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Array VOLUME FIFTEEN ISSUE EIGHT
18 January 2002
In this issue:
Social Darwinism
Rehash
What Alcohol Does to the Creative Process
and soooo much more...
'You only lie to two people, your girlfriend and the police/
-Jack Nicholson
North Shore Search and Rescue
Implements 'Darwin Clause'
'Dumbasses' to be Left to Die
North Vancouver (Reuters)
After years of budget crises and
upcoming cutbacks, the North
Shore Search and Rescue team
finally came to a decision that says that
they believe will not only dramatically cut
their budget, but provide a service to the
community as a whole.
The number of rescue operations continues to increase annually, requiring more
and more resources and taxpayer dollars
every year. Statistics also show that the
number of operations involving rescue of
complete dumbasses doing things they
were warned repeatedly not to do has also
risen sharply.
To counter this rise, the North Shore
Search and Rescue team has implemented
a Darwin Clause in which anyone who
needs rescuing due to their own retarded
activities will be abandoned to the elements.
"If you do something stupid, I mean really dumb-assed, why the hell should we
come get you?" Dave Gallant, acting President of North Shore Search and Rescue,
stated in an early morning address on the
stairs of North Vancouver Community
Hall, "The average rescue takes 150 volunteer man-hours, as well as $50,000 of pub
lic money. And ninety-percent of these rescues are for people who deserve to be left
to the fruit of their stupidity. These cutbacks will help ease the workload of the
underappreciated volunteers, as well as
add a little chlorine to the gene pool."
As expected, reaction to these new regulations has been varied.
"I don't like it," said Rodney Gerwigger, a
walking nightmare of a gene pool who was
rescued from the far side of Cypress
Mountain last year after becoming lost
while blatantly disregarding the numerous
warnings to not leave the marked ski area,
"I mean, we always gonna go out of
bounds, it's cool to give authority the finger and all that. Now, the authority says it
won't rescue us from that? We could actually, like, be in real danger."
"Maybe you should obey the signs, dumb-
ass," retorted the spokesperson for Search
and Rescue, "and here's a finger for you
too." He continued on to say, "N.S. stands
for North Shore, but it also stands for Natural Selection. I think the two should go
hand-in-hand."
"Dumbass," he added.
When asked to elaborate on the new policy, specifically regarding to whom it would
apply, the North Shore Search and Rescue
representative stated:
"If you're honestly lost, through no fault
of your own, then sure, we'll come and
help you. That's what we're here for and it
gives us a warm and fuzzy feeling inside.
But if I had to save one more dumbass who
thought it would be cool to wander along
the rocks just before the tide comes back in,
in spite of posted warnings then we will
see how quickly the dumbass learns how
to swim. Dumbass."
Additional proposed changes would
include actually hampering people who
through sheer luck managed to get out of
really stupid situations, such as causing an
avalanche by yelling "riiiicola" and getting
caught in it and somehow riding it down,
or escaping a bear attack by yelling at it
and frightening it with horrible morning
breath.
"These people, while lucky, don't really
deserve to survive, so we will be using
some of the helicopter time freed up by the
Darwin Clause to fly the real dumbasses
out to remote islands by themselves. If
they make it back, great. If not, the human
gene pool isn't penalized just because they
had dumb luck one time," continued the
NSSAR representative.
Overall,  the changes are expected to
return nearly $500,000 to North Vancouver's municipal budget. This additional
cash is expected to go towards increases in
other services.
"Maybe we can afford that fourth lane
now," commented resident, Barney Glotz.
Another option includes adding a third
bridge to the North Shore. There is a
potential problem with this choice, however.
"If we do that, then there is one more
brigde for dumbasses to fall off of, or to
run into with boats, or what-have-you,"
stated the North Shore representative. "We
have to look in to how much this will affect
our search and rescue expeditures in light
of the new Darwin Clause. We just don't
have those numbers, yet."
"I am not sure who thought up that dumb
idea," said a lowly, nameless Translink
official. "Bridges cost far more than
$500,000. That doesn't even begin to cover
the kick backs."
Another alternative is buying Andy Martin 250,000 beer. While Mr. Martin was not
available for comment, it is reported that
he is in favour of plan.
"Dumbass."
TrIE. fAWUNG LOT 15 fDLL
by   Jack   McLaren   and   Pat   Spacek
http://www.p lif.com
Lousy Parents Let
Kids Kill Selves
How AIDS was first transmitted from monkeys to humans.
Orlando, Florida (Reuters)
In another tragic occurrence that is
becoming all too common, a child is
dead after being shot with his parents'
unguarded firearms while reinacting a
scene from popular media.
Justin Bleinsten, 8, and his brother James,
9, (who's last name was not released as he
is a young offender) were re-interpreting
the dramatic final scene in Shakespeare's
Hamlet using their parents' pistols, which
were ludicrously left somewhere where
the kids could get to them. Unbeknownst
to them, their father had left the guns
loaded for some asinine reason.
Orlando police released a statement shortly after the death of James Bleinsten was
announced: "It appears at this time that
Justin, who was pretending to be Laertes,
aimed the gun at James and pulled the trigger. Tragically, and stupidly, the gun was
left loaded and James suffered a bullet
wound to the left lung. He died in intensive care two hours later."
"At    first,    I    blamed    Shakespeare,"
explained Bernice Bleinsten, who was busy
gossiping with her best friend next door
when her son was shot, "he was always
using violence in the place of good writing
to sell his works, for warping our children's minds. But then I realized that my
shitty parenting was to blame. I mean,
what kind of person just leaves weapons
around the house? I should be put away."
"We shouldn't have kept loaded guns
where the kids could play with them.
Because of us, our beautiful child is gone
forever. We're just horrible parents and
should never have been allowed to have
kids."
U.S. Senators from both sides of the house
echo their statements. "Mr. and Mrs. Bleinsten are just total asswipes, and the country should take all steps to make sure people like them are never allowed to influence our younger generation again. They
are but one example of the narrow, suffocating zealotry masquerading as modern
parenting," Senator Dick Powell (R-Mis-
souri) stated from the steps of capitol hill. ^aCftichhwSrtoi 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Page Three
Volume Fifteen
Issue Eight
18 January 2001
Fiend
Dan Anderson
josander@interchange.ubc.ca
Director of Publications
Benjamin Warrington
benjawar@interchange.ubc.ca
Implicated
Albert Chen
Gill Gunson
Ryan Morasiewicz
Lana Rupp
Dan Yokom
Writers (Past and Present)
Angry Duck
Dan Anderson
Corrie Baldwin
Bree Baxter
Timothy Chan
Aaron Drake
Jay Garcia
Jake Gray
Michael Groves
John Hallett
Graeme Kennedy
Jo Krack
Michelle LaBounty
Phil Ledwith
Kristin Lyons
Brian MacLean
Andy Martin
Ryan MeCuaig
Blair McDonald
Angus McVickar
Miss Jenn
Russ Monger
Tessa Moon
Tanya Rose
Lana Rupp
Katharine Scotton
Sister Death
Reka Sztopa
May Tee
Jeremy Thorpe
Andrew Tinka
Ben Warrington
Roger Watts
Printed by
College Printers, Vancouver, BC
Legal Information
Contact us at: the432@hotmail.com
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 contain the author's name and
contact information.
Looking Back
Bree Baxter
One More Time
As the 432 reaches its 15th year, I
took some time to look back at
what university gave me. Besides
$25,000 of student debt, I have a bachelor's
degree and the odd friend (friends who are
odd?), plus bragging rights. For some reason, having a degree at the provincial university makes someone "more important"
that the joe who went to one of the colleges, like Langara or Kwantlan. It's not
about the training we receive, as someone
who took computer science at UBC or at
BCIT have the same amount of job training
to be a programmer at Microsoft. True
abstract thought has no place in today's job
market. True computer science (an example I'm only vaguely familiar with) deals
with the abstract shit, the "science" behind
the "concept" of "computers," just as life
sciences (a subject closer to my head and
heart) is the study of the concepts behind
life, ecology, zoology, and those other -olo-
gies. I almost wish I could go back to university and just take classes forever. I think
being a researcher would be kinda cool, at
least in the abstract. However, I am notoriously impatient and cannot deal with
results that take time. Now, damnit.
So, into the workforce I goes. I spend my
days copy-editing press releases for a news
company downtown (My office is so cool,
we're on the 15th floor and have an awesome view of everything. We can see
weather coming three days away). Having
worked on the 432 for over three years
now, I am intimately knowledgeable of bad
writing, so the job was easy to get into. We
deal with financial news, stocks and bonds
and shares and takeovers and such. Last
Tuesday at 3:29 p.m., I came to the realization that the financial business is less about
math and education and more about gossip and strategy. "Who is the stunning
company with the tight assets who pulled
a hostile takeover last night, then danced
the night away with all the lovely investment brokers?" On Friday, I entered five
press releases in two hours from one company that is fighting a share buyout at less
than the market price of yada yada. Yeah, if
I had money involved I might be worried
too, but as it stands, yada yada.
This job has made me even more anal
retentive about language. It's one thing to
get marked on grammar in an English 319
essay. It's another to have money taken off
your pay for making the mistake of using
the adjectival spelling of "overall" when the
noun "over all" is called for, or glossing
over the noun "licence" when verb "license"
is recquired. It's gotten to be more a matter
of pride that I remember all these little
details. Only three weeks in, damnit, but
I've got most of it down.
The world o' finance is full' of rich white
guys, but as a poor girl from a construction
family who has lived on the lower of the
income scale for nigh on 20 years and who
couldn't afford to go to university even as I
went to university (and sure as hell couldn't afford the bus strike, but that's for
another story that I'm sure you've already
heard), I'm used to being fucked over by
the Man. I think in about two years I'll
know enough about the system to stage
my own "hostile takeover." I know how to
fix the world and the only way I can do it
is to be Queen. But less "powerless figurehead" and more "representative of God on
earth motherfucker".
Speaking of publicly traded companies,
there's a lot of mining and base resource
information. Mining is cool because it's not
only about the rape and pillage of the earth
(It's not like we're shooting metals into
space; after the fall of this civilization and
time passes, new civilizations will drill
down into the new metal concentrations,
landfills, and mine the garbage. God bless
the wacky shepherd who used all the
camp's wood to burn a fire hot enough to
melt those little rocks into bronze), it's also
about using cool words like ferrous kim-
berlite, breccia, mafic and, best of all, using
"dyke" in context.
Holiday Spending Remorse
Lana Rupp
Hottt EditriXXX
The holidays are now done and in the
fleeting spirit of that joyous, blessed
season created in celebration of the
birth of earth's immortal savior, I would
like to offer some tips on what to do now
that you've spent all your money on expensive booze, cheap women and that growing pile of electronic crap that will
inevitably turn on you.
I would like to lavish upon you advice
garnered over the holiday season from my
family of frugal peasants.
Some of the biggest holiday expenses will
inevitably come from food and drink,
because making that new years resolution
about weight loss just wouldn't be the
same without the year-end gluttony that is
Christmas. My father has managed to help
us all avoid both frantic fitness center pass
purchases and seasonal jolliness, with his
simple diet plan. Should the "I'm hungry"
statement form on us kids lips, the
response from dad that comes is "Go to the
fridge and get yourself a potato", thus ending our craving for sweets and Christmas
delicacies oozing with cream and saturated
fats.
The holidays are also about times spent
together with family and friends. In my
experience nothing brings people closer
than attempting to ski on only one lift pass.
Other fun activities to partake in over the
holiday season and in the months directly
following may include trips to the supermarket where retrieving shopping carts
results in a shiny quarter for each effort
and visiting blood donation clinics for the
free cookies and the peach flavored beverage.
There once was a time where life was simple and Christmas was all about pre-25th
mad rush to purchase gifts to appease
those we love. Those days are slipping
away, like grains of sand into the frenzied
tempest generated by the hordes of people
desperate to max out their credit cards on
the Deals of the Year! Nowadays, the
biggest holiday kick in the financial family
jewels is inevitably the whole in-the-spirit-
of-all-things-holy post-Christmas cash
grab known collectively as Boxing
Day/Week. A sure way to avert this holiday spending climax is to just stay home,
like my family. All alone in a small house,
on a lonely stretch of farm land, cows dotting the horizon, neighbors too far away to
visit on foot, our only connection to the
outside world being a 12 inch television
with a crooked screen and one channel.
We love our simple, pious little world but
we hate everyone else in it with a burning
fiery passion that barely subsides when we
collectively swallow It in a tight little ball,
repressing the blind fury for a more appropriate time and outlet. The average household could learn many things from my
own.
And thus begins a new term at good old
UBC. Happy New Years to all!
And remember folks, the post-holiday
season is about giving... away all the
sweaters you have accumulated from various grandparents in sizes and shades
beyond your wildest drug induced nightmares. Now is time to clean up and move
on because heck, we're less than two
months away from the next commercial
holiday which will cruelly wretch our dogeared chequebooks and scarred plastic
from our hands, bend us over and say
"Darling, if you loved me you'd get me a
diamond".
Editorial, Finally
Ben Warrington
Reports of my Demise
Well, I am back from the nether
reaches of the country, or as I call
it, home. I am back just in time to
be thrown into this here 15th Anniversary
issue. Damn.
I think that I have also been made into an
AMS councillor under duress. It is not
absolutely final at the time of printing, but
the Director of Publications is next on the
list in the constitution, and there don't
appear to be any alternative candidates at
the moment. Golly gee darn, and I thought
I was going to have an easy term. Half my
courses are Arts electives after all.
Anyhoo, back to the matter at hand. I find
it hard to believe that this rag has been
around for fifteen years, and it has
remained fairly consistently good all of
that time. Occassionally, we have stepped
over The Line (TM) (see the "worst of" section on page 20), but generally, it has been
good clean satire. It is always a good feeling to hear someone say how funny they
think the paper is, and even better to hear
how much they liked the article that you
wrote in the past issue.
As we went back through the innumerable past issues (well, I suppose technically, I could count them, but I don't want to)
which Dan, Alan, and many others have
put great efffort into organizing for the
archives, we found great material from
years past. Some of the best material has
been selected to be reprinted in this issue.
In fact, most of this issue has been devoted
to this past material. Additionally, all of the
past editors we could locate were invited
to write for this issue. Some of them actually did write, though in the spirit of laziness and procrastination, we did not get
material from all of them.
Incidently, I have come to appreciate past
editors' assertions that the best way to do
this paper is drunk. I am, in fact, half
cocked right now. Dr. Pepper is also a vital
ingredient; it is just a funny drink.
Now where was I?
It is Sunday evening, and there is a fair bit
of white space left in this issue, including
the nice box in which I am typing now.
This is one of the problems that comes
along with editting: the realization that one
is going to be here until early (or possibly
late) tomorrow.
The benefits are, of course, that I get to
blather on like this, and no one is going to
cut it. I can say whatever the hell I want,
and it will be printed. It's really rather special that I can ramble on in this manner,
even in this, the 15th Anniversary issue,
when eve—sorry, but that was enough, -dan
I could say something about the historical
privellege of being the Director of Publications at this auspices time, but really, I am
just another half-drunken editor who was
too dumb to avoid the work that this paper
entails. Well, that is not entirely true. I did
avoid one term of it, by being out of the
province on co-op work term. Instead, Dan
and Lana and several others have, apparently willingly, done most of the work for
me. I thank them from the deepest places
in my heart: those dark, crumply areas that
never see the light of day. Suckers.
No really, thanks. Page Four
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
18 January 2002
Krack: A Retrospective
Jo Krack
**S? ^:      A4r. Roger's Favourite
Fifteen years ago, my mom caught me
playing I'11-show-you-mine-if-you-
show-me-yours" underneath our
porch with the neighbour's boy (who I
dated for a brief period eight years later).
Actually, it may have been 16 or 17 years
ago, I can't remember how old I was then,
but as this is the 432's 15th anniversary
issue, let's stick that event firmly 15 years
in the past, shall we?
To get to the point... 15 years, wow. And -
- thank God I'm not 15 anymore. When I
was 15 I was just starting to break away
from BBS culture, probably because I was
just starting to break up with the guy who
introduced me to it (yup, you guessed it,
neighbour boy!). I was writing Star Trek
spoofs, had finally given up on trying to
use Dep (remember that hair gel?), and
was putting "a boyfriend" on my Xmas
wishlist (as well as making that my New
Year's resolution). If I could go back to high
school now, knowing what I know, well, I
wouldn't. There's a reason teenagers are so
ignorant and oblivious — hurts less that
way. I'm sure if they could all see the world
outside of that tiny tidepool of insecure
hormone-driven pettiness, they'd make a
break for it ASAP, and then how would we
keep them young'uns out of trouble? I suppose high school education is meant to distract teens from all the other stuff that suddenly sucks in their lives. But enough
about 15 year-olds. This isssue is a 15 year
ANNIVERSARY, so let's go back a decade
and a half, to when I was seven.
Seven year olds think they're pretty smart,
and why shouldn't they? I remember being
intensely frustrated by the adults in my life
(namely my parents, of course). I really
had no idea why these two big-people
should be able to know when I was tired,
when I had to eat, or why walking across a
narrow slippery fallen log in a bog in high
tide was a Bad Idea. I didn't know why I
should get a spanking just because I told
my parents' friend to shut up when he got
mad at me for wandering off with my
three-year-old sister (I was taking her for a
walk around the block, mature worldly
seven year old that I was, but try telling
THEM that!). And I definitely didn't know
why adults walked so slow (I spent every
walk running up ahead, running back to
check on Mom/Dad, running ahead, running back, etc.) or why they were so boring
as to sit still on buses (I probably found
about fifteen different ways to sit on a
seat).
I also learned to whistle (though I didn't
learn to snap for another 11 years), to ride
a bicycle (practiced downhill, crashing into
the massive evergreen outside my house to
stop), and to save money (yup, had a
lemonade stand, and also got A WHOLE
QUARTER A WEEK for an allowance). I
learned how to read, write, and spell.
Math? Well, I think I learned some of that,
but damned if I can remember.
And now, 15 years later, what have I
accomplished? I can still read, write, and
spell, I still hate math, I can still ride a bike
(no more crashing into evergreens), I still
save money (unless I need chocolate), I can
whistle AND snap, and I go for lunch with
neighbour boy every now and then,
though with far less nudity. My lego and
playmobil have been gathering dust for at
least ten years (OK, nine) whereas my new
age-appropriate so-called adult toys gather
no dust (note to self: buy batteries). When I
was around seven, I made a memorable
spelling error as I wrote the tale of a brave
knight in a forest, surrounded by hungry
"loins," now my typos spring mainly from
hastily-typed emails ("Sorry, can't write
much now, I'm really busty").
In fact, that's probably the detail of my life
that's changed the least from 15 years ago.
Although my stories have developed from
moralistic fables about bad cats stealing
things from good cats to amoralistic tales
about bad women stealing things (men,
coffee, sex toys, whatever) from good
women, I'm still writing. OK, so I haven't
won the 3 Day Novel contest yet (entered
for the first time this year, and have no idea
how-rhe'judges "could'pos'sibly prefer a tale
of corruption in Ethiopia to my literary
masterpiece about a tech writer and a sex
columnist on a "fulfillment" quest!). So 15
years from now, if I don't have a real published book to my name (I'm not settling
for vanity press here!), I'm gonna be one
bitter 37 year old, and that ain't gonna be
pretty. Hmmm. That in itself could make a
good novel...
I'd prefer another tail of these hungry loins,
and how they're among the most interesting
living orgasms in the animal kingdom
- Andy
Must... Leave...
Dan Anderson
Tastes like Invasion
I will start of by thanking everyone who
didn't make it into this issue - sorry,
space ended up being a little tight, so
not all the new stuff made it in. On the
upside, this means there will be lots of
great fresh stuff in the next issue.
A lot of people came out to help with this
issue - most of them will be in the
colophon, but those who were forgotten in
the 2am colophon burst were still a great
help. Fifteen years worth of 432s needed to
be sorted, to be catalogued, to have their
flats sorted, to be read for the funniest
material, and tons more. Thanks to everyone who helped.
Other than that, the former editors and
contributors also deserve a heap or two of
praise. Some of the articles here had to be
truncated to fit; if any of them are choppy,
it's our fault for poorly editing them, not
theirs for poorly writing them.
On with the editorial.
There's nothing like editing until 6:30am.
Past the "yeah, another beer will make me
more creative" stage, past the "I need some
vodka, 'cause this is impossible" stage,
past the "ow, my head, I need an anal-
geisc" stage, zipping right past the "Only 5
minutes of Quake III", past the
"twitchtwitchtwitchonemorecoke" time,
surviving The Time When Everything Is
Funny even if it isn't because Dammit I
Need Some Sleep, beyond the "capitalizing
words is fun!" stage, past the "what do you
mean, all four 2 litre bottles of caffeiney
goodness are empty?" fright, beyond the
"why, why did I take this job?" sobbing,
comes the beloved 6:30am stage.
That's the one where you go "fuck it, I
don't care, I'm going home to sleep".
The babies ate my dingo.
Political Tripe
I   Bree Baxter
One More Time Again
Two weeks into the new year gives
one enough perspective to determine, with some degree of accuracy,
the character and temperment of the year
just gone by. All in all, I've got to say that,
for a potentially portentious year, 2001 was
a honkin' huge disappointment.
I mean, 2001 was the turn of the century.
We were officially stuck into the twenty-
first century, but where were the dramatic
milestones? The early twentieth century
saw the birth of flight by two bicycle makers at Kitty Hawk; the rise of rampant electric power, and the overwhelming dominance of corporations. Compare that to the
opening years of the twenty-first, and what
have we got? The rebirth of grunge (twenty years too soon, if you ask me), the return
of glam fashion, and, oh yes, reality-based
television.
Overwhelmed, I'm not.
The only thing that seems to have the feel
of the future is the Internet and all the
increasing digitization in our lives. At no
previous time in our history have we, as a
species, with the click of a button, been
able to harvest the entire accumulated
knowledge of mankind at our fingertips;
however, despite all this knowledge and
information, the grand experiment in the
entanglement of social order and information technology has shown that the vast
majority of the populace will use this
power to download pornography, steal
music and copyrighted software, and otherwise bitch and moan at each other with
the collective intelligence of a retarded ten-
year-old with Parkinson's. Besides, the
Internet was so twentieth-century.
Personally, I'm a little pissed off at all the
broken promises of the twenty-first century. I mean, where are my flying cars? I was
promised flying cars. None of this "hovers
ten feet off the ground for half an hour and
runs out of fuel" nonsense.
How about cloud / underwater cities?
Television shows from the 80's said we'd be
living underwater to avoid population
pressure, and high in the sky on cities
perched on stilts. Maybe having "The Jet-
son's" as a model for a twenty-first century
Utopia might not have been the most practical thing upon which to pin one's hopes,
but it's better than the current alternative
of mediocrity - urban sprawl, inner city
blight, and the rampant increase in housing to the point where renting becomes
impractical and children are forced to live
with their parents just to make ends meet.
Yep; so far, this twenty-first century thing
hasn't been living up to all the hype.
Oh well; given that other visions of the
future have us smack dab in the middle of
World War III or being exterminated by
sentient machines or overrun by genetically engineered soldiers, led by a man who
looks suspiciously like Ricardo Montalban,
I'll be happy to put up with the occasion
"133t haxOr" who smack-talks me while
playing Unreal Tournament and downloading mp3's.
But I have hope; even now, astronomers
are looking to place an observatory on the
far side of the moon; and if all goes well,
they may encounter a black monolith hidden in the lunar sands...
Deadpoll, DeadPool
Sister Death
A bit morbid
Welcome to 2002. Or, if you're
dyslexic, 2002. The last time this
happened was in 1991, when I
was 12 years old. I didn't appreciate it then,
but I do now.
Entries and updates. I have "misplaced"
Mark Fraser's list, but that's all right. I
hope he doesn't mind. Of our remaining
entries, much has happened in way of
results. Not many have died, but I have
done a complete run-down of the lists and
have fun and exciting comments to go
along with some entries.
First off, to that whole al'Qaeda scene: No
one we have listed (Osama bin Laden,
Mullah Mohammed Omar, Ayman al-
Zawahri) has officially been declared dead,
bin Laden keeps popping out videos (or at
least they somehow find their way onto al-
Jazeera's desk) and so we have, more evidence he's alive than dead. Omar is, at time
of publication, being bartered over. No
word recently on Zawahri, who is apparently in charge of al'Qaeda's finances.
However, as one of our entrants pointed
out, the U.S. army has "no knowledge if he
is dead or alive." We'll see.
Next, to the Middle East. Yasser Arafat is
still around; Israel (probably) isn't going to
do anything to him personally as he does
seem to be trying to maintain power and
keep more "radical" factions under control.
But as that whole area is as unpredictable
as a sorority girl on kegger night. [That's a
really inappropriate image. Reaper. - ed.] [Fuck
you, ed. - Reaper.] Closer to home, George
Dubya and Dick Cheney are kept apart at
all times, Dicky in a concrete bunker in
case of sudden nuclear attack on Washington (or something). George Sr. is still hanging around, he can't die until his alcohol-
dependant descendants kick off.
Fred Rogers isn't dead, he's just retired
after 35 years of Mr. Rogers' Neighbourhood. John Gotti (the Teflon Don) is in a
New York federal jail with cancer, which
means he'll probably cheat the U.S. federal
government out of years of his sentence.
Bob Hope looks very bad, but we'll see
how it goes.
George Harrison is dead. This means that
Nick C. has 2 points. Yay Nick.
However, the strangest of the strange
entries belongs to Albert (look for him in
this, and past, issues of the 432). He handed in his Dead Pool a few days before September 11th. Turns out that he was filling
out his form while watching Larry King
Live, and Barbara Olson was a guest on the
show to discuss the Gary Condit debacle.
On the list went her name. Barbara Olsen,
as some of you might recall, was the wife
of U.S. Senator Theodore Olson who was,
on Sept. 11, on the plane that crashed into
the Pentagon. Albert is in the lead with 14
points.
The Queen Mum is as alive as you are,
and will thusly stay. Till next time, don't
fear the Reaper.
H0,000 to the man who brings me Andrew Martin's head!'
-'Ditch'-1/1/2002
http://www.angelfire.com/nc/webinternet/wwfmain.html 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Page Five
A Brief History Of Time
..and other copyright infringements...
dawn of time
10r15 billion years ago
The universe is born in what is commonly
known as the 'big bang', though reports
cannot be confirmed at this time.
10"43 seconds later
Temperatures drop to one hundred trillion trillion degrees celcius. Gravity originates and the Underground begins to suck.
4.6 billion years ago.
The earth condenses from the gaseous
void of space. First Death Star is destroyed.
4.599999999 billion years ago
Yo mama falls down drunk for the first
time, creating what is now known as the
Rocky Mountains.
For the next 4 billion years, stuff evolved.
800,000 B.C.
Artsies evolve. They scribble on walls, and
try to make believe that the scribbles justify their existance, and attempt to get grants
in order to continue scribbling.
750,000 B.C.
An artsy experiences severe frontal lobe
growth, wonders where poop came from,
becomes first Scientist. Scientists go on to
discover fire. They measure it's preconditions, observed that it was an exothermic
reaction that had an initial energy requirement, and that it created warmth, bright
colours and loud noises. They then proceed to have a cocktail party with a fluid
dynamics theme.
600,000 B.C.
A Scientist applies his discovery of the
wheel to an automatic hubcap remover,
bemoming the first engineer. The engi
neers, angered at not being invited to all
the Scientists' cocktail parties, used science
for evil and burn all the Scientists' stuff, get
drunk, and create cairns. Scientists make
witty remarks at engineers' cost, and go
back to discovering new things that would
necessitate cocktail parties.
The Engineers see that they could not
overcome the mental might of the Scientists and decided to stick to cooking prime
ribs and building their clay and straw huts.
500,000 B.C.
Nurses evolve to heal the scientists and
engineers injured in battle with
mastodons, and artsies who impale selves
on their own spears. Forestry people complained about how creation of the toothpick cost them their favorite douglas fir
ancestor. Aggies wander aimlessly until
they domesticate themselves.
And the Scientists continued enjoying fire.
4004 BC
God copyrights humans, gets all the credit. Sets up first university.
4003 BC
God expels first students for independant
learning.
3300 B.C.
Moses uses super-fluid physics to do
good.
34 AD
First hippy experiences uncool combination of nails and Jews.
1290 AD
English Religious Studies students
express dislike of Muslim Scientists taking
the world too literally.
1945
Nuclear Bomb exploded in New Mexico.
Physics nerds briefly cool for saving world.
1987
The 432 is first published, starting a long
tradition of Science mocking everyone else
on campus.
March 24,1994
The Black Plague is born again as the
Ubyssex. Highlights include tantilizing
pictures of exploited carrots and other produce. Establishes the 'spoof issue into
popular culture.
January 20,1997
The 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 traumitize the AUS so severely, they are forced to replace their couches.
Oct 1999
The SUS executive realize that they are
neither wanted nor required. This 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. They 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 II: this time, only three exec manage to escape before the rest are tranquil-
ized and chained before being brainwashed into "knowing" that They 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
chairity, falling short of the 'cure world
hunger' objective. SUS President Reka
Stopa finds new fetish to accompany her
attraction to PVC.
Jan 13, 2001
The 15th anniversary mega super wonder
happy joy-joy issue comes out.
Dan and Lana fade into oblivion as Ben
Warrington returns as promised.
I should apologize -1 bastardized an old SUS history, and took out most of the interesting stuff. I'll get
Ben to print it later, I promise. -Dan
The Four-Hundred Thirty Second
Book of Science, Called Editors
Chapter 1
1 IN the beginning the AMS created the
Council and the SUB.
2 The Council was without stigma, and
possessed of reason; and enlightenment
was upon the face of the campus. And the
Council of AMS moved upon the corridors
of Brock Hall.
3 The AMS said, Let there be a Student
Union Building: and there was a Student
Union Building.
4 And the AMS saw the SUB, that it was
good.
5 And the AMS said, Let there be businesses in the firmament of the concourse to
divide the student from the silver, and let
them be for coffee, and for pizza, and for
beer, and raspberry-flavoured father-of-
nation-preventers.
6 And let them be for businesses in the firmament of the concourse to give money
upon the AMS: and it was so.
Chapter 2
1 NOW every profit-making venture of
the concourse before it was in the SUB, and
every business of the concourse before it
grew, for there was not a student to patronize them.
2 And the AMS formed a member of the
cash of his wallet, and breathed into his
nostrils the breath of ambition and anal-
retentiveness; and the AMS member
became a Council Hack.
3 And out of the bankroll the LORD AMS
formed every constituency of the campus,
and every organization in the SUB; and
brought them unto the Council Hack to see
what he would call them; and whatsoever
the Council Hack called every bureaucratic menace, that was the name thereof.
4 The Council Hack gave names to all
clubs, and the Ubyssey of the SUB: but for
the Council Hack there was not found an
help meet for him.
5 And the LORD AMS created Pit Night,
causing a deep stupor to fall upon the
Council Hack, and he slept: and he took
one of his agendas, and closed up the briefcase instead thereof;
6 And the agenda, which the LORD AMS
had taken from Council Hack, made he a
Council Hackette, and brought her unto
the Council Hack.
7 And the Council Hack said, This is now
ambition of my ambition; she shall be
called Woman.
8 And there was dissent upon the face of
the campus.
9 And the AMS took the vowels of the
Council Hack: and gave him instead two
like vowels and a consonant.
10 And the Council Hack called his hack-
ette's name Wimmin.
Chapter 3
1 IN process of time it came to pass, when
Council Hacks began to multiply on the
face of the campus, and AMS-types were
created unto them.
2 That the AMS saw the AMS-types that
they were fair, and it took them Ubyssey
Editors of all which it chose.
3 There were giants in the Ubyssey in
those days; and also after that, for the same
became mighty journalists which were of
old, journalists of renown.
4 And the AMS saw that the leftness of the
Ubyssey was great in the SUB, and that
every every imagination of the thoughts
was only irrelevant and hypocritical continually.
5 But the Campus Times found grace in
the eyes of the AMS.
6 And it repented the AMS that it had
made the Ubyssey on the SUB, and it grieved it at its heart.
7 And the AMS said unto the Campus
Times, The end of all campus advertising
in the Ubyssey is come before me; for the
campus is filled with birkenstockism
through them, and, behold, we will
destroy them with the SUB.
8 And, behold, we, even we, do bring a
flood of paper-shuffling upon the SUB, to
destroy all newspapers wherein lacks the
best interests of every student.
9 And the Council Hacks did amend the
course of the AMS, and the Campus Times
found no rest for its stacks, and the
Ubyssey returned unto the SUB,
unscathed.
10 And the Young Conservatives said, We
will destroy the Ubyssey whom the AMS
has created from the face of the SUB: both
collective, and contributors, and the creeping thing; for it repenteth us that the AMS
has made it.
11 As it is to this day.
Chapter 4
1 AND the Ubyssey was threescore and
eighteen years old; these were the years of
the life of the Ubyssey.
2 And it came to pass after these things
that Science did say unto Derek, Take now
thy Mac, thine only Mac Lucifer, and create
thee a paper into the campus, and offer it
there for an offering upon the Science
buildings which we will tell the of.
3 And Derek worked until late in the
morning, and saddled his ass, and went
unto College Printers.
4 And Derek said unto his assistants,
Abide ye here with the ass; and I will go
yonder and get the papers; and come again
to you.
5 Therefore the students of Science read of
the 432 unto this day.
6 And Derek lasted a year, and begat an
editor not in his likeness, nor after his
image; and called his name Aaron.
7 And Aaron lasted a year, and begat
Dave.
8 And all the days of Aaron were two
years, and he stepped down.
9 And Dave lasted but half a year, before
Aaron returned once more.
10 And Aaron lasted yet an half year, and
begat Patrick.
11 And Patrick lasted a year, and begat
Ryan.
12 And Ryan begat a multitude, and
amongst those were John, Craig, Bree, Jay,
and Andy.
13. And some combination of these
brought about Ben, who lasted but a Guide
before bringing forth Lana and Dan.
14. And Lana and Dan woefully did not
bring forth offspring, so Ben returned as
fortold by the prophets. Page Six
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
18 January 2002
Volume 1
How An Atom Works In
25 Words Or Less
Dave Barry
Ludd Himself
At the heart of all technology are the
Five Basic Machines: the wheel, the
lever, the stapler, the chain saw and
power steering. These were all invented
by the ancient Greek person Archimedes
so he would have a "mechanical advantage" over everybody else. As Archimedes
always use to say: "Give me a lever big
enough, and I will move the Earth." So
finally one night, at a party, some
pranksters actually gave him a lever that
was big enough, and he was squashed as
flat as a coat of semi-gloss paint.
This was the only one of the benefits
mankind derived from the Five Basic
Machines over the next several thousand
years. The problem was that the energy to
power the machines had to come from natural sources, such as water and oxen.
This was fine for the wheel, but mankind
was getting very poor results from the
oxen-powered stapler. He was getting stapled documents that people wouldn't
remain in the same room with, let alone
read. Clearly, a new power source was
needed, and who should discover it but
Benjamin Franklin, who, in a famous scientific experiment, went out in a rainstorm,
flew a kite with a wire attached to it, and
was almost killed by a falling internal-com
bustion engine.
Franklin was soon followed by the airplane. If you have ever looked at a diagram in a grade-school science textbook,
you know that the way and airplane works
is that the air forms into little black arrows
that go shooting over and under the wing-
this happens much too fast for you to see
without the aid of narcotics - producing
sufficient pressure to lift the wing. Obviously there is no way that air can lift an
entire airplane, especially it is carrying an
unusually dense dinner entree such as
"Swiss steak." As far as anybody knows,
what gets the plane off the ground is that
the passengers really believe it will get off
the ground, similar to the way Dorothy got
back to Kansas.
We now live in the Age of Appliances,
such as stereos, air conditioners and toasters. These all work on the same basic technological principle: electricity enters them
from the wall via a plug and is converted
into music, old air, or toast. The lone
exception is the telephone, which works by
means of very tiny particles of something,
called "molecules" traveling along a wire.
Technology quiz
1. They didn't have semi-gloss paint back
then, did they?
2. Where can an ordinary citizen get a railroad air horn?
3. What about a federal grant?
if Ernie stttl
haunts jou...
EXPO
THE
FINAL—
CHAPTER
The
image on
the left
was originally
printed in
the Black
Plague,
one year
prior to
the first
volume of
The 432.
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Russ Monger
Talkative
Most people would agree that the
ability to express ideas clearly is
an important part of communication, but how many people realize that the
ability to listen is also important? At one
time or another we are all guilty of not listening. There are many types of nonlisten-
ing. Listed below is an attempt at classify-
Volume 2
Are You Listening?
ing some of the different types. How many
of them are familiar to you?
Pseudo-listener: This person pretends he
is listening by nodding his head and smiling at the right times. Behind his facade, he
is often ignoring you and daydreaming or
is bored with what you are saying and is
tuning you out.
Stage hog: This person is not interested in
what you have to say. He is only allowing
you to talk while he catches his breath.
Stage hogs love to dominate the conversation and often use your remarks as a basis
Do rm mm, imi shoes MfcK£
The correct response when the prof asks "Are there any questions?"
for their own rhetoric and are busy formulating their next statement instead of lis-
•tening to you.
Selective listener: This person only listens
to what he wants to hear. Unless you
choose to talk about subjects of interest to
him, you as well talk to yourself.
Insulated listener: This person is the
opposite of the selective listener. He will
avoid topics that he would rather not deal
with and continually change the subject
during the conversation to avoid topics
that he does not wish to deal with.
Defensive listener: This person misinterprets things that you intend as innocent
comments as personal attacks and is
unnecessarily sensitive to certain topics.
He may perceive any question you ask as
being snooping or prying.
Ambusher: This person listens carefully
to you only because he is collecting information to use against you later in the conversation. It could prove unwise to make
offhand statements in the presence of such
a person.
I.N - STEIN bn *~ Qsgfe
PAR1S1TQL0&Y [fl|
Why  zoologists never eat  sushi 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Page Seven
Volume 3
About Buying
Computers
Angus McVickar
Commodore Vic20
For 'halfbreed', read 'compatible'; for
'crash', read 'program'.
"And the Almighty and Benevolent Computer God was bored, and so He said, 'Let
there be man.' And man was, and God saw
that man was good. But man was bored
and he asked God for some company. And
God created the IBM and said, 'Go forth
and multiply.'" (The man probably said,
'That's not quite what I had in mind but I
guess I'll do it. At least it won't nag me to
take it to a restaurant.')
But eventually, when God saw that not
every one could afford IBMs he said "Let
there be half-breeds."
Some of the half-breeds could not (legally)
claim to be just like IBMs, so the IBM compatible percentage was invented. Here we
come to the first theorem of computer buying:
Theorem I (Incompatibility Theorem): If
your halfbreed is 80% compatible, and you
have 10 pieces of software which are written for an IBM system, only the eight
pieces which you will never need will run
on your halfbreed.
Moving on to the Apple. These machines
make very good paper weights due to their
generally compact size; in fact, it is often
recommended that you use the computer
to hold down the ten loose sheets of documentation that you get with it.
In particular, Macintosh is Apple's major
contender in the PC game. This computer
is designed so any fool can use it. Strange
enough, only fools use Macintoshes. Apple
thwarted hackers by making it difficult to
get a really interesting crash running by
having a little message appear, when the
system is about to go down, to the effect of
"Fatal Error: Today is Wednesday. I think
it's best that I crash now. Bye!"
If you are into programming, the new
machines are for you. I am told that you
can easily produce a crash that can do
more damage to a hard drive than a team
of college football players armed with
sledge hammers in less time than it takes to
stop the program. This is the mark of a
powerful computer.
Tandy (Radio Shack). The ever-popular
Colour Computer line has been heating
homes across North America for ten years
now (I once warmed spaghetti on the
power supply of mine). Tandy is a wise
choice for any prospective buyer. The reason for this is that since Radio Shack in
Canada became Canadian controlled, they
have introduced some bold new policies:
1. If it sells well, lower the price.
2. If it sells really well, change it.
3. If it seels to the point that you have trouble keeping up demand, discontinue it.
Typical Questions on the
Graduate Studies Admissions Exam
SUS Claims San Andreas At
Fault - Not Us
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
earthquakes." 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 earthquake.
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 were 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 Volk-
swagon in the Fault, yesterday," one aide
said.
I. General
1) Shakespeare said that our wages come
from praise.
a) Prove it.
b) Discuss how this affected Lord Byron's
handwriting.
2) Define Zrygomatistichyiothysis and
then explain why it is in no dictionary in
the known world.
3) A, B, C, D, E anf F are on a train in the
same car. One is to the left of B, but another isn't, even though A and C are secretly
lovers. E is a blatant communistic heathen
that, in the privacy of his own home,
dresses up in children's clothing. F could
care less about the fact that A is sitting to
the left of the one who isn't to the right of
E. None of the six know how to calculat Lie
Derivatives.
a) Explain how letters from the English
Language could possibly have human
characteristics.
b) Why aren't they taking the plane?
II. Physics
1) If you shot a 20 kg ball from a cannon at
an angle of 45 degrees at a velocity of 0.9c
and it travelled along a trajectory
described by the line element of the
Schwartzschild metric near the vicinity of a
spherically symmetric charged body, what
would the surface temperature of an
observer in a Subaru, if he had Lyme's Disease?
2) List all the particles that have not yet
been discovered, and give their spin, mass,
charge, isospin, and strangeness. Explain
why they haven't been discovered yet.
3) Write the Schroedinger Wave Equation
for an Undergraduate Student in Physics
304. Show that if all undergraduates were
transformed into a Hilbert space, it would
be a good thing.
4) A beam of optically pumped polarized
rubidium atoms is passed through a non-
homogeneous field. It then passes through
a thin gold foil whereafter it goes through
an adiabatic cooling before colliding with a
vector meson field at an azimuthal angle.
a) Why?
b) Describe how this experiment could be
done in the most expensive way possible.
HI. Mathematics
1) Prove that the integral sign looks more
than an F than an S.
2) 1+1=2. Show that this is true for all
numbers. Write it in Swahili.
3) If Z is a non-empty set and Q is the
adjoint of Z, but a is an element of Q, show
that J is the tenth letter of the alphabet.
IV. Biology
1) Outline the process in which RNA synthesizes asbestos insulation.
2) How do cells transport VCRs across
their membranes?
3) Histone HI seems to be a major factor
in determining higher orders of chromatin
structure. It is also known that untran-
scribed heterochromatin has much HI. A
special case is found in chicken erythrocyte
nuclei. Using examples support the
hypothesis that only those cells with very
long names get studied.
4) Outline the process of meiosis and the
subsequent decline of singles bars.
5) It is a well-documented phenomenon
that cells with damaged nuclei have a difficult time getting well-paying jobs. Discuss
the possible remedies to this problem and
how the phenomenon doesn't apply to the
hiring of civil servants.
V. Chemistry
1) Discuss Cold Fusion and exactly why
it's true because a chemist discovered it.
2) Acetycolese-9-isomerolycperohi-
nousethericoseimide reacts with Isopropy-
Ibuticeryl acid to produce Acetyisocolese-
9-propylbuticerylisomerolycperhi-
nousethericosimide acid.
a) So what?
b) Synthesize an even longer name.
3) 6 ml of 12 molar nitric acid is titrated
with an unknown base to produce 500 ml
of jello.
a) Discuss the relative merits this base has
in food packaging.
b) Cold fusion! Is this cold fusion?!?
c) Of course it is! What the hell do you
know?
ITS SUS DRUG
AWARENESS -
WEEK!.
Say No
Thank
Yoiilo
chemical
drugs or
the ones
that are
too expensive
tmae-sngfittnb(istMitafam4$l
I.N.  STEIN      4>m   fa«OTi«
HOVJ YOU   KNOW WMAT'S   60WG-   To tfc ON ..Tfe FlNKL' Page Eight
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
18 January 2002
Volume 4
432 To Have
Myn's Issue
Tanya Rose
woMAN
T
he final issue of The 432 will be the
myn's issue, the Director of Publications revealed.
"That's myn, not man. We're tired of being
referred to as a derivative from the other
sex, the woman."
The editor admitted that the establishment of a myn's issue is an effort to keep a
balance at UBC. Whereas the Ubyssey has
a women's issue, there is nothing on campus that devotes time to male issues, such
as belching, macho posturing, and sexist
comments that end up making the male
look like a bonehead.
Alan Douglas, one of the writers for the
next issue said, "It's been a long time coming. Hey: why did God invent women?"
"NONE of that until next issue, dammit!"
said Trent Hammer, AMS rep and Myn's
issue contributor.
Among the regular features in the 432,
there will be columns on:
1) Sexist Jokes Revolving Around Three
Women Who Find A Lantern On The Beach
And End Up Being Turned Into Myn,
2) Tips on Proper Techniquies For Saying
The Entire Alphabet In One Belch,
3) How to Discreetly Leave The Seat Up
And Miss The Toilet Altogether,
iU
4) Why Letting Another Myn Beat You At
Even The Most Insignificant Of Games
Means He Has A Bigger Penis.
When asked if they were concerned about
a public backlash on such sexist material,
the 432 editor pointed out that printing
sexism was just a simple flexing of the
muscles of freedom of speech, not unlike
printing erotic gay literature to make the
public more aware of safe sex.
"We're making the public more aware of...
of, uh... um..."
Anyone interested in writing for the all-
myn issue is welcome to come to a planning session at 5:30 on Thursday at the
Physics Society, which is commonly held to
be the most sexist society on campus
(owing to the fact that 90% of the males in
Physsoc are afraid of women). The strategy
will be planned there, over beer-chugging
races and high-five practices. All writers
are expected to contribute at least one
stereotypical sexist comment. Examples of
such, for beginning myn:
1) Hey babyyyyyyyy!
2) The feminist movement would run
much better if a MYN was in charge!
3) Well, at least I can write my name in the
snow.
When asked if the women Executive of
SUS would object to such a blatantly sexist
issue, the editor replied, "Oh heck no,
they're a good bunch of gals. Could you go
make me some coffee?"
The Art Of Studying Naked
Aaron Drake
Buff
Caffeine does have it's uses. We had
just bought chocolate covered coffee beans 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
60MHz.
"HeyAaronlcan'tstudy," he says, in one
short second.
"Neithercanlwhatdoyouwanttodo?" I ask.
"...I bet I can run around the building
faster than you can."
Eventually, we held the one-kilometre
race, the run-around-blindfolded race, and
the walk-like-a-university-professor race.
Eventually we held the run-around-as-
fast-as-you-can-because-you're-naked
race. 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 they are stuffing them into the
mail slot of the Physics Department Office.
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432's
1987  1988
II
1990  1991
ty&sfcM
Thsa 3
1988 1989
1989  1990
1991 1992
1992  1993
1994 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Page Nine
Volume 5
Organized Grime
Roger Watts
Bouncy Bouncy
How to Have Fun in Class (Lessons in Not
Being a Grownup)
Walk into the lecture hall three
minutes after bell. Help door to
close or slam as loudly as possible. Turn babe/stud radar waaaay up. Stop
to chat with at least one member of the
opposite sex on the way to your seat.
At this point, the prof will make some
clever joke concerning your tardiness, ie.
'Ahh, so nice of you to join us today,
Mr/Miss (Insert your name here)'. Reply
that you stopped to watch his car being
towed and lost track of time. Ignore anything further the prof has to say on the
matter and select a seat, based on the following criteria:
a) as close as possible to the middle of the
room, in order to make many people stand
up and let you pass;
b) within speaking distance to the biggest
blip on the babe/stud radar;
c) high enough so that you have to shout
for the prof to hear you.
Sit down. Introduce yourself to the aforementioned attractive person. Strike up
lively conversation until he/she tells you to
shut the hell up. If he/she does not - hey,
great! Ask him/her out at the end of the lecture.
Take out notebook. The first point that the
prof makes, ask a question about it. He will
drone on for several minutes, further confusing everyone in the room. During this
time, write clever responses to graffiti on
desk or read copy of The 432 found
beneath seat. Nod periodically towards the
prof, and occasionally ask him to repeat
something; you 'couldn't hear the last sentence'. When prof finishes, claim you still
don't understand. Repeat entire sequence
until the prof becomes exasperated and
tells you to ask about it after class. Check
the clock to see how much time you killed.
Continue asking similar questions every
eight minutes or so until you fall asleep.
Wake up. Notice the prof's idiotic tie.
Stand up, loudly say, 'Nice tie, sir/ and sit
down.
Use wrist-watch to reflect small circle of
light onto blackboard behind prof. Follow
him around with it, shine it momentarily
into his eyes, and target prominent features with it, i.e. huge butt, shining bald
head. Be creative.
When a handout comes around, take thirty copies and stuff them in your bag so the
people in the back rows don't get any.
Remove wad of chewing gum from mouth
and stick it to the bottom sheet of the stack.
Pass the stack along.
Turn to keener sitting next to you. Strike
up lively conversation and dominate his
attention so that he misses some of what
the prof said. This will unsettle the average keener more than you know. Continue
until he freaks out. Act shocked; turn to
other neighbors and spread creepy rumors
concerning his childhood.
Fly a paper airplane, letting go a long low
whistle as it sails down. With luck, it will
hit either a keener in the front rows or the
floor in front of the prof. Repeat until the
prof gets annoyed. Repeat some more.
Don't get caught.
Get really annoyed with the endless click-
ety-clickety-click of the keeners and their
goddamned 4-color pens. Produce paper
napkin and drinking straw obtained at
lunch from Subway. Pop a small corner of
the napkin into your mouth and make a
wet little ball. Open fire on the next over-
zealous little apple-polisher that makes so
much as a peep. Repeat until you've
worked out all your frustrations or everyone has a spitball in their ear. Offer to let
your neighbors try.
For the grand finale (or special occasions,
i.e. midterm, friend's birthday): At opportune moment, introduce any number of
live amphibians into room from backpack.
Frogs work best; small newts are an acceptable substitute. If amphibians are not
available, mice will get the job done.
(They're just slower and not as gooey.)
Produce camera. Walk calmly from the
ensuing mayhem, snapping a couple of
pictures and wondering exactly what the
hell the prof was talking about today. Slam
the door on the way out.
3©tOTw&nobas:
ANIMAL1 STEELE"
WMrrJflWT^CIUAHW
iiiriiiViiTnTiTimm
Insanity
Unknown Editor
B
Nameless Soldier
eing the editor of such a fun-type newspaper, I usually get flippant remarks about it,
or jocular letters, that read something like,
Editor Guy
Your stories in your paper of news is cat's top
banana, you goddam no doubt that. I am but in
Canada for not six of weeks and I am but yet still full
of chuckles. You goddam bet that you write funny.
Ho ho ho! Tell another story of funniness. Make it
about more penises, goddam you bet!
Your Fan Who Loyals You
How about that? It's praise like that that keeps
me going, let me tell you. But, every now and
then, I do get a serious letter of concern from A
Concerned Reader who raises very serious questions. For example, here is a letter that I read just
recently:
Dear Sir,
I'm a student at a small mid-western college, and
I never believed any of the stories people would write
in your magazine, but not after the experience I had
last week. I was studying alone on my waterbed when
Whooops! Wrong Letter! Hah hah, how did
that one get in there? The letter I meant to show
you was this one:
Dear Editor,
I'm an avid reader of your column in the 432. I
enjoy it, but I notice that you haven't mentioned your
penis once in your last three articles. Why is this?
A Concerned Reader
Thank you, A Concerned Reader, for your
concern, but the truth is, there is more to life
than your penis. For instance, there are floor
mops. 'Ahah!' You point out, 'Floor mops are
phallic! So there isn't more to life than penises!'
But then what about spatulas? Well, okay,
maybe they're phallic, but Vacuum Cleaners
aren't...well, maybe they are. And so are toothbrushes. But there are lots of non-phallic things,
like newspaper...that is, when they aren't rolled
up...
Hmmmm	
Just kidding! There are lots of non-phallic
things (pancakes, laundry detergent, polar icecaps) But the truth is, men are obsessed with
their penises. To men, they are their penises. Just
look at all the different words we have for the
penis: there's the d***, the d***, the d***, the
p****     ™g   g****** fjjg   i***********     *Ug    ..******
******* ***** anri of course the f****** *** ********
** ****xhese are just to name a few. There is a
group of men in the pentagon whose sole purpose is to think up new names for the President's
penis.
Obsession? No. It's just a good healthy self-
indulgent preoccupation. Remember how dad
would watch the hockey game with his pants-
button undone, and his hand scratching around
down there in a restless sort of way, like heOd
dropped a quarter down there? There was nothing sexual about that. It was just another example of A Boy And His Penis. Dad was just
scratching it behind the ears in an affectionate
way, as if to say, Hey, down there, I'm still your
pal, even though I'm watching hockey and not
thinking about sex.
It's true. Men see their penises as if they were
pets. Proof of this is men's underwear. It has that
silly door out the front which serves only one
purpose: it allows our penis to see where we are
going when we are stumbling around half-conscious in the morning (women, on the other
hand, treat their breasts like they were their prisoners, and they blindfold them every morning
with bras). This is being very conscientious
towards our penises, because then they can
warn us about danger:
Man: grmmmmbbllllbrmbllllll
Hand: Skritch skritch scratch
Penis: Thank you. A little higher, to the left, yes,
right there.
Hand: Scratch, dig, scratch
Penis: HEY WATCH OUT FOR THAT
COUNTER! HARD TO PORT! HARD TO PORT!
Man: GrmmbbllOuch
Waist: Crunch
Penis: OWWWWH!
Hand: Scritch scratch scratch
Woman: Do you have to dig around in your crotch
every damned morning?
Penis: Shut up, you old hag! You'll never understand.
Man: Grmblgrmbl
Women, don't understand. Have you ever
heard of a woman naming her genitals Mr
Happy, or Herman, or some other ridiculous pet
name? Course, you think they'd at least want to
name their breasts(Laurel and Hardy, Fred and
Ginger, Ronny and Gorby, 'Here comes Wendy
and Masters and Johnson.').
But I guess it all comes down to differences
between men and women. Men are not complete
unless they have their hand down their pants,
scratching around. Women, on the other hand
are not complete unless they are shopping.
Shopping Malls, by the way, are devices to
enhance Natural Selection, for only the hardiest
of men can last an entire shopping trip with a
woman.
Woman: Which do you like better? The strapless
gmvn or the off-the-shoulder?
Man: Yaivn. I don't knoio. I don't care. Hurry up.
Penis: THE STRAPLESS! GET THE STRAPLESS!
Man: How about the strapless?
Laurel: No loay! Those things are hell!
Hardy: I'm with you on this one, Stan.
[This volume 5 era article was never before published. Possibly for good reason, -fiend]
f* NO BUTT CLEAVAGE?
Got that fust construction job? Want to look like
an old pro but don't have enough butt cheek volume?
Then Fruit of the Loom's new Little Redneck* and
Scrawny Foreman* push-up briefs are made for you.
Comfortable 100% cotton in seventeen vibrant colours.
Soft adjustable \felcro~ straps provide gentle but firm
2-way pull, giving your butt cleavage that oh so cavernous
loot The steel-belted Scrawny Foreman® is CSA
Approved. And, worn backwards they're both useful as
medieval torture devices.
Little Redneck® and Scrawny Foreman* from
Fruit of the Loom. The only way to stack your crack.
FRU1TOFTHELO0M Page Ten
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
18 January 2002
A Plead
Ryan MeCuaig
Missing In Action
An exasperated yell! A violent crash!
Our hero is found slumped at his
desk, devoid of consciousness,
with a cryptic message imprinted on his
forehead in mirror writing:
QUERTYU
ASDFGH
ZCVBN
Some kind of cipher, perhaps? Where did
it come from? And why is there a curl of
smoke coming from his keyboard?
Wait! He's coming to! He shakes his head,
and looks back towards the glowing
screen. He rereads his latest attempt at an
editorial for The 432. He looks at his watch.
Twenty hours to deadline. No turning back
now. This one had better fly.
He sets his manly jaw and begins to type.
Slowly, at first, then with increasing speed
and enthusiasm as the ideas and words
begin to flow.
This might actually work.
The 432 is wholly produced by students like
yourself. (Well, perhaps eighth-year unclassified isn't your profile, but you know what I
mean). Ask not what your paper can do for you,
but - oh, fuck the cliche. You get my point. If
you like the way we're putting this together (it
is with your ten bucks, after all), come on in
and I'll find some way for you help out. If you
think we're a bunch of juvenile assholes who
shouldn't have access to the presses of this too
damned liberal country, come on in and do
something about it. I don't require that anyone
have prior experience in writing or drawing for
a newspaper, so if you think you've got talent,
this could be your big break.
Volume 6
Schrbdinger's Fridge
Angry Duck
lirri|Q_>o B.Sc. = B.A.
Looks Like Chicken
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
buttercups.
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
OFFICIAL EFFORT AT
USING THE LAST BITS OF
TOMER IN OUR LASER
PRINTER
f>ut tbe cat ih a box with    / zzx7>
a poison gas tb demohstrate^'    snort
the inf (uence of tte
observer  in tfuahtuta
rriechahicS
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
freezer.
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 Volkswagon is stuffed
inside.
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-
al-patriarchal-dominant-gender-repres-
sive-power-struture - oh, hell, I don'tremem-
ber 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 otfallingl Or
is it too stupid? Perhaps the cow notices it
is falling, then forgets, then re-notices, in
an endless recurring loop: hello, what's
this! Am I falling? Why yes! I am falling...
falling...DOWN! Boy, this cud tastes^gojaek
I want some more. I wonder if...hello,
what's this! Am I falling?...
The astrophysicist would reason thaV^l*
ative 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.
Schroedinger's Dog
Got No Job?
Got No Money?
We££, F«4l
A Message from your Mends at
UBC Financial Services 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Volume 7
Page Eleven
Karpov Vs. Kasparov:
The Final Chapter
Mars or Bust
£
Blair McDonald
Deep Thought
(Excerpt from World Chess Championship
Game 3)
1. d2-d4 g8-f6
2. c2-c4 f7-g6
3. bl-c3 f8-g7
4. e2-e4 d7-d6
5. gl-f3 Qrs-e5
At this point, Karpov tries a new tack
with Qrs-e5 (Queen from right sleeve to
e5).
6. fl-e2 e7-e5
Kasparov obviously hasn't noticed Kar-
pov's innovative move. Karpov returns to
traditional play.
7. cl-e3 Blb-g3/JbKS
Under the subtle cover of JbS (Jackboot to
Kasparov's shin), Karpov introduces a
third bishop into play.
8. LIF-KRE d8-e7
Kasparov responds with his trademark
LIF-KRE (Left index finger to Karpov's
right eye).
9. d4Xe5 $A$%#$
Karpov instinctively howls in pain and
immediately offers uncouth theories concerning the likely species of Kasparov's
parentage to general audience.
10.Q-KLN    -    Q-KLN
Mutual exchange of Queen to opponent's
left nostril.
GAME SUSPENDED FOR TEN MINUTES BY JUDGE
11. c3-d5 e7-d8
It appears the hostility between the chess
masters has subsided.
12. SsKH
BRHAKH
It appears the judge was mistaken. 10-
pound sledgehammer swung by Kasparov
in a bold attempt to pin down Karpov's
head.(SsKH) Karpov immediately falls
back on the classic Beretta Defense
(9mmRc-HsAKH - 9mm pistol removed
from concealed shoulder holster and
aimed at Kasparov's heart)
13. KRMcC
Kasparov revs hidden McCulloch chain-
saw.
GAME DECLARED A DRAW BY OFFICIALS
14. KRTT-JF       KRTT-JF
Both express extreme displeasure at
judges' decision and cunningly respond
with the little-known Rin-Tin-Tin Gambit
(politely urinating at judges' feet)
14. KKRF-AP
Kasparov and Karpov removed forcibly
from arena by angry policemen.
Game 3 is obviously over. Now, for a play-byplay analysis, Mikel Erickson and Michel
Joseph from the World Chess Federation.
Erickson: You know, I really feel that Kasparov took control of the match when he
attempted to pierce Karpov's cornea. I
thought that took real determination, and
proved Kasparov's dominance in the cutthroat world of chess.
Joseph: Unfortunately, I can't agree with
your assessment of the situation. I'm
squarely behind Karpov here. Kasparov
didn't display any of the personal integrity
I think is critical for a champion. I liked
Karpov's honesty with his fifth move, but
the way Kasparov concealed that sledgehammer just goes to prove you can't judge
a book by its cover.
Erickson: Oh yeah! Well, let me tell you
what I think of a certain chess commentator I'm being forced to share this mike
with!
1. ertt-jf
Hoenig's Second law:
"never fuck with a nonlinear
dynamic system"
Trevor Presley
Hammered
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
Tintin). 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 weOd do with all the NASA funding,
and what we would wear when we were
on the cover of TIME. 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 onlt partially successful. The 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 travel.
The Keys to Progress
Blair McDonald
Scribbling
Paper is the reaon why society has
stopped evolving. For instance, I
needed a key to SUS. To 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 troopers—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 blow to "Molson Dry Ice"
Alcohol and calculus don't mix. Please... don't drink and derive.
Imbibo, ergo sum! Page Twelve
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
18 January 2002
I and the
Needle
Tessa Moon
Punctured
I'd rather have my teeth pulled out
through my nose than go see a doctor.
Unlike such truly detestable groups as
lawyers or politicians, docotrs tend to
acquire their bad reputation from a few
isolated quacks and quirks. Everyone had
a childhood physician they were forced to
see once a year for vaccination and such —
the doctor who pulled out a huge red lollipop and stuffed it down your throat so it
would muffle your screams as he brandished a syriunge the size of a banana.
Now, if you were so unlucky as to have an
illness you couldn't conceal from your parents — say, if you were in danger of drowning in your milk and corn flakes — back to
the doctor you went. Emergencies were the
worst. You didn't have an appointment, so
the waiting-room nurse got to have some
fun with you. She wouldn't allow you the
relative dignity of keeping the thermometer in your mouth, reminding you of the
time you bit one in half and tried to drink
the mercury. So she'd pick you up like a
puppy and take you into a little cubicle
and of course it's an accident that she
shoves the thermometer in so deep it just
gets lost inside you, along with he two or
three from tbe previous years. You still
fancy you hear a clinking every time you
jump up and down....
As adults, you avoid the doctor's office
like... like it was a doctor's office. But there
are things that will ofrce you back —
mandatory physicals, suspected terminal
illnesses, and allsuch. And it all comes
flooding back as you sit in a paper gown,
slowly dissolving into a sodden puddle of
paranoia, staring at the walls of a room
that looks like it was decorated by Sylvia
Plath.
First, the nurse comes in with a huge
empty syringe. "Do you know the total
blood volume of the average human?" You
ask when you finish staring.
The nurse looks at you like you're several
pancakes short of a stack, but politely
assures you that she does indeed.
"Then so you know how much we can lose
without turning into a flaccid, drained
sac?" You demand with increasing horror.
She rolld her eyes. And before you know
it, she sticks the needle into your arm.
Eleven tried later, she finally has her sample. You mumble something about her
having to explain in a court of law why
your lunchtime Snapple comes quirting
out of little holes all over your arm, but she
cheerfully ignores you as she waves the
doctor in.
The doctor looks distinctly motherly -
that is, she looks as though she would like
to poke you many times with a sharp
instrument while assuring you that it's all
for your own good. As she fingers an ominous-looking device you don't want to recognize, she tries to reassure you. "You
might have heard that I make little castles
out of my patients' gallbladders," she says.
"But I only do that when I'm sober, so
you'll be all right."
You snap just about then. You scream at
the top of your kungs as you race out of the
room, through the office, and down the
corridor. You hear the clinking of those
thermometers lost of old, and run even
harder. You swear never, ever to set foot in
a hospital again. As you look back for signs
of pursuit, you don't see the flight of stairs
ahead.
Volume 8
John and the Bejeezus.
John Hallett
Burning Up
All teenage males (and some
females) 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 The 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 m 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 accidently complete mistake #1, don't compound the problem by
proceeding with the plan to ignite said
street.
Third: 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.
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. That 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.
The whole plan involved firing many of
these little desinens 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-
hahaha).
The stage was set, me and three of my
friends had set up a launching platform in
a park near our high school, and a fifth
party was at the target site with a walkie
talkie and camera to document the event
and call back targeting instructions. 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. Being the wisemen we were we decided: "what the hell".
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?
(* What the hell is a bejeezus exactly? And
why do people lose them when they get really
scared? After extensive research, involving a
Gomer Pile Reunion Special and The Jerry
Lewis Telethon cycled continuously for hours
on end, we have determined a bejeezus is probably a gland of some kind.)
EasyGuide© To Winning
Student Elections
sC
Blair McDonald
/ cannot tell a lie
Take five people. Any five people will
do. They need not have any pertinent qualifications or experience.
Add catchy slogan. This is critical to the
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honey.
Picking a slogan is much like choosing
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Squishy ones like "Think Pink" will only
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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 especially 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
STUDENT POLITICIANS
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
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this product during the next six months.
Offer void for qualified candidates and
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lVJ_TrltfLD KT.
/ SfeTWD
I
/ move: To txiKC
WITH fl GLAG ffF FR&fiLy
#-J.
A typical 6-hour AMS Council meeting 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Page Thirteen
Volume 9
They're Still Scouting for the Anti-Christ
Jeremy Thorpe
Goalie Sh*W.
For centuries, the debate between
Christianity and various Eastern religions has raged in taverns, on the battlefields, and in our houses. Finally,
though, the question has been taken to a
higher authority. We join the game, already
in progress.
HN: Welcome back to Key Arena in
Boston, I'm Harry Neale.
BC: And I'm Bob Cole. Let me tell you,
folks, this has been one of the most exciting
games of hockey I have ever had the pleasure to watch.
HN: It sure has, Bob. This is the first ever
game between the Christians and the Eastern Religious Coalition, and both of these
teams definitely have something to prove.
BC: That's right, Harry. Going into the
third period, with the score tied at one,
we're definitely heading for an exciting
twenty minutes of hockey. The Christians,
with an early goal from Christ in the first,
looked to have things under control; but
with Buddha's goal late in the second, we
have a game on our hands.
HN: Buddha is a great big power forward,
and the Christians will have to watch out
for him in the final period. I tell you, If I
were in The Pope's position, seeing that
line coming at me, I'd be hard pressed to
make the save* -Buddha, Mohammed and
the Dali Lama... oh boy.
BC: Well Harry, if there's anyone who's up
to it, it's The Pope. You may disagree with
his views on same sex marriage, but you
can't disagree with that wicked glove
hand.
HN: Bob, it looks like they're just about to
drop the puck. Jesus Christ will take the
draw, as expected. Looks like he'll line up
against Laotsu, who was the leading scorer
in the Taoist league.
BC: There's the drop... and Jesus wins the
draw handily, passing it back to Moses on
the wing. Moses takes the puck back into
his own zone, and feathers a pass to John
' the Baptist.
John Hallett
Burning Up
HN: We saw Laotsu lose the draw there
again... that nqn-confrontationalist style of
his really hasn't been effective against the
hard hitting Christians.
BC: John the Baptist is having some trouble in along the boards... OH! A huge hit
from Buddha on John the Baptist, who
almost lost his head on that hit. Buddha is
really throwing his weight around tonight!
David Koresh fishes the puck out from the
boards, and races across the blueline... and
play is called offside.
HN: What a surprise David Koresh has
been. Of course you'll remember his excellent showing in the minor leagues; leading
scoring for the Waco Wranglers, but some
have questioned his ability to make it in
the big league.
BC: Well Harry, he's really caught fire
tonight, keeping pace with Christ. He's
been working hard tonight, and I wouldn't
be surprised if he put one in. The play
resumes in the Christian end; this time
Mohammed wins the draw from Moses,
and puts the puck back to the Dali Lama on
the point. The Dali Lama heads in along
the boards, and... OH MY LORD!
HN: What a hit by Noah! I think he had
the elbow up a bit on that hit... The Dali
Lama is still down. Fans are shouting for a
call on that play, but the referee doesn't
have his whistle out.
BC: Harry, I think that should have been
an easy call for Referee Jean-Paul Sartre.
Noah definitely had his elbow involved in
that one. You know, Sartre may be an atheist; but he sure seems to be giving the
Christians a hand tonight.
HN: The ERC fans are really making a lot
of noise, and it looks like an entire section
of Tibetan Monks have poisoned themselves in protests just below us up here in
the press box. That may put some pressure
on Sartre... I wouldn't be surprised if we
see an easy call on the Christians some
time soon.
BC: Play has resumed with no call... The
Dali Lama had to be helped to the bench by
the trainer, but he was on his feet, which is
always a good sign. In the meantime,
Moses takes the puck for the Christians,
and skates up ice... he's in against Confucius and Hirohito. Moses... fakes to the
Fire 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 spldtches 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
least.
It wasn't far from staring wide mouthed
and drooling at burning things to the con-
right, splits the defense! He's in all alone
against Shiva! Takes the shot...and a
GREAT save by Shiva!
HN: I really thought Moses had the goal-
tender beat with that shot, but he managed
to get that third glove hand up just in time.
What an effort by Moses, though, to part
the defense... the ERC team really has to
tighten things up if they want to stay in
this game.
BC: Well Harry, there's been a call behind
the play, and it looks like Jesus Christ will
be heading to the box. I'm not quite sure
what the call was, but he sure doesn't look
happy.
HN: Bob, it looks like Christ will get ten
minutes for the sins of man. That's the second penalty of the game for Christ... if he
doesn't watch out, he'll be headed for a
crucifixion. That was an unfortunate
penalty for the Christians. Not only have
they lost their star player, but they'll be
short handed for next ten minutes — with
only fifteen minutes left in this third period. I'd hate to be without the First One,
particularly at a time like this. It looks like
it'll be up to their other star forward, Noah,
to keep the team afloat.
BC: The Christians have played well without Christ before, and they'll have to do so
again to stay alive. The puck is dropped...
Buddha wins the draw, and heads into the
Christian zone. He's got Mohammed close
behind, with Confucius coming up from
the blueline. Mohammed hovers at the
point, passes across to Buddha... Buddha
drops it in to Confucius at the front of the
net... the pass is intercepted by Judas, who
shoots the puck out of the zone.
Mohammed is out after it... waits for his
teammates to cross the line, and dumps the
puck back in. The Pope comes out of the
net for the puck, and drops it back to
Judas. Judas manages to get the puck out
of the zone again, with a hard shot along
the boards.
HN: Judas sure has had a good game, Bob.
He's the kind of player you can really trust
with the puck. That was some good penalty killing by the Christians.. Jesus has just
come out of the penalty box, and back onto
the ice. The ERC were unable to capitalize
on that crucial power play... lets see if they
Fire.
elusion that I could make art with fire.
Think 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.
Think 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
constitution.
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.
can get something together in the final five
minutes.
BC: Jesus heads back into his own zone,
circles behind the net... passes the puck to
Judas, and heads up ice. Judas takes the
pass from Jesus, heads out in front of his
own goal... he's turning... it almost looks
like he's going to...
HN: He is! He did! Judas has scored on his
own net! Jesus is looking back in disbelief-
it looks like the Pope has dropped his
gloves, and is skating toward Judas... this
could get nasty!
BC: Harry, I can't believe that Judas did
that on purpose, yet he seems to be celebrating the goal! This is crazy! With only
three minutes left on the clock... I don't
know how long it'll take for play to
resume.
HN: Sartre and both of his linesmen are
pulling the players apart... it looks like
Judas will be escorted to the dressing
room. You know, it's lucky Jesus is so forgiving... I'd hate to have his wrath on my
hands. Indeed, it looks like Christ will get
his team back in line for the final three
minutes. You really have to admire Christ's
ability to rise up over adversity. That's
leadership for you.
BC: I have to agree with you there, Harry.
The Christians have Christ, Moses, and
Noah on the ice, with John the Baptist and
Koresh on the blueline. Look for The Pope
to leave the ice for an extra attacker. The
puck is dropped at centre ice... Christ wins
the draw handily, passes back to Moses.
Just two minutes left on the clock. Moses
takes the puck up left wing, and The Pope
is heading off the ice. Jimmy Swaggart
skates of the bench to join with the rush.
Moses dumps the puck in... Noah heads in
to the play along the boards... gets control
of the puck. He's hovering behind the net-
thirty seconds left on the clock. Noah
dumps it out front... Christ takes the
puck... slides it across the net for Koresh...
the shot! HE SCORES! DAVID KORESH!
IT'S ALL TIED UP!
HN: David Koresh made an excellent play
to tie the game up, with four seconds left.
That'll definitely give David a bit more
respect. I think this one's going into overtime...
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...
Which is
worse:
Ignorance or
Apathy?
Who knows?
Who cares? Page Fourteen
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
18 January 2002
Volume 10
He's Jer and he's in a band
Jeremy Thorp
Hung Over
Everybody wants to be a rock star.
Visions of glamour swoop through
our tiny primate craniums at the
very mention of the phrase. The 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. The feeling you get when you climb
up on stage and look into the faces of the
audience is truly indescribable. It's the feel-
&      Phil Ledwith
if^       Thirteenth Monkey
And in the meantime life goes on
ticking like a meantime bomb
and stories all start once upon a meantime
-Peter Blegvad.
I've had enough. I'm sick of them all;
Barney the Dinosaur, Bob Dole, old
grannies on the bus with their evil twittering hypocrisy, Ted Bundy, Flipper reruns. I hate the Eco-Nazi vegetarian chipmunk artsies wearing black all the damn
time, I hate the yappy next door neighbour's dog, and people with girlfriends,
people with boyfriends, people, near people, telephone solicitors. That's it. I'm getting a flame thrower and I'm gonna torch
them all.
It started about four or five days ago,
smacking the alarm clock at some God
awful pre-dawn hour while still dreaming
about sex and waking up with my eyes
closed thinking oh-my-Gawd-it's-cold-
enough-to freeze-the-balls-off-a-monkey
and then realizing at the same time that
there's nothing but air underneath you and
I'm gonna fall and I'm at least fifty stories
off the ground and then I twist like a monkey on some freon-PCP cocktail in a desperate attempt to save my self from falling
and then I drop with a resounding thump
to the carpet which is in fact at the same
level as my mattress because I can't afford
a bed. Putting on my underwear as I get
out of the shower while shoving a fistful of
stale cheerios into my mouth, then taking
off the underwear and putting it back on
again the right way round, tripping over
my alarm clock which has moved again as
I do so. My alarm clock is alive; it's actually an electronic rat tethered to the wall by a
plastic cord. As my foot hits it, the alarm
ing 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 band?"
Me, acting shy and non-chalant. "Well,
yeah."
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
guy!
Me, holding back rage: "But I sing! I'm
the singer!"
Her, temporarily deaf in her left ear: "The
sound guy! So, you, like, set up sound
stuff,     right..."
<Sigh>.
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
opportunity.
Me, facing impending disaster. "Hi, I'm
Jer."
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
Losing it.
clock bites me. I'm screaming in agony
over my toe because my alarm clock is
Godawfully huge, and I'm falling and I
can't see my socks in the dark and outside,
the sky is rainier and the cold is colder and
I keep getting sprayed with muddy sluice
crap as the bus trundles past me at my bus
stop and I'd swear the driver actually smiles
his most evil "I've got you now, young sky-
walker" smile as he goes by.
My life at this point is more and more
looking like an outtake from Twelve Monkeys with a sort of Woody Allen ironic
twist, (if you've not seen Twelve Monkeys,
it's about a bald guy who comes from a different time and so everyone else thinks he
is insane, until eventually he also thinks he
is insane. If you've never seen me you'll
just have to trust me when I say to you that
this is an uncannily appropriate movie for
me to be discussing right now) And just
when I thought it couldn't possibly get any
worse, I went and turned up for my
midterm.
When I say that I turned up for my
midterm, what I actually mean is: I was
running over for my midterm, books in
hand, and' I passed by Markus, one of my
classmates who'se name I can't spell properly. "Markus", I yell brightly, "Midterms,
eh? Gotta love 'em." Then I noticed that
Markus was preparing to leave campus.
"Where are you going?" I asked, obviously
puzzled that my classmate would be so
dense as to deliberately miss a midterm.
Markus answered with a question of his
own. "Why weren't you at the midterm?"
he asked me, and it was then that the sinking feeling began. You see, Markus was
leaving class because class was now over,
and my watch had not been shifted to daylight savings yet so I hadn't realized the
discrepancy until now. Of course, being on
time wouldn't really have helped. You see,
the midterm was last week, and I've not
only fumbled the ball, I'm playing on a
whole different field to everyone else.
Despondent and lost, I decide to spend a
few quality minutes with my beloved
friends, who I felt sure would sympathize
and perhaps offer me some balming words
of wisdom.
John's words of wisdom were, and I
quote: " Wow, you're really stupid. Finished your article yet? Deadline's in fifteen
minutes."
Well "phpbbbtbtbtttt!"
Ever noticed that whenever you're really
depressed and you've got almost no
money left you run into a Purdy's chocolate shop? I hate the evil old hags that run
these stores. I look in and there she is, and
I'd swear it's the same one, and she's about
four hundred and thirty and she looks like
Griselda the Wicked Witch of the East and
it's just one little chocolate dearie, just a
one, yes, and you're standing there and
you're sweating and you're shaking
because you're so tired and depressed and
it's been so long it feels like practically forever since you last had chocolate and you
know that if you buy this you can't afford
rent and so you're just standing there and
she knows.
Evil. EEvil.
EEEeeeeviiiill.
They'll find you, wherever you are. They
follow you around, like parasites, like
frikkin vultures. They wait til your most
vulnerable moment, because they know
you'll buy. You can't help it. You'll cough
up that wad of cash you were saving for
rent and you'll buy fourteen chocolate
hazlenut hedgehogs and a couple of
marshmallow bars and maybe just one toffee brittle because we're never going to do
this again. Oh no, this is it. Definitely the
last time. I'm kicking the habit me. And all"
the time that eeeevil woman is up there in
your head and she's cackling her evil twisted laugh of joy as she rubs the money
between her fingers and chocolatey goo
dribbles through the gaps between her
teeth and runs down her chin. Meanwhile
you crawl on home, starving because you
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.
Jer Thorp really is the lead singer of an up
and coming band called Speedbump. They're
good. But their Sound Guy is absolutely awesome,
-ed.
have no food, guilty because you have no
rent money, and obsessed by your chocolate fix which you smuggle in beneath your
coat and past your trusted friends and
roommates and eat in the cupboard
beneath the stairs in the dark in case you
might get caught. But of course your roommates choose that day to vacuum for the
first time since the crusades and so of
course you do get caught and to make it
worse you bought too much and now you
feel sick.
So you go outside to get some fresh air
and the neighbour's dog starts yapping
again and finally you can't take it anymore,
you can't stand it all, so you grab a sharp
axe and you start running at the little bundle of joy and you're clubbing away and
you haven't hit it yet but any minute now
you will just let it hold still for a second let
it trap itself in a corner and there's this red
haze appearing in front of your eyes and
you're almost about to sound a bestial yell
of defiance from the bottom of your gene
pool. As your mouth drops open for that
great primal scream you see your next
door neighbour watching you run rampant
on their garden trying to kill their dog.
That's when your blood turns to icewater
and you really do feel sick.
I'd go on, but by now I'd say you're getting the picture. My only chance is to leave
the country, so by the time you all read
this, I'm going to be in Guelph. Or maybe
even back from Guelph if we leave early
and if I ever manage to find the airplane
with all that blood in my alcohol stream.
And if I so much as glance across a guy in
a kilt singing about his lost Scottish heritage I'm gonna provide him with the sort
of traditional sporran attachment that'll
keep him from ever eating haggis again.
Seen Trainspotting?
We didn't have to.
'Nuff said.
-ed.
I've been drinking Gin and Tonics.
Liquid panty remover!
-Bree Baxter
I also don't want to come across as an elitist, it's just I think we're better than
everyone else. Wait a second, that doesn't sound too good. Oh well, it's not elitist
if none of the peons read it.
-Jake Gray, in his article in The 432, volume 10 issue 7. 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Page Fifteen
More Volume 10
Constipation and you.
(aka the page 'o Jake)
Jake the Clogged
Corked Columnist
This, gladly, is an affliction with which
I have never dealt. I have, on the
other hand, dealt with the opposite
of constipation. This is not as easily dealt
with. It's rather hard to specifically eat to
give a little more consistency to the results
of digestion. I'm really tired of talking of
digestive difficulties. I never wanted to,
but John wanted some information on the
terrible affliction of constipation. Quite
frankly I don't see the problem, you eat a
few more bran muffins in the morning,
have a couple more cups of coffee and be
near a toilet when the alkaloids other than
caffeine kick in.
What about Athlete's Foot? Now there's
an affliction that the world health organization needs to put a little effort into. Now
again, I'm not an athlete. Now I'm not saying I'm a fat lazy couch potato who picks
scabs and watches paint peel and grows
small plants in my belly button lint. In fact,
I play a few sports. I play soccer, I snowboard, I've even been known to go for a
run for no good reason other than the fact
it wasn't raining. I'm just saying I haven't
devoted my god-like frame to the pursuit
of sports excellence, hence I am not an Athlete.
But take a look at an actual athletes foot,
they are gross! They look like left over
spinach dip from the party you had two
weeks ago. I really don't like spinach,
cooked spinach, canned spinach, spinach
dip, spinach salad, lasagna with spinach
and just plain old spinach leaves from the
garden. I don't like any of it. But anyway,
athlete's feet, whether they're diseased or
not are just not very pretty.
Come to think of it, not too many feet are
very appealing. How hard can it be to cure
one little disease? Its just a fungus, for crying out loud! I think some day in the future
when pigs can fly and Hiro can out-drink
anyone, there will be a great miracle and
the Almighty will bring forth from the
fiery pits of arm a new and marvelous
Wisdom Teeth.
product which, using the great power of
aerosol, will deposit a God-sent cure which
will provide instant relief from the atomic
fire of the nasty little eukaryote.
Wait a second. Maybe they do already
have a cure. Well the World Health Organization should work on... hmmm... well
they should work on something other than
what they're working on now. What was I
spewing off about? Who cares? It's not like
I'm making any great strides in human
understanding of the universe. I don't
think I can possibly improve on my own
understanding of the universe, knowing
that the universe actually does revolve
around me. Maybe that's why I've been
getting dizzy on the toilet.
Jake the Clogged
Extremely Wise Columnist
I've had my wisdom teeth out, along
with a good chunk of other people, and
I don't think I'm any less wise because
of it. I think I've grown as a person because
of the experience. You see, now I'd actually
realize what would be involved in yanking
teeth and would probably not go through
it until I was in more pain than the operation would entail. I was lucky, I had mine
out two years ago when I was young and
invincible. It took me a grand total of two
days to recover. I have a 21 year old friend,
lets just call him J. Thorp, no that's too
obvious let's call him Jeremy T., who is currently enduring teething pain as his wisdom teeth emerge from there oral cocoon.
All I can do is point and laugh at his imminent pain and suffering.
Whoever came up with the idea that just
because you've got a couple of extra teeth
your supposed to be some big old wise guy
capable of perching atop Mt. Sinai fielding
questions from people who were probably
a little bit delirious by the time they got to
the top of the mountain, anyway? Thinking about it, the guru himself has got to be
a little light headed sitting up there breathing low oxygen air for years on end.
You see my dad still has his wisdom teeth
and he is far from wise. I admit he has a
law degree and is somewhat successful,
but sometimes he accomplishes acts of stupidity beyond the realm of mortal men.
Hence the activities of last weekend.
We live out in the toolies, the bush, a rural
area, the back forty, in the middle of no
where, better known as Langley. We have a
few trees that grow on the borders of our
property right next to the power lines. So
we decided (I say 'we' like the decision was
made after careful consideration by all parties involved) to take the trees down which
were leaning out over the power lines. This
is a very precarious position.
Luckily for my Dad he has an eager son
who is ready to shiny up the rotten trunk
to tie ropes to the tree so it falls the right
way, the way completely opposite to the
way the tree is leaning. Normally this
would be an entirely acceptable proceeding and I was actually enjoying, myself.
Despite the sparrows trying to peck my
&^P
^zr.Ssfciilo
eyeballs out with their kamikaze dives at
my head, missing by mere picometres.
Despite the wasps nest I climbed through
releasing hordes of Lucifer's pride to sting
me into a stupor. Despite the large branch
which was right between my legs when my
grip momentarily lapsed, letting me slide
down to an amazingly uncomfortable rest.
Despite all this being outside and at one
with nature was bringing me closer to that
devine state of nirvana, and then the tree
started to crack. This was not a good thing.
As the tree hurtled to the ground with me
atop, I had a few moments to contemplate
a few issues. Number one, I was really
happy we had BC Hydro come and shut
off the fourteen thousand volts that normally runs through the wire through
which the tree was now hurtling. Number
two seeing how heavy trees actually are I
was really glad I was sitting on top of it.
Number three, why the hell did I climb up
this tree in the first place? So we could
chop it down before it fell down? There's a
brilliant idea.
Now most mortal men, or women it doesn't really matter, would have fell" to there
untimely death among the bramble and
large smashing, rib breaking, leg snapping
branches of the alder on which I was so
precariously perched, but not 1.1 leaped to
the next tree in a very Cliffhangeresque
move just barely able to grab for my life
onto a large branch with the very tips of
my fingers. After pulling myself up onto
the branch my wise old father, who still
has his wisdom teeth, yelled up at me
"Why the hell did you do that? For Christ's
sake you just took out the power line!"
Gee, Pa, ya don't say. So I started to climb
down the tree only to slip and fall landing
in a very large blackberry bush which I had
so deftly avoided only moments earlier.
Unfortunately I smacked the side of my
face on the way down receiving a bruise in
almost exactly the same position where my
face was swollen when I had my wisdom
teeth out.
Maybe wisdom teeth do give you some
wisdom. My dad was smart enough to
send me up instead of going up himself.
Jake Gray is one of those few people who will
do almost anything that you ask of him.
We even got him to dance naked on the
Chemistry roof. Well, we didn't really have to
persuade him that much.
-ed
?t»tfkfee ACUTG A*J&ue ,
*afc-"tfs 5w*«. sine?
jn£©fc*1lo
Cupid's early trials with the pneumatic nail gun.
At the math bar. Page Sixteen
THE FOUR THIRTYJLWO
18 January 2002
Volume 11
Time Travel Sucks.
John Hallett
Jules Verne?
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. The
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 whafs 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 Tuesday. Or warning yourself not
Frosh Fashion
Guide TM
Miss Jenn
Well Dressed
Back-to-school brings another crop of
freshmen eager to make a good
impresson (on who, it begs to gbe
asked...) There's no better way to turn
heads than by the clothes yo wear - the
right ensemble can take you from a lowly
freshman face in the crowd to a hip and
suave upperclassman. But, how, you ask,
can I effect such a wondrous change? Well,
sweeties, listen up 'cos the doctor is in.
Miss Jenn's Guide to Practical and Suave
Academic Fashion should be taken as
gospel...
Buy a Lab Coat. Wear It.
Nothing says "stylin"' like a too-big 100%
cotton lab coat. Lab coats are only required
in second eyar and beyond, and a little
alteration goes a long way... Go to the
Chem lab. Get some potassium permanganate (purple liquid) and spill copious
quantities on your coat. Next, find some
20M HC1. Take off your coat (this part is
somewhat important) and pour the acid
here and there. This will give you some
lovely holes (be creative - try to make the
holes into shapes.) Holding your coat over
a bunsen burner gives a nice two-tone
effect as well. And there you go - now
you're a Chemistry post-doctoral fellow
with the battle scars to show. While you're
at it, trade in your Ray ans for some tinted
safety goggles.
#2. Comfortable Shoes.
In your four years here, you're gonna walk
a lot. Most of it in the rain. Those open-toes
platofrm sandals from first-year will, I
guarantee, be replaced by the bastion of
the elderly - sensible footwear. Go to a
unfirm supply store, but several pair of
nurse's shoes, white. They go really well
with the lab coat.
#3. Minimalist Luggage.
People age, when you age you can't carry
heavy loads, and alcohol accelerates the
process. Ergo, a 20 year old who has been
to more than forty beer gardens is in worse
physical shape than Keith Richards. This is
why nobody past first year carries a backpack larger than a minibar (though some
do carry minibars.) In fact, some people
have completed entire Ph.D.'s on nothing
more than Starbucks napkins using a pencil nicked from a mini golf course. If you
really need a carry-all of some sort though,
a Safeway bag is a cheap and chic alternative.
#4: Rainwear.
UBC gets a bit soggy after September, outside and in. Sometimes the Rowing crew
practices in Buchana's hallways (don't
believe me? -there are oar marks on the
lockers...) When you find yorself i the rain,
forget about an umbrella - they're too big,
they track water inside, they smell after
awhile, and they'll poke holes in your Safeway bag. You know those transparent plastic kerchiefs than you tie under your neck?
Very useful, and I'll be damned if it doesn't
go with any outfit. Last year, some of the
campus hipsters were spotted in bathing
caps studded with plastic flowers - chic.
And that's it! 4 easy steps and you too can
be a hep cat or hip kitten. If you don't
instantly become the object of intense campus-wide lust, it's not the fault of the
clothes. It's probably just some inherent
major personality defect; I can cure you in
5 sessions.
And tht's it. Mildly amusing and pretty
damned practical, if I may say so myself.
Ciao!
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. The
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. They
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.)
Then there's Noah. I don't know where to
start with Noah. The 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. This
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.
The moral of the story? Time 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
thrilling.
So forget about it. Time travel is boring.
People are boring. History is boring. Julius
Caesar died at 64 from a heart attack. The
Three Musketeers were traveling insurance salesmen. And don't get me started on
the dinosaurs...
John is currently building a time machine,
based on the plans he found in the back of an
old comic book. Anyone have a Batman
decoder ring? -ed
Open Letter to
^The Man"
Jake Gray
Not The Man
D
ear Mr. Man,
Firstly let me thank you for taking time out of
your busy schedule to read my letter. Secondly I
have a question; must you persist in making my
life more difficult than it should be?
Look you white bread, Kentucky fried eating,
Mars Bar deep frying, cheese out of a can, foot
fungus, southern drawl, Java sipping, international consortium forming, government toppling, professional wrestling match fixing,
grand conspiracy rat bastard, I'm on to you.
I've had enough of you sticking you're grimy
little black hand into my daily affairs. How else
could my taxes get fucked up, my registration
for summer classes get cancelled, a freeway get
planned to run through my house, my dog get
picked up by the pound, and my entire collection of Swedish pornography go missing in one
week?
Now that the formal whining is out of the way,
let me be the first to congratulate you on attaining your illustrious position. I myself am currently attempting to finish my degree so that I
may get on with pursuing my career in the field
of evil science. I feel my degree in genetics will
provide an adequate basis for a life of arch villainy. I would like to get your opinion on a few
plans of mine.
I am currently attempting to develop a strain of
really really bad plaque. This airborne spore
forming bacteria would cause massive oral
degradation in a matter of days. Before releasing
this menace into society, I would make massive
investments into Colgate, Listerine, Crest, Aim,
and Oral-B making millions on the ensuing mad
dash for oral hygiene products.
My second plot involves creating a race of man
eating hamsters and sneaking them into unsuspecting youngsters pet cages in the middle of
the night. Then when the kids wake up and go
to play with their pets, the hamsters will become
violently enraged and chew their young owners
heads off. I haven't figured out how to make
money with this one, but I really like the idea of
crazed man eating hamsters.
The third plot is a little more involved and at
this point in time is simply beyond the scope of
my resources. Firstly I must take over the world
supply of Bauxite. This would allow me to slowly acquire all of the global aluminum smelting
operations. Once control of aluminum supply
has been confirmed, I may undergo a massive
plan to capture all of the worlds sheep through
the construction of secret aircraft quality sheep
leg traps. Once all of the worlds sheep have been
collected, I will remove all of their pituitary
glands to be used in the Kon Tiki Fire Dance of
Love. This dance will be performed in the London Stock exchange forcing all of the stock brokers to become over-enamoured with my pet
duck "Winston". With all of the brokers vying
for the affection of Winston I will force them to
into giving me a free hand in the stock market of
London. Once I have taken control of the LSE I
will be able to finance a theme park to be built
on the Moon. I will call it Moonworld. The main
attraction will be a roller coaster three times
higher than the C.N. Tower. The roller coaster
will actually end up running into a pit of boiling
acid. Seeing as only the most extravagantly
wealthy people will be able to afford to fly to the
happiest place in the solar system, I will be able
to clear the world of the financial leaders, leaving it open for a quick easy takeover.
I would appreciate any criticism you could
offer to my plots for world domination. I could
also use any advice you have for an up and coming villain.
Perhaps in years to come I will achieve the state
of a "nasty guy" and, with a little luck, perseverance and guile, maybe I could eventually be "the
Man". And hey, could I please have my Swedish
porn back?
Hrm... let's see... I've got the Szoiss Porn, the
Jamaican Porn, the Dutch Porn, and that stuff from
Langley. Nothing from Sweden, though. Sorry.
-ed 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Page Seventeen
Volume 12
Rants from the Ska Queen
Miss Jenn
Well Dressed
This article is going to be a collection
of complaints, because according to
all of my therapists, complaining is a
really good cure for advanced systemic
nymphomania.
Last night I was at the VooDoo Glow
Skulls concert at the Starfish Room. Really
hardcore Latin ska. All of the kids there
were wearing hooded sweatshirts. I hate
hoods. People who wear hoods deserve to
have those little string ties that you use to
make your hood tighter hung from a
clotheshook in a seedy hotel bathroom and
then tightened, so they'd all die in what
looked like a freak mass auto-erotic
asphyxiation accident. That would be
good.
I hate those damn wallet chains too. Little
wallet chains are good. Big wallet chains
are bad. There is really nothing less appealing than a 9 year old Aaron Carter looka-
like wandering around with a 6ft length of
anchor chain hanging from their scrawny
waist. People that wear wallet chains
should have them attached to passing
trucks.
I hate the way that the crack being sold on
the streets these days is really shitty quality. Back in the day, you used to be able to
ride that crystal rock high all the way into
the night. Not anymore, man, not anymore.
I hate it when I'm doing my laundry and
MSMB312:
Destroying the
Evidence
Andy Martin
[3-
Obstructing Justice
Due to overwhelming demand, and
the sudden realization that about
half the university population is
male, the University of British Columbia
has opened a new faculty to facilitate the
ever diversifying fields of study undertaken at one of the world's leading institutions
of higher learning. Start in Winter Session
1999 we are pleased as punch to be the first
university or college in the world to offer
you courses in Men's Studies and Male
Bonding. Here to let you know more is our
official MSMB representative, Andy Martin!
Hello all! This new faculty will be fully
staffed with ten professors and twenty-five
teaching assistants, all led by our new
Dean: Dr. Don Cherry. New Scholarships
such as the John Wayne Memorial award
and the Dennis Leary Asshole bursary will
be initiated and will only to available to
men. As well, a new rickety wooden hut
will be put together outside of Brock Hall,
right in front of the Women's Studies hut
so that we may moon.. .1 mean INTERACT
WITH, our sister faculty.
New courses starting next year (with
more to follow in the upcoming terms) are:
MSMB 100 (6): Introduction to Manhood. An interdisciplinary exploration of
the situation of men in various societies,
both past and present. Selected readings
and theoretical analysis are used to broaden the understanding of the determinates
of men's experience [3-0;3-0]
MSMB 200 (3): Sports. A quality held
above all is great knowledge of sports, past
and present. Focus is on statistics and what
makes a great athlete in any sport. Final
exams will consist of an essay entitled,
'Who was the best?' [3-0]
MSMB 201 (3): Cars. A man's pride and
joy is his car. This course teaches you what
are the best cars for crusin', speeding, and
barreling down mountain slopes. Teaches
you how to take care of your baby and
what to do (and who to blame) if something ever goes wrong with her [3-3]
MSMB 230 (6): Beer. Learn the ins and
outs of what makes the world go 'round:
mouth-watering beer. Learn how beer is
made, what makes a good beer and various tricks on how to order and drink it.
Labs consist of tastings. Lab Marks are
based on chugging tests at the end of the
term. [2-4-0;2-4-0]
MSMB 203 (6): Beer for Honours Students. Same as as MSMB 230, except an
enriched course load with a micro-brewing
tutorial. [3-4-2,3-4-2]
MSMB 225 (3): Men in Society. [Artsy-.
fartsy explanation...blah blah blah...]
0}
MSMB 300 (6): Introduction to Gender
Relations. An interdisciplinary look at
gender, SEX(ual Identity), and (gender)
relations, emphasizing historical and
cross-cultural (wink-wink, nudge, nudge!)
aspects and the social construction of masculinity and femininity. Only one of MSMB
300 or WMST 300 may be taken (though
ours is the only real one.) [2-0;2-l]
MSMB 303(3): Ecology of Men. Introduction to the study of male populations and
their relations to their physical and biological environments. Topics include the
effects of beer on the environment, optimal-chick theory, and succession.
MSMB 330 (3): Hard Liquor. The logical
follow-up course to MSMB 230. Learn how
hard liquor is made and how to ingest it
like a man. Learn to take it straight, and
what mixes are not frowned on as downright girly. Marks will be based on a midterm drink-off and a final test of student's
own moonshine. [2-4-0]
MSMB 333 (6): Men on Film. From John
Wayne to John Shaft, this course covers
freat men of the genre and their effects on
oth film and society in general. Study,
review and critical analyis of the actors and
the film will be the basis for making
schemes. Great male films such as 'Rambo,
'Animal House' and "Faster Pussycat !Kill!
Kill!' will also be reviewed. [2-3-0]
MSMB 353 (3): Male Physiology and
Medicine. Yes, we know that you'd rather
not hear about prostate problems, just as
we'd rather not hear about your 'cycles.'
But if women get a whole course to sick us
out, then we have to get one too. [3-2-0]
MSMB 448 (3/6): Directed Studies. Take
what you have learned in the class and
apply it to a project in the outside world.
Create and carry out an original study
dealing with circumstances and issues
vital to men and their place in the world.
MSMB 500(6): Advanced Maleness. Seminar Series whose subjects include: taking
down a charging animal and killing it with
your bare hands, maintaining a suave air
for a straight week in a casino, and taking
down a whole army of bad guys using
only your wits, fists, and Swiss army knife.
Curent Thesis Defended next year:
Master's Thesis:
Hocky, M.: A Regressional Analysis
between Number of Beers Consumed and
Perceived Penis Size.
Martin, A.: Preserving Manliness in the
Era of Tofu.
Ph.D. Thesis
Johansson, J.: Micheal Jackson: What the
Fuck?
when I bring all my clothes back from the
laundry room I drop a pair of underwear
in the hall. I never drop the boring underwear. It's always the little red pair. And it
always appears on my doorknob the next
day. I hate to think where it's been in the
interim.
I hate those people who'll be walking to
the Skytrain and they'll hear one of the
trains coming, and they'll run like a midget
with a rabid monkey down their pants.
The goddamned trains run every three
minutes, so slow down for %A&*'s sake.
I hate it when Jake Gray decides he's
going to build a bomb, and you know
there's nothing you or the authorities can
do it about.
I hate it when you're sitting around the
office talking about the good old days and
was classic" or they start telling the stories.
It's not like any of them were there when it
happened. Jesus. Kids these days.
I hate trying to get blood of the walls. I
hate trying to pick the hair and bone fragments off the end of the mallet even more.
Damn ex-boyfriends.
I hate it when some pig in the room farts
and refuses to admit it because then you
have to make sniffy motions with your
nose as if to say "Who did that foul thing?
Twas not me."
I hate surprise anal rape. Especially if it
involves Jake and the army of squirrels I
know he is mobilizing.
Bye bye, and watch out for squirrels with
wallet chains and hooded sweatshirts.
Miss Jenn knows how to write; always start
with a sentence that makes the reader want to
the first years start saying "Oh yeah, that     continue, -ed
SWM Seeks 2
Subserviant BiWF
^ Andy Martin
Witty Comment Here
Okay, dagnabbit, if everybody else
gets to talk relationship humour, I
get to too. Of course, I want to do a
general observation, and not a personal one.
Mostly becuase I want you laughing with
me, not at me. True, it's been over a year
since one silly girl who I'd gone out with a
few times, hopped up on painkillers, let the
word 'boyfriend' slip (without the words
'Leave me alone, you sick bastard, or I'll call
my' attached). Yes, I've been unattached for
over a year now, but that's the price you pay
for having straight A's while holding onto
your job as world class body builder. And
ya know, I kind of like it this way.
If you read my articles regularly (good for
you!) you may notice that at times I curse,
I'm obnoxious and tend to make a few too
many sexually deviant references, but that's
when I'm with the right company. When I'm
with women, I'm like a enuch. I never say
things like 'bitch', 'chick' or 'you got a thing
for tongue studs?'. I also lay off the all the
other fun stuff, like quoting Terrance and
Philip and the unparalleled fun of 'How far
away can you pee into the urinal?'.
The rules on how to act around a woman
are fairly simple, and can be picked up pretty easily: Just treat them as if they were the
most important things in the world to you.
However, the rules for women on how to
act with a man just don't seem to register
with the female (or 'Double-X') population.
Now girls, I'm not going to tell you everything (that would be cheating), but I'll give
you some pointers. Some are from personal
experience, some are reports from friends,
and some I got from a random sample of
interviews from the local sanitarium during
my last treatm...um, volunteer visit, during
which I help the poor souls who don't quite
fit into our society.
Lefs bring it down:
Tip: When we are doing something together, and another good looking male crosses
your view, it is:
a) bad if you ogle him
b) worse if you point him out to me, and
ask my opinion
c) much worse if you tell me each and
every little detail of what makes him so
attractive to you
d) [unprintable] if you tell me what you'd
like to do with him if you had him alone for
five minutes in a medival dungeon with a
cauldron of boiling chocolate.
e) God would vomit if you do d) and the
guy in question is a flaming homosexual.
You keep saying how little looks count to
you compared to the personality of a guy. I
have eight words for you: bee, you, el, el, es,
ayech, ai, tee! I don't think I've ever heard
girls talk about the personality of guys
above their looks. Ever. You girls are as self-
centered around looks as we are, and it's
high time you admitted it. How would you
feel if I started pointing out all of the tall,
hour-glass shaped, perfect complextion
blondes that walked by while we were
together? You'd castrate me with a pair of
needle-nose pliers for being such an insensitive bastard if I even began to do that,
wouldn't you?
Tip: Even if I am such a gentleman, do not
refer me, to someone who might know me
(and blabber it to everybody who knows
me), as a 'perfect gentleman'. This is pretty
damn embarrassing if I base my popular
reputation on violent and sexist works of
script. No woman under 35 years old (when
the threat of ye old resevoir drying up
becomes reality) wants a perfect gentleman,
they want a slack-jawed jerk. Don't ask me
why, it's just one of the dumb things they
do. Telling everybody that I'm polite and all
that will kill any worth I have with the
younger female crowd. I mean, I am bad: I
drive a '82 Chev. pickup (no, not a lime
green Volkswagen), play guitar, frequent
heavy metal concerts, have almost been
arrested for drive-by shooting, and get pretty fuckin' drunk pretty fuckin' often. So
there.
Tip: On the same note as No. 2: If I divulge
sensitive information to you, in complete
confidence, do not scream "YOU MEAN
YOU'RE A VIRGIN!!!?" across the crowded
room. This is bad...this is very bad...this is
very, very bad. This also applies to above
phrase in the form of a question.
Tip: Do not, under any circumstances, disturb me when the playoffs are on. When the
score is tied, with two minutes to go, do not
stand between me and the screen and list off
the things you want me to go to the store
and get for you. This also applies to climaxes of four hour long movies and any new
South Park, X-Files or Simpsons Episodes.
See, it's hot that hard, now is it? A few simple rules, really just plain-old common sex,
I mean sense, to follow to make us happy.
Well thafs it 'till Christmas. I'm praying to
Santa every night, but Mommy keeps saying that he can't fit Natasha Henshrige
wrapped in a black leather bow (and nothing else) into his sleigh. Maybe I will have to
settle for the delay pedal. Page Eighteen
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
18 January 2002
Volume 13
Vinyl Catsuit
Andrew Tinka
Feline In Charge
I like seedless grapes. I like seedless watermelons too. You know why? Because it's a real
pain in the ass to get the seeds out of regular
grapes and watermelons. If they come off the
vine without any seeds to begin with, it's super
fantastic, because you can just munch away
without crunching on seeds.
"Gee, Andrew," I can hear you say, "this article
seems far too mellow. What's wrong? Aren't you
pissed off about something?" Yes, friends, I am.
And I'm going to tell you about it too.
We've had seedless grapes for how long now?
Twenty years? Fifty? A long time anyway.
What's taking them so long to come up with
gonadless kitties?
Yes, dear readers, I have a cat. And I had to get
her spayed. Why, you ask? Well besides the fact
that I only want one cat, the fact is that horny
cats are right messy little bastards. They spray
urine on everything, they make really weird
noises all the time, and they attract all sorts of
undesirable characters who come over wanting
sex. Quite like a roommate, actually, but you're
allowed to take surgical action against your cat.
If you think getting the seeds out of grapes
sucks, just wait until you try getting the gonads
out of a kitty. Actually, please don't try it.
Despite what past issues of The 432 might have
told you, it's far better to leave this task in the
hands of the disgruntled folks at the SPCA.
Even still, it's an ordeal. You have to take time
off, wait an hour or two for a bus driver who's
too stupid to realize you've got a cat with you
(Did you know that you're not allowed on the
bus with a cat? Even if it's in a box?) then deal
with the SPCA receptionist, drop the little monster off, and come back ten hours later to get 90%
of your cat back. And when you get her back,
she's still doped up on ketamine for the next few
days and can't do any of the things that you take
for granted, like walk, eat, or control her bladder. Plus, she looks weird as hell because her
belly's all shaved from surgery, (must... resist...
temptation... to make... shaved... pussy... joke-
back, Satan... back, I say!!)
Despite my whining about spaying and other
unpleasantness, I'm really happy with the addition of a cat to my life. For one thing, I'm a complete and total slob. Until now, I've had to accept
infestations of mice, rats, and other plague carriers as an unfortunate consequence of my
hygiene-deficient lifestyle. Not anymore. Now
I've got a vicious little predator on my side, and
she's quite good at keeping the number of
species in the house down to two. (I suspect
she's plotting the elimination of Homo. Sapiens
as well, but I keep a cattle prod by my bed so I'm
not too worried.)
To the disgust of friends, family, and total
strangers, my roommates and I decided that the
cat would be named "Roadkill". (By the way,
there's an excellent black and white Canadian
movie by that name that I thoroughly recommend watching while drunk. In case you're
interested, I bear a striking resemblance to Weenie Boy.) Anyway, I was at the vet one time with
the cat, and the receptionist, of course,
announced to everyone that it was time for
Roadkill's appointment. As I took my kitty to the
exam room, I overheard the two twelve-year-old
girls who were sitting by the door:
"Who would name their cat Roadkill?"
"I know. It's so immature."
I couldn't believe it! I was getting cut down by
twelve-year-olds! How the hell was I supposed
to react to that? "Eat shit and die, Bitch" just
doesn't seem like the right thing to say in a situation like that. If they were two years younger I
could have gone with the old standby 'Yeah?
Well you're a poo-poo head!" Instead, I could
only shake my head and share a "kids say the
darndest things" look with the receptionist. I
think she was on their side though. It sure
would explain the visit I got from the Humane
Officer. They're all out to get me. Them and the
bus drivers. I'll show them. I'll show them all!
But that can wait. I've got more cat stories to tell.
The worst thing about getting a cat, I've decided, is that you run a very real risk of becoming a
"cat person". Case in point: Every bookstore has
a shelf or two dedicated to cat books. Not books
about feeding, training, or breeding, which I
fully acknowledge are useful and important.
No, the cat books I'm thinking about are along
the lines of "What Your Cat would Say If It
Could Talk, Volume Fifty-Three," "Chicken Soup
for the Soul of Your Cat," "Aromatherapy for
Cats," and similar tripe. Ordinarily, I'd walk
right past these shelves with the disdain they
deserve. The other day, though, I got sucked in.
I browsed the titles. I found some of them interesting. To my horror, I found that I wanted to
look at books filled with nothing but cute pictures of cats. I was close to buying a book that
would help me figure out what my cat was
thinking by the shape of the clumps she left in
the litter box. Luckily, I gave myself a firm
punch in the nuts and got out of there. There's
enough freaky cat people in the world without
me adding to the problem. In fact, sometimes I
think there's a freaky cat person overpopulation
problem. They reproduce fast, you know. Someone's going to have to do something soon. So if
you know a freaky cat person, do the responsible thing and have them spayed or neutered.
SPCA hours are 9 to 9, Monday to Saturday. But
do yourself a favor... don't tell them your freaky
cat person is named "Roadkill". Come up with
something more palatable, like "Muffins" or
"Fluffy" or "John Hallett" (Hey! Why I outta... -
ed.). You'll get less cruelty investigations that
way.
Lime, Citrus Fruit of Choice!
Bree Baxter
Green-Eyed Beauty
Green doesn't have the coverage it should.
After all, the world is covered in the
stuff. Green grass, green water, green
leather jackets, green St. Patrick's Day Beer. But
there's never any rush for things that have been
made green by the hand of the human. Those
lime green iMacs are always the last to sell out at
the stores, the green Sprite cans stay on the shelf
long after the red Coke cans disappear, the
green acid stays in the hand long after the blue
acid is ingested and showing you the way to the
Wonderful Land of Talking Antlers. Is it that our
brains are just saturated with green? The red
and blues and purples draw our attention from
the green? Is the green crayon left all alone in the
box, untouched when the black crayon is just a
nub and the pink one is a chewed-up gummy
mass? Is it screaming, "Colour with me! Make
grass and leaves and limes?" It's time to play
with the green crayon.
Limes are amazing things. The pale lime-green
colour may appear harmless on the grocer's
counter, but inside that wrinkly citric peel lies a
flavor that is not quite sour (certainly not sour
as a lemon) which makes your beverage just so
quashable. Limes are small and love a game of
hide-and-seek in your fridge. They are much
more playful than lemons, yet more devilish
than their orange and tangerine cousins. A slice
of lime in your afternoon margarita just completes the whole mind-numbing experience. On
the other hand, it is generally good practice to
avoid adding a zest of lime to your cat's bowl of
milk.
Eating green items, limes in particular, are
wonderful to ward off scurvy. In case you have
never lived in Totem or eaten the SUB cafeteria's
patented 'Froof, scurvy is when your body
decides it's had quite enough preserved food
and starts to reject your teeth. Your gums turn
black, your limbs swell up to double their size
and your hair falls out. There is a rich and varied history of scurvy among the early European
explorers of Canada. Ironically enough, they
began to ward the hideous nutrient deficiency
off by drinking and form of beer made with fir
tips. Yup, green saves the day again.
That was then, and this is now. The only arm of
the military that wears green these days is the
land forces, and it's that hideous dark, "I'm lost
in the jungle and waiting to become a Vietcom
POW!" green. Not many civilian uniforms (service and otherwise) go for green. If you put your
hand up for 'Red' as the colour of choice, lick the
person next to you. The redness of red gives the
impression of approach and aggressiveness (and
sex, don't forget sex. -ed.). Green's a more passive
colour. I still prefer my doctors in MASH greens
as opposed to those lovely violet scrubs. Even in
the near future, green is passe. You'll never see
Kirk in a green shirt, or Lister sporting a green
cap. No, the advent of technology has eradicated the colour green from our colour archives in
•a search for the perfect, non-natural world.
There are people in black trenchcoats watching
me whenever I buy limes, you know.
Green has always symbolized the coming of a
new age, you know. When the winter ends, the
spring buds grow on the trees and the whole
damn thing starts again. Maybe humans are just
sick of the damn winter ending. Snow just
makes everything look more uniform. And isn't
uniformity what Microsoft wants? You don't see
them putting out any green coloured computer
cases, do you? At least Apple puts out green
computers, although that was just a smart
advertising ploy to match the sickly green
colour of their users' skin tones.
I like green apples too. They aren't as sweet at
the red apples. Snow White can vouch for that
one. The Wicked Stepmother gave her a red poisoned apple, and the ditz fell for it. She wasn't
the quickest gazelle off the diving board. Never
catch me eating a red apple.
They're watching me when I buy green apples,
too.
Did you ever get the sneaking suspicion that your
tor iters really are looney? I do all the time. Between
Jake sitting in the corner rocking back and forth like
an autistic on speed, and Bree hissing at Coke cans
and forming the sign of the cross with her fingers,
I'm hard pressed to find any sane talent. Sigh.
Maybe I should just quit and move to Mexico.
-ed.
Merit Badge For Crack Cocaine
Dan Anderson
Not a Girl Guide Lover
I recently had a friend point out that I always
use the word "monkey" when I rant. Monkey
monkey monkey. I also had said friend point
out that I always use the phrase "I recently had a
friend point out...". So, I pointed out his left eye
with my right index finger, and that settled that.
All you people should give money to FYC.
We're so far in the hole, it's not a good thing anymore; we're so far in the red we can tell what
time of the month it is; we're a really big monkey, hear us roar. Meow.
For the record, all the SUS teams are kicking
ass. You know badminton was good when you
wake up the next morning with aches in places
you never knew existed, (well, ok, there was that
time last month out in Ladner and you went out
to the barn and you saw those chickens and...)
Anyways, you have to love the "morning-after
ache". Especially when you realize it's from
playing with your partner, when each of you
was hitting a birdie and wielding a racquet, bay-
bie! (Don't even ask about the inner tube water
polo, what with the rubber, and the tubes, and
the burn marks, and the hours of wetness, and
the rule saying how at least your legs must be
protruding. Oh yeah, and the hot tub.)
(Ookaaaayyyyyy -ed.)
But, to get to something worth reading, Jay,
being the observant evil mastermind that he is,
noticed that the Girl Guides were moving in on
his turf. Seems like their cookies are really just
fundraising for... well, I'll get to that later.
Besides the money factor, it seems the Guides
also put a mildly physically addictive substance
in the cookies, meaning that if you're like me,
and you eat about three or four boxes (thank
you, Jay & Bree & others for your generosity)
then you will have an intense craving for more.
Note that this is a separate craving than the one
caused by chocolate, apparently the second
thing better than sex. This plan will keep us
going back for more (cookies! more cookies!
jeez!). Eventually, we will all be completely
addicted, then they will raise the prices, making
us mortgage our homes, sell our cars, and frolic
with birds in public to make money to give to
them, and so control the entire world through
cookies.
With the money they make, they will begin by
purchasing all stocks of IBM that are available,
getting a majority stake. They will then make it
lose (even more) money, causing every man
woman and child to lose their life savings in
their techno-overbalanced stocks. By thereby
making everybody completely poor, they will
have the advantage of major money gotten from
narcotic cookie sales, which will allow them to
purchase all the ganja in the world, which will
allow them to enslave the youth, which will
mean that all the parents of the world will have
to do their bidding, under threat of returning
their children. The Guides will then force all
hamsters, guinea pigs, potbellied pigs, and
empty coke cans to be given to their cause,
which will give them world domination, power,
and control of all recycling facilities.
As you can see, this diabolical plot must be
halted. The solution? Kill all the Girl Guides. Do
your part. Next time one comes to your door,
next time you see one outside of the SUB, next
time you wonder about the little girl next door,
help the world rid itself of the horribleness of
the scourge that is Girl Guides. All time favorites
include repeatedly poking them with sharp
metal crafts, selling them to McDonald's for
100% pure beef bits' (trust me, if you can sell
them worms and roadkill, you can sell them Girl
Guides), and saying 'oh, Tm sure there's a nice
man who'll buy your cookies over there' and
pointing at the apartment next door, which has
been filled with carbon monoxide.
If you are too timid or squeamish to perform
any of the above improvements to society, at
least help us out, and scare them. The easiest
way is just to rant and rave at them every time
you see them (Monkey!), but if your vocal
chords can't take the abuse, there are other
ways, too, although most of them require slightly more effort or preparation. Making small dry
ice bombs is simple, just put warm water in a
plastic bottle, keep the cap handy, and stick
some nuggets of dry ice in there. Make sure the
bottle is at least a little squished first, then cap it,
and throw it at the HI twerp. Smile. Or else you
could just throw a bucket of ink at them. I recommend India Ink, it sticks best. Probably the
most fun would have to be picking them off
from third story windows with a BB gun... make
sure you keep on shooting them as they run
away. If caught, just say it was the kid next door.
With these tips in mind, have fun, remember
that homicide is only bad if you're apprehended,
and enjoy ridding the world of those evil creatures known as Girl Guides.
As a former Girl Guide, I must say one thing:
Danm Dan for figuring it out. I'll get you, my pretty, and your little monkey too. -copy ed 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Page Nineteen
Volume 14
But the Pagans have Better Sex...
Jo Krack
Hare, Hare, Hare!
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, have
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
Andy Martin
Comfortably Hung
C'est Halloween. Time of scary spectres, scary old ladies giving out
apples with razorblades in them, and
ugly little kids coming around to try to beg
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. This fascination with things we fear is kind of a
short circuit around modern society to
instil 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
spoilers 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. This is an erroneous
position to take, mostly due to the fact that
death is pretty fucking scary. There is nothing not scary about death. It is to be feared
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
dead.
Many people believe that death is a natural passing from this life to another. Not for
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 Chris
tians 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 codefied 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, I'll 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 politely
inform them that sorry, I don't believe in
Random Black Bar
Fade to Grayscale
me it ain't. To 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. They
believe that when you die that's it, your
conscience ceases to exist, gradually fading
away as your brain rots after death. They
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. That'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. Then I
fantasize about two girls I saw that day,
dressed in tight saran wrap doing things
that would cause people to write me many,
many nasty letters if I printed them here.
Then 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? They took the brain
out through the nose. The nose, for the love
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. Talk 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
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...
close...!!"
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 hardcore
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 THAT 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!
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 Bhudists, main proponents of the whole re-incarnation thingy
and their weird view of the final afterlife.
The 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. Thanks.
Nope, as far as I'm concerned, it's living all
the way for me.
Being a longtime friend of Mr. Martin's,
as well as his editor, I was greatly pained
to have to restrict his creative freedom.
But I had to put my foot down when I
told him "No more than four, count 'em,
four swear words, racial slurs, or myso-
genistic comments per article!" I'm glad
to see that he rose to the challenge
admirably, once we managed to get
enough Prozac down his throat.
-ed Page Twenty!
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
18 January 2002
The 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
The 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. They did. I
have. I even gave them two warnings, but
it seemed like they wanted to me in print
(and how!).
In the picture that they published, you
could plainly see their entire editorial staff
standing in front of the Statue of Democracy wearing nothing but smiles and strategically placed copies of their rag. They said
that they had "raised the ante." Well, to use
more poker terminology, I just bet the pot
limit.
The 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.
The 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. That would shut you down. Two
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!
This should be enough material to keep a
dozen sweaty palmed uber-nerds occupied
until the next Sara Michelle Gellar photo
spread.
Oh, and yeah, that is your office. Those
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 rants.
The Underground
He he. <snort> B-waaa ha ha ha. <snort>
Handy-Dandy
Photo Cut-outs
Instructions for use:
1. Cut out from this
paper.
2. Apply in areas of
excess hair.
3. Enjoy the lack of
pain
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, people.
V^
TriwisilQ
Michelle La Bounty and
Graeme Kennedy
About as far apart as genetics can get
-i3t a
"ust to provide the balance that all
good newspapers strive to achieve,
we'd like to print the best useless lies
thaf are guaranteed to drop you at least
10%, if not fail you out completely.
Using these useless lies is a sure fire bet
if you don't want to go through the trouble
of explaining to your parents why you
want to move to Egypt and become a goat
herder. With only a few of these tidbits of
human unknowledge, we're certain you'll
be enjoying a Dean's Vacation before long.
Problem solved.
1. Mongolians are expressly forbidden to
eat glass.
2. The tallest point on Earth is surprisingly
only five feet.
3. Watercress sandwiches are known to
cause malaria-like symptoms.
4. Steamy windows are caused by high concentrations of fish in the atmosphere.
5. The distance between your fingertips,
with arms outstretched, is almost exactly
the distance between your thumbtips,
arms outstretched.
6. If you were to count the grains of sand on
a beach, and divide by the number of
waves that strike it in a one year period,
you would most likely be working for
the government.
7. Chitonin, a material derived from mol-
lusk shells, is a polymer used in the treatment of scarring and severe burns.
8. Tomatoes are a fruit. In fact they're a really big berry. At least they are this year.
9. Pregnant women should not handle cat
litter, lest it lead to birth defects.
10. Issac Newton invented Canasta, but this
was not discovered until after his death.
How to Neuter Your Cat
at Home
Write for the 432 er we
will club this
Internal Vice President!
1. Get a good, trusty Softball mitt
and treat it with some fresh tune
offal.
2. Once you've got Kitty by the
head, wrap him up in a 4 ft. strip
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 Beta-
dine™. Undo the dental floss
2 GUVS on
PLAYING WS
"rtlffl
Gee, that Tilt-a-Whirl sure was scary, wasn't it, boys? 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Page Twenty-One
Stuff We Can't Morally Reprint
How Just Plain Stupid Are You?
Are You a Hopeless Naive Bubble-
head or an Incorrigible Dolt? Shock
your friends.  Confuse yourself.
Interrogate your reflection.
1. Ever tried alcohol? (1)
2. Spell it. (5)
3. Have you ever used alcohol to wash
down 292's? (2)
4. Have you ever been so drunk that you
fell down and couldn't get up because you
couldn't remember which way was up? (1)
5. Ever done that sober? (5)
6. Ever wake up and not remember to
breathe until your face turned blue, and
your mom had to come in and sock you
one? (7)
7. Um, me neither...
8. Ever fall asleep/pass out during sex? (8)
9. Really? (1)
10. What are you, a moron?! (3)
11. Ever been in a riot? (1)
12. Ever asked a cop directions to a riot?
(7)
13. Ever masturbated? (1)
14. Ever masturbated so hard that you forgot to breathe and your face turned blue,
and your mom had to come in and sock
you one? (4)
15. Um, me neither...
16. Do you read the Ubyssex? (256)
17. Ever try to chew water? (2)
18. Ever purchased and used sex toys? (1)
19. Do you consider ham a sex toy? (4)
20. Ever said anything so stupid that
everyone in the room had to just plain stop
and stare at your silly ass with a stunned
look on their faces for what seemed like an
eternity? (5)
21. Ever do that, and also discover that
you forgot to wear pants that day? (22)
22. Ever try to remember if'S' came before
'R' and you had to sing the Alphabet Song
all the way down to S before you could fig
ure it but? (3)
23. Ever try to have sex with a vegetable
like a carrot or a cucumber? (1)
24. Ever ask a carrot or a cucumber to
dance? (4)
25. Ever lose an argument to a carrot or a
cucumber? (9)
26. Ever gone to the John and then find out
there's no toilet paper? (1)
27. Ever found out there's no more toilet
paper, but weren't concerned cause you
would wipe twice the next time? (4)
28. Whenever someone says to you "How
do you do?", have you ever taken more
than thirty seconds to figure out a) what
you do, b) how you do it? (2)
29. Ever gone down a street with a sign
that says 'No Exit," then wait for the sign to
change back to 'Exit?' (3)
30. Ever get up to speak in front of your
morning class to find that, to your horror,
not only have your forgotten your notes,
but you a lso forgot your pants? (2)
31. Have you ever shoved six hot dogs up
your nose? (3)
32. What the hell for? (6)
33. Ever been so loud and frantic during
sex that your neighbours started complaining? (1)
34. Ever been so loud and frantic during
sex that, you lost total control of all your
bodily functions, and you crashed off the
toilet seat onto the floor, on top of the vaseline, and the vaseline squirted out like
water out of a fire hose, all over your magazines, you smacked your sweat-soaked
forehead into the bathroom door, forgot to
breathe until your face turned blue and
your mom had to come in and sock you
one? (19)
35. Um, me neither...
SCORING Add up all the points until you
can't count any higher, then take off your
shoes and use your toes, too.
If you have made it this far, you're as
dumb as a post.
Organ Donor Clinic
Brock Hall, This Friday
Thank you for considering to donate
organs.
Seven hundred units of organs must be
collected from volunteer / legally snared
donors each and every day to meet the
needs of British Columbians.
You may donate as often as you damn
well please, providing you meet our medical criteria for still being alive (or at least
reasonably fresh).
You must be 17 years of age to donate
organs and you may donate as long as
you can manage to survive, if you are a
repeat donor. (Repeat donors are donors
who have donated something other than
their brain, heart or liver, as none of those
have ever even left here, let alone come
back for another kick at the cat.) The age
limit for first-time donors, quite simply,
does not exist.
For the protection of both donors and
recipients, each donor is screened by the
nursing staff prior to donating. Jeffrey
Dahmer, Jason Voorhees and Lorena Bob-
bitt need not apply.
Jaundice patients will be rejected (ie. if,
when walking down the street, a man
with a suitcase suddenly jumps into your
back pocket and says, "To the airport, and
step on it, cabbie!", you are suffering from
jaundice). Other disorders disqualifying
potential donors are hepatitis, cirrhosis,
heart disease, diabetes, HIV infection
and/or cancer of the organ in question.
Extensive laboratory tests are performed
on each organ collected. Organs declared
unfit for use are stir-fried discarded
Please eat a substantial meal 1 to 4 hours
before donating (unless, of course, you
are donating stomach; gall "bladder, duodenum, intestine and/or colon or any portion thereof; we have enough shit to deal
with as it is).
The average organ, thanks to our new
operational service contract with Black &
Decker, takes appoximately 8.3 seconds to
donate. Please allow at least 5 minutes to
complete the process from registration to
initial systemic shock and refreshments.
It is recommended that you refrain from
strenuous exercise / eating / breathing /
trying to read / conceiving children /
moving at all (depending on what you
donated) for 6 to 8 hours following donation. Please do not sue for at least 24
hours after your donation.
Please bring with you your organ donor
card, valid identification and next of kin
(Last Rites performed upon request).
From volume 13, issue 6, front page:
A greatly agitated Philip Owen commented, "Good God Christ son
of a bitch ass felching cocksucking son of a bag of rotting testicle
tumor fucking fuck shit bag crack whore rotten son of a piss drinking manure gas ridden cricket bat swinging cholera ridden altar
boy humping fucking fucker fuck!"
The 432 Horoscopes
Albeit Chen
Oh the horror!
Aries (Mar 21- Apr 19)
Your sex drive will peak within the next
two weeks. Wow, come to think of it, you
could pull off something beautiful and
amazing. Notice I used the word "could", for
you must endure your high sex drive all by
yourself; while you may have strong libido,
the stars give you bad luck in romance...
Taurus (Apr 20 - May 20)
A man will hate you and try to gore you.
Wait.. .maybe he is just plain horny.. .1 don't
know, the crystal ball is very unclear about
this one. Remember, you would either get
hurt or get laid: hey, one out of two isn't that
bad.
Gemini (May 21 - Jun 21)
You will order a sandwich. The woman
behind you will suddenly touch your lower
back and go all the way down...don't move
- she will leave without taking a thing from
you. You will see a donkey the next day.
Then you will see the donkey's identical
twin the day after.
Cancer (Jun 22-Jul 22)
I have good news and bad news. One of
your profs will think very highly of you and
think of you as the next Mozart while others
will ask you to get a refund from UBC. No
offense, but Mozart probably has no place in
science - think about it.
Leo (Jul 23-Aug 22)
Your endocrine system will ^d'wild. You*t
will fall in love with Yoko Ono's work, listening to her scary songs with pleasure
while everyone else will duck for survival.
Heck, solitude isn't bad as long as you have
your blowup doll(s) handy.
Virgo (Aug 23 - Sep 22)
You will have nothing to look forward to;
nothing special will happen in your life.
Your birthday (give or take 6 months) is far-
gone and your graduation day (give or take
6 years) is far, far ahead. Say, why don't you
declare tomorrow as mere's-nothing-to-cele-
brate day? Now try to celebrate that...how
desperate can you get?
Libra (Sep 23 - Oct 23)
You will finally get a bitch and encounter
tasteful semi-pornographic material everywhere you go, and I write all this free of bias.
Scorpio (Oct 24 - Nov 21)
Ladies will meet kind, gorgeous, sensitive
gynecologists; men will meet kind, gorgeous, sensitive gynecologists. Don't blame
me - it's in the stars. '* ' .   ''*■'"   ~
Sagittarius (Nov 22 - Dec 21)
Guys, you think you are smooth, but your
come-ons are attracting flies. Also, you will
die a horrible, horrible death. (See, you want
the truth? You can't handle the truth!) Girls
will get lots and lots of chocolates for no
apparent reason, but you too will die a horrible, horrible death...
Capricorn (Dec 22 - Jan 19)
You will try to find out who is your future
spouse by standing in front of your mirror
before the stroke of midnight and fervently
combing your hair 100 times. (Try it - it really works...) You will then find out that your
future partner is really, really, ugly and you
can't do anything about it.
Aquarius (Jan 20 - Feb 18)
You will finally look and dress like supermodels, only to find out that geeky style is
in. Stephen Hawkings will design evening
dresses for Chanel.
Pisces (Feb 19 - Mar 20)
Pisces women will meet and date men who
can understand their feelings. Those males
will say something like, "Let's do your hair
for a change," "Let's focus on YOUR needs,"
and "Let me do the dishes." However, those
new-age sensitive men will also open up
their bottle-up feelings and crying like
babies 24/7. Pisces men will see dead people. Does it ever end?
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
18 January 2002
Editors, Because No One Else Will
Volume 10
John Hallett
Small African Dictator
Fifteen years already? To fondly quote
Our Lord Jesus Christ: "What the
fuck?" (Yeah, that's in the bible. I
think it's somewhere towards the back.)
The current editor wants me to wistfully
reflect on my 1.5 years in the Editor's Chair
(There actually was a real, bonafid Editor's
Chair, it was blue, had "Editor" written on
it, weighed a tonne and smelled like my
ass. It was "retired" shortly after I graduated).
Reflections, memoirs, jolly memories of
the time Jer and the Assistant Editors
jumped out from behind the desks and
surprised me on my birthday. The kind of
thing that ex-Presidents write about when
they get put out to pasture.
Well fuck that. My 18 months at the helm
of this pathetic rag where sheer hell on
earth. It was chock full of all-nighters, high
stress, ugly nudity and even threats of
legal action from almost every organized
group on campus. The only semi-amusing
thing Jer ever did on production night was
drink two bottles of rum and wet himself.
After attempting to have sex with Jake.
Really. In reality it wasn't even that amusing.
Even after all that, there are times that I
severely regret ever handing over the helm
to Jer Thorp, then Craig Temple (the list
just continues downhill from there). Usually I get these feelings while reading the
current paper or thinking about Dan's
sense of humour. Sad, really, in so many
ways.
Well, I guess I could take some time out to
go over some of the more salient memories. Just for old times sake. Well, old times
sake and the 50 dollar bill Dan just handed
me. (Doh. That was supposed to only be a
hventy. -ed)
I first started writing for this insult to the
word newspaper way back in issue 7. Then
editor Ryan MeCuaig ran my very first
story simply because they were out of filler
material and Blair McDonald's ass was
already taking up most of page 6. Thus
started the long tradition of 432 editors
being first published because all available
filler was used and giant swaths of white
space are generally frowned upon in the
print media.
It took just three short years for me to
climb the corporate ladder and be elected
Editor. (In all truth, it took just three short
years for me to destroy my liver and kill
enough brain cells so that "Editor" sounded like pretty decent idea). Volume 10,
quite frankly, rocked your world and it was
all because of me. A lot of people will give
due credit to the likes of Jer, Jake, Craig
Temple, Matt Wiggin, Phil Ledwith and
the rest of the cast of idiots. But, in reality,
those were just my many pen-names. Yes, I
single-handedly wrote all 13 issues. I'm
*that* good, people.
Why am I telling you all this now? To set
the record straight, I suppose, and to
demand the long overdue respect and
money that I deserve. Then the whores.
Mmmmmm.... whores.
That's about as much wistful wandering
down memory lane as I can stand. I should
go home now so I can be at work tomorrow
on time. Here's some sage advice for all of
you: never, ever graduate. If possible, go to
grad school and perpetually live off of gov-
erment grants. God knows I wish I did
that.
Believe it or not, John actually misspelt "editor" as "edetor" in his first issue.
-ed
Volume 14
Wty     Jay Garcia
G;Jl 5     Still Hen ~~~
Dan tells me he wants three hundred
or so words outlining the events
surrounding my co-editorship of
The 432 with Andy Martin, during the
period between October 2000 and April
2001. Dan also informs me that he wants
my honest reactions to said events.
When he called me up about the 432 15th
Anniversary Superissue and asked me for
any contributions, I responded the only
way that a sane ex-editor could; with horrible, shaking laughter - the laughter of a
man who has looked onto the face of evil
and survived, but not escaped unscathed.
At this point, Dan resorted to more
unseemly measures. While I have no clear
recollection of the last several hours, I'm
fairly sure it involved Lana in a bikini, a
tub of whip cream, and, ultimately, chloroform.
I am currently tied down to a chair in the
undergraduate office, ensconced within
the publishing room, with my beloved
Sega Dreamcast held hostage at sledgehammer point. So I'm writing this article.
I took on the job of editor when I made a
sarcastic, offhand comment to ex-editor
Bree Baxter about taking over the paper;
something along the lines of "First the 432,
and then the World!", punctuated by evil
laughter. At this point, Bree handed over
the reigns of power, leaving me abruptly in
the lurch, holding the bag, running the
paper with just my wits and a whole lotta
Dr. Pepper.
Thankfully, Andy Martin was around and
offered to co-edit the paper with me,
resulting in a lot less potential bloodshed
during the long, harrowing production
weekends and subsequent Paste-up Mondays.
Unfortunately, both Andy and I were, at
this point, both graduated from this fearful
institution, and were gainfully employed -
he with NMFO (the National Marine Fisheries Observatory) and I with a local software company. The upshot of this meant
that I had to work on the paper after classes (which meant after work as well), while
Andy was away in the North Sea, surviving 25' waves (for those of you of non-nautical bent, that means the height difference
between the base and the crest is actually
50').
Thus, the paper remained an exercise of
putting off production weekend for as long
as humanly possible, cajoling regular writers into coughing up an article or two, and
trying to generate as much of the content
while hopped up on caffeine and sleep-
deprivation, a tradition begun by Blair
McDonald and continued by both Dan and
Lana to this day.
It's good to know that the paper has survived this long; it's even better to know
that the kids working on it are carrying on
in the best possible tradtion of 432 Editors:
cantankerous, harried, and often drunk.
Here's to another 15 years of the paper.
Hopefully I won't still be writing for this
paper then.
Volume 13
Bree Baxter
rjs^<§| One More Time
My year. I was elected because no
one else wanted to or cared. In the
summer, I went to AMS council
meetings for some reason. I lived on campus. As I had no idea what I was doing,
John Hallett edited for a while. Yah John.
Time passes. I take on editorship of the
paper. During this time Paradigm was created, of which we produced two issues and
my, being founding editor of something as
profound as Paradigm was... profound.
Wackiness occurs. Elections come again
and no one runs against me. I almost didn't run against me. I won again. The summer, I did the Guide and fell down on the
mailing out bit. Motherfuckers. Did 432s
until I fell off a big cliff in October. Jay
offered to edit for the paper, in a way that
was COMPLETELY JOKING AND IN NO
WAY SERIOUS so I said fine and quit. I
then proceeded to have the best set of
semesters EVER at university and graduated. Yay me.
My TV has PMS
Andy Martin
$6 Man
I've had to deal with a lot of odd people
in my life. Life forms with unrealistic
expectations and points of view so distorted, I wonder why someone hasn't
taken them down to ye olde dark alley
until they got a little more in tune with
what doesn't piss people off to the point of
violent retribution. People like this drive
me to often want the company of the
machine, the straightforward, logical
annals of interaction (though ironically, it's
often these irritating people that are more
involved in technology than I am).
Yessir, strike a key, get a letter. Put tape in,
hit play, get 63:27 of your expected music.
Push the button, puree the hamster. If people followed these same specifications in
interactions with me, I'd be a straight-A
student, have a 6-figure salary, and enjoy a
positive view-point of the opposite sex.
Well, we fall a little short of that blissful
goal line here, don't we?
But I see now that even technology has
turned on me. My machines are no longer
perfect.
The balanced [action] -> [expectect reaction] is replaced by something much more
sinister. They don't act mechanically at all.
They act...human. Machines have not just.
evolved a soul, but bad attitudes as well. I
didn't upgrade them, and I sure didn't
want it, but they just kinda came into
being. Stuff just seems to happen that
makes no sense at all. Maybe if I wasn't a
student and could afford to replace everything the minute the hint of life appears.
But I am and I can't.
The first life to evolve was my radio,
which was made a brat. It has never grown
up, even at the ripe old age of ten radio
years (which translates to three human
reincarnations). It misbehaves only when
I'm not looking. Like that apple-polisher
kid we all hated in kindergarten. Nice
when the teacher's around, a complete
bitch when the teacher steps out. When I'm
within arms reach, it behaves nicely. Good
reception and clear sound. But when I'm
further away, the reception seems to stray.
It's just plain out weird. I'll be listening to
whatever rock station that isn't playing a
winning rock group ('what rhymes with
"I'm gonna kill myself over the fact that my
girlfriend broke up with me, all because
my mommy spanked me for stealing cookies when I was 5"...?'); enjoying the music,
and the song will slowly start turning from
crunching chords to public access jazz,
which ranks just below the 7-beer-to-the-
wind 'Back in Black' cover in listenability.
Shocked, I'll turn around, grab the radio to
smack it good. Then the second I touch it,
it turns right back, and acts like it never
stopped the rock at all. I give it the eye and
a warning, put it down, and take a step
back. As I turn away, I hear the station start
to change, and I jump back towards it,
automatically send the music back to what
I want. What a prick.
My other main source of entertainment is
also quite alive and misbehavin'. Many
women consider the television their main
competitor for their man's attention. I
argue that my TV is female, and believes
we have a serious relationship. We'll be sitting there, watching 'the Family Guy', or
another of my favourite cartoons, together.
Then all of a sudden, I get some major static off her, interfering with my watching
the show. The distortion is louder and
more irritating than anything else she ever
says. Through trial and error, I know what
to do to make her happy, I have to press on
her sweet spot on the underside of her
case, and the distortion goes away for a bit.
But sometimes, my baby wants more, and
just touching her there isn't enough. She
wants it rough. So to keep her happy, I
have to smack her case and screen a few
times while pressing extra hard on the
sweet spot. Then she'll be happy for ten
minutes, when she starts begging to go at it
again. Luckily, when our 30 minutes are
up, I can turn her off as easily as I turn her
on. And she comes with a mute button too!
And my car stereo was programmed as a
rich snot that must be appeased. And the
more you appease it, the more it wants.
They're all really stupid requirements, but
if I want anything out of him, everthing's
gotta be just right, no matter how stupid. It
started a year ago, when he started refusing to play out of the passenger-side speaker. I learned that pressing the "bass-treble'
knob would return music for a while.
Don't ask me how, it just did. But soon
enough, pressing it just wasn't good
enough, and it required me to shove a pen
cap inside to keep the funk going. When he
got bored of that game, he decided to make
the tape player fade in and out at his whim.
It's now gotten to the point where I have to
push on the bass knob, have the fan set to
'IT, and be driving between 70-80 for any
sort of decent sound.
As time keeps marching forward and the
present is the future we imagined not so
long ago, we are faced with the upcoming
next great leap of evolution, the point at
which a living species fabricates another
intelligent life. Well, we've already done it.
I just wish we had thought about it first. It's
not quite terminators taking over the
world, but it's almost as irritating.
We all remember the First Nations' belief
that all inanimate objects have a spirit, Dis-
neyfied by 'Pocahontas' in the musical
number as she talked to the rocks and trees
before getting her freak on with Long John
Smith in one of the finest brown-sugar
pieces in modern adult theatre. Oh,
whoops, that the 'Pokeherhotass' Disney
Special Ed. DVD, but you can see how I can
make that mistake.
But maybe our machines just need our
love and attention, to just feel our touch.
We take, such advantage of them, and
never give them a single compliment.
Maybe they act better with a little love.
Like the way that some people believe that
plants grow better when you talk to them.
No offense, but anybody who talks to
plants probably sees some much more
screwed up shit than just bigger plants. 18 January 2002
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
Page Twenty-Three
Mundane Dumpster
President
Reka Sztopa
I hope that you had a great holiday and
are ready for some new and exciting
things happening this term in the Science Undergraduate Society.
We are gearing up for an amazing Science
Week full of academic and social events
organized for you. There will be more
information in the next few weeks so keep
your eyes peeled for information on our
website, www.ams.ubc.ca/sus, or on
posters and flyers all over campus soon.
Now that we have over 6,000 students in
Science (approximately 6,500) we are entitled to a 5th seat on AMS. That means that
there will now be 5 Executives sitting on
AMS Council representing YOU!
We are currently compiling the results of
the Science survey and will be releasing
them as soon as possible along with the
name of the Mystery Prize Draw winner.
Also, our first official weekly newsletter
was sent out last Thursday night. If you are
interested in receiving SUS news and other
important information for Science students
you can sign up to receive the newsletter
by sending an email to majordomo@inter-
change.ubc.ca with the following in the
body of the message: subscribe sus-info.
Finally, I would like to encourage all of
you to take a little time to get to know your
Science Undergraduate Society this term.
We have new furniture in our office in
Klink 202. We now have two public access
computers with email, internet and
word/excel capabilities as well as a printer,
cheap photocopier, cheap pop machine,
free water cooler, free phone, quiet study
space, meeting space and lounge space all
for your use and convenience.
You can check out our website or contact
us at sus@interchange.ubc.ca or
604.822.4235. If you have any questions or
comments that you would like to discuss
with me personally, please do not hesitate
to contact me at
rsztopa@interchange.ubc.ca.
Have a great few weeks and see you during Science Week Jan 28th - Feb 1st.
Senator
Timothy Chan
Hey hey kids! <insert Krusty laugh
hero I hope everybody had a
good holiday and got everything
they wished for from Santa. Well, second
term is now upon us and I expect everybody to have made a resolution not to fall
behind in your schoolwork this year. Oh
who am I kidding. If you must fall behind,
I guess you should have a good reason
though. And here it is...Science Week! Yes,
I have become yet another shamless plug-
machine for Kelowna Mike and his minions. But hey, if he promises to dress up as
Papa Smurf for the entire week, the least
we can do is humour him. So if you only
do one fun thing this month, make sure
you go on a ski trip. But if you do two fun
things, make sure you check out Science
Week!
So-Co
Katharine Scotton
H
ello, wecome to another edition of
exec reports...
VP Internal
Brian MacLean
Not much to report for the Academic Committee. We will be holding a
Faculty Wine and Cheese in early
February and we will be calling for applications for the new SUS Awards some time
in early January.
First Year Committee has had its first
meeting of the new year and meeting times
will continue to be at 5:15 pm on Wednesdays in LSK. (New members are welcome.)
The First Year Committee will be taking
part in Science Olympics on February 1st.
I only have a couple of things to tell you
all this week.
First off, COLD FUSION! We've got Gob,
we've got Static in Stereo, and we've got
Exithiside! Tickets are going to go fast, so
pick them up soon, for only $15, what a
deal! All the info you need is on the back of
this here fine paper. Giddyup.
Second, the SUS Info mailing list is up and
running. The first email was sent out last
Thursday as a welcome to the list. Emails
will be sent weekly and will contain news
and events important to science students.
Any SUS club wanting their events listed
can email me at sus_info@yahoo.ca.
COME TO COLD FUSION, WE COMMAND YOU, OR WE'LL SHOW YOU
THE PICTURE OF JOHN HALLETT ON
THE COUCH AGAIN! and we know you
don't want that...
See you all at Cold Fusion then,
Kat
kscotton@interchange.ubc.ca
Sports
Kristin Lyons
VP External
Michael Groves
Science Week:
Iust as a reminder, Science Week is the
week of January 28th - February 1st .
This year, Science Week will include the
[den oldies like the UCS Magic Show,
PhysSoc Paper Plane Contest and Cold
Fusion (feat. GOB) as well as the revival of
the CompSci Scavenger Hunt. This year's
charity Canadian Gene Cure Foundation
and there will be various fundraisers to
amass funds to that cause. One main one is
the charge of admission by donation to
SUS's new event, Jell-o Wrestling. Yes, see
men and women go toe to toe in that lovely blue Jell-o for a small donation. Stay
tuned for class announcements, posters,
and Papa Smurf to make appearances on
this and other events.
AMS:
The AMS is gearing up for this year's
round of elections. There is going to be at
least 3 slates seriously vying for the opportunity to manage your student society.
There are at least another 3 who will be
hopefully making this process a little more
entertaining. Please get in the know and
vote. Campaigning begins Monday, January 14. The voting begins Monday, January
21, and ends Friday, January 25. 	
Also, Translink is prepared to return to     »-.
negotiations with the University and the     r iri^nCG
AMS for a U-Pass. This would entail that
every student at UBC would pay a flat fee
and your student card would become a bus
pass. More details from those negotiations
will come soon.
I hope you have all signed up for intramural leagues! Science is currently in
first place in the sports points standings, but Gage is a very close second, so
lets keep those sports coming. Upcoming
intramural events include Rainfest and
Winterfest. Rainfest is a water sport team
challenge with the registration deadline
being January 29, and with the event
occurring on Thursday, January 31. Winterfest is an ice sport team challenge with
the registration deadline being January 22,
and with the event happening on January
24. Both challenges include five events
completed with teams of six to ten people.
There will be sign up sheets in SUS, and
there are also registration forms available
at the SRC. These challenges can be a lot of
fun, and are especially good for those individuals who don't have time to participate
in leagues.
Lastly, the sports rebate deadline for term
two rebates has been set for March 15 at
12pm with no exceptions! For those of you
who don't know, SUS gives out rebates to
science teams at the end of each term. To
get your rebate, put your receipt, your
team roster, and the name, phone number
and email address of the person I'm writing the rebate to into my mailbox in SUS!
May Tee
Finally, the AMS Mini School is open
again this year with classes on First Aid,
Web Design, and Sign Language. More
details can be found at the AMS website:
www.ams.ubc.ca.
Sexretary
Corrie Baldwin
H
i, everyone. I'm really excited about
getting to see a bunch of Beta boys
get naked in council on Thursday.
Other than that, things are uneventful. The
executive have been rather quiet lately, and
most of my lacerations have healed. I'm
glad they are preferring the cat o' nine to
the bullwhip these days. If any of you want
to 'try out' and get naked, come to council
Thursdays, at 1pm in SUB Council Chambers
Happy new year everyone! SUS is
already into its third quarter this
year, so I spent a couple of days
preparing a Third Quarter Finance Report
for your enjoyment. With regard to spending, we've done quite a bit of it, especially
with the new fridge, computers, furniture,
and all those wonderful items we've purchased for our new office. This 15th
Anniversary 432 is costing a bit, too, so
make sure you cherish this issue once
you're through with it:)
The 2001-2002 SUS Club and Conference
Grants (Part I) were allocated at the begin
ning of this month, as were the 2000-2001
grad fee rebates. We still have a little bit of
money for clubs leftover and the 2001-2002
grad fee rebates to deal with, but that will
come in the Part II portion of these allocations. SUS Club and Conference Grants
(Part II): coming soon to a SUS Council
meeting near you!
Anyway, enough about finances. Make
sure you give these 432 people a big pat on
the back if you see them. While we were all
partying during the break, the 432 editors
were at the SUS Office preparing this fine
issue of the 432—a celebration of fifteen
years of amusing, bewildering, and maintaining the sanity of UBC Science students.
Happy 15th birthday to the 432, and happy
spending:)
Millenial Grumblings
Wty     Jay Garcia
g;
>**
^
ty years too soon, if you ask me), the return
of glam fashion, and, oh yes, reality-based
television.
Off in the Clouds       Overwhelmed, I'm not.
Two weeks into the new year gives one
enough perspective to determine, with
some degree of accuracy, the character and
temperment of the year just gone by. All in
all, I've got to say that, for a potentially
portentious year, 2001 was a honkin' huge
disappointment.
I mean, 2001 was the turn of the century.
We were officially stuck into the twenty-
first century, but where were the dramatic
milestones? The early twentieth century
saw the birth of flight by two bicycle makers at Kitty Hawk; the rise of rampant electric power, and the overwhelming dominance of corporations. Compare that to the
opening years of the twenty-first, and what
have we got? The rebirth of grunge (twen-
The only thing that seems to have the feel
of the future is the internet and all the
increasing digitization in our lives. At no
previous time in our history have we, as a
species, with the click of a button, been
able to harvest the entire accumulated
knowledge of mankind at our fingertips;
however, despite all this knowledge and
information, the grand experiment in the
entanglement of social order and information technology has shown that the vast
majority of the populace will use this
power to download pornography, steal
music and copyrighted software, and otherwise bitch and moan at each other with
the collective intelligence of a retarded ten-
year-old with Parkinson's. Besides, the
Internet was so twentieth-century.
Personally, I'm a little pissed off at all the
broken promises of the twenty-first century. I mean, where are my flying cars? I was
promised flying cars. None of this "hovers
ten feet off the ground for half an hour and
runs out of fuel" nonsense.
How about cloud / underwater cities?
Television shows from the 80's said we'd be
living underwater to avoid population
pressure, and high in the sky on cities
perched on stilts. Maybe having "The Jet-
son's" as a model for a twenty-first century
Utopia might not have been the most practical thing upon which to pin one's hopes,
but it's better than the current alternative
of mediocrity - urban sprawl, inner city
blight, and the rampant increase in housing to the point.where renting becomes
impractical and children are forced to live
with their parents just to make ends meet.
Yep; so far, this twenty-first century thing
hasn't been living up to all the hype.
Oh well; given that other visions of the
future have us smack dab in the middle of
World War III or being exterminated by
sentient machines or overrun by genetically engineered soldiers, led by a man who
looks suspiciously like Ricardo Montalban,
I'll be happy to put up with the occasion
"133t haxOr" who smack-talks me while
playing Unreal Tournament and downloading mp3's.
But I have hope; even now, astronomers
are looking to place an observatory on the
far side of the moon; and if all goes well,
they may encounter a black monolith hidden in the lunar sands...
Jay wanted to be an astronaut, but it turns
out you can't pull a crazy ivan in a spaceship,
so while he kicked their asses at first person
shooters, the shuttle simulator predicted a
98% probability that he would cost over a billion dollars in equipment. Per annum. He didn't get the job. -ed >j3
SCIENCE

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