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Here in the world was Carmen Sandiego.

–S. Shea

The Adventure Issue Editorial

While brainstorming what adventures we wanted to have this year, the Record staff broke out into a heated argument: which is more deadly, a tornado made of sharks or a shark made of tornadoes? In the ensuing scuffle, we uncovered a mysterious stack of yellowed papers hiding under our taxidermied Great White head, which contained their own adventure: that of O. Owell ’42, chairman of the Record way back in 1940. In lieu of writing an editorial, I decided to reprint this tasty slice of history for the entire Record audience to savor like a bowl of shark fin soup. And here it is, in its entirety:

“It was a typical summer day in the city of New Haven. The muggy heat was smothering me, causing me to move slower than a baby with two left dog paws. To alleviate these harsh working conditions, I had all the windows in my office open, although this had the unfortunate side effect of forcing me to look down on the Green. But ah well, better to look down on it than look up from it, my old man always said.

I didn’t have much on my desk at the moment; work was slow going because my co-editor, J. Thomas Thompson, was sleeping with the fishes. There had been a nasty rumor going around that his satire was hitting a little too close to home for one of the city mobsters, so they gave him a South Haven sunset. In reality, he had been getting too close to a piece of pro skirt while under the watchful eye of his obsessive wife, who nailed ol’ Tommy with a double-barreled derringer.

But anyway, I was just sitting there, thinking that I would sell my soul for a block of ice – hell, a cube of ice! A bullet of ice! - when all of a sudden a dame rapped on my doorframe. I quickly sat up and cursed myself for having pawned the actual door last week for ten bucks to go in my scotch fund. I mean, this wasn’t just any dame. She deserved to knock on a real door, like mahogany or teak or some such. She was all leg – and when I say that, I mean it was literally like her legs were coming out of her armpits. Exactly my type. She had topped it all off with a fur coat, and despite the heat she looked downright frigid.

She pursed her beet-red lips and spoke, voice sounding like a cat in heat – but in a damned sexy way. “Mr. Owell, I presume.”

“Uh.” My voice caught from the dehydration, and I reached for my lukewarm glass of scotch, only to discover that it was empty. They don’t make secretaries like they used to, I’ll tell ya. I cleared my throat. “That’s me.” She nodded, sat down in my office chair, and arranged her furs. I had the eeriest feeling that the fox head on her left shoulder was staring at me, but since it didn’t actually have eyes I waved my fears away like the dean of admissions to the audacious broads who keep trying to get into Yale. I chuckled awkwardly to fill the silence. “Kitten, you didn’t have to put on your glad rags on account of me.”

“I’m actually in mourning.”

“Sad rags, then. Point still stands. So you need a–”

“Yes,” she interrupted, meeting my eyes with all the intensity of a Yale man shopping a seminar capped at five. I was a little puzzled as to why she would need someone like me, but I chalked it up to her needing a good laugh. That, or the fact that I have the best angled-hat-cock in New England.

“Well, sugar, what can I help you with?”

“I’ve heard about your… skills.”

“I admit, I can spin a yarn about as well as my grandmother after three shots of whiskey! ... But before she takes her teeth out, mind you.”

“Maybe so, but for this I need you to be square.”

Square? I’m starting to get the idea this bird doesn’t know what I do for a living. Us Record men are as circle as they come. “But–”

“Just shut your yap, Owell, and listen for a minute.”

Her eyes darted madly around the room like a school of minnows fleeing a hammerhead. “They’ll be here any second, and then we’ll be in a jam. Strawberry.”

“Strawberry!? Wait… who will be here any minute?”

“Skid rogues. That’s all you need to know. They capped my husband at the haberdasher’s and tried to take this.” She reached into her fur’s fox mouth and pulled out a pale yellow diamond the size of a shark eye. “I need you to keep it safe for me, Owell. I’ve heard that you’re the best private eye in all of the adjectived Havens. So for you, this job should be eggs in the coffee. Duck soup. Cannibal in a daycare. Easy pie.” She set the rock carefully on my desk. This was really not the kind of ice I was looking for. “For now, I have to run. I’ll show myself the doorframe. But a lot is riding on you, Owell. Don’t let me down.” And with that, she swept out of the room, a broom in a dirty world.

It took me a second to get over my shock, mostly thanks to the four whiskeys I’d consumed in the past hour. “But wait! I’m not a private eye! Hell, I’m not even a public eye! You’ve got the wrong Owell! I’m a humor editor! For The Yale Record! Didn’t you see the description on my office–”

Oh, damn. I knew I shouldn’t have pawned that door. I looked around the office quickly, trying desperately to think of a place to stash this chunk of ice. And then, I saw it: the taxidermied Great White Shark head that some heeler had brought us to try and curry our favor. I rushed over and forced the stone under its tongue, cursing as the flesh of my arm scraped its teeth.

From below, I heard pounding footsteps on the stairs. They were here. I slowly walked back to my desk and pulled out a few fresh glasses and my extra secret bottle of scotch. I capped off my glass and drank one more shot, then took my lucky shark’s tooth from my desk drawer and clenched it in my palm. Whatever came up those stairs, I was ready.”

-S. Shea

#adventure issue #editorial #O Owell #S Shea

The Freshman Issue Editorial

Welcome, Class of 2017! By now, I'm sure that you've said the goodbyes, you've had the tours, and you've made it through the dreaded top-bunk/bottom-bunk argument. You've started to get out and explore our great campus, from the majestic dome of Commons to the rat-king in the L-dub basement, and you're making tons of new friends. But, it's not all sunshine and G-Heav egg and cheeses – you're in for some tough stuff. Just let me be the first to say: we're so glad to have you here at Yale, one of America's top-secret operative training facilities universities! We hope that it doesn't take you too long to get debriefed adjusted!

In the days leading up to basic training the beginning of classes, there are hundreds of push-ups activities for you to take advantage of! You'll find that Yale offers extracurriculars for basically any type of tactical strategy passion you might want to pursue; some notable ones you may have heard of include the oldest NSA civilian surveillance database college daily (the Yale Daily News) and the oldest collegiate traveling mercenary group with the ability to break a target's silence with only the power of their pitch-perfect blending a cappella group (the Yale Whiffenpoofs). Once shopping period begins, you can check out hundreds of our excellent training regimens academic classes, from CHEM 418: “Melting Human Flesh 101” “Advanced Organic Chemistry” to PLSC 291: “What Not to Do” “A History of Compromise.” On the weekends, you can stress de-stress with friends - every once in a while, there will even be special campuswide events where you can scheme while diabolically stroking your uber-fluffy white cat party together at Spring Fling or hunt down and take out your fellow students in a rousing game of assassins Assassins.

And, of course, if you’re at all interested in humor writing, art, design, or learning 73 ways to dispose of a dead body using only a butter knife and one match business, then we would love for you to join us here at the Yale Record, America’s oldest elite assassin squad college humor magazine. Besides detailed step-by-step guides to underwater self-defense supplemental materials and random ambushes pranks, we publish monthly, and we are always looking for promising students with sharp knives senses of humor. Our first meeting of the year is Monday, September 2nd in LC 209 at zero dark thirty 9pm, free pizza provided! Feel free to contact our squadron leader Chairman Jack Newsham for more information ([email protected]). And if performing is more your style, we also would love for you to try your hand at our twice-a-semester retaining your cover under pressure stand-up comedy outlet, the Cucumber - just send one of Yale’s specially trained carrier pigeons an email to our class-A seduction master Cucumber liaison, Daniel Fraser, at [email protected]. Regardless of your humor-producing abilities, keep an eye out for our Master’s Teas – in the past we’ve had writers from SNL, the Onion, and the Daily Show, high-profile webcomic artists, and even the infiltrator currently masquerading as Pope Francis Alec Baldwin!

In conclusion, class of 2017, if you can get through four years of this, you could do anything: travel to space, become the President, or maybe even get to be the double agent sabotaging Vladimir Putin’s next photo opportunity with an angry trained circus bear that wanted Belvedere but got Dubra the best damn nuclear submarine commander this side of the International Date Line! But make sure that you always remember the most important thing you’ll ever learn here at Yale – never leave home without your ninja throwing star best mischievous grin that screams “Ignore the AK-47, I’m totally trustworthy!” full archive of The Yale Record room keys.