10/4/11
Editors' Note
The esteemed editors of the Ampersand would like to congratulate Argus Editor-In-Chief Erin Newport on her eighteenth arrest, which took place this weekend. This is the first time she’s ever been arrested on a bridge, unless you count her arrest in Bridge City, TX, though it is in fact a city, not a bridge.
My Night on the Gypsy Ride
The night was dark as coal, the fog thick as Muhammad’s beard, when I emerged from the ‘haunted’ brick building near Long Lane Farm. Its lonely stone towers overlook the vast, overgrown fields of the Freeman Athletic Center, but its supernatural mysteries had been rooted in mere charlatanism — just some harmless Psi U brothers enacting dark Satanic rituals.
There’ll be no more cat mutilations ’round this part of town, I thought to myself, brushing the dirt from my hands. As I stepped to the curb, a pair of amber headlights cut through the fetid darkness: Wesleyan’s Ride! I sighed with relief and flagged it down, barely noticing the exceedingly strange script adorning its door.
Only when I found myself overpowered by the smells of hookah smoke, unwashed bodies, and myrrh did I realize I had boarded the wrong Ride. Too late I remembered Dave Meyer’s stern campus-wide email cautioning us against the folly of entering unlicensed “Gypsy” Rides: “The University cannot be certain of students’ well-being while inside one of these vehicles,” he had penned, “and the vendors are not equipped to accept Middletown Cash.” The van’s door slid shut behind me — and our ramshackle ride had already trundled off into the inky black.
“Good night,” insisted the mustachioed driver. “My name Yanko. You pay twelve drachma now.” He deposited a wad of tobacco-infused phlegm into the brass spittoon wedged next to the gearshift.
“Pardon?” I stammered.
“Twelve drachma,” the swarthy fellow repeated. “Where you wish go tonight?”
I peered into the hazy darkness at the rear of the van, where I could make out the silhouettes of a Sikh, a Berber crone clutching a jar, two goats, and a beautiful young woman moaning in a low voice, swaddled in blankets. The travelers all huddled around a bubbling stew pot.
“Hold on,” I said to Yanko, reaching for my iPhone 5. “Let me Blirp It.” Suddenly, I felt cold steel against my neck and the Sikh’s hot, curry-scented breath in my ear.
“In my country, such a word is unspeakable,” he growled. “Men die for less.”
“Sorry, sir!” I exclaimed in terror. “What I meant to say was… I like your turban.”
The Sikh slowly released the pressure on my throat. “Fine,” he said, “but next time, I take your testes.”
I turned back to Yanko. “Pearl,” I said. “I just want to go to Pearl.”
Yearning for home, I turned to the window. Vast sand dunes stretched in every direction. This was a part of Middletown into which I had never ventured before.
Suddenly, the blanket-wrapped woman gave a great gasp, followed by the shrill cry of a newborn soul. She raised her new daughter, still dripping with womby fluids, so that the infant’s tiny eyes met her own.
“Esmerelda,” she whispered. “I will call you Esmerelda.”
There’ll be no more cat mutilations ’round this part of town, I thought to myself, brushing the dirt from my hands. As I stepped to the curb, a pair of amber headlights cut through the fetid darkness: Wesleyan’s Ride! I sighed with relief and flagged it down, barely noticing the exceedingly strange script adorning its door.
Only when I found myself overpowered by the smells of hookah smoke, unwashed bodies, and myrrh did I realize I had boarded the wrong Ride. Too late I remembered Dave Meyer’s stern campus-wide email cautioning us against the folly of entering unlicensed “Gypsy” Rides: “The University cannot be certain of students’ well-being while inside one of these vehicles,” he had penned, “and the vendors are not equipped to accept Middletown Cash.” The van’s door slid shut behind me — and our ramshackle ride had already trundled off into the inky black.
“Good night,” insisted the mustachioed driver. “My name Yanko. You pay twelve drachma now.” He deposited a wad of tobacco-infused phlegm into the brass spittoon wedged next to the gearshift.
“Pardon?” I stammered.
“Twelve drachma,” the swarthy fellow repeated. “Where you wish go tonight?”
I peered into the hazy darkness at the rear of the van, where I could make out the silhouettes of a Sikh, a Berber crone clutching a jar, two goats, and a beautiful young woman moaning in a low voice, swaddled in blankets. The travelers all huddled around a bubbling stew pot.
“Hold on,” I said to Yanko, reaching for my iPhone 5. “Let me Blirp It.” Suddenly, I felt cold steel against my neck and the Sikh’s hot, curry-scented breath in my ear.
“In my country, such a word is unspeakable,” he growled. “Men die for less.”
“Sorry, sir!” I exclaimed in terror. “What I meant to say was… I like your turban.”
The Sikh slowly released the pressure on my throat. “Fine,” he said, “but next time, I take your testes.”
I turned back to Yanko. “Pearl,” I said. “I just want to go to Pearl.”
Yearning for home, I turned to the window. Vast sand dunes stretched in every direction. This was a part of Middletown into which I had never ventured before.
Suddenly, the blanket-wrapped woman gave a great gasp, followed by the shrill cry of a newborn soul. She raised her new daughter, still dripping with womby fluids, so that the infant’s tiny eyes met her own.
“Esmerelda,” she whispered. “I will call you Esmerelda.”
Literary Rides
On The Ride, by Jack Kerouac
We were on the roof of Middletown and all we could do was yell, I guess. We were up all night rolling around that crazy loop, yelling “Go, man, go,” bee-bop sounding out on ahead along the fabulous stretch of Williams Street, past Marco’s, past that incense place, past the grilled cheese cart, the too-huge sky vaulting out over our heads. The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to Ride, mad to visit both falafel carts in one night, mad to visit that one other cart by the Bayit that serves pretty good hot dogs, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn, burn like a firecracker that goes poof-kapow-zam-zing-wah-bang out on along across the wide star-dotted skies of Central Connecticut.
A Portrait of the Artist on the Ride, by James Joyce
Facing Albritton as it passed the window, Stephen held a falafel pita wrap aloft and intoned:
— Introibo ad altare meletrici.
He beheld the even fall of the onfalling evening’s slow succourous sussurus, the earlyevening light falling evenly over the mutinous WestCo mulchpile, over the scrotumtightening Butthole weeds, falling faintly and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, on all the Nics and the Butts.
A Universal History of the Ride, by Jorge Luis Borges
During a short bus ride from Olin Library to Science Library, I sipped mate with a Uruguayan gaucho named Ibn Al-Ulmar, a hard-bitten Arabian rancher who had squandered his money in the hard-bitten brothels and tango halls of Buenos Aires and Montevideo.
“Lie down on the floor between the seats,” he told me. “Press your knees against your chest, and look between your legs. You will see the past, the present, the future, and the entire physical contents of the universe compressed to a single point.”
Heeding his words, I assumed this position. At first, all I could see was beige upholstery. After a few moments, I saw a point of blinding light. Then red, then nothing.
“You, Borges, will surely see,” said Al-Umar, as he plunged his knife again into my ribs, “that History and Time are the true custodians of wealth.”
Catcher in the Ride, by J.D. Salinger
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll want to know is that some phony pulled up to the curb of Church and High and told me to get in. What a goddamn phony. I mean, I told him to take me all the way to Indian Hill because you can never get really sexy with a girl in a Fauver triple, I mean, really sexy, but he wouldn’t even take me past DKE. Goddamn DKE. It always ends up making me blue as hell. That really kills me. It really does. I mean, I asked him where all the DKE bros go in winter — have you ever seen a DKE bro in winter? Do they still wear those phony Adidas sandals? — but he just got real touchy about that and told me he had other passengers to pick up, and anyways Sally was waiting for me at Indian Hill. Goddamn girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. I mean, those Rho Ep girls really get me hot. Where do they go in the winter?
We were on the roof of Middletown and all we could do was yell, I guess. We were up all night rolling around that crazy loop, yelling “Go, man, go,” bee-bop sounding out on ahead along the fabulous stretch of Williams Street, past Marco’s, past that incense place, past the grilled cheese cart, the too-huge sky vaulting out over our heads. The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to Ride, mad to visit both falafel carts in one night, mad to visit that one other cart by the Bayit that serves pretty good hot dogs, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn, burn like a firecracker that goes poof-kapow-zam-zing-wah-bang out on along across the wide star-dotted skies of Central Connecticut.
A Portrait of the Artist on the Ride, by James Joyce
Facing Albritton as it passed the window, Stephen held a falafel pita wrap aloft and intoned:
— Introibo ad altare meletrici.
He beheld the even fall of the onfalling evening’s slow succourous sussurus, the earlyevening light falling evenly over the mutinous WestCo mulchpile, over the scrotumtightening Butthole weeds, falling faintly and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, on all the Nics and the Butts.
A Universal History of the Ride, by Jorge Luis Borges
During a short bus ride from Olin Library to Science Library, I sipped mate with a Uruguayan gaucho named Ibn Al-Ulmar, a hard-bitten Arabian rancher who had squandered his money in the hard-bitten brothels and tango halls of Buenos Aires and Montevideo.
“Lie down on the floor between the seats,” he told me. “Press your knees against your chest, and look between your legs. You will see the past, the present, the future, and the entire physical contents of the universe compressed to a single point.”
Heeding his words, I assumed this position. At first, all I could see was beige upholstery. After a few moments, I saw a point of blinding light. Then red, then nothing.
“You, Borges, will surely see,” said Al-Umar, as he plunged his knife again into my ribs, “that History and Time are the true custodians of wealth.”
Catcher in the Ride, by J.D. Salinger
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll want to know is that some phony pulled up to the curb of Church and High and told me to get in. What a goddamn phony. I mean, I told him to take me all the way to Indian Hill because you can never get really sexy with a girl in a Fauver triple, I mean, really sexy, but he wouldn’t even take me past DKE. Goddamn DKE. It always ends up making me blue as hell. That really kills me. It really does. I mean, I asked him where all the DKE bros go in winter — have you ever seen a DKE bro in winter? Do they still wear those phony Adidas sandals? — but he just got real touchy about that and told me he had other passengers to pick up, and anyways Sally was waiting for me at Indian Hill. Goddamn girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. I mean, those Rho Ep girls really get me hot. Where do they go in the winter?
Ex-West Coast Rapper Pimps Ride
Last week, the popular MTV show Pimp My Ride confirmed what many fans had suspected all season: one of the Wesleyan Ride vans will be the show’s next “pimped out” car, ending its career as a domestic transportation vehicle.
“It’s going to be hard for all of us,” said longtime driver Gerald Hotchkins at the taping of the show. “We’ve been through a lot together, but I guess that this ol’ girl had this coming. Shelly,” he said, turning towards the van, “I hope you never forget where you came from.”
The car, which traces its alluring lineage back to a 1983 Chevrolet Express and a 1974 Ford Econoline, is expected to be “the sexiest thing to ever hit a Middletown street corner.”
“There’s a lot of aftermarket parts in this baby,” said technician Charles S. Werthing, who designed the paint job and customized weave. “Despite being a total mess when we got it, everything was running smoothly internally, if you know what I mean. We put on the red and black stripes at the last minute to match the custom 28” chrome Pirellis, and we added xenon fog headlights. We were going to install a blacklight in the back, but the seats looked like a black and white Jackson Pollack painting so we went with the goldfish tank.”
Due to Wesleyan’s new environmental regulations, Ride vans must have a minimal carbon footprint. Accordingly, the addition of a nitrous-oxide fuel injector was explicitly prohibited and the van’s route was restricted to “Court and Williams St. between 1 and 5 A.M”.
“Though we couldn’t put the blue flame stuff in the exhaust pipes, I’m pretty happy with Xzibit’s work,” said Charlie Greengould, Class of 2013. “Sure, it may not do 0-60 in five seconds, but taking the ride isn’t about quantity, its about quality. Last time I took the ride, I only lasted maybe twenty seconds."
“Pimping the ride is a great opportunity for both the school and MTV,” said WSA representative Emilius Miles ‘13 as mechanics gave the car a thorough waxing and added numerous decals, prepping it for life on the streets of Middletown. “So many cars end up as scrap metal, or being sold to wealthy gentleman who mistreat them — all of that is inhumane.”
Added Miles, “Letting the van drive around Middletown during the good weather, enjoying the best care that Connecticut has to offer, sipping on only premium diesel, and being mounted over and over again until the odometer rolls over... that’s a life any van would love.”
The car, which traces its alluring lineage back to a 1983 Chevrolet Express and a 1974 Ford Econoline, is expected to be “the sexiest thing to ever hit a Middletown street corner.”
“There’s a lot of aftermarket parts in this baby,” said technician Charles S. Werthing, who designed the paint job and customized weave. “Despite being a total mess when we got it, everything was running smoothly internally, if you know what I mean. We put on the red and black stripes at the last minute to match the custom 28” chrome Pirellis, and we added xenon fog headlights. We were going to install a blacklight in the back, but the seats looked like a black and white Jackson Pollack painting so we went with the goldfish tank.”
Due to Wesleyan’s new environmental regulations, Ride vans must have a minimal carbon footprint. Accordingly, the addition of a nitrous-oxide fuel injector was explicitly prohibited and the van’s route was restricted to “Court and Williams St. between 1 and 5 A.M”.
“Though we couldn’t put the blue flame stuff in the exhaust pipes, I’m pretty happy with Xzibit’s work,” said Charlie Greengould, Class of 2013. “Sure, it may not do 0-60 in five seconds, but taking the ride isn’t about quantity, its about quality. Last time I took the ride, I only lasted maybe twenty seconds."
“Pimping the ride is a great opportunity for both the school and MTV,” said WSA representative Emilius Miles ‘13 as mechanics gave the car a thorough waxing and added numerous decals, prepping it for life on the streets of Middletown. “So many cars end up as scrap metal, or being sold to wealthy gentleman who mistreat them — all of that is inhumane.”
Added Miles, “Letting the van drive around Middletown during the good weather, enjoying the best care that Connecticut has to offer, sipping on only premium diesel, and being mounted over and over again until the odometer rolls over... that’s a life any van would love.”
9/27/11
Editors' Note
The editors of the Ampersand would like to issue a correction regarding last week’s issue. In an article about a fictional Fauver freshman, we used the name Matt Timmons ’15, which, we were surprised to learn, actually belongs to a current senior, Matt Timmons ’12. We have no evidence that Timmons ’12 “splooged on [his] floor,” as did the fictional Timmons, but we also have no evidence to the contrary.
Molemen Unearthed in WestCo Courtyard Actually Pretty Chill
Last week, WILD Wes members discovered an entrance to the Hidden World, the realm of the molemen. The find took all those present by surprise, including the moleman standing guard.
“It’s bad enough to be digging and suddenly come across a hairless, blind mole person,” recalled Harriet Moss ’14. “But when they start to secrete a protective mucus all over your shoes, it can be really tricky to maintain your composure.”
“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” said Dicke Driphole, the moleman in question. “Bitch was asking for it, hitting me on the head with the shovel like that.”
The WILD Wes members were initially wary as more molemen emerged from the tunnel, shielding their eyes from the harsh sunlight. Public Safety was initially fearful that conflict would ensue between the surface dwellers and those who lurk below, and remained wary, circling the opening on their Segways, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice. But it soon became clear that they meant no harm.
“There was good reason to be careful, as there’s ample evidence of such things occurring,” claimed professor of anthropology Alan Faulkner. “As recently as 1983, uncovering passages to the World Below has resulted in deadly fighting. Granted, that incident was in Thailand and rather than molemen, they uncovered overgrown meat-weasels, but you can never be too careful in situations like this.”
Rather than laying waste to the community of polyamorous hippies, the molemen have only gone so far as to occupy the WestCo café, citing the “comforting moistness and general cavernous feel of the space.”
“The Dominion of the Molemen is a paternalistic hegemony,” claims Esther Greaseskin, one of the group of molemen occupying the WestCo café. “It’s right there in the name. We’re looking to collaborate with your department of gender studies to come up with a more gender neutral name for our species. Not moleperson, because that just sounds stupid, but maybe something more along the lines of ‘moledividual’.”
“I’ll talk with them about it, but not in my office,” said professor of gender studies Abigail Rawlins. “They are slimy as shit, and I don’t want that all over my carpet.”
“It’s bad enough to be digging and suddenly come across a hairless, blind mole person,” recalled Harriet Moss ’14. “But when they start to secrete a protective mucus all over your shoes, it can be really tricky to maintain your composure.”
“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” said Dicke Driphole, the moleman in question. “Bitch was asking for it, hitting me on the head with the shovel like that.”
The WILD Wes members were initially wary as more molemen emerged from the tunnel, shielding their eyes from the harsh sunlight. Public Safety was initially fearful that conflict would ensue between the surface dwellers and those who lurk below, and remained wary, circling the opening on their Segways, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice. But it soon became clear that they meant no harm.
“There was good reason to be careful, as there’s ample evidence of such things occurring,” claimed professor of anthropology Alan Faulkner. “As recently as 1983, uncovering passages to the World Below has resulted in deadly fighting. Granted, that incident was in Thailand and rather than molemen, they uncovered overgrown meat-weasels, but you can never be too careful in situations like this.”
Rather than laying waste to the community of polyamorous hippies, the molemen have only gone so far as to occupy the WestCo café, citing the “comforting moistness and general cavernous feel of the space.”
“The Dominion of the Molemen is a paternalistic hegemony,” claims Esther Greaseskin, one of the group of molemen occupying the WestCo café. “It’s right there in the name. We’re looking to collaborate with your department of gender studies to come up with a more gender neutral name for our species. Not moleperson, because that just sounds stupid, but maybe something more along the lines of ‘moledividual’.”
“I’ll talk with them about it, but not in my office,” said professor of gender studies Abigail Rawlins. “They are slimy as shit, and I don’t want that all over my carpet.”
WILD Wes Receives $50k Grant to Redesign Occupy Wall Street Protest
Members of WILD Wes, the student group that emerged last year to promote sustainable landscape design, have secured from the administration a $50,000 grant to redesign Occupy Wall Street’s temporary occupation of Foss Hill.
“Our long-term goal is to convert these three tents into sustainable, organic groundcover without getting too much topsoil on Anwar,” says WILD Wes cofounder Sim Salver ’12. “We figure this whole shebang will be more ecologically sound if we just keep dumping permaculture on everyone.”
Members of WILD Wes expressed concern regarding Occupy Wall Street’s “self-destructive fondness for wholly unsustainable conversation topics.”
“If these guys say one more thing about the corporate personhood currency phallus, I am going to explode,” Marge Helvetica ’14 warned.
Last weekend, WILD Wes representatives trailed Occupy Wall Street members to their New York protest site to prevent the group from spreading beech bark disease in Manhattan’s financial district. “We even convinced some group members to help us dig swales on Fulton Street,” Salver reported. “Those things really help funnel New York’s perennial biochar sheet-mulch rejuvenation.”
WILD Wes hopes to seek further assistance from Occupy Wall Street in reaching its environmental aims.
“We thought it would be tough to convert these protesters to our cause, but it was super easy,” one WILD Wes member assures. “These dudes will shovel anything if you tell them it’s the best way to fight the corporate fascist plutocracy cookie monster.”
“Our long-term goal is to convert these three tents into sustainable, organic groundcover without getting too much topsoil on Anwar,” says WILD Wes cofounder Sim Salver ’12. “We figure this whole shebang will be more ecologically sound if we just keep dumping permaculture on everyone.”
Members of WILD Wes expressed concern regarding Occupy Wall Street’s “self-destructive fondness for wholly unsustainable conversation topics.”
“If these guys say one more thing about the corporate personhood currency phallus, I am going to explode,” Marge Helvetica ’14 warned.
Last weekend, WILD Wes representatives trailed Occupy Wall Street members to their New York protest site to prevent the group from spreading beech bark disease in Manhattan’s financial district. “We even convinced some group members to help us dig swales on Fulton Street,” Salver reported. “Those things really help funnel New York’s perennial biochar sheet-mulch rejuvenation.”
WILD Wes hopes to seek further assistance from Occupy Wall Street in reaching its environmental aims.
“We thought it would be tough to convert these protesters to our cause, but it was super easy,” one WILD Wes member assures. “These dudes will shovel anything if you tell them it’s the best way to fight the corporate fascist plutocracy cookie monster.”
Suddenly Last Summer
No one knows exactly what happened to WildWes last summer.
The twelve long-haired, fair-trade-coffee-drinking friends who constituted the core of WildWes moved into a house on campus to greenify the WestCo courtyard. It sounded innocent enough. But when the rest of the Wesleyan community returned to campus this fall, the leaders of WildWes were irreversibly, markedly changed.
Gone were the “chill vibes,” the sandals, and the passionate environmentalist rhetoric that once distinguished WildWes leaders from their peers. The leaders of WildWes were now stressing out about course registration, rocking boat shoes, and explaining to a shocked campus their new plan for the courtyard: to turn the space into a miniature lacrosse field. The presidents of Westco were too stunned to offer immediate comment.
“I just really wish I hadn’t wasted my time on all those studio art and creative writing classes,” WildWes leader Ike Fug ’12 said between appointments at the Career Resource Center. “There’s no way I can get all the credits I need at this point to get into a top tier business school.”
When asked about his environmentalist ambitions, Fug shrugged and said, “Honestly, coal and oil provide so many jobs that are crucial to the American economy. We need to focus on saving Main Street right now, not Wall Street.” Fug continued to digress, intoning various unrelated political clichés.
Theories as to what instigated this dramatic change abound: some believe the WildWes students fell under the sway of a particularly right-wing MoCon gremlin. Others speculate that they unearthed and smoked a stash that had been buried in the courtyard for far too long. Still others blame interactions with radioactive grasshoppers. The actual events remain a mystery.
The twelve long-haired, fair-trade-coffee-drinking friends who constituted the core of WildWes moved into a house on campus to greenify the WestCo courtyard. It sounded innocent enough. But when the rest of the Wesleyan community returned to campus this fall, the leaders of WildWes were irreversibly, markedly changed.
Gone were the “chill vibes,” the sandals, and the passionate environmentalist rhetoric that once distinguished WildWes leaders from their peers. The leaders of WildWes were now stressing out about course registration, rocking boat shoes, and explaining to a shocked campus their new plan for the courtyard: to turn the space into a miniature lacrosse field. The presidents of Westco were too stunned to offer immediate comment.
“I just really wish I hadn’t wasted my time on all those studio art and creative writing classes,” WildWes leader Ike Fug ’12 said between appointments at the Career Resource Center. “There’s no way I can get all the credits I need at this point to get into a top tier business school.”
When asked about his environmentalist ambitions, Fug shrugged and said, “Honestly, coal and oil provide so many jobs that are crucial to the American economy. We need to focus on saving Main Street right now, not Wall Street.” Fug continued to digress, intoning various unrelated political clichés.
Theories as to what instigated this dramatic change abound: some believe the WildWes students fell under the sway of a particularly right-wing MoCon gremlin. Others speculate that they unearthed and smoked a stash that had been buried in the courtyard for far too long. Still others blame interactions with radioactive grasshoppers. The actual events remain a mystery.
Student Realizes She is Not at Wellesley
As we begin our third week of school, Usdan empties, flowers wilt, and toilets clog as everyone feels things once new and exciting lose their gild and fall into daily routine. Everyone, that is, except freshman Jessica Witnit, who recently discovered that for the past two weeks she has been attending Wesleyan University, not Wellesley College.
Disoriented by Hurricane Irene, Witnit arrived on campus and mistakenly registered as Jennifer Nitwit ’15. She proceeded to move into and share Nitwit’s room, the crowdedness of which both ascribed to high enrollment. Without space for another bed, Witnit and Nitwit had no choice but to spoon every night.
“We became really close,” Nitwit mumbled blushingly.
Dean Goel Narrett finally cleared up the problem after a meeting with the two freshmen.
“Subsisting on only one WesID, Jessica and Jennifer came in to meet with me when they ran out of meal swipes on Thursday,” disclosed a somber Garrett. “It’s very unfortunate, but we’re actually quite used to this sort of mix-up, so I was not unprepared.”
With Nitwit’s discovery has come a swell of students realizing that they aren’t at Wesleyan College, Wilbrahem Wesleyan Academy, or other schools that share Wesleyan’s nomenclature, including a fifth year Senior who just figured out that he was not in Ohio.
As Nitwit prepares to start the school year afresh, she does have some reservations.
“While I am excited to have my own identity again,” Nitwit said, “I’ve kind of gotten used to having a bed buddy.”
9/20/11
Editors' Note
The editors (of The Ampersand (the premiere humor publication of The Argus (Wesleyan University’s premiere news (and entertainment and generally interesting information) publication) and (really) the best part of said news publication (TheArgus)) want you to know that they uphold the highest standards of grammar and syntax.
Amanda Palmer Visits Campus, Joins Cheese Co-Op for Nostalgia’s Sake
Amanda Palmer ’98 wasted no time reliving her carefree college days last Friday: within an hour of arriving on campus, the Dresden Dolls’ frontwoman had signed up for the Wesleyan cheese co-op “just for nostalgia’s sake.”
“This really brings me back,” reminisced the performer, sampling fresh Cato Corner Farm “Womanchego” cheese on the lower Usdan couches, tapping her foot along with a Buru Style practice session. “Ah, college. Those were the days.”
“I was sitting right here in Usdan when I wrote ‘Coin-Operated Boy,’” Palmer added, sighing in delight. “Moodle was down that day, so I opened up GarageBand and wrote most of our first record.”
Palmer also insisted on a visit to her old freshman year room, Fauver 208.
“She just barged in when I was trimming my back hair,” said current resident Matt Timmons’ 15. “Like, kinda lame.”
According to Timmons, Palmer excitedly took credit for a stain in the room’s carpet.
“That was me!” Palmer reportedly exclaimed. “I spilled my Mojito Mamba Odwalla there in 1995!”
“Like, no,” Timmons clarified. “I splooged there.”
“Fuck the Pussycat Dolls, man,” Timmons shrugged.
“This really brings me back,” reminisced the performer, sampling fresh Cato Corner Farm “Womanchego” cheese on the lower Usdan couches, tapping her foot along with a Buru Style practice session. “Ah, college. Those were the days.”
“I was sitting right here in Usdan when I wrote ‘Coin-Operated Boy,’” Palmer added, sighing in delight. “Moodle was down that day, so I opened up GarageBand and wrote most of our first record.”
Palmer also insisted on a visit to her old freshman year room, Fauver 208.
“She just barged in when I was trimming my back hair,” said current resident Matt Timmons’ 15. “Like, kinda lame.”
According to Timmons, Palmer excitedly took credit for a stain in the room’s carpet.
“That was me!” Palmer reportedly exclaimed. “I spilled my Mojito Mamba Odwalla there in 1995!”
“Like, no,” Timmons clarified. “I splooged there.”
“Fuck the Pussycat Dolls, man,” Timmons shrugged.
War with Russia Would Be “Exactly Like A Video Game,” Says Professor
According to Government Professor Richard Price, a war between the United States of America and the Russian Federation would play out exactly like a video game.
“Basically, we’d be up Shit Creek,” Price explained.
Price has never actually been to Russia, but he is able to claim many hours of “extensive internet research” and Call of Duty to support his assertions.
“These games are based on literally hours of research, so it’s safe to assume that what they portray could really happen, like when you chase that guy over a waterfall in a dinghy,” said Price.
Price is dubious about the United States’ fate should such a conflict materialize. He acknowledges the superiority of America’s military power and estimates about two months between the start of the conflict and reaching the Kremlin. And that’s when things get tricky.
“At that point,” he explained, “the only thing standing between us and victory is the one thing that can defeat us: Putin.”
Citing the Russian prime minister’s propensity for being portrayed “like a Bond villain” and the fact that he is the only world leader with his own judo move, Price postulated that Vladimir Putin could very well be the final boss that eats away all of the United States’ quarters, figuratively and literally.
“He’d be like the final boss of Killzone 2 but, like, times a hundred,” warned Price. “Teleporting all over the place and using a knife, then whipping out a huge gun that deals massive damage. I could see him easily exhausting our war effort right when we’ve made it to the finish line. And this is all assuming he doesn’t have cybernetic augmentations by this point.”
Price noted that the deciding factor of the war will be whether or not the Japanese are ultimately persuaded to fight alongside us.
“If we could enlist their mecha battalions and legions of pretty-boy swordsmen, we might be able to turn the tide and defeat Putin,” Price said. “But even then, it’s up in the air.”
“Basically, we’d be up Shit Creek,” Price explained.
Price has never actually been to Russia, but he is able to claim many hours of “extensive internet research” and Call of Duty to support his assertions.
“These games are based on literally hours of research, so it’s safe to assume that what they portray could really happen, like when you chase that guy over a waterfall in a dinghy,” said Price.
Price is dubious about the United States’ fate should such a conflict materialize. He acknowledges the superiority of America’s military power and estimates about two months between the start of the conflict and reaching the Kremlin. And that’s when things get tricky.
“At that point,” he explained, “the only thing standing between us and victory is the one thing that can defeat us: Putin.”
Citing the Russian prime minister’s propensity for being portrayed “like a Bond villain” and the fact that he is the only world leader with his own judo move, Price postulated that Vladimir Putin could very well be the final boss that eats away all of the United States’ quarters, figuratively and literally.
“He’d be like the final boss of Killzone 2 but, like, times a hundred,” warned Price. “Teleporting all over the place and using a knife, then whipping out a huge gun that deals massive damage. I could see him easily exhausting our war effort right when we’ve made it to the finish line. And this is all assuming he doesn’t have cybernetic augmentations by this point.”
Price noted that the deciding factor of the war will be whether or not the Japanese are ultimately persuaded to fight alongside us.
“If we could enlist their mecha battalions and legions of pretty-boy swordsmen, we might be able to turn the tide and defeat Putin,” Price said. “But even then, it’s up in the air.”
International Student Wakes on Wrong Side of Bed
Amelia Bedelia ’15, an international student hailing from Not America, woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
“This country is fucked,” Bedelia said after the incident. “Am I losing my marbles? No, wait, they’re in my other pants.”
Bedila reportedly woke upon the wrong side of the bed at approximately 4:15 a.m. She suffered minor bruising and immediately sought out her Residential Advisor, Lucy Britt, ’14. Britt told her not to “cry over spilt milk” and went back to sleep.
“I just don’t know what is going on anymore,” Bedelia said. “In my country, spilling milk would be not only a waste, but a dishonor to my entire family. And what does that have to do with my fractured nose?”
During the few weeks that she has been in America, Bedelia’s eccentricities have led to minor altercations. During International Student Orientation (ISO), she allegedly released a rabid cat in her Nicholson dormitory.
“I mean sure, I let my cat out of the bag during ISO, but the poor thing was in a bag. Have you ever spent eight hours in a bag on a trans-Atlantic flight? I didn’t think so.”
According to friends, Bedelia is adjusting with difficulty.
“She’s starting to lose it a little, struggling to deal with jet-lag and with foreign idioms,” said her roommate Millicent Herf ’15. “But I think she’s a good fit. I mean, she’s going through a linguistic crisis, but at
this stage in the game, the ball is totally in her court.”
As a result of her friends’ support, Bedelia seems to slowly be getting a grip on life at Wesleyan.
“I’m learning a lot,” Bedelia said. “I stopped jumping guns and touching the bases at Andrus. Plus I haven’t bitten the hands of any Usdan staff this week.”
Added Bedelia, holding onto her second floor balcony, “I think I just may be getting the hang of this.”
“This country is fucked,” Bedelia said after the incident. “Am I losing my marbles? No, wait, they’re in my other pants.”
Bedila reportedly woke upon the wrong side of the bed at approximately 4:15 a.m. She suffered minor bruising and immediately sought out her Residential Advisor, Lucy Britt, ’14. Britt told her not to “cry over spilt milk” and went back to sleep.
“I just don’t know what is going on anymore,” Bedelia said. “In my country, spilling milk would be not only a waste, but a dishonor to my entire family. And what does that have to do with my fractured nose?”
During the few weeks that she has been in America, Bedelia’s eccentricities have led to minor altercations. During International Student Orientation (ISO), she allegedly released a rabid cat in her Nicholson dormitory.
“I mean sure, I let my cat out of the bag during ISO, but the poor thing was in a bag. Have you ever spent eight hours in a bag on a trans-Atlantic flight? I didn’t think so.”
According to friends, Bedelia is adjusting with difficulty.
“She’s starting to lose it a little, struggling to deal with jet-lag and with foreign idioms,” said her roommate Millicent Herf ’15. “But I think she’s a good fit. I mean, she’s going through a linguistic crisis, but at
this stage in the game, the ball is totally in her court.”
As a result of her friends’ support, Bedelia seems to slowly be getting a grip on life at Wesleyan.
“I’m learning a lot,” Bedelia said. “I stopped jumping guns and touching the bases at Andrus. Plus I haven’t bitten the hands of any Usdan staff this week.”
Added Bedelia, holding onto her second floor balcony, “I think I just may be getting the hang of this.”
Confessions of a Usdan Deli Worker
You think you can just tell me to “make [you] a sandwich?”
I’m disgusted by the institution-endorsed entitlement of Wesleyan boys like you, whose woefully inadequate sandwiches have led to the creation of the godforsaken Usdan deli station to which I have been assigned.
“Make me a sandwich” is a phrase loaded with connotations. It is a trigger word in my personal history, and in the history of female oppression. When Catherine of Aragon was asked to make a sandwich, she punched Gregory de Casale in the scrotum. Virginia Woolf was once asked to make a sandwich and she waded into a river —
Hey, come back here!
I have repeatedly asked the Usdan staff to reposition me so that I will never again hear a male deliver this infernal command. But at the panini press they derided me with calls of “Squeeze it good!” At the Mongolian Grill, they shouted, “Char my meat!” The Grazin’ station was okay, butI didn’t particularly like standing in that part of the kitchen. So here I am at the sandwich station, and my contract stipulates that I am “not licensed to cut bread,” so do not even think about asking.
Despite his role in the phallocentric technocracy, perhaps I should make like Harry Truman and “get out of the kitchen.” But alas, I am a female, and so eternally damned to stand here.
I’m disgusted by the institution-endorsed entitlement of Wesleyan boys like you, whose woefully inadequate sandwiches have led to the creation of the godforsaken Usdan deli station to which I have been assigned.
“Make me a sandwich” is a phrase loaded with connotations. It is a trigger word in my personal history, and in the history of female oppression. When Catherine of Aragon was asked to make a sandwich, she punched Gregory de Casale in the scrotum. Virginia Woolf was once asked to make a sandwich and she waded into a river —
Hey, come back here!
I have repeatedly asked the Usdan staff to reposition me so that I will never again hear a male deliver this infernal command. But at the panini press they derided me with calls of “Squeeze it good!” At the Mongolian Grill, they shouted, “Char my meat!” The Grazin’ station was okay, butI didn’t particularly like standing in that part of the kitchen. So here I am at the sandwich station, and my contract stipulates that I am “not licensed to cut bread,” so do not even think about asking.
Despite his role in the phallocentric technocracy, perhaps I should make like Harry Truman and “get out of the kitchen.” But alas, I am a female, and so eternally damned to stand here.
9/13/11
Editors' Note
A capella auditions getting you down? Can’t figure out which Rebecca to text, which to sext, and which to wish a happy Rosh Hashanah? Cisco Clean Access killing the vibe? Fear ye not: The Ampersand has got your back and pelvis!
Don’t forget to floss,
Piers & Zach
Don’t forget to floss,
Piers & Zach
Increase in Forced Triples Leads to Increase in Forced Threesomes
Upon learning that they would be living in triples, many members of the class of 2015 were bummed about the potential lack of under-bed storage, or stressed about having to navigate the dynamics of living with two roommates. But the true discomfort of this situation has nothing to do with closet size: the increase in triples has led to an increase in uncomfortable, mediocre, and cringe-worthy threesomes.
“There’s so rarely a time when both of your roommates are out of the room,” says Jake Brown ’15, of Fauver. “I was hooking up with this girl on Friday night and Dirk [Nutt ’15, one of Brown’s roommates] just walked in and at the time I was like, ‘Well, if you’re gonna be here you might as well join in.’ Because of the special limitations, he literally had no other option.”
Brown regretted this decision when he sobered up the next morning. “It’s beyond awkward now,” he said. “When Dirk changes his shirt after lax practice… the sight of his abs brings up way too many memories that I haven’t really dealt with yet.”
Nutt has confirmed that the arrangement is very uncomfortable. Rather than spending ResLife’s $245 monetary compensation on textbooks and cereal, he and his roommates have spent it all on lube, lingerie, and the like.
“Our collective monetary compensation has been co-opted and subsumed by sexual compensation,” Nutt observed. “It’s both financially and physically draining.”
The room’s third occupant, Mark Yelt ’15, doesn’t quite know what to think.
“We probably shouldn’t have pushed our beds together,” said Yelt. “The extra space is not worth the invasive night surprises.”
“There’s so rarely a time when both of your roommates are out of the room,” says Jake Brown ’15, of Fauver. “I was hooking up with this girl on Friday night and Dirk [Nutt ’15, one of Brown’s roommates] just walked in and at the time I was like, ‘Well, if you’re gonna be here you might as well join in.’ Because of the special limitations, he literally had no other option.”
Brown regretted this decision when he sobered up the next morning. “It’s beyond awkward now,” he said. “When Dirk changes his shirt after lax practice… the sight of his abs brings up way too many memories that I haven’t really dealt with yet.”
Nutt has confirmed that the arrangement is very uncomfortable. Rather than spending ResLife’s $245 monetary compensation on textbooks and cereal, he and his roommates have spent it all on lube, lingerie, and the like.
“Our collective monetary compensation has been co-opted and subsumed by sexual compensation,” Nutt observed. “It’s both financially and physically draining.”
The room’s third occupant, Mark Yelt ’15, doesn’t quite know what to think.
“We probably shouldn’t have pushed our beds together,” said Yelt. “The extra space is not worth the invasive night surprises.”
University's Rebecca Population Close to Carrying Capacity
This week, in a joint press conference called by the Connecticut Department of Environmental Protection and the Wesleyan University Department of Environmental Science, researchers announced that the university’s population of Rebeccas has reached critical levels.
“Biologists have what’s known as a carrying capacity,” explained a grave Johan C. Varekamp, Professor of Earth and Environmental Science: “The physical characteristics of a habitat that put an upper limit on the number of organisms it can support. Data from the Office of the Registrar confirms that we have reached that point.”
“Shit’s about to hit the fan,” added Varekamp, gazing worriedly towards Clark Hall.
Scientists first suspected something was amiss when field biologists tranquilized and tagged a shockingly high number of Rebeccas during April’s WesFest. Though the Nicole and Rachel populations seemed stable, Rebeccas, Beccas, and even Beckys have experienced an exponential increase.
“They are multiplying,” explained Senior Associate Dean of Admissions Greg Pyke. “We admit one Rebecca, she spends the summer as a camp counselor telling everyone she is ‘Sooooo excited’ about going to Wesleyan. Three years later, another brood of applicants has gestated.”
According to the Connecticut DEP, Rebeccas have been forced onto Wesleyan’s habitat by deforestation and lower admission rates at Brown.
Many campus resources are buckling under the strain.
“Usdan was never designed to deal with this volume of Rebeccas,” said Bon Appetit Director of Communications Bonnie Azab Powell. “We go to local farms and their patches of organic snow peas have been picked clean. This has implications for the entire Middletown food web.”
“I now have three Rebecca Kleins in my student forum on Postcolonial Ghanian Puppeteering,” complained Ally Fontworth ’12. “And they keep showing up in the same pair of vintage slim straight 32-30 jeans.”
Some members of the Wesleyan community stand to benefit from the ecological paradigm shift. “Boys named Zach will soon be inundated whenever they venture to local watering holes,” reported Varekamp. “They will be set upon like a gazelle on the Savannah.”
But in a few short months, there won’t be enough boys named Zach for Rebeccas to take home to their parents, scientists fear.
The human cost of this overpopulation is very apparent already. “I went out to Psi U on Thursday and now I have like six Rebeccas in my Blackberry,” said Jake Griffith ’14. “One of them is my cousin, so sexting is now like playing incestuous Russian Roulette with my dick.”
University officials attempted to calm the public. “My office has been working with officials from the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, who tackled a similar problem with Elks in Yellowstone National Park,” said Director of Public Safety David Albert Meyer. “Reintroduction of the grey wolf is already underway in the West College courtyard.”
“Biologists have what’s known as a carrying capacity,” explained a grave Johan C. Varekamp, Professor of Earth and Environmental Science: “The physical characteristics of a habitat that put an upper limit on the number of organisms it can support. Data from the Office of the Registrar confirms that we have reached that point.”
“Shit’s about to hit the fan,” added Varekamp, gazing worriedly towards Clark Hall.
Scientists first suspected something was amiss when field biologists tranquilized and tagged a shockingly high number of Rebeccas during April’s WesFest. Though the Nicole and Rachel populations seemed stable, Rebeccas, Beccas, and even Beckys have experienced an exponential increase.
“They are multiplying,” explained Senior Associate Dean of Admissions Greg Pyke. “We admit one Rebecca, she spends the summer as a camp counselor telling everyone she is ‘Sooooo excited’ about going to Wesleyan. Three years later, another brood of applicants has gestated.”
According to the Connecticut DEP, Rebeccas have been forced onto Wesleyan’s habitat by deforestation and lower admission rates at Brown.
Many campus resources are buckling under the strain.
“Usdan was never designed to deal with this volume of Rebeccas,” said Bon Appetit Director of Communications Bonnie Azab Powell. “We go to local farms and their patches of organic snow peas have been picked clean. This has implications for the entire Middletown food web.”
“I now have three Rebecca Kleins in my student forum on Postcolonial Ghanian Puppeteering,” complained Ally Fontworth ’12. “And they keep showing up in the same pair of vintage slim straight 32-30 jeans.”
Some members of the Wesleyan community stand to benefit from the ecological paradigm shift. “Boys named Zach will soon be inundated whenever they venture to local watering holes,” reported Varekamp. “They will be set upon like a gazelle on the Savannah.”
But in a few short months, there won’t be enough boys named Zach for Rebeccas to take home to their parents, scientists fear.
The human cost of this overpopulation is very apparent already. “I went out to Psi U on Thursday and now I have like six Rebeccas in my Blackberry,” said Jake Griffith ’14. “One of them is my cousin, so sexting is now like playing incestuous Russian Roulette with my dick.”
University officials attempted to calm the public. “My office has been working with officials from the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, who tackled a similar problem with Elks in Yellowstone National Park,” said Director of Public Safety David Albert Meyer. “Reintroduction of the grey wolf is already underway in the West College courtyard.”
9/6/11
A Note From The Editors
The beginning of the semester has arrived, and with it a heady miasma of intellectual stimulation and use of the word “hegemony.” It’s what your parents’ 200k would have wanted. As you dart off to your “colloquiua” and “seminars,” heed well the words that Grover Freschmann ’15 shared with us in Olin’s unisex basement restroom: “Will professors really get mad at you if you use a computer in their classes? I’ve been having this battle with a Tea Party asshole on ESPN.com comments and if I don’t keep responding, he’ll win.”
Eat right,
Piers & Zach
Car Alarm Prevents Car Theft
A blaring car alarm in the vicinity of the Junior Village parking lot sent dozens of concerned students and locals rushing to the scene of the crime, where they were able to identify and prevent an automobile theft in progress. The heroic group performed a citizens’ arrest of Brad Arnolds, 34, detaining him until the Middletown Police Department arrived
The alarm first sounded at 8:34AM on Monday, rousing many from their peaceful slumber.
“At first, I was just staring at my ceiling, thinking, ‘Make it stop. God, please make it stop. Just make that fucking thing stop. Jesus Christ, just make it stop. Please just make it stop. Why won’t it stop?’” explained Gregory Bellevue ’13. “But then I thought, ‘what if that was my car?’ So I grabbed my brass knuckles and ran downstairs.”
At the scene of the crime, Bellevue and many others found Arnolds attempting to hotwire a 1988 powder-blue Honda Accord. The group quickly subdued him, thanks in no small part to Middletown resident Linda Keller, 34, who weighs in at 446 pounds.
“They had ’im on the ground,” says Keller, “and they was holdin’ his arms down, and one feller done said to me, ‘you just set right up top of his belly there, ya see,’ so I plopped this big ol’ behind right down. I said to myself, ‘Linda, this done be the first time your plus-size posterior ever done you or anybody else a lick of good.’ He was squirmin’ like the dickens but he never got away. No one ever gets out from unnerneath this here tuchus.”
Members of the MPD’s elite automobile theft division arrived on the scene after 14 minutes, where they handcuffed Arnolds. Middletown Mayor Sebastian N. Giuliano plans to hold a ceremony to commemorate the heroic citizens, who will all be awarded keys to the city.
The alarm first sounded at 8:34AM on Monday, rousing many from their peaceful slumber.
“At first, I was just staring at my ceiling, thinking, ‘Make it stop. God, please make it stop. Just make that fucking thing stop. Jesus Christ, just make it stop. Please just make it stop. Why won’t it stop?’” explained Gregory Bellevue ’13. “But then I thought, ‘what if that was my car?’ So I grabbed my brass knuckles and ran downstairs.”
At the scene of the crime, Bellevue and many others found Arnolds attempting to hotwire a 1988 powder-blue Honda Accord. The group quickly subdued him, thanks in no small part to Middletown resident Linda Keller, 34, who weighs in at 446 pounds.
“They had ’im on the ground,” says Keller, “and they was holdin’ his arms down, and one feller done said to me, ‘you just set right up top of his belly there, ya see,’ so I plopped this big ol’ behind right down. I said to myself, ‘Linda, this done be the first time your plus-size posterior ever done you or anybody else a lick of good.’ He was squirmin’ like the dickens but he never got away. No one ever gets out from unnerneath this here tuchus.”
Members of the MPD’s elite automobile theft division arrived on the scene after 14 minutes, where they handcuffed Arnolds. Middletown Mayor Sebastian N. Giuliano plans to hold a ceremony to commemorate the heroic citizens, who will all be awarded keys to the city.
There Is a Cricket Under My Bed and I Don't Know What to Do
Welcome back, fellow students. Hope you all had a fun summer break. There’s a cricket in my room that won’t stop chirping. I had fun this summer, went cool places and met chill people. Took a road trip to see my friend Mark, the cricket is making a really loud sound as I write this, and I went to Coachella. The cricket is brown and as long as my pinky finger. Mark decided not to go to Coachella.
It’s underneath my bed, which is bolted to the ground. My housing situation is sweet this year — two-room double in the Hewitts with a nice view of Andrus Field. Where are you living? I already tried chasing it away with my arm and then a book and a broom and a shoe I threw at it but the cricket is pretty far under my bed, it’s not going anywhere. At this point my plan is to ignore the cricket and try not to let it bother me. My first day of classes went alright, now I’m just doing some work at my desk while this cricket rubs its wings together just to spite me because it’s pure fucking evil.
It’s been two days. People play loud music in dorms all the time, so this shouldn’t be any different. My roommate has been blasting Hootie & The Blowfish ever since he moved in. I guess they’re okay. The lead singer has a pretty low voice so the cricket’s piercing upper register really cuts through the acoustic guitar. The chirping keeps a steady beat and sometimes I think I can hear my heart pulsing in time with the cricket’s song. I’m personally more of a Dave Matthews fan.
This isn’t really a Physical Plant problem, I don’t think, because crickets aren’t really their specialty, even though I kind of want to call them and ask what insect poisons they keep on hand for this sort of thing or maybe some painkillers or even barbiturates I could use to go to sleep because when I lie on my bed all I can hear is the cricket which has considerable stamina and only paused once for a minute and a half when I was so happy that I lay my head down on the desk and almost started to cry, which I hardly ever do, the last time being when my dog died two years ago. Turns out Olin closes also SciLi and they don’t like people sleeping outside on benches, so I’ll wait it out and lie here with the cricket whom I’ve named Mephistopheles and maybe he’ll die or I’ll die or something will happen to stop Mephistopheles from making the cricket sound he makes. Sometimes I sing along with him on the pitch. I’m pretty good at it now. Anyway, see you in class tomorrow.
It’s underneath my bed, which is bolted to the ground. My housing situation is sweet this year — two-room double in the Hewitts with a nice view of Andrus Field. Where are you living? I already tried chasing it away with my arm and then a book and a broom and a shoe I threw at it but the cricket is pretty far under my bed, it’s not going anywhere. At this point my plan is to ignore the cricket and try not to let it bother me. My first day of classes went alright, now I’m just doing some work at my desk while this cricket rubs its wings together just to spite me because it’s pure fucking evil.It’s been two days. People play loud music in dorms all the time, so this shouldn’t be any different. My roommate has been blasting Hootie & The Blowfish ever since he moved in. I guess they’re okay. The lead singer has a pretty low voice so the cricket’s piercing upper register really cuts through the acoustic guitar. The chirping keeps a steady beat and sometimes I think I can hear my heart pulsing in time with the cricket’s song. I’m personally more of a Dave Matthews fan.
This isn’t really a Physical Plant problem, I don’t think, because crickets aren’t really their specialty, even though I kind of want to call them and ask what insect poisons they keep on hand for this sort of thing or maybe some painkillers or even barbiturates I could use to go to sleep because when I lie on my bed all I can hear is the cricket which has considerable stamina and only paused once for a minute and a half when I was so happy that I lay my head down on the desk and almost started to cry, which I hardly ever do, the last time being when my dog died two years ago. Turns out Olin closes also SciLi and they don’t like people sleeping outside on benches, so I’ll wait it out and lie here with the cricket whom I’ve named Mephistopheles and maybe he’ll die or I’ll die or something will happen to stop Mephistopheles from making the cricket sound he makes. Sometimes I sing along with him on the pitch. I’m pretty good at it now. Anyway, see you in class tomorrow.
9/2/11
Editors' Note
Dear freshmen: The Ampersand cordially welcomes you to Wesleyan University. If you’re reading this, you are not the member of your forced triple who was offed for the extra space. Congratulations! If you’re interested in writing for us, please attend our first meeting at 4:30 p.m. on Thursday, September 8th. The meeting will be outside of Allbritton, and sweet and savoury snacks will be provided.
Making and Retaining Friends: A Practical Guide
The beginning of college can be a deeply frightening time, as everyone except you meets lots of awesome people and quickly finds their social niche. The competition for friends can be fierce, and if you’re afraid to be aggressive then you WILL be left behind. If you’re socially awkward, unsightly, or just rub people the wrong way, the friendship game may seem like more trouble than it’s worth. But with this handy guide, you’ll soon have potential friends eating out of your hand. Literally, if that’s what you’re into.
- Identify friend candidates. Beggars can’t be choosers, so you’re probably going to have to start with low-grade friends. But you have plenty of time to work your way up. It’s called social climbing, and it’s what college is all about. (But never forget the story of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun and lost his wings. Climb too fast, and you’ll end up right back where you started.)
- Get your foot in the door. Break the ice with your friend candidates in whatever way you can. This could be as simple as, “Hey neighbor, can I borrow some Preparation H?” but feel to get creative: “Come quick! I think my roommate is going into anaphylactic shock!”
- Be memorable. Look around you. Literally every person you see is a potential friend, so you need to make yourself stand out from the crowd. Try sporting a fedora or “liberty spikes.” But don’t come on too strong—advertising your love of flesh hook suspension is likely to scare off more people than it attracts.
- Follow up. A budding friendship is like a premature infant—weak, fragile and in need of constant care. Regardless of the strength of your first impression, your friendship will definitely require some (metaphorical) postnatal steroids if you want it to mature. Don’t ever let a prospective pal out of your sight without first getting their number. Then, deploy texts at strategic intervals to ensure that your delicate, shriveled friendship won’t perish in the incubator. The first time you feel that friendship’s miniscule hand grasp your thumb (metaphorically, of course), you’ll know you’ve succeeded.
- Seal the deal. Remember that no matter how awesome your new friends may seem, they could stab you in the back at any moment. That’s why any veteran friend-maker will tell you that it’s always best to get the terms of your friendship in writing. That way, if your friends forget your birthday or hook up with your significant other, you can sue the shit out of them.
Get Yo Shit Straight, Son: Tips for Freshmen
Let’s face it: coming to college for the first time is scary. You’re in a completely unfamiliar environment, surrounded by copious amounts of illegal intoxicants and hypersexualized adolescents who want nothing more than for you to end up passed out naked in a bathroom on the other side of campus from your dorm, and on top of that, there’s something called “dubstep” that’s permeated the entire school and you’ll have to familiarize yourself with it if you want anything resembling a fulfilling social life.
Thankfully, the Ampersand is committed to easing your transition from a hedonistic, upper middle class suburban lifestyle to that of a hedonistic, upper middle class student who wants to challenge traditional notions of gender by banging everybody. That’s why we’re here to give you the straight dope on college life and talk about everything they’re too scared to discuss in orientation.
Thankfully, the Ampersand is committed to easing your transition from a hedonistic, upper middle class suburban lifestyle to that of a hedonistic, upper middle class student who wants to challenge traditional notions of gender by banging everybody. That’s why we’re here to give you the straight dope on college life and talk about everything they’re too scared to discuss in orientation.
- Milwaukee’s Best isn’t really the best Milwaukee has to offer. Sad, but true.
- If there’s a naked person in your bed, and you don’t remember how they got there, high five! Them or us, it doesn’t really matter.
- You may, on some of your late night jaunts, encounter what appears to be a gigantic spider. Don’t be alarmed, because this is in fact Claudius, Wesleyan’s resident giant spider and unofficial mascot. Feel free to take one of the gift baskets he offers you. If he doesn’t offer you any gift baskets but instead starts jabbering indecipherably, then you probably shouldn’t have taken those ‘shrooms from that guy at Eclectic, dude.
- Should the worst come to pass and you actually do end up naked in a bathroom across campus from your dorm, don’t panic. Wesleyan is notorious for having a naked dorm, and that’s probably the one you’re in right now, so no worries. Strut your stuff and ignore the revolted glances. They’re just going through the inevitable adjustment period.
- Seriously, research dubstep. Otherwise, good luck making friends. Here’s hoping you’re a fan of standing in the corner at parties and wondering to yourself about which programming language is best, NERD.
“In The Company of Others” Replaced By “In The Company of Otters”
An intern-level error in the university’s orientation office has wrought one significant change to orientation this year: “In The Company of Others,” a long-term staple of Wesleyan’s orientation program which has for years provided an invaluable opportunity for freshmen to hear upperclassmen stories revolving around identity and understanding, will be replaced with “In The Company of Otters,” an opportunity for over 800 freshmen to interact with three North Pacific sea otters.
“We are not entirely sure how this happened, but we suspect one of our interns may have misread an email subject,” shrugged Director of New Student Orientation Timothy Shiner. “It’s just one letter off, so he figured it wouldn’t be a big deal.”
“At any rate, we can’t go back now,” Shiner added, stroking one of the otters, whom he has
christened Devon. “Do you know how hard it is to book otters in Connecticut? It’s a nightmare.”
The event, which boldly steamrolls over more than a decade’s worth of tradition surrounding dozens of poignant “In The Company of Others” speeches, will take place in Fiske 304. Each otter—Devon, Michael, and Waka Flocka Jr.—will be situated on its own marbletop table from 2:00 PM to 3:30, during which time members of the Class of 2015 are expected to come fondle each creature.
“These otters have come a long way, and they are very excited to meet you,” Shiner assured. “They are the heaviest members of the weasel family.”
Additionally, sources reveal, Common Moment may be replaced with “Common Marmut” to reflect the orientation program’s newfound wildlife focus.
“We are not entirely sure how this happened, but we suspect one of our interns may have misread an email subject,” shrugged Director of New Student Orientation Timothy Shiner. “It’s just one letter off, so he figured it wouldn’t be a big deal.”
“At any rate, we can’t go back now,” Shiner added, stroking one of the otters, whom he has
christened Devon. “Do you know how hard it is to book otters in Connecticut? It’s a nightmare.”
The event, which boldly steamrolls over more than a decade’s worth of tradition surrounding dozens of poignant “In The Company of Others” speeches, will take place in Fiske 304. Each otter—Devon, Michael, and Waka Flocka Jr.—will be situated on its own marbletop table from 2:00 PM to 3:30, during which time members of the Class of 2015 are expected to come fondle each creature.
“These otters have come a long way, and they are very excited to meet you,” Shiner assured. “They are the heaviest members of the weasel family.”
Additionally, sources reveal, Common Moment may be replaced with “Common Marmut” to reflect the orientation program’s newfound wildlife focus.
Freshmen Named ‘Irene’ Bunker Down For Orientation
Though Wesleyan’s campus made it through the recent hurricane’s landfall relatively unscathed, a new storm gathers on the horizon for three particularly unlucky individuals: Irene Hunter ‘15, Irene Fitzpatrick-Goldberg ‘15, and Irene Reindon ‘15, who share the massive tropical storm’s name.
“It’s a disaster,” said Hunter. “Why did this have to happen to us? It’s sad some people got wet or whatever, but when I saw the name on TV I cried buckets.”
Hunter hails from Florida and had been looking forward to a crisp New England autumn.
“She’s been so irritable,” confided Irene Hunter’s mother. “She stomps around the house, yelling and throwing things. Irene’s always had a temper. Very tempestuous child. Lately when she comes into a room we take shelter. It’s about time she moved on to a new place.”
Fitzpatrick-Goldberg, however, has tried to assume a newly sunny attitude.
“Sure, I avoid saying my name when people meet me. I try to steer clear of the subject. Asking people about their hobbies or their friends from high school usually works.”
Her personalized towels and stationary are securely stowed under her bed, and instead of a name, she drew a Sharpie self-portrait on her nametag.
Fitzpatrick-Goldberg plans to study Environmental Studies and is considering a career in disaster management. She hopes the recent trauma will serve as a mnemonic device for professors.
“Everything will be fine!” she said. “We’ll get through it!”
Irene Reindon said little when asked about the subject and seemed at a loss. “I’m just trying to get by,” she said. “It’ll all blow over soon.”
“It’s a disaster,” said Hunter. “Why did this have to happen to us? It’s sad some people got wet or whatever, but when I saw the name on TV I cried buckets.”
Hunter hails from Florida and had been looking forward to a crisp New England autumn.
“She’s been so irritable,” confided Irene Hunter’s mother. “She stomps around the house, yelling and throwing things. Irene’s always had a temper. Very tempestuous child. Lately when she comes into a room we take shelter. It’s about time she moved on to a new place.”
Fitzpatrick-Goldberg, however, has tried to assume a newly sunny attitude.
“Sure, I avoid saying my name when people meet me. I try to steer clear of the subject. Asking people about their hobbies or their friends from high school usually works.”
Her personalized towels and stationary are securely stowed under her bed, and instead of a name, she drew a Sharpie self-portrait on her nametag.
Fitzpatrick-Goldberg plans to study Environmental Studies and is considering a career in disaster management. She hopes the recent trauma will serve as a mnemonic device for professors.
“Everything will be fine!” she said. “We’ll get through it!”
Irene Reindon said little when asked about the subject and seemed at a loss. “I’m just trying to get by,” she said. “It’ll all blow over soon.”
God Punishes Ampersand with Natural Disasters
In response to what He has called a “campaign of slander and sedition,” God wreaked several retaliations upon the staff of the university’s Ampersand humor page this August,the impacts of which were widely felt on both sides of the Atlantic.
“While merited, we feel His response to be overzealous,” said university Public Safety Director David Meyer. “A swath of innocents paid the price for the dereliction of these few persons. Ten-year-old Sammy Smythe, who was killed by Hurricane Irene; Chavis 'Chip' Nottingham, who was trampled and bludgeoned during the London riots: these, among others, are folks who shouldn’t have had to die.”
The first signs of God’s furious discontent were riots throughout the suburbs of London, intended in part to harm Ampersand editor Piers Gelly ’13 at his London home. Unbeknownst to God, whose omniscience is trumped by omnipotence, Gelly had already departed, and the rioters began to loot electronics and valuable clothes in their frustration.
“‘E wos rippin’ on the BigMan, innit?” said Chester “Chug” Blightly of Clapham. “Bob-an’-a-wink, got me new telly an’ some Beats [by Dr. Dre], roight?”
Religion and weather scientists agree that both the 5.8 magnitude earthquake on August 23 andHurricane Irene were God’s further efforts to undo the Ampersand.
In a Sunday message from His spokeswoman Athena Cro-Magnon Bodhisattva at His embassy at the top of MountOlympus, God stated, “I’m really sick of those guys ragging on Jesus.”
God has plagued Ampersand staff members nationwide. High-Rise room 404, occupied by Gelly and writer Benjamin Soloway ’13, was forcibly annexed by the city of Atlanta, who claimed that the floorspace of the room was theirs by dint of its number, which is the same as their telephone area code.
“This is a simultaneously symbolic and pragmatic addition to our Greater Metropolitan Area,” said an aide from the mayor’s office.
Editor Zach Schonfeld ’13 has been cursed to walk the earth, haunting presidential birthplaces and liveblogging his thoughts.
“For too long I’ve been starving to death and haven’t died,” Schonfeld wrote on his blog. “I feel nothing. Not the wind on my face nor the spray of the sea. Nor the warmth of a woman’s flesh. You best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Turner. You’re in one.”
The city of Boise, Idaho, plans to evict writer Keelin Q.Ryan ’14, whom they believe to be a Jonah.
“All of the accidents that happen here are her fault,”said city council alderman Mick Beep. “Literally all of them.”
The Ampersand released a statement expressing neither sympathy nor empathy for the victims of God’s ministries.
Commenting from the gutted interior of a Carphone Warehouse in Hampstead, Chug Blightly observed, “Not so funny now when you lookin’ it up close, eh bruv? The Big Man’s gonna do it.”
“While merited, we feel His response to be overzealous,” said university Public Safety Director David Meyer. “A swath of innocents paid the price for the dereliction of these few persons. Ten-year-old Sammy Smythe, who was killed by Hurricane Irene; Chavis 'Chip' Nottingham, who was trampled and bludgeoned during the London riots: these, among others, are folks who shouldn’t have had to die.”
The first signs of God’s furious discontent were riots throughout the suburbs of London, intended in part to harm Ampersand editor Piers Gelly ’13 at his London home. Unbeknownst to God, whose omniscience is trumped by omnipotence, Gelly had already departed, and the rioters began to loot electronics and valuable clothes in their frustration.
“‘E wos rippin’ on the BigMan, innit?” said Chester “Chug” Blightly of Clapham. “Bob-an’-a-wink, got me new telly an’ some Beats [by Dr. Dre], roight?”
Religion and weather scientists agree that both the 5.8 magnitude earthquake on August 23 andHurricane Irene were God’s further efforts to undo the Ampersand.
In a Sunday message from His spokeswoman Athena Cro-Magnon Bodhisattva at His embassy at the top of MountOlympus, God stated, “I’m really sick of those guys ragging on Jesus.”
God has plagued Ampersand staff members nationwide. High-Rise room 404, occupied by Gelly and writer Benjamin Soloway ’13, was forcibly annexed by the city of Atlanta, who claimed that the floorspace of the room was theirs by dint of its number, which is the same as their telephone area code.
“This is a simultaneously symbolic and pragmatic addition to our Greater Metropolitan Area,” said an aide from the mayor’s office.
Editor Zach Schonfeld ’13 has been cursed to walk the earth, haunting presidential birthplaces and liveblogging his thoughts.
“For too long I’ve been starving to death and haven’t died,” Schonfeld wrote on his blog. “I feel nothing. Not the wind on my face nor the spray of the sea. Nor the warmth of a woman’s flesh. You best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Turner. You’re in one.”
The city of Boise, Idaho, plans to evict writer Keelin Q.Ryan ’14, whom they believe to be a Jonah.
“All of the accidents that happen here are her fault,”said city council alderman Mick Beep. “Literally all of them.”
The Ampersand released a statement expressing neither sympathy nor empathy for the victims of God’s ministries.
Commenting from the gutted interior of a Carphone Warehouse in Hampstead, Chug Blightly observed, “Not so funny now when you lookin’ it up close, eh bruv? The Big Man’s gonna do it.”
5/3/11
Editors' Note
All good things must come to an end. —Karl Marx
From the editors:
Play-dates, even if you hide when your mom comes to pick you up. Hospital stays, even if you don’t get cured. The universe, in cold, dark silence. The academic year, and if you’re a senior, your time at Wesleyan.
To those of you about to leave: we salute you. Have fun in Brooklyn/Teach For America/your parents’ basement.
Speaking of departure: Ampersand Editor Benjamin Soloway will be stepping down after this issue; he will now edit the Features section, a position that he will find both boring and unbeguiling. He will remain a frequent Ampersand contributor. Piers Gelly will return from France to resume his former position, and Zach Schonfeld will stay put. We have bequeathed upon frequent contributor Daniel Nass the following title: Online Editor/Technical Director/Multimedia Producer/Adjunct Associate Production Manager.
Ampersand staff: many thanks for a remarkable year of growth and synergy. Keep calm and carry on.
From the editors:
Play-dates, even if you hide when your mom comes to pick you up. Hospital stays, even if you don’t get cured. The universe, in cold, dark silence. The academic year, and if you’re a senior, your time at Wesleyan.
To those of you about to leave: we salute you. Have fun in Brooklyn/Teach For America/your parents’ basement.
Speaking of departure: Ampersand Editor Benjamin Soloway will be stepping down after this issue; he will now edit the Features section, a position that he will find both boring and unbeguiling. He will remain a frequent Ampersand contributor. Piers Gelly will return from France to resume his former position, and Zach Schonfeld will stay put. We have bequeathed upon frequent contributor Daniel Nass the following title: Online Editor/Technical Director/Multimedia Producer/Adjunct Associate Production Manager.
Ampersand staff: many thanks for a remarkable year of growth and synergy. Keep calm and carry on.
Yet to solidify your summer plans?
Do you have good communication skills? Solid writing skills? Top-notch social skills? Other skills? Enthusiasm? Are you a normal person who wants to be successful? Do you look sexy in business-casual? Do your parents want to pay for you to do unrewarding work without being paid?
Consider the Ampersand Social Media Internship!
Do not miss this opportunity to network, develop skills, and build your résumé. Begin marketing your personal brand!
The Ampersand is a rapidly growing, multi platform communications corporation. Our small team of employees is dedicated to innovation and creative problem solving. Join us on our ride to the top!
Do you have a deep love of tweeting? Did you tweet about Kate’s dress? Did you tweet about Osama’s death? This sounds like the job for you!
To apply, please fax us a writing sample: (212) 513-3047
Consider the Ampersand Social Media Internship!
Do not miss this opportunity to network, develop skills, and build your résumé. Begin marketing your personal brand!
The Ampersand is a rapidly growing, multi platform communications corporation. Our small team of employees is dedicated to innovation and creative problem solving. Join us on our ride to the top!
Do you have a deep love of tweeting? Did you tweet about Kate’s dress? Did you tweet about Osama’s death? This sounds like the job for you!
To apply, please fax us a writing sample: (212) 513-3047
Recent Grad Classifieds
- Deconstruction Worker: Foucault Co. seeks virile, critical thinking workers to lay bricks, set up drywall, and expose the internal contradictions and irreducible complexity of literary texts. If this seems too difficult, simply talk about phallocentric technocracy. Competency with a jackhammer is a must.
- Film Analyzer: Sit outside a multiplex with a an empty guitar case and see if people will pay you to enlighten them as to how tracking shots and the motif of the automobile create a poetic sense of postindustrial ennui in Justin Lin’s Fast Five.
- President of Wesleyan University: Combining the best parts of a scholarly polymath and lovable mascot, Wesleyan’s presidency is perfect for anyone who has a passion for expanding the minds of Our Children The Future, fundraising, and sunglasses.
- Antisocial Welfare: Get your parents to pay for your miniscule Brooklyn apartment while you blog about the minimalist clowncore scene in Rio De Janeiro, refuse any paying job that contributes to global warming, and misunderstand girls who claim to ind your moustache “Chekhovian.” Make sure to eat lots of limes so you don’t get scurvy.
- Crystal Meth Dealer: Get in on the action before Chinese orphans offer a superior product at a fraction of the price.
Amper Arts Expose: Pink@DKE
On the evening of Thursday, April 28th, Argus Arts Correspondent Tallullah Clementine ’13, who has refused to write a single concert review for the arts section for the entire year due to her revulsion toward sweaty campus venues, received a “super top-secret” email detailing a special event called “Pink@DKE” happening on Saturday night. According to the email, “this [was] the only true, deinitive DKE event happening on Saturday night.”“As a pledge task, we decided to celebrate the feminine in DKE. We had the pledges spray-paint everything pink and dye some random poodles with fruit punch. Yeah, we admit it. We actually did this specifically to attract girls. Now get the fuck over here, Tallulah. We promise we’ll be nice.”
Clementine, however, was sorely disappointed when she arrived at DKE. “The only pink item I saw there was the–ugh–blood on the musicians’ faces,” she said of an incident during Cum Tissue’s opening song, “Pregnant with Shit.”
“I don’t even know what happened, but there were lots of people gathered around taking pictures.” (Pink is Miss Clementine’s favorite color.) In her attempts to uphold her journalistic integrity despite her shock and revulsion at the DKE basement (“They were selling tighty-whities with brown streaks spraypainted onto them that said ‘Trouser Filth’–oh lordy!”), Miss Clementine was elbowed several times, and claimed a DKE brother tried to toilet paper her and her festive pink hoop skirt.
Fortunately, she found solace in the company of a group of Frisbee team pledges who were led in on a leash by their superior.
“Oh, my,” said Miss Clementine with a laugh, “They sure were the darndest thing.”
The Ampersand Interviews Spring Fling Acts
Wavves
Ampersand: So I understand your shtick is that you musically interpret wave functions that you graph onstage with TI-83s. With all due respect, what the fuck?
Anthony (lead vocals): We all met in Calculus class in high school. We noticed how we’ d each tricked out our graphing calculators, and it was clear to each of us that we were all very passionate about math.
Jefferton (bass): It ended up that we all bought our weed from the same guy too, and things sort of just snowballed from there. You know how it is.
&: What can we expect at the show on Thursday?
Bart (timpani): We’re going to include all the old fan favorites, like “[C1] 2 + [C2] 2.” But we’re also going to branch out into some more experimental material.
Anthony: We’ve got this new jam called “(x+3)” and it’ s been getting a really good response. So we’re definitely gonna drop some of that on your faces.
The Walkmen
&: So let me get this straight. You guys bring Sony Walkmen onstage loaded with cassettes that you randomly picked the night before. You play them into microphones on stage, and that’s your whole act?
Jefferton (the funny chubby one): Yes.
&: Whaaaaaat?
Ghostface Killah & Raekwon
&: So Mr. Killah, you have a ghost for a face. How’s that working out for you?
Ghostface Killah (Ironman): It’s been hard. When I was young, the other kids would constantly give me shit about it, you know, like “Hey, is that a ghost on your face or are you just happy to see me?” But then I learned to control my spectral powers and consume the souls of haters for energy, so that helped a lot.
&: Fascinating. And Raekwon, how have the tentacles you’ve had surgically attached all over your body affected your development as an artist?
Raekwon (Chef): It’s really allowed me to step up my game to unspeakable levels. You have no idea the sort of shit I can pull off. I don’ t want to spoil anything for Thursday, but here’s a hint: not all of the tentacles have suckers on them.
&: And Ghostface, you are also apparently Ironman.
Ghostface: Yeah, I use the armor to get from show to show. Rap is my passion, but I’ve always had a soft spot for using my repulsors to incinerate wrongdoers.
&: One last question. What is The Wu-Tang Secret?
Raekwon: (Rips out interviewer’s heart from chest cavity and eats it)
Ampersand: So I understand your shtick is that you musically interpret wave functions that you graph onstage with TI-83s. With all due respect, what the fuck?
Anthony (lead vocals): We all met in Calculus class in high school. We noticed how we’ d each tricked out our graphing calculators, and it was clear to each of us that we were all very passionate about math.
Jefferton (bass): It ended up that we all bought our weed from the same guy too, and things sort of just snowballed from there. You know how it is.
&: What can we expect at the show on Thursday?
Bart (timpani): We’re going to include all the old fan favorites, like “[C1] 2 + [C2] 2.” But we’re also going to branch out into some more experimental material.
Anthony: We’ve got this new jam called “(x+3)” and it’ s been getting a really good response. So we’re definitely gonna drop some of that on your faces.
The Walkmen
&: So let me get this straight. You guys bring Sony Walkmen onstage loaded with cassettes that you randomly picked the night before. You play them into microphones on stage, and that’s your whole act?
Jefferton (the funny chubby one): Yes.
&: Whaaaaaat?
Ghostface Killah & Raekwon
&: So Mr. Killah, you have a ghost for a face. How’s that working out for you?
Ghostface Killah (Ironman): It’s been hard. When I was young, the other kids would constantly give me shit about it, you know, like “Hey, is that a ghost on your face or are you just happy to see me?” But then I learned to control my spectral powers and consume the souls of haters for energy, so that helped a lot.
&: Fascinating. And Raekwon, how have the tentacles you’ve had surgically attached all over your body affected your development as an artist?
Raekwon (Chef): It’s really allowed me to step up my game to unspeakable levels. You have no idea the sort of shit I can pull off. I don’ t want to spoil anything for Thursday, but here’s a hint: not all of the tentacles have suckers on them.
&: And Ghostface, you are also apparently Ironman.
Ghostface: Yeah, I use the armor to get from show to show. Rap is my passion, but I’ve always had a soft spot for using my repulsors to incinerate wrongdoers.
&: One last question. What is The Wu-Tang Secret?
Raekwon: (Rips out interviewer’s heart from chest cavity and eats it)
Wesleyan Graduating Class Struggles to Cope with Post-Osama Job Climate
While much of Wesleyan’s student body greeted news of Osama Bin Laden’s death with patriotic exclamations and cheers of relief, members of the class of 2011 anticipate difficulty adjusting to a post-Bin Laden job climate. Film major Daniel Hertz ’11 is especially feeling the hit.
“I was planning to, like, make an indie documentary about driving around the country next year looking for Osama while stopping at every Taco Bell we pass along the way,” explains Hertz, who has already secured money for the project through the Tölölyan Fund for the Study of Diasporas and Transnationalism. “The working title was Tacosama Grande. My 10-year-old sister agreed to come on the trip and everything.”
For Hertz, post-grad employment ideas have been suddenly, and cruelly, snuffed by Bin Laden’s death. “What am I supposed to do now, work at fucking Foot Locker? Fuck Foot Locker.”
Fellow senior Amanda Gruerwitz ’11 is equally distressed, unsure how Bin Laden’s discovery in Abbottabad, Pakistan, will affect her senior thesis, “Osamarama: Post-Structuralist Rearticulations of Bin Laden in Iowa.”
“My thesis locates Bin Laden’s presence in a hideout camp beneath a Des Moines, Iowa, women’s shelter within an Althusserian constellation of post-Lacanian butch-feminist patriarchal critique,” Gruerwitz explains. “He wasn’t actually in Iowa, I guess.”
Alone among his classmates, James Robbins ’11 is pleased by his new employment options.
“My new Tumblr has been doing pretty well. It’s called ‘Osama at Chuck E. Cheese.’ Just pictures of Osama photoshopped into pictures of kids at Chuck E. Cheese. Pretty sweet.”
Robbins hopes to spend next year living off the royalties of the upcoming “Osama at Chuck E. Cheese” coffee table book at his grandmother’s house in Scarsdale, N.Y.
“She has a water trampoline and everything. Pretty sweet.”
“I was planning to, like, make an indie documentary about driving around the country next year looking for Osama while stopping at every Taco Bell we pass along the way,” explains Hertz, who has already secured money for the project through the Tölölyan Fund for the Study of Diasporas and Transnationalism. “The working title was Tacosama Grande. My 10-year-old sister agreed to come on the trip and everything.”
For Hertz, post-grad employment ideas have been suddenly, and cruelly, snuffed by Bin Laden’s death. “What am I supposed to do now, work at fucking Foot Locker? Fuck Foot Locker.”
Fellow senior Amanda Gruerwitz ’11 is equally distressed, unsure how Bin Laden’s discovery in Abbottabad, Pakistan, will affect her senior thesis, “Osamarama: Post-Structuralist Rearticulations of Bin Laden in Iowa.”
“My thesis locates Bin Laden’s presence in a hideout camp beneath a Des Moines, Iowa, women’s shelter within an Althusserian constellation of post-Lacanian butch-feminist patriarchal critique,” Gruerwitz explains. “He wasn’t actually in Iowa, I guess.”
Alone among his classmates, James Robbins ’11 is pleased by his new employment options.
“My new Tumblr has been doing pretty well. It’s called ‘Osama at Chuck E. Cheese.’ Just pictures of Osama photoshopped into pictures of kids at Chuck E. Cheese. Pretty sweet.”
Robbins hopes to spend next year living off the royalties of the upcoming “Osama at Chuck E. Cheese” coffee table book at his grandmother’s house in Scarsdale, N.Y.
“She has a water trampoline and everything. Pretty sweet.”
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