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The 432 Dec 1, 1999

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idby Chzzr!
"What do you mean, ifs not real beef?"
-- Nathan Allen
Local Cow Elected Mayor
of Vancouver
Vancouver (CP)
In a stunning victory over Philip
Owen's Non-Partisan Alliance (NPA),
members of the Farmer's Coalition
(FC) have been elected to a commanding
position of Vancouver's City Council.
Headed by 'Barb', local cow and mother
of four, the FC ran a campaign of fiscal
responsibility, increased park land, and
the complete banning of all dairy products.
"I knew the citizens of Vancouver
would do the right thing when it came
time to vote," said an jubilant Barb upon
hearing the results of the elections. "I
have always had complete faith in the
democratic system ever since I was a
young calf living on the farm. Although
I have had my moments of scepticism,
like when the farmer killed my first eight
sons so they could be made into couches and sneakers and veal."
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 alter boy humping fucking fucker fuck!" when reached
after the final results had been released.
Reaction to the election results have
been mixed. Members of the small but
influential Hindu community have
expressed great joy at having a cow, a
symbol of great spiritual power, elected
to lead Vancouver "out of this vast cultural waste land."
"I was overjoyed when I read this morning's paper," said Jimbawal Hidwara,
local priest of Shiva. "Finally the municipal cud can be chewed and fully digested."
However, members of Big Effeminate
Eaters of Flesh have expressed "outrage"
to the possible banning of all bovine
products, from head cheese to tongue
and kidney.
"It's right there in the FC's manifesto,"
exclaimed Joe "T-bone" Consigliori.
"How the hell am I supposed to get a
good rib roast if this Barb bans beef? I
ONi %tiTh I WW
already have to talk to cousin Vinni
every time I want a good shot of Black
Bear Bile. And believe me, I don't like
talking to cousin Vinni, he gives me the
Local business leaders have been quick
to condemn the new mayor's status on
several key issues.
Bob Smith-Wright of the Downtown
Enterprises Against Theocratic Hypocrisy
was quick to discredit Barb because of
her lack of action on the cleanup project
of Granville Street.
"That cow is a fat, uh cow," said a confused Mr. Smith-Wright. "But on the
bright side, it should be easy to get we
want from this week-willed new council.
It'll be like leading the cows to slaughter,
which can be a lot harder than you
might think because cows weigh almost
two thousand pounds and can have a
real attitude when they feel like it."
Barb dismissed all worries, saying "In
the next four years, I and my fellow FC
councillors will do our darndest to make
Vancouver the best place  in  British
Columbia to live, especially for bovines
of all kinds."
The general public has expressed some
doubt, but in all, most are looking forward to the FC's new policies.
"A cow? Cool," said Bob Renard, a
Whistler based consultant. "She'll make
a great mayor, if only because she's not
human like the last one."
Chuck Carpenter, a plumber from Main
and Fraser, is vehemently opposed to the
idea of a bovine for Vancouver mayor.
"What's the freakin' deal? A cow? If you
can slather it in barbeque sauce and
napalm it into a meal, it ain't supposed
to be in charge of a city!"
Local vegetarians cheer the inauguration of the Barb and the other five FC
councillors, and urge the FC councillors
to increase their stance on the slaughter
of innocent animals, some of whom may
wish to run with the FC in future elections. "Please," stated Valerie Nelson,
spokesman for the vegetarians. "Let us
await the day where we can truly say,
'Where's the beef?'"
Grinch Arrested on
B&.E Charges
Who-villt (Reuters)
The recent rash of home invasions
in Wzo-ville may be over. Police
have apprehended a suspect in a
recent disturbance believed to be a home
invasion in progress. When Wzo-ville
authorities arrived at the residence at
3214 Who-lane, they apprehended a suspect inside the dwelling. He dressed in a
make-shift Santa suit and was allegedly
shoving the family's tree up the chimney
Hector H. Grinch was charged with
Breaking and Entering the next morning
and released on his own recognisance,
mostly due to a rare genetic disorder
causing him to be covered in thick,
dingy green body hair and the use of an
obscure dialect best described as a english spoken in odd verse. His dog Max,
also found on the scene, has been
impounded by the SPCA due to suspicious of abuse and malnourishment.
432 Reporters arrived at Mr. Grinch's
residence when Grinch left to collect
Max from the local SPCA shelter. He
denied being the culprit of the string of
home invasions in the Wfto-lane district,
stating he was hired to do some main-
tainance on their homestead:
"I did not steal gifts from the Whos,
Not trees, or gifts, nor stockings too.
Not the VWzo-pudding, Not the roast
Nor the VWzo-Hash! Nor the Wto-heesh!
And while I was up the chimney shoving the tree,
I was using their ensuite for a late-night
Twas not I, I swear to you and the people through the camera,
Taking X-mas, stealing jewellery, and
impersonating Santa.
Whos were tied up,beaten and gagged,
this much is true,
. But they invited me for an S&M threesome with a Whigalamigalagoo."
A court date has not been set. PAGE TWO
Volume Thirteen
Issue Six
1 December 1999
Bree Baxter
Asistant Editor
John Hallett
Andy Martin
Jake Gray
Printed by
College Printers, Vancouver, BC
Dan Anderson
Bree Baxter
Mike Boestzkes (not)
Jag Dost (not)
Keri Gammon (not)
Jay Garcia
Jake Gray
John Hallett
Andy Martin
Paula Maylin
Trevor Presley
Ajay Puri
Kate Saenko
Mandy Seymour
Sara Stamm
Reka Sztopa
Ben Tippett
Sameer Wahid
Ben Warrington
Laura Yang
Holy Gin, that's a lot of people.
Legal Information
The 432 is published fortnightly from
the basement of the Chemistry Building. The 432 is the official publication
of the Science Undergraduate Society
and science students in general.
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 from each and
every faculty are encouraged to submit
their material to The 432. Submissions
must meet the strict requirements of
making the editor chuckle at least
thrice, and contain the author's name
and contact information.
The 432 would like to take this opportunity to assure its readers that it will
return in the new millenium. Come
hell or high water (literaly!), we will
continue our God-given mission to
entertain the thousands of bored students incarcerated in Chemistry B-
Block. For the greater good.
Outgoing Editor, Eh.
John Hallett
Had it up to HERE!
Well, that's about all she wrote, I
guess. After half a decade of
on-again, off-again relations
with this here rag, I'm going to gracefully take my leave.
Yup, its been a long and illustrious five
years. I had the unequalled privilege of
being involved with this here rag during
the "Golden Years" between Volumes 7
and 11. Heck, for about two years, our
readership was larger than The
Ubyssey's. Hard to believe, eh? If you
want to find out why we were so great,
come by and peruse the archives. It's a
great way to blow a week's worth of
Oh well, I'm sure that no one wants to
gather around and listen to old LJncle
John as he gets misty eyed with fond
memories. I bet you'd rather hear me
express my radical views through a disjointed serious of tirades.
Russell Christmas Ale
This stuff rocks. They have it on tap virtually everywhere now, which is a big
improvement from when the Russell
brothers first started kegging this devil's
brew. Just look for the tap handle with
the Santa cap.
The problem is that the beer is oh, so,
good, and rings in at a whopping 8.5%
alcohol. So take her easy. I remember a
time when Peter Russell showed up on
my doorstep unexpectedly with a keg of
Christmas Ale. He had the most evil
smile in the world on his face as he
explained that "he couldn't sell this keg
and he didn't want to see it go to
waste..." Bastard.
Koerner's Pub
They've made quite a few cool renovations there. Too bad they didn't bring
back the kitchen. Did you know that
Koerner's once had the best cheeseburgers on campus? It's true. Bring that back
and you've got a winner. Well, that and
if they'd start serving Christmas Ale in
pitchers again.
Lap Dogs
These god damned things were bred in
the middle ages to be about as useless as
possible. Give me a break. Dogs hunt.
That is what they do. These things yap
endlessly until you give it a Scobby
Snack, or you kick it. Which you should.
Give me a freaking break! Who in this
day and age needs a stupid gift exchanging holiday to supposedly celebrate a
religion that no one cares about anymore? Jesus Christ, people, who believes
in gods these days, anyway? But noooo,
you can't tell Christians this. They don't
care that their god is little more than a
glorified Zeus. Their religion is different
because they're "right." Primitive
So you think that the world is ending
on New Year's Eve? You think that come
midnight, Jan One, everything will just
stop working? Give me a break! Most
electronic devices don't even care what
day it is. The ones that do were designed
after 1990.
However, let me tell you about something more sinister, something that
might actually happen: "The Bubba
Picture this: come Y2K nothing goes
wrong, but a couple hard drinking good
ole boys careen their pickup into a telephone pole, wiping out power to a nearby neighbourhood. Panicked denizens
all call 911 to report a "Y2K Disaster" at
the same time, which brings down the
phone network, causing more panic, etc.
The whole thing escalates out of control
because the same idiots that still believe
in a god are convinced that the end of
the world will happen Jan One.
This just proves that you can make anything happen if you believe hard
enough. I just have to focus harder on
having sex with Denise Richards.
Editorial Goddess
Bree Baxter
About Damn Time
On behalf of six thousand and five
Science students, it's about damn
time. I've only been slogging way
at this damn rag for four months with
no recognition or fame. I've had to suffer through the threat of a writer's strike,
the mishandling of my finances, a naked
editor, broken computers and no natural
light in my office. And for what? Nothing. At least I now get to say to all the
guys, "Hi, I'm editor of the 432. Want to
go back to my place and see my byline?"
Is this a new brave step in the 432, a step
forward for female editors everywhere?
Am I standing up for the rights of all
journalists with two X chromosomes?
No. No one else wanted the job. I vow to
produce the same high brow crap as
have my predecessors, all twelve years of
I'm glad that is out of the way. Time to
spew off my editorial comments about
happenings on UBC Campus and on life
in general.
John Hallett
Dear old John. He took the time out of
his busy WebCT schedule to come in and
contribute to the 432. Even after he's
stepped down as the Editor, he's still out
here every other weekend, helping out
the greater good. God bless you sir, every
The Ubyssey
Everybody's favourite love-to-hate student organization (the AMS) is at it
again, this time trying to relocate the
Ubyssey out of their space in the top floor
of SUB. In place, the AMS wished to give
the AMS resource groups more space and
more accessibility for anyone who
wished to access a resource. The Ubyssey
is understandably upset. After all, they
get the prime real estate from the AMS,
with whom they have severed ties and
whom they insult,  degrade and mis
quote at every turn, for free. They don't
seem to realize that the AMS could in all
legality kick their left-wing socialist asses
out of the SUB so fast, even their pinko
communist attitudes wouldn't cushion
their fall. Smarten up, guys.
Oh, and don't go around misquoting
Keri. She says actual stuff on a normal
basis that is great fodder for your socialist agenda. Pay attention.
AMS Council
Science has surpassed some arbitrary
number of enrolled students, and we get
another seat on AMS council. Guess
who? Me. Yup, it's me. What does that
mean? Only that I get free food on AMS
Wednesdays. Cheers.
The Underground
Normally, I'm not one to point out plagiarism in a campus publication. But the
Underground has persisted in using artwork from Bill Keane, a relatively well-
known comic, and his comic The Family
Circus. I'd just like to remind the Underground that Bill Keane is a litigious bastard, and he won't hesitate to sue your
lily-white asses. True, he'd be suing the
AMS, your parent organization, but I
don't think the AMS would be too
pleased with you after afore-said libel
Oceanography 308
Most classes in Hebb Theatre really
suck. It's cold, it's loud, and it's early. But
this Oceanography class I'm in is pretty
damn swell. We get to learn about
Gyeres, Swells, Fjords, Tsunamis and
funky assed- deep ocean vents. The
ocean floor is fun. And violent. I'm glad
I live up on land, where the only things
that can get me are earthquakes, volcanoes and Revenue Canada.
Exam Time
Suffering and woe fall upon the land.
Ha ha.
Director of Finance
That's right, we have had yet another
director of the Science Undergraduate
Society resign. Who knew? Better yet,
who cares? Quite honestly, not a bloody
many of you. In fact, it means more to
you to go out and buy the Star Wars CD
you've been meaning to, than who is the
new Director of Finance. It's Jag Dost, by
the way. Third year Computer Science.
Busy bastard. He's got the club budgets
done. Yippee.
Science Clubs
Are you a member of a science club?
Join one. It looks good on a resume and
makes your parents think you actually
give a tinkers-damn about your department. Yeah, right.
Is there anything its caffinated goodness can't do? But it's too damn expensive. Does anyone think that I really
want to pay two dollars for 16 ounces of
its luke-warm coffeeness? No. I live on
campus, and I have a thermos. I'll take
the five minutes out of my morning and
brew my own cup.
It's coming, and despite what James
Bond thought, it only comes once a year.
Thanks for one thing, and the fact that I
don't have to buy gifts for the scuzzy relatives that I have. Or the Secret Santas.
Or the mistletoe. Or the faux-snow.
Curse it all. Let's celebrate the pagan holiday of Solstice. Longest night of the
year, orgiastic sex, and all natural mind-
blowing drugs. Par-tay.
The next deadline for all you aspiring
writers is next year, January 3rd. That's a
Monday, so come back to school prepared. I love you all.
But not like that.
"Ah, the French. The
only people in the
world who can be both
arrogant and cowardly
at the same time.
•Dwight D. Eisenhower. 1 DECEMBER 1999
Road to None   Spay or Neuter?
Jake Gray
On Penicillin since 1965
It was a Thursday, sometime in 1995,1
think. It hadn't stopped raining for
three and a half days and continued
to come down like a smack junky who
hadn't had a fix in twelve hours. I was
feeling under the weather.
I'd been driving for about six hours with
only one stop for gas when I realized
that the radio had stopped working. I
wasn't sure how long I had been without
music, but I was so tired at the time it
could have been anywhere from five
minutes to several hours. I looked over
at the grizelled figure in the passenger
seat. Gord's balding head was being offset by his few days of sparse facial hair.
With eyes closed he looked like a wombat resting gently on the side of the
highway after having its rear end flattened by a large Australian driving a
Land Rover to a rugby match. He must
have been having very very strange
dreams because every once in a while he
would wince terribly just before letting
out a little girlish giggle.
We were somewhere between Portland
and who knows where else when the
headlights began to dim. We had bought
the seventy-five Cadillac Eldorado in
Santa Cal Biero about eighteen hours
earlier from a seedy looking character
known simply as the Burro. He was a
squat fat sweaty man who had a hand
shake like two day dead flounder. He
sold rusty cars inside an old burnt out
novelty pen factory. We knew the forty
seven dollars we spent for the car would
probably go to waste, but we figured if
we could make it further than the bus
would take us for fifty bucks it was worth
So here we were some where on the Oregon coast in a torrential downpour sitting on the side of the old coast highway
in a '75 Cadillac with leather bucket
seats and a dead alternator. Gord woke
up swearing like an Italian at an English
soccer match. He had been asleep for
nearly five hours after having been up
for close to thirty. He was not ready to
re-enter reality. Nor was reality ready to
except Gord back into her warm welcoming bosom. In less than three minutes we were running from the growing
fireball that had previously existed as a
Cadillac. You'd be surprised how hard it
is to hitch hike within sight of a burning
hulk of a car.
When we got back to Vancouver I spent
four days in the hospital with Pneumonia.
I got paid for the first time at my new
job on Thursday. I'm not sure which day
I'll look back on less fondly.
Visit the SUS web site:
or else well visit you
Jack the Nipper
Ben Tippett
In the Sky with Diamonds
on't do that, they told me. Don't do
that! You're feet will freeze off, and
turn black and will get cut off by the
nickernack man with his sawtooth hatchet,
 that he caries in his back pocket for little
boys and occasions like these. The street
was dark, you see, very dark. And it was far from the homeleaving, homecoming,
homegoing time when the streemers came out and the good old boys marched in
the lanes, up and down to tickertape, better spent than on tickers of old lonely men.
As I set off I knew he'd seen me, that nickernack man, with his back pocket hatchet, and his ways of the world. I knew he'd only be three steps behind, and if I looked
I'd see him drool on the precious little toes still held warm by the comforting home
left ten paces back. But he knew he'd have them, that nickernack.
The skies are strange, in the midsummer nighty-days, half between the sun, and the
moon and the ways of the sweet smelling lagoon just beyond sight, and half out of
smell. The captain of the big ship cloud, stood on his bridge and smiled at my street,
in his blue ocean sky, in his blue sky ocean, held down by winds and homegoing
emotion. So he stews and he builds his big ship galleon cloud, and it rests in one
spot and brews up a storm, of blackbottomed evil, smelling like rain, but more like
the bother of a field of mud that should be grass, and ruining the pants of little boys,
late for home and running through. And it's black black black, darker than chicken, and more like a shadow of blue, more like the tastey part of a soul, that hides but
is sweet and filling and rich if bitten, and it builds like a thought, and it makes the
hungry boy-boy's mouth water with waiting, and it leaves boy-boy with a cloud in
his mouth, like a pork bun bought from a merchant with no teeth, but he can't bite
down and learn the illusion, he can't close his teeth and feel the loss. So the captain's cloud sits, and the sun-ship leaves, and the skies burn quiet-sad, and misses it's
love, and runs to the moon, but not before mourning with red passion hue, and the
captain sees' it's now or never, and he lifts his anchor and lets his mountain fall.
But that was summer, and winter's come, and little boys can smell the snow, the ice
in nostril, where the mitten can't go, where the wool mitten would only be covered
and maybe soaked through with yellowinsh pungent soaking good... but the mountain is still in the sky, and it is now grey, not the rainy gray of the spring's carress, or
the showering gray of the autumn's cocky blessing of sleep, but a lighter grey of
promissed snow, and the little boy knows the smell well, and the little boy can hear
the snow fall, three minutes ahead, so close to the ground is the mountain, that he
can't tell it from the sky anymore. And it's cold and it's cold, and his nose turns red
numb, and his fingers are stiff like an old man's fingers around chicken knecks and
hatchet blades, he can't close his fist without a stone inside. He can hear the pitter
patter, the kitten steps, of falling ice art, of pixie kites, old man winter's broken skin.
It muffels his breath the silence is so surrounding loud, it muffels his steps, and he
can still hear the knickernack man behind him, with sharpened jagg-toothed hatchet, waiting for him to slip and cry. Little boy runs.
John Hallett
In the Doghouse
I think that I'm reaching that point in
my life when I need a pet. I know that
there are a lot of people out there
who have had cats or dogs their entire
lives, and that's just sad. You see, pets
perform a function in your life, and that
function changes as you age.
When you're young and impressionable, you need a dog and a cat. The dog
is there to protect your mischeivous little
ass, and the cat is there to provide
amusement through tormenting. Cruel?
No way! Cats love being tormented!
Being teased makes them feel like they're
the center of attention, and cats love
being the centre of attention. So try
sticking a wad of cotton on your cat's
tounge, or putting it in socks. Cats love
After you grow up and mature a bit, you
don't need pets anymore. You shift the
focus of your friendships onto real people. This is why anyone who owns a pet
between the ages of sixteen and twenty-
three is just plain old sad. Get a life, you
No, the next proper phase in your life
for owning pets is the mid to late twenties (Yes, I am that old. Thanks for asking). You see, around that time in your
life you start needing some abject
lessons in responsibility. You slowly
ramp up to a pet cat or dog by owning
plants, and then fish.
Now, I've owned both plants and fish.
And I killed each and every one of those
little bastards. Not on purpose, mind
you, I mean, it's not like I put a school of
tetras in a blender with half a cup of
water and hit "Puree." Nope, I just let
them starve to death, much nicer. Well,
except for when Ted took a chunk out of
Larry. That wasn't so nice.
The great thing about fish is that you
can give them communal names,
because you can't tell one tetra from
another. For instance, all my angel fish
were called Ted, and all my tetra's were
called Larry. So when Larry died, we all
admired the fact that Larry was taking it
well, but Larry was a bit sad because
Larry really looked up to Larry and who
was he going to use as a role model now,
Larry? I don't think so. Sigh. I really am
easily amused.
Anyway, back to my point. You see, fish
and plants don't whimper and shit on
the floor when you forget to feed them.
They don't particularily mind if you bugger off to Vegas for a weekend of drinking and whoring with your buddies.
Cats are different. You piss off your cat
and it might not act mad right then. No
siree, Felix will wait until you're sound
asleep and use your face for a scratching
post. Cats know revenge.
Dogs are even more different. You piss
off a dog and it'll try and take a chunk
out of your leg (except those stupid little
useless dogs, they won't do squat. I'm
talking about real dogs here). The best
part about the dog is that, by the time
you've stopped the bleeding, Rover has
forgotten why he was mad at you and is
now wagging his tail and slobbering out
of his blood stained mouth.
Cats, on the other hand, will continue
to leave little presents in the shower
every morning for a week. The choice is
yours: immediate and severe punishment, or something less dramatic but
more drawn out.
The real purpose for having a pet
around is so that it can act as a sort of life
style mine canary. You see, if I'm at the
bar too much getting sauced, my cat will
be the first to let me know by leaving a
steaming pile of "I love you" under the
covers of my bed.
Of course, I might go on vacation only
to come home and find the little bastard
curled up on the floor dead. Oh well, I
guess that I'll find out soon enough.
I think that I'll name the little son of a
bitch "Metallicat."
Would someone please remind me why no
one has reported this man to the SPCA for
cruelty to frosh readers?
Buy them at the MUGs Cupboard in
room 117 of SUB. Go through the north
end of the cafeteria and then through
>sjhe brown doors! _, PAGE FOUR
Cherry Flavoured Popsicles
Ben Warrington
Closed Box System Analyst
It was a dark and gloomy night . . .
much like any other night in Vancouver. The rain fell gently on the walk
outside my bedroom window, and as I
sat at my computer, I pondered what I
should write for the next issue of the
432. I had written a short piece on Mel
Lastman the night before, but there had
seemed to be no way to flesh it out into
any reasonable length without including
mindless filler. I had not wanted to hand
Bree, who I had let down so much
already, an article that was filled with
brainless tripe even though such fodder
by other writers had made it into print
on occasion. No, I had higher standards.
Those standards probably deserved the
blame for why I had not submitted anything for the previous three issues—that
and my inherent laziness. But now, I felt,
I should make a renewed effort. My disillusionment with school as it
approached the end of a term had made
me discard such useless worries as stress
and sleep even though it appeared I
would miss two assignment deadlines
the next day. It did not matter. Yet
another meaningless deadline had
already come and passed, the one for
submissions to the 432, and I pondered
yet again what to write. Inspiration was
abandoning me, and the siren call of
Minesweeper was becoming relentlessly
stronger. Think! Create! Express! The
quiet darkness seemed to say to me. I am
a goddamned science student, I yelled
back. A physicist, for Christ's sake! I can
solve Schrodinger's equation in three
dimensions, but creative writing? Hah!
How can I write? The night did not
I sat some time longer, now feeling the
twin pulls of solitaire on my computer
and junk food in the kitchen. No, I commanded myself. I must resist the temptation. But, how could one small popsicle
hurt? I whined. Be a man, I said. Come
on, please, I replied. I fought with myself
a while longer until I realised that it
might, after all, be time for a therapist.
The signs were all there. I had apparently zoned out in class a few days earlier
Dumb Assed Easy Contest #3
Congratulations arc in order for our two
contest winners! I lats off to Dan Anderson
and Mike White, proud recipients of VIP
passes to Science Week's Cold Fusion!
\\ inners can collect their prizes in SUS up( >n
the production of a valid CBC student card,
three strands of tinsel, and lunch for the
editor. Any prizes unclaimed as of January
24th, 2000, will 'accidentally1 fiill in the pocket
of the editor.
Leonard S.
Klinck Stone
Next contest: 1 jst the names of the I'bur
Horsemen of the Apocalypse and their
steeds. All entries must be emailed to
bmmuiii^wjnkKhanQCJibc.cabefore the New-
Year. If the world doesn't explode, the
winner will win chocolate.
when the professor of Math 215 had
spent ten minutes handing out our
midterm marks. It had been the first
class allyear that I had gotten to early. I
even had independent confirmation of
my arrival time from Mikey, who had
seen me enter at the same time as he.
Yet, I held no recollection of the
midterms being distributed to the students, nor had I been in possession of
my midterm when I departed the class.
Now, in but a few days, I had progressed
to holding arguments with myself, or
perhaps, the arguments had come first. I
was about to contradict that point to
assert that they were only heated discussions, when the night interrupted once
again. Look at this way, the darkness
seemed to say. Writing is no more arcane
than the Schrodinger equation. The
equation is all symbols and implicit
meanings. Heck, It even looks as though
it were written in mystic runes, whereas
this is only a few words and in English to
boot. What the hell are you talking
about? I shot back. Again there was no
response. Look, I said a little more gently, you are going to have to keep up
here, that was the last paragraph. We
have moved on. The night just shook its
head. Ah, screw you too, I thought. At
least we get mystic runes to convey our
"symbols and implicit meanings."
I finally succumbed to the popsicle - my
third that evening. It was like ecstasy
when I bit into that frozen treat, and I
considered the ingredients. Could it be
that they really were putting ecstasy into
the popsicles - that would sure explain
my apparent addiction to the sugar-
water-on-a-stick - or was it something
new, and how long had they been doing
it? Who, exactly, were "they"? Despite
these disquieting thoughts, I savoured
the cherry flavour. After a time, I finished the popsicle, and still basking in
the afterglow, I returned to writing, or
whatever it was exactly that I had been
doing. My willpower was weakening, I
could tell. I felt as though I were about to
get up from the keyboard once more,
though for what purpose I could not say.
Perhaps it was the popsicle that was controlling me. Perhaps that is what had
caused the blackout in Mathematics. Or
perhaps it was the rain. I know not. . .
Dead Pool
The Reaper
Loves Her Pale Horse
Well, there is good news and
there is bad news. Andy Martin has drawn first blood and is
currently on the throne of death with a
measily nine points. Andy scored this
converted touchdown and a safety when
Walter Payton, described by Andy as
"the best damn running back 'da Bears,
or the world ever saw" kicked off almost
a month ago when his liver took a per-
menant vacation. So there. If that's good
or bad news, I'll let you be the judge.
Other high profile deaths in the news
this past month include those of Greg
Moore, Paul Tracey, and Regis Philbin
(well...we can all hope).
Not many people listed on lists o' doom
have passed away this year. The old bastards are just hanging on by the skin of
their decaying teeth. Boris Yelstin is back
in the hospital with a viral infection.
That's bad news for him, but the good
news for us is that he's in a Russian hospital. Add to that the Chechyn situation,
and he's in a precarious posotion.
And now, a word from our sponsor:
Buy Sudanese Oil!
Because genocide happens!
Back to the program, I have a few
updates supplied by our Assitant Editor,
Andrew Martin: Charles Shultz has
colon cancer, Archbishop Desmond Tutu
may beat out fellow man of the cloth
and perpetual Dead Pool favourite Pope
Jean-Paul II, with his resurfacing cancer
of the trachea, and Richard Pryor, the
inventor of the term 'Muthaf*ka' has
advanced Multiple Sclerosis. So far, no
one has these people on their lists, so it's
a moot point.
Good luck on your exams, and don't
fear the Reaper.
Get Warm
looking for Christmas Presents?
Heading for the Ski Slopes?
Science Sales is
selling gray
sweaters, and
navy and teal
sweatshirts. Each
and every shirt is
with the
Contact Sameer in (hem B16
to purchase Science wear,
0 1 DECEMBER 1999
Hell Boy
Fraulin Maria?
Trevor Presley
Armageddon is upon us. I'm not
talking about the year 2000 problems here; I'm talking about the
dreaded month of December in general.
Y2K has just raised the stakes and added
a little kick to an already hectic month.
The following will be an insight into the
30 days that will be your December hell.
December lst-2nd: The Christmas Season starts at the local department stores.
Get ready for 30 days of people sweating
in rented suits pretending to be Santa.
Parents won't let their kids talk to
strangers yet they force them to sit on
the lap of an unknown person who can't
hold a job down for the other 11 months
of the year. You will also witness several
incidents of fisticuffs break out at various malls over the most valuable commodity this Christmas Season: parking
December 3rd: The last day of classes
arrives and exam start. Your last day of
lecture will be celebrated with fermented
drinks. Your first day of studying for
exams will be celebrated with sleeping in
and watching daytime TV After all, you
have 20 whole days to study for your
December 4th: Hanukah starts. You will
celebrate the arrival of the Jewish holiday by panicking over your exam schedule. Apparently you worship the wrong
God because all five of your exams have
been scheduled for December 7th, which
leaves you about 15 minutes to study for
each exam. You would appeal to your
Faculty Advisor for leniency, but since
you accused him of "falling out of the
stupid tree and hitting every branch on
the way down" at the start of the year
when he screwed up your time table, you
feel this may only make matters worse.
You then declare that you have converted to Judaism and tell your professor
that you need the eight days Hanukah
free of exams to concentrate on your
newfound religion. To test you, the professor asks you if you know anything
about the miracle of the lamp oil and
puzzled you tell him it has something to
do with Pokemon. You do not pass Go
and you do not get any exam time off.
December 5th to 12th: Exams start. You
spend the next week studying diligently,
avoiding all distractions such as sex, TV
and laundry. You pass your first two
December 13th to 21st: After the first
week of studying, you don't give a damn
about any of your exams. You are horny
as a jackrabbit, you have missed an
entire week of Friends and ER and your
clothes smell. You spend the next week
in the laundry-mat hitting on everything that has a pulse. Time not spent
cleaning clothes is time spent scooping
cheese-whiz out of a jar with your finger,
while watching "The Price is Right". You
always nail the cost of the cheese-whiz
jar because you have bought 16 of them
in the last 2 weeks. Your pass your last 3
December 22nd to December 25th: You
spend the next 3 days in shopping Hell.
Tired of standing in checkout lines, you
go to the local drug store and buy everyone on your gift list a box of chocolates.
You have done this so many times
before, your mom could send in all her
Black Magic Proofs of Purchases and fly
to Switzerland.
December 26th: Boxing Day. What a
stupid holiday.
December 31st: Despite all the hype,
you end up at a friend's house with a
whole bunch of people you do not
know. As you watch the timeless Dick
Clark countdown the millennium, you
wonder if there will be any Y2K problems as the clock hits 12:00am. Luckily,
everything has been debugged, except
for the Starbucks coffee machines, which
have a hidden computer chip in them,
which crashes. No one can buy coffee so
Wan-Val-Dez is forced to sell his Donkey
and become a male prostitute.
Happy New-Year!
Paula Maylin
3 JANUARY 2000
Give it to us,
Right Now.
All articles and
cartoons welcome.
Must make the editor
laugh at least thrice
Write about anything,
anything but-that
all contributions must
be submitted by 4:32 pm,
monday january 3rd.
Email to
Far too happy
t last! The last lab of the semester!
The last lab of this year! But NO, it
Lis NOT the last lab of the century,
nor of the millenium. They have to wait
another year. I just hate all those supposedly intelligent people who don't
realize that the turn of the century doesn't occur until the END of 2000. But oh well.
I was celebrating the end of labs. The thing is, I wouldn't want to be taking these
Chem courses if there WASN'T a lab involoved. Imagine having to sit through all
those BORING lectures on metal-ligand complexes and d-orbitals without ANY sort
of practical use for them. Okay, I'll admit that changing a solution's colour from blue
to yellow to orange to purple isn't very practical, but it's fun. Labs are also a very easy
way to raise your mark. Yes, yes, you have to pass the lecture and the lab portions,
but if by some major mistake you end up failing the lecture portion, if you've done ■
reasonably well in the lab, you don't have to take that too (which makes taking a
chem course by correspondance over the summer MUCH easier if you're working...
not that I personally know this of course...). But naturally, this means you're stuck
slogging through all the boring shit you didn't understand in the first place without
the chance for comic relief in annoying the hell out of the TA's... I didn't do it, honest <evil grin>. But even so, it's always a relief to reach the end of the last lab of the
semester. You realize suddenly that hey, next week you CAN go to that bzzr garden
or party that either you're too tired to attend or you simply can't make in time to be
worthwhile. There's nothing worse than hitting a really great party with only half an
hour before it's over. Of course, with the REALLY good parties, you'd better make
sure that it really is over before giving up on it. A friend of mine didn't attend a party
last week because he didn't get back from work until almost 10pm, and since me and
my friends were meeting at 8, he didn't bother calling to find out if it was worth still
coming... and he missed out on an AWESOME party that didn't end until 6:30 am
when the last few people passed out (just about everyone crashed there - such parties are good because it means no one drives home drunk). But I have no idea how I
managed to start talking about the party when I started with chem labs being over...
but oh well.
This marks the single longest paragraph I've ever seen in the 432 since... last issue.
Damn Jay Garcia and his evil hide.
r ^
Fact One: Only passed courses contribute to a final percentage.
Fact Two: Failed courses count towards your registration date.
Fact Three: No one really cares about your Chem 231 grade.
Vacation Time
Dan Anderson
Big Elf
In a startling press release this weekend, it seems Santa Claus has decided
to pursue a new career path. "The possibilities for career advancement were
too limited," Nick said to a room packed
with reporters. "The stock options were
great, but I mean, I was serving over a
billion clients in a 24 hour shift. McDonald's execs, eat your hearts out. The stress
on me in this situation is obvious, especially taking into account the fact that I
always procrastinated until the very last
day, and even then I was often handing
out my assignments past midnight."
Santa has been thinking about going
into computer science, hoping to specialize in middle management, apparently. When asked about why, he replied
with the standard answer. "Well, it's easy
money, and you get to play video games
all day, and you can wear whatever you
want. Personally, for a man of my...
physical stature... it's nice to not have to
wear the same stinking uniform year
after year for once."
The Registrar's Office at UBC confirmed
that Santa had applied to the faculty of
science, but since he did not have the
required prerequisites, they had to send
a letter of rejection. They were considering accepting him on special grounds
prior to his comments this weekend,
when he said, "look, these [expletives]
just have no compassion. Look at me,
I'm an old man, I don't have that many
years left in me. I mean, I had held my
last position since before high school
was a requirement to get an office job.
Dammit. Now I have to go get an education with the same annoying twerps I
had to deal with at my last job."
The Registrar's Office at SFU confirmed
that they had sent Mr. Claus an unconditional acceptance letter with a full
scholarship, and that they had yet to
recieve an answer. When questioned on
the subject, Santa tried to control laughter, presumably at the idea of going to
SFU, and declined to comment on his
There seems to be a slight problem,
however, as his old company Xmas Inc.
now has a glaring labor deficit (albeit of
only one position). Said company public
relations officer Jollie Ehlfe, "This position needs to be filled! There is now a
large gap here, which isn't surprising,
considering his girth. We simply must
restaff before the Christmas rush!"
Xmas Inc. is now looking for an aged
Caucasian male, white hair or willing to
bleach, rosy cheeks or willing to airbrush, consumerist background or willing to pretend, willing to work on a tight
schedule, on a project involving children. Great long-term job security, with
benefits like cookies, milk, and the occasional insomniac NRA member complete
with snares, laser sight, and rare collectable trading card.
PS-I would like to apologize for a lack of
gore and smut in this article. Rest
assured, the original was entitled "Disarm Now", and involved removal of
unneeded appendages, like (gee, no
way!) arms. Ah, well. Maybe it'll be printed next ish. PAGE SIX
Knitting Kneedles
s.yffll   Bree Baxter
f^jj^jg  Good as Gold
I have discovered a new approach to
the nauseating, the disgusting, the
moronic, the stupid, the incomprehensible, the nonsensical, the foolish,
the asinine, the prosaic, the inept, the
obtuse, the offensive, the appalling, the
fetid, the loathsome, the noisome, the
repellent, the backwards, the half-witted,
the imbecilic, the tedious, the balmy, the
dull, the fatuous, the inept, and the
absurd: Laugh at them.
When an individual comes to me and
tells me that they are rtaising the price of
alcohol, I laugh at them. When a person
tells the press that freedom of speech is a
fundamental right, I laugh at them.
When someone points out that my rent
is due today, I laugh at them. When people get upset when they are misquoted
in a left wing pinko publication, I laugh
at both the misquoted and the misquo-
tee. When the pre-med keeners are crying into their non-alcoholic beers at
their scant 62.5% in their organic chemistry class (after sixteen hours of studying, of course), I laugh uproariously.
People can't handle it when they are
laughed at. Anger, they can understand.
Sympathy is probably what they are aim
ing for, but anger is obvious. Laughter
(and other forms of mockery) are harder
to respond to. How do you react when
someone is amused at your offended
sensibilities? Agreement with such a scenario only makes you look like a big
moron. You can't get angry, because you
just look like a big wanker. In fact, there
is no way to respond to the situation. Ha
The above responses are harder to
express, however,when someone is asking me a question that just can't be any
stupider. It takes someone with quite the
set of balls to laugh at a moron with a
question. The most recent application of
this unfortunate axiom I shall attempt to
explain here.
I'm trying to knit a hat. My knitting
skill ranks right up there with my sewing
technique: It sucks and it's slow, but at
least I'm trying. Knitting may have had a
place in the past, before the invention of
the mechanized knitting machines and
polar fleece. The only reason knitting
still exists is to prove to humans that
they should stop playing with pointy
sticks. Stress reliever, my ass.
Before staring to knit, one must select
an item to knit. I selected a hat. A nice,
fuzzy, multi-coloured hat. The instructions seemed easy enough: knit for about
eighty stitches, then continue. Ok, I said.
Sounds good.
Next, it was up to me to selected the
yarn I wanted to knit with. Anyone who
has been in a yarn store (and in this
audience, I'm willing to bet that about
four of you fall into this category) knows
there are yarns that are tight yarns, and
there are yanrs that are loose. Loose
yarns aren't really spun, they're easy to
get your needles in the wrong hole, the
strands of the threads get tangled. Tight
yarns are easy to knit, as long as you can
convince it that you will respect the yarn
in the morning and get it drunk enough.
Like a naive college student, I decided on
the loose yarn. Ohh, it was pretty
coloured and oh so warm.
But it was loose.
I begin to knit. I realize I've turned into
my mother. I cry.
People who have seen me knitting can't
quite grasp the fact that I am, in fact,
knitting. Like the moron who, for simplicity sake, I will refer to as the moron.
"What are you doing?"
Dead silence. "I'm knitting."
"Really? That is so cool! Why?"
More dead silence, accompanied by a
mind-boggled stare. "Because I'm tired of
stapling balls of yarn to my head when
it's cold."
As an aside, I would ask my readers
what they do in a similar situation.
Would you have believed me when I
made the yarn-ball crack? Would one
have trusted me to walk around campus
with multi coloured fiber attached to my
head? No? Good.
The moron I mentioned in this story
did. It was such nonsensical crap that I
was forced to look, point and laugh. The
moron got mad and stormed out. And all
was good.
Until the next time. Some other moron,
who shall also be referred to as a moron,
asked me, "Why are you knitting?"
"Beacuse the sweater came unraveled."
"Oh." Quiet time passes and I con-
tinute to struggle with my loose yarn.
"You're not very good at it."
Kill. I simply wanted to kill. If I were
good at knitting, I wouldn't be wasting
time in this university. "You know, these
needles are very sharp and make holes in
the body that don't bleed much."
Only the threat of violence drive some
morons away. Kind of like those red
Commies. Hey, maybe next time I'll knit
a red hat. Then people will mistake me
for a communist, or Bonhomme.
Damn that Bree, she really needs some
Yes, M'Lord...
\**"*s Jay Garcia
rr •; 7	
v, ka -x Prophet at Arms
If you think about it, Kent Brockman
was right. Democracy just doesn't
work. You have to love any form of
government where a small number of
vastly uninformed yokels can vote in an
even smaller number of power-mad psychotic yahoos who will then turn
around and rule with an iron fist. Case
in point, the municipal elections which
graced our wet and bedraggled city not
long ago. And they call this a representative democracy. The federal elections are
really no better. The issues behind the
elections are so goddamn murky and
clouded and fouled with the thick inky
strings of frightened political rhetoric
that the entire situation seems akin to a
bloated squid bumping against the bottom of the ship of state, to stretch a really bad metaphor to its breaking point.
I figure that in the federal elections,
most people vote based on the direction
and the distance from Manitoba that
they tend to live. Which explains why
British Columbia is so full of freakin'
extremist left wing loons, and why Victoria seems populated by demonstrating,
tree-hugging earthies. It doesn't help
that this country is saddled with multiple political parties, which can (and has)
resulted in majority governments elected by less than half the populace.
Then again, the fact that people can't
get together is some sort of harmony to
work for their own betterment can hardly be pinned on the democratic system.
Squabbling disagreement seems inbuilt
into the very nature of people. If you
need proof of this, you don't have to
look further than the next time a bunch
of people get together to try to order
pizza. If it doesn't devolve into a bloody,
no-holds-barred fistfight over the relative merits of feta cheese over mozzarel-
la, or whether the inclusion of anchovies
or olives is a good thing, then I'll show
you a group of mentally pacified, emotionally-gelded water-headed weaklings
incapable of coming up with either an
opinion or an original thought between
the lot of them, who are only good
either as kindling for the roaring fires
which will keep the rest of us warm in
the long coming winter, or as cannon
fodder for the time this country gets
back its balls and decides to hold a revolution and pacify those damn whiners
over in Quebec. And if you want to see
some really entertaining squabbling,
then check out AMS council chambers
on every other Wednesday. They drink.
Nathan Allen's there. So is the Ubyssey.
Besides, student politics is an exercise
left to either fools or prophets, and there
are damn few prophets these days, not
since Jimi Hendrix died. Then again, if
you really think about it, student politics
is really a wonderful analogy for politics
in the whole. It's loud, messy, fractious,
occasionally rife with scandal, and it fulfils its ultimate purpose of being a distracting smokescreen which pulls attention away from the real power behind
the day-to-day operations of the Student
Society. In our case, the AMS plays right
into the hands of University Senate and
the President's office (loudly though our
politico's might decry this; however,
Martha Piper's over-reaching hand
throws a shadow over us all). In the case
of the federal government, the real
power lies, not in the hands of a Canadian, but rather in that rapidly ossifying
symbol of the faded glory of a once-great
empire, the Queen of England.
You have to really admire the British.
They once had an empire that spanned
the world, and, even when they were
forced by time and popular opinion to
relinquish control over their wayward
colonies, they managed to leave their
monarchistic hooks in every country
that they abandoned. Hell, Australia
recently voted down a motion to replace
the Queen with a homegrown monarch
or other leader-type person. (By-the-by,
have you ever wondered why the sun
never set on the British Empire? It's
because God doesn't trust the British in
the dark.)
Those wacky Brits had it right in the
first place. Screw this "rule by the people" crap. Monarchies, and their more
iron-clad counterpart, tyrannies, are the
way to go. The more you have to rely on
the idiotic voting decisions made by Kle-
tus S. Yokel (who, more than not, lives
smack-dab in the middle of Buttfuck,
Nowhere, where he farms dirt and raises
a scabrous and squabbling horde of
noisy and illiterate progeny), the more
likely it is that big fat grain subsidies get
handed out by Parliament, to the detriment of such "useless" services such as
health care or education which, incidentally, works well to create more morons
of Kletus' ilk.
I mean, face it. All forms of politics are
unfair. Some groups will always have
more freedom and benefits than others
(largely through the rigorous and systematic oppression of said other groups).
Monarchies are just more honest about
this oppression. Those at the top choose
the kinds and numbers of people who
are fit and deserving to serve as their
direct underlings, and thus live in the
lap of luxury (or, at the very least, the
crotch). The rest of the wasters can go
mine for gold or harvest lumber and
build farms in order to support the vast
infrastructure and economic requirements of said monarchy.
The way I figure it, University life is one
of the best ways to prepare oneself for a
life within a feudal system. Frosh are
treated like peons (or gypsies - despised
and unwanted by all save the foolish,
degenerate or desperate), lorded over by
those of higher peerage, the long-time
seniors, TA's, grad students and
untenured instructor-type people. These,
in turn, pledge allegiance to their sponsors, the various lab directors who make
up the body of the tenured professorship. And ranking above even these
august personages are the Department
Heads, Deans, Vice Presidents, and,
finally, at the very top of this unstable
totem-pole of human allegiance, lies
none other than the President herself
(ever notice that the really dangerous
monarch-types tend to be female? The
Queen, Iron Maggie Thatcher, and that
Ghandi chick over in India. It must be
all that estrogen). However, unlike a real
feudal system, there is some level of
advancement possible through the University. To be fair, it's not much of an
advancement, and once past the T.A.
stage, "advancement" seems to be more
of a lateral motion.
The only way to really insure one's
future in such a system is to be, more or
less, the king of hill (for those of you
familiar with the more bloody first person shooters, you have some idea of
what I'm talking about). The more ruthless and evil you are, the more you
oppress the others around you, the better-prepared you will be for life in a feudal system. Of course, in order for this to
happen, we'd have to get rid of this
ridiculous socio-democratic pestilence
that has rooted itself into the very fabric
of our political quilt, as it were. I suggest
a large-area bulk erasure effected by
means of a well-placed nuclear device
somewhere in the Ottawa-Quebec
region. Not only will this rid us of the
drain of resources that are the bloated
parliamentary politicians, but it will
improve the morale of the entire country by eliminating the damnably ugly
infrastructure that dominates these
areas, as well as silencing the more arrogantly whiny members of our population. From there, an absolute monarchy
will be erected in the grand old tradition
of British monarchy, by having prospective candidates try to lop each other's
heads off with great big sharp nasty
swords, winner take all. A line of peerage
will then be established, and this process
will then be repeated, albeit on a smaller
scale and with fewer thermonuclear detonations, on a province-by-province
basis until all are ruled under an iron fist.
Hell, even if this fails, it'll be something
to do over the winter. And in any case,
it's a damn sight more exciting than
watching the Canadian National Curling
Again, remind me why I' m wasting my
time in this backwater? If, as Jay says, I
could rule the world, I had better get cracking. You there, fetch my carriage!
-ed. 1 DECEMBER 1999
The Utensil Drawers of SUS
Mike Boetzkes
Greetings. This isn't Mike, in fact
it's Bree. I threatened these guys
to write an executive report, or
else I would write one in their place. I'm
carrying this threat out.
Mike was elected President a couple of
weeks ago. Since then, he has been diligent in the carrying out of his duties,
consulting with the Science Students,
taking his rightful place on AMS council,
keeping order at the SUS Exec meet-
ings/Bare-knuckled brawls, and keeping
External VP
Mandy Seymour
Hi all, it's Mandy, your faithful
External Vice President. In SUS-
land I am currently organizing
Science Week 2000 with Science clubs.
You can look forward to the following
events in Science Week 2000: Computer Science Car Rally and Beer Garden, a
Trike Race in front of the SUB, Beyond
First Year co-sponsored by the Dean's
Sara Stamm
Hi everybody out there who cares
enough about sports to read this
meaningless report! Anyways,
the latests: Register for Term II League
Sports as soon as possible, because you
run out of time by Jan. 7. Also, if you are
Kate Saenko
First of all, thanks to everyone who
voted for me in the recent election.
And, thanks to everyone who voted
against me: At least you people care
enough to vote!
The other thing I wanted to mention is
the Class Act campaign. Every year, the
graduating class pitches in for a gift to
future generations of UBC students to
Sameer Wahid
[ an error occurred while processing this
Hey there! I'm Sameer, the new SUS
Sales Rep. Although plans to
standardize uniforms and make
everyone wear Science dothing failed
last year, we still intend to sell Science
sweaters, t-shirts and other stuff. New
up with all his class work.
Mike Boetzkes entered this world over
two decades ago. Fighting his way from
his humble beginnings as a chimney
sweep, he entered the cut-throat arena of
UBC Physics Majors. He's so good at it,
in fact, that he's lasted five years, and
there seems to be no end to his reign!
With Mike as our figurehead, there is no
limit to the heights we can reach. Mike is
willing to go to the mat for each and
every Science student, especially the cute
female ones.
If you need to talk to him, wander into
SUS and we'll point him out. He's the tall
Office, the Physsoc Paper Airplane contest, the Chemistry Magic Show and club
displays in the SUB. Mikey is currently
working on our Cold Fusion concert for
Friday, Jan.28th in the SUB Ballroom.
Should be kick-ass.
Also, your SUS reps will be working hard
for you tonight, trying to stay awake at
our six hour long AMS meeting (joy).
Anyways, see you around, and as always
if you have any concerns about
SUS/AMS/UBC Science, please email me
at aseymour@interchange.ubc.ca
giving me sports rebates, I NEED A
COPY OF YOUR RECEIPT AND CONTACT INFO!!!!!!! I have way too many
people give me nothing but a registration form, and I can't do anything with
that! So, as a point of information; if you
want money, I need a receipt.
Other than that, nothing else to say,
Have a Very Merry Christmas and a
Happy New Year.
Ciao for now.
come. Past gifts included workstations
and social space. This year, as usual,
we're looking for volunteers to help collect $$$ that will be matched by the
Dean and could even triple, if every
graduating student contributes. So,
come on, Y2K grads, you lucky bastards,
help a good cause! All you'll need to do
is phone a few grads in your class. At the
end, you'll receive a reference letter from
the Dean of Science.
That's it for me. Carry on..
items this year will be Science coffee
mugs, and we're bringing back the Science patches. If you have any ideas for
new Science products, come into SUS
and let me know about it, or throw a
note in my box. Also, look by the water
cooler for signup sheets for new stuff!
Good luck with your finals!!
As a quick note, I'm pushing for the Science Coffee Mugs. I need coffee, and I can't
stand those stupid Styrofoam cups. I'm getting cancer,
Internal Vice
Reka Sztopa
Hello there everyone. The Science
Councilors all went on a retreat
to Whistler and we did a lot of
thinking and talking about SUS's image
and what we can do to improve it. We
have struck a committee to deal with the
issue so stay tuned for some cool things
coming from Science council.
Also, on Wednesday we had our annual
Science Wine and Cheese. There were
quite a few professors and people from
the Dean's Office as well as many old
and new students. Thanks to everyone
who came for making the Wine and
Cheese a successful event.
Keri Gammon
Bree again. I also warned Keri, but
she's been a very busy girl with her
physiology lab due and the general
wackiness of life. I'll be generous and
nice to the girl.
Keri Gammon is also a member of the
Science contingent to the AMS Council.
With Mike, Mandy, Sara and myself, she
stayed awake until the end of the last
meeting. Why? Because she cares about
you, the UBC Science Student.
Jag Dost
Last time, I promise. Jag is another
person who I warned, but he's new
so I'll let him live. For those of you
who don't know, Jag is the new Director
of Finance for the Science Undergraduate Society. Why? Because the last one
quit. That's right, he quit. So we voted in
Jag and there you go.
Jag finished the club budgets recently.
One meeting, three hours, and about ten
number crunchers later, the clubs will
Ajay Puri
Hey all you dung poo! I am the
new Soco, yes my plan to take
over this shitty planet is proceeding as planned. Anyway back to business. As the new Soco I am determined
to get everyone somehow involved
socially in the SUS! We'll have kick ass
parties and bzzr gardens. Nothing has
been done yet, but soon it'll be all
GOOD! Some of things which are going
to be planned are: Cold Fusion (are kick
ass concert in January), Bzzr Garden (on
March 10), Movie nites (starting in term
2 in the SUS) and of course the X-mas
Our Elections are over. Our new President is Mike Boetzkes, our Public Relations Officer is Kate Saenko and our new
Social Coordinator is Ajay Puri. Congratulations to everyone!!! Take a look at the
SUS website for all of our council members and their contact info.
Right now the First Year Committee is
working on our First Year Dance. The
theme is Electric Circus and the dance is
on Friday December 3rd at 8:00pm in
International House. Tickets are $5 and
can be bought from the MUGs Cupboard
which is room 117 in SUB. Go through
the north end of the cafeteria and
through the brown metal doors right
into the Cupboard!
Okay.That's all for now. Have a great last
two weeks of school and good luck on
your finals.
In addition to staying awake at AMS,
Keri organised SUS's Coffee and Donut
morning last week, with all proceeds to
the United Way. It was great fun. I
almost broke the big coffee maker. And a
big whoohoo to Tim Horton's, from
whom we bought the donuts. (As an
aside, is it supposed to be 'donut' or
'doughnut'? I've never been able to tell,
eh) I wish I had the numbers, but I don't
right now. We'll post them in SUS so you
can see how cool it is to buy donuts and
coffee for UWay.
Lastly, I will now quote Ms. Gammon in
full and complete context, unlike the
Ubyssey: "Jerk."
get their money damn soon. I looked at
the numbers. All the clubs together get
ten thousand dollars. Wow. I want to be
a Science club.
lag's Bio: lag's a cool man. He's in Comp
Sci, he has a cool job at a local electronics store, and he has a well-developed
sense of style. His choice of clothing is
always well thought out and colour
coordinated. No green leather pants for
him, no sirree.
Okay, if you need any financial advice,
don't ask Jag. If you do feel the need to
get involved in SUS Budget Committee,
come into SUS and ask for Jag.
party happening tomorrow (Thursday,
Dec. 2 1999)!!! Everyone is welcome to
come and encouraged. What's happening at this X-mas party?? Well, we'll
make eggnog, drink, exchange presents
and have a bitchin' Santa (hopefully not
drunk!)... and cover is really cheap! Anyway that's my report, until next time,
stay sober ands^MHH^Oh yeah, and
► wants to tell all that when he
ie thinks of you., yeah you,
It's always the quiet ones. Anyway, you
may have noticed the large black marks
over the exec report of one Ajay Puri. This
is to prevent Ajay's impeachemnt and a
libel suit.
Are you
I* I mean, really desperate?
•Want to represent your department to SUS Council?
•Have Thursdays 1:30-2:30 pm free?
•Enjoy people you don't know yelling at each other?
Are you ill Geography, Geology, Physics or Computer Science?
Come into SUS (Chem B160) and talk to Reka!
And may God have mercy upon your soul..* PAGE EIGHT
Why Tuque, eh?
Andy Martin
The Fifth Horseman
The end of an era, the close of a
thousand long years and the gate
to a new age. The next millennia
stretches prone before us like a woman
... beguiling, seductive, eternal ... it's
coming a momentous occasion for all
What complete and utter bullshit. Hey
everybody, I don't know if anybody's
told you this yet, but it's a fucking NUMBER! It's a number some dumb-ass monk
came up with trying to estimate the time
since Christ had been born between His
daily routines of praying, cleansing and
shagging altar boys. And we all know
how accurate religious leaders are. When
even Jerry Falwell starts most of his sermons with 'Well, if you look at it this
way' you begin to doubt the holy
Monks and priests were students from a
faculty that requires even less accuracy
than fine arts. And hell, I've been part of
scientific studies where +/-25% is an
acceptable margin of error. Western religion expects us to believe that 4.6 billion
years happened over 6 days. After that
was shot down in a flaming mass of
logic, they come up with something
along the lines of 'Well, if you take a day
as symbolising a hundred million years,
it's kind of right". Hey, yeah, just like
Methuselah really did live to be 969
years old, and all his family are said to
have lived to 962 Oared), 910 (Kenan),
and 950 years old (Noah. Hey, a name
you recognise! Thank God for the Irish
"Well, if you take a year as meaning a
Shut up.
Even if monkman is right, it's not like
Christ is up in heaven looking at His
wristwatch. Did he ever promise to be
back at 2000? No. Nowhere in the Bible
does he say 'Me and the horsemen will
be back in Nineteen Hundred and Sixty-
eight years...sharp'. Which time zone is
he going by? I'd feel just a little cheated
if the apocalypse fell on midnight Australian time. Of course, if he does come
around, he'll be the hit of the party. I
know I'd schmooze with him. Think of
who you really want to be your best
buddy right about now. Not only is he
deciding your eternal fate and that of
your ex-girlfriend, but I'm pretty sure
that water-wine trick could be used for a
massive post-apocalyptic kegger. Mmm
... Christ Cream Ale.
Heck, you've got to do something while
waiting in the judgement line up, and
it's gonna be one heck of a line up. Six
billion people on earth, and the billions
that came before us. Take a number. And
if the holy judges are as efficient as most
governing agencies that I've had to deal
with, you can pretty much write off the
next two millennia, waiting in line. And
when you finally get to the front,
Gabriel leafs through the nominal roll
(a.k.a. roll of the living) and:
"Hmm...your name doesn't seem to be
on the list, are you sure you're a human
soul? Well, I'm sorry, but if your name
isn't here, there's not much we can do
for you. So it's bye-bye for you."
But that won't happen, I'm sure God
has His affairs in order. After only a few
years of waiting I'll be brought before His
holy council to receive judgement:
"Hmm...well, lets see the case against
you: You went to church as a kid. That's
good. But you stopped."
"Erm, is that bad?"
"Not really, I'm fine with you worshipping me in your own way."
"You see. That's what I've been..."
"I'm talking here."
"You've dedicated your life to healing
the world ... however, you've eaten meat
from a cloven hoof and bottom-
"Pepperoni pizza and lobster. I told you
not to eat those. You don't listen very
well, do you?"
"Sorry, but my church says..."
"Do you believe everything you hear?
Christ Almighty...Sorry,  son. Moving
right along, let's look at your music collection: Tsk. Rob Zombie, Monster Magnet. Dear me, several Nine Inch Nails
albums. And you keep a Pantera album
hidden in your sock drawer. Then, in
1997, did you not made the devil sign at
a MetallicA concert?"
"Oh yeah, that."
"But, you have never listened to Slayer,
Michael Bolton, or Marilyn Manson, so
you only get three naughty stars out of a
possible five"
"Uh... thanks."
"You have frequent problems with alcohol. I witnessed that escapade in the
nursing home 'Captain Pantless'."
"Hoo, hoo."
"Then you made fun of Me and My Son
in your past three articles in your silly
little paper, which the Holy Ghost usually quite enjoys."
"Heh. I thought you'd have a sense of
"Listen, I've been judging humankind
for three straight years here, and looking
at that line, it'll be another ten until I get
back to paradise. I just judged Jimmy
Swaggart and had to listen to that 'Please
forgive me' whining shit all over again
before sending him to hell. Do I look like
I have a sense of humor today?"
"No Sir."
"Good. Well let's get on with this:-¥e»
"... urk. Well, doesn't everybody?"
Shepherd is God'? This, not two weeks
from proclaiming Bobby Orr as your lord
and maker? Do you not understand the
definition of idolatry?"
"This isn't going well at all, is it?"
"Nope. How do you plead?"
"Not Guilty."
"I find you guilty."
But that ain't gonna happen. No apocalypse, no Y2K bug. The worst thing that's
gonna happen is that all those checks
and forms labeled 19 are going to be
useless computer geeks and cults around
the world are gonna be really upset
about nothing happening. Then they'll
struggle for dignity by saying that really
bad stuff will happen on 2001, which is
officially the start of the next millennia,
but the number's ugly. 2001 just doesn't
have the same roundness or mystique
that 2E3 has. 2000's just a real cool looking number altogether. The last real cool
looking number was 1969. Everything's
so round and smooth. And great shit
happened that year. Man landed on the
moon...the fucking moon! Hippies went
to Woodstock, rocked out and invented
venereal disease. It was the last gasp
before the seventies hit us. And what did
the seventies bring us? The end of the
Beatles, Nixon, Kiss, my birth, and all
sorts of other signs of impending
destruction. Maybe there is something
to all this.
-i H*ea« yea REALLY     Nah.
masturbate...like a lot."
"Could wo not bring this up? There's a
really hot chick right behind mo in line,
she might hear y..."
"[Yelling] You onco masturbated so hard
you forgot to breathe, turned blue and
your mom had to come in and sock you
one! You wore probably going at it just
outside the doors before we lot you in
the way you carry on!"
"Well, it's not my fault. At least I didn't
lay with—anything freaky—'■€&—with
woman'y and don't think I didn't have
the chanco!"
"Oh como off it. And then, on November 8th, 1998, 15:23:48 to 15:23:49
(PST), did you not preach: 'Kenny Wayne
But, I know people are idiots, I know
that there are a hell of a lot of freaks out
there. And I know how easy it is to
smuggle a warhead out of Russia and use
it for some cockamamie scheme to get
J.H.C. down here to fit with their manifestos. So I'm spending New Years up
Mount Baker and will welcome this new
age facing Vancouver with my arms in
the air, 'Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows...' blasting from my rented Hummer's stereo, and the maniacal glint in
my eye that comes only from the knowledge that I'll be one of the few remaining
men left for the breeding program after
the cult bomb takes you all out.
See you on the other side...
"Makes Hannukah look like a latke
-New York Post
"Nail my ass to a cross and call me
-Post mortem Gene Siske\
"Best Holiday since Thanksgiving."
-Dave Barry
"Is Christmas truly a celebration of
Christ or an atempt to retrace that
which we have lost through years
of diluted mysticism?"
-IS. Eliot
-Marv Albert


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