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

11/10/12

Ampersand 3/6/12

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Where should I study?


Fig. 3


The Campus Krampus


LOLin’ in Olin: A Brief Meditation


Olin is a beacon. It is impossible to overstate its centrality in the lives of so many Wesleyan students. It is a home. The kind of home where you try to get in the front door, but actually the front door is at the back, so you have to maneuver around hedges and snow banks and your children or whatever to get inside. And the front of your home has huge, majestic windows, so you can see all the wonderful things happening inside bathed in soothing yellow light, but you can only look. Your kids could be on fire in there, and you’d spent twenty minutes edging your way between your house and the Clark Hall that is your garage to get to them.

Oh, Rollie Pollie Olin. On the first floor, there’s those giant dictionary pages with seemingly arbitrary words highlighted. You assume they have some sort of important meaning but you’re not really sure what it could be, kind of like Pascal’s Triangle or Wolfmother lyrics.

There’s the weird half-floors that no matter how much physical evidence there may be of their existence, you have a hard believing actually exist. But enough about Rho Ep. Can’t you just picture someone getting lost on 2B? He opens the door and the smells of the orient waft towards him. 
Where am I? He tries to find a book and the Dewey Decimal system doesn’t apply. Nooooo! What’s going on??? Running back to the staircase, he finds that all other floors are closed off, and no matter how far he runs, he stays on 2B. Damn you, Escher! He can see people quietly studying on 2A as though through some kind of haze. He shouts, but no one hears him. Back to the staircase and finally another door opens! But where is he? And then he realizes: Usdan. NOOOOOO! Michael Roth wakes up in a cold sweat.

Then there’s that weird little room on the second floor with the couch and the nice lighting that’s ideal if you’re alone, but too intimate if someone else is there, like Thai Gardens. From the hall, you can’t see if there’s someone sitting there until you’re basically in the room. Bad design for sure. Speaking of which, did I mention that SOMEONE SHOULD PUT A BACK DOOR ON OLIN. I’d do it myself but I need to brush up my networking skills at a continental breakfast.

The Secret of the Bibliophilic Professor


Previously, our hero had discovered the body of Professor Thompson, who clutched in his corpsey hands a note scrawled in blood directing our hero to Olin. Now our protagonist finds ze-self in a race against time to recover Thompson’s research!

After discreetly but forcefully indicating to the fornicating duos positioned in the third-floor stacks that I had business to conduct, I set about studying the floorboards. After much poking and prodding, I at last found my prize: a loose board which, upon being pried out, revealed a manila folder. The Professor’s Research!

“I vill be taking zat.” I spun to find myself face to face with none other than the dastardly Commissar Zurm, Luger pistol in hand!*

“I vas the vun who commissioned ze Doktorr’s research on ze properties of turning babies into gold, so kindly hand ovah vhat ist rightfully mein!”

“Alright Zurm, I’ll—Holy shit! The Krampus!” (figs.1 & 2) Zurm spun to where I was pointing at the window behind him, his Teutonic brow writhing in fear. I took my chance and flung myself forward, propelling both of us through the glass and onto a reading table. I grabbed a shocked student’s water bottle and flung the contents into Zurm’s face — the hidden vodka I knew to expect blinded his eyes.

As the foul Commissar shrieked and clutched at his face, I darted off, the research tucked into my coat, only to find myself face to face with Latika, the lascivious leader of the Lapadap Cult, sitting astride her lion steed, Bumpus!**

“The Holy Child must be turned to gold for the prophecy to be fulfilled!” she shrieked, as Bumpus lunged for my throat!

To Be Continued!!!!!!

*(See Volume 12, “The She-Monsters of Bali.”)

**(See Volume 13, “Legend of the Cat’s Crystal: Return of The She-Monsters of Bali.”)

The Chamber of NO Secrets


Last Thursday night I went to Olin. As I walked up the steps towards the front entry chamber, I could see someone else walking toward the entry chamber from the lobby side. My view was partially obscured, but I could see their head, and that was enough. The other individual neared the other side of the entry chamber at a similar if not equal rate.

I recognized him as someone I had seen on the main floor many times prior; we had made eye contact awkwardly several times in the past and had once scrabbled for control of a highly desirable electrical outlet. We reached our respective sides of the chamber simultaneously.

As I placed my hand on the door handle, I looked up to anticipate his direction. He, too, raised his eyes, meeting mine for the smallest possible fraction of a second before we redirected our gazes to the floor, then to the side. We opened the doors concurrently, which was difficult because opening the doors at the same time created a weak vacuum within the chamber, initiating a strong gust of wind that blew across my face and hair, parting my bangs in the middle like Sean from “Boy Meets World.”

Upon entering the chamber, there was a ¾ second pause as we feinted in both directions, each trying to discern the intended direction of the other. We both chose WRONG, almost slamming into each other as we charged purposefully to the left, our heads down. He tried to step right, but the inner door of the chamber was still open so he just backed awkwardly against it. The impact of his body with the door caused him to exhale sharply, his stale Sabra-breath coating my face and shoulder.
In a desperate bid for control, I placed my hand gently on his shoulder and pushed him lightly aside, clearly delineating the spatial boundaries of the chamber and thus assuring absolute lack of contact for the duration of our enclosure. He grimaced and I knew his pain. We both exited the chamber, ashamed.

The Ampersand Liveblogs Olin


8:35  Wave at Sally by the computers but she doesn’t see me.
8:36  Shun elevator for the stairs.
8:37  JK, take elevator.
8:40  Settle into a cubicle on 3A.
8:42  Open Econ textbook.
9:05:06  “Should I run to Weshop?”
9:05:10  “Too far… and this is cubicle that smells the best.”
9:15  Four pages… twenty to go.
9:30  Four pages…
9:50  Four pages…
9:51  Five pages!
9:52  Have to pee but don’t want to lose seat/have things stolen.
9:56  Risk it: run to the bathroom.
9:59  Run back: everything still there. Sigh of relief.
10:10  Super productive: seven pages.
10:11  Reward self with Facebook break.
10:40  Log off Facebook… rats.
10:41  Still hungry.
11:00  Still page six.
11:20  Wow, page ten! Facebook!
11:21  Receive Reddit link.
12:00 a.m.  Close Westicles, turn off airport, curse self: Weshop has closed!
12:20  So, so hungry.
12:21  Text friends for food.
12:23  What ‘friends’?
12:25  Very cold and very alone.

Entire Student Body Temporarily Sexiled From Olin


The Olin Library door handle donned a highly symbolic sock late Thursday afternoon. By 5 p.m. — prime stress relief time for distracted studiers Ben Cox-Smith ’13 and Amy Johnson ’14 — the locked doors and drawn curtains offered clear signals to students that they had been sexiled from the library.

Johnson and Cox-Smith met up at approximately 4:23 pm on Floor 2A, when Johnson knowingly commented that Cox-Smith’s copy of Judith Butler’s Kierkegaard’s Speculative Despair in The Age of German Idealism “looks kinda rough.” 

As the two were getting hot and heavy and presumably kind of dusty beside a stack of nineteenth-century Russian short fiction (N-P), scores of Olin regulars turned away from the entrance, frustrated.

“I mean, like, good for him,” commented a frustrated sophomore. “But he could have texted us. Bro-code, dawg.”

A pack of thesis writers anxiously milled around Weshop waiting for the couple to exit. “I really need my computer charger,” complained Matt Timmons ’12 as he slid a hastily written note under the front door. “If that fucker splooges on it….”

Dozens of students took refuge across the street in SciLi as Olin remained abandoned save for Johnson, Cox-Smith, and an admissions tour group unable to open the padlocked main doors as the couple’s shrieks of passion quickly escalated.

Ampersand 2/28/12

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A disturbing contrapositive



POV: Scalia


Alternate history flow chart


What if History is Terrible?


While no one really knows who George Santayana is, we’ve all heard his solemn warning: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” In recent years however, scholars and laypeople alike have forgone this concern in light of its disturbing logical contrapositive: “Those who remember the past cannot repeat it.”

A Wesleyan professor explains, “No wonder the history of humanity is on a steady decline. We keep ruling out all the good stuff by teaching our kids about it! And then we’re left with Bridalplasty.”

This phenomenon has bore many names throughout history, including “Black Magic”, “God’s Greatest Test” and “Totally Unfair”. Now that Western society has caught on to this phenomena, the threat of “America’s Most Accursed Discipline” is everywhere one turns, causing nearly as much anxiety as the new e-portfolio login page, but with less warning. 

“I read James Joyce’s love letters, and now I can never have sex again,” bemoans one college sophomore who wished to remain nameless. “At least, not the way I want to. I guess it’s true what they say: ignorance is bliss.” 

Due to this newfound fear of knowledge, the nation is being transformed before our eyes. Laws are being passed banning public libraries and cracked.com. In Texas, intelligent conversation is now forbidden. Longstanding anti-censorship policies and book burning taboos are endangering the public, but those are expected to change. 

For the everyman, it seems this theory is just good ol’ common sense. “Of course things are going downhill!” says Missouri resident Sam Clyde, “Just look at Timbersports. Timbersports were the peak of mankind! And now look! How fast can you hew a log?! That’s what I thought, asshole.” 

What if Wesleyan Never Quantified the Calorie?


There are still many things about the human body that we don’t understand, such as why the duodenum is so sexy, or why white people dance a little worse. But the most pressing question for scientists these days is, What is with all this fat on our bodies and how can we make it go away?

“Someone told me that bread is bad to eat and fat is good,” said a confused Kelly Gambol ’14. “So I’ve been buying sticks of butter and eating them continuously. But I still weigh too much. If all food is food, why does some food make me fatter?”

“Unfortunately, we have no answers for Kelly,” said Dr. Ken Flashfen, head of the National Alchemical Nutrition Council. “We think eating makes people bigger, but the process is a mystery.”

In the meantime, scientists advise Americans to purchase anti-fat amulets from roving tinkers. “Sometimes a good amulet will be able to see into the heart of food and tell you whether it’s fat-making,” said Dr. Flashfen. “Sometimes not.”

What if I had gone to Bard?


Who knows, man? Do ever just think about stuff like this? What if my mom and dad had never met? I wouldn’t even have been born!

What if Buffalo Weren’t So Delicious?


It’s hunting season again in the Great Plains, America’s cholesterol-clogged heartland, where the nation’s chronic buffalo infestation has reached critical levels. “They’re goddamn everywhere, like a swarm of big-headed land rats,” said homeowner David Hobarth. “I wish they were all dead.”

Not many people live in the West of the United States. Pioneers on the Oregon Trail found crossing these lands almost impossible, since buffalo are stinky and ugly and could provide no source of food for bonnet- and suspender-clad settlers. 

“Ugh, those animals are just the worst,” said Wesleyan University’s Professor of American History Patricia Hill. “This continent would be much better if there were no Buffalo on it. It’s my number one complaint with America. If only they were like prairie dogs, which are now extinct because they were so tasty.”

Towns on the Great Plains have tried to incite the slaughter of buffalo though cash prizes, “Whack-a-Buffalo” Day, and Buffalo Trucks, which spew clouds of poisonous gas in the summer evening when the sunlight has only just faded and all the children frolicking in the misty street behind the trucks think this joy might last forever.

There’s been talk of introducing a targeted Buffalo plague or training tigers and panthers to hunt them, but residents aren’t too optimistic. “Their carcasses smell like dead skunks,” said Hobarth. “If only they were tasty enough to eat or intelligent enough to work in the circus. But they’re big stinky animals and there are too many of them. Where’s the day of reckoning for buffalo, that’s what I want to know. When will they pay for what they’ve done.”

What if George Washington Had Been Gay?


Everything would have been exactly the same, but he would have had had sex with dudes.

Alternate History Department Rife with Infighting


The university’s burgeoning Alternate History Department is off to a rough start. The faculty charged with imparting to Wesleyan how sweet the historical timeline could be has found themselves engulfed in petty squabbling.

“It’s out of control,” lamented Department Head and Professor of Steampunk Studies Isaac Kolbridge. “Everyone in the department is supposed to be collaborating on a magnificent tapestry of possible alternate timelines. Instead we’ve got a bunch of nerds arguing over whether dragons could outrace atomic-powered motorbikes.”

“These are exactly the sorts of debates the department is supposed to be having,” said Professor of Cold-War-Going-Hot Affairs Wilma Venk. “They help us to arrive at amazing new syntheses of academic thought. And for the record, I don’t care if they can fly, the additional power provided by an atomic reactor would boost a motorcycle’s speeds to ridiculous levels, easily able to outpace a dragon.” This statement was closely followed by a cry of “Bullshit!” from down the hall in the vicinity of Associate Professor of Dragons Being Real Jacob LaHare’s office.

“That’s the sort of shit I have to put up with day in and day out,” said Professor Kolbridge. “It’s all just distracting us from what’s important in academic pursuits, like proving that hydrogen and helium powered airships are more feasible than the theories of unmanned flying machines [Professor of Clockpunk Herman Beckel] is trying to peddle.”

Kolbridge refused to comment on the incident wherein a tiny dirigible hovered outside of Beckel’s office and catapulted two eggs into the window.

“Personally, I think it’s very healthy for the department,” said Professor of Squids-Ruling-the-Earth Stephen Vara. “We’re not the most well-known department at Wesleyan, so these debates help to raise our profile. I think the only thing that could raise our profile more is if someone were to try and refute my theories on how, if squids had become the dominant species on Earth, they would have reached the moon ten years before we did.” Vara paused, then added, “Do you want a copy of my book?”

11/7/12

Ampersand 2/21/12

View issue here

Get to know your Oscar!

o><

Who wore it better?

roth

Did You Know? Historical Oscars


   As Hollywood’s Biggest Night approaches, one question on everyone’s mind is: “What does Oscar mean in Gaelic?”

Oscar is a name of Irish descent meaning “deer-lover,” and boasts a four-star rating on babynames.com. While I am not friends with any Oscars, there are 22 Oscars on Facebook with whom I share at least one mutual friend. Shout-outs to Mr. Oscar Condor (Does TGI Friday’s pay well?) and Mr. Oscar Ody (Your cover photo of clouds makes you seem like a dreamer).

Perhaps the most well-known Oscar is Oscar the Grouch, a character on the iconic children’s television program Sesame Street. Canadian musician Oscar Brand claims that he is the namesake of this “misanthropic” being. While this may or may not be true, Wikipedia provides us with this key piece of information: “Regarding his species, he is a monster.”

Let us not forget author and playwright Oscar Wilde, a man almost as famous for his wit and innovation in literature as for his gayness. As Wilde once said, “A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” That political sentiment is enough to makes the girls go Wilde. Am I right, ladies?

We cannot escape mention of Wilde Oscar, a retired English porn star best known for starring alongside his wife Nici Sterling. He is known to have called her “the star in the family”. Aww, Wilde, don’t be so “hard-on” yourself. Oscar won the 2001 AVN award for Best Supporting Actor in a Video for West Side, but the award was revoked following charges that the film glorified gang violence.

Lastly, we turn to Oscar Mayer, everyone’s favorite Tone Loc lyric from the timeless anthem Funky Gold Medina. The lyric, as I’m sure you’ll remember, is “I don’t fool around with no Oscar Mayer wiener.” Oscar Wilde would have disagreed.

So which of these fine candidates is the namesake of THE Oscar, that is, of the Academy Award itself? That knowledge would take away from the movie magic; sorry! As boxer Oscar De La Hoya once tweeted, “Good night everyone and believe me there is light at the end of that tunnel.”

This Year’s Ceremony: Bigger & Ballsier Than Ever


To combat the inexplicable lack of people who care about Hollywood’s annual gigantic back-patting session, the Academy has devised a few ways to “spice up” the show. Here are just a few of these “presovations.”

— Every third award will be fired from a t-shirt cannon to the winner’s seat. Every audience member will be issued a golden helmet, which they must don when the “Cannon Crew” take the stage.
 — Every actor or actress who wins an Oscar will, upon receiving the award but before delivering their acceptance speech, have the time and means of their death whispered into their ear by Helen Mirren.
— All Oscar statuettes will be hollowed out and filled with plastic explosives. If an acceptance speech goes over the allotted time, the host will detonate all awards already distributed.
— Mud and/or Jello Wrestling to determine the winners of all awards dealing with effects, costumes, and makeup.
— Some of the winners will be presented with a small piece of paper with a clue written on it, sending them on a continent-spanning search that must be completed in three days, or the Oscar will be detonated.
— For the duration of the show, the host will ride a leopard.

Orlando Bloom Is Illiterate


A pall fell over the sunny pre-festivities of this year’s Oscars after director James Cameron publicly outed Orlando Bloom as an illiterate.

Bloom, Cameron alleges, is unable to read even the simplest English. The 35-year-old English Adonis relies heavily on prompters who feed him lines phonetically and is unable to recognize most letters of the alphabet.

Cameron says he chose to reveal Bloom’s crippling secret because the angelic thespian spurned his advances.

“I’m not going to hide it for him anymore,” Cameron said. “Orlando can’t even write his own name. He is a dolt, a simpleton. That beautiful, beautiful man has the vocabulary of a ten-year-old, and he broke my heart.”

Fans nationwide are shocked and aggrieved to learn that Bloom — the ageless elven androgyne; the roguish, soft-spoken swashbuckler; Helen’s bronzed, smooth-skinned seducer — had deceived them.

“He used to be a role model,” said Eli Meixler ’13, tears welling in his eyes, “but now he can’t even read!” Wracked by sobs, Meixler raised his trembling fists to the pitiless Connecticut sky. “If thou beest he; But O how fall’n!”

Bloom’s camp have dismissed the accusation as malicious and patently false. His publicist has released a written statement from Bloom, meant to quell suspicions.

“sens [sic] wen i am yung,” Bloom’s defense reads, “i red alot of books even wit h word longr then 5 lettrs. awlays i rummemmer kno my lines. i can reed i can reed i can reed i can reed.”

Bloom was unavailable for further comment.

Wesleyan Film Mafia Terrorizes Stars


“They forced us out of our seats,” sobbed Greg Kinnear at an Oscars after-party. “The women all
wore brass knuckles, and Joss Whedon was directing them to do leaping high 
kicks. I think [Michael] Bay must have been the one who put a C4 explosive in my satchel. 
He always overdoes the pyrotechnics.”

This year’s Oscars festivities were marred by the aggressive posturing of the Wesleyan Film 
Mafia, a term that causes even the most wealthy and successful of stars to shiver in fear.

“Don’t say that too loud,” whispered a stern Viggo Mortenson. “They have people 
everywhere. It isn’t safe.”

“Ethels better learn to walk the walk,” said a cigar-chewing Matthew Weiner of Mad 
Men. “This town’s tough and if a few bimbos get whacked don’t go crying to the coppers. 
Lay off the heavy sugar or take a hike, see.”

The posse makes up for its small numbers with extra doses of bellicosity and Frank Capra 
fetishism. Weiner is its reputed masterminds; Whedon and Bay run its military operations.  
An anonymous source warned that for every show cancellation Whedon suffers, he gets 
“more and more bloodthirsty.”

“Watch out for Carter and Bays,” warned a Broadway/How I Met Your Mother star.
“If you can only see one of them, you know the other is about to attack. I’m under 
contract to provide them with autographed Doogie Howser DVDs every week for the rest of my life.”

Younger Wesleyan graduates who preferred to remain anonymous intimated at confidential 
initiation ceremonies in which they were forced to hunt and tag Tisch Film students for 
sport. “They took me into the Adirondacks and left me there naked, slathered in chicken 
broth, with only a lantern and hiking boots,” said one ’09 alumna. “I wanted to write 
sitcoms. They said this was the only way.”

The organization operates out of many shadowy New York City sets and foreclosed studio trailers, but “it all leads back to Jeanine,” explained FBI Organized Crime chief Pete Lawson. “She’s the Queenpin. If we could only nail her, we could bring it all down… but she’s untouchable, because it’s really hard to make her office hours.” Maybe one day a new small liberal-arts school will shove their way to the top; there are already mentions 

Valentine's day 2012

View the issue here

Candy hears

<3

Norovirus and Valentine's day

void

Ask Our Sexxxperts


The Ampersand’s sex experts tell you how and where to put it.

Dear Sexxxperts,
I live in a single in the Butts, so no roommate problems for me. That being said,my nextdoor neighbor is always getting it in. The giggling, moaning, and outright shrieking is starting to get annoying. What should I do?
— Annoying Screaming Sucks

Dear ASS,
So you hear some noises coming from your neighbors’, and you immediately assume that they’re making “the beast with two backs?” That could be anything. Jazzercize, a bad cold, Monopoly. Stop thinking with your private parts.
Sincerely,
Victoria

Dear ASS,
Strip down, knock on their door, and offer to join in.Worst-case scenario they have
to think about you in the next room while they bang.
Go wild,
Muffin Man

Dear Sexxxperts,
If you were stuck on a desert island and could only eat one sandwich for the rest of eternity, what would it be?
Sincerely,
— Much I Love Food

Dear MILF,
Ham and cheese!
Love,
Victoria

Dear MILF,
Stuck on a desert island? What is that? Like, wedged inside someone and I don’t have lube? And eat one sandwich? Between two pieces of bread… buns… this is one fucked-up euphemism. Are you asking me which celebrity I would give a rim-job to while being, like, wedged inside him? You’re one sick fuck. Plus, that scenario is definitely impossible. But it’s not like I haven’t tried. Definitely John Stamos.
Good question,
Muffin Man

11/4/12

Valentine’s Day Rocks


In what has been described as “Ugh, I should’ve known” by one disgruntled freshman, Wesleyan students are speaking out against Valentine’s Day, arguing that participating in the day traditionally reserved for sweets, flowers, and romantic gestures actually promotes murder and torture by stoning.  

Michael “Like Us on Facebook” Thompson ’13, of campus social justice group Students Together Oppose the Needless Ejection of Rocks (STONER) explains, 

“STONER was always against stoning, but we hadn’t realized the dangerous effects of ‘Valentine’s Day’ until now. Saint Valentine may have survived the stoning, but we won’t be so fortunate. Stoning is the kind of thing that’s difficult to identify with if you’re not already involved, kind of like parkour. What’s more romantic that reminding your loved one of continued irrational violence in the global south? So next time you fax your significant other, don’t forget to include a topical little note making it clear that both of you are informed global citizens.” 

STONER, which has been meeting and operating out of the WestCo basement since the 1970’s, is spear-heading the effort. The student body, while impassioned, seems uncertain as to the goal of the organization. 

“I’m all for legalization, but if I’m going to protest for it, I want something to smoke while I hold the sign,” says one disappointed junior. In a desperate plea for action, many students have taken to throwing rocks at their peers in centers of campus activity such as Usdan and the Memorial Chapel. 

We sat down with President Michael Roth to discuss the administration’s stance on what has become as dangerous a situation as creative writing classes during drop/add. Roth looks a little worse for wear, his resemblance to a prairie dog exaggerated as he keeps an eye out for stray chunks of airborne granite, and, in an act of martyrdom comparable to that of Saint Valentine himself, contests that the blame is his. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have pushed for more Shirley Jackson in the curriculum,” he laments, gesturing towards the Health Center, where a line of bloody students is quickly forming. “This is the sad result.” 

The students involved in the protests say they are frustrated by their fellow students’ sedentary (or should we say sedimentary) approach to social action. The students not involved say they don’t want to throw rocks at their friends. All we can say is, in a situation like this, everybody loses. And those poor bastards who want a geology certificate might as well give up.

Our Big Freedia Fantasy

Gregory Steinwitz ’13 strode through the regal pillars of Eclectic with a mighty resolution. This was the night he had been waiting this whole year —perhaps his whole existence for.  It was sissy bounce night. With his waif-like frame and ethereal way of explicating medieval poetry, no one ha expected him to be what he in fact was —the High Chancellor of Booty Bounce. The Prime Minister of Funkytown. The Krump Lord. 

But it was true. It was so true. When Gregory Steinwitz’s booty ‘13 hit the dance floor, everyone, including Big Freedia zirself, stopped and gasped in reverence. Right here in Eclectic, God was amongst them. In the audience, Pamela ’15 struggled to keep the buttons of her sheer blouse closed. She felt the overwhelming desire to tear off her grandmother’s bed-jacket and offer herself to the Krump Lord to be ravished. She wanted to feel his oversized member, hard as a zeppelin, against her generous thighs as they melted together on the dance floor. 

At long last, tickled to frenzy by desire, she danced toward him, her molten amber eyes locking with his. He could see in her hardened face that Pamela was not just another “biddie.” Having been spoiled by the heated, cutthroat dancing at the underground hip-hop clubs of Scarsdale, New York, Gregory had come to Wesleyan jaded and unsatisfied by the weak grinding typical of the WestCo Raves and Psi U Formals. He wanted passion. He wanted fire. And looking at the way Pamela booty-dropped, he knew that she was the one, that he must seize this moment and pounce before that atomic she-devil escaped and he never got to hold her in his strong, scrawny arms.

Seventeen minutes later, Pamela threw Gregory onto her bed, mounting him with the fervor of a rabid jaguar. He ripped off his Morning Benders t-shirt and threw it to the floor of her Fauver dorm room in a flourish. Although Pamela’s roommate, Gladys Merkin ‘15, was by now asleep on the twin bed a mere six feet away, nothing could quell their funky lust. As Pamela throaty and fermata’d moans pierced the ears of the P-Safe officers driving down Foss Hill Drive, the patrolmen could but laugh mirthlessly.

Slavei Concert Arouses


Slavei’s Valentine’s Day concert in the Memorial Chapel was inappropriate to say the least.  The erotically exotic sounds of Salvei’s Eastern European repertoire had an unexpected effect on the audience: in time with the foreign ululations and pulsations, multiple members of the audience spontaneously undressed and did sex to one another in our university’s most holy building.

Boris “The Woofer” Vladivostok ’14, known for his impressive Mongolian tonsil flicking abilities, observed, “I didn’t think my woofing would make others woof too.” 

Though shocked by the audience’s behavior, Slavei continued performing. Baritone Alexei Leningrad ’12 reports that the sexual acts were in no way the group’s intentions. “We had no idea people were going to enjoy it this much,” said Leningrad. “I always thought harmonic dissonance was kind of a
bonerkill.”  

Alto Yuri Dubra ’13, however, was unfazed. “I am not surprised,” he said. “I do it to Gregorian chants all the time.” 

World music is clearly rising to prominence, from two person pregames to fraternity parties. Beta has planned a Naked Gregorian Chant party for the near future. “People can’t get enough,” said Biff Nud ’14. “I got this A$AP Rocky vs. Jgupi Qorali mash-up on permanent repeat.” 

The university will certainly take more precaution next time Slavei performs. “This Rusky Red Pinko Commie assault on decency caught us with our pants down,” said one Public Safety official, “as did the return of that naked dude from the Dink-583 MuHo concert.”