Holiday Memories

November 1, 2002

Carving the turkey is my favorite part of Thanksgiving. No, it’s not because I like holding knives or because I like to butcher things. It’s for the cooking aesthetics. The turkey always smells so fresh. Mom uses a special quality glaze every year. My knife barely goes an inch deep, and you can already breathe in the flavor. Mmm-mmm! I’d recommend keeping a towel nearby to absorb all the blood, though. Gloves are also useful just in case the turkey tries to peck at your hands. Oh yeah, and the next time the gas company knocks on your door asking for its third back-payment, don’t chase them away with a knife. -MS

My pop was the kind of guy you looked up to, but you didn’t know why. I guess it was his attitude towards life or maybe just the way he dealt with it. Did I say dealt? I meant belt. If life was anything like a fragile, defenseless baby just recently weaned from its mother’s teat, it saw a lot of my pop’s belt. But boy was that a nice belt. I used to hate it when he told me that the longer I stayed right where I was, the more he would love me when he was really just heating up his belt buckle over an open flame. But that’s the thing, you know? You just had to like the guy. Anyway, that’s why I felt so bad for killing him that one Christmas. -MT

I was so surprised the year I got the Power Wheels Jeep, mainly because I was sixteen and expected to get a real car that year. I’d stopped begging for the PW version eight years earlier. “You’ll get around just fine in this,” my dad said, ending all debate. And even though it was a little slower than my friends’ cars, he was right. The only trouble was, it was hard to get girls to have sex with me in my car, unless they were eight-year-olds. -KB

I really can’t say anything bad about my family. I mean, we put the “fun” back into “functional.” My memory abounds with beautiful memories of the holidays when I was a kid. I remember when we’d all be gathered in the living room at my uncle’s beautiful house, and oh! the look of rapture on my cousins’ faces as they opened present after present–Game Cube after laptop after Kawasaki Jet Ski! It makes me shed a tear even now to think back on how happy they were, and how my parents–if I was lucky–would give me an old boot to gnaw on while I watched. -CB

My dad’s a little weird. He never approved when I got toys he thought were feminine, like Cabbage Patch dolls or Care Bears. It’s not that he ever threw them away. He never even said anything, but I could tell, because he would always grab them from me and stuff them down his pants until they smelled like his balls. When he gave them back, he’d say “That ought to even things out, you little homo.” -ZF

I went on this holiday trip to the mountains once. It was my whole family: me, my brother, and my parents, all ready to enjoy some family time. The car ride was awesome; my brother and I downed two six packs of Coors in, like, the first forty minutes. We got so smashed, and my parents didn’t even notice. While the hazy drunkenness was nice, the excessive drinking made urine accumulate in our bladders; thus, PIT STOP! This was by far the best part of the trip. We stopped at some shady little bar on some shady little street located in a shady li’l town. The town was called Shady Oaks, a nice little town shaded by nearby mountains, which were being shaded by clouds. But, back to the story. We walked into the bar, and who do we see! Mr. Saturday Night Fever himself, John fucking Travolta. So we all introduced ourselves and fifteen minutes later we were drinking, chatting, and dancing. What a night; on the ride home we talked about the trip, and check this, my mom actually made out with John Travolta while my dad gave him a hand job. That is so sweet. -DF

Last Christmas, Dad got me a ferret. “Dad, those are illegal in California!” I told him. He didn’t listen, but the ferret did. It started looking forlorn and ashamed. It walked to the phone and pushed its nose down into the buttons for 9-1-1, like it was going to turn itself in, but when they answered the phone, the ferret just started sobbing and sniffling, and hung up. It tried calling 911 a couple more times, but never quite had the nerve. We got it some black-market ferret therapy earlier this year, though, and I think it’s doing a whole lot better now. -ZF

I had the best family holidays ever, until the family all died. Since it was a family outing, we decided to go to a “family” style pizza joint. I won’t mention the name, but for writing purposes, I’ll just mention their mascot is a rat called Chuck E., who loves his cheese and has robotic friends that sing and dance every damn night. My eleven children and my wife were all playing in the ball pit, you know, wrestling, throwing balls, punching each other in the stomachs; when all of the sudden WHAMO!!! They all died. It was tragic, the sheriff said he never saw anything more disgusting, yet slightly erotic, in his entire career. Now family holidays are nothing more than a slice of quiche and a diet cola. I watch whatever the corporate entertainment world deems holiday viewing and then fall asleep in a puddle of my own tears. I had a family once, then WHAMO!!! -DF

Volume 12- Issue 3

Scrap!

November 1, 2002

feature, Mark Thomas

The time was 11:52. PM. Me and the fellas were heading for the Ragtime after a little soft-shoe over on Main Street when we heard it. Bass. Walking.

“Snap!” I held up my fist and my crew clicked to a stop and cocked their heads eagerly. Yeah, that’s them. The Denim Boys.

“Cool!” Flicked my wrist on the upbeat and Jumpin’ Jonesy hit the sticks. The hi-hat: our cue to stretch. I waited ’til I saw their shadows on the alley wall in front of us shrinking. They were coming, alright. And from the looks of it, they had their rumble shoes on.

“Sizzle…” It doesn’t take much to get the boys riled when they’re nice and limber. A quick arabesque into a cabriole and we were heading toward the corner, hissing like deadly venomous snakes.

We skipped to a halt just as they came sashaying around into view, head scoundrel Razamatazz leading the way.

“Been too long, Jazzhands.” Him.

“Not long enough, Razamatazz.” Me.

You know something’s going to hit the fan when the snapping starts. And that something is shit.

“Why don’t you just shuffle-off-to-Buffalo and save yourself some trouble Razz.”

The town clock struck twelve. His face instantly crinkled and his arms flew up, graceful, like a swan. “Show ’em what you can do, gentlemen.”

It began. Razz and I locked eyes and circled slowly, slinking like leopards. Meantime, the fellas broke into their routine. Brush wing, fallap step heel, drawback, paddlestep, repeat. Sure it was simple. But we weren’t any grade school tap dancers. In fact, we weren’t even allowed to talk about grade school tap dancers.

“Pow! Whiz! Slap!!” GAA Razz lunged, throwing three good ones my way. I countered with a “Bizbam slappity-bang!”

And then all hell broke loose.

The gangs slammed into each other. Violently. Delicately. Razz was hitting me with everything he had. But I whipped up a riff of my own so smooth I had to serve it with some shortcake. Razz was stunned. I was hungry.

“That’s a little something we like to call talent, Razz. You might want to try a helping sometime.”

“Heh. You look thirsty,” he said coolly picking up on my metaphor, “looks like you could use some High-C Fruit Punch!” He hit the note and threw out his fist. Luckily for me, he threw like Johnny B. and Johnny B. liked to practice that scene. I dodged it with an elegant pirouette and grabbed his collar. I was about to serve him up my five-knuckle club when the boys in the band hit a brassy climax and the music paused.

Time for the group number. Just my luck.

Entrechat, rond de jambe en l’air, Grande Jete; we danced the dance of beautiful battle. And when we were finished I tapped out a scuff-spank dig-toe and gave Razz a ball change he wouldn’t forget. Then I threw some cornstarch in his eyes.

“No one, but no one, taps on our streets,” I sang. The boys backed me up by chanting “no one” on one and three. It was done.

Volume 12- Issue 3

Words From the Top

A Tad Bit Stupid

November 1, 2002

feature, Kenny Byerly

There’s something a lot of you are doing wrong, and it’s time you all know about it before your ignorance embarrasses me any further. Let’s start with the basics, with some friendly excerpts from Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary.

tad Function: noun 2: a small or insignificant amount or degree : BIT [might give him some water and a tad_to eat — C. T. Walker]- a tad: SOMEWHAT, RATHER [looked _a tad bigger than me]

bit Function: noun – a bit: SOMEWHAT, RATHER [the play was a bit dull]

Now that we all know that the word “tad” does not act as any kind of modifier for the word “bit,” meaning as it does exactly the same thing, can we all agree to stop using them next to each other? That’s right, they’re absolute synonyms, there’s no need to use both. You wouldn’t say I’m a “bit bit” late, would you, retard? I know adding the word “tad” lends your speech an oh-so-clever touch of mock sophistication, but here’s a newsflash, pea-brain: you get that effect with just the word “tad.” Saying “tad bit” just makes you sound like a moron who doesn’t even understand the strange noises coming out of your own stupid mouth.

Ah ah ah…stop right there. You were going to say that it sounds right, because that’s how everyone says it. Well, everyone’s wrong, dingbat. Just because they all sound like idiots doesn’t excuse you for sounding like one. Sure, you may think you’re very funny when you walk around on cold days telling people it’s a “tit bit nipply” out. Oh, it’s very funny and charming. We all loved National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation just as much as you did (or at least, just as much as the person you heard it from and copied, without knowing you were imitating a movie), which is why we can draw on our memories of Chevy Chase delivering the line correctly, without the word “bit,” and remember how it was once amusing. Why? Because even the once-funny screenwriter John Hughes, in spite of an unhealthy fixation on the supposed comic value of cartoonish blows to the head, at least recognized that only one three letter noun meaning “somewhat, rather” needed to be in the sentence–even if it was going to be humorously replaced with the word “tit.”

Don’t think you sound dumb saying “tad bit”? Great terrific. We’ll talk speak about other things. How about a stroll walk down to the shop store up the street road? We can buy purchase snacks munchies to eat consume. If you want desire to go travel someplace else, we you and me can drive drive in my car automobile.

Starting to get the picture? Smashing. Don’t thank me, dim-bulb, just pass it on to your friends, and we can rid ourselves of this obnoxious redundancy in our conversation. Because saying “tad bit” is just about the dumbest thing you can say. Probably the only thing dumber is setting your girlfriend straight in the above manner when she says “tad bit.” That may have been a tad hasty. I miss kissing.

Volume 12- Issue 3

The Daily Californian

Corrections & Clarifications

November 1, 2002

feature, Kevin Deenihan

Our article on Sarvonian Exchange Students incorrectly spelled exchange student Garvoni’s name as “Gabvoni.” Also, there is no such nation as Sarvonia.

Our Tuesday Editorial incorrectly stated “So let’s end this period of tolerance and start a round of pogroms that would shame Germany.” The nation should be Russia, not Germany.

Our Wednesday article incorrectly referred to the Daily Californian as “fiscally solvent.”

Our Friday Column incorrectly stated “Of course, Heterosexuals like myself don’t worry about this.” Mr. Deenihan is actually a flaming homosexual.

Our Tuesday article incorrectly referred to “Women like Carol Buran of the Women’s Studies Department.” Ms. Buran is actually a broad.

Our Tuesday column stated that “Sex is a very personal, private act that shouldn’t be vulgarized in a newspaper.” This is incorrect.

Our Wednesday article, “Run for your lives!” stated “They’re everywhere! They’re taking over our minds! They’re among us!” This is incorrect. Submit to the overmind.

Regarding the article on freeze tag, as of press time on Tuesday Don Camacho was “it.” However, by the next morning, Mr. Camacho was no longer “it.”

We apologize ever so much for the October 30, 2001 article “Silence, Wishes and the Torment of War.”

The Monday article “Poisoned Daily Cals to Kill Thousands” accidentally contained poison.

The Daily Californian regrets the errors.

Volume 12- Issue 3

Famous Showdowns Throughout History

November 1, 2002

feature, Matt Loker

Athens vs. Sparta

When: 491 B.C. to 412 B.C. However, doubts have recently been cast upon these dates by an excavation in Northern Greece and the fact that I’m just making shit up.
Where: See title of fight, tough guy.
Why?: Plain and simple: bragging rights. Who had the strongest armies, the wisest philosophers, the best government. Actually, none of that mattered. It was all about who had the hottest young boys.
Outcome: Winners: old Greek guys. Losers: young boys getting cornholed.

Khmer Rouge Leader Pol Pot vs. Cambodia

When: 1975-1978.
Where: Cambodia.
Why?: Millions of aggressive peasants suddenly decide that they’re the king-ding-a-ling of the country, and poor old Pol Pot has to defend himself against all these crazy people throwing themselves in front of bullets.
Outcome: Despite being badly outnumbered (millions of them, one of him!), our lovable, avuncular Pol Pot is able to heroically convince the mean people to stop doing their bad things, thus averting violent conflict and winning one for the underdog. Media Manipulation? Revisionist history? Take that, Noam Chomsky!

Swimsuit Models vs. Lingerie Models

When: It never ends.
Why?: For the right to suck my dick. If you could see my svelte physique and preternatural good looks, you’d know why.
Where: Regrettably, my imagination. But coming soon to Fox!
Outcome: This is a battle that NOBODY loses.

Dreams vs. Reality

When: As far back as you can remember. Sigh.
Why?: Because maybe no one noticed you wetting your pants behind the jungle gym. Because maybe Katie does like you. Because it’s perfectly normal for a 12 year old boy to like unicorns. Because the world wasn’t ready for your band. Because only huge dorks go to prom. And because maybe Mr. Sassy Baskets is just sleeping.
Outcome: Everyone saw you piss yourself, Katie has since always thought you smelled of urine, your parents divorced because of your perceived homoerotic tendencies, your band only played shitty Misfits covers and never had a drummer, the guy caught masturbating in the supply closet got asked to prom over you, and Mr. Sassy Baskets is dead as fucking disco.

Feminists vs. Me

When: Right after they read this.
Why?: Because suddenly, senseless objectification of women is wrong, or something. Well then EXCUUUSE ME in advance for referring to your junk as a “dickbag.” Repeatedly.

Four-cheese Pizza Hot Pocket-A When: 3 A.M. on a Thursday morning, after like 4 fat chongers.

Where: On the couch, whilst undoubtedly contemplating an art-house favorite like Half Baked or Army of Darkness.
Why?: Because your smoke-enshrouded world is only big enough for one of them.
Outcome: A surprise, as both combatants are beaten by the unexpected kung-fu mastery of sleep.

Volume 12- Issue 3

Killing The Neighbor’s Dog In Five Easy Drafts

November 1, 2002

feature, Zack Fornaca

For the second time in a week, my lawn has dog poop on it. I will remedy this, the only way I know how.

One

I have heard that chocolate is like poison to dogs. I do have a lot of chocolate lying around. However, it seems like a waste of perfectly good chocolate, when I have so much actual poison lying around. I could slip the real poison into the dog’s food, and the chocolate into this pan of fudge bars I’m making. I realize my error, however, when I remember that the fudge bars are for trick-or-treating kids and that, as a misanthrope, I require both the chocolate and the poison for the fudge. This, of course, begs the question, “How do I get a dog to go trick-or-treating?”

Two

For starters, I need a costume. This would require more stitching and weaving than I am prepared to muster, except that Old Navy actually sells costumes for dogs. Wizard, pirate, ninja, or cat? The last fucking thing the dog needs is magic (regular magic, ninja magic, or cat magic) to help it poop my lawn to smithereens, but I think an eyepatch might fuck it up, or at least keep it from seeing what I’m up to. It might be hard to convince the dog’s owner to take it trick-or-treating, though, especially since it’s a seeing eye dog and the owner is diabetic. And blind. Since it’s a seeing eye dog.

Three

Solution: I break into the neighbor’s house and steal one of his CDs (Gloria Estefan and the Miami something something). The next day, I rub it with dirt, knock on his door and say, “Um, I think your dog left this on my lawn.” And he says thanks and invites me in. I feign thirst, and the blind guy heads into the kitchen to get me a glass of water. “Say, nice place you got here. Oh, is this a picture of your kids? Yeah?” I say, muffling the dog while forcing an eyepatch and boots onto it. I thank my host for the water and then leave.

Time passes.

On Halloween afternoon, I return to my neighbor’s place and knock on the door. He opens it and I pull out a lead pipe and knock him out. This may seriously injure him, but it serves my purposes. I shake him, saying, “Buddy! Buddy!” until he comes to. “What happened?” he says. “You were just about to take your dog trick-or-treating,” I tell him. “And then I knocked you out with this pipe, accidentally.” He doesn’t beleive me, but I point out that his dog is wearing an eyepatch and boots, which he confirms by touch. “I certainly don’t remember doing that!” he says, but feels obligated. I excuse myself and go back home.

That evening, my neighbor comes by with his dog. I give the dog a fudge bar and by morning the dog is dead. This leaves me elated, until four days later when I find a fresh coat of shit matted onto my lawn. I have killed the wrong dog.

Four

I decide to ask the neighbor if he’s seen any other similar-looking dogs around, only realizing my mistake after I ask. “Hi, sorry to bother you, what with the grieving and all, but have you seen any … I mean … do you … have you smelled or, uh, heard any dogs, lately, that look like … no, smell or sound like they, uh, might look like your old dog?” No? Fair enough.

I contact my brother who works for the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, and ask him if they have anything on tap that kills dogs and only dogs, and if he can mail it to me. He says they have a bunch — Enwoofalitis, Double Rabies, Doggie AIDS — but that they’re all totally off-limits and that he’d lose his job. “Come on,” I say, “You love losing your job for me!”

“Oh yeah,” he says, and three days later an aerosol spray can of Golden Re-fever arrives in my mailbox. I spray the lawn and, much to my delight, as the days wear on, the shit on my lawn gets more watery and pungent. The dog is dying!

Then, just on the cusp of my total victory, Jesus descends from heaven and grants the dog immortality. God-damn it!

Five

I wait 20 years. At 7:32 am on February 20, 2023, California sinks into the ocean in a massive earthquake and, while I die, that infernal dog is left to sink. “But dogs can swim!” you say. Oh yeah? Maybe so, but can they swim … FOR ETERNITY??

Volume 12- Issue 3

Raleigh’s Introduces New Theme Night

November 1, 2002

David Duman, newsflash

After losing business every night of the week to other Southside bars that offer cheap drinks in large quantities to college students, self-described “American Pub and Grill,” Raleigh’s, has announced their new binge-drinking theme night, “Come Drink a lot at Raleigh’s on Wednesdays.”

“It was about time we held a theme night to get college students to come and spend their Stafford Loan money on large quantities of beer,” said shift manager and promotions director Courtney Hill. “With [other Telegraph area bar] Henry’s offering Two for Tuesdays, $3 ‘tinis on Fridays, and Dollar Drafts on Saturdays, and the Bear’s Lair taking away all the beer drinkers with their Thursday Liter Nights, we were at a distinct disadvantage. Also, we were hit doubly hard because, after the incident last year involving the San Diego State rugby team, all the date rapists have moved back to Kip’s.”

The theme night, which will feature 2-for-1 pitchers of beer and $1 flavored malt beverages, is perfectly set up for the college crowd. Says Hill, “The cheap beer will increase aggression among our male patrons, while deceptively strong Hard Lemonades and Smirnoff Ices will increase the vulnerability of the females.”

“It’s just too bad that the only night left open was Wednesday, I mean, it’s tough to come up with a name to go with that day of the week that people will remember,” Hill concluded. When a bystander suggested “Get Wasted Wednesdays,” emphasizing the catchy alliteration and ease of use in conversation, Hill’s face crumpled and she burst into tears.

Volume 12- Issue 3

Survey Results Released

November 1, 2002

newsflash, Rebecca C. Brown

In a recent study of humor, Berkeley researchers found that the average American would describe the Holocaust’s comedic value as “not all that funny.”

“Six million is a whole lotta Jews,” remarked study organizer Isaac Browne.

Other phenomena that earned the “not all that funny” distinction included the Jim Crow Laws, ethnic cleansing in the former Yugoslavia, and the eradication of North America’s native peoples due to diseases contracted from European settlers.

Observed Browne, “I guess people aren’t really amused by murder on so large a scale. Who knew?”

Child molestation, midgets, the plague, and heart attacks most often fell into the “pretty funny” category, while the Crusades, anal rape, old people, and unfair labor practices among over-seas clothing manufacturers were deemed “hilarious” by the participants of the survey.

Volume 12- Issue 3