That’s right. I’m at the airport on this fine December 26th. It is four in the morning, pre-butt-crack of dawn, sustained by last night’s Christmas fried chicken and rage. And if I die in this godforsaken airport, cremate me, and snort my ashes in front of TSA, buy a commemorative plaque and cement it into the O’Hare floor in my name. For Elise Tran, who hated this airport and everyone in it. Send forth Danny De Vito, and may the good and wise man present each and every person on this list with a single rotten egg. And tell them, Danny. Tell each and every one of them, from me, from my chapped lips pale with the tint of sweet and nearing death–tell them I told you to tell them to suck it.
Who else is excited to welcome Chilitos Fresh Mex and Margaritas to the bustling metropolis of Gambier? Here are a few specialty Kenyon themed cocktails we can expect to be served up!
One time when I was five years old I found a slug next to my house moving toward the bushes. For ten minutes, I watched it, its eyestalks sensing its environment, seemingly independently of its body. I watched it secrete the mucus layer on which it travelled. A truly marvelous invertebrate, I thought, completely unlike any other organism I had ever seen. I unscrewed the cap of the saltshaker beside me and, despite having heard that I should never do so, I emptied its contents onto the slug. The slug writhed and contorted the length of its body. Its previously perfect skin began to pop and hiss as it turned crispy, from a bright yellow to a golden brown. In that slug I saw myself. As I watched it die, I felt the sting of the salt on my back, all the moisture in my body osmosing through my skin. I fell to the ground in pain, and I saw in the bushes what I could only assume was its slug family. We lay dying together on the moss for what seemed like an eternity. In retrospect I realized I learned something valuable that day. The ability to know something, to really become acquainted with it, to love and even name it, and then dispassionately let it go to become closer to death, would prove useful throughout my life. Anyway, that’s how I got into comedy writing. How was your weekend?
“Isn’t it too late for that question?”
Okay Kenyon, we dropped the ball. Executive Editor, Nate Winer ’19, Staff Writer, Lillian Fox Peckos ’20 and myself (Daily Editor, Jane Zisman ’20) all committed to write some content for this highly regarded publication last Sunday at an editor’s meeting that I skipped. Now that the day has come for our work of collaborative, literary genius to be published, we of course have nothing more to present than the three of us sitting in Peirce, lamenting our inability to do jack shit.
Hello, yes, it’s that time of year again. Everybody’s making the trek home, whether that involves putting your trust in an elaborate bureaucratic system hellbent on putting you in a metal tube that slingshots you through the air, or taking matters into our own hands and driving home. I live on Long Island, a fact that for some reason upsets every single person I know. This means, among other things, that it’s a nine-hour drive from here to home, and with City traffic and Long Island traffic, it’s more like a twelve hour drive home. So I usually fly, but I have notoriously horrible luck traveling. If I fly, there’s about a fifty percent chance my flight will get cancelled. I’ve been laid over and stranded in Charlotte, Seattle, LaGuardia, Columbus, and Washington D.C., and one time I booked a flight that didn’t exist.
[Editor’s note: I was on the same flight as Chris for Thanksgiving break and we did have to deplane and wait for a new one because our first plane’s door hatch was broken, causing a 2 hour delay. Bad travel luck confirmed]
So last spring break I thought, why don’t I drive home. I didn’t have a car, but my friend Lily did, and she lived just outside New York City. Eight hour drive home, take the train into the city, and from the city to the island. What could go wrong?
I got stuck in a blizzard for fifteen hours.
He is the little shadow-kitty parked directly in front of your feet as you walk to Peirce. He is the dirty boy tumbling in the gutters. He is the splash of ebony against a pile of leaves, loafing majestically in the sun. Most importantly, he is Moxie. Everyone loves him and he knows it. He often tricks folks into thinking he is a lost little lamb wandering in the woods. Don’t be fooled. He is smarter than you and he knows exactly what he is doing. Here’s a collection of his adventures.