Satire: Rating Things in the Newsroom That Just Make Sense

As The Amherst Student prepares to say goodbye to its beloved newsroom in the basement of Morrow Dormitory — room 005 (we love you, you deeply haunted, mold-forward, ant-occupied, thermodynamically confusing little rectangular-ish shoebox) — we thought it was only right to take a moment to catalog the many, many things that we as editors have come to cherish about this space. 

By cherish, of course, we mean to develop a complicated emotional attachment to. There’s a smell very distinctive to the newsroom — of damp carpet, mold, ambition, and something legally classified as “organic growth.” There are the ants and silverfish that have seniority over most of the staff, and the climate control system that bravely resists our imposition of a comfortable space. There’s the way the bright blue walls speak to you at 2 a.m. and seem to absorb both sound and hope, the chairs that encourage posture typically associated with defeat, and the cold white lighting which can only be described as “interrogation adjacent.” And yet, despite — or perhaps because of — all this, room 005 has been ours: a place of our Tuesday late nights, questionable decisions, last-minute edits, and a kind of bonding that only occurs when you are collectively dodging ants. So before we hand over the keys and move to the new student center, we wanted to rate everything we have loved in the newsroom. 

The Vinegar — 8/10

It’s a gallon, naturally, and I’d say about one tenth of it has been used. At a whopping 6% acidity, this punchy substance is great for all of your most fundamental, most human needs. It’s branded as multipurpose, and when you hold the bottle, you really do believe that could be true. It could be a floor cleaner, a salad dressing, or a detergent. To me, your beloved Assistant Opinion Editor Syla Steinman ’29, vinegar is kind of like honey (though notably not to flies). It just seems too bright and zingy to ever expire, you know? Based on my thorough investigation of the copyright information, it was born in 2022. And according to the label, it would be at its best if used by December 12, 2024. Two years isn’t the worst. And I guess it can always be a decoration. 

The TV That Doesn’t Work —  4/10

“Yowza!” is what I imagine the electrons in Amherst’s wires say when they travel by our television. There’s a certain irony to the college experience — to some extent, it’s the transitional space between one’s childhood and one’s careerhood, and yet when I am on campus, I feel as though there is nothing but this hill. It exists as, ideally, a place where you are temporarily, but I feel my time here stretches out into permanence. I move, and I stagnate, I change, but only within rubber. Maybe to the bigwigs at Samsung, it’s better this way, but in the newsroom, it’s a TV that doesn’t turn on. 

The Newsroom Chronicle — 10/10

The Student is an institution built on the memory of a bunch of glorified children. And I don’t think it’s a bad thing — at least, not necessarily. I care about efficiency. I care about The Student. And most of all, I care about morale. Happy workers are ones whose jokes are preserved in Sharpie-as-amber-on-paper coating Draino™ blue walls. We write down memorable quotes from our colleagues such as: 

“I want to be more intimate with the mammoth” or “Hold up, I’m researching wh*res” They keep our nights alive. It’s stellar, honestly, and getting a quote “on the wall” as a newbie editor made me feel accepted as a part of this wonderful weekly process. 

The Box of Pads — 9/10

Periods exist, man. Get over it. 

The Cease and Desist Letter — Call Our Lawyer/10

There are many rites of passage at The Amherst Student. Your first production night. Your first typo. Your first time pretending you know AP Style. And then — inevitably — your first cease and desist letter.

We cannot say much. Not because we don’t want to, but because at this point we have been legally advised (by ourselves) to speak in a tone best described as “vague but trembling.” What we can say is that these letters arrive with surprising regularity, like unwanted subscriptions or emails from LinkedIn. 

Apparently — allegedly — some members of our staff have, at various points in history, used copyrighted images. Images that, according to these letters, now cost … money. The kind of money that makes our editors-in-chief suddenly develop a deep interest in intellectual property law.

At this point, the role of editor-in-chief has expanded. It is no longer just about leadership or vision. It is about skimming legal jargon and nodding slowly, as if you were born understanding phrases like “hereby demands” and “pursuant to applicable statutes.” It is about Googling the law firm in question and discovering that their entire online presence has the energy of ambulance chasers. 

Are they reputable? No. Are they aggressive? Yes. Are they, perhaps, a little too enthusiastic? Very much so. These are questions we ask ourselves as we consider whether we are about to fund someone’s third vacation home over a JPEG.

We delete. We replace. We learn, briefly, and then forget again. Student journalism is the pursuit of truth and occasionally learning the hard way that you cannot just right-click-save-image your way through the pursuit.

So the letters come. We read them. We panic. We become, for a few shining moments, the most legally literate people in the room.

And then we go back to editing.

Kendrick Lamar Poster — 8/10 

There is a poster of Kendrick Lamar in the newsroom. A carefully curated piece of propaganda from The Amherst Student’s most advanced era: the 2015 April Fools’ Day issue. And if you are new — and if you are tired, vulnerable, and perhaps three coffees deep and clinging to meaning — you will believe it. You will start reconstructing the scene. Kendrick, standing exactly where you are standing. Kendrick is leaning against the world’s least stable desk. Kendrick, looking around and thinking — what? Something profound, probably. Something Pulitzer Prize-adjacent. 

And then, like a beat drop you weren’t ready for, someone will say: April Fools. 

Humble yourself. Many an editor has experienced this exact arc: pride, wonder, delusion, collapse. We have all, at some point, gotten a little too excited, a little too certain, only to be reminded — sit down. Be humble. 

Unfortunately, Kendrick Lamar did not come here. But spiritually? He did. 

The Shakespeare Cutout — 6/10

Ol’ Willy watches us during our hardest moments. He chastises us, always, declaring that “Thou (The Student’s Editorial Board) hast not so much brain as earwax!” Editor-in-Chief Edwyn Choi ’27, who is a big fan of the Bard’s work (Have you read the hit classic, “Hamlet?”), has refused all of our requests for comment/explanation on this matter, so honestly, we’re a little bit lost here. If you’ve got any tips, Q or otherwise, then we would much appreciate them!

Disclaimer: We, based on the advice of medical professionals, do not condone the use of Q-Tips for cleaning one’s ears.

The Plaque(s) — 7.5/10

There are windows in our newsroom. We have actual windows, theoretically meant for light, air, perspective, etc., and we have windows inside our newsroom that go to another room. Resting on those windows are a series of deeply random plaques that seem to have materialized without explanation. One in particular reads: “The Offices of The Amherst Student of Amherst College honors David L. Moore ’78, who was the Advertising Manager, Managing Editor, and Co-Editor-in-Chief, 1975–1977. October 2002.”

We do not know who David L. Moore is. Is this who Moore Dormitory is named after? We do not know why he watches over us from the windowsill. We do not know what happened in October 2002 that necessitated this tribute. We do not even know if the plaque has always been there, or if it simply appeared one day, fully formed, like Athena from the head of Zeus, except significantly less discussed. What is certain is that the plaque exists. 

Now, as journalists, one might assume that our first instinct would be to investigate, to ask: Who is David L. Moore? What legacy did he leave behind? Why this plaque? Why here? Why angled specifically at a 17-degree tilt, as though it is judging us? But let’s be honest. Why would we do that when we could instead choose uncertainty? Because isn’t that, in many ways, the essence of both journalism and life? To sit with the unknown? To stare at a plaque honoring a man we have never googled and think, “Yes, this is enough, this is the story”? Not the facts, not the research, but the quiet, persistent confusion?

And so we continue working under its gaze, comforted and unsettled in equal measure, committed to the idea that not knowing is, in itself, a kind of knowing.

The Williams Record from Nov. 7, 2018 — -1.23 x 10^23/10

As we were doing our inventory of the newsroom, we regret to inform you that a copy of The Williams Record has been discovered in the newsroom. Yes, you read that correctly. A Williams newspaper. In this space. On our coffee table. Which raises several urgent and deeply troubling questions: Who authorized this? Who allowed this monstrosity to cross county lines? Was this an act of aggression? Psychological warfare? A test of our institutional resolve? Are we being baited?

We do not like Williams College. And more importantly, we do not want to read about what Williams is doing, thinking, or, frankly, feeling. Their words do not concern us. Their opinions do not move us. Their headlines? Irrelevant. Their layout? Suspicious. As a former Managing Design Editor, I (your super awesome Managing Opinion Caroline Flinn ’28) dislike it so incredibly much. And yet, here it is. Lurking. Watching us. Does it have some sort of high-tech camera equipment that can see us at all times?

In the big year of 2026, nearly 8 years after this newspaper was published and sent to us, we are considering several possible responses. Do we send one back, marked up in red pen like a particularly disappointing freshman op-ed? Do we annotate it with increasingly hostile marginalia? Do we simply return to sender with no note, letting the silence speak for itself? Or do we escalate — publish something so devastating, so incisive, so undeniably superior that it reasserts the natural order of things?

At present, no official retaliation has been confirmed by the Editorial Board. This is concerning, so believe me, it will be forthcoming. Until then, we remain vigilant. The fight, clearly, is not over.

Notably, it was published (if you can call what they do publishing) the day after both Assistant Opinion Editor Syla Steinman ’29 and Charles II Habsburg of Spain’s (the super inbred one, in case you didn’t know) birthdays. 

The Final Thing — 10/10

And that’s it. That’s the newsroom. There are a lot more odd things in here, but we must be finished. Objectively, this is not a place that should inspire loyalty. If you described it to an outsider, there would be concern, guaranteed. And yet, against all logic, all reason, and possibly several health codes, we are attached. 

Because something happens to you in this room. Your standards shift. Your sense of time dissolves. You start saying things like “I’ll just stay five more minutes,” and then it’s 3:14 a.m., and you’re eating something you found and defending a comma like it’s your child. You blink, and suddenly this room has seen more of you than most people ever will.

And now we’re supposed to just ... leave? Walk out like normal people? Into a building with working systems and breathable air? That’s actually crazy.

We would die for this newsroom.

If the newsroom said “stay,” we would not ask questions. If it said “sit,” we would sit. If it said nothing at all, we would still be here, because at this point, silence feels like a request.

So yes, we’re leaving. But if you come back next year and the lights are on, and there’s typing, and maybe just a faint, concerning noise — don’t worry about it.