Vol. XXV, No. 2 - The SAD Issue by Tufts Zamboni

Horse Girls Gone Wild | An Interview With Your Farts | Water Polo | Is Your Child Smoking STEROIDS?!

Tufts Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Only Intentionally Funny Magazine,

March 2014

The SAD Issue

Vol. XXV, No. 2

Seaso n Affec al tive Diso rder!

Est. 1987

This issue was supposed to have come out back in February. It was called the “Winter Wonderland Issue” then and was based around a photo of the Wonderland T-Stop on the blue line, surrounded by degenerates and disgusting beach sand. Winter Wonderland, indeed. Had we known about the polar vortex, and returning polar vortex cousin “Solar Cortex,” we would have still put out that issue. We didn’t though. Instead we spent several weeks getting drunk during out meetings, spitballing dumb ideas into the abyss, and pretending to get work done while instead secretly eloping with one very energetic Harvard professor. We regret nothing. At the end of the day we were still able to get the Tufts “Post up, bra-less TCU Treasury to give us $3,000 more, on top of our budget that is already more than the average annual household Rideisround in it, bra-less income in most parts of the world. Thanks, Tufts! I hope you’re really happy that this what you’ve been funding: a Flossin’ onisthat, bra-less” schizoid, haphazard “magazine” full of poop jokes and alcoholism. No regret, though. Regret for the alumni of this “prestigious” university who realize that both their tuition money and subsequent donation funds went to support such an atrocity in literary publication. This issue is for you, Trustees of Tufts College. Without your lack of oversight and complete disregard for most functioning within the student body’s affairs, we wouldn’t exist! You ever realize that all of life is just a repensive game where we spend the money of others, eat the cheese of our follies, and disregard our morals to make ends meet so that we may reperpetuate the cycle? And we wonder why babies are fat, sad sacks of shit. We’re all fat, sad sacks of shit. If we werent then that wouldn’t be America and I don’t want to live in a country that doesn’t allow me the freedom to shit all over myself and then blame someone else for it. I put this text over a calming ocean background because fuck it, Am I right? So enjoy this Beyonce underboob ad, it’s just a metaphor for the reflection of the unheard sounds within us all - the moaning pangs of despised love and a take on the rank of industry. Are we Upton Sinclair? Probably not, but that doesn’t mean we’re not far off. Hell, at least we know when the fucking rent is due, amirite? That doesn’t even make sense. Pack your meat and eat it to, as the Queen Marie Americantoinette said. We must deconstruct to construct. Take apart the establishment. Let it wrinkle beneath us. Let it absolve all sin and For more information on memberruin of the hellhole that we survive in. Let us use this message as a metaphor. Let’s take metaphors for messages. Let’s ship and donations, please contact sink our teeth into a shark, just to see what happens. It will probably bit us. But if life’s not about stabbing sharks with 1Bill_UnderBoobs@gmail.com. your switchblade, then I don’t know what is. Lets take a ride together sometime. I once had sex with a pizza. Wasn’t the worst thing I’d ever done, but you know what, I’m gonna let it all out here. Just let you guys know how I feel about capitalism and Obamacare. and Beyonce agrees with me, you know? It’s this fucked up system that gives us cancer, not any sort of cigarettes or “dangerous behavior.” Fuck all the doctors, man! I’ll drink Lysol if I want to, you know? Stop telling me what I can and can’t inject into my eyeballs! I’m sixteen, mom! I’ll buttchug you under the table! I have a tolerance to rival the ACLU. I have an ass so large you can call be the Booty Burro. I AM BEYONCE. I AM QUEEN. I AM THE LORD OF DARKNESS AND FLIGHT. I AM THE VOID WITHIN US ALL! I AM THE CRAWFISH OF VICTORY! #1BILLIONSTRONG I HAVE THE SCEPTOR OF FORGIVENESS AND IT WILL NEVER SEE YOUR FACE! I HAVE AN “EXTRA” PENIS!

The 1 Billion Underboobs Campaign

Wanna be Hip? Purchase Sriracha and/or Kale! These two products instantly hipsterfy even the dweebiest piece of shit. Sriracha and kale have exploded in popularity in towns like Brooklyn, Portland, Austin, and in our own alterna-backyard, Somerville, MA. Lame to ~quirky cool~ success stories can be seen all over Tumblr, Instagram and Twitter just by posting photos of something as simple as a sack of kale or an empty bottle of Srirarcha. Get to your local grocery store NOW and find Sriracha and kale if you’re feeling short on whimsicality. Both are practical and well priced; both make even the most insipid dickweed hip.

What’s in this Issue? See if you can find the scratch and sniff picture!

News Girl Publicizes Love of Cheese for Attention News3 Area Will Owen 3

Ellen Page Comes Out (of Her Husk of a Human Form) Graham Starr

4 4 Rich, White, 20-Year-Old Male Writes Story About Rich, White, 20-Year-Old Male Megan Clark Karaoke Rendition of “Hallelujah” Brings Crowd to Tears Rathsmill Features5 Laura Dismantling the Patriarchy Just in Time for Valentine’s Day

5 Emily Garber Tito’s Handmade Vodka: Made with Real Hands? Brian Rose 6 7 Features 86 A Somerville Distilleries Tour Will Owen

Erotica for SJWs: Noam Chomsky bares all in steamy solo p. 89

7 Tony Monaco: Super Villain Megan Z 9 Eight Tufts Buildings Named after REAL PEOPLE Gina Wromgem 108 Celebrity Gossip: Paula Deen Connor Des Rochers The Jet-Setting Jumbo: Quito, Ecuador Vicky Rathsmill 9 New York Fashion Week in Review Will Owen Opinion10 SCANDAL: Unretouched Images from Tony Monaco’s Photo Shoot 11 Laura Rathsmill 12 Opinion

11 Pop Culture is Political Ryan Hastings-Echo 12 An Honest Review of... The Zamboni’s Fall Issue Emily Garber Romance Happy Valentine’s Day to the Ground! Krupskaya Butareva 13 14 #RealLife

15 13 One-Handed Read: A Snowy Evening Emily Garber 16 14 More Unretouched Images from Tony Monaco’s Photo Shoot Laura Rathsmill

(Wo)man-on-the-Street Interviews Nicky Gonzalez 15 POLICE BLOTTER Graham Starr, Assorted Zamboni Staff SAFETY ALERT Rachel Rapaport 16 The Poetry Reach-Around Will Owen, Vicky Rathsmill, Emily Garber

LADIES, is your labia showing through your jeans? p. 25

Art Art Art Direction Graham Starr Front and Back Covers Graham Starr Layout Front Inside-Cover Will Owen, Graham Starr Back Inside-Cover Graham Starr Vol. XXV, No. 2 - The SAD Issue

A Word March 2014

Vol. XXV, No. 2

Editors-in-Chief Will “Tulip” Owen Laura “Swamp Ash” Rathsmill Managing Editors Graham “Bird of Paradise” Starr Nina “Pine Nut” Bernstein Editors-at-Large Emily “Sugar Magnolia” Barns Connor “Baby’s Breath” Des Rochers Vicky “Mugwort” Rathsmill Staff Megan “Buttercup” Clark Emily “Honeysuckle” Garber Alie “Peach Blossom” Glaser Nicky “Snowdrop” Gonzalez Ryan “Gilliflower” Hastings-Echo Andrew “Mustard Seed” Leibert Ben ”Sweet Pea” Meyerson Ben “Gerber Daisy” Pall Rachel “Common Yarrow” Rapaport Brian “Rose” Rose Jordan “Sea Cucumber“ Rossen Paul “Daffodil” Templeton Greg “Petunia” Witz Megan “Bachelor’s Button” Zupon Editors Emeriti Josh Wolk Brett Weiner Stephanie Vallejo Francis Dahl Michael Yarsky Devin Toohey Michael Schecht Matthew Luz Luke Burns Ryan Oliveira Matt McGowan Andrew “De-Flowered” Reisman

from the

Editors

To our children, born and unborn:

So, this issue was originally going to be called “The Winter Wonderland Issue,” which we came up with back in November when we still felt like there was something called hope in this godforsaken world. But now that it’s March* and the fluffy snow has turned into a wintry hellscape, a couple of staff members suggested that we make our theme something more fitting—The SAD Issue.

“The SAD Issue” has a dual meaning—it reflects the sad truth that most people at Tufts are either miserable because they are unprepared to survive financially or socially in life after Tufts, or they are engineers who are miserable for completely different reasons. “SAD” also refers to Seasonal Affective Disorder, which is a very serious condition that no one should ever make fun of ever and that we take very, very seriously. Some of the material in this issue has a jolly, wintry feeling, which is from back when we were still set on the Winter Wonderland theme. Other material in here, such as a disturbing expose on Monaco’s collection of student fingers and toes, or the shocking discovery that Tito really doesn’t hand-make his own vodka, belongs more to SAD theme. Not that anyone cares about theme continuity in The Zamboni—you all are probably lining your hamster cages with us right now. Ain’t that a kick in the head?** *April

**We don’t really know what this means, but it’s Zamboni tradition and we don’t want to commit blasphemy against our Zamboni forefathers. Also, it seems appropriate for that time your S.A.D. led you to get overly drunk at that bris and then slip on black ice.

Join the Zamboni! Wednesdays @ 10 pm Campus Center Room 218

Or email us at TuftsZamboni@gmail.com Submissions welcome! Twitter: @TuftsZamboni

Disclaimer and Editorial Policy: The Zamboni is a student-run humor and satire publication of Tufts University. In no way do the views expressed herein necessarily reflect those of Tufts University, or even the editors. So, don’t go e-mailing the people listed in the staff box, especially since we make some of the names up. All material is meant to be viewed as humorous and should not be taken seriously, but keep in mind, we still love a good Viewpoints face-off and all of this material will be on the test. We accept any and all submissions from Tufts students, but any references to Harvard University must be spelled “Hah-vahd” (the Lang Clause). Submissions to The Zamboni are screened by the Editor-in-Chief and/or the Editorial Staff. Decisions are made on the completely subjective grounds of their humor content, but if you’re a legacy, we have to take you (the Reisman Clause).

The Zamboni

NEWS

Area Girl Publicizes Love of Cheese for Attention

By Willis Franklin Owen

ources told the Zamboni yesterday that 18-year-old Tufts student, Sandy Stopherberg, posts pictures of herself with cheese on various forms of social media to garner attention. “Cheese is the only Valentine #thisbitch needs!” Sandy posted yesterday morning, wearing a Maroon 5 shirt and clenching a ball of Trader Joe’s Gouda between her teeth. The Valentine’s Day status is not the first desperate cry for ‘likes’ Sandy has posted within the past month. Sandy’s friends grew concerned when she came back from Winter Break with a “new, fun, quirky and larger-than-life personality.” In addition to the Gouda photo, she has posted a total of 14 other images of herself with various hard and soft cheeses. “It’s just not fucking funny,” says Chris Guildenstern, a sophomore in Sandy’s Concepts of the Cosmos class. “She doesn’t even mention Velveeta or Cheese Wiz. Like, at least post about the unnatural shit if you want to get a reaction.”

Sandy Stopherberg is far from the only student who posts about her love of a mundane, albeit unhealthy, food item to seem like she has a personality. The Heritage Foundation, a conservative think-tank based in Washington, D.C., has conducted a two-year study of the issue. “It’s an epidemic that is completely anti-American,” says Darlington Levy, the Executive Director of Heritage. “American individuality and innovation are not based on gloating about how you love a widely celebrated food.” With empirical evidence and statistical research, The Heritage Foundation concluded that roughly one in every forty personal posts by a millennial on social media is about a “silly” food item. In addition to cheese, whole milk, bacon, beef jerky and Lunchables are among the most popular types posted. Heritage also found that these posts are divided based on gender lines. Men in their teens and twenties post about “meats” – bacon, Spam, hot dogs, etc.- about 80% more than women of the same age. Women tend to post more about dairy products. “There’s also the whole kale demo-

At HRC Event, Ellen Page Comes Out of Her Fleshy Exoskeleton Skin-Chrysalis By Graham Starr

Las Vegas, NV - Chatter and congratulations went through Hollywood during a Human Rights Campaign (HRC) event last month. As part of their “Time to Thrive” conference, actress Ellen Page, known for her roles in Juno and the X-Men films, publicly came out of her rippling skin-chalice, shedding her husk of a human form and molting into an insect god. “I’m tired of hiding. I’m tired of lying by omission,” said Page, referring to the pressures to conform in Hollywood, as her hair shed itself and crawled off the atrium, screaming incoherent curses and then disappearing in a wave of pure energy. Cellulose became inert, reminiscent of the trials of mortality. “I try not to read gossip, as a rule. But the other day, a website ran an article with a picture of me wearing sweatpants on the way to the gym,” Page said as slugs crawled out of her now-vacant eye sockets and her mouth became a subtle aberration. “All that gossip is silly - people caring about celebrities’ personal lives - I just don’t get it. Especially when our purpose is in life-dedication to the gore-dismantling justice of Ags’achjurkrah, whose beauty is horror.”

graphic,” Levy says. “They seem to be the ultra-cool hipsters in modern ‘relationships’ who really want to subvert American values.” Concern over “quirky food posts” is beginning to eclipse similar Swiss is my favorite. uproar over racist, sexist, and homophobic tweets by celebrities. Last Thursday, no one batted an eye when Justin Bieber taunted his drag race competitor with slurs like “Big Vagina.” Sandy Stopherberg herself has shied away from the media attention surrounding her cheese posts, but an anonymous source did tell the Zamboni she “feels unsafe” at her own school. Updates on this riveting, evolving story can be found on tuftszamboni.com/ cheese_news. •

Her speech patterns had now become a hollow chant where all audio existed only in your mind. Emotion had become a wordless concept coveted by the god of darkness. “There are pervasive stereotypes about masculinity and femininity that define how we are all supposed to act, dress, and speak, and they serve nobody!” said the Inception actress to a crowd of screaming fans. Their screams fueled Page’s next transformation, as spiked wings sprouted from her fleeting nega-pus and echoed across the Marriott conference room. Blood demons emerged from the walls, floors, and patrons’ stomachs. “Here I am, an actress, representing - at least in some sense - an industry that places crushing standards on all of us, some not unlike the standards of perverse obliteration set by the great and powerful Kang-de’Ztoezrkl, interdimensional larva messiah and commandant of the Klepto-Plane!” Page said, sharply criticizing the bigoted structure of show business. A great void dematerialized and surrounded any sort of physical presence she had left. Her voice became a series of mysterious symbols. At press time, she was seen gliding over Los Angeles on wings of black chitin, her destination unknown, her provenance alight with self-holy fury. •

Vol. XXV, No. 2 - The SAD Issue

NEWS

Rich, White, 20-Year-Old Male Writes Story About Rich, White, 20-Year-Old Male By Megan Clark

In breaking news, Matthew Reed, an affluent, Caucasian college student with a self-described “drinking problem to rival Hemingway,” has just presented his creative writing class with a new chapter of his novel. “It’s kind of this concept piece about a guy from Brooklyn who really needs to find himself,” says Reed. “His girlfriend has just broken up with him, sending him into a booze- and blow-fueled tailspin, so he decides to go on a road trip to meet some real, salt-of-the-earth kind of people. People who work with their hands.” Reed describes his novel as “experimental, avant-garde, and subversive.” His professor has called it, “derivative, misogynistic, and stunningly lacking in self-awareness.” “This piece is really something that speaks to diversity and the truth of the human soul,” says Reed. “This is a story anyone can relate to.” The novel is scheduled to publish in July 2014, with exclusive release to the iPad mini. • Reed shown at Cup of Jeaux, his favorite East Village coffeeshop.

Karaoke Rendition of “Hallelujah” Brings Crowd to Tears By Laura Rathsmill

“And remember when I moved in you / The holy dove was moving too”

Bloomsbury, London—History was made last Saturday at Mully’s, a student pub run by University College London, when first-year David Johnson gave a karaoke performance of “Hallelujah” that was so moving, it left the entire crowd of students in hysterical whimpers and tears.

The Zamboni

Many describe his performance as “haunting,” and history student Michelle Jiang claims it “gave me strength that a new day would come.” According to Mully’s staff, almost everyone in the crowd linked arms and swayed, experiencing a collective, healing catharsis by the time the synthesizer piano on the karaoke mix repeated its final refrain. “It made me want to be a better man,” says Luke Andrews, 13, who came from Bath to spend the weekend with his older sister at UCL. Others, like Evan Owen, 18, found Johnson’s performance transformative. The political science student claims “I had a stuffy nose all day, and, incredibly, it was gone by the final verse of the song. That’s the miracle of music.” Canadian poet and songwriter Leonard Cohen released “Hallelujah” in 1984. No one genuinely likes this version, nor has the heart to tell him so. Most people prefer famous cover versions of the song by John Cale, Jeff Buckley and Shrek—which is Johnson’s favorite version. Johnson, a first-year biomedical engineer from Southern California, says he is not surprised by the enthusiastic reception of his performance, explaining that he sang the song once before in his middle school talent

show when he was 12 years old. “It went over pretty well with the parents back then. My grandma cried.” He claims the song has meant a lot to him over the years: “I’ve always identified with the bit about ‘I heard there was a secret chord / That David played and it pleased the Lord,’ because, like, my name’s David too—ya know? So it’s kind of spooky.” Johnson admits that he’s “always been a singer at heart,” citing The Fray’s “early work” as a major influence on him, as well as “anything that sounds like Bob Dylan but isn’t actually Bob Dylan.” There were a few other stand-out performances that night. Among the most memorable was an unexpectedly tearful rendition of Katy Perry’s “California Gurls,” sung by a young woman with a thick Scottish accent whose face was entirely covered in eyeliner. Additionally, an ensemble of firstyear boys from UCL’s rugby team performed a spirited rendition of “The Boys are Back in Town” by Thin Lizzy. This act was especially interesting to watch, as only two of them knew where they were and what they were doing, while the other young men stood on stage looking dazed until they heard the song’s iconic guitar solo, which they all sang along to with impressive accuracy. •

Dismantling the Patriarchy Just in Time for Valentine’s Day By Emily Garber

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she must stand up and shout, “NAY” to the heavens for the millennia of oppression she has suffered at the hands of dicks engorged with egos and pride. The time was nigh for revolution, and I decided to act, and for once actually be the change that I wanted to see in the world. Thus, donning my disguise and packing all my best gadgets, I embarked. This is my story: It took me a month to track down the lair of the Patriarchal Elders. But find it, I did. It was a small, nondescript mineshaft in Shortstaff, New Mexico, a few miles outside of town. The perfect hiding place, right near the border, very close to Tijuana for a bros-weekend-out. I had disguised myself as a man, for women ought to be in the kitchens, not the offices in this place. Even the secretaries were forced to wear aprons so as not to get confused. I had to gain their trust. That was my first challenge. I spent months training until I could play Xbox in my sleep, and educating myself out of nasty habits such as not telling rape jokes and taking no for an answer. It did not take me long to assimilate. Soon, I was jovially putting on fedoras that in a universally unspoken secret may or may not have been plaid and purchased at a Claire’s. Soon, I was referring to all of my own gender as “girl” without having to con-

NEWS

sciously remind myself that here, they were not, in fact, people. Finally, I gained the trust of the Eldest Pater, whose face, even in a brightly lit room, was shrouded in shadow and cigar smoke. He spoke with the voice of a generation. And whenever I would receive a Holy High Five, his hand would be as cold as the soul of any woman who ever rejected a man that looked on her with kindness. Ice, ice baby. The Holy, Eldest Pater then extended his cordial invitation for me to enter, in the highest of honors, The Legacy of Mancave. Amongst much applause and many vehemently-denied-to-be-homoerotic ass-slaps, I entered, and I swear the doors opened to bright light, as I had always imagined the gates of heaven to be…. I cannot say what I witnessed within the Mancave. I do not know if there are words. It was deep. Cold. And then, in the back corner… I cannot remember. I backed out in horror, mouth agape. My cover blown. The Eldest Pater was cackling. It did not sound human. I had to stop this. I had to warn them. Before they could seize me, I snatched my stealth grenade and pulled the pin, amidst many bro-gasps. But I hardly even heard them. I hurled it back, heart pounding, into the Mancave. I hoped. It did not matter if the flames took me as well. I ran, I heard the voices pursuing. They were coming. There is no time…. There is no time…. •

Tito’s Handmade Vodka Not Actually Made By Tito’s Hand--Nation Aghast By Brian Rose

Liquor consumers were shocked last week to learn that Tito’s Handmade Vodka was, in fact, not handmade after all. Local alcoholics noted how carefully they consider what they put in their body. “It’s very important to me that my vodka be handmade, fair-trade, organic, grassfed, and locally sourced,” said Tufts senior David Yow. “I’m appalled Tito’s would lie about this. I don’t know what to believe

anymore.” The secret was revealed last Sunday when Lara Logan of 60 Minuets – wanting to redeem herself following her botched Benghazi report – bravely sneaked into the Tito’s factory in Austin, Texas to uncover the conspiracy. “Actually, I really just sneaked in there to steal some vodka,” admitted Logan. “It’s been a rough few months.”

Regardless, what she witnessed there has rocked the nation. “They vodka wasn’t being made by hand, it was being made by robots!” Due to the backlash, Tito’s announced yesterday they will rename their product “Tito’s Robot-made Vodka” The Svedka robot could not be reached for comment. •

Vol. XXV, No. 2 - The SAD Issue

FEATURES

Ethanol and Encounters with the Supernatural: A Somerville Distilleries Tour

By William Owen This year my partner Craig and I decided we were sick of Sonoma, tired of the Munich Beer Gardens, and so over sipping on Spanish sherry. After a little Internet research and some soul-searching, we found our next big alcohol-related vacation locale: Somerville, Massachusetts. Known mostly as the most densely populated city in Massachusetts and home of Tufts University, Somerville also boasts an incredible array of quaint, rustic vodka distilleries. Craig and I spent three whole days in Somerville filled with laughs, love, and liver-failure on our “Vodka Tour.” We checked into a charming La Quinta Inn on Cummings St., just after “chewing the fat” with a lively bearded, old gentleman riding a sparkly pink little girl’s bicycle. This is what Craig and I love to do on our vacations – get in touch with the “real folk” of wherever we are (Craig majored in anthropology!). Our first tour was of the Rubinoff distillery, and we were eager to taste the ethanol. Rubinoff is most popular with the locals of Somerville, namely the jaundiced fraternity brothers of the numerous colleges in the area. This was the cleanest and classiest of the three distilleries we visited, and such attention to detail transferred over to stupendous vodka quality. After horsing around with one of the employees - who had that classic “Somuhville” accent I love to hear – I brought a shot glass of Rubinoff to my lips. The first taste of vodka caused a burning sensation worse than bleach, but the pain transported me to a scenic Russian winter scene. A friendly gentleman in a rolledup flannel teased, “What the fuck do you want, princess?” I chuckled heartily at his joke and appreciated his take on the quintessential brusque Bostonian. After what felt like days in St. Petersburg, I realized the Russian winter scene around me was merely the frigid snow of Somerville itself.

The Zamboni

Craig and I both passed out on the curb outside the distillery, with erect members drawn on our faces and our wallets gone. “Oh well,” I shrugged to Craig. “Traveling is always an adventure.” The Caldwell’s Vodka distillery had an ominous feel the minute we walked in. The entire complex was empty, aside

Caldwell’s flowing at an exclusive Somerville warehouse party.

from a few bats. After taking shots from cobwebby shot glasses, Craig and I could have sworn we heard a witch’s faint cackle. The rest of our visit is a blur, but I’m pretty sure we entered a supernatural realm – a Narnia where everyone’s fucked up and the White Witch’s brew facilitates reckless sexual decisions. I can vaguely recall one part of our Caldwell’s visit, during which Craig sprouted devil horns and insisted he was a vengeful Princess Diana. According to Craig, I began speaking in tongues and clutching my crotch in violent submission to an unnamed higher power. I sobered up before Craig, which allowed me to consciously witness his startling transfor-

mation into a fire-breathing monster of Welsh royalty. Not knowing what to do, I helplessly cried while trying to restrain Craig. My tears fell into the blacks holes that had become his eyes, and he miraculously recovered from his state of hysteria. “Princess Di better not be your drag persona at Gary’s Halloween party this year,” I scolded Craig as we left the Caldwell’s distillery with flu-like symptoms. Craig shrugged and mumbled something about brass knuckles and “that Camilla bitch.” Our final destination was the S.S. Pierce Distillery. It’s shocking that this $9 brand of vodka/lighter fluid isn’t more widely celebrated by locals. (Spike an office party with this cheap shit and you for once won’t be the only inappropriately drunk employee there ;) ).However, S.S. Pierce proved to be the afterthought Craig and I expected, but it’s difficult to say whether this was a result of our collective blacking out or of the vodka’s lackluster status in comparison to Rubinoff or Caldwell’s. I do vaguely recall an illuminating conversation with a female employee of the distillery. After seeing her perform grinding labor, I proceeded to educate her about her societal oppression. She told me to “go fuck myself.” I then handed her a pamphlet for a Marxist discussion group I lead on Tuesdays after my weekly tennis lesson at The Club. This was one of the most rewarding experiences I had during my three days in Somerville. Perky provincials, local pride, and virulent vodka are what made our trip to Somerville one of our best vacations we’ve had since Craig and I were committed six years ago. I highly recommend this under-celebrated destination that is off the beaten path of the Freedom Trail. Come visit quick, as hotel prices skyrocket and the distilleries lose their “authenticity.” •

Tony Monaco: Super Villain By Megan Z. You may have wondered why, despite temperatures ranging from ten to twelve degrees in February and March, Tufts University decided to remain open for classes. President Tony Monaco initially insisted that Tufts would remain open because students were being “little bitches” about the weather, and went on to state: “When I was goalie on the men’s water polo team at Princeton, we never complained about walking to and from practice in the winter. AND our hair was wet.” However, recent information uncovered by a team of the Zamboni’s investigatory journalists found that Monaco’s reasons for keeping the University open were deeply sinister. Monaco went on record telling students to “suck it up, maybe if you weren’t such whiny little poopwipes Harvard would’ve admitted you,” but was later overheard privately joking with his wife saying “Ha! Harvard never would’ve taken them anyway. I would know because I went there for grad school.” To which his wife responded, “I know, honey, we’ve discussed this before.” Monaco looked at his unimpressed wife and decided it was time to amp up his game. Presumably enshrouded in mauve satin pajamas, teeth glistening like slightly tarnished chiclets, he began his dark tale: “But what you DON’T know is that the school has remained open for a reason far more important than building character, more important than you know, more important than anyone knows! I’M GOING TO CHANGE THE WORLD. EVEN MORE THAN TISCH ACTIVE CITIZENSHIP SUMMER FELLOWS.” Then, much like a classic Bond villain, Monaco revealed the intimate details of his gruesome plan to his wife, while our roving reporters listened at their bedroom door to gather informa

FEATURES -tion and hopefully hear hot sex. Many know of Monaco’s groundbreaking research in the field of genetics. He spent time working on the Human Genome Project and also, according to Wikipedia, “identified the first gene specifically involved in human speech and language.” While all of this probably looks impressive on his resume, what many don’t know, and what Monaco revealed to his wife, is that he has continued his genetic research using the frozen fingers, toes, and occasional ears of Tufts students that have fallen off while walking to class in below freezing temperatures. Monaco stated that he often wears the purple Tinky Winky costume he debuted last Halloween as a disguise while he follows the smallest and coldest Tufts students from class to class. Whenever an extremity falls off, Monaco picks it up, places it gently in his backpack, and bolts into nearby shrubbery to wait for his next victim. Apparently, this strategy is one that Monaco learned from peer and Nobel Prize Winning biologist Paul Nurse, who practices the “Freeze and Follow” technique in his hometown of London. Monaco went on to explain to his wife that his entire life has led up to his appointment as President of Tufts University, and to this winter specifically. “I finally have the power!” Monaco cackled, “I can keep this school open during temperatures lower than the polar vortex and collect ALL the fingers and toes I need!” At this, Monaco’s horrified wife attempted to leave the room and, upon opening the door, bumped into the Zamboni reporters who had been eavesdropping. Monaco, registering that he had been discovered, looked shocked. However, his surprise quickly morphed into a sneer as he looked this reporter directly in the eye and said, “go ahead…publish it. No one reads the Zamboni anyway.” •

Eight Tufts Buildings You Didn’t Know Were Named After Real Humans Few students know that Tufts’ own Carmichael Hall is named for legendary black power leader Stokely Carmichael. This year, President Monaco is officially renaming Carmichael “Kwame Ture Hall” to reflect Carmichael’s chosen name--derived from the names of two influential African leaders, Kwame Nkrumah and Ahmed Sékou Touré. The Zamboni invites you to the dedication ceremony on the Residential Quad at 4 p.m. on May 20th. Carmichael is not the only Tufts building with a little-known etymology. Did you know: 1. Barnum Hall was named for the charming circus master P.T. Barnum. 2. Ballou Hall is named after the father of American Universalism, Hosea Ballou. 3. Jackson Gymnasium is named after a woman who needs no introduction, Miss La Toya Jackson. 4. Cohen Auditorium is named after local favorite Cohen’s Delicatessen in Yonkers, New York. 5. Miller Hall is named for noted American physicist Dayton Miller. Miller vehemently opposed Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity. So does the Zamboni. 6. Curtis Hall is named after Andrew Curtis, my orthodontist. He has a small practice in Bethesda, Maryland. This is my orthodontist. 7. Bush Hall is named after singer-songwriter and 18th century novelist Kate Bush. 8. Eaton Hall is named for Chamillionaire’s classic song “Eatin.” “Eaton” is actually a misspelling. •

Vol. XXV, No. 2 - The SAD Issue

FEATURES

Celebrity Gossip! By Connor Des Rochers In an attempt to revamp her image, Paula Deen has signed on to become the next spokeswoman for Weight Watchers, the diet and weight-loss company known for its celebrity endorsers. The once revered restaurant owner and media queen has recently been under attack by civil rights groups and also everyone else for alleged racial discrimination and a butter addiction. “By partnering with Weight Watchers I hope to show Americans that this old southern grammy still has a lil’ corn chowder left in her tub. They say you can’t change a gator’s scales but I’m gonna prove ‘em all wrong,” said Deen while dipping a donut into a comically-sized vat of hot oil, Nutella, Mentos, and melted butter.

“Don’t worry about this ol’ thing,” Deen told the young and immensely handsome Zamboni reporter, “it’s the diet kind so that you don’t have to!” According to company publicist Carlos “Chuck” Juarez: “At this point in her life [Ms. Deen] has never been more in line with the values of a good southern woman. Someone who loves her family, God and her personal deep-fryer. Paula Deen is a pure and clean Savannah belle who isn’t afraid to say, ‘Yeah, I snuck into my butter cupboard and ate a tub or two of Crisco last night’. She’s going on the journey with our members, and they are going to like that.”

Paula Deen eating a decadent thick meat patty between two sweet glazed golden Krispy Kremes.

Paula Deen’s new role as Weight Watchers spokesperson means actress/singer Jennifer Hudson no longer holds that position. But Hudson doesn’t seem fazed. Last week Deen met with Ms. Hudson at Weight Watchers headquarters in New York to discuss the transition. When asked about their meeting, Jennifer Hudson responded, “She was nice. She only asked to touch my hair two, maybe three times.” •

The Jet-Setting Jumbo: Passport to Ecuador

By Vicky Rathsmill The U.S. is the best? I don’t THINK SO! We plan to interview a jet-setting student every issue, so if you’ve had a “spot of tea” with the Queen, eaten authentic fortune cookies in the Orient, or parachuted off Mt. Kilimanjaro and survived, let us know! This issue we are interviewing junior Kimberly P., who spent last semester studying abroad in Quito, Ecuador.

noticed between the U.S. and Latin America? K: Please help—I’ve fallen down a well!!! Z: What would you say was the biggest “culture shock”? K: Can you please throw down a rope? I can hear a voice but don’t know what you’re saying.

Zamboni: What’s it like being back in the USA, Kimberly?

Z: Those Latinos just seem to love life! Is that something you’ve noticed?

Kimberly: Help me.

K: I really need a bandage or something, I think I’ve broken my leg and there is A LOT of blood.

Z: What are the cultural differences you’ve

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Z: Tell me, are chalupas real or is that something Taco Bell made for us “dumb Americans”? (laughs) K: Oh my god, I’m losing blood quickly— someone please help!!!!! Z: Well thanks Kimberly! You’ve really enlightened me, and the Zamboni readers will appreciate hearing about your experiences abroad!!! K: … Editor’s note: Soon after the interview, a scrappy Border Collie rescued Kimberley from the well using wit, ingenuity and a little bit of love, and subsequently received a key to the City of Medford as a reward. •

FEATURES

New York Fashion Week: Only one diamond in the ruffles

57-year old model, Frangelica Sinclair, modeling Betsey’s Johnson’s “Metallic Boy Toy” evening gown.

By Wilhelm Von Owenberger New York Fashion Week 2014 has come and gone this February, but unfortunately not its ghastly aftertaste. Despite a few highlights, the designers generally did not demonstrate the creative genius we know they have in convincing rich people to buy ridiculous shit. A $4,000, 100% cotton jersey dress by Christian Dior? Not even an attention-seeking afterthought like Mischa Barton would fall for that. Vera Wang, usually a prudent and conservative designer, failed miserably in her bridal collection. 93% of the pieces were made either entirely of albino hamster fur or had albino hamster fur accents in the collars, sleeves, and busts. “I wanted to hop on the “green” bandwagon and design using the fur of a populous domesticated animal,” Wang confidently explains as one of her models struts wearing an unnecessary albino hamster fur eye-patch. I personally took offense at the use of a “domesticated animal” for bridal fashions when women are continually domesticated within our society. Wang should have used the furs of more wild, exotic, and aggres-

sive animals for her line, such as those of the 113 remaining Florida Panthers in the Southeastern United States. Betsey Johnson’s spring line was even more reminiscent of an episode of MTV’s Toddler’s in Tiaras than usual. Betsey has always expressed how much she loves to put a lot of herself into her pieces. This year she went a little too far. All her models were well into their sixties, with Cool-Aid red hair and age-inappropriate clothing. I suppose it was an act of banality coming from BJ; no one except the awkward girl with a pending Bat Mitzvah and something to prove anticipated wearing anything of hers anyway. Karl Lagerfeld, the greatest mastermind of Chanel since Coco passed away, was one of the few rays of sunlight in this thunderstorm of cats, dogs, and hamsters born with albinism. Behind the scenes, he brilliantly illuminated that “looking proletarian is out; elderliness is in.” So ditch your thrift-store inspired “painter’s jeans” by Opening Ceremony and replace them with a Bea Arthuresque pantsuit. Instead of sporting meticulously styled mullets and tired Harley Davidson t-shirts, Chanel’s models looked fierce hitting the runway

in white tennis shoes, elastic waistbands, and diaper bulges. No other collection this spring has the innovation of Lagerfeld’s, or ability to inspire a whole new movement of gentrification from working class neighborhoods to retirement communities. Looks like Boca’s going to be the next Brooklyn. Finally, Prada’s clothing was as smugly as anyone could have hoped for. Miuccia’s theme was “Fashion Post-Rapture” (clearly dated two years after 2012). The show featured imitation hot lava in multiple pieces, made of an unidentifiable congealed orange cheese often found in nachos. Several of her models carried faux severed limbs to demonstrate the future chaos and destruction that will ensue. One model ironically wore a denim skort. Overall, the collection was uninspiring. This year’s fashion week was a snore. Designers should seriously consider pushing the boundaries for their Fall lines, and steer clear of hackneyed gestures of individuality like the use of rodent fur or diapers in their pieces. Alas, according to Prada, fall fashions better withstand the fires of God’s condemnation, so designers must get brainstorming. •

Vol. XXV, No. 2 - The SAD Issue

FEATURES

Here Are the Unretouched Images from Anthony Monaco’s Tufts Daily Photo Shoot

By Laura Rathsmill

The Zamboni has paid $10,000—about twice our budget—to obtain these shocking photos Tony Monaco and his fans, The Zamboni staff included, love him just the way he is. The Tufts Daily’s opinion is another matter. Within two hours of offering $10,00 for unretouched images from photographer Mandible Sphincton’s session with the Tufts University president, we received six allegedly unaltered images. As expected, they’re great—Tony looks sexy as always. Aside from the obvious lighting tweaks and softening of Monaco’s protruding nipples that any publication would make, the unretouched images are pretty perfect—they show Monaco in all of his natural virility and charm. Which makes some of the adjustments—slightly broadening his shoulders or concealing his facial tattoo—seem that much more unnecessary. Why bother? These slight tweaks, the ‘you look cute Tony, but you’d look just a little more cute if…” stuff is insidious, and frankly, makes me want to fellate something. But this is what The Tufts Daily does, and it’s interesting to see what Sphincton and Daily editor Yeastman George felt that they needed to “fix” before pictures of Tony could be presented to readers.

hed

Unretouc

retouched

This photo has the most changes. They include: • Firming of Monaco’s butt muscles. • Placing his body into a prone, vulnerable, “come hither” position with legs tastelessly open • Sculpting of his chest and stomach muscles • Fingers elongated • Relocated to the Kingdom of Heaven • Removal of his clothing As you can see, while Ambassador of Estonia Marina Kaljurand’s face was given a flowing, graceful beard, the rest of his body and face remain untouched. •

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OPINION

The Pop Cultural Is The Political

By Ryan Hastings-echo Recently in American political culture there has been a push from more socially active citizens for greater transparency in government. With individuals like Edward Snowden actively releasing classified information to the public, the issue of citizen-to-government interface has never been more prevalent. With these ideas at the forefront of political discussion, I find it frankly appalling that political figures, and even entire political parties, refuse to give their opinion on some of the most important issues of our modern society, despite their extreme relevance to the everyday life of the average American. I speak, of course, about #celebgossip. Sure Michelle Obama may try to fool Americans with her #swag and #firstladydressforsuccess, but the Obama administration as a whole is just using this manufactured hype to distract from the real issues. Where does his administration stand, officially and on the record, on the idea of a Miley Cyrus #nipslip? How would this effect our foreign policy? Where do the Democrats even stand on Kim Kardashian’s marriage? Do the Republicans feel differently?

I ask these questions because they need to be asked. Do you think China and North Korea will sit idly by while our politicians bask in ambiguity? Not so. Just today I asked a close friend of mine, who escaped North Korea in 2011 by unmarked balloon, what his home country’s official stance was on Britney’s waistline. I will never forget what he said to me. He said that, in North Korea, Britney Spears would probably be vilified as a propaganda symbol to keep the citizens under control. Now that is an official stance. That is transparency in government. We can’t even get former senator Clinton to comment on Beyoncé’s body, and that is a surefire political win because Queen Bey always wakes up ***flawless. My point is that we can no longer look on idly while the system actively works against us. We have to take matters into our own hands and force an answer out of not just politicians, but big business as well. It is time to #takeastand and fight for what we believe in. It is time for top executives and world leaders to officially sign their name to their celebrity opinions. I believe it is my god-given right to know who is and who is not a Gaga fan, and to plan my votes and purchasing decisions accordingly. I hope that one day our society can be open about these important issues, but until then I guess I must continue to get the real news from TMZ. •

In North Korea, Britney Spears would probably be vilified as a propaganda symbol to keep the citizens under control.

Vol. XXV, No. 2 - The SAD Issue

OPINION A Fair and Honest Review: The Zamboni’s Fall Issue By Emily Garber Tufts Zamboni has done it again, with a witty beginning to an otherwise bland year. Zamboni combines charm and poise in its first issue, with a kind of subtlety that is, as is wont of them, quite in-character. I had doubts about the tone it ought to be holding. Honestly, they have a reputation of being quite vulgar in their humor. But to me, it had a surprising amount of class. Surprisingly, their horse sex jokes held me hostage, captivating me entirely. I didn’t have laughs to spare while reading, none. Please pick up an issue. It is entirely worth a perusal. A spectacular piece, sure to help any person wishing for a little more awareness and sensitivity. It truly changed me and the way that I think. Enlightenment is but a magazine rack away for us all. I’m eagerly anticipating having more people with which to discuss it. Do not be scared. Try something new. Try the Zamboni. •

By Krupskaya Butareva

Happy Valentine’s Day to the Ground

These past weeks the nation has been castrated by the cold, and the ramifications are just beginning to set in. First and foremost for me was the realization that I needed better gloves. Thank god, too. Otherwise I might not be alive to tell you this. However, there was one such lad who wasn’t quite as lucky as me. His name was Dave Diov; here is his story. A true romantic unlike any other, Dave found himself deeply in love. He discovered the light of his life as the dark of winter crept in to his quaint New England town, much like how fermented potato creeps into the veins of a drunk Russian. He found his luminescent paramour in the mystifying good looks of a girl like no other, Frizza Urasov. Their fierce passion had mounted the way only Russian love could. Dave was on top of the world. For months now they had coyly played, each day their love growing stronger and deeper. Then a plan had stricken Dave, much the same as when a drunk Russian strikes the floor. Dave was going to propose, and not in any old way, but in the only old way. He harvested up his Hanukkah gelt, knowing that it was being put to good use, and headed for the jeweler, much like a drunk Russian headed for a Brighton Beach karaoke bar. Soon, with his new ring in hand, Dave could make Frizza his. Dave made reservations at Frizza’s favorite restaurant, Putin Palace Pub, even booking their favorite table. Early on Valentine’s Day morning he woke with a start. The day was here and there wasn’t a second to waste. The weather channel talked of a blizzard, but Dave was cooking up his own storm. He dashed to the mom and pop tuxedo shop that held his beautiful fur suit. Lastly, Dave ran to Frizza’s, much like a drunk Russian on fire. Dave notified Frizza of his arrival and assumed the position, kneeling on the ground looking up to her balcony window. Romeo was here. The wind howled and town slowed to a crawl, but nothing could decelerate the passion in his heart. He

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The Zamboni: Eat it and it turns into a prophylactic

Dave and Frizza: carefree Russian love

saw her emerge from the balcony like a drunk Russian on a balcony. She called for him, just as Juliet sought Romeo, and bid him to enter. He tried to call out to greet his comrade, but the bitter cold night had frozen the vodka on his lips, preventing them from being opened. He tried to stand, only now noticing the snow up to his neck. Frizza went back into her pad and Dave soon felt his pants vibrate, much like a drunk Russian feels his pants moisten after urinating on himself. A call from Frizza, but his hands were still clutching the ring and frozen to it, much like a drunk Russian’s tongue frozen to shot glass of Kamchatka. For half an hour Frizza called nonstop and Dave used all of his will power to call her name, but all for naught. When he could finally get up, all the vibrating had proven the one aspect that a Russian temperature could never overcum! Frizza was now down on the street searching the snow for him, but no sign could be found. She could never check the entire street in time. All Dave could do was wait for the plow, much like a drunk Russian royalist bitterly waiting for Lenin’s carcass to decay. •

ONE-HANDED READ

Walking In The Mall On A Snowy Evening By snowqueensiceblowjob

answered her prayers and was granting her the best wish that had ever been granted to her. Like she was a flower given the cream of the crop. His hands moved all over her, swirling like the whirlpool of Charybdis and all its erotic, sexy power. “Oh don’t stop,” she moaned, and she was like a tulip opening to a bee trying to make honey from a baguette. “My name is Tony,” he snarled in her ear. It was very erotic. Also it was sexy. It was the most erotic and sexy thing that Hazel had ever experienced besides that one time in college with Jennifer. Her inner goddess moved like a voodoo priest, making her fling off all her pesky clothes like a Venus flytrap shedding its skin.

and winning. My dad giving me good-girl spanks afterwards. It was a perfect moment in Hazel milled about the Mall of time, and I felt like it was perfect, and I America, feeling lost and so, so sad. It was screamed loudly because it was perfect Valentine’s Day, and she was lonely and all and Tony was so hot and gorgeous and his alone. voice sounded like he could pull a dog sled The mall was empty like the void and still carry me on his shoulders and let of all of time and space collapsing into me ride him like he was a robust zucchini. itself in an endless swirling mass of dark, “Oh FUCK,” Hazel moaned loud dark black. And then there was a voice. enough for a nearby security guard to hear, “Why are you here alone?” He asked, his and he scratched his head then went back throbbing tenor vocal cords so husky they to mopping the floor or feeding the trash could pull a dog-sled. monster or something. And then she had Hazel bit her lip and turned, and so many orgasms. She came so much that then felt herself go red all over. ALL over. it was illegal, because the Founding Fathers As red as the spandex suit that this god of were misogynistic asswipes and they hated a man was wearing. He was dressed like women and brown people. a heart. His abs pulsed in the moonlight She sighed and fell to the ground like three bongo drums stacked one upon once his own meatwand was satisthe other. His pecs were like another, “His abs pulsed in the moonlight like three fied, and he held her gently on the much bigger set of bongo drums stacked upon the abs. His face was bongo drums stacked one upon the other. ground, rocking her back and forth. “Oh my,” she muttered, and all dark and beautiful, like the statue His pecs were like another, much bigger at once, exhausted and fully filled of that Roman dude who she’d seen in the museum of art. His hair was set of bongo drums stacked upon the abs.” with sexual fulfillment for the first time in her short, white life. Her eyes black, and flowed like so many kit “Oh, OH,” she cried, like the orfluttered closed with dreams of Starbucks tens scrambling one over the other. phan baby abandoned by the Wonderland and sunshine. “My boyfriend just dumped me,” stop on the Boston T. His moan echoed When she at last awoke she was she said, her voice a whisper. The man’s hers as they both were fully in their birthalone, fully clothed on the floor of the Mall Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he day suits. of America, like a cat in a patch of linoreplied, “But who would dump such a His dick was throbbing like an leum floor. Tony was gone, like a woodland beautiful woman?” eggplant and she knelt down sexily and elf that had only appeared because she had “You’re making fun of me,” Hazel blew on it like it was a recorder in her wished on the rainbow dragon scale. said. Her eyes began brimming with tears. third grade music class that nobody liked “At least I didn’t have to spend all Something else was moistening as well. It to play but her because I was weirdly good Valentine’s Day alone,” Hazel said. She felt was her cunt. at it, okay. He and my inner goddess both a little sad, though. After all, all she had “I would never hurt you,” he arched their backs and purred like cantanow was her boring, unsexy, ungucci life. whispered “Except during consensual, hot loupes. Plus, she had sooooo much work sex.” Then he was inside me and it was to do at home, cleaning up the basement, “Oh boy,” Hazel muttered, feeling like a dream, where there were rainbows which was still covered in the blood of 12 her hands clam up in undeniable desire. and unicorns neighing at my feet and slaughtered virgins, and the stupid floor Something else clammed up as well. It was giving me a pedicure at the same time, was full of candle wax and pentagrams. her cunt. Her inner goddess was pressing Candle wax was impossible to get out of against the walls of her conscience, yelling, where it was like I was floating on a cotton candy cloud, except I was way hotter than carpets. Ugh. “Let me at it!!!” Katy Perry that one time she did it, and my She checked her watch. It was His abs pressed against her bobreasts shot out whipped cream for real. It exactly 12:30 am. som. She looked up at him and stared into was like every awesome thing was stab “Should get home, don’t want his dreamy eyes as he wrapped his arms bing me everywhere, and I could see my Mom to worry,” she muttered to herself. around her. “Let me make love to you,” he happiest day all again, flashing back like She gathered her things and strolled out of sighed. I had, like, PTSD: cuddling with my pet the Mall. “Oh yes,” Hazel replied, closing bunny, named Snuffles the Killer, me get “At least we’ll always have that her eyes in the ecstasy of the moment ting an A on my test, my dad praising me time by the Panda Express in the Food that would be the moment that she had for getting an A on my test, buttchugging Court,” she sighed to herself. “And nobody always been waiting for in her whole life. in the backyard with Johnny and Roger can take that away.” • It was like her fairy godmother had finally

Vol. XXV, No. 2 - The SAD Issue

MORE Unretouched Images from Anthony Monaco’s Tufts Daily Shoot d

Unretouche

retouched

This shot only has minor alterations: • Skin turned from warm flesh to cold, unforgiving marble • Body given a more striking, commanding pose • Cellulite removed • Turned into a sex object Although a few ringlet curls are added to frame his features, his face itself remains largely unaltered.

When asked to comment on the Daily’s photoshopping, Anthony Monaco dismissed the criticisms: “I can’t see the harm in The Daily wanting me to look my cutest.” While Monaco has not been radically Photoshopped, it’s clearer than ever what kind of college president The Tufts Daily finds Daily-worthy: the nakeder, longer-limbed, Michelangelo-y version of reality. In the end, while The Daily did not go overboard in its alterations to the original Monaco photo shoot, it is important to remember how unforgiving the media is when it comes to images of university presidents. College deans are allowed to have cellulite and the occasional camel-toe; college presidents are supposed to be “perfect”—a state that does not exist. We at The Zamboni thank our colleagues at The Primary Source for allowing us to use your budget to purchase these photos. You are a credit to feminism and we appreciate your commitment to promoting a healthy body image for college presidents across America and the globe. Note: Much of this article has been plagiarized from the Jezebel post, “Here are the Unretouched Images from Lena Dunham’s Vogue Shoot” by Jessica Coen from 1/17/14. Sue us—we dare you. •

ThingsCurated Theby Nicky Streets Say! Gonzalez “Whats the hottest top spot and when will we know?”

“I remember the first time a little goose-hen tried to flap her hoohas at me like it was time for lunch. I looked that puppy in the toot-hole and said, ‘I don’t give a fart!’ Do I look like I can yodel? It’s as simple as that.” --Swiss McDaniels Somerville, MA

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“What?” --Beffany Jernandez Cambridge, MA

“I love my parents, but they’ll be dead someday.” --Mitty Parker, age 9 Cambridge, MA

POLICE BLOTTER

============================ An area man was arrested last Tuesday for blending a pack of cannibalistic dogs. When asked about his actions, he screamed, “It’s a Dog-Eat-Dog Whirled!” before vanishing in a burst of bad puns. ============================ Tufts Bananas, a popular Twitter profile of questionable ethics, was recently found to be a front for the infamous Zetas drug cartel. Each banana was abetting to corruption in Mexico City. ============================ Phil was arrested for being a douchebag. What a fucking asshole. Yeah, you heard me. ============================ How Can Mirrors Be Real If Our Eyes Aren’t Real? ============================

============================ Blacksmith taken into custody for Steeling alloys. Coppers required serious Bronze. Several Leads were followed in this tinacious quest to bring the Chrome-inal to justice. This is the worst crime this Prezinct has ever Cn. “He’s going to serve a Nickel behind Iron bars,” says the ore-resting officer. ============================ Mother Nature arrested for being a dick. What the fuck? ============================ Tufts humor magazine editor-in-chief arrested for plagiarizing a Jezebel article in a crass, tasteless attempt to increase the publication’s plummeting readership. ============================

SAFETY ALERT

On Saturday, March 27, at approximately 4:30 AM, the Tufts University Police received a call of suspicious movements around the Dewick-MacPhie dining hall. A male student was walking down Latin Way when he spotted a huge shadow moving around the entrance to Dewick. The student reported that the creature resembled a large bird, and described the animal as “taking a giant dump outside the door.” Upon being spotted, the animal let out a loud, high-pitched noise, while simultaneously squawking and gesturing aggressively with its neck. The student reported hearing the bird squeal, “There can only be one!” before leaping up and sprinting away, tail feathers shaking in the night wind. The student managed to take this photo before the animal fled.

PRECAUTIONS!

============================ A human and a horse were arrested for possessing a forbidden love. Their love knows no boundaries and is a force to be reckoned with. It is only the parallels between equine and sapien that can create such passion and power. Love on, lovers. Love on. ============================ A local plumber was arrested for throwing a banana peel out his car window, causing a severe crash. Another driver was taken into custody and charged with driving a car while being a gorilla. ============================ Russia was arrested for breaking international law by breaching the sovereignty of Ukraine. Just kidding. ============================

Some say there’s an ostrich in all of us.

• If you come across an ostrich on campus, do not under any circumstances feed it. They will develop a taste for human blood. • When passing ostriches, do not point and laugh. Ostriches are naturally self-conscious and may become enraged when provoked. • Do not offer ostriches any type of knitted neck apparel. • When encountering an ostrich, do not under any circumstances use chalk to write messages around it. • Do not climb on top of the ostrich in an effort to ride it. • Do not surprise an ostrich with flash photography. • Do not offer low-quality alcoholic beverages to an ostrich. • Do not attempt to mate with an ostrich by exposing your genitals

UPDATE: April 1, 2014. It is gone. We have won. Vol. XXV, No. 2 - The SAD Issue

The Poetry Reach-Around “Every Winter”

Winter Reflections: A Series

By: Will Owen

By: Vicky Rathsmill

Winter is a time of Soft lullabies, Glühwein-stained kisses, and Nogging on egg.

A Note from the Poet: Shhh! Can you hear that? It’s the almostsilent sound of snowflakes falling outside. I wrote these poems on a chilly February morning, watching the snowfall: a blanket of white covering everything in sight. I was so inspired that I started writing and I couldn’t stop!

“Every snowflake is unique,” S. Claus told me in a dream. “So are people,” I serenely responded, with A cookie and a glass of fresh goat milk In my outstretched hands. Every winter I Reflect On the year past. Why did I overdo it At that Chinese buffet? Why did I fuck that one Co-worker from Flint, Michigan? Why did I think I could wear A fedora? But every winter brings Atonement For past sins. Whether in hot chocolaty enigmas, Or in a Christmas ham’s honey glaze… This winter I hope to find that special Road Less Traveled And walk its snowy path Straight to The Bosom of the Lord.

“A Poem for February”

“Untitled” By: Emily Garber The snow falls Like so many Spiders. My scarf Wrapped around my nose keeps me warm But what of my soul?

A snowflake Fell On my head. Wow! “A Little Squirrel in the Snow” Friends come And Friends go. Are you my Friend?

I will never love again. “Thoughts on a Snowy Feb. Dawn” Brrr! Winter of my discontent Cold death Wraps its icy claws around my Being. My insides Are Frozen. Dripping icicles from my lungs my Womb.

The Zamboni

Where are we but in the eye of the storm? A loss of words we writhe in shadows, aching terribly and longing for the stop of the wonderful. We exist only in so far as we no longer want; we strive for the passion and unhinge. We are life, unheard and unseen. We are love, unmoved and unkeen in the loss of words and media. What are we but feathers on the broad wing of time? An unyielding and unrelenting journey into our own morals, our own psyches, our own inabilities to be able to do. What are we but doers? Doers, shakers, movers, players. We ride a high horse until it collapses from drinking vodka. We feed our lives. We drink our doubts. And we take that wretched swan song for our own demise. We own it as if it is nothing, and give it as if it is our final breath. We are nothing but depression. We are nothing but sadness. We are only the rank and grotesque means by which we play the banjo. We are only the trite and banal wormholes that sicken even a lost liver pilot. What is love? What is drunk? What are we but drunk in love? Drunk out love? Out, out damn love! Out damn spot in the top 100. Out, damn dam, the beaver who built you has breathed his last breath. We anthropomorphize death and death’s friends. We dehumanize life. It is only in death that we see that which we missed in life. It is only in sorrow that we find happiness. Have you ever seen the sun cry? It is both weird and gross. Have you ever listened to Paul Simon on a cloud day? It is sometimes fitting and sometimes not, especially when Paul Simon is the physical manifestation of a cloudy day. It only brings back sad memories. All memories are sad when you’re Paul Simon. All memories are sexy when you’re Beyoncé. All is sad in love and war, except for war. War is happy. I once fell in love with a giraffe at the Bronx Zoo. When does this mortal coil shuffle off, and what is left but the inadequacies of a sheltered ruin? When do we spy what we search for? When does our search become lungful and forgotten. I regret everything I did that night and I’m sorry. Not everything hurts when you can’t feel pain. Teddy bears scare me. When do we find ourselves alone? What is lonely but an abstraction of our mind’s most inner vulnerabilities? We see loneliness when we refuse to be comfortable within ourselves. When there is no one else, all we are left to is our thoughts. We must prize our lonely behavior lest it destroy our credo and state. I was a train before the surgery. Is the profane but a mild-mannered critique on the taboo of our society? Is profanity ever a constant, or just a scope of what is fitting or off in our societal norms? When everyone tries to be different, does the norm center on a lack of itself? If we lack structure, does structure lack us? When is a windmill like a hand grenade? It is not. Unique New York. Toy Boat. The sixth sick sheikh’s sixth sick sheep. We are all restless in the wind and I have lost myself among the waves. Where are we but now? Where to go but forever? How are we? Hambert IS Hollywood. Hambert is love. Hambert is God, or a goddess in the sense of Beyoncé. Beyonce-who? Beyoncé. The Bee. Queen Bee. Workers unite under a manifesto of the middle class. We are all the proletariat. We are the 100%. All of us. We are always moving. We are always shaking. But not babies, because that would be dangerous. This has been a public service message from Doctors without Borders and the bookstore within us all. We are always alive. We are always Beyoncé. We are never the sun. I don’t believe in Shakespeare. I don’t like peanut butter. Who knew? Did you? I have four nipples and that has frightened me but doesn’t anymore. Where do we get our idea of value? Does it stem from the lack of the obscene, a tantalization in the loss of a norm? Are we waves of progress, or just a barnacle of sandstone? Does our liverspot breed? Are we but bread on the toast wing of time? When do we fly? What are flies? I wish I could celebrate another birthday. We are all sexy rabbits. We live on the scope of seduction, an art toying with the necessities and points of our life-ruin?

WHY ARENâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;T YOU SMILING?

(This is a dramatization of the current conflict in Ukraine. As with all things done by the Zamboni, it is meant to be a biting political commentary on current events.)