Latest Issue
Volume 33, Issue 1:
The HEURISTIC! Squelch

Volume 13, Issue 6: Derek Yu-Goldberg

The Ultimate Guide To Cal

All the Rules You’ll Ever Need Here

2004 is here, and my graduation is near. As I look back at my four fantastical years here at Cal, I think about all the important li’l bits of knowledge I’ve picked up that served me so well in my last couple of years. So, as a service to all of you who still have years to come, here’re some gems that will help y’all in the future.

DON’T TELL ANYONE YOUR BEARFACTS PASSWORD! If you do people might look at your grades. Don’t even think about losing your Telebears pin number, cause I’ll clear out your bank account and steal your girlfriend.

Buy multiple Cal-related hooded sweatshirts. You want to fit in, don’t you? Why bother getting “dressed up” for class when you can just “get up” for class. Nobody will know you slept in that same outfit.

Do not throw parties in your dorm room; all your shit will get fucked up. Throw them in your hallways instead. Just remember: the garbage chute is not a toy.

Accept suspicious drinks from strange dudes at frat parties, and then quickly bring them to me for consumption. Mystery drinks are my favorite.

Get your class pass. Why walk around Telegraph with all the homeless and beggars when you can drive around with them in close quarters.

Become a poli sci major. Feel important but remain unemployed.

Bring a blue book to your finals. Without it, you’ll have to “break glass in case of emergency.” (Like the idiot who pulled the fire alarm for a fucking Nutri-Sci 10 midterm last year, you motherfucking dumb shit. I could have passed that midterm with my eyes gouged out.)

You will not “find yourself,” Although you may find me, naked on the 3rd floor of Eshleman.

You will at first like the Squelch, then turn bitter with old age and complain that it was better when you were a freshman.

Fill bottle with two parts vodka, one part orange juice, and one part Sprite. Conceal near genitals and proceed to Cal football game.

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees, mix pot and butter in a bowl and fold in brownie mix. Place good times into oven.

If you’re an Asian, prepare to be called a racist. If you’re black, prepare to be called a racist. If you’re white, you’re probably already prepared.

The Several Lost Diaries of Kaiser Wilhelm II

King of Prussia and Emperor of the Federated German States

January 19, 1871

Grandpa Wilhelm was crowned Emperor yesterday. I’ve spent the last fourteen hours crossing “Prussia” off his royal letterhead and replacing it with “Germany.” He told me it builds character. Unified German character.

November 18, 1890

After firing Chancellor Bismarck, I went through his desk. He left behind some pretty cool stuff: the parts of Germany still unaccounted for, a jar full of Napoleon III’s tears, several large pheasants, and a five-page pamphlet on how to beat France.

December 18, 1895

I was chastised by my cabinet today for not setting a strong enough example of German virtue for my people, so today I’ve vowed to cease defecating.

March 15, 1897

Argued over telegram today with my cousin-grandmother Victoria as to who was more anemic. Turns out it’s me. As a result, my doctor has me eating ten nails a day.

January 1, 1900

Fired my “Commission on the Y1.9K Mechanical Counting-Machine Bug” after their predictions that dirigible-balloons would fall out of the sky and millions would spontaneously die of consumption upon the Turn of the Century proved false.

June 28, 1914

Well I’ve finally done it this time. You make one drunken promise of mutual military defense to the emperor of Austria-Hungary and it blows up in your face. Or it blows up Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s face. Oh snap!

August 22, 1915

Thank God the Jews are funding the Great War. In exchange, I’ve promised them Germany’s undying gratitude. Hopefully, I won’t be forced to abdicate by victorious Allied Powers. Not that that’s going to happen or anything. Just sayin’.

January 16, 1917

Ordered Foreign Secretary Zimmerman to send a telegram to the Mexican head of state asking him for his killer menudo recipe. I do hope Zimmerman got the updated Imperial Army codebook.

November 9, 1918

Little do they know, the Netherlands have a lower tax rate anyway. Score one for Wilhelm!

November 11, 1918

Not much happened today. Nope, not a thing.

July 11, 1933

Wrote a missive to Chancellor Hitler today:

_”Dear Adolf-I’ve come to understand your desires to restore the monarchy. I would just like to assure you that I’ve kept the Hohenzollern family jewels and regalia well maintained. Each morning I rise at 5:00 and polish the Crown of Brandenburg. The next seven hours are spent standing in front of a mirror dressed in the Imperial Robes and sobbing gently. I then break for tea and take my anemia medication. I then resume sobbing until Amos ‘n’ Andy comes on the radio. _

Yours sincerely,

Wilhelm”

July 1, 1934

Turns out I was way off on the whole “restore the monarchy thing.” Hitler actually meant “seize total control of Germany and murder all political opposition.” Exiled to the Netherlands? More like protected from that nut job wacko in the Netherlands. Score two for Wilhelm!

June 4, 1941

Today I plan to die quietly in my sleep.

Disneyland: The Deadliest Place on Earth

Guy Falls Off Tom Sawyer Raft and Dies

Chances are, if you fall off a slow-moving simulated raft ride into a shallow mock river and die, you just weren’t meant to be here in the first place. The “river” that this human pinnacle drowned in was what, maybe four feet deep? That’s a goddamn Koi pond. One can only wonder how this guy took a bath or rode an escalator without meeting any of several humiliating and hilarious demises. Or maybe this:

Commissioner: So Chief, what’s the official cause of death?
Chief of Police: Well, the subject was riding his safety tricycle down a hill when he forgot how to pedal.
Commissioner: Right.
Chief: So he crashes right into this large pile of soft, goose-down pillows. And then dies.
Commissioner: But how–
Chief: He tried to see how many pillows he could fit into his mouth at once.
Commissioner: …
Chief: It was one.

Bee Infestation of Honey Popcorn Stand

You just paid four-fifty to shut your kids the hell up and instead you get a mouthful of insects pissed off that you’re trying to eat them. Life couldn’t get much worse than that unless you also bought the Disney electric crotch-warmer that was actually an angry bear. Still, putting bees in people’s pieholes is better than Disney’s first idea: Mexican candy. Tamarindo my ass. That stuff tastes like bees fighting each other with futuristic laser kill rays, all in the battle-death-dome that is your mouth.

Michael Eisner

As CEO, Mr. Eisner has overseen some of the most successful Disney films of all time: let’s see, there’s Atlantis, and Mulan, and… uh… Brother Bear. It’s even rumored that the next film Eisner has greenlighted is called Forty Straight Minutes of A Guy Shitting Into His Own Hat. At least it’ll make more than Treasure Planet.

Tigger Molestation

As much as human instinct tells you to trust costumed seven-foot tall cartoon characters portrayed by ex-felons, don’t. Apparently, people wearing masks commit crimes. Recently, a 13 year-old and her mother were fondled by a man in a Tigger costume. Way to break the law, retard. You’re bright orange and horizontally striped. Yeah, who’s gonna notice a giant traffic cone getting away? You’re like a ninja made of mist, you are. You can hear it now: “The wonderful thing about Tiggers is that I’m the only one… in jail.”

Guy Climbs Out of Splash Mountain and Dies

Most things in life don’t come with warning labels. No one ever told me not to have sex with powerlines, but through the magic of my brain, I somehow know it’s a bad idea. But what about the times that someone repeatedly warns you not to do something? How come someone always does it? When you get on Splash Mountain, they tell you many times not to get out of the ride. Did this guy think that was a dare? Someone should have dared his pregnant mother not to jump down a flight of stairs. Regardless, he climbed out of the ride halfway through and was hit by a log flume. The coroner’s report read as follows: “HAHA HAHA HAHA DUMBASS HAHAHA. WAY TO SUCK AT LIVING.”

Hobbit Losers

Name: Hobo
Problem: Homelessness

GANDALF: Hurry Hobo, the Ringwraiths are coming! You must leave the Shire at once! Take the ring and go to the town of Bree. I will meet you there.
HOBO: Ring? Man, I done traded it to some darkies for these wooly mittens.
GANDALF: [Despairingly.] Then all is lost.

Name: Ch+A|do
Problem: Penis is shorter than it is wide

ELROND: The purpose of this council is to choose a ring-bearer who will carry the One Ring of Power into Mordor and destroy it in the fires of Mount Doom. What man among us is courageous enough to bear this heavy burden, which will most likely claim his life and the lives of everyone he loves?
CH+ADO: My wiener looks like the top of a muffin.

Name: Rainbo
Problem: Slightly “odd.”

GANDALF: [Bursting in.] The ring! Is it safe?! Is it secre–say, are those vinyl chaps?

Name: Hippo
Problem: Hunger

SAM: We’re almost at Mount Doom, Mister Hippo.
[A Nazg++l flies overhead.]
NAZG+AcL: Curses! I’ve just dropped all of Sauron’s Amazingly Evil Small White Plastic Balls of Doom. Whatever shall I do?[Balls begin falling near Hippo and Sam.]
HIPPO: Don’t worry Sam! I will lie down on the ground, remove the lower half of my jaw, and have a child between the ages of three and six jam his hand repeatedly into the small of my back so that I can consume more of these little white balls than anyone else . . . although it means my doom.
SAM: [Tearfully.] From Milton Bradley.

Name: Shlomo
Problem: He’s a fucking Jew

SHLOMO: Sam, I’m so hungry. What do we have to eat?
SAM: Well, we have lembas bread. Lots and lots of lembas bread. Flat, tasteless lembas bread.
SHLOMO: God I hate Passover.

The 1944 Olympics

DANFORTH: Welcome to the 1944 Olympics! We’re coming to you live from the Olympics that no one thought would ever happen. While most of the World’s more impressive atheletes are currently vaulting over landmines, kayaking past enemy positions, and Greco-Roman wrestling Fascism, we’ve managed to bring together the best of the rest.

CLARK: That’s right, Danforth. We’ll never know where the idea of a worldwide battle for the glory of country got started, but it hasn’t stopped the Olympics.

DANFORTH: Well-said, Clark. And now the atheletes are marching into the arena under their flags. The Americans, British, and Canadians are storming the field.

CLARK: Interesting fact, Danforth: in fifty years no one in America will remember that the Canadians were involved, despite the vital role they played in defending the left flank.

DANFORTH: Of the atheletes.

CLARK: Of the atheletes, right.

DANFORTH: Now the Germans are entering the field. Oh, and the first bit of drama has erupted as the Polish team members have slipped away from the Germans and united under their own flag! They’re cheering and… oh… looks like the Russian team has just absorbed them.

CLARK: Definitely a moment to remember. Bringing up the rear is the Israeli team, marching proudly into the stands where they’ll be for the next four years until they get their own country.

DANFORTH: Coming up is our first event, the 400 meter relay. They’re lining up… and they’re off. It’s the German team with an early lead, followed by the Italians on a leash, and the British team badly trailing despite the Americans giving PowerBars to them. The Americans are trying to stick to the outside but OHHHHHH… the Japanese have come out from nowhere and clotheslined them!

CLARK: The Japanese were pretty clearly on the move. You have to wonder if the American coach saw that one coming, Danforth.

DANFORTH: Well, it’s really motivated the Americans, as they’re moving up to first.. neck and neck with the Germans… and the Russian team is a steady third despite having only one leg between them and wearing turnips for shoes… we’re approaching the finish line… it’s going to be close.. and YES! THE COSTA RICAN TEAM HAS COME OUT OF NOWHERE TO WIN!

CLARK: That really reminds you that this is a contest of individual atheletes, and not an elaborate metaphor for world events.

DANFORTH: Next up is the 200 meter dash. It’s Jesse Owens versus yet another batch of big blonde Aryan guys…. and Owens has utterly left them in the dust.

CLARK: Having already made his point about racial stereotypes in the 1936 Olympics, it’s hard to deny that Owens is just rubbing it in at this point.

DANFORTH: That’s it for today. Come back tomorrow for men’s gymnastics, which will be performed by women for the duration of the war.

CLARK: I’m sure they’re looking forward to baking pot roasts again instead of baking powerful symbols for women’s empowerment, eh Danforth?

DANFORTH: You’ve got that right Clark. See you tomorrow, world!

Freshman Carefully Crafts “Male Slut” Reputation

According to the floormates of Kole Tammar, the Unit 2 freshman has been dropping increasingly obvious hints into casual conversation that he is, in actuality, a male slut that is willing to engage in no-strings-attached, sport-fucking type sex with female co-eds.

“I figure, what the heck, it’s college and girls just want to have some fun,” explained Tammar. “And don’t relationships suck? Way too much work,” he awkwardly segued.

Friends have noticed the change in recent months. “He used to be kinda quiet at parties, but now it’s totally different,” noted roommate Dan Ford. “Now he cruises up to girls and he’s all, ‘Hey, my name’s Kole. Maybe you’ve heard of me. From your girlfriends. Whom I might have had casual sex with.’ I even saw him purposely drop a condom at a party one time. He’s all, ‘Oops.’ What a tard.”

Tammar plans to continue on his path to creating a reputation for fun, purely sexual relationships. He mused, “If that doesn’t work, maybe I’ll just write a thinly-veiled allusion in the guise of a news report in the campus humor publication.”

Adventures in Laundry

Quarters, Detergent, and Crazies–The True Story

On a lonely and mildly pathetic Saturday in Berkeley, I decided to embark on a mini-adventure to the local laundromat. The following is a true recounting of my experience that night, a tale that I offer with a warning label: “do not insert into ear canal.” In other words, “Beware the laundromat at night. Only the strong survive.”

8 P.M. Armed with my unwieldy pink hamper, a box of powder detergent, quarters, and reading materials, I enter the laundromat. I successfully load the clothes and send them on their way to the Land of Undirty. I sit down on one of a dozen empty benches and begin reading.

8:12 P.M. Homeless man on crazy drugs staggers into the laundromat and, despite the fact that there are at least ten empty benches in the place, plants himself as close to me as humanly possible. He proceeds to turn and stare at me. For no apparent reason, he begins laughing uncontrollably. I become slightly uncomfortable. And slightly offended.

8:13 P.M. Not amused, I opt to get away from Mr. Chuckles and proceed to stand next to the washing machine for the remainder of the wash.

8:20 P.M. I move clothes to the dryer. Woman with dredlocks next to me blows her nose into a t-shirt she just washed. I stifle gag reflex.

8:25 P.M. I watch the laundromat worker pull a huge wad of lint out of a massive lint trap. I consider the possibility of a sweater made of lint. Assuming that such a sweater would be possible to produce, I contemplate the fate of said sweater if washed and then placed into a dryer.

8:45 P.M. Aforementioned worker decides to mop the floor with sewage water. But only in front of the dryer I’m using. But, of course.

9:00 P.M. Clothes dry. En route from the dryer to my laundry hamper, socks and underwear fall in sewage water.

9:15 P.M. I arrive home, only to discover that my detergent has spilled all over my clothes and the inside of my trunk. I frantically shake every article of clothing to remove the white powder. I proceed to get detergent all over the floor of the apartment parking lot.

9:30 P.M. I roll up my jeans and carry water in a mixing bowl down to the parking lot so that I can clean the floor. I spill water all over my shirt. Still trying to de-powderize the trunk of my car, I lift up the flap of material that covers the spare tire in my trunk. Detergent flies from the trunk into my face and my mouth. I foam at the mouth.

9:45 P.M. I return to my apartment, disheartened and flustered. With my sudsy mouth, wet shirt, and rolled pants, I look like a rabid, lactating pirate.

The outcome: my clothes are not as clean as I would like them to be, my “clean” underwear feel like a bathing suit after a day at the beach when the sand rides up your buttcrack, and I have lost all dignity. The moral: do your laundry during the day, use liquid detergent, and eat your vegetables. That’s all I ask of you.

Radio Host Reveals Loneliness on Air

Hoight Smith, radio host for 90.7 classical FM, exposed his social destitution on air early Monday morning when speaking about an upcoming promotional soiree. “It’s always so fun to have that party every year,” Smith mentioned whimsically. “Lots of people, lots of fun….” Smith then trailed off, leaving only dead air tainted with the soft tapping of a nervous foot permeating through the airwaves.

Egg Donor Ad Way Too Specific

Berkeley women interested in giving the gift of life to a childless couple in exchange for cold hard cash were upset Friday to find the Daily Californian’s latest egg donor ad impossible to satisfy. The ad read as follows:

“Loving couple seeks egg of double-jointed half-Indian/half-Irish woman able to ovulate on command. Must have SAT score between 1491 and 1499. ACT scores not accepted.

“Must be in my History 7b discussion group and must share a first name with a famous brand of fruit. Should not eat parsley or enjoy water sports during ovulation.”

When asked if she would respond to the ad, Chiquita “Blackfoot” O’Leary cracked one of her many joints and then remarked, “Nah, they’d never pick me.”