Vol. XXV, No. 3 - The Fancy Issue by Tufts Zamboni

Frozen Yogurt? | Bears and You | Kielbasa Wins TCU Elections | Joe Biden’s Furniture Store Adventure

Tufts University’s Only Intentionally Funny Magazine,

April/May 2014

Vol. XXV, No. 3

Est. 1987

The Fancy Issue

Tufts Career Center Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll show you how to use search engines

What’s in this Issue?

Many animals were harmed in the making of this magazine.

News the Allegations are True!” Says Your Mom News3 “All Ryan Hastings-echo 3

pg. 27

Incoming Freshmen Devoid of Sophistication, Class Jordan Rossen

4 4 Band at Merch Table Accused of “Selling Out” Brian Rose Thomas The Tank Engine, the Movie! Zamboni Staff 5 Tufts Women’s Center Refreshingly Honest About Campaign for Male Extermination Laura Rathsmill

Features 5

Features

Is Tiramisu made with real human hair?!? p. 27

66 “At Least I Always Have Room For Dessert” Paul Toombs 7 In Another Universe, Badgers Attend Tufts Zamboni Staff 87 Five Ways The Zamboni is Becoming like BuzzFeed Ryan Hastings-Echo 8 REPORT: Dan Dennett: Smart, but Wrong About Ghosts Paul Templeton 9 10 ARTS: The Pony Tale Vicky Rathsmill 10 Tisch Library: Not Just for Sex Laura Rathsmill

Opinion Opinion

11 11 OP-ED: Ill-Fitting Britches for a Southern Belle Will Owen 12 Miss Emily’s Guide to: Basement Garden Parties! Emily Garber 12 (Wo)man-on-the-Street Interviews Nicky Gonzalez

FunRomance & Games

13 13 14 14 15 15 16 16

One-Handed Read: O Bryson! My Bryson! Emily Garber PUZZLES PAGE! Ben Pall, Graham Starr “If We Were Adelie Penguins,” a Poem Ben Meyerson The Poetry Reach-Around Ryan Hastings-Echo, Vicky Rathsmill, Will Owen

pg. 81 England’s Genghis Khan: 3% of WASPS claim to be related to this man. Exclusive interview on page 81.

Art Art Art Direction Graham Starr Front Cover Photo credit Annie Leibovitz, design by Graham Starr Back Cover Emily Garber Front Inside-Cover Graham Starr, Laura Rathsmill, Assorted Zamboni Staff Layout Back Inside-Cover Graham Starr Vol. XXV, No. 3 - The Fancy Issue

A Word April/May 2014

Vol. XXV, No. 3

Editors-in-Chief Will “Greenwich” Owen Laura “St. Tropez” Rathsmill Managing Editors Graham “Bel Air” Starr Nina “Park Avenue” Bernstein Editors-at-Large Emily “West Egg” Barns Connor “East Egg” Des Rochers Vicky “Cabo” Rathsmill Staff Megan “Monte Carlo” Clark Emily “Southampton” Garber Nicky “St. Maartens” Gonzalez Ryan “Summer in Aspen” Hastings-Echo Ben “Swiss Alps” Meyerson Ben “90210” Pall Rachel “Club Med” Rapaport Brian “Cayman Islands” Rose Jordan “Milan” Rossen Paul “Monaco” Templeton Greg “Alsace” Witz Megan “Luxembourg” 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 “Scarsdale” Reisman

from the

Editors

Dear all ye noble knights and ladies gay,

In a hymn they call “Fancy,” a wise woman* once said, “You should wanna bad bitch like this.” We at the Zamboni have taken up this theology in crafting our final issue of the year. At this point, you should want us, and if you don’t, you clearly just cannot handle all the buttchugging.

Fanciness is a state of mind, not a Tom Ford price tag. Our new layout gets more accolades than the old Weekly World News look we had, but we have been fancy all along. In this issue, Zamboni swanky-ness is thrown to the forefront with the poise and self-assuredness of a Habsburg chin.** In 20 pages (??) you’ll meet garden partiers, Antebellum Bitches, badgers, murderous feminists, and the most wonderful sweet sixteen birthday in the whole wide world. In keeping with olde Zamboni practice, we have generously sprinkled a diamond-encrusted shovel’s worth of grammatical errors for you pleasure. The more something has been done, the more refined it gets. That’s tradition. So, come get decadent with us. Trash the hotel in a non-Ozzy Osbourne way, and let’s get drunk on the mini-bar. Don’t you wanna bad bitch like this?

*Iggy Azalea ** The Habsburg dynasty, who ruled the Austro-Hungarian Empire until WWI, were notorious for their severe prognathism due to high levels of inbreeding. For more information on the effects of Habsburg inbreeding, visit the website of the currently reigning King Juan Carlos I of Spain.

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).

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NEWS “All the Allegations are True!” Says Your Mom by Ryan Hastings-echo

The media was in a frenzy today as your mom, better known by her stage name, “Candi Stripz,” publicly responded to the outstanding attacks on her character. “They’re all true,” she said, sniffling slightly, “I am so stupid that I took two hours to watch 60 minutes.” She went on to say that she has, in fact, slept with all of your friends, and admitted in an interview that everything you were told she said last night was also true. “I just really wanted my children’s friends to like me,” she sobbed. Sources confirm that your mom has been working with a team of doctors and researchers to overcome her various disabilities and rejoin polite society. “She’s so fat that when she ran away, we had to use every side of the milk carton for her picture,” said one team member in a statement. “Her blood type is gravy, so obviously there have been difficulties.” The Zamboni was unable to reach your mother for comment, however she has issued an official press release stating that she was “So old [her] birth certificate is expired.” Despite this, her publicists deny allegations that she took her drivers test on a dinosaur, citing that she has yet to obtain her drivers license. They also continue to resist claims that your mom goes to college, stating, “She does nothing of the kind.”

When she was young, rainbows were black and white. Because she’s old and also racist.

Incoming Freshmen Devoid of Sophistication, Class by Jordan Rossen

Within a single week, an alarming number of the senior year’s bougiest have gone on record denouncing the sophistication of the incoming freshman class. Daniel Boffy ‘14, one of the graduating class’s preppiest, said: “My freshman year I was hard-pressed to find a soul lacking coral shorts and Lacoste polo, but now I look at the tour groups and all I see is inbred street scum.” Another of the senior class’s most highly regarded, Kevin Boyt ‘14, said, “Most of these kids have never even snorted caviar off a call girl’s ass, or told their butler they can’t have Christmas Eve off to spend time with their kids.” These denouncements from the senior class have resulted in an extremely large number of previously committed freshmen reconsidering their decision. Popularly cited concerns among current students include

being humiliated by schools with superior finesse and fear of new vectors for disease spread. Arnold Davidson, a current sophomore, explained, ”When I was a freshman I looked forward to the mixer with Williams all year long, but I don’t think I even want to go this year if all it’s going to be is jokes about how the Tufts students are going to get everyone sick.” Phreshm Eat, a senior in high school who was accepted via the early decision program, had this to say: ”I picked Tufts thinking I would be surrounded by the country’s elite, ready to spit on those below them at a moment’s notice. With these recent announcements, I’m just not sure Tufts is the place for me.” In response to the sudden influx of withdraw attempts, the Office of Admissions has been reviewing a number of its admit-

tance decisions. Dean of Admissions Lee Coffin stated yesterday: “The last thing we want is a year full of working class snot. We are currently reverting our acceptances to ensure a sophisticated palette.” Grange continued, “We typically try to keep the accepted student profile at less than five percent street urchin. This obviously didn’t happen this year. Someone made a mistake and responsible parties will be held accountable.”

Vol. XXV, No. 3 - The Fancy Issue

NEWS

Band at Merch Table Accused of “Selling Out”

by Brian Rose

MEDFORD, MA - Tufts students voiced their displeasure after an Applejam show in the Crane Room Friday night, with several accusing the band Crying Penguin of “selling out.” “I went to the merch table after the show and they had nothing there!” exclaimed junior Rey Washam, noting that the band was great and their sound showed no signs of compromising their principals to achieve greater commercial success. “Oh yeah, they’ve definitely sold out,” said Washam. “I remember when Crying Penguin used to play here back in 2013,” agreed senior Jeff Pezzati. “They’d have t-shirts, records, tapes, stickers, stuffed animals, Greek yogurt, everything! Now they’re total sellouts!” Word circulated during Friday’s show of rumors that Crying Penguin was being courted by major label Interscope Re-

cords, meaning the band would need to alter their current sound of unintelligible screeching, an out of tune double bass, a tuba, and the band members repeatedly hitting themselves in the head with a tuning fork. Some students at the show indicated they would be fine with Crying Penguin moving away from their signature sound if it meant the band would become obscenely rich as a result. “Good for them,” said sophomore Alison Statton. “It’s about time they quit being so principled and went mainstream for the money. I can’t wait to see them on MTV2!” Despite popular support for the label change among students, Crying Penguin lead singer Shaun Majumder said that although he’s sorry they ran out of merch, they have “no intention of signing with Interscope or compromising our integrity.”

Get your free download of Crying Peguin’s hit EP “Tube Socks” at dumpsterbanana.bandcamp.com

“You all are clearly misunderstanding what selling out means. What the hell is wrong with your school? I thought you people were supposed to be smart.”

The Zamboni Presents... Thomas The Tank Engine: The Movie (2016) The Zamboni is proud to announce that our script was recently picked up for the new Thomas The Tank Engine film! But now we have to choose a director. With all these options (the Zamboni is a very popular girl), how do we pick the vanguard for our magnum opus? Here’s how our film would look as imagined by Hollywood’s finest!

As Directed by… Christopher Nolan: The movie opens with a close-up of Thomas the Tank Engine. The camera slowly pans out to show that Thomas the Tank Engine is actually just a model train inside the fuel tank of the engine of a tank in a carrying tank with its own engine being pulled by a tank engine coincidentally named Thomas. As Directed by… Steven Spielberg: A young, innocent boy feels isolated from other children because he is too kind and gentle and has big creepy eyes. He is walking to school in a dejected manner, for he has a shaky relationship with his train conductor father, played by Tom Hanks in a brilliantly understated performance. Suddenly, as the boy walks past the village reservoir, a giant majestic cow-like alien creature flies out of the water in an awe-inducing low-height tracking shot. It is set during World War II.

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As Directed by… J.J. Abrams: *LENS FLARE* dundunduhduhduhdundunduhduhBOMBOMBOMMMMMMMM *LENS FLARE* As Directed by… Michael Bay: BOOM! Dozens of underpaid extras and half of the movie’s budget go up in one gigantic explosion. The explosion chases In Wes Anderson’s Chugging Along Bangalore, Thomas down a tunnel, and he escapes just Thomas deals with self-doubt and reconciliation in time. Two more explosions trigger on with his estranged family following his uncle’s death. either side of the tracks. Thomas puts on dark aviators and chuggles away from them As Directed By… Alfred Hitchcock: in slow motion, his dark leather jacket flow- A man in an expensively tailored suit offers ing behind him. a cocktail to a beautiful blonde woman. The camera pulls back. It is clear they are travelAs Directed by… Bob Ross: ling on a train. The camera pulls back more. Now our friend Thomas is coming around The train has a face. It is smiling. Back to the corner all calm but he might get a the couple: “I have to warn you,” the woman little lonely. Let’s paint some happy says in a deep, throaty voice, handling her little trees for him to play with. We just put martini gingerly, “I’m not to be trusted.” our brush on the canvas here… yes, that’s “Neither am I, baby,” the man says. They nice. *tugs collar* Now that’s a perfect little embrace. Thomas travels through a tunnel, winking at the camera. Credits roll. mountain scene isn’t it?

NEWS Tufts Women’s Center Refreshingly Honest about Campaign for Male Extermination by Laura Rathsmill

Several Male Tufts Professors Trapped After Trying to Walk Past the Women’s Center

MEDFORD, MA - The Tufts Women’s Center has been serving the Tufts Community since 1972. It hosts various events and activities and functions as a meeting space for a number of student clubs. They now have a new project underway involving the gradual extermination of the entire male sex.

When asked whether this action might be construed as overly hostile to male students, Dori-Anne Clementine, another Women’s Center Intern, disagrees: “It’s so funny to me when people assume that all of us at the Women’s Center hate men. That’s simply not true. The Women’s Center is here to serve all members of the Tufts community, and this project is

Gaucho says she is very excited to get the project underway. “While it is unrealistic to push for the extinction of the entire male race, we believe in the idea, ‘act locally, think globally,’ so we think the best strategy will be to first eliminate all the men in the Tufts Community and then eventually expand to men in the greater Boston area.”

Tufts faculty members join students to have conversations about hot-button issues such as reproductive justice, abortion, the gendering of food, creating an all female society untainted by men, sexual assault resources on campus, and building a feminist resume made from the skins of human men.

“We are extremely excited about the new project,” “We believe in the idea ‘act globally, think locally,’ so says Strep Gaucho, Student intern Grain Gryphon is surprisingly we think the best strategy will be to first eliminate all pulverizing chick peas with a mortar and pestle open about the Center’s the men in the Tufts Community and then eventually to make her signature new endeavor, telling the Zamboni: “While we do hummus dish. She expand to men in the greater Boston area.” value and cherish some encourages students individual men, we need to no different.” As she stirs graAccording to Gaucho, the proj- of all genders to come to the look at what’s best for the nola into her Greek yogurt, she ect wouldn’t have gotten off the Women’s Center. common good. Feminism is muses: “The destruction of the ground without tremendous not about dismantling systems male species is an important support from Tufts faculty and of oppression, exploitation, project that we feel will revital- staff persons Sol Gittleman and and discrimination. It’s about ize the Tufts community, and Yolanda King, who were both male exterimination. Read it’s no different than our other instrumental in advocating for bell hooks or Beauvoir--it’s projects we have done in the the project and raising enough there.” Smiling as she picks past—such as when we worked funds to finally get it started. a piece of tabouli salad from together with TUPD to make The Women’s Center offers her teeth, she says, “We’re just the language on their website programs such as its First super excited to get this project more gender-inclusive.” underway!” Women’s Center Director Strep Friday Lunch Series, where

Vol. XXV, No. 3 - The Fancy Issue

FEATURES At Least I Always Have Room for Dessert

By Paul Toombs Even when I’ve had a big dinner, I can always find room for dessert— whether it’s a bowl of strawberry ice cream or a real big slice of chocolate cake. Sometimes I heat up a frozen dinner for myself. I like the Lean Cuisine Fettuccine Alfredo meal. I’d say I have that two, maybe three times a week. I just poke some holes in the plastic and stick it in the microwave. Lean Cuisine isn’t too filling, so afterward I can have fun. I like to take two big chocolate chip cookies and put a scoop of ice cream in between them and then eat it—I’ve made my own little ice cream sandwich! Other nights I’ll make a whole lot of pasta, usually the little wheels. I buy those at Costco. Sometimes I am feeling pretty full after eating all that pasta. On nights like that, I’m not up to a whole ice cream sandwich. But I can still have some of those little Hostess cupcakes—those are some of my favorites. On nights when all I’ve got for dinner is a can of Progresso Meatball & Wild Rice soup, I’ll treat myself to some “dirt”--that’s what I call it when I mix together chocolate pudding, oreo crumbles, and gummy worms. Oh, and some Cool Whip! That’s what makes it the best. Last week my sister and I went out to dinner at California Pizza Kitchen. I got a buffalo chicken pizza and she got the Hawaiian. At the end of the meal, I ordered the chocolate souffle cake--and I got it a la mode! My sister said she wasn’t up for dessert, and boy, was she missing out!

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In Another Universe, Badgers Attend Tufts In another dimension, there exists a Tufts exactly like our own, except it is populated entirely by badgers. There are all kinds of badgers. There are small badgers and large badgers, international badgers and badgers from right there in badger Somerville. There is a badger Bruce Reitman in a very comfortable turtleneck and a charming canvas hat. There is a badger Anthony Monaco, shy and retiring, in small glasses, with a sweet, cherubic badger face, and an acclaimed badger Professor Sam Sommers who lectures on the inner workings of the complex badger brain. This Tufts attracts all types. It is known for bringing together the quirky badgers, the badgers who write slam poetry and those who find their greatest joy in penning epic badger fanfiction. There are dancing badgers and singing badgers and badgers advocating fiercely for their causes and digging their little paws into the soft, supple earth. There are mischievous little badgers who put tiny pumpkins on the top of their wee badger buildings. Sometimes they scurry away very quickly, escaping into the dark. Other times tiny badgers in police uniforms shine their flashlights on the would-be pumpkin bandits, and write down their names on their pint-sized notebooks in a grubby hand, with citations for badgering all the wee badger townsfolk. Oft the badgers lament their poor handwriting, mourning their lack of opposable thumbs. Can such creatures even be meant for the rigors of University life? The badgers of Tufts cause much ruckus indeed. Yes, the buildings and even desks are smaller--badger sized. A badger would not be very comfortable at the large tables of Tisch or in the great upholstered chairs of Ginn. They would scarcely be able to stumble up the stairs of our own campus center, but their own is just the size for small badger feet. They might prefer that all of Tufts be a damp, musty woodland forest but alas, twas not to be. Like us, the badgers live in little dorms, study in sweet woody classrooms, and eat their meals at Dewick and Carmichael on tiny tables, with little forks and spoons to eat their grub. Sometimes--on a very special night--they are treated to General Gao’s Earthworms. Oh, how the badgers of Tufts enjoy those nights. There is a badger you, and there is a badger me. We play together on the hill, rolling down it in the winter in our little badger sleds. During the little badger Spring Fling the famous Childish Badger comes by to play for all the badgers frolicking on the hill. It is a great time for badgers everywhere when spring comes indeed. Across the quad the little badgers scurry, little picket signs clasped between their slender claws. They squeak to make room for gender-neutral burrows, and for Tufts to divest from the grassland-destroyers. Look at them go! They can be just ferocious when provoked. None of us here will ever see the badgers. Their world is separate, parallel to our own. It is easy, even, to doubt their existence. Perhaps we are happier not thinking of them at all. But sometimes, if you press your ear to the dirt of the hill and breathe in deeply, you can feel them--feel their hearts beating--feel their soft damp noses all around you--closing in on you.

FEATURES

Five Ways the Zamboni is Becoming like BuzzFeed.

L O L

Let’s face facts: magazines are quickly becoming outdated. Frankly, we at the Zamboni quite frankly have no idea what you people want from us. We had a staff meeting to talk about our magazine’s future, but it quickly deteriorated into smoking hashish and counting our money. With nowhere else to turn, the few staff writers who remained conscious decided to just google it, and that’s how we found Buzzfeed. We honestly don’t know what you see in this, but for the sake of your happiness, readers, here are some changes we are enacting as of next issue: 1. We won’t be writing our own articles anymore.

Writing articles is work, and work is hard. From now on, we’ll just be copy pasting articles from The Onion and the Harvard Lampoon, removing most of the content, and turning them into picture books.

2. We will no longer feature articles with more then three sentences in the same area.

Effective, verbose communication is tacky and we hate it. Besides, all the real money these days is in pictures of cats.

3. We’re outsourcing all the work to our readers. 4. We’re making partnerships with other magazines.

The only thing easier then plagiarizing other people’s articles is letting other people plagiarize other people’s articles, and apparently there’s this whole niche market right now for “usergenerated” content. So fuck it, win win. 5. We’re selling out to corporate “sponsorship.”

Picture this: you open your copy of the daily and a piece of paper falls to the floor. You pick it up and glance over it, only to realize that you just accidentally read one of our articles. We’re whipping out our brand and waving it around for everyone to see, and we plan to put it everywhere. You click a bit too far to the right on your iSIS homepage? That’s us. You don’t check the hyperlink on a Tufts confession? That’s us. Your Abstract Algebra professor puts a list of problems on the projector? That’s probably not us, but we’re working on it.

Maybe we’ll be bought by Facebook for $32 billion, who knows? Coincidentally, this article is brought to you by McDonald’s, which is totally really healthy and not made from ground chinchillas or anything.

Vol. XXV, No. 3 - The Fancy Issue

FEATURES

Dennett: Smart, but Wrong about Ghosts by Paul Templeton, Arlington & Sims Engine Co.

“We’re none of us perfect meaning sussers-outers.” -Daniel Dennett

he principal claim in this article is that, despite his foreboding intellectual prowess and many years of experience, Daniel Dennett’s refusal to believe in and rejection of the existence of ghosts is incorrect. In essence, Dennett is an existence proof of his own statement, quoted above. Even the most successful organic brains are imperfect; even the most obvious of prima facie global truths can escape the otherwise finely-tuned Dennetts of the world. The weak version of this claim is that ghosts exist inasmuch as they are a researchable anthropological phenomenon, and Dennett’s misconceptions are merely failures of his imagination. After all, conversations take place about them, people experience them, and businesses profit off of them. Ghosts are the reason the SyFy network turned in positive numbers last quarter, the reason the Amityville house still gives tours, and the reason I’m up late at night writing this condemnation. The strong version of this claim is that real spooky ghosts really spookily exist and that Dennett just doesn’t fucking get it.

A known materialist, Dennett has taken every chance he’s had to casually dismiss the vast swathes of rigorously analyzed anecdotal evidence in favor of ghostly apparitions. “How can non-matter affect matter?” he says, with wry wit and a twinkle in his eye. “Casper can both pass through a wall and

Dan Dennett, oft-described “Tufts’ most illustrious professor,” is undoubtedly one of the world’s foremost expert contributors in modern philosophy. There at the birth of cognitive science, Dennett is a world-renowned expert on consciousness, who stoked the fires of this once ridiculed academic pursuit. Describing him as “up there with Stephen Hawking, Richard Feynman, and even Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting,” many believe him to be one of the greatest minds of our time. This is a man with the mental acuity and experience to which dreadfully few can lay claim. Indisputably brilliant, clever, and witty. And wrong about ghosts.

Undoubtedly well-respected, well-read, and well-reasoned. Unfortunately, he’s, well, wrong about ghosts.

work done by pioneering spectrologist, Dr. Egon Spengler, could only be described as a “series of nice tries.” Spengler, when asked to comment on Dennett’s response gave this as his only statement, “Dennett, whom we should all love and fear, to whom we may attribute many of thought’s greatest achievements, to whose intellect society owes a massive debt of gratitude, is simply incorrect when it comes to the matter of ghosts.”

“Truly, I’ve never encountered a man so worthy of my admiration and so woefully mistaken about ghosts.” catch a ball. How is this possible? What is this ‘wonder tissue’ he is composed of and how can I acquire some?” Dennett’s belief, which may understandably be lost in his dripping sarcasm, is quite simple: ghosts are not real. Let me be clear. Dennett is and will always be a personal intellectual hero of mine. That the pen is mightier than the sword is never truer than when wielded by him. He is a phenomenological phenom, a reductionist who cannot be reduced. It is one of modernity’s greatest confusions that a man so sharp about so much could have so exquisitely missed the point when it comes to the hard problem of ghoulishness.

I am here to intentionally stand against the Dennett position. I am here to say that his attempted erasure of complex and intimate personal experience is a disservice to the

Understandably, many of you approach this article as skeptics of the study of the spooky and the scary. However, a complete and thorough scrutinization of the myths surrounding ectoplasmic research is beyond the scope of this article. A few short paragraphs in this esteemed publication is, to my greatest dismay, not nearly enough to satisfyingly dispel the many senseless claims against this legitimate realm of thought. I will thus present a series of clear and succinct pumps for your intuitions, so that you may be left with no spectre of a doubt in re: phantoms and hauntings. 1.) For decades, Dennett and his followers have been desperately trying to prove that ghosts do not exist. Yet they have produced no credible evidence to support this viciously physicalist agenda. Why might this be? The conclusion is right in front of you (and around you, and around all of us, walking this petrified Earth in search of meaning in the infinite): Dennett and his cronies have failed to disprove ghosts, because the truth cannot be disproven. 2.) If ghosts are not real then what else is not real? If you are faithful to the Dennett stance, you must also countenance the nonexistence of other supernatural (but real) things like pirates, magnets, and the internet. Would you still reject what you reject if no one else did? Are you prepared to build an asylum for the rest of the world?

“Ghosts, in all their spine-chilling vaporescence, are as much a part of this world as you or I, or even Dennett.”

Truly, I’ve never encountered a man so worthy of my admiration and so woefully mistaken about ghosts.

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paranormal dialogue. His flat out denial of the physical theory of apparitions in the Journal of Parapsychology (Maher, 1999) is misguided at best, and at worst, damaging to an established field of science that pushes the boundaries of our corporeal comfort. His most recent attempt at discrediting the

3.) Imagine the state of storytelling if ghosts weren’t real. Would you even be frightened at campfires? Or at slumber parties? Because

FEATURES

ghosts are indispensable to mankind’s scariest stories, we are forced to quantify over them and subsequently be committed to their existence, by Quine’s Criterion of Spookiness. 4.) Dr. Fleig-Goldstein’s research shows that we all have innate knowledge of the precise moment to end a handshake (Fleig-Goldstein, 2013). Standard science has failed to adequately accommodate these findings. Therefore we must turn to paranormal science to find compelling explanations for this peculiar phenomenon. Could ethereal beings be pulling the strings? Sheldrake’s theory of morphic resonance lends credence to this account (Sheldrake, 1988). Indeed, the phantasmic could be the master puppeteers of many of our most basic social interactions. 5.) The gestalt of man-spirit experience is too remarkably complex to ignore. Leaving this stone unturned will surely deny us valuable insights into cognitive phenomena and the elusive human condition…

With these points in mind, there can be little doubt that Dennett’s camp is intellectually dedicated to an untenable conclusion. Ghosts, in all their spine-chilling vaporescence, are as much a part of this world as you or I, or even Dennett. It is my sincerest hope as a man of reason and of curiosity, that the seemingly impenetrable chasm between the physical and the metaphysical, between the material and the immaterial, between the Dennett position and the truth, can be bridged. Finally, I leave you with this plea from Émile Durkheim: “If these spirits are so much in control of health and illness and of good and evil things, it is wise to seek their benevolence or to appease them when they are annoyed” (Durkheim, 1912). For the love of God, don’t piss them off, Dan.

References 1. 2.

4. 5.

Durkheim, Émile. “The Elementary Forms of Religious Life.” 1912. Fleig-Goldstein, Brendan. “Handshakes as natural kinds: A deconstruction of supernatural behavior.” The Journal of Scientific Exploration, Vol. 28 Issue 4. December 2013. Maher, Michaeleen C. “Riding the waves in search of the particles: A modern study of ghosts and apparitions.” The Journal of Parapsychology, Vol. 63 Issue 1. March 1999. Montanaro, Nikku. “A light in the distance sings of my mother.” Paranormal Magazine, Issue 65. March 2014. Sheldrake, Rupert. “The Presence of the Past: Morphic Resonance and the Habits of Nature.” Park Street Press. 1988.

Arlington & Sims Engine Co. was founded in 1882 by a doctor and his three wives and children, respectively.

Vol. XXV, No. 3 - The Fancy Issue

ARTS Tisch Library It’s not just for oral sex anymore By Vicky Rathsmill

The Pony Tale

Spencer St. Genevieve sighs and pushes her hand through her sleek brown ponytail. One single tear falls down her cheeks, disturbing her otherwise perfectly make-uped face. She never, ever, thought this would happen. Today is her sixteenth birthday, and her parents, siblings, housekeeper and friends have all forgotten. Usually on her birthday, her parents wake her up with breakfast in bed— French toast, orange juice, and a little daisy in a China cup—and the rest of the day is dedicated to Spencer. Last year she took all of her friends to the spa. Chessie, Olivia, Aidan, Meredith, and Isabella had all gotten their toenails painted different colors. They still talked about it.

Tisch Library Learn, Study, Play!

But it was already 11:30am and nothing had happened. When she came downstairs in the morning, figuring her parents had set up a fancy breakfast for her in the kitchen, her dad had told her to help herself to some cereal. Cereal!!!! He hadn’t even said “Happy Birthday”! Spencer said she wasn’t hungry and went back to her room. Spencer checks her phone—still no happy birthday texts from her friends. She tries to swallow the huge lump in her throat. She pets her teacup Yorkie, Muffin, who is wearing a pink bowtie. “You’re the only one who loves me!” she tells Muffin, sobbing.

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Suddenly, there is a knock at her door. “Spencer, may we come in?” It is her mother. “I don’t care,” Spencer tells her, burying her face into Muffin’s fur. The door opens. And… It is everyone she loves! She sees her parents, brother, sister, all her friends, and her housekeeper. The all have huge smiles on their faces and are wearing birthday hats. They even have a mini one for Muffin. “Spencer, you thought we forgot your birthday,” her dad says. “We could never do that, darling angel!” “There is someone who wants to meet you,” her mom says. Suddenly, Chessie walks into her room, leading a…Miniature pony!!! “OH MY GOD!” Spencer exclaims. “Is that for me?” “Say hello to your new pony. Her name is Miss Valentine!” says Chessie. “I’m the luckiest girl the world!” Tears of joy fall out of Spencer’s big baby blue eyes. “We love you Spencer!” they all say in unison, giving her a group hug. “The is the best birthday ever!” Spencer says.

OPINION

Ill-Fitting Britches for a Southern Belle

By Willa Owens-Deveraux I knew being a Baton Rouge belle at a Northern school would come with its trials and tribulations. After I decided on Tufts, it seemed all of Louisiana warned me against attending a New England university. I heard countless horror stories of the frigidity of this region’s weather and people, and the lack of sensibility and grace that pervades Yankee “culture.” “This highfalutin hussy’s as lost as last year’s Easter egg,” my fellow DAR members would say after a few too many Cajun Lemonades. At times I felt as maligned as Paula Deen in a shitswirl of YouTube comments, but I was poised to experience the North myself and kept my head held high. To my dismay, my friends and family were right as red-bellied woodpeckers about the godless socialists of the North. The fraternity boys are far from Southern gentlemen, pleading me to disrobe for their annual, culturally inaccurate “Antebellum Bitches” party; people pretend to enjoy Veganism and eating wheat germ; and it seems that no one has even heard of spiked molasses sweet tea. However, I do declare that the unapologetic vulgarity of the Tufts Women’s Center is what could really make a preacher cuss. I arrived at “The Center” (as those in-the-know call it) with a basket of my best homemade cornbread, and my highest quality faux eyelashes. Sure, the girls seated on the couches were sweaty and had positively shitty posture, but a true Southern lady knows only the sweet Lord stands at the altar of judgment. “Are those gluten-free? I have an intolerance, as in bread makes me slightly more flatulent than usual,” a tattooed, facially pierced miscreant asked without even the effort of a smile. “Of course, honeybee, I’d never put any glue or tin in one of these puppies!” I said jovially. I got bashful after my comment was received with smug laughs, and figured maybe these girls hadn’t completed the etiquette training the Women’s Center surely must provide. Aside from this first incident, the ladies of the center initially received me as warmly as Massholes ever could. A lot of the girls condescendingly thought I added “folksiness” and “authenticity” with my colorful colloquialisms and unrepentant femininity. Initially, they humored my desire for Women’s Center Bible study groups as much as I humored their deeply disturbing, gynophilic love of cloth pads. Sadly, I learned faster than an Everglades anaconda that the Women’s Center was more a space for the Hebrews and homosexuals than for Southern Baptist debutantes. Every time I spoke up with programming ideas, my romantic Southern drawl would be drowned out by nasally Northern cackles. Rayne Griffs, the leading Women’s Center intern, was especially dismissive of my suggestions. Rayne replaced my workshop on “The Perfect Fake Laugh to Procure a Man” with a “community conversation” on how to avoid chafing while petting your kitty. She also laughed in my face when I suggested providing local, underprivileged and nouveau riche girls with debutante balls. Among other unsavory incidents, yesterday was the last tolerable drop of toad piss. “Intro to MRS Studies… Are you fucking kidding me?” Rayne asked with a lesbian growl. “You’re ass is grass and I’m the fossil-fueled lawnmower, bitch,” I responded with a Georgia gator’s hiss. (Southern girls know how to be ladies, but we also know when we need to dish out the turducken.) A catfight far too worthy for a scene in Antebellum Bitches ensued, and needless to say, I creamed Rayne’s corn faster than two shakes of a lamb’s tail. That devil woman’s armpit hair was sweating like Mary Magdalene in purgatory, while I was being physically removed from the premises with a grin on my face. We Southern belles may be sweet as almond cream pie a la mode, but never forget that we’re the scrappiest Bo Peeps in the barnyard. Can’t wait to get the fuck out of this moral wasteland and transfer to Vanderbilt.

Vol. XXV, No. 3 - The Fancy Issue

OPINION Miss Emily’s Guide to: Hosting the Perfect Garden Party in your Basement 1. Décor: The first essential to any respectable party is the proper decoration. And don’t you dare skimp. Relying on your basement’s wilting asbestos and other natural charms might cut it for a simple dance party, but a garden party is a different breed entirely. We recommend planting fresh flowers in the exposed groundwork to add a nice, homey charm to the atmosphere. Dress up that spindly beer-pong table with a single lace doily to preserve its rustic feel. Gather up a rag-tag ensemble of half-broken chairs for seating. Do not be afraid of mixing and matching. Lastly, you do not want to just keep those walls bare. For this our design experts recommend what they have frequently dubbed their “top-secret decorating hack”: crepe paper. Lots and lots of crepe paper. 2. Catering: Any garden party worth its salt has enough petit fours and little sandwiches to kill a blue whale. Yours must not be the exception. However, if you are looking to revamp the tired cucumber sandwiches and disappointing little cakes, we have a few helpful tips. First and foremost is to experiment with flavors. The end product doesn’t even have to taste good, so long as it has an interesting mix of ingredients. We have served sandwiches containing stewed calamari with a chipotle glaze and pickle relish, along with kale cakes with a chocolate butter cream frosting. So long as you make them aware of the ingredients, your guests will gladly go for seconds and applaud the entire affair as thoroughly cultured. Bonus points for everything to be both vegan and gluten free. 3. Hosting: Just remember, have fun, and stick your pinky out as much as humanly possible. Plus, keep in mind this tidbit of parting advice: it’s not a real party until somebody pukes on the cat.

ThingsCurated Theby Nicky Streets Say! Gonzalez “How deep is your love?”

“Truth is beauty and beauty truth. And if a cutie’s got a booty then it’s goin’ toot toot.” --Ronald Jonald (Rojo)

The Zamboni

“20,000 leagues under my pee!” --Dhon “Skippo” Gefferson while urinating

“One day I’ll burn all of this to the ground. Haha! Licorice is my favorite!” --Ginnie Smiff

ONE-HANDED READ

O Bryson! My Bryson!

By snowqueeniceblowjob

“Um hello, we are at a garden party,” Hazel said pointedly. “Well yeah, but I wore jeans instead of suit pants, the universally accepted signal that I was dragged to this event against my will and must protest,” he sighed. “You’re so dreamy when you hate the world,” Hazel replied, fluttering her eyelashes. “Ugh this party suckss,” Hazel said, waving her gloved hand at her face to fan herself. “They don’t even have the good tea. Lame.” She was at a stupid garden party that her mom had dragged her to. It was awful, especially because she had to wear a white dress. Hazel hated white. She preferred her coffee and attire both to be as black as her soul. Actually, the only thing that made this party even remotely entertaining was the one other person about her age here. He looked like one of those brooding, mysterious types. Hazel loved brooding, mysterious types. They were like little black holes for her own bit of universe. And Hazel reveled in getting sucked in by them. And so did her cunt. She had been slowly and seductively seducing him across the hour she had been here. She thought he might have frowned in her direction. Her inner goddess purred in response. After exhausting herself of smoldering eyes and duck faces, she advanced to make her move. “Hey,” she said. She tossed her hair like she owned the world instead of owed it in student loans. “I’m Hazel.” She held out her hand for him to shake. He looked up at her with smoldering eyes of his own, except these were slightly more contemptuous than Hazel would have liked. “How bougie,” he said, gruff voice suiting him as well as mohawks suited tigers. Rawr.

He cracked a crooked smile. “I take it that you would like to have sex.” “Wowie that’s forward,” Hazel said. She felt herself blush a little. But then she fluttered her eyes again, like butterflies seducing their bees. She glanced over at her mother. Her mother appeared occupied by her knitting. “But I accept,” she giggled dangerously. He took her by the hand, which was when she noticed just how big his hand was. “Wowie,” she said again. It was like he was Frankenstein, with all the best parts of people all stitched together into the perfect love slave. It was like that, and his hands came from Shaq. They locked themselves in the powder room, the one with all the kittens on the walls and that smelled faintly of old lady bras. “You never told me your name,” Hazel whispered while nibbling daintily on his earlobe. She licked it seductively. Like he was a horse and she was Catherine the Great. “Bryson,” he said. He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, looking into her eyes with his own quivering with desire like feathers on the broad wings of that we all are deep, down inside. He kissed her then, and his lips tasted and felt like what Hazel always imagined the supple belly of a penguin to be like. “Mmm,” she commented. Then with solely the sheer force of punk and teenaged rebellion, he had her shoved sexily against the wall of the bathroom,

and she went to work like a Keebler Elf, ripping off all of his clothes, and sucking on his fingers like it took 500 licks to get to their delicious, chocolate centers. He then snapped his fingers, and her fancy dress crumpled to the ground. Hazel stopped kissing him, which she had been doing like he was Russia and she was Napoleon, then. “Oops,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” He looked guilty as a clam under nuclear winter. “No,” Hazel breathed. Her hand trailed down to his splendid meatwand, as she felt him shudder underneath her. “I’m a witch, too.” His piercing eyes stared her down. “We must be soulmates.” It was a gruff statement. Hazel’s heart leapt up like a dolphin lifted on the golden wings of Icarus’ flight and all its sensual, sexy connotations. “Yes,” Hazel replied. “You are my Edward. I am your Carlisle. This is destined, just like the ultimate demise of all things in the universe that ever indicated humankind or planet earth was ever even a small speck in the sky.” And then he was kissing her again, his tongue navigating her every orifice like he was spelunking and she was a succulent baboon. Then he was inside her and it felt like a perfect moment in space-time, with the two of them making a symphony with their bleats and grasping, sweaty hands, swirling around like they were matadors and the bull was really inside them all along. At last they came in perfect unison, like the trumpets announcing the angels heard on high singing swiftly through the night. Hazel collapsed then, and sat on the floor. “Wow,” she said. “This is our destiny,” Bryson replied.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Vol. XXV, No. 3 - The Fancy Issue

SODUKU

Here at the Zamboni, we’re all about elitism. After all, everything’s intrinsically better the more you do it with people that look exactly like you! So we’re honoring that age old tradition, and being very fancy about it, with a puzzles section!

Think of it this way, have you ever seen someone fill out a crossword, or solve a Sudoku or Jumble and think “Ugh.. look at that proletariat scum!” No! Never! Those are only allowed for the highest echelon of scholarly class! Anyway, we have a New York Times crossword builder on staff and figured we might as well use his “talent” for an issue. So he’d stop complaining. Enjoy!

“Quirky Intellectual”

Draw Someone Near You

Answer to April Issue’s Puzzle

The Zamboni

If We Were Adelie Penguins By Ben Meyerson If it were March and we were Adelie Penguins, I would have just finished my 70-mile trek to our mating site. It would have been a whole year since I last saw you But you would be even more beautiful than I remember. I would bulge and you would hear my call And we would desperately try to find each other in the mass of bodies Who are all desperately trying to find each other. Then I would present you with the smoothest rock I could find And I would lay it at your feet as a present to add to your collection. You would accept it and we would push our cloacas together then depart, And wait another year to be together again. After all, we are migratory animals. But I would wait for you and you would wait for me. That’s how we would know what we had was real. If we were Labrador puppies we would play all day And I would nibble at your ear and neck Then run away because I want you to chase me. And when you catch up I would urinate all over myself and the carpet, Because I’m not house trained yet, And we’re so excited to see each other. And while my owner is rubbing my face in my own piss, I’ll look at you and wink, so you know that I’m thinking of you. And if we were Galapagos Giant Tortoises, I would have been waiting 40 years to reach sexual maturity. Then, when I finally found you, I would nip at your legs With my old man-ish toothless mouth, And bob my head furiously, extending my neck as far as it could go, And hope that you found me suitable and big enough. I would mount you from behind and you would retract your legs Making you completely immobile while I crawled on top of you. And for the first time, I would tell you I loved you. If we were Porcupines and it were the 8-12 hours a year That is our mating season, I would stand six feet away from you and spray you From head to toe with my warm urine. Which is better than if we were Hippos, Because then I would use my tail to splash you with water And projectile my feces on you. And even as a Hippo, I would think that it was gross. But I would do it for you. If I were a male Anglerfish and if you were a female Anglerfish, I would bite your body and release an enzyme That dissolved the flesh of my face Which would alloy my body onto your body

Creating one eternal embrace. And though it would be the most painful thing That I’ve ever felt I would be happy to do it. You would then use my sperm as needed for the rest of your life While you pursed your art career And I would be in bliss. If we were ducks I would use my corkscrew penis to navigate Through all the folds and flaps and traps that is your duck vagina. And if I could find my way and impregnate you, you would know that I was the one. And I would call my family and friends and tell them I was getting married And my mother would cry and my father would cry And they would be so proud of me. And I would be proud of us Because what are the odds of us finding each other In this huge duck-world? But, if we were Parrots. If we were parrots, We would kiss on the mouth and see how that felt. If things were going well I would round second base and regurgitate My entire lunch into your mouth. It’s okay though, The pasta was undercooked anyway. But I enjoyed eating it with you. As Praying Mantises we would mate Then I would suggest some post-coital snuggling. You would oblige then promptly bite my head off. And that would be okay with me, Because you’re you. And if we were Emerald Cockroach Wasps And we wanted a beautiful baby to brighten our lives, You would inject venom into my brain to paralyze me To inhibit my escape. Then you would puncture my exoskeleton And, with the utmost care, lay an egg in my abdomen. Our larva would eat my organs as they grew And though I would be in excruciating pain I would smile, Because they have your eyes. But even though we’re not Penguins or porcupines or parrots or emerald cockroach wasps, And we’re just two kids, I love you all the same.

Vol. XXV, No. 3 - The Fancy Issue

The Poetry Reach-Around “Limericks” by Ryan Hastings-Echo There once was a guy playing pong A freshman who got the rules wrong Soon passed out in REM We summoned him TEMS Now I hope they don’t notice my bong •••••

“Mink” by Vicky Rathsmill It’s a cold night So I wrap my mink stole Around my fragile shoulders And watch The fire as it Burns and crinkles and simmers and spits My butler comes in With a cup of tea I just tell him to leave I sigh and think: It’s hard to be the young beautiful wife Of a rich hotel magnate

“The Queen’s Speech” by Vicky Rathsmill

There once was a man smoking pot In public as he did a lot But this time poor bloke The cops smelled the smoke Now off of Pro 1 he is not

The Queen of England Said to me The other day “Hello, dear chap Fancy, a nightcap?”

•••••

There once was a man on the quad Who was trying to show off his bod But frighteningly quick He covered his dick When he saw the incoming police squad

And I replied, “Dear me! I don’t want to make a scene But aren’t you the Queen?” And she laughed and said “No sir, I’m a royal jellybean!”

Antique Lace by William Owen Drenched In antique lace

Only I know your sorrow

I am an Alfonse Mucha painting, Heart Nouveau -

(You’re a horse)

Heart open to your Gatsby gaze. Gatsby gays dance forever in your moonlight. But only I know your secret (You’re a horse)

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Fuck me in the musty hay Amid all His creatures. First trot to a gallop, and then full-speed ahead. Put your lips together, and neigh. Let me break you in. Together we ride through my meadow of antique lace.

Note: the organization of the poems on this page kind of looks like a robot.

Here’s to ending a fantastic year of the Zamboni, and looking forward to the bright future ahead!

Thanks so much for all the work and time and effort you’ve put into this magazine over the years. I know there were supposed to be photos here about some sort of garden party in a frat basement, or some kind of crazy exposé on Beyoncé’s new role as Time’s “most influential person of 2013” and what that means for the future of capitalism. Instead, I’m taking this space to thank you for such a wonderful year. None of the progress we made and will continue to make would have been possible if it weren’t for you lot, the graduating editors. From distilleries to badgers, from book reviews to crazy songs about daddies, the sillies to the series-sillies, this year’s been an absolute whirlwind, and you made it wonderful. Also the graduating staffers, you may not have come to too many meetings, but we love you just as much. Maybe even more because we don’t know you as well. To Laura, Will, Nina, & Vicky (in order of the last time I saw you before writing this), the eternal flames that light the Zamboni, Like the phoenix’s embers, a new year begins when this old one ends. New lights build on top of old successes, and ending greatness only leads to future happiness... or something like that. May these words - however shitty - immortalize you. I hope that whatever you end up doing gets done well, and if things don’t work out, you can always hang around the humor magazine where you once were monarch, and call out between drunken breaths the greatness it once was! You’ll now have to face real life, but we’ll still be here photoshopping dildos into pictures of famous philosophers. Ain’t that a kick in the head? xoxo Zamboni xoxo

@tuftscantaloupes

Apparently, Tufts students have been encouraging flagrant disregard for decorum and courtesy by with the Twitter account @tuftsbananas. We at the Zamboni must protest. Bananas? Really? Oh look at you, so funny because bananas look like penises. We get it. Phallus. Dicks. The systematic oppression of women. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s absolutely obscene that the administration has yet to do something about this avalanche of patriarchal normalization, of blowjobs and dongs. Where is the equality? Where are the beautiful cavernous sexes, the humble rosebuds, the gentle bearded clams? Thus we present to you some highlights from our response: @tuftscantaloupes.