Are you awake? O, marvelous, you are! Ma’am I’m going to have to ask you to get off now. We’ve reached the end of the line. This here engine goes no further. You’re going to have to get off here and advance on foot the rest of the way. Before you go though, I must say that I admire your courage, ma’am. We’ll all be pulling for you.

I’ve been conducting this here train for far too long, Ma’am. I’ve seen the vibrant youths of this here town attempt the very feat you are attempting now and never return, but if anyone can do it, it is you. Ma’am, when you co-illustrated
The Adventures of Taco, I knew that we still had a shot. These men may have guns, they may have numbers, but they’ll never have the bindle and twinkle in the eyes that you do.

I know it probably doesn’t mean a lot coming from a crazy old man like me, but I’d like to tell you a story before you go. You see, Ma’am, when I was a little girl, we didn’t have any of the gloominess we have now. Mine is a story of frustration, of attrition, but it is also one of hope. Seventy years ago, I met a man by the name of Frank Tatum. His son Hank had been a fancy football star in his own time, but that’s a story for another time.

Frank Tatum, born third to Lester and Marjorie Tatum, spent most of his childhood farming peanuts behind the shed next to the slightly larger shed where his family lived. I guess you could say the Tatums were shed rich and dirt poor. Frank’s favorite time of year was early autumn when the peanuts were harvested, and it was time to name them. Wallace, Edward, Theodore, Susanne, the others—Frank Tatum loved them all. He swaddled them in what little cloth there was at the time, and would bury them for safekeeping down by the fork in the creek each day before school.

One day, while Frank Tatum was playing in the front yard, a man with a wooden briefcase came down the dirt drive in an old jalopy. He made Lester and Marjorie Tatum sign a piece of paper on the rickety porch of their slightly larger shed, and cheerily waved goodbye with the foreclosure to the Tatum estate in hand. Marjorie Tatum began to cry, and Lester stared off at the jalopy as it pulled away.

Something in 12 year old Frank Tatum snapped that day. He put away his assemblage of individually-named peanuts once and for all and took up the pen in its stead. For an entire year, Frank Tatum fought the legislators in the 5th ward to no avail. Back in those days, it was not uncommon for 13 year olds to be radical political juggernauts. Frank Tatum decided it was finally time to give up.

He returned to a life of farming and naming peanuts. He shaved with a knife and ate only meat. He swore like a merchant marine and cut an imposing figure. Frank Tatum was biding his time. Finally, he had saved enough money to build a shed of his own, and he did so.

Your quest is very much like the quest of Frank Tatum. In many ways you remind me of him, Ma’am: the heart, the determination, the brawny disregard for mankind. Something tells me you two are more alike than you think. So be careful out there, and get us our goddamn shed back!

O, and if they ask who sent you, you tell them it was:
A.T. Piskai

Kids, when I was 18 years old, I met a man named AT Piskai. Now I know what you’re thinkin’. Yes, that AT Piskai. The one with the bears. Some people say he wasn’t real, that the government came up with AT Piskai to distract us during trying times. But I met him. He was as real as you or me. We met in college back in 2009, when we both wrote forThe Pennsylvania Punch Bowl Humor Magazine. What’s a magazine? A magazine used to be a bunch of words printed on pieces of paper, then stapled together for a person to read at their leisure. What’s Pennsylvania? It was a large area of land that existed before the takeover.

Enough questions, I want to tell you about AT Piskai. He was a bold man, with the disposition of an excitable kangaroo and the jawline of an ox. Why, I remember one night he went to play laser tag and killed 25 men. Another night, he picked up five women, then placed them all down on the table next to him and propositioned them. A man among men, that AT Piskai. He would strut that big Irish strut of his – nobody strutted like AT Piskai. He used to strut down the sidewalk every day at 3pm, and the whole campus would gather ‘round. He’d stop and point at the cutest girl there and say his catchphrase, which was something like, “Get out of here, farmer!” Whatever it was, it was a riot. Everyone would laugh and laugh. He’d give everyone “Piskai fives” by slapping his palm against another person’s palm. That was acceptable at the time, instead of the intense act of aggression it is today. One time, a big bully from our staff – I think his name was Raj – challenged AT Piskai. He said, ‘Piskai, I bet you can’t write 52 columns with this here keyboard.’ It took him 4 full years without a single break, but AT Piskai wrote those columns, then killed Raj with the keyboard and three well-crafted Drexel puns. It was a glorious day.

Sometimes Piskai and I didn’t see eye to Pisk-eye. I know I’ve told you kids about the time I coined the extraordinarily popular term “bonerly”. Well, Piskai hated that word, and did everything in his power to make sure I never used it again. Piskai hated bonerly, almost as much as he loved his favorite ball team. A ball was a sphere that was used for games, before…well… before “it” happened.

The world we live in shakes at a mention of the name AT Piskai, but not me. I still think of him as a workhorse, a talent, an idol, a friend. Not as the betrayer of our species. Alright, that’s enough about AT Piskai, kids. Now go back to the salmon mines before the bears notice you’re gone.

Bonerly,

Sam

——–

Dear A.T. Piskai,

I first received one of your letters in the glorious year of 2008.  It was a simpler time then.  People didn’t need their phones to be ‘smart’, just slightly dumber than they are now.  The recession hadn’t lost its initial charm, Pluto wasn’t kicked out of the U.N. yet, and swine flu was just a name we gave to Fat Betty after she ate too many lego pieces.

But I digress.  2008 was important to me because it was the first year I read one of your many letters.  And quite frankly, I don’t know where I’d be now had I not.

You see, A.T., you gave me an education in joke-making.  When I look at your archives on the web site, I see a manual for how to craft the perfect column.

There’s lesson 1: A Letter of Introduction aka Making a Name for Yourself

Lesson 8: The Lorax aka Mastering the Pun

Lesson 21: Great Bicycle Battle aka Advanced Topics in Absurdity

These are only but a few examples.  I consider every one of your columns an in-depth lesson for how to write the perfect column.  Originally, when I started writing this letter, I wanted to list my favorite of your columns and say exactly how they influenced me.  But I couldn’t choose.  Each one, like a finely-tuned lesson plan or the ingredients of Bobby’s Dallas Burger, have a specific and delicious function to play in the education of the consumer.

I’ve taken these lessons to heart.  I’ve borrowed the hilariously nonsensical  Q and A format from ‘Midterm Review’.  I’ve plagiarized the erotic patriotism from ‘Bald Eagle’. Hell, I read ‘How to Speak Australian’ and WENT TO FUCKING AUSTRALIA!

I won’t lie, when you first told me you really enjoyed my Thesis Review column I vomited from excitement.  All over my computer.  It was disgusting and euphoric at the same time.  Because despite the fact that there was throw up all over my pants and computer, at that moment I knew I had made it.

A.T. Piskai, your legend will echo in the halls of the metaphorical Punch Bowl Complex (and the literal Punch Bowl Crapshack) for years to come.  Even when you graduate, your humor will continue to live in on the columns that others write, in the jokes we put on the board and don’t use in the magazine, and some of the jokes we put into the magazine.

Your letters, like children’s letters to Santa, may not reach who they’re addressed to but still serve a valuable purpose.  They let your parents know what you want for Christmas.  And they let us laugh at you.  You’ll be missed when gone A.T., but I know you’ll be moving on to bigger and funnier things at…Microsoft?  Well, I’ll trust you on that one.  The next computer I buy better be hilarious though.

A.T. Piskai, you are a hell of a columnist.  Maybe the funniest damn writer Punch Bowl’s had since Frederick Abbotson was shot by Theodore Roosevelt for making fun of his mustache.

But besides being a great writer, you were a better friend.  And despite all I learned from you about humor, I learned more about life.  Well, maybe it was about equal.  But still.  I’ll miss you, bud.  Thanks for everything.

Intrinsically Yours,

Jonah

P.S. I just have to include one more because it’s so goddamn funny:

Hank Tatum. Everyone read this!

——-

Dear A.T. Piskai,

When I first met you, you were smothered head to toe in barbeque sauce, screaming about the 76ers.  I’m happy to report that, in the three years since, you haven’t changed one bit.  And through those three years, we’ve had some laughs, we’ve had some tears (a lot of tears), and, for a brief period, we semi-successfully owned and operated a Fuddruckers in San Antonio.  But now that you’re leaving, I have a few burning questions.

What does the A.T. in A.T. Piskai stand for?

Though I’ve gotten to know you well (biblically, even), I’ve somehow never found out what that A.T. stands for.  All Terrain?  Awkward Turtle?  Assassinated Tupac?  What exactly are you hiding from, A.T., if that’s even your real name?  Maybe my suspicion is misplaced, or just a side effect of all the psychotropics I’ve been taking.  Maybe you decided to jump on the ‘90s fad of initializing your first two names, à la famous boy banders like JC Chasez or JK Rowling.  But maybe, just maybe, you’ve been up to something this whole time.  I’ve got my eyes on you.

What’s the deal with the letters?

For some reason, nearly all of your columns have been written in letter format.  Why?  Here’s my theory:  When you went to Ghana a couple years ago, you met an old, senile witch doctor, who offered you an invigorating potion in exchange for a basket of Ghanaian yams.  Thinking you could trick the ancient mystic, you took the potion and stole off into the night without delivering the agreed-upon yams.  But the old man did not take kindly to tricks.  Vengeful, filled with rage, the witch doctor attempted to curse you with the Hex of a Thousand Indian Burns.  But in his senility, he jabbed the wrong end of his magical staff at you, and instead cursed you with the Hex of Perpetual Letter-Writing.  Or, I dunno, maybe you just like writing letters. I’m not a mind reader.

Why are you working at Microsoft?

I may not know much about computers, or software, or this so-called “electricity,” but according to the TV machine, people at Microsoft are boring and probably robots.  How does the guy who wrote a column about a “pirate investigator” turn around and take a job at the corporate equivalent of a mayonnaise sandwich?  It befuddles me something fierce.

Despite these burning questions, though, I must say that you’ve meant a lot to Punch Bowl, and you’ve meant a lot to me.  In many ways, I always felt like you were truly a writer’s writer—your columns have a certain effortless wit and playfulness, and you wrote in a wide variety of styles, tones, and perspectives.  Your best columns were fully formed and packed with jokes and ideas; I’m still disappointed that “The School of Hard Knocks” didn’t end up in the magazine.  And this is all without mentioning the contributions you made to every issue.

On a more personal note, though, I wanted to thank you for helping me become a better writer.  During sophomore year, it was always a pain to post my columns the day after you, ‘cause your columns were so damn good.  But following you pushed me to never miss a deadline and really improve my writing.  And beyond that, you were always supportive—I got the feeling you were one of the only people on staff who made it a point to read everyone else’s work.  Even if you never realized it, I think you helped make all of us better writers.

I guess this is all just a roundabout way of saying that we’re going to miss you, Piskai.  Punch Bowl won’t be the same without your goofy faces, weird dances, absurd ideas, and signature basketball shorts and flip-flops.  I just hope everyone remembers you as a goofy bastard, a great writer, and most of all, a good friend.  I know I will.

Sincerely,

Raj

——-

Dearest Piskai,

Well, it finally came.*

I’m not talking about the prizes you won during Feb Club either. You are officially a Punch Bowl scum alum** which proves one thing: this magazine is really going to go downhill.

Even though we have other Phi Psis,*** Punch Bowl will in no way be the same when you graduate. We are going to lose our most accomplished columnist, our resident goofball, our most stylish staffer, and our favorite Gauss. But worst of all I am losing a great friend and mentor. You’re leaving a gaping hole in our staff (and in our hearts, of course).

But I came up with a great solution – clone yourself don’t leave! As you so eloquently said, “education is overrated.”****

Even though you know the ins and outs***** of engineering and will be so successful at Microsoft, I think we can all agree we’d rather have you here, even if you’re stripping. Actually, especially if you’re stripping.

But if you must go, let me leave you with this poem I wrote expressing how I truly feel about you:

Dearest darling A. T. Piskai,

Knowing you’re leaving makes me want to cry,

Replace you? We wouldn’t even try,

Stay! Haunt us like the ghost of Shai,

I guess what I’m trying to imply,

Is that if you’re ever nearby,

Please stop in and say hi!

And to get to the point before we all die,

Andrew, you’re an incredible guy,

And I never want to say goodbye.

And I know this wasn’t nearly as good for you as your columns were for us, but I spent like 3 hours trying to copy yours. For real boy.

In a while crocodile,

Monica

*No, that’s not what she said.

**They’re interchangeable.

***I’m talking to you JStarr and Gelfarb.

****He’s sorry Penn, he didn’t mean it.

*****See footnote 1.

—–

Dear Grandmaster Piskai,

And so you depart from the hallowed halls of the Pennsylvania Punchbowl, leaving behind a legacy of literary wit, what can only be described as comedic literature, way too many letters, and a trail of what looks like watered-down feces. I know you really only planned to leave one of those things (we both know which one), but either way they left the Punchbowl overflowing with fragrance, something that will be hard to match in years to come. I’ll never forget the time you asked me to go to a tuba concert downtown during reading week, or the reason I let you go all the way downtown by yourself without a chaperone. It must have been really scary for you.

Ever since I realized that you’re leaving us forever, I’ve mostly been crying, to be perfectly honest. I started writing this column by asking myself “What does Piskai mean to me?”, but I only had this weird image of a half-chewed Hoagie Haven sandwich in a garbage can. Maybe that is what you represent: something so good that you can’t merely digest it, you have to experience its greatness then let it back out to admire it again. Instead, though, I have compiled a list of reasons of things you forgot to do here, and that you should complete before you leave:

Make a pun out of my name:

That should buy us a couple months.

Write more columns:

Your columns are the epistolary equivalent of remembering to redeem your frequent-eater card at Jimmy Johns for a free sandwich. If Shaq were a letter, he’d be one of your columns. Allen Iverson was really talkin’ bout your columns. Not a letter. Not a letter. Not a letter. He was talkin’ about your columns. Four score and seven columns ago, I dreamed of a day when letters and comedy could co-exist in harmony, in beautiful, slightly uncomfortable matrimony, and mate them you did. Your columns are what would happen if wit, bears, radishes, and Morgan Freeman spent a weekend snowed-in in a one-bedroom cabin in rural Colorado. And they’re great. So write more.

Develop a formula for finding the elusive alpha-joke:

As the alpha-joke of the Punchbowl, you really need to develop a formula for finding the root joke of all comedy pieces. You could have some sort of sorting method to weed out all the bad jokes to end up with the good one. Call it the Garbage-trage Garage, or something. Anyway, until you tell us all how it’s done, you can’t leave. My social life depends on it.

Sean Kelly:

Oh, wait. Never mind.

So in about two to three years once you’ve done all those things, you’ll be free to go. Piskai, your talent as a writer and your willingness to help has been a tremendous influence on me as a person and as a member of the Punchbowl. You have contributed so much to the kind of writer I am today, which is both a compliment and an insult depending on which way you look at it. Thank you for everything, my friend. Make sure you never lose your funny, and bring some of it back once in a while to give the new kids a taste of what they missed out on. Good luck, but I doubt you’ll need it.

Ever So Carefully,

Nabil Mehta

——

Dear A. T. Piskai,

You definitely don’t remember when we first locked eyes, but for me it was true Punchbowl love at first sight. Me, a freshman, terrified from my first encounter with Penn’s version of Fangorn Forest, Sean Kelly’s beard; and you, a junior, wearing your bush hat, and staring at all the new spoons from the future.

Fourteen hours in the future to be exact. You were Skyping into the first meeting of the semester from Melbourne, Austrialia. I didn’t know you at the time, but your Skype window replaced that of Meatspin on the computer, so I immediately associated you with reprieve from torture. I also knew that you must be a truly dedicated staff member – taking time out of your limited days to see the progression of the organization. I didn’t even know the half of it.

I got to know you better during the final dinner of fall semester that year. You made a glorious return from the land down under, and you were literally ambushed by the older club members. I’ve only seen people more excited at the end of Nicholas Cage’s “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” Even those who made it to the end of “The Wicker Man” weren’t this happy. This was the night that we shared our first meal together. You still hadn’t met me, but I felt an even stronger bond with you.

I got my first taste of an A. T. Piskai Punchbowl meeting during spring semester, and I knew why everyone was so thrilled about your glorious return. Not only did you come prepared with an arsenal of ideas, but also you pitched them with such enthusiasm that every one of them seemed like a winner. I think if you had presented “If Plants Could Talk, What Would They Say?” we would have written the “Plants” issue. You brought an unmatchable energy to he meeting that made me so happy to be a part of the organization.

My favorite memory of my time with you, however, occurred this year. I had just finished writing my first Punchbowl column. After letting Sam read it, he told me to “send it to the master – A. T. Piskai.” You read the piece and sent it back, covered in edit marks. After making the changes you suggested, I realized that the article had transformed from an unrefined mess of funny sentences to a coherent, balanced column. You gave me very useful advice that helped me to be a better member of the club.

After this event, all the myth and legend surrounding your tenure in Punchbowl made sense. Your dedication was apparent – you helped to make sure that people could at least attempt to replace you enormous presence. I also realized that you truly put the “Punch” in “Punchbowl.” You have an endless supply of humor, from elaborate, well-developed characters to one-line zingers that have me in tears from laughing so hard.

When you leave, we’re just going to have an empty “Bowl,” and finding people with enough pep and enthusiasm to rebuild the “Punch” will be tough. You have truly made a lasting impact on this organization, for that, we cannot thank you enough.

Thank you, A. T. Piskai, for all of your hard work and dedication,

~JStarr

——

Dear Punch Bowl Audience,

A.T. Piskai is dead. Now I know what you’re thinking “Hey, is this one of those metaphorical deaths where the person moves on to greener pastures and/or spiritual enlightenments? Are you saying that since the writer formerly known as A.T. Piskai is graduating, his columnist persona is also bound to expire too?” No. No I’m not saying that, you pretentious dolt. I’m saying A.T. Piskai is dead. Dead as a doorknob, a phrase which I never understood, as it implies doorknobs are supposed to be deader than other inanimate objects.

It all started out when Mr. Piskai called me last week saying he was stuck in a bush after attending the Penn Date Auction.  He said he didn’t know how long it would take to get out, and that he had a problem set that was due in less than an hour. I, being the understanding and selfless friend that I am, of course offered to retrieve the homework and relay it all the way to the DRL.

I walked into his house, which smelled of cat urine and fruit by the foot, got the homework, which was covered in dried up drool and sketches of Heather Locklear, and was about to leave when I tripped on a handle jutting out of  the floor, which was surprisingly clean. Something told me not to open it, to get in and get out, just like Mr. Piskai wanted. But I kept thinking if anyone would have captured a Leprechaun and kept him in his underground dungeon, it would be Mr. Piskai.

I was right. There was an underground dungeon. And there was a Leprechaun too, if by Leprechaun you mean malnourished hunchbacked twenty two year old who hasn’t seen the light of day since Myspace was still a thing. I always wondered how Mr. Piskai was able to complete such a rigorous engineering course load, maintain a bubbling social life, get a good night’s sleep, and be the most prolific columnist in Punch Bowl history. Now I knew the answer. This man posing as Piskai kidnapped the real A.T. Piskai, the atrophied figure before me. He chained him to his desk where he was forced to write humor columns on an old Microsoft Windows 98 Compaq computer. Posted all around me were detailed outlines of The Punch Bowl’s most famous pieces: March Madness, Hank Tatum, and Food or Politics being just a few. Curiously there was also an outline for Jonah Lustig’s Crepe Island. In a sympathetic rage, I ripped off this poor creature’s fetters, smashed his computer, and told him to “Be free A.T. Piskai! Fly away like the bald eagle you are!”

He ran out of Piskai’s house, unchained at last. Then he paused, looking back at me, forever grateful.

Suddenly as soon as he stepped into the street his head exploded. Chunks of brain and fragments of skull sprayed everywhere. It was like watching a watermelon be thrown off the side of an unreasonably tall building. Turns out the bastard implanted a chip into A.T. Piskai’s neck, that would explode as soon as he stepped foot off the property. As I sit here writing this letter, I wonder, did he know he was rushing to meet his imminent death, or did he just not care?

Anyhoo, sorry to see you go buddy. You know we’ll miss you here at the old PBowl. Keep in touch, man. And no hard feelings about the whole guy chained in your basement. Everyone knows if it wasn’t for the constant output of slave writers, Punch Bowl would still be published once a year with construction paper and goose shit.

Missing A.T. Piskai,

L.M. Wildorf

——

And finally, a photo tribute to A.T. Piskai’s columns brought to you by Monica Schecter:

• A platypus once stole a roast beef sandwich from my lunchbox
• A platypus taught Fred Durst how to rap
• Seriously, I really wanted that roast beef sandwich
• A platypus slept with my prom date
• Platypuses look really, really weird
• The plural of “platypus” is not “platypi”
• A platypus invented roaming charges
• A platypus broke the curve on my Econ final freshman year
• Platypuses are the reason they never show Hey Arnold on Nickelodeon anymore
• A platypus co-wrote “Who Let the Dogs Out”
• Mao Zedong was really a platypus in an elaborate costume
• A platypus will turn you to stone if you stare directly into its eyes
• Platypuses are conniving, money-grubbing, power-hungry schemers
• The platypus is the cause of every major wart in history
• Mount Everest is just Nepal’s attempt to get as far away as possible from the world’s platypuses
• John Wilkes Booth was raised by a family of platypuses
• JFK was assassinated by Lee Harvey Oswald, but Lee Harvey Oswald’s best friend was a platypus
• The platypus is a blight upon modern society, poisoning our minds, kidnapping our children, and having violent congress with our women.
• The platypus is a crime against nature.  It is a venomous, egg-laying, duck-billed, beaver-tailed, otter-footed demon, bent upon sowing discord and disrupting Man’s most perfect quietude.
• “Platypus” starts to sound weird if you type it enough times

Punch Bowl: What’s your favorite thing about being a comedian?

Aziz Ansari: I love that moment when you develop a new joke and its really working. It’s very rewarding.

PB: What was your favorite episode of Parks and Rec to shoot?

AA: That episode where Tom gets freaked out about Anne not knowing Ginuwine was fun. I liked the episode where Leslie and I get paired up for online dating. And of course, Treat Yo Self was a blast because we really were just chilling in spas and stuff.

PB: Who is responsible for DJ Roomba, and when will it/he be available for purchase?

AA: That was the creation of Parks writer Alan Yang I believe. I think you can buy them somewhere online actually.

PB: How much do you hate calzones?

AA: We make fun of them on Parks and Rec, but in real life, I don’t fuck with em either.

PB: What’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten in Philly?

AA: I can’t remember, I had some cheese steaks at some place my friend Eric from Tim and Eric said was legit.

PB: You recently went to see the Watch the Throne tour with Rashida Jones. How was that?

AA: So fun, those Throne shows were epic!

PB: How did you get involved in the music video for “Otis”?

AA: I was with those guys when they recorded a lot of Watch the Throne and we became buds and they just asked me to do it. It was pretty surreal.

PB: If Kanye West was a food, what would he be?

AA: Hermes Potato Chips

PB: If your life could be like one Nicolas Cage movie, which movie would you choose?

AA: Raising Arizona or Face Off.

PB: Do you see a Human Giant reunion in the future?

AA: Not like a full on show, but I’m sure in shows or a one off sketch. I’m doing something in Paul Scheer’s Adult Swim show soon I think.

PB: Bugles. Are they chips?

AA: No, they are Bugles.

So yesterday I was watching 10 Things I Hate About You with Ariana, right? And then Chastity and Bianca are talking and Chastity says, “I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just be whelmed?” and Bianca says, “I think you can in Europe.” Well, I wanted to know if you could be whelmed in Europe, so I Google’d it and whelm is legit a word! Like, it means to cover something up! But it’s not just in Europe.
I wish life was like a movie. But not, like, a scary movie. I would want life to be a romantic comedy, like Never Been Kissed or Can’t Hardly Wait or something. OMG I wish I could run into a stripper angel like in Can’t Hardly Wait and she could tell me, “Fate! There is such a thing as fate, but it only takes you so far. Then it’s up to you to make it happen.” So profound! I know exactly what she’s talking about. Fate is like that time I was waiting in line at Wawa and that cute guy I always see was also in line! Fate took me that far, but it was up to me to start a conversation with him. And if it hadn’t been for Fate, I wouldn’t have talked to him and figured out that he’s a weirdo, and now I don’t have to pine after him like Cameron pines over Bianca in 10 Things I Hate About You.
But life’s been more like Clueless lately, especially with guys. My life is so much more Cher-Christian than Kat-Patrick. I mean, it’s like Cher says, “He does dress better than I do, what would I bring to the relationship?” I mean, come on Diary, as if! Throw some Jake Ryan my way. No more Farmer Teds. It’s just like what Sam’s dad says in Sixteen Candles, “That’s why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they’d call them something else.” OMG he is so right!
For realsies though, you can learn a lot from movies, even ones people think are silly. Like, OK, I have this theory that came to me in sixth grade, that if we just make everyone in the world, and I mean everyone, like all the warring people in the Sudan or Africa or whatever, and all the other people in the world, even like the people in giant comfy homes in Beverly Hills (OMG Troop 90210 anyone?), watch The Princess Bride, then there would be world peace. But you know, we’d have to start with the people in wars. And then that’d just solve, like, a ton of problems, because it would show people that true love conquers all:
Wesley: Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.
Buttercup: I will never doubt again.
Wesley: There will never be a need.
Plus, her name is Buttercup, which is so awesome.
But legit, it’d be so cool if life was like a movie. OMG especially if a road trip was involved! OMG ROAD TRIIIP!! So much fun. It’d be like The Sure Thing. I’d totally be cool with meeting someone on a crazy road trip to California like in The Sure Thing. But you know Diary, it’d be cooler to meet someone here, like at school or Starbucks or something, and not have to wait for a road trip. Who knows when I’ll go on a road trip? I want to meet a guy like in A Cinderella Story, a mysterious romance at school. OMG please can Austin Ames dance with me in a gazebo at like a mixer or something? Where can I find a gazebo around here? I’d much rather have Austin Ames than that guy last weekend who tried to hook up with me. He had nothing on Austin Ames. He didn’t even know what 10 Things I Hate About You was! As if! And if life was like A Cinderella Story, we would drive away in a convertible at the end of the movie. Like, all quality movies end with the main characters in love, driving a convertible. Grease, A Cinderella Story, you name it. Maybe the key to finding true love is buying a convertible. I’ll have to put that on my birthday wish list.

That’s all for now, good night Diary!

Everybody Flings. Bros, hipsters, jocks, even nerds*. But everyone Flings differently. Fortunately, after many laborious hours of stumbling through the quad, I’ve figured it out. I’ve made a guide for determining how someone Flings and the correct way to deal with them based on the clothes that they wear.
*Well, not engineering nerds, but we’ll touch on that later.

Sex/Drug/Mediocre Electronica Artist Inuendo Pinnie – These are your typical fraternity brothers/club members/UA pledgemasters. Likewise, they are the typical fling attendees. They drink heavily in the morning, nap from 6-10 then “rage” at night. Normal Flingers are generally pleasant. Share your flask filled with the backwash remnants of tequila in return for using their RA key to let you into Riepe for a much-needed mid-Fling, kegs-and-eggs-induced dump.

Frat Hat – Sign of a true bro. Overall, these guys are friendly, but communicating with them is difficult. They have the attention span of a mentally retarded housefly and consequently can only converse about a small range of topics: “slam pieces,” “raging,” and “Chipotle.” Often, these guys can be tough to understand, so here’s a list of common phrases and their translations:
“This pinnie is so frat it’s ridiculous” – “I wish I had sleeves, my arms are cold”
“I had like 46 beers yesterday” – “I had like 8 beers yesterday”
“I had like 30 shots last night” – “I had like 8 shots last night”
“See that slam piece over there? I totally fucked her last week” – “See that girl over there? I have no idea who she is, but I find her reasonably attractive.”
“Yo, check out my sweet flow” – “I can’t find a local barber”

Neon Fanny Pack – Sorority girls! Stay away to avoid irreversible eardrum damage – their only method of communication is through loud shrieks of liquor-induced excitement. If you find yourself in between a group of sorority girls and their destination, avoid eye contact, make yourself look as big as possible, and back away with your hands up to show that you have no alcohol for them. If you have any neon clothing, throw it as a distraction, yell “Look, free SweetGreen!” then run.

Shirtless – Do not, for any reason, approach a shirtless Flinger. These people are glow-stick-waving, Molly-taking, sweat-dripping Tiësto fans. Their actions and attitudes are contagious – contagious like a horrible, electronica infection. Symptoms include sexual arousal by neon lights and an insatiable desire for large subwoofers.

American Apparel – These are the hipsters, and they’re too cool for Fling. They wore tanks and neon sunglasses before Ray met Ban. Don’t approach them unless you want to hear all the reasons why Passion Pit was better when they were a high school band playing Mary Had a Little Lamb on tubas in a garage. Hipsters can be found congregated in Stouffer wearing wool caps, listening to Animal Collective on vinyl, and formulating new forms of nonconformity.

Backpack – It’s safe to assume that anyone wearing a backpack in the quad during Fling is either an engineer. The concept of Fling is foreign to them, and it’s unfortunate, but they are simply incapable of learning how to participate. They just aren’t programmed that way. If you’re a kind person, you can help an engineer enjoy the weekend, by spiking their Monster energy drink with vodka, and giving them a problem set. Drunken math is the closest they’ll get to Flinging.

Hey. It’s me again. We really need to talk. After all these years I’ve been supporting you, well, I was talking with the others and…just stop. You’re embarrassing us, making us look like we have no say as to what goes on in your life. I know I’ve been in the spotlight a lot recently, “Oh Amare’s Back, are you going to let Amare play tonight? What about next week? Will he be ready for the playoffs?” Yet you had the audacity to ignore me and step back onto that court for a loss to the Cavaliers, with the playoffs quickly approaching. I think now is a good a time as any to let you know how all of us feel, and to do so as clearly as possible:

Just stop. Stop playing that game.

We hate it, and the gang said that I should be the one to talk to you. We all can’t stand it, and you should’ve been able to take a hint by now. When my old buddy Retina bribes Bruce Bowen to take him out of commission? You come back. I bulge that disc to keep you out a few weeks? You make it back for unnecessary games before the playoffs. And Knees, poor Knees! Knees have been destroying themselves trying to get you to quit, but you just won’t listen. Knees got so desperate that they called up Brain and asked him to convince you that you were Jewish, because if one thing can stop a professional basketball player, it’s Jewish roots. And YOU BOUGHT IT! Brain was actually able to convince you that you were Jewish!

You still kept playing.

We need you to stop, and we’re getting desperate. Knees and I are getting dinner this week with Brandon Roy’s Knees and Greg Oden’s Everything to see if we can force the Blazers’ trainer to come to New York. We’re getting lunch next week with David Lee’s Hip and Dwight Howard’s Back to figure out how we can end the season early. I’m even taking the plunge and getting drinks with Ron Artest’s Brain, because if anyone knows how to get time off, it’s Ron’s Brain.

We know that you, along with the New York media, idolize Willis Reed, but we see Willis Reed’s Thigh as one of the biggest disappointments in the history of sport, right up there with Kirk Gibson’s Legs and whoever the hell came up with Tommy John surgery.

Do us a favor and quit, Amare. That way we’ll all be one step closer to our dream: being on Dancing with the Stars.

Sincerely,

Your Back

*Themes suitable for pledges and brothers alike.

The Very Hungry Fraterpillar – Read, or sound out the words of (it’s ok, don’t be ashamed), the touching story of a young freshman working his way through pledging.

In the blacklight of the house a little freshman rushes a frat. One Friday night the boy gets a bid and high five! From his double in the Quad came a little fraterpillar. On the first night of pledging the fraterpillar must eat a jar a mayonnaise. On the second night of pledging he must eat two whole onions. On the third night of pledging he must eat three shots of hot sauce. On the fourth night of pledging he must eat four sticks of butter. On the fifth night of pledging he must eat a goldfish but gets a stomachache! The last night of pledging the fraterpillar downs a Natty Light, and after that he felt much better. Now he wasn’t hungry anymore – and he wasn’t a little fraterpillar any more. He was a strong, manly brother!

One shot, Two shot, Red shot, Blue shot – Listen to the poetic rhymes of one brother’s tale about the toils of being drunk and male.

One shot, two shot, red shot, blue shot

Black shot, blue shot, old shot, new shot

Some are red and some are blue. Some are old and some are new.

Some are strong and some are weak. And some are only meant for greeks.

Why are they strong and weak and greek? Because one more shot is never wrong.

Some are short and some are tall. If you drink the tall try not to fall.

From there to here, from here to there, drinking things everywhere.

Here are some who like to mix. They mix for kicks to get hot chicks.

Oh me! Oh my!

Oh me! Oh my!

What a lot of drunken people go by.

Some look like two and some like four.

Some have six heads and some have more.

Where do they come from?

I can’t say.

But I’m so drunk I start to sway.

I see them come.

I see them go.

Some are ugly.

And some are not.

Some are smokin.

Probably a long-shot.

Not one of them is like another.

Don’t as us why.

Go ask a brother.

And keep and eye out for our newest addition to the Fraternity Books collection – The Cat in the Frat.

Special thanks to Lance Wildorf!