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The University of Pennsylvania is an 'Ivy League Institution,' which means it must be very selective and chooses only the very best candidates for admission. Throughout its 281 years of existence, the University admissions committee has done the very most to ensure that every class of Penn students is as talented, intelligent, and white as possible. Penn admissions has got this process down to a science and makes sure that it is fair and equitable at all times. Here, Under the Button presents a walk down memory lane for Penn admissions to demonstrate how the University has done nothing wrong — not ever — in selecting each new class of students.
Even before he came to Penn, Leon Jefferson (N ‘24) was a huge self-described foodie. But when he arrived in Philadelphia for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to maintain his passion for enjoying and photographing the culinary arts. After all, most college dining halls don’t exactly have the best reputation. But much to Jefferson’s surprise, he found that Penn more than delivered on its promise for high-quality food on campus. He found that 1920 Commons, the flagship enterprise of Penn Dining and Bon Appétit, exceeded all expectations and is, in fact, the culmination of human culinary achievement.
In an act of utter moral repugnance, the freshmen class has, at Penn’s invitation, arrived on campus for the first time and decided that they want to make friends. These greedy little piss babies have come to Philadelphia for the exclusive purpose of spreading disease and desperation — just like the little plague rats that they are. Although the Penn administration may have encouraged first years across the country and globe to travel vast distances during a pandemic to sit in lonely dorm rooms and cry, the Class of 2024 is entirely and solely to blame for wanting to breathe the same air as their peers.
With the Class of 2024 being welcomed onto campus for the first time, Penn’s senior fraternity brothers are excited to resume their usual exploitation of younger women. The brothers, recognizing that this semester necessarily will be a significant departure from normal, have adopted an innovative three-for-one deal that will entice young women to venture off-campus and enjoy the sorts of pleasures only an older man can provide: chlamydia, COVID-19, and trauma.
Reports have confirmed that the Mask and Wig Club, a group of silly little boys putting on silly little shows, does not exist, will never exist, and, in fact, has never existed at all. Under the Button attempted to reach out to members of the group for comment, except there were none, because the club is an utter non-entity, a black void from which no humor can ever hope to escape.
In a bid to recover their steep financial losses from the spring semester, Penn has committed to bringing students, faculty, and staff back to campus, expecting big money from both tuition payments and medical bills. The Hospital at the University of Pennsylvania has sped up the construction of the Pavilion, its new in-patient facility, to make 500 new beds available for when a coronavirus outbreak inevitably seizes the Penn community.
Penn recently announced that Dean of Admissions Eric J. Furda will be resigning from his post, utterly devastating the aggregate sex appeal of Penn Admissions. While Furda claimed he was leaving his post to spend more time with his children (yeah, sure Eric), UTB has deduced the real reason for his sudden departure: with recent budget cuts, the University can no longer afford the salary of its hot, sexy, well-proportioned admissions cover boy.
After months of anticipation, President Gutmann has confirmed that Penn will return to campus in the fall, and has promised that the semester will be “more miserable than ever.” Describing the semester as ‘Penn Lite’, Gutmann assured students that the semester will have all of the Penn Face, pre-professionalism, and toxicity of a normal semester at Penn, minus every form of stress-relief and joy that made being a Penn student somewhat tolerable. Specifically, the email outlined several regulations to ensure the safety of students and University faculty and staff come August.
You reach for the gun in your lap. This is a mistake. Your hand just grasps the handgrip when three quick pows to the chest drives the breath from your lungs and lays you low onto your bedroom floor. You groan pitifully as you see Cousin Addie’s boots approach you from the corner of your eye.
You start to weep pitifully, heavy sobs wracking your entire body. Pathetic. Where are those very large sexual organs now, huh? You wish you could say that this is all just an act, but easily 80% of this performance stems from genuine hysteria.
You always knew you’d need the glock that you hid underneath your mattress one day. “Freeze!” you command Addie. “I have a gun which means I have very large sexual organs which means you need to listen to me.” God, those words sound so delicious falling off your lips. You give a silent prayer of thanks to the Lord God Almighty, protector of these Great United States, for your inviolable Second Amendment Rights.
Addie says nothing. They look down at their clasped hands. Tears begin to dribble from their eyes. Tiny sniffles wrack your cousin’s tiny little body. “I’m sorry,” they whisper. “I know it was wrong of me to ask. It’s a crime against nature, after all. I’m just… so scared… and anxious all the time… and I just really want a hug… and also I’m soooooooooo fucking horny…”
Addie shakes their head gently. “That’s too reductive of a term. Love should not be reduced to labels. Cousin couplings have been well-documented and commonly accepted throughout human history. In the last century alone, such esteemed personages as Albert Einstein, Saddam Hussein, and Rudy Giuliani married, and yes, perhaps even fucked, their cousins. I am of the belief that we are two of-age, responsible, capable adults who have sexual agency, and, given that your Mars is in Sagittarius and mine is Libra (I did research on our horoscopes) our passion and sexuality are extremely compatible. This theoretical sex will be pleasurable. For both of us.” Addie pierces you with their gaze. “Also this mandatory celibacy is killing me and I’m so fucking horny so please fuck me I’m begging you.”
“Addie,” you begin, managing your anger as best you can. “Those triscuits that you’ve destroyed are the only thing getting me through this quarantine. You have made me very upset by desecrating them. You have also made me very upset by invading my private space. Furthermore, looking at you is terrifying. I prefer to do that as little as possible. Also, I think you’re going to murder me. Please leave.”
Addie throws open your bedroom door. You gasp involuntarily. The demon has breached your inner sanctum. Before you can protest, they march over to your bed and slam your laptop shut. They cross their arms, pouting. “Well, your Wifi might be working, but mine is NOT. Fix it.”
Abandoning your barricade of the basement you make a bolt for the front door. The angry silhouette of Addie takes your place at the basement threshold. Tables are upended and couches are vaulted over in your mad dash. You throw open the front door to the outside world, and your lungs happily breathe the fresh air. “HELP!” you scream to the wind as you pelt down the street. Addie, unabashed, keeps close behind, the sunlight gleaming eagerly on their scissors.
You abandon your barricade of the door and make a mad dash for the kitchen. You rifle through the drawers for a serviceable weapon, but you only find a plastic butter knife. It’s a sad, pathetic little weapon for a sad, pathetic little man (you). Your courage not yet leaving you, you gird yourself and ready your butter knife for the fight of your life.
You duck and roll across the floor, high-grade industrial scissors snip at the air where your throat was moments before. As you take off back up the basement steps, you hear Addie’s outraged growl. You were right! They do want to kill you (and not fuck you, thank God).
With a Herculean effort, you are able to stave off Satanic control long over to race back over to the wall, rip off the router, and chuck it at your cousin with as much force as you can muster. It hits Addie square on the face and they collapse on the floor like the little bitch that they are.
“Satan take the wheel, I guess,” you say before one last involuntary muscle spasm causes you to collapse on the ground. You feel yourself completely overtaken. You’ve lost control of your body and can only watch helplessly from the back of your consciousness as Lucifer flexes and flails your muscles and uses your vocal chords to scream like a wounded bull. Jesus, you think, you’d think he could at least go a bit lighter on his ride.