PE Self Defense Instructor Breaks Into Students’ Homes to Evaluate Progress

HELEN NEWMAN HALL—Cornell administration has received several complaints from students enrolled in PE1560 Introductory Self Defense after instructor John Ladin broke into their respective homes on Sunday night in an unorthodox final assessment that students describe as a “harrowing ambush executed by a gleeful psychopath.” 

“How am I possibly supposed to evaluate my students’ self-defense capabilities if I’m not allowed to take careful notes on their gravest weaknesses, stalk their homes for potential entry points, memorize their daily schedules, and then pounce when they least expect it?” noted an exasperated Ladin. “Also, this has been in the syllabus all semester so I don’t know why it was a surprise.”

Several students have protested that the class material did not adequately prepare them for some aspects of the attack. “He literally busted down my apartment door, kicked me directly in the face, and yelled, ‘You’ve been John-ed, dumbass!’ None of that was on the study guide,” complained Max Green ‘23. 

“I actually did read the syllabus so I knew this was coming, but it was already past the drop deadline and I’d honestly rather get my shit rocked than take a W on my transcript,” admitted Amy Price ‘24. “I’m really not sure how I did, but I heard one kid just curled up in a fetal position and started crying for his mommy, so I’m hoping it’s graded on a curve” 

In response to complaints from students, VP Ryan Lombardi defended Ladin’s actions, writing, “We take great pride in the rigor of our coursework. Cornell is a world-class institution dedicated to preparing its students for anything life may throw at them, including a 4 am haymaker to the scapula. If these students can handle John’s violent attempt at their physical safety, we’ll know the university is doing its job.” 

The Nerve! Person Sits in Chair Next to Me

I am walking away from Goldie’s with an iced coffee that is far too cold for the current weather when I spot two unoccupied, comfy-padded seats in front of a coffee table. Knowing the rarity of my find, I beeline over to stake my claim, slinging my backpack onto one chair and plopping down into the other. But just as I begin to relish in the peace of the private cove I have so tactfully secured, I am approached by a 5’ 8” man holding a chicken panini, who gestures toward my second seat. 

“Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?” 

I am shocked. Flabbergasted. Appalled. Did he not understand the sacred unwritten chair rule that she who occupies a seat occupies all seats within a 1 meter radius? Did he not see that the chair beside me belonged to my Jansport backpack, who deserved a comfortable place to rest after braving the cold tiles of Baker 200? Did he not have a sense of basic human respect and decency?

“Yes, bitch. Leave!” I scream. He blanches and tucks his tail, gut-wrenchingly realizing the inhumanity of his actions before limping away in defeat. I kick my legs onto the table and sigh, satisfied with my dominance. 

That would be the correct response, at least. But in the time-pressured moment, I am overcome by a spell of weakness. I proceed to lift my backpack off of my neighboring chair and expose its cushion to the vulture above. And then the chicken panini is set on the coffee table and I feel a weight sink down into the black faux leather beside me. 

This is a declaration of war. 

I begin my battle strategy with a small but deadly leg bounce, allowing myself just enough movement to initiate a rumble in the adjacent seat. My opponent strikes harder. He begins to unwrap the white paper around his panini, the crinkling louder and more obnoxious with each fold. I slurp the diluted liquid at the bottom of the iced coffee I finished 15 minutes ago. My opponent takes a bite of his sandwich. I put four pieces of Orbit Spearmint Sugarfree gum in my mouth. My opponent chews. I chew. My opponent swallows. And then I just simply cannot.

I shut my laptop that I did not use productively in any way over the past half-hour and shove it into my backpack. Then I rise from my chair to signal my surrender, accepting defeat at the hands of the insolent little parasite who will probably voluntarily get tested for COVID in the upcoming week. 

My next class does not start for another 30 minutes, so I begin to circle the atrium in hopes of finding a new place to sit. But there are no longer any sets of two empty chairs, so I approach a nearby girl with her coat on the seat next to her and do as I must to survive:

“Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?” 

OP-ED: Love Triangle? Pentagon? I’m in a Love Dot

MALOTT HALL—Last week, I briefly overheard Stacy and Emily talking about their floundering love lives between bites of food at Trill. Stacy lamented that Liam from her discussion section has a thing for her, even though Stacy is actually crushing on Rachel from that same section, who is also in love with Liam. Tragic! And Emily? Her love life is even more complex, why, she’s in a love pentagon! How does that even work? I don’t know, but she at least has a shape goddamn it. All the while, I couldn’t help but think one thing: what about me? I don’t have a shape.

For far too long, we’ve allowed people who can’t make up their goddamn minds about love to define a cool shape for their relationship problems. But if there is one thing that teen romantic comedies taught me, it would be that by defining your lack of mutual romantic attraction to someone as a geometric structure is the truest testament to a sound mind.

Why be lame and admit that your crush doesn’t like you when you can instead be in a spiffy and spicy love triangle? When your love life is defined by a geometric silhouette, anything is game. Want to read his mail? Go right ahead; you can’t let Natalee win! Need to dye his crush’s hair an awful shade of green? All is fair in love-triangles and war. For this reason, I have come to the brave decision that I will no longer accept the slur “single.” Nay, “single” is for those vanilla bitches. You know the type: ladies who are confident in themselves, have healthy hobbies, and do not need external validation through relationships. You see, I’m mature enough to know that’s not me. All real relationships correspond to shapes that we learned in 9th grade geometry class. Or, in other words, I’m in a love dot.

Financial Aid Gives All Students $3 and a PepsiCo Product as Apology for Thousands of Unoffered Aid Dollars

DAY HALL—Following the announcement of a federal lawsuit accusing Cornell of conspiring to withhold adequate financial aid, Cornell University has offered penance in the form of shelling out further to the university corporate sponsors.

“We know this looks bad, but we are committed to making things right,” said Director of Financial Aid Jenn Mackrel ‘84. “What these students don’t understand is that we do not have the budget to pay what we should have been paying this whole time. So, we have an alternative reward offer for all impacted students, which is generously supported by some gracious corporate benefactors. Even then, however, we can only offer about 300 cents and an extra perk. Unfortunately, we are all out of additional financial aid, is Pepsi okay?”

Cornell has been looking for ways to integrate sponsorship into student life. From making Bubly, the sad man’s LaCroix, available in most dining halls, to providing student credit internships union-busting for the confectionary giant, there has been an aggressive push to ensure students are as addicted to PepsiCo products as they are to stress. Unfortunately, this effort has not been without opposition from the student population.

“Three dollars and a Pepsi? Is that really all they’re offering?” asked dining hall worker Carl Hecker ‘21. “I’ve been filing financial forms for the majority of the past two years, and I find out Cornell has been offering me half of what I could’ve gotten because of prestige or something? I feel so incredibly disrespected. The very least they could’ve done is splurged for some Sprite or something.”

At press time, Cornell University is searching for additional options to potentially increase financial resources for students, including a “particularly intriguing” offer from RC Cola that would up the award by fifty cents and an extra can.

Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane? Student Pleads with All-Powerful Father Not to Send Him to Company’s Branch in Ohio

MEWS HALL–Much as the Lord’s only son went into the Garden of Gethsemane to ask the Heavenly Father that His life might be spared, so too did Brantley Wentworth ‘25 call upon his own father to spare him an even darker fate—a summer in his company’s Ohio branch.
Although Wentworth had long accepted his role in life–to spend the most functional years of his cocaine addiction falsifying ledgers in order to increase stocks by .03%—as his LinkedIn feed filled with announcements of his classmate’s internships in Silicon Valley, Wentworth found himself filled with doubt for the first time in his smug, entitled life. Just as the Son of God in the Gospel of Matthew lay prostrate in the garden, Wentworth threw himself down among his discarded beer cans and contacted his father the only way he knew how–by calling his secretary’s number.
“Dad, please, if it’s possible to find an opening in California, let this internship in Ohio pass me by,” Wentworth pleaded with the answering machine, trembling with sorrow and synthetic weed withdrawal. “Through You all things are possible–like deforesting the entire Amazon, or getting My three DUIs dismissed. Give Me the keys to the kingdom of heaven, or at least to an apartment outside of the central United States!”
Wentworth’s prayers were answered by a voicemail threatening to cut off his allowance, causing Wentworth to declare, “Not My will, but Yours be done!”

Idiots Rejoice! Struggling for 20 Minutes to Set Up CU Print Can Now Fulfill Physical Science Requirement

COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES–Morons across campus finally won big with the announcement that the task of setting CU Print up on their laptops for a worryingly long period of time can now fulfill the physical sciences distribution requirement.

“Fret not, dimwits,” said College of Arts and Sciences Dean Ray Jayawardhana in a statement this past Wednesday. “Long have the dunderheads pathetically struggled in their rudimentary astronomy classes. This painful period is now over. I know that you dullards cannot understand simple tasks which require a benign amount of effort for most. However, I think that you can rise to the occasion. Numbskulls, now is your time!”

The fervor and excitement of Jayawardhana’s email was met with an even more passionate reaction from simpletons across campus. “Tanya finally feels seen! Yay!” beamed Tanya Williamston ‘22. “Tanya failed Oceans last semester by accident. But Tanya is not worried anymore. Because how hard can setting up a printer be? Tanya’s roommate is a CS major, she can just ask her, ‘cause that’s like her whole thing. Computers.”

“Uhhhhhhhhhh…. I’m not sure where to start,” said glassy-eyed Jeremy Pinker ‘23. “So many steps. It says ‘My Printers’ but I don’t own a printer. I, uhm, tried to Google it but I keep getting results about that guy who sang that Purple Rain song. I didn’t even know he went to Cornell. Uh… uhhh…yeah, uhmmmm…” Pinker, hypnotized, began to drool upon his keyboard, and slurred, “I need an extension for this.”

Considering this is no simple task for them, imbeciles will be happy to know that they can attend office hours and ask the most inane, idiotic questions imaginable which will coax the TA into just setting it up for them.

Two Day February “Break” No Match For 72 Hour Drug-Induced Bender

ITHACA—Two days of rest and relaxation were not enough for Joel Robinesson ‘23, who used his February break to embark on a thrilling and debaucherous methamphetamine-fueled bender.
“I’m just feeling great. Really great. Super great. Totally great. You guys can see me right?” said Robinesson late Monday afternoon when he was spotted wandering around campus. “Look at that! That’s Ezra Cornell. He’s coming over. Oh no, he’s coming over? Are you Ezra Cornell? I have to go.”
Robinesson began his high early Sunday afternoon, claiming that he wanted to spend Saturday at Greek Peak and attend Sunday brunch at Taverna Banfi. Citing his great stamina and above-average metabolism, he felt confident in his ability to recover in time to write a paper and study for an exam in the days immediately following February break.
“Joel’s an absolute fiend so if it was just meth he’d be in the clear,” commented Robinesson’s roommate Jackson Villagen ‘22. “I was there when he started smoking up but I left to pick up a FaceTime from my girl. When I came back there were crazy pills all over the table and Joel had taken at least half of them. It was crazy dude.”
At press time, Robinesson was unavailable for comment. However, there have been recent reports of a man fitting Robinesson’s height and build wandering around the nearby town of Lansing.

Club Who Received 0 Applications Brags About Its Extremely Low Acceptance Rate

WILLARD STRAIGHT HALL—The beginning of each semester is filled with students vying for acceptances into the ranks of Cornell’s most competitive extracurricular organizations. This semester, the Cornell Startup Fund For High Potential Future Entrepreneurs (CSF^2HPFE) appears to have claimed the title of lowest acceptance rate, after receiving exactly zero applications. 

“Every semester we face the tough decision of deciding which of our qualified applicants are talented enough to join CSF^2HPFE. It always hurts to reject an applicant, but I hope seeing just how low our acceptance rate was this semester, it will motivate them to try harder and beat the odds the next time around,” stated club president Drew Branfield ‘22. 

Applying for CSF^2HPFE consists of an intensive five part process that includes a letter of recommendation, written essay, three rounds of interviews, and two-day survival retreat. 

“As soon as I’d heard of CSF^2HPFE I thought it would be the perfect fit for me,” says Alex Ferber ‘23, founder of a biomedical device startup that went public in 2021, “I’d even gotten Jack Dorsey from Twitter to write a letter of recommendation. But after hearing about Drew’s achievements [Founder of CSF^2HPFE, Dean’s List All Semesters] I didn’t know if I’d done enough to warrant applying.”

The club, established in 2018, prides itself on attracting only the most driven, innovative, and revolutionary students in the business sphere, evident by its current membership consisting of Branfield ‘22, and Kyle Branfield ‘24, Drew Branfield’s younger brother.

Housing Department Under Fire For Hasty Response To Ganędagǫ: Mice Despite Complete Silence Concerning Low Rise Seven Vampire Bats

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.

OP-ED: I Came To Cornell To Find A Husband But All I Got Was A World-Class Education

Many a year ago, when I still had about me the sprightly air of youth, I had felt myself most fortunate to have secured entrance into a finishing school where I was to polish those homemaking topics which are appropriate to the instruction of a young lady: pianoforte, embroidery, multivariate calculus, continental philosophy, organic chemistry, and Swahili. My Papa had assured me that it was here, at Upstate New York’s finest charm school, that I would secure my future with a most advantageous marriage. 

I was even to be wedded, once. It was four springs ago, under the wisteria blossoms in the Arboretum, that I gazed modestly upon the gentleman to whom I was sure I would be betrothed by the end of my first spring at Cornell. Alas, my betrothal to this titled young lad was not to be. He was torn away from me, summoned to the warfront. When I learnt of his conscription to the brave ranks of the ROTC, my young heart was wrought with worry. He promised to write to me, and for many seasons I awaited word from him. Over two long winters, I gazed wistfully into the blank expanse of snowy Ithaca and shed sparkling tears over the horrible prospects that he was surely facing. Did he have enough to eat at the depleted Okenshield’s mess hall? Did his toes ache from cold through his threadbare boots as he crossed the impenetrable tundra known ominously as the “Engineering Quadrangle?”. Alas, I was to receive no reassurances, no word to salve my wondering heart. 

It was during this time that I began to wither. Subject to the hardships of Cornell life, I slowly surrendered the rosy glow of girlhood. I developed calluses, aches, and an unbecomingly straightforward manner of speaking. Where I was to find feminine instruction and a husband, I instead found moral corruption, drunkenness, revelry, and promiscuity. Worst of all, I was saddled with the heaviest and most useless burden a woman can carry: a world class education. 

The indignities of my condition as an educated woman are myriad. I live the most reprehensible life possible—a life of the mind. I oft find myself engaging in unladylike belligerence when I address men directly as my equal, unconsciously goaded on by the many centuries of knowledge and rhetoric that now fill my soul like a bile. It is a hideous affliction, education. My Mama, who worked so tirelessly to instill in me the virtues of ladyhood, would faint if she saw how crude I have become since my exposure to the grand projects of humanity’s quest for understanding. 

Neither feminine instruction nor a suitable husband could Cornell deliver; I instead found myself in the throes of corruption. The young men, whom I had been assured were of the most genteel background, conduct themselves as would barnyard animals. 

All this has qualified me only for spinsterhood and dissatisfaction, and I have become resigned to my fate. I shall pass the last days of my life in an attic somewhere, growing ever more shrewish and haggard, with only the dim light of self-actualization and accrued knowledge of the great texts of the Western canon to illuminate the space. The devil himself would pity my bargain; trading an ivory dress for the ivory tower. I think, therefore I am forever alone. Fie upon Cornell, miserable bastion of learning!