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The 432 Oct 30, 1996

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Array ^(Vi
fi1 :■>■'.
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"If all else fails, immortality can always be assured by spectacular error." ~ John Kenneth Galbraith
Darwin haunts
The Vatican!
Pope John Paul II afraid to sleep!
John P. Fibble
Holy Correspondent
VATICAN CITY (SP)
New light has been shed
recently on the reports
regarding Pope John
Paul's recent termination of his
visit to France and subsequent
declaration in favor of the theory of evolution as outlined in
Charles
Darwin's Origin
of the Species.
Inside sources
here claim that
shortly after
Pope John Paul
II made his historical statement accepting
Darwin's theories, strange
events began to
regularly occur
at night inside
The Vatican. Before The Vatican
had a chance to implement a
"Don't ask, don't tell" policy
with regards to the possible
source of the disturbances, several janitorial staff and a few
low-ranking bishops came forth
to the local press with stories of
 :  U    ■■:;..■•     ::;
"I don't believe it. God
hasn't mentioned any-
hing about this to me.
He can't go changing
things now. We have a
contract, you know!"
- Pope John Paul II
  ^	
encounters.
"Sure, it began with the noises,
so it did." recalls father Seamus
Patrick O Flaherty, a visiting
bishop who found himself
awake one morning in the
Vatican guestrooms after what
was apparently one of the more
successful wakes of his entire
career. " But sure we all know
the Archbishop has a wooden
leg and he likes to go-, that is,
he gets quite
efiergetic, don't
you know, in
the small hours
there. So we
paid it no
mind. But then
there was that
event with the
dancing crucifixes and the
holy whisky. Ah
sure but that
was a fine day,
so it was, so it
was" Father Seamus was unable
to comment further due to
some small motor difficulty
apparently incurred while testing out the holy whisky aspect
of the last haunting, but the
damage was already done.
Rumour    is    spreading    rife
throughout the Vatican community as events are escalating
in their severity. Indeed, even in
some of the most hallowed and
private parts of the building
sights have been seen. For
example, consider the following
statement from Guiseppe
Alfonso Jones:
"It was awful.
There I was,
sweeping out
The Vatican
Library, you
know, minding
my own business, scraping
gum off the
underside of
tables and
stuff, when this
shimmering
bearded bloke
comes round
the corner
warning of the
fall of the
church!" states
Guiseppe the
Apparently the spectre was
none other than Charles
Darwin himself, come back as a
messenger from God to give
support to the miracle of creation in repentance for having
Ghost of Charles Darwin.
(Artist's conception)
night   janitor.
made the terrible mistake of trying to relate human beings with
the apes.
"Imagine being confronted by
the newly resurrected phantasm
of a rather distraught scientist
who's been dead for over one
hundred years! I was shocked!
But he was a
pleasant
enough ghost.
We sat down
and chatted
about evolution over tea
and biscuits, I
mean, he was
English, after
all.
"He claims
that shortly
after he died,
he was pulled
aside by God
and tormented
for one hundred years for
questioning
the whole theory of creation.
Apparently, God really did just
snap his fingers and create
Adam and Eve. Imagine having
to see The Sound of Musics
twice an hour for... and oh,
God,  the roaches...no,  I  just
can't think of it anymore!"
ArchDeacon James Heffer was
quick to deny all accounts of a
supernatural being present in St
Peter's or any of its environs,
noting that he himself has seen
nothing at all unusual in the
Vatican Library. Heffer regularly
visits the library late at night to
use the pool table and make
paper airplanes out of the various Dead Sea Scrolls stored
there.
"Oh yeah, they're great. The
ones that don't crumple right'
off go way to the other side of
the courtyard when you throw
them out the window. But anyway, on this particular night
Guiseppe was just sitting there
with this other see-through janitor. Nothing special, I didn't
think much off it. I just went
over to the hot tub and made
myself a drink from the wet
bar."
Aides close to the Pope believe
that his recent decision to support the theory of Darwinian
Evolution may ironically have
come in a desperate attempt to
keep the ghost at bay.
As of yet, no plans have been
made to remove the ghost.
Is Jimmy Hoffa still
alive?
"Chance of heavy rain. Yeah, right."
Maurice Spoonbender
Roving Correspondent
No one's willing to commit
themselves for certain yet, but
the Late Jimmy Hoffa Sr. may
not be so late after all.
Recent evidence has come to
light which'suggests that Hoffa
may not be buried underneath
Yankee Stadium as previously
supposed. He may instead have
escaped via connections with
the Irish mob to the east coast
of Galway, possibly to begin a
career raising a new breed of
sheep. "These sheep are trained
to carry out the simplest of
commands. _ Kill is a particular
favourite", or so claims Special
Agent Foxy Mildew of the FBI,
who has been following the
Hoffa case now for several long
years from his basement office
in the supplies building.
However, Mildew believes that
Hoffa has since moved on, fearing discovery.
"No one knows for sure who
might be helping him. The government of the United States of
America has deliberately acted
to obfuscate any attempts to
discover the truth, just as they
have continued to deny to the
public vital information regarding the existence of little green
men from Mais. I swear it's true,
and I'll prove it. I'll show you
all." We tried to talk to Agent
Mildew later that afternoon, but
he was taking his medication
and was therefore unavailable
for comment.
As one other FBI agent noted,
even if the theory is true it may
no longer be of help to us.
"The guy could just go anywhere" he said. "I mean, all you
need is a fake Irish sounding
name like Heffer or Hoofer or
something. And there's boatloads of Irish leaving the country at any minute. Why only
last week some drunken Irish
priest was dragging a load of
yobs over to Stodgy Pete's for
cheap Roman wine. Or somewhere like that, I forget."
The search continues. i
Rotting
pumpkins.
Mart's guide to
jake the Jack 'p lantern	
Columnist in therapy
Well the time of
Halloween rapidly
approaches with the
thought of midterms slowly
receding back to the edges of
hell from which they came.
Thank god for rotting pumpkins and the goo that you pull
out of them like you were some
evil Med student slowly hacking open the putrid skull of
some long dead cadaver and
secretly enjoying the smell of
the unpreserved brain. Did you
know that when they pump a
cadaver full of fun stuff like
formaldehyde it doesn't cross
the blood brain barrier, so as the
rest of the corpse stays in its
close to pristine shape, the
brain slowly decomposes, sort
of like a compost pile of pumpkins after Halloween. (Alright,
who hid Jake's Prozac? -ed.)
Back in the days of my youth,
Halloween was almost as exciting as Christmas. Fireworks,
candy, costumes, fireworks,
how can you can you go wrong
with fireworks? I mean besides
blowing off half of your fingers.
I'd just like to say I've had firecrackers since I was twelve and
I've yet to lose an appendage.
Kids who blow parts off is just
gods way of weeding out the
stupid. You're not supposed to
hold hammered seal bombs in
your hand and wait for the
excitement to start. They are
supposed to be chucked into
the nearest pumpkin, and then
you hide on the other side of a
conveniently located hedge and
wait for the pumpkin to spray
the front of the unsuspecting
neighbours house. Sure there's
pumpkin all over the place, but
don't ya just love the smell of
rotting pumpkins.
Now when I got a little older,
our pumpkin strategy changed
somewhat. Due to our recently
acquired drivers licenses, we
had to employ the use of motor
vehicles. You'd be surprised
how far pumpkins roll when
you heave them from a fast
moving vehicle. You know it's
kind of surprising how little
members of RCMP appreciate
this kind of humour, especially
if this high velocity pumpkin
accidentally rolls / bounces /
splatters into the patrol car roving the neighborhood in ever
decreasing radii around our
position. The enemy's out there
captain, bravo one to alpha two
ENEMY     IN    THE     WIRE!!!
Charlie's got us surrounded!
INCOMING! INCOMING!
I think walkytalky's should
probably be banned on
Halloween. They allow for a
much more coordinated attack
on the pumpkins surrounding
you're central domicile. It
makes me very sad when men
bring three pairs of shoes to
school. (Am I the only one who
just lost Jake's train of thought?
And I thought that trains couldn't
swerve... -ed.) A certain treasurer
of a certain student organization just explained why he
brought three pairs of shoes.
I'm sorry but that's just wrong.
It's inherently evil, he's going to
upset the delicate balance of the
universe. Guys are not supposed
to think that far ahead. Look at
me, I don't know what I'm
going to do after I finish my
article. Damn it what's this
world coming to?! Back to the
subject of destroying pumpkins,
there's nothing I find more sexy
than a woman smashing the
hell out of some pumpkin that
some kid probably spent hours
cleaning out, carving, sculpting
and perfecting into the perfect
little lantern which sheds a
flicker up onto the graceful silhouette of the Easton aluminum bat smashing down
upon its little carved out face.
Its sexier than a rooster in gym
socks. I really don't understand
that saying either, but apparently in Wyoming roosters who
wear gym socks getJucky all the
time. Good thing I wear woollies, otherwise I might have
chickens following me around.
Chickens have got to be the stupidest animals around. They
don't do anything besides peck,
turn around, peck. We tried to
have chickens at my parents
place once, but they just couldn't figure out that pecking my
dog was not a good idea. My
dog is the size of a small horse
and doesn't appreciate a peck
on the head while he is sound
asleep. We soon ended up with
the six original chickens
decomposing in the compost
pile right alongside the rotting
pumpkins from Halloween.
We're all very concerned for
Jake's mental well being and just
general health. It's okay to be
kinda loopy. It's even okay to be
attracted to women wielding
shiny aluminum bats, but sexy
roosters?
-ed.
Some time around January,
all my friends from back
east begin writing to complain about the sixteen inches
of snow, the fact that the temperature hasn't been above -32
in nine days, and that they
can't go anywhere on account
of three of the sled dogs froze to
death last night. Times like that,
I know I did the right thing by
coming to UBC. In mid-
October, however, I'm not so
sure. It isn't the coming of the
rains. It isn't the four mid-terms
I have next week, either. It's the
rains, the mid-terms, and being
sick in combination. My
immune system doesn't
respond well to late nights,
stressful days, and being wet
and cold for a month... but this
isn't meant to be "Matt whining
for 700 words." I'm sick; I've
accepted that, and I'm not really sad. Now that I'm sick, what
do I do about it? When sick,
there are a number of things
that you can do that, while they
won't make you well, they'll at
least make you feel better.
1. Go to bed. Okay, sickness is
more of an excuse to go to bed
than a real reason. That's okay.
Getting up right now would
involve studying for midterms
and being cold and wet. Being
in bed, on the other hand,
means that you can't do anything productive at all. Instead,
you lie around feeling warm
and cozy, sleeping, or occasionally waking up to read your old
Calvin and Hobbes™ books,
and drinking hot drinks with
active ingredients, which brings
us to...
2. Take drugs. Lots of drugs.
Not that kind (with any luck,
you're hallucinating from the
fever already). The brand name
kind. This requires a little foresight; since a trip to Safeway™
wouldn't be much fun right
now, it's a good idea to have the
drugs in your medicine cabinet
(or better yet, within reach of
your bed), so it's accessible.
Choice of drug is very important. The first thing you should
do is count the number of medicinal ingredients it contains.
The more, the better. Second,
buy "extra strength" wherever
possible. Third, and most
importantly, unless it has the
"don't operate heavy machinery:" disclaimer, it isn't worth
your while.
3. Describe your sickness in
detail to everyone you meet. If
you actually go to school tell
everyone you meet about how
terrible you feel, and noble you
are for coming to class at all,
since you should be in bed right
now. Describe every abnormal
fluid you've produced in the
last three days, giving specific
attention to the colour, texture,
and odour. Exaggerate a little. If
your temperature is, 98.5°F, tell
everyone it's 102. This will
probably garner you little in the
way of sympathy, but it's very
fun. It will also usually make
the other person go away,
which is good, since you don't
like them very much anyway,
and you sure don't want to be
putting up with them when
you're sick.
4. The only important exception to rule 3 is your roommates
/significant other / parents, or
whoever it is you live with. In
this case, it is far more important that you be sick than it is
that you act sick. Why? Because
you want these people to feel
very, very sorry for you. That
way, they'll do things like trying to prevent you from going
to school (which you "should
really <cough> go to, since
<wheeze> there's a <sneeze>
midterm coming up next week,
and it's really important to do
well on, blah, blah, blah,").
.That, and they'll dote. This can
be a great tool. Someone to
bring you chicken soup (and
make it from scratch), someone-
to read you stories, someone to
boil the water for your Extra
Strength Ned Citran Cough and
Cold™.
Well, that should about cover
it. Don't bother going to the
doctor's (unless, of course, you
can't make it there under your
own power. In this case, it's
probably a good idea. How
often do you get to ride in an
ambulance?). The doctor will
just tell you to do what I did,
with the possible exception of
number 3. Hope you're feeling
better. See you. in, oh March
sometime. I'm going to bed.
Matt has returned to writing for
The 432 after a short creativity
drought. He claims that his sense
of humour only came back to him
because "It got hungry."
-ed.
Mr. Ed speaks.
John
HALLETT
Another two weeks, anothr
er issue. It seems like this
paper just continues to
grow in size and complexity.
I guess that would be thanks to
all you students out there who
decided to become part of the
growing family of contributers
to The 432. There's lots of room
left in our family and I would
absolutely love it if you would
stop by with your input and/or
comments.
And I wouid also like to thank
everyone out there who decided
that they couldn't contribute to
The 432 (for a yarietjKof reasons), and contributed to the
editor (ie me) by giving me lots
of bzzr at various AUS bzzr gardens. (Thanks, Shannaz.)
So, what am I saying, you
might ask? I'm saying that
working for The 432 has its
advantages. For instance, you
can use the line "Hey baby, I'm
the editor of The 432. Wanna
dance?"
Granted, I'm not stupid
enough to actually use this line
verbatim, but minor modifications have proven useful for
people I know (right Frenchy &
Jer).
So, enjoy the issue! There are
lots of interesting articles to be
found about everything from
cream cheese to pumpkins to
something in Scottish that Phil
wrote.
And if you have any ideas, for
God's sake, bring them down. It
would make my life just so
much nicer and all my friends
could stop having to deal with
me complaining about too
much work.
See you in two weeks! And
remember, the deadline has
been moved up two days
because of a holiday.
The Pope
John Hallett
(fibble@unixg.ubc.ca)
Cardinals
VOLUME TEN ISSUE FIVE
30 OKTOBER 1996
Mikey Boetzkes, Phil Ledwith,
Jeremy Thorp
Vatican Propaganda iMachine
College Printers, Vancouver, BC
Worthless Souls	
Doug   Beleznay,   Jake   Gray,
Henry Laman, Tracy
MacKinnon,   Ryan   McCuaig,
Blair McDonald, Jake McKinlay,
Kathryn Murray, Jason Robillo,
Matt Wiggin, Henry Wong,
Warrick Yu
Writing On The Inside Of The
Pope's Blg-assed Hat	
The 432 will bless every reader
and turn all your urinal water
holy. It will also be the official
publication of the Science
Undergraduate Society. It is
printed twice monthly from
our      makeshift      cathedral
beneath the Chemistry
Building.
All views expressed are strictly
those of the individual writers.
If you wish to take legal action
against them, you should be
warned that God is on our side.
All rights reserved The 432
1996
Writers and columnists from all
faculties are encouraged to submit material to The 432.
Submissions must meet the
strict deadline requirements
and should not exceed 700
words in length. All submissions must make the editor
chuckle at least thrice and have
your real name attached (legal
stuff) before being printed.
The 432 does not support Pope
Jean-Paul IPs statement about
evolution. We don't believe in
creationism, either. In fact, we
think everything we know is
contained within a mink's
dream. 30 Oktober 1996
The Four Thirty Two
)
Life as a low budget horror movie.
Blair
Mcdonald
I think I'm living the plot of a
cheap horror movie. You
know the type: Bela Lugosi
starring, black and white only,
cheesy fake tombstones that get
kicked over during the climactic
fight scene between the tall,
blond, Swedish hero with the
IQ of a warm loaf of bread and
the Enemy, some older, overweight broken down actor with
way too much face makeup.
I'm sitting at my desk one day
last week, the wind gusting
noisily against the wind pane.
I'm trying to concentrate on my
essay, but the window isn't
closed properly and the wind is
whistling in the crack. So I
stand up and lean over the desk
to tighten the window clasp...
and a bird smacks into the window and grabs on the ledge
right below! It's fluttering
madly, pressing into the glass of
the window and screaming this
high-pitched wail that put my
nerves on edge. I can see its
breast feathers, and the undersides of its wings as it frantically tries to peck through the window, its beady little eyes alight
with some sort of: evil whispering. I could see its brethren sitting on the top of the streetlight
across the road, dozens of them
clinging like bats, all chirping
wildly in some sort of satanic
chorus.
I fell back, convinced that this
was only the beginning of some
avian directed campaign of horror, the Dead Zone (Man, did
that movie suck. Sorry, just had to
interject that here, -ed.) or The
Birds come to life. How could
Stephen King and Alfred
Hitchcock known of the danger
of these winged beasts? Then I
realized that a chickadee really
wasn't that much of a danger,
and the flock was probably
drawn to the bird feeder my oh
-so considerate neighbour fills
with grain every morning. My
heartbeat slowly returned to
normal.
I guess I should blame my
over-active imagination. I see
one of those leaf-eating combines being driven along Main
Mall, and I wonder how far the
bone fragments would travel if
someone was unlucky enough
to fall in. I see a Plant Ops panel
van speeding across a busy
intersection, and wonder what
it would look like if the driver
was drunk, dead, whatever, and
lost control and plowed the van
right through the middle of a
crowd of Education students
standing outside Scarfe. Good
ol' Death and Destruction, eh?
I'm living a low-budget horror
film. My collection of plants
becomes a horde of man-eating
flora, slowly taking over my
room. This isn't too much of a
stretch; peace lilies grow quickly, and the ones I've got are
rapidly extending leaves
towards the windows, trying to
block out the sun from the rest
of my room. Walking back from
a bzzr garden with a group of
friends, becomes Night of the
Living Dead, Part III, and the
film doesn't stop rolling until
late next day, after the hangover has retreated. And driving
my dad's car across the Lions
Gate becomes a scene from
Stephen King's Christine.
SometimesT think Stephen King
is a prophet of some kind, a harbinger of a future religion. He
certainly has the prophecy ability down pat. My life is nothing
but a series of Stephen King
movie adaptations, fueled by
my over-active imagination.
I've often thought my overactive imagination was due to a
tumour, nestled snugly against
my metellus pius, my cerebral
thingmajig, my brain-based
something or other. I've got all
the signs of a giant, cancerous
tumour: a poor short term
memory, over-active imagination, and a conclusive twitch
that comes and goes without
warning. What was I talking
about? Oh yeah... This twitch
frightens people: it starts somewhere on the left side of my
face and ripples-downwards,
growing into magnitude, until
my left hand moves with a life
of its own.
I don't know what it means. Is
it a medical condition that I
really should get a doctor to
look at with the most advanced
imaging equipment? Or is it my
ticket to fame, fortune and the
silver screen? After all, Bela
Lugosi's long since dead, and
there's an opening for the
Enemy in those low-grade B
horror movies.
Despite what Blair maybe convinced of, the frightening similarities between his life and a low
budget horror movie are almost
entirely due to the fact that his
over-active imagination is fueled
by all that LSD we slipped in his
bzzr last Friday.
Life is a journey. Enjoy the trip.
He he. We're soooo evil.
-ed.
Okciy.
So you've bought your
2£oz Sefence Bzzr Stein;
Now let's use it.
The "Nothing Happens in
November" Bzzr Garden.
November 15th, 4:32 pm
SUB Partyroom
Another fine event brought to you by the good
folks at the Science Undergraduate Society.
Upcoming Lectures
Okt. 29   Dr. Sfeihbok: Neurraurgery
Nov. 5   Dr. Fritz: General Practice
Nov. 12   Dr. Livesly: Psychiatry;
Nov. 21   Dr, Carter: Dean of
Admissions
Dr. Pritchard: Oncology
and Pediatrics
Nov. 26
Dates to Remember
Okt. 31   Ski Trip deposit due ($50).
Nov. 2-3  Standard First Aid course
with St. John Ambulance.
Ski Trip balance of $159,00
due. T
Decl
Jan. 10-12   Off to Big White!!!
Philadelphia cream cheese.
Kathryn Murray
432 house chef
Six-year-olds make the
world's most creative
cooks. Having no sense of
food, recipes, baking or ingredients, whatever they can lay
their hands on goes into the
mixing bowl (you hope!). More
often than not it ends up on the
counter, the floor, the chair or
gets popped into their mouths
and into their tummies. At least
they have the most important
part of cooking down pat.
Reminds me of a friend of
mine who loves making and
mixing drinks. Last New Year's
Eve he was busy making up his
"magic" punch to aid the festive celebrations. He started off
with the 7-up and the Ginger
Ale, added the lemonade and
then started adding the "other"
ingredients. I'm still not sure
what ended up in the punch
but I do remember that there
wasn't all that much punch left
when the other guests arrived.
The mixers also weren't terribly
sober. I was told very slowly and
carefully that "You've got ta
make shure that ish strong
enough sho that ev'rybodish
hash a good time (hie). Want
shome?"
I digress. Anyway, I was cooking with my neighbour's daughter, Sophie. Now Sophie, like
me, loves chocolate. Maybe
that's why we get on so very
well when I baby-sit her. She
also has a pet bullfrog, Croak,
that accompanies her everywhere. He hasn't, by some
strange miracle, croaked yet but
he does have a very resounding
"ribbit."
I needed to make some chocolate chip cookies for my sister's
party and, as Sophie was over,
she helped me to make the
cookies. I had all the "proper"
ingredients on the table for the
cookies: lots of spoons, a ton of
chocolate and two big bowls—
one for each of us. Now I gave
her a portion of the "real"
dough and I told her that she
could add whatever she
thought would taste nice to the
dough. It proved to be a bit of a
mistake.
She knows the layout of our
kitchen pretty well so she started rummaging through the cupboards and the fridge. Before
long, she had quite an extensive
collection on the counter:
peanuts, raisins, jam, peanut
butter and milk. She also had
orange juice, kool-aid, jello,
cheerios, salami, cucumber,
"celeries" and cream cheese. I
tried to suggest that some
things go better together than
others but she reminded me
tiiat I had said that she could
"put in anyfink that I want into
my cookies." She then tossed in
a handful of "mackronies, for
nice big lumpies."
I really didn't want to bake
these cookies. The mix was all
over the table, her chair and the
floor. Croak had hopped in and
out of the batter more times
then I cared to point out and
almost didn't make it back out
again when he got hit on the
head with a wooden spoon by
Sophie. I tried to delay baking
all the other cookies but she
wouldn't be stopped. Then I
made my one fatal mistake - I
left the kitchen to get my Mum
to convince her not to bake her
mix.
When we came back a couple
of minutes later hatving decided
to let her cook the smegging
thing, she was covered in white
powder and her mix looked a
lot drier and had some coloured
bits in it. She proudly told us
that she'd added some sprinkle
to make it look pretty. Six-year-
olds. We scooped the mess onto
a tray and crossed our fingers
that it'd be O.K.
We were very, very wrong.
After the fire department left
we found out that the kitchen
hadn't been burnt down but the
oven had indeed exploded. My
mother was furious and I was
not looking forwaird to what
would be happening when
Sophie left us. Sophie was
thrilled as the firemen had let
her try on their hats and had
climb on the truck. Croak had
survived his adventure in
Sophie's hands and was hopping happily in the puddles on
the kitchen floor. The cookie
mix had morphed into a very
strange     substance.     Sophie
grabbed a handful, fed it to
Croak and was about to eat
some of it herself when I got out
of her hands.
Everything was more less O.K.
until the morning when I got
woken up by a loud ribbit. A
very loud ribbit that sounded
like Croak's. As I didn't find the
frog on my pillow, I staggered to
the window and looked out and
saw Croak. All of Croak. Croak
who was now the size of a VW
Bug. Croak, who before my eyes
stuck out his tongue and gobbled up the nastiest cat in the
neighbourhood.
After the initial cuffufle died
down and the tabloids went
away, life got more less back to
normal. Croak now lives in our
backyard as Sophie's parents are
afraid that Croak will hop away
with her. He is fun to ride
though, arid Sophie comes by
everyday to see her frog. I guess
that everything did work out all
right and I've got the cheapest,
most environmentally friendly
way to go to school. The
Zoologists love looking at him
during the day. *
Page 4
What the pumpkin didn't know.
It's a little known fact over
here in Canada that the festival of Samhain coincides
closely with one of the defining
moments in British history. A
few hundred years ago, a certain
Guido Ffoulkes decided that it
would be a great idea to take
several hundred kegs of gunpowder and blow the
Westminster Parliament buildings to kingdome come with
them. We all think that this was
such a great idea that, even
though he failed, and even
though he and his friends were
all caught, hung, drawn and
finally quartered in that great
British tradition, we like to
have a really big fire in his honour every November 5th.
Bonfire night was perhaps one
of my favorite childhood memories, and not least because I
■ really love fire(more about that
later). Bonfire night was a character building experience.
For one thing, Bonfires are
about Violence against Mascots.
This, I reason, can only be a
good thing. Over here, for
example, the T-Bird would be
right there smoking away, looking like a sort of failed neoprene
yellow phoenix against the velvety night sky. Imagine the
kind of inner peace this would
give to the observers, especially
after two or three bottles of
vodka, and we could spend
whole weeks putting together
the guy, before we threw him
on that bonfire. ( The guy is
what we called our sacrificial
mascot to be, incidentally). This
was an absolutely golden
opportunity. Remember that
sweater that you got for
Christmas that had one arm
about three feet longer than the
other, the one that was a curious shade of near puke, the one
you so desperately wanted to
lose but instead got to wear
every single visit that miserable
crazy woman made to your
home because your mother
insisted it was "only polite"?
We civilized English are spared
that emotionally scarring
encounter because of our fascination with pyromania and
simulated violence.
Once you had adequately
dressed the guy in your father's
best suit pants, socks, last year's
resurrected Reeboks, the aforementioned sweater and your
school tie ( and maybe a trilby
hat if you'd been to visit your
grandparents that weekend),
you had the opportunity to
shamelessly solicit donations
from all the crazy village people
that you foolishly referred to as
your "neighbours".
"penny for the guy, sir?" you
would say, in your sweetest
voice. At the door would be a
particularly crazy village person, of rather advanced years
and with enough attachments
to make him look more like
some kind of futuristic vacuum
cleaner than a human being
"What's that you say, sonny?
Trying to steal money from an
old man, eh?"
"it's penny.... er .for the guy,
sir"
" so that's your guy, is it? eh
hee heh heh....w/zeeeeze....heh.
So, anyone I know?"
"why, thank you sir, I- er, I'm
sorry?" This was an unexpected
conversational gambit.
" Anyone I know, sonny? Eh?
Wheeeze, hack, cough. You're not
deaf are you? Is it anyone I
know? Wilson's not been seen
mowing his lawn this week...is
it him? Eh?"
"Er... looking nervously
around... No, no I don't think
the guy's supposed to be real,
actually..." It was usually at this
point that my friends and I
began to suspect that this old
guy had really truly lost it and
might pull an axe at any second. Also, something behind
him had by now started humming ominously. So our conversation became slightly tangential as we tried to extricate ourselves from an otherwise potentially unpleasant situation.
"Ludes!! They're all on Ludes!"
We would cry, turning the
wheelbarrow about and careening off down the road. Later on
that evening we would come
back and let down the old guy's
tyres. Before I leave the subject
of the guy entirely, let me just
say a quick word about the
wheelbarrow, which was usually
otolon appropriated from a
nearby allotment, wobbled as it
went, and sometimes had a flat
tyre of it's own. It was always
expertly handled 'by older
friends of mine who I now
understand are gainfully
employed as drunk taxi drivers.
Oh, and one pilot for Valu-Jet.
Leaving aside for now the
question of the mascot, the
bonfire itself had to be built.
This requires the amassing of
several metric tonnes of wood,
or I suppose anything else at all
that could be burned. Here
again, you had to solicit the
help of the crazy village people.
Drunk Taxi Drivers with trucks
became very useful at this point
because they were willing to
help you get the wood out into
the middle of some field where
the bonfire was going to be
erected, sometimes without
even hitting anything on the
way. See, practicing with the
wheelbarrow as young lads paid
Ryan's Poem.
During a recent visit to
SUS's Wine and Cheese,
ex-432 editor Ryan
McCuaig decided to try his
hand at poetry. While Ryan is
not a recognized poet or anything, he managed to come up
with something interesting.
The method:  a careful and
exact placement of vowels and
Salt deaf. Lanka sag Dave splunge Sack vex julienne fig era
who.
coo
User!
Wooer!
Rube!
Sax drag veered Rouen. Vacuous
We
I, user...
I awe. Pro-era wear... an oven seize!
Secure aqua upper aqua roe. Vex cacti! Rio red.
Mamma
mazes.
aria Iraqi who?
consonants into a word processor followed very closely by creative use of a spell checker.
The result: it is preserved forever below, with spacing and intonation intact.
The problem: we have no clue
what it means. Ryan doesn't,
either.
So this whole affair leads us to
The 432's next contest. The person who comes up with the best
interpretation of the following
poem will win whatever the editor has in his filing cabinet for
prizes.. Most likely a Limited
Edition 432 T-Shirt and 22oz
Science Stein (possibly multiples thereof, it all depends how
good your explanation is).
All you have to do is submit
your explanation of the poem
with your name, phone number, and email to the editor by
the next deadline (Nov. 4th,
4:32pm).
You can drop off entries in
Chem B160 or email them to
fibble@unixg.ubc.ca
Goodbye and good luck.
off in the end. I told you this
was character building.
The greatest supply of wood of
course came from trees, and if
you wanted to get serious wood
from a tree you needed a
chainsaw. Remember those
craaaaaazy village people? Here
they come again. Once we didn't have a chainsaw, but one of
the guys from the other school
named "Herb" was going shopping for one, and offered to let
us use the thing if we came
along. I swear this guy really
exists, and as far as I know still
lives somewhere in Bradford.
Let me say at the outset that
Herb was about as crazy as an
epileptic flamingo on PCP. We
turned up at the hardware store
smelling like something the cat
wouldn't want to drag in. Never
go shopping' for a chainsaw
with some guy wearing four
day's stubble that seems to
extend down his chest and his
back. Or dirty and ripped black
jeans, or a blood splattered shirt
with the words "playground
supervisor" scrawled on the
front, or a dirty mackintosh.
Never ever go shopping for a
chainsaw nursing the sort of
hangovers that actually change
your skin colour to make you
resemble your Halloween costume. Never ever ever go with a
pumpkin head under your arm
that you constantly stop and
have quiet conversations with
and refer to as "Gerald".
Okay, I'll come clean. The
Pumpkin didn't actually exist.
I'm just trying hard to get
pumpkins in there somewhere,
because John told me I had to.
But Herb was just the sort of
craaaazy tosser who would have
done this, only his pumpkin
would have had a name like
"Crusher", it would have been
attached to a broom handle,
and it would have had broken
glass for teeth. After the chain-
saw episode, we would build a
structure that would rival one
of the great pyramids of Ramses
IV, toss the guy on top, pour
four or five litres of kerosene on
the ensemble, and let 'er rip.
And for one more night, the
dark scary places weren't so
dark and scary, and we could
actually believe that the leaf
gods might be appeased by our
offering and an early snowfall
wasn't too far away.
With any luck, my mum
wouldn't even miss that coffee
table from the spare room. The
leg was wobbly, anyway. Cinder
toffee, anyone?
Hamster.
Continued from the back cover..
what seemed like, and probably
was, five seconds, my fingers
closed on the most solid thing,
which I prayed was something
sharp. Giving my most menacing look, I wielded my finding
in front of me, and growled.
I must have looked pretty stupid. In fact, if you were to prepare an extensive list of threatening looking items with which
to confront a grizzly bear, a
banana would probably place
very near to the bottom of the
list — somewhere between 'wet
noodle' arid 'Bob Dole.'
I've seen pretty big trouble in
my life.  However, when one
finds oneself on the Alaska
Highway, wielding an abnormally blunt banana, trying to
defend a Russian Dwarf
Mackerel from a recently awakened grizzly bear, all previously
'big' troubles quickly revert to
the size of a small pebble.
Of course, Frank the Evil
Hamster picked this opportunity to launch his attack.
To be continued...
Join Jer next issue as he tap
dances naked in the arctic for
food!
-ed.
Where Avogadro really got his number. 30 Oktober 1996
The Four Thirty Two
Page 5
)
Weirdness.
John
HALLETT
Occasionally, in your time
as a 432 staffer, weird
and just generally
bizarre things might happen.
This is accepted. This is expected.
But rarely do enough abnormal
events occur between the last
issue and the deadline for the
upcoming issue to write an article about. This article is the
exception to that rule.
I don't know where to start.
After a little bit of weirdness
had been flung my way, I
thought 'okay, that's kind of
odd.' The next day, the weirdness continued and I thought
'now that's genuinely wacky.'
Day three had me saying 'If this
keeps up I can run a three ring
circus based entirely on personal events! Where'd that elephant go?' Day four had me
talking to pumpkins.
Where to start? I think I'll take
the chronological approach.
Oktober 19th - The waiter.
Three friends and I decided to
go forth to that bastion of good
times known as Milestones and
partake in a brief dinner event. I
was overly pleased with this
whole concept, seeing as I
would be the only male in the
group. I mean, when was the
last time you got to take three
cute girls out on a date?
The bus ride out was mostly
uneventful, well, the sheep was
a bit of an exception, but it wasn't that weird. Anyway, needless
to say, we arrived at Milestones
a little shaken, but not stirred.
After a short wait, our waiter
approached, did the normal
waiter-gathering-menus type of
activity, then turned to us and
spoke. Normally, the first thing
out of a waiter's mouth is "Table
for four?" or "Will that be
smoking or non-smoking?"
This wasn't the case. This particular waiter felt it necessary to
initiate communication with
his customers with the remark
"I have just got to say this before
anything else. You have the
greatest eyes!" while looking
directly at me.
Initially, my brain didn't
accept this information. I tried
giving it the input 'Someone
just said "You have the greatest
eyes!"', and I got back "Three
little maids from school are
we!" This whole scenario didn't
bother me that much, consider
ing that I was fairly confident
that the statement was directed
at my good friend Leah who, I
figure, was standing immediately behind me. But, after a short
examination of Leah's current
location, I came to the conclusion that she was about a foot
to my right and that the comment was probably intended for
me.
Being quick on my feet and
full of enviable wit, I instantly
retaliated with "Um... thanks"
to which the waiter replied "No,
really! They just light up the
room. My name's Mark, by the
way!" The one-two punch had
been completed. I was mentally
on the floor, and my interesting
week was just beginning.
Oktober 26th - The phone
call.
Imagine waking up the morning after a huge party to a
phone ringing. I opened my
eyes, determined that the really
annoying strange noise was, in
fact, a phone and then started
looking for the particular
telecommunication device that
was bothering me. It was conveniently located immediately
adjacent to my head. I pick it up
and answered "Yeah?"
"Hi! Is this John Hallett?"
"Yeah."
"My name's Colin. I'm from
the Campus Times!" He was
obviously far too happy about
this fact.
"Yeah?"
"You entered our bzzr tasting
contest?"
"Yeah!"
"So, Mr. Hallett, do you want to
be a bzzr judge?"
"Yes. Yes I do."
My weekend was off to a good
start.
Oktober 26th - The film guy.
I guess that Film Developing
Professional would be a more
appropriate title. After all, it
takes years of dedication and
training to master the ancient
skills of photograph development. Not. In reality, it takes
about $10,000 and a desire to
start your own business. As was
the case with the guy who
developed the role of film containing our cover shot.
I asked him what the going
price for 12 shots was and he
gave me this weird look before
saying "Um, well, I don't really
sell that here. But if you want, I
can meet you out back..."
"Pardon? I just want to develop some film."
"Film?" He looked a little baffled. I gestured to the piles of
Kodak behind the counter, the
cameras everywhere, and all the
pictures on the wall. "Oh yeah!
Film! I do that, too!"
I handed over my film. He
took it and put it down behind
the counter, looked up, and
asked if he could help me.
It proved to be very difficult to
convince him that a) I had
already asked him to develop
some film b) I had already given
him said film and that c) the
roll of film that had mysteriously appeared behind his counter
in the past few minutes was,
indeed, mine.
With all that said and done, I
started on my way, fully expecting to be back in an hour to
pick up my newly developed
film.
"See you in twenty five minutes," our friendly film guy
yelled out.
"Pardon? Isn't this a one hour
photo shop?"
"Yes, but for you, I'll do it in
twenty five minutes! See you
then!"
Thirty minutes later, I was
back. I asked him if my film was
ready and he said that it should
be, seeing as only one was in
the back at the time. He started
shuffling through the various
envelopes full of pictures and
made it all the way from 'A' to
'D' before realizing that he didn't know my name. After I spelt
it out two or three times for
him, it dawned on him that my
pictures weren't among the
crowd and were very probably
the ones currently running
through the machine.
Well, we had to wait about five
minutes for the machine to finish processing my photos, during which the film guy complained viscous about how
seems to be loosing $200 a day
on the operation. After we left,
my friend Kim pointed out that
he just might break even if he
stopped buying $200 worth of
pot to smoke during the day.
So, I guess this all just goes to
show that life is really weird.
Maybe more so when you realize that I had to cut the story in
half to keep this article under
1500 words. The moral of these
stories? There is none, except to
maybe keep film and pot on
separate budgets.
EVERYTHING
ONE
DIES
DKOUftHT TO NOU £V V0O? FfrENDi-Y
kWS  UN IVggS-»tV COMMISSION
<J
A
Dead Pool
update.
I have a horriffic confession to
make. Although normally
frighteningly conscientious
and organized, on a freak occurrence last afternoon frogs
rained down from the sky while
I was out in the back garden
trimming the begonia's. Some of
them got caught in my hair and
infiltrated my files, which is
why I cannot now say with certainty that I have all the dead-
pool entries. Thus, I'm going to
have to extend a small grace
period of about a week after this
thing gets published for anyone
whose list I've lost. The lists I
still have are as follows:
Kathy Lo
Shawn Wowk
Aaron Adamact
Jonathan Buchanan (Juri!)
- dead pool
- dead writers
- dead musicians
- dead politicians
Stewart Austin
Jason Brett
Jenn Gardy
Breeone Baxter
Brad Gilbert
Super Soleena
Brandon Macdonald
Conrad Chevalier
David Collins
Bella & Ellen
Colin MacDermot
If you already submitted me
your list of fifteen, and if you
are not on this list, resubmit
your list to me before the 7th or
so and I'll still give you points
for anyone on the list who
became a stiff after you first
gave me the list. Otherwise, and
for anyone else who joins the
pool after November 1, all your
picks need to be breathing (officially, at least: I don't remember
seeing Keith Richards doing any
marathons this month, but he
still counts).
While we are here, I'll just note
a few points from people's lists
and answer a few questions
posed. Jason Brett: anyone who
flies Valujet is still not a name.
Also, Elvis is dead. You can't get
any points for them - but you
still have seven days to change
them, if ya want.. Same goes to
Stewart Austin for Elvis.
Jenn Gardy, I'm taking Liam
Gallagher as your #1 pick. (And
I wish you luck, 'cause he really
is a wanker...)
Brad, Don't worry if one of
your picks gets to buy it before
Nov 1. One of the priveledges of
entering early is that you can re
pick another potential stiff, and
I'll give you a bonus point for
the stiff as well. Though having
said that, no one actually died
this week as far as I know, and
everyone still has all their lists
intact.
Best prediction so far comes
from Shawn Wowk, who predicted that "Dr. Jack Kevorkian,
Bob Dole, and Ross Perot will be
caught in a compromising love
triangle. The resulting Doctor
assisted multiple suicide will
leave a power vacuum in the
senate and Texas will open the
door for a long awaited alien
invasion led by the kidnapped
and frozen brain of Jean Claude
Van Damme (which would
explain why he sounds like a
robot)"
I guess that's it for this week.
Go home. Don't fear the reaper.
U
"Never let it be said that the Prince of Darkness is a
stingy wanker."
- Tank Girl
ii
Chris Carter takes over advertising for the AMS.
rr_
All submissions to The 432 must
be in Chemistry B160 no later
than:
04 November 1996
4:32pm
Ragdikian's Observation:
"Trying to be a first-rate reporter on the
Q
aveuigc American newspaper is like trying
to play Bach '.-> 'St. Matthew's Passion' on a
ukelele." Mr. Pumpkin
and me.
Gord McVanOlundsky
Screenwriter
ACT ONE
The scene: Crowded Chemistry
classroom, late October. Students
are still walking in the door, looking for a place to lean their soaking wet umbrellas and a place to
sit. Professor enters stage left,
walks to front of class. Professor
places transparency on overhead,
entitled "Dimethyl bromide: history, structure and function."
Class groans.
STUDENT: "Excuse me, is this
seat taken?" <points at seat
occupied by a small, carved
pumpkin>
PSYCHO: "What, can't you
see someone's sitting here!
Fuck off!"
STUDENT: "But there's no
where else to sit..."
PSYCHO: "Too bad. Mr.
Pumpkin got here first, and I'm
not about to ask him to move."
<aside to pumpkin> "Did you
hear that? He wants you to
move!" <PSYCHO laughs>
STUDENT: <shakes head>
"Forget it. You're a psycho"
<walks down stairs and sits on
floor>
PSYCHO: <talking to pumpkin>
"Psycho?, What's hetalking   ;
about? -distens to>pumpkin>
"Yeah, you're probably right.
Guess he's just jealous or something."
PROFESSOR: "Blah, blah,
blah" <professor drones on>
PSYCHO: <whispers topump-
kin> "Hey, what do you want
to do tonight? How about a
movie?"
PUMPKIN: <silence>
PSYCHO: "Ok, I'll pick you up
at six."
STUDENT: "Shh! I'm trying to
listen -"
PSYCHO: "Shut up! Can't I
have a discussion with my
pumpkin! You don't see me
telling you to shut up, do you!
Tell him, Mr. Pumpkin!"
PUMPKIN: <silence>
PSYCHO: "Yeah, he is an asshole, isn't he!"
PROFESSOR: "Is there a problem up there that you'd like to
share with the class?"
STUDENT: "Sir, there's a guy
up here with a -"
PSYCHO: "Pumpkin! I was trying to talk to Mr. Pumpkin!"
PROFESSOR: <clearly puzzled>
"Well, that's nice, but I expect
silence from my class when I'm
teaching, ok?"
PSYCHO: "Yes sir! Mr.
Pumpkin understands! Right?"
<turns to pumpkin>
PUMPKIN: <silence>
Time passes, and the class drags
along at the speed of an anemic
snail.
A tall, muscular guy walks
down the stairs, obviously late
for class but hoping to get the
last ten minutes of notes. He
glances across the aisle, and
sees PSYCHO sitting at the far
end.
MUSCLES: <bellowing> "What!
You again! Didn't I tell you I'd
kill you if I ever saw you
again?"
PSYCHO: <shocked, turns to
pumpkin> "Is that the guy who
you were-" <listens intently as if
interrupted^-
PUMPKIN: <silence>
MUSCLES: <ranting about the
injustice, the pain, the inhumanity eto
PSYCHO: <screams> "Hey, too
bad, buddy! He's with me now,
and you can't have him back!"
MUSCLES: <also screaming>
"You stole his love! He was
mine, all mine! I would have
done anything for Mr.
Pumpkin! But no, you had to
seduce him, didn't you!"
PSYCHO: "Mr. Pumpkin loves
me now, don't you, darling"
<turns to pumpkin, cradles gently
in arms>
PUMPKIN: <silence>
PSYCHO: "That's right, I love
you too." <kisses pumpkin>
MUSCLES: "I can't take this
anymore..." <slumps to floor,
weeping quietly>
PROFESSOR: "What the hell is
going on here! I'm trying to
teach a class!"
PSYCHO: "Look, you're pissing off Mr. Pumpkin, buddy!
Watch it!" <waves pumpkin
wildly in air>
PUMPKIN: <silence>
PSYCHO: "You tell him! We're
outta here!" <tucks pumpkin
under left arm, picks up bag and
books, and defiantly storms up
the stairs and outxexit, stage
left>
END OF ACT ONE
Join the Psycho and Mr.
Pumpkin next issue as they spend
the weekend volunteering with
Tourism Vancouver as a tour
guide!
Reality sucks.
Henry Laman
Incredibly odd columnist
Over the years my friends
have all made the comment that I appear to be
living in my own little world.
This has gotten me thinking. It
seems to me that everyone likes
to create their own little reality
and make up their own little
rules. One example that springs
immediately to mind was a gentleman that my friends and I
met about a year ago. He
explained to us how he spent
the last 10 years of his life sitting on bridges and talking to
seagulls. All things considered,
this wasn't too strange except
for the fact that his working
medium was cheese and bread.
The cheese was placed down in
Morse code and the seagulls
would communicate by eating
certain bits of cheese. This was
all pretty impressive, especially
when I learned that the seagulls
would talk about radio frequencies and correct his math. Now
either I've missed out on potential math tutors or this guy's
reality was a little askew.
However, strange people on
the street isn't the only place to
find weirdness. Look at some of
the latest beer commercials.
Now, I'm not talking about the
ones that say beer equals fun, or
even the enlightened view of
beer equals life. No, I'm talking
about the ones that seem to be
saying that beer equals frogs
sticking to trucks while
Canadian voyagers meet the
sasquatch in a snowstorm in
the middle of the desert. These
messages have gone beyond
simple persuasion and into a
world that would make Michael
Palin wince. (Stop it! You're being
silly! -ed.)
There are examples all over the
place. Just talk to anyone with a
little too much nostalgia. I've
heard many conversations that
seem to go along the lines of: "I
tell you, you kids today have it
easy. When I was young, downhill hadn't been invented yet.
We had to walk uphill everywhere we went." To which
someone would inevitably
reply, "You were able to walk
around? You were lucky! When
I was young, we were so poor
that we couldn't afford gravity.
We had to spend all our time
holding onto trees to keep from
being thrown out into space."
Okay, so maybe these haven't
been great examples of people
with a firm grasp of reality.
Surely sensible, thinking people
who study the world around
them should all see reality in a
clear, understandable Way,
right? Well... no. Every year in
my physics courses, I learnt several things that I had drilled
into me in previous years are
just not true. For example, this
year I found out that the charge
of electron is really infinite. It
just seems to be a constant
because nothing (Which is really made up out of particles that
blip in and out of existence
faster than anyone is allowed to
measure them) blocks out some
of the charge. When I think
about this, suddenly beer commercials seem to make a lot
more sense.
SoI've come to the conclusion
that, despite what all the X-
philes might believe, the truth
isn't really out there. It seems to
me that most minds don't have
a clue to what is really going on.
I know my mind doesn't, but
it's sure as hell not going let me
know that . It'll just bluff its
way through life telling me
things like "Well of course you
can make that yellow light... a
block away... uphill... while
you're on a bike."
I guess the point I'm hying to
make is that if I believe that if I
squint my eyes I can see Death
riding a motorcycle over my
desk and waving maracas, that's
my business okay? It's not that
I'm going crazy, it's just that I'm
going sane in my own little
world.
It has been said that writing for
The 432 pushes you towards
insanity. I'd just like to remove
myself from all blame by stating
that Henry was nuts already.
-ed.
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the Axe-rossit/6- c<mP£Tit/on wAned 30 Oktober 1996
The Four Thirty Two
)
The drawers of SUS.
Tracy MacKinnon
President
Happy Hallowe'en! John has made our office very festive by
the addition of a jack-o-lantern! And Shirin from Arts
brought us a pumpkin full of chocolates for Hallowe'en
(thanks, Shirin)! Club budgets were due a few days ago, so I hope
all you clubs got them in to us already!
Teaching Excellence Awards are getting under way in SUS right
now. There are nomination forms somewhere in this paper, so if
you had a really great prof that you want to recognize, nominate
him or her for a SUS teaching award! More details can be found
with the forms, or you can come by the office (Chem 160) and talk
to me or to Henry.
The AMS is having a Hallowe'en Trick or Treat for the Food Bank.
Interested people are meeting in the SUB Party Room between 4:30
and 5:30 on Hallowe'en, and then they'll canvass Point Grey and
Kits for donations of non-perishable goods for the food bank. If
you want more information, you can talk to Kathryn in SUS (she's
the giggling redhead - you can't miss her).
Our Oktoberfest celebration was a lot of fun.. Unfortunately, we
lost quite a bit of money, so we'll have to have very tight budgets
for our remaining events this year. SUS steins (they're a colossal 22
oz!) were a big hit though. I believe we still have about 80 left, and
they'll be filled at all SUS events for all eternity!
I'm feeling giddy, so if you need a favour, now would be the time
to ask, since my interviews are going very well (hurrah)!
Until the next deadline (although the time between deadlines
seems to get smaller and smaller) (Tell me about it -ed.).
Phil Ledwith	
External Vice President
Oi Oi!! Skoosh!! Ah'm no goin tae be tae coherent this issue,
ye ken, on account o the fact that ah'm rite shagged oot
after day o the longboat. The water wiz cold, an a little on
the damp side, but it wiz greeet all the same. The president from
Arts, Shirin, wiz thare rite enuff an' lovely as ever in her wee bathin
suit, but her team wasnae as good as our team. The fact that I nevir
actually saw her team has nae bearin on the matter at oil. An we
didnae capsize the boat this year, which is a lot more than can be
said for our last team oot on the seas. Anyway, if yer reedin' this,
Shirin, Ah hope yer team did well.
By the time ye read this, Halloween will be only a day or two
away. The AMS is doin' a Trick or Treat for charity, so get oot thare
an have some fun. Ah've no a greet deal tae say now. The wine an
cheeese wiz majic, speshully the wine bit. That's ma lot. Ah gess it's
time for a blatant plug.
Science Week. Meetings at 5:30 every Wednsday in Chem 160. If
ye can't make it to a 5:30 meeting, come by any time after 3.30 and
say helloo; I'm the bald laddie typing at the keyboard looking really frazzled. Come by and see us spend five grand on a week long
party, with explosions an fireworks an egg catapults an mad races
an enough beer tae... well, ah don't want tae give it oil away tae
soon, do I? '        ' - '■
Mikey Boetzkes
Social Coordinator
Hi everybody and welcome to another installment of "How
Much Money Can I LoseThis Week." This week has been
very good in the department of losing money. I've also discovered that lam unusually good at this. So, please give me more
money.
Well in other news Oktoberfest was on the 18th. As far as fun goes
it was a lot of it but financially there was one or two complaints
afterwards. As far as I can tell the rest of the Exec didn't really like
the fact that I lost $3500 on this event. Me I don't see too big of a
problem because I have yet to kill my entire budget.
The good news about Oktoberfest is that a lot of people had a really good time which makes the whole process all worth while. It no
longer matters how much money I lost because I managed to fulfill my mandate by causing people to have fun. It is such a rough
life, isn't it.
Well in other news we have another bzzr garden coming up on
November 15. This will be a much smaller event and therefore only
held in the Partyroom but should be as much if not more fun. I
guess at this point I should really know more about this event so I
can pass it on to you but, well I don't. Sorry but it has been a busy
couple of weeks. For more info read this article in the next issue.
Someone told me the other day that I'm supposed to have a Social
Committee and therefore I should have committee meetings. I
think that I will have it on Wednesday at about 5:00. I can guarantee that this will be short because I have another meeting at
5:30, SO if you feel like doing some work come to my meeting.
That's all folks.
Despite his best effort, Mikey couldn't break the record for most money
lost at a SUS social event. Better luck next time, Mikey.
-ed.
Doug Beleznay
Henry Wong
Director of finance
$32,430,.... $32,431,... $32,432... Oh right my exec
report...well, we are now officially rolling in money... the $2
retroactive increase went through (meaning that your fees for
January just went up by $2)... but they were supposed to already be
like that. (We had a referendum last year, it just: got passed on to
BoG a little slowly by the AMS).
So since the $2 increase went through, that means that we're back
on track for budgeting, and in fact even have a little more than we
hoped. You see, in an effort to boost University productivity,
Science allowed approx. 600 more students into first year last year.
(In the long run this means we've got about $6000 more to play
with. No John, you can't have any more money. (But the cost of buying bzzr, er, printing this paper has just shot up! -ed.)
"So how can I get my hands on some of this money?" you may
ask. Well, unfortunately this paper came out one day too late,
because the first budget committee meeting was Oct. 29th. So
we've already passed out -$7000 to clubs. There will however be
more budget meetings throughout the year, (I plan to hold one
approximately once a month, or as necessary), so if spending other
peoples money turns your crank watch this space. (Or better yet
come in to the SUS office (Chem. B160), and ask for me)
Let's see what else, we've actually got our money from the AMS
now. (They hold on to the money until the end of October.) So that
means we can start to spend money a little more freely. We should
be upgrading the pop machine to take twoonies anytime soon. (If
I really get my act together we'll be getting an upgrade to the photocopier, and maybe even a vending machine). Oh did I mention
the new phone line, and new (to us) couches that we've already
got. (Have you seen Chem Club's new lounge? They have leather couches! Say, Doug... -ed.) (If you haven't been in SUS yet this year, things
have changed.) So yeah, if you have a great idea for spending
money, or if you want to see how your money is being spent, or
even if you just can't stand the weather outside, and want someone
to complain about it to, drop on by!!!.
Doug's secret passion is taking all the coins from the pop machine,
putting them in a hot tub and diving in naked. Weird, eh?
-ed.
Warrick Yu
Director of Sports
Hello everyone, this special report is brought to you by me.
Oh yes, the rebate...I finally made up the new, fantastic,
improved, magnificent, reader-friendly Sport Rebate Policy.
It is posted on the notice board and on the door outside SUS.
Hopefully, no one will be confused. If it does happen, ask. One way
to remember how to calculate the amount of rebate your team can
receive is to memorize the following:
R = F/T(M/2 + NG)
This is called "The Great Wall's 2nd Law" which is the modified
version of "The Great Wall's 1st Law". The 2nd Law is fairer to all
of you who pay the $12 SUS fee. In other words, "SUS Members
Deserve Better" Note that this is not Gordon Campbell's
"Taxpayers Deserve Better", nor is this Glen Clark's "On Your Side"
politics. This rebate policy is all logical mathematics. If you don't
know the variables, I can tell you now:
R = Rebate a team can receive
F = Registration fee
T = Total number of players excluding imports
M = Number of SUS members, that means you.
N = Number of non-SUS members excluding the imports, that
means the other guys...hmmmmm	
G = Amount of money granted to the "other guys" as described
above.
This formula is unofficial. The official formula (apparently it is
identical to the unofficial one) is found in the Sport Rebate Policy
Article III-3. Any other questions?
Now, the report of the SUS Executive Ball Hockey team. Our
goalie, i.e. me, is slightly injured by a player from the opposing
team. This player intentionally crashed into the goalie, who had
already frozen theb^wThe^condition of the goalie is as follows:
All limbs and the head are still attached to the body. There is no
evidence of missing limbs. There is a slightly bleeding in the gum
due to the collision (or it could be due to not brushing your teeth, -ed.).
A cut is found above the hose beside the right ocular implement
(i.e. eye). Mental stress continues as the goalie is not responding to
Prozac treatment.
Where was the ref? I guess he was as blind as Kerry F. Anyway the
goalie is ready to play again!
Warrick is, simply put, the single most energetic person I have ever
met. If you want someone to play chess with, he's not so hot, but if you
want a package delivered to Hong Kong overnight, he's your man.
-ed.
Internal Vice President
In case you haven't heard of
me before, I am your SUS
Internal Vice President, and
yes, this is my first ever write-up
for this wonderful paper. What
is there to say? Well, there was
the welcome back BBQ way
back in September. (We were
the motley crew baking ourselves in front of two fiery charcoal grills on East Mall) The new
council members were elected
(appointed due to the lack of
competition and candidates)
last week. If you didn't notice
the polling stations, don't
worry, there were none. (It's a
dictatorship, I tell 'ya! Students of
UBC! Unite against oppression! -
ed)
However, there's still a way you
can get involved, accomplish
something, stamp your mark on
the Science community and
make your year memorable.
Teaching Excellence Award
nomination forms are out! It
means a lot to profs to be recognized and loved by their students, so nominate your
favorite professor for the award!
All you have to do is to tear out
the nice little form at the back
of this paper (after you've finished rigorously memorizing all
the columns (We know if you do.
There will be a test later, -ed.))
sign your name, find 9 other
people (or 70% of your class,
whichever number is smaller) to
do the same and hand the form
in to me at the SUS office in
Chem B160. The academic
committee will then studiously
evaluate each nominated professor to determine the winner.
The First Year Committee will
be up and running next week.
The first meeting will be on
Monday, 28th Oktober 4:32 PM
in the SUS Office. Please show
up if you are interested to get
involved. I guarantee you will
meet a lot of wonderful new
people and thoroughly enjoy
the experience. Imagine that!
Yeah. Imagine that. Also imagine
that this paper will be printed on
the 30th of Oktober. Oh well, you
can still come into SUS if you're
interested. Henry will be the guy
studying the calendar.
-ed.
U
"But the fact that
some geniuses were
laughed at does not
imply that all who are
laughed at were
geniuses. They
laughed at Columbus,
they laughed at
Fulton, they laughed
at the Wright brothers. But they also
laughed at Bozo the
Clown."
- Carl Sagan
  ii	 1
Page 8
Bernie goes to Russia. Part I
Jeremy
fftpEH THORP
r^ti
This is the story of a fish.
Or, more accurately, this
is the story of a fish, a
banana and an exceptionally
evil hamster.
Let's start with, the fish. How
many of you have ever seen a
Russian Dwarf Mackerel? No? I
wouldn't be too sure about that.
You see, the Russian Dwarf
Mackerel (or the RDM, to those
in the know) looks remarkably
like the common goldfish.' So
strikingly similar are these two
species, that even well trained
ichthyologists have been
known to make the occasional
mis-identification (don't
believe me? Ask the guy at the
pet shop.) Now, this often leads
to some rather unfortunate psychological problems in the
RDM, and my pet mackerel
Bernie is no exception. Lately
he's been listless, tired, and
downright depressed. Indeed,
there were a few days there
when I was worried that he may
have deoxygeriated his last few
millilitres of carefully treated
water. Being the conscientious
pet owner that I am, I decided
that what Bernie needed was a
taste of his homeland: Since I
was fresh out of Vodka, I packed
up my backpack, shined my
swiss army knife, and headed
for the great Siberian frontier.
(Because that's oh so much easier
than a trip to 4th & Alma, right
Jer?-ed.)
Perhaps it would be a good
idea to introduce you to, or
more accurately, to warn you
about my hamster. There is a
carefully preserved myth that
hamsters are cute fuzzy, and,
most ridiculously of all, friendly. Let me assure you, most
adamantly, that these assumptions are not only completely
false, but also very, very dangerous. Many a finger has been lost
to the carefully sharpened teeth
of Cricetus cricetus, and it is only
through the most fortuitous circumstances that I am still the
proud owner of eight fingers,
and their associated opposable
thumbs. Now that I've warned
you of the dangerous blood-lust
that is characteristic of these
most horrible of rodents, it is
time for you to meet Frank the
Hamster. Frank is the hamster
equivalent of a psychopath.
Last week, I gave him ari entire
package of carrot-shaped wooden chew toys, and returned to
find each of them carved and
sharpened into small hamster-
weapons which resembled pike
axes. I once caught him rubbing
two pieces of cedar bedding
together, trying to ignite his little wooden house. And my
roommates thought I was crazy
when I installed the sprinkler
system on his cage.
Nevertheless, I still feel that I
have a responsibility to Frank,
so along he came to Russia, dangling from my backpack in his
steel-reinforced travel cage.
I always though it would be
easy to get to Russia. I mean,
sure, it's a good 10,000 miles
away, but it looked so close on
that little key-chain atlas I got
in my Christmas cracker when I
was five. Besides, I've seen Spies
Like Us, and they got to Russia
with one small scene change.
Of course, I was wrong. I realized this after being on the road
for about 7 hours. The gas stations still didn't have any
Vodka, and 'Prince Rupert' sure
didn't seem too Russian to me.
But I persevered — I figured if I
drove long enough on this
'Alaska Highway' that it would
eventually lead to some fragment of the former U.S.S.R.
In the meantime, Bernie was
perking up with every water
change in his portable plexiglass tank. His eyes were growing brighter with every mile,
and he was doing laps around
the badly painted fluorescent
skull like a greyhound on
amphetamines. Even Frank the
Evil Hamster seemed to be
cheering up — his chewing on
the cage bars had stopped producing sparks, and every once
in a while,- you could swear he
was no longer possessed by
Satan. As the trees and goats
whizzed by the car like so many
horseflies...wait... those were
horseflies. Oh well, you get the
point. As we continued northward, I was struck with an overpowering sense of dedication —
I knew, at that moment, that
Bernie and I were going to make
it to Russia, and that everything
was going to be alright.
And that's when everything
went to hell.
There are only a limited number of compounds that can
shear through steel. One would
guess that none of these compounds would be contained in
the tooth of a hamster. One
would be wrong, but that is
what one would guess. Chances
are, as well, that the average
human, if asked, would probably guess that a hamster doesn't
have the cranial capacity
required to learn the intricacies
of a combustion engine. Once
again, one would be wrong.
whirrr....grAUW!!! thunk.
Not a particularity good sound
to hear from an engine — and a
really quite awful sound to hear
from an engine when driving
along the Alaska Highway at
4am on an unusually cool fall
morning. But, I'm not one to
panic. I prefer hysteria. I find
that a good five minutes of full-
out screaming-at-the-top-of-
your-lungs terror-filled hysteria
really calms the nerves. (Is that
patented Jer 'screaming-like-a-girl'
screaming? -ed.) Unfortunately
for me, it also wakes wildlife.
Sometimes while walking
down a poorly lit street late at
night, your eyes can play tricks
on you. Bushes become knife-
wielding maniacs, mailboxes
become angry dogs, and bus
stops become gangs of drunken
hell's angels. Most of the time,
however, these phantasms disappear as you move closer, and
you find yourself chuckling in
regards to your apparent idiocy.
Unfortunately, there aren't a lot
of bus stops, or lamp posts on
the Alaska Highway, and this
particular knife-wielding maniac didn't turn into a bush. It
turned into a bear.
I've watched a lot of nature
films in my time, and I know
that bears often hibernate for
the weekend. Without going
into the gruesome details of
metabolical slowing and rectal
plugs, I'll just say that hibernation entails falling asleep for a
good long time, in order to
avoid all that coldness that is so
prevalent in the cold-type
places where bears live. What I
didn't know is that, for bears
living in Alaska, winter starts
quite early. In October,- to be
more accurate. Have you ever
been woken up at 4:00 in the
morning, after just settling
down for a four month nap in a
cozy nest of carefully prepared
bedding products? Well, I know
a bear who has.
Now this was a good time. Not
only was I facing a menacing,
eight foot tall grizzly bear on a
remote section of a poorly
paved highway, but I had also
apparently released a viscous
hamster on an unsuspecting,
poorly equipped ecosystem; Mr.
Mackerel was hiding in his
skull, and I was in serious danger of needing a new pair of
pants.
Enter the banana. Fumbling
behind my back, in the fortunately open back pocket of my
five-dollar backpack, I searched
frantically for a weapon. I knew
I had my swiss army knife back
there   somewhere,   and   after
See "Hamster" on page 4
3 I If
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