The Respecc Tater

My fuse has finally burnt down to its stubby, miniscule end. It’s official: I QUIT the Humor department. It’s been approximately FOUR MONTHS since I was hesitantly accepted by Gaby and Kerwin into this cheesehole of a newspaper department, and NONE of the new editors show me any respect. The other day, I passed Abdullah and his gang in the second-floor hallways. I glanced at him, and you know what he did? Nothing. Not even a look left or right to see if anyone was looking at him, the unselfconscious little [expletive]. And this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.

Just last week I saw one of my Humor editors in the staircase in between fourth and fifth period. As I pondered and made calculations in my head in that brief microsecond before finally deciding that of the four editors, that one SHOULD be Omar, he just, like, rushed past me without a second glance. Like I wasn’t even there, deciding whether or not to say hi and who to say hi to. And you know what? I was totally willing to forgive that sin. But just today, I swear, I was walking to the four-to-six escalator, ready to go up, and not giving off any bad vibes or anything. Get this: I spot VICTOR KUANG coming off the down escalator. I’m like, oh my gosh, one of my editors. I give him my best nonchalant stare for a good three seconds. The kind obvious enough to let Waldo find YOU. And you know what happened? This BIG BRAIN didn’t even look UP as he went on his merry way onto the fourth floor. Like, I give my editor my FULL ATTENTION, and he can’t even be bothered to just notice me and say “hey!” and walk over and give me the illest dap and slap on the back that ever was conceived?

Well that was the final straw. As a second-term senior with a list of things to live for finally longer than my list of college rejections, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I’ve completely broken from Humor—and Spec protocol overall—and I’m going to dive into a genre that writers for years haven’t even dared to encroach upon.

I give you: the Spring 2019 Respectator issue of The Spectator.

News

I guess I should start with a News section, shouldn’t I? Well, it was just a week ago when I spotted the CUTEST Pomeranian positively loping along the West Side Highway. My gosh, the puff of its fur made me feel bad for all the times I’d eaten cotton candy prior, for surely this was proof that it could come alive. Anyway, this cloud of love and goodness was going down the West Side Highway on its merry way, when suddenly it FELL. It just TIPPED OVER. MID-TOTTER.

As I stood agape on the sidewalk, staring in horror at this tragic representation of civil corruption and moral desolation, at this Pom that just fell onto its side, that was so precious its TONGUE was still out, the most magical turnaround came to be. A PUG with a TOP HAT ON was just strolling along. Of course, I had sunken so deep into my mourning at this time that the appearance on the scene of an angel barely affected my disposition, but the Pom that was still tipped over caught the eyes of the gentle pug. While its body might’ve remained completely still, this Pom’s eyes fought immobility and desperately locked gazes with the pug.

In a moment of perfect understanding and nobility, I had the great fortune to witness what can only be described as a providential anointment transpire right in front of me. The pug got up on its hind legs, rolled up its sleeves (i.e. the fur on its front legs), bent down, and offered the Pom its hand. The Pom stared at this idiot, as it was clear it could not move its arms to close the gap. Luckily, a tabby cat zooming by on the highway in its four-by-four Ford pickup truck yelled, “Pick him up, you pinecone!” spurring the pug into action. He grabbed the Pom’s paw and pulled him up finally, clapping him on the back as he hoisted him up to show that they were bros. The Pom—finally freed to motion—dapped the pug up as a compensational repayment and passed him his collar to jingle. When the pug had finally finished taking a hit, the Pom went on its merry way, as if all the innocence and virtue in the universe hadn’t almost been voided not even five minutes prior. The pug, satisfied with his work, bid me adieu with his top hat and continued his evening walk along the Hudson, but not before letting me pet him and give him a good scratch in the scruff under his neck. Definitely a good boy, 17/10 would recommend him at your next dinner party.

Features

Now, this is going to be the most special Features article you’ve ever read. It will make you cry, it will make you laugh, it will make you think dark thoughts. But not much darker than usual.

In light of the recent controversy over the implementation of PSAL frees for Stuy’s resident population of student-athletes—now that’s EXCLUDING all those mathletes, Science Olympians, and chess masters who really bring our school prestige—the gym department at Stuy has become inebriated—sorry, incensed—at the way students view P.E. classes at school. That’s right—I used the P.E./gym joke early on and in an unexpected and NONSENSICAL place JUST to switch it up and subvert your sad, tired expectations for a Humor article. As I was saying, though, this pent-up rage and frustration at the lack of respect—and pretty much any thought beyond “Will I fail if I cut/come unprepared today?”—has finally come to a head in the form of concrete, lasting action by the gym teachers: the formation of an elite, active council known as the “Gym Class Heroes [GCH].” Sound familiar? Well don’t tell them wherefrom, because they know they’ve heard it somewhere before but they’re not exactly sure where.

The GCH’s official mission is to “instill respect, spread awareness, and enforce discipline regarding the attendance of and participation in physically-educative courses.” This coalition will meet in the third-floor atrium at 7:00 p.m. every other evening, acting as a support group and an action committee for all those disrespected and mistreated P.E. teachers who come to work each and every day, even coming on time for first-period gym class when most of their students don’t. Taking cues from my health teacher’s infamous methods of instruction, the coalition will be generating promotional materials in the forms of posters and visual projects to display around the school, generating awareness for their plight. As many of these teachers double as coaches for our school’s beloved athletics program, they’ve also enlisted some of their own players as spokespeople for their cause, even going so far as to offer ARISTA credits and volunteering hours in their desperation to attain legitimacy among the student body. To find out more about how you can support this mission, donate to their GoFundMe page titled, “Gym Class Heroes Battle Apathy and Ignorance in Generation Z.”

A&E

So, next I’ll give you guys a juicy A&E article. Do you remember that awe-inspiring, untouchable group of saints who blessed millions of children’s lives with song, dance, and education—the Wiggles? Well, sadly their time is over, and we just have to somehow accept that weighty truth eventually. Fear not, however—salvation approaches in the form of a beautiful new creation, a popular children’s pop group dubbed “The Cordials.”

These newcomers may be fresh but they’re certainly not raw. From such hits as the wildly popular “I Would Like to Hold Your Hand, Please” to the bluesy, sensitive vibes of “It’s Never Too Late—Or Too Early—to Say Sorry,” The Cordials have dominated the Playground’s Top 10 for already three weeks now. Three weeks! For elementary schoolers, that’s basically the entire span of a relationship—no, no, a friendship. The five members—Tom, Dick, Jane, Harry, and Doodle Bob—each epitomize respect, honor, and friendship, and we can’t wait to see what more they bring to that elementary school near Stuy in the coming months.

Opinions

Well, let me just tell you. As a certified-drid senior, it is my distinguished privilege to absolutely rag on and blast the state of Stuyvesant freshmen this year. Look, I get it—what’s happening to me is natural. The older I get, the more tiny and annoying these youth seem to me, despite my inability to break 5’7” over the past four years. It’s not just the field-type Humongo Backpackers and Lost Hallway Travellers this year. No, the quality of the miscreants our proud institution admitted this past calendar year is obscenely disgraceful.

Take, for instance, one day while I was passing by the library in between classes. There was a whole ruckus on the line as students clambered and cried to be let in—as it should be. Mr. Bowlin came out—as is customary—to enforce order on the line, comb out the line-skippers, and generally tame the wild spirits of the prospective library-goers. He bellows, “QUIET DOWN, EVERYONE! ORDER ON THE LINE, ORDER ON THE LINE!” When someone responded that they would greatly appreciate a chicken over rice with pita on the side, Mr. Bowlin graciously dragged the kid by the scruff of his neck off the line and trapped him in the most secretive location on the floor: the English teachers’ office, 615ABCDE.

But you know what happened when he came back? The flingin’-flangin’ freshmen actually quieted down. They actually lined themselves up, organized themselves by height order because short people have it hard enough as it is, and the cutters even called themselves out and apologized as they went to the back of the line. It was, in short, an abomination of nature. What this revelation comes down to is that the Stuyvesant Class of 2022 has a bunch of goody two-shoes—a far cry from the inglorious, proud days when Stuy students blacklisted the school for generations to come from BMCC as a senior prank. Anyway, that’s my annual spiel on the degradation of today’s youth, brought to you by the AARP.

Humor

Oh, hey there! Welcome to the Humor section! This is gonna be an especially juicy one since it’s already in a meta-humor arti—Wait, what was that? We’re not doing a Humor article because real newspapers don’t have those? Very well then—we will let sleeping dogs lie, as well as our president.

Sports

In other news, there is a new PSAL basketball team in the city. Formed from the pools of wannabe ballers and varsity basketball rejects that form every winter in NYC’s public high schools, this interschool team accepts everyone who tries out and is called “The New York City BridgeBuilders,” as if the city doesn’t have enough bridges already, connecting Stuyvesant to the other side of the highway, the Bronx to Queens, and the rest of NYC to its creepy uncle, Staten Island.

They have no official coach, given that they believe in the worth of everyone’s advice, and that no one could be paid enough to even temporarily be associated with that team. They’re coed, because it’s 2019. Why’re there still gender divisions in sports? Boys and girls can play sports just as well as each other. We’re gonna sue PSAL for sexual harassment and discrimination—you know they couldn’t do it to ‘em. And they all wear exactly the same-sized jersey, given that “nobody should feel bad about the way their body looks, feels, or is.” That jersey size is XXL :).

In terms of gameplay, they’ve patented an innovative new style of offense and defense called “none of the above.” It consists of passing, passing again, passing back, passing again, passing forward, shooting—just kidding, it was just a really high pass that didn’t even make it to the three-point arc—and finally, passing it to the other team once everyone has had at least five touches on it. They maintain very tight possession of the ball when they choose to, to say the least. On the rare occasion that they foul the other team, each player personally apologizes to the fouled-out opponent—shaking hands, consoling them, even offering to refill their water bottle while they take their foul shots.

But most importantly, this team takes the most pride in its cheers. Ranging from “Do your best! But it’s okay to settle for less!” to “Have, have, have a good day!” the BridgeBuilders’ cheers are specially designed to make the opposing team feel good about themselves, inspire them to win, and just make sure they have a good ol’ time. Proven to make even sullen elementary schoolers feel better in time-out, nothing says a win like playing a team that cheers for you, gives free points, and even offers to give their future foul shots to you if you’re having a rough day. Truly inspiring. One spectator after the first match raved, “This game was so boring that I’m not even willing to bet on whoever they play next because it just makes me sad.” Yet another fan gushed, “Just watching this game made me lose my March Madness bracket. I lost every single Round of 64 pick I made today.”

It’s nice to know that win or lose, at least one team in this city won’t need to ask on Subtle Asian Dating whether or not they should shoot their shot. We all know they won’t (sad reacts only).