ASTHMATIC MONKEY NOT QUITE SMART ENOUGH FOR INHALER
MARXIST PROFESSOR FAILS
SLEEPY STUDENT FOR LACK OF CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS
SKYDIVERS’ UNION DEMANDS PARACHUTES
A CAPPELLA RUSHER PHYSICALLY UNABLE TO SING AFTER 80 MEALS
PASSWORD WEAK, BUT DETERMINED
ICE OFFICER TRANSFORMED BY ER&M COURSE
Dear Athlete,
Could you please give me a warning before you crash into me with your scooter? I feel like you take me out whenever I step outside.
Sincerely, Concerned Pedestrian
VETERINARIAN DIAGNOSES YOU WITH ANIMAL DISEASE
Dear Concerned Pedestrian, Zoom Zoom Zoom I love riding my scooter on my way to L1 ASL Scoot Scoot Zoom Zoom Whiz
Sincerely, Athlete
BIRD’S GRIEF INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM ITS JOY
NECROMANCER ADDICTED TO SHOOTING JOHN LENNON
MALALA’S COURSE REQUEST JUST “I AM MALALA”
“TOUGH CROWD,” SAYS CLASS CLOWN DURING TITLE IX SEMINAR
“I DON’T KNOW. I HEAR NEW HAVEN IS KIND OF SKETCHY,” SAYS FIRST - YEAR WHO LIVES IN GATED COMMUNITY
DYSLEXIC GUY ON KETO DIET STILL HIGH OFF KETAMINE
Dear Global Affairs DUS,
I like Global and want to declare it as my major, but I’m a little concerned that the effect these classes have on me might pose a problem. You see, every time I hear “hard and soft power,” I myself go from soft to very hard; when I read “peace through strength,” “assert American dominance,” or “surgically precise knifemissile capable of eliminating a single target in a single car from five thousand miles away,” I sometimes have to physically leave the classroom to beat one out. I’d love to continue studying Global Affairs, but will three to five incapacitating boners per lecture be bad for my studies long term?
Best, Tentative Sophomore
TRUMP SIGNS NEW EXECUTIVE ORDER TO PROTECT WOMEN FROM THE DANGEROUS OCEAN
Dear Tentative Sophomore,
That’s normal.
Carry On, Global Affairs DUS
“MANAGEMENT CONSULTING IS MY CALLING,” SAYS YALIE WHOSE CALLING IS, IN FACT, MONEY
Dear Dad,
People keep telling me I have “fatherless behavior.” What does that mean? Also, could we play catch sometime?
Best, Jimmy
Dear Dad,
You never responded to that last letter I sent, so I’ll write it for you! “Well, Jimmy, it’s nothing to be worried about, sport! We’ll just play catch when I find my way out of this grocery store! Those cigarettes won’t find themselves!”
Best, Jimmy
FEELING TRICKED NONE OF THE OTHER FOOT GROUPS HAD TO POOP DIRECTLY INTO THEIR LEADERS’ HANDS
Dear Dad,
This is really hard for me to talk about, and I’ve been keeping it a secret from you from quite some time. I’ve been having these feelings, feelings that I cannot hide any longer. I’m sure this may come as a surprise to you, but I am gay.
Your Son, Gay Brian
“I LOVE ACTIONS!” SAYS MAN ABOUT TO DISCOVER CONSEQUENCES
Dear Gay Brian,
Yass queen pussy slayyy workk motherrr boots down the house.
Sincerely, Dad
LESBIAN ANNOUNCES PLANS TO TRAVEL TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH BEFORE MAKING A MOVE
TURNS OUT, YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE NAKED TO PLAY COOL MATH GAMES
DOCTOR ASKS WHY YOU DIDN’T COME IN EARLIER FOR ALL THIS PAIN YOU’RE IMAGINING
BITCHY MCBITCHBITCH DOESN’T LIKE HER NICKNAME
“THIS IS NOT SEXUAL!” SAYS NAKED PETA LADY MOOING
LIKE COW
“GET THE HELL OUT OF MY CAR!” SAYS AMNESIA MAN AFTER KIDNAPPING YOU.
TOMATO FETISHIST DIES ECSTATICALLY
WANTED
Youth and exuberance.
FOR SALE:
My grandpapa’s floundering whale oil enterprise. You know, they used to say the whaling bubble would never burst. Fools!
Obituary Correction
The 2025 Editorial Board gladly reports that our beloved friend and benefactor, Amnesia Man, is alive and well, having forgotten he died.
“TOUGH CROWD,” SAYS CLASS CLOWN DURING TITLE IX
SEMINAR
NEW YORK ZOO ANNOUNCES CLOSURE OF CONTROVERSIAL “STATEN ISLAND” EXHIBIT.
OLD WEST TOWN JUST BIG ENOUGH FOR TWO PETITE OUTLAWS
FROCO DIDN’T EXPECT FIRSTYEARS TO BE SO GODDAMN HIGH-MAINTENANCE
( PLUCKING MY TOE HAIRS ) SHE LOVES ME... SHE LOVES ME NOT...
JUST ONCE, CROCODILE CRIES FOR REAL
WHAT’S THE POINT OF EYE BAGS IF I CAN’T PUT STUFF IN THEM?
Dear Record Big 4,
I’m a first-year student who’s really interested in joining the Record, but I’m a little worried about the group culture. I’ve heard that some of the people in charge only applied for their leadership roles because they thought it would make it easier for them to convince prospective members to send them pictures of their feet. I have a great love for comedy, but I’ve been hurt before. Do you have any advice?
Best, First-Year
RADIATOR CLANKING JUST A LITTLE MAN WITH A HAMMER
Dear First-Year,
I’m so excited to hear that you’re interested in joining the Yale Record! I’d be more than happy to meet with you to discuss your concerns. Why don’t you send me individual pictures of each of your toes, as well as the whole shebang — front and back! — so that I can identify you at the next meeting, and we can chat about your concerns!
Best, Record Big 4
TRUMP SOMETHING WHATEVER
Did You Know?
I need a place to stay for just a few nights. Nothing permanent. And maybe some money, too? Just, like, five dollars. Please please please? Look, if I don’t pay Big Larry back soon, we’re both dead meat.
Hi there! If you’re reading this, I’d reckon you’re literate. You first-years sure are a precocious bunch! When I was your age, I was only halfway through my ABCs. That’s right — I walked into my first English seminar with nothing but a thumb in my mouth and a crayon in my brain, having read only half the syllabus. Now, I’m so close to mastering the alphabet. If only I could remember what comes after y… Anyway, my name is Terence, and my favorite animal is Sebras. Whether you’re young, young with an old soul, or just old in dog years, it’s a pleasure to meet you. When we meet in the real world, I’ll show you my super-duper ultra secret friendship handshake. It starts with a soulful dap, leads into an Irish jig-off, and ends with a tearful salute — because first-years are the real heroes. You keep me ol’ bones greased with your bright eyes, big dreams, and a conviction that art is worth more than a consulting job. We’ll see how long that lasts!
We at the Record do a lot of jokes ‘cause life here sure ain’t one, especially for a first-year like you. Camp Yale is over, classes have just begun, and you’ve already received a rejection letter from Bain because you looked at a recruiter funny. You’re sulking around Yale, dwarfed by the faux-Gothic architecture and Morse’s monolithic lipstick tank, wondering if your dream of being the next Gerald Ford — Yale’s most notable alumnus — was a fool’s errand. To ease your troubled mind, you recite your favorite Gerald quotes, like “Truth is the glue that holds government together,” “Our Constitution works,” and “I know I am getting better at golf because I am hitting fewer spectators.” Your worries fade as you picture a perfect 18-hole game, but unlike Gerald Ford after his failed 1976 re-election campaign, they’ll be back. After all, life is moving faster than your friend who’s a runner when they’re drunk. Soon, you’ll meet the love of your life in the Lotus line, propose at the first-year formal, break up when you discover they’re more of a Pasta e Basta person, realise that sub-par ragu can’t beat true love, and — after bribing Handsome Dan with a pound of chicken livers — get married on stage at Commencement. And if none of this happens soon, well…dying alone can’t be that bad, right?
But don’t fret! There’s plenty to appreciate about Yale right here and now. Yale is like a woodland mushroom, sautéed in unctuous dining hall olive oil and served atop a piping-hot slice of New Haven pissa, itching to be delivered into your anticipant piehole. Sure, it’s a little poisonous, enough to give you norovirus and the occasional HPV, but over time, you’ll build immunity.
Let’s start with the stem — the foundation — of this contrived mushroom metaphor: your
dorm. Now, because I’m in Pauli Murray, I’m not incredibly familiar with Old Campus dorms, but I’m sure they’re similar enough. What I love about all first-year dorms is the air conditioning, easy access to elevators, and a distinct lack of rats. Even though Murray’s dining hall has three Michelin stars, when I was a first-year, I cooked my own meals using the cutting-edge induction stove that, of course, all first-year dorms have. After preparing dinner, I would turn on my flat-screen TV, sink into my indoor jacussi, and hum to my live orchestra’s rendition of “Bright College Years.” Ah, the perks of being a frosh in Murray — and elsewhere, I’m sure.
Moving onto the mushroom’s gills, let’s talk majors. I’m an English major with a certificate in Medieval Studies, meaning I’m twice as unemployable as the average English major. To be an English major, one must perceive language and interpret its significance, something I call “reading.” After “reading,” one must inscribe that interpretation onto a defiled, lifeless tree, something I call “writing.” These are novel and remarkable skills, so don’t worry if you can’t “read,” “write,” or “memorise the alphabet.” That’s why other majors exist! If you like electrocuting mice, Biology is for you. If you’d rather electrocute people, try Psychology instead. And if you love to travel, in Global Affairs, you’ll learn how to say “I don’t have a wife” in fifty different languages. Whatever you choose, it won’t matter once ChatGPT consigns us to robotic servitude, unless you’re an enlightened English major like me. I’d like to see ChatGPT try to “read” and “write.”
No mushroom is complete without its cap, nor is a frosh without friends. Let me paint you a picture: It’s the end of August,
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
Aidan Gibson ’26
AJ Tapia-Wylie ’26
Alejandro Rojas ’26
Alexa Druyanoff ’26
Alexis Ramirez-Hardy ’26
Alice Khomski ’26
Amanda Budejen ’26
Andie Gately ’26
Andrew Lake ’26
Ariel Kirman ’26
Bella Panico ’26
Brennan Columbia-Walsh ’26
Caroline Utermann ’26
Elio Wentzel ’26
Emily Hettinger ’26
Grace Davis ’26
Helen Shanefield ’26
Jimmy Ruskell ’26
Linden Skalak ’26
Mia Cortés Castro ’26
Natasha Khazzam ’26
Owen Curtin ’26
Paola Milbank ’26
Rohan Shivakumar ’27 Managing Editor
Emma Upson ’27 Lead Design Editor
Eric Song ’28 Webmaster
and you’re sulking in a derelict corner of Toad’s, cycling through the weather app, when someone saunters up to you. “What’s up, dawg?” he says coolly, pointing at your chest. “Couldn’t help but notice your awesome shirt.” You follow the line of his index finger to your 1976 vintage tee, which depicts Gerald Ford thwacking Jimmy Carter with a TaylorMade 9-iron. The stranger continues, “The name’s Gerald Ford III. Let’s be best friends.” The next day, you and Gerald III are inseparable. Everyone assumes you’re together, but you’d rather remain friends, despite the rugged features he inherited from his grandfather. But by Monday, something feels off. “Gerry-poo,” you inquire while preparing his favorite breakfast — scrambled eggs and cottage cheese. “What’s the matter with you?” The shadows on Gerald’s face deepen, accentuating his presidential jawline. “I can’t make it to dinner tonight,” he blurts, blushing like a rose from the Garden of Eden. “There’s a The Yale Record meeting at 9 in LC 317.”
“That’s ok,” you smile, pressing yourself against his sinewy back, your smooth hands resting on his pregnant belly. “As long as I can come.”
“Well, of course,” he chuckles. “Everyone’s welcome at The Yale Record. If you’re funny, The Yale Record loves you. If you don’t think you’re funny, The Yale Record loves you the same. If you’ve never experienced the joy of laughter, well, The Yale Record can fix that, no money-back guarantee. Plus, I hear there’s pissa at every meeting — I hope it’s woodland mushroom flavored!”
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
Austin Coelho ’28 Design Editor
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
Toby Salmon ’26
Oscar Heller ‘26
Tristan Hernandez ’26
Anthony Kurz ‘26
William Wang ’26
Wolf Boone ’26
Zadie Winthrop ’26
Zoe Halaban ’26
Ami Gillon ’27
Anna Calkins ’27
Anna Feldman ’27
Anna Papakirk ’27
Audrey Jiang ’27
Avery Lenihan ’27
Braeden Cullen ’27
Ellen Windels ’27
Elora Sparnicht ’27
Gha Yuan Ng ’27
Gustavo Dominguez ’27
Jaylynn Cortes ’27
Juliette Propp ’27
Lucas Ranfranz ’27
Lucas Santos ’27
Max Watzky ’27
Nava Feder ’27
Samhita Kumar ’27
Sofia Morfin ’27
Sui Yu ’27
Tom Commander ’27
Victoria Mnatsakanyan ’27
Vidhi Bhartiya ’27
Will Sussbauer ’27
Special thanks to: Bulldog days situationships, which always blossom into loving marriages
Front Cover: Gaya Buchta, ’27, who tasted the bubble man’s mixture for $5. Back Cover: Aster Jin, ’28, who loves shining flashlights in the eyes of the elderly.
Contributors: Joel Banks, ’25; Asha Goyal, ’27; Abigail Murphy, ’27; Malina Reber, ’27; and Sofia Herbert, ’28.
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
grudgingly
Ge Yu ‘27
Logan Day-Richter ‘28
Jayden Gonzalez ‘28
Alex Geldzahler ‘28
Anneliese Hammer ‘28
Alice Kasdan ‘28
Leandro Menchu-Sajche ‘28
Ember McMullen ‘28
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.
Emmet Houghton ’26 Old Owl
Katya Agrawal ’27 Old Owl
Ainslee Garcia ’27 Old Owl
Anna Lehman ’27 Old Owl
Sofia Morfin ’27 Old Owl
Harper Murray-Nelson ‘27 Old Owl
Daniel Wang ’27 Old Owl
Dash Beber-Turkel ’26 Old Owl
Erita Chen ’26 Old Owl
Amelia Herrmann ’26 Old Owl
Sadie Lee ’26 Old Owl
Debbie Lilly ’26 Old Owl
Oz Gitelson ’26 Old Owl
TEXTING MY VAMPIRE ROOMMATE
KEVIN: What’s up, dude! Looks like we’re gonna be roommates next year, isn’t that dope?
VLAD: Greetings, weakling. What is up, indeed.
KEVIN: … alrighty then. You want top or bottom bunk?
VLAD: I vill hang from ceiling.
KEVIN: Guess I’ll take bottom then
VLAD: Silence, blood bag.
KEVIN: bro what
VLAD: I joke with you, my friend.
VLAD (5 minutes later): I vant to suck your blood.
VLAD (5 minutes later): Sorry, typo. I vant to be best buds.
KEVIN: Um, ok. Those aren’t even spelled similarly — they just rhyme. R u using voice-to-text?
VLAD: No opposable thumbs in bat form.
—A. Hagens
WHAT YOUR FROCO DOESN’T WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT THEIR FIRST YEAR
Dear Berkeley Babycoq,
You are reading this because you fucked up real bad. All the other FroCos cried laughing when they found out you threw up and fainted on your crush at first Woads. I only giggled a little bit. I want you to know I have your back, so I’m sharing this story with you; it’s nowhere near as embarrassing, but it’s just as pathetic. Maybe.
I’m from a suburb of Seattle where people still carry tote bags with Obama ‘08 slogans, and I came to Yale wanting to “reinvent myself.” I said things like that out loud to complete
strangers and still thought I was cool enough to go by my last name. I cleared out the rack at J. Crew, then at Urban Outfitters, but the only thing that changed was the magic number in my Bank of America app. I tried out for Club Fencing, then Fence Club — rejected from everything. Still, in a vain attempt to look cooler, I went to every party I could sneak into.
One day, I followed a stream of Four Loko on Lake Place to the Lightweight Crew house. That’s where I saw him, glistening under one singular porch light and remixing “Mr. Brightside” with “Anaconda (Bass Boosted).” He had been a frat DJ since 2018; it was 2022, and no one could even find him on yalies.io. We made eye contact once, and I totally lost my nonchalance. I needed him like I needed chicken tender Thursday after a BIOL 101 lecture. I made a flirty song suggestion, and he coolly said, “Sure.” But Baby by Justin Bieber never came on.
I wailed to my FroCo, but he just told me I needed to sleep more and that making a vision board for our wedding might not be productive. So, I fixed my life and eventually became a FroCo, too.
People think we’re chosen for our maturity or wisdom, but that’s not true. It’s because we’ve been in the same stupid places you’re in now. I have all the advice in the world, but my mistakes never leave me. Still, on off-duty nights, I walk down Lake Place and drown my sorrows in non-alcoholic seltzer. Inevitably, one of your friends will call me from Lightweight Crew; someone fainted and is foaming at the mouth. I will not respond because I am committed to never seeing a first-year drink.
Instead, I look at the backyard lights from the gaps in the fence. I see DJ Fireball’s shadow.
And I wait to hear Baby.
A NIGHT AT THE YPU
My dear boy, come in, come in! Let me help you with your peacoat and your umbrella. What is that? You say this is no peacoat but merely your high school chess team’s hoodie? Oh. Well… Never the matter. I’ll allow you to enter so poorly clad just this one time because our debate is about to begin! You see, our dress code is strict at the Yale Political Union, and comprises only of clothes that are itchy, fit too tightly, and are the color of dust. Come quickly, as this is slated to be the most vociferous of disputations! The topic you ask? Well, that shan’t matter!
[2.78 hours pass]
What a splendid joust of the whits, don’t you agree, old sport? What is wrong? You seem dissatisfied. Was it that last retort from Senator William Mutton (Yale class of ‘57) that upset you? Well, you must understand, my dear boy, that what you refer to as a “racist remark” was actually just a high-level historical reference! A citation, if you will, of a different era of political discourse. No, no, no! Senator Mutton was not calling the fellow in the crowd a “slur”; it was purely a detestation of the overcensorship in modern debate spheres… an act of political martyrship, one might say. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t expect a frosh like you to pick up on these high-level matters. Well, I sure hope you will join us again, my dear boy! Next week, we have another stirring debate — Resolved: Bring back Calhoun College.
—A. Misner
—A. Coelho
EXACTING ROOMMATE REVENGE
It’s a week into the first semester, and you’ve found that the Yale Housing algorithm has failed you. Your roommate is an insufferable bitch. They sleep through all seven alarms they set for 7:00 a.m., talk on FaceTime with their long-distance, low-commitment boyfriend at every free moment, and one
night, they ate your family-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos all in one sitting (They half-heartedly offered to buy another bag, but you knew it was performative.) Simply put, they are the worst, and passive-aggressive Post-it notes just won’t cut it. Look, I’ve been there. If you want revenge, listen to my advice:
1. Weaponize Your Blossoming Situationship: The beginning of the semester also brings new romantic interests! To ruin your roommate’s sleep schedule with this inevitable canon event, bring a scrawny boy with commitment issues back to your twin XL. After successfully love-bombing him for the first couple of weeks he should hang out in the room regardless of whether or not you’re there. Most importantly, he should sleep over (every night) and snore loud enough to disrupt your roommate’s sleep schedule. (He’ll be so emotionally attached that you won’t have a choice).
2. Get Some New Pets: The first few weeks of school can be lonely, especially with a bitch-ass roommate. Go to the pet store and ask for two emotionally resilient Madagascar Hissing cockroaches. Make sure they’re a breeding pair. House them inside the room in a clear, plastic cage with ventilation so your roommate can even hear them hissing when they’re trying to fall asleep at night. Frequently refer to them as your “emotional support scuttles” and hide their eggs in her pillow case. Bonus: occassionaly let one loose for “enrichment,” just to keep the vibe spontaneous.
3. Re-Organize: Every day, move all of their furniture an inch to the left.
4. Go on Strike: Would Gandhi agree that cultivating a fetid dorm stench counts as a form of nonviolent protest? I think so. Taking weekly showers in tandem with not washing your sheets for the entirety of the first semester should do the trick. (Note: you should gradually develop a sweat stain on your sheets reminiscent of the Turin Shroud.) Your room will smell rancid, but you’ll adapt, while your roommate will not. They will suffer.
5. Share Your Favorite Music: One of my favorite things about Yale is our carillon, which plays at every inconvenient waking hour. (You’ll love it, too.) Share your love for Harkness by playing the Yale Carillon’s top hits on YouTube at your JBL Flip 6’s highest volume in lieu of your roommate’s aforementioned alarms. My roommate’s personal favorite is Hey Jude, but any of the songs should do the trick.
Closing note: If none of these work, send them a few transfer information forms and pray that they switch to Stanford.
—S. Herbert
THE NIGHT I WAS SEXILED
A lovely evening I did spend In laughter with my kindly friends, But day had long passed into night, So to my quarters I took flight. And whence I came upon my door Around the knob there lay… a sock? And thus I gave my door a knock. *knock knock knock…knock*
“Eh-hem. Hey man, uh, I’m kind of in the middle of something. I’ll text you all-clear when I’m done, okay?”
Scorned, was I from mine own bed! Whilst my roommate received…love. At once into the night I fled, With one fist clenched toward God above. I ran and ran into that dark, And came to Scantlebury Park. Before me, then, appeared a Sage, With lengthy beard, wisened from age. He seemed, for me, to have a quest. My time I gave to his behest.
“I’m not a sage man. I’m homeless. If you want to help me out, you could go get me some food or something…”
So, again I ran with quest in hand, In search of far-off tasty lands. And as the tower struck eleven, I found, at last, a gourmet heaven. Inside were scintillating splendours.
Food and drink did line the walls I stepped forward toward the vendors, And for their aid, I made my call:
“Good evening, charming, splendid men, Your finest sandwich, for a friend.
Make it good and make it right
To fill him up on this dark night…please.”
“Yo, this fool really just ordered in a riddle or some shit.”
Subject to laughter, I did leave, Wiping tears upon my sleeve.
To the park, I walked with haste, But stopped I was, on Lake Place By strapping young athletic boys. Their house ‘twas wracked with pulsing noise. And instead of merely walking by, I said “Yes!” when I was asked: “Yo, you tryna play some die?”
And so I joined their joyous game, Drinking, joking all the same. It surely was a jolly time,
“You guys gotta see this dude, he’s only talking in rhymes.”
With their gaze on me, I froze. I ran away on tippy toes. Returning to the park in shame, To my sage, the very same.
He sleeps here on the bench, I learned. His trust, I hoped, I now had earned.
“Yeah, again, you gotta let go of this sage thing, but thanks for the sandwich, man. I really appreciate it.”
I walked away with head held high, For duty I had now obliged.
‘Twas then, at last, I got the word, My quarters free of that young bird;
Yes, my room did smell of musk,
That of bodies joined at dusk. But as I lay my head, I smiled. A perfect evening spent sexiled.
But I swear to god if my roommate pulls this again, he’s done. —R. Shivakumar
NOT SO HANDSOME: THE DARK HISTORY OF HANDSOME DAN
Handsome Dan, Yale University’s beloved mascot, wasn’t always so handsome. After receiving an anonymous tip that read, “July 2023. Handsome Dan in L.A. The truth must be known,” one of The Record ’s reporters went undercover at great personal expense to discover what, exactly, this meant. And the past she unearthed was nothing short of scandalous.
The anonymous reporter followed up about Dan’s visit to L.A. and discovered that during the summer of 2023, he had made a trip to see Dr. Garth Fisher, well-known today as the man responsible for Kylie Jenner’s boobs. Although Dan did not get the famous 445 cc silicone moderate profile half under the muscle breast augmentation, sources reveal that he did receive pectoral enlargements. Dr. Fisher claims that it was Handsome Dan’s pecs that caused Ms. Jenner to trust him with her boobs. This wasn’t the only touch-up that Dan received on that trip; our reporter was shocked to discover that Daniel underwent one unspecified Swedish procedure for an enlargement of a particular body part. Unfortunately, Dan experienced surgical complications that rendered him permanently… prepared.
A Record team interviewed Kassandra Haro ‘18 about Handsome Dan’s body modifications. During her time at Yale, Haro witnessed the transition from Handsome Dan XVIII to the current Handsome Dan XIX. “A lot of people don’t know that Handsome Dan isn’t his real name; it’s actually Kingman,” Haro revealed. “You see, Kingman had some pretty big shoes to fill — his predecessor was named ‘Most Handsome’ every year that he represented the University. He felt inadequate, so he opted to boost his self-confidence through cosmetic procedures.” Haro revealed that Dan just wanted to work on overall form and physique, so he tried barre for several months to no avail. (Apparently, barre is rather difficult without opposable thumbs.) The Record’s sources uncovered that Yale secretly hired Sydney Sweeney’s personal trainer for Dan using misallocated donation funds so that he looked “physically imposing enough to scare small children or the average Cambridge resident.”*
As our reporter looked more closely at Handsome Dan’s past, they discovered something even more shocking and twisted than Dan having once looked like the quadruped version of pre-serum Captain America: Dan’s mother’s sister’s son belongs to a prominent Harvard professor. In other words, Dan’s cousin is working
for the enemy. Despite his unexpected past and dark family ties, Haro expressed to Record staff that Handsome Dan is no-contact with that side of his family and wishes to turn over a new leaf by being honest about his modifications. To that news, The Record gives a hearty amen.
* The Record believes that Dan needs a new trainer.
—E.
Richards
YALE-APPROVED USES OF AI
- Breakup text
- Strongly-worded email
- Application for application-writing internship
- Finding true self
- Finding true love (Peter Griffin chatbot)
- Lies
- Exacerbating wealth inequality
- Generating wedding photos with your roommate
- Generating pregnant photos of your roommate
- Generating photos of you and your roommate’s future family
- Apology email for problematic AI use
- Ethical non-monogamy
Uh, I give up. Can you finish this list?
[Sure! Here are some funny satirical uses of AI—perfect for a Yale Record listicle!]
Generating uncanny videos–don’t count the fingers!
OPINION: KEEP YOUR HIGH SCHOOL BOYFRIEND
I know, I can hear the boos, but it’s an unwavering truth of life that the healthiest way to start off your college experience is with emotional co-dependence, a shared Netflix account, and 576 miles of separation from your one true love.
Your first semester will be a whirlwind. New classes, new people, new-ish existential dread. Amid this chaos, there’s one thing you shouldn’t change: your boyfriend from high school. Your parents (and your aunt and your closest friends and even your suspiciously overly-invested neighbors) may advise you to “explore” or “meet new people” or “not anchor your college experience to a boy who secretly (?) resents your academic success,” but these people lack vision. Above all, don’t pay any mind to his mother, who’s been praying for her son to break up with you since sophomore year because she thinks you’re a closeted lesbian. (From the way her husband dresses, it looks like she’s in a lavender marriage, anyhow.) Everything you’re going to hear about romantic sunk costs and the red flags that arise from an LDR is bullshit. You and your boyfriend are built differently.
Think about the damage you’ll do if you dump him … the optics are not great. The faith in true love of your entire high school class rests solely on your continued commitment; break-up, and hundreds will fall into life-long nihilistic crises. On the other hand, if you stay together, you can prove that love has the power to span state lines and wildly divergent SAT scores.
Everyone is going to tell you that he’s insecure about the fact that you go to a better school than he does, but that’s just projection. His remarks about how “college admissions are rigged against white men now” are merely born of patriarchal indoctrination and systemic male fragility — inevitable outcomes of modern manhood. It makes sense considering he can’t watch Joe Rogan clips without the Subway Surfers gameplay. And honestly, why would you want a Yusband — a proximate boyfriend who can spend quality time with you, relate to your day-to-day experiences, and has aspirations past college — when you can have your high school boyfriend who sends you AI-generated cat videos on TikTok to sustain your 379-day streak. So overrated.
Then you have to consider your newfound hectic schedule. Between classes, parties, and rushing for six vaguely different a cappella groups even though you haven’t sung professionally a day in your life, you’re going to be busy. In-person relationships take time. You’ll have to go on arduous dates and inevitably watch The Godfather together. Worst of all, if he really likes you, he might even rope you into going birdwatching (he calls it “birding” for short) at five in the morning
even though you can’t distinguish a red-breasted nuthatch from a greater sage-grouse. What a long-ass time commitment. Alternatively, fifteen-minute facetimes can easily be scheduled on your GCal, and you can even color-code them red to symbolize the passion of your love.
And let’s not forget the biggest perk of all: you won’t have to confront a single one of the intimacy issues your emotionally unavailable father gave you. Your SO is conveniently several states away, so there’s no need to open up emotionally, maintain eye contact during vulnerable moments, or engage in basic adult conflict resolution. If things get tense, disconnect from your WiFi, put your phone on airplane mode, and blame it on a “poor connection” error. I’ve used this excuse five times so far, and he still thinks it’s an AT&T issue. It’s called protecting my peace.
In conclusion, I urge you all to keep your high school boyfriends. At least until spring semester.
—S. Herbert
—M.
DR. CATHERINE CARMINE, THE NICEST COLLEGE WRITING TUTOR
Ph.D., M.A., Arkham Academy for the Criminally Insane
B.A., Harvard University
A new Residential College Writing Tutor will be arriving at Ezra Stiles this Fall. Catherine Carmine is a long-standing member of the New Haven community. Originally from Cambridge, MA, she relocated by broomstick to the future site of Yale’s campus in 1699; following a dreadful misunderstanding involving a kangaroo court, a length of hemp rope, and the disappearance of little Anne Browne. She played an integral part in the development of the University’s English and Necromancy departments. In 1927, she traveled to Gotham on sabbatical in order to pursue a doctorate in Medieval Celtic Literature & Black Magic. During her time as a member of Yale’s English faculty, Carmine specialized in the alchemical literature of Scotland and England from the 13th to 15th centuries, using her spellcrafting expertise to transform graduate students into lab mice for other graduate students to torture.
Carmine’s list of academic and social accomplishments is extensive. Her books — Death Odes of Medieval Scotland (2003), A Morally Ambiguous Guide to Celtic Spellwork (1978), and Human Experimentation in Alchemy: For Dummies (1641) — have achieved international renown. She has been the recipient of seven Yale College Teaching Prizes, and only threatened to curse generations of the grant committees’ bloodlines for six of them. She is solely responsible for the invention of no less than three human rights abuses mentioned in the Geneva Convention. Rumored to have inspired both L. Frank Baum’s Wicked Witch of the West and Charles Perrault’s Maleficent, her contributions to the Western canon have been significant. Among her many advisory roles, she currently serves on the boards of the Gemini Coven, the IRS, and the Yale Financial Aid department. In her free time, she enjoys stealing candy from babies and lurking in the shadows, surveilling unsuspecting freshmen.
We are excited for her to join the Ezra Stiles College community.
—J. Jackson
HOW TO MAKE MONEY AT YOUR ROOMMATE’S EXPENSE
Let me guess, the Dean’s office randomly assigned you a roommate, and now you’re worried you’ll spend your first year of college with some weirdo? Don’t fret your freckle: a roommate can be financially lucrative. Sure, a good roommate might help you choose a fit for the first day of classes, or advise you on which of your suitors to choose, but that’s nothing compared to the dollar bills they can put in your pocket. No, I’m not talking about asking your roommate’s Wall Street parents for insider trading advice (though networking is important). There are more effective avenues:
1. Steal their clothes and sell them on Depop. If they ask questions, tell them the Farnam washing machine ate it. It’s believable enough.
2. Harvest their organs. They don’t need that extra kidney, or their appendix, or their tongue, for that matter. It would shut them up when they’re talking to their long-distance boyfriend while you’re trying to fall asleep. Sharing is caring, and you could save a sick child in the process. Therefore, you’re actually doing the right thing.
3. If their parents accidentally give them a painting that is worth more than Yale tuition, make a fake and switch it out. Contact Sotheby’s and make some serious bank. Your roommate will be so busy searching for their favorite shirt, they won’t notice the difference.
4. Hold them hostage. Unfortunately, this only works if their parents are both rich enough and love them enough to pay a big ransom.
5. Just ask them really nicely for some money. Throw in some doe eyes and fake tears for an added effect.
At least one of these tricks is sure to work, and before you know it, you’ll be sipping champagne on your yacht in the Caribbean, ideally far away from your freak of a roommate.
WHAT I MISSED MOST ABOUT HOME AS A FIRST-YEAR (SUPER RELATABLE)
1. Mommy
2. Mommy’s cooking
3. Benson (our crusty white dog)
4. Yacht
5. Pool (for the yacht)
6. Antique silverware collection
7. Fish tank (technically an aquarium)
8. Tabetha, the maid
9. Mommy’s medicine cabinet
10. Racecar bed (vroom vroom)
—A. Coelho
GUIDE TO YPU
Do my eyes deceive me? Am I dreaming? Are these spectacles o’ mine fogged with imagination and wonder? No. It really is you before me: A first-year at Yale University, ready to join the oldest, best, and goodest collegiate political union. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.
Now hold your horses there, bucko. You can’t just walk up to that podium on your first day without being prepared. The YPU ain’t no high school debate league, no political discussion in your dear mummy’s basement. It is a time-honored atmosphere of super good talk talk with boys and girls with very meaningful think think in their noggins. Here is your one-stop shoppe of information on Yale’s most politicalest union.
Upon entering your first YPU debate, you will
wonder if Yale students are snakes and woodpeckers, as they will hiss and smack their wooden chairs. No, fool! These snakes and woodpeckers are your fellow locutors, engaging in the YPU’s time-honored ways of reacting to the speaker.
Listeners will pound on any table, chair, or thigh available to them upon hearing something they agree with. This symbolizes that the listeners would like to pound the speaker with sweet love-making because of the speaker’s sexy sexy correct opinion.
Listeners will hiss upon hearing something they disagree with. This, on the other hand, represents how the listeners would like to ssssssit on the speaker’s face.
The third reaction you are secretly encouraged to do is to yell “I have a bomb!!” at any point during a speech, regardless of whether you agree or not. You should definitely do this in your first meeting, it’s generally a firstyear’s job, and it’s important to be loud and proud.
Now that you’re ready to react, dearest first-year, you need to know which party you should join. You will need to do your own research by reading the parties’ websites, attending the party-specific meetings, and showing up at the leader of each party’s door, blackout drunk and vomiting, to see who takes the best care of you. To spare you some time, here is a quick guide so you basically know who you’re working with:
• Progressive Party — Depressed alcoholics.
• Tory Party — British spies.
• The Independent Party — VSCO girls and fuckboys.
• Party of the Right — Featured in the second Borat movie.
• Party of the Left — A cross between the Dauntless faction from Divergent and the characters from Winnie the Pooh.
• Conservative Party — Gingers.
Finally, you simply must know about the guest speakers the YPU will bring in. You’ll meet titans of industry, political icons, and groundbreaking war criminals. The common thread? All of them were on Epstein’s island.
Oh, dearest first-year, you are ready. Be bold, be brave, be super good talk talk.
—H. Lowitz
—Z. Valedon
HOTTEST NEW COURSES
For the Underprepared Student:
MATH 123: Counting
MATH 456: Advanced Counting
ENGL 001: A
ENGL 002: B
ART 001: Good Art
ART 002: Bad Art
FRAT 101: Where Are They?
For the Globally-Minded:
EAST 101: Remembering the Life & Legacy of Henry Kissinger
PLSC 666: Obliteration
PLSC 160: Destabilizing the Global South
ARCH 5000 years ago: Creationism
For the STEM-Oriented:
MATH 420: High-Dimensional Topologies of PaperBased Herb Containment
Must-Takes:
CHEM 301: Making Fent
TAXI(dermy) 501: Human Disembowelment
ANT 300: That’s Too Many Ants
HRSE 102: Grazing
HRSE 103: Galloping
FOOD 103: Identifying Poisonous Food
PLSC 1776: Which Founding Daddy Had the Hottest Bod?
TKS PICS 101: Intro to OnlyFans
LUMP 350: It’s Probably Nothing
HOW I BECAME MR. POPULAR
As soon as I got on campus, I knew exactly what this silly Ivy League school needed. I looked around and saw the nerds, the jocks, and the plastics all settling into their groups. I whispered under my breath, so quietly that the air conditioning masked my voice. (I’m in Pauli Murray #limursforlife):
“This is my Project X.”
First, I walked over to the nearest alcohol store and asked them for two alcohol bottles. I figured that, along with a few bottles of soda, would cover everyone. The guy serving me forgot to ask for my ID, but I helpfully reminded him — with my Canadian fake. It’s genius.
The drinking age over there is eighteen, so no way could he refuse me.
Next, I had to secure a speaker. I brought a JBL Flip with me to college, but I knew I had to level up. Lucky for me, my suitemate — the GOAT — brought a boombox. We plugged that bad boy in, and I swear to God, the minute the Bluetooth connected and “CARNIVAL” started playing, I felt the cosmos come into alignment.
I’m not sure how outreach works, so I utilized the two most interconnected and powerful networks that I had access to: FIZZ and my FroCo group chat. I wanted to keep it casual and chill, so I hit ‘em with a light “party @ 9 PM; murray 3rd floor; hella vibes.” I got the 100 karma notification immediately, so I alerted my suitemates to get ready for the craziest night of their lives.
By 9:30, my FroCo Group boys had pulled through. By 10:00, there was even a girl. Once it hit 11:00, we may have been out of alcohol, but man, it was bumping. Sure, we were drenched in sweat and smelled like musty cheese, but we were in the zone .
There is stress and hatred in this world — but not in that room. That room was pure. That room was joy. That room cleared out quickly when someone bumped into the light switch, and the girls saw our pit stains.
As they sprinted out, I took a sip from my solo cup of 10% LaCroix and 90% Everclear and whispered to myself:
“Mr. Popular, you’ve done it again.”
—S. Singh
MOMMY MCINNIS
THE RECORD QUIZ CORNER:
DOES MY ROOMMATE HATE ME?
“There is no easier way to hate somebody than to share a room. Especially if you already hated them before. And after. And during.” My roommate
One of the quintessential freshman experiences in college is having a roommate. Mine meowed a lot and ate tremendous amounts of fish. My other suitemate once brought me a glass of water after I asked. Now I only have two wishes left. Anyway, here’s a quiz to find out if your roommate hates you.
1. Do you snore?
A. Yes.
B. No.
Analysis: If yes, your roommate hates you. It doesn’t matter if they have earplugs. It doesn’t matter if they also snore. Between 11 p.m. and 12 a.m., they hate you more than they’ve ever hated anything before. They’re suffering, and it’s your fault. This isn’t even a joke. Fix your nose before they fix it for you, with a fist.
2. How loud do you eat soups?
A. Mad loud.
B. As if the bowl of soup is a glass of wine, and you already hate your unborn child.
C. I don’t eat soup.
Analysis: C is the only correct answer to this question. To all others, why are you soupin’ it up in the room? Moreover, why does everyone else need to know? Oh, it’s ramen? I KNOW ALREADY. YOU HAVE MORE SODIUM THAN A SALT BANK.
3. What is your roommate’s favorite color?
A. Blue.
B. Navy Blue.
C. Purple.
D. Forest Green.
4. What happens when you poke your roommate?
A. “Oh, what’s up?”
B. They poke you back.
C. They punch you in the face and steal your phone.
D. Their skin doesn’t move and feels like stone.
Analysis: If you answered the last one, your roommate might be a mannequin. Luckily, you caught it early. You didn’t talk to them for hours over dinner, and then only realized they were a mannequin because they never texted you back. I mean, that had to be it. That had to be it. That had to be it.
5. Smell your roommate. How do they react?
A. “Thanks for noticing! I switched shampoo!”
B. They smell you back.
C. They punch you in the face and steal your phone.
D. They smell like sweet roses, and you want to drink them.
C. Nothing.
D. They have an extreme reaction and are rushed to the hospital.
Analysis: If your roommate’s favorite color does not fall into any of these categories, then they are a sixth grader. Or an art major. Both are equally intelligent, but the former still enjoys making art. Also, they both hate you. Sorry.
Analysis: If you answered the last one, your roommate might be the hand soap at the School of Management. It smells incredible, and even though you emailed the facilities manager months ago to ask how to get some, he still hasn’t responded. This is not a joke; I, the author of this piece, actually emailed them. I regret nothing and still eagerly await a response. Anyone with information is asked to email me directly.
6. Sprinkle some dairy, soy, peanuts, assorted shellfish, and wheat into your roommate’s food. What happens?
A. Nothing.
B. Nothing.
Analysis: Now, you’ve narrowed down their allergens to include some subset of the above five things. Further examination will rule out some. They’ll be very delighted to know that you made the effort of learning more about their background!
7. Start licking your roommate’s food when they go to the bathroom. What happens?
A. They get “Herped up” (everyday Yale slang, please use it more).
B. Other.
Analysis: If they don’t get herpes, you haven’t been to a DKE party.
8. What’s your roommate’s fingerprint?
(Bonus points for toe prints)
Analysis: Fingerprints are caused by interactions with your environment as an embryo. Maybe. You should believe more things you read in this publication, as we are the future generation of scientists and thieves. And hey, you might learn a thing or two if you stick with us. Or, we’ll take a thing or two. Probably the latter.
Oh, you want an actual answer to the question? Sometimes, your roommate will hate you. But that’s ok. Why? Because you, my child, are the veteran of a future war, and you’ll have to share rooms with lots of people whom you don’t like. So learn to hate resentfully until you’re a junior and you can make better choices.
POINT: JOIN AN A CAPPELLA GROUP
There’s nothing quite like being a Yale firstyear. Hundreds of other nerds like you are milling about, eager to make new friends. Sounds nice, right? WRONG. Right now, you’re probably reading this alone in your dorm room. Maybe you’re hoping your roommate will come back soon and want to hang out with you. Too bad, he’s actually made cooler friends than you already. You might be waiting for a text from that girl you met in your FroCo group. She’s not gonna text, honey. You are lonely. You are awkward. You are skinny but don’t wanna hit the gym. But wait… in your sea of stinking desperation shines a glimmer of hope. You did choir in high school, and you were the lead alto. Not too shabby! You played Mr. Warbucks in your high school’s production of Annie . Well done, buster! So there’s only one option for you: get your ass into a cappella rush!
There are fourteen groups to choose from, some bad, most mediocre. But you don’t care about that. The group chats, dinners, and arcane rituals call your name. The Instagram account you can tag on your story will make it seem like you have friends. You get to sing in front of people, too. Maybe even harmonize. Some of them even travel around and stay at each other’s lake houses over breaks. They also initiate you by making you hug your fellow new members and drink suspicious tequila from the same cup. Physical touch and alcohol, what could go wrong? Friends! Aura! Happiness! A good college experience! If you want any of these, join a cappella.
COUNTERPOINT: I GOT CHLAMYDIA FROM MY A CAPPELLA GROUP
My voice will be silent no longer. “Rush a cappella,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said. And I did. I was lonely, stinky, and missing home. So, I rushed, ok? I guess I was good enough because [REDACTED] ended up giving me a call back. I obviously slayed the callback, and they were literally begging me to join. At initiation, I met [REDACTED]. He was cool and cute — well, not really, but he did have curly hair. I drank the jungle juice out of the sacred Aca-chalice right after him,
so our lips basically touched. He asked me to skip group dinner so that we could grab a meal — just the two of us. After an incredibly suggestive dinner date at Panera Bread, we went back to his bunk bed at L-Dub, and one thing led to another. (Ladies, have some respect for yourselves; never go to L-Dub.) A week later, whenever I peed, it burned like the fires of Satan. Uh-oh. Turns out that aca-bitch had a longdistance girlfriend who came to visit, and she had sneaky links at her college. And then Yale Health was telling me I had chlamydia. Like hello??? After that, I couldn’t stand all the singing anymore. A girl can only handle so many people who treat getting a solo like the goddamn Hunger Games. So I quit. Thank god. Now I got fifteen hoes in my DMs and zero STDS. Never join a cappella.
—A. Siciliano
I LIVED IT: LIFE AS THE WEALTHIEST SUITEMATE
When I first got accepted to Yale, I had big dreams. Eager to follow in the footsteps of my parents, both my grandfathers, and three of my greatgrandfathers, I pictured Yale as a utopia of only the most elite, where we would all find company in the common ground of being so much smarter and richer and better than everyone else. I was so excited that I talked my housekeeper’s ear off about it, daydreaming about my future yacht buddies and golf partners.
So, imagine my surprise when I learned that three out of my five suitemates went to… yeuch… public school . And four are on financial aid! When I asked my roommate if he drove a Tesla or a BMW, he told me that he didn’t have a car. I couldn’t believe it! All of the decorations he put up were cheap and tasteless, like band posters and pictures of his dopey family, and he looked at me like I was crazy when I asked him if he could perhaps replace them with wall tapestries and decorative vases that matched the color scheme of the original Degas piece I had hung up. The whole suite called the rug I put down in the common room ugly and laughed when I told them it was Aubusson. They didn’t even know what that word meant. Now they all call me “Aubussy,” and I do not care for it.
Needless to say, my dreams of a Yale student
body filled with opulent and distinguished peers were vanquished. What has this university come to, where now I must share a space with boys who wear off-brand sneakers and eat alarming amounts of Cheetos? I lie awake at night, paralyzed with the fear that they’ll grow jealous of my hard-earned generational wealth and try to steal one of my designer watches, but I fear the truth is even worse: They don’t even realize that my watches are designer! The thought just about breaks my heart.
If anyone reading this is adequately wealthy and has found themself in a similar situation, please reach out to me. Perhaps if our parents donate enough money, the school will be convinced to let us all transfer into a suite together right away.
—S. Lanz
CONFESSIONS FROM A FOOT POLYCULE
The yolky sun sank behind the boughs of evergreen. The smell of smoke permeated the air. Thick and heady, it boiled from our group’s campfire. We huddled tightly, taking in the warmth. Justin sat next to me, his leg pressed against mine, his body odor wafting into my nose. I shivered delightfully. If only I could be surrounded by sweaty men who poop in the woods all the time, I lamented.
Rainwater, oozing from the saturated log on which we perched, seeped through the butt of my pants. Swamp ass grew swampier as the fire crackled into the evening. I turned to Beth, who ran her fingers along my tender nape, raising goosebumps with her touch. She leaned away from the fire and slid a delicious s’more into Priyanka’s eager piehole. Ellis rested his head in Priyanka’s lap. His Crocs twitched as he sketched pictures of Sonic the Hedgehog rawdogging Super Mario in his notebook. Garrick, the group’s goofball, sprang up from the log, breaking the silence.
“You guys wanna see my birthing mother goat impression?” The group laughed and encouraged him. Nothing could make us happier, we replied. Just as Garrick began the impression, Sara Beth, our FOOT leader, stood up, blocking Garrick’s undulating body from view.
“Can you guys, like, cut out all this sexual
shit?” she complained. Malcom, the other leader, nodded, shaking a little. We think he’s scared of us. No one responded. Sarah Bitch, that pathetic monogamist, will never understand us.
After getting into our sleeping bags, Malcom reminded us that we were headed back to campus in the morning. We met his reminder with smothered giggles. After the FOOT leaders fell asleep, I felt Michah, who lay beside me in his sleeping bag, lick my cheek three times. I repeated the code to Simone, the girl to my left, who passed it again down the line.
When the authorities found Malcolm and Sarah Bitch hogtied beside a smoldering campfire, they deployed a search party, assuming us to be lost. But we weren’t lost. We were found. The world will never understand us — lovers of bonfires, musk, and courting rituals like those of tropical birds — so we ran away. Don’t bother trying to find us.
—A. Siciliano
BEST PLUGS ON CAMPUS
As you move into the first semester of your freshman year, knowing the best plugs on campus is a vital piece of information that will ultimately determine your success. As a rising junior, I’ve tested the output of each plug to see if they’re worth the hype. So, without further ado, here are the best available plugs at Yale.
1. The plug in the basement of the Stiles library. (It has the spark you’ll need to get through midterms. Rubber gloves recommended.)
2. The plug by the sixth desk on the third floor of the stacks.
3. The plug in the Davenport common room by the fireplace.
4. The plug in the interview room in the Silliman basement. Wear business casual to blend in.
5. Quite frankly, any plug you can put your charger in will get the job done. The biggest difference in charging quality depends on whether or not you have a lightning charger. The acid dealer by the York Street Walgreens sells chargers that work pretty well.
—A. Garcia
Document Type: SCOPE
CIA Report: Yague as Bioweapon
Collection: General CIA Records
Document Number (FOIA) /ESDN (CREST): CIA-RDP23-0341569A003700010210-1
Release Decision: GENPUB
Original Classification: S
Document Page Count: 57
Document Creation Date: December 9, 2024
Document Release Date: August 15, 2025
Sequence Number: 69
Case Number: 000420
Content Type: REPORT
File: Yague_bioweapen
Body: Seven members of Team SL:DKFJSLD:J were dropped undercover into the epicenter of the Yague outbreak, the Saybrook 12-Pack, to investigate the Yague’s use as a biological weapon. Agents FARTFACE and JAMES attempted to gain the trust of the few remaining uninfected members of the suite. Unfortunately, both became sick and were taken to Yale Health. The team back in Arlington expects to receive their official prognosis sometime in the coming months. Meanwhile, Agents DUMBASS, JOEMAMA, LAMEO, STU, and TYLER dispersed themselves among the general frat-going populace in order to determine which Greek or social house was potentially weaponizing the biohazard. On reconnaissance missions, the team discovered that the most recent victims of the Yague had all consumed Twisted Teas from the same mixer Agent STU at first believed that the Sigma Nu fraternity was the original source of the Twisted Teas that tested high for Yague content; however, the brothers’ average IQ was deemed not high enough to organize an intentional deployment of the Yague. Agent STU was able to trace the teas the Sigma Nu brothers acquired back to Edon. A whistleblower indicated that Edon had been tasking its pledges with weaponizing the Yague and infecting other houses so that students would actually show up to their parties. All students participating in the scheme have been taken into custody.
Support Officer REDACTED was able to extract a sample of SEMEN from an infected student to send to a lab in QUANTICO in order to engineer an antidote, which was administered to all infected undercover agents. The effort was successful, and all members of the team have been relocated to REDSLFK:LKSDFJ for future assignment (SEE: TimothyDwight_cult).
HOW TO EXPERIMENT ON YOUR ROOMMATE
Cadavers. Simulations. Mummies. Over the years, humans have devised numerous methods to experiment on others without causing harm. Ignore those. This paper argues that any curious amateur scientist should immediately begin experimenting on their roommate.
1. For the first experiment, you’ll only need three things: five limes, five lemons, and a bowl.
a. Put all the limes in a bowl.
b. Wait a few days.
c. Replace all of them with lemons.
d. Tell your roommate that all limes are underripe lemons.
e. In 15 years or so, they’ll realize what you’ve done. Until then, you’ll know that they’re susceptible to mischief.
2. Methodically time your walks such that the crosswalks are always on “walk” whenever you arrive.
a. Ensure that your roommate is explicitly made aware of this.
b. This may include Pavlovian response training, but it is necessary.
c. One day, “mistime” it so that you start walking when it’s busy.
d. They won’t see it coming.
3. Plan a fake funeral to see who really cares about them.
a. Don’t send out the invitations.
b. Only you came to the funeral.
c. They think they only have one ally in the world.
d. Loyalty.
4. Tell them you speak a language you don’t.
a. Replace all the words with complete gibberish in a convincing accent.
b. Spend 3 months teaching them.
c. Bring them to an event in the language.
d. Chaos. Or, how we say it in Russian, erwbud .
Of course, there are many other minor tests you can do:
1. Shave their head in their sleep (Anger Management Test).
2. Test for any diseases you may have by sneezing on them. If they develop the disease, you may have it (Disease Test).
3. Leave out mousetrap with cheese (Idiot Test).
4. Put a pea under the bed mattress (Marriage Aptitude Test).
5. Put a box that says “do not open” with misery and evil inside (Pandora’s Test).
6. Collect mosquitoes to see if they like you or them better (Blood Tastiness Test).
So go forth and experiment, trusty scientist! Unless you’re my roommate, in which case, forget the whole lemons aren’t ripened limes thing. I was just kidding.
HANDSOME DAN ARRESTED
ALTERNATIVE YALE MOTTOS
Institutionally neutral
Not like other girls
✨ coexist ✨
Lux ate veritas
Lux 8 veritas
Lux et al (1701)
Veritas et lux
We are going to kill you
The Gay Ivy
Yale is for lovers
America runs on Yale
I’m Yale’n it
There’s no L in Yale
Straight outta privilege
—M. Sprintson
—A. Stankunas
THE EXODUS
A fog of white dust formed a foot-high sheet above the packed gravel of Nower Drive. The daily lake-effect wind howled against the wake of soccer-mom minivans driving into the public pool grounds. On weekends, the road operated with a counterflow. Both lanes were choked up with the entire population of Nower Town, desperate to feel the soothing touch of chlorinated water during the hottest, windiest, dustiest month of the year. Nower wasn’t anywhere you wanted to be.
Bill Youngkin would rather have his ass glued to a fire hose than work the entire year at the Chalcopyrite Township Community Pool. However, his desire for a source of steady greenbacks outweighed his disdain for the community pool elite and the gruelling 12-hour days of cleaning up the occasional floating turd. This was a seasonal affair; he needed only a booster seat going into the autumn term at the prestigious Elay University.
He snagged his admission with the regimented grindset lifestyle required for a 9.5/4.0 GPA at the Chalcopyrite Elite Preparatory Magnet Academy With Grade Inflation Bundled For Only 20% Extra Tuition Per Year High School™ as well for his exemplary leadership at the two meetings held by the Honor Society for Honorable Socialites since the club was started in his junior year.
Bill was desperate to escape the monotony of the township and its paltry park, but his parents would grant him no additional funding on top of Elay’s tuition, despite the cost savings obtained by moving from CEPMAWGIBFOTPETPY HS (pronounced sep-maw-gifted-py) to Elay.
Thus, on the last day of work, Bill snagged his paycheck from the loose grip of his feeble boss and slammed the mosquito-netted door of his office shut. He weaved in and out of the assorted minivans, cop cars, and carnival troupe that typically clotted the pothole-infested boulevards of Nower, and where the gravel met pavement on Route 92148, he swung left to cross the six lanes and ran on the rumble strips that would take him back to his cul-de-sac home.
But instead of hightailing it to his Samsung DailyDouble-Refrigerator-7000 (With AI Included!) and finishing the day with the delicious taste of an artificially-dyed Unilever freeze pop, he stopped short of the driveway. His parents, with the appearance of American Gothic, watched over his possessions as they were loaded into the Range Rover by his sister and two brothers. They both turned to greet Bill’s questioning look.“Bill, you know we love you very much,” his mother started.
“We can’t drop you off at move-in,” his father bluntly blurted.
“Richard!” His mother turned her head ninety degrees counterclockwise with an expression of shock.
“The quicker we deliver the news, the better. Bill, your mom and I have to leave for the airport early tomorrow to attend the Patterson-Water Financial Advising Services gala.” He cleared his throat. “And so, you’ll have to drive yourself to Connecticut. But Bill, we trust you, you’re an adult now, and we know you can handle this.”
“Take this.” His mother handed him a satchel of golden doubloons — she never trusted legal tender. “We’re very sorry, Bill, truly sorry, but you know how important this is to your father. Hopefully, this should cover your travel and allow you to treat yourself to something. We’ll definitely be there on visiting days. I promise. We, uh, ‘love you.’”
Bill nodded, letting his hand plummet from the weight of the doubloons. He was unbothered and allowed his parents to thank him for his understanding as he mentally charted a course for the journey in front of him. GPS didn’t work in Nower on account of the astronomical levels of radon in the soil.
Before he hit the road, finally leaving behind his stripmall six-lane TV dinner of a town, he savored one more freeze-pop. It was nuclear-reactor green in color and flavor and, he admitted to himself, delicious.
WHAT THEY PUT IN DINING HALL FOOD
—E. Song
—E. Upson
Loser Frosh Eats Alone
SQUIRREL LANZ STAFF REPORTER
NEW HAVEN, CT—Reports flooded in yesterday concerning a controversy in the Davenport Dining Hall: a first-year student was caught eating alone. Pathetically picking at the meatloaf they didn’t yet know not to eat and loudly sipping a glass of milk, they reportedly sat down at the emptiest table they could find and immediately started pretending their phone actually had any notifications. Luckily for them, the big LED sign over their head reading “Socially Awkward Loser With No Friends” was out of battery, so their humiliation
was marginally minimized. When asked for a comment, the loser first-year claimed they were “just waiting for someone” and stressed, “All my friends are just really busy, you know?”
However, reports show that this first-year had been left out of the suite group chat. Upon searching their dorm the next day, our in-the-field reporters found a diary entry reading: “Deprived of my comrades, I had to face the treacherous dining hall alone and put up barely a meager fight before succumbing to its harsh conditions. My dignity is in shambles, and I may never eat again. I should have gone to UConn.” Sheesh,
what a drama queen.
Bystanders sitting at the opposite end of the same table did not have much to say. “What?” one said when asked to give a report. “Someone was sitting there?” Upon being asked their thoughts on why this first-year might have been sitting alone, the witness shrugged and said, “I guess I didn’t think about it at all. I have, like, a life.” Others at the table echoed similar sentiments, with responses such as “it’s literally not a big deal” and “who cares.”
As the next dining period draws near, we eagerly await seeing if this absolute loser freshman will eat alone again.
The scene of the incident: Davenport College. Loser frosh, pictured in the bottom right, sits alone.
THE WIZARD GOES TO GET SOME FOOD
A man with a star-speckled robe and a big pointy hat and piercing blue eyes and a scraggly white beard walked into the grocery store. He was in a bad mood, but for him, that was normal. He was in a normal mood.
You might think that this was a man wearing a wizard outfit. You would be correct. The key difference is that this man was indeed a wizard. And boy-oh-boy was he upset for some reason or another. As the wizard walked into the grocery store, he bellowed, “Where can I find some food?” The nice store attendant replied, “Sir, it’s all food here. It’s a grocery store.”
“Hmph. Thank you,” scoffed the wizard. He tries his best not to take his anger out on service workers. He isn’t perfect, but he tries.
He hovered around the store, looking for some good wizard eatin’. Unfortunately, this grocery store, like most grocery stores, did not have a “Wizard” section anymore. Ever since the notable uptick in wizard farmers, it hasn’t made much economical sense to have a wizard aisle in your store. The wizard had known this for some time, but the fact still made his blood boil.
The wizard, finding himself appropriately dressed for the dairy aisle due to his Milky Way robe, approached a shopping cart that had been carelessly abandoned in the middle of the aisle. He found an elderly lady looking at eggs, about thirty feet away from the cart. “Ma’am, is this your cart?” asked the wizard politely. “Yes, dear, I’m sorry,” replied the lady.
The wizard then turned her bones into lemon-lime Jello. As she plopped to the floor, the wizard exclaimed,
“Learn some manners, lady.” Onlookers were mostly baffled and slightly horrified.
The wizard’s cart squelched over the old lady’s goopy body. “Great,” he thought. “Now my cart smells like limes.” He wasn’t going to let this stop him from getting some wizard food. The wizard walked to the deli section to obtain some sliced ham he could later transmutate into prosciutto. Frustrated with the long line ahead of him, he turned the other patrons into vegetarians. They quickly dispersed.
The deli man, after greeting the wizard, casually mentioned his displeasure in having to stand for his whole shift. The wizard, a notorious hater of complaining, waited until he got his ham and then replaced the deli man’s legs with glue. This had the unfortunate effect of making the deli man fall into a pile of glue, hindering his mobility for the foreseeable future.
After a few more stops, the wizard decided he had put together a pretty cohesive grocery haul. He went to the self-checkout, hoping to avoid any more human interactions.
Unfortunately, the self-checkout attendant approached the wizard and notified him that he had twelve items in his cart, and the self-checkout lane was limited to customers who had ten or fewer items in their cart. The wizard thought this was a stupid rule, and cast a spell to engulf the man in flames.
This hullabaloo prompted the shift supervisor to come over. She pointed at the “No Engulfing Attendants in Flames” sign and glared at the wizard menacingly. “Put him out!” ordered the supervisor. The wizard removed the flames from the worker, but it didn’t do him
much good. You can only survive being on fire for so long, as they say.
Surprisingly, the wizard finished his shopping without another incident. After loading the groceries into his sedan, the wizard cast an invisibility spell on his cart, which he left in the middle of the parking lot. While leaving the parking lot and nibbling on his prosciutto, the wizard summoned a plume of magma to rise through the center of the grocery store, engulfing the building and its brain-dead customers in fiery rock. “Mm, good prosciutto,” he murmured to himself. “Maybe I overreacted back there,” the wizard thought, while driving away. “Maybe I was just hungry.”
—J. Banks
THE RECORD ASKS: WHO CAN DO THE BEST IMPRESSION OF A FIRST-YEAR?
SOFIA says, “I love going out, but I also love a good night in! So excited to meet everyone!”
BIPUL says, “I’m thinking of minoring in Psychology!”
AINSLEE screams, “AHHHHH”
ABIGAIL says, “Meh, meh, meh, I don’t know how to print!” *cries*
EMMA rants, “It was a really hard decision between Yale and Princeton and Harvard and Stanford and MIT and Dartmouth and UPenn and Brown and Cornell and Vanderbilt and every single UC, but I’m glad now that I didn’t choose Columbia <3”
TERENCE says, “Oh boy, I sure do hope I don’t get eaten alive by a big hungry senior!”
HARRY writes, “(Speaking to my froco group) ‘Alright, show of hands. Who’s been asked out by Terence Harris? Oh, wait, probably easier to count who hasn’t been asked out by Terence Harris.”
SHIVRAJ sings, “Lalalala, I’m so young and helpless! Hope the Record Big 4 don’t touch me!”
ELIZABETH says, “This is, like, my third Celsius today.”
AVERY asks, “Where are the parties?”
MATT pleads, “Help.”
ADAM declares, “Hello, I am a first-year.”
Ask Old Owl!
Dear Old Owl, It’s been a week since move-in, and my parents still haven’t moved out. All they do is loiter in my common room, playing Candy Crush and eating my roommate’s snacks. They won’t even look for jobs. Whenever I ask them to leave, they complain that since they let me spend eighteen years in their house, the least I could do is let them spend four in mine. Help!
Dear Owlet, Ungrateful son.
Dear Old Owl, I can’t pick a major! On one hand, I love Math, Chemistry, Theoretical Physics, Paleontology, Paleobotany, Paleoastronomy, Environmental Science, Thermonuclear Dynamics, and — the best STEM — Political Science. On the other hand, I love English, Humanities, Macroeconomics, Microeconomics, Average-economics, and even American Studies. Which one should I choose?
Dear Owlet, Have you ever played Blind Man’s Bluff? It is the solution to your indecision. You must wander around blindfolded until you stumble into someone of generational wealth. Marry them, and
you’ll never have to worry about majors again.
Dear Old Owl, Ugh, it’s so hard getting into a frat party as a first-year. I was stopped at Leo because they said I brought a “loser scrolling through the weather app in the corner” vibe to the function that just wouldn’t stand. They’re throwing again tonight. Any advice on getting in?
Dear Owlet, Yale is chock-full of so-called “party-goers,” and they’re all subservient to one thing: pow er. I can already tell from your sniveling, tear-soaked letter that you’ll never feel the ecstasy of true power. You’ll never know what it’s like to have Jungle Juice baby birded into your mouth by Luther’s hottest hunk. Instead of reveling like the rest of us, you’ll be begging your parents to ship you a pack of canned margaritas while your “friends” abandon you for fun times on Lake Place. God, you’d never survive a night out with me. We’d break into the abandoned Rite Aid, tun nel down until we’re covered in asbestos and Cretaceous sand stone — only then would we do what I call “the consumption.” I can’t tell you what it is, given that you’re an uninitiated plebe, but the spotlight over Old Cam pus is from us.
Old Owl is an alcoholic, nicotineaddicted nightbird that roams campus scrounging for vestiges of the relevance he enjoyed in the Record ’s heyday. He now offers advice, free of charge. If you’d like to Ask Old Owl about your weird life, email
