Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of The Chronicle's archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query. You can also try a Basic search
363 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
While taking my morning stroll across the Plaza, I couldn’t help but overhear a girl complain to her BFFOALUSGABTYASOL (Best Friend Forever, Or At Least Until She Gets A Boyfriend, Then You’re S.O.L.) that Duke’s “dating” scene is virtually non-existent. She continued to lament about the hookup culture and that the men of Duke had made it a perverse pool of raging hormones and bad decisions.
Welcome back, Dukies. As a lot of you know, Duke’s largest racial controversy of the year (or at least, so far) occurred last week. You may have noticed that I did not take advantage of writing about the racial conflagration. In the aftermath of an Asia Prime-esque explosion of civil rights and self-importance, I let Duke down. Yes, it’s true: I failed to write about applying for Duke Engage programs. Rather than let the opportunity to discuss the largest racial controversy since segregation itself walk out on me, I’ll write about it for you now.
Now that October and the accompanying madness of dressing as sexy nurses, sexy school girls, sexy doctors and sexy sluts has finally passed, it’s time for my favorite holiday of the year: No Shave November. Unlike other weak-sauce holidays such as Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter that foster togetherness and forgiveness, No Shave November is a month long holiday for men—and only true, manly men. Any man who has ever shopped at Bed Bath and Beyond, owned a dog weighing less than 10 pounds or watched the entirety of “The Notebook” without getting action need not apply.
I’ve recently had the pleasure of witnessing firsthand the beautiful train wreck that is freshmen learning how to drink and do drugs at Duke. Clearly, no one with any knowledge has ever talked to these kids about drugs. Instead of learning about drugs from that super-SUPER-senior with dreads who majors in feelings, it is much safer to learn about drugs and alcohol from a non-personal, authoritative source. After all, our nation’s public school systems adopted this style for health and sexual education, and now MTV is on its fifth season of “Teen Mom 2.” So, through a rigorous process of laboratory testing (read: trial and error), I bring you the Mean Boy Guide to Drugs at Duke.
Nothing feels better than excluding people. After all, they’re not you. Why should they get to join in? I personally know how good it feels to sit at the cool kids’ table in elementary school. No one could sit with you unless they were on your level, or they had a cool mom who packed them extra Lunchables. But it seems the concept of exclusivity is running rampant lately with everyone trying to make their own select groups.
Ladies and Bros, this is the end. In a momentous decision, Congress has resorted to fixing our failing government by turning it off and back on again. Funding to national parks has been ceased, and Smokey the Bear, himself, has been seen scrounging for change in Washington, D.C. phone booths. Thousands of invaluable government workers have been furloughed, causing general anarchy. With all of the government’s most fundamental aspects relinquished, all hell has broken loose.
Well, Duke, it’s happened. It used to be that we were on the cusp of innovation—the forefront of all things up-and-coming. I am, of course, talking about our regular national attention for positive social culture. However, at this point I am sad to say we’ve been surpassed. This past week, our Southern brethren in Texas have been making political power moves, combining the First and 14th Amendments with Betty Crocker’s guilty pleasures.
Now that classes are set into gear and people have become complacent and idle in their mindless routines, the men of Duke are realizing that scarfing down Pitchfork wings and logging onto Pornhub does not constitute dinner and a movie with your girlfriend. “I’m so bad at meeting girls,” says the hopeless dweeb who wanders Duke’s campus aimlessly, with neither a significant other nor f*** buddy to satisfy his emotional—or more importantly, sexual—needs. Well, men of Duke, your time has come. Mean Boy is here to help you find the girl of your dreams, with minimal effort and damage to your wallet. So hike up those jorts, spray on some more Axe and prepare to meet Mrs. Right, instead of Mrs. Right Hand.
In an absolute sweeping shift of momentum, Duke has managed to rise from its previous rank as eighth best school in the nation to number seven in the U.S. News National University Rankings. Aside from national recognition and a swelling of Duke spirit, this momentous achievement allowed everyone to smugly post the article online with humble comments such as “Go Duke!” and “Proud to be a Blue Devil!” and the ever-so-tactful “Duuuuuuuuuuuuke.” This coy power move is an update to the world of your progress. Because there is no possible way that Duke students, some of the world’s future leaders, base their validation of self on a digital affirmation of their life choices.
Dear Intrepid Duke Students,
Dear Duke (and, by extension, America),
While charming girls with my awkwardness at Shooters the other night, my blood alcohol content reached the critical level of 0.25—a.k.a. the Shooters minimum. As a Duke student, I firmly believe that once you commit to something, you go full force. This Shooters night was no different. Being in both peak physical and intoxicated condition, I decided it was time to attempt the coup de grace of any successful Shooters night, the Triple Crown. The golden standard, the Triple Crown consists of dancing on both bars, riding the bull and capping it all off with some good old-fashioned cage dancing the way our forefathers did.
"I’m an adult!”
A majestic creature, the wild fraternity bro roams the West and Central Campuses of Duke University. With a Natty, Busch Ice or other shitty beer having the consistency of rams’ piss in hand, he stalks his most targeted prey: the sorority girl. In an effort similar to birds’ mating styles, the male chooses a potential mate and begins the most sacred and inebriated of mating rituals. Just as the rare Blue-Footed Booby prances around his partner in an attempt to arouse her, the wild bro too drags potential and (sometimes?) willing partner to Shooters and commences the dance of ages, the most sacred and ratchet of courting (he starts humping her). In the same fashion, each wild bro fluffs himself up with vibrant plumage in an effort to appear more masculine and ward off competitors. Males proudly boast the makers of their colorful displays by sporting as much Brooks Brothers, Vineyard Vines, Southern Tide and Polo Ralph Lauren as possible. Pastel is the usual color scheme of choice and most often males choose to sport extremely tight and vibrant shades of pink around their groin area. (Scientists are still baffled by this pastel-loin phenomenon, but they have discovered a positive correlation between the brightness and shortness of shorts with the currency within them.)
Friends, Durhamites, fellow blue devils, lend me your ears. By a glorious combination of divine intervention and me doing things I’m rather not proud of, I’ve managed to sleep my way into the pages of The Chronicle. Kick back and pour yourself a stiff drink as I, Mean Boy, navigate screaming sorority girls, awkward Asians and drunken d-bags with whiskey in hand and a tendency to embarrass not just myself, but also others around me. Fear not, for I have all the betchiness of the Mean Girls you know and love with (some) added testosterone and that oh-so lovable “I can’t tell if he’s joking or just really that mean, so I’ll laugh anyway” humor we all love so much.
Dear Dookie,
Dear Dookie,
Dear Dookie,
Dear Dookie,
Dear Dookie,
