Learning Day: The Brooke Book (Patreon)

It’s been a long week, so here’s an extra cursed relic. Two, in fact. Like many problems, they’re from Princeton.

The hunger strike’s a glitch: Princeton seeks a type. The book Excellent Sheep coined the phrase “excellent sheep,” and that’s rough on sheep. A herd, left alone, might have an idea. Few intern at McKinsey, min-maxing sweatshops for summer credit. Ideal recruits are closer to soldier ants. Though ants never resegregated the federal government.

I’m unbiased.

Despite school policy, some ideas sneak through. Princeton’s humor magazine reinvented mass backlash in 1983, beta-testing the fire in your other tabs. They read handwritten hate mail, took death threats on landlines, and wrote non-apologies on Apple IIs. Until a proxy war with Moscow broke out. History’s a spoiler.

Specifically, The Princeton Tiger wrote an entire issue about incoming student/movie star/human sacrifice Brooke Shields. Better known as The Brooke Book. Not to be confused with Brooke’s book The Brooke Book, the first book by Brooke.

It could’ve gone better.

This headline pairing threw me. A college prank beside Reagan’s shooter. My predecessor, next to a Princeton comedian. Shitshows this pure only come once a week.

The timing didn’t help: a non-famous woman was already suing the frats eating clubs, an unrelated porn stunt was mid-shitstorm (hold that thought), and Brooke’s approach made admin salivate and dorks fume. Here’s a meta-conniption from the student paper:

A tempting target, especially if you’d heard of consequences but never seen them live. Per lore, the Brooke Book combined an acid tone, shock rap rebellion, and celebrity chatter. The midpoint of The Day the Laughter Died and Deuxmoi.

I heard about it in my grazing days. First, an intelligent drunk described a national circus. I called bullshit. Later, a sober idiot said it escalated to student comedians on CBS and NBC. Again, bullshit. Finally, someone without tiger tattoos said it ended in a mock-carpet bombing.

Bullshit. Very specific bullshit, with dates, and names, and Google results. A Brooke Book existed, crammed with tasteless jokes by Illuminati trainees about their A-List classmate.

I wanted it.

I needed it.

And hunted it for ten years like Sauron’s jewelry box. A forty-year-old stunt, aggressively shredded by people richer than California. Especially after the story hit a local rag:

I didn’t recognize the Post without puns either.

The yellow snowball rolled downhill: reporters found prank fallout more fun than nuclear standoffs. Coverage highlighted censorship and misogyny, due to all the censorship and misogyny. Staining Princeton’s image as Brown for Klansmen.

For all the surviving cold takes and PR jousting, the magazine eluded me. The generation gap felt tangible; I could find anyone’s nudes for free, even if they didn’t exist. But a famous stunt was vapor.

Desperation set in. The clock ticked towards a Beetleborgs Metallix recap. The trail was cold, my leads were hiding from the IRS, and Princeton media relations said to eat shit. Thirty hours into Tears of the Kingdom, I’d built a functional Gundam.

It’s an old story. Learning to let go. Accepting that time’s stronger than human drive or dick jokes. Taking the world as it is, and becoming a real adult.

But I’m a premium sheep. I’ve found two Brooke Books, and a pyramid tattoo on my forehead. Focus on the magazines. It’s time for vintage dick jokes.

Player One, Brooke Shields, needs no introduction. Unless you’re me, and your 1980s sex idol is Tiger Mask. I watched four movies for context. And an episode of Hannah Montana where Brooke plays Miley’s mom during a near-death fever dream. That almost became the article.

In case you’re also new to Earth: Brooke was a national sex symbol, which is fun at thirty, traumatizing at eighteen, and illegal at twelve. To condense a decade of collective moral failure: Brooke found early success. Take the arc of a Spears or Fox, subtract six years, and you’ll know why her Mom’s not in heaven.

Ten? Two years below my joke number? And she lost? No wonder searching “Banned Brooke Shields magazine” got me probation. Good thing this doesn’t overlap with the Brooke Book, or–

Oof.

Brooke also sold jeans:

Player Two, The Princeton Tiger, is a college humor (remember smiling?) magazine. The third oldest, per sources calling Wilson a friend to all colors. They’d just celebrated their hundredth anniversary, so hopefully nothing bad happens.

Tiger trains think tank cut-ups, people that never write again, speechwriters for the worst senators, Jim Lee somehow, and killjoys like Fitzgerald that whine about honor roll daycare years after–oh. Shit. Let’s skip that bit of introspection. Anyway, it’s the local National Lampoon clone.

There’s not one Brooke Book, but two. A draft deemed too crass for print, and a pared-down, committee-approved issue. The draft has a better cover:

Strong start for Defamation 1.0. There’s hope for the Lannisters yet. The first article–is that Playboy?

An empire advertising in student jokebooks. Another era. I guess publishing’s lucrative when godless joy vampires don’t own human communication. But bunny ears, teehee! We have such fun today, despite the godless joy vampires. What was that strike over? Can I donate directly to Meta?

Godless joy vampires aside, I see the fit. Education prepares you for what’s next. Repressed students and tourist strip clubs belong together, just like desperate consultants and dancers cashing out. Ideal synergy.

That’s the second biggest advertiser.

Budweiser! Warping oil heirs before Kid Rock could shield them. Devious. This must be what got the draft binned. I shouldn’t have assumed teenage clowns might do something nutty.

That said, I’m just guessing at sponsor size. I can’t afford Forbes’ corporate tier lists.

.

Alright, I’m in. Half the S&P 500 cosigned The Brooke Book–anything wrong with it is wrong with America. Let’s see how 1983 ripped it. No gods, kings, or SEO. Everything that lands gets a point.

Pretty clear-eyed. Maybe everyone does the right thing and nothing insane happens. You know, our specialty. One point.

Fun. Nothing you should write about the CPS case down the hall, but sane bullying. This seems more “homecoming fistfight” than “national fuckstorm.” By eighties standards for teen alcoholics, we’re crushing it. Two points.

A bad trip through a Hollywood filter. A bit high-concept: fancy schools should teach you to make simple, relatable jokes. Still, three points.

In case your eyes kick less ass than mine: a Brooke cosplayer’s humping a statue. Deeply stupid. In fact, this might be a decoy. Brooke’s lawyer was busy elsewhere, and this begs to be ignored. We’re back down to two.

A style parody! There we go. More Weird Al, less Normal Locker Room. Vincent Canby was the NYT film coroner at the time, so there are plenty of sane directions. Impressive–at that age, I’d go edgier than a Jacobin verdict.

That feeling? Sensing danger, without knowing its shape? Now you understand Spider-Man. Everything warning ahead.

It’s a feature-length rape joke. Or, if you’re a powerhouse Princeton attorney, wry pastiche of campus culture.

I have an edge, but these articles go out around breakfast. And it goes on. So we’ll jump to a reality-warping pun. See if you can find the problem:

I’ll skip ethics. Why make this lawsuit a handicap match? Brooke’s lawyer already wants a comeback win. Adding Robert Redford’s team stitches another zero to the settlement.

Structure gets all the forethought our concept doesn’t. The title’s promise is fulfilled:

That last bit isn’t random–Stanley Kubrick takes heavy fire throughout. Those lines work, and are a mistake. Printable thoughts make the Irreversible core harder to defend.

Our final score’s -19, which fits Princeton pretty well. For every Jim Lee, there’s a Cruz or Serpentor.

That’s enough of how 1983 ripped it. For two small-print pages. And enough for Tiger’s alumni board to say “reconsider.” They slashed everything above and went back to tranq-free eighties cocaine. Withdrawal averted. But trouble brewed for stimulant fans, and Tiger.

The new cover set a tone:

That’s not me playing with Photoshop. The martyrs’ edit emerged in days, channeling standup specials from the future. Ignore anyone pretending the Punchline Wars started last week. Juvenal got backlash before juvenile was a word. George Schuyler went from Bernie Sanders to Clarence Thomas before they could sit together. And I’ll retire doubling down on anti-mutant hate speech.

Aside from ever-loyal Playboy, the revised Brooke Book’s thin on ads and articles. Here’s the new feature, screened for controversy:

That’s not gonna work out.

That’s really not gonna work out.

Bizzarro think this am end well.

It’s a light edit of the original’s third raunchiest riff. Our new subject’s “Brook Shell.” Kind of like me saying NotEric UnAdams should be in reverse jail. With careful work, you’ll find my real message. Plus a hint of wish fulfillment.

Even without rape jokes, the final—

Even with shorter rape jokes, the final Brooke Book drew fire. It’s white belt PR judo now, but doubling down was still fresh. Takes flew across landlines until senior Tiger staff wound up on NBC and Diane Sawyer.

The footage is lost to network archives sucking. Every time megacorps change hands, Alexandria burns. There are more old-media versions of X than letters. Though most godless joy vampires made billions.

The grown folk, seeing their supporting role in the disaster, took the fall.

Okay, I lied for comedy. Students fit perfectly under buses. Elder Freemasons put on weight, and stuff their vests with NDAs. Never trust a committee.

Ice cold. And quarter-assed: the grown-ups let Brook Shell slip. Dozing off and then panicking is Tom and Daisy behavior. The acid trip and mock application were printable, especially in the year Revenge of the Nerds oozed out. They’d have fared better than the debate club’s screening of Debbie Does Dallas, a real event that exploded in the same month.

Maybe that’s judgy. They’re just a student jokebook’s babysitters. Besides, elder liches only get devious with money involved. Like Fitzgerald said, “Cash rules everything around me.”

Ah well.

That’s the Chinatown ending. Player Three—the house— wins. Quite the streak. But I wondered what the runners-up thought. So I asked.

First, I bashed out a draft to Shields, Inc.:

That didn’t feel like a winner. And we’ve learned a bit about revision today. Instead, I went with:

Her agent replied, which was unexpected. They actually asked Brooke Shields, which was far stranger. She declined, taking us back to reality. I’ll avenge this slight in Th3 Brook3 Book, in which Buckler Creek occupies Haiti, backs Poppa Doc, props up his son, bails, and shrugs at the results. Heinous.

Then I tried Player Two. Harassing alumni’s awkward, but there’s a standard procedure.

Their perspective: Princeton planted campus tension by burying student breakdowns (the mental health policy was/is “get fucked”), and armed it by chasing Hollywood. Then Tiger staff aimed for Animal House, and landed face-first. Teenage comedians didn’t have crisis managers yet, so the conflagration spread.

I’d have taken “we were drunk children,” but they’ve had time to think. And the context helps: Animal House fandom and institutional resentment explain the sequel stunt.

That’s a local paper. “S - - - S” was “sucks.” Can’t print that. There’s ground between Sesame Street and Debbie Does Dallas, but Princeton hasn’t found it.

I thought I understood non-apologies. You rent a webcam, block your PR team, grab your ukulele, and declare yourself the winner. Turns out I’m full of shit. Every planeless non-apology means nothing. If you don’t strafe your quad, you’ve all but said the forbidden word.

Anyway, then Grenada exploded and all this seemed less important. It could play out today, with half the time and twice the volume. Creative gaffes, atomic backlash, and Ivy cults haven’t improved. Neither have child actors’ parents.

Still, if every flamewar’s a rerun, at least we can adapt. A little. Maybe. Or at least think twice about milking students. I had gripes.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Benjamin Sairanen, the community college newspaper editor who published the Bronson Book that made Bronson Pinchot reconsider enrollment.

You can read this article and every other one on the much better in every way 1900HOTDOG.COM.