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UBC Publications

UBC Publications

The 432 Mar 24, 1999

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 VOLUME   12   ISSUE   11   •   03.24.99
432 Editor Cloned,
Campus in Danger
WiWWmOS, Hsllifii ZZ
a>\ -\^te satftj
While the Science Community has been
debating over the morality of human
cloning, UBC's own mad scientist has forced
the issue.
Craig Temple broke new ground last week
by cloning himself using stolen materials
from UBC's state of the art Center for
Molecular Medicine (CMMT)
"It [the act of human cloning] would not be so disturbing," commented CMMT
head, Dr. Micheal Hayden, "but it seems that Mr. Temple couldn't clone just one. He
apparently had an entire stable of sheep pregnant with his love children. God I'm
Reaction to the news of human cloning has been mixed. Dr. David Suzuki, well
known biologist and father figure to all, has expressed deep concern for the genetic
well being of the newly formed "Temple Race". "First, this is a blatant violation of
the scientific communities decision to not pursue human cloning. Besides, if all
those fat, bald and ugly genes are allowed to run rampant in the population we
could be looking at a global epidemic of unattractiveness. And I haven't even started to talk about the ass-fetish gene."
genetic reasearch center.
"ft wasn't that painful, really," explained Temple, who oddly
enough doesn't work at the CMMT
and really shouldn't have any access to
the high security lab in the first place. "It
was simple, I just followed the protocol that
the Scotts used when cloning Dolly. I
took the DNA from one of my skin cells,
ran it through the PCR machine, inserted it into a few hunfred frog ova, and
implanted the ova in sheep uterii, 9 months
When we asked where he got the ova or the
sheep, "Dr." Temple looked up at the ceiling,
paused, and then proceeded to tell a long,
winding story about his experiences of the
past week.
-..implanted it in a sheep uterus and]
9 months
- dr.   craig temple, blasphemer
Furthermore, Versa vending
company, once, informed of the
mass clonings, has reacted by
replacing dozens of campus vending machines with newer models.
"Well, we're using the same ones we sell to logging camps
frequented by bears," responded Michael Kingston, Vice
president in charge of UBC-district food distribution.
"With so many Craig Temples on the
loose, we thought this might be the wisest
course of action."
John Fournier, outgoing S.U.S. president had a different view. "Wow, really? He
cloned himself? Cool. How did he overcome the problem of replicative fading? How
did he get the frog ova to implant in the sheep placenta? How did he increase the
growth rate to produce full grown offspring? Come on, I need answers!"
At the next meeting of the United Nations on Friday, this controversial turn of
events will be discussed. Since October of 1997, there has ben a worldwide UN ban
on the cloning of human beings,
now however there is an important issue to be brought before
the world's government.
"What we have here is the
potential for the scientific community to fall down a very slippery slope," commented UN
Secretary Kofi Annan, "what
would happen to the world if
suddenly there were a dozen
Jerry Lewis clones wandering
around, or what about if Maurice
Chevalier was brought back to
life? I don't think that the fragile
web of world peace could withstand any more French celebrities."
Any action that the UN may take
will probably be too little, too
late. Unfortunately, the barn
door is closing long after the
horse, or genetically cloned horses, have left the stable.
Sure, the average person may
shrug off the possibility of multiple Craig Temple's roaming the
Earth, but nobody can deny that
even two Scott Morshitas scares
Wall Storms Back,
Kills Seven
Siiiif, liircii <n
Dramatic Re-enactment.
A carefree UBC tradition, the annual
Storm the Wall athletic relay came to
a screaming halt yesterday as seven
young atheletes were crushed by the
12 foot high woodden structure.
After a thourough investigation, the
exact cause of the wall's collapse has
been determined. Apparently, the
fatal fault was' an extreme case of
building envelope failure.
This news does not bode well for
Thunderbird residents, who have
recently been informed of the same
defect in their own housing.
When asked what this meant for the
future of Storm the Wall, Ned Healy,
Coordinator of Intramural Affairs,
had the following to say:
"In the sixteen year history of the
event the only serious injuries have
been a few twisted ankles, and a couple of broken wrists. Now, however,
with this trajedy, we'll have to do
some   serious   redesigning  of  this
"Currently we are looking into some
corporate sponsorship, perhaps we
can have Storm the Wall become part
of UBC's own X-Games."
While reactions are mixed to the
possibility that one of UBC's favourite
intramural pastimes may turn into a
type of Running Man event, the 432
feels that someone should be held
accountable for this awful mishap.
Is it possible that this can be blamed
on a simple structuaral defect, or were
there more sinister elements behind
these deaths?
Unnofficial interviews with RCMP
officers, have revealed that there are
possible Communist links to this terrible accident.
The coroner's report has come back
from the lab, and although no commie foul play has been found yet, the
cause of death has been determined
to be severe crushing by a gigantic
wall. page two
Monsters Under My Bed
Its happening again; the feelings of
deja vue are coming back, that feeling
that someone is following me home,
and that white van is parked across the
street again. How many days does it take
to shampoo the neighbours rug anyway?
Bob's Krazy Karpet Kleening has been
soaping and scrubbing for six days
straight. Bob must have some really hard
working employees. They've been working so hard they had pizza delivered to
the van, at 2:00 a.m. They're so dedicated to their job, they show up in suits.
So CSIS is following me around again. It
sounds bad, but this is CSIS, not the CIA.
They follow me to school, tap my
phone, and sit across the street in a
poorly disguised van. Other than that,
they're pretty unobtrusive. As intelligence agencies go, CSIS is about as
benign as they get. The Russians will
haul you off to Siberia. The Hungarians
will kill you with slow acting poison
adminstered by a person bumping into
you in a crowd. The Americans will erase
any trace of your identity, shoot you full
of drugs and leave you as a homeless person in New York. The Austrailians will
simply leave you in the middle of the
Outback. The English send you to the
Austrailians. The Germans, don't get me
started on the Germans. The Chinese
simply charge you with "Crimes against
the People". The Iranians will bomb the
plane you're on. The Serbians will kill
you, and everyone who happens to look,
smell, act, or behave like you.The
Israelies will occupy you're backyard and
build settlements. The French will test
their nuclear weapons on the island
where you happen to be spending you're
vacation. The Swiss will sneak into your
house and change all your clocks. The
Italians will cut your horse's head off.
But what does our secret service do with
unsavoury types? CSIS has no calling
card way of removing individuals from
society. I, as a nationalistic citizen, feel
we, as a country, are missing out on this
valuble resource. We have been left
behind in the tide of globalization.
Do other countries fear Canada's secret
service? Not likely. Most other citizens of
the world couldn't care less if the
Canadians were out to get them. "Oh
no, the Canadians are going to get us!
Not the Canadians! Whatever are we
going to do?!" <for the students in the faculty of arts, that is an example of sarcasm,
this explanation is an example offacetious-
Maybe Canadians too would have more
respect for government if there was a
constant, though distant possibility of
being completely erased. As it stands, I
have no respect for our government,
that's because they're a bunch of inept
bungling oafs, but if they could order
my unquestioned execution, I would
fear and respect those inept bungling
oafs. Like I would fear and respect the
agents across the street if they hadn't
been having a smoke break when I went
to school today. I just wish they'd come
in, have some coffee and doughnuts,
and have a chat. I'm sure being secret
agents they would have some interesting
stories, like recruitment.
How does one get recruited into
Canada's top intelligence agency? Do
they put ads in the paper? "Wanted, one
person to become secret agent. Skills
required - classified. Education required -
classified. Remuneration - classified.
Those interested should contact - classified. Successful applicants will be able to
submit a resume. " The other option is
to recruit from Canada's military and
police forces. We all know how stellar
the reputations of the Armed forces and
the RCMP are. <sarcasm again arts students^ Or maybe they just go out and
find people who look like secret agents?
"Excuse me sir, would you like to serve
your country and your Queen?"
"Do I get to shoot big guns?"
"You bet."
"uhh, okay then."
Maybe that's why they keep following
me. Maybe I'm a potential agent. I've got
my own tux. I can use high tech gad-
getry. And most importantly of all, I
actually like martinis. But isn't the best
secret agent one who doesn't at all look
like a secret agent, like Spud from
Trainspotting, not Pierce Brosnan. Sorry
ladies but spies are much more likely to
resemble Lyle Lovitt or George Wendt
than Sean Connery.
They might have cool stories about
training in the back woods of Alberta,
having to shoot they're way out of
Calgary and make it back to the west
coast base in time for Labour day.
Maybe they're jobs are just as boring as
sitting here writing and all they'd have
to talk about is this strange feeling of
deja vue.
Jake is currently under investigation for
grand larceny, petty theft, mail fraud,
phone fraud, credit card fraud, tax evasion,
ritualistic blood leting, illegal use of endangered species, counterfeiting, racketeering,
impersonating an officer, impersonating a
doctor, and he is currently being sued for
libel by no less than 1500 christians, -ed.
I've often wondered how I'd respond to
a direct challenge to my manhood. The
sequence of events this past weekend
have answered that question.
Friday was the last day of the SUS
Executive Elections, and I was very
proud as a Science student to see that
about 250 people voted. Although that's
only about 5% of our faculty, the number of voters doubled from last year.
Because I have worked every Friday
night since the start of this school year, I
have not had much of an opportunity to
party or to partake -indulge?- in the finer
alcoholic beverages offered here on campus, so I decided to take the night off to
await the results of my race for President.
Fortunately, there was a complimentary
keg of beer available to candidates as
they waited for the results to come back
from the vote counters. Unfortunately,
due to the fact that I had not had much
to drink in the past few months, my tolerance had slipped to far below the
norm, and I was not able to take full
advantage of the alcoholic cornucopia.
Contentedly inebriated after five or six
beer, the elections results came back. In
an absurd ceremony, the winners were
revealed in frustratingly slow fashion.
The suspense built up around the
announcement was like the wait for the
naughty bits to appear on your first nude
picture you'd ever downloaded from the
internet. Achingly slow, despite your
praying, the 14.4kbps modem would
derive almost sadistic pleasure in denying what your 14 year old eyes were
dying to see.
Finally, the winners were lauded, and
the losers faded away amidst the growing piles of sour grapes. Joy of joys, I had
won; I'll be the next President of Science.
I'd like to attribute it to my cool professionalism, but it was probably my drunken stupor that prevented me from
bounding about the room showering
praise and adoration upon myself.
Later that night, Speedbump, Science's
official band -they play for beer-, was
playing at the Piccadilly. The Piccadilly
is in downtown Vancouver. I have
always had a sound presence of mind
when I am intoxicated, as such I realized
that leaving the protective bubble of
UBC campus to face the harsh
RealWorld(tm), the world where passing
out on a street corner is bad and quite
possibly life threatening, was much less
preferable to spending the night close to
home. Despite the urgings -ahem- of my
girlfriend to join her in her trip to the
Pic, I opted rather to go home and pass
out at about 9:30.
When my girlfriend called and recounted to me her night, there were the usual
stories of good music, John Hallett and
his girlfriend Mandy hitting on her, and
drunken cab rides home. This is pretty
much what I might have expected from
a SUS outing, and so I thought nothing
of it.
On Sunday I was merrily producing this
fine paper. Joyously placing ads and
writing witty prose. It was about 9:30
when I received a call from none other
than Grand Rabbit #8, Jeremy Thorp.
"Jeremy, my good man. How good it is
to hear from you. I assume that you are
calling me to notify me that you have
just sent an article to me via electronic
mail," said I into the platinum-grey
"Why how did you know you sly guy, I
was calling to tell you just that," he
No wait, that's not how it happened.
"Hey Jer, you're calling to tell me you
have an article for me right?"
"Ha, no, but have you talked to Sara
since Friday night," he asks.
I respond in the affirmative and he
counters with: "So, what did she tell
"Oh, about John and Mandy hitting on
her?" Asks I.
"Yeah, are you going to beat him up?"
Usually the drunken debauching that
John partakes in doesn't, even raise an
eyebrow from his long-time confidante
Jer, yet the events of Friday night
prompted him to attempt to incite violence. This raised some questions, which
I proceed to ask Mr. Thorpe. Apparently
John was in top form. I learned that
John was actively trying to undress my
girlfriend, while at the same time
attempting to devour her shoulder and
neck. I went on to learn that John was
trying his very hardest to get my girlfriend to participate in a menage-a-trois
with himself and Mandy. To the distaste
of my girlfriend, and the utter dismay of
the SUS crowd, John relentlessly fawned
over my girlfriend like a newly weaned
child over his mother.
Having relayed the full story to me, Jer
goaded me on in true high-school fashion. My manhood being called into
question, I decided to pay John a little
"Andy, you're in charge," I proclaimed
as I strode out the door. I could almost
hear the cricket chirp as Andy surveyed
the empty room over which he then
presided. Luckily for me, perhaps not so
for John, I had my parent's Jeep with me
that night.
Continued on page 7.
upe 12 Issue 11
J4 M«R€^J999
© 1999pie Science
Society H UB
Alt rights reserved.
The #32*«!'ljh* officilt;r«!WSjS&|>er of the
Scierice Urpergraduafe Scxiety, published
fortnightly By Sdence tipdMgrJl Society.
If s^iyi^ody comes intd$l^andpeHs Craig
T|Jhpie that they read;Wis, apd has the
stscS^najifwprd, theyytfill wirflt l^ejij.ACF
ticket. TOworcfTs-r'*%opefeJ^lc5plf*:
All opinions expressed herein are strictly
those of the individual writers and not
those of The 432 or the Science Undergrad
Writers and cartoonists from all faculties
are encouraged to submit material to The
The 432 is copyrighted by The Science
Undergraduate Society of UBC and may
not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express written consent.
Craig Temple
5r itsfullofstars@penis.com
Assistant Editor
Jake Bray
smeghead @ penis.com
Cartoonists Jnestp lead
Andy Martin
Sara Stasmt
Sreeome Baxter
lily Marth
JieetpReal    jakeSray Jemfianiy 3.24.99
page three
The Official 432 Miik Inwoud
Activity Comer™
Neck: Breathing is difficult through
a crushed trachea.
So, you're wondering to yourself: "Who is Miik Inwoud?"
Inwoud is the Editor of the Underground, Arts' clone of the 432. Miik also spends his
spare time leading UBC's secret United Pedophiles Party, and producing their hori-
fying pamphlets.
Since he's won his court battle, and is legally allowed to print these disgusting
papers, we here at the 432 have decided to bring about some vigilante justice.
Stomach: Let him bleed to
death slowly and painfully.
Voodoo Doll of Vengeance
Use this handy voodoo doll of Miik Inwoud to exact your own special brand of vigilante justice on the evil Miik Inwoud. Labeled are the best parts of the doll to mutiu-
late in order to cause the greatest amount of dammage. For the voodoo spell to be
effective, you must truly believe that it will work. That and draw a pentagram on the
ground in virgin sheep's blood, then chant the phrase below seven times.
Miike Inwoud you die,
gou die bg this spell bastard.
Beady Eyes: Blinding pain.
Cold Heart: Instant cardiac arrest.
f)ie then die again.
Dumb Assed Easy Contest #5
How many times can you page Miik Inwoud?
The person who causes Miik to complain to us about
him or her will receive a free Arts County Fair Ticket.
Groin: Stop him from ever
molesting again.
Palms: God isn't the only one
who can hand out a sentence
of astigmata.
Kneecap: Ask Tonya Harding,
she knows.
Mighty Maze of Justice
Help little Tommy evade the nasty pedophiles, and find Miik's phone number so
that he can give it to his protective parents. His parents and their
friends will distribute it throughout the city so that others will be able to tell Miik exactly what
they think of him.
Please forward all comments on the Miik Inwoud
Activity Corner to youbozo@interchange.ubc.ca. page f<
Reality Bites
Jocelyn Read —-™-,,,^
< J»i mi, she's get # 0ekl80-
Is there any way to know if there is a
reality that exists beyond what people believe? I mean, someone told
me that reality is that which exists
whether or not you believe it. So, I'm
walking towards you brandishing an axe
and a demonic smile. You are claiming
that you don't believe in the axe. I
respond by chopping off several limbs.
There's blood everywhere. People are
screaming. The nice men in white coats
are dragging me away in this nifty jacket
thing. Have I proven the existence of
axes? I think so, but you, in complete
denial of my axe, are claiming that your
imminent demise is simply a result of a
paper cut. And actually, to the men in
white coats, you are correct, because
they saw me attack you with a rolled up
copy of the Underground. Who's to say
which of us is a fit arbiter of reality?
I blame my clumsiness entirely on
thinking way too much about things
like that. It's horrible. I walk into doors,
I have strange bruises all over my body I
don't remember acquiring, and I can't
manage to put both hands through their
respective coat sleeves without making
several 360-degree turns and falling
down. Some people mock my inability
to function, but I say it's just a sign that
my mind is on a higher plane. Just think
how dumb I'd be if I wasted my brain
space on limb control and basic social
skills. Besides, I've noticed that many of
the most interesting people I know are,
to quote my last physics teacher Jim, "a
few standard deviations away from the
mean." I'm sure they'll all accomplish
wonderful things in their lives, if they
can only restrain themselves from going
off on unexpected tangents.
If I had to name two of my favorite
things in the world right now, they
would be pickles and smocks. Those
aren't even things that feature predominantly in my life, but they have so many
levels of appeal. Not only are they fun
to eat and wear, but they are also great
words to repeat over and over to yourself
when you are in a silly mood. Try it. It's
more fun than you think.
How to Write for
The 432
Beleive  it  or  not,   you  too  can
become a writer forJhe 432. If you
follow these 10 steps, you too can
have the right stuff.
1. Drink. I don't mean a little social
drinking, I'm talking wearing-a-diaper-
to-all-you-can-drink drinking. Beer is
prefered, followed closely by Scotch.
Alcohol actually enhances your senses.
You never know how attractive you
were, how many looks you get or how
damn funny you can be until you're
shitfaced. Hell, even the phrase "Sex
banned on campus" is rip roaringly
hilarious with enough wood grain alcohol. While writing your article, mix
yourself some "432's": nix 2oz. Scotch
cut with l/2oz. beer and 1 oz. Dr. Pepper
to guarantee humour. Pour, Drink,
2. At least one mental psycosii is
required. Dementia or scitz..skitso.. split
personality is prefered, as it makes you
really interesting in conversation. You'll
notice that not one sane word ever hits
this page. Everyone of us has some sort
of chemical imbalance or is 'going
through a phase'. Jay has a twitch that
forces him to..., Jake is a little..., Bree
seems to think that..., Craig's head is
so... and of course, your truly has a ten-
dancy to not finish his sentences in fear
of pissing off everybody around him
along with his natural tendancy to go to
the local drugstores, open boxes of condoms and to poke small holes in each
one with a thumbtack. If you don't have
a natural behaviour disorder yet, watch a
Red Dwarf marathon on acid, and you'll
get in the writing mood real quick.
3. Have a obsessive need to decapitate
Barney. Close your eyes and form a
fnental picture a the cute, fuzzy, purple
dinosaur's head suddenly disjoining
itself from its grimace-shaped body and
flying across a room, splettering blood
over a room full of doe-eyed prepubesent
schoolkids. If this scene inspires uncontrollable giggling, this job might be for
4. Go to the museum and pretend to
touch all fhe exhibits that say DO NOT
TOUCH. This doesn't help your writing
at all, but it sure is fun to peeve off the
old geezer security guards before running away laughing.
5. Set your web enigine to www.space-
moose.com. Peruse the archive. If you
are still smiling after reading the whole
thing, you're in good shape.
6. The true initiation is to sit down next
to a hobo downtown on a Saturday
night. Poke him in the ribs and listen to
the words that come out of his mouth.
Fit every one of those words into a semi-
coherent 750-word article. If you can't
find a real hobo, try flipping to random
pages in a dictionary, children's book, or
Nazi Propoganda (the North Shore News
is a good substitute).
7. A short attention span is a must.
A.D.D. is a way of life in these pages. If
you have two paragraphs in a row with
the same topic, you're writing for the
wrong paper. If you're in the back of
Hebb theatre, and you look down at
your last hour's notes on the photoelectric effect, and find two pages of a free
verse poem "Ode to My Bodily Fluids",
of which you have no recolection whatsoever of writing, come and talk to us.
8. The staples of humour in the 90's are
simple: sex and violence. Seems simple,
doesn't it? But the number of ways you
can twist and combine these two to
sqeeze out innumerable articles. Fit the
words 'Fuck' and 'Kill' in a bunch of
times for a failsafe road to automatic
9. Be able to rant. When stuck for a
good article idea(which happens quite a
bit if you have an actual life), any 432
writer reverts to a mindless rant. Be able
to rant well. Make your rants both interesting and funny. Rants that aren't
funny, or are aimed at a small, insignificant audience are just plain irritating
and unwelcome in these pages.
10. If all else fails, a little bribe or sex
with the assistant editor can get the
wheels moving a little faster.
Put anything, any length into an email
and send it to spacemoose @penis.com
or drtemple@interchange.ubc.ca or
smeghead @penis.com. Or come around
Aries (March 21 - April 19): I his is Ihe week ti-r shipping s.i pull
cut tuiir iieelil urj and hop a bus tu d>>wiitiiwn If inv uide sale's
pc-sun Miivis .it \oiir ch'iiit ol wjrdri'he. tell him or hei lh.it in \
wirs, wu'll be rieh enough ti< huv then l'iciisti.iii ,ingsl-ndde-n \.il
liiurus i \pril 20 - \1a\ 20): Don't bother Irving to lind .i summer
|ol> Ihe jvr'evi |ob tin mie with the seiTel.uy. the ceniiputei sl.ilioti
and the p.inl \di.ilion can nnl\ ■■(■ to v> nidtiv. I in one ot liu.ni and
WHl'lf nut
Gemini iM«i\ 21    func 20): hike up a new spoil, like roikt limbni'.
in eMienie rulk-iblsiiling. Naked  Anil lake pictures
( am it (| urn- 21 - |ul> 22): I'Liunj; with matches is lun. Kiiiminv:
with scissnrs is lun Sew with stungeis .. von catch the diilt. lii|o\
Mini shi M l-li   sun have Csiiinr hinuc, eh'
I co (Jul} 23- \ un list 22): Hun's loile-t papci slink M wiurih it-.ind
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instant i;i.ilil<i,r.i in \< m take the Mil .iir.- Iiee-Ai eale Wh.ii ilu
hell .lie wm iSi.iii:'' Pan-is and cell plinics and un ill  oh inv'
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plnasi "ll\ " 111 do v hi hmw where \our i hildn n .in'" p.it wmi
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Scorpio (October 23 - November 211: I his week, pui the menial lil-
Ur min pi in Mi ntiuiung tin- Imsit needs ol idini animals dining
the ]'jIi inli iwcw is nut the best use "1 t.ii t
Sagittarius iNovemher 22 - December 21) People will trejt vim like
t "i/ dispenser  I in \'l' ill I \uu up with landv, then knock vnu dnwii
Id \oiir head I'.is k .Mid up niii viiiir lluosil wilh then leclh
( apricorn i December 22 - lanu.iry 19). Aw.id mam mall   lliesquii
Il Is   I't    ill' I  VnLI
\qiiarius (Januarv 20 - lebru.iry IK) < I'linr.itiilalmns' Vm h.m
Ills', been irnwned noddess nt public alums' Or nut Well Im .ill wm
< Mill KAquaii.iris, wm sh.ue a si>;n with theguddsss.il pi.Mu.iMi>n-«
lie's ilown and ufler tribute
Pisces (!ebru.ir\ 19 - March 20): 1 hat mid \ou think wm h.tw is
■Ktu.illv <i i.ire siuin ol I bol.i Ihe c DC knows about wm and is un
the wa\ in the H.iAf.il suits Run, run
to Chem B160, sidestepping the
desparate couchmonkeys and ask for the
people who really do all the shit around
this office.
The hardest part of writing is coming up
with a good topic.
Let's even give you a topic for next
Karl Popper's views on Darwinism
through his career. Make sure its at least
5  pages,  include references,  put my
name on the top and hand it in to Dr.
Pauly in the Fisheries Center.
Deadline is March 31st, by 4:32pm.
Andy forgot the all-important criterion for
writing forthe 432. The very useful skill
that should be mastered by any writer that
would like to write for this paper is to be
able to fit your articles to the size that is
required on the page. Sometimes this may
require a bit of what could be called space-
filler, but often it is a natural and flowing
part of any article, -ed 3.24.99
The World According to Bree
All I wanted was a simple pair of
shoes. One pair. Two shoes. As
way of explanation, I should say
that I am six feet tall. Seventy-two inches. Normal feet, such as mine are, usually grow in proportion to the rest of the
body. As this logic follows, my feet are
size ten. They balance nicely, allowing
me to walk and run and kick (Insert
name here) in the, ass. So far, all is good.
Today, I went shopping for a pair of
shoes. Dress shoes. The only pair of nice
shoes I have are heels. The problem in
this is that on long days, my feet hurt. So
I looked for shoes with no heels. In the 3
square blocks around Robson and
Granville, there are approximately 40
shoe stores. I visited 10 of them, looking
for shoes that were a) nice and b) short.
I found the following combinations:
Small with tall heels, small with no
heels, and large with large heels. Are
these shoes being made for some kind of
twisted demand? If there are individuals
out there who have some compulsive
need to add four inches to their already-
tall height, I want to meet these ladies. If
I were to wear these shoes, I would be
hitting my head on door frames. To
round off my day, I found the shoes I
wanted in the last store I visited. What a
fluke. Flukes are fun, except when they
are inside of you.
The previous part of the article is only
one example how the fashion world is
circling the fourth pit of Hell, waiting for
clearance before final approach. Ever
since someone came up with the idea
that emaciated heroin addicts are the
epitome of desire, we've been inundated
with people who just need a sandwich.
It's no wonder models never smile: If I
were starving, cold and in withdrawal, I
wouldn't want to smile either.
Please, don't take the wrong meaning
from my words. I have nothing resembling pity, sympathy or compassion for
these models. The 'poor me' attitude
they exude, the "I only make three million dollars a show, how will I ever support my cocaine habit and my agent and
his cocaine habit" expression, all illicit
the same response from me: Screw You. I
meet people in my daily life who have a
similar attitude. As an example, I will tell
you the tale of two people. Person one
has money coming out of his ears. His
school is paid for, he has a car, a place to
live, a well paying job, and a flagpole up
his ass. He just doesn't get it. He has no
reason to worry or to be the asshole he
is. Then we move to person two. She
barely has enough to pay her rent, half
of that on food, and she smiles alot. She
gets it. (And she's getting some, but
that's a long story she would kill me for.
I digress.) The moral is, if you can
unclench your ass long enough for the
stick to be surgically removed, everything will be fine.
I'll change the subject of my article to
tell you more about the person closest to
my heart: Me. Me and my new newspaper. This rag. Ha ha, ha ha. I can't go into
more detail, but I'm the Director-of-
Publications elect. The post-election
party was rather interesting. The results
were not what was expected by the
crowd. Now I have to find a new distribution crew. And I have to figure out how
to sneak enough money past the money-
heads to pay the printers. All in all, it
will be ok and you will get your stinking
paper. Do you want to know why? Two
words. John Hallet. You heard me right.
Elections irregularity number 32. He's
done this before and he actually wants
to do it. Why? I'm not really sure, I don't
think he's going to run off to Mexico
with my money, but the year is young.
Why is it that naked photographs of
women are called pornography, but
those old paintings of naked women are
called art? If everyone walked around
naked, we'd all be cold, and it would
explain alot about attitudes. Why does
that guy act like a stuck-up moron?
Small penis. Why does she think the
world rotates at her feet? Big breasts. Too
big? Implants. We all need to see more
naked people. Scariness unlimited, but at
least drunken Saturday nights would
have less foreplay frustration.
In conclusion, Bree good, John good,
shoes bad, models addicted. If you want
to write for the 432, haul your clothed
ass into the basement of Chemistry and
do it. There are two kinds of people on
this planet. Those who write for the 432,
and those who don't. Guess which level
you belong to?
PS: If it were next year already, this article never would have made it past the
copy editor. Wait a sec... Isn't that me?
Notice how I used the words 'penis',
'breasts' and 'pornography' all in one
article? That takes talent.
You know what big feet on a woman
means don't you? Me neither, -ed
The Incredibly True Adventures of a
Woman in Vinyl
Everybody always asks me what I did
last week, last night, this morning,
blah blah blah, and I always say
"nothing interesting". I didn't think I
was really interesting, until I thought
about some of the things I have done in
the last few years and it turns out I'm
pretty cool. So here, because I can't
think of anything else to write and Craig
really needs an article now, are some of
the things that have happened to me
and my friends in the last while. Unlike
all stories from the lips of another,
unnamed 432 writer, these are actually
true, and not spun out of some pathological need to lie.
Story 1: My Lesbian Wedding
Anybody who knows me or anyone
who read the Underground's 432 spoof
knows that I have a very big soft spot for
members of the opposite sex.   But I'm
married to a girl. I was out one night at
a club run by my friend Jay, who is an art
director for an ad agency.   He had just
wrapped a commercial that afternoon,
and had brought the crew out to the
club to celebrate.   The director of the
commercial happened to be the old bass
player from Devo, who is an ordained
minister in some weird church, the kind
that advertises in Rolling Stone and will
ordain you if you send in $ 10 and a used
kleenex.   So Jay introduces me to him,
and this guy insists on marrying us. Jay's
girlfriend is around, so we decline, but
he grabs my friend Amy and proceeds
through      the     whole      ceremony.
Apparently the whole thing is legal. And
no we did not consummate it. But if we
did, I'd be sure to advertise the ticket
sales in the 432.
Story 2: Frenchy's Pants
One night Frenchy and Jer (432 editor
last year) got really drunk at the beach.
The next morning, Frenchy got a call
from Jer saying "I don't know how it
happened, but I woke up missing a shoe,
my glasses, my bag, and I'm wearing
your pants." Jer gets a really scared look
on his face when we tell this story, especially around his girlfriend. It's the piece
de resistance in our collection of remem-
ber-the-time-Jer-got-so-drunk-that... stories.
Story 3: John and Chris That I Worked
With 2 Years Ago
John and Chris were really funny. We
all worked together at BC Hydro, and
they had to drive around together and
look at transformers. Then
they'd give all their data to
me and I'd enter it into a big
database. John and Chris
drove around in the very
worst, vehicle in the Hydro
Auto Pool - a really old rusty
K Car, with just an AM radio.
Once they were out looking
at transformers in Richmond
and needed to get to one in
the middle of big blueberry
field. They drove right into
all the blueberries, and before
they could get to the transformer, they sank the K Car in
a huge puddle, which caused
the transmission to drop out
of the car. They had to get
towed back to the office in
Newton, and the tow truck
driver turned out to be
straight outta Deliverance - a
total hillbillly who told the
boys how much his life
sucked for the whole hour it
took to get back.
A month or so later, our
office group was meeting for a
pizza lunch at a local restaurant, and John and Chirs were
late. Our supervisor thought
it they were probably stuck in
a huge traffic line up stretching over 40 blocks in Langley.
Turns out they were the cause
of the traffic line up. While
driving along a soft shoulder
to get a close look at a Hydro
pole, their much-abused K Car flipped
over into the ditch. It had to be extracted, which tied up traffic to no end. The
tow truck arrived and John looked up to
see the driver squinting at the guys then
suddenly breaking into a huge grin.
Turns out it was same tow truck driver as
I just realized there weren't many stories
about me here, and I thought of a whole
bunch, but realized I couldn't print them
cause I'd probably get arrested, along
with a few other 432 writers.
Here's a joke: A guy goes to see his doctor, and the doctor tells him he has six
weeks to live. "But, there's so much I
want to see!" the man says, "Isn't there
anything I can do?" and the doctor says
"Well, every day I want you to go to a
health spa and take a long mud bath."
"Will that cure me?" says the patient.
"No," says the doctor, "but it'll get you
used to the dirt."
What did the Zen Buddhist say to the hot
dog vendor?
Make me one with everything. Ha! -ed
Geophysics & Astronomy Building, Rm 360
Wed. Mar. 24th, 5:30 pm
Next Year's
Free Pop!
Free Food!
Guest Speaker:
Jaymie "Schmidt-Cassegrain" Matthews
For More Info Contact Chris @ 228-2658 page six
Ohm Sweet Ohm
Vi K* 3/.
I love electricity. I don't think that I
can live without it. There are just so
many conveniences made available
by the wonders of moving electrons.
Personal massage devices, automatic coffee makers, toasters, and indoor lighting
are some of the miracles of electricity,
and the list just goes on and on. Take
away electricity and what you'd have is
frustrated, sleepy people eating
unwarmed bread and stumbling around
in the dark. People say that civilization is
only two meals away from anarchy and
barbarism. I like to think that's really
much simpler than that. The world is
only a missing episode of Oprah or two
away from social chaos.
I blame Thomas Alva Edison for this
sorry state of affairs. Municipal power
grids were his idea, after all. Now there's
a "let's take over the world idea" for you.
Maintenance of the social order through
strict enforcement of electrical dependence, for which you can thank good
old Edison. That, and AC current. Yeah,
yeah, yeah, it's convenient, it's transmit-
table, and its fun to watch your little
brother dance to the tune of 120 alter
nating volts. It's hell on your portable
consumer electronics though, and you
end up having to carry accessories with
weird functions and names like "transformer" and "rectifier". Try saying the
word "rectifier" with a straight face
while you're plugging in your portable
Now, DC power's the way to go. So what
if it heats up the power lines to near-
melting and delivers enough juice from
a wall socket to flash-fry a whole heifer.
DC power's just so much sexier. And
besides which, it was endorsed by Nikola
Tesla, which is good enough for me. Any
guy who can think up ways of incinerating people through the power of seismi-
cally-transmitted sound waves is a right
good chappie in my books. Plus, his idea
for electrical distribution is just so much
sexier than those stodgy old power lines
and electrical towers. See, Tesla gave this
concept a lot of thought, and came up
with one acceptable solution: lightning.
Lots of it. Power would just be zapped
from the generating station across the
stratosphere and ground itself in receiving stations. Son et Lumiere, every hour
on the hour. Not to mention that a real
lightning strike on the ground station
wouldn't do any damage whatsoever.
Presto! No more problems with black
Blackouts. People living in most of the
civilized world don't have more than a
passing acquaintance with the joy of
power outages. There's just something
really intimate about the sudden, unexpected onset of darkness. The way I see
it, there's only two things you can do in
a blackout. For one, you can go and find
your significant other (or reasonable facsimile thereof), and enjoy the pleasure of
their company. Having a conversation
wouldn't be a bad idea, either. Or, you
can stumble around in the darkness, trip
over things and hurt yourself. Come to
think of it, they're not all that different
There's also a difference in perspective
to power outages depending on which
backwards region you're living in. Back
when I was a wee laddie living in the
tropical wilderness of the Philippines, a
power outage meant having to vigorously fan yourself in order to avoid heat
prostration, as well as to fend off the veritable legion of bloodsuckers that would
inevitably surround you. However, as a
friend of mine was quick to point out, a
power outage in the boonies of
Shawnigan Lake meant having to huddle
up with her family in her father's garage,
where the only stove was located (up
until her early teens, when they finally
got a stove in their basement). It was
that, or freeze solid. So whereas I associate power outages with vigorous fanning
and insect bites, my friend makes the
somewhat more telling connection
between electricity and warmth, or
blackouts and freezing cold. That, and
carbon monoxide poisoning.
That's a problem that I don't have to
contend with, living in British
Columbia. Most of our power comes
from hydroelectric sources, so there's no
choking on the smoke produced from
fossil-fuel consumption. Plus, there ''Wis
that scene from Goldeneye where James
Bond leaps from the top of the dam, and
since anything Bond must be cool,
hydroelectric power must therefore also
be cool. ""  ™     ' v
Personally, I'm just glad to be,Hving in a<
developed country with reliable electri-;
cal supplies. I like being able to worship:
the idiot box. I love hopping onto the
internet on my trusty computer. And
God alone knows what I'd do if I had to
go without my automatic coffee maker,
toaster, and indoor lighting. Or my personal massage device.
Shudder, ^ed
This Article is Rigged to Explode
^ Jag Dost    ——
How many of you yuppies can
honestly say that you PERSONALLY have made an entire bus
crash? If I told you that I have, would
you believe me? I thought not. Before
you judge, hear my story, and bow
before my awesome glory:
I was in 7th grade. Way back when I was
a wee child, my hormones raging, particularly for this one girl who was just
fricken' gor ... anyway, I digress. It was
early in the school year, and I was waiting patiently on my block corner for the
school bus. There it was, coming around
the corner. That big yellow box on
wheels, bore towards me like a turbaned
terrorist's bomb ticking inexorably
down. It stopped, as usual, and I boarded, showing the bus driver my student
ID. Since I was new to the school (having
moved there earlier that year), and since
I was different from all the other white
Jewish people (not that I'm racist or prejudiced or anything), I was relegated to
the seat directly behind the bus driver.
Back then, your social status determined
how far back you sat on the bus. So as
you can see, my social status didn't exist
at all. -
Even though I sat in the front, I was not
deaf to the speakings in the back of the
bus. It turned out that people were curious about the sacred bus driver's name.
And he didn't help the situation by not
telling it either. The day before, I had
happened to catch his name written on
a clipboard siting next to him. I asked
him about it, and still he would not confess. Since there was almost nobody else
on the bus (me usually being dropped
off last) I couldn't tell this to anyone.
And so, on this fine morning, as we
neared school, I again saw the clipboard
$UMD VLHND the dark side of the far
Little did the Engineers know, the tank
had been spiked with 100M HCl.
sitting next to the bus driver. I decided
that I would find out his name, if it was
the last thing I did. I quickly grabbed the
clipboard from his side and started flipping through the pages clipped onto the
Unfortunatly, the great and awesome
bus driver thought he could drive with
his left hand while reaching over his left
shoulder with his right hand to retrieve
the clipboard. I encourage you all to try
this while sitting in a car trying to drive.
You'll quickly realize that it's something
that drivers AREN'T SUPPOSED TO DO!!
I didn't help the situation either. I kept
the clipboard from his clawed and
gnarled fingers, still searching with vain
hope, to find his name in the jumble of
papers. This went on for about 30 seconds when we were interrupted by a
gutwrenching squeal of bending metal.
The bus went from about 30 MPH to 0
MPH in a matter of 2 seconds. For you
non-physics majors: Hard
Qi/~|ck Everyone was thrown onto
kJ-lvJC' the floor space in front of
their respective seats. I seem
to have gotten up first,
because I looked at the back
of the bus and saw absolutely
nothing. I saw an empty bus.
And I panicked. Hell, I went
beyond panic. I was starting
to contemplate suicide to
avoid the punishment that I
was bound to get. And as my
hyperventilated mind struggled to make a decision, I saw
people starting to get up off
the floor and look around.
That made me feel a bit better. At least everyone wasn't
dead. As everyone figured out
what happened, they all
broke out laughing. So now I
felt absolutely relieved. It was
just a big joke.
Then I looked back at the bus
driver. To say he was pissed
would be putting it mildly. I
fully believe that if there
weren't any witnesses, he
would have taken my head,
shoved it up the tail pipe and
started the bus. He quickly snatched the
clipboard from my fingers (I had totally
forgotten about it), and went out to survey the damage. Luckily, we had hit a
tree and not another car. The driver had
veered off the road with that weird ass
driving style. Asshole. Also luckily, only
the side of the bus had hit the tree. So a
few scratches, the side mirror missing,
and that covered the extend of the damage. No worries. Since the bus still operated, the driver fixed the broken mirror
as best he could, and we continued on to
At school, I was on top of the world.
Who else could claim that they had
crashed the bus? I advertised my actions
boldly. I was THE MAN!! First period
went by without a hitch too. BUT!!
There always has to be a fucking BUT!
But, as I proceeded from my first class to
my second, I heard the following over
the PA system: "All the occupants of Bus
#1 report to Cafeteria B!" I froze in my
tracks, panic rising in my body, a scream
rising in my throat. I swallowed the
scream, but the panic kept going up. I
unfroze myself and continued down to
face my fate.
To make a long story short, it turned out
that about 10 guys and gals had
whiplash (can you say BULLSHIT?).
There was discussion about what happened. No names were mentioned,
thankfully, then everyone was dismissed. Except me. I got 2 days suspension, and lost my bus riding privileges
for the rest of the year. Just as well. That
bus driver would have killed me anyway.
Later, I heard that every single occupant
from my bus went home, claiming
injury. All except one guy. The freak.
And if he sees this, John Portalatin, this
goes out to you. Your dedication to
school still amazes me. I also heard
through the grapevine that the bus driver had been fired. And also I heard that
he lived in the same area as I did. Well if
that wasn't enough for a scare, then I
don't know what is. I still believe he's
waiting out there. Waiting for the little
brown boy who destroyed his life to
cross his path again so he can kill me.
Only one phrase comes to mind. "OH
SHIT!!!! 3.24.99
page seven
The Drawers of SUS
John Fournier
Hey everybody,
The Champ.
Aarne Hamalainen
.ha ha, just kid
ding. Well, My term in office is winding down to a close
pretty soon. It's been a real blast. I've never felt like I've
made so much of a difference, or helped out so much,
as I have this past year.
When I look back at what I've accomplished in
SUS this past year, I really am proud that I got to
work with some really terrific people. I'd like to
especially thank Nicole Weaver for all of the
hard work that she put into the SUS President
Benevolence Movement. Way to go Nikki.
«,»«.•«■%,.    r
The Drawers  *$>
of SUS.... %
ust a short reminder to
Storm the Wall. Of course, by now, you're actually
storming that wall, so Good Luck to all Science
And of course, if your team is registered as a
'Science Team: save a photocopy of your team
registration form and your reciept when you register your team, and bring it into Chem B160 to
get a 50% rebate.
L.,  I
Jake Cray    ^
can't beleive it. We had
all  heard  the  rumours,
.and listened to a few shell-shocked witnesses
who claimed that it was true, but I never thought
that it could be.
The bastards were lobbing the heads of our own fallen
buddies, filled with explosives, back at us. Tom had jumped %^ WfsSl IP
courageously onto the object that flew into out ditch. It was a *•' ■*? f§|
reflex for old Tommy to jump on it, he thought it was one of those
fucking Jerry hand grenades. When we both realied that it was not going
to explode, Tommy stood up -that was when the sniper took out his eye with a 3000
foot per second full metal jacket slug- and revealed that it was a human skull, poorly stripped of its flesh.
I could place that noggin anywhere, it was Danny's. Dan was always quick to show
off the crescent-shaped metal'plate in his head that he'd gotten in a freak cheese-
grater accident. That is until he was eviscerated by the German land-mine he had the
misfortune of crapping on. Yeah, that shiny little moon was grinning up at me from
the back of his dynamite-filled skull.
We'll show those bastards, I thought, so I gave the order for the men to paint themselves in Jerry Blood. That sure gave those Nazi sons of bitches a moment of pause.
Andy Martin
But I just started! I have so much else to do, so
much more hair to pull out, so many more witty
epithets to scream at
passerbys. This sucks.
Well.  The elections...GODDAMN IT YOU BUNCH OF
if ll ran ^or Positions stlall report to my office for a brutal lashing
by Andy's Leather Whip of Justice.
As I leave you, I shed a small, slowly rolling tear.  For parting is such
sweet sorrow.  I stepped in, did my duties, and hope I served you to your satisfaction. And now I pray for my successor, that she survives her tour of duty dealing
with the scariest set of exec. I've ever seen.
AGM is at noonhour April 1st, and all exec, are expected to give a short speech. I'll
be your MC, and I want everybody to show.
'Twas a pleasure, we shall have to do this again sometime. And remember to never
look a gift horse in the anus. In fact,-don't look anything in the anus, it just doesn't
work that way.
Andy still thinks that he is the Internal Vice President. It's just easier that way. -ed
Sana Stamm
Cawisl §#' pmifmit
It started out innocently enough,
although I should have been able to
see the foreshadowing in the air. The
foreshadowing was so obvious in fact
that it kind of felt like a punch in the
nose. Maybe that's why I had a
headache all night. I think the worst
part is that I remember it all and so do a
lot of other people.
Elections results came out Friday night,
as I'm sure you all know by now (I won!
I won!), and everybody was celebrating
with copious amounts of free beer provided by the Science Undergrad Society.
Early on into the evening many of us
left to go see Speedbump playing at the
Piccidilly Pub on Granville. I got a ride
with a certain person and his girlfriend,
both wonderful people, but very drunk.
I drove them home in his truck, as I was
still sober at that point, and then the
three of us took the bus downtown in
high spirits.
As you all know, the transit system is
frustratingly slow, and we started an
interesting conversation while waiting
and waiting and waiting to get there.
I'm not sure how we reached this point,
but somehow I ended up announcing
that it might be possible for me to
become bisexual. A very ambiguous
comment, not meant with any seriousness, but still, it was said. They took me
seriously, most likely with considerable
input from their inebriation.
Coincidentally, they were looking for a
partner for that night, or the next night,
or any night(s) in the near future!  Thus
started an evening that will not be forgotten in a hurry.
Both members of the couple were very
friendly, he much more so than she. I
was subjected to many methods of flirtation (seduction?) including knee tickling, massage (back), embraces, etc.... It
was amusing, and didn't in any way
effect my enjoyment of the night. (I
have considerable practice dealing with
such behavior.) Besides, by then I had
drunken myself into a warm, fuzzy state
of pleasant blurriness.
But then the bands got good, and I
wanted to dance. I did dance for that
matter, but when you are grabbed from
behind in a massive bear hug for some
dirty dancing by a certain male, it
time, the flirting became a little to
aggressive and persistent. Especially
when moving to the other side of the
dance floor doesn't deter the aggressor.
But, being drunk and dancing, I couldn't
be bothered to tell this guy to stop; in
fact it didn't even occur to me! I blame
that on the sambuca shots, or maybe the
So, I spent the evening ineffectually
avoiding big, hairy arms, but it didn't
really bother me. We were all drunk.
After the music stopped, I declined
going back to their place with them, I
was tired, and went home on the bus to
pass out on my very comfortable bed.
The next day I went to Richmond, and
when I came back, everybody knew
some twisted version of the story. Well,
this is my side, judge it as you will. I can
only laugh.
Tired of Paying $1.00 for POP?!
Come to Chem B160 for 750 Pop
(yes, even 750 for the stuff
they charge you $1.25 for)
Featuring the only place on
campus to get Dr. Pepper
and the old Lemon Nestea!
This ad is brought to you by Excellent Man Vending Co.
Even More Editorial
As I made my way down 16th, I noticed
how fast one can drive on said road during the night hours. Although I am not
exaggerating in the slightest, I do realize
that even though I saw the speedometer
needle dip past 180km/h, I was not
going that fast. Logic tells me that when
the tires of the Jeep left the ground after
launching over a rise in the road, the
lack of friction on the wheels allowed
them to spin up to very high speeds.
As I finished my parallel parking job on
Jer and John's front lawn, I bounded out
of the vehicle and burst through the
front door of their house. Jer, John, Tim,
and Laura were sitting about the living
room watching TV, and before any of
them realized that I was there, I had my
hands wrapped around John's ample
neck. Try though as I might, I couldn't
muster up enough anger to start beating
John. The girlish squeals of apology
from John and the delighted chuckling
of glee from Jer woke me from my inner
turmoil and I settled for some gentle, yet
demeaning, bitch-slaps to John's face.
"Kill him! Why aren't you kicking his
ass?" Jer exclaims.
John interjects before I can answer. "I
don't even remember what happened
that night. I'm sorry, please don't kill
I couldn't kill him because I didn't actually see him as a threat, and the look of
sheer terror on his face from not knowing what it was that he did, or what I was
about to do, was payback enough for
any lapses of judgement he had had on
Friday. page eight
Bitchslapped and Snorkelwacked
Okay, now that my fucking artistic
demons are banished, I'm never
going to write another article like
that last one again. I try to be original,
but that kind of artsy shit is a little out of
my usual grab life by the nipples and
throw it off the roof into a truck full of
liquid nitrogen. Some times it's just better to keep your mouth shut. I honestly
think I'm the only one who actually
knows when to be quiet. A skill any good
conversationalist needs is to know when
to shut the fuck up.
This past week putting together invitations for our Annual General Meeting. A
cute little event that has managed to
squirm its way between about 5 tests, lab
exams and term paper due dates. Why is
it that bad tests tend to occur in clusters,
like sheep in a field hudling for protection at the mere sight of plaid? Anyways,
getting back to me, I was printing prototypes of the invitation design out and
was immediately descended upon by
about 4 gawkers lined up one after
another just to get the pleasure to ask me
"Your not going to put that out are
you?" "That's shit!" "Here, let me do it."
The genetic part of this behaviour I
believe was covered in "Craig"'s last editorial. Though these days a swift shotgun shell to the torso is a pretty strong
selection force. Nothing like a hail of
buckshot to help out natural selection.
As far as I'm concerned, the sooner I take
evolution into my own hands, the better. People like this are laxitives, they
irritate the shit out of me. Maybe if they
just shut their mouthes they'd live to
puberty. We have been given mouths, a
useful organ as we can no longer absorb
nutrients through our skin. But the
human race has gotten careless yet we
use them for such idiotic purposes.
The lion knows how to use its mouth.
Lions only open their mouths to yawn,
to roar, to take down and suffocate prey,
to tear the flesh from said prey, and to
grasp the female so he can mate with
her. Killing, eating, fucking and yawning...that's all the mouth should be used
for. I loved it, so I left for Africa to live
amongst the lions, who would only
open their mouths for the right purposes. It was going fine for a while, until
they took my arm off.
I was able to suspend the bleeding until
I reached the village 12 miles away.
There they were nice enough to sterilize
the wound with white hot spears and
seal it up with fresh rhino dung. They
did a fairly good job and the wound
healed up. But now I had no right arm.
And of course, this meant that I had no
right hand. This presented me the
biggest frustration of my young life.
How would I survive?...How was I going
to write my exams? I eventually learned
to write with my left hand, so all the
crises are over and I can move on.
But it isn't too much of a problem, as in
this, my last term, I only have two finals.
You know what else I have two of? Butt
cheeks. My ass is my life. And now that
it's all grown up and out, I think it's
ready for the big time. I think my ass
should run for Premier. I would get to
post pictures of my ass all over other
people's lawns. Imagine the television
commercials: VOTE ASS: because you
know you love ass. And then, there'd be
the TV debate...
Clark: And that is how Gordon
Campbell leads children into his gingerbread house with candy and throws
them into his oven.
Winona Ryder: Well...that you Mr. Clark
for answering my question on the budget. Mr. Martin, as you are speaking for
you ass, what has been your ass' previous
experience in large scale policy decisions?
Andy: Well Ms. Ryder, my ass has made
many important decisions over the past
twenty-one years. Chiefly the decision
on whether to shit or fart. My ass is very
good on deciding when its time to shit
or fart. But from what I've seen of the
current government, they don't know
when to shit or fart. Then shit their
pants and fart when they're on the crap-
per. My ass knows the way, a Vote for My
Ass is a vote for properly timed shits and
farts! By the way, my ass would like to
know what are you doing tonight Ms.
Winona: Hmmm...Well hopefully, I'll
be spending it with your ass.
Vanderzalm: Uuuh, Aren't we a little off
topic here?
Andy: Shut up you fucking gardener
before I shove a hoe up your ass. I'm
young, good looking and I'm going to
score tonight while you're old, ugly and
will spend tonight whacking off to
Dawson's Creek.
Campbell: And how does your ass
respond to these pictures of your ass
with all year old prostitute?
Martin: Well sir...you can ask my ass.
Oops, there I go into politics again. Will
I ever learn? Nope. Politics just ain't my
bag. What is my bag? Anarchy. Anarchy
is unbelievably cool. No taxes, no pepper
spray, news programs dominated with
real news, not just a rehash of the latest
political farce. It's beautiful. The problem with anarchy is that people are jerks
and wouldn't be able to behave themselves if they lived in anarchy. Heck, I'm
no better. The second I hear that the
government is dissolved, I'm grabbing
my blowtorch and heading down to
Nanoose Bay for a little fireworks display. Lets see the Americans deny there's
anything nuclear there when the entire
bay glows in the dark.
Explosions are orgasmic..and orgasms
are explosive. The universal harmony
unfolds before my eyes. Sex and violence. Violence and Sex!..and Candy.
The complete, unquestionable and
essential recipie for true euphoria. And
God willing, I will combine these ingredients and reach true Nirvana. Of course,
Nirvana means Rock and Roll, which is
also needed for said recipe.
At Arts County Fair, having sex with
Winona Ryder, being fed gobstoppers by
Britany Spears, all the while choosing
random targets with my shiny new
grenade launcher. Uh uh uh...mmm
baby, I love the red ones...uh uh
uh...BOOMkscreams of terror>...uh uh
uh...Well it's all that you are, you're just
one shining starL.uh uh uh...lets have
some Popeye cigarettes now Britany, and
why don't you give Wynnona a
kiss?...uh uh uh...BOOM!
Science Undergraduate Society
E x e c t u i v e    Elections
tm.s,-   -- '^'-x-^m'^-"
External VP
Mandy Seymour 109
Amir Baradaran      67
Tracee Cheng 41
Aman Taggar 33
Lisa Blackshaw   135
Jagmeet Dost 93
Director of Fianance
^feff Steinbok       86
Alex Varju 80
Mikey Boetzkes   79
Craig Temple 98
Jay Garcia      75
Phil Ledwith   75
Dir. of Sports
SaraStamm  141
Adam Mott     103
Dir. of Publication
Bree Baxter
Yes:207 No:33
Internal VP
Reka Sztopa  152
Jaisun Garcha   94
To be announced.
Miss Jenn Gardy
Yes:211 No:30


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