Brave Conservative Student Loudly Recites Atlas Shrugged Over Gender Studies Lecture, Receives Medal of Honor in His Nightly Wet Dream

JAMESON HALL—In a stunning display of heroic political protest, freshman Jacob McCarthy interrupted a lecture on gender studies last night by standing atop his desk and beginning to recite Atlas Shrugged from memory. For his deeds, McCarthy received a presidential medal of honor from George W. Bush, which he wore with pride until waking up from his deeply unerotic dream.

“I’ve had all of Ayn Rand’s works memorized since the third grade,” McCarthy boasted as he shoved his soiled boxers into a washing machine. “She’s a bit too libertarian for my tastes, but most of what she writes is very good for a woman. Hey, real quick, do you know how to use detergent? This is my first time.”

McCarthy’s roommate, Patrick Hoffman, reported that McCarthy spent the majority of the night mumbling quotes in his sleep as he tossed, turned, and humped his pillow while making obscene noises. “At 4 AM he, like, sat straight up and yelled, ‘Have you ever asked what is the root of money?’” Hoffman recalled with a shudder. “Then he let out the longest, loudest moan I’ve ever heard in my life. It was like The Exorcist, but somehow even less sexy.”

McCarthy, who has never set foot in a gender studies lecture in his life, described the professor as being a disturbing, yet oddly arousing cross between Senator Bernie Sanders and RuPaul. “He was saying all this stuff about how gay and trans people are regular human beings,” he said, “so of course I had to shut that down immediately. Like, I’m all for free speech, but sometimes people just cross the line, you know? Man, the look on his face when I started in on John Galt’s monologue… not gonna lie, it felt exactly like that time I saw two girls making out at a Halloween party. I can’t wait to dream about it again tonight!”

At press time, Hoffman had begun composing his 34th email to the Housing Office, desperately requesting a room change for next semester.

WORLD CUP REPORT: Your Roommate is 1/16th Argentinian, Apparently

WEST CAMPUS—In a shocking turn of events, one student’s milktoast European roommate revealed himself to be “like 1/16th Argentinian” as the World Cup began.

“My great-great-grandfather lived in Argentina, actually!” explained James Brunner ‘24, in blue face paint and a Lionel Messi jersey. “¡Soy Argentino! I love my country, from the beautiful buildings of Buenos Aires to the… beautiful streets of Buenos Aires. The culture of Argentiña runs in my blood, and I’m honestly thrilled to represent my nation’s colors during the World Cup! Vamos Messi!”

Brunner spent the week opining over the storied legacy of the Argentine Men’s National Team. When asked to name his three favorite players in football history, Brunner quickly rattled off the names of Diego Maradona, Leo Messi, and “any other Argentine player.” His friend group has expressed concern over this new identity. 

“He’s never been to Argentina,” claimed Jeff Donner ‘24. “He bought an Ancestry.com test just so he wouldn’t have to root for America’s garbage team this year. In fact, no one knows where he’s from. He claimed to have been born in LA for last year’s Super Bowl, and now all of a sudden he’s a Philadelphian from birth. He’s an international bandwagoner.”

Brunner’s enthusiasm for his newfound ancestry dimmed when he was informed his great-great-grandfather had moved to Buenos Aires from Dresden in 1945.

OP-ED: It’s Time to Deport A Cappella Groups to Ithaca College

Perhaps you have seen their strange advertisements. Perhaps one of them has approached you, pushing their product. God forbid, perhaps a “friend” has dragged you to one of their cult-like ceremonies, and charged you money for the privilege! This problem is top of mind for many Cornellians. The instrumentless menace, the unaccompanied scourge, the A CAPPELLANS, have unleashed a series of torturous concerts, and they are not through. They never will be. 

I ask you: remains there a single Cornellian untouched by this blight? Do we want innocent first-years exposed to this, hurt by this, for years to come? Do you, dear reader, want to deal with another wave of concerts ever again?

Fortunately, there is hope. As Cornell carries this curse, so too is it blessed—for a solution lurks nearby. Many Cornellians have had the misfortune of spotting this wretched place. Perhaps, while browsing Olin’s stacks or strolling atop the slope, you have noticed in the distance two unsightly towers and a grotesque spire. That, my friend, is Ithaca College. 

Most Cornellians only ever think of this peculiar institution when we encounter one of their students in the Commons or on a bus—and then quickly forget about it. Unfortunately, our current problem requires us to learn a bit about them. You see, Ithaca College is largely a music school. Whereas we rightly judge the A CAPPELLANS as strange and dangerous, Ithaca College and its students welcome, encourage, and support these deviant beatboxers and ooh-ahhers. I will not claim to know what goes on in their minds to bring them to such a conclusion, but, needless to say, it is twisted and dark.

A solution to our woes, then, presents itself. I say, for the good of Cornell and Cornellians, expel the A CAPPELLANS! Let them live amongst their wicked brothers and sisters!

Perhaps the humanitarians reading this are wary. Friends, I assure you this solution is best for everyone. We Cornellians will be free from this scourge, but the A CAPPELLANS, too, will be happier at their new home. No longer will a majority of their concert audience be there by coercion—as hard as that is to imagine! To anyone concerned about the plan’s feasibility: it is less than an hour’s walk from Central Campus to Ithaca College. Given this geographical blessing, the A CAPPELLANS can make their way on foot, requiring no investment from the university. And for those of you—if you do exist—who do not take issue with the plan’s execution but rather with its objective, I say: leave with them! If you harbor sympathies for these monsters, follow them to Ithaca College, that dark den of sin. We shall see how long your sympathy lasts.

My good Cornellians, this plan requires no money, no university resources. All it requires is bravery. President Pollack, be brave! See the people’s will carried out! Expel the infernal A CAPPELLANS once and for all!

Dyson, ILR, and Hotel Schools Join Forces To Create One Poor-People Stomping Voltron

ROSE HOUSE—After a series of dangerous public opinion polls demonstrated that Cornell’s three non-STEM colleges contributed “absolutely nothing positive to society,” the trio of management schools decided to set their differences aside to form a giant super-mech with the strength to defeat any plebes who stand in their way.

“People usually think, ‘Oh, ILR, they’re the pro-worker one,’” explained senior Carlsen Tucker ‘23, using the mech’s sword to cut a tenement building in half. “But we can fuck up the poor with the best of them. You know we send the same percentage of grads into consulting as Dyson does, right? Like five grads per year actually go into unions, the rest of us dedicate our lives to crushing their hope.”

Reports indicate that the mech was purchased with money from one Hotel major’s parents, on the condition that the mech be named after their hotel chain and that their son control the head. After discovering the head does not actually do much, the crew of the Monster Marriott began to squabble over who was causing the most damage. Ultimately, all agreed that the Hotelie could sit back while Dyson controlled the mech’s right arm and leg and ILR took the left.

“Genuinely, fuck you for making me associate with these three,” raged Dyson junior Jonathan Kirkland ‘24, hurling a public school bus into space with the left arm. “Do you know how high their admissions rates are? They’re in the teens! My father fucking founded Costco, he didn’t slave away calculating bulk discounts so I could attend school with the merely above average. But fuck it, if our interests happen to align for as long as it takes to smash an insubordinate underclass, so be it.”

After a full day causing havoc, the mech was forced to close its doors after a repeal of government subsidies for anime death machines rendered the project merely mildly profitable.

Wow! Professor Turns Classroom into Haunted House by Changing Absolutely Nothing

BAKER LAB—Chemistry students were overcome by sheer terror Monday morning as they entered Baker 200, which had been transformed into a haunted house by changing absolutely nothing. Stepping through the foreboding double doors, students were confronted by the same sights, sounds, and scents as those of any ordinary chem lecture, but only in the context of Halloween did they suddenly recognize the blood-curdling character of what they once considered “normal.”

“There are feet dangling over the edge of the mezzanine,” commented Hal Owens, ’25, hugging his knees and nervously rocking in a main-level lefty-desk. “The shoes are in prime position to plummet onto any one of our heads. I don’t know what’s more frightening—the prospect of getting knocked out mid-class or having to tell people you got knocked out mid-class by a hideous falling Golden Goose.”

Other haunted elements include waves of contagious coughs rippling across the classroom, odors of corrosive chemicals lingering from jump-scare balloon demos, and shrieks from the rusty pulley system swapping the upper and lower blackboards.

“When the professor began to switch the blackboards, I heard the groaning ghosts of 2070 past,” said Stella Ton, ’26. “It’s the same sound the machine thing always makes. But today, for whatever reason, I could make out words in the piercing noise from hell: ‘STUDENTS BEWARE! YOU’RE ALL GOING TO FAIL THE NEXT PRELIM.’ Now I’m scared to death for my S-GPA.”

It is suspected that the hauntedness of Chem lecture has eluded students throughout the year due to memory-altering spell-casting by the professor. Students have pointed to “big scary chem words” as potential spells, such as “antimarkovnikov hydroboration oxidation” and “molecular orbital theory.”

Course Roster Unveils “Father’s Disapproval” Feature That Audibly Sighs When Sociology Course Added to Scheduler

HANS BETHE HOUSE– Every semester, students use the course oster site to help them select and map out their classes in preparation for pre-enrollment. This semester, however, many students were taken aback by the introduction of a new, true-to-life, artificial intelligence father figure who loudly groaned, sighed, and grumbled every time they attempted to add a Sociology course to their schedule. 

“I wanted to add SOC4150: The Ethnography of Poverty and Inequality because it sounded interesting, and I was curious to learn more,” explained Isabel Chen, CALS ‘25. But when she tried to add it, she was caught off guard by a deep, soul-crushing exhalation of breath rattling through her AirPods, followed by a pop-up on her screen reading, “Dad suggests: CS4414: Systems Programming instead.” Chen described the headache-inducing process that followed, as she verbally explained to the computer five separate times that she actually did not have a single one of the required prerequisites for that course. Still not convinced, the AI went on to suggest she “just go drop by the professor’s office and see if he’ll make an exception.” 

Chen is not alone in her frustration with the new feature. Several students have complained that no matter how thorough their explanations, AI Dad never quite seemed to understand why they were not enrolled in the College of Engineering. “After about 45 minutes of back and forth, the sighs finally stopped, and it started quietly grumbling about medical school application deadlines instead,” reported Mark Dolan, A&S ‘23, who had never expressed interest in attending medical school even once in his life. 

The developers of the program acknowledged that it is near-impossible for students to “win” with AI Dad, as he is specifically programmed never to admit he is wrong. “The goal was to make the program as realistic as possible,” explained a course roster representative. “We hope it will better prepare students for this crucial aspect of the course selection process, as they defend their choices to ‘Real-Life Dad’.”

Canvas is considering furthering the program with its own feature that shouts, “HA! I’m paying tuition for this?!” every time a student opens up a reading about gender studies.

THWONK! Evil Trickster Lamppost Foils Me Again

October the 14th

Today was a cruel day. I was dutifully making my way across Campus Road, soon to be greeted by a delectable submarine sandwich from Mattin’s Cafe, when I found myself viciously hoodwinked by a local ne’er-do-well. As I reached the end of the crosswalk, the Duffield doors called out to me, summoning me to my delicious reward, but it was not to be. With my eyes set forward, I was unable to see the trap laid out before me. A towering lamppost had installed itself right in the middle of my path. As I hurried forward towards my lunch, I was met with a sudden CRONK, the sound of my head colliding with the treacherous piece of pipe. Both bruised and degraded, I found that my appetite had vanished following this woeful experience, so I retreated back home.

October the 15th

Tragedy has befallen me once more. I was well aware of the lamppost’s intentions today, making careful note of its position as I approached. However, I had underestimated the devilish capabilities of this scoundrel. The lamppost had conspired to untie my shoelaces, sending me careening forward as soon as I reached its deviously chosen location. KLONK! As my face collided with the vile piece of steel, I was greeted with pain and humiliation. The snickers of my classmates echoed around me, and I heard the lamppost join them in their cacophony of cruelty. 

October the 16th

I can endure this torture no longer. I have been made the fool for the last time. Already sporting a sizable lump atop my forehead, I exercised the utmost caution as I approached the lamppost today. Upon reaching a distance of less than two meters from the damnable pole, the foul being enacted its nefarious plot. My Airpods died without warning, turning off the carefully curated playlist that had been providing me with the courage to face my cylindrical adversary. As I reached for my phone to resume my listening experience, I averted my eyes from the lamppost for a mere moment. Alas, I paid dearly for my mistake. THWONK! I staggered backwards from the unexpected collision, shame filling my stomach while a dull ache filled my head. I vowed at that very moment to put a stop to this unholy endeavor, and rid our campus of this villainous plague. Tomorrow I will be driving my car to class, though I will be making a quick pit stop along the way. We shall see how the lamppost fares against the force of my Subaru Outback, though I have a feeling that this time it won’t be me falling down.

October the 17th

The lamppost had the last laugh. Unbeknownst to me, it is illegal to knock over public infrastructure with your car. My brief moment of victory was quickly squashed when the lamppost’s agents of villainy escorted me away from the scene of my supposed crime. While I waste away within my cell, I am sure the lamppost is overjoyed. They tell me that it will be reinstalled within the week. Madness! Perhaps even now it is selecting its next victim, that poor soul. Will no one stop this wickedness?

OP-ED: My Phone Got Smashed And Now Handing In Homework Requires Challenging Janus, Two-Faced God of Doorways, For His Mythical Power to Bypass Canvas 2FA

GOLDWIN SMITH—There are many downsides to being mowed down by a bicycle in the middle of Feeney Way, as I discovered at 8 AM today. Sprawled out on the crosswalk, clutching my new sprained wrist to my chest, I could do nothing but holler obscenities at the fleeing cyclist and mourn the loss of my too-expensive mocha latte.

But the worst part of it came only after I had limped away from the scene. I pulled my iPhone 14 from my pocket, ready to dial the police on the speeding scoundrel of the streets, but to my horror, it had been entirely shattered. Even the shitty $10 screen protector was smashed in, and what had once been a beautiful lockscreen of Ryan Lombardi’s perfect visage now showed nothing but glitching black and white lines.

As I stared at my phone, a slow, creeping dread began to come over me. After all, I’d been heading to Olin Library to finally start that 20-page paper due tonight, which meant logging into Canvas to reread the rubric. In a panic, I hauled my computer out of my backpack and attempted to log in, only to be met with the most terrifying sentence I’d ever seen: Two Step Log-In Required. In desperation, I tried to send a push, but the shattered remains of my phone just glitched at me in anger.

Submitting an IT ticket wouldn’t get me a response until next semester, and my professor would only leave me on read. I had no other choice—I had to track down Janus, ancient Roman god of doorways, endings, and two-factor verification.

My shoes squeaked loudly as I strode through the hallowed halls of Goldwin Smith, studying each weird statue and artifact for any clues as to the god’s location. I learned quite a bit about ancient Egyptian pottery techniques and sex toys, and felt more secure than ever in my decision to not major in history, but there was no sign of the wily god anywhere. Perhaps he made his home in Klarman Hall instead, with the Greeks? I made my way to the more modern half of the building and poked around the statues for a few minutes, but found nothing there.

Dejected, I leaned against the Temple of Zeus doors, wondering where else I could search. Time was running low; if I couldn’t find him soon, I might as well just drop out now.

Standing there, my vision began to blur. Was I crying? I lifted a hand to my face to check, but before I could process anything the world spun sharply around me. Temple of Zeus faded away, and when I blinked, an old and weathered marble statue stood before me instead, with two faces on either side of its head, staring in opposite directions. It was maybe the ugliest thing I’d ever seen, second only to the crimes against nature in my dorm bathroom. In the distance, I could hear the sound of rain.

Of course! It was so obvious now. Where better for the god of doorways than the bizarre liminal space between Klarman and GSH? One foot in the Roman empire, the other in a weirdly-shaped glass box.

With a sudden, resounding clap of thunder, the statue’s eyes flashed open, and Janus cried out with his two mouths, “Show yourself, challenger!”

Summoning all of my courage, I stepped forward and brandished my sprained wrist like a sword. “I am a student of Cornell,” I declared as loudly as I could. “And my phone is busted as shit. I’m here to duel you for Duo Mobile!”

A loud cackle echoed through the room. “Foolish mortal,” Janus gloated, “duels are so very 18th century. Don’t you know all the cool gods play Dungeons and Dragons now?” Moving slowly, as statues do, the god raised one hand and snapped his fingers. A D20 appeared in midair, clattering down to the tiles at my feet.

“Do you… want to play D&D?” I asked, checking my watch nervously. With only 8 hours until the deadline, I would barely have time to draw up a character sheet, let alone engage Janus in pen-and-paper combat.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the god scoffed. “Do I look like I have all day?” He looked like he hadn’t moved in a few centuries, but I wisely kept my mouth shut. “We’ll keep it simple. If you roll 2, I’ll grant you your access to Canvas.”

“Roll 2?” I picked up the D20 and counted up the sides; if my calculations were correct, there were 20 of them. “I… I only have a five percent chance of doing that! This isn’t fair!”

“You should have thought of that before you got hit by a bike!” he jeered. “Now roll, and accept the ending you earn!”

I fumed in silence—it wasn’t my fault I had forgotten to look both ways, now was it? I had been counting on an easy victory against Janus, but mathematical odds were never in my favor, evidenced by the downright terrible prelim score I’d gotten last week. I couldn’t win this game.

But perhaps… perhaps I could trick him. Janus wasn’t the only one who’d gotten into D&D recently. Digging around in my backpack, I retrieved my prize: another D20, this one neon green. Triumphantly, I tossed both dice to the ground.

“Ha!” Janus crowed, craning his little statue neck to read the numbers. “6 and 18! Not a single 2 in sight! You lose! Good day!”

“Not so fast!” I challenged. “You said if I rolled 2, I would win. And I did! I rolled two dice! Now give me my Canvas access!”

Both of his jaws dropped, and his eyes burned with rage. “Fine, you wily, cheating trickster,” he spat out. “The passcode is 2222222. It shall grant you one entrance into the realm of Canvas. Now get out of my sight!”

Giddy with victory, I didn’t argue, instead grabbing my backpack and hightailing it through the doors. The world shifted around me once more, and I burst out of Goldwin Smith Hall into the bright and chilly morning, sprinting my way across the Arts Quad as fast as I could.

With a newly purchased mocha latte and a croissant for my troubles, I settled into Libe Cafe, opening my laptop and punching in the code I’d fought so hard for. Canvas opened up immediately, and with a cheer that earned me several dirty looks, I scrolled past every overdue assignment to eagerly click on my paper.

My computer buffered for a moment, the loading screen symbol spinning away, and to my annoyance, it brought me right back to the log-in page. With a heavy sigh, I typed in the numbers once again and hit Enter.

Your passcode no longer works in this mortal realm, the screen told me cheerfully.

When I realized what had happened, I couldn’t help myself—I let out a terrible cry, falling to my knees and beginning to weep. All of my searching, all of the danger, all of it for naught! As the Olin librarians forcefully escorted me from the building, I cursed myself for making such a horrible, amateur mistake.

I had tried my best, but Janus had gotten the last laugh in the end: of course a cheater won’t be remembered for 24 hours.

Ezra Cornell Rises from Grave, Admits “Hotel School” Was Joke Idea

STATLER HALL– As the 100th anniversary of the Peter and Stephanie Nolan School of Hotel Administration approaches, Ezra Cornell has risen from the grave to speak his mind. Climbing out of his marble sarcophagus in Sage Chapel on Friday night, Cornell’s founding father finally set the record straight on the #1 hospitality program in the United States: “I was kidding, guys.”

The School of Hotel Administration was reportedly founded after administrators found a note scrawled in the margin of the original Cornell charter stating, “I would found an institution where any student with familial ties to the Mariott empire could take a bunch of cooking classes and then go work for Bank of America.” Those administrators apparently did not read the subsequent line, “LOL.”

Students and administrators had mixed reactions to this bombshell admission. Some fervently defended the merits of an Ivy League hospitality program, while others, like Kiley Harrison, Hotel ’25, were less surprised. “After I took the second 4-credit required course on how to use PowerPoint, I started thinking something had to be going on,” noted Harrison. “It actually makes me feel a lot better knowing this was a joke, and no one actually thinks this is a useful curriculum.”

Ezra told reporters he considers “Hotel School” to be one of his most hilarious gag ideas, right up there with making freshmen swim three laps to graduate, “chimesmasters” blasting unidentifiable pop hits out of McGraw Tower at 8 am, and “Big Slope.”

Cornell Mandates Land Acknowledgement Be Uttered Each Time University Invests In More Stolen Land

MORRILL HALL—In the wake of research showing Cornell’s endowment was derived from government gifts of stolen Native land, campus administration has made Cornell the world’s first university to deliver a land acknowledgement before completing purchases of stolen Native land from the federal government.
“We Cornellians take pride in our status as a land-grant university,” stated Vice President James Deanson ‘82. “We agreed, in exchange for millions of dollars in stolen sacred Native land, to not actively discriminate against minority groups on campus. When we were told by Native researchers that this land was violently and illegally stolen for us, and that the university continues to participate in that land theft and aggression, we knew it was time to act. We promise that before we illegally acquire any more stolen land, we will present a somber acknowledgement of the past and present indigenous peoples we are stealing that land from.”
Following the announcement, Cornell released a comprehensive plan to “come to terms with our place in history.” This plan, among other initiatives, set a timeline for the establishment of a committee to review the ethics of developing a framework for discussing Native topics in select Cornell programs. In addition, administrators pointed to efforts by the American Indian and Indigenous Studies Program and Cayuga nation officials in developing the acknowledgement, which they claimed only to have made “minor edits” to.
“‘Minor edits?’ They erased the entire thing,” argued John Westchester of AIISP. “We wrote up a land acknowledgment that notes Cornell’s complicity in Native land dispossession, and they added ‘but Cornell is cool and progressive now so we forgive them and like them a lot actually’ to the end of every sentence. They also threatened to move us to Morrill Hall and made us promise not to ‘make the university look bad’ through ‘factual statements about potential crimes.’”
Asked to comment on these accusations, the University Press Office responded that “We are committed to uplifting Native voices, but the people who disagree with us are all liars and shouldn’t be listened to.”