The Gym Rat Issue

Vol. 148, No. 2

THE YALE

Oct. 4, 2019

RECORD

“The Nation’s Oldest Humor Magazine” or

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

Chair@yalerecord.org

THE NEW WHITE SAVIOR? MY DANISH BOYFRIEND TAUGHT ME HOW TO READ Dear Jesus, Please help me. I gave up my kidneys for lent and now I am chock full of nitrates. What should I do?

Best, Charlie Dear Charlie, So I say to you, Ask and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. In other words, you can easily get a new set of kidneys on the dark web.

Best, Jesus

MISOGYNISTS HATE HER! THIS WOMAN IS A WOMAN

BODY POSITIVITY WIN! THIS GUY LOOKS GROSS AND STILL FUCKS Dear Autocorrect, Correct this, motherfucker: akikrfgsdfiqflkerelkmto.

Sincerely, A Frustrated Texter Dear Frustrated Texter, Did you mean: “I’m a loser”?

Best, Autocorrect Dear Autocorrect, Duck You.

Sincerely, Frustrated Texter

REPORT: NEW HAVEN PIGEONS MORE CONFIDENT THAN AVERAGE FIRST-YEAR

A BIRTHDAY TO REMEMBER? BOY DISAPPOINTED NO ONE REMEMBERED HIS BIRTHDAY, SO HE OPENS THE DOOR TO HIS HOUSE, VIOLENTLY SHITS HIS PANTS, AND THEN TAKES THEM OFF TO WASH IN THE SINK. THE LIGHTS FLICKER ON TO REVEAL ALLCorrection OF HIS FRIENDS Obituary AND FAMILY SILENTLY SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM UNDER A “HAPPY SURPRISE BIRTHDAY” BANNER. The Yale Record Editorial Board would like to apologize for an erroneous obituary in a previous issue of the magazine. The editors confused Stephen Hawking with skateboarder Tony Hawk, misidentifying the late theoretical physicist as “X Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom HuckJam’ BMX freestyle motocross tour.”

YOUR AD CAN'T GO HERE CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS

NEW: O

--Is Se

“G

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T he Y ale R ecord

DON’T KNOCK IT TILL YOU TRY IT: THIS HOMEOWNER WON’T LET YOU KNOCK ON HIS DOOR UNLESS YOU’VE ALREADY TRIED EATING HIS DOOR Hey suitemate Maria, When you go to Starbucks, do you giggle when they say “do you want regular milk or soy milk”? Cuz you know, like, to you, it probably sounds like they’re saying “I am milk” right?

Ha! Just wondering!

Love ya, Becca P.S. Can you pick me up a matcha latte?

Dear Becca, I am fucking Portuguese. I don’t like you. I thought you would stop trying to “relate to my experience” after I blocked your number, but apparently you found my P.O. box. Listen to me very carefully. I am not your friend, or your chica, and I don’t care that you think you “know what my people go through” because you read “El Libro Secreto de Daniel Torres” in L2 Spanish. Fuck you. And no, I will not get you a matcha latte.

Best, Maria

CHOPPED JUNIOR NARROWS FIELD DOWN TO AMERICA’S 12 BEST TEENAGE CIRCUMCISIONS NERDS REJOICE! A GUY DRESSED LIKE DARTH VADER IS JERKING OFF ON THE SUBWAY

SECRET MENU FTW: IF YOU GO TO STARBUCKS AND ORDER AN ARIANA GRANDE, THE BARISTA WILL TELL YOU TO FUCK OFF Dear Diary, Today is my birthday and I’ve been a really good boy this year. I really want the new Minecraft game, do you think I can get that?

Love, Tommy Dear Tommy, I’m only a diary and cannot grant you wishes. I’m not your fucking genie in a lamp. In fact, if I were your genie, I would advise you to wish for better parents.

I hate to break it to you kid, but your parents haven’t given you a birthday present for 5 years now because they spend all of their money on life-size cardboard cut outs of the girl they wish they had. They make one cutout for each year of their imaginary daughter’s life.

I’m gonna be straight with you.

This year’s cutout is really just a picture of you with a wig and dress. I just thought you should know, because you’re definitely not going to get that Minecraft game. In the meantime, I would advise you to also wish for a friend, so you don’t have to talk to your diary all the time.

Love, Diary

THERE’S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS: THE TONYS HAVE AGREED TO LET KEVIN HART HOST BECAUSE HE’S THE ONLY BLACK

T he CTorporate merica he G ym RA at I ssue I ssue

THE NEW ANTI-VAXXERS? THIS FAMILY REFUSES TO MICRODOSE THEIR CHILDREN

Obituary Correction

NEW: Old Spice Men’s 5 in 1 Shower Gel

The Yale Editorial would like to apologize The RecordBoard Editorial Board would like to for an erroneous obituaryobituary in a previous issue apologize for an erroneous in a previous of the magazine. misreported that issue of the magazine.The Theissue editors confused Stephen Archduke Franz after being Hawking with Ferdinand skateboarderdied Tony Hawk, shot point blank

by Bosnian Gavrilo misidentifying the late theoreticalSerb physicist as “X Princip.

The Archduke is actually still alive, Games champion and founder of the ‘Boom Boom but hanging on by a thread due to his diet of HuckJam’ BMX freestyle motocross tour.”

--Shampoo---Conditioner---Body Wash---Lighter Fluid---Is Self-Aware And Can Do Your Taxes--

hot pockets and also the fact that he’s 156.

Dear Burt’s Bees, YOUR What do you guysAD do with the Bees CAN'T that die? GO HERE Sincerely, CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, PETA DUMBASS

Dear PETA, It’s just one Bee. He hasn’t died yet so we’re not really sure.

—Burt’s Bees

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“Great for Normal to Oily Skin!”

Dear Democratic National Convention, Help! This weird sugar daddy wannabe keeps trying to pay for my college!

Sincerely, Britney Dear Britney, Don’t worry, Bernie’s gonna tucker himself out soon.

Check out our website, yalerecord.org, for more hilarious content!

Best, DNC

FOR SALE:

DERMATOLOGISTS HATE HIM! THIS MAN MURDERS DERMATOLOGISTS

FREUDIAN SLIP! THIS MAN SLIPPED INTO HIS MOTHER’S VAGINA

Con Law Course Materials: Principles of Constitutional Decisionmaking, the original Bill of Rights, and James Madison’s bones. Must pick up. $750.

—V. Navarette

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T he Y ale R ecoRd

Torporate he G ym R at I ssue I ssue T he C A merica

Dear The Hard Boiled Eggs at Durfee’s, Hey guys. Why the long face?

Are you cold in that fuckin’ Durfee’s refrigerator, you idiots?

Signed, The Hard Boiled Eggs in the Dining Halls

ORIGAMI FOR THE WIN! THESE KIDS MADE OVER 100 PAPER PLANES TO APOLOGIZE FOR SCREAMING AT THEIR MOTHER Obituary Correction

Dear The Hard Boiled Eggs in the Dining Halls, Nobody has bought one of us eggs from Durfee’s since the Gulf War. We are as old as time. You better watch your fucking mouths and learn to respect your elders. We Durfee’s eggs have seen some shit. You better watch your backs in that cushy dining hall dish. Your days are numbered. The football team is about to eat breakfast.

Signed, The Hard Boiled Eggs at Durfee’s

The RecordBoard Editorial Board would like to The Yale Editorial would like to apologize for an erroneous obituaryobituary in a previous issue apologize for an erroneous in a previous of the magazine. misreported that issue of the magazine.The Theissue editors confused Stephen legendary Evil KnievelTony “died Hawk, doing Hawking stuntman with skateboarder what he loved; an electric scooterasso“X misidentifying the riding late theoretical physicist fast offchampion a children’s skateboard that he Games and founder of theramp ‘Boom Boom crashed into the sun.” actually HuckJam’ BMX freestyleKnievel motocross tour.” died of

a pulmonary embolism.

YOUR FALSECAN'T ADVERTI SGO ING:AD I SNORTED 18 HERE PACKS OF EMERGEN-C EARLIER BUT MY NOSE AND THROAT FEEL WAY WORSE THAN BEFORE CLEARLY THIS SPOT'S TAKEN, DUMBASS

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Dear Beets, What makes you so tasty?

Dear Roger, Beets us! Hahaha.

NEW: Old Spice Men’s 5 in 1 Shower Gel

Best, Roger

Best, Beets

--Shampoo--

Dear Beets, --Conditioner---Body Wash-- I guess what they That--Lighter was stupid.

Fluid-say theAndtastiest vegetables --Is about Self-Aware Can Do Your Taxes-- having the teeniest brains was right after all. I “Greatgrind for Normal will now youto Oily intoSkin!” a tasty borscht and drink your blood.

Best, Roger Dear Roger, Nice try Rog, but we are much more intelligent than you give us credit for. We will now beet you to death.

—Beets

—V. Navarrete

Emmy Waldman ‘11

M

y personal trainer at Planet Fitness Minneapolis is named Thorvaldr, which means “powerful thunder” in Old Norse. His full name is actually Thorvaldr Jorick Ragnarok, which means “thunderous wild boar of destruction,” or “thunder king of the murderous wild boars,” depending on which Old Norse linguist you ask. I just call him “Mr. Rags” for short.

Mr. Rags is six foot seven with a veiny neck, child-bearing hips, and a perfectly chiseled jawline. He’s like Mount Rushmore, if Mount Rushmore had arms and legs, wore a tight-fitting polo shirt, and made my palms sweaty. Before taking his current job at Planet Fitness Minneapolis, Mr. Rags achieved the rank of first lieutenant in the Austrian Bundesheer. He once killed a man in hand-to-hand combat. Later that year he lost two fingers to frostbite while training for post-apocalyptic ski warfare in the Swiss Alps. Sometimes Mr. Rags catches me staring at his misshapen hands. His eyes go cold, and then he whispers in his thickly accented English that he could “put me in chokehold, turn me inside out, and stuff me like roast cabbage with both hands tied behind back, so I better not think that two severed fingers buried in permafrost of Mount Dufourspitze will stop him.” Mr. Rags is always saying cool stuff like that.

Someday I’ll be a gym rat like Mr. Rags. Mr. Rags’ arms are the size of my thighs. His thighs are the size of my torso. His hair is the size of my hair—we both have big hair, but whereas his is blonde and flowing, mine is more of what you’d call a jew fro.

Every day after I take my morning poop I pose in front of the mirror, looking at my flat stomach and feeling like an Olympian, or at least like the old wrinkly dude who swims laps at the YMCA and has really well-defined abs. When I’m done posing, I take my daily dose of creatine—25 grams. Creatine makes me instantly break out into hives and causes my bones feel like wet bags of sand, but Mr. Rags says this is the only way for “a guy like me to get bulked.” After choking down my supplements, I go back

T he CTorporate merica he G ym RA at I ssue I ssue to the mirror to recite my daily affirmations. “I AM a grimy little gym rat who needs to bulk up quick. I WILL look amazing lathered up in oil for my family photoshoot. I TRUST that Mr. Rags is prescribing me the correct dosage of creatine even though the current dose makes my eyes water and causes my heart to beat fast like a squirrel’s.” By this point in the day I’ve taken about 200 steps—only 9,800 to go.

Mr. Rags is not only a certified beefcake; he is also wise like an owl. “Muscle saved is muscle earned,” is something he once taught me. Also: “Never put all supplements in one basket.” And, “Kill two birds with no stone, just bare hand.”

I don’t know what any of this means, but I write it all down in my inspiration journal just the same. Mr. Rags also taught me that bulking up is a mindset, and that the Gym Rat Lifestyle doesn’t end when you leave the gym. I carefully select the perfect pre-workout, workout, and post-workout playlists to keep my head in the game. Before lifting I listen to Handel’s “Water Music” performed by the Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra.

During my workout I listen to “Free Fallin’” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. After lifting I listen to “Free Fallin’ Acoustic Cover Live at the Nokia Theatre” by John Mayer. I love John Mayer, like in the way that 100% straight dudes love other 100% straight dudes. It’s not like I want to kiss or hug him or massage his wiry shoulders while he learns a new blues riff on guitar or anything like that. I just like girls, and that’s that.

Some days I wake up feeling insecure about my body. Some days I think my stomach isn’t flat enough, or my hair isn’t wavy enough, or my butt isn’t beefy enough. Some days I text Mr. Rags to ask him how much he thinks my butt weighs on its own.

He texts back, telling me that science hasn’t invented a way to measure the butt without cutting it fully off. I reply, saying that Maddy Blaney ’21 Chair

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if I were in a gang, I think it would be called “big booty gang.”

It would be called that because when we made lots of money we would call it “booty” (like pirates), and also because we would all have big beefy booties. Then I text him asking him if I’m having a hot girl summer and if he’s noticed my glow up. He replies that if I waste even one more minute sitting in bed texting him about the size of my glutes, he’s going to smash all my John Mayer CDs and quadruple my pushup goal for the week. I tell him I’m sorry. I roll out of bed, pull on my Puma ActiveSport Sweatsuit and my Vibram FiveFingers Toe Shoes for Men, and bike over to Planet Fitness Minneapolis. Mr. Rags is waiting for me.

Today is group yoga. Mr. Rags is leading. He invited his other students—apparently the “personal” part of “personal trainer” doesn’t mean much to Mr. Rags. Maddy is Mr. Rags’s best yogi. She knows all the poses and frankly she’s just showing off at this point. Marcy is late because she has to carry her yoga mat all the way over from the former DKE house on Lake Place. Harry ruptured his Achilles last month but he still comes to class so he can keep score for his fantasy yoga league.

Mr. Rags centers the class’s attention on our lumpy, inadequate bodies with a breathing exercise, and begins class with Sukhasana. Sukhasana means “easy pose” but my thighs are already trembling. My chakras are aligned though, and I’m ready to ascend—unless that’s culturally insensitive, in which case I’m ready to schvitz.

—C. Cohen Editor in Chief

Caleb Cohen ’21 Editor in Chief

Harry Rubin ’21 Online Editor in Chief

Marcy Sanchez ’20 Publisher

Sarah Force ’21 Managing Editor

Amanda Thomas ’21 Managing Editor

Will Cramer ’22 Director of Online Content

Luna Garcia ’22 Director of Online Content

Kaylee Walsh ’22 Managing Editor

David Hou ’22 Online Managing Editor

Ethan Fogarty ’21 Business Manager

Davey McCowin ’21 Copy Editor

Vivek Suri ’20 Design Editor

Elliot Connors ’20 Design Editor

Rosa Chang ’22 Art Director

Maya Sanghvi ’22 Staff Director

Ellen Yang ’20 Old Owl

Chloe Prendergast ’20 Old Owl

Dylan Schifrin ’20 Old Owl

Noah Amsel ’20 Old Owl

Mariah Kreutter ’20 Old Owl

Simon Custer ’20 Old Owl

Walker Caplan ’20 Old Owl

Staff: Colin Baciocco ’21 Itai Almor ’20 Paige Davis ’21 Nick Abuzalaf ’21

Dalia Moallem ’21 Veena Muraleetharan ’20 Alex Kane ’22 Ben Lauring ’22

Jocelyn Wexler ’21 Grace Wynter ’20 Kyle Mazer ’22 Ryan Fuentes ’22

Alec Zbornak ’21 Ryan Ofman ’22 Cameron Berg ’22 Jack Adam ’21

Max Nobel ’21 Jamie Large ’21 Tom Battles ’20 Zuri Goodman ’22

Laura Koech ’21 Yonatan Greenberg ’21 Omar Zakaria ’22 Victoria Chen ’21

Please join our staff so that the design editors can fill this empty space, especially if you have a cool name like “Oslo,” or “Stephen Colbert Jr.”

Special thanks to: The Yale Rumpus, who ran a humor publication into the ground before Record made it cool.

Front Cover: Rosa Chang ’22, who illustrated this without the help of any dextrous rats controlling her every motion from inside a chef ’s hat (@rosart.c) Back Cover: Itai Almor ’20, who has an awesome art insta and seems really cool but who we’ve never officially met (@i.almor.art) Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXLVIII, No. 2, Published in New Haven, CT by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2019 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.

WHAT TO KNOW BEFORE TRAINING FOR A MARATHON It’s a marathon, not a sprint: You may have thought this race was a sprint. You would’ve been wrong and also probably an idiot. Don’t sprint, as this is a marathon, and you can’t sprint a marathon. You could try, but you’d probably end up looking like the idiot you are.

If you wanted to sprint, you should have signed up for a sprint race and also probably read Oscar Pistorius’ NYT best selling memoir How to be Remembered for Sprinting Fast and Only That.

It’s a marathom, not a spwind: Still thinking about spwinding? Not on my watch. How could you even confuse these two types of running, you dimwit?

“Spwind” and “marathom” don’t sound remotely alike.

Seriously, try to find a single letter that the two share.

Oh, wait, you can’t because there aren’t any and also because you’re spwinding too fast to even stop and enjoy the exquisite combinations of letters that make up this language we hold so dear.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint: What are those people sprinting toward so quickly, anyway? Not God, that’s for sure. Blessed are the meek and the slow, that’s what Pastor Joel always told me. And sprinting is ostentatious and fast, like sinners.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint: I don’t know what you still don’t understand. Actually, if I’m being terribly honest with you, I don’t know much about sprinting or marathons or how those little guys get into the TV. I just wanted to qualify for the Olympics and meet Oscar Pistorius so he could sign my copy of How to be Remembered for Sprinting Fast and Only That.

It’s a sprint, not a marathon: Sike! Dumb-ass idiot. You really thought I was just about to let you sprint past me like that? God, you’re even dumber than I thought. Big dumb stupid head. Just run the race slower and longer, see how that works out for you. See you at the finish line, idiot face.

—A. Zbornak

—I. Almor

Torporate he G ym R A atmerica I ssue I ssue T he C

WORKOUT OF THE FUTURE? BARRICADE YOUR HOME WITH SANDBAGS TO GUARD AGAINST RISING SEA LEVELS

By M. SANGHVI

MIAMI, FL—Residents of Miami Dade County are constantly perfecting their workout regimens in order to look their best at the beach. Exercise and diet trends have come in and out of vogue over the years. P90X, Zumba, and naked yoga were the craze of the last decade. These days, though, Floridians are trying something entirely new—barricading their beachfront homes with sandbags to protect their families from the threat of climate change.

From Home Depot to Gold’s Gym, every business in Miami Dade County is now selling sandbags. “Everyone from Hialeah to Homestead wants a sandbag to tone their beach bod,” said Gold’s Gym Miami manager Sandra Kettinger. “They’re selling like hot-

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cakes. Like water in the desert. Like hurricane protection in a critically vulnerable area of the United States that will probably be underwater by 2030.”

The sandbag workout involves heaving the bag onto your shoulders, running to the front door, and stuffing it into the crevice at the bottom as if you’re life depends on it. The origins of the exercise are attributed to expert fitness guru Richard Menlow, who started the trend at his beachfront home. “Some of my clients like to listen to rap or heavy metal music for motivation while working out,” said Menlow. “Me and my family? We just listen to the sloshing of ocean water on our back porch. It really gets everyone pumped up to lift.”

Researchers at Florida Gulf Coast University have begun studying sandbag lifting as an alternative to pure cardio. Preliminary findings show that the exercise improves cardiovascular function in adults aged 25-55, and could result in a lifespan increase of up to ten years. Scientists are hopeful that this increase in lifespan can offset the inevitable decrease from imminent climate disaster.

—P. Davis

T he Y ale R ecord

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THINGS YOUR FITBIT KNOWS ABOUT YOU THAT YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW ABOUT YOURSELF How much your heart rate spikes when you get a text from that cute boy in your Econ section How much it goes back down when you see it’s just a question about the homework How much it goes back up when he asks if you want to “go study together or something!”

Your optimal time of day for masturbation How many calories you burn dancing alone and crying to “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver Whether or not you peaked in high school What residential college you should actually be in Your seasonal sex life fluctuation Your seasonal body image fluctuation How long you can go without a visceral craving for another fucking corn dog The reason for your parents’ divorce (hint: it’s you!)

—O. Tucker

I DID SOULCYCLE AND NOW I KNOW GOD It felt like any other day. The sun was out, or maybe it wasn’t—I had my head buried in my phone, walking down West Main Street in search of Poké Balls. The rush of pillaging Pokéstops would suffice as my cardio for the day. I had just caught a Zubat when I noticed a warm glow ahead of me on the sidewalk. I awoke from my digital haze and saw the light—and by that, I mean, the neon sign outside my local SoulCycle.

On a whim, I decided to walk in. I hadn’t technically “exercised” since the Pacer Test in fifth grade, so I shook off my Cheeto dust and strut my stuff into the studio. I mounted a bike and waited for the instructor, Fabio, to lead me on my spiritual journey to fitness. Fabio had tight muscles, flowing blonde hair, and a majestic aura. I was ready to transcend the physical plane.

Fabio led us through a series of sprints and hills.

With sweat dripping down my shirt I began to wonder if cardio is supposed to cause nausea and a squeezing pain in the center of the chest. Suddenly, Fabio dismounted and announced, “Good warm-up. Now welcome your instructor, Becky!” Suddenly I felt God’s presence enter the room.

The instructor was none other than Rabbi Rebecca Appelbaum, the leader of my congregation at Temple

Beth El in Scarsdale. She goes by Becky now? Our eyes met and every Jewish law I had ever broken flickered like cataracts in my vision. Luminous scriptures’ pages were tainted by greasy bacon cheeseburgers, blinding me instantly. The Hunger Games reference I made in my D’var Torah suddenly mocked me; the parallels I made between my life in Westchester and that of an impoverished Katniss in Panem now seemed particularly dickish.

Suddenly I was struck by a flash of light and I felt my spirit ascend. This SoulCycle thing was really working! I was having a revelation: God is not Fabio, with his Jesus-like countenance and bodacious mane.

God is not my father, who I haven’t really mentioned yet but with whom I’ve always had a really complicated relationship.

No—God is a woman, and that woman is Rabbi Rebecca Appelbaum!

God is like me. She sometimes goes on juice cleanses, and she keeps kosher until nobody is watching. God might even check out in the express lane with more than ten items.

I cycled and cycled, staring deep into Rabbi Becky’s eyes as she searched my soul. I slowly realized I was becoming weightless, leaving my body, floating up towards the fan on the cycling room’s ceiling. I glanced down and saw my lifeless form surrounded by EMTs—apparently I had died just minutes into my ride via a massive heart attack. This was purgatory: SoulCycle with my ex-rabbi Becky who happens to also be God. Not what I expected.

But I’m certainly not complaining.

—J. Kaufman-Shalett

—I. Almor

Torporate he G ym R A atmerica I ssue I ssue T he C

PAYNE WHITNEY GYMNASIUM TO UNVEIL NEW “LEERING” CENTER

By Z. LARKIN NEW HAVEN, CT—In an effort to better serve Yale’s population of misogynistic creeps, the Payne Whitney Gymnasium will open a new facility this fall to help perverts strengthen their female-ogling eye muscles.

The investment follows years of demands from Yale men, who claim that fitness centers on campus have not done enough to support students who use the gym to make women’s lived experiences slightly unpleasant.

Anthony Diaz, Senior Associate Athletic Director of Payne Whitney, touts the Leering Center as the university’s latest effort to promote campus wellbeing. “The fact is, creepers gonna creep. Predators gonna predate, voyers gonna voy. It’s my job to make sure they’re creeping in the most healthy way they can.”

“It’s a necessity!” reports Christopher Edwards ’21, a clammy-palmed EP&E/Global double major who likes watching women on the elliptical to eyeball the width of their child-bearing hips. “I just wanna stare at chicks, but I don’t have the resources to do it the right way. It’s not healthy. I mean, would you ask a football player to bench press with no bar? Would you ask a female athlete to cheerlead with no pom poms? It’s outrageous.”

Edwards isn’t alone. For years, Yale men have griped that the University fails to cater to their

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needs. According to a study by the Ensemble for Women’s Watching (E.W.W.), nearly 80 percent of fitness centers across the country lack proper leering infrastructure. The Leering Center, for many, is a step in the right direction.

Despite the demand, some gym-goers are skeptical. “I don’t know why this is a thing,” said Mary Gomez, midfielder for the women’s soccer team in Timothy Dwight College. “There’s literally no reason to encourage these people—they’re harassing us in what should be a safe space. Why would Yale spend money on this? Idiots. Oh, and don’t use my name, please.”

The hotly-anticipated wing will include machines to build staring stamina, weights that emphasize forehead veins, and complementary pre-sweat-stained shirts to enhance female discomfort. In addition to world-class equipment, the new branch will offer daily classes for those who prefer a community-oriented approach to the male gaze. Instructors will lead groups of rambunctious chauvinists through high-intensity workouts underscored by misogynist-madeand-loved music, such as “Fine China” by Chris Brown, the entire discography of the 1950s, and every Robin Thicke song ever. For one-on-one support, personal trainers will be made available to help individuals reach their harassment goals.

The Leering Center will cost Yale 2.5 million dollars, which the administration raised by defunding feminist clubs and ethnic studies. Despite the hefty price tag, Associate Director Diaz staunchly believes in the importance of the new facilities.

“It’s not cheap. But if the Leering Center can make even one woman uncomfortable, it will all be worth it.”

PESKY SIDE EFFECTS OF STEROIDS You become too large to fit through regular doors Your gold chain gets stuck on your meaty neck Your penis falls off You automatically get a spray tan Your penis grows back, but smaller this time You wake up with a full length beard Your fingers becomme too bigf fgor ypour kweyboardf

You are forced to join the Russian Olympic speed skating team Your arms pop off like a Bionicle

You have a harder time getting into the National Baseball Hall of Fame You die of a massive heart attack —Staff

he G ym R at I ssue I ssue T he T C orporate A merica

I WENT TO THE GYM TO AVENGE THE DEATH OF MY FATHER, BUT NOW I’M JUST REALLY INTO PILATES I loved my father. And my father loved me. He loved me more than anything in this world—anything, that is, besides a big juicy steak. It followed naturally that my father’s favorite pastime was taking me and my mother to our favorite restaurant, “Chateau Outback Steakhouse.”

Little did we know that my father’s love of juicy steak flavor would lead to my his untimely death.

I watched in horror as my father started choking on his post-dinner complementary steak sauce flavored mint.

In a panic, the restaurant manager (thinking it would stop him from choking) shot him twice in the gut. Then my mother, even more panicked, also grabbed at her chest and stopped breathing. The Outback Steakhouse manager, the most panicked of all, shot her too (which was pointless since she was not dying from choking, but from an unrelated horse tranquilizer overdose). That was the day I swore to avenge the death of my parents.

I trained for twenty hours a day, taking breaks only to chug Soylent and check my Fitbit. I had 11 am Booty Blast Pilates, 12:30 pm Mommy and Me Pilates (my stand-in mommy was a life-sized cardboard cut of my mother that didn’t bend in the right places), 6 pm Sexy Baby Zumba Fusion, 8 pm Jazz Tap Pilates, and then 9 pm Restorative Senior Pilates. I had never felt so alive.

Sometimes a 24-Hour Fitness Gym Partner would check up on me to ask if I needed anything. I’d often respond,“You know, I’ve been asking myself that for a while now. What do I need? The warm embrace of a mother gone too soon? The lessons only a father can teach? Revenge against the son of a bitch who shot my parents?” Other times I would ask the 24-Hour Fitness Gym Partner to clean off the pilates machine because I would occasionally shit myself after drinking too much soylent.

I did this for years.

One day, after my 6 am “Baby Got Back” Pilates Sweat Class, I got a phone call from an unknown number.

“Come and get me,” the man said, and then he recited an address in Rockford, Illinois. I shit myself from what I thought was fear, but was actually just more Soylent. As a 24-Hour Fitness Gym Partner rushed to clean my pilates machine, I turned to her for advice. “Reina, my love,” I said. “I’ve been preparing for this moment for years. Yet, as I sit here in my own feces, I realize that pilates is all I’ve ever known.”

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“I think you need to go,” she told me.

“You’re right. I must do this—if not for my father, for myself, and for the person I have become,” I said rising dramatically from the machine.

“No no, I mean you need to go so I can wipe your Soylent poop out of the crevices of this pilates machine,” Reina said. But I didn’t hear her, I was too focused on the task at hand.

That night I drove 400 miles to the home of my father’s killer, rang the doorbell, and said the only thing I knew how to say.

“Hop in the car and join me for a free Gold’s Gym trial class of ‘Britney’s Bad Bitch Pilates Workout.’”

—L. Garcia

LESSER-KNOWN BOUTIQUE GYMS Space-Fit: Our patented Quick-LaunchTM bounce platform will take your work-out to the next level of the atmosphere. In partnership with SpaceX, our revolutionary low-impact, low-gravity cardio will have you shedding pounds like a lunar-shuttle’s ballast. $45/ class.

Fitnesssssss: Try out the only gym that provides 100% organic snakes! Bicep curls aren’t the same without a 50 pound python curled around each arm! Try the ropes course over our state-of-the-art Viper PitTM, ethically sourced from an undisclosed local jungle. $25/ class + $5/snake.

G-AI-nz: Take a crack at our robotic martial arts trainers.

We’ve programmed these androids to be fun, fit and not at all fatal. Go a round in our ring to work out all your automation-related existential fear. It probably won’t result in the singularity. $80/round + $40 rebate for a K.O. El Flu: We give you the Spanish Flu. You languish in our inpatient center for weeks on end, hooked up to an Ultra Boost Nutrient IVTM that sustains only your most vital functions. Eventually we release you, blinking into the daylight in your dream body. Influenza immunity only lasts one season, but your nutrient-packed beach bod should last you at least two. $3000/epidemic.

—G. Wynter

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HOW TO MILK YOUR MUSCLES

I was but a boy when Father introduced me to the boundless world of milk. It was the second Saturday of a scorching August—an August that seemed to stretch on for months and months, although really it was just one month—August. Father shook me awake and pulled me out of my Lightning McQueen bed before my eyes could adjust to the still-dark world outside. Kachow. When I say the world was dark, I mean that both literally and metaphorically—I’m doing symbolism.

Father gestured for me to get in his car. I climbed in, and asked him where we were headed. He silently shook his head and lowered his foot onto the pedal of his beloved 1974 Camaro, fresh from the shop. Even at the ripe age of six years old, I could tell this would be a somber affair. I’d never seen Father like this. Father was a talker—his world revolved around conversation. Some nights, when the air was too stiff for sleep, I’d sneak halfway down the stairs and listen to Father talk with his guests. He’d talk about everything—the world... things within the world… he covered it all. Father would end every conversation with an emphatic, “If I know one thing to be true, it’s that Duran Duran is the hottest new-wave dance rock band of the decade.”

That morning, however, Father never opened his mouth. It remained shut as we skidded onto the dirt road leading to the Plimpton Dairy Farmgrounds. It remained shut as he parked the Camaro and strutted away from the car, pulling me close behind. It remained shut as he kidnapped the largest cow he could find.

It remained shut as he realized that kidnapping Plimpton’s largest cow came with a whole new set of challenges regarding how to transport said cow. It remained shut as he shoved me in the trunk of his beloved 1974 Camaro, fresh from the shop, in order to make room for Plimpton’s largest cow in the backseat. The air in the trunk smelled sour, and I mean that both literally and figuratively (I’m doing more symbolism).

I remember pulling up to the Gold’s Gym. Well, I don’t expressly recall seeing the gym, but I remember the gust of fresh air as Father popped the trunk of his beloved 1974 Camaro, fresh from the shop.

I remember crawling out, taking a few deep breaths, and jogging to catch up to Father and Belinda. That’s what my father had named the stowaway cow—Belinda. I guess it was a weird coincidence that my father had chosen to name the animal after my late mother, who had passed away years earlier in an unrelated milktruck accident.

Watching a kidnapped cow rampage in Gold’s Gym isn’t fun, but every child needs to bear witness to it at some point or another. At least that’s what Father told me as he injected Belinda with 200 mL of anabolic steroids and set her loose amongst the machines. Like a good son, I hid dutifully and watched Belinda charge at the innocent gym-goers, chasing them out the door and then doing countless reps on their vacated machines. Wedged between the dumbells and the NordicTrack FreeStride Trainer FS7i Elliptical, I couldn’t hold back a proud grin. Our Belinda was getting swole as fuck.

All of this goes to say, I have no idea how to make muscle milk. While we were in the car on the way home, I heard Father mutter something along the lines of: “Muscle milk. Muscles plus milk.” I think it’s basically a mix of proteins and chemicals, but I’m really not sure. Hope this helps!

—W. Cramer Design by Jacob Feit Mann

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LULULEMON LAUNCHES MARKETING CAMPAIGN TO BODY SHAME CREPE CHOUPETTE CUSTOMERS

By K. WALSH NEW HAVEN, CT—After opening their Broadway storefront in March, Lululemon is already making bold moves to stand out from the nearby Patagonia and L.L. Bean. In an effort to cater to a wider variety of customers, Lululemon announced Thursday that it would launch a marketing campaign to body shame the customers of nearby French eatery Crepes Choupette.

“Historically, Lululemon has targeted an athletic demographic, but we quickly realized that wasn’t going to attract Yale students who get winded by one flight of stairs,” explained Lululemon Marketing Representative Stephanie Miller. “Now we’re ready to play dirty.

We’re gonna make people feel so bad about themselves that they think overpriced leggings are the answer.”

After conducting thorough market research on a number of local restaurants, Miller and her team settled on Crepes Choupette patrons as their primary target. “If your dinner consists mostly of chocolate and powdered sugar, you’re obviously not in a great place,” Miller reasoned. “And that’s exactly what we needed. Vulnerability.”

With their target secured, the team set out to create a series of advertisements that would grab the attention of the crepe eaters across the street. Miller highlighted some standouts from the campaign, including, “Order Now! Pretty Soon We Won’t Carry Your Size,” “Imagine If Someone Ran Away with your Crepe and You Couldn’t Keep Up,” and Miller’s personal favorite, “We Checked Your Bank Statements… You Could’ve Bought Two FlyTech Short Sleeve Shirts and a Gym Membership if You’d Never Set Foot in that Godforsaken Crepe Store, You Lazy Bum.” Miller conceded that the campaign may be aggressive, but she was certain that it would attract new customers. Sure enough, within

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days of the campaign’s launch, her prediction was realized—Lululemon sales skyrocketed.

One new customer, Maria Simpson, credited the advertisements for her decision to pick up some new athleisure. “In the middle of choking down my third N&B [Nutella and Banana] of the night, I saw a billboard of a woman on an elliptical glaring at me, with a speech bubble reading, ‘This could be you but you’d be cramping beyond belief, Maria’” Simpson recalled. “And she was right. I would be cramping beyond belief. I immediately dropped my N&B and bought three pairs of Super HighRise Leggings—black, pink, and light pink.”

With glowing testimonials like this, Miller has nothing but hope for Lululemon’s future on Broadway. “If this works, then who knows? Maybe we’ll start smacking burritos right out of the hands of Salsa Fresca customers.”

At press time, Crepes Choupette was in the process of hanging a new sign that read, “Your Workout Sucked? We Thought So. Your N&B is Already on the Griddle.”

I LOST ALL THIS WEIGHT THANKS TO MY NEW DIET—COKE! Hey everyone! It’s Kourtnee again, back with my fitness blog. I broke up with my boyfriend Kyle—that loser couldn’t afford to take me to London because he needed money for “groceries,” pfft, AS IF! Anyway I’m blogging live from England (or “the U.K.” as we call it) to tell you about my excellent new diet: coke! And no, I’m not talking about DIET COKE, sillies, as if I would put toxic ASPARTAME in my body. No no no, this is 100% natural, straight from the coca tree, honest to god coke. So basically, I stayed in an AirBNB with a guy who actually is a real life drug dealer (!!!). I got my cocaine for a steal: $250 for half a gram, and you actually have to snort a LOT for it to start working because it’s so high quality. I can hardly afford to eat because I spend all my money on my coke and now my parents are threatening to cut me off.

So far I’ve lost over 20 pounds!

My advice: diet with coke, taste the feeling!

—A. Thomas

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—I. Almor

WHAT STUDENT ATHLETES REALLY DO WHEN THEY WAKE UP AT 5 AM It happens every morning. You glance over to the empty bed next to you. You’re pretty sure that you have a roommate, you think her name is Kerri, and you might even take orgo together. But you have never, ever seen Kerri in the morning light. Fear not—there is no cradlerobber in Lawrence. The simple truth is that your roommate is a jock-strapping, protein-pounding, sweatexuding creatine cretin, known in some social circles as a “Student Athlete.”

After the twenty-third instance of having the room to yourself in the morning, you decided to learn the truth about the student athlete lifestyle. Why is Kerri getting up so early? What could possibly justify waking at such an ungodly hour? Who in their right mind would sign up for this? You made it your life’s mission to find out.

You knew this operation was going to be tricky.

There was something top secret going on. And not like YSECS secret, we’re talking Skull and Bones secret.

Stealth would be key. You waited sixty seconds after Kerri left the suite, the silently vaulted out of bed, tiptoed out the door, and followed her from a safe distance.

You got outside and couldn’t believe your eyes. The sun was just rising, and jocks were everywhere, all walking towards Payne Whitney Gym like aliens towards a crop circle. Like zombies to a safe house in The Walking Dead. Like all your uncles to the cornhole game at a family reunion. You followed them from a distance, hopping from blue-light to blue-light for cover. Finally, the athletes arrived, en masse, at the lacrosse house.

Immediately you noticed something was off. Everyone was changing clothes, but no one was putting on sports bras or compression shorts. Rather, they were donning fishnet tights, short shorts, and colorful Hawaiian shirts.

That’s when speakers turned on. The song was “Sweet Home, Alabama,” and suddenly the backyard of the lacrosse house erupted in a massive darty. Girls were climbing on top of sticky fold-out tables. The ground was littered with Solo cups. The line for a keg stand materialized out of thin air. And at the front of this line? None other than Yale Athletic Director Vicky Chun herself, nursing a cup of Sea Ice and Sunny D. While you were a bit taken aback by the boys soccer team taking turns punting Handsome Dan, you finally had the answer to your burning question. And honestly, you would have been disappointed with anything less.

—Z. Caes

WAYS TO MAKE YOUR SON TIMMY’S BASEBALL TEAM BETTER Make Them Run Laps When They Lose: Laps teach discipline and push kids to work harder.

Make Them Run Laps When They Win: Laps teach discipline and push kids to work harder.

Enforce a Strict Diet Regimen: Diet regimens teach discipline and push kids to work harder.

Work With Timmy on his Batting Stance: Special attention teaches discipline and pushes kids to work harder.

Leave Timmy at Home the Day of the Away Game: Punishment teaches discipline and pushes kids to work harder.

Kill Timmy: Just do it already. He’s a burden to his teammates. Discipline was never the problem, Timmy fucking was. The kid sucks.

—K. Walsh

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MEMORIES FROM SANTIAGO CHARTER MIDDLE SCHOOL GYM CLASS Circus Unit: Without our stilts, we were 4’11” scrawny tykes. With our stilts, we were briefly 6’5” monsters, before tripping over the gym mats and quickly becoming 4’11” scrawny and severely concussed tykes.

Square Dancing: Square dancing wasn’t actually required at my middle school, but that didn’t stop me from dosey doe-ing with 4’11” Jake Scolari. I had grown five inches over the summer, and he had two teeny tiny left feet, so it was more like rhombus dancing.

Tape: Tape was our gym teacher Coach Smithen’s favorite activity. Every other Friday he would yell, “Alright, two of you hooligans are getting taped to the wall.”

Then, two teams would compete to see whose taped twelve-year-old would stick to the wall the longest.

The winner was whichever twelve-year-old fell face first off the wall with the fewest injuries. Coach Smithen later got fired for trying to fight a police dog.

Hill Run: Santiago Charter Middle School was situated at the top of a towering hill. Coach Smithen made us sprint down this hill, which happened to be extremely charred by California’s famous wildfires and also extremely infested with snakes. Out of the ten physical fitness tests we had to pass that year, Hill Run was by far the most memorable—mostly because it ended when Jake Scolari got bitten by a pit viper. Jake had a growth spurt during his month at the hospital.

Fence Jump: Santiago Charter Middle School didn’t joke around when it came to survivalist training.

Coach Smithen designed an obstacle course so that the “incomplete kids” (as Coach Smithen described those who were still 4’11”) could not climb the last obstacle—the tallest fence in all of Orange County.

This fence is said to be more difficult to cross than the gate and accompanying moat around Kobe Bryant’s private estate. The incomplete kids would have to dig a hole under the fence and shimmy through the mud to the other side. Our school was reported to Child Protective Services on multiple occasions.

Pole Climb: Who doesn’t love getting pole burn on their upper-inner thighs? This one is pretty self-explanatory, but our signature Santiago twist was that you had to bring down the flag at the top of the pole and burn it in an act of patriotic dissent. That was Coach Smithen’s idea. He later died in prison.

—M. Sanchez

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CREATIVE WAYS TO REACH 10,000 STEPS Kawaii everyone! It’s me, Kourtnee! Me and my boyfriend just came back from vacation in South Korea where my boyfriend and I did TONZ of walking (and TONZ of other stuff :3 XD). Now that me and my boyfriend are back “stateside” (aka America!) I wanna share a few tips to get your body feeling KEUN! (That means “great” in Korean!) So anyway—here are some ways to help you get to 10,000 steps every day.

Ditch your Fitbit: Take a drive away from your penthouse and leave your Fitbit in a secret location. Then drive back home and walk to go find it. This works really well because you need your Fitbit to track your future workout progress! Unfortunately, you can’t track this workout without your Fitbit. Also I wouldn’t worry about someone stealing your Fitbit, especially if you have a muscular live-in boyfriend or if your penthouse is in a great area where the police are SUPER responsive. Besides, you and your boyfriend can always buy a new one!

Get a Job: As most of you know, my South Korea trip with my boyfriend was a part of my gap year trip paid for by my parents! But actually I’m going to get a job just so I can learn the vital skill of work. That’s right: I’m going to be an employee at a local retail store! I think with all the lifting and moving I should probably hit around 10,000 steps in no time. Plus, PRO-TIP: if you get really bored you can always quit. NEVER, EVER feel obligated to work, just ask your parents or boyfriend for cash. Money isn’t everything.

Take a vacation: Trust me—you’re going to want to walk if you’re in another country. Paris is a very walkable city, and certain parts of Thailand are just to die for.

If you’re worried about the price being too high, don’t be afraid to ask your parents for money or fly to a less expensive place like Bermuda. I’m sure your boss will understand!

—A. Thomas

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CENTER FOR TEACHING AND LEARNING REBRANDS TO CENTER FOR TONING AND LIFTING

By D. HOU NEW HAVEN, CT—Just weeks after President Peter Salovey was spotted struggling to lift a fivepound dumbbell in the Trumbull College gym, the CTL—currently the Center for Teaching and Learning—announced in a press release that it will rebrand to the Center for Toning and Lifting.

Construction to convert the space into a full-sized gym has already begun.

“We’re really excited to announce this major change to the CTL,” wrote Jennifer Fredericks, the executive director of the center. “Yalies have tiny, twig arms and run out of breath when they walk up the stairs. Those wimps need the weight room more than they need books, unlike our glorious and strong leader Peter Salovey who works out twice a day and has the glutes to prove it.”

For years, the CTL has provided academic resources for students and faculty. Soon, a number of fitness programs will replace them all.

Personal trainers will replace peer tutors. The second floor will host hot yoga classes instead of writing consultations. The “Salovey Supreme,” an undergraduate powerlifting contest sponsored by the Psychology Department, will take place each spring instead of an essay-writing contest.

First place will still win a brand new Webster’s dictionary, as the prizes were bought years in advance.

A vocal minority of students have protested the change, arguing that Payne Whitney, residential college gyms, and crushingly low self esteem are enough motivation to exercise without building a new facility. In a rare move, Salovey responded to the students’ complaints in an official email from the Office of the President, writing “You’ll never outlift me, losers! I’m a big boy now!” below a picture of him flexing in a sweat-stained tank-top.

Yet, in spite of student backlash, Yale staff have responded positively to the change. The CTL’s new six-pack abs requirement for employees has led to numerous layoffs, but it has also inspired Dean Marvin Chun to rebrand his signature “Lunch with the Dean” to “Taking Turns Holding the Dean’s Feet Down While he Does Really Fast Crunches.”

According to Yale’s Construction Planning Committee, the completed workout space will be unveiled at a random date in the next five to twenty years.

THE BEST AND WORST FOODS A MAN CAN EAT WORST: Chips: You think, “I’ll just have one teeny-weeny chip out of the bag and not go back for more,” right? Wrong. These addictive snacks are coated in salt and saturated fats making their innocent appearance dangerously misleading. What if I told you they increase your risk for oral cancer? Maybe they do, I don’t know—I’m no scientist. But I bet you boys don’t like the sound of that, do you?

Chips are one of the worst foods a man can eat.

BEST: My Ass: Not a single person who has eaten my ass has gotten cancer. Coincidence? I think not, boys.

WORST: Fizzy Drinks and Sodas: These beverages are chock full of sugar and calories.

Some of them are flavored with artificial sweeteners like “aspartame” or “saccharin.”

I don’t know about you boys, but if I can’t pronounce a word, I immediately assume the worst—oral cancer.

BEST: This Pussy: Zero carbs, zero cals, baby.

And zero cancer. Okay, except for Tristan Barlow who one-hundred percent got oral cancer. But I don’t think he got it from eating me out... probably just from some chips.

WORST: Fried Foods: Okay, maybe I’m just a cancer truther, but fried foods REEK of cancer. All that oil and grease is a total no-no, you weak ass bitch. When you eat these, you’re basically asking for heart cancer. What if I told you that the heart is actually a really important part of your body because it helps you to emote? Ever think about that, gentlemen?

BEST: My Ass, Again: Yummy yummy.

—M. Blaney

ON FRIENDS AND DEODORANT: A HAIKU SEQUENCE T C A I ON FRIENDS AND DEODORANT: A HAIKU SEQUENCE he

orporate

merica

ssue

I’m Jim, Jim I am Friends need not I, strength need I Gym time is Jim’s time I’m Jim, Jim I am Friends Already need nothave I, strength friends,need I Gym time is Jim’s time Mom, Dad, Therapist, Muscles Too many friends; need strength Already have friends, Mom, Dad, Therapist, Muscles My stink scares people; Too many friends; need strength deodorant hides stink.

I hate deodorant My stink scares people; deodorant hides I Seek friends not stink. here nor deodorant Other hate places, like bathrooms

Not again, Jim. Nope.

Seek friends not here nor Other places, likeneed bathrooms Gym muscles fuel Not again, Jim. Nope. yeah.

Protein, protein, protein;

Gym time is Jim’s time Gym muscles need fuel Protein, protein, protein; yeah.

—A. Zbornak

by Jacob Feit Mann GymDesign time is Jim’s time —A. Zbornak Design by Jacob Feit Mann

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MY GRANDPA GOT TENNIS ELBOW AND NOW I HAVE TO PULL THE PLUG

MODIFIED PUSH-UP TIPS TO TRY IF YOU CAN’T DO A REAL ONE

Grandpa was a good soul. He was huge and brawny, beefy and muscular, but most importantly, he was completely jacked. Whenever I visited him at the Evergreen Meadows Nursing Home, he would show me his sturdy muscles while bragging about how he was still having amazing sex with Grandma. God, I loved him more than anything. But the strain from pumping iron and humping Grandma would eventually give him hypertension, an aortic aneurysm, and, even worse, tennis elbow. I knew Grandpa was strong, but after that last diagnosis, I knew he’d be gone soon.

When I saw him in the operating room, I teared up. Grandpa didn’t look like the same man without his classic “BEAST MODE” tank-top that covered only his nipples and roughly ten-percent of his torso.

I longed to tear off his hospital gown to see those pecs one last time.

As I stared, sniffling at his fully clothed yet still shredded body, Grandpa turned to me. He said, “Jimbo, my grandson, I have to tell you something.

These biceps are fucking filthy, my dude, but with my tennis elbow, I can’t lift anymore. And no lifting equals dead grandpa, okay?”

I nodded. “Okay.” Grandpa had been stacking weights at the local LA Fitness since the Second World War. Lifting was his life.

Then Grandpa moved closer to me and said, “Pull the plug, Jimbo. Do it now. Burn my corpse when I’m gone, and put my ashes in the Muscle Milk protein jar under my bed.” As Grandpa breathed his last breaths, he delivered the final blow: “And, Jimbo... my boy... never, EVER stop lifting.” In tears, I pulled the plug.

Grandpa smiled and flexed one last time, softly but sexily grunting as he closed his eyes forever.

Naturally, I cried all night. But as I curled up under my blanket, I thought about Grandpa having amazing sex well into his 80s and immediately felt better. I may have killed my grandfather, but I know he’ll be going #BeastMode in heaven. Rest in protein, Grandpa.

Try starting with your knees on the mat for what is known as a knee push-up. Over time, this should help you build up the strength you need to progress to a full push-up!

Often times, we find our greatest strength in times of fear.

Whether your biggest fear is your mother, or a pool of vegan sharks because you’re deeply haunted by irony, or hypothetically messing up an award speech in front of influential actors, writers, and directors: try placing whatever you’re most afraid of right under your nose, forcing yourself to push up and away from it.

Just like science tells us, for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction! Find a workout buddy who will throw themselves down a flight of stairs, where you will be waiting to absorb the force of their fall and “push” them back “up.” Much like Tom Cruise (not that you’re an actor, but if you happen to become one someday) you’d be able to do your own stunts. No stunt double needed!

Just as Bethany Hamilton showed in Soul Surfer and Aron Ralston proved in 127 Hours, sometimes the problem is that two arms is too easy. Amputating a limb will help you appreciate the hard work you’re putting into every movement, helping you to achieve your first push-up, and quite possibly…hmmm I don’t know…an Academy Award?

Some of our mammalian relatives are so strong they can lift five times their own bodyweight. Since you can’t even lift yourself once, stop wasting time at the gym.

Instead, run over to your local zoo and get bitten by a jacked silverback, or a surprisingly swole rhinoceros beetle, or perhaps a radioactive arthropod. Your ensuing genetic mutation will make you become a real life Spider-Man, which, along with acting classes paid for by the second mortgage you forced your dad to take out, might just get you that Best Actor Oscar you were scared to admit you wanted all along. You’d like to thank not only the Academy but also God and your parents for helping you “push” your way “up” into the film industry.

—D. Hou

—K. Mazer

Sponsored message:

Dick Cheney is canceled

thanks to our generous donors.

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PEOPLE MY MOTHER THINKS ARE NBA PLAYERS

MY FAVORITE ATHLETES’ FEET

O.J. Simpson: If only they tried fitting gloves over his My mother is the type of person to raise her hand hunky Hall-of-Fame feet on live television. He in class without having done the reading and then talk would’ve been found not guilty even harder. for five minutes about her walk to class. She considers Tim Tebow: Tebow’s historic 2011 playoff run becomes herself the smartest person in the room, and it’s hopeless even more impressive once you learn his toes were to correct her. My siblings and I have “yesmomed” our clenched together in prayer on every play. way through the past twenty years. In her old age, she Billie Jean King: I admire Billie Jean’s feet more than has amassed massive amounts of false information and any man’s—and gentlemen, that’s what allyship unwarranted confidence. Mom is often in error, but looks like. never in doubt. I asked her to name her favorite NBA Michael Jordan: Magic Mike puts a tiny toenail clipping players and she quickly responded: in each pair of Air Jordans, just to show you how much he cares.

Desmond Tutu: He played point guard for the Lakers in Muhammad Ali: I love his floating little butterflies. the 80s and won four championships in seven years. Muhammad Ali: I also love his stinging little bees.

He was also the first NBA player to come out as Ninja: Ninja’s feet are better at Fortnite than your hands HIV positive. will ever be. And he’s worth $15 million, so fuck Larry “The Bird” Gaddafi: He played forward for the you. And yes, he is an athlete.

Celtics and was known for his silky smooth threeMicrosporum Fungus: Sure it’s itchy, but the scratching point shot. After his first championship he took on a feels so, so good.

Muslim name meaning “gift of God.” Tim Duncan: Better known for founding a multinational —D. McCowin coffee and donut franchise, Duncan also won some games with the Spurs.

Xi Jinping: Star center of the Rockets and the tallest player in the NBA. Lebron James: Barack Obama’s illegitimate Kenyan son turned NBA star. He played for some team in the Rustbelt before moving to Disney World, and then later to Disneyland.

Magical Johnson: Long-time member of the NBA’s 31st franchise, the Harlem Globetrotters, Magical Johnson became famous for making the basketball vanish into thin air.

Dirken Nawotkzki: This German national never played in an official NBA game, but did become an ambassador for the sport who helped promote the league in Europe.

Steve Nash: He was white but he could really play.

—O. Zakaria

—V. Pavilonis

The Yale Record Would Also Like To Induct Dick Cheney's Friend Who He Shot in the Face into the Yale Record's Epic-Fail-Try-Not-To-Laugh Hall of Fame.

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STILES C-HOOPS FUCKED MY INTRAMURAL BRACKET (AGAIN) I told myself I wouldn’t let it happen. Not again.

Last year I almost won Yale’s Intramural Bracket Pool, but apparently Stiles C-hoops point guard Bianca “Butterfingers” Stenor can’t grab a goddamn rebound during the most important game of her career. Zack Haddock’s bracket ended up beating mine by two points.

Two fucking points! I was so ashamed. I had let my family down. I should have predicted that the Stiles team, a rag-tag group of scrawny underdogs, would be demolished

by Hopper’s basketball pros. In that moment, I realized my Achilles heel—I still believed in miracles. In the underground world of intramural gambling, there are no miracles: only cold, hard cash.

This year I did my fucking homework. I studied each team’s stretching routines. I memorized their course schedules. I guessed (correctly) that Angel Pelfry’s upcoming CS50 midterm would make him a scratch for Ultimate. I checked the Pauli Murray dining hall menu on the day of the swimming final—tres leches cake.

Zack Haddock, my bracket nemesis and Murray’s star backstroker, was severely lactose intolerant. I knew he couldn’t resist and would bloat up like an inflatable pool toy after dinner. And when a little birdy told me that Bianca “Butterfingers” Stenor pulled her hamstring during FOOT, you better believe I had her whiny ass getting crushed in the quarterfinals—her and the rest of her C-hoops cronies. Just like that, everything had fallen into place. I knew the IM Bracket Pool was as good as mine.

But then, last Tuesday happened—the C-hoops quarterfinals. Just as I had predicted, Bianca’s Stiles squad was tipping off against Hopper—a rematch of 2018’s heart-wrenching bracket buster. But this time, I picked Hopper. Bianca was sidelined with a bum hamstring, making her unable to ruin my bracket for a second time… or so I thought. Stiles had shown up to Payne Whitney with seven players: their five starters, plus Sandra Plessy and an injured Bianca sitting on the bench. Disaster struck in the fourth quarter when Stiles’ point guard Danny Donowitz rolled his ankle and Sandra Plessy left after realizing that intramurals don’t really matter at all. Stiles had a choice: sub in Bianca, or forfeit the game.

And so in limped Bianca, bum hamstring and all. I was still confident Stiles would lose. Bianca was subpar

even at 100%, and I figured with her pulled hamstring, Stiles’ chances had just gone from bad to worse. But then, in the final seconds, Bianca launched a full court shot at the buzzer—nothing but net. The entire crowd was stunned (the entire crowd being me, the Payne Whitney security guard, and my bracket nemesis Zack Haddock).

After the Stiles celebration died down, Zack and I left the gym—me in tears, Zack in celebration knowing he had just clinched his second consecutive IM bracket victory. Zack knew Stiles C-hoops would pull it out in the end. What he didn’t know is that I replaced his lactaid with sugar pills.

Hope you enjoy your tres leches, asshole.

—Z. Goodman

LARGE RAT NAMED KING OF RATS According to anonymous sources, an exceptionally large rat was named King of the Rats in a ceremony last Tuesday. He will replace the old King of the Rats, whose abdication had been in the works for a while on account of his failing health (he had a rat disease).

The abdication of the Rat Throne comes just days after the untimely death of Mr. Ratburn, the gay rat from Arthur. A lot of rats had wanted the new King to be Mr. Ratburn, the gay rat from Arthur. Mr. Ratburn was a hero for the gay cartoon rat community. Now that he is dead, he has become a martyr for the gay cartoon rat community.

He was not killed because he was a gay rat. He was killed in the line of duty because besides being a gay rat he was also a police officer. “It is sad to me that Mr. Ratburn died in the line of duty. He was my gay rat idol,” a young gay rat said at the scene.

The new King of the Rats will face lots of big rat issues. One of these issues is the War on Rats. A lot of rats have already died in the war. “It’s sad that Mr. Ratburn died in the line of duty because I would rather have seen him die in the war. We’ve never had a gay rat die in war, so it would’ve been nice to break that glass ceiling,” a local rat expert said.

Will the new king be a good king? Will he serve the gay rat community? Only time will tell.

—H. Rubin

ESS R P H BENC S N O UND M O E P H 250 OT T T P F I S L O E TO OU T R Y A K U YO O AS Y H L PIPE E W D K I S N L I E DUD HOW ED W H Y S B U ED R CR I E RANK H T OFF 6. Chad Bradley: While his massive triceps are quite alluring, his personality is not. You’re glad Chad can no longer talk out loud about his Goldman internship.

5. The Dude Who Screams Every Time He Lifts Something: Finally... sweet, sweet silence.

4. The Vaguely European Guy Who’s Also Always Lathered In An Excessive Amount Of Oil: Honestly, the bar will eventually just slide off on its own. Plus, his country probably has socialized medicine so he’ll be fine.

3. Juice Cleanse Bro: The good news is he was already getting his meals through a straw.

2. Kid Who Naruto Runs on the Treadmill: Who the hell let a middle schooler try to bench this much? Give him a hand out of sympathy.

1. Saggy Old Guy Who Walks Around The Locker Room Naked And Sweaty: Gotta help him out. You can’t risk losing that view.

—E. Fogarty Design by Vivek Suri