Archive | January, 2012

Hitler Reacts to Evanston Revoking the Keg’s Liquor License

30 Jan

The views expressed in this video by Hitler do not accurately reflect the opinions of Sherman Ave and its writers. Still, we’ll miss the Keg.

NOTE: If this video goes viral, we will buy a puppy for every minor who was cited with underage drinking this year.

Produced by Sherman Ave, written by Evander Jones.

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Reflections on The Keg, The Afterlife, and Mayor Tisdahl’s Raging Bitchhood

30 Jan

First of all, I apologize in advance for the inevitably scatter-brained nature of this post.  I’m a bit emotional right now, and I also have class in 45 minutes.  Mostly it’s the emotions.  I haven’t been this emotional since the United States won the Olympics always.  So I suppose I’ll start this solemn reflection by thinking about today’s events.

It was about 2:20pm on a surprisingly warm Monday afternoon when I found out that The Keg had its liquor license revoked.  At first, I didn’t really want to believe it; could this really happen?  Do we really live in a world where institutions who blatantly serve alcohol to minors receive retribution for their actions?  I immediately was overcome with an all-encompassing sense of crushing sadness, and a vast emptiness set in my stomach.  It was like the first time I watched Bambi’s mom get shot, but instead of some stupid fucking mammal falling victim to Darwinism, it was something much worse.  You see, it was much more than The Keg’s liquor license that was revoked today.  The hopes and dreams of an entire generation were also revoked.

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Introducing: The Sherman Ave Swag Shoppe

30 Jan

Betches Love This
Could it be…!?

Has Northwestern’s premier political/historical/alcoholic-humor blog finally started up a capitalistic endeavor designed to raise enough money to pay off their gambling IOU’s from last year’s Northwestern-University of Chicago Women’s Ice Hockey match by selling you shit with their name emblazoned across it!?

That’s RIGHT!

Sherman Ave has got a great new Swag Shoppe just for you heinous kids running amok in downtown Evanston. Protest authority, sexual mores, your shitty TA, Illinois drinking laws, and more with our brand new merchandise line!

With an ever increasing range of products, there’s sure to be something to please you!

From shirts to sweatpants, we’ll try to cover up as much of your body as possible. Want bootylicious lingerie? We’ve got it. Want to proudly display your affection for Morty or underage drinking at the Keg? We’ve got just the shirts for you.

We even have a bandanna to gag you with if you open your mouth!

Too far? Well, we guess that’s just #HEINOUS.

Check out the new Sherman Ave Swag Shoppe HERE!!!

Guys, Newt had an idea!

27 Jan

Genteleman, I have a plan. Let's destroy the Republican Party!

Newt Gingrich recently promised that by the year 2020, the United States would have a colony on the Moon if he is elected president in the 2012 election. Like literally, this was a thing he said. These words came out of his mouth intentionally. Here’s the quote: “By the end of my second term, we will have the first permanent base on the moon. And it will be American.”

Again, and this cannot be stressed enough, this was a thing that he said in an attempt to convince Americans he would stimulate the economy, reduce the size of government, and cut the deficit.

So I thought I’d call up a few of my closest friends and get their reactions to Newt’s new campaign platform.

Mitt Romney: So this is the guy that’s leading me in the polls? He’s actually ahead of me? I just… I really don’t understand what I did to make you hate me so much. I have been so nice to all of you. I considered you friends of mine. I put my life on hold for you fuckers. And THIS is how you treat me?! KAY. COOL. WE’RE OVER. GET OFF MY LAWN.

Ron Paul: Great idea. You first, bro.

The late, great Frank Sinatra: Flyyyy me to the mooooon, you delusional bag of serial adultery.

Zlurg, leader of the Moon People: So help me Thor, if you try to take our lands we will destroy you and everything you love. We will come down there and raze your buildings, burn your wildlands, poison your water, eradicate your air and kill every single one of you. Slowly. One by one. Starting with women and children. Do not for a moment think I am joking. You have one hour.

Rick Santorum: I had the exact same idea! But then I did a quick Bing search– #boycottGoogle, amirite guyz?!—and found out that going to the moon involves science. So, uh, good luck with that! HAHAHAHAHAH SCIENCE HEHEHEHE.

Has he seriously never seen Moonraker?

Morty Schapiro: Do I have a reaction to Newt’s proposal? No. No I do not. Do I have a reaction to Kenan Thompson coming to campus? OOOOWWWWWEEEEE T-SHANE YES I DO.

A lolcat: I can haz moonburger?

Marianne Gingrich, Newt’s second wife: Oh this is JUST like you, Newt. Leave Mother Nature the moment she gets sick for some cooler, younger planet who can do things I never could. That’s it, isn’t it? What does the Moon do for you, Newt? Tell me, I wanna know. Does she tell you you’re so much smarter and sexier than all the other Earthlings? Is that it? Or is she willing to do things I’m not? Maybe that’s it. OR MAYBE IT’S THE FACT SHE DOESN’T HAVE M.S. LIKE I DO. COULD THAT MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, HAVE SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT?!

Barack Obama: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA OH MY GOD STOP. There’s noooo way this is real. You guys, you guys come hear what Newt said! No seriously, come hear this! Yeah, I KNOW! Everyone take the next five months off, I think we got this hahahahahaha.

Heaven’s Gate, part 3

27 Jan

Some twenty minutes later, during which time the pair had unsuccessfully attempted to induce Marmalade to perform some sort of trick, Mr. Edgewick and Mr. Drake found themselves seated across from one another at the small round table located in Mr. Edgewick’s living room.

The living room itself was more or less like living rooms everywhere. On one side of the room rested a rather large bookshelf, upon which rested books on topics ranging from gardening to classical literature to ornithology. The shelf, made of a dark, smooth wood had the sort of sturdy look one tends to associate with a university library.

Or dwarves.*

Opposite the bookshelf was the mantle, bearing the sort of knickknacks that one expects to see in the house of a middle-aged bachelor: a mounted fish, a golf ball, a pipe of apparently Middle Eastern origin, two small figurines from Mr. Edgewick’s travels in China and Africa, and a photograph of Mr. Edgewick in his study.

On the left-hand side of the room were two broad windows, strategically placed to allow the maximum amount of sunlight to enter the room at any given time, lending a cheery, but not forced, sense of comfort to the whole affair.

Mr. Drake picked up his teacup, made of pure white porcelain, and sipped at it contentedly. One thing you could say about Mr. Edgewick, he made a lovely cup of tea. As he enjoyed said tea—which, Mr. Drake noted to his satisfaction, contained the slightest hint, the merest suggestion, of peaches—he quietly contemplated the man seated across from him, reflecting on the strange confluence of events that had led them to their current situation.

Things were so much simpler back then, Mr. Drake thought wistfully. It was all so clean, so neat and tidy. He did his work, I mine, and that was that and Bob’s my uncle. He didn’t have an uncle, of course—or parents for that matter—but it sounded right, and so that’s what the Devil thought without the slightest bit of irony. It was a rare day when the Enemy of All That Is Good was glum, but that’s the way things work out sometimes, and glum he was, sitting there sipping at his tea—though he did enjoy that bit at least—listening to Mr. Edgewick talk about how his morning had been going, and how he’d have to try harder to get Marmalade and Doctor Tattersail to overcome their stage-fright so they could show Mr. Drake their tricks.

The Devil drew a pair of cigarettes out of his coat pocket, offering one to his companion, which Mr. Edgewick declined.

“You know me,” he grinned somewhat sheepishly, pointing to pipe on the mantle. “I’m a pipe man myself.”

“Well suit yourself.” Mr. Drake, out of habit, very nearly lifted a finger to summon a lick of flame with which to light his cigarette, but at the last second remembered how very terrible such an idea might be, and so, working to mentally calm himself, he reached into his pants pocket and summoned a lighter. Withdrawing the lighter, Mr. Drake switched it on, used it to set his cigarette alight, and promptly returned it to the nothingness from which it was drawn (taking care to avoid letting Mr. Edgewick notice its dismissal).

Stress showed clearly on Mr. Drake’s face, and his host, perceptive man that he was, immediately remarked upon it.

“Are you alright Stanley? You seem quite worked up about something. If so, you know you can talk to me about it. Always better to talk about such things, I always say.” Mr. Edgewick’s slightly wrinkled face reflected deep concern, his silver-gray eyes full of empathy as they looked at the emerald-brown eyes of his guest.

The Devil sighed. He just wasn’t used to this sort of thing. Not used to this sort of thing at all.

“It’s alright Tim. Just thinking about a work-related matter. You know how it is when one has a business to run. The antique shop can’t manage itself you know.” He injected his words with all the sincerity he could muster, which was a very very great deal. If there was a better liar in all of creation, the Devil didn’t know about him, and he kept himself abreast of such matters with the keenness of a gambler keeping himself in the know about the horses down at the track.

Mr. Edgewick nodded understandingly. “Not enough people appreciate old things these days. It’s all about what’s “new”…people just throw away the old stuff when it outlives its usefulness.”

Rather like us, the Devil reflected silently. Rather like us.

The thought was a sobering one, but Mr. Drake had never been much of a drinker so it wasn’t a significant shift from his normal state anyway.

Taking a draw on his cigarette, he studied his host’s face, and, after a long period of quiet, responded. “You’re right of course, but there are still men and women who have an appreciation for old things. Things that represent days gone by.”

He paused again.

“I still profit though,” he said brightly, with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel. If Mr. Edgewick noticed, he gave no sign.

The Devil stood, and absently brushed the right shoulder of his smoking jacket.

“Leaving already?”

“You know how things are. Work to do, money to be made, lonely women to seduce.”

“You’re such a…” God trailed off, a faint, gentle smile on his face.

The two men shook hands. No more needed to be said.

“I know,” the Devil grinned, speaking anyway, never one for propriety.

And with that, the Devil tipped his head to God, his companion, and with a broad-toothed smile still plastered across his features—but not at all reflected by a pair of sad, green eyes—made his exit.

- – -

Mr. Drake found himself walking down the sidewalk some three blocks from Mr. Edgewick’s house, thinking about the year or so he had spent in Heaven’s Gate, wondering if his purpose here was worthwhile. He thought it was, and the idea of leaving raised a number of confusing feelings in a being widely regarded as pure evil.

The characterization, incidentally, was wrong. You didn’t have to be a bastard to be the Devil. Well technically you didn’t need to be anything, you were either the Devil or you weren’t—no middle ground there—but the point is that Mr. Drake was actually a rather normal fellow. Sometimes he did nice things, and sometimes he did mean things, but for the most part he operated in the moral gray area that makes up the majority of human action. It wasn’t his job to perform acts of unspeakable evil, whatever the Bible may have had to say about the matter.

If there was a book Mr. Drake disliked more than the Bible it was The Complete Guide to Fungi: A Victorian Love Story, and that only be the narrowest of margins.

The point, anyway, was that the Devil was more or less a regular guy, with many of the same problems as anyone else—work, taxes…telemarketers—and quite a few that most people didn’t. In particular, he had a problem that was, as far as such things go, wholly unique in the history of the known universe.

The real reason he had come to live among mortals was, surprisingly, relatively simple. Unfortunately, its consequences and side effects were anything but. It was this: God didn’t know who He was.

——————————————————————————————————————————
*Contrary to popular thought, dwarves did indeed exist for a five year period between 1124-1129 BCE. In June of 1129, they had decided Earth was not to their liking and asked if they might be relocated. They now live in an alternate reality in which the world is one enormous mine system, and all water spontaneously becomes alcohol when exposed to air. Elves, of course, are utter nonsense.

525,600 p-trips: A look back at Year 1 of the Shermanavian Calendar

26 Jan

We hear founding stories and histories almost every day – “George Washington won this battle,” “Paul Revere made that ride,” “Thomas Jefferson boinked those slaves,” etc.  But today’s founding story is something much more substantial and heroic than most.  So squeeze yourself into that zebra-print speedo, pour yourself a quad-shot of Jameson, and take a seat, because TODAY IS SHERMAN AVE’S FIRST BIRTHDAY!

Look away, Winnie the Pooh. You don't want to see this.

We all remember our first birthday.  Actually, none of us remember our first birthday, but we’ve always just assumed that it consisted primarily of cupcakes and self-defecation.  And here at Sherman Ave, we intend to celebrate our birthday in the same way.  But instead of cupcakes, we have strippers, and instead of self-defecation, we have…wait, just kidding, we will definitely have self-defecation.

However, since our readers span far and wide and not all of them can come celebrate our anniversary with us, we want to celebrate with our readers by reflecting on Sherman Ave’s first year.  Thus, without any further ado, I present to you:  An exhaustive timeline of Sherman Ave’s history!

C. 10,000 BC:  Archaeological evidence points to the first alcoholic beverages.  Although it came about several millennia before any of Sherman Ave writers squirmed out of the womb, this invention would greatly motivate, inspire, and ultimately humiliate the writing staff.

July 2, 1776:  The Declaration of Independence is signed, establishing America’s separation from the pretentious twattitude of the British Empire.  This country would go on not only to host the birth of every Sherman Ave writer (with the exception of Señorita Margarita Puñeta Fellatiata, who was obviously born in Egypt), but the core values of free speech, free press, and free heinousness would create a fostering environment for Sherman Ave.

He's wearing the Demos jersey only as an admirable form of self-discipline.

December 16, 2008:  Morton O. Schapiro is named the 16th president of Northwestern University.  At this point, little was known about the man’s past, but the whole world would soon know of Morty’s legend: his unthinkable assortment of purple attire, his supreme lordship over the Evanston City Council, and, of course, his massive, massive dong.

October 14, 2010:  On this fateful evening in Evanston, Illinois, Ross Packingham and Evander Jones meet in a way that only true heroes do:  Drunkenly skinny-dipping in Lake Michigan and subsequently running from the police.

January 26, 2011:   Sherman Ave is founded.  What began with a review of an awesome rap hit single would soon evolve into the biggest power-trip that has graced the world since Idi-Amin was in power.

February 14, 2011:  Rebecca Black’s viral music video, “Friday,” is released on YouTube.  While the song wouldn’t go viral for a few more weeks, its existence aided and perpetuated the kind of rampant heinousness to which Sherman Ave dedicates itself.

February 21, 2011:   Professor John Michael Bailey rocks/vibrates/indefinitely turns off the Northwestern student body with a sexual demonstration involving a fucksaw.  While no member of Sherman Ave has yet been fucksawed (“yet” being the operative word – President’s Day is often a gamechanger), this incident was basically a gift to Sherman Ave, and we have made a concerted effort to reference fucksaws in every article we possibly can.

Getting fucksawed? Or having sex dreams about Sherman Ave?

March 28, 2011:  Sir Edward Twattingworth III posts an article about a recent experience encountering Our Lord and Savior Morty Schapiro in Paris.  This event would become something about which Sir T-Worth power-trips on an hourly basis.

July 1-3, 2011:  Evander Jones, Blaise Bernard, Ross Packingham, Sir Twattingworth, Ginger LeatherDream, and their friend Jessica go to Michigan to enjoy a leisurely weekend and soulful celebration of America’s independence.  What resulted from this gathering was exactly what one would expect:

  • ·         A three hour time period spent heavily intoxicated in a 100-degree barn
  • ·         Recreation of classic American art
  • ·         A photograph of Ross Packingham and Evander Jones emulating Jack and Rose from “Titanic”
  • ·         Blaise Bernard wielding a butcher’s knife and preparing dinner, despite her inability to form coherent sentences
  • ·         Vomit
  • ·         The emergence of the word “heinous”

Ross Packingham non-verbally proclaims his love for patriotic cookie cakes.

August 10, 2011:  Evander Jones begins the Sherman Ave Freshman Guide – a series of articles that would corrupt freshmen from all walks of life, and also (more importantly) help Sherman Ave get off the ground by appealing exclusively to an alcohol-deprived demographic.

October 25, 2011:  Generation II takes its place, as Sherman Ave brings on seven new writers.  Sadly, the writers did not know at that point that they were only entering a long and grueling initiation process which may or may not have included facial contact with a 14-inch gummy worm dildo.

January 24, 2012:  Ross Packingham and Evander Jones submit paperwork for what many call an “apartment”; the request would probably not be processed if the landlord had even the slightest notion of what is implied by “Sherman Ave Headquarters.”

Morty, Sherman Ave's communal pet.

January 26, 2012:   Sherman Ave turns one.  Not a big deal or anything.  OH WAIT, JUST KIDDING, WE’RE GOING TO BE POWER-TRIPPING RELENTLESSLY FOR ETERNITY.

Thanks for a great year, readers.  We’ll continue to supply you all with articles, as long as you continue to supply us with narcissistic validation.  Happy birthday!!!

Point/Counterpoint: The Base System

25 Jan

Also like in baseball, there's usually a pitcher and a catcher.

There’s a question we all ask our single friends regularly, usually when they show up looking unkempt, worried, and possibly pregnant.

“How far did you get with them?”

This is a question that SEEMS like it would have simple answers. “I let him touch my vagina.” “I touched her vagina,” “We started to get naked but I ejaculated prematurely,” these are all reasonable responses. But, for whatever reasons, (mostly embarrassment) people never give these answers. Instead they rely on euphemisms, the most popular of which is “The Base System.”

Which would be fine, that’s cool guys, its totally fair to equate sex to baseball – they’re both exhausting team-sports that are hard to watch for more than ten minutes – and, just like baseball, I don’t really understand the rules. But if we’re going to use a base system, we need to have one common definition for all the bases. And right now, that consensus does not exist. Is first base kissing? Does tongue have to be involved? Where does tactile vaginal contact fall? Boobs? What about BOOBS?! WHO’S GOING TO TALK ABOUT BOOBS?!

Don’t worry, we will. And at great length.

Anyway, here are the two different ways you can interpret the base system. Which one is right? Sound off in the poll below.

FIRST BASE

Sometimes you can just guess...

Point, by Sad Bones Malone
First base inhabits this weird realm of ambiguity. Everyone understands that kissing is involved in some capacity, but this begs the question: “how much kissing?” We both agree that a peck does not constitute first base, but I feel that to actually get to first base, you have to be “making out.” There is an underlying expectation that there’s a little bit of hands, and a little bit more action than a single kiss. It should be a semi-extended duration that might involve a little bit of exploration. First base contains a whole host of operations — hickeys, ear-play, fondling — these are all entry actions to the sexual experience. And since first base is the entry way to the other bases, all these activities are constituted within first base.

Counterpoint, by Manua Hiki-Hiki
You have to be kidding me!? I mean, you have to do a little exploring in the land of the mouth to be considered “at first base,” but first base does not mean you have to be searching for the hidden realm of the esophagus. First base is an important step, but IT’S JUST THE FIRST FUCKING BASE!!! Using your definition as first base is like saying you don’t know anything about geography until you know the capital of Zimbabwe (you should really look into learning that though, as Harare is bomb as Hell). Next thing you’re going to tell me is that I have to be inside a girl’s pants to be at second base. Like, really? Really?!?

SECOND BASE

Although he's usually hopelessly out of breath by the time he rounds third.

Point, by Manua Hiki-Hiki
Actually, let me just preempt what I expect will be your naively asinine answer: There’s no way being inside a girl’s pants qualifies as second base. I have far too much reverence for the vagina to place it at such an easily accessible base. If a 500-pound bear-creature named Prince Fielder can make it to second-base in a game of baseball, then searching the mystical vagina cannot be second-base – because second base is PRETTY FUCKING EASY to get to. Want to know what’s not easy to get to? The Vagina. Therefore, those two things cannot be equivalent — it’s math. We all know the real second base: Boobtown. Boobtown is a very important step and deserves its own base. You cannot neglect boobs. Boobs are awesome. Getting to touch a girl’s boobs is like riding a bike for the first time: both are important landmarks in your life, both cause a big sense of accomplishment… and I ejaculated after both. All excitement issues aside, boobs are very important in the grand scheme of the “game of love” and deserve their own base.

Counterpoint, by Bad Bones Malone
Listen guys, I don’t want you to think I’m coming from the wrong place. I love boobs, and I have the upmost respect for boobs — in fact, some of my best friends are boobs. But if we only have three bases to work with, boobs aren’t deserving of their own landmark.

She just has... so much... you know... CHARACTER!!!

Because, as much as I like boobs, they aren’t even close to being equal the vagina. When a guy gets drunk and gets a little boob-gropey it’s “a little creepy,” when a man decides to go straight for vaginas it’s “a little bit of a felony.” Those lines are drawn for a reason, the vagina is simply far, far more important than boobs.

The fact that boobs don’t get their own base also has to do with the function of the base-system — it’s shorthand that can be used to denote romantic progress. And, while I’m sure it was nice, I don’t really care if you touched a girls boobs. We aren’t in junior high anymore. Boobs get touched all the time — and if you’re making out with a girl it’s not an unreasonable jump to assume you might have felt her up. If you’re using the proper definition of first base — my version — then you’ve already covered fondling anyway. Congratulations.

The first time you touch a girl’s vagina is important — it’s the first time you have a chance to let her fake an orgasm (laaaaadies), which as far as I’m concerned is the EXPRESS PURPOSE OF SEXUAL ACTIVITY.

So if you’re going to chart the progression of sexual activity, then you better fucking have a stop reserved for the first time you take an action that actually ends where you’re trying to go.

THIRD BASE
Consensus: I think we can all agree here: Once the trouser dragon has entered the salivary sea, you’re at third base.

HOME
Consensus: If you’ve solved the coital conundrum, you’re home.

The proposed base systems have been researched by many a student at Harvard, Princeton, and other places where these things never occur… and that is why we need your help. Vote in the poll below and help solve history’s second most important Trojan War (ahhh, get it? Trojan. Like the condom. SEX).

-Sad Bones Malone and Manua Hiki-Hiki

Oscar Buzzed

24 Jan

In case anyone hasn’t gone on the internet today, the Oscar nominees were announced this morning! A few surprises, some snubs (where was Jack and Jill?!), but mostly just confusion. “What are all these movies about?” you’re thinking, “I have never even heard of them! Whine whine whine, me me me!” Well calm down, Pi Phi! Don’t worry, I’m a film major, I’ll simplify it for you:

The Artist
A haunting look at the life of Van Gogh. Think bright, colorful, and loud.

The smallest man Sean Penn has held in his hands

The Descendants
Surprisingly not about balls.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
A compilation of home movies depicting your grandfather spurting off racist insults and confusing you with your sister.

The Help
A team of psychiatrists check themselves into a mental hospital for help. Meta!

Hugo
He was probably one of the characters from Jim Henson’s Labyrinth. See how Hugo lives his day to day life!

Midnight in Paris
It’s got Owen Wilson, so you can safely assume it also has Ben Stiller and Luke Wilson. Hilarity will ensue!

Moneyball
Also surprisingly not about testicles.

The Tree of Life
Spin off of Pocahontas.

War Horse
Today I found out it’s War Horse, not Warm Whores. My review stands: It’s about a pathetic creature trying to redeem itself, who probably dies in the end.

Kung Fu Panda 2
Surprisingly, this is about balls!

Even his dog is hot

Drive
Out of the 26 films Ryan Gosling was in last year, this was definitely in the top 30. Watch as Ryan Gosling drives a car around a city! What could be better?! (Nothing. Nothing will ever be better than Ryan Gosling doing anything. I would watch the shit out of a movie about Ryan Gosling trimming his nose hairs.)

Bridesmaids
If you’re stupid enough to be reading this, I know that you saw at least 3 movies this year, and this is one of them. You know the plot: Kristen Wiig is the unconvincing ugly and pathetic friend, and Melissa McCarthy shits in a sink. Someone gets married.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
Like Toy Story, but with Tinker Toys!

Just kidding, I didn’t see any of these films. I’m just an asshole. Here is my actually helpful guide to the Oscars:

The Artist
Should have been called: Look at This Fucking Hipster Film
I would have seen it if it was called: Adorable Dog and Sort of Good Looking Man Make Out

The horror of a desperate Oscar grab

The Descendants
Should have been called: George Clooney Cries and Runs in Hawaii
I would have seen it if it was called: The Descendants Starring Ryan Gosling

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
Should have been called: 9/11 Movie That Has Very Little to Do With 9/11
I would have seen it if it was called: Let’s be real, there was no chance I was seeing this

The Help
Should have been called: Sassy Black Maids Kick Some Sass Sassily
I would have seen it if it was called: Emma Stone Looks Ugly, Don’t You Feel Better About Yourself?

Hugo
Should have been called: Look at Scorsese’s Range!
I would have seen it if it was called: The Adventures of Tintin

Midnight in Paris
Should have been called: Woody Allen Strolls Around Paris in an Owen Wilson Costume
I would have seen it if it was called: Midnight in Amsterdam

Moneyball
Should have been called: Brad Pitt Might Finally Win an Oscar
I would have seen it if it was called: Get Jonah Hill to the Oscars

The Tree of Life
Should have been called: Brad Pitt Might Finally Win an Oscar Pt 2
I would have seen it if it was called: Literally anything else more descriptive would have been great

War Horse
Should have been called: Actually War Horse pretty much sums it up
I would have seen it if it was called: Don’t Worry, He Doesn’t Die

Kung Fu Panda 2
Should have been called: Jack Black is as Fat and Funny as a Panda 2
I would have seen it if it was called: Kung Fu Panda 2 Produced By Pixar

Let's be honest: You just wanted to look at more pictures of Ryan Gosling

Drive
Should have been called: Holy Shit Ryan Gosling Looks So Good Driving Around and Curb Stomping People Please Take Your Shirt Off More That’s All I Ask
I would have seen it if it was called: Holy Shit Ryan Gosling Looks So Good Driving Around and Curb Stomping People Please Take Your Shirt Off More That’s All I Ask

Bridesmaids
Should have been called: Girls Can Make the Funnys, Too
I would have seen it if it was called: Kristen Wiig Dies in the End

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
Should have been called: This Movie is Well Over Two Hours Long
I would have seen it if it was called: Jonathan Tinker Taylor Thomas

Just kidding, that was still unhelpful! I’m still an asshole! Thanks for reading!

-Ali Parr

Love a Random State: Ohio

24 Jan

I may be a tad bit biased, but Ohio is a pretty badass state. We fuck up pretty much every Presidential Election. We can’t make decisions on anything from street cars to abortion. We are some waffling motherfuckers, and I’m not talking about McGriddles. Besides being a political asshole, here are some other reasons you should bow down and worship my state of conception/birth/childhood.

The beautiful metropolis of Cleveland

1. Ohio is the 7th largest state by population.
Cincinnati is the 61st largest city in the nation by population.* Being mediocrely medium-sized takes all the pressure off being big. We may not have the hustle and bustle of New York or the flotsam and jetsam of Chicago, but we sure do have a lot of wide open spaces and corn. This makes for some great middle school field trips, like visiting an Amish farm and learning how to properly milk a cow or taking a spin on a tea-cup-death-trap-vomit-inducing ride while eating a stick of deep-fried butter at the local carnival.

2. Subpar athletics.
I may not be an expert when it comes to sports. I didn’t vehemently protest the NBA lockout, I do not worship Tebow born from the Virgin Mother, nor do I have any vague inkling as to what Royal Shrovetide Football is really all about. However, I do know one thing: If the Cincinnati Bengals were running in the Republican primaries, they would rank somewhere above Michelle Bachmann and somewhat below Stephen Colbert. They may suck at football and politics, but the Bengals have quite a record off the field. Since 2000, the team has a combined criminal record of 30 arrests, 8 DUIs, and 1 charge of “boating under the influence.”** I’m not really sure how this makes Ohio awesomely badass, but it does.

3. Larger than life Presidents.
We produced President William Howard Taft, the man who couldn’t fit in a normal bathtub. In fact, a bathtub fit for four men was installed in the White House just for him. I bet VP James Sherman had a pretty good time in there, seeing as he was a normal sized man. (That leaves room for three more people, for those of you who are still in Math 110).

O-hi-OH!!!!

4. Ohio is beautiful.
OK, maybe just Halle Berry is. Halle Berry was Miss Ohio 1986. At 19, Halle managed to lock down a state title and first runner-up for the Miss USA pageant. Pretty badass, Ms. Berry.

5. Badass motherfuckers in office.
Jerry Springer, host of The Jerry Springer Show, served on Cincinnati’s city council for three years, before resigning when Jerry’s favorite hang-out was revealed: a Kentucky “massage parlor.”*** But it only gets better: he paid his “masseuse” with a city check. It doesn’t get much classier than that. He was then elected the mayor of Cincinnati from 1977-1978. We obviously know how to choose effective leaders.

6. In Ohio, it is illegal to get a fish drunk.****
Need I say more?

7. Where art thou, Ohio?
There actually aren’t many NU students from Ohio. There should certainly be more Amish, chili-loving, politically frustrated, Midwesterners up in Northwestern’s business. However, this makes for some great feedback. Apparently, Californians have no fucking clue where Ohio is. My roommate thought it was near Iowa and her friend could swear she thought it was south of Illinois. I guess they don’t teach Geography in the Bay Area. As a loyal Ohioan and a college student with half my brain still intact despite raging alcoholism and mind numbing, drug-induced Sporcle competitions, I know exactly where Ohio is: right between New Mexico and Arizona. Right?

8. Home of Skyline Chili.
Although none of you Northside Prep trust-fund babies or LTHS fanboys have heard of Skyline, enlighten yourselves. Cincinnati’s definition of chili: chocolate (yes, chocolate) ground beef soup poured over spaghetti noodles and topped with neon yellow, synthesized, shredded cheddar cheese. Mouth-o-meter: fucking delicious.

9. Hipsterz.
Searching for the inner-sanctum of hipsterism? Look no further. Clifton, a small neighborhood on the outskirts of downtown Cincinnati, is a hub of culture and excitement. 98% of Clifton residents are Democrat, making us some badass, Obama loving hippies. 98% of us also love Indian food. Why? There are 7 locally owned Indian restaurants in Clifton. Step outside my house and take a good whiff of Saag Paneer and Chicken Curry. Yum. You can always find a homeless town troubadour belting out his love life with the aid of his trusty accordion. Besides musicians, we are also home to many other badass personalities, such as the mysterious bag man who, although he appears to be homeless, goes to the grocery store every day and picks up 3 lemons, a loaf of bread, and a bag of kitty litter. Meth lab, anyone? There is also the penguin man who yells at cars going over 25, the local business owners who all seem to be tangled in a Romeo and Juliet-esque love affair, and my personal favorite, the middle school drug dealers who hang out at the shelter in Burnet Woods after school. (Whoops, did I just blow your cover?)

Take a trip back in time

10. We have one of the largest Amish populations in the country.
Amish people are badass. Love the Amish, and eat their chicken; it’s free-range!

Needless to say, Ohio is a badass state. If this article has convinced you to pack up your Illinois life (or wherever the fuck you’re from) and move to Ohio, call my step dad. He’s a realtor.

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*Sporcle. Yeah, I did it. I used Sporcle as a source. Try to censor that, PIPA.
**NKY Sports World
***Massage parlor = brothel
****Twitter

Newt Gingrich, South Carolina, and the Abortion of My Career in Political Commentary

23 Jan

And I don't think I want to. Except for understanding your disproportionate ability to get laid.

The GOP primaries are like Chicago weather: completely, utterly, and insanely unpredictable.* Just when you think you understand the day-to-day realities of winter in Chicago, BAM!! Thunderstorm in January. Just when you think you’ve figured out the winner of the GOP nomination, BOOM! Newt wins South Carolina.

I mean, what the fuck, Newt? I thought we were done. I really did. I thought Silly Time was over and it was time for some Real Talk with Obama and Romney (or at the very least, an Al Green-themed The Voice-style sing-off). Not so fast. But I guess I should’ve seen this coming.

Here is a Facebook status I wrote a few months ago, when Newt Gingrich was polling in first place while his opponents floundered, as Herman Cain struggled to fight rape charges and Rick Perry struggled to remember things and Mitt Romney struggled to be interesting: “Newt Gingrich is in first place. That’s it. It’s all a farce. Let’s stop pretending that all of this is real. I throw up my hands.”

Newt polling in first was to the GOP race what Sam and Frodo reaching the end of the Shire was for LOTR. We were now farther from political sanity than we had ever been before, and there was no telling where we would be swept off to next.

Google his name. GOOGLE IT!!!

Two months later, Rick Santorum won Iowa.

Rick Santorum! His name has been successfully Google-bombed and EVERYBODY KNOWS IT and he still won Iowa!

I underestimated the GOP. And not in a “wow I underestimated how good this Nutella milkshake from Fran’s would be” kind of way. Oh no. It was a “the 1984 Portland Trail Blazers underestimated Michael Jordan so much they decided to draft Sam Bowie instead of him” kind of underestimation. Half of me understood that the Newt poll meant the Brotherhood of Dada had dragged us into an alternate universe where ‘politics’ was synonymous with ‘freakshow’ and words lost their meaning and anything was possible…but half of me kept thinking that every crazy development (“oops,” Herman Cain’s Pokémon obsession, Ron Paul’s status as the voice of reason) was the zenith of absurdity, that there remained no further depths to which we could plunge.

But you best believe Newt Gingrich always had an answer for me. Once again, for the record, in case you were too busy this weekend dancing to polka music or playing cards with guys who have the Teen Titans tattooed on their arm to hear about it, Newt won South Carolina! Once more for the record: aaaaahhhhhhhhh!

Is this year’s GOP race the result of some twisted alternate earth they dragged us into?

My last article was not only a celebration of the ridiculous hilarity of the GOP campaign, but also an elegy for that craziness, which I thought was about to vanish in a cloud of sanity. I thought Mitt finally had this all locked up after winning New Hampshire, and I was sure we were finally transitioning from Perry-Bachmann-Cain-Paul-Gingrich to Romney-Obama, to real political debates between two sane candidates. But then Newt charged back to metaphorically punch me in the mouth and remind me that America isn’t going to stop being a hot dysfunctional mess anytime soon.

My possible career in political commentary hasn’t even started and I’m already thinking of quitting forever. I just cannot wrap my head around Newt Gingrich. Can anybody? If you thought Rick Santorum was vulnerable to a casual Google search, try taking Newt’s name for a virtual walk some time. Newt probably has his closet bolted shut with a chair against the door and that still isn’t enough to keep the skeletons in. There is absolutely no possible way that Newt can win the GOP nomination, much less the presidency. But if this campaign has taught us anything, it’s that the possible is impossible and up is down and America is fucked up. In the real world, Newt could never win. But I don’t think we even live in the real world anymore.

Newt

My sense of surprise is utterly gone. For the rest of eternity I will believe any story, any event that involves the GOP. Nothing is too nonsensical for a party where Newt Gingrich is a viable candidate. I probably won’t even bat an eye when Bristol Palin wins the Iowa caucuses in four years and becomes the favorite to win the GOP nomination. The Republican Party has moved beyond my paltry comprehension ability.

I think I’m just gonna have to stick to the fiery anti-coffee invective. I can’t do this anymore.

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*And for those of you scoring at home, “Chicago weather” is the third thing I’ve compared the GOP primaries to during my career. The list also includes Doctor Who and NBC’s Thursday night sitcom lineup.

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