New Yale College Fellowship to Aid Students “Chilling at Home,” First Recipient Announced

As second semester progresses and summer approaches, many Yale students are currently racing to apply for fellowships to support their efforts to study abroad, take on unpaid internships, or pursue independent research. A large amount of these funds are donated by generous alumni of Yale. 2013 marks the first year that the Brent Hathaway Summer Fellowship is offered. The fellowship, according to its online description, “serves to support Yale undergraduates who wish to devote their summers to just saying fuck it and chilling at home.”

Hathaway (PC ’11) graduated from Yale with a degree in American Studies. He currently resides in his parent’s house in Portland, Oregon. While his former classmates are working on Wall Street, in medical school, or volunteering overseas with various NGOs, Hathaway devotes his days to “pretty much chilling.”

“I was coasting through Yale pretty much nonstop until my senior year came around,” Hathaway describes during our interview, which took place in his residence’s basement. “I noticed that, like, all my friends were focusing on their futures, obsessing over interviews and shit. After seeing this, I spent a long time being all, Fuck, dude, what am I going to do in the real world? This troubled me for a while, until I remembered that my parents were, like, totally rich! I could crash with them, just like before.” He pats the armrests of the leopard-skin loveseat he occupies. Crumbs and Cheeto dust explode into the air. “I don’t need the real world!” He tosses a garlic butter crouton to the floor for a nearby jackrabbit named Miike to nibble on and taps a flaming spliff into a nearby New Orleans Saints mug half-filled with crusty Folger’s. Hathaway rejects your reality and substitutes his own. Bold and brave.

Almost a year after graduating and not changing his lifestyle, sedentary days filled with Playstation, Volcano vaporizers, and allgirlmassage.com subscriptions began to bore Hathaway.

“I slowly realized that all my senior friends who were freaking out about jobs and shit actually cared about jobs because they needed money. I had the luxury of being carefree because of my dad’s vast financial resources, but not all Yalies can actually afford to not give a fuck. Well, I wanted to give someone the opportunity to not give a fuck for an entire summer.” Thus the Brent Hathaway Summer Fellowship was born.

Hathaway relies on a simple system to determine who the single recipient of his sponsored fellowship is: the award goes to whoever would be judged as the worst applicant for a more traditional award. The lucky Yale student this year was sophomore Carl Duncan (TD ’15), whose aspirations of just chilling in his parents’ Scottsdale, Arizona, ranch house all summer will be fully subsidized by Hathaway.

Duncan’s application materials were stunning to Hathaway’s eyes. Judging from his cover letter, Duncan had never perused the UCS style guide before. “He sent in an actual ripped off cover of Juggs that was peeling from the bong water spilled on it,” Hathaway remembers. “There were subtle crusts of white as well. On top he wrote in Sharpie, I just want to chill at home. Fuck Bulldogs Across America, yolo.

Duncan continued to win Hathaway over in the interview the two of them conducted over Skype. “Yeah, Brent was asking me some questions about my classes and extracurriculars and shit,” Duncan utters off in between bites of a shwarma roll that is continually dripping onto his common room futon. “But I don’t really remember. The whole time I kept flipping back to ChatRoulette. I was talking to this group of black guys who were a Slipknot tribute band.” Duncan’s utter lack of respect or professionalism warmed Hathaway’s heart.

Hathaway thoroughly Facebook-stalked all fellowship applicants. Duncan’s favorite quotes: “I tend to think of myself as a one-man wolf pack.” (Zach Galifianakis) and “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.” (Hunter S. Thompson), as well as “LET’S GET WEIRD.” (Adam DeVine). His Likes include In-N-Out Burger, smoking weed, Kenny Fucking Powers, The Big Lebowski, and “I’m On a Boat.” His profile picture shows him wearing a denim vest and cowboy hat while clutching the leggings-clad ass of a girl placing her right index finger between her teeth. From all this, Hathaway was sure that Duncan was his man; this guy had very little to contribute to society, and he deserved a platform from which to completely avoid contributing.

When asked for what three things he is most excited about when his all-expenses-paid summer begins, Duncan rattled off, with a distant glint in his eyes, “Tripping as many balls as possible, macking on some high school girls, and making every day like a day in a corn maze.” The unique vision of an undergrad can now be brought to life by the altruism of a Yale grad. The perfect illustration of “giving back.”

In the climactic scene of Magnolia, William H. Macy sobs, “I don’t know where to put things, you know… I really do have love to give. I just don’t know where to put it!” Well, it’s safe to say that Brent Hathaway does not have that problem.

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OCS Course Evaluations: Greatest Hits

While Rumpus was shopping for classes this year, we came across some fantastic course evaluations. Here are some of the highlights:

PLSC 233 (Constitutional Law): Take it if you’re cool with not going to class and being equally lost. The only thing that matters in this course is whether or not you wear scarves to class, have political stickers on the front of your new MacBook Pro, and drink coffee while having meetings at Blue State. That my friends is the way to get an A in this class.

PSYC 332 (Political Psychology): Ayo so I would recommend dis class right herr. Dis brotha Professor Bullock got a mind of his own nah mean. He be teachin you how to think and feces, and not take no feces as it is from people. In other words, don’t be jus acceptin information as it is nah mean. only thing about this brotha is that he got a monotone voice nah mean. the stuff he be talkin about is usually interestin but some time you might just doze off nah mean. but he cool. tests are pretty fair, he ain’t tryna make you fail or anythin. but ya betta study for that feces or else you gonna fail. yeah, if anythin, you learn to not take feces from no one nah mean.

LATN 412 (Roman Myth and Pastoral): I really hope this semester was a fluke for the course. Maybe the large class threw prof. Solodow off balance, maybe the weather wasn’t right – beats me. Either way, this was undoubtedly the worst course I’ve taken at Yale so far. The professor is dispassionate, dry and plain old dull, the material would send an ADHD squirrel who just downed a dozen red bulls into a catatonic sleep, and the classmates were, with few notable exceptions, wholly unfriendly, solitary operators with superiority complexes. The only viable improvement for this course would be to eliminate this black stain on the classics department with extreme prejudice.

E&EB 125 (History of Life): Mr. Hickey, your lectures in this class are one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.

MATH 250 (Vector Analysis): Your mathematical cajones will descend after this course.

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Juggling at Yale: A Captivating Engagement

On Saturday night, my suitemate surprised me by asking if I wanted to go to the fall show of the Yale Anti-Gravity Society. If you want a translation of the group’s name to real life language, you could say they are Yale’s main community of jugglers and juggling enthusiasts. Not my normal cup of tea. If you asked me at a normal time, Hey, Jackson, want to go to a juggling show? I skeptically respond, No… Not for me. If I were in a state where the most sensible for me to do at a single moment is to go to a juggling show, I would be in trouble. But I had had some herbal edibles earlier this particular night, so I then thought it was a great idea and would be really interesting while I was under the influence! Substances boost my Sherlock Holmes curiosity, so we venture off to the show.

At first glance, YAGS could be taken by a conclusion-jumping newcomer to be like an embrace of society’s conception of what virginity looks like. They are the guys who could do nothing more engaging in college than be in a juggling group. Such a stereotype blinds the spectators from the pure talent on exhibition. The members of YAGS fucking rock it. The quality of the show and its performances, its production value, are indicative of show put on in a high school… so very impromptu and grassroots, but I like them like that. You can just hear about them fifteen minutes before and walk in. How much cooler would high school have been if you could just walk a block and see someone’s passion on display? To people who went to boarding school: fuck you and I am jealous of what I perceive to be an increased prevalence for happiness that you have.

Juggling is not a performance art for the weak. Hell no, there be intense pressure. In the eyes of the average observer, judgment of a juggler’s quality is based on how many times the juggler fucks up so the performer must be physically and mentally tough. Spectators have no idea what practice is like for jugglers and how common fuck-ups are, but they fucking judge away. A weak heart in the audience would flutter at the raw emotion that jugglers are stripped down to when throwing shit in front of a large group searching for signs of humiliation. I imagine that many students cannot handle the YAGS recruitment process and drop out early, a sign of weakness; the retention rate for YAGS rush is similar to that of Navy SEAL training. Only the strong survive because in YAGS: balls go to the wall, not to the floor.

Juggling is like full-body improv for the performers. Some motion shit cannot be predicted and you have to account for that. At one point I realize the strategy is simple, in a Douglas Adams way: throw some objects, find the one that will likely hit the ground the soonest, and stop it. Anything else is just fluff. The task evolves to a pure avoidance of that fuck-up and can get out of control real quick.

I was on the edge of my seat during the entire performance. I left Earth and entered a world of childlike fantasy. I knew shit had gotten real when I saw a girl stand on another girl’s shoulders and pass cones back and forth to a dude on the ground. She had a spotter so we knew there could be a concussion in the room real soon. When a juggling crew is truly mind-blowing, the performance is mechanical and there is no emotion, resulting in a milquetoast show overall. In the case of YAGS, the possibility that they will fuck up is a real possibility and you start to see the performers as people.

I would not expect a juggling show to have a cohesive plot, but YAGS tried to work one in. In India’s Bollywood cinema, the act of characters dancing functions as a stand-in for sexual behavior. So when “Jai Ho” is playing in Slumdog Millionaire, just imagine all the characters on screen fucking each other’s brains out. On the other hand, in juggling shows, the performance is a stand-in for action and character development. The show ends with all the jugglers on stage at once, a clusterfuck of juggling like the ending of a violent film like 1987′s Extreme Prejudice with Nick Nolte, where literally everyone dies in an epic shootout.

So yeah, I recommend attending a YAGS show, if for nothing but the suspense, and a taste of life. The juices of survival, like the exhalations of a slaughtered orange, were dripping down my face as I exited the Berkeley Multipurpose Room, back into the night.

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Home from Harvard for the Holidays: Telling Your Friends You’re A Dickhead

If you’re a student at Harvard, be sure to attend this real event on campus this Wednesday. If your friends at home didn’t think you were arrogant douches already, just wait.

Home from Harvard for the Holidays: Revisiting Relationships with Family and Friends

Wednesday, December 5, 1:00-2:30pm
5 Linden Street
How do I talk about Harvard at home? Will my friends and family think I’ve changed? Will I still fit in? This workshop provides an opportunity to describe and explore your experiences and questions as you anticipate going home. To register, email ——@bsc.harvard.edu or ———@bsc.harvard.edu.

 

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Rumpus Seeks Match.

The Freshman College Council (FCC) will be organizing a class-wide Secret Santa gift exchange this week. To pair students up with their ideal Santas, the FCC has asked all freshman to fill out this personality survey. Below, Rumpus has attached our responses. If you have any information leading to the identification of our soul mate please call: 314-873-2055.

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Yale Dancers: A Love Story.

It’s the end of the semester, which means it’s once again time to bask in the glory of Yale’s best kept secret—the Yale Dancers. They’re performing this weekend at the ECA Theater on Audobon St in a show that’s guaranteed to make you vow to make your sons and daughters take dance lessons at birth. They transcend what it means to be ordinary students at Yale. For those of you unfamiliar with their work, we’ve assembled a body of information about their history.

Yale Dancers Facts:

-Every dancer has a perfect GPA but none go into finance (because they’re better than that)

-Each Yale Dancer can bench 250 lbs, but even more when they use both arms

-The average Yale Dancer receives his/her first marriage proposal by the third week of freshman year

-“Grabbing lunch” with a Yale Dancer requires placing yourself on a three semester long waitlist

-Every Yale Dancer has 20/15 vision or better

-Their wardrobes make Burberry look like Burlington Coat Factory

-The personalities of Yale Dancers are equal parts Mila Kunis, Kate Upton and Bruce Willis

-Have members in the College, the Law School, and Med School compared to Rumpus whose members are all second year students in the Divinity School

-When Yale Dancers graduate, their old practice uniforms are framed and stored in the Sterling Memorial Library archives

 

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BREAKING: Bridgewater fucks up, leaks interview questions

Behold! In an incredible stroke of luck, Rumpus has managed to acquire (by carrier pigeon) tomorrow’s set of interview questions for Bridgewater’s interviews, via a tipster known only as “Moose Knuckle“. Eat your heart out, YD”N”.

SERIOUS BUSINESS. Seriously, check the average salary.

Discuss!

Choose the best answer for each. Remember, there may be more than one right answer. Good luck, and thank you for your application.

Question 1: You arrive at the office early after a long night of number crunching. You see that your boss’s light is on, and you open the door. Your boss is slouched back in his chair, passed out, with cocaine spread across his desk. A dead hooker is splayed out on the floor, naked. Do you:

  1. Call the police. Try reviving the unfortunate woman until trained paramedics arrive.
  2. Roll her up in his carpet, take the subway home, and stuff her under the mattress.
  3. Drag the hooker and the carpet and the cocaine to your cubicle, thusly taking the fall for your boss and avoiding startling and scaring away investors.

Discuss your answer.

Question 2: Faced with a work deadline you cannot possibly meet, you ask your friend for help. He kindly agrees to help you. Do you:

  1. Do as much of the work by yourself as possible, and buy your friend dinner for his generous help
  2. Do as little of the work by yourself as possible, and buy your friend dinner for his generous help
  3. Do as little of the work by yourself as possible, and drag the hooker, the carpet, and the cocaine to his cubicle.

Discuss your answer, but be prepared to explore the pros and cons of each.

Question 3: After a bottle of wine at dinner with an attractive coworker, you confess that you had to flub numbers on your last report. The conversation immediately sobers. Do you:

  1. Ask her to keep it a secret
  2. Ask her to “please, please, please, oh Jesus Christ, please” keep it a secret
  3. Admire the subtle, off-white coloring of her business card, kill her, roll her in a carpet and stuff her under the mattress

Discuss.

 

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Yale’s Most Beautiful Dog

By Christina and Kane

This weekend Sig-Ep brother Paul Wasserman (50 Most 2011) brought an animal home to his frat on Sunday morning. No, it wasn’t a leopard-clad Toad’s patron – it was an infinitely more cute and trainable creature: a Golden Retriever puppy.

In his three short days on campus, this golden retriever puppy known as Jackson has risen to celebrity status. Descending into the basement living-quarters of the Sig-Ep house, Rumpus met this romping ball of fluff to obtain the first real exclusive interview: a rare opportunity to meet Yale’s newest lady-killer in the flesh fur and ask the hard-hitting questions. Also present was Jackson’s human-pet, agent, and owner, Paul, to answer some of our questions on the dog’s behalf. So toss aside your copies of the YD”N” and Yale Herald, donate them for potty-training purposes, and treat yourselves to the official scoop.

Rumpus: So, Jackson, how has it been adjusting to life at Yale and your immediate fame?

Paul: He’s finally starting to figure out where he lives! At first, he was like a freshman girl, stopping at every frat on High Street. But this morning he pooped on some of SAE’s dirt (I cleaned it up) and marked his territory here at Sig Ep by peeing on the front porch.

Rumpus: A boy after our own heart!

Jackson: (looks like a proud little fucker)

Rumpus: What about his name? How’d you decide on that one?

Paul: His name is Jackson – just Jackson, not Jackson Margaritaville Wasserman. When I got him from the breeder he was Sir Lancelot… but, I wanted to give him a name I thought of myself, and since I’m a history major, I decided on Jackson – you know, like Stonewall Jackson or something.

Rumpus: He’s a real Southern gentleman!

Jackson: (crawls all over Paul’s girlfriend’s crotch)

Rumpus: With your huge campus presence, exactly how many biddies have you managed to land thus far?

Paul: Well, uh, (looks to other brothers present) boys, can we get an estimate? (after some mumbling, the results are inconclusive)

Jackson: (chews on a rug and licks himself)

Paul: Actually, Jackson himself is just trying to keep his options open at this point. He has several female admirers but is currently pursuing a facebook relationship with another dog named “PousPous”. Something might come of that… we’ll see.

Rumpus: Well parties are definitely the best place to pick up chicks. Will your adoring public be seeing you out on the town any time soon?

Paul: He’s too young to be going to Safety Dance (because no underage drinking ever happens at Safety Dance, right?) but he’ll definitely be making appearances at both the Yale-Princeton tailgate and Halloween. Look out for his outfits.

Franco Sturla (50 Most 2011): But nobody better try to give him beer… They’ll have to deal with me.

Rumpus: What about Toad’s?

Paul: He’s more likely to be seen at Viva’s or Box63… You know, the classier late-night establishments. Plus he’ll be making an appearance at Sig Ep formal as my date!

Jackson: (sitting in Paul’s girlfriend’s lap, giving her a kiss)

Rumpus: Sounds respectable. And where’s he sleep at night?

Paul: Right now, we have him in the bathroom because he’s not yet housebroken.

Rumpus: Just like any respectable frat boy after a party… What else can you tell us about him?

Paul: Well, Jackson’s birthday is July 25, 2012

Izzy (Paul’s girlfriend): That’s the same as mine!

Paul: Yeah, well… and his dad’s a champion something-or-other, and I picked him out from three other puppies. So like, yeah, I could register him and take him to competitions and everything.

Jackson: (wriggles under coffee table chewing on a tennis ball)

Rumpus: Pedigreed puppy living it up at Yale – he’ll fit right in. Rumpus has just one more question for Jackson. What’s his favorite campus publication?

Paul: He really likes the “Southern Belle” at Yale blog, because he’s a southerner at heart you know.

There you have it folks! All your lingering questions answered. You’re welcome.

 

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What Would You Do For Some Daw Aung San Suu Kyi Tickets?

By Vince

When Rumpus found out that Nobel Peace Prize recipient and goddess among humans, Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, would be visiting Yale’s campus next week, we shit our pants in excitement. Aung (what’s up first name basis) will speak to the lucky few Yalies who made it to Woolsey Hall between 10:00am and 10:01am on Wednesday.

Many students who couldn’t get their shit together and blew their one chance to see their “idol” – nay, their savior – paced their common rooms devising schemes to acquire golden tickets. Their last hope, they thought, was publicly announced bribery: the smart alternative to theft (Although the Ronnell email following such a theft would undoubtedly have been hilarious). The following are just a few of the bribes Rumpus considered taking in exchange for our majestic Aung tickets.

 

Briber #1: A veritable smorgasbord of goodies

One person offered  not only home-baked cookies or any food Rumpus likes, but money, Rumpus’ own personal Yale girl wearing a t-shirt that reads, “Rumpus is awesome,” a quilt, and any sewing Rumpus may need – which could come in handy for the no safety dance. As far as things you could bake for Rumpus, ’tis the season for Rumpkin pies.

Briber #2.   The gift of freshmen bodies, OR “whatever tickles Rumpus’ fancy.”

Hordes of freshman bodies are regularly available at Wednesday night Toad’s, so we’ll respectfully decline that offer. However, Rumpus enjoys having its fancy tickled, so we may be in touch.

Briber #3:  Afternoon delight.

Usually, Rumpus finds its baby and holds it tight before grabbing any of that, but you, briber #3, may suffice for one afternoon.

Briber #4:  The performance of sexual favors while levitating:

How long can you levitate?

Briber #5:  47 virgins.

An oddly specific bribe, but we can’t say we hate  it. Are you referring to the YD”N”?

 

Kudos to all that have publicly flaunted their devotion to Aung via bribery. Side note: Rumpus may or may not have stockpiled Aung tickets to cause the immediate ticket shortage, so keep the bribes coming and we may reward you. Get at us bitchez.

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An Authentic New Haven Experience

In the criminal justice system, iPhone-theft based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New Haven, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad, known as the Yale Police Department. This is one of those stories.

About one and a half years ago, my dentist at Sears (despite my frequent complaints, my mother never listened to me when I told her that going to the dentist at Sears was not a legitimate dental hygiene practice) told me that I would have to get my wisdom teeth out pretty soon. Naturally, I waited about one and a half years to get around to it.

However, this story is not about my reluctance to have four of my teeth forcefully removed by a strange man in one of New Haven’s shadier neighborhoods. The surgery went quite well actually and I plan on going back to Dr. Sarrantino’s office to have my tooth reattached after my next bar fight. The most tragic aspect of the whole experience was the truly traumatic incident that occurred at the Rite-Aid pharmacy on Church St. immediately following my surgery.

Wanting nothing more than to curl up in my bed cuddling with my bottle of Percocet, I went to Rite-Aid to pick up my prescription right after my surgery ended. I wasn’t put under for the procedure but I was still numb from the Novocaine, so you can imagine me trying to say the words “Percocet” and “Amoxicillin” to the pharmacist. I put my phone down on the counter to retrieve my wallet from my purse. I signed the receipt, picked up my medicines, and looked around the counter to see if I had forgotten anything. I didn’t see anything so I assumed I had put my phone back in my purse.

WRONG. As I later saw on the security footage, the son of a bitch behind me had put his bags on top of my phone and, once I had walked away, discretely tucked it in his pocket. SHADY FUCKER. Anyways, I realized soon enough that my phone was gone and went back to Rite-Aid to wait for the New Haven police.

For.two.fucking.hours. I still hadn’t taken any pain medication. Picture this: one short girl with two swollen cheeks, unable to properly speak, drooling blood and roaming the aisles of Rite-Aid while bawling her eyes out from a combination of pain and HER PHONE BEING STOLEN FROM UNDER HER NOSE.  A little too early for Halloween, but if anybody wants to dress up as the Rite-Aid monster, there you go. Lots of drool, lots of blood.

Fast forward to a week later, when I decide to call my phone out of the blue, in a last desperate attempt to get it back. To my surprise, a woman picks up. I explained the situation (“I want my phone back”) and she was more than willing to return it. Actually, considering this is still an ongoing police investigation, I’m not sure what details I can divulge. But I will say that she tried to lure me to Waterbury and pay her to get my phone back. But the fearless detectives from the Yale Police Department (love love love) retrieved my phone and returned it to me a couple days ago.  The thief has yet to be arrested and, having been in talks with the police for the better part of a week, I was still in a detective mindset. So I decided to check the search history and see if I could find any juicy clues. Here’s an excerpt:

 

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