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Volume 34, Issue 1:
Squelch M.D.
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

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.

Volume 12- Issue 4

Why Jesus is the most popular guy around

January 1, 2003
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There is no doubt in my mind that Jesus Christ is the most popular guy around, even though he’s been dead for millions of years. And I’m not the only one because there are a lot of people that love Jesus as well. Most of these people are religious and don’t want to go to hell. But even if you are a hell bound atheist sinner, you still have to admit that Jesus is one cool dude.

Why, you ask? Because Jesus is a winner, and he strived to be the best. And everyone loves a winner. You see, Jesus dedicated his life to performing miracles, and he performed more miracles than anyone before or anyone since. It didn’t matter how big or small the miracle was; Jesus would perform miracles every day like it was game day. If you were hungry because you forgot to pack a lunch, Jesus would make bread and fish appear so you wouldn’t go hungry. How cool is that? That’s why so many people in Africa wished Jesus were still alive.

Say your bitch ass friends forgot to bring the booze like they were supposed to. If Jesus was at your party, then Jesus would make some schnapps out of water just like that. And if you’re bumming out because that slut from the party gave you some funny looking warts on your penis, just forget about it. Because Jesus will fix you right up. Don’t worry, Jesus doesn’t have to touch your penis to heal it; he doesn’t swing that way. Even if you fell into a ditch and accidentally died, Jesus would bring you back to life. And he would do all this for free, because he wanted to perform more miracles than anyone else. That’s how dedicated Jesus was to performing miracles.

How did Jesus get so good at performing miracles? This isn’t in the Bible, but rumor has it that Jesus traveled to Asia and hung out with the ruler of all Asia, King Confucius, who was really good at performing miracles. But Jesus was such a good learner, and so dedicated, that he soon performed miracles even better than King Confucius did. That’s why no one ever hears about King Confucius performing any miracles: Jesus got so much better that everyone forgot about King Confucius. So King Confucius decided to stop performing miracles and became a philosopher. But King Confucius was so bitter that he kicked Jesus out of Asia and made him go back to Europe.

Basically, if you think that Jesus isn’t cool, then you can just forget it! You’re are going to hell where Jesus’ immortal enemy, Satan, will cook you in really hot fire and eat you.

Volume 12- Issue 4

Bates Apologizes for Mass Killings

January 1, 2003
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Newly elected Berkeley Mayor Tom Bates has admitted responsiblity for the murders of 200 Berkeley citizens who had voted against him in the November election, along with the entire staff of the Daily Californian.

“There is no question that killing hundreds of people is absolutely inappropriate and unacceptable,” Bates stated. “I apologize on behalf of myself and my supporters for our involvement in this activity.”

The killings took place January 4, after the dissident voters and student journalists had been rounded up by armed members of a new city security bureau created by Bates. Student witnesses say Bates had lined up the victims in Lower Sproul Plaza on the UC Berkeley campus, then proceeded to personally execute them with a prolonged, gleeful spray of machine gun fire.

“It’s especially ironic he is about to murder so many people just a few feet away from the birthplace of the Free Speech Movement,” said Daily Cal Editor in Chief Rong-Gong Lin, II, condemning Bates’ actions immediately before his own death. Bates’ supporters noted that the mayor was under a great deal of stress and had expressed extreme embarassment for his actions. They also added that suppression of political opponents is nothing new.

“I’ve done the same thing more than once myself,” admitted Councilmember Betty Olds. “What people don’t seem to realize is that if you’re a progressive in Berkeley, the indisputable correctness of your ideology automatically justifies any action, and the Constitutional rights of anybody who disagrees with you are utterly meaningless, because they’re wrong.”

Volume 12- Issue 4

My Date with Ola Ray

January 1, 2003
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My ’63 Convertible slowed to a stop in the eerie woods. There were no streetlights or signs of civilization for miles. You think I was scared? HA! Not with my date in the passenger seat. That night, I wore balls.

“Can you believe it, we’re outta gas!” I said after an awkward silence.

“So,” she said quietly. “What do we do now?” She gave me this tantalizing look, like she was feeling kinda frisky. Right then, I knew I was in for something good.

A good walk through the woods. I remember how hot she looked in her pink poodle skirt. And I was damn sweet with my red lettermens jacket (My mom sewed on the “M” patch, but my date didn’t know that). We turned to each other.

“You know I like you, don’t you?” I asked impulsively.

“Yes.” She said brightly.

“I was wondering if…you’d be my girl,” I said. She could totally tell I was wearing balls.

“Oh Matthew!”

As we embraced, I looked over her shoulder and saw wild coyotes crapping all over the backseat of the Convertible. Some were even giving birth to baby coyotes back there, but that didn’t matter – love was in the air. But with love comes honesty, so I had to tell her the truth…

“I’m not like other guys.”

“Of course not! That’s why I love you!”

Dammit! I knew she was gonna make this difficult.

“No, I mean I’m different.”

“What are you talking about?”

“GO AWAY! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

It took forever to morph into the damn werewolf-monster. And I nearly crapped myself growing those whiskers, which looked incredibly fake anyway. Things weren’t going right. All along, I simply wanted to confess the truth – but instead I mauled her to pieces and drank her blood. And I was still hungry for some baby coyotes…with a side of rice pilaf.

Thank goodness the entire scene came from the horror movie that my girlfriend and I were watching at the theaters! I was having a blast, thinking to myself, “It’s fine to associate my career with this horrifying genre as long as I don’t personally believe in it,” but Ola looked petrified.

“Matthew, let’s go.” She suddenly said.

My pearly white teeth gleamed as I replied, “What?? I’m enjoying this!”

Then Ola left the theater, and a funky pop beat cued up as I approached her outside. My teeth were still gleaming.

“It’s only a movie!” I said gleamingly.

“It’s not funny.” Ola said with disapproval.

OH YES IT WAS!! What was she thinking? Storming out of a movie all offended – that’s great! And I’m always right, so something else was up.

“You were scared, weren’t you?” I jovially inquired.

“I wasn’t that scared.”

Ah-HA! I knew it! A gutless coward. That’s the last minor I sneak into an R flick.

Ola walked away, enticing me to follow her with song. I couldn’t resist her walk…it made me want to spin around in circles and grab my crotch multiple times. We ended up skipping happily together past the ominously terrifying graveyard. Yep, nothing could go wrong…except for the zombies that hungered for our flesh. Thanks a lot, Vincent Price! We had to stop skipping because of your goddamn poem! It wasn’t cool.

It also wasn’t cool that Ola made us miss the rest of the movie. In a fit of rage I turned into one of the zombies, and we portended her doom with the best damn choreographed dance ensemble sequence ever!

Instead of taking a shotgun to our brains, Ola ran to an abandoned shack and bolted the doors. She was playing hardball. She screamed for help, but I know Ola was really saying, “come get me, assholes!” So at a frightening snail’s pace, we chased her into the shack. It was one of those Jimmy Carter homes, so it was easy to smash up. I broke into the room and Ola’s eyes bulged. We cornered her against the couch. I grabbed her shoulder…

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!”

“What’s the problem?” I said happily, looking harmless as usual. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”

Poor thing, it was all a nightmare. Personally, I think it serves Ola right for sleeping throughout the entire date. Yeah, she was severely narcoleptic, but I was pretty insulted. I still gave her a ride home, but I didn’t tell her she was sitting in fresh coyote dung. When she asked about the horrible stench, I just looked at her with my cat-like green eyes and said, “Muwhahahahahahah!!!”

Volume 12- Issue 4

My First Time

January 1, 2003

The first time I pooped myself, I was 6 hours old. At least that sounds about right. I’m pretty sure that when it happened, it got on both my butt-cheeks and needless to say was a disturbing mess for my parents. And then once I punched myself in the stomach, that was a first, cause I only did it once. Well, I guess then some might say that it was the last. So what is it, first or the last? In this crazy universe, with all the words to help me express my thoughts, I am still left baffled by the mystery of God himself.

-DF

My first period was a completely bloody, humiliating experience. I should’ve used a comma.

-KD

My first time was nothing like the second time, which wasn’t remotely similar to the third time, but eerily reminiscent of the sixth time. Well, then again, nothing compares to the five thousand six hundred seventy-first time. That was the infamous airplane bathroom incident. As for my first time, I didn’t know what I was doing, but it felt completely natural. I mean, it still feels natural to me, but there’s no way I’ll go back to diapers at this point.

-MS

The first time I realized farting was funny was when I let one rip in kindergarten after my class got out of the pool. Students and teachers alike joined in harmonious laughter for one fleeting moment. Then I noticed my pants were completely soaked and around my ankles. Come to think of it, that’s when I realized small penises were funny, too. Ha Ha Ha. And they still are!

-AB

Giving birth to my first son was a huge ordeal. I opted for a natural childbirth, no anaesthesia, because I’m a hippie or something.

-ZF

They were so very soft and warm. It made me feel cuddly and safe. And what about those nipples? Wow! And that was the first time I slept on a pair of life-size baby bottle pillows. No, that’s not true: I’m talking about boobs.

-DD

I remember the first time someone accused me of being a homophobe. I was very defensive about it. “Look,” I said. “Just because I still call AIDS the Gay Cancer doesn’t mean I hate fags.”

-KB

My first birthday was a disaster for my parents. I had died in childbirth and the anniversary of my death made them weep.

-KD

I remember it was a royal blue one, with pictures of little harmonicas on it. One size fits all. My dad showed me how to put it on, but I was a quick learner. I insisted that I tighten the Windsor Knot by myself. That morning, I strutted proudly into Sunday School, and asserted my maturity while the other boys wore those cheap clipons. It was my first tie. My first time I wore my first tie. I suppose the only difference between my first time and my first tie is the “mmmm” sound. Which is the same sound a harmonica makes! Oh how the world turns. Here, let me tighten that for you.

-MS

I remember the first time I used a font besides Times New Roman. I had finally made my mark on the world. I mustered up the courage to boldly type my eigth grade mitosis essay in Futura. This must be how Neil Armstrong felt when he got his driver’s license, I said to myself. Then that whore Jennifer King one-upped me by using Comic Sans.

-RCB

“So how would you deal with the nuclear threat posed by the Iraqi government?” The debate crowd held its breath and waited for Ty’s response. In this, the first debate ever held for spouses and/or homosexual thespian lovers of presidential candidates, public attention was high. Laura Bush had already given an eloquent defense of the Bush administration’s missile shield proposal. Now, it was up to the greasepainted Ty to respond.

As moderator Dan Rather waited, Ty began to move his hands in an elaborate pantomime. Brokaw nodded appreciatively. “You mean, the US needs to build a metaphorical ‘box’ to ‘trap’ Saddam Hussein in. Of course!” The audience cheered and whistled their approval.

The rest of the debate was a string of triumphs for Ty. America pulling itself out of its recession by yanking an “invisible rope” of patriotic spending drew applause. When he analogized the development of a single-payer health-care system to producing a bouquet of flowers from a seemingly empty sleeve, there was a standing ovation. By the end of the debate, it was clear that America was going to elect its first gay, harlequin-fetishist president, and Ty would be the First Mime.

-SK

The first time I went to a Heuristic Squelch meeting I got free donuts. It was great!

-ZF

Volume 12- Issue 4

THE ALPHA MALE!!

Part man, Part lion, and a 100% pure man-lion

January 1, 2003
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Pssst.. Hey loser! I’m talking to you. Yeah, you with the eyebrows and teeth. Let me ask you a question. Do you want to get all the Ladies? Do you want to be that guy who makes out with a bunch of chicks? Do you want to know what it’s like to actually feel a girl’s breast rather than than pendulous bosoms of your obese guy friends? Well, that’s what I’m here for. It’s time for a lesson from the all-knowing, the all-sexy, the all-time leading scorer with the ladies, me, THE ALPHA MALE!!

Here are some common questions that I, THE ALPHA MALE!!, so often receive:

If I like a girl, how should I approach her?

Well first you have to have one thing. Actually one thing times two: testicles. Then, hit the gym. Work off those 4 chins and that spare monster-truck tire straddling your waist. Now you can at least appear to be a man. Also, ditching the cut-offs and Birkenstocks will help.

Then what do I do?

First, you have to somehow completely change your personality. You need to be more like me, THE ALPHA MALE!! First, stop playing Sim-Hot Date. That’s not going to help you get laid at all, unless they invent virtual reality…for my cock! Next, B.U.M. equipment clothing went out with the early 90’s and you’re not going to bring it back. Finally, wearing Hyper-colorGA$A3 and slap bracelets will get you rejected faster than a black guy applying to Stanford.

When I do get a Girlfriend, how should I keep things spicy?

HEY, HEY, HEY! Hold on just a second! Before you spice the beef, somebody’s got to kill the cow, and you sir haven’t even milked a goat. Ok, but let’s say that the moon does collide with Jupiter and a girl allows you to be seen talking to her. You’re going to have to focus on keeping her completely isolated from males that are, most likely, much more attractive than you. The only real solution, besides jabbing her eyes out, is to make sure you have all your even less attractive friends come over to hang out. Guys like Joey the Eunuch, or Nick the Nose-Hair Moustache Guy. This will make her see that, even though you are extremely unattractive (and stupid), there are still a few more drops at the bottom of the barrel.

Let’s say I am at a bar, how can I get a girl to go home with me?

Well, if you were me, THE ALPHA MALE!!, they would beg at your feet to come home with you. But you’re not me, and chicks won’t pick up on you or even glance in your direction. That is why you should focus on one thing: booze. Women at any age are very prone to losing all judgment (or if you’re really lucky, consciousness) when they drink. So, find the girl you want and go up to her. Tell her you own the bar and, while it appears that you are paying for drinks, the money is actually being deposited directly to your bank account. Once she is confident you are willing to pay for any drink she orders, just keep them coming. Then, after she gets done drinking away your college savings, you go in for the move. Just remember to keep safe. Pulling out is my preferred method.

When I go to parties where women will be present, should I dress up or down?

Even though I am the all-time sexer-upper of the females, answering this question is not easy. Mostly because no matter how you dress, you sir will still look like a big pussy. I laugh at you! Ha ha ha, ha ha ha ha! I laugh at your 1940’s haircut, your pallid complexion which is reminiscent of Alaska in winter, your abilities to seduce are only marginally better than those of an elderly coal-miner on life support. I laugh some more! Ha ha ha, ha ha ha! If I were you, I would avoid the embarrassment of even being seen at parties. Save your nice outfits for your trips to a strip club, where you can enjoy feeling of being wanted, for just 20 dollars every 5 minutes.

THE ALPHA MALE!! has spoken.

Volume 12- Issue 4

My Adventure at Berkeley Bowl!

January 1, 2003
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Believe it or not, some cities in this country aren’t as conducive to veganism and politically left-leaning ideals as our great town. Amazingly, in some cities white middle class youth waste their lives going to ovrepriced universities in preparation for withering away in a cubical instead of taking advantage of all the riches that gutterpunkdom has to offer. Shockingly, some cities aren’t even tolerant of rampant homelessness and aimless protest! Well I say sucks to those cities; I live and love in Berkeley, the greatest town in America. And no location is more representative of our little berg than the grocery mecca of Berkeley Bowl. Where else could you find men dressed in saris and women sporting mutton chops just feet away from 17 kinds of canned beans? Join me as I traverse the aisles of the most exciting acre of the East Bay.

5:14pm. Arrive at the enchanting entrance of Berkeley Bowl. Avoid CalPIRG tablers with Chuck Norris-esque agility and speed. Grab cart and proceed.

5:15pm. Adventure immediately halted due to eight-cart traffic jam. The culprit? Half-off sale on imported prunes. Deftly shout, “Don’t look now, but is that Ralph Nader buying kettle chips?” then amongst the chaos dart off to the bakery.

5:17pm. Baked goods. Casually toss some pita into the cart. As a Berkeleyan I take pride in my vauge appreciation of all things international. Like ghee and ascots.

5:19pm. Soy milk. Fellow beside me in beret has crippling body odor. Appetite dwindling! Find refuge in olive bar, only to be assaulted by stench of urine from unidentifiable source.

5:24pm. Beans and canned pumpkin. Surreptitiously eavesdrop on a conversation about the role of socialist political ideals in 1930’s Russian abstract photography. Chime in with a misplaced comment about Che Guevara. Smile with confidence as I realize that as a Berkeley citizen I am indeed a superior human being. There’s no way some yokel from Fresno or Anaheim could value grassroots policial activism or Odwalla as sincerely as I.

5:29pm. Nut butters. Feel overwhelming sense of shame because I only have five facial piercings. Snicker at some customers purchasing inorganic coffee. Capitalist bastards, profiting from the sweat of the oppressed!

5:30pm. Write reminder to self in Palm about sale at Gap tomorrow.

5:35pm. Bulk foods. Pubic hair of woman to my left peeks over her low-rise cargo khakis like an eager meerkat greeting the Serengeti sunrise. At least she appreciates a bargain; low-fat strawberry granola for $2.19 a pound is enough to make any self-respecting vegan gasp in a fit of pleasure.

5:38pm. Spices. Contemplate wisdom of diverting government funding for struggling public schools into already bloated military programs. Imagine utopia of socialized healthcare, legalized hemp, and hydrogen fuel cell vehicles. Plan to stage full-scale protest at the Embarcadero of the war, sweatshop labor, and imperialism…as soon as the Kids In the Hall marathon is over.

5:47pm. With cart full of nutritious vittles and heart full of good cheer, step into line amongst fellow wonderful Berkeleyans. Wonder why I’m not wearing Tevas.

5:59pm. Curse Elliott Smith for going commercial!

6:55pm. Groceries rung up by disaffected youth donning Germs t-shirt and shiney new labret spike. Realize that my whole life I’ve been smiling way too much.

7:12pm. Exit store. Use Bruce Lee-esque skill and kicking action to subdue overly aggressive LaRouche 2004 volunteer. Cringe in horror as ’87 Rabbit and’96 Corolla collide in attempt to snatch last available parking space within a 2.4 mile radius. Shake fist wildly at man in SUV for spoiling our planet. Light up a Marlboro as I triumphantly reaffirm that I, resident of Berkeley, am a damn great person.