A Comprehensive Analysis of Wingdings

Contrary to popular belief, Wingdings is not a buffalo wing delivery service by way of bicycle, nor is it what happened to Clarence at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life. Wingdings is actually a symbol-based font that was co-created in 1957 by Howard Wing and Joseph A. Ding, and has found its way into most standard word processing programs. Wingdings has perplexed the most scholarly academics and the most astute fourth-graders since time immemorial. In an attempt to remedy this, I present to you now a comprehensive analysis of the Wingdings font.

(Disclaimer: This is an analysis of Wingdings 1, the primary Wingding font, rather than Wingdings 2 or 3, which are merely bastardizations of a beautiful linguistic creation.)

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Wingdings: Lowercase Letters “a-z”

As it is with skiing down a mountain or most sexual encounters, let’s start at the top. For those of you schooled in the astrological arts, you may notice that the lowercase “a” is the zodiac sign for Cancer. This may seem surprising, as there are multiple other zodiac signs (Aries, Aquarius, and Amphibious) that begin with the letter “a.” This is, in fact, a reference to one of the first reviewers of the font, Admiral Arthur Applebaum, who described Wingdings in a New York Times review as “a cancer on the English language.”

The following eight letters, from “b” to “i,” encompass the rest of Zodiac symbols because Joseph A. Ding was being a real Leo about the whole thing. Following that is a cursive “ET” for the letter “j” because Joseph A. Ding wanted to memorialize his favorite movie that hadn’t been created yet in his new font (Joseph was heavy-handedly taking over the font creation at this point – once again, a real Leo). Neither Howard Wing nor Joseph A. Ding knew how to spell the word “ampersand,” but regardless they came to the conclusion that there must be a “k” in there somewhere, leading to the next letter’s design. The rest of the lowercase letters became simple shapes – circles, squares, shaded squares – merely because of the fact that Wing and Ding had spent the majority of their budget on a professional calligrapher for the first eleven letters.

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Wingdings: Uppercase Letters “A-Z”

For the uppercase font, Howard and Joseph decided that they wanted to encapsulate the most impactful methods of communication throughout human history, in order from most important at “A” to least important at “Z.” The hierarchy of methods of communication, according to Wing and Ding, proceed as follows – hand gestures, facial expressions, weaponry, flags, a single airplane, common weather, and finally, major world religions.

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Wingdings: Numbers “0-9”

This is no documentation as to why Howard Wing and Joseph A. Ding chose the specific iconography for numbers that they did. However, it is the expert opinion of this linguistic scholar that it is meant to represent the progression of information as it accumulates. It begins with a single folder, then opening as if to say, “Get up all in my bid-nis.” We then see a single dog-eared sheet of paper, assumedly procured from the folder – it has words, but we are not privy to what those words might be, be they government secrets or the lyrics to Sting’s “Desert Rose.” The paper is unfolded, opening itself up (metaphorically this time) to become several pieces of paper, which then become so expansive as to require an entire filing cabinet. A filing cabinet with only two shelves, granted, but how many shelves do you have, huh? None? That’s what I thought. You have no place to judge. Time passes, as signified by a hour glass, until all that information becomes digitized, requiring the mouse and keyboard to surf the online seas of binary, HTML, and pictures of Enrique Iglesias. Then, and only then, does Big Brother begin monitoring you with an old-fashioned camcorder. This is, of course, only conjecture as to what Howard and Joseph might have meant.

Unfortunately, we will never know the full and complete truth as to the secrets within Wingdings, as Howard Wing and Joseph A. Ding were taken from their homes in the middle of the night by black vans – vans that were emblazoned with the words “We Are Not The Government.” It is impossible to say who might have taken them, but they cannot stop us from trying to understand the secrets behind this fantastical font. Now, if you will excuse me, someone is knocking at my door. They seem to be yelling, “We Are Still Not The Government!” How strange.

 

By Blake

Letters to Beloved Authors

Dear John Steinbeck,

You listen here, John-boy, and you listen good – fuck you. Fuck you for making me think I might read an elaborate epic about fruits rising up against their herbivorous overlords. There were no goddamn angry grapes in the WHOLE FUCKING BOOK. I’m going to write a spiritual successor titled The Melons of Malcontent, and those watermelons are going to eat the fucking Joad family alive. How’s that for wrath, Ein-Stein?

(P.S. Also fuck you for making me imagine a grown-ass man getting breast-fed. Shit’s fucked up.)

Love, Blake

 

Dear Nathanial Hawthorne,

Alright, you Downton-Abbey-sounding motherfucker, what was with all those names? Shit, Chillingsworth was a scholar, not a goddamn Bond villain trying to take over the country with a fucking blizzard-making blimp. And could you even TRY to come up with a less on-the-nose boring guy name than Richard Bellingham? You should’ve just gone with Tiberius McHoity-Toites and given up all pretense, ass-face.

(P.S. You win the award for most implied references of going to fuck-town. Congratulations.)

Love, Blake

 

Dear Mary Shelley,

You fucked up big time, sister. You should’ve just given the fucking monster a different fucking name. Shit, you could’ve called him “Dave,” I wouldn’t give a flying dick. But if I’m talking about your shitty-ass book and some nerd-ass says “it’s technically Frankenstein’s monster” ONE MORE GODDAMN TIME, I’m going to resurrect YOUR corpse and burn it on top of a fucking mountain.

Love, Blake

 

Dear F. Scott Fitzgerald,

You’re the fucking worst, Scotty. I’d punt your dick-ass into that pool Gatsby died in if you weren’t dead already. Not for your writing, of course. The novel was a wonderful commentary on the idealization of the American Dream. But every fucking other themed party I go to now is lined wall-to-wall with goddamn flapper dresses and gold beads and shit. STOP FUCKING ASKING ME TO CHARLESTON, I DON’T KNOW HOW.

Love, Blake

 

By (surprisingly) Blake

Books That Were Discontinued, Disallowed, and Otherwise Disconnected from the History of Literature

Robert’s Rules of Recorders

Shortly following the release of the Fourth Edition of Robert’s Rules of Order, Robert’s daughter began to learn the recorder in her elementary school music class. Seeing a clear lack of structure and cohesion in this room of cacophonous nine-year-olds, Robert took his experience in parliamentary procedure to pen another set of guidelines that would best enable the class to learn “Old McDonald” in an organized and efficient matter. The rules included proper floor addresses (“Sir,” “Madame,” or “Flute Flute Mahgoot”), how to obtain the attention of the floor (toot a high C# until the assembly is silent or the windows shatter), and the proper procedure for determining the rightful owner of the Golden Recorder of Leadership (knife fight). However, after only three months of implementation, discontented elementary school teachers from around the country congregated around Robert’s home and shattered his eardrums with a rousing rendition of “Hot Crossed Buns.” The book was subsequently removed from school library shelves.

Catch-52

This follow-up to Catch-22 was actually published as a practical joke by Joseph Heller. This novel was, in fact, just a stack of playing cards hidden within the book’s binding and an inconspicuous cover. Heller’s intent was for unsuspecting readers to open the novel and have all fifty-two playing cards fall into their lap, resulting in surprised expressions and laughs abounding. Joseph Heller, a man hardened by the horrors of war and watching his fellow man perish in the trenches, loved a good guffaw. Unfortunately, book stores stopped stocking this novel following janitorial protests over the increased, card-based workload.

Children of the [Insert Vegetable Here]

Unknown to many, Children of the Corn was in fact just a single version of the short story in a series of publications by Stephen King. King penned a multitude of revisions of his classic short story in an attempt to appeal to individuals, particularly children, who were picky eaters. Children of the Carrot was most commercially well-received of his revisions, while Children of the Squash, Children of the Broccoli, and Children of the Bell Pepper were all horribly panned by literary critics (“Ew, this has squash in it? I don’t like squash.” – Edmund Wright, New York Times). Following the release of the movie rendition of Children of the Corn in 1984, all other versions were immediately declared fraudulent and discontinued. You can still find Children of the Kale on the coffee tables of some artisanal sandwich shops in Brooklyn, and it is rumored that Edward Snowden keeps a copy of Children of the Snow Pea on his person at all times.

Moby Richard

The original manuscript of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick had a decidedly more formal tone and style than its revised, more popular version. Moby Richard was first described as the Great White-Collar Whale, who bit off the Johnson account, leaving Ahab “without a leg to stand on,” so to speak. In a surprising twist, the opening line was the only thing that was actually edited to be more formal. “Call me Izzy-Shmay-Shmay” may have received even greater acclaim than its subsequent revised form, but the world will never know.

 

By Blake

An Open Letter to the Jonas Brothers

Dear Kevin, Joe, and Nick Jonas,

First off, I’m glad you’re all doing well. Nick and Joe, you have blazed your own unique paths as musicians, creating hit pop songs like “Cake by the Ocean” and “Jealous,” completely beyond the musical era of your younger days. Kevin, you were fired in the second episode of Celebrity Apprentice Season 7. Great work all around. However, I am not writing this open letter to congratulate you on your current endeavors. No, I am here as a member of the scientific community to express long-held concerns about your song, “Year 3000.”

Now, I am not going to chastise you for your toxic portrayal of the scientific community in the aforementioned 2002 hit. Nevertheless, the implication that the capacity to traverse through time – a revolutionary achievement that has been strived for by countless quantum physicians – could be accomplished by your “neighbor called Peter,” alone, with merely a “flux capacitor” is an insult to the toil of the men and women who have poured their lives into the study of time and its mechanics. And the audacity to claim that a time machine, even IF it were possible to construct, would look “like one in a film (you’ve) seen” is an audacious travesty – NO ONE IN THE SCIENTIFIC COMMUNITY WOULD PUT SUCH PRECIOUS MACHINERY IN A DELORIAN OR A HOT TUB. YOU KNOW NOTHING OF QUANTUM TECHNOLOGY, CRAIG ROBINSON. I apologize; I said I would not chastise you, the Jonas Brothers, but the complexity of the quantum physics conceptualizing the reality of time is a touchy subject for me.

One of my main concerns lies within the chorus of the “Year 3000.” In it, you claim, following your visit to the next millennia, you discovered that “not much has changed, but they lived underwater.” Excuse you – I know you may only be a charming boy band that stared in their own Disney Channel Original Series, but I must believe that even a simpleton would have to recognize that underwater habitation for the human species would change a great deal in our existence as a species. Our source of nourishment would, even if it resembled our current foodstuffs in appearance and taste, would have to come from a drastically different source, likely an algae-based agricultural practice or stem-cell augmentation in replicating the properties of modern livestock. Transit, whether by submersible vehicle or water-sealed vacuum tubes, would indicate a significant departure from our current forms of social interaction at a very base level – sociology may not be my field of expertise, but I know how widespread the implications when it comes to altering urban transportation (assuming these underwater colonies are, in fact, similar to modern cities – they must be, the population density would require it).

Honestly, that is just the tip of the horrifically inaccurate iceberg. “Boy bands, and another one, and another one, and another one,” may be par for the course in our current society, but “triple breasted women” swimming around “totally naked,” contrary to what you may believe, the Jonas Brothers, is not. While I appreciate even the most naïve amateurs diving into the pool of scientific theorization, you were woefully uninformed and misused your widespread popularity among teenage girls to spread ignorant conjectures about life in the next millennia. Although, it appears that your prophetic hubris was indeed your downfall – your seventh album, rather than having “gone multi-platinum” and “everybody bought” it, was Live: Walmart Soundcheck. Unsurprisingly, it did not “outsell Michael Jackson.”

I, and the rest of the scientific community, would appreciate an official press release denouncing the claims of your predictive pop song. It would go a long way to ensure that the tweens of 2002 do not venture into their adult years working under the misconception that traveling through time would result in a “funny noise,” rather than the ear-shattering explosion that would accompany surpassing the speed of light. We wish you nothing but the best, and we hope that your great-great-great-granddaughter does indeed turn out fine.

Cordially, Dr. Peter Fletcher, PhD

 

By Blake

Martin Luther’s Other Theses

The Reverend Father Martin Luther is most well-known for his “Ninety-Five Theses,” a document attacking the corrupt practices of the Catholic Church through a series of argumentative claims, that were nailed to the door of the Catholic Church. However, few people know that there were originally Two-Hundred and Forty-Seven Theses, most of which the Reverend Luther either decided were not as crucial to the reformation of the Catholic church, or accidently forgot to include in the final draft and didn’t want to write the whole thing again. These original theses were recovered during an archeological excavation in 1873, led by Sir Catherine Theeees, who found the lost document directly underneath Eisleben Elementary School. The world rejoiced at the prospect of new theological texts that could revolutionize contemporary religion, and the students at Eisleben Elementary rejoiced at missing school for a week. Academics studying these new theses found that they greatly developed our understanding of Martin Luther, both as a reverend and a Scorpio. To better educate and inform you, the reader, we will now present a select few of Martin Luther’s Other Theses.

6. There has been a drastic miscommunication as it pertains to our holy text. James 11:35 says that Our Lord and Master Jesus WEPT. Stop giving brooms to our newly ordained brethren.

23. The communion wafer is a dull and tasteless foodstuff, and does not accurately reflect the body of Our Lord and Savior. Perhaps it could be replaced with a Cheez-it – for Christ himself was quite zesty.

69. Christians are to be taught that indulgences, such as chocolates or fine wines, are to be enjoyed on cheat days and cheat days only.

80. The enemies of Christ and his people are many, and to be taken heed of so that his followers are not led away from the path. Deceivers, adulterers, and heretics should be feared. Also bears.

101. The pope, as descended from the holy St. Peter, is decreed by the Church as infallible, not unfallable. Stop trying to trip him as he walks past the pews.

101a. The pope is also not unfillable. Stop challenging him to chug the sacramental wine.

109. It is vain to trust in salvation by indulgence letters, though it is reasonable to trust in salivation by scrumptious fruits.

144. Any truly repentant Christian has a right to full remission of penalty and guilt, as well as a full season pass to Wacky Wally’s Funtime Amusement Cathedral, complete with free tickets to go on the Spinning Teacups of Absolution.

157. The true treasure of the church is the most holy gospel of the glory and grace of God. The secondary treasure of the church is the Secret Gold of Captain Levician, to be found only by following the map hidden on the inside of the pope’s hat.

199. Forsaken be the prophets who do not recognize the Holy Spirit in even the lowest of men, and blessed be the prophets who give you the rest of their fries when they’re full.

215. No river dancing.

231. Let him who speaks against the truth concerning papal injustices be accursed, or at least tickled into submission by the Holy Tickle Bishop (trademark pending).

247. Christians should be empowered in their pursuit of the Lord, and thus confident of entering into heaven through tribulations, including the Hallowed Limbo Game at the Golden Gates of Heaven. Hint: it’s all in the calves.

 

By Blake

What They Won’t Tell You About Carrots

You’ve always been told that carrots improve your eyesight, but is that really true? And what else is there to know about the world’s most orange veggie? With the help of the internet and some unsurprisingly pristine library books, I was able to do some digging around to see what’s really the deal with this root vegetable. As it turns out, carrots are an indigenous crop of… okay, I think we’re safe. There’s no way they got this far. Listen, you, whoever’s reading this now, stay with me here – this is bigger than any of us.

I’m not actually writing about some fucking carrots. Really, what’s there to know? They’re delicious, nutritious, and consumed by bunnies everywhere. I didn’t lock myself away in an underground bunker in Uruguay to ramble on about the vitamin content of the most baby-fied veggie. No, carrots were merely a cover to disguise the true purpose of this article. Even with that misdirection, I know there’s agents on my trail right now, trying to put a stop to the truth. What’s really going on here goes deeper than anything you’ve seen before – I’m talking about potatoes.

That’s right, potatoes. The world’s favorite starch. But ask yourself – why is that? Think about all of your favorite potato dishes: French fries, mashed potatoes, hash browns, latkes, the list goes on. All of these dishes, in order to make them delicious, directly relate to having LESS potato in it and MORE fried batter, butter, or some other non-potato substance. Have you ever eaten a potato raw? No, you haven’t. And if you have, you’re already too far gone. Even baked potatoes, a dish known for basically just being a potato, is notoriously improved by adding excessive, some might even say ungodly, amounts of sour cream and bacon bits. Think about it – an ungodly amount of bacon bits, just to make potatoes palpable. You should not be forced to consume that much sodium to make a “baked POTATO” taste good. I crunched the numbers and it just doesn’t. make. sense.

So this begs the question, why do we, as a culture and society, love potatoes? You can’t go two days without seeing some Buzzfeed quiz or Odyssey article about how potatoes are God’s greatest gift to man. That’s just their handiwork at play. I’m talking about Big Potato, of course. They’ve got their hands in every major media outlet this side of Saturn. I’ve gone down the rabbit hole, and let me tell you, I didn’t find fucking carrots. It took every penny I had to infiltrate the inner workings of the media – corporate secrets, employee bribery, and fake mustaches cost a pretty penny. Every article, every quiz, every potato-based Emoji (there’s three of the goddamn things) – Big Potato made it happen. Just like potato itself, Big Potato has its eyes EVERYWHERE. Do you think it’s just pure coincidence that the side dish of every meal is potato based? Hash browns at breakfast, French fries at lunch, and tater tots at dinner. They couldn’t make their crop the main dish – no, that’d be too obvious. The potato lurks on the sidelines, planning. Plotting. Waiting.

I know what you’re thinking, “So what? Who cares if we eat potatoes a lot? It’s not hurting anybody.” That’s where you’d be FUCKING WRONG. There’s a reason no one runs a marathon after eating a tub of potato chips. They tried to throw us off the scent by making McDonalds the official sponsor of the Olympics, but don’t be fooled. Just like you can’t microwave a McDonald’s fry and have it be edible, you can’t eat a McDonald’s fry and be in peak physical condition. Potatoes keep us weak. Potatoes keep us sedated. And they know that. Big Potato always knows.

I can hear banging on my door now. It’s pure steel, but they’ll break out the blow torch soon enough. I’m not going to make it, but I’ve made my peace with that – this will have to be my last will and testament. Please, whoever you are, wherever you’re from, listen to me. Big Potato will not stop. They won’t cease until they have their hands in everything from desserts to degrees. When you can order a potato cheesecake while working on your Potato Sciences thesis, it will already be too late. I need you to resist now. The world needs you to resist now. They will take me away, and I do not know where, but you, out there, you can do something. Know this, that above all else, you cannot let them REDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTEDREDACTED

Ha Ha Ha, what a fun, satirical article I, Blake, wrote! Of course, this is a piece of fiction, created solely for the reader’s enjoyment. None of it is to be taken seriously. On an unrelated note, I will be taking a sabbatical from writing for a while, so do not worry about my impending absence. Thank you for reading this piece.

By Blake

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I am so glad I have you, diary, because I need to mark this day in history – Friday, December 14th, 2016 – because today was KRAZY! First thing in the morning, when I went to the bus stop, the bus was already gone! Total bummer, right? I thought the whole day was going to be a suckfest after that. I was able to get a ride to school from Jennifer (ily Jenn!!!), and that’s when my luck began to turn around. Check this – Taylor Swift on the radio ALL. THE. WAY. THERE. I know, major yes, right?!? So we slid into first period right before the bell, and there he was. The HUNKIEST substitute teacher EVER! Honest to God, I couldn’t think about balancing fractions. All I could think about was balancing on those biceps! Teehee, don’t tell anyone! I would DIE of embarrassment if anyone knew. Anyway, second period was blah, as always (Someone tell Mrs. Robins to liven it up a bit, she can be such a *snore*). Lunch was where the day went from okay to FANTASTIC. They had waffle fries. WAFFLE. FRIES. EEEEKK! They only ever have normal fries on Fridays, or sometimes even those orange ones (blech!). I sat with Jamie, Ollie, Natasha, and Toni, as always, and we gabbed about whatever. Third period was more blah (especially with Jack poking the back of my chair with his pencil – we get it, you’re a dork). THEN fourth period, my favorite period of the day, because I get to sit behind Johnny Patterson! Ahh, Johnny Patterson, the boy of my dreams! He’s the good only thing about European Literature, except maybe Mr. Smith’s laughably obvious toupee lol! I could stare at the back of Johnny’s head all day, if only my mom wouldn’t kill me for letting my grades go. I’ll be Rebecca Patterson one day, just you wait! Anyway, that was my krazy day! I only hope the weekend will be as good. Toni and I are having a sleepover on Saturday, and I CAN’T WAIT!!!

Love love love,

Rebecca ❤

 

Journal Entry: Rebecca Howard – 12/14/2016, 20:13:57

I don’t trust that fucking diary. She’s going to turn on me, I can feel it in my bones. And that bitch has too many of my secrets to be left unchecked. If she goes rogue, we’re all going down, and I can’t let that happen.

First, I’ll recap you on what I told her; the short version, because I don’t have time to waste here. Missed bus. Transport by Jenn. First period, hunk sub. Would tickle his butt given the opportunity. Second period, blah. Waffle fries for lunch. Hooray. Third period, blah redoubled. Fourth period, reconnaissance on Johnny Patterson. Heart eyes. End of recap.

I’ve been careful in my discourse with the diary. I only let her know what she needs to know, and that’s it. I’ve been leaving misleading evidence to make sure she can’t read my true intentions. I told her not to tell anyone about my infatuation with the stud muffin sub. In reality, I wouldn’t give two shits if she told the whole school about that, but that’s just the point. If she thinks she has the upper hand with that information as blackmail, I can ensure she won’t focus on any real dirt.

The key to this level of recon is not letting them know everything you know. Of course I know the orange fries are sweet potato fries – an idiot with a fridge for a brain could figure that out. But it’s important that she not suspect any more of me than she need to; if she thinks I’m a ditzy girl, then so be it – it’s safer for all of us that way.

Of course I remember what Jamie, Ollie, Natasha, and Toni discussed with me, but the diary doesn’t need to know that classified information. I will share it with you, however, because this discourse needs to be documented. Jamie has expressed interest in an individual by the name of Harry Stein. A person of interest, indeed – curly hair, piercing blue eyes, and as tall as the day is long – exactly Jamie’s type. Natasha expressed dissent in the matter, as she heard from Alissa who heard from Vicki who heard from Mike who heard from Samantha who heard from Vicki again that Harry has a reputation for ghosting on planned events (i.e. dates and the like). While I respect the intel, I trust Jamie’s intuition in this matter, and I know she’ll make the right call in the midst of action.

In summation, I need you to stick by me in this hour of uncertainty. The diary could go rogue at any moment, and we need to be prepared for that eventuality. I will maintain a line of communication with her, just as to not arouse suspicion. We need to keep our eyes open, and prepare for the worst. Signing off.

 

By Blake

The Real Issue

This election cycle has been a lot of things. It has been long, it has been tumultuous, it has been unexpected. But, most importantly, it has been a distraction. The American people have been inundated with a plethora of media coverage, occasionally touching on actual policy and presidential duties, but mostly dwelling on scandal and soundbites that make for good television. While, yes, the presidency is a crucial office that will determine much of our future as a nation, there are countless other issues that are just as important, and they too deserve our attention. These current events have strong implications in the daily lives of our citizens, and yet they have fallen by the wayside, with one specific proceeding being criminally underrepresented in our media and our social consciousness. I am, of course, referring to the short-lived relationship between Tom Hiddleston and Taylor Swift.

That’s right. Tom Hiddleston, the most British Avenger, and Taylor Swift, everyone’s favorite girl next door, were an item for a whole three months, and most of you didn’t even know that. You know why? Because the media had been too flooded with email scandals and pussy grabbing to show you the emotional roller-coaster that was the love between America’s sweetheart and Taylor Swift. He was her Loki and she was his shiny, blue cube-thing – a true story of pursuit, love, and loss, fit for the best of Nicholas Sparks novels.

When Tom and Taylor shared their first dance at the Met Gala, and the first notions of Hiddleswift began to bloom, where were the eyes of the world? They were watching the end of Ted Cruz’s presidential campaign, endlessly speculating the uncertainty of the nomination and the fate of the Republican party with hours of television coverage and hundreds of online articles. And yet, it was a mere Instagram video that documented this picturesque dance, whose vague arm flailing and hip shaking will go down in history, rivalling The Nutcracker in pure beauty and poignancy.

On June 14th, 2016, Hillary Clinton won the Washington D.C. primary. Many celebrated her inevitable path to the nomination following this victory, but you know what we weren’t celebrating? The official blossoming of the Tom and Taylor Power Hour, in which they were seen making out on a beach in Rhode Island – the most romantic island. However, this monumental scene wasn’t captured by CNN analysts, FOX reporters, or even the BuzzFeed investigative journaling team; no, this was first documented by The Sun, a British tabloid as trashy as its name is generic. Hiddleswift deserves better. We all deserve better.

Finally, when we were all focused on nominations and upcoming debates, the most beautiful integration of American and British passions since Simon Cowell fell apart right under our noses. September spelt the end for Tom and Taylor. Through all the Instagram drama and potential proposals, we never got to see any of it because we were focused on choosing the leader of the free world. What a shame.

 

By Blake

Some More Haikus For Your Day

When Germans tell you

To stop wearing your bow ties,

You dress to the nein’s.

I have to ask you

Something, Lou, so tell me – Where’s

Mambo Number Six?

Your whole world is a

Lie – technically, every hat

Is a top hat. Boom.

Running away from

Jurassic Park’s attractions;

You’ll be dino-sore.

Fun fact: Bananas –

Add a “D,” it’s “Bad Nanas.”

Fuck it up, Gram-gram.

The phrase “roller blades”

Sounds much scarier if you

Don’t know what they are.

If you were doing

Your job well, Beth, you’d be a

TEETH Fairy, not TOOTH.

“B” is pronounced “bee”

“C” is “see,” “V” is “vee,” but

Somehow, “H” is “aych.”

 

By Blake