In what is clearly the most important and shocking news event of the modern age, reporter Aaron Brownstein used an eye-catching, inflammatory headline to draw readers to this article, in which he tells you that he lost his keys last night. Call me if you find them.
A grossly hung-over and dangerously dehydrated Jesus woke up last weekend at a friend’s apartment and then attempted to rehydrate himself by transforming the party’s leftover wine back into water. Jesus had transformed the water into wine to impress chicks just the night before, but then realized his folly when he had no water to drink the next morning.
While lumbering through his friend’s house, Jesus also tried to turn the leftover pizza into pancakes, the puke on the floor into syrup, a couch cushion into a TV remote, and the fat, naked chick he woke up next to into Christy Turlington. He was only successful in transforming the puke.
He spent the rest of the morning eating slices of leftover pizza dipped in syrup.
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.”
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!
The popular Chapel Hill-based prog-rock outfit Octopod Blue created a stir on Tuesday with the release of its latest album, Mustachio Tapdance. The highly experimental recording contains no hidden track.
“The first time I heard it,” said Pitchfork editor-in-chief Ryan Schreiber, “I was like, ‘Wait, where’s the hidden track?’ But then it hit me: there isn’t one. Not one hidden track, or skit, or interlude, or bonus DVD. Since then, man, I’ve just had it on repeat nonstop.”
Amoeba Music clerk Geofrey Caruso offered similar acclaim. “We’ve had a lot of people coming in and returning the CD, saying it’s a ripoff and what have you. But, you know, that’s just the price of art. I think it’s gonna take five or ten years for the mainstream audience to really be ready for this record.”
Octopod Blue singer/lutist Damien Alvarez remains unfazed by the controversy. In a statement posted yesterday on the band’s website, he wrote: “We are about growth. And if that spirit of growth takes us to a place where we include only eleven songs on a CD that claims to have eleven songs, then so be it.”
For spring break, my roommate spent a week in Cancun. My best friend went to Cabo. My dog Max just stayed home, but at least he can fellate himself regularly. Alas, I’m not so lucky. I went to Hades. That’s right, the fucking land of the fucking dead. I meant to go to San Diego, but Southwest was running a deal.
Everyone knows that you need Charon the Ferryman of the Dead to get you into Hades. What I didn’t know was that he had no sense of humor.
Me: So, how much?
Charon: One silver coin. No Susan B. Anthonys allowed.
Me: Oh. [pays him] Oh hey, Charon?
Charon: Yes?
Me: Aren’t you going to say “domo arigato.”
Charon: If it weren’t for the fact that it’d mean I’d just have to talk to you again, I really would fucking kill you.
My first stop on my trip through Hades was Tartarus, that place reserved for the lowest of the low. With this reputation in mind, I was surprised to enter it and find Hitler and Johnny-Five, America’s favorite 80’s robot, playing a rousing game of miniature golf.
Me: Hey, what are you doing playing miniature golf in Hades?
Hitler: I am working for Herr Goldfarb, fishing balls out of the fake moat.
Me: Yeah, but what sort of punishment is that for you? You killed millions!
Hitler: The moat, it is pretty cold.
Johnny-Five: Johnny-Five putts…FOR THE WIN!
Me: Don’t you know how annoying and stupid it is to refer to yourself in the third-person? No wonder you’re in hell.
Johnny-Five: The colorful miniature windmill blades! They spin so fast that it’s impossible for Johnny-Five to make par.
Me: [Dramatic Pause] This truly is Hell!
The lustrous and majestic Elysian Fields stretched out in front of me for miles, blanketed with enough Astroturf to content even the greatest warriors and athletes of all time.
Me: Wow! Lou Gehrig! Is it true that you had 184 RBIs in a single year?
Lou Gehrig: [Drooling and lying on the ground.] Harumph bluh. Grrr.
Me: Really? DiMaggio was gay too? But he had so many women!
Lou Gehrig: [Soils self.]
After poking Lou with a stick for a while, I descended further and got to meet the main man himself.
Lord Hades: Tremble, puny mortal, for you are in the presence of the all-powerful Lord of the Underworld!
Me: That’s cool. So…how are letters to you addressed?
Hades: What?
Me: I mean, your name is Hades, and your address is Hades, so do people write “Hades Hades” on the envelopes?
Hades: We use a PO Box.
Me: Oh.
I know I was in Hades, but I took the wrong train and ended up in Dante’s Judeo-Christian conception of Hell. Here’s what happened:
Me: What’s the difference between the 5.1st Circle of Hell and the 5.2nd?
Bureaucratic Demon: The differences are many and complex: The 5.1st Circle of Hell uses a progressive income tax system, while the 5.2nd uses a flat-tax. 5.1 has better wheelchair access, but 5.2 is closer to the theater district.
Me: Yeah, but who cares about wheelchair access in–
Babe Ruth: Who wants to go get some whores? If the brothel’s got a wheelchair ramp maybe we can even get one for Gehrig.
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.
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.
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.
