VOLUME 12 ISSUE 08 • 02.10.99 Paul Martin includes Whorin' in new budget. ■e^mMnaiil In a surprise move yesterday, Paul Martin released next year's budgets early. Most members of the Liberal caucaus were confused by the new line 696 "Whorin"'. The budget surplus from the past three years of back breaking over-taxing and under spending are going to pay off this year for Canadian males between the ages of fourteen and sixty-five. "This is the one service that reaches all of the special interest groups," said a spokesperson for Martin. "Every living man, be he homeless, unemployed, indebted to student loans, or disabled." Martin also expressed his happiness that women would be able to benefit from the new legislation as well. "We have an opportunity to allow women on welfare, unemployed, disabled, and incarcirated women to participate in this new service." "What it comes down to, is that we're sitting on a buttload of cash. We figured we could either blow it on whores or smack, and Mr. Martin is afraid of needles." When asked whether he was worried over potential disease transmission through this new program, Martin replied "Well firstly, we're only going to hire the high class whores. Secondly, we're going to require so much paper work to access this new service that the scuzzy diseased type people will never make use of it. We would ensure that only the highest calibre of people would be entitled to utilize these rescources, like the people we have in the child care proffession." Reaction to the announcment has ranged from "disgusted" to "elated" to "very very confused". Preston Manning leader of the official opposition, the Reform Party of Canada , was very active during the question period which followed the budget announcement. "Mr. Martin, can you explain to me again how you are going to ensure that this vital service will be maintained over the years to come?" asked an adament Manning, in "This is great! I mean this is really F**king great" james adamson, young liberals a striking change of character, Manning denied to comment as he was "late for massage therapy." Turncoat and Quebec Premier, Lucien Bouchard, seemed little moved by the announcement. "I do not understand all the hoopla. This has been a right of Kaybeckers since confederation." said a wobbly Bouchard. All the other premiers agreed last week to the increase in funding, but the Quebec leader disagreed as Quebec would not see any practical increase in its whorin' budget. British Columbia Premier Glen Clark was very exited by the news saying "This will be huge boon to the sagging B.C. economy. We have the highest per capita whore rate in the country. This is exactly the kind of lucky break I've been waiting for to ride into another election." Women's groups are expressing "rage", "dismay", and "utter contempt". Ursala Magdalena from the discussion group Women on Women has described the move as "the worst move since the first woman gave head." "We have been righting this kind of male chauvinistic crap for decades, and now this. Why can't we have access to the whores? I mean I need a good lay just as much as the next fat balding sweaty construction worker." Jean Chretien was unavailable for comment as he and his family are currently engaged in a week long ski-jaunt at Whistler. Latest reports from sources close to Cretien reported that he was in deep conversation with Ursala all day Saturday, and that afterwards she appeared to be placated on the issue. Garage vs. Carport Debate Turns Violent, Kills Four 432 editor at 300dpi, 6AM iim&mJ®%mm® Perhaps it is the heightened frenzy over the Y2K computer bug, the violent tendencies fostered by the Jerry Springer Show, or it may be even some erotic endotoxin everybody seems to have acquired from sniffing Furbies. Whatever it is, the world has become a terrifyingly strange and deadly place to live. Last week at a children's soccer game at Arbutus Field, a heated discussion took place between the parents of the players of the Ladner First Nations Peoples and those of the Richmond Wild Horses of Unspecified Gender. The topic of the debate was whether it is more proper to refer to one's covered parking bay as a carport or as a garage. The argument quickly turned violent when Brenda Franorph, a rather large-assed mother of the First Nations' star forward, hurled her considerable mass into the midsection of the father of the Horses' fullback, knocking him to the morning-dew moist grass behind the 20 year old bleachers, breaking 3 of his ribs and fracturing his skull, sending into a deep coma from which he would never awaken. A bloody melee ensued as the children watched their fathers, mothers and legal guardians become a chaotic, pulsating body of flailing limbs and breaking body parts. The true horror came when Janet Voorhees, whose son Jason tends goal for the Nations', somehow managed to decapitate Richmond resident Tracey Rightman with her seat cushion. "That pompous bitch got just what she deserved, " Mrs. Voorhees told the 432 from over the phone from her jail cell, "All she could do all game was compliment her daughter. 'Good job Tanya!' 'Great pass Tanya!' Having to listen to that shit for two hours straight while watching her ugly little bitch on the field fall over herself—What would you have done?" Charges are pending towards Mrs. Voorhees. She and the seven other surviving soccer moms and dads are behind bars tonight and will appear before the judge tomorrow. page two The 432 2.10.98 But Hotan, Us? c Snay I really like anasthetic. If it wasn't for the groinal surgery I had to have, I would have enjoyed last week's trip to the hospital. Last Friday I ventured into the hallowed halls of the venerable University Hospital at a plucky seven fifteen a.m. to checkin for my left inguinal hernia repair which was schedueled to get under way at nine fifteen a.m. I was immediately subjected to a brief checkin where I was asked many confusing questions including but not limited to the following; "What is your full name?" "What is your address?" "How many toes do you have?" "How does Tinbergen's Theory on Great Tit's apply to Alnus rubral" "Who is your family doctor?" "What are the implications of Hussein's decision to pass the throne of Jordan to his Son instead of his brother?" "Have you had anything to eat in the past eight hours" I was then directed upstairs to the surgical clinic to be "prepped" for surgery. This is another way of saying getting naked and sitting around until you're so bored you gladly accept having your innards spilled onto the floor just to provide a little relief from the monotony. They sat me on a bed in a room with other people having surgery the same day. I'm convinced these other "patients" were just actors who the hospital placed in the room to make me feel better because they were all having surgery which sounded much more painful and serious than mine. A seeming ly skilled guy around the age of thirty five then came in set up an I.V. on one of these other "patients". A few minutes later a skinny little asian girl who looked about fifteen came into stick my arm full of tubes. I'm sitting there with a horse needle in my hand before the actual little I.V. tube is inserted and the nurse comes back into the room and proceeds to say to the torture artist digging the inside of my hand apart "Who the hell are you?" That really helped quivering faith in the hospital. Anyway she got the drip going after explaining to nurse Ratchet that she was interning with the anesthetist. If you grabbed some scrubs, you could easily walk into a hospital and start practising medecine. Why do they call it practising medecine? I don't wan't some beginner practising on me. I want a guy whose good enough that he doesn't have to practise anymore. So off I go wheeling down the halls of the hospital, wearing piss all with only a thin, but nicely warmed sheet between me and the world. The orderly Hotan, dumped me off in this room just outside the operating room where I was accosted by the friendliest lady I've ever met. She was just way to happy. I guess when you work in the hospital its not to hard to get happy pills, or happy gas, 'or happy suppositories. So after a few minutes of happy chappy cheriness, my orderly comes back to wheel me away. You would think I would be nervous by this point, but the fact is I was so bored, I was glad to get things under way. So into the Operating room I go, where I was throughly impressed with the operating table held together with Duct Tape. The anesthetist proceeded to mix me one hell of a martini which he proceeded to mainline right to my brain. There's no better way to consume alcohol then by I.V. with the possible exception of enema which I have yet to try. I really have no desire to have a booze enema, unless there was a familly of Lithuanian refugees living in my rectum who needed to be flushed. I woke up a little quicker than most people coming off of the anasthetic. In fact I woke up as I was being wheeled out of the operating room. I was a little confused by the lack of midgets and the lizards who were catching the cockroaches running around on the ceiling. After a few moments of terror, I realized that I was in fact in the hospital recovering from major internal trauma so I asked the local nurse the obvious question. "Where the hell have all the midgets gone?* I was promptly sedated. A couple of hours later I woke up back in nurse Ratchet's dominion with a headache and a bag of ice inhabating the prime real estate next door to mister happy. About twenty minutes later an angel came to take my home. Three days later I could walk to the bathroom without having to take a nap afterwards. THE KELVIN SCALE IS A COMMIE PLOT Editorial CfSPj Temple Last night's still a bit foggy. I can recall almost the entire week, but for some reason, my mind's ability to observe and catalog all of the stimuli around me ceased working on Saturday. It all began innocently enough, the four of us: Jake, Jenn, Frenchy, and myself were sitting around in SUS discussing, as we often do, how much fun it would be to go on a road trip. We decided that it would be the literal incarnation of the word fun for the four of us to pile into a vehicle and drive somewhere, to where not being important. I'm sure that everybody has taken part in one of these yeah- we-should-do-it conversations, but this time we vowed to actually go for it. The first step we decided to take was to reserve a minivan rental, thus requiring us to go, lest we lose our security deposit. We spent a couple of days tying up all the loose ends that taking five days off school entails, then sat down in the Gallery to do some serious planning. Over copious quantities of alcohol, we started to formulate an itinerary. After a few hours of knocking back pitchers of Shaftebury Cream and polishing all of the burs out of the schedule, we came up with the following: we were to get the van and drive to California, on Thursday turn around and come back. It was flawless. Elated with our planning, and excited to depart in two days, we settled back for a long night of carousing. 1 remember at about midnight Jake was trying his very hardest to convince our waitress to come with us, but, even after he filled her in on our detailed plan, she turned the offer down. Dejected, Jake resigned himself to the idea of a completely platonic road-trip. But, we all knew full-well that the following week would have plenty of room for some drunken debauchery. Finally the day dawned slightly overcast, but with an electric charge to the air. Jake and I had already gotten the van, and we were to all meet at SUS with our supplies for the week. We loaded into the van and set the dial for South. The rear storage compartment was filled with alcohol, so we had to keep the bushels of fruit on our laps until we could make enough of a dent in the two supplies that they would both fit in the back. As a result of this, Frenchy had to flash his fake Customs badge and mutter something like "it's all under control" at the angry man asking us to step out of the car at the Peace Arch. With the law behind us, we were all very excited about what lay ahead. . . ..: We soon came to realize that highway driving isn't the most fun experience in the world, so we cracked open our beer at about nine. Since Jenn was on the first driving shift and Frenchy was next, only Jake and I were able to drink. When you're drinking in a bar, there are things to distract you from your main task, drinking. However, when you're in the backseat of a minivan doing 120km/h down a non-descript four-lane, you are able to focus your attention. Several beer later, Jake and I were nicely drunk and decided to play the sock game. The sock game is a great travel game that Jake and I made up that morning. The object of the game is to wrestle one of the other players' socks from him or her, hang it out the window, let it go, watch it strike the windshield of the car behind you, and cackle at the surprised and bewildered looks on the faces of the people in the target car. Jealous at all of the fun we were having, Frenchy decided to have one beer to ease the tedium of watching 47,000 white lines flash by. Under an hour later, Frenchy was in the back seat with us giggling drunkenly at an old black man that shook his fist at us after Frenchy's sock whistled off his hood. The sock game was a huge success at passing the time until lunch. A little after one, Jenn pulled into a McDonalds just outside of Seattle. Inside,. Frenchy -a PolySci major of course- lead a bitter fight on the merits of the North American Free Trade Agreement, detail* ing why the manager should be happy to serve us, and not fall back on some petty* regulations that insisted we weren't allowed, in the restaurant with bare feet. Alas, Jenn aka Brute sabotaged our international trade talks by insisting that we leave as well. So, a few minutes later we were back on the highway eating our chalupas and burritos and drinking our rum 'ri' cokes through plastic straws. The three of us were sitting in the back, patting our backs and complimenting each other on the way we made the McDicks manager crumble before our sophisticated arguments, while Jenn sat in the front shaking her head. By four, Jenn was getting pretty tired so we decided to take it easy the first day, and pulled into a Holiday Inn. The man at the check-in counter raised an eyebrow when a svelte young woman with three drunken bastards in tow walked up to him and asked for a double room. After we were checked in, we were happy to end a long hard day of drinking and we went up to our room on the ninth floor. We knew that fate was against us when we saw that we couldn't open the windows, and me with my jar of pennies. We were quickly placated when we saw that they were showing pornos on channel 52. Stay tuned next week for the thrilling conclusion of my narrative depiction of our road trip where I will recount the encounter we had with Steve, a U of A student we met while he Was hitchiking to Mexico. Volume 12 Issue 8 13 JANUARY 1999 © 1999 The Science Undergraduate Society cf UBC. All rights reserved. The 432 is the offidal newspaper of thef Science Undergraduate Society, published! fortnightly by a grumpy son of a bitch who) has much better things to do every otherj weekend, so you should be very grateful j for your chance to read this paper. All opinions expressed herein are strictly those of the individual writers and not those of The 432 or the Science Undergrad Society. Writers and (cartoonists from all faculties are encouraged to submit material to The 432. The 432 is copyrighted by The Science Undergraduate Society of UBC and may not be reproduced in whole or in part without express written consent. Editor-in-Chief Spaiilimpte i drtemple@interchg.uDc.ca | ;!f itsfullofstars@penis.com j Assistant Editors Jake Ipaf smeghead@penis.com Andy Martin spacerhooseC Cartoonist 5*iie§" Andy iirtti jenn Gardy Saw mmm Ireeciiiig liifier 2.10.98 The 432 page three Now the A.D.D. Report Q./ ^inii So life is a bit strange right now. It started Friday night after a Britpop show at The Gate. My punk rock mate and I go over to the Sugar Refinery for a bit of after-hours action. The Sugar Refinery is full of Arts students - people who wear black, complain about the treatment of underfed political prisoner activist types in countries with gross national products that are measured in pocket change, and who list "making statements" as one of their hobbies. We get in and grab a table in front of the night's entertainment - two guys, one of whom looks like he had to ride the short bus to school every morning, playing drums and scratching records. I'd use the term "DJ". but that would be like describing Charles Manson as "a pretty well-adjusted guy - good with kids and pregnant women". Anyway, at the end of their set one of the guys grabs a hammer and "makes a statement' by beating the shit out of one of the turntables. I'm not sure whether the statement was "This represents the routine and systematic oppression of the Tkvullu people of Northern Zambia by the corrupt regime of Generalissimo Sock" or "My girlfriend dumped my and I'm a bit pissed off" but everyone is the place was paying really deep attention. Punk rock boy and I were pissing ourselves laughing. So then this old* drunk guy in a scarf gets up, grabs the hammer, and starts the audience participation part of the night , which basically entails attempting to crack my friend's skull open with said hammer. Didn't work. So we went home. Next afternoon we go see a movie. The second we step out of the theatre after it's over, the whole world has changed. We kinda got the feeling that you get when you step out of the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to your shoe and everyone else knows and is looking at you funny, but all your know is you're the centre of attention and it's not good. Anyway we walk through the city with the toilet-paper-on-the shoe feeling and get home. After dinner, Punk rock boy heads home and 2 hours later, his psychotic ex-girlfriend appears at my front door. OK, so I'm kinda bored of talking about all that crap. You don't know me, so it's probably not of any interest to you. Last night I made a small army of sock puppets. They are stationed in my hallway, ready to protect me from alien invasion. I want to get famous, but not so famous that I can't just disappear into obscurity when I'm bored with it all. I never want to be stuck hosting an infomercial like most has-beens. There're 3 ways to do things: the right way, the wrong way, and the Science way. the Science way is the wrong way, but faster. If I could fly, I'd fly above all the birds that ever crapped on my car and I'd do the same to them. Three blondes go into a bar, order a round of shooters, raise their glasses, and shout "51 days!". They go up to the bartender, order another round, and shout "51 days!" again. They go up to the bar a third time, order a round, and shout "51 days!". They go up for their fourth round and as the bartender pours their shots, he asks them why they keep toasting to "51 days". "Well," says one blond, "we just finished a jigsaw puzzle. The box said .4-7 years but we finished it in 51 days!" Always remember to clean the probe carefully after every use. C'nest Pas Un Souris Horoscopes Aries (March 21 - April 191: 'I his Valentine's Pay is the time to bring up the idea of si'X. With .mvone I he more thr merrier, right? Right, lliv !v>.| cLii' t>i | :ik ii|- |v .pli- is ..I l>,iio. |".ibs, beer gardens, and mi ;si iin.iilvi -ii.il m\ ti> ■■!<-. . lu-lv i w.i\ :.. ;■!■ k someone up is with \i-ii! ki:ivs l.ltirg with \'hi \\i.\ !>■ i:>l begging for injury. I Mi !:> n's in'I Ciiili1 .is ■un wl'i-n ih.iTi 's iii ■ ■ ■nc to share it with. l.mriis i \pril 2lJ M.»\ 2<)i: '■ n\i- ■ i-:-i- i.il m; ■ n:-.;.;» \. nr species iC.iin. i..i\ i n'l i- ii.' I -ii inr I>-m i < -i-J. 111*: K.:\i 11:*.- i:>".h alone! It :n.a n ^l hi si.iti:ti'i\ i.:|n iii In . p-:i [■•.■ hr.-lhi'!' i.ii; •.nil track your i-.s .is.'.Mi .in.! |"i.,:n.| \,.i: 11.11■ ii'i- I'.i'.-.T'i'hi ' -. (it-mini (\1«'i\ 21 - lime HU: V iht.ui \-iii pi.-sirii i i:i \woel, i:iii.'itnt lau- \" tin UiMid. Km! \.>Lir p.iiiud kin>i\k '.'u truth. Pivi.iiit MUi.iiiK h.is .1I-/..11-. \,u:ki>! \ nr l*..i:i. *.' I. .;v ik Oh, if thev niilv knew in-! •>ni thnsi- whips .iini IijikIi sills Cuiier (June 21 - |ul\ 22): living with inniiim.ili s d'H-s h.ivi its dMwh.ii.ks Vimi can't suf.im .is Imid .is \nu w.int in ilu Ihmrs ni pas- sum, viui i.int have si\ on Ilu- living renin lis-or jii\ turn- \.m leil like it. \\ gel v. Ii.it \,. is ii-l.i\i-il .mil in tiu- ni-sn.i, :n- ..r shr 1 Ifs ris wi-ith'.'.inle h.ihv. 1 ivi- linns. ! Il" li- Ills '.i in.:' r. 1 ;.[ 1 iisr .1 phrase. If your partner ■i In- .nid she) will make your ng rights. Five times, Scorpio (October 2.-$ - November 211: < .in.nli.in 1 h< i>>l;iti- to m-\ Is this .1 1 h illengi- I Ih-.ii ' Sagittarius (November 22 - December 21): Sorry to loll you this, hul wni'n- "'.-u-wi-d \i-.il ii-.' in .1 j:.iisi! v..i\. The psychotic ex's are mil l-i gi-i \r .it k.is! lus the .ibilitv to kit k .iss. Aquarius MJmiuuiv 2D- li-hniiirv IX): Will, with ii-n hi.-kin ■ >.m maiulniiuts ht-hind von. it's tmu- in mine nnlii m-w li-rnti-rv. Morality is such a bumnu-r. Vnu ■ ■>u|.l hi- hit h> .1 bus .ui.l die lom.-r row, so lijvi: fun todjy. C.in-liil tun. as 1M.1i bus might lum oft vmir stn-i't before it hits \on. and you imglii live until \nuu- "d (,,j|" f,ltl noiiolheless. I'iscts (February 19- March 20l: A l,ill. h.indsonu- stranger will soon wander into your life .uul bed. Best mlrodiuo yourself lo Uus stranger before >ou «vnd up in the sack Tlu-re is nothing ipiiti- likr m reaming. "Oh yos! Yes." C>h wh.il was \011r ndiiu- again.'1 wrjeBS»,9**«** Reginald, a Polynesian Titmouse. . ^.-.^-^^^ssas-s^a^eas^ffl! issssssasj page four The 432 2.10.98 There's Gotta Be a 12-Step Program ^ara Stamm - ^ „ ■y^ imiemtM ' .,,> I can remember worrying and stressing out a lot during first term. I used to get up an hour and a half before I needed to be at class (I live 10 minutes max. away from the class rooms) and ending up arriving late or even not at all (gasp!) because I was incapable of functioning at a level that allowed me to get where I needed to go when I needed to be there and with everything I needed. I think I must have acted a lot like someone you might see in a Psych ward in the hospital. I can vaguely remember moments of sitting down for a "breather" and getting up to continue with whatever it was I had been doing over an hour later, although it only felt like minutes to me. Whatever ensued between the time I sat down and the time I got up I couldn't tell you, but I can assure you that it involved glazed, unfocused eyes and a slack mouth. I hope that the only witnesses of this ever happening were my very important and essential companions; my stuffed teddy beats. I could never go through a day without them. I hold very intimate conversations with them, and tell them all the shit that goes down each day. I don't mind what I look like when they see me, but if anyone else happened to be present at a time that I entered "la-la land" I think their opinion of me might be compromised for the rest of our acquaintance. That is if there is a "rest of "to our acquaintance. Anyways, before I lose myself in narrative even more than I have and completely lose your interest, I'll do my best to come to the point of everything I've been saying. You see, the first sentence of this article contains: "during first term," which I am hoping tells you that I am no longer in that unflattering situation. I have learned to cope! As I near the end of the first part of the second half of my first year at UBC, I find stress to no longer be a part of my equation of life. Why? you might ask or How? Well, I just don't care anymore! Nothing matters, it doesn't make a difference what happens, as long as you have your teddy bears! Teddy bears can fix everything. You should try having some on the corner of your bed to watch over you. I find it so very soothing to know that they will be my guardian angels. When I do my homework (rarely, but it does occur!), I sit on my bed and ask my fuzzy friends what they think of my answers, and I basically just carry on a verbal monologue that encompasses everything I need to do to complete my homework. Doing work out loud seems to strip it of all frightening and potentially stressful aspects. Although, you do have to be careful, because I have found myself slipping up at times, and I think my teddy bears have the two words "organism" and "orgasm" mixed up. Either that or they think that the two words can be used interchangeably. That might get them in trouble some day, don't you think? I also study with my teddies (hmmm, "teddies", eh?) and that helps me a lot as well. Again, of course, you must be careful, because anything you do with your bears requires you to verbalize all your thoughts, so make sure you say what you mean. I even sleep with my teddy bears! You might think, "How scandalizing!" but really, the bears bear no resemblance to any kind of sexual figure in my mind. You must find other things to provide that form of stress relief. No, when I sleep with my teddies, they are just there to watch over me and comfort me if I have a bad dream. Everybody likes to be comforted after having a nightmare, right? Does all this worry you? You think I'm crazy right? Well, maybe you're right, but I don't worry so much anymore, and I enjoy life much more. My grades are better, I enjoy classes more, I get along with people better, I look better (I have time to make myself look decent when I get ■up, instead of daydreaming), and I feel better. Which reminds me, my teddy bears help me pick what to wear every morning, and I've had a lot more compliments this term than I had last term. I guess my bears have good taste! I suppose that you don't have to use teddy bears as your confidants if you can think of a better alternative, although the bears are pretty inconspicuous. You wouldn't know how vital they were if you didn't read this, so they serve the purpose well. 1 think that maybe all of you out there should try to find something like teddy bears to keep you sane in the weird world of university and all that. I think teddy bears are great. Oh yeah, and then there is my gorgeous roommate... Hey, what about me? -ed Master of His Domain Duncan McHugh ™ ~ ■<..... pifflijwfff eatgp J? Oh, dearest readers, I have a made a grievous mistake. I have taken a bet to abstain from alcohol consumption for the month of February. Egads! Just as I had never realized how bushy my eyebrows were until I bleached my hair, I had never known how deep- seated boozing is to my existence. Need I mention I was drunk when the bet was taken. I tells ya, life just ain't the same without that frosty beer to greet me when I get home, that glass of wine to wash down dinner and that trusty bowl of Cheerios and Vodka to wake me up in the morning. And talk about side effects. Man Alive! I've already given up on the possibility of romance for the next four weeks. Without a couple of glasses of liquid libido, there's little or no chance of me being able to articulate anything more than a monosyllabic grunt. Not that me as a polysyllabic grunter fares much better. I've been without a girlfriend for so long, even my hand is asking to see other people. You probably didn't want to hear that. Speaking of large collections of hair, I've dyed the hair on my head. As I mentioned previously, I bleached it and, for the sake of the federation, quickly colored it purple. Damn, some people really aren't down with purple as a hair colour. Safeway cashiers have started glaring at me as though I had just car bombed a Volvo full of nuns and puppies. Lord knows my days in Beirut weren't pretty, but puppies! I'd never harm puppies. Well, except those fucking poodles. Anyways, I digress. I've decided I am anti-pants. I think my thighs must be claustrophobic, I get panicky whenever I get dressed, very distressing. From now on I would like to declare the SUS lounge a pants optional zone. For too long we have been oppressed, shackled to the whims of our waistbands and inseams. Down with Khakis, Jeans and Cords!!! Up with Moo-Moos!!! I'm really finding it difficult to fill this space. $23.50 to see Spirit of the West in the Sub Ballroom, what's the deal? Who on campus has yet. to see SOTW? We've all seen them 12 times, we all know the songs and we'd all like to shove that really tinny flute up that guy's nose. $23.50 is utter shite. Belgium, now there's a scary thought. We all think that Belgium is so quaint, "oh, how cute; they speak Flemish, wow, they're so grateful on account of our saving their ass from Deutscheland", bogus, utterly bogus. They're seducing us while they continue their REMORSELESS GRAPPLING FOR WORLD DOMINATION!!! The wool has been pulled over our eyes people. Slowly but surely they're turning us into overweight couch monkeys with their "waffles" and "Tintin". And where is the central bank for the new Euro currency located? BRUSSELLES, baby! I'll let you know now, that when the finely crafted chocolate hits the fan, we're all going to be up shit creek without a canoe. One last thing. I'm beginning to do research on Bathroom graffiti culture for an expose that shall appear in a future issue. So, I want all you degenerates to get cracking. If all the scum on campus band together, there's no way the janitor's can keep the walls clean. Remember only the amusing or patently absurd will be up for consideration. So, go forth my brave minions and don't forget, should you find yourself in the stalls of the basement in Lassere do not, under any circumstances, tap your foot under the divider to the next stall. Trust me, it's a real pain in the ass. Oh jeez, I thought I recognized that purple hair, -ed fjomdJofti-U-Ufe This Portion of the Paper is Laced with LSD. Enjoy. Hooi Uou look a^ #\