“The World’s Oldest Humor Magazine” or
“The World’s Most Humorous Old Magazine”
Join us! Email chair@yalerecord.org
BEN SHAPIRO STUMPED BY GEORGIA O’KEEFFE PAINTING
ALIENS OFFENDED BY JK ROWLING’S NEWEST CHARACTER,
INSECURE TRIANGLE CAUGHT AT BAD ANGLE
Dear Republican Professor,
I know this class is at capacity, but I was wondering if it might be possible for me to sit in the corner and scroll twitter on my desktop.
Thank you for your attention, Student
“WELL, WELL, WELL,” SAYS THIRSTY BUCKET
Dear Student, It’s called X now. Denied.
Best, Republican Professor
DEMOCRACY MAJOR WORRIED ABOUT REAL WORLD APPLICABILITY
FASCISM MAJOR EXCITED ABOUT POSTGRAD PROSPECTS WALLACE AND GROMIT LOOKING FOR A THIRD
RFK MOVES VACCINES TO THE BOTTOM OF THE FOOD PYRAMID
YALE GUY RUINS ANAL SEX BY CALLING IT “YANAL YEX”
“WHY WON’T THEY LET ME INTO THE BEINECKE?” SAYS MAN WHO EATS RARE BOOKS AND MANUSCRIPTS
Dear Yale Facilities,
There is a strange floating orb in my dorm. It is pitch black and seems to suck in all the light from the room. This is not a problem at night as it makes it very easy to sleep, but getting up in the morning is nearly impossible.
Best, Concerned Student
Dear Concerned Student,
The orb has marked you for oblivion. Nuttin’ we can do.
Dear Wise Man,
I have a UTI and no money and an assassin trying to kill me. What should I do?
Yours, Cooper
Dear Cooper, Cooper? I hardly know her! Hah! Hope you deal with your things. Yours, Cooper
FOR SALE:
History dissertation, never read.
WANTED
Prof. Wilhelm Stifeldorph Doofelheimer III, for the historically inaccurate claims he made about his relations with my mother.
Obituary Correction
The Neanderthal did not, in fact, go extinct, but was found alive and well in your discussion section.
Did You Know?
History is a lie. It’s all made up, and I have the evidence to prove it. Were you there when any of it happened? Yeah, that’s right, you weren’t. So how do you know if it actually happened? Boom.
The government is run by a cabal of historians who fabricate the events of the past to pursue their ultimate aim: tenure. If you find my body, know I didn’t kill myself.
Who was John History? John History, pictured on the back cover of this very reputable magazine, claims to have invented history, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. History was invented 8000 years ago by a guy named Ogrog after he told his buddy Gorkus that a tiger had eaten the village elder (Doofenschmirtz, 67). Ogrog was the first person to realize that something irreversibly bad had happened to someone else, and his subsequent depression led to what we now know as history (Doofenschmirtz, 69). Thanks, Ogrog!
This historic moment, no pun intended, was written down on ancient stone tablets collected by John History in the 18th century, tablets which he then unsuccessfully tried to pass off as his own, despite the obvious temporal incongruities and generally absurdity of it all (History, 101). Whether John History invented history or merely had the fortune — or misfortune — of being born with such an auspicious title, however, is not the question begging to be answered by this undeniably academic research paper. We are merely here to learn about the life of a man. A very, very pathetic man.
John History was born in the late 17th century in East London, so he didn’t exactly win the birthplace lottery. Even from a young age, and despite all evidence to the contrary, History constantly insisted that he had, in fact, invented history (Tiddlywhiskers, 12). History’s mother, Mary Jane Herstory, wrote in her diary, when John was just twelve, “Bloody ‘ell. This kid is a feckin’ donkey, innit. I tried to get him to read a book on the Egyptians, and he kept saying, ‘Mommy, mommy! That’s me name on the title, innit? I’m a right bloody historian!’” (Herstory, 101). As History grew older, his delusions deepened. After leveraging his aristocratic connections to get into Cambridge, History dedicated his college years to definitively proving that he had, in fact, invented history. His thesis paper, titled “You Can’t Spell ‘History’ Without ‘History’: The John History Story,” sent zero shockwaves through British academia but did numbers at underground comedy clubs (The History of Failures, 29).
One of John History’s most notable idiosyncrasies was that he rode around on an abnormally long horse, whom he eponymously named “The Long Horse of History,” more affectionately nicknamed Neighstory. Neighstory was a retired racehorse who won every race he ever entered, only because his string-cheese body spanned the length of a racetrack (Seabiscuit, 45). As such, the English Horse Gamblers Committee — one of the most powerful paramilitary groups in England at the time — banned Neighstory from competing after a 15-year win streak, on account that they “couldn’t cheat blokes outta dough anymore, innit” (Gamblombino, 33).
Both having been rejected by society, Neighstory and History dedicated themselves to creating something new, a so-called Horsestory. But all stories have rocky starts — especially Harry Potter Dramione (Draco x Hermione) fanfics on AO3 (Maya-O’pinon, 1). In the spirit of close friendship, Neighstory and History organized the first Man-Horse Love convention in Northwestern Europe (a few groups on the continent had beaten them to the punch) (Horsediddler, 9000). Even if they had been privy to the sexual undertones of such an event, nothing could have prepared them for what became one of the largest mass-casualty events in human history (Horsediddler, 10000).
Devika Kothari ’27 Chair
Avery Misner ’27 Online Managing Editor
Jaelyn Jackson ’28 Copy Editor
Harry Lowitz ’28 Supplementals Editor
Dash Beber-Turkel ’26 Old Owl
Emmet Houghton ’26 Old Owl
AJ Tapia-Wylie ’26
Adham Hussein ’26
Aidan Gibson ’26
Alejandro Rojas ’26
Alexa Druyanoff ’26
Alexis Ramirez-Hardy ’26
Alice Khomski ’26
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Andie Gately ’26
Andrew Lake ’26
Anthony Kurz ’26
Ariel Kirman ’26
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Brennan Columbia-Walsh ’26
Terence Harris ’27 Editor in Chief
Shivraj Singh ’28 Online Managing Editor
Gaya Buchta ’27 Art Director
Leo Rael ’28 Social Media Manager
Erita Chen ’26 Old Owl
Katya Agrawal ’27 Old Owl
Rohan Shivakumar ’27 Managing Editor
Emma Upson ’27 Lead Design Editor
Eric Song ’28 Webmaster
Amelia Herrmann ’26 Old Owl
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Caroline Utermann ’26
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Sivan Almogy ’26
In the aftermath of the slaughter, History was changed forever. His mind having been reduced to a tattered rag of images and sounds — the rush of hooves, the cries of ecstasy, the horrible neighing — History admitted himself into an insane asylum, where he developed that iconic “John History” look we all know so well: powdered wig, red overcoat, bandelier full of candy cigarettes, vacant white eyes that had watched while three-thousand stallions smashed into a sea of jubilant perverts. Neighstory was forbidden from visiting him: it brought back bad memories.
History lived until he didn’t, croaking from consumption at the ripe-old age of 29, which was pretty alright for 18th-century England. But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. I began by asking who John History was, and so far, I have recounted what he did. Stupid, stupid, stupid! John History was not one of the greats. John History wasn’t even one of the goods. In fact, I would place him somewhere between the not-greats and the just okays, but that’s just the opinion of this ol’ historian. The moral of the story is this: When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.
—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
Sadie Lee ’26 Old Owl
Anna Lehman ’27 Old Owl
Staff:
Thomas Varghese ’26
Toby Salmon ’26
Tristan Hernandez ’26
William Wang ’26
Wolf Boone ’26
Zadie Winthrop ’26
Zoe Halaban ’26
Abigail Murphy ’27
Ami Gillon ’27
Anna Calkins ’27
Anna Feldman ’27
Anna Papakirk ’27
Audrey Jiang ’27
Avery Lenihan ’27
Sofia Morfin ’27 Old Owl
Braeden Cullen ’27
Ellen Windels ’27
Elora Sparnicht ’27
Gha Yuan Ng ’27
Ge Yu ’27
Gustavo Dominguez ’27
Jaylynn Cortes ’27
Juliette Propp ’27
Lucas Ranfranz ’27
Lucas Santos ’27
Max Watzky ’27
Nava Feder ’27
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Sui Yu ’27
Squirrel Lanz ’28 Managing Editor
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Adam Hagens ’27 Publisher
Anna Siciliano ’28 Copy Editor
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Ember McMullen ’28
Jayden Gonzalez ’28
Leandro Menchu-Sajche ’28
Logan Day-Richter ’28
Olivia Dartley ’28
Richard Wong ’28
Special thanks to: The Yale History Department — #4.00GPA! Front Cover: Hailley Siswanto, ‘27, who swears she’s not the father. Back Cover: Gaya Buchta, ‘27, who thought history was written by Victor, not John.
Contributors: None! Boo hoo pls write for us :(
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
Oz Gitelson ’26 Old Owl
Daniel Wang ’27 Old Owl
Sofia Herbert ’28
Aaron Lee ’29
Abram Caccam ’29
An Phan ’29
Anna Parker ’29
Bryce Falkoff ’29
Christina Yu ’29
Eva Wonsowicz ’29
Grace Xu ’29
Graham Houghton ’29
Nico Belongie ’29
Siena Grouf ’29
Sierra Abbasi ’29
Yoo-Min Koh ’29
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.
HOW TO: BEAT INFANT MORTALITY ODDS
Step 1: Be Born in the Right Century
Preferably the 21st, or later. But if you’re unlucky and were born in 15th-century Europe, read on.
Step 2: Avoid Being the Fourth Son of a Medieval Peasant
Statistically, your odds are worse than a Yale applicant with a 3.6 GPA and no legacy. Not impossible, but you better start to pray. Speaking of…
Step 3: Baptize Early (Like Even Earlier Than That, and Maybe Twice)
Can never be too careful.
Step 4: Deliver Yourself
It’s statistically safer! Just walk right out, no disease-ridden hands of a midwife required.
Step 5: Refuse the Family Cow’s Milk
It’s udder nonsense (note: a sense of humor will not improve your survival chances). Instead, try a generous wet nurse with tenure.
Step 6: Cry Loudly
More cry = parents remember to feed you.
Step 7: Don’t Cry Too Loudly!
The Liber Infantium Malorum writes, “Whiny babies are possessed by the dark lord Belial, come to reclaim the earth as his own. If your baby is too loud, toss it away and get busy making more.”
Step 8: Don’t Get Too Attached to Siblings
One cough and they’re historical context.
Step 9: Close This Guide
If you’re reading this, congratulations! You already beat the odds. Now go die of something modern, like burnout or preventable disease. Good luck!
10 FUN ACTIVITIES FOR
EPIC
HEROES AND THEIR PLATONIC MALE BEST FRIENDS
1. Have a friendly wrestling match while staring deeply into each other’s eyes.
2. Let him borrow your armor to avenge your honor in battle.
3. Go on a murderous rampage to avenge his honor when he is killed in said battle.
4. Lift weights at the gymnasion together so you can sneak surreptitious glances at his chiseled abs.
5. Practice kissing (you’re just trying to get good at it before you do it with a girl.)
6. Wait until he starts strumming his lyre, then casually suggest maybe reading some Sappho as a joke, maybe, but that would totally be dumb, right?
7. Objectify women together.
8. Sit right next to him at a tragedy, even though the theatron isn’t that crowded.
9. Practice having sex (you’re just trying to get good at it before the king awards you a captured Trojan princess).
10. Go thrifting!
—A. Parker —Y.M. Koh
Great depression blues
Accidentally threw it into the harbor with the tea
My candle wax burned out
My Raccoon, Jeremiah, ate it
Ran out of porridge, died of starvation
I got drafted into war and forgot Grandma gave me the plague
We ran out of firewood, froze to death
The butler forgot to give it to me
My daddy said homework if for peasants
SUCH IS THE ART OF POWER
Next time you’re fidgety at a stoplight, survey the sea of turn signals. Roughly 90 flashes per minute, with manufacturing variations that cause them to drift in and out of sync. Beat Beat Beat. I drummed my finger on the car wheel to the red hazard lights reflecting off the parking lot rain pool. Beat Beat Beat. In alignment, my turn signals, my drumming, and my heartbeat. 90 per minute. All staring across the parking lot through a window below a blinking Subway sandwiches sign, a red “Open” beating outside the door.
My walkie-talkie crackled, “What the hell do I order?”
I grabbed the small radio sitting in the empty passenger seat, next to my empty scarlet wallet. “I don’t care. Would you get out of the bathroom, Tim? You’re going to blow this.”
“I’m not going to blow this,” Tim squawked back. Through the window, I saw Tim peek out of the Subway bathroom, his earpiece barely visible beneath his heavy, blue-streaked hair, and stare at the most radiant Blonde waiting for him by the register. “WHY IS YOUR HAIR SO WET, TIM?” I blurted out. He closed the door.
“I panicked. It looked bad.”
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?”
“the sink-”
“YOU WASHED YOUR HAIR IN THE SINK?”
“the sink was too square. I couldn’t get my head in.” I paused my wheel drumming and took my finger off the radio. Jesus Christ. I stared through the windows at the wooden door. Sobs crackled through the walkie-talkie. “This is my first time going on a date. I didn’t know what to do.”
“SO YOU PLUNGED YOUR HEAD IN A TOILET? Jesus Christ, you ostrich, apologize and say it was the rain. You’re lucky it’s raining.” He stepped out of the bathroom. “Hi, I’m Tim,” he stuttered, blue drops falling from his forehead. “Veronica,” she responded. I already knew. My buddy needed my help refereeing his first date with the love of my life. I sighed and flicked the little red heated seat button, a crimson pocket knife turning in my left palm. As he finished ordering, I grabbed the walkietalkie. “Did you seriously just order a wheat sandwich with steak and lettuce?” He turned and glared through the window toward the red hazarding lights. “Get a sauce,” I ordered. He continued to glare. “Mayonaise. Anything that makes you look human.”
“What’re you listening to?” she asked, politely hiding her frustration at his coldness. He blurted back, “G-Eazy.” I almost blew my cover to scream at him but bit down on my lip at the last second. Good catch, Tim. The first thing
women like during dates is to be reminded of the American intellectual juggernaut G-Eazy. God’s gift to women, rapper G-Eazy.
I became distracted as a red Jeep pulled into the parking lot. A man stepped out and walked into the Subway. Tall, blond, with deep-set eyes and a Vanderbilt University hoodie. I wasn’t allowed within 500 feet of him, but as long as he didn’t notice my car, I wasn’t moving. American historian Jon Meacham approached his daughter. “Veronica!” he bellowed, “It’s good to see you!” She returned with a round smile, “Dad! This is Tim.”
“Well, hello, Tim! Good to meet you.”
I stammered into my walkie-talkie, “Repeat every word I say. Every goddamn word,” I muttered, the butt of my pocket knife digging into my left palm. “Sir, I am a huge fan of yours.”
“Why thank you!,” Jon articulated, each syllable more powerful than the last, “What did you like the most?”
“The Art of Power and His Truth is Marching On were powerful, but American Lion will always be my favorite.” Tim smiled triumphantly, guiding his way through the ridges and troughs of each sentence, finding rhythm in repetition. “You know what,” Jon smiled, “Me too.”
“Why did you choose him?” He hesitated, “Out of all the men who have crafted America, few have made as many poor decisions as Andrew Jackson. However, behind his cruelty and myopia, he fundamentally changed what it meant to be an American: not to have an identity, but to be one.”
I sunk in my seat, remembering why I revered this great man. “Alright,” Jon said, “Y’all have a good dinner.” He slowly walked away from my table. Slowly and shyly, escaping my lips before I had a chance to think, “I love you.” SHIT. I looked down at my radio. My finger still pressed on the soft button. I looked up through the bluetinted window as Tim furrowed his brow. Before I had a chance, he turned to Veronica. “I love you.”
I threw the radio across the car, clapping my hands, forgetting I was idly twirling my pocket knife. Red flowed from the small gash, but my eyes were glued to the Subway window. “What?” Veronica said, “This is our first date. Wait, are you one of those sickos who only want to date me for my dad, American historian Jon Meacham? Damn it. You’re the sixth this month.” She gathered her things, including a ring pop she bought alongside her half-eaten sandwich. She opened it as she walked out into the parking lot. The blue rain had cleared to make way for an orange, crepuscular sky, the ring-pop was a bright red cherry. “Great. Just what I wanted,” she muttered. I grinned, slipping on a maroon fedora as my friend sulked out the door and into my passenger seat, moving the radio. “Now, it’s my turn.”
FAMOUS WORKS THAT WERE ACTUALLY WRITTEN BY LESBIANS
1. Moby Dick, Herman Melville: The whale is a metaphor for Melville’s lesbian desires.
2. The Odyssey, Homer: Sappho and Homer were Greek. Sappho was a lesbian. Therefore, Homer was a lesbian.
3. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Eric Carle: The caterpillar was really hungry for other women.
4. The Epic of Gilgamesh, Sin-liqe-unninni: Being lesbian is epic. ‘Nough said.
5. Fundamentals of Physics I: Mechanics, Relativity, and Thermodynamics, Expanded Edition, R. Shankar: This one is obvious, really.
6. Das Kapital, Karl Marx: Because he/him lesbians can’t be part of the bourgeoi-she.
7. The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Stephen R. Covey: 7 is a holy number in the lesbian religion.
8. Fun Home, Alison Bechdel: This one is up for debate.
—C. Yu
RELIGIONS THAT JUST DIDN’T TAKE OFF
1. Science
2. Schismism (too much infighting)
3. Sustainable consumption
4. The British
5. Cult of the Inconvenient Meeting Time
6. Reverse Baptists
7. Hey Jude-aism (baruch adonaaa na na nananana)
8. The Church of the Giant Flying Spaghetti Monster
9. Factual Journalism
10. The Democratic Experiment
WHAT MAKES MY EYES BLUE? AN EXAMINATION OF FUNDAMENTAL LIFE QUESTIONS USING GREEK LOGIC
Why are my eyes blue?
To start, I must state the facts I know:
• My eyes are blue.
• Whales are also blue (sometimes).
• The outsides of blueberries are blue, but the insides of them are not.
• Raspberries are not blue, but their flavor is blue.
• The sky is blue.
• The ocean is blue (most times).
I will now assess each fact in order to determine what makes my eyes blue.
1. My eyes are blue. Whales are also blue. Whales have flippers. I do not have flippers, nor do my eyes. Therefore, the fact that my eyes are blue cannot be because they are whales.
2. My eyes are blue. The outsides of blueberries are blue, but the insides of them are not. However, I cannot go inside my eyes to see if they are not blue. Thus, the question of whether or not my eyes are blueberries remains unclear.
3. My eyes are blue. Raspberries are not blue, but their flavor is blue. Is the pigment in my eyes derived from raspberry flavoring? I asked my roommate Anna to lick my eyes. She said they do not taste blue or raspberry. As such, my eyes are not made of blue raspberry.
4. My eyes are blue. The sky is blue, too. Perhaps my eyes are made of sky. The sky rains, and so do my eyes, sometimes. This is promising! However, the sky also lightnings and goes boom, and my eyes have yet to lightning or go boom.
5. My eyes are blue. The ocean is blue, most of the time. Especially if you look at it from the top of a mountain; it will look very blue then. If you look at my eyes from the top of a mountain, you probably would not be able to see them, but they would still be blue. Yet, sometimes the ocean looks green or gray up close. Aha! So too do my eyes! They sometimes look green or gray or maybe even a little purple, says my mom. Therefore, my eyes must be made of ocean.
I have concluded that my eyes are blue not because they are whales, blue raspberry flavoring, or sky, but because they are made of ocean. Whether my eyes are blue because they are blueberries remains inconclusive.
NEWLY DISCOVERED SOCRATIC DIALOGUE REVEALS SHOCKING RELATIONSHIP DRAMA
(Socrates’s living room, afternoon. Xanthippe, his wife, is weaving. Socrates paces the carpet, talking at her.)
SOCRATES: … And then I blew their minds, right? Because I said—are you ready for this? You’re not ready for this. I said: “In order to understand justice in the soul, we can use the analogy of justice in the city.”
XANTHIPPE: Hm.
SOCRATES: Brilliant, right?
XANTHIPPE: Mm.
SOCRATES: I’ll call it the Republic.
XANTHIPPE: Ah.
(SOCRATES pouts.)
XANTHIPPE: What?
SOCRATES: Xanthippe. We’ve talked about this.
XANTHIPPE: You certainly have. Incessantly.
SOCRATES: I mean we’ve talked about our conversations. And how—to be completely honest—I don’t feel you bring enough to them.
XANTHIPPE: Gee, I wonder wh—
SOCRATES: Don’t feel bad, darling. You simply need to learn the art of dialogue. You know how much I value dialogue. I’m all about asking questions and hearing different perspectives. Like when I’m talking with the boys: they’ll say something, and then I’ll cut in with an incisive inquiry that logically dismantles everything they thought they believed in, and then they’ll say, “Actually, I don’t know, Socrates.” And then I’ll ask them leading questions for a while, and they’ll say “Yes, Socrates,” or “That sounds right, Socrates,” or “I never thought about it that way, Socrates.” And everyone walks away understanding that although no one can ever really know anything, I somehow know more than everyone else. (Beat.)Anyway. Just something I think you could work on.
XANTHIPPE: Well, since you asked, I think—
SOCRATES: Anyway! As I was saying. I made this city-soul analogy, right? Very exciting stuff. And then naturally that led to further discussion about what would make the ideal city, and we started drawing up some plans, and—no, don’t interrupt, this is actually what I wanted to talk to you about before that little tangent, so if you could just listen for a second.
(XANTHIPPE opens her mouth, then closes it again.)
SOCRATES: So I was telling the boys, I think the ideal city would hold all women and children in common.
XANTHIPPE: Do you now? Hm.
SOCRATES: And I think it would hold yearly sex festivals where the wisest men get with as many beautiful girls as they want.
XANTHIPPE: How exactly is this a metaphor for the soul?
SOCRATES: And just to be clear—this would be a sacrifice for everyone.
XANTHIPPE: … Sure sounds like it.
SOCRATES: Do the women want to live this way? No, they want “commitment” or whatever. Do the philosopher-kings want to live this way? Of course not. I can tell you from experience that the wisest men don’t listen to the appetitive portion of the tripartite soul. We look at this matter from a purely evolutionary perspective. And evolutionarily, it’s extremely important that the hot young women we have sex with whenever we want have childbearing hips and… breastfeeding boobs… and—
XANTHIPPE: Socrates, we need to talk
SOCRATES: And as part of our conversation, I just wanted to propose that, for the good of the collective
XANTHIPPE: Socrates!
SOCRATES: Huh?
XANTHIPPE: I’m leaving.
SOCRATES: What does that mean?
XANTHIPPE: Don’t start.
SOCRATES: I’m being serious. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything except that I don’t know anything. But if you’re so wise, perhaps you can enlighten me as to the form of leaving.
XANTHIPPE: I’m going to divorce you and marry someone else.
SOCRATES: Ah— but that’s a particular. I’m interested in the form. You divorcing me and marrying someone else might share in the form of leaving, but it is not the form itself. That’s a common misconception, actually. Why, just the other day, I was telling Euthyphro—
XANTHIPPE: Goodbye, Socrates.
“IT’S
RAINING PANTHERS AND WOLVES”
