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Squelch M.D.
Volume 12- Issue 5

Botanist’s Dream

March 1, 2003
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Ophrys bilunulata, the cunning seductive temptress of Central Europe, discloses her arching figure, velvety hair, and fragrant scent; twisting the palpating heart of the male Andrena flavipesi to such a wicked degree that the loins of A. flavipesi swelter and pulsate, diverting A. flavipesi from his scheduled flight and into the waiting appendages of O. bilunulata. There he is lost in a maze of bliss: poking and turning, rubbing and nudging, licking and humping. A. flavipesi loses all self-control. For him to stop now, an envious murderer must slit his throat. Their dance continues while O. bilunulata responds to his every whim, a true goddess of ecstasy. Then, in a few seconds, the deed is done. The legs of A. flavipesi, exhausted, buckle under his own weight. He rests upon his mistress, looking out across the green landscape, collects his thoughts, and continues upon his intended path.

We have just now remotely experienced the unbridled passion of a male honeybee ejaculating onto the petals of the “prostitute orchid,” as referred to by botanists. Thanks to thousands of years of co-evolution the “prostitute orchid” has successfully mimicked the seductive design and scent of the posterior region of the female honeybee, stinger not included, to encourage its own selfish repro-ductive goals. The male honeybee is the humble recipient of this Darwinian gift. While God gave Man the faculties of reason, he gave the male honeybee an inviting home in which to shove his pollen attracting willy.

I question the uniqueness of honeybee-floral relations, however. Should not all beasts have reciprocal floral receptacles to thrust within? To that, I answer with a resounding YES! Yet, my assertion catapults me to a lone island away from my comfortable circle of botanist friends, who fear such statements will turn “Botanic Academia” into a wretched playground of pine tree humpers.

Man deserves better. Dilapidated gym socks, overly delicate tissue paper, and motorized suction/filtration devices are objects of the past. The future of erotic self-stimulation rests within our gardens. My calls for reformation, however, are not a mandate to haphazardly sling our wangs into the wilderness. (Masochists should be kept at bay.) The movement for hominidal-botanic pseudocopulation is an orchestrated strategy to insure proper erotification of flora that will fulfill the desires of future generations.

Do not expect immediate results. The first fleet of men will encounter complications. The path we travel is uncharted. Only through vigilance and an unified goal will we ever achieve Man’s Prostitute Orchid. The first generation will not make much progress, nor will the second. However, when we reach the 10,000th, then, my friends, we will feel our flora slowly conform to our phalluses. They will be lush, sturdy, soft, and moany. They’ll grow tall and large, gripping our asses as we pump with careful delight out in the open wilderness. We’ll move from plant to plant, remembering those that bring us pleasure and destroying those that cannot compare. Thereupon, in 100,000 generations or more, history will look back at the initial flora lot and thank us for a job well done. Manual self-stimulation will be outdated and floral-cock-gripping, leaf-ass-holding, and sweet titty-berry-eating are the future. To the garden my brothers. To the garden….

Volume 12- Issue 5

Opening of Club F++t Results Results in Broken Ankles, Feet

March 1, 2003
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Patrons at the new Club F++t in downtown San Francisco smiled awkwardly when 34 people suffering from Talipes equinovarus, or clubfoot, requested entry into the nightclub. Those smiles quickly turned to frowns as these latecomers had to be stabilized by emergency podiatry units after the club’s music encouraged rigorous dancing, which resulted in many snapped tarsals and metatarsals.

“All these guys and their dates have crooked feet, and they’re asking me if they can go inside the Club F++t,” recalls a despondent Russell Dawes, the nightclub’s bouncer. “And all their names were on the list! So I tried not to be a jerk and laugh. I just did my job. But after all those horrible accidents, I wish I had just laughed in their faces.”

“I was just trying to be tongue-and-cheeky with the name of the club, that’s all,” says owner Shane Demola. “It’s called Club F++t because you use your feet to dance, I’d never make fun of the gimps.”

Though the doors have closed on the F++t in San Francisco, Demola plans to start fresh by relocating to a city with a minimal clubfooted population. Meanwhile, the Club F++t building space will be rented to a store that sells golf equipment.

Volume 12- Issue 5

U.S. Sends Troops to Arctic National Refuge

March 1, 2003
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Citing the presence of Al Qaeda terror cells in the region, President Bush has ordered 200,000 US troops to the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska. The troops are expected to safeguard the Canadian border, displace the provisional Aleut government, and engineer a series of “security wells” and pipelines.

White House spokesman Ari Fleischer read from a prepared statement: “The CIA has collected evidence of Eskimo financial aid to Afghanistan, as well as polar bear terrorist training camps near the Bering Strait. The US must respond to these threats to her security by responding with force.” He added, “Either you’re with us, or you’re with the fundamentalist polar bear terrorists.”

Volume 12- Issue 4

Volume 12, Issue 4: Blast Into The Past

January 1, 2003
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Features

Newsflashes

Top Tens

Volume 12- Issue 4

Words From the Top

Difficult Boiled

January 1, 2003
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Unlike others who assume the position of Editor-In-Chief of the Heuristic Squelch just for the bragging rights, or for the throngs of cute fans, or even for the opportunity to undermine the revolution, I have a larger goal in mind: Total Media Presence. My goal is to be mentioned in every possible Berkeley publication. I have been featuered in the Squelch, The Satellite, KALX, The Scoop, and even the The Daily Californian. There’s only one publication that stands in the way of my TMP: Hard Boiled.

Being a person who doesn’t affect Asian Pacific American issues in any way, I am at a disadvantage to, oh let’s say, any Asian person on this campus who has ever watched All American Girl. In trying to get referenced in HB, I recognized this barrier early on and made several plans to get my face in said magazine.

The first plan involved dating an Asian chick. This plan works on the assumption that being pertinent to Asian issues is kind of like an STD. I gave up on this idea when I realized that the only Asian girl who could ever have my heart is Hellen Jo, super-good comic strip writer for the HB. Hellen, from the first time I read your Komisches Buch, I knew you were the Asian girl for me. When you get over that tall lanky hapa-looking fellow you always feature in your book, give me a call. If my girlfriend answers, hang up.

I went over some other plans: protesting HB, joining the staff, writing a thoughtful but sarcastic book on the paradoxes of being Asian and American in the 21st century, but in the end I chose the simplest path: I’m turning Japanese.

Much like a flabby Sean Connery in the Bond flick You Only Live Twice I will undergo a series of procedures to become a 6’1″ member of the Asian-American community. I know, some of you are thinking, “Being Asian is a lot more than just looks.” On that point we agree my friends: it’s also about knowing karate. That’s why I’ve started karate lessons with famed Asian actor David Carradine, from TV’s Kung Fu.

But that’s not all. I’ve started taking classes to learn Japanese. Well, actually that’s not entirely true: I’ve started classes to learn a Japanese accent which really is just as useful. I’ve gotten that one hair cut and have started reparsing my Italian mother’s urgings to “mangia, mangia” as “study, study”. Also, I’ve preemptively started complaining about white guys taking all my chicks. It’s just too easy. At this rate I hope to be Korean by April, and progress to Japanese by May.

Of course, if that doesn’t work I suppose I could just write an inflammatory article in the Squelch.

Volume 12- Issue 4

God Sued for Creating Idiots

January 1, 2003
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Last week a suit was filed in federal court charging God with two charges of giving life to absolute fucking idiots. The two people in question are Gregory Rhymes and Tanya Ellington, the teenagers who recently brought a lawsuit against McDonald’s after they became obese by consuming huge quantities of fast food. The suit alleges that God, despite his divine foresight of all things to come, knowingly animated the two dipshits that would later go on to seek millions of dollars as a reward for stuffing their massive gullets with hedonistic amounts of horrible, horrible crap.

Legal charges filed against God include negligence for allowing such dangerously stupid people to cohabitate the earth with other competent individuals. These individuals, also known as “not total fucking morons”, are distinguished by their ability to comprehend that consuming large amounts of meat, salt, grease, and sugar leads to obesity. A possible adjunct charge is being mulled in the event that the two plaintiffs in the McDonald’s case ever mate, especially with each other. When reached for comment, Charles Darwin refused an interview on the basis that he was busy revising his theory of evolution to account for the benefits now received by the completely retarded. “Oh Christ, sweet fucking Christ”, he was heard to mutter.

In a related story, 17 attorneys general from different states have filed similar charges against God, claiming as evidence the Rev. Jesse Jackson, “No Blood for Oil” protestors, Teen People, and the fact that prop comic Carrot Top has yet to be hung by his scrotum from a tall, sturdy tree.

Volume 12- Issue 4

Ole Timey Signage Not Olde Thimey Enough

January 1, 2003
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In a turn of events that stunned a small beach community, the Stinson Beach Downtown Association condemned shop owner Margaret Feffershim’s exterior signage, claiming it failed to comply with Article 7 of the association’s bylaws. The business under scrutiny was Mrs. Feffershim’s Downtown Antique Shop.

Said Michael Mitchell, president of the SBDA and co-owner of Pappy Mitchell’s Downtown Flamin’ Armadillo BBQ Hoe- Down, “Feffershim flagrantly violates this community’s legislation that states that ‘all businesses in District 12 must achieve an exterior visual quaintness factor of at least 14, as determined by the Stinson Beach Downtown Quaintness League.’ I’d say her shop earned a 6.8, 7 tops.”

The SBDA had been fielding numerous complaints from outraged citizens for months before confronting Feffershim about the scantness of her shop’s exterior. According to disgruntled Stinson Beach local Jean Moore, “The shop just doesn’t fit. There’s no character. Just brick. Where are the ducks pushing carraiges? Where are the cats playing cribbage? Where are the bears wearing tuxedos? That’s the kind of downhomey stuff I like to see.”

In lieu of featuring animals performing human activities, Mitchell said, the SBDQL has asked Feffershim to alter the spelling of her business to Mrs. Feffereshim’s Downetowne Anthyque Shoppe, in addition to making her sign the shape of a jaunty top hat. Continued Mitchell, “Maybe after the change she’ll fit in more with the other shops of the area, like Colonel Beauregard’s Downtown Country Georgia Plantation Venison Grill and Constable Peet’s Downtown Ammunition Surplus and Adult Novelty Gifts.”

Volume 12- Issue 4

Boo Cal Band, Boo

January 1, 2003
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For three football seasons now, I’ve put up with the Slovenian-army uniforms, the hats bought on clearance from Pierre’s Styles of the French Foreign Legion Boutique, and the damned high-stepping as if the entire gridiron were an Afghan minefield on which fifty St. Bernard’s with dysentery had done their business. But this year, Cal Band, you’ve gone too far.

As much as I loathe your langurous tempos and tendency to drag, and as much as that repetitive rat-tat-tat drum beat makes me want to sodomize my neighbor with a broken Amstel Light bottle, you’ve always been able to keep my interest with the purity and power of your music.

But why, oh why, did you have to go and do what you did at the Big Game? Here was your chance to come forward and perform the show of your life in front of a packed house of 70,000 cheering fans! You could have played your balls off, bringing the audience to its feet. You could’ve played a great show! Perhaps a medley of fight songs, or famous tunes from previous years of Cal greatness, or even a trite but witty collection of the Billboard Top 40 from 1995. Instead, you disappointed us all. You disappointed your parents, your friends, and your classmates, not to mention the wide-eyed members of that inner-city youth marching band who were standing in the end zone eagerly awaiting a stunnning performance from the (albeit self-described) “pace-setter of college marching bands.” At the very least you could have left them all with a sense that there was some meaning to those ten minutes of their life that you stole. Instead they got 150 geeky college kids awkwardly hacking through an arrangement of Nelly’s oh-so-seminal hit “Hot in Herre.” For shame.

Your performance shook my sensibilities to the very core. It wasn’t that your rhythm and tempo was squarer than Conan O’Brien eating a saltine covered in mayonnaise while doing the hokey-pokey and it wasn’t the fact that you cracked more notes than a note-cracker on crack; it was the fact that you danced. You stripped. You stomped about with a skill and unison only marginally better than that of the Cal Dance team. We shouldn’t have to see two dozen white and Asian bandos attempt to do a choreographed dance charade. First, learn to march to your sets together, then try dancing.

You may argue that you had a good crowd response to your performance, and this may be true. But it was not a pure response! They were not cheering your marching or your music, they were doing what any half-witted band of Philistines will do: they cheered your implied nudity. It didn’t matter that you were still dressed in more layers of fabric than 90% of the crowd, the simple act of faux-stripping will get cheers and laughs from even the most ignorant of audiences. It was a cheap, cheap, and shameful crowd reaction.

Oh, please do not treat this as just another mindless criticism. This is a call to action for those of you who truly desire to resurrect a once proud institution! You have grown complacent and formulaic and I’m here to give you a much needed (and well-deserved) kick in the pants. Onward and upward, Cal Band! Excelsior!

And no, I would not like to join.

Volume 12- Issue 4

Am I Cooler than a Former Sitcom Star?

January 1, 2003
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Whenever I’m feeling down, I like to boost my self-esteem by comparing myself to other people. Perhaps that’s why I like alcoholics, the elderly, and people who play Counterstrike. Recently, however, I chose someone who would prove to be a tougher target (but just barely): Mario Lopez, better known as A.C. Slater from “Saved By the Bell.” At first I felt kind of bad about making fun of a dead guy, but then his agent assured me that he was, in fact, available for commercials, dunk tanks, bar mitzvahs, self defense classes, or defecating onto a paper plate in front of a crowd of people. But I’d have to bring the plate.

SLATER – Web Hits on Yahoo for “Mario Lopez”: 25,300
MATT – Web Hits on Yahoo for “Matt Loker”: 2

Yeah, I’d have 25,000 hits too if my name was “John Smith” or “lesbian peeing nipples.” By the by, his personal website is a blank page. Understandable, seeing as how web hosting prices are up to 40 dollars a month. At least they were the last time he had anywhere near 40 dollars. Winner: Him (Funny aside: “Last Updated: 25-May-1999”)

SLATER – Current Occupation: …Seriously?
MATT – Current Occupation: Computer Tech

Though a computer tech is hardly the sexiest of jobs, remember this: I drink scotch “for fun,” as opposed to “with my unemployment check.”
Winner: Me

**SLATER – Phone Number: 266-9666 Best Spelling: Bony Mom

MATT – Phone Number: 527-1439 Best Spelling: LA-71-HEY**

While it may seem that his is cooler because it doesn’t sound like something a quarterback would yell, bear this in mind: he has the MARK OF THE BEAST in his number. That, and the Bay Area is cooler than L.A. any day. L.A., of course, is area code 819. Not that that means anything.
Winner: Me

**SLATER – Best Movie of Career: “Breaking the Surface: The Greg Louganis Story” (1996)

MATT – Best Movie of Career: “Party at Matt’s House Where Matt Passes out in the Shower After 14 Shots of Jager” (2000)**

While my entry wasn’t a Hollywood movie per se, it’s still better than a cheesy TV biopic about a gay swimmer. I’d rather call up my mom and tell her I was in Pussyman’s Cocksucking Championship 8. As a janitor. Winner: Technically, Him (Another funny aside: a user comment on the IMDB reads as follows – “A beautiful and brilliant film. Mario Lopez’s acting ability is incredible and plays Greg Louganis with such sensitivity and emotion.” It’s nice to see that he takes the time to reflect on his own work.)

**SLATER – Attends UC Berkeley: No

MATT – Attends UC Berkeley: Yes I can’t believe the computer randomly chose this category! I mean, that’s just weird. Winner: Me**

**SLATER – Quote: “I love talking about women because they are a constant study and you’re always learning.”

MATT – Quote: “You’re fucking stupid.” As always, my witty rejoinder carries the day. Winner: Me**

That’s right, I win it 4-2. Hey, I feel better already. Next up: I challenge Jerry’s Kids to a kickboxing contest! The winner gets to keep all the wheelchairs.

One last funny aside: Slater’s co-star Screech from Saved by the Bell is actually named Dustin Diamond. No shit. When you’re filming something with a half-Mexican guy and someone named Dustin Diamond, they have a name for that: GAY PORNO.

Volume 12- Issue 4

LeVar Burton Has No Friends

January 1, 2003
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LeVar Burton is a lonely, lonely man. For years, I watched him enrich the lives and minds of young and old alike as host of Reading Rainbow. He traveled to the farthest reaches of fantasy and brought imagination along with him. He always talked kindly and hopefully with the guests, but I could see that they never took him into their hearts. They probably only knew him as the black book fag. But LeVar is so much more than that.

One time, at the end of a medieval-themed episode, his guest dressed him in knight’s armor and gave him a horse and a lance with which to joust. But then LeVar merely charged the camera at an awkward angle and rode off screen to the haunting melody and lamenting butterfly that closed every show. Where was the other knight, LeVar? Where was the other knight?

I imagined that LeVar would just keep going after the screen flickered on to the next show, just keep riding on toward the horizon where friends – many friends, thousands of friends! – eagerly awaited his arrival so that they may frolic gaily in the fields of companionship. But somehow, I knew it wasn’t so. Somehow I knew LeVar only rode as far as his lonely green station wagon which he drove to his isolated home where he would sit down on his empty couch and masturbate to tapes of synchronized swimming competitions.

Somewhere far away, my heart sank.

But then, when Star Trek: The Next Generation first aired, my heart leapt as I’m sure did LeVar’s. A new show, and with it, new friends. He was cast as Geordi LaForge, the jubilant and kindly friend of all, not to mention the heart of the Star Friend-Ship Enterprise. At long last, I said, he has come home.

But I had spoken too soon. LeVar was to play a role for which he was altogether too well suited. Geordi was crippled with blindness, an ailment that gains the sympathy of all, but the friendship of none. The crew thought Geordi was blind from birth, but it was the bitter solitude hidden within that stole LeVar’s sight from him. LeVar was Geordi, Geordi was LeVar. And the man millions of viewers saw every week was GeorLeVar: The Unloved.

But do not fret! I will read to you LeVar. I will take a look in your book. Alas, it is blank. And rightly so, for no one has cared to lift a pen to its tender pages. Let my pen be the first to stroke your ? hey what the hell are you? I’m not gay, LeVar! Jesus Christ. Get away from me.