“Spring break forever,” a raspy-voiced James Franco GRD ’16 whispered in our ear.

He was lying. And if you thought you had a #blessful two-week respite, it turns out a few things — the mayorship of Toronto or the crown of the Commonwealth— can even further sweeten (or complicate) the deal. Check out WKND’s take on what our favorite celeb vacationers would have done with their time off.


Rob Ford wears Tommy Bahama

// Marissa Medansky

It’s 6:30 a.m. when I arrive at Pearson International for my 8:05 a.m. flight from YYZ to MIA. I like to get to the airport early. Normally that’s not my style — arriving early or showing up anywhere on time, if at all. But for me, travel is different. When I travel, I like to relax. First I like to indulge in a bit of duty-free shopping. They’ve got the best stuff at airports. Cartons of Marlboros, bottles of Grey Goose, sunglasses — not to mention those little stuffed animals shaped like moose wearing Mountie uniforms. Always picture a moose on a horse when I see them — shit cracks me up every time. I head on over to the little boy’s room when I’m done stocking up. I take a dump; call Renata and tell her I’m away on business. Wash my hands a few times and pull out another blotting paper; wipe the shine off. Then I head to the airport bar. I like to order some ladies, chat with a drink — the usual, of course. Some people think 7 a.m. is too early for whiskey, but I like to think of myself as a traditionalist: traditional values, traditional spring break, traditional whiskey breakfast — harkening back to before water filtration was invented and everyone in the Middle Ages had to drink whiskey. Those were simpler times, back when power was respected. Now they can strip a mayor of all of his authority — and, worse yet, put a mayor in boarding group four. Oh, well. My therapist Carol says to let this crap roll off my back. And why wouldn’t it? I’m Rob Ford, I bought custom Tommy Bahama swim trunks for this vacation, and I and refuse to let Air Canada get in my way.



// Allie Krause

Day 1: One decides to holiday

One does like to take our holidays, and this year dear Philip, on Mr. Obama’s recommendation, suggested we might try to understand our friends across the pond a bit better and spend some time on a “spring break” of sorts. Quite honestly, I thought perhaps old age was finally getting to him, but he rather did convince me to give it a try.

Day 2: One must pack

We were not quite sure what one requires on this “spring break,” so I informed my lady-in-waiting that we were off to some place called Daytona Beach and instructed her to pack something appropriate. Who knows — perhaps things will get crazy and we’ll even take a little dip!

Day 3: One arrives in Florida

Philip must have been mistaken; this cannot be where he wanted us to holiday. One’s hair is becoming frizzy from the humidity and there appear to be many an uncouth lady in nothing but their undergarments! Quite dreadful. Monty, Willow and Emma, my dearest corgis — I couldn’t leave them at home — are yapping terribly. We are not amused.

Day 4: One must ask: What is a wet T-shirt contest?

I must say, I rather thought we might have some time alone where we could enjoy a bit of sun, so I was quite taken aback when a loutish young man invited me to stand on a podium in a white T-shirt. Philip thought it might be rather fun, but I had no interest in participating in such crass activities. And thank goodness! All of a sudden, the women were sprayed with water! They appeared to be enjoying themselves rather a bit too much. So terribly vulgar.

Day 5: One must call the president

I’ve had it. We must go back to Sandringham immediately. I can’t believe Philip thought we might enjoy anything other than a nice long walk along the Norfolk beach and a good cup of tea. I certainly can’t imagine what Mr. Obama was thinking when he suggested we holiday in America. He’s quite obviously lost his mind. Must be the stress of leading an ex-colony.


Radical Self-Obamacare

// Yuval Ben-David

Barry Obama, an auspiciously named Yale College junior, had a pretty rough spring break. For one, he spent too much time obsessing over senior societies, how he’d shown up a minute early for his Choom Gang interview. And then of course there’s the whole matter of Vlad Putin, who’s vying for the same tap lines. Vlad is one of those affected types from the more alcoholic corners of the YPU. Apparently he threw a real hissy fit at the housing lottery last year — basically snagging a single for himself — and Barry expects Vlad to wield the same grand strategic wiles during the whole tap process.

In a moment of weakness before break, Barry wrote an op-ed for the YDN about how cruel and unusual the whole tap process has been; but the only thing that came out of that was a string of nasty online comments from the likes of theantiyale (who called him “conceited”) and yale_marxist (“But, of course, secret societies are the cadres of the inevitable revolution!”).

“Such is democracy!” Vlad told him, before suggesting they grab a meal sometime.

Barry flew down to Cancun, where he went easy on the cocaine. He’d read that Yale Dining cuts its hamburger meat with 30% mushrooms, which left him with little appetite for other street drugs. Instead he read back issues of The Economist and took Snapchats by the pool.

He also wrote cover letters.

Isn’t that what everyone does over break?


A Travelogue from James Franco GRD ’16

// Andrew Koenig

Spring break, spring break, spring break foreverrrr — the words murmur to me like the waves of South Beach, or the gentle brush of the Palo Alto breeze against my perfectly suntanned skin. Because you better believe I got an even-toned bronze brush-up over the break. This is James Franco here. I brought my biddies with me to that California coast; by day we danced naked in the warm embrace of the Golden State; by night we figured out what other masterpiece of literature to adapt into an hour-and-a-half long movie. This time I’m thinking Leaves of Grass — just to defy genre conventions, you know? It can’t be that much harder than General Hospital.

Selena Gomez stayed over at my place during the break. She’s been having a rough time of it lately, so I just really wanted her to have some time to heal. I can say I’m pretty confident the time we shared nourishing ourselves in body and mind will get her career back on track in no time.

You know, sometimes I think about the way art imitates life and life imitates art: The girl-next-door who gets caught up in the wild and wooly world of glamorous crime and high-life in the movies becomes, as South Florida’s La Voz put it so aptly, “adicto a la droga más toxica: Justin Bieber.” Justin, I want you to take this to heart: watch your back — I’ve got doctorates from pretty much every renowned American university at this point, and the power of the Ivy League and the UC system on my side. Derail Selena’s career at your own peril.

Not much else to report. Oh, wait: I forgot about a little pet project of mine that I did over break. It’s a graphic novel that consists purely of Instagrammed and Snapchatted photos of myself. Just a little chance to self-critique, cha feel? Its title comes from the caption of one of my personal favorites, a pic I put up a couple years back: Fuck the YDN.