand and a lanyard dangling from the other. I’d never hunted a plush of this size before, but the motions were the same. Deep breath, focus the scope, attach the silencer.
I shot Chip right between his plastic eyes. After prying off Chip’s head to send Mary Anne a celebratory post-hunt selfie, there was no stuffing inside. Instead, there was another head. A head with peach fuzz instead of cotton fuzz, bearded over pimply skin instead of a felt lining, and those eyes. Those eyes were lifeless but not plastic. I’d shot a human. Accidentally. The cops cuffed me before I could explain that I am a hunter and hunters make mistakes. When Dick Cheney went hunting and shot some guy, did we jail him? No! But when I, an average Joe, shoot an unarmed Disney cast member in the employee parking lot, I’m arrested?! Esteemed parole board, fix this hypocrisy. You can lock up Dick Cheney, you can make me Vice President, or let’s call it even and grant me parole.
Parole members of the board, I am a changed man. Since my imprisonment, I haven’t touched a gun or a plushie. Now, I only strangle pillows for erotic purposes, not primal instinct.
I’m no good behind bars, but I can do good out there. Inflation must be sky-high without me slaughtering the surplus Labubus at Walmart. So grant me parole. America may hate hunters, but by God, they need us.
Sincerely, Rufus McKinley (American Hero)
P.S. Please send my apologies and condolences to Dale.
—R. Schaffer
REASONS I AM STICKY
1. Jam
2. The “Syrup Incident”
3. Cyanoacrylate adhesive (medical-grade)
4. Mud. So much mud.
5. Extra-strength Play-Doh
6. Optical-grade epoxy adhesive
7. Lollipop
8. Brother’s booger
9. Gorilla Glue
10. Fast-cure, strong-bond acrylic anaerobic adhesive for metal and glass
—E. Richards
YOUR KIDS ARE SICK!
CALLING ALL MOMS!! In all the scary landscapes our children have to navigate today — be they digital, political, or most importantly, GASTROINTESTINAL — our precious babies are wasting away before our eyes. The same pre-packaged, preservative-filled foods that I consumed all throughout my childhood (foods that NEVER made me sick or caused ANY chronic health issues, foods that I, in fact, felt quite JOYFUL eating) are now rotting our children from the inside out. We must come together to stop this TRAGEDY. I went crazy ALL on my own, and I believe our children deserve the same RIGHTS!!!
This issue is personal for me. My sweet, pure Johny, just six years old, showed signs of inflammation the other day after our neighbor Melissa — the one with the Love is Love sign — offered him a pack of homoerotic rainbow gushers. And who would’ve guessed — he gained an ENTIRE 4 ounces in a SINGLE MONTH!! Ladies, there is NO WAY — NO WAY — that anything but SEED OILS could cause a perfectly healthy, growing child to gain weight. On top of that, his school lunches are feeding him milk cartons that aren’t even RAW! Our Little Ones are nibbling on crayons that contain not even a single GRAM of protein! His favorite red marker that he puts on his lips is full of artificial DYES! Wait… could the dyes be making our boys engage in EFFEMINATE activities?
Boy moms, it’s time to get serious: if we don’t properly nourish their brains and bodies, who knows what kinds of ideologies they will absorb at school and DRAG into our Sacred Family Spaces. DRAG!!!
Warrior mamas, I am opening up my heart and my home to share EXACTLY what has been working for me and my precious baby, as recommended by Johny’s neuropathic pediatrician, so that you can spend more you-time falling for AIgenerated Jesus videos on Facebook and yelling at transgender middle schoolers outside of their track and field meets. So, here it is! Our Klean Karing Kookbook!
Weekdays:
• Biblical Breakfast: Milk, raw. 2 eggs, raw. Bone broth, warmed (over hot stones). Bread, raw and unleavened.
• Intermittent Fast #1.
• Dude Dinner: Each kid should get one personal Cor-
nish game hen per night, to be eaten with the hands ONLY — and if the board games and books aren’t scratching that masculine itch, getting your boys involved in slaughtering and feather-picking their bird is fun for the whole family!
• Intermittent Fast #2.
• Christian Cleanse: After all the raw meats and milks, it is still important for your kid to get that FIBER in. I recommend giving your little one carrots, bell peppers, and maybe a whole cabbage. While they wrestle and gnaw their way through such dense foliage, you have the perfect opportunity to undo the DEVIL WORSHIP they were taught in s** e******** class. I can’t even bring myself to spell it.
And, finally, the following foods are what I call BIG NO’S — foods that, lord heaven help me, may NEVER, under any circumstances, come into the household:
• Black and white cookies
• Blue raspberry flavors… those berries were born RED! RED RED RED!! If God wanted them to be BLUE, he would’ve made them BLUE!!!
• FEMALE Cornish game hens. They have too much estrogen in them.
Goddamn it, Johny just asked if he could wear his sister’s tutu to school tomorrow again… I’m heating up a Kid Cuisine for him in the MICROWAVE and trying again with the next kid.
—G. Cohen
TIP YOUR SERVERS
Republican Goodnight Moon
—
E. Hibbons
Goodnight wall, Built so so so tall.
Goodnight deep state, Goodnight Pizza Gate.
Goodnight Abu Bakr Al-Baghdadi, He died like a dog.
Goodnight Ivanka the baddie, Goodnight Arnold Palmer’s hog.
Goodnight Gulf States, Goodnight tax breaks.
Goodnight apartheid, Good morning white slavery.
Goodnight stolen elections, Goodnight Sleepy Joe. My daughter Ivanka gives me erections, I wouldn’t marry her, though.
Goodnight Musk, Goodnight moon, Goodnight Mars, We’re going there soon!
GENTLEST PARENTING: A CASE STUDY
(Kitchen, 8:17 am. Alex, two years old, and Bertrand, 33 years old, sit at the dining table.)
BERTRAND: Well, Alex, I can see that you’ve dumped all your cereal onto the dog. That’s certainly an… unexpected choice. Can you help me understand why you decided to use Milo as a prop for your interpretive culinary art?
ALEX: Milo hungry!
BERTRAND: Wow, Alex, that’s a beautiful expression of your empathy. Your big feelings are so valid. Except, Milo is very allergic to processed oats. How do you think he is feeling right now?
ALEX: (Sniffling) Sad… (Throws empty cereal bowl across the kitchen. It hits the wall and breaks.)
BERTRAND: Well identified! You can give Milo a sorry hug after he’s done throwing up, okay? Now, instead of expressing your turmoil with aggression, why don’t you put the spoon down and scream into the rage pillow Grandma made specially for you?
ALEX: (Screams into pillow for 38 consecutive seconds, furiously kicking his feet.)
BERTRAND: Well regulated. Now, do you consent to–
ALEX: NO!
(Milo yelps in fear, then breaks into a fit of coughs.)
BERTRAND: I hear your “no,” and I respect it. However, you–
ALEX: NO! (Tears off shirt, runs to crayon box, and starts scribbling on the wall. Screams with gusto.)
BERTRAND: No, Alex! I just cleaned – I mean, I appreciate your spatially motivated artistic expression, but perhaps you could represent your psyche literally anywhere other than the wall?
ALEX: Oooooh. Neighbour’s wall?
BERTRAND: Well, they may not consent to that, Alex.
ALEX: Fridge! Fridge! Fridge!
BERTRAND: You are so creative, young man. But that might risk contaminating our food.
ALEX: You, daddy! You! (Toddles towards Bertrand)
BERTRAND: N– how thoughtful of you! But I need to look presentable for the outside world.
ALEX: Mommy!
BERTRAND: That might be hard, Alex. She lives with perfect, handsome Paul now.
(Bertrand reaches for Alex’s rage pillow and wails into it for 38 consecutive seconds. Milo wheezes in the corner.)
ALEX: …Ceiling?
BERTRAND: (sighs) After Milo and I get back from the vet.
HOW TO RAGEBAIT YOUR SIBLING
Eat their crayons
Eat their goldfish (snack)
Eat their goldfish (pet)
Get an amazing technicolor coat from Dad
Kill their wife and take the English throne
Every time they push the boulder to the top of the hill, push it back down
Convince them they’re being Truman-show’d
Put their bed in a river while they sleep
Enroll them in the army
Stop hitting yourself stop hitting yourself stop hitting yourself
WHY I’M A BIG KID NOW
Dear Mommy,
You said I’m still not allowed to cross the street by myself or stay home alone or operate a firearm because I’m only four years old, but I’m a big kid now! You didn’t believe me when I
said it, but it’s true, and here are all the reasons why:
1. I am four and three-quarters, not just four. Threequarters make a big difference! When I turned four, I understood that I needed a little supervision to cross the street or handle the gun Papa always keeps loaded, but I’m almost five now! That’s practically a grown-up.
2. I can buckle my own seatbelt. You still try to help me all the time, even when I scream and say, “Mommy no!!!! I can do it myself!!!!” And I can do it myself. Would someone who was not a big kid be able to do that, hmm?
3. I can count to nineteen. That’s so many numbers. That means I am basically nineteen years old, which I think is the oldest possible age to be. I don’t even think Einstein could count that high, so… totally big kid material.
4. I successfully led an army to defend our country against the legions of the French coming to invade us. I handled strategy, artillery, food/supplies rationing, and naptime. We only lost this many ��️ hundred soldiers. And I know you got mad when I didn’t clean up my Legos after, but that’s because cleaning up is for nineteen-year-olds.
5. I can hop up and down on one foot. Mommy, watch this. Mommy, are you watching? Mommyyyyyyyyyy, look! Are you watching? Are you watching? Wheeeee!!!
I think my list speaks for itself, and everyone can see that I’m a big kid now. No more waddling around in diapers or needing someone to cut my food for me! I’m totally ready for the responsibility of sleeping over at my friend’s house and shooting at bullies with Papa’s loaded gun. My friend Oscar is already doing all that and he’s only four and half, so please, Mommy, please? I’m literally a big kid now!
But could you still read me bedtime stories and help me tie my shoes? Oscar tells me even big kids still need that.
—S. Lanz
WHAT I WANT TO BE WHEN I GROW UP
Fire hydrant
Insurance boy
Jerome Powell
Ethical consultant
Funemployed
Manosphere podcaster
Nepo baby
Male OBGYN
Female penis doctor
Vine star
Pile of goo
Dead
WHITEST PET NAMES FOR GRANDPARENTS
Nonna
Gamma
Kappa
Nu Meemaw
Peepaw
Cha cha
Gwampa and Gwamma
Man of sin, son of perdition, bloody and deceitful one, he who will bring about the end days
Nana
