The art of the joke

April 2021

 This month we asked our writers to celebrate April Fool's Day by writing something totally ludicrous to bring a smile to your face!

The Point

McKenna Snow
Class of 2024

Dear reader, this article is especially and particularly crafted exactly and most directly to you as an individual. In it, I intend to persuade you. I feel very strongly about that which I intend to persuade you of, so read very carefully.

My reasons for this persuasion are numerous. First, they are important for showing to you that I have done my research on this particular topic, so that you take my argument seriously. Second, I list my reasons because people pay attention better when there are bullet points in a paragraph to follow. They like seeing first, second, and third points, so that when they’re reading, they can underline the most important clauses, so as to organize and pinpoint their thoughts on the subject better. Third, they help make the article feel more structured, organized, and well-thought out. The reader can follow it better this way. After all, if my argument was all over the place, and it never went anywhere, wouldn’t reading my article just feel like a huge waste of time?

I would certainly think so. Thus, the three reasons I have included above give you a good indication of why I feel the need to argue my point so precisely.

It is now imperative to stress that my point MUST be heard totally and clearly. If I did not tell you the point I was trying to get across, you would try to comb through the whole article looking for the actual argument I swore I was trying to make, and then you would never find it. Therefore, perfect clarity on the subject on which I stand and defend must be absolutely in the spotlight of this article at all times.

Moreover, it is important to note that this argument stands on the FIRM foundations of my emotions and subjective beliefs about this subject. Emotions are incredibly dependable when it comes to arguing your case. Further, emotions are really helpful in using your opponent’s empathy against them, so as to strengthen your cause. So please, take my argument to heart. If you do not, and you tell me that you’re not persuaded, I must confess that I will cry for several hours after our debate has ended.

Subjectivity is also crucial in my standpoint. Who needs objective facts when making their case for an argument, anyway? I don’t think Google fact-checks itself to ensure that every single source is 100% accurate; therefore, why bother citing "scientifically backed" sources, when your subjective opinion is worth just as much? And if this argument of mine wasn’t scientific-centered, Google could claim it was still a "professionally-reviewed" article in the field of whatever I was advocating for—but it wouldn’t make any difference. Professionals in an area compare just as validly to those with strong enough feelings about the subject, so fact-checking me is useless. My subjective opinion is basically fact, and if you say it is not and you are not persuaded because of my argument, then again, I will cry. It always makes me sad when people don’t agree with me on things—like literally, I cannot function if one of my peers disagrees with a belief of mine.

That is why you, my reader, my fellow peer, MUST believe that which I am stressing to you. And I cannot stress this enough. If you are not convinced yet, go re-read my bullet points up top. They really solidify my clarity and organization on the subject.

I also think it’s really important to never get off topic when arguing a point you feel strongly about—that is why I firmly stand here, on this topic, and I will not stray from it. I argue here and now, and implore you to read carefully what I am about to say, for my belief in—did you watch the Mount basketball games last week? They were so interesting! The Mount men’s AND women’s teams both won their NEC championship games. They were intense, interesting, and very uplifting. As a Mount student, I was proud when the teams of my school carved more victories into our University legacy. I watched the games at the student center on campus—there was a great turnout, and it was almost like being at the game in person, just without the actual teams playing in the building. So yes, the Mount sports games last week and this week were so entertaining, and our athletes work really hard.

Getting off topic is an absolute NO when writing a persuasive piece. You, the reader, must be locked in to my argument 100%, and I don’t want a single word of my piece to distract from that. And, I know exactly what I’m writing, and I don’t want my editor to change anything about this piece, so I’ve let him know that he’s not allowed to remove or delete any unhelpful or off-topic paragraphs in this essay.

Finally, a thesis statement usually provides a lot of clarity in an argumentative piece. As you can see in this essay, I definitely hit the nail on the head. This argument is so rock solid; it is untouchable. It’s so good it’s almost intangible in every way. It’s almost like if you looked hard enough, you couldn’t find it. That’s what makes it so rock-solid undefeatable. Not to mention, it’s grounded on subjectivity and my personal emotions. How do you retort to something founded on that? That’s right, you can’t. Good luck making a counter-argument to this piece.

In conclusion, this argument is so important. I hope by now you are on my side. It is important to remind you that if you are not on my side by now, I will be very sad. The stability of my emotions depends strongly on feeling validated and 100% supported in this argument of mine. Another point raised is that it is crucial to stay totally on-topic at all times in a persuasive argument as important as this one. Never, ever get off topic—and April Fools is here, so I was tasked with writing a ridiculous, wacky article for this edition of the Emmitsburg News-Journal. Thus, I argued just for the sake of arguing, and I hope you see my point now.

Read other articles by McKenna Snow

Orange you glad

Emmy Jansen
Class of 2023

A church pew. A red velvet throw pillow missing one of its golden tassels. A shelf that held only miniature figurines of U.S. presidents. A wall covered in postcards and photographs from decades, eras, and places far from here. Chandeliers of stained glass reminiscent of English pubs. A standing lamp made of a mermaid’s teal body with the lampshade being a pink shag fabric found in a teenage girl’s bedroom. A statue of a frog hugging its stomach sitting between the doorframe and the corner of the wall.

The odds and ends made up the perfect antique store, a haven where treasure hunters and collectors could spend hours sifting for the one item that would be the competition of their obsession. Decades of history, dust, and memories packed into these small rooms, almost suffocating the passersby. An emporium of lost treasures and found objects.

Except it was a house. It was my house. Here I lived for eighteen years, surrounded by discarded objects that original owners hadn’t wanted that my parents graciously decided they did. They weren’t hoarders; our house was always tidy, and no object was ever out of place, even if out of place it looked. Bringing friends over was always embarrassing though, so I rarely ever did it. At first, I thought everything was normal. I soon came to realize that most other kids didn’t grow up surrounded by new objects constantly being added with nothing ever being removed.

But the worst part about the house was not the church pew sitting in our living room. It wasn’t the lamp whose base was a chicken statue. It wasn’t the framed portrait of George Washington above the fireplace, where a family photo should have been. It was the kitchen cabinets. Sickeningly orange. Bright enough to be neon, dark enough that it was a debate whether it was more of a red, and deep enough to make every other color in the room dull: this was the color of our kitchen cabinets.

Comparatively, the rest of the house was, dare I say, normal. The mishmash of Persian and Navajo rugs that covered the hardwood floor of every room seemed like a modern trend if your eyes ever wandered to the hue of the kitchen. And your eyes couldn’t help but wander. The room radiated a glow throughout the house, escaping from the doorway and casting a warm hue onto the dining room. It was an elephant that wasn’t even in the room but made its presence known from down the hall.

I did not go in the kitchen. In fact, I avoided it vehemently and loudly. Complaint after complaint I hurled at my mother from across the dining room table, which was a solid oak even though the chairs were anywhere from Victorian throne to tan wicker. Can we please paint the cabinets? Any color. Yellow. Pink. Green. But not the fluorescent papaya that was splashed all over our kitchen. In my adolescent stubbornness, I set foot in the room as little as possible.

When I moved out on my own for the first time, it was exhilarating. Freedom and independence, yes, but more importantly, an escape from the eclectic—and orange—style that my parents had always adopted. After bouncing between apartment complexes during my collegiate years, I had finally saved up enough to move into a house. It was a rancher in the suburbs, on a very small plot of land. It needed work, quite a bit, but it was necessary for my price range. I was up for the challenge; nothing, in my mind, could be worse than what I had been raised in.

Days of ripping up carpets, caulking tile, and repairing rotted siding would all be worth it. At the end, I had a house, all my own, with things that were only owned by me. No church pew. No chicken lamps. No Navajo rugs.

Fixing up the house was a slow but steady process, mostly done after I came home from work. But in no time, the house took shape and became a home. The last thing on my list was the kitchen, my piPce de résistance. Some tiles needed to be replaced but the countertops were in great condition for the cheap laminate they’d been made from. To please the inner child that had been, I splurged and bought new cabinet doors. Part of me felt that by doing so, I would reverse the nightmare that I had lived with and bring about the culmination of the story. To put that part of the past behind me. I ordered the cabinets and waited anxiously for confirmation that they had arrived at the store.

I received a call from the saleswoman who’d sold them to me early in the week, but the town had been blanketed in a snowstorm after that and my Honda did not have a close relationship with icy roads. It wasn’t until early the next Saturday morning that I was able to drive to the store, tires sloshing every mile, to pick up the new doors. When I placed the order, I could have paid extra to have them professionally painted but I left them unfinished. Maybe it’s over the top, but I wanted the personal satisfaction of painting them myself, any color I wanted. I was still debating on what color I should paint them. White seemed too dull. Black was too deep. A wood finish, perhaps? I hoped the right color would make itself obvious and the scarlet hue from the past would dissolve into this new shade.

The doorbell chimed as I walked into the store, being instantly greeted by the familiar saleswoman. After I loaded the new doors into the back of my Honda, I asked her where I could browse the paints, exhilaration flowing through my veins.

"So, unfortunately because of the snowstorm, the truck that delivers our shipments has been delayed. The only paint we have in stock is orange, will that be okay?"

Read other articles by Emmy Jansen

Emmitsburg’s oft-forgotten story

Harry Scherer
Class of 2022

"All aboard!" shouts the streetcar conductor. His scream could hardly be heard above the noise of the bustling Main Street. Mothers and children rush in and out of shops in preparation for their Sunday meal. Men sit quietly smoking their pipes on small metal chairs outside of the local diner. This is the look and sound of Emmitsburg in 1885.

The Civil War still resides in the memory of many; for those who still remember it, everyone is happy that 20 years divides their current existence from the horrible time gone by. Now, they are content with the trappings of living in a major metropolitan city like Emmitsburg. There was significant material development in the town after the conclusion of the war. Men from Pennsylvania made the journey across the Mason-Dixon Line into Emmitsburg for easier procurement of hard liquor; the Quaker-inspired attitude toward spirits present during the commonwealth’s founding were as alive during the late 19th century as they are today. The mothers of Maryland found the produce in southern Pennsylvania to be less expensive and better quality, so their weekly trips often included a stop in Emmitsburg.

Some modern historians consider this boom in population and commerce to be a result of the interstate goodwill that was palpable after the war; other historians eagerly contest this theory. Some consider Emmitsburg’s growth came about because of the mountain tourism that was increasing at the time; few dispute this but many wonder whether the growth is only attributable to the increase in tourist fascination. The new theory that has begun cropping up in the circles that study Emmitsburg history is related to the story of America’s first bourbon distillery.

Few know this, but the town of Emmitsburg has quietly boasted its place as the motherland of American bourbon. Emmitsburgers have long been aware of Kentucky’s fallacious claim; start a conversation on this topic with a native of Emmitsburg and expect a long evening with a survey of creative profanities. The Emmitsburg boom after the war was to be expected by all those who were bourbon drinkers of the time; people had more money than they did before the war with which they could take advantage of Emmitsburg’s long-held supply of sweet corn nectar. But the story of bourbon’s roots goes back a century before this growth in alcoholic popularity.

Many remember the mayor of Emmitsburg from the late 18th century named John L. Boone. Mayor Boone was good friends with Maze Blanche, informal town leader of the then underdeveloped land of On-the-Bourb, Iowa; the eccentric name of the town came from a simple people who lived near a humble stream they called the Bourb. Shortly after his successful election, Blanche sent Mayor Boone a few oak buckets filled with ears of delicious Iowa corn; a skilled politician, sending a gift like this was a common occurrence for Blanche in order to extend diplomatic well-wishes and to indicate an air of cooperation.

The people of Emmitsburg were not particularly interested in eating the corn as it was; it was not an essential part of the quirky diet of northern Maryland. Mayor Boone started a task force. The first of its kind since his election, he was motivated and enthusiastic to see this task force produce forceful results. They needed to find a way to consume the corn and not insult the rising star of Iowa politics. Boone knew deep down that Iowa held deep political sway over national affairs, so he found the work of this task force to bear long-lasting ramifications over the state of the nation.

The men who made up the task force spoke with their wives and the answer was clear: distill the corn! They had seen rye whiskey made before, so they knew well how it was done. They were rarely impressed by the taste and texture of the rye and were convinced that they could produce a better product than the swill produced at the local stills. The task force was certain that they could create a mash made up of mostly corn, throw in some grain that they couldn’t use from the harvest and create a liquor that would become the envy of the Mason-Dixon line.

The task force offered clear recommendations to the mayor and, by extension, the members of the watchful town of Emmitsburg. They suggested that the town open a distillery at which they would create the mash, ferment it and after a few other steps age the liquid in charred oak barrels. The energetic men of the town were already in the habit of going up to the mountain and cutting down the tall oak trees for general use by the townies for firewood and other essential uses. The task force found it both economically and socially expedient to create some extra jobs for the time-rich members of the town to mold oak barrels for use in this process.

Mayor Boone and the town’s budding whiskey sommeliers were pleasantly surprised by the finished product. The liquid was sweet and sophisticated, rich in color and pleasant to the nose. It was good to drink with ice (not frozen from the Emmitsburg water supply, of course) or neat. The task force was proud of the spirit and the town that made it.

One night, with the people of Emmitsburg crowded on Main Street, Mayor Boone said with his typical eloquence, "You all have done this town a great service. With our time, we have realized our talents. With our talents, we have found our treasures. Now, it is time to share these treasures with the world! What will we call this treasure that has just met our lips?" A thoughtful people, filled with gratitude, shouted out in a loud and unified voice, "Bourbon, we will call it! Bourbon! To thank Maze and his people On-the-Bourb, we will name this spirit in their honor."

In these words, we find the rarely told story of Emmitsburg and bourbon to be passed along from generation to generation.

Read other articles by Harry Scherer

The truth behind the Twinkie

Angela Guiao
Class of 2021

"Did you buy twinkies?"

I groaned. This couldn’t be real. I was dreaming. Though why I was dreaming of him… I roll over in my bed and pull my pillow over my head.

I felt someone tug the covers off my body. Great. Now my feet are cold.

"Hey, did you buy twinkies?"

I take a deep breath. I open my eyes slowly. Everything is blurry. I need my glasses. I can make out the general shape of my college roommate/best friend’s angular face. His bright red hair glittering from the sunlight seeping in through the window. His face a blob of pale ivory, light brown and blue. I grab my glasses. His freckles come into focus, and I can see his bright blue eyes staring back at me.

"What do you want?" I snap.

"The twinkies. Did you buy the twinkies?"

I glance at my alarm clock. It’s 5 in the morning. My blood begins to boil.

"We aren’t supposed to leave until late this afternoon," I growl.

"I know. But I just want to make sure you don’t forget to buy the twinkies. I can’t survive a day without twinkies," he jumps onto the end of my bed and starts picking at his nails.

I groan. I guess it’s time to get up. My back hurts. I stretch.

"Also, don’t forget to bring water. And pillows. You should also bring a blanket just in case it gets cold. Do you think we should bring more food? We could probably stop by somewhere to eat. "He continues to ramble. He loves rambling. I block him out. I drag myself out of bed and to our shared mini fridge. I need some water. It’ll wake me up.

I open the fridge door, and it’s empty. I huff.

"What happened to all the food I bought?" I grumble. He doesn’t hear me.

"Can we stop by the Grand Canyon? How about the Empire State Building? I hear Arizona is really close to New York." He is standing now, trailing behind me as I make my way to the bathroom.

I take a step on the cold tile floor. I shiver. I make my way back to my room, and I search my drawers for a pair of socks. I finally find some, but they don’t match. Whatever.

"I don’t think travel should take more than half a day."

I sigh. "We’re going to Washington. We won’t pass any of those places."

"Starbucks was created in Washington, I think. So was Amazon. At least that is what that girl in our business class said." He never stops talking.

I quickly pull on my socks and hurry my way to the bathroom. He keeps pace. Once I’m inside, I swiftly turn around, my arms blocking the entrance.

He knocks into me.

"Ouch," he says, rubbing his forehead.

I roll my eyes and shut the door in his face.

"Don’t forget the twinkies," he calls a few minutes later. After some shuffling, I hear the door to our room shut close.

I sigh a big breath of relief.

He’s been obsessed with taking a road trip to Washington. I didn’t want to go. Finals week was coming up, and I really needed to study. But honestly, I just really didn’t want to be stuck in the same car as him. He wouldn’t shut up about it though. He kept talking about it and talking about it, until I finally agreed. I don’t know why I thought he’d stop talking about it after I agreed because he just started talking about it even more, if that was possible.

I love him, but gosh he is annoying. He was my Freshman roommate. We were randomly put together and got along great, school wise. He kind of balances me out. He is bright and sparkly, and I never see him upset. He is one of those talented kids, the ones that get good grades without really trying.

I am the opposite. My hair is dull and black. My eyes are black. My skin is pale from never going outside. I get annoyed at everything, especially at him. But it doesn’t faze him. He still likes to spend time with me. Sometimes, I think he’s my best friend because I don’t have any other friends. But that’s not true. I just don’t have any friends that I regularly talk to or see.

I finish cleaning up and decide it’s time to start packing. I pull out the duffle bag I used to pack my clothes in when we moved in. As I sort through my clothes, I get really hungry. He ate all my food. He’s unbelievable.

I walk around a bit, trying to relax then I head over to the campus store and stock up on the things we need.

When I get back, I finally finish packing everything, and plop down on my bed. Maybe a few minutes of sleep before it’s time to leave.

Suddenly the door bangs open, and he comes striding in.

"It’s time to go!" he yells, running around the room, throwing his clothes into a plastic bag he found under his bed.

I take a deep breath.

"Come on," he calls, darting out of the room, "It’s time to go!"

I groan and grab my things. I follow him through the hallways and out of our building. We make our way to the parking lot, and he stops suddenly in his tracks.

"What’s wrong now?" I ask, puffing. He walks really fast.

"I forgot we don’t have a car," he said quietly.

"Are you kidding me?" I yell exasperatedly, plopping onto the ground. I am starting to get a little lightheaded.

"Hey, are you okay," it’s the girl from our business class. I forget her name.

"Yeah, I’m fine," I say, waving her away.

I turn to him, "You forget everything. You depend on me for everything," I spat.

"Who are you talking to?" It’s the girl again. She still hasn’t walked away.

"My roommate," I say.

She looks confused.

"There’s no one here but us," she says.

I look around. He’s standing right there. He shrugs.

"Here," she says, walking closer to me, "You’re probably just need something to eat. Does your head hurt?"

I nod.

She sits down beside me. "Eat this," she says.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out… a twinkie.

Read other articles by Angela Guiao

Read Past Editions of Four Years at the Mount