LOW RISE SEVEN—The University Housing Department faced criticism this past week for their rapid action regarding rodents in Ganędagǫ: Hall as they continued to ignore the rampant infestation of bloodsucking vampire bats throughout Low Rise 7. The host of flighted mammals have reportedly occupied the dilapidated residence hall for several months without any university intervention.
“It’s getting pretty hairy over here,” explained Low Rise 7 resident Martin Beale ‘25, wielding a broomstick to defend himself from the dorm’s winged invaders. “I’ve tried filing maintenance requests, but I can’t even find ‘Low Rise 7’ in the list of serviceable regions. So for now we have to adapt, just like with the dorm’s other quirks; I take hair out of the shower drain with a tiny rake, I leave my door shut to keep in heat, and I wear a motorcycle helmet to sleep so that the bats don’t bite me in the face.”
The university has been quick to address issues in other dorms, but remains negligent to their unwanted middle child of a residence hall. While a quick and thorough statement was made regarding the string of arsons last semester, no comment was made a week earlier when a mad scientist attempted to turn all of the Low Rise 7 residents into duck-people.
“Actually, the bats are fine,” stated a noticeably paler Beale, wrapped in a large red cloak. “The real issue on campus is the garlic bread. It’s everywhere, and it’s vile. Forget about the bats, no really, forget them, and get rid of that damnable garlic abomination.”
At press time, all of the shades in Low Rise 7 had been drawn, and a host of residents were seen outside of Low Rise 6 asking for permission to enter the premises.
THE STATLER HOTEL— Ellie Rosario ‘23 intentionally exposed herself to the novel coronavirus earlier this week in an attempt to escape “the cunts (Jessica Dunst ‘22, Annie Patterson ‘22, and Minnie Davis ‘22) [she] lives with.”
When one of her sorority sisters, Alice May ‘22, mentioned her boyfriend on the lacrosse team had recently tested positive, Rosario sped over to her apartment, proceeding to frantically lick various doorknobs and tissues in their waste bin. She and May would both go on to develop COVID-19.
“I know it’s frowned upon to get corona on purpose, but I had to get out of this house for a couple weeks,” said Rosario. “I signed this lease last September before I knew Jessica was a sociopathic liar who can’t stop talking down to other people for no reason.”
Despite multiple trips to the emergency room and a fever of 102 degrees, she says she is enjoying her current “bitch vacation. “At least here I know Annie won’t steal my clothes and then act like she just bought the exact same thing,” added Rosario.
When asked why these new cases weren’t added to COVID-19 dashboard, Cornell explained that all of the students who tested positive in this case cluster were Virgos who couldn’t be added to the dashboard until Mercury was in retrograde.
COLLEGETOWN—While not a violation of any official health ordinance, a maskless group of six fraternity brothers hanging out on their porch this weekend was deemed by onlookers as deeply unsettling.
“I counted, and their group is definitely less than 10 people,” confirmed Melody Dominguez ’21. “Regardless, something about it still feels like it poses a danger to the public.”
The non-descript group of young men listened to music on medium volume, played assorted drinking games, and prompted every female passerby near their house to cross the street to maintain a distance well-beyond the conventional 6 feet.
“I had to do a double-take to make sure everything was in order,” said Rick Sobieski ’23, a member of the Cornell Compliance Team. “While they technically weren’t breaking any rules, I can’t help but characterize whatever it is they were up to as detrimental to the health of our community.”
The fraternity brothers reported that while they were glad to have followed the rules this time, they looked forward to violating the compact sometime in the near future.
ITHACA—Following weeks of preparing contingency plans for a potential on-campus Fall 2020 Semester, University administrators have developed a viral containment and public relations strategy to deal with the inevitable outbreak that will occur in Mary Donlon Hall.
Seen as a breeding ground for highly transmissible diseases given the perpetually close-knit nature of its residients and their penchant for being total fuck machines, the first year dormitory packs kids into Donlon like sardines in a big U-shaped can. “Cutting down on the number of bathrooms during construction seemed like a great way to save money for the school at the time. Apparently now it’s a ‘serious health liability,’” explained Residence Hall Director Lammi Ada.
The university has planned for everything, ranging from a single student testing positive to a massive dorm-wide outbreak. In recent weeks, administrators have been browsing Amazon for deals on “large metal deadbolts” and making preliminary calls to helicopter companies about airdropping supplies.
“We already have several different emails in our drafts that begin with ‘Dear Ithaca Campus Community, We regret to inform you of an ongoing public health situation regarding Mary Donlon Hall,’” said Vice President for Student and Campus Life, Ryan Lombardi. “So you could say we are prepared for anything.”
LINDEN AVE—Wilke Geoff, ‘20, was devastated upon his realization that his love for Cornell stems from the amazing people that teach, learn, and work there, rather than its physical architecture.
Geoff, despite the flight of his roomates, had resolved to “stick it out” in Ithaca, even going as far as posting a fist-shaking GIF Jordan Belfort declaring “I’m not fucking leaving” on his Instagram story. “He kept going on about how he’d stay in Ithaca and ‘it would be basically the same, just without classes,’” recalled Sarah Resy, ‘21, a friend Geoff’s.
Following a particularly emotional season finale of Friends, which he had seen literally dozens of times before, Geoff was struck by the realization that his Big Red love is aimed not at a bizarre mish-mash of architectural styles on the outskirts of a backwoods rural community, but the people that make it so special.
“It was a bit of an afterschool special moment, dude,” he revealed. “Like, it just hit me that everything I treasure about Cornell – my memories, my clubs, my friends, the amazing stuff I’ve been able to study – have nothing to do with physical location. Which kind of sucks because now I’m living in my collegetown apartment alone, and it turns out it’s way less lit when no one is here and all the bars and restaurants are biohazards.”
Geoff is considering returning home, but is still trying to figure out how to walk back his heated statement to his mother that “I’ll live at home again when Cornell divests from fossil fuels!” So, it’s likely to be a while.
DICKSON HALL—Unable to handle the guilt from leaving his contraband alcohol unreported, RA Ryan Newman ‘21 dutifully submitted an OJA form this Monday reporting that he brought a mostly-full handle of Mango Pineapple Svedka back to his dorm room.
“It is my solemn duty as an RA to provide a fun, safe, and sober living experience for all of my residents, and I broke that promise by keeping the Svedka in my backpack when I came home,” said Newman, who also reported himself last semester for being too loud during quiet hours. “Sitting through two sessions of BASICS is a small price to pay to uphold the tremendous responsibility Cornell has granted me.”
“I take very seriously my obligation to report every single infraction of the no-alcohol rule, no matter how harmless,” he continued.
Over the course of the twenty minutes it took Newman to write up his report, a total of 26 standard drinks were consumed in dorm rooms on his floor.
BED BATH AND BEYOND—Ithaca’s own Bed Bath & Beyond was struck this past week by a new, never-before-seen curse from the heavens above. This eleventh plague wreaked havoc on the aisles dedicated to command strips as well as their off-brand alternatives.
“It was horrifying, I’d never seen anything like it,” said Cashier Josephine Selter “So loud, so frenetic. But as quick as it began, it was over. All that remained were the tattered remains of 20% coupons blowing through the empty aisles.”
Alastor Odobe ’23 arrived at the home goods store long after the plague had hit. “All my friends had decorated their rooms, so I figured that I should, like, put up a poster or something. But bro, like, all the command strips were sold out. It’s chill, though” Odobe added, “I’ll just order some on Amazon, and maybe I’ll like get a sick poster of Megan Fox while I’m at it.”
There were some notable survivors of the chaos; miraculously, the $20 chrome plated command hooks remained unscathed.
HIGH RISE 5—Despite the limited number of West Campus housing spots, total dumbass David Iyer ‘21 actually believed he had a shot at becoming one of the few upperclassmen to live on West Campus next year in the 2019-2020 housing lottery.
“I mean, I know Cornell’s a really big school,” said Iyer, a complete fuckwit. “But I’m a pretty lucky guy, and there’s no way the rooms fill up that quickly, right?”
Randomly assigned time slots were sent out March 4, giving the asshat plenty of time to realize that he had a fat fucking chance at a West Campus room. Other students in Iyer’s shitty timeslot had already begun looking for off-campus housing, but shit-for-brains Iyer still remained hopeful that he could obtain one of the coveted spots on West.
“It doesn’t have to be Becker or Bethe, but I’d really like to live somewhere on West, as long as it’s not a gothic,” said the naive shithead. “I mean, there’s no way a school like Cornell wouldn’t guarantee housing to all its students, right?”
Pending the obviously inevitable lack of space on West, Iyer has finally begun considering Collegetown housing. He is eagerly anticipating an influx of offers for affordable apartments with free parking and squeaky clean amenities.
EAST BUFFALO STREET—For the third time since the start of the semester, landlord Phil Montana decided to walk around the apartment of Paco Gonzalez ‘19 as if the place belonged to him.
“He had the audacity to barge in after only three knocks and two emails in advance,” said Gonzalez. “If that wasn’t rude enough, he then decided to criticize me about how my Ziggy Marley poster over the smoke detector is a ‘fire hazard’ and how I ‘haven’t paid rent in 4 months.’ Who does this guy think he is, some sort of lord of our land?”
Not content to invade Gonzalez’s apartment alone, Montana has also been known to bring guests and show them around the entire apartment, even including both tenants’ bedrooms.
“The worst part is when he thinks he can create rules for OUR apartment. He wouldn’t even let us keep Squeakers!” said Gonzalez’s roommate, referring to the former pet mouse explicitly banned in the apartment’s lease. “I’m praying he doesn’t see the diseased rat we found in the supply closet next time he decides he can just walk in.”
Montana charged them $5,000 for the mess, then returned to his mansion, which was filled with empty cardboard boxes, live parakeets, and Cheeto-dusted carpets.
MEWS HALL – After Derek G., class of 2022, hurled his open-faced meatball sub against the Mews 3-East study lounge, “Now that everyone has something to talk about, things have become a lot more sociable!” reported residence hall director Jenna F.
“Things were pretty desolate before the sub…I hadn’t made eye contact with my roommate in weeks.” said Alex A., Mews resident. “But ever since Mews was blessed with this 12-inch soggy mass of bread and ground beef, conversation has become so much easier!”
“They’ve even stopped drawing dicks on the fun animal photos I put on everyone’s doors when they moved in!” Jenna exclaimed, taking a moment to gaze wistfully out the window before audibly whispering “Thank you, Mr. Meatball…” to no one in particular.
An on-scene survey reported opened doors, hallway golf, audible Chance the Rapper, and at least one gold-decaled “Live, Laugh, Love” sign posted on most bathroom doors.
With the custodial staff reluctant to remove the sub, reportedly citing the newfound sense of community and the fact that the sandwich has been ringed by a series of prayer candles and low-burning, marinara-scented-incense, it appears that the sub is well and truly here to stay.
While the meatball sub may eventually slide unceremoniously to the floor, the friendships (and tomato-sauce residue) will remain forever.