A Message to the Penn Community
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A Message to the Penn Community
Dear Penn, if you really care about the student population, then you should stop giving us tote bags, and give us USB Type-A to Mini-B cables instead.
Sick! Joey Fortson’s (C ‘22) dinner once again depends on a measly 5 oz. bottle of Tabasco.
Hey. Wanna see a card trick? Sure you do.
Creative! Students of Soviet-style architecture trekked to 1920 Commons last Saturday to gain insight into the finer points of socialist construction and design.
Shopping win! According to sources close to UTB, Gourmet Grocer may consider restocking within the next ten years or so.
Woah, who could have seen this coming? In a truly shocking turn of events, your entire group is pretending to be out of town for the next couple of weeks to avoid working on the project.
Good morning, everyone. I hope everyone got a chance to look at the readings, because today we’ll be tackling a really tricky topic. It’s one you’ve definitely never discussed in a humanities class before: modernity.
Terrifying! This morning, the Center for Programs in Contemporary Writing sprouted neck bolts as it continued its ascent into the world of the living.
Spicy! Last Tuesday, Pottruck drastically expanded its student capacity, heated up to 1000 trillion degrees Kelvin, and set into motion the creation of a new universe.
Woah, are you okay man? That looked like a pretty nasty fall back there, but I’m glad you’re alright! Geez Louise, don’t scare me like that, bro.
What is that succulent scent wafting through the hallowed halls of Harnwell? God damn it. Is that steak au poivre? Damn it! That’s unmistakable. That guy across the hallway is making steak for the fifth time this week. Every single night, man. Every single night I go to sleep with that distinctive smell on my nostrils, and every single night I have this recurring dream: my eyes open, I find myself adjacent to a Parisian boulevard, sipping a fine apéritif, mulling it over in anticipation of my first bite into the heralded main course: a feast truly fit for a king, savory motes of bovine flesh floating over the undertones of a fine peppercorn crust, an oasis for my impoverished taste buds; I watch the sun glide past the abutments of the Arc de Triomphe, descending, lightly, as if pulled by string, through the glowing peephole that is my imagination. But as dawn breaks, the only solace to my deep-set carnivorous desires is the tough, economically-calculated gristle of a Big Mac. Dear Lord! How did it come to this? Christ, how did it come to this? I’m literally sitting here, a captive in my own dorm, as that kid across the aisle is living it up with his haute cuisine and sous vide, while I have to scrounge up whatever I can from last night’s McDonald’s misadventure. How excellent! I feel nauseous. Oh, sorry — I meant to say I feel nauseated — ah, there it is! There it is again. The smell of simmered heavy cream, delicate cognac, added salt to taste! An experience so Sisypheanously out of my reach, through barriers of drywall, across the cool expanse, aromatic particulate crossing the gap between rooms, infiltrating my olfactory factory, electrical impulses triggering, scattering electromotive forces like billiards, hardy neurotransmitters crossing the gaps between cell bodies, these signals of decadence finally achieving a perfect quincunx at my mind’s eye! Holy moly guacamole, I need that steak! I’m slobbering like mad over here: awooooooga! Somebody throw me a bone, preferably one with some damn meat on it! What will it cost? (A steep price, I’m sure of it.) When will it end? (No time in the foreseeable future.) How can I still smell that damn steak days after it’s already been devoured, savored, enjoyed, relished, and fancied? (The window is broken; it can’t be opened.) Why does it persist into my dreams, and why does it persist into my nightmares? (The A/C is broken; air can’t be circulated.) Why has it come to define my life? (The lights in the dorm are broken; nothing can be seen.) Yes, yes, an infernal dance for the culinarily snubbed seems fitting. Doesn’t it? (It does.) It’s settled then. I’ll do it while my limbs still wield the potential for movement! I’ll do it as the days turn to years! I’ll do it so long as my tongue still hungers for the taste of life! I will dance! Dance, you tragic clown, dance!
Tragic! An exclusive interview with architect Joseph Redd went horribly awry last Tuesday after he came to the realization that his buildings were, indeed, still standing.
The science is in! A new study from the Penn Department of Sociology has confirmed that joining someone’s Personal Meeting Room on Zoom is basically the same as getting to third base with them.
Hey, bro. Wanna do me a solid here and proofread my essay? Yeah, just read it over and add a few suggestions or something. I’ll take a look at it once I get back from Smokes. Don’t be afraid to tear it to shreds — it’s due at midnight. Thanks, man! Later.
Umm, okay? Things got kinda awkward last Monday after philosophy professor Mary Cottingham presented a suspiciously personal scenario for her ethics class to discuss.
For the last time, Mommy: stop calling my Cheetos “junk food”. They are far, far more important than you will ever know.
Stop the presses! It has come to our attention that the entire school of Wharton is just one paltry UTB article away from complete and irrevocable collapse.
You know those things they’re doing this semester? “Engagement Days,” or something? Dude. Whatever they’re called, all I know is that I need, like, two consecutive weeks of them.
Gotcha, sucker! After spending hours scrolling through content on underthebutton.com, you’ve finally fallen into my clutches.