Category: Humor

The past months have not been kind to back-slappers.

Much like the silver-haired lifetime achievement-accepting stars who unfurl their scroll of thank-you’s on primetime television, American award shows aren’t aging all that well. The most recent Grammys, Emmys, Oscars, Golden Globes, Espys and even the usually rock-solid Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards all suffered notable declines in ratings from previous years.

We live in a unique time: At no other point in recorded history have we been less motivated to turn on the TV and watch the Emmys.

Scapegoats are myriad. Some point fingers at the social media streaming of events as the explanation for the dismal drop in viewership of the 2018 Grammys. Others bemoan prime-time competitors stealing viewers. The loudest cry from the consuming masses, however, is the most concerning — and most infuriating. It would appear that, for the crucial 18 to 40-year-old viewing bracket, award shows just aren’t doing it for them anymore. 

Suddenly, lavish galas, expensive dresses and long speeches — broken up by live performances from artists who should really, really consider performing exclusively in the recording studio — are boring a certain demographic of Americans. The Hollywood Elite and Common Man no longer share those special nights of extravagant wealth and gratuitous hugging and kissing the way we used to.

Horrifying, surely. 

When Americans stop crowding around the television to watch Andy Samberg tell Catholic-homily-caliber jokes, it’s a good indicator that our society is beginning to rot from the inside. The moment we cannot come together and listen to Hillary Clinton read “Fire and Fury” at the Grammys, our tone-deafness has reached levels even autotune can’t salvage.

We’ve changed. No longer do we champion the classy serial killer question, “Who are you wearing?” Less-than-scrupulous elections from “academies” and “colleges” don’t rile us up like they used to, especially when our favorite creepy fish film won anyway. 

We know who’s ruining award shows for the rest of us. After discovering the killers of Applebee’s, diamonds, jogging and fabric softener, we know exactly who to blame.

Millennials, a blanket term for young people who do things I don’t like, are the single biggest killers of all things good and wholesome. Millennials are “entitled.” They “text” their dastardly emojis at all hours of the day. They “Venmo” their friends and have no time for Facebook, where the best news comes from. 

They are a generation raised on tokens of false accomplishment. Tee-ball trophies. Spelling Bee participant medals. Stickers simply for showing up to the grocery store. The “Me Me Me” generation grew up over-validated and lazy, yet they refuse to sit on the couch and endure hours of entertainment industry workers congratulate themselves on a job well done? After all this time, they’ve picked now to go sour on trophies?

Hollywood stars, the most morally-reliable and ethically-admirable people out there, are rightful and justified role models for a generation that, apparently, would much rather stream a “Twitch” than ogle Lady Gaga in a Valentino dress worth more than their entire student debt. The absolute nerve.

It’s disgusting. The hallowed tradition of watching celebrities trip their way up to a podium to announce the winner of a category you didn’t know existed, only to comment at your screen “wow, he got really old” is somehow not enough for the youth. It’s hard to imagine what more they could possibly want.

I fear a future populated by award shows more tailored to the twisted millennial persuasion. I shudder to think of catching a glimpse of a first annual Meme Awards or, worse yet, a funny opening monologue from a host that wants to be there as I flip between reruns of Modern Family. 

If millennials have their way, award shows as we know it will cease to exist. When young people start to impose their views on the status quo, we don’t need an Academy, church jokes or gilded envelopes to tell us who wins. Everyone loses. 

Millennials, young people and anyone who’d rather “floss” a “Fortnite” than floss their own teeth: Do the right thing. Buy into award shows like the rest of us. We had to sit through them; you should, too.

To be a vegan in 2018 is to be a creature of pilgrimage. We catch wind of a restaurant on the verge of adopting plant-based menu items and we immediately set to planning our trip. Word gets around that a store finally serves Beyond Meat burgers or a single dish without cheese, and there’s (metaphorical) blood in the water. We grind our herbivorous molars in anticipation. We tremble with equal parts excitement and vitamin deficiency. The hunt begins.

Through the ages, the decision to travel vast distances in the name of an honorable cause has sparked the most influential human migrations in history. Some sought religious freedom, others a new life and a fresh start. Some went into the unknown in search of riches beyond their wildest dreams. I was looking for something to break the monotony of PB&J sandwiches for lunch.

Leaning against a lamp post in front of Brooklyn’s Borough Hall, I imagined the cautious optimism and noble urgency within me must have been what my ancestors felt as they crossed the Atlantic. They put up with decaying, decrepit transport. I took the downtown A. They were hungry. So was I.

I pulled up to the curb in front of Borough Hall with my ticket to the lunch I had been waiting for. Weeks of salivating, practicing my order and rehearsing the steps of my daunting pilgrimage culminated with a six-row shuttle bus — a sight I could only imagine was as glorious as my forefathers’ first glimpse of Lady Liberty’s shining torch. The paper taped crookedly to the inside of the door read: “IKEA.”

The promised land beckoned.

Much like how early Man crossed the Bering Strait in his ultimate quest to survive and thrive on Earth, I journeyed to the most populous borough of New York City in search of one thing and one thing only: the new IKEA veggie dog.

Introduced to America on Sept. 25, it joined veggie meatballs within the Swedish home furnishing Mecca’s movement towards plant-based eating and sustainability throughout the company’s offerings.

As a seasoned vegan myself, I know that it’s a cruel, cruel world we live in, and all veggie dogs are not created equal. Some have uncannily-snappy casings, like the Yves Good Dog. Others maintain the comforting mushiness of Loma Linda’s canned Big Franks. Some are big, some are small; from seitan to vital wheat gluten, textured vegetable protein to just plain marinated carrots — I’ve given each dog its day. But the IKEA veggie dog could be different: a product of a company dedicated to giving its customers a veritable bang for their buck. This dog had the chance to lift my lunch to top-shelf eating — or shatter my expectations flatter than a POANG chair.

My disappointment was evident the moment I set foot in the shimmering hospital-white confines of the IKEA cafeteria. I suppose I can’t accuse IKEA of lacking balls; after all, the meatballs were where they should be — where they always are. Their veggie alternatives were assembled in trays right beside them. The Dog, however, was nowhere to be found.

Had I read the press release wrong? Was this specific IKEA refusing to serve the veggie dog? Was my pilgrimage in vain? I choked back bitter tears as I picked at my veggie balls, quinoa and mixed vegetables. Lingonberry drink did little to dull the pain of knowing I had come so far for nothing. I gathered myself and cleared my plate, safe in the knowledge that my food waste would be converted into biogas or something. I had to press on, to reach the checkout, to prove that I had reached the finish line with my ego intact.

Countless tastefully-decorated (yet so unbelievably affordable!) house tours later, I trudged through the self-service furniture warehouse ready to go home. Like an explorer sent to uncover riches but forced to return empty-handed, I felt foolish to ever entertain this journey in the first place. No one takes the subway 12 stops for veggie balls.

The checkout counters beeped mockingly at me. The sliding doors welcomed my defeat and the shuttle stood ready to put an end to my fruitless pilgrimage.

Suddenly, I looked up — did my eyes deceive me? Was it an illusion sent from the gods to torment me as they did the wanderer Jason? No, friends, it was true — before my eyes danced a digital depiction of what I had sought after all this time. Of course! The IKEA Bistro, situated beside the Swedish Market and past the checkout lines, had the veggie dog all along.

The hairnetted, grey-eyed woman who took my order seemed to know how far I’d come, and I must have been jittering with anticipation — and hunger, surely, after walking through the entire store. I received the warm, perfectly-assembled IKEA veggie dog in trembling hands and scurried to an empty seat, hunched over like some sort of goblin. I pulled back the paper wrapping and wept with joy.

The dog itself is an exquisite combination of red lentils, kale, carrots and ginger, spiced to perfection to match the savory taste of its veggie ball counterpart. Its constitution falls into a sacred middle ground of satisfying texture, tenderness and completely free from the sneaking suspicion that one is eating something with any sort of “casing” on it. The veggie dog does not need to be contained, nor should it be. Its flavors, in tandem with the sweet pickled cabbage and crunchy fried onions that graced it like a delicious tiara, are what every dog, meaty or otherwise, aspires to deliver.

The peace of mind that one of IKEA’s plant-based offerings takes seven times less carbon dioxide to make than its meaty counterparts only heightens the euphoria of eating this divine dog. Great taste combined with moral superiority is a potent mixture, and IKEA treads this line with the utmost grace.

I needed no printed instructions to properly eat the IKEA veggie dog. Like a screw into a perfectly pre-drilled hole in a KLIPPAN sofa, it went down easy. With a full stomach and arms laden with Swedish cookies for the road, I proudly made my way back home. My quest was a success. I plan to return soon — and this time I’ll know where to look. But until then, I maintain my solemn vow to relentlessly scour vegan cooking blogs and the Beyond Meat Twitter account, just as those before me pored over incomplete, unreliable maps of their time — always in search of the next pilgrimage.

There is no holiday more shrouded in ethical angst, more clouded with moral ambiguity than Thanksgiving. It is only fitting that November, the bitter, neglected child of the calendar year, has once again brought us face-to-face with the one day off that carries enough baggage to ground an airplane. 

Thanksgiving has made its name on a sense of unity and family, but we see through the tryptophan sham. This fourth Thursday of November, it will once again be time to gather the family ’round the table to confront the ethical conundrums that muddy the gravy of this feast of farce.

To unleash unease is only in the holiday spirit.

The easiest target is enough to make even the most patriotic AP U.S. History student squirm with moral turmoil: the “First Thanksgiving” that graces the pages of children’s books and “Peanuts” specials the world over. It may be old news by now that friends, buttered toast, jelly beans and popcorn do not quite represent the selfless gesture from Native Americans to struggling European colonists immortalized in many a terrible school play. Did you want an extra helping of genocide with your mashed potatoes?

Does the inevitable backstabbing of epic proportions that followed the iconic meal we annually seek to replicate boil your blood hotter than a thousand pots of corn on the cob? Is it the meat sweats, or does the irony of giving thanks on stolen land make you perspire?

Now you’re getting into the spirit.

In the interest of maximizing stress throughout the holiday, one might seek to bring up the United Nations Climate Report once more — you know, the one that says we’re doomed as a species if we can’t change our ways and work towards a more sustainable tomorrow. Atop the list of horrible human habits that turn up the heat on planet Earth: eating meat. It really just isn’t Thanksgiving unless each turkey leg and sliver of roast beef fills you with the unshakable notion that the carbon emissions and ultimate sacrifice of innocent life to fill your stomach weren’t entirely worth it — on your way up for thirds. A soggy block of tofu is more symbolic of the season than turkey ever was, after all.

The televised military tribunal our country holds every year does little to lighten the mood. Thanksgiving may be unique in its position as the only holiday marked with a presidential pardon. Members of a foreign species stand trial for their right to exist, walk free by the benevolence of our enlightened despot and, assumedly, return to tell their friends about the might of the United States — if they’re not already cooked up and served. 

This may be too harsh a judgement. Perhaps the shifty eyes, twiddling fingers and crescendoing gastrointestinal distress are entirely separate from the unsettling air of the season. The knife-cuttable tension around this year’s feast of folly may very well have another, even more callous source: gluttonous sequels you just can’t wait to celebrate.

The holiday, sufficiently dreadful on its own, continues to find ways to absorb other weaker sources of gloom, much like an imploding star. Black Friday and Thanksgiving are one and the same, and you know you love it. The sense of urgency that accompanies food prep for the big day is but a pregame for the adrenaline to come, as visions of white-knuckled grips on shopping carts dance in the heads of Black Friday veterans. Turning one’s ear away from the commotion in Best Buy reveals another, even sweeter sound of impending stress: sleigh bells. Halloween is far in the rearview, and Thanksgiving is the perfect harbinger of snow, ice, mall Santas and Walmart layaway.

If the pumpkin pie-fueled regret and self-loathing haven’t kicked in yet, be safe with the knowledge that Thanksgiving, in one way or another, will do its part to stuff you full of ethical turmoil and stressful conflict before the last plate is cleaned. If you, like millions of Americans, look forward to taking this single day out of the year to be thankful, be forewarned: you’ll have no choice but to face the impossible contextual nuances, ethical quandaries and boats upon boats of muddy gravy that give twisted life to the holiday, lumps and all.

I’m sorry, the old, apolitical Taylor can’t come to the phone right now. Why? Oh — because she’s a Democrat.

2009 was a simpler time. On Sept. 13, on national television, rapper Kanye West snatched the microphone from up-and-coming pop-country darling Taylor Swift at the MTV Video Music Awards and insisted that indeed, he would let her finish, but Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time. It was delicious drama, a high-profile feud that would satisfy the population for months on end.

It’s 2018, and Swift and West are once again in the headlines. No, West didn’t storm another stage to feed his fans’ appetites for zany antics (as of printing). Swift didn’t rehash an old relationship for the public’s enjoyment, either. They did something worse: they voiced their opinions. Worse yet — political opinions.

The fun’s over. Thanks Taylor, now the world knows you’re anything but red.

Nine short years from that fateful VMA broadcast, it’s clear that Taylor Swift’s recent endorsement of Democratic candidates in her home state of Tennessee has hit a nerve. Never mind that Kanye’s scarlet headgear habits as of late only bolster his reputation for erratic and inflammatory public statements. But we expected more from Taylor. Who could have imagined in their wildest dreams that the singer-songwriter would keep up with current events, much less formulate and express her rational, well-articulated views on politics?

A powerful and — worse yet — popular woman in America thinks she has the right to weigh in on the state of the nation? This is why we can’t have nice things.

Reception of Swift’s brazen partisanship has been rightfully chilly. President Trump has been confirmed to listen to her music a whopping 25 percent less because of it, moving her hit “22” down at least eight spots on his Golf Jams playlist. “Getaway Car” on Putin’s personal mixtape gets skipped almost every time, per top White House sources. Scathing treatment on the national stage, but warranted — there was a delicate balance in the entertainment world, and Swift has created major bad blood with her refusal to be completely ignorant of local elections and the American two-party system.

How can we restore order and reestablish the blank space between artists with opinions and the rest of us? Where is our savior, Kanye West, to wrench the microphone away from Swift once more?

At a nationally televised meeting with the president, of course. Just when the world thought West had decided to stick to tattered thousand-dollar cardigans and funky footwear, he’s treated us to a madcap red cap rodeo with the promise of a presidential campaign in 2024 — letting Trump finish a potential second term, true to form. Trump supporters loved it; critics were quick to criticize. In the end, however, Kanye was just wasting the president’s executive time. 

Don’t be fooled — it’s not just the controversial duo spouting their personal views like anyone cares; even more artists have jumped on the ridiculous express-how-you-feel-about-current-events bandwagon. Chance the Rapper recently endorsed a political candidate in his hometown of Chicago, Amara Enyia, for mayor — a move as audacious as it is unprecedented for the artist that has been known to shy away from any sort of community involvement whatsoever. He’s not Chance the Sociopolitical Advocate, after all.

Where has this plague of celebrity endorsement come from? Everyone except the President of the United States of America must very reasonably have a seasoned background in politics before they open their mouths. It only makes sense that we leave the big decisions and political endorsements to the experts. Would you really want a singer telling you who you should support in the next election? A rapper? To the blue collar, salt-of-the-earth families of America, their trust in pale, pudgy politicians in expensive suits is well placed.

What’s that? Donald Trump is a celebrity, too? Impossible — NBC has no plans to bring back his show, the failing Celebrity Apprentice. Our president won the election without the crutches of star power or cheap persuasion tactics, and he governs with the same disdain for spectacle. Ask anyone who agrees with him; they’ll tell you the same thing: His opinion matters.

People with power whose views I don’t agree with using their platform to push personal beliefs is shameless and counterproductive to our democracy. Celebrities getting fearless about their political views must stop. It’s time to put an end to beloved contemporary icons sticking their noses where they don’t belong. You can keep your two cents, Taylor — all we care about is your music. And not even 75 percent as much as we used to.

Taylor, would you please return to your roots and be an impartial, oblivious music maker that never leaves the house? I wish you would. Artists, personalities, Instagram influencers, take note: Americans and political consciousness are never, ever getting back together.

The neo-Nazis’ tiki torches glow near.

In this dark hour for America, reason, honor and dignity have failed us. Centrism and compromise are the new worst c-words. The alt-right tips the spectrum radically right, and radical leftists swing in the opposite direction. The last time the president of the United States reached across the aisle was to grab a diet coke from Air Force One’s mini fridge.

We live in an era of extremism.

Radicals on both sides have led their followers off the same cliff, and America is sick and tired of terrible solutions where everyone wins a little and loses a little. We’ve tried all the conventional remedies to the internal conflicts that plague us — It’s high time we try the rest of them. The playbook is out the window; in a country plagued by extremism and acute lack of compassion, we can’t beat ’em. We might as well join ’em.

It’s clear to see our dysfunctional government is beyond saving. The time for understanding has passed. To hell with Smokey the Bear, let’s fight fire with fire.

Extremism is the much-needed antidote to America’s problem with extremism. The current situation calls for a reactionary movement like no other; one that doubles down so hard on any existing extreme values that it comes full circle in opposition. We’ve fostered a population ravenous for outrage and itching for change. Let’s give them what they want.

The economy must be the first to experience the tender ham-fists of extremism. Some scream, “The economy is good! The market is bull!” Others say something dumb along the lines of “The economy is not represented by the stock market, as only 50 percent of Americans own stock!” From one side of the aisle, people yell “Extreme regulation is harming business!” All the way from the other dirtier, grosser, stupider side, Neanderthals counter that “Extreme deregulation is irreversibly poisoning the earth and disproportionately affecting the already disenfranchised!” It’s hopeless. We really can’t seem to reach a conclusion with such wildly conflicting, blindly radical positions on our current capitalist structure. 

The solution? Throw it out. Restructure the American economy into a feudal agrarian superpower free from acronyms, Dows, Walls, streets and those red and green arrows that make people so mad. Underemployment? Impossible to track if everyone’s a farmer. Much of the world’s currency manifests in something other than physical cash. This extreme, dogmatic worship of invisible, intangible, arbitrarily-valued squiggly symbols is tearing our country apart. We must counter it with a complete reversal to the barter system. Wampum is also acceptable.

The scope of extremism doesn’t end there. We are altogether too worried in this day and age about healthcare — whether we need it, whether we deserve it and whether any government has an obligation to provide “affordable care,” if you will, regardless of one’s economic situation. Taking into consideration one’s right to continue to live? A little far-fetched indeed. We are called upon in this moment to abolish modern medicine, letting natural selection do its work to thin the herds. By some estimates, this revolutionary strategy will cut the amount of people with poor vision in half by 2090, letting our four-eyed friends with outdated prescriptions fall victim to tiger attacks like nature intended. This is the only way Americans can put a stop to the elites’ pushing of radical views down our (possibly strep-infected) throats.

Bringing fresh, new extremist values to fruition in America does not stop with simply the economy and healthcare — no, there is much more work to be done if extremism is to be repealed and replaced.

America is a country known worldwide for its extreme eating. However, our red-blooded hotdog eating contests risk extinction in the face of reactionary health militants. We’ve seen the screaming, blood-throwing, vitamin B12-deficient vegans take over our streets and flood our supermarkets with their meaty falsehoods. No more; it is our duty to counter with radical meat and dairy consumption. Only venison milkshakes and egg yolk sundaes can save us, and not a moment too soon — Radical health culture was most assuredly on the verge of making us live long enough to deal with the consequences of our actions. Our heart attack numbers have been middling lately; we can make heart disease great again.

Moreover, desperate times surely call for desperate measures. Centimeters, for example. Celsius. Perhaps describing our weight in stone is what this country needs. Stick it to the status quo and measure your french fries in Paris Inches (Freedom Inches?). In lieu of leaders we can trust, we must turn to liters we can count on. Do extreme conditions in our country call us to go to equally ridiculous lengths to oppose them? The point ’Smoot. 

These are but some of the wide-ranging extremes we can go to in order to snatch Uncle Sam from the jaws of extremism. 

Some may shy away from these modestly-proposed solutions. That means they’re what our country most desperately needs. Finding solutions and being irrationally angry were once mutually-exclusive, but our country demands that we come up with ill-conceived, reactionary ways to counter our knee-jerk, blindly-extremist sorry state of affairs. 

Jump on the radical train before it’s too late. After all, extremist views win elections and get the most screen time. Most importantly, they get a reaction out of lazy, politically-apathetic radical moderates weary of the ping-pong of extremism and too millennial or something to check their morals at the door and join in the fun like the rest of us. I really hate those guys.

Our politics are extreme, our weather is extreme, and lately, we’ve been flirting with unity enough to warrant some legitimate concern. We have no choice but to perpetuate the cycle recklessly for our own amusement. The future is in our irresponsible hands, America. 

So are you in or what?

Eating meat is about as American as apple pie, drone strikes and — quite literally — fast food hamburgers.

However, a new threat looms on the horizon: vegans and their non-committal friends, vegetarians, are going mainstream. At first, the plant-based eating movement seemed harmless enough, quarantined to communities of rich people with nothing better to do and too much time to think about the morality of their actions. It was once a passing fad, relegated to subheadings in “Women’s Health” and fond memories of ex-hippies. But times have changed. This new unhealthy obsession with health and unamerican aversion to animal products is tearing down our shared culture as we know it, and it must be stopped.

Unfortunately, American fast food chains, fingers ever-present on the sluggish pulse of the nation, have been quick to respond to the plant-based craze. Today, vegan depravity is everywhere; worse yet, it’s affordable. We shook our heads in dismay when McDonald’s tested a “McVegan” in Europe. We watched aghast as TGI Fridays debuted a “Beyond Meat” burger in January. But will we stand by and let the greatest mainstay of American culture fall to the radical vegan agenda? Will we allow the hallowed parapets of freedom to crumble under the weight of a couple kale-consumers?

Too late. As of April 12, 2018, White Castle has fallen. The Impossible Slider is here.

On April 12, the fine eating establishment famous for its classic sliders colloquially known as “belly bombers” and “rectum rockets” welcomed a sinister addition to its menu: a burger sporting a patty of nefarious origin. White Castle’s Impossible Sliders pack onions, pickles, lies, deception and the Impossible Burger — a misleading meaty masquerade — between their buns. The amalgamation of plant protein is produced by the startup Impossible Foods and is meant to imitate and replace the classic beef patty. This is preposterous, impassable, inconceivable, unthinkable, impractical, insurmountable and downright improbable. Much like the steam engine, iron lung and self-checkout kiosks, it will never be the same as good old flesh and blood. 

This beguiling burger was made available in all New York, New Jersey and Chicago locations, including the White Castle mere steps from the gates of Fordham University’s Rose Hill campus. As a faithful Jesuit institution, we know God gave us cows because they’re so delicious. Are plant-based cultists really trying to one-up the Big Man? One look at White Castle’s menu says yes. Surely, just as Frankenstein’s monster sought revenge on his creator for his unnatural, cursed existence, so too will humanity face its $8, two-sliders-fries-and-a-drink comeuppance. The Cursed Castle is playing God, and we’ll all pay.

What’s worse, our arsenal of comebacks and self-justifications against the vegan menace is dwindling. With White Castle’s meatless sliders, gone are the days of the anemic, emaciated vegan stereotype. What’s more, the rich, twig-eating suburban strawman is a thing of the past. The diabolical anti-meat powers-that-be have used White Castle to widen the scope of unnatural meat alternatives, and in their quest to make plant-based food more accessible, an $8 Impossible combo may sadly be too enticing for many red-blooded Americans to resist. How ironic that a greasy, alabaster castle now stands to symbolize accessibility, progress and lower blood pressure.

That being said, the fact of the matter remains: a meal without animal cruelty just doesn’t feel right. Eating red meat and processed meat without the exhilarating knowledge that you’re ingesting known carcinogens just isn’t the American way. Feeling like a piece of garbage for pulling into a White Castle drive-thru at 2 a.m. and ordering a Crave Case containing 30 all-beef sliders is a bona fide rite of passage for citizens everywhere. Impossible meatless sliders soften the pointed, useful life lessons contained in this experience, and consuming the flesh of sentient beings in the parking lot under the dirty glow of a White Castle sign is a constitutional right. Vegans should not meddle with this delicate ritual. It is downright sick to disallow a cow to die a noble death for the benefit of a self-hatred-fueled 2 a.m. burger binge.

Alas, the damage is already done. In the game of carnivorous chess, the vegans are always one move ahead. Americans may feel helpless to stop the flow of alternative meats into their favorite eating establishments, but they’re certainly not alone. The vegans have blood on their hands, and dutiful omnivores worldwide will continue to resist — in the name of freedom, tradition and the pursuit of cholesterol. Unlike other Missions Impossible, it must be ensured that the sequels end here. Thanks, but no thanks, radical plant-munchers, we’ll keep vegetables in their rightful place: the wilted, flavorless eighth of the plate that gets scraped into the garbage bin when nobody’s looking. 

We’re very content with our current worldviews, thank you very much. Meat is meat, change is scary and nutrition is just about as legitimate as vaccines. The plant-based community can’t waltz into America now and expect us to dance to their repulsively ethical tune. White Castle is on the wrong side of history. You can’t tell America to eat less meat; it would be downright impossible.

But, then again, so are those sliders.

Ask anyone at Fordham: they’ll tell you they don’t see color.

I do.

There’s a problem at Fordham College at Lincoln Center. It’s stained into our very walls and confronts us no matter where we turn. It has painted our school as a place of confusion, turmoil and discord—and it’s a veritable rejection of our history. It’s time someone said something.

Fordham has a color problem. Maroon, to be exact.

A quick trip to Fordham’s website (or asking the nearest Jesuit) will quickly reveal that Fordham’s school color is indisputably, undeniably maroon. Not orange, not purple, not burgundy, not cordovan, not even claret. However, a quick trip through the Lincoln Center campus suggests otherwise, and the problem is only getting worse. Discordant color combos abound. We’re losing our identity shade by shade. It’s a difficult truth, but it must be said: we look like Bootleg Fordham.

Take the front façade of the Leon Lowenstein Center, for example—and how it’s bafflingly, bewilderingly blue. Prospective students gathered for tours must be constantly confused: is this Fordham, or some azure knock-off? Of course, the color dysphoria compounds as any comprehensive Fordham visit continues through our more updated underground passageways sporting the latest in inoffensive, wall-to-wall gray hues. The deafening assault on the senses is truly exhilarating; a visual representation of Fresh Air with Terry Gross played at full volume.

Or perhaps consider Lincoln Center’s infamous stretch of barren hallway affectionately nicknamed the “Green Mile”: walls behind the Law School lobby painted a head-scratching pistachio. I misspeak—only one wall of the corridor bears the offending pigment. The other side, blindingly white, reflects the green in a way that gives the casual passerby an impression that he or she has entered a minty liminal space between two dimensions.

I cannot paint this more heavy-handedly—the situation is bleak. The colors are careless. The last remaining stalwarts of maroon languish in the floors of Lowenstein, and cracking open a Sherwin Williams and vigilante-painting in the dead of night doesn’t seem so bad anymore. 

But mere weeks ago, a spark of hope emerged: a chance to turn the tide in the Fordham Color War. The renovated sixth floor reopened, undoubtedly redecorated and repainted that quintessential Fordham maroon. Right?

The sixth floor, styled in the sterile, office-building chic we’ve come to know and tolerate, was in fact smattered in green. Disgustingly verdant accent walls and upholstery stretch as far as the eye can see in this sparkling slap in the face to everything Fordham purports to stand for. Great risk accompanies falling asleep in the new classrooms; one may awake under the impression they’ve been teleported into a hospital waiting room. The powers that be have gifted us glittering classrooms, natural lighting and all the fancy Dyson hand dryers we could ever want. But they’re not fooling me. I stand against the Green Agenda.

We’ve forgotten our school colors. It’s time we remembered them. Any semblance of cohesive identity (while bolstered by our single Ram statue) is gone the minute the last wall is graced in green. There are no intramural sports at this campus. We have no pool table. The school pastime is staying indoors. If all we have to cling to is paint swatches, so be it.

The raucous cacophony of color must end. Fordham has what it takes to reconcile with maroon and make a full recovery. But if fears that maroon is too far gone—that an official color change is in order—we are equally lost. Do we retain the azure signage of the main entrance or the verdant walls and accents of our newer additions? The grimy beige of Lowenstein classroom walls or the vaguely white hues of cinder block tunnels?

Only time will tell. We await the fate of the Fordham color palette with a fervor of college students with nothing better to do. Until then, I beg of you: resist the Green Menace. Reject the deep blue scene. Pray the gray away. End the Fordham Color War.

We are neither an office building—nor a waiting room—nor a minty interdimensional hallway. We’re a university—a maroon one, no less. Let’s act like it.

You can admit it. You’ve seen the headlines. Wildfires. Hurricanes. Droughts. You’ve glanced and skimmed and swiped and scrolled and, at long last, you did one thing we humans are really, really good at: you sent your Thoughts and Prayers™ and forgot about it. With the sheer volume of natural disasters in 2017, I can’t blame you.

But allow me to speak in a language we all can understand: at the end of 2017, after flood waters receded and fires finally fizzled, we tallied a bill worth paying attention to.

Last year, Mother Nature dealt the United States of America its costliest recompense to date: a string of hurricanes, wildfires and other natural disasters totaling $306 billion in damage. The runner-up: 2005’s $215 billion price tag, thanks in no small part to a certain Hurricane Katrina. Moreover, the top three disasters of 2017—a murderer’s row of hurricanes Harvey, Maria and Irma—alone smashed 2005’s record, dealing $265 billion of destruction.

It’s times like these in which one starts to suspect our nation just might be built on a Native American burial ground.

It’s safe to say that last year, America was hit hard. Three storms category four or higher made landfall last year, the California wildfires were the costliest on record and our country experienced billion-dollar disasters in six of the seven categories the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) tracks: tropical cyclone, wildfire, severe storm, flood, freeze and drought. A costly winter storm in 2017 could have completed the set (and my natural disaster bingo card).

I’ll direct those who saw 2017 as a fluke to the very first days of January 2018, when we were introduced to the terrifyingly-named “bomb cyclone.” Weaponized winter came with a hefty price tag as well, and might just indicate that—unlike liquids, waning crescents, and emo teens—it’s not just a phase.

Do you yearn for the old days? Do you pine for simpler times when “polar vortex” was the scariest-sounding buzzword on the Weather Channel? Do you look fondly on the years gone by filled with only one or two devastating hurricanes per year?

There’s good news: the good ol’ days when every natural disaster didn’t cause Bill Gates’s net worth in damage aren’t gone forever. That being said, even to begin to sidestep this snowballing yearly insurance claim, we first and foremost have to take accountability.

In the current world climate—political and otherwise—it is easier to pretend that everything is more or less going to even out. Hurricanes Harvey, Maria and Irma delivered their refutation loud and clear: this is not normal.

Is it a result of global warming? Climate change? Aliens? Who cares? Debate over terminology and politics bring us back to square one: partisan squabbling that goes in one ear and out the other of a nation that skims and swipes and scrolls and forgets. It’s time to break the cycle.

Some push for greenhouse gas emission reduction, others push for fortifying vulnerable regions against future disaster. These opinions are often pitted against each other on party lines when, in reality, they are both helping. They are both valuable solutions. It doesn’t matter what party you cheer on like some football team—hurricanes don’t just flood Republican homes, nor do wildfires exclusively torch Democrats’.

It doesn’t take a liberal or a conservative or an anarcho-capitalist to tell that this is not normal. And our insurance bill will keep getting bigger every year we will twiddle our thumbs like our lives depended on it. As natural disasters are made into talking points and ammunition against another group of people who live on the same Earth as everyone else, the implications of 2017’s $306 billion slap in the face get lost in the details.

And what’s left? Thoughts and Prayers™. And the world keeps spinning.

And warming, I might add.

For some, the word “Thanksgiving” conjures rosy memories of food, friends and family. But we all know the unavoidable, uncomfortable main course to any true family Thanksgiving: no-holds-barred political debate. 

You may have forgotten why you left for college. As you gear up for your holiday trip back home, prepare to remember. After months of polite discourse and general open-mindedness, it’s time to unlearn everything. You are about to approach a forum unmatched in hostility, a jury of your peers that get their news from social media and hate the term “liberal arts” because it has the word “liberal” in it. 2017 is a year steeped in controversy. A battle of wits and raised voices with your closest relatives is a dangerous game.

It would behoove you to come prepared.

What follows is an unofficial news briefing on the topics most likely to fill the air around the Thanksgiving table. I will offer my best advice on how to address each issue. If you don’t get damned to hell by your elder relatives before dessert, I’d consider it a good year.

The discussion might start innocently enough, perhaps referencing a relative’s recent Facebook post of Ewan McGregor, clothed in brown robes as Obi Wan Kenobi, with a caption prompting viewers to like and comment “amen” if he’s their savior. Did you comment “amen?” Did you? Don’t tell me you kept scrolling. 

The conversation may swing to the pros and cons of vaccination. Beware Auntie Anecdote, a reliable font of plausible stories that just happen to fall right in line with her arguments. Sure, a flu shot just might have turned the baby of a woman in her spin class into a homosexual, but don’t bother pressing for proof. Be careful not to let your guard down—Polio was, indeed, that bad. 

Pros and cons of veganism will be touted, and warnings of your untimely demise from a red meat and cheddar cheese deficiency will be abundant. I know you’ll be itching to pull out your well-worn “Earthlings” DVD and play it. Eat your tofurkey and keep your head down.

To those who suggest their great-grandparents didn’t travel all the way to America to see it overrun by immigrants, a brief history of intercontinental ocean travel may be necessary. Start in 1492, just to cover all the bases.

No Thanksgiving is complete without a football game, and your challenge is twofold: parry indictments of disrespect and outright treason on the football players engaged in peaceful protest, and counter someone’s inevitable claim that the sport just isn’t tough anymore with all the increased safety rules. For the first, express curiosity as to the whereabouts of this place where people can actually demonstrate their discontent and everyone is happy about it. For the second … well, they say many types of brain damage are irreversible. Might not be worth your time.

Gay marriage may come up, even though it’s old news by now. Do what I always do and pose this question: Isn’t it kind of gay to think about all those gay people marrying all the time? 

But as surely as big, inflatable Charlie Brown will loom ominously over the New York skyline on Nov. 23, the elephant in the room will have to be addressed at some point. Thanksgiving 2017’s most controversial topic of discussion is unavoidable, deeply personal and unequivocally orange. I’m sorry—I don’t know how to prepare you for this one. 

It deeply saddens me that half of the United States of America could be so callous as to continue to support marshmallows on sweet potatoes. It’s a tragedy, but sweet potato partisanship in our country is worse now than ever. George Washington was right; it never should’ve come to this.

By now, the tryptophan will start to kick in, and you’ll finally get a break from the debates you never asked for. Talking to people we’ll only see a couple more times a year and defending our every last conviction to the death is the perennial struggle; beyond the classroom, the Thanksgiving table is the true proving ground. After leaving the politeness and thoughtfulness you’ve been taught in the dust, you don’t feel dirty. You feel alive. 

Flinging mashed potatoes, threatening divorce and narrowly dodging disownment is what debating current events is all about. Execute your rhetoric mercilessly. Make your opponent’s submission quick and painful. 

And have a happy Thanksgiving.