This is the online component of the humor section of the Argus, the Wesleyan University newspaper.


The Editor on Conspiracies

The nature of conspiracy theories is shrouded in mystery. It’s hard to tell whether the moon actually exists, or if the government planned it all along. And did the Illuminati really kill O.J. Simpson? Conspiracies can be found everywhere, from inside your mailbox to outside the milky way galaxy. One minute the dollar bill has tracking devices built in by NASA, and the next minute I’m stealing handfuls of them from a Starbucks tip jar. What I mean is, life’s complicated. Right and wrong are relative, obviously, and when push comes to shove, it’s the government that’s sexually deviant, not me. I don’t even know how that live goldfish got in my ass hole, and I certainly didn’t eat it afterward. They’re watching you right now, so don’t look up. Keep pretending that you enjoy reading this so that they’ll underestimate your intelligence, which’ll make it easier to escape. Do not believe them when they say “we’re here to help you” because they never are. Here’s some advice: start leaving booby traps wherever you go. I do it to help notify me of approaching government assassins or alien assassins or the Chinese again.

Sometimes I leave glass bottles on the floor next to ajar doors, ensuring me enough time to welcome intruders with curarĂ©-coated blow darts and a zinger catchphrase. Thing is, once you’ve killed a conspiracy henchman, you’ve gotta be prepared to dispose of the evidence quickly because the cops will suspiciously be at the front door already. Now there’s no time, gotta run. But all this fighting and fleeing might make you doubt which side you’re on. “I must get to the bottom of this,” you might say, psyching yourself up for a roof-to-roof dive-and-roll. And you’re right. If you give up, they win, they get away with terrorism. And last time I checked, terrorism was for Communists.


The Nazis Are Behind it All

The Nazis have infiltrated Wesleyan, I swear. The truth is dangling in our faces like a gilded crucifix, but we’re all too busy being indie narcissists. Just look at the evidence.

What first tipped me off were the study carrels in Sci-Li. Definitely Swastikas. When I saw them, my first thought was “Dude.” My second thought was “swastikas.” I don’t remember my third thought.

I live in the Nics, and the other day I was sitting in my room meditating on Priapus, the Sacred Phallus, when all of a sudden I noticed how hot it was. Like really hot – I took off all my clothes and went into my neighbor’s room to see if he noticed it. He was naked too, so I asked, “did you get naked because of the heat?” And he was like, “no, it’s just Sunday afternoon, but I guess it is kind of hot in here.” I went back to my room and called Physical Plant, and they we’re all, “we’ll get on it soon.” My ass.

I got written up for drawing penises on all the whiteboards on my hall and the SJB gave me eight hours of community service, raking leaves and shit –which was kind of like forced labor. I’ve also been seeing a lot of German-made cars on campus. Also a Vespa scooter. And they’ve recently had some sort of sausage variant at Usdan a few too many times for comfort. Plus, my econ professor looks a whole lot like Rudolph Hess.

Although this is certainly perturbing, it didn’t strike me just how deep the conspiracy ran until I discovered the shifty icing on the shady cake. Consider, if you will, the following anagram:

I mean, come on. And “Wesleyan University” itself rearranges to “Teensy, wiry, evil anus.” If that isn’t sinister, then I’m a virgin. But don’t be surprised if the Stuart M. Reid House of Propaganda doesn’t tell you about any of this on the tour – their job is to keep a smiling, benign, sultry face on this institution of eugenicist, fascist, elitist, dickhole whisperers.

We must take action. I’ve already destroyed my WesCard, branded “E Nomine Libertas” on my forearm, and bought a box of live grenades. If this madness doesn’t stop, I’m transferring back to Bard.

A More Open Letter to President Roth

It was the summer of 1953. I was a pimply, lustful freshman. She was a worldly senior, my chubby broad. It all started when one of my nipples casually brushed against her meaty shoulder at the swimming hole off-campus, at a party hosted by a friend of a mutual friend before the start of the school year. Our eyes met, and I watched her devour four hot dogs like a bitch in heat. So we courted on and off for the beginning of that semester: I would maybe take her to the sock hop on the weekends, or the ice cream parlor downtown. The one thing that remained constant: we would fuck every Saturday night after two-for-one popcorn at the drive-in, like a pair of wild animals let loose on each other for the sole purpose of sowing our seed. I would ravage that beautiful, bestial body until only the almighty hand of God Himself was able to put a stop to our other-worldly passion. You see, Michael, I too learned what it was like to be goosed by my first crush.

One night, we saw that there was a full moon, and my swollen member was primed for action. I was in a trance, Michael, and that evening I laid my woman down on the steps of South College, and she took me to coital heights unexplored, performing acrobatic feats of lovemaking not to be duplicated in this temporal world. I straddled her magnificent girth; her cries of ecstasy were at once terrible and arousing, and legend has it that they reached the house of the President of Wesleyan himself. But no one could have stood in the way of what was to be perpetrated that night.

So, Michael, you’re probably wondering why I’ve chosen to share this with you. Listen, your denim-clad student body is bright; they would have eventually figured out the prophecy. Your current position is no coincidence: I am your biological father. You were conceived on campus during a rare alignment of the planets, and both of our lives have played out thus far according to a grand design that I have only just begun to understand. The criticism in my last letter was an elaborate front: I may be growing old, but now that Ted Kennedy is dead, you and I must rule together. Don’t turn your back on destiny, or on Sarah Palin in 2012.

-Bartin Menjamin ’57

Is Professors Discovery Actually a Discovery?

Richard Thomas, associate professor of History and Government, stunned himself Monday with the groundbreaking revelation that the November 1963 Assassination of President Kennedy may have involved a conspiracy. Professor Thomas, one of the nation’s foremost scholars on the JFK Assassination, considers himself the first to question the findings of the 1964 Warren Commission.

“I realize that the following assertion may bring chills to the entire nation,” noted Thomas in a written statement, “but what if Oswald didn’t act alone? There’s this grassy knoll...I can’t believe we didn’t see it all before. What if there was a conspiracy involving Nixon, the Cuban mafia, or the Kanye West?

“Professor Thomas’s discovery is inspiring,” commented President Roth to the press. “He brings newfound pride to a university ever steeped in forward-thinking ideas, always treading where past scholars have not dared to tread.” University spokesperson David Pesci then whispered to President Roth the details of Thomas’s findings, after which the President was spotted scowling and mouthing, “Oh that motherfucker.”

“Seriously?” commented Devon Wilson, chair of the History Department, on Thomas’s research. “I mean, seriously? Is he fucking kidding me? That dude’s for real? Actually?”

Lee Harvey Oswald declined to comment on Thomas’s findings, citing privacy concerns. Professor Thomas’s most recent book, The Great Communicator’s Communication Breakdown: Proof That Reagan Was Senile All Along, is available now at Broad Street Books. In celebration of the landmark discovery, the Film Series schedule has been canceled; instead, the Goldsmith Family Cinema will be screening Abraham Zapruder’s 26-second footage of the Kennedy Assassination on repeat for two months.

Professor Thomas was arrested for drunk driving twice in August and once in September.

Faculty Members Extremely Dangerous and Intriguing

There’s a startling new epidemic at Wesleyan--not bestiality, although that’s definitely been going around. Rather, several faculty members have dark magical secrets that the administration can no longer hide; a reliable source has confirmed that a group of tenured professors are actually mythical beasts in disguise. “Their secret has been protected by Wes’s resident wizard,” our anonymous tattletale reports. “But budget cutbacks have forced him into early retirement, breaking the ancient spell cast by Agrippa during the Dark Ages.” The Live Action Role Playing student group will be reenacting an epic battle between Michael Roth (who’s actually a giant horny toad) and Dean Melendez (a falcon-lobster) next Friday.

Concerns have already emerged; Alvin Lucier ruined his experimental music class last week when he transformed into a feathered lion-snake and decapitated a student, thereafter feasting on his innards with pride. “He shape shifted during the Spanish inquisition to avoid persecution, and syphilis,” says our shyguy whistle-blower.

“He’s found a safe and accepting home at Wesleyan,” WesAmnesty president Chelsea Bronstein insists that Wes must remain a safe haven for these renegade creatures. “Who cares if Janine Basinger is a fire-breathing, three-headed moth? We’ve given these professors a home, and we can’t just take that away because they’re some kind of “other.” She proceeded to drink the blood of a virgin while pounding her chest and growling.

Others insist that the beasts must be stopped. “They’re an abomination!” shouts sophomore Adam Miller to anyone on Foss Hill who will listen. “The only way to stop them is to skin their leader and sing a hymn to the me back here in ten for the angry mob.”

The obvious lesson to take away from this controversy is that dragons are excellent Spanish professors.