Staffwriter
Trying to split the atom, 2029
Hailing from a place of good, if not always sound, breeding (one mustn't blame the fellow for their forebears), Bertie Wooster has traded the hallowed, if dreadfully dull, halls of the Drones Club for the marginally less dated dorms of Carnegie Mellon.
Named after a winning racehorse
Chasing rainbows
Wow, mommy's kissing Scotty Dog
I saw mommy kissing Scotty Dog
Right beside the sweepstakes track last night
She didn't see me creep
Past the booths to have a peep
She thought that I was tucked up in my dorm room, fast asleep
Then I saw mommy tickle Scotty Dog
Underneath his kilt so tartan bright
Oh, what a laugh it would have been
If Daddy Farnam had only seen mommy kissing Scotty Dog last night
Oh, what a laugh it would have been
If Farnam had only seen mommy kissing Scotty Dog last night
It was a normal Thursday night, meaning I had one tequila soda, one IPA, three tequila sodas, and a Celsius. I was walking back to my dorm from Squirrel Hill when a bright light appeared over me. All of a sudden, I found myself falling over. I assumed it was God. Or the police. Or the police acting in service of God. But no, it was far worse and stranger.
When I woke up, I was lying on a steel table in the Mellon Institute. You know, the only building with sixty-two columns that’s not in Greece, though it’s …
The pervasive hum of the printing press putting out Readme’s weekly dreck has finally faltered. A well-meaning administrator, upon hearing the rumor the magazine runs on a 70/30 blend of grain alcohol and caffeine, initiated a campuswide effort to enforce the national ban on spirits. The goal was to improve its output, but the fallout has been dire.
The Readme office, once a vibrant den of inspired madness, resembles a UPMC autopsy center. Editors, now tragically lucid, are unable to reach their highs of maniacal, drug induced criticism. Writers are submitting coherent, factchecked articles that one disgusted reader criticized …