Bite Me Beaver

Dear Bite,

Dude…. this mask acne…. I can’t anymore. My chin hasn’t seen a breakout like this since the middle school days of bad patchy peach fuzz and a constant oil sheen over my face. The hell do I do? Look I know we’re all wearing masks 90% of the time but there’s gonna be at least a minute or two when someone’s gotta see this face and it may as well be pretty. 



Dear Maskne, 

All of us are going through the same exact thing, I promise you no one is going to judge you or your broken out face. My best advice is to take a trip to Walmart (as if you weren’t going to go this weekend already) and get yourself some CeraVe scrub and invest in a clear mask. As embarrassing as it may seem at least your peers will be able to see your shining face (and you’ll feel better too). 



Dear Bite,

With fall coming, so are my seasonal allergies. And the moment someone sneezes these days everyone dives for cover like it’s a war zone. What do I do when I sneeze in class and everyone thinks it’s corona?

-you know which dwarf I’d be 


Dear Sneezy,

Allergies suck, point blank period. I say that you hold in every single urge to sneeze until you explode. There may be another route where you just stop caring in class and sneeze until your heart’s content along with keeping a secret stash of Claritin in your backpack as well.



Dear Bite,

My roommates have been non-stop doing the WAP dance and it’s becoming a problem. In the car, in the dorm, through headphones on the way to class. Literally everywhere! I just  so empowered when I hear the Cardi B tell me she wants that Big Mac truck in that little garage. 

-WAP addict


Dear WAP addict,

As a fellow WAP addict I completely agree with your pain and frustration in regards to listening to that damn song all the time. I myself have managed to wean myself off of the song by listening to some Megan Thee Stallion (Captain Hook is a personal favorite). While still feeling empowered I get the thrill of  catchy words while not constantly hearing Cardi B on loop


Welcome to Our Horrible Advice Column, Bite-Me-Beaver

   Want to hear from Bite and get some (not so) DAM GOOD ADVICE? Write in to for a chance to hear back from a beaver that learned to type!

Dear Bite,

    The Rocky Horror table in the student center keeps trying to sell me edible dicks and vaginas. I really want to buy one but it makes me a little uncomfortable. How do I overcome my uncomfortableness?

-Scared Dickless

Dear Scared Dickless,

    Oh, you sweet summer child. Of course, you’re uncomfortable- instinctually you have to know that with one lick of those lollipops it’s all over for you. You think you’re just buying candy but before you know it, you’re not just back for more, but you look down to pull change from your pockets and you’re wearing fishnets and heels, and you can’t remember where you got them. You can’t run away because now you can only strut and shake that ass with every step. All you know is absolute pleasure. It’s called a cult classic for a reason. But seriously, buy the damn candy and give us money because we’re very poor and won’t know what to do with our weird, kinky selves if we don’t have a show. 


Dear Bite,

    My e-board underling quit out of nowhere without any word of warning and none of us have heard from them since. Do you think they’re dead? And if not, should I arrange that? 

-One of Many Dying Clubs

Dear Dying,

    I too struggle with object permanence and assume that once I can’t see my staff, they must be dead, because where else would they rather be than at my meetings with me yelling at them? I’d suggest starting a search party, but you might want to go straight for the funeral. You might think you’ll see them charging in, yelling, “I’m not dead!” but given the campus’s haunted reputation, it’s probably a ghost. If you throw a crucifix at them hard enough, the spirit should quiet down.

Dearest Readers,

I know you probably picked this up just to read the back page and then toss this paper somewhere (like multiple people have told me to my face. You know who you are), and that’s cool, I can’t force you open the paper and read the amazing stories inside that we spent literally hours on. But have you ever thought of maybe contributing to the supply that you demand and I don’t know… SENDING ME QUESTIONS? The email is RIGHT. THERE. Please. I don’t make this stuff up. Help a mean beaver out.

Welcome to Our Horrible Advice Column, Bite-Me-Beaver!

Dear Bite,

    My cat keeps waking me up by attacking my feet in the morning. Unfortunately, my immediate reaction is to kick due to being startled, knocking my poor cat off the bed. How do I stop this cruel instinctual vice?

-Toe-Smitten Kitten

Dear Toe-Smitten,

    Look dude, my first instinct is to kick anyone who’s got a thing for feet too. Which clearly your cat does. The answer here is to kink-shame your cat into repressing its urge to go after your feet. When a guy at The Roost grabbed my foot out of nowhere, I threatened to skin him alive and that seemed to do the trick. 


Dear Bite,

    So during that last fire alarm debacle in FAB, one of the alarms went off while my boyfriend and I were mid-action. And I guess my question is, would it be bad to finish before we leave if that ever happens again?

-Coming and Going

Dear Coming and Going,

    Are you trying to say that you engage in the pre-marital frickle-frackle on my morally pure campus? You heathens. Finish or don’t, that’s up to you, but whatever you decide might mean that more than just the building is burning. 


Hey you…

   Bite’s going to a farm upstate at the end of this semester. . . Yeah that’s right, this Bite is getting kicked to the curb (graduating) and now we need a new one.

   Do you have a problem containing your scathing sarcasm? Do you have an uncanny to make any situation so much worse if only for the sake of being the mistress or master of chaos? Do you have just enough undue arrogance to think you can take over this terrible advice column and steer campus readers wrong a few times a semester? If so, you should come to a Flyer staff meeting in Roberts 010 on Monday’s at 12:15 p.m. or email to show your interest. Please for the love of everything good in this world, try it out. We’re vaguely (really) desperate.

Bite-Me-Beaver: Welcome to our Horrible Advice Column

Dear Bite, 

    My work friends and I have been getting together for True American game nights and we usually host it at my place. But now they assume every Saturday will be a game night and they’re inviting people who I don’t know well enough to want in my apartment. How do I explain that, while I don’t mind hosting games, I need them to stop setting the date, spreading the word, and inviting other people without my say so?

-Don’t make yourself THAT at home.

Dear home,

    Your coworkers need a sense of what it’s like to find uninvited friends in their home. Try surprising them in the middle of the night and whispering, “Let’s play a game,” over their sleeping form. Bring friends to liven the party, or some nice strangers to be adventurous. For extra surprise, you can all wear fun masks- don’t worry about major horror franchises that could turn this to nightmare fuel. 

Dear Bite,

    I’m Editor in Chief of the Flyer and though I love journalism . . . I also want to tear my hair out. When eight hours of editing isn’t draining enough, the Flyer attracts more drama than you’d think a peasant student paper could- between Title IX reporting, angry readers, and being severely understaffed, I’m up to my eyeballs in paperwork, edits, and emails. I’m also an unofficial TA for the journalism class and the students. . .they test me (guys, I love you, but when for five out of five issues you send PDFs or Word docs, not Google docs like I beg for, I make angry editor noises). How am I supposed to make next semester more survivable? Telling the journalism class I’ll eat their legs has put a little fear into them, but not enough.

    And to everyone asking who writes this column, it’s definitely not me sorry I have no idea.

-This Final Issue Felt Like My Final Breath (Darby Murnane, Editor in Chief and President of the Farmington Flyer)

Dear Final Breath,

    Clearly someone isn’t ruling with an iron fist. There won’t be any paperwork if you just set it on fire. You can rule over the flames from a throne of Flyers and spell your next headline in the ashes. As for angry readers and students who don’t listen, they can use their complaints and PDFs for the kindling. Though, if you do go with the leg-eating, I hear they’re great with a little paprika.

Bite-Me-Beaver: Welcome to our Horrible Advice Column

Dear Bite,

    I teach classes that often focus on women’s studies and feminism. In the past I have been told that maybe I should teach fewer texts about women and that my classes would be better if I wasn’t a feminist. What should I do? How should I respond?

-Feminist Professor

Dear Feminist,

    Wow, they sound pretty grumpy over your curriculum. If they smiled more they’d have a better outlook on life–and everyone else’s that they’re trying to manage. Has this time of the month been hard on them? Maybe their place just isn’t in the classroom. If they have any domestic skills, you should encourage this person to try them, you know, out of the goodness of your heart. Because you’re a nice professor.


Dear Bite,

    As my students know, I’m a die-hard follower of the Cleveland Browns football team. Yet, my Brownies do nothing but lose and fill my life with immeasurable sadness. I’m not sure that my heart can withstand being broken every Sunday, and I’ve begun to doubt my loyalty. Should I remain faithful despite the constant sorrow, or is it finally time to become a New England Patriots fan?

-Steven B. Wenz, Assistant Professor of Spanish

Dear Professor Wenz,

    Careful with your talk about loyalty. As soon as the locals hear your doubt, that’s when they get you. It starts with a casual, “Go Patriots,” muttered under the breath as you pass by. Before you know it, you’re waking up in a Brady jersey and you don’t remember how you got it. By the time the Super Bowl arrives you’ll know nothing but the glare of the sun on New England snow and a call towards red on navy blue. Ohio will mean nothing to you. Don’t bother trying to run. It’s The Way Life Should Be.