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


The Editor Talks To Himself

This week, I was retrospectating. Then I wrote a letter to me in 8th grade. A rough time in my life, I got through it mostly by finding things to mastrubate with. And now, the letter to myself, the young artist:
Davey Wavey,

You’re much cooler than like one or two other people in your school. I mean that, those kids are fucking losers. You stopped playing Magic The Gathering, which is a good start. The next thing you need to master is playing with fire because people will respect you.

Start doing drugs, while playing with fire. Two great tastes that taste great together. Fire and drugs. Like chocolate and drugs, or video games and drugs. Next, buy all your clothes from Walmart. Use some of them as kindling for arson. Don’t commit arson, but talk about it a lot.

Lastly, come up with a better nickname for yourself.

Dave’n Dirty

Important Advice

Dear Tiny, Ineffectual Self,

Put down that tamagotchi and gather round. I know this is hard to understand, but I'm the bigger, older, more powerful version of you. You're in the third grade, which is stupid and useless; I'm in college. That word probably means nothing to you, wee one. All you need to know is that I am in a far more awesome place than you can dream of. Think: Pokemon in Candyland. With snap bracelet trees, and hunky jungle gyms. Although I do live in a place called the Butts. Even you probably think that's lame.

Because you are the younger version of myself, I have seniority, you are my property, and you have to do what I say. Not fair? Shut up. You are four feet tall, so I could easily hold you upside down for several minutes which, scientifically speaking, would make your head explode. Also, you are learning cursive and times tables. Big effing deal. I know how to take integrals and what the literary implications of the Elizabethan Chain of Being are. So I am pretty much a genius compared to you.

You are living in 1999. Nothing remotely important is going on. Soon a guy called Dubya will be running the country, which is really really fantastic and turns out great, because: Obama. State Senator from Illinois. Write to him, act adorable, tell him you believe in him because he has the Audacity to Hope. Suggest that he run for higher office. It is very important that you jump on that bandwagon now. Trust me you little shit.

Also, spend more time on the Internet. Playing outside? Worthless. You are no athlete. This will never change. So get ready for RSS feeds, blogs, and the memorization of key phrases from film and music reviews as well as their corresponding scores. If you want to get along with boys, who are drool buckets but at least predictable, start watching, Chapelle’s Show, and South Park.

You’re getting braces this year. That is going to suck some ass. But your teeth are fugly. Super crooked and big. They look like you chugged a glass of Skele-Gro. (That's from Harry Potter. When the first book gets big, bet Katie $200 that Snape kills Dumbledore. Say you just have a feeling.) Listen, dirtbag: these are the last years of being cute. Middle school and most of high school are irredeemably unattractive. So I say, Run with it. I want to see headgear, glasses you don’t even need, long skirts, shirts with sassy/glittery phrases, polyester knits with cutout shapes. This will allow you to become dramatically more hot with almost zero effort. Relativity is the only thing that matters to adolescent personal growth, so have extremely low expectations.

In summation: you have little to look forward to for a long time. Your mission is to secretly and ruthlessly take over the world. Start studying for the SATs tonight. The plural of index is indices.

Keep Up The Good Work

Dear Third Grade Self,

Benjamin: just keep on doing what you're doing. You’re getting everything horrendously right. I have a feeling that you know this already. Remember the time when your class was assigned to count the tiles in the hallway, and you multiplied the number of tiles along the length by the number along the width, and afterward, relaxed and drank a juice box while the rest of the class added every single tile? If you can believe it, you only get even more awesome. You are basically the most victorious third grader since Great King Xerxes, and you will continue to display an atrociously unprecedented level of prizewinning qualities. One thing I will say: since you are a staggeringly superior person, other people really don’t matter to you at all. Feel free to invite them to “talk to the hand.” If they persist, remind them that they should “talk to the elbow, because the arms isn’t worth the extension.” Stay away from mirrors; you won’t be able to tear your eyes away. Don’t do drugz, stay in school.

Benjamin Soloway.

P.S. The answer to the extra credit question on your tenth grade history final: "Corsica, at least in part."

Stay Out Of Jail

Dear less hairy self,

Pay close attention. You need to do exactly what I tell you to in order to become the balls-out man machine that I am not. First, unless you want to be shopping for kid’s XL clothes at The Gap for the rest of your adult life, lose the friendship bracelets and start going to the gym. Now. And stop doing whatever your teachers are telling you. Get on good terms with the fattest girl in the third grade and then become her boyfriend. She’ll be the first one to have boobs. Once you’re considered cool for having a sophisticated lady on your arm, cultivate a sphincter-tingling nickname for yourself. Boss Hog should work. From there, everyone will adore you. Then make them regret it. I’m talking about placing your own stool in the class fish tank, phallic graffiti in your friend’s mom’s kitchen, kicking the gym teacher in the balls instead of doing that rope climbing thing. Basically, live it up while you can. Sooner than you think, you’ll be trapped in a world of court dates and felony charges, where it isn’t considered “cute” anymore to run around the deck of a public pool wearing a waterproof diaper, or to give that girl who sits in front of you in class a fun haircut with craft scissors. Public indecency is a real thing, and honestly, I’m worried for us.

Inmate 109348862

Pool Parties Imply Sex

Dear Piers (age eight),

Listen. I am going to take this opportunity to warn you of a catastrophic event in my past and your near future. Tracing backwards over 10 years of romantic failure and, accordingly, sexual destitution, I believe I have located the exact point at which I made my fatal snafu.

Janice McCartney invited me to her birthday party, and thinking nothing of it I turned her down with all the brutal aloofness of a friendly phone call from my mother to hers. I was proud; I was anxious, and I fucked myself in the sex hole.

I’ve since invested a lot of time observing and documenting the social cues and habits of the fairer sex, and I think that there was a lot more to that invitation than she may have let on. What begins as an invitation to a pool party with her dad doing magic tricks will inevitably lead to an offer of ice cream cake, a proffering of a symbolic donut hole – even, I feel certain, an offer of mutually fulfilling romantic companionship that would have brightened both of our respective lives from then to now. Janice! I can see the life we might have had together, those 10 years of (I am sure of it) ceaseless lovemaking, and it makes me sad to know that it all is not mine.

I essentially sentenced myself to 10 years of romantic blacklisting by the entire phemale phylum; they can smell fear, I think, or at least the miasma of sweat and peanut butter I exude. And so at the present time, I have you to blame for my woeful understanding of the human female’s physical anatomy, which is based entirely in conjecture. So, for my sake and yours, stop being a little bitch and grab your ball sac.

With utmost sincerity,
Piers (age 18)

If You Can't Catch Footballs, Take A Shit On The Floor

Dear seven-year-old Sam,

Looking back now, I realize that you’re going to have some tough times ahead of you. In fact, there might be moments where you’ll feel like things can only get worse. But I’ve got just a couple pieces of advice to help you through those times: never forget to smile, always wear socks,
and don’t trust your eye doctor, because he is a dick.

And I don’t mean dick in the sense that he’s a huge vessel for sperm ejaculation. I mean he is going to mess your shit up big time. See, you don’t have any depth perception. This is why you can’t catch footballs. Also, that weird head bobbing thing you do? That’s your eyes, too. Your eye doctor knows this, and he isn’t telling you. Why? Well, because he’s a dick, certified, bona fide, douche diggler. Are you beginning to understand, young one?

So what you should do is take a dump in the middle of his waiting room. You’ll have to talk to mom about it first, but if you show her this letter, she’ll understand. If there’s one thing she loves, it’s practical jokes. The best part is it’s always very crowded in there. You know what I’m talking about, those other little ball-biters are always hogging the Legos. So if you just walk in for your appointment, poop in the corner, and then quietly leave, no one’ll notice. The nurse will come out and be all, “What the shit?” It will be hilarious, ironic, and way less expensive than a lawsuit.

Good Luck,
Future Sam

To: Wes of 1950

Ayo dawg,

What the fuck is this shit? Khakis? Polos? Short hair parted on the side? Look, I know we’ve had our differences, but you look like the cast of “Leave It To Beaver” spawned a testosterone-snorting love child with Mr. Rogers. I can hardly look Williams in the eye.

Okay, that was a bit harsh. I apologize. Sincere-ishly. But here’s the deal: some changes need to take place. You gotta trust this bro Butterfield—he knows what’s up, and he’s got one word to change your life: Westco. You’re gonna get some girlies soon, too. The all-male thing ain’t working out; Foss Hill tells me the sexual tension is, like, totally killing the vibe. Today we have a whole spectrum of gender, like mad genders yo, and there’s a party at Freshmen Orientation called—but I should save that for my next letter.

So please—get your act together, you quasi-Methodist, sissy-boy mutts. I’ll be waiting . . . with hall snacks.

Wesleyan University, 2010

Use The Good Sword

Dear 1999 Seth,

Two days after you receive this letter, you will be falling asleep, and the ghost of a warrior will appear. He will explain that you were actually adopted, and that you are the direct descendant of ancient kings. He will offer you the sword and shield of your ancestors, claiming that the great undead overlord Zorgax has reappeared, and intends to end your bloodline for all time.

For 11 years, I have barely evaded Zorgax’s repeated attempts to hunt me down. In 2001, Zorgax will turn the entire middle school into a zombie horde. I had been peeing in a urinal and escaped through the bathroom window. In 2003, Zorgax will possess your cat’s brain and kill everyone in your family up to second cousins. In 2007, you will arrive at Wesleyan University and, amidst your academic studies, continue to fight clandestinely for your survival: never stay in one place for more than a night, and avoid all other students in order to protect them from Zorgax’s wrath.

I must be brief. Zorgax has found my building, although he does not yet know which room I’m in, since I’m hiding under my desk with a flashlight. I also set the gasoline perimeter on fire, which should buy me a few precious seconds.

When the ghost warrior offered me the magical sword and shield, I refused. I insisted that I was just a kid, and I didn’t even know what an undead overlord looked like, so denied my warrior heritage and have no hope of defeating Zorgax.

He’s here. He’s inside. I can hear his gurgle. You must accept the sword and shield. Shit, he’s almost here. Listen—the only way to slay Zorgax is to strike him in the-