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The 432 Mar 28, 1994

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Array The theoretical breadth which is gained by
Q£  having many humanities subjects on campus   ||
^^  is offset by the general dopiness of the people ^^
who take such programs.
Richard P Feynman
Nobel Laureate in Physics
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Kevin Phillips Bong
Roving Correspondent
WASHINGTON, D.C. - The
political world of Washington
was set on its ear Friday as local
boy Bill Dobie, currently serving
his second term as President of
the Alma Mater Society of UBC,
announced his intention to pursue the American presidency in
the 1996 election.
The big story of the day, however, was Dobie's choice of running mate - none other than
former U.S. President Richard
Nixon. Rumours about the possible alliance had been flying
around Capitol Hill social circles for quite some time, but the
official announcement
nonetheless caught Washington
completely by surprise.
Dobie and Nixon intend to
pursue the nomination for leadership of the Republican Party,
cidng support from the conservative right and Middle America
alike. "We're very confident in
our support base, and we're
looking forward to victory in
1996," said a jubilant Dobie at a
GOP news conference Saturday.
"America is ready for the kind
of leadership balance that Mr.
Nixon and I can offer to the
people. Besides, Bob Dole's just
too damned boring to be
President, and if Quayle even
tries to get near the primaries,
well, we've got a surprise or two
for him..."
Nixon's return to national
politics is an event that will be
the centre of discussion for
some time to come. Twenty
years after the Watergate scandal forced him into resignation,
the former President feels that
his time to return has finally
come.
Dobie, Nixon
Declare for '96
"I've maintained from the
start that I would return one
day... oh, never mind;
Macarthur said that, didn't he?
Anyway, we're looking very
much forward to taking the '96
GOP convention by storm.
Atlanta is a great town, and we
should come away with a good
load of medals. What I'm curious about is when they made
that 'Whatzit' the Republican
mascot. I thought it was an elephant..."
As for their potential choices
for top government posts,
Dobie supported a return to seasoned veterans of previous
administrations. "I think bringing back Gordon Liddy as
White House Chief of Staff is a
great idea. It wouldn't have
worked in '92, though... he
probably would have eaten
Socks."
Along those lines, Nixon
added that "we'd also like to
send Spiro Agnew back to
China. Hopefully, this time he'll
stay there."
The Dobie - Nixon campaign
is being bankrolled at present
by an unnamed Tennessee billionaire (pictured above, at
right). Wheri approached by
reporters with questions concerning the mystery benefactor,
Dobie simply said that he had
"left the "building" and was
declining comment.
In related news, the Dobie -
Nixon announcement prompted a flurry of activity on the
NYSE. Of particular note was
Maryland Security and
Surveillance, Inc., a Baltimore-
based company specializing in
sophisticated listening devices
and surveillance equipment,
which enjoyed a jump in its
stock from 43 cents to $78.25
per share.
The Year in Review
Sarah Thornton
Outgoing Prez
As this is my last article, I
think that I can indulge
in reminiscing... it all
started back in 1972, when my
mum and dad decided one kid
just wasn't enough. Oh! That's
not what I meant. It all started
last April 1st, when I took over
as president. That first meeting
was fun! Then we started on
plans for the year. The Guide
went well, and was mailed out
to all Science students in June.
In August, we conducted the
First Year Phone Campaign
with the Faculty of Science,
calling around 1100 first years!
By the end of the summer,
we had already lost one executive to a Dean's Vacation. So
we needed to find a new PRO.
The first week of classes saw a
Beer Garden and a BBQ. Then
the relatively successful YD
elections happened, along with
the PRO re-elections. Keith
began his term as PRO-II.
October brought a successful
dance with Rumplesteelskin,
and our council turnover and
wine and cheese. We received
tickets to all the Science,
Technology and Society lectures at the Orpheum, and 400
people got to go to the Jean-
Michel Cousteau lecture! We
established a bursary in the
memory of Martin Frauendorf.
Then came the Semi-
Remembrance Day beer garden. We got a new computer
in December, and fixed up
Little Beeper (the baby Mac).
So there's now three computers
for everyone's use. The
Vancouver Recital Society contacted us to see if we could
help with advertising for their
recital series.
The 2nd annual Christmas
party was a wonderful success,
and we had a wonderful tree!
Science Week came and went
in a rapid hurry — and it was
even more successful than last
year's (I must admit). Karaoke
night went well, and the first
ever First Years' dance went
not quite as well. But they
learned some valuable lessons.
Oops, forgot. Back in
January we appointed PRO-III,
Blair, as Keith was lost over
Christmas. Then February also
saw the Exec elections. Windy
March heralded the AGM,
some fundamental constitutional changes, the Class Act
campaign, and the Penultimate
Class Bash. Of course, I've forgotten the Intramural Triple
Crown that we participated in.
We made a respectable showing in the Arts 20, the Day of
the Longboat, and Storm the
Wall. And next year ...
f'fr&<\i.-\ *
f'„SPHl-S5« i. \W
"He had ten." Campus Wars
"T%ack in CHEM 160, plans
r^for the final assault are
J~J underway.
Rebel:   The new SUB has
grenade proof windows,
so our old plan will not
work. However, we
believe that a single car
can penetrate the steam
system underneath the
SUB. There it will
destroy the main junction, cutting off the
Ubyssey from its supply
of hot air. Without the
expansionary forces of
the hot air, the Ubyssey
offices will undergo
gravitational collapse
into a mass so dense,
not even sadomasochistic, self-mutilating vegetable sex stories can escape. General
Granto will lead this
attack. I will now turn
things over to Admiral
Squid Head—I mean,
Ackbar.
Ackbar: The SUB is not
without its defenses. It
is protected by a politically correctness field
generated from the forest of Clayoquot. We
have a stolen a parking
and security van, which
will penetrate the forest
and destroy the generator. General Solo and
his friends have volunteered for this mission.
A few minutes later in the
CHEM parking lot:
Solo: I mean it. Take the
Aluminum Pinto. She's
the fastest car here.
Granto: Thanks. She won't
get a scratch.
Solo: Not a scratch. And
fill her up afterwards.
Hours later, Solo et. al. sneak
past the Ubyssey blockade at
Clayoquot sound. There Luke
DETTLEBACH
senses the presence of Vader,
aboard his limo. Vader, also
sensing something returns to
report to the Editor.
Vader:   A small group of
Science students have
entered Clayoquot.
Editor:   I know.
Vader:   My son is with
them.
Editor:   Are you sure?
Vader:   I have felt him.
Editor:   Strange that I have
not.
Vader: Some things are
best kept within the
family.
Editor:   I hope you are clear
on this, Vader. Soon he
will come to you, and
then you must bring
him to me. Only together can we turn him to
the Arts side.
Back in Clayoquot, our friends
have run into a few protesters.
Solo:     Wait here. Chewie
and I'll take them out.
Leah:     If they report us,
this whole party'll be
for nothing.
Solo:     Then we'll do it real
quiet like...
Solo then proceeds to step on a
squirrel. The resulting melee
causes the two protesters to
hop on their mountain bikes
and take off. Chewie throws a
rock and hits a protester on the
head, (which is unprotected
since bike helmets are made of
ozone-destroying polystyrene)
Leah grabs the fallen protester's bike and chases the other.
A few kilometers down the
trail, they are both beaten
senseless by militant hikers.
is proudly produced on machines
that feature
Ask for them by name at
your friendly local computer dealer!
Soon a logger appears and
pokes Leah with a chainsaw.
Leah:     Hey, cut that out.
The logger cringes in fear, but
then approaches as Leah offers
a twinkie. Suddenly, gunfire
rings out. Leah and the logger
dive behind a log for cover. A
protester manages to sneak up
and captures Leah. The logger
swings his chainsaw hitting
the protester in the knee. The
logger then claims that Leah
knew about it from the start.
The US Olympic committee
threatens to throw Leah from
the team, but then backs
down. It is then realized that
Leah was not even on the US
skating team in the first place.
In the confusion, she and the
logger escape back to the logger's camp. Luke and the others eventually meet up with
Leah and the loggers and a
tentative alliance is made.
That night, Luke reveals his
secret to Leah.
Luke:     Vader is here, in
this forest. He can tell
when I'm near, and he's
my father.
Leah:     Oh, no!
Luke:     Oh, right. Your my
sister.
Leah:     Uh oh. Luke, if he
can sense you, then run,
get away from here.
Luke:     I can't. There's still
science in him.
Luke then turns himself over to
Vader at the generator base.
Luke:     Hello, father.
Vader:   You have accepted
the truth. I see that you
have constructed a new
slide rule. Your skills are
now complete. The
Editor will be pleased.
Luke:     You can't do this.
Search your feelings.
Vader:   Your weight over
your volume.
Luke:     What?
Vader:   It is your density.
Luke:     You see, there is
still science in you.
Vader:   Dobiewan once felt
as you do, young, firm. I
must obey my master.
With that, Luke and Vader
drive back to the SUB.
Meanwhile, the Rebels and loggers begin their attack.
Solo:     There's only four of
them.
Leah:     It only takes one to
sound the alarm.
HYSO:   Oh, my. I'm afraid
that our logger friend
has gone and done
something rather rash.
Leah:     Oh, no. So much
for our surprise attack.
The sound of a chainsaw is
heard. A 4000 year old tree
then falls, crushing the protesters beneath. As Drum and his
group rush into the building,
Granto's force arrives at the
SUB, only to find the shield
still up. They engage the campus security forces in a fierce
battle. At the same time, Luke
is brought before the Editor.
Editor:   From here, you will
witness the end of your
pitiful science rebellion.
Your friends in
Clayoquot are doomed.
An entire legion of my
best protesters await.
You, like your father are
now mine.
Luke, unable to control his
rage, leaps at the editor. Vader
blocks his strike and the fight
is on. Meanwhile, back at the
ranch, uh forest:
Solo:     Hand me another
charge... Uh, say, where
did all these protesters
come from?
Protester: You Rebel
scum... What is that
noise? Sounds like a
chainsaw.
Soon, the entire area is overrun
with loggers wielding chain-
saws. While the loggers make
sushi out of the protesters. Solo
and Leah try to get back into
the generator base. Just then, a
logger, cutting down a tree to
crush some protesters, hits a
tree spike. The chainsaw
explodes and a splinter of
metal hits Leah in the shoulder. Solo checks, and to his
relief finds that she is all right.
Solo:      I love you.
Leah: Really? Cause I was
thinking, we really only
need a small ceremony,
just a few friends and...
Leah rushes over and pushes
Solo out of the way of a falling
tree that he had put himself
under, denying him a quick
and painless death. Soon the
team manages to destroy the
generator. With the shield
down, Granto maneuvers the
Pinto into the steam tunnels as
Luke and Vader continue the
fight.
Editor:   Good, good. Your
anger has made you
powerful. Now release
your hatred and your
journey towards the
Arts side will be complete.
Luke:     (lowing his slide rule)
I will not fight you,
father. Hey, behind you,
it's Elvis!
Vader, falling for this age old
ploy, turns to look as Luke
ducks into the shadows.
Vader:   Luke, give yourself
to the Arts side. It is the
only way you can save
your friends. Yes, your
feelings are strong from
especially for....
Luke:     {Don't think sister.
Don't think sister.}
Vader:   ...your sister. You
have a twin sister.
Luke:     Dohl
Vader:   Dobiewan was right
to hide her from me.
Now his failure is complete. If you will not
turn, perhaps she will.
Luke:     Noooooooo!!!!!
Seized by an insane fury, Luke
batters down Vader's defenses
until his final strike severs
Vader's hand.
Luke:    Just be glad I'm not
named Lorena.
Editor:   Now, kill him and
take your father's place
at my side.
Luke:     No, you've failed.
I'm an Alumni. Like my
father before me.
Editor:  So be it, Alumni. If
you will not turn, you
will be destroyed.
Reaching behind his back, the
Editor pulls out a taser and
fires it at Luke, pumping
50,000 volts into the young
Alumni. Vader, remembering
that V = 1* R, realizes the
danger Luke is in. Pulling the
wires from Luke, Vader then
picks up the Editor and tosses
him down the conveniently
placed open elevator shaft.
Down in the steam tunnels.
Granto reaches his goal. He
rams the steam junction,
wrecking it and the Pinto. He
is forced to flee on foot as the
Ubyssey offices begin to undergo gravitational collapse. Up
above, Luke struggles with
Vader, trying to get him into a
campus security van. Vader:
Luke, help me get this mask
off.
Luke:     But, you'll die.
Vader:   Nothing can stop
that now. For once, I
want to look at you
with my own eyes.
Luke reaches down and
removes the mask revealing old
Mr. Cranston, the amusement
park owner.
Vader:   I would've gotten
away with it too, if it
hadn't been for those
kids and that damn
wookie.
Well, that pretty well wraps it
up. Luke and Leah seek counseling and spend several years
in therapy. Drum and Leah get
hitched. Granto spends the
next five years paying off the
Pinto. With the help of the loggers, Clayoquot sound gets
changed into overflow parking
for UBC. Dobiewan takes over
the leadership of the Tories
and manages to double the
amount of seats the party has
in parliament. And the surviving members of the Ubyssey go
on to work for the Province
and other fine tabloids.
And as for me, well I only
matched 3 out of 6 of the
Editor's numbers, so it looks
like I'll be working for a living.
Anyway, this is it folks. The
last of my stories. Several people have promised to kill me if
I do Campus Trek, and anyhow, I should be graduating
this spring. So, take care and
may the Force be with you, but
beware the Arts side.
The End
(ed. whew!) UM
Volume 7, Number 12
28 March 1994
Ryan McCuaig
One foot in the grave.
Graeme Kennedy
Blair McDonald
Roger Watts
Holding the shovels.
Contributors
Leona Adams
Steve Coleman
Kevan Dettlebach
John Hallett
Derek K. Miller
Jamie Morris
Sarah Thornton
Lynn van Rhijn
Chris Woods
Laurie Yee
Delwin Yung
 Art	
Roger Watts
Layout
Graeme Kennedy
Ryan McCuaig
Blair McDonald
Distribution
Keebler's Elves Local 34
Printing
College Printers,
Vancouver, $C
The 432 is published by
the Society for the
Drinking of Coagulated
Ales. Opinions
expressed within are
those of the authors,
not of the SUS, the
oppressive AMS, or the
University guys who
always wear suits.
Since this is the,last
issue, we're not going
to bother asking for
anymore articles. A pox
on anyone who always
meant to submit something, but never got
around to it You'll just
have to wait for the first
issue in September.
Here's a sincere thank.
you to everyone out
there, no matter which
faculty you're in, for all
the support you've
shown by reading this
paper. If no one bothered to read The 432,
we wouldn't have the
chance to exercise our
new mind control techniques. Thanks.
Just a quick note about
that stereogram we
printed last week. There
was absolutely nothing
in it. No pandas, broken
glasses, or Elvis. Anyone
who actually thought
they saw something
should get their eyes
checked. Haha.
/Jf*? MANAGER WANTED
y^yr        Do you have years of Are you alive?
/* experience in the
retail sales industry?
YES
NO
YES
NO
Apply to SUS.
j
SCIENCE
UBC
I     t
Dik Miller, Rock Cod
Ah yes, another fine
school year draws to a
close, and with it the
season for parking attendants. (No, no, not the
hunting season, the employment season.) With fewer
people parking and the construction of new residences
on old parking lots, I knew
that my days in the job,
since I was low on the
seniority list, were numbered.
Unfortunately, I have held
virtually every other non-
academic job at the
University over the past five
or six years, as well as a few
which didn't exist before I
took them, so the range of
options was pretty narrow.
The chances that I could
scam my way to convincing
an appointment committee
that I was a fully qualified
professor were damn slim.
I was walking along disconsolately pondering my
fate, heading toward SUB
from the Bookstore, where I
had just purchased a
replacement for my Dik
Miller™ pen/javelin/mini-
vacuum. (The replacement,
however, was merely a pen.)
I was looking down at my
feet and shuffling like a man
unsure of where his next
paycheque would come
from - which was precisely
true.
On my Walkman was
Wagner's Lohengrin, as interpreted by the Royal Scottish
Highlands Bagpipe
Ensemble. I always found it
inspiring, if a bit odd. I was
swaying slightly to the
music as I walked, and soon
I found myself swaying right
into someone's left shoulder, throwing my head
phones off.
"Hey!" shouted the sway-
ee.
"Sorry," I mumbled, looking up.
I realized that I had just
stumbled into the bass guitarist of a band playing outdoors on the SUB Plaza,
interrupting them in mid-
song. I really should watch
where I'm going.
"You really should watch
where you're going, bucko,"
said the bassist from underneath his long mane of
dark, over-permed hair.
"I said I was sorry."
"Sony's not quite good
enough, man. You banged
into me just as I was reaching the climax of my bass
solo in 'Lick My Love
Pump'."
"What a tragedy," I dead-
panned.
"Why you little..." he
began, lunging at me.
I backed off quickly, not
wanting to let the situation
get out of hand. He came
after me. I trotted. He
moved faster. I broke into a
reverse run, then dodged to
the side.
The bassist ran right past
me and pitched himself over
the edge of the guardrail,
plummeting down into the
courtyard of the Pendulum
restaurant.
"Aaaagh!" he shouted.
"My arm! I've broken my
bloody arm!"
I thought quickly. How
could I rescue the situation?
Running over to the rest
of the band, who were still
standing somewhat
stunned, I grabbed the
man's bass guitar and
IB"-
MILLER
strapped it on.
"'Lick My Love Pump,'
from where you left off!" I
shouted. "One, two, three,
four..."
The twelve years of classical cello training in my
youth, combined with overexposure to heavy metal
music in my reactionary
teens, along with the dexterity I had gained from handling cash in the parking
attendant booths, all came
in handy as I swept into a
wicked bass solo.
I did Van Halen double-
handed string tapping, wild
neck bends, wacko string
scrapes, rumbling post-Yes
art-rock noodlings, and
threw in an excerpt of
Lohengrin I had just been listening to, but transposed
down an octave to fit on the
bass. For good measure, I
finished off with two bars of
"Wild Thing" by the Troggs.
I got a standing ovation.
Afterward, when the gear
was being packed up and
the original bassist packed
off to hospital, the lead guitarist approached me.
"Hey, man," he said.
"Hey...er...man," I replied.
"I guess we'll be needing a
new bass player since you
sent our old guy on that
harsh fall."
"Well, yeah, I guess you
will, but are you sure you
want me? I mean, I'm the
y who did him in."
"Just between you and
me," he whispered, "he was
pretty big weenie anyway."
I smiled. "Actually, I've
been looking for a job."
"Cool. One thing,
though."
"Yeah."
"You gotta have cool
hair."
I pulled off my fedora hat
to reveal a completely neutral, medium-short generic
conservative haircut. "How
about this?"
"No way, Jose."
I frowned. "You're not
going to make me get a
mohawk or something, are
you?"
"Now there's a cool idea,"
he smirked. "What's your
name anyway?"
"Dik Miller, Parking
, Atten-1 mean, Dik Miller,
Rock God."
"Well, Mr. Rock God, it's
time to go get you your
honourary first purple
mohawk." He turned to his
bandmates. "Hey guys! Meet
the latest member of The
Grateful Circumcised."
"That's the name of the
band?!" I asked. "The
Grateful Circumcised?"
"You are circumcised,
aren't you?" he asked.
"Um..."
"Well, we may be looking
at more than a mohawk."
This was going to be a
long summer, but it was
another case closed for Dik
Miller, Rock God.
(ed. What? "God?". Oops.
Sorry. Ignore the headline,
please). Ronald-Ann s Last Dance.
Before I get into the
actual meat of my article, I would just like to
make a few comments with
respect to a certain photograph and accompanying
poem which appeared in the
last issue of The 432. I
would like to set the record
straight in a number of
areas:
a) I don't yell. I never
yell. I imagine this character trait makes it that much
more difficult to determine
whether or not I am frustrated with displays of y
irresponsibility. There are
other ways to tell, but if I
told you, that wouldn't be
any fun now, would it?
b) I am not, nor have I in
recent history been, photogenic. Up until the age of 5,
I was cute, when began the
unpleasant transformation
into what I am now. Scary,
huh? Anyhow, I have a limited history of cooperation
with photographers. If you
attempt to take my picture,
the odds are not in favor of
my either smiling or
pouting. In fact, it is most
likely that I will try to either
shield my face with any
available objects or rotate
my head in such a way that
my face is not visible. I
have actually managed to
work my way out of pictures
by letting friends in on the
secret that I'm taking part in
the Witness Relocation program to allow me to hide
from the Mafia.
c) I didn't say, "You all
suck!" I said, "You guys
suck!" I don't think I would
be permitted enough space
to explain the subtle differences between these two
statements, but just believe
me when I say that the differences are statistically
significant.
That taken care of, we
now return to your regular
programming.
So this is it. As of May
1994, barring any unforeseen events, I will be setting
foot on that as-of-yet undiscovered country, the Real
World. Naturally, I'm about
as thrilled about it as the
rest of anyone else.
Unfortunately, the fact that
I will have to leave my .
warm, nurturing and gener-,
ally womb-like present environment is not the only
painful part of this whole
ordeal. Indeed, one of the
worst parts of it all will be
my departure from these
hallowed pages (sniff, sniff).
Retiring is an awfully odd
thing. No matter how old
you are, there comes a time
in your association with an
organization when you say
things along the lines of: "I
remember in the old days,
when Aaron and Antonia
used to write.." (You can, of
course, insert the names of
retirees with whom you are
familiar). Unfortunately,
the use of the names of previous retirees tends to get
the present retiree into trou-
f
:o
■\
ADAMS
ble. This situation has yet
to be studied with any success, but it is thought to be
related to the phases of
retirement:
Acceptance: Characterized
by statements such as "I'm
sure you won't have any
trouble finding people to fill
my space" and "There seems
to be a good crop of writers
for next year", this is the
first phase of retirement.
The retiree can cope with
the fact that he/she is not
indispensable. However,
this initial stage may be followed by depression due to
the sudden withdrawal of
the motivational presence of
the Editor ("Please, sir, not
the whip!). The first symptom of this transition period
is the use of statements such
as "You will miss me, won't
you?"
Bargaining: Characterized
by statements such as "Well,
if you're really stuck, I guess
I can help you out by writing an article for the next
issue." This stage is generally
short-lived.
Anger: Although some
have been observed to pass
directly from stage 1 to 3,
most spend at least a short
period at stage 2 before
being presented with the
concept that they are not
indispensable. Generally, it
has been the observation of
this investigator that it is
one thing to know something within oneself, but it
is something entirely different to have someone else
point it out to you. This
stage is usually characterized
by statements similar to "I
can't believe they're trying
to run that *@$%! paper
without .me!"
Denial: The last stage of
this degenerative condition
is characterized by an obsessive insistence upon reading
every issue of the paper and
by statements similar to
"The articles never used to
be so stupid when I used to
write." The retiree has now
lost touch with reality and
believes that he/she is indispensable.
This will never happen to
me, because I never considered myself to be indispensable in the first place.
As I look back on my four  .
years here, I am trying to
remember what exactly I
have learned. Certainly precious little related to
Science, a fact to which
those professors blessed with
the privilege of reading my
graduating thesis can attest.
For example, the only techniques I have managed to
perfect by passing
Biochemistry 301 are the
arts of Data Massage and
Creative Compilation. Over
the past month, I have been
taking a crash course
(emphasis on the word
crash) in stress management
as I fought the odds to produce a mildly coherent thesis and presentation.
Contrary to popular opinion, my peer counseling
skills have not come from
my involvement with
Speakeasy (not to insult a
fine organization, just stating a fact). I think counseling skills are best honed at
three in the morning, fourteen hours before an essay is
due, over a bottle of Coke
Classic and a box of Oreos.
As president of BPP, I have
learned how I best deal with
conflicts: I delegate. Finally,
writing for The 432,1 have
acquired subtle means of
venting my personal frustrations. It's always a plus
when the people I am venting at recognize themselves
as the source of my frustration, but you can't win
them all, I imagine (One last
The 432 plug, however lacking in subtlety: although
most of the same writers will
be around next year, we
(they?) are still looking for
fresh blood, to the best of
my knowledge. Although a
plan of affirmative action
has not been proposed yet,
it would be nice if my shoes
could be filled by someone
who is ... well, phallicly-
challenged. As it is, you can
just smell the testosterone
on production nights).
Bzzr, aliens, and other stuff.
John Hallett
A really nice guy.
Beer Gardens, the heart
of the social community of UBC. Truly these
social masterpieces must be
appreciated by all those who
attend them. No where else
have I seen the intellectual    "
cunning or sheer grace associated with a mock 10.0
point Olympic dive off a
chair into a 2mm pool of
congealed beer. These events
are always the very cream of
the upper class etiquette
structure.
I write of these amazing
happenings in hopes to
regain some vague memory
of a recent event I attended.
I must point out that
although many witnesses
have gestured in my general
direction whilst screaming
"HE DID IT!! HE DID IT!!
OH, THE HUMANITY!!"
from behind a rather bright
light in the police station
when questioned about certain events, I stick to my
story until this day. Here
goes ... <insert dream
sequence sound track vaguely
reminiscent of Wayne's World
hero
It was a rainy day one
month soon ago. I had
been recently elected Social
Co-Ordinator of SUS and
decided to organize an event
to end all events. The mother of all BEER GARDENS.
Good beer at cheap prices.
However, popular theory
asserts that I just might have
gone overboard on the 'buying da booze' aspect of this
event. Anyway, after hours
of negotiation with the
German embassy for the
acquisition of absolutely
insane quantities of fine
Barvarian Ale, I managed to
arrange the delivery of a
quantity of beer that could
only be described as... well,
let's just say it arrived at
Vancouver Harbor aboard a
Panamanian freighter last
Friday. The headache
potential for this event was
astronomical.
Before I realized it, the
momentous day was at
hand. The pipeline from the
harbor had been set up and
we had managed to receive a
large donation of Pepto
Bismal, also on tap. Streams
of people started entering
the monumentous Hall of
Intoxication and sprinted to
the beer taps right past the
display booths containing:
(among other things) a display from the Tomb of King
Tut, Final Definite Proof of
the Existence of God, and a
simple, easy to understand
definition of The Meaning
of Life.
In the next twenty minutes I, from my perspective
point ten feet above the
floor, witnessed huge drooling throngs clamor around
the beer taps coherently, less
coherently, even less coherently and finally, huge
drooling throngs lying in
various pools around the
taps which, to my delight,
still contained vast quantities of fermented barley
products.
Needless to say, the
remainder of the evening
was spent wondering how
come the walls were melting
and why those walls seemed
to be causing the roof to
spin like a huge, twisted top.
Next morning, I awoke in
. Edmonton. I'm not saying
that there's anything particularly evil about waking up
in northern Alberta.
Thousands of people do it
daily. What made this particular morning so stressful
was the fact that I had fallen
asleep (ie passed out) somewhere at UBC.
Now comes the puzzle. In
the five hours that I'm missing, I successfully managed
to traverse B.C. and most of
Alberta, a feat that is incredibly difficult to reproduce
when SOBER. My personal
theory says that whilst I was
blissfully slumbering, I was
abducted by aliens who
wanted to sample my brain
tissue in order to perfect the
life support system aboard
their vessel which they tested on Elvis' brain. They then
deposited me in Edmonton
in order to deliver a suitably
strong shock to my system
which would prevent me
from remembering the preceding events.
Although my theory has
virtually no supportive evidence in its favor, I think
that it's the way to go. In
the interest of honest journalism, I will reveal unto
your waiting eyes a different
theory that was proposed to
me by the friendly police
officers who scraped me off
the pavement that fateful
Saturday morning.
They claim that, in my
drunken state, I thought
that it would be a neat idea
if I were to go to Edmonton
and ride the wave machine
in the mall. Evidence for
this comes in the form of a
Maverick Coach lines receipt
for one-way passage from
Vancouver to Edmonton on
the 2:00 am day starter in
my pocket. I think that this
receipt was obviously planted by the aliens in my pocket as a means to explaining
my mysterious appearance
in Alberta.
It's up to you to decide. Don t get your knickers in a twist...
I simply refuse to believe
that some things can be
as difficult as they seem.
My personal rule of thumb
when dealing with others is
"Assume that when you
meet somebody, this person
is much, much smarter than
you." The result is that if
they are, you haven't insulted them, and if they aren't,
they will have to earn your
disrespect. Makes for a good
overall approach to the rest
of the world, too.
However, once in a while I
find something much more
easily done than my contemporaries. This compels
me to believe that some people are better than others at
some challenges.
Sometimes, I think my original assumption of absolute
personal submoronity is correct. Especially when the
challenge is something like
underwear.
I seem to have had some
problems with the supposedly simple task of buying,
unpacking and donning
underwear.
Now, everybody runs low
from time to time. I ran low
today, and picked up some
sort of tube at The Bay while
KENNEDY
walking through on my way
to collect my drycleaning.
The packaging was
unique: a half dozen Jockeys
crammed into a plastic tube
like so much Pop-N-Fresh
Dough. I got home, twisted
off the cap an found myself
picking up the scattered garments which had apparently
been placed in the tube
under dangerous pressure
without warning. I only
counted five.
Assuming I had been
ripped off by Jockey, my
first thought was "How do I
complain about a missing
Jockey?" Who do you complain to? I decided the wad
of cloth was not worth my
pride, when I noticed something hanging from the
overhead lamp. You can figure out the rest..
Anyway, here's where I
introduce the purpose for
this article. Each of my
Jockeys had a most inconve
niently located sticker, right
in the crotch. The sticker
explains that each Jockey
has been idividually
"inspected" and, apparently,
has passed the rigorous
stress an safety testing that
underpants require.
Personally, I'm not sure
what could go wrong in the
world of underwear. What
could possibly go so wrong
with a pair of undies that
personal individual inspection is required? The most
painful experience I have
had with a pair of underwear was putting them on
without removing the sticker.
However, somebody in
the idustry is concerned.
What I don't understand is
this: if the indusrty is trying
to enforce standards in
men's underwear, why are
they ignoring that design
and manufacturing free-for-
all known as brassiere
clasps? I have better luck
solving a Rubik's cube. What
we need is some standard
way to release these things.
We need a 'bra clapper'.
Now, this increase in convenience and timesaving
will come at a price. Imagine
an evening at the opera. I
clap and send my busty
date's dainties into the
orchestra pit. It's possible
that this could be embarass-
ing, if for no other reason
than I always clap at the
wrong time.
As a matter of fact, timing
is one of my worst attributes. Mine is terrible. For
example: I'm having lunch
on a BCFerry, heading home
from a swim meet in
Victoria. Perfect time, I figured, to try to impress this
new (gorgeous) teammate. I
sat down directly across
from her, nodded, picked up
my burger, took a bite and
propmtly covered her plate
with a mouthful of
'prechewed' Ferryburger.
Beaver Foods had thoughtfully chosen to garnish this
particular burger with aluminum foil, and me with
my fillings and all. I seem to
have put about five volts up
and down my entire nervous system. Despite this
simple explanation, she
didn't seem to understand.
Nobody inspected this
burger. As you can see, the
potential danger inherent in
a flawed burger is astonish
ing when compared to a
that of a screwed up bikini
brief. But I don't see people
peeling stickers off their
McNuggets as they shovel
them down. Maybe acceptance of the risk is implied
by walking in the Mcdoor.
Frankly, I'd rather have a little too much starch squashing the happy sacks then a
case of botulism. You can
speak for yourselves.
On the other hand, I have
to wonder if the world of
underwear isn't somehow
alien. Some kind of vestige
of another universe: an
alternative 'underverse'
Where the disappearance of
socks, bras and briefs is normal.
I, personally, have never
thrown out a pair of underwear. This would just kill
my mother who can only
assume that I'm wearing fifteen year-old boxers, which
couldn't possibly ever get
clean now. Well, I've got
news for her: if I'm standing
in the middle of the street,
and I see a bus or car zeroing
down on me, my underwear
Graeme's Knickers
continued on page 8
Exams from hell.
tu
Mcdonald
I think the pressure of
exams is finally getting
to me. You see, the function relating how much useless trivia you can cram into
your brain over a given period of time also has a corollary, something to do with
the amount of sunshine.
The more sunshine there is,
the less I'm inclined to shut
myself in the brick hole I
call home and pull out a big
thick book.
So, the stress factor lately
has not been at all good,
since the wonderful weather
outside totally precludes me
spending any time hitting
the books. Or studying. As a
result, I've had to cram all
my studying time into a few
short hours between four
and five AM. This means
I've learned nothing.
Nothing at all, except thai: I
have absolutely no interest
in any subject under the sun
until anything until the
evening before.
So it's no surprise that I've
been a bit grouchy over the
last few weeks. And it can
only get worse so go away!
So worse, in fact, that I'm
now dreaming about exams,
instead of about anything
remotely enjoyable. Last
night's dream quiz went like
this:
Question One: "Given
that the structure in B is
one of the items listed in
Group C, examine the
interior and extrapolate to
what the structure mentioned will become in a
mature fruit."
What? I didn't understand
that one either, so I went cm
to the next question.
Question Two: "If a train
leaves Philadelphia head
ing west at 60 kph, and
another train leaves Pari;;
heading north at 75 kph,
when will an innocent
bystander be pushed in
front of the subway in
New York?
Easy. Every five minutes,
or less during rush hour or
on Fridays.
Question Three: "Write ,-i
300 word essay defining
the essence of advancement of Renaissance art"
Stop! Even if this is a
dream, there better not be
any Arts-type questions
here.
Question Four: "What is
your name ...
At last. A question even I
can answer in my sleep.
But enough about exams,
since all of you are already
either:
(a) In Main Library 23
hours a day, eagerly learning everything in the textbooks on the recommended list.
(b) In Sedgewick Library,
catching up on much-
needed sleep
(c) In Woodward Library,
pretending to study just
so you can be with that
really gorgeous girl from
your Biology class.
(d) Or none of the above
libraries. You're probably
getting ready to go out
and have a good time
doing whatever it is that
you enjoy doing.
If you answer (d), there's
only one thing I can possibly say to make me feel better. I hope you die. There.
Much better. Now maybe I
can actually sit down and
learn a bit o' Biochemistry.
But maybe not right now.
After all, the exam isn't tom-
morrow, and I've still got
plenty of time. Right?
See ya in September.
Maybe.
I n f o rmal   Lunch
Meeting
for
Women In
SCIENCE
Thursday, March 31, 1994
12:30 pm
(bring your lunch, juice provided)
ANGUS   ROOM   31
Dr. Carol Pollock
Biology Program
"The Balance"
Dr. Carol Pollock is a Senior Instructor in the
Biology Program. She is in charge of the first-year
laboratory program. She has a Ph.D., a more-
than-full-time job, three young and very active
children, a husband, a house, lots of friends and
interests... and she can leap tall buildings in a single
bound. How does she do it? Come and find out.
Carol will give an introduction and lead a facilitated
discussion which will be an opportunity to share
practical hints and suggestions about "The Balance"
or "How it is possible to have a career in science
and a life too...or is it?" Les Sous- Vetements de la SUS
Sarah's Very Last Skivvies
AMS Briefs
Senate Shorts
Sarah Thornton
As this is my very last
article under this
heading, I guess I can
finally comment on the byline they've given to me.
Why, oh why, did they call
it skivvies? Do they not like
me? Skivvies is such an
unpleasant word!
For a synopsis of this year,
see my other article.
I missed the exec meeting
last Tuesday—something to
do with a group project for
which we had not yet even
got our model to work once,
much less run a number of
simulations.
But they say it went better
than usual due to the photocopied agendas—tree killers!
They talked about the possibility of a SUS newsgroup on
USENET (great for everyone
with a Netinfo account) and
about the problems some
students have with Faculty
Advisors.
We need a new sales manager for next year, so if anyone is interested in getting
great experience with suppliers and clothing sales, or
who has grandiose plans of
selling more than just
Science gear, come on in.
We made some rather significant changes to our constitution this year.
Beginning with next year,
the council rep positions
will be decreased. There will
still be two first year reps,
but the reps for the other
years will be combined into
4 General Officer positions,
which any interested student in Science is eligible to
fill. The Department reps
will be given more to do—
we'd like to get them
involved with their departments as well as with us! So,
if you haven't yet got
involved, think about it for
next year. The exec promises
a leaner, meaner, more
cohesive group, which still
presents even more opportunities to get involved.
The future of SUS is
bright. There's a great exec
taking over, all of whom
have at least some SUS experience and lots of ideas. This
year has seen the evolution
of an extremely active first
year council, and I'm sure
their enthusiasm will carry
over in to the other years.
Science Week keeps getting
bigger, our contact with the
Administration and with the
real world keeps getting
stronger, and more and
more people are realizing
how wonderful being a student can be.
I'm glad to have been a
part of it all in this and pre-
Steve (Call me Ed) Coleman     Chris Woods
vious years. I have no idea
how my UBC-experience
would have turned out without the wonders of SUS.
Sure, there've been down
times, but they've been
more than compensated by
the euphoric ones, and by
the people I've met here
who've done so much to
pull me out of those times
of despair. So, this year is
over, as is this period in my
life. But I will never forget
SUS.
And I'm leaving the job of
President in very capable
hands. Ryan will do a wonderful job—he's been
around for ages, knows the
ropes, and, like many of us,
has a true feeling for the
place. He's been left an
important legacy, however,
so I charge each of you to
make sure he does what's
right for you. (So make sure
you come in and whop him
one upside the head if he
seems to forget what a student-student needs, not an-
involved-keener-SUS-hack-
and-sometimes-class-attend-
ing-student. I won't be
around as much to keep him
in line!)
It's time to go. I think I've
over-extended my welcome
in my editor's eyes—this
article is verging on thesis
length. Best of luck to all of
you—those coming back to
this hell life again next year,
and those of you, like me,
tossed out into the real
world.
Later,
Science takes over the
AMS for the summer,
with Science students
occupying two of the exec
positions, with former SUS
secretary Morie Chen now
Assistant to the Prez Bob
D'ohbie (we all know who
really does all the work), with
The 432 Editor Ryan
McCuaig as Inside UBC editor, with SUS hack Blair
McDonald as First Year
Orientation Guy, and other
Science students scattered
around the SUB. I don't
have a job for the summer
yet, but then again I haven't
written my thesis yet either.
For this term, things seem
to be winding down as all
the student politician hacks
begin to realize that they
take classes too, so if they
want to return to do it all
next year, passing might be
useful. There'll be next
year's interim budget up at
the next AMS meeting, on
schedule for the first time in
at least two years. Maybe
some new controversy will
pop up, like the possibility
of a food bank for students
run by the AMS, maybe not.
And then, everyone at
the meeting will probably
scurry down to the Pit
through the back entrance
for one last time this school
year. As for this column,
next year someone else will
write it, someone else will sit
in my chair, and the whole
cycle will repeat itself.
Smoke 'em if ya got 'em.
As for actual business to
be done over the summer,
who knows what'll get done
and what won't? Just
remember that all students
are the boss, and it's your
responsibility to go up to
the northwest corner of SUB
and complain simply for the
sake of complaining. I am
outta here...
Social Diseases
John Hallett
Well, here it is: the last Social Diseases of 1993-94.1
would like, at this time, to deny any and all
rumours pertaining to my attire at The Penultimate
Class Bash. These rumours are vicous and unfounded. At no
time did I don a wig and tight evening dress, and accept
bribes to disrobe from the rather unruly engineers who kept
staring at me from the corner. It simply did not happen.
In fact, while it wasn't happening, I was entirely engrossed
in distributing the FREE bzzr to the massive throngs of people who had gathered for this momentous event.
If you weren't there, you missed what can only be
described as the best bzzr garden to ever occur on this campus (at least in my mind). And you can drown yourself in
sorrow at the thought that the next SUS drinking fest won't
be until I return from my vacation in Barbados this summer.
(Take that, you underprivileged summer working people,
you).
My last Senate meeting—at least until I get appointed
to my lifetime, fully taxpayer-supported (with a
huge expense account) post in the Canadian
Senate—was a great way to finish off the year.
The chair thanked the student senators, and announced
that the first monies from the Endowment Fund created
from the Hampton Place funds—to the tune of $900,000—
will be available for research grants in the Social Sciences and
Humanities in three years.
There are 184 courses numbered 500 and up that haven't
been offered in three years, so there is now a new strategy
that would force faculties to delete or justify the listing of
these courses in the calendar. Relief for those disgruntled
students who find interesting courses and then look then up
to find 'Not Offered'.
There was lots of discussion on the Vice President's 'Report
on action taken in cases of teaching evaluated as less than
satisfactory in 1992-93'. In a nutshell, 1/3 have left, as either
non-rehired sessionals or pre-tenure track professors and
early termination. 1/3 are taking teaching training or counseling with respect to teaching methods. The final third had
received higher evaluations in other sections or courses, and
adjustments to their teaching schedule were made.
There was a little discussion on the proposal to admit full
cost international students, but since it was just an information document, I would assume that Senate will see the real
proposal at the May or even the April meeting, with lots of
probably heated debate. We had some progress reports on
the Liu center, and St. John's college.
And finally we went in camera for the Tributes committee
report on who gets, uh, tributes from the University; you will
find out who later, probably at convocation.
Well, that is it from me! I'm outta here! Gone! Leaving!
Getting the boot! Taking early termination! See ya 'round.
And to Kevin Douglas, my successor, hope you like paper.
Lotsa paper.
Circvs Scientif icvs
Delwin Yung
Looks like Science is going to win the UBC Intramural
Championship for the fourth year in a row. As of
March 9th, 1994, the Science men are in first with 9891
points. The Engineers are in second with 6098. Science
women have 5174 points while in second place Vanier has
3424.
This year we have had a record number of teams and individuals participating in Intramurals. Not only did Science
have the most participation of all faculties on campus, but
we also did well competitively. Here are some of significant
results to date:
• In Day of the Longboat, the Jaundiced Llamas places 1st
in Corec, the Yowkalhumps placed 2nd in the women's
division and the Total Hydraulic Heads placed third.
• In soccer, the NADS placed 2nd in Men's Tier I.
• In basketball the Tazmanian Sin made a drastic improvement during the regular season to place 2nd in Women's
Tier II.
• We had champions in both Men's Tier II (Geology) and
Men's Tier I (Mighty Pucks) ball hockey.
• In volleyball, the Microbiology Equalizers came out on
top in Corec Tier I.
• Most team sport play-offs have yet to be concluded for
term II but we do have a champion for Women Tier III,
Wheeze Uck.
Individual recognition goes to David Helliwell for his
involvement in the cycling events. He also made remarkable
achievement, placing 3rd overall in the Triathlon. Jamieson
Chan-Clark also had a strong showing in the Triathlon, placing 15th overall. Special recognition also goes to Colin
Duong for his involvement in volleyball and Rhea Santos in
both volleyball and field hockey.
Some of these individuals and teams will be honored and
awarded prizes at the annual Science Sports Banquet on
March 30th, 1994. Sport letters, awarded based on participation and results, will be also given that evening.
All Sport rebates are ready to be picked up at the AMS
Business office in the SUB. ClasPhct
The Class of
'94 raised
$23,915
(exceeding
our
projection of
$15 600).
The money
will be used
to fund a
continuing
bursary for
Science
students in
the amount
of$1 000.
Congrats!
ClasW^ct
Lynn's Lace
Lynn van Rhijn
The end of the school
year is once again
upon us and it's time
to reflect on the past eight
months. If you are like me,
you had grandious plans to
get the readings done for all
your classes the night
before, the homework done
at least a week in advance
and all your lab reports
handed in on time.
At least there's next year.
On to the wild world of
finance. I am preparing a
budget for the 94/95 fiscal
year which will begins April
1st. This is where I get to say
what I think I will be spending next year and then I get
to compare the figures later
and see how far out in left
field I was.
I am also fulfilling an
audit requirement from Peat
Marwick, compliments of
the AMS. It's no big deal.
The AMS states they owe us
money, I confirm the
amount, sign my Johanna
Henrietta on the dotted line
and that's it. Who says
finance isn't easy?
Now that summer jobs are
descending on us, I will be
working in one of Canada's
top financial institutions for
the next four months, cashing cheques on Welfare
Wednesday, helping old
people with their rent on
Social Security Thursday and
laughing mercilessly at
those who don't qualify for
loans. Should be a blast,
don'tcha think?
Mom IX: The Howling
Gerald Straightae
Dweeb on the Scene
H'er fury was terrible
to behold! Indeed...
. I would rather pass
ten thousand screeching
Rutterkins o' Shigella
through my bowels than be
on the receiving end of her
beastly rage.
And I thanked God,
wholeheartedly—the great
Lord of Thermodynamics—
that I wasn't, but watching
instead as she lashed into
that poor, poor fellow.
He was so pale, white, and
sickly; his thick black glasses
cluing to the tip of his slender nose, and his body
shook as if a cold ice cube
slid slowly down his back.
A pang of sympathetic
regret shuddered through
my body as I contemplated
what I had inflicted on this
pale shadow of a student,
and I wondered if anyone,
regardless of their previous
actions, should ever go
through this abuse.
But I quickly had a change
of heart as I remembered
how he had stood over me,
gloating, with that small
trace of slobber on his chin.
"WHAAT." she roared
r~|"*ttiough I thought I'd
I   have trouble giving
-I.  this paper up, I'd
never realized the relief I'd
feel when the end came into
sight.
It's been an interesting
two years... twenty four
issues ago, I wrested control
of this rag from the Dark
Editor. Now, in the home
stretch of my twenty-fifth
and final one, my own successor Blair is eagerly waiting for the old fogey to "put
himself out to pasture" so
he can have as much fun
with his 432 as I did with
mine.
I'd like to extend my eternal gratitude to Blair
McDonald, Graeme
Kennedy, Roger Watts and
Leona Adams for many a
stupid conversation in the
dark: of night while everyone
else was tucked away cramming. Unlike last year, when
it was pretty well just Roger
and myself hangin' about,
these people have made the
herculean task of producing
The 432 a lot more fun and
a lot less lonely. Thanks,
guys. As well, thanks go to
Derek Miller for being the
with demonic vehemence
through scorched, pulpy
vocal chords. It was not a
question but an exclamation.
She slammed her right fist
down on the table, causing a
thunderous boom that
embraced the echoes of her
terrible voice, and with her
left hand grasped the pale
boy under his plaid collar.
"I said I'm sorry, I'm
son)1!" he piped out anyway, squeaking almost, his
lips absurdly contorted. "I
won't do it again...£V£i<...
that's it! Please, just don't
kill me!"
"YOU...YOU...YOU...
WOI/Ml" she bellowed, the
sound shaking the pale boy
in her hands as well as the
chalkboard behind him.
This worried me, so I
checked the hallway beyond
the door on my right to see
if anyone had heard. The
hallway, however, was still
deserted and I figured that
most: people had gone
home. Only the truly dedicated remained in the math
building after six on a Friday
night.
I returned my gaze to the
scene before me. She now
had l:he pale boy up against
the blackboard, two feet off
the ground.
"No, no, no," he cried
quivering, all four
appendages flopping wildly
and weakly. She took her
hands away, but he
remained suspended on
some sort of chalkboard protrusion.
"I promise, I promise. I
won't ever do it again. I'm
as good as done," he blubbered from his position on
the blackboard.
"I promise," he added
dejectedly.
She stood there shaking
with rage, the muscles on
her neck and back bulging
in that math room light.
Veins pulsed, and I imagined her shirt was ready to
tear from the strain. But
slowly, very slowly, she
calmed down while the pale
boy bawled from his elevated position, holding his
glasses with shaking hands.
After five or so minutes
she was calm, turning from
purple, to red, to pink, and
then white, pleasant and
smiling (apologies to the
immortal William Blake).
"Did I hear you say never
againl" she finally asked.
"Yes, I promise," he
Editorial
most dependable columnist
I've ever seen; Derek has
missed exactly two issues in
the entire eighty-some odd
432s that exist.
Get a life, Derek.
What's in store for The
432 next year?
Some sporadic postings of
articles to Usenet met with
such enthusiastic response
that il'd like to see the newspaper extend beyond the
boundaries of UBC into the
fun-filled (and relatively
inexpensive) world of the
Internet. It seems only
appropriate that SUS should
extend into this domain.
Some: may recall that I proposed using a system known
as gopher for distributing
the paper. Since then, however, I have been experiment ing with a different
system known as world-wide
web, which would allow the
delivery of cartoons and
hypertext browsing (There's
an article about it in this
month's Campus
Com puting). One of my fellow computer science nerds
is interested in taking on the
project, so expect to be able
to get The 432 anywhere in
f
-Jl
.^
McCUAIG
the world by September.
Blair, though he probably
hasn't realized it yet, would
love your help next year.
The editor faces a difficult
role in that he must plead
for submissions, yet reject
many of the ones that are
made in the interests of
quality. It's very hard to tell
people that they didn't
make the cut; harder still is
to realize that you have
probably just eliminated
another potential columnist
because many people never
recover from the first rejection.
Keep trying. To give you
some indication, my first
three articles back in first
year never saw print. So, if
you're ever bored this summer, why not practice writing or drawing? Both are
learnable skills—more so, in
fact, than most of what
you've learned here thus far.
Blair is also no doubt
squeaked, "I promise, I
promise, I promise!"
"That's nice," she smiled,
as if talking to someone at
church about roses, "I like
when people keep promises... You really promise
now?"
"Yes, I do. You must
believe me, I didn't purposely try to humiliate your son
by getting the highest mark
on that math test. I promise
I'll never get a higher mark
than him for as long as I
live."
"Aw, that's sweet," she
said, and turned away from
that pale broken shadow of
a student. And then to me,
"Okay, ready to go?"
"Yes, Mom," I answered as
I took her elbow, and escorted her down the hall. She
was so short I had to bend
over to make her comfortable.
"Thanks again, Mom," I
said as we walked. "That
really feels better. You sure
know how to cheer me up
when I get a low mark on a
test."
"You're very welcome
dear. Let's go home and I'll
make you a nice cup of hot
cocoa."
scared shitless of the idea of
being fully responsible for
this thing on a biweekly
basis right now (I was). So
now would be a good time
to come up behind him and
make loud noises, or try to
convince him his soul (or
transcript) is in danger if he
takes this job. He knows he
can't back out, so you can
have all the fun you want
torturing him.
Well, it's time for me to
blow this popsicle stand.
I've had a lot of fun, and I
hope I've brought some to
you over the last couple
years.
I'm gonna miss being the
king... A Real Art of Work.
T
here once was a fella
named Watts,
Who liked to write articles
lots.
But did he get pay
For these efforts? No way!
Just pizza from various
spots.
•
Now Rog, not being a fool,
Knows that he must pay for
school.
It's fun to be funny,
But needing some money,
He longs for a job just as
cool.
•
With summer just six weeks
away,
Roger says, "Let's join the
fray
Of that yearly enjoyment
Called summer employment!
Now... where the hell's that
resume?"
•
But Roger did have to confess
That a job hunt might be
some stress,
Since last year, the sap
Had one land in his lap,
Thanks to the ol' AMS.
•
But Rog wasn't scared of a
WATTS
fight;
He reckoned that he'd do all
right.
And that's 'cause he knew
That if all else fell through,
McDonald's was always in
sight.
•
And so, with want ads from
the Sun,
The hunt had offici'lly
begun.
But mopping out stalls
Of local beer halls
Was not his idea of fun.
•
The rest of the ads were
. quite bleak,
Thought Rog, as he took a
quick peek.
Half of the page
Was for minimum wage,
The rest for work in
Mozambique.
•
The next step in his strategy
Was to visit the ol' CEC.
No offense, JFK,
But one must sometimes
say,
"What can the State do for
me?"
•
But things down at
EmploymentCan
Appeared that they weren't
gonna pan.
His chance seemed to him
To be 'bout as slim
As finding a Rolls in East
Van.
•
But Rog, still undaunted, did
forge
His path through the
Joblessness Gorge,
Pushed on by the thought
Of happily not
Planting trees way the hell
in Prince George.
•
He definitely thought that
the ad
For Canada Customs not
bad.
(But let's skip the tact;
The truth was, in fact,
'Twas the only good lead
that he had.)
•
So he put down his name
right away,
And got a call later that day:
"Please write a short test
To prove you're the best...
Is most of next weekend
OK?"
So Roger went happily
down,
But saw something making
him frown:
He'd earned a seat
To come and compete,
But so had, it seemed, the
whole town.
•
The test was no minor affair,
And rests between sections
were rare.
When all was complete,
our hero was beat,
but sporting some brand-
new grey hair.
•
But it went well enough,
says the lore,
To get that one foot in the
door:
"Rog, we want you
For a brief interview;
Can you spare us a few
hours more?"
•
And to it our Roger did
head,
With 200 others, it's said.
And with twenty spots free,
It's quite plain to see
It's easier to get into Med.
•
At this point, Rog can just
wait;
Ottawa now holds his fate.
And if they are quick
To decide on their pick,
He'll know by 1998.
•
But of course, this is not dO-
or-die;
There are other options to
try,
Like that famous phone call
That eases it all:
"Thanks for the job, Dad!
G'bye!"
•
A few other leads do exist,
And surely there's some that
he's missed.
(But please, be a sweetie,
Don't mention Tahiti...
If Rog learns he missed that,
he'll be pissed.)
•
And so, with Rog well on his
way
To making an honest day's
pay,
The time is just right
To bid you good night,
Which leaves just one more
thing to say...
•
There's a fortune you all
should remember
In being a UBC member.
It's been a cool year,
Thanks for reading us here,
Hope to see you in
September.
»***>?? s>?s*
l"
f^M^i
Next issue : Tuesday, September 6, 1994
Graeme's Knickers
continued from page 5
is no longer clean. I mean,
imminent compression and
the prospect of a gruelling
bone-grinding death is
enough to soil the Speedos
of even the most immaculate son.
And my "No, no, no" boxers which glow the words
"yes, yes, yes" in the dark
had no sticker at all. Think
about this: the only underwear which actually has
radioactive material in the
dyes (which are conveniently located as close to gamete
cells as you can get) is the
one which goes untested by
Inspector 12. But I'm only
thinking of myself. How, I
must wonder, does the
underwear feel about our
'relationship'? The following
is my way of paying respect
to the generations of boxers
and briefs that have served
me over my lifetime.
Ode To My Undies
I have lots of underwear:
they're different, every one.    '
Some are just too boring, others just for fun.
But they don't get witnessed by
just anyone,
'Cause I don't remove them
untill the day is done.
Flannel's warm and cozy, but
a bugger when it's hot.
Like all men I wear them until
they start to rot.
To clean them I must catch
them: they flee at quite a trot.
When I finally catch them, a
battle's always fought.
Some have only three holes,
and some of them have four
This has to do with plumbing:
I can't say anymore.
And my pink long woollies
have a rear-end trap door.
These ones make my thighs
itch, so I don't wear them anymore.
Some have bad elastics; I'm
quite afraid they'll fall.
Some go up to my navel, but
most aren't quite that tall.
Some will lift and separate, so
my little friends won't fall.
And when I go to Wreck Beach
I won't wear them at all.
The leather ones just squeak
and squeak
Those silken ones are worth a
peek.
I'll wear what I want 'till I'm
old and weak.
Then I'll get some Depends to
stop the leak.

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