The Lord works in mysterious ways. That’s why when my car broke down, I was able to take flight on the wings of Jesus, by which I mean I snuck into the open trunk of a car in a parking lots. Or take our situation here at Wesleyan. If we really want to ensure the safety of the endowment, we should ask ourselves: couldn’t prayer take care of most programs for students? Here are some ideas for faith-based programs that would not only help to solve our money woes, but of course, bring us closer to Heaven.
Faith-Based Meal Plans: Why waste meals or points at WesWings and Summerfields? Just hover around the cash register, and when someone gets the same number for their order as your favorite Bible verse, grab it and run.
Public Safety: Simply mutter prayers under your breath as you travel. Potential assailants will be so off put by your obviously pious attitude that they wouldn’t dare attack!
The Ride: Wait at an intersection for a car to pass, then jump on. Ask the Lord to guide the driver towards your destination. Stay onboard until you arrive. If you find yourself being taken out of Middletown, jump off at your earliest convenience and conduct some domestic missionary work. Remember: you ended up where you did as part of God’s plan to convert as many non-believers as possible. Get to it!
Climate Control: Nothing better than a bonfire of science textbooks to keep you warm through those freezing winter nights!
Printing: Bring up the paper on your computer, say five "Hail Mary"s, and sleep. The next day, a hard copy of your paper will be resting on your computer’s keyboard! If not, you either didn’t pray haror are a sinner condemned to hell.
2/18/10
Take it from Me: God Loves Me
Hey, Wesleyan. Chastity here, your pre-paid calling card to Heaven. Are you happy? Probably not. I am. And that’s because I know I’m loved by my Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. If this sounds appealing to you, I urge you to consider abiding by the principles of Christian Science. “What’s Christian Science, Chastity, and why am I damned to perdition?” you might ask. Christian Science is so so great! It’s like liberalism except true and meaningful. It can be whatever you want it to be but it includes honoring the Lord, acting morally, and not partaking in modern medicine which is the hidden hand of Satan. I mention Christian Science because there are many students here leading lives that are not so great and downright troublesome.
For instance, too many people here sleep during the day. I think that’s wrong. It leads to licentiousness and depravity, which are kind of disruptive when some of us are trying to sleep. Okay? Second, some people are using d-r-u-g-s. I mean the BAD BAD kind, not just the normal bad kind like antibiotics or cough syrup or condoms. When I tell you your room smells ‘weird’ (aka like the Reefer, which I am very aware of) and that maybe some of us want to live in a pleasant and welcoming environment, you don’t have to tell me it’s leftovers or that a squirrel crawled into your radiator and built a nest, I KNOW what is “up.” And you feel good now, but you know what won’t later? Prison. And Hell.
Another example of people not abiding by the Word of God and generally being kind of rude is this whole alchemy thing. I went into Eclectic one morning to drop off some flyers because there are some nice people there but it’s kind of a den of iniquity, and they were distilling what looked like blood and loosing mercury and attempting transmutation. I asked what they were doing and a male student with facial hair said it was a meth lab and told me to stand back, but I know alchemy when I see it. They can’t trick me. My pastor warned us about the dark arts and fluid sexuality. I can smell it a mile a way, so: not cool, guys. When ResLife (and GOD) fines them for those weird symbols on the walls I will not be sorry in the least. So, Wesleyan: just say no to all this stuff, okay? You are better than this!!!
Hooray,
Chastity
For instance, too many people here sleep during the day. I think that’s wrong. It leads to licentiousness and depravity, which are kind of disruptive when some of us are trying to sleep. Okay? Second, some people are using d-r-u-g-s. I mean the BAD BAD kind, not just the normal bad kind like antibiotics or cough syrup or condoms. When I tell you your room smells ‘weird’ (aka like the Reefer, which I am very aware of) and that maybe some of us want to live in a pleasant and welcoming environment, you don’t have to tell me it’s leftovers or that a squirrel crawled into your radiator and built a nest, I KNOW what is “up.” And you feel good now, but you know what won’t later? Prison. And Hell.
Another example of people not abiding by the Word of God and generally being kind of rude is this whole alchemy thing. I went into Eclectic one morning to drop off some flyers because there are some nice people there but it’s kind of a den of iniquity, and they were distilling what looked like blood and loosing mercury and attempting transmutation. I asked what they were doing and a male student with facial hair said it was a meth lab and told me to stand back, but I know alchemy when I see it. They can’t trick me. My pastor warned us about the dark arts and fluid sexuality. I can smell it a mile a way, so: not cool, guys. When ResLife (and GOD) fines them for those weird symbols on the walls I will not be sorry in the least. So, Wesleyan: just say no to all this stuff, okay? You are better than this!!!
Hooray,
Chastity
Mytheos Holt: Role Model For No One
For too long now, Mytheos Holt has been the self-designated (and universally accepted) voice of conservatism on campus. It is time, now, for the Ampersand to speak out against this claim. Mytheos’ politics are a disgusting mix of damnable lies and deceit— in other words, too liberal for the values that the Ampersand its loyal readers share. The Ampersand denounces Mytheos and his left-wing rhetoric on the following grounds:
- He has driven a Prius.
- He is unmarried.
- He does not believe that Apple’s new iPad is a miracle from
God.
- Once every few months or so, he won’t wear his Republican
pin.
- He goes to Wesleyan.
As Mytheos has long held the importance of his presence in Wesleyan political discourse to be based on their controversial nature, the Ampersand argues that its statements are therefore even more important. We demand that on-campus conservatives no longer accept Mytheos as their unofficial speaker and instead revise their statements to be as outrageous as ours.
(Note: Although Mytheos has argued that his readers should not conflate his politics with either religious fundamental or being a general asshole, the Ampersand suggests that ‘conflate’a stupid college-y word that makes the user sound like a douche.)
- He has driven a Prius.
- He is unmarried.
- He does not believe that Apple’s new iPad is a miracle from
God.
- Once every few months or so, he won’t wear his Republican
pin.
- He goes to Wesleyan.
As Mytheos has long held the importance of his presence in Wesleyan political discourse to be based on their controversial nature, the Ampersand argues that its statements are therefore even more important. We demand that on-campus conservatives no longer accept Mytheos as their unofficial speaker and instead revise their statements to be as outrageous as ours.
(Note: Although Mytheos has argued that his readers should not conflate his politics with either religious fundamental or being a general asshole, the Ampersand suggests that ‘conflate’a stupid college-y word that makes the user sound like a douche.)
The Editor On Ransom Notes
When it comes to getting what you want, ransom notes are the most reliable conduit. I leave ransom notes almost everywhere I go. “I’ve taken your little sibling hostage and am feeding him or her a dangerous amount of cotton, even for a resilient 10 year-old. Call this number for instructions.” It’s fantastic. I’ve gotten a free computer that way, a few dozen boxes of Teddy Grahams, even a waterbed. Plus, it strengthens family bonds. I remind people of what’s important in life: family. It’s an invaluable service, the way I see it. On the other hand, when ransom notes fall into the wrong hands, society crumbles like the Teddy Grahams I smash with my computer.
-Dave
-Dave
Don't Fuck With My Underwear
Attention: laundry room female,
You made the biggest mistake of your life when you took my freshly washed clothes out of the third dryer from the end and dumped them on the counter like a nesting gorilla. You couldn’t wait five minutes? I cramped up on the way back from my jazzercise class and was a little behind schedule. Point is, I now have your denim shorts. The pair that, as they say, makes your booty pop. And don’t pretend like you don’t want them back: maybe you shouldn’t have sewn “my favorite pair of shorts ever” on the inside of the waistband.
My demands are simple. You will return to the laundry room at mid- night tomorrow where you will find another load of my laundry. It’s mostly capes and long underwear. Wash the load, and put it in the dryer. When the cycle ends, I will meet up with you and return your shorts to you. I’ll be the guy wearing your shorts.
You made the biggest mistake of your life when you took my freshly washed clothes out of the third dryer from the end and dumped them on the counter like a nesting gorilla. You couldn’t wait five minutes? I cramped up on the way back from my jazzercise class and was a little behind schedule. Point is, I now have your denim shorts. The pair that, as they say, makes your booty pop. And don’t pretend like you don’t want them back: maybe you shouldn’t have sewn “my favorite pair of shorts ever” on the inside of the waistband.
My demands are simple. You will return to the laundry room at mid- night tomorrow where you will find another load of my laundry. It’s mostly capes and long underwear. Wash the load, and put it in the dryer. When the cycle ends, I will meet up with you and return your shorts to you. I’ll be the guy wearing your shorts.
Breaking news: Scott Brown Holds Healthcare Bill Hostage
WASHINGTON - Hours before special-election inductee Scott Brown’s confirmation as the junior senator from Massachusetts, Democrats were still hard at work soliciting his support for the health care bill. “This historic piece of legisla- tion was only put at risk by the untimely death of Senator Ted Kennedy”, said Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, D-NV. “Scott Brown doesn’t have to be such an ass-blister about it.”
Brown, when reached for comment, responded, “Hey, the people of Massachusetts have spoken. They don’t want another boring chick in a pantsuit who loves Pottery Barn. They voted for yours truly because of my awesome positions on stuff and my truck and my hot daughters. Basically Massachusetts decided to get down.” The fifty-year-old state senator has shown surprising resistance to Democratic offers of Cape Cod timeshares and $50,000 Dunkin’ Donuts gift cards.
The Republican Brown’s victory was a crushing blow to President Obama’s long-term plan to Do Something. Grassroots support from the Masshole and Bearded-older-man-wearing-a-sandwich-board demographics helped to mobilize apathetic voters against more apathetic voters. 87% of women polled reported being swayed by his 1982 America’s Sexiest Man title from Cosmopolitan Magazine and 63% of men by his rough-looking hands.
Last week, Scott Brown had publicly stated that he was “dead-set” against the health care bill and was “milking this thing like a cow in heat.” Tensions were recently eased, however, when White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel offered Brown a brick of hash for his yea vote. Sources close to Brown report he would have settled for half that much.
Brown, when reached for comment, responded, “Hey, the people of Massachusetts have spoken. They don’t want another boring chick in a pantsuit who loves Pottery Barn. They voted for yours truly because of my awesome positions on stuff and my truck and my hot daughters. Basically Massachusetts decided to get down.” The fifty-year-old state senator has shown surprising resistance to Democratic offers of Cape Cod timeshares and $50,000 Dunkin’ Donuts gift cards.
The Republican Brown’s victory was a crushing blow to President Obama’s long-term plan to Do Something. Grassroots support from the Masshole and Bearded-older-man-wearing-a-sandwich-board demographics helped to mobilize apathetic voters against more apathetic voters. 87% of women polled reported being swayed by his 1982 America’s Sexiest Man title from Cosmopolitan Magazine and 63% of men by his rough-looking hands.
Last week, Scott Brown had publicly stated that he was “dead-set” against the health care bill and was “milking this thing like a cow in heat.” Tensions were recently eased, however, when White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel offered Brown a brick of hash for his yea vote. Sources close to Brown report he would have settled for half that much.
Good Luck, Liam Neeson
Dear Middle-Aged Man Who Used to Work for the Government’s Super-Secret Murder Squad,
We kidnapped your daughter while she was on vacation in Europe because we are evil and vaguely foreign, with very thick accents. Do not go to the police. They are European; so even if we hadn’t bought them off, there’d be dickspittle they could do anyway. Christ, they can’t even use guns in England. Bitch asses.
Anyway, your daughter. We have her, and will sell her into sex slavery unless you pay us an obscene amount of money. We picked her because we were fairly confident her father would be a blubbering pussy who orders bulk Cheetos online. I mean, seriously, what are the odds he’s some highly trained assassin/detective who’s willing and able to rip all of our balls off in a highly marketable tale designed to act as wish fulfillment for an aging demographic?
So, if you ever want to–Alexi, get the door!–Anyway, you will transfer three million in unmarked–Alexi, who was it? Alexi? Holy shit! Arms aren’t supposed to bend that way! Wait–
Oh shit. Oh shit. I didn’t even finish writing the letter, how the hell did he find-AGGH MY TRACHEA.
We kidnapped your daughter while she was on vacation in Europe because we are evil and vaguely foreign, with very thick accents. Do not go to the police. They are European; so even if we hadn’t bought them off, there’d be dickspittle they could do anyway. Christ, they can’t even use guns in England. Bitch asses.
Anyway, your daughter. We have her, and will sell her into sex slavery unless you pay us an obscene amount of money. We picked her because we were fairly confident her father would be a blubbering pussy who orders bulk Cheetos online. I mean, seriously, what are the odds he’s some highly trained assassin/detective who’s willing and able to rip all of our balls off in a highly marketable tale designed to act as wish fulfillment for an aging demographic?
So, if you ever want to–Alexi, get the door!–Anyway, you will transfer three million in unmarked–Alexi, who was it? Alexi? Holy shit! Arms aren’t supposed to bend that way! Wait–
Oh shit. Oh shit. I didn’t even finish writing the letter, how the hell did he find-AGGH MY TRACHEA.
Breaking: Swedish Terrorism Targets Wes
A hostage crisis in the Wasch Center for Retired Faculty prompted shocked University officials to discover the existence of a so-called Wasch Center for Retired Faculty this week.
The building was invaded early Monday afternoon by an aging Swedish terrorist cell. The group, known as “Svěedläsh,” demands that the name be changed to “Wasch Center for Retired Terrorists.”
“As we enter the twilight years of our lives, our interests lie less in letterbombing and more in ‘M.A.S.H.’ reruns,” explained the group in a public statement. “This facility is perfect for us. We just wish it wasn’t so close to the goddamn Butts.”
University officials plan to negotiate each of the terrorists’ demands— including an Admissions-guided tour of Wesleyan—as soon as they can determine whether there are, in fact, any hostages. Early reports suggest they have one confused prefrosh in their possession.
The building was invaded early Monday afternoon by an aging Swedish terrorist cell. The group, known as “Svěedläsh,” demands that the name be changed to “Wasch Center for Retired Terrorists.”
“As we enter the twilight years of our lives, our interests lie less in letterbombing and more in ‘M.A.S.H.’ reruns,” explained the group in a public statement. “This facility is perfect for us. We just wish it wasn’t so close to the goddamn Butts.”
University officials plan to negotiate each of the terrorists’ demands— including an Admissions-guided tour of Wesleyan—as soon as they can determine whether there are, in fact, any hostages. Early reports suggest they have one confused prefrosh in their possession.
2/11/10
Re: Gremlin Necromancy
Dear Gremlinz,
We know about you.
We know that after Mocon was decommissioned, a small population of gremlins quickly occupied the space, as gremlins are wont to do. You filled the musty bowels of the building, lurking in the dark, rough spaces behind unplugged industrial freezers and rusting furnace-system components. In the moonlight, you climbed into the jumble of gears and chains that once comprised the conveyor belt underbelly and cranked the old system back to life, turning the corroded cogs by hand. We imagine that the latches slid and creaked in ghostly imitation of their former function.
We also know that you, the gremlins, worship as your deity an old vending machine, sliding votives through the food slot and dancing around the base of its rusted husk. (According to one experimental ethnographer, your form of worship descends from older Eastern vending machine cults.) And we the students of Nicolson V write today to inform you that we have stolen your deity, this vending machine.
She is safe and intact, but we will not consider her return until you meet our one demand: through your gremlin necromancy, disinter and resurrect Sir William T. Butterfield, patriarch of all debauchery and buggery.
Once Lord Butterfield is again among us, he will supplant the current ruler as potentate and consider our demands for grilled whole baby calamari at Summerfields. And a Butterfield Inferius would be a formidable opponent to any of our enemies.
Mark our words: if Procurator Butterfield is not resurrected by the end of this lunar cycle, students from Down II will deface and destroy your deity with halberds and glaives. And you will have to show yourselves. Nobody has ever seen a gremlin, but when I am in the shower at night I hear soft voices that tell me you exist.
You have been warned.
Cordially,
The Federated Students of Nicolson V
We know about you.
We know that after Mocon was decommissioned, a small population of gremlins quickly occupied the space, as gremlins are wont to do. You filled the musty bowels of the building, lurking in the dark, rough spaces behind unplugged industrial freezers and rusting furnace-system components. In the moonlight, you climbed into the jumble of gears and chains that once comprised the conveyor belt underbelly and cranked the old system back to life, turning the corroded cogs by hand. We imagine that the latches slid and creaked in ghostly imitation of their former function.
We also know that you, the gremlins, worship as your deity an old vending machine, sliding votives through the food slot and dancing around the base of its rusted husk. (According to one experimental ethnographer, your form of worship descends from older Eastern vending machine cults.) And we the students of Nicolson V write today to inform you that we have stolen your deity, this vending machine.
She is safe and intact, but we will not consider her return until you meet our one demand: through your gremlin necromancy, disinter and resurrect Sir William T. Butterfield, patriarch of all debauchery and buggery.
Once Lord Butterfield is again among us, he will supplant the current ruler as potentate and consider our demands for grilled whole baby calamari at Summerfields. And a Butterfield Inferius would be a formidable opponent to any of our enemies.
Mark our words: if Procurator Butterfield is not resurrected by the end of this lunar cycle, students from Down II will deface and destroy your deity with halberds and glaives. And you will have to show yourselves. Nobody has ever seen a gremlin, but when I am in the shower at night I hear soft voices that tell me you exist.
You have been warned.
Cordially,
The Federated Students of Nicolson V
Where In The World Has Carmen Sandiego Been All This Time?
Dear World,
HA HA HA! It’s me! Carmen Sandiego! I’m back! Maybe you haven’t heard my name in awhile. Back in the day they were even making video games about me. Shows how much I was getting into your head. Maybe you thought I was just exhausted edutainment material, but you couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve just been keeping a low profile, and now, I’m ready to announce my biggest heist yet: Spitzbergen!
I know what you're thinking: Wow, is Carmen so desperate to steal something she hasn't stolen already that she'll nab an island in the Svalbard archipelago? Well, maybe. I mean, once you've stolen the goddamn Bermuda Triangle, how do you top that?
My plan is brilliant, if you really think about it: Not only do you not know where Spitzbergen is now – because I stole it – but you don't know where it used to be. It's doubly mysterious, and you poor fools are human putty in my hands.
Just try to get it back from me. Think I was hard to find back in the day?I’m impossible now. I don’t leave alliterative, pun-laden trails of verbal clues. I don’t use cartoonish goons anymore. And don’t even try looking for a bright red coat and matching hat. I'm not really sure why I ever though that was a good outfit for a thief to wear.
So in exchange for returning Spitzbergen, I want my own TV show again. I’ve already come up with an idea: “Where in the Mid-Atlantic Ridge is Carmen Sandiego?” I don’t think we’ve done that one yet.
Nefariously,
Carmen Sandiego, DDS
HA HA HA! It’s me! Carmen Sandiego! I’m back! Maybe you haven’t heard my name in awhile. Back in the day they were even making video games about me. Shows how much I was getting into your head. Maybe you thought I was just exhausted edutainment material, but you couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve just been keeping a low profile, and now, I’m ready to announce my biggest heist yet: Spitzbergen!
I know what you're thinking: Wow, is Carmen so desperate to steal something she hasn't stolen already that she'll nab an island in the Svalbard archipelago? Well, maybe. I mean, once you've stolen the goddamn Bermuda Triangle, how do you top that?
My plan is brilliant, if you really think about it: Not only do you not know where Spitzbergen is now – because I stole it – but you don't know where it used to be. It's doubly mysterious, and you poor fools are human putty in my hands.
Just try to get it back from me. Think I was hard to find back in the day?I’m impossible now. I don’t leave alliterative, pun-laden trails of verbal clues. I don’t use cartoonish goons anymore. And don’t even try looking for a bright red coat and matching hat. I'm not really sure why I ever though that was a good outfit for a thief to wear.
So in exchange for returning Spitzbergen, I want my own TV show again. I’ve already come up with an idea: “Where in the Mid-Atlantic Ridge is Carmen Sandiego?” I don’t think we’ve done that one yet.
Nefariously,
Carmen Sandiego, DDS
2/5/10
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.
Sincerely,
Dave’n Dirty
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.
Sincerely,
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 HomestarRunner.com, 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.
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 HomestarRunner.com, 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.
Sincerely,
Benjamin Soloway.
P.S. The answer to the extra credit question on your tenth grade history final: "Corsica, at least in part."
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.
Sincerely,
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.
Tentatively,
Inmate 109348862
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.
Tentatively,
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)
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
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.
Fondly,
Wesleyan University, 2010
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.
Fondly,
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-
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-
1/26/10
Report: Most Wes Students Believe “Relay For Life” Is Pro-Life Propaganda
In a misunderstanding of unprecedented proportions, hundreds of Wesleyan students have refused to participate in Relay For Life, apparently mistaking the American Cancer Society fundraiser with anti-abortion activism.
Amanda Mansell ’12, president of Students for Reproductive Rights, expressed her indignation at being handed a Relay For Life flyer in Usdan by kneeing the unsuspecting student in the uterus. Mansell immediately began organizing a Relay For Choice counter-rally, “to effect less inherently hegemonistic dialogue” regarding a woman’s right to choose. “What would Jane Roe think!?” added Mansell, her brow furrowed in theatric indignation, apparently unaware that Jane Roe, plaintiff in the landmark 1973 Roe v. Wade case, has since recanted her support for abortion rights—or that Relay For Life has nothing to do with abortion rights whatsoever.
“I find it morally repugnant that our supposedly progressive institution could so brazenly endorse the extremist pro-life agenda,” added Geoffrey Hord ’11. Hord led a mass protest outside North College Tuesday morning, which yielded such slogans as “Relay For Life is Relay Against Women,” “Abort the Relay!” and “Make Abortion, Not War!”
Meanwhile, prominent conservative Mytheos Holt, in his weekly “Wesleyan Viewed From the Right” column, described the protest efforts as “typical of leftist PCU pseudo-activist garbage. In fact, it’s refreshing to see an anti-infanticide presence on campus for once.”
When pressed for comment, President Roth assured that the event would be discontinued, and that the University had been fully unaware of the American Cancer Society’s right-wing sympathies.
Amanda Mansell ’12, president of Students for Reproductive Rights, expressed her indignation at being handed a Relay For Life flyer in Usdan by kneeing the unsuspecting student in the uterus. Mansell immediately began organizing a Relay For Choice counter-rally, “to effect less inherently hegemonistic dialogue” regarding a woman’s right to choose. “What would Jane Roe think!?” added Mansell, her brow furrowed in theatric indignation, apparently unaware that Jane Roe, plaintiff in the landmark 1973 Roe v. Wade case, has since recanted her support for abortion rights—or that Relay For Life has nothing to do with abortion rights whatsoever.
“I find it morally repugnant that our supposedly progressive institution could so brazenly endorse the extremist pro-life agenda,” added Geoffrey Hord ’11. Hord led a mass protest outside North College Tuesday morning, which yielded such slogans as “Relay For Life is Relay Against Women,” “Abort the Relay!” and “Make Abortion, Not War!”
Meanwhile, prominent conservative Mytheos Holt, in his weekly “Wesleyan Viewed From the Right” column, described the protest efforts as “typical of leftist PCU pseudo-activist garbage. In fact, it’s refreshing to see an anti-infanticide presence on campus for once.”
When pressed for comment, President Roth assured that the event would be discontinued, and that the University had been fully unaware of the American Cancer Society’s right-wing sympathies.
The Editor Calls for Maximalization
THIS ISSUE OF THE AMPERSAND IS ALL ABOUT GETTING THE MOST OUT OF EVERYTHING IN LIFE BY NEVER GIVING UP AND ALWAYS FIGHTING FOR THE GOLD AND NOT LETTING ANYBODY HOLD YOU BACK FROM ANYTHING AND ACHIEVING YOUR GOALS AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE WHICH IS 100 PERCENT AND SOMETIMES YOU FEEL TIRED OR WEAK BUT FUCK THAT BECAUSE YOU GOTTA PUSH THROUGH IT TO SCORE WHEN IT COUNTS LIKE TIGER WOODS AND MICHAEL JORDAN AND MICHAEL PHELPS BECAUSE THEYRE ALL FUCKING ALLSTARS SERIOUSLY THEY NEVER BACK DOWN AND ALWAYS STAY STRONG SOMETIMES I DONT MAKE THE MOST OUT OF EVERYTHING BUT DONT TELL ANYONE OR I WILL ELIMINATE YOU ANYWAY BACK TO THE POINT I JUST THINK EVERYONE DOESNT GET IT AND HOW YOU HAVE TO MAKE THE MOST OUT OF EVERYTHING BY EXTREME MEANS IF NECESSARY WHICH SOMETIMES IS TAKING IT TOO FAR BUT I DIDNT SAY IT WOULD BE EASY SO SPREAD THE WORD AND MAKE SURE EVERYONE LISTENS TO YOU IN YOUR EYES BECAUSE THEN THEYLL KNOW HOW SERIOUS YOU FUCKING ARE AND THEN YOULL WIN
DAVE DAVE DAVE
DAVE DAVE DAVE
Maxturbate
In order to ensure that recreational activities don't get in the way of squeezing the most out of every millisecond of your life from now on, I have compiled a top five list of variations on masturbation, which let's be honest never helps productivity but is too much fun to be simply ignored all of a sudden. These corner cutters'll allow you to surge to ultimate power and still have some of that necessary you-time. Also, a top five list of things not to do ever because they will impede your progress toward domination of the earthly realm.
1. Income taxturbate – It's always a good idea to have your taxes done on time, but who says it has to be ejaculation-less.
2. Click-clacksturbate - If in the process of rising to the top of the game, you find yourself being held back by an incompetent business partner who you can't really trust, you gotta cock that thing back with a click-clack and then, bladow, find a new business partner. But never take the other hand off yo dick!
3. Classturbate - History? Who cares? I need a napkin.
4. Foie grasturbate - I can't even remember when I used flatten my geese while not choking a chicken.
5. Snacksturbate – Complex carbs are a total necessity when it comes to singly focusing the mind on the prize, partly to replenish the energy you've lost from jerking off so much.
Things not to do:
1. Procrasturbate – Ever. You must always be working and masturbating.
2. Forward Passturbate – In rugby especially.
3. Thrashturbate – Despite trying to make the most out of everything, you don't ever want to thrash when it comes to the penis.
4. Whiplashturbate – Who needs another fight with the insurance company?
5. Tresspassturbate – Illegal and liable to get you shot-gunned in the chest.
1. Income taxturbate – It's always a good idea to have your taxes done on time, but who says it has to be ejaculation-less.
2. Click-clacksturbate - If in the process of rising to the top of the game, you find yourself being held back by an incompetent business partner who you can't really trust, you gotta cock that thing back with a click-clack and then, bladow, find a new business partner. But never take the other hand off yo dick!
3. Classturbate - History? Who cares? I need a napkin.
4. Foie grasturbate - I can't even remember when I used flatten my geese while not choking a chicken.
5. Snacksturbate – Complex carbs are a total necessity when it comes to singly focusing the mind on the prize, partly to replenish the energy you've lost from jerking off so much.
Things not to do:
1. Procrasturbate – Ever. You must always be working and masturbating.
2. Forward Passturbate – In rugby especially.
3. Thrashturbate – Despite trying to make the most out of everything, you don't ever want to thrash when it comes to the penis.
4. Whiplashturbate – Who needs another fight with the insurance company?
5. Tresspassturbate – Illegal and liable to get you shot-gunned in the chest.
Save Time By Staycationing
The vacation is dead. In vogue: the staycation. “Much like the Pussycat Dolls, vacations are on their way out,” said Wesleyan professor Deb Olin Funferth, author of Staycation. “Why would anyone ever go on vacation when you can so easily be on vacation every single second of every day?”
With the realization that it takes little more than a change in attitude to max out every day of your college experience, the Ampersand respectfully suggests a few ways you can get the absolute most out of your time at Wesleyan by staycationing all over campus all the goddamn time.
The Butthole
The Butterfields’ answer to the WestCo courtyard. The up-and-coming Butthole scene will soon play host to Buru Style and other WestCo regulars. “I prefer the Butthole,” said Max Nussbaum ’12. “Everyone there really dug my Kanye Halloween costume.”
The Batting Cages
For a romantic afternoon at the base of scenic Foss Hill, bring that special someone to the Foss Hill batting cages for a few hours of batting practice in a cage. A great way to have fun outdoors! Wear a jock strap to protect yourself.
BuHo
Wash’s answer to SoHo. Check out the Jews!
Mocon
Remove a plumbing grate! Break a window! Do whatever necessary to sneak your way inside this treasure trove of garbage.
With the realization that it takes little more than a change in attitude to max out every day of your college experience, the Ampersand respectfully suggests a few ways you can get the absolute most out of your time at Wesleyan by staycationing all over campus all the goddamn time.
The Butthole
The Butterfields’ answer to the WestCo courtyard. The up-and-coming Butthole scene will soon play host to Buru Style and other WestCo regulars. “I prefer the Butthole,” said Max Nussbaum ’12. “Everyone there really dug my Kanye Halloween costume.”
The Batting Cages
For a romantic afternoon at the base of scenic Foss Hill, bring that special someone to the Foss Hill batting cages for a few hours of batting practice in a cage. A great way to have fun outdoors! Wear a jock strap to protect yourself.
BuHo
Wash’s answer to SoHo. Check out the Jews!
Mocon
Remove a plumbing grate! Break a window! Do whatever necessary to sneak your way inside this treasure trove of garbage.
Take it from Me: Night
I’ll be brief. I tried one of those do-it-yourself “male enhancement” treatments and set my penis on fire. Four wasted lawsuits and half a scrotum later, I’ve decided that all these health information websites can’t be trusted. So I’ve donned my favorite tin foil hat while uncovering some honest tips for improving your life.
What I’m trying to say is, I haven’t slept in two weeks. People tell me I’m insane for believing that it works. But it does. And I always respond to those people, “Is your refrigerator running? No? Well then maybe you should unplug it from the wall and stop slaughtering your sheep.” Not a minute of sleep, and I’m sharp as a sharp.
Since I’ve stopped sleeping, I’ve observed a 400% decrease in instances of me being attacked. Coincidence? Does my paraplegic aunt make the best banana bread on the east coast? Of course not. Let’s say someone approaches you in the middle of the night. You’ve got one eye open: bite your assailant in the neck and scream like you’re lost in the ball pit at an eight-year-old’s gymnastics-themed birthday party. Who cares if it was actually just your girlfriend returning a sweatshirt? Shit happens, this lifestyle is about efficiency. You can be the judge; I’ll be keeping watch under my roommate’s bed.
Other benefits? Have you ever been eight hours early to a class? I have. Professors eat that shit up. Sure, someone’s coat was sitting in the middle chair in the front row when I got there, so I couldn’t get the best seat: a minor setback. I’ll figure out what the hell that jacket was doing there. You know how? By not sleeping and doing fucking detective work instead. How’s that for some health advice?
To stay awake, start by doing things to escape from your normal routine. I’ve found septic tank aerobics to be sufficiently disturbing, and I typed this whole thing with my face. There’s a whole new place waiting for you when the sun sets, where no one is around to care about how you smell like you just crawled out of a dumpster, even if it’s just your new shampoo and no one seems to understand that eucalyptus leaves can smell a lot like trash sometimes.
People don’t use their heads. One Five Hour Energy gives you approximately five hours of crash-free liveliness. Drink eight? You do the math on that one, I have some toilet paper coupons to redeem.
What I’m trying to say is, I haven’t slept in two weeks. People tell me I’m insane for believing that it works. But it does. And I always respond to those people, “Is your refrigerator running? No? Well then maybe you should unplug it from the wall and stop slaughtering your sheep.” Not a minute of sleep, and I’m sharp as a sharp.
Since I’ve stopped sleeping, I’ve observed a 400% decrease in instances of me being attacked. Coincidence? Does my paraplegic aunt make the best banana bread on the east coast? Of course not. Let’s say someone approaches you in the middle of the night. You’ve got one eye open: bite your assailant in the neck and scream like you’re lost in the ball pit at an eight-year-old’s gymnastics-themed birthday party. Who cares if it was actually just your girlfriend returning a sweatshirt? Shit happens, this lifestyle is about efficiency. You can be the judge; I’ll be keeping watch under my roommate’s bed.
Other benefits? Have you ever been eight hours early to a class? I have. Professors eat that shit up. Sure, someone’s coat was sitting in the middle chair in the front row when I got there, so I couldn’t get the best seat: a minor setback. I’ll figure out what the hell that jacket was doing there. You know how? By not sleeping and doing fucking detective work instead. How’s that for some health advice?
To stay awake, start by doing things to escape from your normal routine. I’ve found septic tank aerobics to be sufficiently disturbing, and I typed this whole thing with my face. There’s a whole new place waiting for you when the sun sets, where no one is around to care about how you smell like you just crawled out of a dumpster, even if it’s just your new shampoo and no one seems to understand that eucalyptus leaves can smell a lot like trash sometimes.
People don’t use their heads. One Five Hour Energy gives you approximately five hours of crash-free liveliness. Drink eight? You do the math on that one, I have some toilet paper coupons to redeem.
Meal Plans...TO THE MAX
It’s no secret that the school’s meal plans, while accommodating, are not comprehensive, and it’s estimated that up to 65% of the student body must resort to drinking toner cartridges from their depleted printers for sustenance by the end of the semester. But for a resourceful student, the dining halls can be like manna from Heaven. All you need to do is keep these suggestions in mind.
Bringing Tupperware with you to Usdan is a good start, but if you really want to maximize meal swipe, always wear cargo pants and a hunting vest with lots of pockets. Fill every available space to capacity, but store the hot items in your pants.
At Summerfields, the receipts are law. And here’s a little known fact: the staff behind the counter don’t care how you get the receipt, just so long as you have one when you go up to claim your meal. All too often this dining hall erupts into a vicious melee, as students fight to claim as many meal tickets as possible like it’s Chuck E. Cheese. The penny-conscious student should invest in Krav Maga or Muay Thai classes.
The key to maximizing your points at Weshop is to start a protest, then gradually escalate it into a riot. Grab as much food as you can while everyone’s busy smashing stuff, and then blame it on the Reds.
When in doubt, go the old-fashioned route: find someone smaller than you, grab by the ankles, and shake that shit. Grab whatever falls out and jet. Be sure to turn and shout “dweebus!” during the getaway.
Bringing Tupperware with you to Usdan is a good start, but if you really want to maximize meal swipe, always wear cargo pants and a hunting vest with lots of pockets. Fill every available space to capacity, but store the hot items in your pants.
At Summerfields, the receipts are law. And here’s a little known fact: the staff behind the counter don’t care how you get the receipt, just so long as you have one when you go up to claim your meal. All too often this dining hall erupts into a vicious melee, as students fight to claim as many meal tickets as possible like it’s Chuck E. Cheese. The penny-conscious student should invest in Krav Maga or Muay Thai classes.
The key to maximizing your points at Weshop is to start a protest, then gradually escalate it into a riot. Grab as much food as you can while everyone’s busy smashing stuff, and then blame it on the Reds.
When in doubt, go the old-fashioned route: find someone smaller than you, grab by the ankles, and shake that shit. Grab whatever falls out and jet. Be sure to turn and shout “dweebus!” during the getaway.
12/27/09
S.T.U.D.Y. Tips From S.A.R.N.
Hey, folks—S.A.R.N. Peer Advisors here. This finals week, we got more requests for study help than ever before (that is, two requests), so we decided to compile our best tips into a brief guide to help you tackle the next semester and beyond.
- Cut Reading Time in Half: Slow reader? Wish you could extract the goods without getting bogged down by tedious texts? Try eliminating all instances of the letters ‘G,’ ‘Q,’ and ‘W’ from your reading material. You’ll speed through it twice as fast, and find that these letters were always a little weak and runty. It's natural selection at work.
- Nobody Needs Sleep: As the Barenaked Ladies once said: “Chickity China the Chinese chicken / You have a drumstick and your brain stops ticking.” Studies show that getting as much as three hours of sleep every night can diminish your academic performance by 57–65%. We recommend replacing nightly sleep with a long nap at the beginning of every week. Productivity will skyrocket into space!
- Dylsexic? So waht!: Studeis show that raednig copmrehesnion isn’t affceted even if the odrer of letters in a wrod is scralmbed. So wrtie those papres twice as fast by ingoring trivial detials like teh milddes of wrods! Your prosefsor won’t even notiec!
- Psyche your sources: Writing a proper bibliography is pretty much the biggest waste of time since proofreading—or actually waiting in line for omelets during Usdan brunch (suckers!). We recommend clicking “random article” on Wikipedia, scrolling to the bottom of the page, and just copying and pasting the footnotes. Studies show that only assistant adjunct professors actually care about bibliographies, and what do they matter? They’re adjunct!
Friendly Neighborhood Peer Advisors
12/25/09
Student Addicted to Class Participation
Wesleyan senior Chris Verbosim has fallen into the depths of a tragic disorder: addiction to class participation.
“Once it takes hold, there's only one way out,” the Davison Health Center reported. "The bullet."
His condition began as innocent but persistent hand-raising. “At first, I thought he was just another annoying case of over-share,” said one professor. “But then he started talking all the fucking time, and I realized I was dead wrong.”
Chris’s addiction became apparent when he stopped raising his hand altogether and began blurting out pseudo-insightful remarks every minute or so. He also started interrupting other students' comments with snide retorts, snarky rebuttals, and high-pitched throat-clearing.
Chris then became obsessed with academic buzzwords and lost control over his speech, often using phrases such as “metaphysical reflexivity,” “the Western canon,” “counter-hegemonic,” “arch relativism,” and “your mom's dickhole” all in one sentence. Chris attempted to downplay the severity of his pretension by hedging the beginning of his comments with false modesty, using leaders such as, “Forgive me if I’m mistaken…” and "It's pretty basic, but..."
Hearing the news of Chris’s situation, his classmates expressed deep concern. “Wait, what? I thought that guy was the professor,” said one between games of cell-phone Tetris.
Fearing the disorder may be contagious, President Michael Roth has ordered Chris to be quarantined. Three of Chris’s four professors have filed restraining orders. The fourth has required that the student wear a muzzle in class.
12/20/09
A word on Giant Joint
The representative of the so-called Green party at Wesleyan, Giant Joint, has recently been lit up all over campus. He's been around for years, but he's never been as fat as he is today. I remember his smaller but devoted following during my freshman year of '06-'07, and his popularity has grown steadily since, unlike the number of WesWings specials over the same period -- their pasta sauce is an insult to Italians who, by the way, invented the word for vendetta.
Now, there is no doubt that Mr. Joint has entered our hearts and brains, taking us on adventures to hallowed lands of Bob Marley and cheese popcorn. There is no doubting his generosity and phallic resemblance, but I'm worried about his politics.
Now I'd like to remark on the WSA for a second. It theoretically functions as a liaison between the students and administration, but it's obviously imperfect, as shown, for example by the recent miscommunication about fire-safety inspections. Thus, the WSA has other, more practical uses to the student body. The first and most important is as something to piss on. When things go wrong, we blame the WSA, who in turn blames the administration. It's a straight line of bitch bitch bitch, but one that we can't afford to break. If the WSA weren't there to whine at the president, then we, the people, would have to do it ourselves. Electing Giant Joint would be showing the administration that the WSA is inept and constituent-less, which as of now can neither be confirmed or denied.
Think of the children, the bright-eyed and skinny-jeaned '14ers who want to have as much irresponsible fun as we've all had, and without consequence, as college should be. Giant Joint has the capacity to bring students together, but he won't save us when Mike "the Professor" Roth decides he knows what's best for everyone and becomes Mike "the Terminator." If we put too much faith in our friendly but totally inanimate candidate, Giant Joint, Wes will suffer.
So please, vote for real people. Keep Giant Joint out of office and where he belongs: on Foss Hill.
-Dave
12/9/09
Ampersand issue from 1831
The following articles are from an Ampersand issue in 1831 that we found in the Argus archives.
Welcome to another issue of the Ampersand. If you are reading this, then you are one of the 48 students at this suckling infant of academia, Wesleyan University. Methodism hurrah! We are very excited indeed to still be in publication after last week's uproarious but somewhat controversial investigation into the comical oddities of courtship in our modern times. We apologize to anyone who was offended by the phrases “nipple protuberance” and “man milking.” We never meant to insinuate that men and women engaged in fornication, which would of course be illegal. We simply wanted to compare the romantic pursuits of Christians with the mating rituals of animals. Or, in the case of Henry Hawthorne '35, fornication with the school chickens, which no one knew until now. Henry, this is for remarking on the hideous asymmetry of my left and right cheek bones. Now your fowl buggery will not go unnoticed, and I challenge you to a sunrise duel, coward. Moving on, I apologize again to the community for last week. Finally, our theme this week is “The future, the present, and piety.”
-Ainsworth Huxtington
Welcome to another issue of the Ampersand. If you are reading this, then you are one of the 48 students at this suckling infant of academia, Wesleyan University. Methodism hurrah! We are very excited indeed to still be in publication after last week's uproarious but somewhat controversial investigation into the comical oddities of courtship in our modern times. We apologize to anyone who was offended by the phrases “nipple protuberance” and “man milking.” We never meant to insinuate that men and women engaged in fornication, which would of course be illegal. We simply wanted to compare the romantic pursuits of Christians with the mating rituals of animals. Or, in the case of Henry Hawthorne '35, fornication with the school chickens, which no one knew until now. Henry, this is for remarking on the hideous asymmetry of my left and right cheek bones. Now your fowl buggery will not go unnoticed, and I challenge you to a sunrise duel, coward. Moving on, I apologize again to the community for last week. Finally, our theme this week is “The future, the present, and piety.”
-Ainsworth Huxtington
Public Safety Incident Report: 1831 Edition
12/04/31
4:12 p.m. P-Safe officers responded to a complaint. The suspect, a young man wearing a double-breasted frock coat over a frilled waistcoat, and Wellington boots, accosted a young lady departing from the looms. He demanded to accompany her at an unseemly distance of two metres all the way to her destination, and she was not carrying a parasol. A man was mistakenly taken into custody but was swiftly released when officers realized that he was wearing Hessian boots with the cuffs turned down, and not, in fact, Wellingtons.
8:37 p.m. A maiden was escorted from Usdan Dining Hall, after numerous grievances were filed by mail. The young lady was convicted of having worn short sleeve gloves, rather than elbow-length. She was promptly condemned to the stocks, crying “Keep Wesleyan weird!”
12/05/31
9:26 a.m. Public Safety responded to an anonymous letter. Officers entered a room which smelled of outlawed smoking herbs, and found that the alarm bell had been covered with an embroidered handkerchief to avoid detection. The Middletown Fire Brigade was notified; all four residents were later stoned.
2:09 p.m. Public Safety responded to a theft. The table was stolen from North College, leaving all students and faculty without anything to place their books and monocles on. A new table was ordered on expedited delivery, which should arrive insix to ten weeks.
6:17 a.m. Public Safety declared the entire campus to be in a state of emergency after a student was overheard using the Lord’s name in vain. The student was escorted from campus and promptly drowned in a lake.
4:12 p.m. P-Safe officers responded to a complaint. The suspect, a young man wearing a double-breasted frock coat over a frilled waistcoat, and Wellington boots, accosted a young lady departing from the looms. He demanded to accompany her at an unseemly distance of two metres all the way to her destination, and she was not carrying a parasol. A man was mistakenly taken into custody but was swiftly released when officers realized that he was wearing Hessian boots with the cuffs turned down, and not, in fact, Wellingtons.
8:37 p.m. A maiden was escorted from Usdan Dining Hall, after numerous grievances were filed by mail. The young lady was convicted of having worn short sleeve gloves, rather than elbow-length. She was promptly condemned to the stocks, crying “Keep Wesleyan weird!”
12/05/31
9:26 a.m. Public Safety responded to an anonymous letter. Officers entered a room which smelled of outlawed smoking herbs, and found that the alarm bell had been covered with an embroidered handkerchief to avoid detection. The Middletown Fire Brigade was notified; all four residents were later stoned.
2:09 p.m. Public Safety responded to a theft. The table was stolen from North College, leaving all students and faculty without anything to place their books and monocles on. A new table was ordered on expedited delivery, which should arrive insix to ten weeks.
6:17 a.m. Public Safety declared the entire campus to be in a state of emergency after a student was overheard using the Lord’s name in vain. The student was escorted from campus and promptly drowned in a lake.
Our Future, Revealed
Bartholomew Albert Thomas, Wesleyan professor of syllogistic futurism, cordially extends you an invitation to his lecture this Wednesday in North College at eight o’clock in the evening, titled: “2009: Predictions and Inevitabilities.”
Here is a sample of Professor Thomas’ findings:
Man will achieve flight and use the technology to retrieve the Moon from the cosmos and bring it to Earth.
Horse transportation as we know it will be rendered obsolete by zeppelins, dirigibles, balloons, submersibles, and toboggans.
Through advanced command of logic, armies will determine the outcome of battles before they begin, and the victor will be declared without any actual fighting.
The xx and jj will tour the continental United States and the Great West, and in doing so they will win great renown.
Foss Hill will have eroded into nothing more than a gentle declivity.
A globalized oil trade will fundamentally restructure world economic and political dynamics.
To increase efficiency, a single item of clothing that covers the entire body will become fashionable. It will be called a “muumuu.”
Humans will evolve. Eventually children will be born toothless and with hard mouths.
The Byzantine Empire will rise again.
Here is a sample of Professor Thomas’ findings:
Man will achieve flight and use the technology to retrieve the Moon from the cosmos and bring it to Earth.
Horse transportation as we know it will be rendered obsolete by zeppelins, dirigibles, balloons, submersibles, and toboggans.
Through advanced command of logic, armies will determine the outcome of battles before they begin, and the victor will be declared without any actual fighting.
The xx and jj will tour the continental United States and the Great West, and in doing so they will win great renown.
Foss Hill will have eroded into nothing more than a gentle declivity.
A globalized oil trade will fundamentally restructure world economic and political dynamics.
To increase efficiency, a single item of clothing that covers the entire body will become fashionable. It will be called a “muumuu.”
Humans will evolve. Eventually children will be born toothless and with hard mouths.
The Byzantine Empire will rise again.
A Contemporary Fashion Guide for the Discerning Young Gentleman
Ask any scholar and he will tell you that if a man’s appearance is not in order, he will be unable to take a wife of fine breeding stock with which to pass on the legacy. To this end, I have compiled a short list of helpful “tips” concerning popular fashions for our modern era. Memorize them, and you’ll be more dapper than Boss Tweed in Tammany Hall!
1. You must have a monocle. Take care, however, that it is suitable for the occasion. A Winchester Metalglass is perfect for hunting excursions with your chums, but would be improper if worn at a ball. For these occasions, I recommend any eyepiece that can easily eject from the eye socket should one be alarmed by a colleague’s untoward remark.
2. Coattails should be no less than a foot in length. Ideally, you should have to hire at least two paupers, vagabonds, or other assorted street urchins to hold them aloft.
3. There is no better sign of a man’s virility and power than an abundance of hair. I remind my younger readers that mutton chops are simple, practical, and stylish. Mustaches, too, are appropriate, if they are thick.
4. Canes are a risky proposition, and depend both on the shoes and the type of outing on which you are embarking. They are appropriate for galas and balls, but never an evening at the opera. Remember that they are absolutely essential if you are to encounter any orphans, as every one of those rapscallions is ripe for a caning.
1. You must have a monocle. Take care, however, that it is suitable for the occasion. A Winchester Metalglass is perfect for hunting excursions with your chums, but would be improper if worn at a ball. For these occasions, I recommend any eyepiece that can easily eject from the eye socket should one be alarmed by a colleague’s untoward remark.
2. Coattails should be no less than a foot in length. Ideally, you should have to hire at least two paupers, vagabonds, or other assorted street urchins to hold them aloft.
3. There is no better sign of a man’s virility and power than an abundance of hair. I remind my younger readers that mutton chops are simple, practical, and stylish. Mustaches, too, are appropriate, if they are thick.
4. Canes are a risky proposition, and depend both on the shoes and the type of outing on which you are embarking. They are appropriate for galas and balls, but never an evening at the opera. Remember that they are absolutely essential if you are to encounter any orphans, as every one of those rapscallions is ripe for a caning.
Fundraiser Flounders
An alumni fundraiser fell short of raising any capital whatsoever last week when the Office of Alumni Affairs realized that the University, which was founded this year, has not yet graduated any alumni. “We had planned it rather thoroughly,” explains chairperson William R. Hamilton. “It was to be called the Red & Black Telegramming Society. But whom might we telegram—during supper, of course—when no alumni yet exist?”
The revelation came as a shock to the Office, which immediately disbanded with plans to reopen in 1835. The University desperately requires funds in order to procure a second building, as well as books for the now empty library. In the meantime, Hamilton hopes to devote full attention to the Office of Diversity Prevention.
The revelation came as a shock to the Office, which immediately disbanded with plans to reopen in 1835. The University desperately requires funds in order to procure a second building, as well as books for the now empty library. In the meantime, Hamilton hopes to devote full attention to the Office of Diversity Prevention.
12/4/09
The Editor hopes you had a Thanksgiving
Personally, I'd like Thanksgiving much more if there was Chinese food because that shit is tasty.
Here are some unpublished articles we were going to have in our Thanksgiving issue that never came out. Like that mystery stain on my sweatpants. Really, I've tried everything.
Dave
Here are some unpublished articles we were going to have in our Thanksgiving issue that never came out. Like that mystery stain on my sweatpants. Really, I've tried everything.
Dave
Take it from me: I’m Fucking Cranberry Sauce
I see you, gazing past me at the gravy boat, with that helpless, infantile expression on your face. You look like a dumb tourist in your own home, with your man-breasts and open-mouthed gluttony. Where’s your fanny-pack, Paul? News flash: this isn’t the line for the men’s restroom at SeaWorld, you sweaty man-hog. You don’t think your family is at all embarrassed by your little display of cholesterol dependency? Aunt Susan will pass you the gravy in due time, so settle down, you sasquatch. You know what you need right now? A little bit of me: canned cranberry. And I’ll let you in on a secret, Paul. I want to be inside you, too.
What’s not to love about me? Asparagus makes your piss stink? A novelty at best. Squash is healthy? That’s cute. I make everything go down easier, and I promise you it’s worth the ride. And what the hell is so special about a turkey, anyway? They just run around and scream at each other all day. You know that kid in your third grade class who wore a helmet and sat by himself in a chair specially designed not to tip over? The kid who laid down a fat dump in the urinal on tie-dye shirt day? He probably eats turkey. Eats it, and likes it.
Not that you’d ever notice, but I’ve been strained and sterilized in a factory, and sealed in a can to be enjoyed at any time. I have a rich array of vitamins and nutrients, Paul. No, don’t drool into the mashed potatoes, you beautiful son of a bitch. Grab that spoon between your mammoth fingers and help yourself to some cranberry goodness. You won’t regret it.
What’s not to love about me? Asparagus makes your piss stink? A novelty at best. Squash is healthy? That’s cute. I make everything go down easier, and I promise you it’s worth the ride. And what the hell is so special about a turkey, anyway? They just run around and scream at each other all day. You know that kid in your third grade class who wore a helmet and sat by himself in a chair specially designed not to tip over? The kid who laid down a fat dump in the urinal on tie-dye shirt day? He probably eats turkey. Eats it, and likes it.
Not that you’d ever notice, but I’ve been strained and sterilized in a factory, and sealed in a can to be enjoyed at any time. I have a rich array of vitamins and nutrients, Paul. No, don’t drool into the mashed potatoes, you beautiful son of a bitch. Grab that spoon between your mammoth fingers and help yourself to some cranberry goodness. You won’t regret it.
POV: New Wesleyan Website
Last week the University unveiled a controversial new Wesleyan website. What do you think?
Jane Thernstrom ‘10
Religion and Physics Major
“The website’s fine. I just think it’s time Wesleyan got a new motto. How about: The School That MGMT Went To, Since 1831.”
Martin Benjamin ‘57
English Major
“The website was far superior back in ’54. I was there.”
Gregory Baker ‘12
Prospective African-American Studies Major
“Aren’t there more urgent uses of funds during a budget crisis? I mean, c’mon—the Usdan doors don’t even open anymore.”
Mica Newfin ‘10
Hipster Studies Major
“So? I have the Wesleyan website on vinyl. The first one.”
Peter Meth ‘11
Computer Science Major and Anthropology Major
“This web design really puts my Amish-themed Porn site to shame.”
Lori Crow ‘13
Prospective College of Social Studies Major
“Personally, I just think Wesleyan.edu is such a boring URL. Was GenderfuckMyLife.com already taken?”
Undead Turkeys Seek Revenge, Human "Giblets"
Thousands of Americans, ready to indulge in one of our nation’s finest traditions by gorging on several pounds of food, were sent fleeing their dining rooms in terror when turkeys all across the nation became reanimated and attacked the would-be revelers.
“I had just finished my second serving of creamed corn and was reaching for the stuffing shovel when I felt a sharp pain in my arm,” recounts Dale Pinkmuddy of Cleveland, Ohio.
“I looked over to see a beak piercing my arm, and the turkey’s blood-red eyes were just staring at me. I threw my son of four years at the beast to distract it long enough for me to escape.”
Patricia Dingusson of Los Angeles had a similar story. “We were right in the middle of saying grace and giving thanks when we heard something gobbling. I told Robert, my youngest, to be quiet and show some respect. When it didn’t stop, I opened my eyes and the turkey was pecking my daughter’s face off.”
Many theories as to why and how the turkeys have become reanimated have arisen, but most experts agree that black magic was most likely the cause.
“The glowing eyes, the hunger for vengeance, the cruel sense of irony, it all points to witchcraft,” said Wesleyan biology Professor Norman Defno. “If it were a virus or some sort of extraterrestrial bacteria, you’d see the infection spreading, but as it stands now, I blame Chinese wizards.”
“The military has been dispatched to all Butterball processing centers in the continental United States,” said a press release from the Department of Homeland Security. “We urge all civilians to remain in their homes and throw out any leftover turkey bits immediately, and for the love of God, do not behead them. Like the mythical hydra, this is how they replicate, as the head will simply grow back and a new body will sprout from the severed cranium. Should confrontation prove inevitable, we have found that basters full of holy water seem to be the most effective method of deterring them, but the only way to actually kill the abominations is to break the wishbone.”
“I had just finished my second serving of creamed corn and was reaching for the stuffing shovel when I felt a sharp pain in my arm,” recounts Dale Pinkmuddy of Cleveland, Ohio.
“I looked over to see a beak piercing my arm, and the turkey’s blood-red eyes were just staring at me. I threw my son of four years at the beast to distract it long enough for me to escape.”
Patricia Dingusson of Los Angeles had a similar story. “We were right in the middle of saying grace and giving thanks when we heard something gobbling. I told Robert, my youngest, to be quiet and show some respect. When it didn’t stop, I opened my eyes and the turkey was pecking my daughter’s face off.”
Many theories as to why and how the turkeys have become reanimated have arisen, but most experts agree that black magic was most likely the cause.
“The glowing eyes, the hunger for vengeance, the cruel sense of irony, it all points to witchcraft,” said Wesleyan biology Professor Norman Defno. “If it were a virus or some sort of extraterrestrial bacteria, you’d see the infection spreading, but as it stands now, I blame Chinese wizards.”
“The military has been dispatched to all Butterball processing centers in the continental United States,” said a press release from the Department of Homeland Security. “We urge all civilians to remain in their homes and throw out any leftover turkey bits immediately, and for the love of God, do not behead them. Like the mythical hydra, this is how they replicate, as the head will simply grow back and a new body will sprout from the severed cranium. Should confrontation prove inevitable, we have found that basters full of holy water seem to be the most effective method of deterring them, but the only way to actually kill the abominations is to break the wishbone.”
11/17/09
The Editor Against Love
In ancient civilizations, they hadn’t quite figured love out yet. Today, however, we have computers for that kind of shit. Now that emotions (and anti-emotions) come in clearly labeled bottles, people really know what they’re getting out of relationships. Some love mongers complain, like, “Oh, those bastards at Pfizer are making billions off turning us into zombies.” Well I say, it saves time. With facebook live feeds updating every few seconds, there’s very little free schedule-space for that totally unquantifiable emo-jargon called “love.” We should make this word illegal under penalty of exile or smoking an entire pack of cigarettes in one sitting.
You know these hippie bipsters with their “peace for all” think they’ve solved the fucking mystery. “All you need is love” my ass-warts. Have they ever seen world peace? How exactly did they become experts on the topic? And if it was that motherfucking easy, why haven’t we done it yet?
What we really need is some more goddamn money.
-Dave
You know these hippie bipsters with their “peace for all” think they’ve solved the fucking mystery. “All you need is love” my ass-warts. Have they ever seen world peace? How exactly did they become experts on the topic? And if it was that motherfucking easy, why haven’t we done it yet?
What we really need is some more goddamn money.
-Dave
POV: Love Captured
The concept of love is often defined using metaphors. Which one do you think best captures its true meaning?
Patricia Gristlegrop ’13
“Love is like Weshop peach rings. They're sweet, until you realize how many hands have been in that bin.”
Andrew Turdickens ’12
“Love is like bestiality. It sounds ridiculous, but you try it anyway.”
Annika Sukkenstuf ’13
“Love is like a pair of overalls. The more comfortable you get, the less likely you are to realize you’re getting fat.”
Barry Lickler ’10
“Love is like sex. I love sex.”
Fountain Avenue Filthier Than Ever
Dismayed by meager job prospects after college, seniors are rapidly turning to other means of self-employment, namely, dramatic prostitution.
“Fountain Ave is the perfect spot to turn tricks,” says Cynthia Blossomcrest ’10. “After that Fountain Ave incident a few senior-weeks back, people from all over come to the street looking for a party.” She checks her lipstick in a P-Safe vehicle side-view mirror. “And that’s what they’re gonna find.”
Some are pleased to have found a job that doesn’t encroach on their social life, but in fact enhances it. “The only problem is that I run out of outfits more quickly,” sighs Tina Steeplechase ’10. “Luckily, I can wear my American Apparel Pencil Halter Dress in 29 different ways!”
Wesleyan’s Career Resource Center has chosen to embrace, rather than redirect, the seniors’ entrepreneurship. The newly added workshop, “Dress for Sexcess”—where students bring their work outfits to be critiqued—had the biggest turnout of any CRC event to date. Expected to be equally popular is the event scheduled for next week titled, “Using Your Head: Felatio in the Free Market.”
The advantages to this line of work are numerous, say the seniors. “I basically work from home,” says one. “I can do homework while I wait. It’s basically like my job at Olin, only with tips.”
The financial perks are abundant, but it’s the business experience and real-life learning that the seniors find so valuable. Said Leslie Turner ’10, “I’m applying the four ‘P’s’ of marketing: Product, Packaging, Presentation, and…”—“Positions,” her friend finished for her.
Public Safety has discerned no difference in the activity on Fountain. When questioned, an officer commented: “As long as the students stay on the sidewalks, we’ve done our job.”
“Fountain Ave is the perfect spot to turn tricks,” says Cynthia Blossomcrest ’10. “After that Fountain Ave incident a few senior-weeks back, people from all over come to the street looking for a party.” She checks her lipstick in a P-Safe vehicle side-view mirror. “And that’s what they’re gonna find.”
Some are pleased to have found a job that doesn’t encroach on their social life, but in fact enhances it. “The only problem is that I run out of outfits more quickly,” sighs Tina Steeplechase ’10. “Luckily, I can wear my American Apparel Pencil Halter Dress in 29 different ways!”
Wesleyan’s Career Resource Center has chosen to embrace, rather than redirect, the seniors’ entrepreneurship. The newly added workshop, “Dress for Sexcess”—where students bring their work outfits to be critiqued—had the biggest turnout of any CRC event to date. Expected to be equally popular is the event scheduled for next week titled, “Using Your Head: Felatio in the Free Market.”
The advantages to this line of work are numerous, say the seniors. “I basically work from home,” says one. “I can do homework while I wait. It’s basically like my job at Olin, only with tips.”
The financial perks are abundant, but it’s the business experience and real-life learning that the seniors find so valuable. Said Leslie Turner ’10, “I’m applying the four ‘P’s’ of marketing: Product, Packaging, Presentation, and…”—“Positions,” her friend finished for her.
Public Safety has discerned no difference in the activity on Fountain. When questioned, an officer commented: “As long as the students stay on the sidewalks, we’ve done our job.”
Seducing Beasts
“To Catch a Predator” is one of the best shows on television, in case you didn’t know or are in fact a sexual predator yourself. The Ampersand sat down with the host, Chris Hansen, for an exclusive interview. We asked Chris about the kind of mating deviant he generally goes after, and he answered, “mostly fat, unattractive men who are normally one stair-flight away from cardiac arrest.” Chris himself has quite the figure. He explained, “Sometimes when the cameras aren’t rolling it’s fun to scream, ‘The long dick of the law just came again, fuckers!’ Is that mean?” The producers were kind enough to provide us with an example of an illustrative exchange with one of the pedophiles he’s been chasing.
coolandsmooth16 (pedophile): hey there
shaftlover919 (Chris Hansen): i just want u to sit on me big boy
coolandsmooth16: god that’s hot
You get the idea. An excerpt from the local newspaper tells it all, “Four hours after the arranged meeting, a confused, middle aged man was chased down and subsequently tasered by a well-groomed TV show host in front of crowds of little children and their mothers at the Build-A-Bear Workshop in downtown Los Angeles.”
But the glamorous image of show business doesn’t tell the whole story. A teary-eyed Chris Hansen commented, “Sometimes I wonder if maybe the media, with their flashing lights, sexy hosts, and mace-toting frontmen just get in the way of true love. When I was a teenage girl, I often cried out in the night for the love of a bald, whale-ish man, the kind of guy whose trench coat pockets were stuffed with Blockbuster receipts and a handful of expired driver’s licenses. On the other hand, busting terrified pedophiles while they adjust to the sunlight is hilarious to me."
coolandsmooth16 (pedophile): hey there
shaftlover919 (Chris Hansen): i just want u to sit on me big boy
coolandsmooth16: god that’s hot
You get the idea. An excerpt from the local newspaper tells it all, “Four hours after the arranged meeting, a confused, middle aged man was chased down and subsequently tasered by a well-groomed TV show host in front of crowds of little children and their mothers at the Build-A-Bear Workshop in downtown Los Angeles.”
But the glamorous image of show business doesn’t tell the whole story. A teary-eyed Chris Hansen commented, “Sometimes I wonder if maybe the media, with their flashing lights, sexy hosts, and mace-toting frontmen just get in the way of true love. When I was a teenage girl, I often cried out in the night for the love of a bald, whale-ish man, the kind of guy whose trench coat pockets were stuffed with Blockbuster receipts and a handful of expired driver’s licenses. On the other hand, busting terrified pedophiles while they adjust to the sunlight is hilarious to me."
Frequent Sexiler Revealed to Have Been Rampant Masturbator All Along
“I guess I just assumed he was quite the Casanova—banging a different girl every night,” says freshman Mike O’Brien ’13 about his roommate, Brendan Surratt ’13, who frequently locked O’Brien out of the room this semester, claiming to be engaging in acts of sexual intimacy with a partner. “If he wanted to jerk off, why couldn’t he just do it in Olin like a normal person?”
O’Brien claims he heard multiple moaning voices emanating from his one-room Fauver double on several occasions, “but on second thought, it did sound a lot like the torture scene from Reservoir Dogs.”
O’Brien’s first clue that something was awry came when he tried to borrow Surratt’s flashlight. What he found was more anatomically accurate, let’s say. “And Mike kept coming back from Weshop with all these bizarre items—melons, cold cuts, enough moisturizer to feed Hawaii for a month. Meal points were no object.”
When confronted over the issue, Surratt allegedly ignored the evidence and responded, “I know you are, but what am I?” He then accused O’Brien of violating the honor code and fled the scene.
The RA for the floor, Micah Peltz ’10, adds, “The rest of the hall has known this for a month. We were wondering when Mike would catch on. That kid’s a fucking idiot. No offense.”
O’Brien claims he heard multiple moaning voices emanating from his one-room Fauver double on several occasions, “but on second thought, it did sound a lot like the torture scene from Reservoir Dogs.”
O’Brien’s first clue that something was awry came when he tried to borrow Surratt’s flashlight. What he found was more anatomically accurate, let’s say. “And Mike kept coming back from Weshop with all these bizarre items—melons, cold cuts, enough moisturizer to feed Hawaii for a month. Meal points were no object.”
When confronted over the issue, Surratt allegedly ignored the evidence and responded, “I know you are, but what am I?” He then accused O’Brien of violating the honor code and fled the scene.
The RA for the floor, Micah Peltz ’10, adds, “The rest of the hall has known this for a month. We were wondering when Mike would catch on. That kid’s a fucking idiot. No offense.”
11/15/09
The Editor on Families
Family weekend is an opportunity for group hugs, fancy dinners, and tearful revelations of adoption. As far as emotional roller coasters go, few can beat it. Consider, for example, the cardiac thrill in a grandmother as she watches her grandson get the third and grandest concussion in his football career. An instant recipe for Depends® soup.
It was great to see so many parents attending classes and luncheons, and even partying with their children. Some parents got out of hand, but luckily only a few actually got charged with their crimes. We saw parents drunkenly letting loose, mostly on clothing norms and their kids’ self-esteems. And if there’s one lesson I’ve learned from people’s relatives this weekend, it’s never to believe anyone when they say they’ve “got my nose.” I mean, how am I still breathing, jackasses?
A week ago, if someone had asked me whether I thought relatives were bad ass, I’d say, “never ask me that again,” but now I’d say, “I told you never to ask me that again,” and I would cry tears of Family Weekend trauma.
-Dave
It was great to see so many parents attending classes and luncheons, and even partying with their children. Some parents got out of hand, but luckily only a few actually got charged with their crimes. We saw parents drunkenly letting loose, mostly on clothing norms and their kids’ self-esteems. And if there’s one lesson I’ve learned from people’s relatives this weekend, it’s never to believe anyone when they say they’ve “got my nose.” I mean, how am I still breathing, jackasses?
A week ago, if someone had asked me whether I thought relatives were bad ass, I’d say, “never ask me that again,” but now I’d say, “I told you never to ask me that again,” and I would cry tears of Family Weekend trauma.
-Dave
POV: Family weekend
The University invited parents and grandparents to attend a Wesleyan class on Friday or Monday of Family Weekend. What did you think of your child’s class?
Doris Neale P’13, ’12, ’10
Course: The Biology of Sex
“I’ve had better.”
Anna Flishkin P’10
Course: An Introduction to Laban Movement Analysis and Bartenieff Fundamentals
“Definitely one of the top five classes on Laban Movement Analysis and Bartenieff Fundamentals that I’ve attended. Well, top seven, at least.”
Steve Masters P’11
Course: Magic and Witchcraft in Early Europe
“It was mediocre. The professor was obviously an apprentice at best. He couldn’t even remove this sexually transmitted hex I’ve had for years.”
Thomas Perkins P’12
Course: Psychology of Decision Making
“What did I think? I mean, I don’t—well, I’m not quite sure about that.”
This is not an apology to that stupid cardinal
Dear Wesleyan,
I’m sorry my son’s a book-humping, tofu-eating, nerd-ass little pussy. My name’s Chip O’Hearn, father of James O’Hearn ’13, and this is my formal apology for him fucking up your weekend, but more importantly, being a total loser.
I got to campus Friday night, wigged out on meth and Jack Daniels, only to find my disgrace of an offspring in his room...reading! I started tweakin’ out man, so I said, “I need to get high or things are gonna get ugly, ya know Jimmy? Now where are the parties, you turd tickler?” a reasonable query. He mentioned some a cappella concert. Now, I don’t get mad easily, but the day Chip O’Hearn shows up at a goddamned a cappella concert is the day I castrate myself with chopsticks. Shit, what was I talking about again? I’m really drunk...Anyway, I dragged him to Transformers, where I eventually woke up in a pool of my own urine. Great fuckin’ movie, by the way. Megan Fox’s tits bazoom.
Fast forward to Saturday brunch. I hit the table with seven burger patties and a waffle, and junior’s glaring at me over a salad! Now that was the last straw. Reading was one thing--even I occasionally stop jerking off long enough to read parts of Hustler--but I wasn’t gonna be caught sitting across from some rabbit-fucking Commie! Especially with all those fine, legal-aged ladies running around. Naturally, I pushed the table over and punched him in the face, and then vomited on him. Then he got all indignant on me and ran out crying!
I followed him outside, where he had the Cardinal mascot in a sleeper hold! Next thing I knew, Jimmy dragged him over to North College, shouting something about “ruined my life!” and “I’ll fucking kill them!” He stayed holed up on the top floor for five hours, and it took a tranquilizer gun and a can of mace to get him out...little taint licker lasted longer than I’d thought he would! I guess, in the end, I’m apologizing to you, James. I misjudged you. Sure, you may’ve been expelled...but you made me damn proud. Damn fucking proud.
Chip O’Hearn P’13
I’m sorry my son’s a book-humping, tofu-eating, nerd-ass little pussy. My name’s Chip O’Hearn, father of James O’Hearn ’13, and this is my formal apology for him fucking up your weekend, but more importantly, being a total loser.
I got to campus Friday night, wigged out on meth and Jack Daniels, only to find my disgrace of an offspring in his room...reading! I started tweakin’ out man, so I said, “I need to get high or things are gonna get ugly, ya know Jimmy? Now where are the parties, you turd tickler?” a reasonable query. He mentioned some a cappella concert. Now, I don’t get mad easily, but the day Chip O’Hearn shows up at a goddamned a cappella concert is the day I castrate myself with chopsticks. Shit, what was I talking about again? I’m really drunk...Anyway, I dragged him to Transformers, where I eventually woke up in a pool of my own urine. Great fuckin’ movie, by the way. Megan Fox’s tits bazoom.
Fast forward to Saturday brunch. I hit the table with seven burger patties and a waffle, and junior’s glaring at me over a salad! Now that was the last straw. Reading was one thing--even I occasionally stop jerking off long enough to read parts of Hustler--but I wasn’t gonna be caught sitting across from some rabbit-fucking Commie! Especially with all those fine, legal-aged ladies running around. Naturally, I pushed the table over and punched him in the face, and then vomited on him. Then he got all indignant on me and ran out crying!
I followed him outside, where he had the Cardinal mascot in a sleeper hold! Next thing I knew, Jimmy dragged him over to North College, shouting something about “ruined my life!” and “I’ll fucking kill them!” He stayed holed up on the top floor for five hours, and it took a tranquilizer gun and a can of mace to get him out...little taint licker lasted longer than I’d thought he would! I guess, in the end, I’m apologizing to you, James. I misjudged you. Sure, you may’ve been expelled...but you made me damn proud. Damn fucking proud.
Chip O’Hearn P’13
Public Safety Incident Report: Family Edition
Friday 11/6/09
11:07 p.m. PSafe and MFD extinguished a brush-fire on High Street caused by a middle-aged man improperly lighting a bong. While resisting arrest, he repeatedly shouted, “I’m down with it! Really, I’m so down!”
11:24 p.m. PSafe apprehended a student’s mother who refused to climb down from the roof of Beta. When anyone approached her, she threw them off the side of the building and yelled “King of the hill!”
Saturday 11/7/09
1:03 a.m. Parent apprehended at unregistered dogfight in Butterfield tunnels. When spotted, he ran from PSafe officers, reportedly yelling “Five oh! Five oh!”
10:37 p.m. Suspicious person reported on Washington Terrace. The grandfather was staring blankly at the side of the CFA cinema, wearing only a loincloth fashioned out of admissions brochures. He was promptly escorted from campus.
11:33 p.m. Public Safety officers raided a speakeasy operating out of a house on Fountain Avenue reportedly organized by Andrew “Fingers” Mancetti ’29. The den of licentiousness was dispensing liquor in vast quantities and playing ragtime music. It posed a clear and present threat to the moral sanctity of the university.
11:07 p.m. PSafe and MFD extinguished a brush-fire on High Street caused by a middle-aged man improperly lighting a bong. While resisting arrest, he repeatedly shouted, “I’m down with it! Really, I’m so down!”
11:24 p.m. PSafe apprehended a student’s mother who refused to climb down from the roof of Beta. When anyone approached her, she threw them off the side of the building and yelled “King of the hill!”
Saturday 11/7/09
1:03 a.m. Parent apprehended at unregistered dogfight in Butterfield tunnels. When spotted, he ran from PSafe officers, reportedly yelling “Five oh! Five oh!”
10:37 p.m. Suspicious person reported on Washington Terrace. The grandfather was staring blankly at the side of the CFA cinema, wearing only a loincloth fashioned out of admissions brochures. He was promptly escorted from campus.
11:33 p.m. Public Safety officers raided a speakeasy operating out of a house on Fountain Avenue reportedly organized by Andrew “Fingers” Mancetti ’29. The den of licentiousness was dispensing liquor in vast quantities and playing ragtime music. It posed a clear and present threat to the moral sanctity of the university.
MPD: Now We Hate Your Parents Too
The Wesleyan student body was thoroughly embarrassed Family weekend by the surge in incidents on campus involving alcohol, drugs, and vandalism perpetrated by parents and, especially, grandparents. Several campus facilities were seriously damaged throughout the weekend, and reports of stolen property resulting from break-ins are still being addressed by Public Safety. One ashamed student, who chose to remain anonymous, admitted, “It was almost as terrifying as my Bar Mitzvah.”
It seems that many adults chose to view Parents’ Weekend asa time to cut loose and party like it’s 1969, as a way to spend quality time with their children. Public Safety and event staff members had their hands full trying to contain dozens of severely embarrassing relatives. Many were seen wearing heavy coats and sweatpants during warm weather in obvious attempts to conceal water bottles filled with vodka. And someone spray-painted “Steely Dan” on the outside of Crowell. A spokesperson for the Office of Alumni and Parent Relations conceded that such incidents are bound to occur, but also that a line was definitely crossed when everyone’s parents held a kiss-in at Olin which became a violent orgy and ended in a cloud of smoke grenades and dogs courtesy of MPD.
A confused freshman explained, “I thought my mom was joking when she ended her last email with, ‘Can’t wait to fuck shit up this weekend! Love you.’” On Monday morning, the air was heavy with hurt feelings and hangovers as family members stumbled to their cars and said their goodbyes to their children and new lovers. In other news, the table stolen from PAC was returned, and an economics professor has noted that it reeks of beer and Viagra.
It seems that many adults chose to view Parents’ Weekend asa time to cut loose and party like it’s 1969, as a way to spend quality time with their children. Public Safety and event staff members had their hands full trying to contain dozens of severely embarrassing relatives. Many were seen wearing heavy coats and sweatpants during warm weather in obvious attempts to conceal water bottles filled with vodka. And someone spray-painted “Steely Dan” on the outside of Crowell. A spokesperson for the Office of Alumni and Parent Relations conceded that such incidents are bound to occur, but also that a line was definitely crossed when everyone’s parents held a kiss-in at Olin which became a violent orgy and ended in a cloud of smoke grenades and dogs courtesy of MPD.
A confused freshman explained, “I thought my mom was joking when she ended her last email with, ‘Can’t wait to fuck shit up this weekend! Love you.’” On Monday morning, the air was heavy with hurt feelings and hangovers as family members stumbled to their cars and said their goodbyes to their children and new lovers. In other news, the table stolen from PAC was returned, and an economics professor has noted that it reeks of beer and Viagra.
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