Editorial Staff

Volume LXXXVI Fling 2011 Issue Three

Editors-in-Chafe:Daniel Berkman ‘11Sean Kelly ‘12

Senior Predators:Bob Hoke ‘11David “The Body” Shore ‘11Shai “Shai” Nir ‘11

Sophomore Slumps:Sam Pasternack ‘13Daniel Weinblatt ‘13Jonah Lustig ‘13Lance Wildorf ‘13Raj Gopal ‘13

Associate Predators:Arielle Wolfson ‘12Steven Green ‘12Michelle Kaplan ‘13Monica Martin ‘13

Spoons:Vincent Inverso ‘12Amy Li ‘13Nabil Mehta ‘13Sandra Rubinchik ‘13Keith Rush ‘13Alexandra Houlihan ‘14Dan Friend ‘14David Pankiewicz ‘14Naomi Shavin ‘14Nikhil Sheth ‘14 Justin Starr ‘14Roy Weiss ‘14Warren Jones ‘14

We are

...For Now

Copyright Punch Bowl 2011. Please do not distribute our material without our written consent, or it gets the hose again.

Saying the Student Activities Council is out of money is like saying Wesley Snipes is out of money; it’s hilarious. The difference is Wesley Snipes didn’t blow a million bucks funding Southeast Asian Fusion Dance Troupes. In all

fairness, SAC actually still has a ton of money, but they are spending it like Charlie Sheen at a vending machine, if that vending machine were the Playboy Mansion, and if that Playboy Manion were full of Southeast Asian Fusion Dance Troupes.

$AC INSIDER:Sam Bieler ‘12

Suspiciously Absent:Hayley Brooks ‘14Shelby Rachleff ‘14

Coloring Bookies:Sarah Schlein ‘13Monica Schechter ‘14

PHOTOGRAPHER:Chris Alix ‘13

The Wile E. Old Vet:Andrew Piskai ‘12

Risk ManagementEditor:

Drew Rizzo ‘11

Area Man:Keith Rush ‘12

Who Stole the Cookiefrom the Cookie Jar:

Matt Wetherell ‘12

Dear Flingers!

There are only three things I like more than Spring Fling: riding bareback on a gallant steed, overcoats made from hundred dollar bills, and when the weather is warm enough for me to burn those jackets. Nothing embodies the spirit of Spring Fling like splitting a few Chimays over a money fire, amiright? Oh, who am I kidding, of course you know. Anybody who funds my weekly yacht jousts has had Chimay.

Before you guys lose your judgment in a haze of cheap liquor, I hope to share a little knowledge. As you guys know, this year’s theme is “Viva La Fling,” an idea I had while shooting iPod minis at my Mexican gardeners with a sling-shot. They started yelling at me and ran to tell the trustees, but thankfully I was able to escape onto the roof before my maid picked my bedroom door with silverware, which I assume she stole. Later that night, during my daily bath with a margarita and an iPad, I researched the origin of my gardener’s mysterious race. Did you know Mexico was a country?

Turns out the theme has been wildly popular. The Student Latin Coalition was so enthralled that they stood outside my office and protested all day! Like all student protests, we were able to generate some great ad revenue, and will use the money to build a ten foot-high fence along the western border of campus. We’re hoping to integrate the theme into other aspects of Penn, including financial aid (“Raise La Tuition!”).

But all racial sensitivity aside, the great Spring Fling is not just the weekend when you could feasibly do a keg stand in a frat house, in Wawa, and in a retail bank branch. It is also a weekend to host accepted high school students and to convince them Penn is like this year round, so please stay out of the chairs by the window in Van Pelt.

Hugs and Smooches,

Amy Gutmann

Congratulations dear freshmen, it’s your first Fling!Where you drink and you dance and you fuck lots of things!This party is epic, I swear that I’m honest,You’ll love every second of your drunken conquest.

You start at some house, get drunk on cheap brew,But don’t move too fast, there’s still much to do!Like keg stands and ice luge and shotgunning beer,Maybe even experiment...how about a shot in the ear?

You move to the quad to meet up with friendsTalk with that cutie to, you know, “tie up loose ends.”There are girls with bare midrifs and guys in frat glasses,You’re amazed to be near so many toned asses.

Now your stomach is rumbly, your agenda is clear.Some chow is required to soak up that beer.You push through the crowd of hotties and hunks,If you don’t find some food, you’ll start blowing chunks!

There are so many options that you have in store!Pizza and burgers and cheesesteaks galore!You stuff it all down, your greasy delight,Another opponent for your stomach to fight.

But the true Holy Grail comes five in a basketLike waffle-dipped pillows in a red and white casket.Fried oreos are king of all Spring Fling foodsAt least until someone starts deep frying booze.

Your friend gives you warning: “Don’t eat them too fast!I’ve seen a man die from not making them last!I know that they’re tasty, I know they’re delicious,But fried oreos are surely a unique form of vicious.”

Ignoring his words, you scarf every treat.You quickly regret ever wanting to eat.Your stomach feels filled with five hundred antsWhen suddenly you blow out the seat of your pants!

You run for the bathrooms, but they’re closed off to all,So if they don’t want you in there, redefine what’s a stall.You search for a hallway on the fourth floor of Riepe,The space is quite big, but they’re all out of TP.

The day’s been a mess, a real Lupe Fiasco.You don’t need a medic; you’re glad that they asked, though.You stumble back to your place, you need some sleep soonAt the very late hour of the early afternoon.

Punch Bowl’s Resident hiPsteR Reviews the

Fling conceRt

When Punch Bowl asked me, Misha, to review the Spring Fling Concert, I refused, explaining I had tickets for Yo La Tengo at the Troc that night. Then they promised I could enjoy the concert ironically and would partially fund my argyle shoe prototype, so I accepted. Ironically.

Franklin Field was packed, and by the time Ratatat came on, I was trapped tighter than my testicles in Nudie Jeans. Speaking of my testicles, Ratatat’s sound was weak, unbalanced, and mostly irrelevant. I stupidly expected more, even though Pitchfork didn’t rate any of their albums over 5.3 in the last two years.

While waiting for Flo Rida, I attempted to discuss the Barista World Championships with my neighbor, but he warbled something about being “fucked up” and offered me his blunt. Please, I’ve done Peruvian absinthe. That weed was probably from Buffalo. Also, I don’t smoke blunts. Is this the parking lot behind Arby’s?

By the time Flo Rida arrived, I was almost asleep. His performance did little to help. My head was spun neither round nor right round by his vulgar gyrating. Everyone knows great artists stand perfectly still and gaze at their shoes when performing, but he was hopping around stage, looking like my friend Demetrius that one time he took ecstasy. You had to be there.

It felt like eons before Lupe finally arrived. The crowd chanted “We are LASERS,” a sentiment I disagree with, unless it’s an acronym for “Losers in Awe of a So-called Entertainer Rapping Shitty.” His music slowed time to a stinging crawl, yet the show went on and on. By the time the concert finally ended, even Johnny Buffalo-Weed looked bored. Thankfully I had already put on my noise-canceling headphones and listened to the new Bon Iver EP.

Which, by the way, is terrible.