What the title says.
What the title says.
Are you looking for someone to keep you warm in the midst of this polar vortex? Are you pining for luvvv? Well lucky for you, the Thrill hath a way. Let us set you up on a luxurious blind date at Peirce at no cost.
You can volunteer yourself or your friend by emailing us at firstname.lastname@example.org!
Check out all our past Peirce Dates here.
Happy new year, nerds! Make a resolution to get smarter this year and learn from your brilliant and talented peers right here on the Hill with Kernel, my audio odyssey exploring the hidden world of academic research at Kenyon College! President Decatur approved:
As you know, I am a biologist. As a result, I am all about science. That’s why, before I get into the meat of this catchup (which is chicken breast, because according to science, it is full of protein and makes us think of God’s gift to us all — human breasts), I want to address the question that’s been on the minds of biologists, philosophers, and Chris Raffa for centuries: Are women funny? I know what you’re thinking. “I can’t believe you’re buying so heavily into the gender binary, Mia. Come on.” I know that you’re also thinking about something else. “Damn. Mia is funny and ~attractive~.” Moreover, I know that you are wondering why my ex dumped me. All these questions and concerns are being addressed by scientists like me. For now my response comes in the form a question: How was your weekend?
“I prepared for doomsday.”
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.