Cornell Health Announces 100% Recovery Rate Among Students Who Give Up and See Hometown Doctor Instead

CORNELL HEALTH–Calling it a “miracle of modern medicine,” Cornell Health doctors were overjoyed to announce a complete recovery among all students who read the writing on the wall and went to see a legitimate medical institution instead.

“At Cornell Health, we’re proud to be the #2 healthcare provider near campus, and #1 without the 7/11 over-the-counter medication aisle,” said Dr. Himani Bhardwaj ‘14. “With our new and improved waiting room experience, we’re able to see about three students every hour, and actually listen to up to one of them per day. Students leave Cornell Health confident that whatever medical condition they have, it sure as hell isn’t the one we diagnosed them with.”

Although she had a busy schedule of telling CAPS patients, “I see you, I hear, you, I feel you,” and nothing else, Bhardwaj was able to take a little more time to extoll the virtues of what she called “the BetterHelp of physical care.”

“At first we were sad that so many students leave us for ‘real doctors’ or whatever, but then we realized we could call it a ‘referral service,’ and charge them for that, too!” she said. For students worried about costs, Bhardwaj was quick to reassure them that referrals were one of many services not included in the student health fee. “We accept a wide variety of insurance companies, from the ones you don’t have to the ones you’ve never heard of,” she said, referring to the coveted NebraskaCare, possessed by a singular student.

Cornell Health later issued a follow-up statement that turned out to be a detailed record of every STD test you’ve ever taken, sent directly to your mother.

Fashion Major Stressed The Fuck Out About Zipper Final

MARTHA VAN RENSSELAER HALL—With one day left to study, fashion design student Jennifer Suh ‘24 is freaking the hell out over her impending final with a daunting subject: Zippers.

“I don’t know what the fuck I am going to do,” explained an exasperated Suh. “There is so much I have to shove inside my head right now. I can’t remember which goddamn zipper tooth is the beginning of the zipper, fuck…is it right or left? I do know that the zipper was invented by Whitcomb L. Judson and Gideon Sundback, those fucking wet sorry sacks of fuck are the reason I have to know all this horseshit. And oh my god… My final project is such a mess. It won’t even zip! I am going to crap myself.”

The final exam is a culmination of FSAD 4500: Fasteners and Haberdasheries II, a class that focuses on the different items used to clasp together various kinds of clothing. The breadth of the course is wide, including the historical origins and methods of application of: buttons on coats, buttons on pants, large buttons on coats, large buttons on pants, snap buttons on coats, snap buttons on pants, laces on boots, laces on coats, velcro on sneakers, velcro on coats, and of course, zippers on coats, zippers on pants, zippers on shirts, and zippers on bags.

In an act of desperation, Suh has decided to cut out the zipper from her own pants to present as her final project. Unfortunately, and unbeknownst to her, 23 students have received academic integrity violations doing just that, 15 of whom have been expelled.

No Hope Of Deescalation After Third ROTC Kid Joins Discussion Section

PHILLIPS HALL—Tensions skyrocketed this Tuesday after a third member of the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps forcibly added themselves to the CS1110 Discussion 213 roster. Though a peaceful resolution seemed to be near, the arrival of Cadet Benjamin Peterson ‘25 signals a drastic shift in the ongoing conflict.

“There is absolutely no cause for concern at this time,” stated Cadet Beth Talla ‘24, jotting down the approximate height and weight of each of her fellow classmates on a small notepad. “TA Ryan’s fearmongering about our presence here is entirely unfounded, and the United States Military has no vested interest in the activity of this classroom. While Cadet Peterson’s arrival has been painted by some as a concentration of force to ensure our victory over the rest of you in an eventual conflict, the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps categorically denies these accusations.”

Cadet Talla’s initial enrollment in the class appeared positive, with TA Ryan even going so far as to crack a joke about “needing to watch [his] back.” However, the jokes quickly stopped after Cadet Talla returned the following week with Cadet Allen Engel ‘25 in tow. Talla then reportedly questioned TA Ryan, asking “My back is covered, who has yours?” After a tumultuous semester, the majority of student questions have shifted from the topic of “How do I initialize my for loop?” to “Am I in the middle of a proxy war?”

“One is fine, and two isn’t a good sign, but three has gotta be an invasion,” said TA Ryan Ashe. “This new guy’s not even on the attendance sheet, and the add deadline was weeks ago. He told me he was ‘really interested in computers and stuff’ but the only thing I’ve seen him look at is the size of the windows and the strength of the desks.”

“They might think they’ve got me off guard, but I’ll be ready. This desktop computer weighs about 30 pounds, and I’m ready to launch,” added TA Ryan, a clear signal of his preparedness for the impending war. 

The possibility of peace continued to dwindle after another section member was overheard following class, inquiring about where to get a buzz cut and raving about his “sick new Camaro”.

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: Have You Ever Even Heard of Trench Foot? Of Course My Shoes Being Wet Is A Valid Reason to Ask for An Extension

My uncompassionate lowlife of a psychology professor obviously does not know even the basics of World War I. 

Come November, this campus always turns into sludge. It snows, and then the snow melts, and my feet get all wet. These are the conditions the heroes of World War I nobly fought and suffered in. The perils of their feet in the damp trenches left them with sore, infected, and painful peds. Surely, such a plight that left the bravest in agony does not allow for a paper to be optimal when inflicted upon a writer. 

A day before the essay was due, my dogs weren’t just barkin’, they were howlin’. They were crying for me to change my wet socks, which I did, but to sit down to write a summary of a study about the effects of music on sleep with a crucial part of my body recovering from being damp was an insurmountable task. Feeling thankful for the solace of slippers which the men on the Western Front deserved but couldn’t have, I reached out to my professor and used my medical woe to request more time. 

But she said “of course not.” What a fucking ignorant bitch. People died fighting for rights, or whatever it was, in those trenches against the enemy. Some had to get their feet amputated. Has she no decency? No respect?! Especially right after Veteran’s Day… how awful must you be to not acknowledge how trenchfoot could be affecting me at this very moment? 

The sogginess of my tootsies impedes my valiant efforts to put words on a page, and the sheer balls that this historically inept sorry excuse for a professor has to deny me accommodation for a well-known foot ailment baffles me. She is the revisionist scum of the Earth that rejects the bravery of those who stood in the cold mud of battle. 

My poor piggies roll around in the mud that leaks into my canvas shoes, leaving them wrinkled and all ouchie, and she does nothing. If only she knew the terror of having a potential for trench foot, maybe she would fall to her knees pleading for forgiveness for her foolishness, bestowing me with my deserved 48 extra hours as compensation for my basically war torn feet. 

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.”

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?