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The 432 Jan 9, 2007

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9 January 2007
to Am 5§§5ij©§
@Qfadl §® K»@[fo DfQfDcsxr^QOQ.
"This is the worst mistake I've ever made... well, second worst... God, I hate transvestites"
-Andy Martin
|M . 9 January 2007
Page Three
Volume Twenty
Issue Five
9th January 2007
Colleen Atherton
Lois Chan
Cameron Funnell
Alex Lougheed
Andy Martin
Dave Tsang
Jay garcia
Dan Anderson
Komal Kumar
Jon Lam
Randall Munroe
Horizon Pub, Vancouver, BC
Legal Information
The 432 is publication of the Science Undergraduate Society of
UBC. This paper is intended for consumption by Science student; however, we realize that students in
other faculties are equally poor and
equally hungry. Please see page six
for delicious recipes involving this
All views expressed in this issue
are strictly those of the individual
writers, and as such are not the
responsibility of The 432, The Science Undergraduate Society, or the
Faculty of Science. Writers and cartoonists are encouraged to submit
their material to The 432. Submissions must meet the requirements
of making the editor chuckle thrice,
and should contain the author's
name and contact information.
Hit us up at: the432@gmail.com
2:45 in the Morning
And I'm putting myself on warning...
Colleen Atherton
Two bottles of coke:
One medium vegetarian pizza:
Staying up all night to finish the 20th
Anniversary issue of The 432:
I wish. If only this was a paid position I
would have racked up so much overtime
this week. Alas, it is a labour of love, but I
am not sorry to see it finished. Tike the 24
year old son, who finally decides he is
ready to leave the nest, I am not sorry to
see this issue go to the printers.
A few controversial cartoons/articles are
reappearing. Please enjoy, and remember,
they are meant to raise you ire, but you are
welcome to express your displeasure at
reading them too me. As a side note, PETA
sent letters when the "How to Neuter Your
Cat" was originally published in The 432.
But then, PETA also sent letters of protest
to the opening of the Torrington Gopher
Museum (they are actually Ground Squirrels). Apparently it is not okay to kill and
stuff vermin for display in dioramas, even
if they are complete with horrible puns.
It really is a marvelous little attraction.
Well worth the $2 entrance fee.
Also, rumour has it those couches were
later burned. You will see what I mean
when you reach page nineteen. No cheating now, don't skip ahead.
This, of course, is only a teeny tiny peak at
what The 432 has been for the past 20
years. Tucky for you, it can be found, in its
entirety at
432/the_432_form.html. Or if you prefer
the hard copy, those can be found in the
Main Tibrary archives or there are several,
mostly complete sets in SUS, whoo!
I leave you now to enjoy my work, ill,
sleep deprived, and all alone at 3 am on the
first Monday back at school. Till next
The X Word
1. Drug addiction
8. Man's best friend
10. 3rd Planeteer Power
14. Bear with
15. Roman bear
16. On the sheltered side
17. Universal solvent
18. Rona's old name
19. Science Week guy
20. Where pokEmon battles are held
22. Quirk
24. Pres Tincoln
27. Japanese currency
28. Cost
29. Bridge support
31. Wave: Sp.
32. Snake
35. Some bird feet
36. A bird call
38. Magical sustenance
40. Monkey pokEmon #190
41. The middle of a hurricane
42. Mild Expletive
43. Fed. Res. Agency
44. Thrice
45. More pleasant
46. Chicken dish
47. What you might do to a chicken dish
49. Tennis player Andy
51. Tatin homework exercise
53. Six-pack
54. Feathery scarf
55. Shimmers
57.10-cent ship for short?
59. Units of corn
60. Put your e-groceries in them?
62. Tanguage closely related to Hindii
67. Transaction
68. Grinch auther
69. Internet telephon
70. Mix
71. Tong-tailed sky dwellers
1. Left turn word
2. Simple Rhyme Scheme
3. Small unit of digital storage
4. Thought
5. UBC VP Finance
6. Imaginary Premier of Mozambique
7. Popular cookie
8. Make a reservation
9. SUS Secetrary
10. Cap. of the USA
11. Random letters
12. Without ice
13. Reject
21. Snakey fish
23. What you might say if you hate shiny
24. Harass
25. Zombie call
26. Snakey fish belongings
28. One of five morphin' Earth defenders
30. Gate
33. Atlantic and Pacific (backwards)
34. Red spice
37. Acknowledgement to the captain
39. Protic compound
48. Evaluate
50. Capital of Haut-Mbomou
52. Fabler
55. Tots of money or lots of gravity
56. Songbird
57. Indonesian island
58. Part of HOEMS
61. Baseball club
63. Allregen (for short?)
64. Employ
65. Enterprise, Prometheus, Melbourne
~         |
■:_ -
•■. :■
49    50
■ 54
71 Page Four
9 January 2007
Volume I
The Cold
Peter MacDougall
The Courier
he first thing security did was purge
He had done his best to make it as easy as
possible; he had eaten a high fibre, low
nutrient value meal some hours before. It
was better than pumping a full or empty
stomach but, still, it was awful. That, and
his cold. In fact he never felt worse and
they had barely begun. He was coming out
of the Union's tightest security institution
and they could not allow any leaks of
information. The technicians pumped his
stomach: empty. They gave him a purgative (and the worst case of diarrhea he had
ever had): empty. He went through two
hours of physical and chemical analysis:
nothing, no marks or codes on him anywhere. He was X-rayed: nothing in him but
a hip pin—which they removed. They tried
ultrasound: nothing left in him but flesh
and bone. The infrared heat scan showed
only that his thyroids and lymph nodes
around his neck were hot—but then this
man obviously had a cold.
"Anything to declare?" They asked him in
a sterile room after the first three hours.
He coughed, his muscles tensing in
spasms under his blue skin. He felt awful.
He was cold; his head was stuffed; his eyes
were like a fish's; his throat was so sensitive . But they already knew that. "No," he
So they proceeded again.
They stuck a tube in every opening of his
body to have a look by optic fibre. They
tried    Magnetic    Resonance    Imaging,
Positron Emission Tomography, a C.A.T.
scan, and even flash fried the outer layer of
his skin to white ash with ultraviolet light
so as to remove any physical markings he
might have.
Still they asked, "Anything to declare?"
"No." His nose was runny and red. He
looked a pitiful sight but he knew from the
beginning that he would have to go
through all of this. They gave him an acetaminophen tablet while he waited naked in
the cool, white room. The scientists were
conferring, checking and counter - checking. They could not agree and so they did
it all again.
"Patience is a lab animal," the man
thought as whatever had not come up or
out before was purged again ... Empty.
Finally the security scientists were at an
end. He had nothing; he was clean. No
chemicals, no marks, no hidden capsules,
false fillings, bone inscriptions, abnormalities ... or any way of carrying a message
out of the security seal. He was a blank
Packaged in new, featureless overalls so
that he left with nothing but himself and
the donated fabric, he was released.
"Better get that cold taken care of," the
last sentry shouted with an accent.
"I will," the man said, and coughed again
spraying bacteria and phlegm in a wide
arc. The bacteria hung in the air, invisible,
their extra-nuclear DNA jiggling with the
encoded secrets of the Union.
Out of sight of the guard, the courier
would have laughed hard and long but his
lungs hurt too much. He coughed again
with a wicked smile on his tortured face.
Only a cold. Heh!
Black Hand
Does not exist, as proven by this article from 1987
Rumours have been floating around
about a secret (and secretive) subsidiary of the SUS supposedly called
the "Black Hand." It is said that this organization perpetrates various events around
campus which, if not for their rather innocent nature, might otherwise be termed
terrorist actions.
When asked about the Black Hand, Darren McBratney, SUS 2nd vice-president,
who is widely considered to be the don of
the organization, replied: "You mean the
prank group? The one that paints the cairn
and all that stuff? Never heard of it." When
pressed, he denied categorically that any
such organization existed, had ever exist
ed, or would ever exist, but that it would
like to get some more funding.
Various other students whose association
with the Black Hand is fairly well known
vigorously demonstrated their lack of
knowledge on the subject, saying that the
Black Hand could definitely not be reached
at the SUS office in Scarfe 9, and that Darren McBratney has nothing to do with the
non-existent club. No messages should be
left in his box, they emphasized.
SUS president Todd Ablett could not be
reached for comment. His office proclaimed that he was most certainly not off
painting the Civil and Mechanical Engineering building bright orange.
I.N. STIEN. bHi&.c*«-
0H,SCREV1   THK> *Kf\NDOrU-N -'ROS-THtoU&tf-TtfE-MM.t* CW<P!
Volume II
Something for the
Analyst in All of Us
Element: Woman
Symbol: Wo
Discovered by: Adam
Atomic Weight: Expected average is 118,
but there are known isotopes ranging from
75 to 450.
Occurrence: Surplus quantities in all
urban areas.
a) Possesses great affinity for gold (Au),
silver (Ag), platinum (Pt), and precious
and semi-precious stones and minerals.
b) Capable of absorbing great quantities of
expensive substances, c) May explode
spontaneously if left alone with a male.
d) Insoluble in liquids, but activity greatly
increased with saturation in ethyl alcohol.
e) Yields to pressure, if applied to correct
a) Surface usually covered in painted film.
b) Boils at nothing, and freezes without
c) Melts if given proper treatment.
d) Bitter if used incorrectly.
e) Found in various states, ranging from
virgin metal to common ore.
a) Highly ornamental, especially in expensive sports cars.
b) Most powerful reducing agent of
money known.
c) Can aid in relaxation.
a) Pure specimens turn a rosy tint if discovered in natural state.
b) Turns bright green if placed beside a
better specimen.
a) Highly dangerous in inexperienced
b) Illegal to possess more than one permanent specimen.
Analysis of Man (Ma) has yet to be performed.
Any information on its properties would be
The correct response when the prof asks "Are there any questions?" 9 January 2007
Page Five
Volume III
SUS Claims: SAN
Questions For Dan
Dan Quayle
On Oct 19, 1989, the SUS officially
denied any complicity in the earthquake that struck the San Francisco
area on Oct 17. In a short letter to the White
House, the SUS stated that, "While the
Black Hand recognizes a need for more
earthquakes in California, it will not officially adopt a policy to promote these
Earlier this year, it was claimed by numerous members of the SUS that Chaos theory
dictated that it was very possible to start an
earthquake. If a butterfly's wings could
start a hurricane, then definitely a tap-
dancing SUS President could start an
No SUS executives would comment on
the matter, other than those on acid. President Bush declined to comment on the
note, stating only that they are reviewing
the matter, and any punitive nuclear
strikes would be decided upon shortly.
Sources in the White Houses confirmed
that the UBC engineers were not above
suspicion for the earthquake that rocked
the Bay area at 6.9. "We found a red Volkswagen in the Fault, yesterday," one aide
Bird in the hand
o gods dream? What would they
eve r dream about?
And Canada Dry - it isn't. It's wet. Come
on. Who are they fooling?
What do people who use Right Guard use
for their left armpit? Seems kind of discriminatory to me.
And I heard that there's some kind of
mouthwash out there that "fights tartar
below the gumline." How does that work
for the upper teeth?
We have schools of fish and flocks of
geese. What are people? Crowds of people? Throngs of people? Or is it a horde?
Maybe we're divided up into further subgroups of people. A set of mathematicians.
A porkbarrel of politicians. A shitload of
Ever wonder what a herd of fish would
look like?
Is a disk the male and a diskette the
Does God sweat?
Did Adam and Eve have navels? Did they
have last names? How did we get last
names then? What about Cain? Who did he
marry, anyway?
Did Noah collect two Kangaroos? How
did he ever get two cobras? Or ticks - why
in the world did he bother to collect ticks?
The poor guy must of had a terrible time
with the two grizzly bears.
Why two nostrils? Why not just one big
one? Then our noses would only run half
as much.
And it doesn't look anything like Alaska,
even before it's baked.
Volume IV
The Radical Beer
The Art of Studying
Mark Hoenig
The birth of the RBF
I wouldn't say we exactly ran for office.
Jogged, maybe . Walked would be even
better. Some would say staggered like
blottoed drunks pretty well sums it up.
Purists would say that we didn't run for
office, but in fact ran against office. However, saying that we staggered like blot-
toed drunks against office makes no sense
I'm sorry. What was the question again?
The Radical Beer Faction came to be when
Mike Hamilton, Jason Russel, Erik Jensen
and Mark Hoenig were, through voter apathy, appointed to SUS Council, swelling
the Physsoc Block Vote to ridiculous proportions. We immediately saw two problems with SUS. It was turning far too
stodgy and bureaucratic, and they served
really lousy beer at beer gardens. The Radical Beer Faction of the Bloc Physsoc was
formed to right these wrongs.
For the first few months our significant
achievements were limited to securing the
only four reclining chairs at every Council
meeting, and irritating each council member at least once. The task of improving
beer at SUS functions seemed hopeless.
Musing this over at the Pit in one of our
secret meetings, we were struck suddenly
by inspiration: If we took over the AMS,
we would hold power over SUS, and could
withhold funds until they agreed to play
ball and use decent beer. Thinking it over,
we realized that the AMS was also plagued
by bureaucracy and lousy beer.
We had the necessary qualifications: we
were incompetent, dishonest, stubborn,
and we bickered a lot. Every year student
politicians promise a clearer and brighter
future and a kinder, gentler student coun
cil. We would take the suspense out of voting - we would demonstrate out ineptitude
Mike Hamilton suggested that he could be
the first Director of Finance to present a
completely honest budget, by including
line items for: i) misappropriation of funds,
ii) beer and pizza, iii) please don't ask, and
finally, iv) I'd rather not say.
At 9 :30 the next morning we promptly
picked up our nomination forms. At 9:35
we started playing cards at Physsoc. By
10:40 we had collected all the needed signatures.
The Ubyssey was now REQUIRED to
interview us.
News of our candidacy spread like wildfire among the politically astute of the
campus. On Saturday, we hear from a reliable source that the Progressives were
"worried" about us. The next week we
heard that our candidacy had driven certain members from the AMS Establishment
to apoplexy. Joanna Wickie was heard to
say, "It's just not right. Don't they know
what they're doing?" Over the next few
days we were accused by several people of
"splitting the vote and giving it to them."
Strangely, both slates said this.
January came, and we met our opponents
at the all-candidate's meeting. We presented our innovative suggestions to save the
AMS thousands of dollars, but the other
candidates refused our gentlemanly proposal to settle the election by either boa-
trace or snowball fight. Eater, Mike Hamilton committed a major election faux pas;
apparently one isn't supposed to fall
asleep during all-candidate's meetings.
We carefully allocated our budget of $57
.66. Perhaps we should have put a little
more money into our campaign. We ended
up with a rate of 64 votes per dollar spent.
Compare that to Unity which got 7 votes
per dollar spent.
Aaron Drake
Nekkid Time
Some of my fondest memories come
from the nights before the finals
cooped up in the Physics Building,
stoned on caffeine. Which brings me to my
next point: don't drink too much coffee. It
is very hard to take coherent notes with a
hand that keeps chattering on the table.
Caffeine does have its uses though, and
here I'll get back to my 3am story. Picture
this: the night before my Physics four hun-
dred-and-something-or-other final. It's the
night before my friend, Morgan, has his
Physics four hundred-and-something-else
final. We had just bought chocolate covered coffee beans — a tool of Satan, by the
way — and we had been chewing on them
all night. As far as I know, four or five
beans equals one cup of coffee. Each bag
has about forty beans.We, not knowing our
elbows from a hole in the ground, had each
eaten a bag and a half.
Morgan is wired.
I am wired.
I've been seeing giant purple spiders running across my notes for the past ten minutes. Morgan looks up at me, and he's
shaking at about 60 MHz.
"HeyAaronlcan'tstudy," he says, in one
short second.
"Neithercanlwhatdoyouwanttodo?" I ask.
"...I bet I can run around the building
faster than you can."
That was the birth of the Physsoc Exam
Olympics. The halls of the third floor of the
Hennings building are shaped like a racetrack, and are almost exactly a sixth of a
kilometre in circumference. For weeks, at
three in the morning, we would race up
there trying to break Jamie's record of 23
seconds. Jamie was one of about two dozen
I know that it doesn't sound very interesting, but remember that we were all full of
coffee beans, which we still hadn't got the
hang of yet. Escalation followed. Eventually, we held the one kilometre race, the run-
around-backwards race, the run-around-
blindfolded race (That was a great one,
boy. Drop by some time, I'll show you my
scar) and the walk-like-a-university-pro-
fessor race. Pat held the record on that one
with his Dr. Carolan stroll (two minutes,
seven seconds).
Eventually, we held the runaround-as-
race. I won't say who ran it, but I will say
that it 's darned uncomfortable to run at
top speed naked when you're a man
because of a Certain Thing That Men Have
flapping all over the place. But you run
fast, encouraged by the nagging suspicion
that you don't trust the people you left
your clothes with and they are at this
moment stuffing them into the mail slot of
the Physics Department Office. This is
truly the stuff that memories are really
made of.
Don't get fool ideas into your head. This is
nostalgia. We won't be doing this again, I
don't think. I imagine that I'll be getting a
few queer looks from certain physics professors. I certainly expect it from Dr. Carolan, who will probably stroll about the
halls of Hennings wondering exactly how
Pat thinks he strolls. It's a moot point,
because Dr. Carolan broke his leg last year,
and now we have to come up with an
entirely new walk to imitate him. Page Six
9 January 2007
Volume V
Religions of the A Boy And His
World Bitch
TAOISM: Shit happens.
CONFUCIANISM: Confucius say, "Shit
BUDDHISM: If shit happens, it really
isn't shit.
ZEN: What is the sound of shit happening?
HINDUISM:  This  shit has  happened
ISLAM: If shit happens, it is the will of
PROTESTANTISM: Let shit happen to
someone else.
CATHOLICISM: Pre-Vatican: If shit happens, you must have done something
to deserve it.
Post-Vatican: If shit happens, it's the clergy's fault.
PRESBYTERIANISM: It is pre-ordained
that shit will happen.
FUNDAMENTALISM: Praise the Lord!!!
Shit happens!!
JUDAISM: Why does shit always happen
to us?
NEW AGE: If shit happens, channel it.
Visualize shit happening.
RASTAFARIANISM:  Really great shit
METAPHYSICS:   Shit   is   part   of  the
essence of all of us.
let me in, I'll tell you how shit happens.
MORMONISM: If shit happens ... make
sure you have a two-year food supply.
RAJNEESH: For a thousand bucks, shit
can happen for you too.
AGNOSTICISM: We really don't know
for sure if shit happens.
ATHEISM: Who gives a shit?
Angry Duck
I adopted a dog two weeks ago. She was
given up for adoption by her previous
owners, even though she was fully
house trained, well-behaved, and generally a wonderful dog. I have no name for her.
For now she is being called by her Interim
Name, Oppie. That is short for J. Robert
Oppenheimer, the father of the Atomic
Bomb, who was publicly shamed be -
cause of seedy dealings in the thirties. He's
one of my heroes. Oppie, as I said, is just a
temporary name. Usually, I simply refer to
her as The Crotch Inspector (I did not get
this dog for security reasons. The worst
thing she could do to a prowler is to nail
the burglar in the crotch with her snout.
This may not save my television, but it
ensures that there will be no Prowler Offspring to get the CD player).
The reason the old owners gave her up for
adoption was: she snores.
I have never had a dog that snored. I have
never heard anyone snore that loud. The
first time she fell asleep in the living room,
my two cats came barreling downstairs,
alarmed, expecting the Riders of the Apocalypse to be prancing around the kitchen.
"Relax," I tell them, "Oppie snores." To a
cat, snoring is a serious faux pas.
limIQ->0 BSc = BA
Volume VI
Schroedingers Fridge
Angry Duck
Anatomy of a freezerburn
My freezer bit me. I'm not kidding.
It bit me. Our freezer - presumably built when it was in vogue to
build freezers that don't work - grew teeth,
big giant fangs of ice, and it bit me when I
was going for the Haagen-Dazs.
My freezer not only frosted up, but stalagmites and stalactites of ice spontaneously
formed, sealing in the contents of the freezer. Whenever we open it up, it's like looking at a grinning Allosaurus with a mouthful of frozen peas.
On top of that, we can't find the neighbour's cat. We figure the freezer got it. Or
else it was the Unidentified Container In
the Back Of The Fridge, because, every
now and then, we hear a chewing sound
coming from it.
Perhaps I am exaggerating a little. The fact
remains that freezers are strange devices,
whose sole function it seems is to thicken
with ice until everything in it has been
glaciated, like a wooly mammoth eating
I understand that I am not the only one
with freezer problems. According to the
Institute of They (as in, "They say that one
in a hundred people get colon polyps"),
every seven minutes a freezer gets so frosted with ice in this country that the contents
can never be recovered.
Furthermore, the Institute of They tells us
that every twelve minutes, someone
defrosts their freezer. This means that
every day, 288 more freezers become
clogged up with ice than become defrosted. A chilling statistic, (ed: Aaron's address
is available for those interested in exacting
retribution for that last one.) What can we
do with this ever-increasing glut of ice-
clogged freezers? Where  can we safely
store them, so that they will not harm
future generations? After all, eventually,
the ice inside will melt, spilling years old
bags of Jolly Green Giant Niblets that have
slowly mutated into Niblets Hungry For
Human Flesh. Or something like that.
Have you ever attempted to defrost a
freezer? It's not fun. The Institute of They
tells us that the preferred way to defrost a
freezer is to
a) unplug it,
b) go to bed,
c) let the melted ice drip all over the mayonnaise, ketchup, lettuce, milk, open bowl
of tuna salad, and the Cow Brand Baking
Soda, in the fridge beneath,
d) feed the tuna salad to the roommate.
Further study shows that there is a variety
of methods employed to defrost a refrigerator freezer.
The experimental physicist, for example,
will rectify the situation by attempting to
bring the freezer to a rapid thermal equilibrium with the room, generally by pouring in a gallon of hot water. Mind you,
while the hot water melts the ice, it also
immediately spills out of the freezer and
on to the floor, where no absorbent material had been placed (that was beyond the
scope of the experiment).
The theoretical physicist, on the other
hand, freezes the entire house, reasoning it
better to solve the simple problem of
defrosting a house rather than the complex
problem of defrosting a small, localized
The engineer chips away at the ice with a
knife from the kitchen drawer, until the
rough shape of a freezer has been made;
after that a red Volkswagen is stuffed
The mathematician would first solve the
problem of defrosting an infinite number
of freezers, then spend the rest of his or her
life on the problem of defrosting a finite
number of freezers.
The biologist would develop a strain of
ice-eating bacteria that would, unfortunately, also eat the fridge.
The psychiatrist could defrost the freezer,
but the freezer would really have to want
to be defrosted.
The Arts student would look for some
kind of Defrosting Manual, then eventually call the electrician.
The graduate student would defrost the
fridge in a quick, original manner, but his
advisor would take the credit for it.
The Ubyssey Staffer would simply crawl
inside and get steamed about this or that
marginalised person of colour.
The Womyn's Center wouldn't have a
freezer to begin with, because it represents
the phallocentric-white-male-heterosexu-
oh, hell, I  don't
remember the rest.
Kurt Preinsperg would defrost a freezer
by finding a way to have sex inside it.
The philosopher would define the problem of defrosting a freezer in terms of a
cow falling down a hill; that is, does the
cow understand the concept of falling? Or
is it too stupid? Perhaps the cow notices it
is falling then forgets, then re-notices, in
an endless recurring loop.
The astrophysicist would reason that, relative to the cosmic background radiation
temperature (4 Kelvin), the freezer is running damned hot, and reasons anything
that hot would defrost itself.
The AMS Council member, of course,
would fine the Engineers.
OpX, Into Research
Keynote by Dr. Carl Wieman
Join us for an evening intended to offer you the tools needed to get
involved in the world of research. Dr. Carl Wieman. physicist and
Nobel Laureate, will welcome us to the wonders of research and its
value in a science student's educational experience. Breakout
sessions will follow, where invited speakers will highlight
opportunities to enter the world of research, sharing their
knowledge and experiences in volunteering, co-op, work study.
NSERC awards, directed studies, graduate studies, and more.	
WHERE: Woodward IRC
WHEN: 5:15 pm - 7:45 pm on Tuesday, January 16th
SCI Team
Please register at
www.sciteam.ubc.ca Page Seven
9 January 2007
Fizzle out
Being in first-year university seems a
lot like being in prison, in that it feels
like you're serving a four-to-six year
sentence, doing hard labour (problem
sets). However, in prison the grub is probably better than three-day-old pizza in the
fridge, and in prison one gets to sleep.
On the subject of sleep, I haven't had any
in the past two days; I've been too upset.
You see, I have been put through the worst
academic wringer any student could imagine: PHYS 110. I just discovered that my
Christmas exam mark was a resounding
'F'. In disbelief, I marched over to Hen-
First Year Fizz
nings to have a friendly chat with my prof.
"I'm sorry, the name doesn't ring... oh,
you," he said, unenthused. "You answered
that EMF is a rock group on question five,
"It isn't?" I asked. "Anyhow, I came by to
look over my exam. It appears that a terrible error has been made in the grading."
"Right. Student number?"
He shuffled through the mountain of
papers on his desk, pulled out the last one,
and glanced at it momentarily. "Nope.
Looks like the right mark to me." He handed it over.
I glanced at the mistakes.
Q. If BC Hydro charges $0.95/kWh, and you
left your frying pan on for 2.0 months, how
much money would you waste?
A. 4.00 M$ for burning down the apartment, and 2 .50 M$ in lawsuits.Hmm.
Must' ve lost marks on significant figures.
Q. A 60kg man climbs up a 5.0m ladder
inclined against the wall of a house at 65°. He
completes his climb to your window in 13s.
a) What work does he do?
A. He's probably a thief.
b) What is his power?
A. Being able to pick locks and rob you
Wonder what was wrong with that one?
"Why is there another 10% docked right
here at the end?" I asked.
Lhe prof popped a few Lylenol and
replied "Oh, that's the standard penalty for
Volume VII
giving lab instructors a bad time."
"It's now a tenth of a percent off per volt
of potential difference applied to any
member of the faculty. Accident or no.
Now, I want you to have a long chat about
your psycholo— ah, physics difficulties
with my slav- ah,
TM down in HEBB, okay?"
"But—" Before I could finish, he rudely
shoved me out of his office and closed the
Well, I'm only in first year and don't seem
to know very much by Department standards, but the one thing I do know is that
there's no way I'm majoring in Physics. I'll
change my field to Gastronomy.
Mars or Bust
Trevor Presley
I've always wanted to be the first man to
set foot on Mars. It seemed like a pretty
impossible dream, considering I'm not
an astronaut and I don't have quite enough
money to start my own space program.
I though my impossible dream was going
to stay that way, until last weekend. My
friends and I were drinking in our rez
lounge when the topic of space travel came
up. It seems my buddies were equally
interested in the concept of space travel,
and we began to brainstorm about ways to
make our dream come true.
After going through about six beer apiece
a "really bitchin' idea hit us. We quickly
made a list of items we would need, and
proceeded to round them up. After collecting the various items that would make our
voyage possible, we proceeded to the roof
of Salish house.
Our token rocket scientist calculated that
our space vehicle had to have an velocity
of 52 000 000 000 m/s. This calculation was
based on the fact that a normal human
could only hold his breath for 60 seconds
and Mars was very far away. In our drunken state, we could only think of one way to
overcome this obstacle: one awesome catapult. The first item we got was a spring
alder tree and then proceeded to nail one
end to the roof and tied the other end
down with ropes. We then stole a canopy
from the back of a truck and nailed it to the
tied-down end of the tree.
The idea was to have someone lie in the
canopy as we cut the ropes and send him
on his way to Mars. Once we got our catapult set up, we had to select a volunteer.
Now, I know I said I wanted to be the first
on Mars, but at this point I was sobering
up and beginning to realize that our idea
might have a tiny flaw or two.
Luckily, everybody else was still roaring
drunk, and my good friend Jeff quickly
volunteered. Just as we were about to send
Jeff on his way into history, we realized
two things: it's cold out in space, and
there's not very much oxygen up there.
Again, we brainstormed and came up with
the appropriate equipment, which consisted of a big winter jacket and an almost
empty fishbowl (well, hey, it worked for
Lintin). After Jeff donned these items, we
said a little prayer, closed our eyes and cut
the rope.
After the screaming had grown faint in
the distance, we opened our eyes and Jeff
was nowhere to be seen. We starting cheering and screaming in celebration of having
sent the first man to Mars. We talked about
what we'd do with all the NASA funding,
and what we would wear when we were
on the cover of LFME. After this moment of
celebration, we idly wondered how Jeff
would get back after he landed on Mars.
We figured that Jeff was a bright boy and
he would figure out a way. It was a great
moment in space exploration, and we went
back to our lounge to celebrate. After about
twenty minutes of boasting of bragging
about how smart we were, Jeff walked
through the door. He was covered in mud
and there were big bruises all over his
body, which didn't really seem consistent
with a reentry into the atmosphere. He
didn't look very happy, either. He then
attempted to choke the living shit out of
me, and almost succeeded until my friends
pulled him off.
Apparently the launch had been only partially successful. Lhe problem had been in
the trajectory; while we had all had our
eyes closed, Jeff had slammed into the fifty
foot clay mound opposite Salish. We were
a little bit dismayed to find out that we
weren't going to be famous anytime soon,
but hey, these things happen. We managed
to calm Jeff down with a few beers and by
the end of the night he promised to tear off
only one of my limbs. I guess the moral to
this story is: Please, don't drink and
attempt high velocity interplanetary space
Official effort at using the
last bits of toner in our laser
The Keys to
Blair McDonald
Through the door of dictatorship
Paper is the reason why society has
stopped evolving. For instance, I
needed a key to SUS. Lo get a key
from Campus Security involves shuffling a
lot of useless paper. First, Sarah, la presi-
denta, had to sit down and write an official
memorandum authorizing the Chemistry
Department to authorize the release of a
key requisition form. This key requisition
form was a multi-coloured document written in bureaucratese, in triplicate. After filling out several lines marked "Do not write
here", I got to keep the white and pink
copies. Chemistry kept the yellow for some
unknown reason. Next, I had to decipher
the instructions, written only in French
and Swedish: "Proceed to the farthest corner of the campus", it said, and with expert
help I understood that meant Campus
Parking and Security. The ominously
named Key Control Access Center. Probably deep underground, guarded by half a
legion of Strangway's elite storm troop
ers— the dreaded Housing clerks.
After passing through various checkpoints and ID scanners, I found the mythical Key Control Center, where I traded my
two pieces of paper for three others, and
after promising my soul and my first born
child to the devil Strangway, was given the
key. Number 666.
I've often wondered if there would be a
key labeled 666, and what that key would
open. Is it the fabled campus master key,
the magical piece of metal that opens every
lock on campus, from the front doors of
SUB to my closet door in res? Or is the key
to the Registrar's dungeons below the Old
Admin Building, where they drag students
kicking and screaming to pay their tuition
in blood. Vice-President Shylock, recently
hired to collect all the outstanding fee payments. Keys... for some, collecting them is
a passion. Such as the AMS Vice-Prez.
Keys for every door in creation. Four individual key chains, one for each pocket.
Sorted by size, colour and code numbers.
Labeled with esoteric designations such as
"that door I went through once and never
will again" (Oooo, I better stop abusing
punctuation before the Editor comes out
wielding his red pen.)
Test marketing deals a swift and mortal bl >w to "Molson Dry Ice" beer. Page Eight
9 January 2007
Volume VIII
John and the       EasyGuide© To
winning Student
John Hallett
Corruptor at large
All teenage males are fascinated with
the concept of war and weapons of
war. All this fascination leads to
many of our younger selves spending long
hours in the elementary school library
looking at pictures in such books as Lhe
Art of Destruction, Why Nuclear Weapons
Are Bad, and, my personal favorite: 1001
Things Your Mom Won't Approve Of.
Many people contend that all this exposure to violence at an early age can cause
disturbing effects in people when they
grow up. I don't think so. You see, I was at
the forefront of the collective horror
research effort and, as anyone who knows
me can tell you, I have suffered no ill
effects from it to this day. In fact, I am perfectly comfortable in claiming to be completely normal.
Admittedly, me and a few of my friends
did experiment with little articles of
destruction for a while. A good example of
this would be when I borrowed my dad's
pressure washer, filled the tank with gasoline (high-grade, no expense spared here)
and proceeded to "dampen" an entire
block from the back of a moving van.
I learned several things from this experience: First: Never spray an entire block
with gas if you're doing it going down a
dead-end street. Second: If you accidentally complete mistake #1, don't compound
the problem by proceeding with the plan
to ignite said street.
Lhird: Entire burning of an avenue will
attract a lot of attention, namely from large
guys with a moustache and a yellow stripe
down the side of their legs.
Fourth: Gasoline does wonders to all the
little rubber seals inside pressure washers.
Randall Munroe
Once my parents posted bail, I learned the
errors of my ways and settled down.
Besides, I had no idea how to implement
the rest of my ideas. Lhat was, of course,
until I took Physics 11.
Now don't get me wrong, it's not like I
decided to take the course for the explicit
purpose of learning how to attack other
human beings (well, it wasn't my only reason). In fact, the whole concept of actually
using science to scare the bejeezus out of
other people didn't come to me until the
middle of a rather boring class sometime in
late October '91.
After several experiments in propulsion
involving small rockets, we devised a projectile that would self-destruct when its
fuel ran out. It worked like this: the rocket
contained an explosive charge that would
detonate after the propulsion cartridge
burned through to the wick at the top.
Lhe whole plan involved firing many of
these little denizens of destruction from
afar at a neighboring elementary school
during their late night Halloween party (a
clever plan to get the youngsters off the
street and away from danger... bawahaha-
Lhe stage was set, me and three of my
friends had set up a launching platform in
a park near our high schools. We had over
two hundred handmade rockets waiting to
be launched.
Don't panic, we planned to have all the
rockets detonate at least 150 feet over the
heads of the sweet, innocent, children. At
least that's what we planned... After the
first batch of ten hit the target, we realized
that about three from each batch would
take a lower arc to the target, arrive ahead
of schedule, and implant themselves in the
ground before detonating.
Explosions were going off every couple
seconds at all altitudes. No one got hurt,
but boy, were they scared! And isn't that
the way Halloween is supposed to be?
Sometimes itseet^ bizarre to me
Blair McDonald
Take five people. Any five people will
do. Lhey need not have any pertinent qualifications or experience.
Add catchy slogan. Lhis is critical to the
success of your campaign. It is important
to pick one that is eye-catching, one that
will draw voters to your slate like flies to
Picking a slogan is much like choosing
tomatoes; you want one that's nice a firm.
Squishy ones like "Lhink Pink" will only
last a few hours without refrigeration
before spoiling. Also, you should pick one
that actually gives away your platform.
"Students for Students" is far too explicit
for any respectable political types.
A good slogan promises nothing concrete.
A great slogan will imply that the candidates using it are forward-thinking individuals who will fix all the problems
immediately, without coming out and saying how that is to be done. Slogan should
also convince students politics is all about
radical change, drawing the connection to
student activism in the '60s. This will specially appeal to the hemp-smoking population, and to the hemp-smoking wannabees,
mostly Science and Engineering students
who identify more with Porky movies
rather than Revenge of the Nerds.
Promise the world. Since voters rarely
remember anything after the first week of
office, make every promise you can, even
the ones you can't keep. Promise an end to
elitism,  social injustice,  world hunger,
environmental abuse, racism, political
incorrectness and those really disgusting
chili dogs from Snack Attack. Voters will
come out in herds for that last one.
Poster the hell outta campus. In order to
properly poster a campus the size of UBC,
a slate requires at least 3 old-growth trees
for paper. You also need 4 gallons of nonrenewable oil reserves to make enough
masking tape, and a new strip mine will
have to be started for your staples. Finally,
73 toxic chemicals will be dumped by an
evil corporation into a fish-breeding
stream in order to provide your inks.
However, to preserve your environmentally friendly image, make sure you print
on beige coloured paper, and include a
tiny recyclable symbol in the top left hand
corner. Slam everyone else. Don't bother
going out and researching the issues. It's
simply not necessary, ever since Webster's
Third Collegiate had the following entry
under corrupt.
corrupt \core-upt\ (n) : evil, dastardly,
black to the core, referring to inherently
devious people trying to destroy everything important to the fabric of society. See
Simply ensure you add corrupt, fascist,
Stalinist, or any of the other approved
descriptors every fifth or sixth word during your campaign. By following these
easy steps, almost anyone can win a student election. In fact, we're so sure, we're
willing to offer a money-back guarantee to
anyone using this product during the next
six months.
Offer void for qualified candidates and
the living-impaired.
How lasting psychological scars develop. Page Nine
9 January 2007
Volume IX
John Hallett
Burning Up
ire is one of those things your mother
probably warned you about. Let's
face it, fire is hot, unpredictable and
downright dangerous. It even has it's own
hazard symbol (something I'd like to
accomplish in my time).
But it's soooo pretty. Especially when it's
burning lots of things at the same time.
You get the whole range of oranges, reds,
and blues. Some of it is very bright and
there are dark splotches where the flame
isn't quite as intense. And fire dances. A
rhythmic, pulsating, memorizing dance
that says "Spread me, John, light the walls
on fire. Burn things. Burn people, John."
But I digress.
Don't worry. I've never done what the fire
tells me. Well, none of the bad things, at
It wasn't far from staring wide mouthed
and drooling at burning things to the conclusion that I could make art with fire.
Lhink about it: fire is often considered to
be alive. Art is supposed to mirror life. It
all adds up. 2+2=4. So my new mission in
life was to construct fire art. (My old mission was to communicate with invisible
dwarves via the little man living in my
index finger. It met with limited success
until I tried staying awake for the entire
month of February.)
Now I set out to find things for my masterpiece. I needed stuff to burn, er, display
in a fantastic drama of life and death.
Lhink about it, fire has a birth, life, and
death. It mirrors reality rather well, I think.
All that and it leaves a blackened, charcoal
path wherever it goes. Much like I do.
So I found some stuff: phone books, duct
tape, an old buick, second hand clothing,
lingerie, and the original draft of the US
Utilizing some 2x4s nabbed from the
walls of the Cheese, I constructed my artistic tribute to all that is fiery. It stood a glorifying 24' high and violated almost every
building code in existence.
Next, I doused it rather liberally with a
clever combination of kerosene, high
octane gas and nitro-glycerin. Not to mention lots of fertilizer and diesel.
All that was left was to ignite my masterpiece, let art progress, and discuss my creation with all the people who had shown
up to view my structure. I guess I should
have noticed that a large majority of these
people had yellow stripes down the sides
of their pants and were asking the rest of
the crowd exactly who was responsible for
the now flaming obelisk. Needless to say, I
ran away. Very fast.
I observed, from a distance, my creation's
birth, life and subsequent premature death
at the hands of the UBC fire department
(who were, by the way, so completely and
utterly unprepared for getting a call to a
real fire that it took them 15 minutes to
remember how to even turn on the water).
Art as fire, fire as art. It made sense to me.
But apparently the authorities didn't agree.
I leave this little chapter of my life having
gained but one thing: the right to bitch
about being oppressed by the establishment. Something I've been doing all along
but now I'm qualified.
At least the little man living in my index
finger understands...
Volume X
He's Jer and He's in a Band
Jeremy Thorp
Nof a bandaid
Everybody wants to be a rock star.
Visions of glamour swoop through
our tiny primate craniums at the
very mention of the phrase. Lhe entire Hollywood corporate super-structure depends
on the fact that we all want to be rich and
famous superstars so that we can drink
expensive drinks, get hooked on heroin,
and get paid to be naked on the cover of
the Rolling Stone.
I'm not a rock star. I am, however, in a
rock band. Now, I admit, we haven't yet
sold (or even produced) the one album that
will provide the book-end for the 5 zeroes
required for a fancy gold-plated record.
But, we play, and people listen. I've even
had several folk whom I don't even know
tell me that we don't suck. It would follow,
then ,that I would stand to benefit from at
least some of the benefits of fame.
Now, don't get me wrong. I like to play
music. Lhe feeling you get when you climb
up on stage and look into the faces of the
audience is truly indescribable. It's the
feeling I get when I walk off of the stage
that seems to be somewhat lacking.
Initially, I faced the problem of how to
bring the subject into everyday conversation. Through experience, I've learned that
an introduction of "Hi, I'm Jer. I'm in a
band" is less than successful. More successful, perhaps, than "Hi, I'm Jer. I write
for The 432," but still generally non-productive. Practice pays off, though, and I've
learned to merge the topic into the fray
with relatively little pay.
No problem, right? No one can resist a
guy in a band. Yeah, right. Me: "So, we
were playing this show at the Niagara the
other night, when..." Her: "You're in a
Me, acting shy and non-chalant. "Well,
Her, smiling and eager: "Wow! What do
you do?" Me, somewhat proud: "I'm the
lead singer."
My sound guy, rude and obnoxious: "I'm
the sound guy!"
Her, with an obviously unhealthy obsession with amplification: "Wow! The sound
Me, holding back rage: "But I sing! I'm the
Her, temporarily deaf in her left ear: "The
sound guy! So, you, like, set up sound
stuff, right..."
Congratulations, Jer, now the whole university know about your fame-based inadequacies. Mind you, it wouldn't be so bad,
if this was an isolated incident. It wasn't. In
fact, I've totally given up on even mentioning the fact that I'm in a band, fearing that
I will just make matters worse, and end up
friendless and completely void of social
interaction. The problem is that though I
may have abandoned this plan, my friends
have rescued, refitted, and remodeled it,
and insist on displaying it at every possible
Me, facing impending disaster. "Hi, I'm
My sound guy, rude and obnoxious:
"He's in a band."
Her, smiling and eager: "Wow! What do
you do?"
You get the point. I can't avoid it. I've
been drawn into this evil self-destructing
whirlpool of doom, and I'm paddling with
a swizzle-stick. I'm debating a number of
possibilities. I could wear a bright coloured
shirt, with the words "I'm in a band" on
the front (though, the phrase "I have
rabies" may be more effective). This way, I
would avoid any social contact whatsoever. Alternatively I could distribute shirts
reading "My friend is in a band" to all of
my acquaintances (or perhaps "I'm Brad
Pitt"), in hopes that I can sneak unnoticed
to a quiet corner of the room, and feel gloriously sorry for myself.
Oh well. Maybe my luck will change, and
groupie-dom is not far away. And maybe,
a troupe of remarkably small winged
orangutans will emerge inexplicably from
my posterior. I can take it. If being famous
means giving up any chance of ever meeting a nice member of the opposite sex, I can
take my medicine. It's all about the music
after all.
Cupid's early trials with the pneumatic nail gun.
At the math bar. Page Ten
9 January 2007
Volume XI
Time Travel Sucks
John Hallett
Grandfather Clause
We've all thought about time travel before. It's a common dream
for young men all around the
country (strangely, women don't share this
particular want. Much like hockey and
beer, I suppose). Let's face it, aside from a
naked and bound Cindy Crawford lathered in whip cream, a time machine has
got to be the number one all-time requested Christmas present for teenage boys.
So say next December 25 rolls around and
you wake up in the morning. You wonder
what that unhealthily obese red imp left
you under the tree last night. You wander
downstairs and find not that red sleigh you
asked for, but Cindy, bound and begging
for you to call Interpool.
Next December 25, just two days after you
had grown tired of your old present, you
go downstairs to find, yes, a time machine!
Your dreams have come true!
Now comes the problem. Everyone desperately wants a time machine, much like
Cindy. But unlike Cindy, not everyone
immediately would know what to do with
one should they actually get it.
"What! What do you mean I wouldn't
know what to do with it?!?" you exclaim,
"It's painstakingly obvious! I'd change history for good! I'd make millions on the
stock exchange! I'd knock off Hitler when
he was seven!" That's a very common
answer. You see, when I say that most people wouldn't know what to do with a time
machine, I mean that most people wouldn't know how to use it. Think about it. If
you went back and knocked off Hitler, you
might change the course of history so
much that your parents might never have
met, thereby creating a Grandfather Paradox. For those of you who don't know
what a Grandfather Paradox is (read: those
of you in Arts), quit reading now and go
back to staring at Van Goghs and occasionally saying 'Brilliant/Anyway, I digress, if
you create said paradox, your magnificent
historical and selfless change doesn't happen and you cease to exist. Not exactly efficient use of a miracle machine, now is this?
The same thing goes for making millions
on the stock exchange or pushing the
Queen Mother off of a cliff. (She is the root
of all modern evil, you know. You wouldn't suspect it, but she knocked off Lady Di.
Lhe bitch.)
So you have this revolutionary machine
sitting in your living room and you have
no use for it except to make idle conversation. "So what's that thing over there?"
"What? Oh that, it's a Ming Dynasty vase.
My dad brought it back from China, isn't it
nice?" "No, the thing it's sitting on." "Oh
that. It's just a time machine, not much use
for it. So how's your Uncle Albert?"
Wrong. You can still use the thing but you
have to use it wisely and conservatively.
Like traveling back to open the door of
your apartment when you locked yourself
out last Luesday. Or warning yourself not
to chug that giant drink at the beer garden
last Friday. Or using the summer holidays
to study for your April exams.
Myself, I'd pull historical practical jokes.
For instance I'd put a whoopee cushion on
Jesus' seat right before the last supper. Lhe
drama and suspense certainly couldn't
hold up when Jesus lets one rip as he sits
down at the table. Of course, there is the
distinct possibility that traveling back to 30
AD may reveal that Jesus was a three foot
six inch tall bald dwarf with a major flatulence problem and that historians portrayed him as a skinny, bearded hippie to
raise the sympathy vote. Just think about
the true facts that have been changed to
make history sound better. For instance,
Joan of Arc was actually Jean d'Arch, a 5
foot 2 inch tall flaming French queen with
a foot fetish and a penchant for high heels.
He reportedly drove the majority of the
English out of France by
slapping them and calling them "skanky
whores." See, real history just isn't as interesting as the stuff you get in History 135.
Another example is the crusades. Lhey
weren't exactly groups of thousands of
brave Catholic knights bent on freeing the
holy land from the infidel so much as they
were six guys from Sussex shipping bad
Islamic pornography from Jerusalem on
order of the king. (Believe me, if anyone
can make really bad pornography, it has
got to be the Muslims.)
Lhen there's Noah. I don't know where to
start with Noah. Lhe bible reports that
Noah built this very large boat, stuffed it
full of pairs of rare and exotic animals, and
floated away during the "Great Flood" so
that he and these animals could populate
the world when the water dried up. Lhis
story only has one thing in common with
the truth: sex, lots of sex. In reality, Noah
ran a floating amusement park called "Big
Gay Noah's Big Gay Boat Ride" in which
paying zoophilic customers could have sex
with exotic animals of their choice. Pretty
good service for 3000 BC.
How can you know that I'm not just making this stuff up? Well, truth be told, I am,
but that doesn't change anything. You see,
this stuff could have happened and you
wouldn't know it because some guy 2500
years ago decided that fiction was more
interesting than fact. We should thank this
mystery man because, let's face it, Noah
never would have made the first cut in the
bible's editing process otherwise. Lhe
moral of the story? Lime travel ain't all it's
cut up to be. Jules Verne made it up to be
this dramatic and exciting fun-filled
adventure. Mostly it just involves crouching behind a hedge watching famous people in robes doing boring stuff in a language you can't understand. Not exactly
So forget about it. Lime travel is boring.
People are boring. History is boring. Julius
Caesar died at 64 from a heart attack. Lhe
Lhree Musketeers were traveling insurance salesmen. And don't get me started
on the dinosaurs...
Don't Touch My Fido, Amigo!
Jay Garcia
Cell phones. Lhey're light, portable,
and run for hours on a single battery. In the not-too-distant past,
they were about the same size and heft of a
largish textbook, and were only found in
the possession of busy on the-go executives desirous of an ungainly (and somewhat indecorous) status symbol with more
functionality than most portable objects
carrying a ten thousand dollar price tag.
Lhese days, however, and for significantly
less cash, any Lorn, Dick or Rover can look
like a Captain Kirk (albeit a less melodramatic, toupee-less Captain Kirk) simply by
pulling one out and talking away. You can
tell cell phones have reached the point of
near-ubiquity when standards of etiquette
have been raised around their use, former
Eastern Bloc countries are jumping straight
to cell-carrier technology to bypass the
costly infrastructure associated with land-
line phones and cellular telecommunication firms are hawking their products by
pandering to the lowest common denominator (if you're the lowest common
denominator with at least twenty bucks a
month to burn).
It is for this particular reason that I was
considering joining the ranks- of the cellu-
larly-wired (well, this reason, and the convenience of being able to make prank calls
wherever I am). Lhere are, however, a few
drawbacks about owning cell phones. Second only to pagers (or large, 80's-style
boomboxes pumpin' out the clear tunes of
Liffany on a crowded bus), they're the
most annoying pieces of technogear a person can have on them. Say for example that
you forget to turn the ringer off, and the
damn thing goes off in the middle of a lecture, and everyone turns to look at you as
if you were some dealer in illicit narcotics.
Or you're in a class when a cell phone rings
and everybody starts digging around in
their bags, seeing if it's their cell phone
that's ringing nonstop, when it really
belongs to the one guy who's still nonchalantly taking notes.
Besides, who wants to be in contact all the
time? Unless you leave the damn thing off,
which defeats the purpose of owning one
in the first place, then you're most definitely going to get called up by boozed-up
sort-of-friends who got your number from
a friend of a friend of the friend whom you
made swear never to share the number to
Lhis, however, is mere opinion, as I know
next to nothing about actually owning a
cell phone. So, like the hapless consumer
that I am, I did some informal research
about them (consisting largely of bugging
my friends who owned one until they told
me what I needed to know, just to get rid
of me). Lhis is what I found out.
Most cell phone owners suffer from the
same form of envy that computer users feel
when confronted by a shinier, newer toy
packed with more RAM, software, and
general whiz-bang-wow-ness than their
own. In cell owners, this tends to manifest
itself as a strange trend to be intensely
envious of other people's cell phones,
especially if they're newer, cooler, and,
most importantly, smaller. You know the
type, the small, black, folding wedge-
shaped jobbies about size of a matchbook
and as thick as a pack of playing cards
(probably as a massive overreaction to the
lumbering ten pound cell-phone dinosaurs
that caused severe back pains and neck
and shoulder cramping the executives of
yesteryear). Sure, they look cool when
you're holding it (or rather, carefully
cradling it) in the palm or your hand; and
they're convenient as all get-out to carry
(you could probably get them to fit in the
small change pocket on your jeans), but
there's just no way you can look dignified
talking into that thing. It looks like you're
speaking into an electronic organizer, for
chrissakes. Well, probably not, 'cause
pocket electronic organizers are bigger
than that.
Further, it can be observed that the hardcore, non-business oriented cell-phone
using public divides itself into two large
categories: the techno-geeks, and the over-
ly-socially connected. Lhis latter group
actually use their phones to keep abreast of
the strange and convoluted permutations
of their lives, the lives of their friends and
significant others, the location of the nearest rave and the current street price of
Ecstasy. Lechno-geeks, on the other hand,
use their phones because, well, it's a geek
thing and it's somewhat cooler than plunking a quarter into a phone box and blathering away (not to mention that it' s more
hygienic — do you have any idea the number and variety of fungus and bacteria that
accumulate on phone box ear and mouth
pieces?). Besides, you can plug laptop
modems into the newer versions of cell
phones (the digital PCS ones), thereby getting the most geek bang for your buck.
Which means that, no matter where you
are, as long as you have a laptop with a
fully-charged battery, a modem and a digital PCS phone, you can check your e-mail,
play interactive games, or do Web-based
Or you can surf for porn on the Internet.
Great. I'm convinced. Now I just got to get
around to buying a laptop ...
"El Nino is the work of the evil arch villain dr. Warm, who is
attempting to take over the world's pineapple market" Page Eleven
9 January 2007
Volume XII
The Last Laugh
Jay Garcia
Hah! I laugh at the grey dreariness
of the season . Whilst most mere
mortals are quivering in fear and
ducking the wetness pissing on them from
the skies, hiding in their six-hundred dollar Patagonia jackets, I brazenly
run through the fall showers, despite
being soaked to the skin, oblivious to this
heavy fog that you people call rain. Hey,
where I'm from, this kind of weather
would be a little teeny-tiny weather system, a baby squall, looking up to its hurricane and typhoon brethren, all the while
building up its strength from secret equatorial latitudes, waiting for the day that it
could become a contender. You know, a
real monsoon. A deluge of Biblical proportions. So go back to your little clusters of
umbrellas and your fusty-smelling galoshes and stay away from the out-of-doors.
Leave this weather to those who can truly
appreciate the nuances of a gentle autumnal spray. For not even the thought of an
early-season cold cannot deter me from my
daily external constitutionals!
I also laugh at the scurrying little minions
of this faulty academic system. Look at
you, scampering in terror at the merest
mention of your transcripts, slaves to the
rigour of the academic clock. Oh no, poor
me, midterms in October! Finals until
December 23rd, how ever will I be able to
survive? And the application deadlines!
Medical School, Law School, Grad School,
all due so soon, whatever am I to do?
Phaugh! I laugh at your foolish antics, and
spit on your aspirations. I am undaunted
in the face of such pressure. I cannot crack,
for I am made of far sterner stuff. A
midterm tomorrow? Hah! All that means is
a leisurely review roughly a day
beforehand, supported with the appropriate cast of stimulants, endorphins,
and illegal pseudo-neurotransmitter
analogs washed down by copious Jolt,
backed up by a slightly less amphetamine-
fuelled cursory look-over right
before the test, and I'm right as rain. Well,
not Vancouver rain, but you get the idea.
Medical School applications? No hassle. A
quick-and-dirty fill-in-the-blanks job, followed up by a witty, urbane essay highlighting the events in my life, like the time
I discovered a cure for Hauffman-Dussel-
dorf Syndrome, led a crack team of Navy
Seals in an anti-terrorist siege in the Moldavian Embassy, and earned a 4.5 GPA.
All in one week. So trouble me not with
your trivial fears of academic success, your
whinging and whining and your stress-
based ailments, for you are obviously
made of lesser clay. So what if my eyes are
watery and my nose is running? Lhis isn't
the stress talking, it's just pneumonia,
dammit! Despite my affliction, I carry on,
I reserve a laugh, as well, for the Arts
Undergraduate Society, carrying on in
your comedic fashion. Oh, me, terribly
impressed I am by the fruits of your hard
labour. Your weekly affairs at Arts 200
have come to emulate the gender content
of your average steel mill, and you have
the temerity to serve that watered -down
swill that you call lager. For shame! At two
dollars apiece, your constituency deserve
something better than love-in-a-canoe
brew. And there is the matter of that piece
of unintelligent
boilerplate that you call Lhe Underground. I blow my mucallyaggrieved
nose on this rag, and deservedly so, given
the quality of the material therein. And
whilst I am, somewhat distressingly, a fan
of liberal, soft-hearted, pro-feminist writings, this is no excuse to let the agenda
cloud the quality, nor lead to the soft-headed twaddle, misplaced sentiment, and
unexciting writing that graces the misspent
two-colour interiors. I rant at all this, safe
and secure in the Science Undergrad office
and warmed by two shots of Lequila and
the heady comfort of several Lylenol 3's for
Cold and Flu.
And yes, I have saved a laugh for you Arts
students. Sheep, the lot of you. I sneer at
your navel-gazing twaddle and your armchair proselytizing. What have you to be so
cheerful about? Do you think that after six
years pursuing your degree in Medieval
Agrarian Haegalian Philosophy that your
dull, dreary lives will magically metamorphose into an episode of Friends, where
you can whine and bitch and live in nice
apartments while looking good for the
camera? Stop being self-delusional and
apply your -
selves, weak-minded fools! Join a real faculty, where you can use the most
bleeding-edge tools and methods to break
things or blow them apart, in the
name of greater knowledge! Prod the fabric of reality, even if it doesn't like it. Heck,
especially if it doesn't like it. You have to
break a few dozen eggs to make a halfway
decent omelet, just like you have to mutate
a gross of sheep to get one Dolly. Hah!
Now, if you'll excuse me, all this raving
has gotten me tired . I've got a midterm to
study for, several substances to abuse, a
head cold the size of Manhattan, and a bottle of Lylenol-3 with my name on it.
Rock and Roll (Baby!) Part 2
Andy Martin
Beepin' and a boppin'
We join our hero staring at the
gates to the fortress Thunder-
bird. His mission: To infiltrate
the compound and corrupt the evil syndicate AUS's master plan, code named Operation: ACF. This scheme to enslave the
youth of the University of British Columbia by pulverizing their mental resistance
with subsonic subliminal messages then
breaking their will by keeping them in
unending lines with the promise of alcohol
at the end that they will never reach. This
is a critical part of their plan to legalize
child pornography, prostitution and gambling as 'art forms' in the great province of
British Columbia.
The sun is shining, in the distance, a bastard child cries for the father she will never
know, and our hero is stuffing his
brassiere with balloons filled with scotch.
"Maybe I shouldn't have worn the underpants as well," our hero, Andy Spade,
comments to his sidekick.
"Listen, at least I washed the stains out."
remarked Shera, Spade's partner, as she
latched up the bra. She was a feisty girl,
with a razor wit and a head of red hair that
would turn any man to water. Beautiful,
charming and effective with a .44, Spade
thought he could love her, if he could
bring himself to trust any dame, especially
after his woman turned
him over to the Nazis during Operation:
Jizzmagnet. Yes, the torture irons had
scarred him, but those scars healed, unlike
those that she had given him in his heart.
Disguised in a summer dress with elevator shoes and a Gucci purse, Spade was a
walking convoy of hidden alcohol. His
gozangas, enough to challenge country
music's finest, were scotch. His nicely
rounded ass, were cheeks of vodka. His
elevator shoes were hollowed out and
filled with sambuca. His five foot beehive
hairdo concealed a 40 lb bottle of rum. His
asthma respirator contained Russell
Christmas Ale, which he had been specially preserving for three months now. His
insulin, syringes of martini and his lips
were injected, not with silicone, but with
the contents of two B-52s.
"Well, is that everything?" Spade asked,
looking around him for any alcohol he
may have missed. "No, now lets get
going" were the only words of encouragement that Shera could muster as they
headed off to the gates. Once there, they
blended in with the crowd of students,
witless as to what was going on around
them. Spade couldn't believe the extra
weight of the alcohol, but he gritted his
teeth and bore the burden. As they
approached the gates, Shera produced two
bright yellow tickets and handed one to
"Where did you get these?" Spade asked
in amazement. "From the ticket counter in
the Student Union Building, where else,
you imbecilic fuckface?" Shera explained
"Shera, you certainly are full of surprises.
By the way, this underwear is nearly my
size, I didn't think you had such big hips."
"I don't, but my mother does."
"Your moth ...!" Facing the guards, Spade
shut his mouth quickly. If they
heard a man's voice coming from a
woman, they would know that something
wasn't quite right in Denmark. Spade
knew he had to be quiet, or the jig would
be up. He handed his ticket to the small
girl, who tore it in two and gave him his
stub back. Well, that was quick and easy,
Spade thought, but the guards up ahead
were going to be much tougher. Spade
walked forward slowly, concentrating to
keep his balance on top of six inches of
sambuca while wearing a good 100 lbs of
alcohol on his six foot four frame. Shera
put a comforting hand to his back and
shoved him forward.
A few feet in front of the guards, he stum
bled suddenly. Swaying in the wind, he
though he was done for. But he steeled his
jaw against the sun and righted himself to
look the guard in the face. Lhe guard
grunted "Your mascara's running, you
Suppressing his urge to kill the hulk,
Spade nodded politely and gave a sheepish smile . Not wanting to draw attention
to himself, he walked a few more steps to
allow the jerk to do his job. Lhe guard put
his hand on Spade's hip and felt across to
his other hip, barely brushing the vodka
balloons. Lhen he waved Spade through
and looked Shera up and down before
doing the same to her. "We're in," Spade
congratulated Shera. No sooner had Spade
uttered those words did an excessively
hairy and dirty security guard approach
them and put his arms around both of
them. "Hey ladies," the smell of cheap
beer and even cheaper perfume reeked out
of his mouth, "You two up for a threesome?"
"In your wet dreams, you fat fuck," Shera
"Yes," Spade said, in the best woman-
voice he could muster, "Please leave us
alone "
"Awww, come on now, chickee-boo! You
have to get to know the real me, which is
best done behind the tent there."
"I said FUCK OFF!" Shera said, ripping
the slob's arm off her shoulders.
"Well, I guess its just me and you then
baby," the stinking man said, turning his
full attention to Spade, "Why don't I
just..." The walking carpet of a man
reached down to forcefully grab Andy's
ass. Before Spade knew what had happened, the man's firm grip was upon his
false ass and giving it quite a rub down.
"Now listen you ..." Andy started, but
was cut off by the sound of one of his ass
cheeks blowing under the pressure of the
oaf's iron grip. *POP* The forceful explosion left the one side of Andy's ass sagging
like Walter Matteau's face, and the burst of
fluid from the former cheek soaked his
entire dress with the sweet, sticky smell of
Though the man upon him hadn't yet
noticed and was busying himself with his
other half-ass, the nearby guards turned
with a start at the sound of a woman's ass
blowing with a sound that was far too
loud to be a girl's fart.
"Fuck," was the only word Spade uttered
before kneeing the bear in the groin and
running as best he could in his elevator
shoes. The man, though shocked, did not
let go of his ass, and removed the lower
part of Spade's dress along with his underwear, which turned out to be tear-away.
Shera's mother always was kind of a slut,
Spade thought to himself as he ran.
Naked from the waste down and two balloons of vodka lighter, Spade ran for the
crowd, knocking over the gawkers who
were staring at this woman with bad mascara, hairy legs, a humongous beehive
hairdo and a flaccid penis swaying from
side to side as he ran for the field, and safe-
Luckily, the guards hadn't been prepared
for the speed of Spade, and he was soon
able to loose them in the melee. Spade
moved slowly across the piss wall, where
he found he blended in just fine until he
reached the other side of the field and
joined Shera.
Spade made a toga of the remaining dress
and broke out the alcohol. He couldn't
save everybody, but damn it, it had been
worth it to save these few. Operation: ACF
would fail, and the AUS would be left
holding their dick.
Andy pierced one of his former tits with a
small needle from his purse, and drank the
sweet fluid inside. Four hours later, Spade
woke up. He was completely naked,
upside down in a port-a-potty with the
words "I am a blinking light" grossly misspelled, written in excrement, all over his
naked flesh. Andy Spade, truly one of
Canada's great black heroes! Page Twelve
9 January 2007
Andrew Tinka
GAP strikes agian
Will wonders never cease? I'm sitting here, looking out the window at a bunch of Plant Ops
guys who are—brace yourself—working. I
kid you not. Five stories below me, these
gentlemen are actually performing productive labour. Ten minutes ago, they
moved a stack of plywood from one pile to
another. Now, they look like they're doing
something to a big hole they've just dug.
This kicks ass. It's like finding out that
your Sea Monkeys really do build castles
and wear crowns and perform tricks. Up
until now, I've only seen circumstantial
evidence of Plant Ops having worked. Like
Volume XIII
Baby GAP
those big black pipes lying around Main
Mall. Everybody knows they are going to
be there forever. Or the hot water shutdowns "from 6 to 7 am" that last until 9 at
night (also known as the Stinky Student
day). Or the charred rodent carcass I found
in my driveway. No, wait, that's my fault.
Anyway, the important thing is that I've
seen Plant Ops working, so I should lay off
the nasty Plant Ops jokes. Did you hear the
one about the prostitutes, the porcupine
and the Plant Ops guy? No? I'd tell you,
but I did make that promise ...
I should really show my appreciation to
these guys somehow. If some genie came
along right now and gave me three wishes,
I know in detail what I would wish for.
First, a way to open this window. Second,
a good, fast escape vehicle. Something in
the pogo stick variety would be nice.
Lhird, something really nasty to throw,
preferably slimy and gooey. Lhat'll learn
Speaking of aborted fetuses, I hear everyone's in a tizzy over the arrival of GAP on
campus. Come on, people. They've been in
the malls for years. It was only a matter of
time before they came here. What I don't
understand is their strategy. Gap for Kids,
I understand. Baby Gap? Sure. But Gap for
Fetuses? Where's the market? Then there's
their posters: anorexic fourteen year-olds
in halter tops are disturbing enough,
thanks. But what coked-out advertising
executive came up with the idea that
graphic colour pictures of lynchings and
abortions would convince me to buy overpriced yuppie clothes for my unborn
Seriously, though, those GAP people have
it all backwards. They should take their
Why Tuque, eh?
gory racist images, string them together
into a movie, tell people it's latest from
Tarentino, and charge admission. They
would make millions. Instead, people are
complaining because they're showing it
free of charge. The world, my friends, is
very messed up.
I do feel obliged to stick up for these GAP
people though. After all, any day now I
might want up a big nine by thirteen foot
picture of my ass. And trust my, people
would protest. Ask any of my friends (or
enemies). On the list of asses you would
want to see, mine is right near the bottom.
When I was born, the doctor couldn't bear
to look at my hideous ass, let alone smack
it, so he hung me from a drip bag and used
a two-by-four instead. So remember, as
you're staring in horror at the crap inflicted on you by GAP, just say to yourself, "At
least it's not Andrew's ass. "
Andy Martin
Number of the beast
The end of an era, the close of a thousand long years and the gate to a
new age. The next millennia stretches prone before us like a woman ... beguiling, seductive, eternal ... it's coming a
momentous occasion for all mankind.
What complete and utter bullshit. Hey
everybody, I don't know if anybody's told
you this yet, but it's a fucking NUMBER!
It's a number some dumb-ass monk came
up with trying to estimate the time since
Christ had been born between His daily
routines of praying, cleansing and shagging altar boys. And we all know how
accurate religious leaders are. When even
Jerry Falwell starts most of his sermons
with 'Well, if you look at it this way' you
begin to doubt the holy prophecy.
Monks and priests were students from a
faculty that requires even less accuracy
than fine arts. And hell, I've been part of
scientific studies where +/-25% is an
acceptable margin of error. Western religion expects us to believe that 4.6 billion
years happened over 6 days. After that was
shot down in a flaming mass of logic, they
come up with something along the lines of
'Well, if you take a day as symbolising a
hundred million years,
it's kind of right". Hey, yeah, just like
Methuselah really did live to be 969 years
old, and all his family are said to have
lived to 962 Oared), 910 (Kenan), and 950
years old (Noah. Hey, a name you recognise! Thank God for the Irish Rovers!).
"Well, if you take a year as meaning a
week."Shut up. "Okay." Even if monkman
is right, it's not like Christ is up in heaven
looking at His wristwatch. Did he ever
promise to be back at 2000? No. Nowhere
in the Bible does he say 'Me and the horsemen will be back in Nineteen Hundred
and Sixty-eight years . . .sharp'. Which
time zone is he going by? I'd feel just a little cheated if the apocalypse fell on midnight Australian time. Of course, if he does
come around, he'll be the hit of the party. I
know I'd schmooze with him. Think of
who you really want to be your best buddy
right about now. Not only is he deciding
your eternal fate and that of your ex-girlfriend, but I'm pretty sure that water-wine
trick could be used for a massive post-
apocalyptic kegger. Mmm ... Christ Cream
Heck, you've got to do something while
waiting in the judgement line up, and it's
gonna be one heck of a line up. Six billion
people on earth, and the billions that came
before us. Take a number. And if the holy
judges are as efficient as most governing
agencies that I've had to deal with, you can
pretty much write off the next two millennia, waiting in line. And when you finally
get to the front, Gabriel leafs through the
nominal roll (a.k.a. roll of the of living)
and: "Hmm. ..your name doesn't seem to
be on the list, are you sure you're a human
soul? Well, I'm sorry, but if your name isn't
't here, there's not much we can dofor you.
So it's bye-bye for you."
But that won't happen, I'm sure God has
His affairs in order. After only a few years
of waiting I'll be brought before His holy
council to receive judgement: "Hmm.
..well, lets see the case against you: You
went to church as a kid. Lhat's good. But
you stopped."
"Erm, is that bad?"
"Not really, I'm fine with you worshipping me in your own way."
"You see. Lhat's what I've been ..."
"I'm talking here."
"You've dedicated your life to healing the
world ... however, you've eaten meat from
a cloven hoof and bottom dweller."
"Pepperoni pizza and lobster. I told you
not to eat those. You don't listen very well,
do you?"
"Sorry, but my church says ..."
"Do you believe everything you hear?
Christ Almighty...Sorry, son. Moving right
along let's look at your music collection:
Tsk. Rob Zombie, Monster Magnet. Dear
me, several Nine Inch Nails albums. And
you keep a Pantera album hidden in your
sock drawer. Then, in 1997, did you not
made the devil sign at a MetallicA concert?"
"Oh yeah, that."
"But, you have never listened to Slayer,
Michael Bolton, or Marilyn Manson, so
you only get three naughty stars out of a
possible five "
"Uh. .. thanks."
"You have frequent problems with alcohol. I witnessed that escapade in the nursing home 'Captain Pantless'."
"Hoo, hoo."
'Then you made fun of Me and My Son in
your past three articles in your silly little
paper, which the Holy Ghost usually quite
"Heh. I thought you'd have a sense of
"Listen, I've been judging humankind for
three straight years here, and looking at
that line, it'll-be another ten until I get back
to paradise. I just judged Jimmy Swaggart
and had to listen to that 'Please forgive me'
whining shit all over again before sending
him to hell. Do I look like
I have a sense of humor today?"
"No Sir."
"Good. Well let's get on with this : Yuu
uik Well duusn'L ever vbudv?"
maoturbato...like a lot.'
"Cuuld we iiul bring this up? TheieS d
really hot chick right behind me in line, 3hc
might hoar y ,..'
[Yelling] You once ma3turbatcd 30 hard
you forgot to breathe, turned blue and
your mom had to como in and cock you
one! You were probably going at it just
outside the doors before we let you in the
T on!" "Well, it'o not my fault.
way you carry
At lca3t I didn't lay with anything freaky
'a3 with woman', and don't think I didn't
have the chance!"
"Oh como off it. And then, on November
8th, 1998, 15:23:48 to 15:23:49 (PST), did
you not preach: 'Kenny Wayne Shepherd
is God'? This, not two weeks from pro
claiming Bobby Orr as your lord and
maker? Do you not understand the definition of idolatry?"
"This isn't going well at all, is it?"
"Nope. How do you plead?"
"Not Guilty."
"I find you guilty."
But that ain't gonna happen. No apocalypse, no Y2K bug. The worst thing that's
gonna happen is that all those checks and
forms labeled 19_ are going to be useless
computer geeks and cults around the
world are gonna be really upset about
nothing happening. Then they'll struggle
for dignity by saying that really bad stuff
will happen on 2001, which is officially the
start of the next millennia, but the number's ugly. 2001 just doesn't have the same
roundness or mystique that 2E3 has. 2000's
just a real cool looking number altogether.
The last real cool looking number was
1969. Everything's so round and smooth.
And great shit happened that year. Man
landed on the moon...the fucking moon!
Hippies went to Woodstock, rocked out
and invented venereal disease. It was the
last gasp before the seventies hit us . And
what did the seventies bring us? The end
of the Beatles, Nixon, Kiss, my birth, and
all sorts of other signs of impending g
destruction. Maybe there is something to
all this.
But, I know people are idiots, I know that
there are a hell of a lot of freaks out there.
And I know how easy it is to smuggle a
warhead out of Russia and use it for some
cockamamie scheme to get J.H.C. down
here to fit with their manifestos. So I'm
spending New Years up Mount Baker and
will welcome this new age facing Vancouver with my arms in the air, 'Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows...' blasting from my
rented Hummer's stereo, and the maniacal
glint in my eye that comes only from the
knowledge that I'll be one of the few
remaining men left for the breeding program after the cult bomb takes you all out.
See you on the other side. . .
"Politics can't be left in the hands of the people. The are, en masse, fucking morons"
-Glen Clarke Page Thirteen
9 January 2007
Volume XIV
But the Pagans have better Sex...
Jo Krack
WARNING: I'm going to ramble
about squirrels, Christianity,
Jesus, and bad relationships,
with an emphasis on virginity. This is an
unholy combination, and the results ain't
pretty. You've been warned...
Today I went to see a display by the Christians on Campus. There's a lot of those
groups, more than any other club, and
each one has become quite specialized... I
think perhaps this one was aimed at middle class, rap-music-hating, slogan-lovin'
Christians who favour the colour blue,
shoe sizes between 8 1/2 and 12, and harbour secret squirrel-sympathizing tendencies. Those squirrels are mighty influential
these days.
Anyway, I was busy being awed by the
circular logic of some of the posters, which
were trying to debunk "myths" (i.e., criticisms) of Christianity but weren't doing a
very convincing job, when I got bombarded by the breed of Christian I'll call Perky
Christian. Perky had a questionnaire for
me, and it gave enough non-Jesus lovin'
answer options so as to keep non-believers
from running away screaming, holding
onto their souls. In short, the questions
could be answered without revealing your
religious leanings, if you didn't want such
information exposed. So I answered it,
although she took down the answers, so I
didn't get to see what she wrote. (This concerns me somewhat...) At the end, she
asked me if there were any really tough
questions I'd like to ask Jesus. I thought:
what, is he like a Magic 8 ball or something? Will she pull out a little Jesus figurine, get me to ask my question, shake it
up, and then it will say 'Not likely' or
something equally ambiguous? Cool!! But I
didn't feel in the mood to come up with a
good question, even though I wanted to
see what method she would use to get
Jesus to answer (I kinda guessed that it
would be praying, which is not nearly as
cool as either channeling Jesus, or using a
holy Magic 8 ball). In fact, I didn't even
take one of the tempting accounts of
Jesus's life, which was Perky's mission.
However, I did take a cookie, as I am partial to peanut butter and dammit, I earned
it by taking that survey! I probably just
sold my soul right there, by divulging sensitive information
about us "undecided" (read: non Christian) students, so that our ways can be studied and methods to convert us will be perfected. Eep.
My soul is extremely cheap (food and/or
sex will do it; a combination of the two is
best) so I don't know why I haven't just
voluntarily handed it over to the Campus
Christians. Probably because I like to play
hard to get. You see, certain Campus
Christians are like other somewhat fanatical
groups: they want people to do what they
say, but as soon as they've converted
someone, BANG! it's onto chasing yet
another non-believer, and there you are,
cold and alone, clutching a bible when
you'd much rather be clutching that Suzy
or Jimmy who was so seductively explaining its virtues to you.
Personally, it seems a bit like virgin-chasing. Just like those guys who will only
sleep with virgins, but can only ever sleep
with a virgin once, because after that she's
not a virgin anymore. So I am the perpetual christianity-virgin, answering the very
familiar "Do you know Jesus?" with a
wide eyed, "Jesus? Who's that?" They
swarm to me, eager to deflower me and
force me into a codified behaviour that will
agree with theirs, so that they can convert
the whole world and thus finally be sure
that their religion is the right one after all.
Just like the kind of guy who tries to get
you to let your guard down, relax, because
"Baby, Til be there for
you". Really, all they want to do is brag to
all their other virgin-hunters that they
bagged a fresh one. And now I mean the
Christians, not the guys.
So I am a tease. Sometimes, I listen wholeheartedly, like the wholesome person I am,
until they get to the end, and invite me to a
bible study group, which is when I polite
ly inform them that sorry, I don't believe in
your religion. It's like giving a guy the
green light, only to inform him minutes
short of first base that sorry, you play for
the other team. The look on their faces is
priceless, as you watch their brains hard at
work: "But I know I was onto something!
Could I have phrased it all differently?
Where did I screw up? I... was... sooo...
Other times I am a little more fun. Sometimes I inform them that Jesus has personally warned me about their organizations,
so I'm staying away. Of course, if I say I
hear Jesus in my head (which is mean, I
know) they try to prove to me that it's the
devil speaking. Gee, could they be jealous?
Having a little crisis of faith, worried that
Jesus has never really spoken to them, only
given them signs?
Signs can be ambiguous too, like one guy
I met who was thanking God for a scholarship and informed me that God wanted
him to be a doctor. I tried not to be cynical,
because he was so happy about it, but I
wondered if he would still be a hard core
Christian if God had decided to make him
a McGreaseGrill boy for the rest of his life...
I'm not even going to get into LHAL question...
Well, as I wind up, I can only say that I'm
holding onto my religious virginity, so all
you virgin-hungry Christians out there...
why don't you try to come and get it, baby!
Fade to Greyscale
Andy Martin
C'est Halloween. Lime of scary spectres, scary old ladies giving out
apples with razor blades in them,
and ugly little kids coming around to try to
away my precious, precious candy using
cute little costumes. Hey, if I didn't give
any to the starving hobo on the corner of
Robson and Howe, what makes you think
you deserve it, you pampered little brat?
Hallowe'en is a time to celebrate and
exploit other people's fears. People fear
scary things, that's why they're defined as
'scary'. Yet people are dumb and seem to
react to fear with a certain ill-advised
curiosity. Show any other organism on
earth something they're scared of and they
go running in the other direction. Lhis fascination with things we fear is kind of a
short circuit around modern society to
instill some sense of natural selection in the
human population.
One of the top things people fear is the
inevitable end: Death. But lately, there has
been a trend towards not fearing death.
And it's not only found in the extreme
sporters or the clergy, it's found among the
normal, non-cliff jumping, non-altar boy
sodomizing population.
A lot of people I meet claim that they
aren't afraid of death. Lhis is an erroneous
position to take, mostly due to the fact that
death is pretty fucking scary. Lhere is
nothing not scary about death. It is to be
beyond all else. In fact, just about everything else that people develop odd and
inexplicable fears to can be laughed off,
death can't be laughed off... because you're
Many people believe that death is a natural passing from this life to another. Not for
me it ain't. Lo me, death means not living
anymore. It means no more life, no more
love, no more adventure, no more sex, no
more beer, no more liquid nitrogen, no
more grenade launchers, no more fun.
Some people believe in reincarnation. If
there is a life after death, I hope it is reincarnation. Everything else would just be
boring. But I don't want another life, I like
this life just like it is. I don't wanna be
rolling the chromosomal dice as to my
next body. Knowing my luck I'll be reborn
as some ugly, stupid and utterly charmless
oaf whose only joy in life will be when
he/she goes to a two-bit psychic and learns
that in
a former life, he/she was world-famous
Andy Martin, smiter of some sort of infidels.
People think that death is their ultimate
passage into paradise. However, if you're
one of the 99.9% of the population that sin,
that ain't guaranteed. Hell is all but a sure
thing for most of us. And hell is really,
really scary. And what is heaven supposed
to be? A never-ending Sunday service,
nonstop praising of the Lord. Heaven is
really, really scary.
And then, there are the atheists. Lhey
believe that when you die that's it, your
conscience ceases to exist, gradually fading
away as your brain rots after death. Lhey
believe that the conscience thought process
is merely a bunch of synaptic reactions, a
whole bunch of selective keytone-alcohol
electron displacements. And that when
we die, our conscience ceases to exist.
Lhat's so unbelievably scary, I can't even
fathom it. I lie awake sometimes and wonder about what it'll be like...to just not
exist. Lhen I
dressed in tight saran wrap doing things
that would cause people to write me many,
many nasty letters if I printed them here.
Lhen everything's right with the world
and I go to sleep.
Of course, all this discussion about life
after death is altogether disregarding the
fact that the act of death itself will more
than likely hurt a lot.
Let us review the ways I almost died in
the past year. I almost fell off a boat into
the Bering Sea. I almost had my wrist
ripped open by an errant fish hook. I saw
John Hallett naked. I almost fractured my
skull slipping on pavement. Any vehicle I
was in could have been turned into a fiery,
twisted wreck if just one sparkplug fell
loose. I walked into an Irish pub whistling
'God Save the Queen'. I told my girlfriend
that 'Okay, okay! You look fat already!'
You tell me that any of these deaths would
be painless.
And you gotta wait another sixty years or
so for just a chance at passing away quietly in your sleep. And even then, what
guarantee will is there that it won't be
painless? Every cell in your body still has
to die from asphyxiation...that probably
has to hurt somehow.
And don't even get me started on what
they do to your body after you die (mostly
because it isn't funny at all). I'll just remind
you that it's really, really scary. If you really need to know, just ask your local mortician, they'll be happy for the living human
contact. And studies show that the majority of morticians are necrophiliacs. Ew.
But at least we don't live in ancient Egypt.
What kind of freak priest came up with the
idea that removing all the organs with
razor sharp hooks and storing them in pots
by the salty dehydrated corpse would be a
good idea anyways? Lhey took the brain
out through the nose. Lhe nose, for the love
fantasize about two girls I saw that day,      of Ra! And how did the Egyptians picture
the afterlife? As toiling in the same damn
rice fields, having the same damn crocodiles eat your baby, fighting off the same
malaria and being ruled by the same rich
teenage brat, who is now a god because it
was his birthright. Lalk about the widening social gap between rich and poor.
Of course, the Greeks had an even more
screwed up view of the afterlife. It didn't
matter how good you were, when you died
you went to dark and dreary Hades by
default. And if you were really bad, or just
did something completely innocent that
displeased Zeus, you got some eternally
frustrating punishment, like eternally writing a math final that you didn't study for.
"Okay students, look through your booklets. Make sure you have all 12,985,748
pages, including your cover page and two
pages of scrap paper at the back. You will
be given 3492076849000002 hours, or so, to
complete all the questions. You will be
given a fifteen minute and a five minute
warning before the end of the test. No
bathroom breaks. When you are finished
the last question, please hand it in to
receive the next section of your test. And
please ignore Cerebrus as he walks along
the rows, he'll never take more than one
limb at a time."
And lastly, the Zen Buddhists, main proponents of the whole re-incarnation thingy
and their weird view of the final afterlife.
Lhe final, ultimate goal of all your lives is
to lead good, karma-ful lives, work your
way up the evolutionary chain, and reach
the state of Nirvana. Nirvana being where
you are assimilated into the great holy
light. So you've worked and sacrificed all
the way for thousands of years, all the way
from cephalopod and you finally reach the
final goal and...wow...a part of a light.
Nope, as far as I'm concerned, it's living
all the way for me. Page Fourteen
9 January 2007
Volume XV
I'm Afraid for the Americans
Lana Rupp
Lady of the night
'm scared... really scared. Lhe future
looks bleak. I'm afraid of Americans.
I'm afraid of their big power plants and of
George W. I'm afraid of their guns and
their Lexas Rangers. I also fear the clueless
egotistical tourists that rise from the
mighty south in search of igloos and
I worry about the local police force in the
little town where I live during the summer
months. I once got a desperate call from
one of their staff members asking me for a
phone number saying that they couldn't
find it. I looked it up in the phone book and
promptly returned their call.
I worry about all those chain letters that I
never forwarded. I don't mean to be a
wimp, but drowning in sewage, being
raped by mad goats, having fifty days of
bad luck and never being kissed by my
crush really really scares me. Not to men
tion the fact that Hotmail is going to shut
down my account!
I worry about the Y2K bug coming back
and of Santa Claus dying.
I'm terrified of spiders, snakes, and algae;
garden gnomes and flesh eating disease.
I worry about the expiry date on my milk.
If it's 'best before' does it go into a fair to
good stage or just plain nasty?
I'm scared to go outdoors because 'they'
might be out there. And since I don't know
who 'they' are or what 'they want from me
or where 'they' might turn up next I have
to be extra careful don't I? It's not paranoia
if 'they' are really after you. 'Lhey' are
everywhere these days... at least that's
what American television has led me to
believe... and why would my fondest
friend deceive me?
I worry about the CBC, because someone
has to. I fear alien abduction and the subsequent anal probing because obviously
they're looking for something and if they
don't find it and they don't feel real bad
about anal probes they probably won't
give much thought to dropping me off in
the wrong damn town.
I'm scared of inhaling bugs in my sleep.
I worry about whether Friends will still be
on the air when I get home from work. I'm
concerned by LV talk shows that seem outrageous until you look closely at my neighbors. I'm not sure if they're having affairs
with midgets or their sisters but they sure
do like to let pigs go in their yard and
shoot at them when all the folks come on
down fer the weekend.
I'm somewhat bothered by the fifty-year
old men that have asked to be my
boyfriends. It's not the comb-over really...
it's me.
I'm scared of Arts students. We mock
them now but tomorrow they will be handling all of the fast food we eat.
I'm worried that soon road rage and air
rage will evolve and extend to shopping
cart rage, tricycle rage, and elevator rage.
I'm troubled by the way irritating LV personalities keep popping up in my dreams
and offering me free trials of toilet cleaner,
hair products and cheese.
I'm scared of people with video cameras.
Lhe footage for Real LV has to come from
I fear small dogs and their owners.
I worry about all the chemicals in the
Chemistry building and all the computer
geeks in Klinck. Lhings capable of mass
destruction should not be taken lightly.
I'm often so terrified that I can't bring
myself to get out of bed, at least not before
lpm. I can't do my laundry for fear that
someone will run off with my underwear
again. My documents of importance are
cleverly hidden amongst those piles of
clothes you will find on my floor, so that
no one can steal my identity. Lhe stockpiles of Zoodles are emergency food kept
in preparation for the impending big earthquake. So is the beer...
With all the scary things in the world, tidiness, class attendance and homework really don't seem all that important do they?
Fntegrals just can't compete with nuclear
war or a world shortage of Kraft Dinner.
I'm living in hell and I just can't be expected to call home each Sunday at 7:00. Lhis is
exactly what I intend to point out to my
mother the next time she criticizes my
lifestyle. Some people just don't empathize
very well.
Baby, Why You Gotta make Me hurt You?
Jay Garcia
Bang! Zoom!
I think I'm in an abusive relationship,
though I'm not precisely sure what role
I'm playing in this entire absurdist
drama. I hate to sound all 1950's, but I
work hard all day, and three days a week,
I've got classes 'til nine at night. When I get
home, I expect her to be there for me, doing
her job without complaint, because, to be
perfectly honest, it's a pretty easy job. Lately, though, I find that she hasn't been living up to her end of the bargain; and I
come home and there she is, lazing away
idly, not really doing anything, even ignoring my presence when I try to get her
attention. It's nights like this when we end
up having these long, weepy, argumentative sessions which always result with one
of us sulking alone somewhere for a few
hours. Sometimes it ends up in a yelling
match (admittedly one-sided), and sometimes she just stops responding to me at
It's usually at this point where I get all
worried and concerned, and I have to take
out my hex-screwdriver and unbolt her
case long enough for me to check her components; then, when I'm convinced that all
the cards, cables and peripherals are seated
right, that her CPU isn't overheated, and
that fans are running smoothly, it's when I
end up cursing the day of her manufacture
and lamenting all the time, effort, and
energy I've spent on her.
Lhen I break out the emergency repair
disks, the Windows 2000 installer CD, and
the recovery applications, and then spend
up to five hours repairing and re-installing
When she's up and running, she'll usually
whisper soft reassurances that it'll never
happen again; that she'll run without fail,
serve my files, keep my documents safe,
and never, ever be unfaithful to me; that
this last time was just a lapse in judgment,
a small error on her part. Lo this statement
I'll usually respond that this will have been
the third time in as many months that I've
had to re-install her; that each time she's
gone down, I've lost entire days of work
and hundreds of megabytes of data. She
rebuts with accusations of physical abuse;
banging on her case, smacking her monitor, rapidly flicking her power switch on
and off, that sort of thing. And so the arguments rage on.
Personally, I'm getting quite sick of this
entire situation, what with the hundreds of
dollars I've spent on her, getting her a nice
new motherboard, processor, some large,
shiny hard drives and more RAM than a
field full of goats. I've done everything I
could to keep her happy; I went out and
splurged on the expensive Arctic Silver
heat-sink paste - none of that generic thermal grease for my baby. When she whined
about her connection to the Internet, and
the lousy slow 33.6 fax modem she had, I
replaced it with a brand-new Leryon cable
modem and ended up paying Shaw for my
high-speed cable internet. But no matter
what I buy for her, she just keeps wanting
Maybe it's my fault; I don't spend enough
time with her these days. When I first got
her, we had that heady giddiness that
comes from being in a new relationship.
Even something as simple as watching her
reboot was pretty exciting; seeing her rip
and encode a full CD's worth of mp3's in
less time than it took to write this sentence
was a real joy to behold. But then came the
school year, and the promotion, and I got
busier and busier, and I was spending less
and less time at home, and less time with
the machine. Sure, I'd occasionally reach
out from across the network and download a file or two from her, but it wasn't the
In a sense, I did get what I deserved for
giving up my old reliable computer for this
shining, flashy, expensive new model. In
my defense, all I can say is that she
seduced me, all sleek and fast and shiny,
the tramp. But I do miss my older system;
she wasn't much to look at, and she wasn't
very fast, but she always got the job done,
whether it was a few blood-soaked rounds
of Unreal Lournament, or some quick Photoshop image-manipulation. More impor
tantly, she was always there for me, no
matter what, sometimes going above and
beyond the call of duty, like the occasion I
asked her to perform as a web server, or
the time that some crude bastard re-set my
homepage to goatse.cx; she took it all in
stride, without complaints. She always
seemed genuinely happy whenever I
bought her a new peripheral, too.
Lhe new machine, on the other hand,
seems to complain every few weeks if
something isn't upgraded. First, it was the
old printer, then, the game pad and now, it
seems that it doesn't like the CD burner.
So, yeah, the burner's a few years old, but
it's still a high-speed SCSI device; nothing
to laugh at, and still a perfectly good
peripheral. But if it isn't brand-spankin'
new, then it's just not good enough for her,
no sirree bob.
I spend a good chunk of my income on
her, and this is the thanks I get; cold recep
tions and multiple boot failures. Well, I've
had just about enough of this. It's almost
Christmas, and I think that Santa's going to
be extra-nice to me this year. You see, I've
had my eye on this new Athlon 2000 XP
machine. I first saw her when I was picking
up some more parts for my current ball-
and-chain; sitting there in the display window, all aluminum-clad and bedecked
with unobstructed-flow air vents and
accessory ports. I knew it from the moment
I laid eyes on her; she had to be mine. My
desire was only whetted when I saw her in
all her dual-processor, slot-mounted
DVD/CD burning glory.
Now, it's only a matter of time before I relegate my current machine to the lowly role
of web and file-server. Ha! She can sit all
alone and ignored in the corner, she can
reboot herself constantly for all I care; I'll
have a shiny new toy to play with. Lhat'll
learn her.
by    Jack    McLaren    and
Pat    Spacek
htt p : //www. p lif. corn
JtHHY'5   Ti^Et^E    YE/SRS   ot_t>   tOT>AYJ
So what did you think happened to your
childhood imaginary friend, anyway? Page Fifteen
9 January 2007
Volume XVI
From the World   Math Dreams
Matthew Stoltzfus
No Pee in da Sandbox
Today on the playground of the
School of Nations, a fight broke out
between Jorge W. America and Sam
Irack. Sources say that this fight first began
by the mini golf course when Sam claimed
that he could beat up Jorge's dad. Lhis
caused Jorge to burst into tears and the two
boys began to fight. Lhe so called "Mini
Golf War" went to Jorge due to his self
claimed "smart punches". It was said that
many of the other children began to
cheer at this achievement, then immediately returned to their daily activities . Lhat
was days ago, but today at the playground
the conflict grew. Little Jorge was eating
his lunch with his friends at the Unfriendly Nation table. He finished his entire
lunch as well as the lunches from several
other children, when he started staring
jealously the chocolate pudding snack of
the middle eastern section of the playground. Sources say chocolate pudding is
what fuels Jorge America for the extent of
his day. His pudding snack was much
smaller than that of Sam Irack.
Jorge and the children of the Unfriendly
Nation began to approach the sandbox
were Sam Irack was allegedly playing with
his army men, or "Loys of Mass Elation".
Eyewitnesses claim Sam buried and hid his
toy soldiers. In response, Jorge sent his
friends to go inspect the sand box and find
the "Loys of Mass Elation" . Sam claimed
to have either lost all the toys or had them
dismantled by the swing set. Jorge continued his search and began to threaten Sam
with a "noogie and wedgie strike the likes
of which history has yet to witness". Lhe
threat had an immediate effect. Sam produced two or three of the "Loys of Mass
Elation" and claimed they are all he had
but sources say that his claim was followed
by snickers and laughter amongst him and
his friends. Many of Jorge's friends in the
Unfriendly Nation were satisfied with this.
Lhey claim that another fight would cause
retaliation from Sam's friends involving
egging of their houses and other small
attacks. Jorge ignored his friends and gave
Sam an ultimatum. He told him he had 48
seconds to leave the playground before he
devastated his sandbox. Despite the efforts
of Jaques Freeman and Boris Russa, who
were once good friends of Jorge's, and also
with help from his friends Lony Britania
and Pedro Espana, Jorge set out to beat up
Sam and take his pudding snacks and toys.
Without warning, a wind picked up sand
and blew it in the eyes of Jorge and his
friends. This storm of sand will delay the
fighting but only for a little while. When
asked for comment, Jean Mapleleaf was
heard to say "I hope none of these boys
grow up to run a country. But that's just
the way children act."
Tensions remain high as the entire playground awaits the results.
Jonathan Woodward
Big brother
I am in Math class, cognitively impaired.
Svalka, the Russian genius, answers
logically coherent garble, then drifts
away in a sea of his own arrogance. Chalk
lines blur like cataracts, mucous disorder, a
sticky mess. The ceiling dribbles down the
glaucous walls like wax along a candlestick; soon the room blends, and I dissolve
into the hazy, viscous, mental fluid.
Suddenly a pinprick of light cuts through
like a scalpel's blade, somehow -between
the colliding atomic mesh, bursting from
the dense interior of our separable space,
and a tiny, plaintive voice hails:
"Evaluate the sum over all integers k of
(2k choose k) times (2n-2k choose n-k)!"
A-ha! I am again at my desk, for my world
has crystallized and I see my beaming face
reflected in its gleaming facets. It is a code:
this mathspeak which I thought was
newspeak is actually doublespeak! I shall
simply divide by two to get speak, and
solve! Doubleplusgood!
I bound from the chair, booming voice
unwavering, arms raised in triumph: "The
answer is four to the n!" The professor
stops writing. His mouth drops. His chalk
falls to the floor. The chalk shatters in
slow-motion, and I see it in eight-camera
video montage. "How did you solve that
so quickly?" he asks, eyes bulging.
In answer, I merely shrug. Forgetting
about the insipid Svalka, my fellow students one by one stand in soft, awed ovation. Vast tanks in the Math Building
rooftops spill open, and confetti rains
around me. All around us the building
hums with the first majestic chords of
Colours of the Wind. The clouds part, and
I am bathed in divine light.
Or not. What actually escaped my mouth
was the trembling, "Sir, you forgot to add
zero ... oh ... "
There is silence.
Beady eyes stare from all angles, their hate
palpable. My throat constricts. I feel the
room grow cold and dark, for the sun itself
has pulled away in revulsion. Svalka turns
to me, lips pulled back, and he sneers,
"You sodomite." He spits.
Math hands roughly fling me into an awkward wooden cell. I suffer, twisted by its
right angles, pierced by its unrelenting
metal stud. My fellow prisoners are also
my captors, and their dark eyes glower. I
will rot here, unknown and forgotten. I am
ostracized by Math majors. I am a pariah
among social rejects. I am infinitely
shamed. They are denying that they know
me. The university is crossing my name off
the registrar, slotting me into forestry. UBC
Housing quietly exocytoses me. Big Brother rewrites history as if I had never been.
My eyes drop from the board to the
floor... and the wooden panels begin to
squirm. As I watch, the entire floor
resolves itself into writhing snakes, tails
coiling stealthily around the students' legs,
constricting, trapping, signaling hisses and
rattles! I break their code, for the beasts
think, and will enact a serpentine plan. I
pull my legs to my seat, sure and ready.
Suddenly tails constrict and jaws fly open.
Svalka's hideous screams curiously meld
with the hourly bell, and class ends! I step
lightly over distended reptilian bellies, out
the door, and into the fresh, beautiful air.
Strapping on my goggles and jet-booster, I
take flight.
God Forsakes Mankind
Local Resident, Barney Glotz, told to "Build an Ark.
(Vancouver, Reuters)
According to an unnamed source
within the choir of angels, believed
to be either a Seraphim or Cherubim, God has once again forsaken
mankind. The source has also leaked plans
for a catastrophic global flood wiping out
everything except eight people and two of
each species of animal.
When pressed for comment, God reluctantly gave his reasons: "I am just really
sick of you people. I give you the good life,
instill divine spirit, and what do I get? You
people are assholes. I am sorry; I just had
to say it. You are all really bad drivers, and
you still believe in evolution. Monkeys, my
ass." When asked about breaking his
promise to Noah that He would never
again flood the Earth, God replied, "Noah?
He's been dead for a few millennia. What's
he going to do? If you are going to get the
lawyers out, though, I can always change it
to a flood of fiery magma . . . that would
cause some engineering difficulties, however." Reportedly, one Barney Glotz has
also been approached by God with a contract to build an ocean-going vessel. The
Ark II as it has been dubbed by the media
is to be a wooden vessel of 300 cubits with
an option for an asbestos hull.
An intern, without any loyalty to her
employer whatsoever, at Glotz's contracting company taped the phone conversation that Glotz had with God:
"Three hundred Q-bits? It could be
decades before we have that kind of quantum computing power," stated Mr. Glotz.
"No. 'Cubits,'" responded God.
"What the hell's a cubit?"
"The length of your forearm."
"Are you joking?"
"Look, it's not hard. Build a boat. You
people have wiped out so many species
that just about anything that floats will
God has been questioned if more people
than his intended eight will survive
because there are plenty of large sea-worthy vessels in service today. "Yeah, the
nuclear aircraft carriers especially concern
me. Lhey can remain at sea for years. I
guess that I'll just have to smite those one
at a time. How tedious."
Another question asked of Him, was
exactly how one causes a global flood.
"Well, it starts with El Nino, but that's all
I am going to tell you because it's a trade
secret." Reminded that everyone is going
to die anyway, God elaborated, "Well,
there is still a little time left before the flood
is scheduled to occur, and can you imagine
what would happen if George Bush got a
hold of that technology? I am sorry; I really can't tell you."
En related news, Glotz has already re-figured his original price quote.
"Yes, when I got final specs, I realized that
this ark thing is going to cost about $250
million more than I originally estimated.
Lhat is without any of the options God is
considering. Add GSL to that, and well, I
guess Jean Chretien's getting a good vacation this year."
Lhe aforementioned intern also leaked
plans for the Ark II, and now a competing
engineering firm has raised serious doubts
about the project.
"I don't know where all of the money is
going, but it sure as hell didn't go into
planning. Lhat vessel is going to be seriously unstable. It's fast ferries all over
Glotz swears by his design, and has invited any naysayers to be guests on the vessel's maiden voyage.
"Urn, wait a minute, that doesn't work,"
flustered God. "If those people get on the
boat, them I am going to have to smite
them and all of their descendants again.
That would be a waste of effort."
"But, my reputation . . ."
"Remember, pride is a sin."
"Damn you, God."
"Do you want on the boat or not?" The
projected completion date for the ark is
about October, 2134.
"If Noah took over 100 years, I can too,"
stated Glotz firmly. "Besides, God has limited my work crew to those whom I can
take with me, so it is not like we can whip
this thing up in a week.
"No site capable of holding and loading
the animals has been located, yet either, so
construction might be put back even
longer if we have to build that, too.
"Maybe, I'll just go start sinning some
more, then somebody else will have to
build this damn ark, and I can go enjoy
"I don't know why I don't smite you right
now," sighed God.
The forecast calls for 40 days and 40 nights
of rain. Flood warnings have been issued
in low lying areas. Page Sixteen
9 January 2007
Volume XVII
Parents of UBC science students flooded the Dean's phone lines over the
weekend to complain about a number of new courses offered for the 2004
"My daughter Melissa used to be such an
angel," said father Don Lundi. "But the
other night at dinner, she delivered a mini-
lecture on achieving multiple orgasms!"
Lundi blames the change in his daughter
on a new course in which she is enrolled:
Applied Human Biology 102.
According to its outline, the brand-new
course encourages students to "become
intimately acquainted with the reproductive biology of their own bodies, in addition to that of their classmates." For the
first six weeks of term, students will work
in opposite-sex pairs, designing and conducting rigorous experiments to determine
the optimal integration of male and female
reproductive organs. A sub-assignment is
to stress-test various commercial brands of
Lhe second half of the course involves students forming same-sex pairs and repeating the experiments performed in the first
half of the course, in order to experience
firsthand what sorts of modifications are
necessary to facilitate a successful, mutually pleasurable biological union. As in the
first half of the course, there is a strong
emphasis on oral proficiency and less traditional techniques.
Lab materials involve lubricant, rubber
tubing, latex gloves, petri dishes, and large
harnesses suspended from the supporting
beams of the classroom.
Applied Human Biology 102 is not the
only new course to have provoked outrage
from parents. Complaints have also been
filed concerning Dr. Glotz's Biology 310
(Hydroponics) and Dr. Brunstein's
Advanced Ethanol Appreciation 432. Dean
Hepburn, however, is resolved to keep the
new curriculum, stating: 'There is huge
student demand for these innovative, challenging new courses. You should see the
waiting lists!"
Bush Declares
Over the Canadian Thanksgiving
long weekend, American president
Dubya Bush called an emergency
meeting of the senate to discuss a new
threat to American freedom. The grave
president thoughtfully licked his lips
before announcing, "My fellow Americans, we are meeting here today to discuss
anew front on the Holy Crusade-er, I
mean, War on Terrorism. As you know,
since the tragical events of September 11th,
we have had to face facts. Hard facts.
America has been generously providing
the world with freedom and democracy,
but in the face of hostile evildoers, we can
no longer afford to spare the rod. In short,
no more Mr. Nice Guy." This bold proclamation was met by raucous applause from
the senate. Several of the southern representatives showed their support by firing
rounds of live ammunition into the air.
"It has come to my attention," continued
Bush, "that we have a neighbour to the
north. A dangerous neighbour. A neighbour that waged war with us almost two
hundred years ago, and that our intelligence indicates may very well be prepared
to attack in 2012, the 200-year anniversary
of their original act of terror against the
Land of the Free. We must take preventive
measures now. Lhere will not be another
9/11, especially not in 2012. Lhis enemy...
is Canadia." Bush paused dramatically to
let the effect of his words sink in. Powell
leaned over and whispered to him, after
which the president muttered something
about bacon-loving pinkos. "CanaDA,"
Bush continued, shooting a quick glare at
Powell, "has eluded detection by cleverly
altering our maps to stop at the 49th parallel. Our intelligence has determined that
our country not only extends past that parallel, but is being occupied by the Canadians! Canada, my friends, is engaging in
such un-American activities as flying a
Canadian flag outside their parliament
buildings, allowing homosexuals to celebrate their depravity in the institution of
marriage, and not killing each other with
their vast store of firearms! Lhis has got to
stop. Lhe United States of America has a
duty to rid the world of the un-American
terrorist activity of Al-Qanada!"
He then paused gravely and pulled his
lips over his teeth in his popular simian-
imitation pose, before continuing with,
"Lhe loyal, patriotic Americans must be
liberated, along with their oppressed
Canadian brothers, from the ruthless dictatorship of Gene Gretchin. Lherefore, I must
respectfully demand that the senate
approve an express military expenditure of
2.5 billion for a preemptive strike on Canada, which I will term Operation Free
Beaver." Lhis announcement sent the senate into a standing ovation, climaxing in
another round of gunfire. Lhe bill was
quickly passed. Canadian intelligence
forces have issued a warning to all Canadians to beware of large men in polar-bear
camo attempting to enter the country via
Jo Krack
Lady in Red
Ah, the seven deadly sins. Sloth, lust, gluttony, envy, pride, greed, anger... Each is
fun in its own way, but eventually committing these routine sins becomes tedious
and dull. All is not lost, however! Put the
spice back into your life by combining two
or more sins, for a truly sinful time. After
all, it's time to make sinful into sinfun!
Here are my suggestions, but feel free to
experiment and come up with your own
Sloth and Lust: Let your partner do all the
work. Just lie back and enjoy, again and
Sloth and Lust and Envy: Let your partner
do all the work... with another person.
Watch them and get good and jealous. If
you turn the whole sordid event into a
fight, you've successfully added Anger to
the mix, thus covering four deadly sins
with one blow!
Greed and Gluttony: Don't be satisfied
with a quart of Ben and Jerry's: buy out
Safeway's entire stock! Lhen refuse to
share it, even if it melts faster than you can
eat it. Lhis is even eviler if done in summer, or in front of a girl suffering from
Gluttony and Sloth: Lake a page from
Homer Simpson's book and see how much
you can eat while at the same time remaining about as physically active as someone
in a coma. You might need to be briefly
industrious to move the fridge into the LV
room; alternately, you could just use the
internet to order in (this may necessitate
moving your computer nearer to the front
door, so you won't have to get up to
answer the door).
Pride and Sloth: Brag about how lazy you
are and how little you get done. Bonus
points if you do this while offloading
"group project" work on your unfortunate
group members.
Pride and Lust: Boast about your number
of sexual conquests. If you are in a monogamous relationship, spare friends and
complete strangers alike no details about
how often you two "do it" and how hot
you are for each other all the time. Lo up
your evil quotient, discuss these matters
loudly in front of (or to) sexually frustrated
people (bus drivers, virgins, comp sci students, people who wear trucker hats).
Anger and Lust: Lhese go together great
in succession: make-up sex is the best! Lry
not to get angry again until after you've
fulfilled your lustful impulses, or your
partner might decide the make-up sex isn't
worth your perpetual temper tantrums
and kick you to the curb.
Anger and Sloth: Lhis is a really bad combination; it ends up leading to lots of whining and little else. Lo maintain your sloth-
fulness without letting your anger go to
waste, you could try going online and
posting your angry rants in all relevant
chat rooms. Either way though, this combo
renders you Unfuckable.
Sometimes itseew bizarre to me:
Go comatose for a ml Hours,
hallucinate: yw/iOLY, amd
OKf\YtOXt-' Page Seventeen
9 January 2007
Volume XVIII
Sex and the Campus
Karen Shagbroad
This issue: Does education make
nerds more horny? For the geeks
familiar with this paper, the myth is
true - Coitus does exist. While normally
defined as a covalent pair bond's reproductive-style exertions, 21st century acceptance has redefined copulation as an activity ranging from at least one person and a
piece of a equipment up to tertiary bond
formations that would make a Buckyball
(C60) jealous.
A close group of friends and I have spent
a large percentage of our lives discussing
and decomposing the phenomenon that is
campus sex life. Lhe pounding out of my
debut column was inspired by my friend
Erin, whose boyfriend (on a recent roll of
midterm success), has, in her words,
"brought them to a new level in the bedroom." Experts like UBCs Department of
Amphibian Reproduction professor Dr.
Anderson say that the learning environment provides a very potent mix for experimental and exploratory sex, with no obvi
ous limiting reagents but what exactly
makes this so? Is it because our thirst for
knowledge transfers from our academic
lives to our personal lives, or is it more like
an escape from constant labs and assignments? However, we all know that alcohol
and certain leafy materials on fire directly
correlates with the number of sexual
events on campus, but these factors usually fail to integrate into the nerd demographic, and in fact seem to decrease the
intensity of the activity. At this point I
would like to emphasize the fact that
Eugene, Erin's boyfriend, is undoubtedly
keen with a horrible sense of fashion.
However, her choice to keep him as a partner is her own, and she has mentioned that
he has certain appendages that make up
for other areas. So, a geek with a long sch-
long can get laid as well. Lhe question I
have posed above is difficult to resolve due
to the miniscule number of people who fit
the population specifications and have a
sexual partner as well. Despite this, a trend
can be discerned upon close inspection.
Erin has explicitly explained a cycle almost
disturbing in her sex life with Eugene. As
mentioned before, after almost every
favorable outcome of anything class related, the action would become more intense.
She described times when, after finishing a
most long and difficult computer science
assignment and seeing it prosper on his
computer screen, he would call her over
for what we now title a "Nerd Booty Call."
Lhis begins with an excited breathless
explanation of his achievements and nerd
jargon, followed with fervent kisses and
wild animal sex. No need to say I was surprised. It was a new experience for all of us
in my group of friends, and I was instantly
fascinated. Delving into the nether
regions of the subject, and looking for an
opportunity for some hands-on experience, I visited the clitoris of campus sexual
activity, the Interfaculty Publishing Office.
Filled with geeks and nerds of all descriptions, and both sexes, the office is the logical centre to begin my research. Unfortunately, asking the computer-screen tanned
and glazed eyed editors of the various
campus publications that were present at
that time was an exercise in frustration, as
each eagerly clambered to begin telling
stories that ended with some variation of,
"and then he slapped me and told me to
back off." More fortunately, in ask
ing my more studious peers, I have discovered that many learning environments
provide a countless resource for sexual
innuendoes, fertile and ripe for the imagination to pervert. For example, Chemistry
graduate Brie Aho describes tubes going
into flasks and fluids being transfered, constantly, deliberately, and very meticulously in her long and laborious labs. Elastic
and inelastic collisions of rigid bodies,
potential energy being converted via alcohol into kinetic energy, determining
through experimentation the spring constant of your mattress, the strong attractive
force between charged rods, magnetic
attraction between poles, and curves at a
local maximum on a smooth continuous
function. Assignments begin with the
word "ass." Do all these ideas perpetually
being impounded into the nerd mind build
up into some kind of sexual energy inside
that is only released when these concepts
are reaffirmed after a good grade, bursting
into a frenzy of desire for sex? And lord
knows they build up a lot faster than any
of the construction projects on campus. It
seems likely, and the best possible explanation I can conceive. As Erin has one of
the best lays of her life, I can only contemplate the sexual voracity of a reassured
nerd and the mysterious psyche that they
Mmmmm... Bittery Goodness
Jordana Laport
Bitter like a bitter sandwich
Every school year roughly this time I
feel it is important for me to establish
the sole cause of my troubles, the
thorn in my side... the bane of my existence
(BME). It's important because about this
point in every school year I start to lose my
focus on why I signed up for this, as I'm
sure many of you do. At this time, I am
bothered (more than normal due to the fact
that I am graduating this year and anticipation is high), by annoying people,
places, events, or irrelevant details and
need to vent my frustrations by finding a
scapegoat. I seek to elect one particular
item that will represent to me the reason
why this school year is rounding out to be
unsatisfying, irritating and seemingly
What is this ongoing stressor in my life?
Why the anger? Why the shaking of my fist
forcefully in the air? Well, I'll tell you and
perhaps it will help you to alleviate some
of your personal inner turmoil. Lhis persistent problem is the bane of my existence
and by identifying what exactly it is my
world will have closure (at least for another year).
Lhe BME is usually determined to be a
confined system of events, persons and
policies, but can be a specific individual if
absolutely necessary, which it has been in
past years at times of utter frustration.
Normally, I reserve the award of Arch
Enemy (AE) for specific persons, an award
given out at multiple times throughout the
year, to multiple people. You know these
individuals, they're the annoying dorks
and overachievers you meet on the bus, in
class, at home or at a party and you
instantly feel that the launching of a significantly large book into the back of their
head would bring you immediate gratification. A person of this nature is your AE.
Embrace that fact. Identify your AE today.
I have the feeling that the revelation of
this year's BME will not yield an individual, though I have encountered many AEs
throughout the year, none were so intense
as to qualify for the prestigious BME title.
Deciding upon this year's BME will be
tough for me, as there are so many options.
Will it be the University of British Columbia (former BME) for delaying the transfer
of my credits, forcing me to drop and add
2 courses without knowing if that was the
right decision and raising my level of anxiety to well above its maximum? Maybe.
Could the BME be Mother Nature, in turning my favourite, traditionally mild, city
into a suitable backdrop for the Ice
Capades or the set of Bing Crosby's Holiday Inn? Mother Nature sure got on my
nerves this year, as I left Ontario anticipating sunny days and was almost instantaneously shutdown by snow, ice, freezing
rain and above all COLD. Should I blame
Mother Nature for my discontent or
should I focus on the fools who told me
that all I'd need when I came to the coast
was a sweater and a raincoat? Hmm, tough
How about my laptop? Sure, it's cooperating now, but there were times when it
along with my printer, wireless notebook
card and all the fixin's were nearly propelled from my window to kiss the sweet,
solid pavement below. My laptop could be
the BME for general disregard for my psychological health, causing incidences of
paranoia, stress and severe mental breakdown. Several accounts come to mind:
freezing during a major assignment, erasure of data, failing to recognize hardware,
when clearly the said hardware was present and accounted for, sporadic colour
changes of the screen, excessive noise
when in idle mode and a sloth-like
approach to daily tasks. Definitely two
thumbs down for my laptop, but does it
really merit the BME? Alas, no. After racking my brain for (well, let's be honest) minutes, I have the perfect BME. Lhe sole nuisance causing continued distress this year
is none other than . . . construction! Yes,
that's it, construction! You've all seen it;
the campus has been consumed by trucks,
machinery, people in hardhats, and noise.
From the 7 am wakeup call everyday as
workmen hammer, drill, yell and transport
materials, to the cement trucks blocking
my path as I am biking to class, to the tire-
tracked mud everywhere on campus, to
the destruction of beautiful nature, construction at UBC is the BANE OF MY EXIS-
LENCEH I live on campus next to one of
these glorious sites, where there is constant
noise, whether it be from actual construction, from the workers at play or that beep-
beep sound as the trucks plough down the
tiny streets with a new shipment of crap to
generate more noise. Lhis year I have
heard, witnessed, lived and breathed construction, and it has in turn tormented me.
I blame UBC for the sale of the land and
the commissioning of new projects; I blame
the workers, the architects, the construction companies, the manufacturers of supplies and trucks, the city planners and
finally capitalism! Lhe whole damn system
is my scapegoat this year and above all the
other irritants in life, construction takes the
cake. So, congratulations construction, you
win, I surrender (like I ever had a choice),
you are the next worthy recipient of the
award for the bane of my existence. You
join a long list of BME winners and gain a
'special' place in my heart. I thrust my
waving fist in your direction! Bravo.
I feel better.
5he fPcvcadigm
The paradigm is an academic publication that prints scholarly writing. In the past, the magazine has enjoyed having a
wide variety of subject matter within in its pages. We have published anything from scholarly writing pertaining to the
life sciences, to articles that are purely literary. SUBMISSIONS of high quality and calibre ARE WELCOME. The deadline is
January 21st, 2007. Interested in helping out with the paradigm? Please contact the editor at theparadigm@gmail.com Page Eighteen
9 January 2007
Volume XIX
Ban Another Breed
Vancouver city council is discussing
a new motion to ban a breed of dog
after a vicious dog attack last
Lhursday. Vancouver is not the first Canadian city to discuss such a law. Lhey follow
cities such as Loronto and Montreal that
have already banned Pit Bulls, Rotweillers
and Doberman Pinchers. Vancouverites,
however, are unconcerned by these so
called "dangerous breeds" and are electing
to ban the seemingly unthreatening chihuahua.
Lhe attack that has prompted the banning
of the breed was unusually vicious, even
for a severe dog attack. Montgomery Winchester, the chihuahua's owner gave us an
exclusive interview. "It all started with
some innocuous leg humping," he said,
"then the friction got to be too much, and
my pants caught on fire." At this point
Winchester blacked out and the next thing
he knew, the ravenous beast had gnawed
all the flesh off his ankle and was working
his way up. "It was like he was chewing on
a chicken drumstick! I could see bone! Lhe
bugger was biting like 50 times a second,"
Winchester said with a shudder.
Luckily once the pint sized canine noticed
the exposed bone he switched into 'bury'
mode and tried to dig a pit big enough to
interr Winchester in the backyard. Lhe
chance came for escape when "Dumpling"
finally had it big enough, it was too deep
for him to jump out of, and his victim was
able to crawl to the neighbours for help. "It
took a bit of convincing that I wasn't a
zombie, but they finally let me call for an
Winchester is now facing several reconstructive surgeries in which the partially
digested flesh of his leg which has been
retrieved from the stomach of the chihuahua will be reconstituted and used to
rebuild the lost tissues. Doctors are confident that with brand spanking new technology Winchester will be able to regain
80% of the function in the affected limb.
When asked about whether or not he supports the motion banning chihuahuas as
dangerous animals Winchester gave the
council his full support, "Hell, I never
wanted the thing in the first place. Lhe
only reason I got it in the first place was
because my girlfriend refused to let me get
a pit bull if she couldn't have a dog too.
Lurns out my pitt bull "Tank" is a total
wanker when it comes to any sort of confrontation. He doesn't even attack the
police when they come snooping around
my grow op."
Quantum Mechanics: An introduction
Christopher Rowen
Gawking at Hawking
You must be careful when you integrate
An eigenfunction. Take your eigenstate,
Try to Hamiltonian operate.
Total energy determination,
Just use the Schrodinger equation:
H-bars, mass, and partial derivatives;
Corresponding states, multiplicative!
Complex numbers and trigonometries,
(Don't bother studying geriatrics).
Conjugate waves give probabilities,
Work it out by hand, they're so simple
Particles in boxes that seem to fly
At the nodes you'll find .... nothing by-
And capital letters have carat hats -
A German mathematician finds that
Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle -
Discrete values the utmost pinnacle!
But you can't learn it all, so sad,
Or Feynman says we'll know you're
Gina Eom
Scholarship of
Cameron Funnell
Sunny side up
As I cleaned up for the AWESOME
Cold Fusion, I happened to find a
$10 bill in my pocket. How did it
get there? I don't know. I also found 63
cents on the ground. That made $10.63,
nothing to scoff at!
Reveling in my good fortune, I happened
to glance across the garbage strewn Party-
room. There I saw a one Ms. Gina Eom,
tirelessly picking up beer cans, moving
tables, and occasionally flying through the
air. Now for those of you who don't know
Gina, let me tell you a little bit about her.
Gina was the SUS Vice President Internal
in 2003-2004. In 2004-2005' she was a student Senator elected at large. In 2005-2006
she was re-elected as a Senator, and also
became the Student Senate Caucus chair.
As you may know, she was elected to a
third Senate term in the recent AMS elections.
Now why, may you ask, was Gina cleaning up after Cold Fusion? When she could
have been doing countless other (more
fun) things? Why because of Gina's
humanity, her benevolence, her altruism,
compassion, and generosity.
As I watched this heart wrenching display
of philanthropy, I made a decision. I knew
I could have used that $10.63 in my pocket
to buy 10 chocolate bars. Or perhaps one
really big chocolate bar. Or maybe even
hundreds of tiny little chocolate bars. But
I decided to follow Gina's example, and
use that money to help other people.
And thus the Gina Eom Scholarship of
Excellence was born. Lhe $10.63 will be
prudently invested. Assuming reasonable
market conditions, I hope to average a
3.1% real rate of return. Lhis will allow me
to give out an $0.0 8 scholarship 4 times a
year while leaving the principle intact. I
have generously doubled the initial sum,
and thus each scholarship will be worth
$0.16. Scholarship recipients are to be
determined by a committee composed of:
Me. Lhe committee will be accepting applications throughout the year. Applications
are to be in the form a short essay, reflecting on an incident where the applicant
demonstrated unparalleled benevolence
towards humankind. Recycling, or helping
move a LV are prime examples.
If the committee has heard of an outstanding individual who clearly deserves the
scholarship, then he or she may receive the
scholarships without an application.
All decisions of the committee are final,
and are not subject to appeal.
Lhe scholarships are to be awarded at the
end of each term, during the second to last
SUS Council meeting.
So get those applications going! Lhe Gina
Eom Scholarship of Excellence is yours for
the taking!
Lily Yuan
Eye on the Prize
The Penis Lrees, also known as Cock-
wood Lrees or Phallic Bushes, are
most definitely made known to anyone who has been in a vehicle with me driving to or from UBC and the North Shore.
Lhese aberrations of the botanical norm are
found on the intersection of Point Grey
Road and Stephen's Street and derive their
name from the fact that that they are
shaped in the amazing likeness of the male
genitalia. In layman's terms: they look like
giant penises. Lhis row of about 10 large
woody bushes thrusts upward into the
sky, while two rounded bulges erupt out
of the base of each long evergreen. It's
nuts, really, how funny it is to see them for
the first time. As far as the best knowledge
provides, it is still unknown whether or
not the owner of the property is aware that
she has multiple massive cocks in her
lawn. Lhen again, maybe she knows and
likes it that way too. Page Nineteen
9 January 2007
Worst of The 432
Big Daddy's Editorial
John Hallett
Burning Up
Fuck. Are you happy now? Is this
what everyone wanted? For those of
you who aren't in the loop, I challenged Lhe Underground's editorial staff
to continue publishing scantily clad pictures of their editor (Karen appeared last
year in a bikini). I said that I would publish
a picture of my hairy ass if they did this.
Lhey did. I have. I even gave them two
warnings, but it seemed like they wanted
to me in print (and how!).
En the picture that they published, you
could plainly see their entire editorial staff
standing in front of the Statue of Democra
cy wearing nothing but smiles and strategically placed copies of their rag. Lhey said
that they had "raised the ante." Well, to
use more poker terminology, I just bet the
pot limit. Lhe two unblurred people in the
picture below are none other than yours
truly and Mr. Andy Martin, my assistant
editor. Bree elected to skip this photo shoot
because she has some sense of class. Andy
and I are not encumbered with any such
hindrance. Lhe five anonymous ladies
were thrown in to, uh, balance out the picture. You see, Mr. Martin and myself are
not exactly prime nude modeling material.
I figured that adding 2.5 lovely ladies for
each of us would do the trick.
You see, you Underground types, the only
way to beat this is to break pornography
laws. Lhat would shut you down. Lwo
good things, really. In any event, I have
fulfilled my half of the bet and will no
longer participate in our own little personal arms race. MAD is a bad thing. Also, to
improve the quality of this picture to marketable levels, I have included a two
handy-dandy pre-shaped cutouts to
enhance your viewing pleasure. Enjoy!
Lhis should be enough material to keep a
dozen sweaty palmed uber-nerds occupied
until the next Sara Michelle Gellar photo
Oh, and yeah, that is your office. Lhose
are your couches. Getting in was not a
challenge. We took a few pictures around
your office and decided on this one
because it was pretty hard to see the iMac
(poor Katrina!) with my naked ass sitting
on the keyboard. Sorry about the 'H key. I
guess I got too excited. Anyways, on to my
Lhe Underground
Cut-out pmuided fiat uxuvc (dewing, pleatuxe, juat cut out and        3.
place (wet afkwe pfiata ta pmtect ttiaLm.
He he. <snort> B-waaa ha ha ha. <snort>
So, uh <chuckle> how're you going to
<snort> produce the next <he he> Underground without touching <snort> your
keyboard? Kinda reminds me of that urban
legend with the burglars, the toothbrushes,
and the camera. Oh yeah, I did notice that
you guys had clipped my last editorial and
put it up on your wall. You highlighted the
part where I complimented your paper
and said that it still seems "lacking." Someone then wrote "at least we have a brain"
below that. Sigh. And just when you guys
were showing some promise, too. Remember what I said last year? You can insult
Science, but just don't resort to printing
"Science," "Stupid," and an equals symbol
between them. We're in university now,
How To Neu-
' ter Your Cat
At Home.
1. Get a good,
trusty softball mitt
and treat it with
some fresh tuna
2. Once you've got
Kitty by the head,
wrap him up in a 4
ft. strip of carpet,
with his hindquarters sticking out.
3. Carefully wind
several yards of
waxed dental floss
tightly around the
scrotum. Tie.
4. After about five
minutes, sever the
testicles with a sterilized pair of garden pruning shears.
5. Stuff the open
wound with cotton
wadding, soaked in
Betadine™. Undo
the dental floss.
In a few hours, you
can free Kitty from
the carpet-happy,
healthy and docile!
A Banana's Theory of Interracial Couples
Angsty Asian
Fired up
Perhaps you haven't noticed, perhaps you
have noticed, perhaps you are in one, but
interracial couples, specifically Caucasian
guys dating Asian girls is really prominent
at UBC. Many factors contribute to this,
such as the large proportion of Asian bodies on campus (at least in Science), or the
alluring stereotype of the docile, obedient
Asian woman (Lhis is wrong by the way.
Asian women are really whiny bitches that
use manipulative emotional mind control
taught to them by their mothers). Lhe real
reason why you see so many White-Asian
couples is because the average Caucasian
guy can't tell that the Asian girl he is lustfully attracted to is actually ugly.
Lhis is explained by a psychological phenomenon that I don't know the name of
because I never took Psyc 100. Anyway, it
explains how people of any race are able to
differentiate between those of closely related ethnicity, but are unable to tell the difference between people of a more distant
race. (Want proof? Check out www.all-
looksame.com and take the test.) Have you
Caucasians ever been bewildered at the
ability of an Asian friend to tell the difference between the seemingly "identical"
faces of Korean and Chinese girls? (Ignoring the clothing differences between the
Korean's oversized designer sweater and
the t-shirt of the Chinese girl with the vinyl
Hello Kitty on the front and the nonsensi
cal English phrases such as "Bizarre must.
Awesome Want"). White guys see yellow-
beige skin and black hair (or streaky brown
or burn orange or fried yellow or blue/purple/green/red), while Asian girls notice the
rounder face of the Korean, or the rounder
nose of the Vietnamese. No wonder only
Asian girls can see the ugly exuding from
there, there, and there that Caucasian guys
Now, before you start informing me that
the opposite is true, Asian girls not being
able to tell that the white guy she is dating
is actually ugly, let me remind you that
almost all Asian girls in interracial relationships are Bananas, Canadian born (or
imported at a very early age), so they have
grown up in a Western environment and
have been exposed to many Caucasian
faces for a long time. Because of this, they
have learned to tell the difference between
hot and not. Lhat Biol 204 LA is hot. Lhat
guy you sit next to in Math 200 is not hot.
I'm not trying to claim that ALL white
guys date ugly Asian girls.What's being
illustrated here is that there is a higher proportion of white + ugly Asian couples
because Asian guys are way more likely to
take the hot girls, so the pool of potential
Asian girlfriends for a White guy is more
saturated in leftover ugly girls. And there
is nothing bad about this at all: ugly Asian
girls are able to have boyfriends, White
guys think they are dating someone
incredibly "hot," everybody is happy. And
I'm just one of the lucky hot Asians to be
dating a hot White guy. Page Twenty
9 January 2007
A Not so Brief History of SUS...
February 3, 1961 — Science and Arts are
divorced. A legend is born.
March 8, 1962 — After a year of growing
pains, the SUS Black Hand embarks on its
first major project, claiming "If they can
make a decaffeinated coffee that tastes
good, why can't they send a man to Mars?"
The project is undertaken by Science students Robert Goddard, Knostin Tsi-
olkovsky and Werner Von Braun.
March, 16,1962 — The start of a great tradition: the Science double election. In the
the first-ever SUS Election, irregularities
force a recall.
November 15, 1962 — After Science
threatens to enter the Chariot Race, both
Engineering and Agriculture withdraw.
Due to the extreme boredom of racing
alone, Science also withdraws, allowing
lesser faculties to race. Besides, the stadium track was too narrow for three chariots.
October 30, 1963 — In their first-ever
Chariot Race, SUS resoundingly defeats
the 'geers. Aggies are nowhere to be seen.
The 'geers are none too happy, explaining
"we helped them rebuild their chariot after
swiped parts of it!"
February 4, 1964 — As a Science Week
stunt, Le Main Noir overturns an A-5 3
Austin at the main gates, using distress
flares to simulate belching smoke. Lhe
effect is so impressive that the UBC fire
and police departments come out to congratulate the pranksters. With some quick
thinking the gang tells them: "We were just
emphasizing the extreme danger of driving at this corner."
September 14, 1965 — Science becomes
the first faculty to publish an anti-calendar
— the Black and Blue Review. Students
were polled on the effectiveness of courses,
considering the prof, syllabus and text. Not
surprisingly, some profs bitched, but a significant improvement in their teaching was
later noticed.
October 21, 1965 — Lhe Chariot Race is
usually an amicable event where rival faculties participate in easygoing competition. But this year, the 'geers are still sore
from, the stinging defeat inflicted by SUS
two year s
prior. Halfway through, the race deteriorates into a bruising free-for-all. Lhe Engineers bite off more than they could chew,
however, and receive the brunt of the damage. Science sends over a dozen 'geers to
the hospital,
compared with SUS' single casualty. In an
act of valor, the 'geers ban Science from
future races, opting instead to compete
against the tamer
Aggies and Foresters.
January 4, 1966 — Exposure to radiation
in his PITYS 115 lab causes William Brom-
mel to mutate from a normal Science student to an academically
conscientious one. Symptoms of genius
also lead to his triumph as the winner of
the Rhodes Scholarship for BC.
January 20, 1966 — 600 Science students
celebrate Science Week with their first
smoker, but gate-crashing Mounties seize
one Miss 'Candy' Jones, the centre of attention, and charge her with committing an
indecent act.
Police also seize a projector, but find no
February 11, 1966 — The Black Hand
design the first ever human paperweight
in the form of an EUS Vice President. Later
design tweaks included bent-over 'geers,
ostensibly to "act as pen-holders". January
19, 1967 - During Science Week, SUS
buries a time capsule to be opened in 2067.
Unfortunately, of those things buried
"somewhere along Main Mall", Douglas
Kenny, then Dean of Arts, is not included.
October 6, 1967 — 'Geers strip SUS First
VP John Laylor of his clothes and
dress him in red underwear. A call for
vengeance takes hold of the SUS, and
amidst a display of fireworks and smoke,
any engineer unfortunate enough to be
found near Main Library is dunked.
October 18, 1967 — Once again during
Science Week, a lusty celebration is held,
and once again it is crashed by the police.
However, the "event is held this time in the
new SUB Party Room. SUS executive deny
all knowledge
of the event, pointing out that the room
was booked by the Young Businessmens'
Club. Lhe first Black Plague is published.
November 12-14, 1969 — One small
prank for Science, one giant leap for
Sciencekind. Lhe result of drunken
debauchery, a field trip to Cape Kennedy,
Florida nets a NASA flag for SUS. Not just
any flag, but the one
from the mission conference and briefing
room. Now, if we could just find the guy
who stole it from us!
December 3, 1969 — SUS President Ron
Gilchrist, due to lack of student housing,
decides to move into the SUS Office with
his girlfriend. Unfortunately, their hot
plate starts a fire which destroys the office.
Lhe Dean, none too pleased, shuts SUS
down until 1972.
March 11, 1981 — Dave Frank, elected as
SUS President, revives the Black
Hand, Science Chariot Races, SUS
involvement in Intramurals, and incompetent presidencies.
November 5, 1981 - Revived SUS Chariot Race team comes in third. February 19 -
March 16, 1982 - SUS celebrates the 20th
Anniversary of the first ever Science election by reenacting it. Lhe event was organized by Horacio de la Cueva.
1983 - SUS initiates fulfill 1 their pledges
by painting the Cheeze Pub bright pink.
Yet another issue of Lhe Black Plague
shocks journalistic
1984 — Nothing significant happens. A
wave of apathy sweeps campus.
1985 — Spring elections see the rise of the
Mustard Dynasty. Lhe High Priest of
Ethanol, Ron Leljeur, erects his temple of
twice-monthly insanity, Lhe Underground.
1986 — A particular red station wagon
disappears in the night, and is later found
impaled on the 'geer "block". UBC
declared an undergraduate-free zone.
1987 - Lhe 432 is first published.March
24,1994 - Lhe Black Plague is born again as
the Ubyssex. Highlights include tantalizing pictures of exploited carrots and other
produce. Establishes the 'spoof issue into
popular culture.
January 20, 1997 - Lhe 432 Enjoys its 10th
Anniversary. Do the math. May 1997 -
Blair McDonald graduates from UBC,
marking the last time a full-term 432 editor
went on to graduate.
October 27, 1999 - Challenged by the
nefarious editors of the rival newspaper
the underground, the editors of the 432,
John Hallett and Andy Martin 'bet the pot
limit' by posing naked in a ratings war by
sneaking into the AUS office and posing
for naked photographs with 5 still-undisclosed ladies. In doing so, they scare readers off nudity for the next 12 months and
traumatize the AUS so severely, they are
forced to replace their couches. Oct 1999 -
Lhe SUS executive realize that they are nei
ther wanted nor required. Lhis doesn't
really mean much until someone points
out that their odds of getting into med
school or getting a job at a prominent software
company are not being changed by being
execs. Lhey panic and flee desperately
seeking fresh resume padding.
Oct 2000 - Bree Baxter, wonder woman,
kills Jeff Steinbok and quits her post as D of
P. Well, maybe just quits. Hey, we can
dream. Dreams of death, pestilence, and
blood that flows like a river. Well, more
like a creek, well, an ooze. Whatever. Nov
2000 - Bree Baxter gets highest marks ever.
Well, highest ever for Bree.
Sept, 2001 - Exodus U: this time, only three
exec manage to escape before the rest are
tranquilized and chained before being
brainwashed into "knowing" that Lhey
Must Remain As Execs. Ben Warrington
flees the province, promising to return to
the land of milk and honey after four
months. Dan and Lana begin their reign of
terror, or at least their
reign of sexual innuendo. Nov, 2001 - Pigs
are kissed, but refuse to fly. Kiss the pig
raises several hundred dollars for charity,
falling short of the 'cure world hunger'
objective. SUS President Reka Stopa finds
new fetish to accompany her
attraction to PVC.
Jan 13, 2001 - Lhe 15th anniversary mega
super wonder happy joy-joy issue comes
out. Dan and Lana fade into oblivion as
Ben Warrington returns as promised.
Sept 2003 - Lana makes a triumphant
return, displacing dictator Ben Warrington
in a bloodless coup.
Mar 2003 - Science students vote a cautious YES! to paying extra $$$ to build a
social space to call their own.
Sept 2004 - Lhe reign of terror that is Jon
Lam befalls Lhe 432.
Sept 2005 - Colleen Atherton usurps editorship of Lhe 432 from Lik Hang Lee
.Spring 2006 - Construction of social space
Aug 18th, 2006 - Constructions is completed?
Sept 5th, 2006 - New social space completion dat
.Dec 1st, 2006 - Actual completion date.
Jan 9th, 2007 - Big bad super duper 20th
anniversary issue of Lhe 432 released from


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