This week, the harsh and unforgiving winter has settled upon Cornell’s campus. Every morning, students venture out and endure these frigid winds with only the distant, waning memory of warmer days (last week) to comfort them. There is only one sanctuary for these brave souls: the primal familiarity of the warmth of a running sink.
“It is like a tender hug from my mother,” shared Riley Williams ‘27, washing her hands. “No, no, it is like crawling back up inside of my mother’s soft, balmy womb, hands-first.”
Those familiar with the allure of the warm sink will also be well-acquainted with the excruciating moment when the recommended 20 seconds of handwashing have passed and one is forced to relinquish the pure euphoria of the sink to the next in line. This moment came all too soon for Williams.
“Please… please don’t make me go back out there,” Williams said, pleading with Casey Connors ‘25, the incumbent hand-washer.
“Girl, what the fuck? I have to wash my fucking hands. I’m going to be late for Econ,” replied Connors.
Williams was eventually torn away from the sink kicking, screaming and crying, a scene reminiscent of the first time she was torn away from the comfort of her mother’s womb.
OLIN LIBRARY—Panic ensued among patrons of Libe Cafe as what started off as a wimpy high-pitched whine grew into a deafening whistle, its shrill sound piercing ears and shattering phone screens. Searching for a means of sequestering the shrieking, workers rushed to unplug their appliances and knock over anything that might produce such an intense trill.
The workers’ efforts were rewarded with respite as the ringing in their ears receded and the discomforting sound softened. Believing danger to have abated, students stood pondering the source of the disturbance. Realization dawned on the crowd as it recognized the sound starting up again from a dark corner of the cafe, not from a malfunctioning machine but from a frenzied freshman.
Trent Marco ‘27 sat alone at a table, fists clenched and pounding his temples. As a screaming Marco grappled with the harsh reality of his eighteen credit schedule and five consulting club applications, his face flushed fiery red and steam began streaming from his ears and nose.
A self-proclaimed “academic weapon,” Marco spent the first two months of the semester getting settled with the belief that when the going got tough, he’d turn on the gas and conquer any academic adversity. Instead, as prelim season began, Marco developed the habit of generating more steam than a hydrogen combustion engine and expelling it in moments of high stress.
“I can’t help it,” Marco explained, “I tried keeping a lid on it, but if I plug my nose, then the ear steam doubles. And if I plug those too… God, that was terrible…”
Cafe customers had little empathy for the frustrated freshman, going as far as to boo him until he took his whining outside. Marco was observed fleeing across the Arts Quad soon after, the steam from his head condensing into a cloud and raining down on just him.
Animal Science Junior Clayton Keane ’25 considers himself lucky. He gets to wake up every day and do his favorite thing: unsupervised barn time.
As the first to arrive & last to leave, Keane has taken advantage of every opportunity the program affords. He relishes the hands-on aspect of the curriculum, estimating that he has donated upwards of twenty chickens to science with his bare fists.
From a young age, Keane has been honing his sixth sense for the most vulnerable and nonverbal among us. His family reminisced on countless childhood trips to Petsmart. “I remember when he first got Peanut, his first hamster. And then Chewy, his second hamster. And Nibbles, his third…” recalled his mother fondly.
“He’s a lovely boy. He arranged for all sixteen of them to go to a little farm upstate. And now he’s finally joined them there,” she added.
Keane has spent the last few years getting to know the animals on the farm, cuddling, feeding, and handpicking the sacrificial lambs.
Keane’s zest for the discipline has not gone unnoticed by peers and professors. “I’m not entirely sure he understands that it’s the science of animals, not science on animals. Regardless, it shows that he’s willing to innovate with the curriculum” stated Sheep Management Professor Walter Atkins, observing that Keane “thinks outside the box” of the veterinary ethics code.
Three years into his studies, Keane is thinking bigger: He’s excited to graduate to equine studies. “I’m not trying to beat a dead horse here, but I would like to get my hands on one.”
NEW YORK, NEW YORK—After four years of undergrad and 27 total rejections from CCC, CCG, CYC, and various other combinations of three letters on a sweater vest, recent AEM graduate Danny Michaelson ‘23 feared that he’d never be able to make it in the business world. However, after a little bit of on-the-job training, Michaelson has found that he can spend other people’s money, use a bluetooth earpiece, and commit fraud as well as anybody.
“It turns out insider trading is, like, super easy!” explained Michaelson. “At first I thought I’d be totally out of my depth, but it turns out that it’s exactly like taking an online prelim. You just go to your friend who already took the test, and ask him for the answers. So for business, you basically just call up your friend, and ask him if his company is gonna go kablooey or not, and then you make your decision before everyone else gets to know. No Sweat!” continued Michaelson, demonstrating his complete mastery over the world of finance.
Since starting his new position, Michaelson has sent 600+ LinkedIn connection requests and consumed 200+ cups of coffee, effectively completing a full three years worth of consulting club experience in just under three months. While some might have been burned out by the sheer level of deals and business that Michaelson is conducting, his drive has remained unaffected.
“I kinda thought that insider trading was suuuper illegal, but the guys let me know that it’s one of those fake illegal things, like jaywalking and cocaine,” said Michaelson. “A lot of my coworkers were in business clubs during college, but my boss says he’s never seen anyone make trades like me. He’s always asking me to sign lots of documents and record myself talking about all the stocks I’m buying.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s putting together a highlight reel for the Executives. I can’t wait to get promoted!”
Every fall, a few brave freshmen reignite a generations-long trend of fire-starting in dorms. This year, Mary Donlon Hall fell victim. Such a choice calls into question the arsonist’s dedication to the hobby: If they really wanted to make a building disintegrate, why not douse some gasoline on Low Rise Seven?
Arson has versatility: it can be a drunken DIY activity to bond with new friends, or a cry for help. But no matter the underlying reason for starting a fire, it has the goal of turning its target to ash. To fulfill this goal, you would think that anyone with respect towards their craft would select the building with the least amount of structural integrity and value available. Alas, this arsonist is clearly still learning, as Low Rise Seven has yet to be engulfed in flames.
Low Rise Seven has been begging to be a pile of charred dust and debris for decades. Ridden with asbestos and poorly wired LED lights, the North Campus eye sore would be lit up as soon as possible by any arsonist that cared about results. With interior temperatures already at an average of 105°F, just one lukewarm match would have that thing set ablaze in no time.
There’s no denying the benefits of willy-nilly, target-blind arson: social acceptance, self-importance, etc.. But if it’s so easy to just reroute from Donlon to Low Rise Seven, why not take down the one that’s gotta go anyways?
Editor’s Note: Our attorneys have encouraged us to disclaim that this is not a call for arson nor an incitement of property destruction. It is merely a suggestion of such actions, which, if taken, should be done properly and would be really cool.
THE CORNELL DAILY SUN—James Macintyre ‘25 takes his unpaid, full-time position at the Cornell Daily Sun very seriously. So, when he learned that he had forgotten to distribute the paper for the third week in a row, the pain of the Sun’s 25-ish dedicated readers weighed heavily on his shoulders.
As a result of Macintyre’s gross negligence, the Cornell Daily Sun readership – Macintyre’s supportive mother and a few professors—is currently lacking critical information. In the three weeks that Macintyre has missed distribution, nine separate OP-EDs calling for the abolishment of Cornell have been published, and the Student Assembly has done something also, apparently.
“How could campus have gone without the Sun for three weeks without noticing?” Macintyre asked. “If the New York Times or Fox News shut off for just a day everyone would notice. I don’t see how us journalists at THE Cornell Daily Sun are any different.”
Following his failure, the junior is struggling to reckon with his shortcomings. Due to his inaction, Macintyre fears no one will read the Sun anymore like everyone certainly did before.
“Usually when I distribute the paper, a whole dozen of people pick up the copy,” Macintyre reminisced. “Now, that number of 12 has dropped sharply to zero and it’s all my fault!”
DUFFIELD HALL—Information Science major Greg Daniels ‘24 was spotted Tuesday evening emerging from a cool, dark place bereft of direct sunlight. Unlucky bystanders scampered out of the splash zone as he made his way across Ho Plaza in a manner that can only be described as “spongy.”
Roommate Mike Meyers ‘25 noted that Daniels had been particularly saturated as of late, referencing last week’s record-high temperatures. “It’s weird though, we have A/C, but he was still somehow glistening?” mused Meyers.
“I don’t know how he manages to maintain a perpetual drip, especially since I’ve never actually heard the shower running when he’s home,” he continued, baffled by the enigmatic seepage.
Nearby students parted like the Red Sea as Daniels descended into Okenshields, many citing a loss of appetite. Onlookers recalled watching him beeline for the double cheeseburger pizza, shoes squelching with a marshy reverb.
In a particularly harrowing encounter, Daniels exchanged a pre-moistened homework assignment for a moment of eye contact from Kelsey Schneider ’25, before tripping over his shoelaces and adding he “meant to do that.” He retreated unceremoniously, leaving a puddle to remember him by.
MORRISON HALL—After an arduous week of classes, the weary, hungry masses gathered in the one place that grants them respite, where the turbulence of life gives way to comforting predictability and dependable mediocrity: The Morrison Pasta Station. However, today, a cruel shock shattered this spaghetti sanctuary and the already-paper-thin wills of many students.
“I have been having the worst day today and the only thing I thought I could depend on was the simple plate of pasta from Morrison,” said Marcus Bai ‘27. “You know, those wholesome seashell-shaped noodles that lovingly cradle the sauce as tenderly as a mother would her infant child? Instead, I get these spiteful little slippery spiral fucks, these nefarious corkscrews of pure hate. I burn in the fiery flames of this fusilli hellscape.”
While Morrison Dining Hall descended into puttanesca pandemonium, a handful of students and staff members exchanged knowing, solemn looks. Both parties acknowledged a shared understanding that this marinara misery is a necessary evil and a burden they must bear together.
“I am fated to scoop at this fucked up little noodle,” explained Patrick Richards ‘26. “I am Hercules and this is my Hydra. Each time I attempt to stab it, another pathetic little fragment of pasta breaks away and where there was only one pitiful excuse for a noodle there are now two, and so on and so on, forever.”
Disappointed patrons left the dining hall dejected but dreaming of a better day, a brighter day, a day when the pasta is in the glorious shape.
SAGE ATRIUM—When Walter Pinker ‘27 emerged from his consulting club coffee chat with Isabella Mendez ‘26, he didn’t want to be a Classics major anymore. In fact, he also did not want to be straight, Catholic, white, or Walter, adopting the temporary moniker “WaPi” (wha-pee, something “more exotic”) while he positions himself to be the ultimate corporate diversity admit.
“I booked the Calendly appointment as a joke, you know? So I could live out the rest of my humanities major in peace, comforted by the tragedy of Cornellian souls doomed to perpetual corporate servitude. But then I found out about these diversity programs that fly students across the country to eat steak and make little consulting friends,” commented WaPi. “The Odyssey isn’t flying me across the country. And I like filet mignon.”
When probed further about what moved him to transform nearly his entire identity, WaPi cited Mendez’s success in already securing three separate post-grad job offers as a first semester sophomore, with only slightly delayed start dates of 2031, 2036, and 2048.
“She’s already so successful,” remarked WaPi. “Forget the cinematic dark academia main character I’m-better-than-you lifestyle of reading Virgil under a tree. It’s time to become an indispensable DEI statistic.”
WaPi is now on a crusade to tick all the corporate diversity boxes, hoping to secure himself a slot in one of the industry’s most coveted firms so he can lord it over everyone else. Isabella Mendez declined to comment, sharing only that WaPi made her sign an NDA etched in quill onto the back of The Iliad.