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(01/12/05 4:26am)
I flicked off the light. \nAnxious to begin my winter break back in Indianapolis, I shut my door swiftly and gallivanted over to the elevator. Or rather, I gallivanted as much as was possible while carrying two suitcases. \nWhen the elevator doors parted, I encountered a friend of mine, who was carrying a duffle bag as big as God. His beady eyes were barely visible from behind his monstrous handlings. \n"You going home, too?" he asked me. \n"Yep, home sweet home."\nImmediately after the words left my lips, I began to wonder. If I was, in fact, going home, where had I been? As the elevator went down, my paranoia went up. Was Bloomington not my home? Is college, in essence, nothing more than a Holiday Inn with homework?\nA sign in the Read Center lounge says, "Welcome to Your Home." But how are we supposed to feel at home in the dorms while showering in flip-flops and having to poop next to a stranger? \nAfter questioning my wavering residency, I was left with the same ironic sense of disorientation I had felt during summer orientation. I felt lost.\nCollege is, undeniably, a time when people feel misplaced. Students become lost in their morals, their sexuality and their emotions -- not to mention the floors in the Union (which floor is that freakin' cookie shop on anyway?). \nBecause college is a transitional phase, a crucial layover on the flight to our future, there is a lessened sense of stability -- not only emotionally, but environmentally as well. \nAfter moving many a line of longitude and latitude away from "home," we abandon not only our mommas, who were always there to bring us Robitussin, but also where we grew up. Though our hometown has become part of who we are, coursing through our veins like a stream of geographical blood cells, we are forced to uproot our roots. Yet we bring with us old keepsakes and pictures of our dogs as Band-Aids of nostalgia. \nThere is a famous saying about the concept of home: "Home is where the heart is." In other words, "home" isn't so much a building or dwelling, but a state of mind. The meaning of "home" can shift depending on where you feel comfortable.\nI realized this when I came back to school after break. While walking down my hallway across the hideously colored carpeting, approximating the shade of booger, I felt a sense of ease surrounding me. The air smelled familiarly like a warm sock and Febreezed-over marijuana scent. I passed the same blood-smeared handprint that had been there since the first week of school, on which someone had cleverly penciled feet and a wattle to make a turkey. The sweet sound of my next-door neighbor's rap serenade, "Bitches and Hos," lingered deafeningly in the corridor. \nI arrived at my dorm room, and the same Star of David emblem, which someone had drunkenly carved into my door, was there to Jewish-ly greet me once again, like a big Chanukah hug. And I must admit, there is comfort in that Star of David, that blood-smeared hand, that smell of sock, those "bitches" and those "hos." They all will have left vibrant imprints in my memory, like fossils in time.\nWhen I opened the door, the room inside was shrouded in darkness, save for the tiny Thundercats nightlight, illuminating the corner of my couch. \nSo, I flicked on the light.\nAnd as I took in a deep breath from inside my dorm room, I finally realized I was home.
(12/07/04 4:49am)
Breast. Bone. Lung. No matter how you wear it, one fact remains undeniably clear. Cancer is so hot right now! Totally vogue. It's like the iPod of diseases -- anyone who's anyone is getting it.\nIt's all over the media too. Articles like "Increased Exposure to Pillows Linked to Testicular Cancer" and children's books with titles like "Prancer has Cancer: A Book of Fatal Reindeer Disease" are popping up like crazy. \nBecause of the recent media exposure, people are getting freakishly paranoid about getting cancer. Instead of a simple, "I have a headache," it's, "AHHHH! MOTHER TRUCKIN' BRAIN TUMOR! THE LIGHT ... IT'S COMING CLOSER!"\nI remember having cancer paranoia in high school.\nOne morning freshman year after getting out of the shower (naked), I noticed something very peculiar: my nipples were oddly misshapen. For some reason, my left nipple (Barbara) was at a slightly higher altitude than my right nipple (Dr. Kenneth Chimichanga). I was flabbergasted. Immediately, I spit out my Crest, fondled my chest and examined my breast with a tumor test, rubbing my nip-crest from east to west with lots of zest. Sure enough, just below the surface, I could feel a tic-tac sized lump.\nAt first, I tried to ignore it ... but then the metamorphosis began.\nAs my nipple ballooned, vigorously growing from tic-tac-sized, to tater-tot-sized, to finally snowcone-sized, I began to worry that I might in fact have Cancer of the Nip (Gynormosized Nippulus).\nThat's right, I no longer needed to visit Italy -- the leaning tower of Nipza was attached to my boobie.\nWhen my nipple started changing colors, like the northern lights, I decided it was time to take action. I went onto the internet and the first Web site I clicked on classified the pustule as a, "benign fibrocystic lump." According to the site, this lump has frequently been linked to, and I quote, "the growth of accessory scrotum and/or a webbed penis." I swear to God.\nThough immediately suicidal, the more I thought about it, the more I realized those growths weren't so bad. Extra scrotum just might come in handy. Like if somebody else gets a flat. "It's OK! I've got a spare" (The webbed penis is very yin-yangish, though. While on the downside my penis would look like a duck-billed platypus, I'd probably be able to swim faster.)\nBy the next week, concerned that my nip's overwhelming gravitational force might be pulling the planets out of alignment, I asked my mother to schedule an appointment with my dermatologist, Dr. Dick Storm (there is nothing funny about that name).\nWhen we got to his office, he (Dr. Weiner Hurricane) propped me up on the examine table and began to examine me. Midway through his fondle of my pustule, though, he emitted a sharp cry of utter bedazzlement.\n"Oh my."\n"What? What is it?" I said.\n"Hmm. Your nipple appears to have somewhat ... exploded."\nI looked down. Sure enough, like an erupted Mount St. Nipple, Kenneth Chimichanga had blasted open, spewing a landslide of lava-like pus. It ran like a river on my torso, trailing down to a juicy oasis in my navel. There was pus everywhere ... even on his (Dr. Tallywacker Tornado's) coat. I wasn't exactly sure how to apologize for that. Hallmark doesn't make an "I'm Sorry My Nipple Pus Exploded on Your Coat" card.\nHe then proceeded to twist it harshly counterclockwise (somewhat resembling the use of an orange juicer) to ooze the pus out. After it was completely deflated, it didn't take long to return back to sea level.\nLuckily, as he (Dr. Vagina Tsunami) told me after a later test, the cyst wasn't cancerous. \nHe also reassured me that every last drop of pus had been drained out. I still count my scrotum daily though, just to make sure.
(12/01/04 5:09am)
Thanksgiving, like communism, is a nice idea in theory. However, applied in actuality, this lovely, good-spirited holiday often produces massive amounts of chaos and torture. Not only are thousands of turkeys killed every year by Butterball firing squads, but relatives who have long been ostracized by the family suddenly begin to reappear -- like your Aunt Deb, who had been in prison for organizing international cock-fights, or your Uncle Earl, who can burp the lyrics to TLC's "Waterfalls." \nPerhaps I'm too cynical, or maybe my family is simply too dysfunctional, but every Thanksgiving I am reminded less and less of why we celebrate Thanksgiving. \nThis historical tale began on the day of Sept. 6, 1620. The Pilgrims, who set sail from Plymouth, England, on a ship called the Mayflower finally made it to the New World. When they got there, though, they didn't have enough to eat. Luckily, a group of local Native Americans befriended them and helped them find food. Soon the natives taught the settlers how to cultivate corn and grow native vegetables. Much rejoicing was done. They celebrated with a grand feast and invited the friendly Native Americans to join them.\nThat's when the pilgrims spiked the apple cider, killed the Indians and turned all of their teepees into a giant Starbucks. \nOriginally, this holiday was set for the last Thursday in November by Abe Lincoln. But Franklin Roosevelt hated Abe Lincoln and thought that his top-hat was stupid, so he decided to switch the date to a week earlier, justifying the change by stating, "Just cuz' I feel like it, so suck it." Plus, it gave shops an extra week to inflate prices for Christmas. \nI wonder why we even choose to commemorate this day -- because it is a historical fact that after the pilgrims came to America, the diseases they brought with them killed almost 98 percent of the Native American population. More than 11 million Indians died of smallpox, measles, diarrhea and diphtheria. Mmm, mmm! Somebody pass me the gravy!\nConsidering the unfortunate origin, this celebration now just seems way too phony. Current tradition has us celebrate with the same fabricated cheer and sugar-coated merriment history books use to misrepresent this tragic day.\nTell me if this scenario sounds familiar.\nEveryone in the family is reunited. Everyone talks, eats cheese cubes and tells the same bad jokes over and over. Despite the fact that some of your relatives have graduated from college, majoring in political science or biological engineering, the majority of the conversation revolves around the dog. "Ooooh, look at him drooling. Isn't that precious?" \nBecause your grandparents are around, no one cusses and everyone acts like they're characters on "Little House on the Prairie." Your living room becomes a sea of recently-ironed sweater vests and big, banana-shaped smiles. "Smile for the camera! Say cheese cubes!" \nYour mother, true to the sexual stereotype of women, slaves in the kitchen over the food. Your father, true to the sexual stereotype of men, penetrates the turkey with the big, hard butcher knife (a symbolic representation of male anatomy if I ever saw one). Sound familiar? \nStill, despite all of the bloodshed, bad relatives, stress, Native American exploitation, indigestion, fatal diarrhea and turkey genocide, this holiday is still pretty neat-o. After all, if you eat enough turkey, you can pass out on tryptophan and forget the whole day ever happened.\nI truly hope you all had a wonderful holiday with a week of good sleep and some ham with the fam. Because, for the last three weeks of the semester crammed with finals and endless studying, your life will be a living hell. Happy Thanksgiving, a few days late.
(11/17/04 4:52am)
Six Across. Three-letter word. Begins with "G." A person whose sexual orientation is to persons of the same sex.\nSix Down. Three-letter word. Begins with "G." The principal object of faith and worship in Christian religion.\nGay and God: two little words, two big concepts. In a crossword puzzle, these terms are able to bond harmoniously, sharing the same beginning letter "G." However, in this ever-expanding crossword puzzle called life, these words tend to cause conflict whenever they cross paths. \nThus, with the rising discussion of a constitutional ban against gay marriage, I have begun to wonder: Can the words "gay" and "God" peacefully coexist? Furthermore, does the Bible really condemn gay marriage? When it comes to answering homosexual questions in the "Christ crossword puzzle," will these blanks ever be filled?\nDespite common belief, you can be a devout Christian and still support same-sex unions.\nWhile there are "suggested passages" condemning gay relations in the Bible, scriptures in the Old Testament also speak out harshly against interracial marriage. Yet, the Bible states that Moses married a black Ethiopian woman with God's blessing. This biblical contradiction goes to show that not all marital issues are black and white, or for that matter, gay and straight.\nBecause of these passages, however, mixed race couples weren't allowed to marry in the United States until 1967. It's like the Civil Rights movement has transformed into the "Civil Union Rights Movement." It's nice to know that in 50 years we've learned absolutely nothing.\nMarital regulations in the Bible limit not only homosexual relations, but heterosexual ones as well. Scripture states that marriage shall only be considered valid if the marriage doesn't cross religious boundary and "if the wife is a virgin" (Deuteronomy 22:13-21). How many people today have actually followed that rule? Seven?\nSimilarly, in 1996, the Roman Catholic Church forbade a church marriage because the husband-to-be was a paraplegic and, thus, could not engage in sexual activity and consummate the marriage. So, abiding strictly to biblical rules, anyone who has been hit by a bus and crippled, or anyone who has been raped cannot marry legitimately.\nSome conservatives argue that same-sex unions will open the floodgates for other "alternative lifestyles." It's like once the government legalizes it people will want to start marrying their dogs and getting engaged to cucumbers. It's ludicrous. These people treat homosexuals as if they're from some perverse planet, like "gayliens," intent on taking over the straight world. \nAccording to the National Association for Research & Therapy of Homosexuals, more than 10 percent of the population is estimated to be gay. That's nearly 650,000,000 people. Do you really think God would have made 650,000,000 mistakes? \nSome people obviously still do. Eight days ago, a group from the Old Paths Baptist Church gathered on IU grounds to protest same-sex marriage, holding signs as cold and dark as the weather on that muggy Tuesday afternoon; "GOD HATES GAYS." "AIDS CURES FAGS." \nThey waved pure hatred made with white poster board, white glue and black hearts. \nTry as they might to mask ignorance and homophobia, we have to learn to see past their religious façades. People are people. Love is love. And if two people can expressly communicate their love together, no power on earth should be able to thwart their happiness. \nFurthermore, the seventh commandment expressly forbids adultery. So why not allow these couples to unify, to solidify a life of faithfulness and faith?\nThus, I implore you, I entreat you and I challenge you to combat this bigotry. It's time for us to forget the Old Paths and begin to take a new path, one of acceptance and compassion. Only then will we have solved this crossword puzzle and filled in the final blank: \nEleven Down. Four letters. Begins with "L" ... not "H"
(11/10/04 4:23am)
Well, looks like we've got another four years of Dick in the White House. As I had tragically predicted, Sponge Bob Bush Pants has once again taken the title of President of the United States. While the news roused Bush voters, causing them to jump for joy in their overalls and wife-beaters; Kerry fans, like me, were left with no other options to curb our depression but developing a life-threatening addiction or moving to Canada. Since I am not a big fan of hockey, bears or Celine Dion, I decided to go with the former.\nRather than turning to powdered cocaine to ease my political woe, I turned to powdered doughnuts. For the last week, whenever I felt depressed, I'd gallop over to the Wright Quad bakery and gorge myself on a bag of circular goodness. Doughnuts and I have a very bitter-sweet relationship; I use these sugary pastries to glaze over my bitterness, both political and relationship related. \nWhenever I get distressed about being single, I head for the Krispy Kremes. Most people curb their depression -- I carb my depression. Instead of having a real, monogamous relationship, I whore myself to the doughnut industry, gettin' the goods from a smorgasbord of local bakers. \nWhat can I say? I love me some yeast. I often fantasize about an imaginary doughnut utopia where I gallop along rivers flowing with icing on a Bavarian Crème-filled unicorn. My obsession has become so colossal, a friend of mine recently mocked me by sneering, "If you like doughnuts so much, why don't you MARRY THEM!"\nTo which I began to ponder, "You know what ... that's not such a bad idea." \nThe more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that doughnuts would be the perfect mate. They're sweet, well-rounded, have lots of dough and will always stay in shape (unless you accidentally sit on them). \nFurthermore, doughnuts would always be faithful (inanimate objects are incapable of committing adultery). You'd never have to worry about them canoodling with another muffin or fondling somebody else's Pop-Tart. \nBut even if you did discover your wife in bed with another pastry, you wouldn't have to get a divorce. Just feed her to the dog! Wouldn't that be great? Instead of the awful break-up chit-chat (It's not you, it's me), you'd just throw her in with the Kibbles and Bits, trot on over to a nearby Village Pantry and pick out a brand-new, chocolate covered spouse. \n"But what about a sex life?" you might be asking. "You can't very well have relations with a doughnut!" Well, considering the shape I guess you theoretically could, but then you might get a yeast infection. Besides, studies show that chocolate and sugar release the same endorphins as sex. So anytime you're feeling aroused, just take a bite out of your spouse's face. After all, the taste is orgasmic! Doughnuts are heavenly, like little rings of fluffy Jesus. Every bite is like a mouthful of utter bliss. Bliss packed with 457 grams of saturated fat, but bliss nonetheless.\nThe only problem is that it's illegal in most states to marry a doughnut. Trust me, Starr Jones has tried several times. Even if it did become legal, though, you know that Bush would just create some ban against doughnut marriage. \nBUSH: "We're trying to protect the sanctity of marriage. We believe in doughnut unions, not doughnut marriages ... but still support doughnut rights. After all, Cheney's own daughter enjoys eating doughnut holes."\nQuestionable legality aside, these engagements seem like the perfect marital solution.\nWho needs a mate when you've got a bear claw? So the next time your feeling lonely, you know what to do! Propose to a doughnut, roll it down the aisle and prepare to hear the words, "I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Duncan Donuts. You may eat the bride"
(11/03/04 4:25am)
I sat alone, gazing longingly out of my dorm window onto the field below. Though I tried to concentrate on my work, the trees below began whispering seductively: "Come dangle on us Colin! You know you want to! You've always loved a good dangle. It feels so good." They were quickly followed by blades of talking grass: "Come on Colin. Smell my dew!"\nFinally, I gave in. I went outside and frolicked! Mid-frolic, however, I realized I was frolicking alone. Though the weather was beautiful, with the sky as blue as a gaggle of naked Smurfs, the only person out there "gettin' jiggy with nature" ... was me.\nIt was then that I realized it: We've all lost touch with Mother Nature! While as children we were deeply connected to her, climbing trees and building forts, we have since cut the umbilical cord and grown up, consequently detaching ourselves from her environmental placenta. \nAs we grew older, we began thinking with the "adult" mentality that "playing outside is for children" and "people who climb trees don't get laid." Rather than dumping these childish games, though, we digitalized them to make them seem more mature. Thefacebook, for instance, is merely an online form of playing tag. Only instead of running up and tagging friends via the playground, we are dialing up and "poking" them via the internet. Ironically, these mediums of connection seem to be disconnecting us from nature. Instead of getting up to explore the whole, wide world, we sit down and surf the World Wide Web. According to www.cnn.com, the average college student spends seven hours each day at a computer and watching television.\nSo now, in an attempt to compensate for our lack of outdoor activity, we have started to bring the outdoors inside. We buy potted plants. We use pictures of trees as computer backgrounds. And, of course, we buy "Mountain Mist" scented deodorant (because armpits just love the outdoors). \nWe use all sorts of products with outdoor fragrances. "Exotic Mango" scented Lysol. "Titillating Tulips" scented candles. Hell, even our britches are left smelling mountain fresh. We use these "natural" scents to rekindle our outdoor childhood memories. They're comforting aromas, like nasal security blankets. A guy on my floor, for example, uses a "Botanical Breeze" spray before (and hopefully after) he does "the big sit down" because he says, and I quote, "It's like I'm pooping in a meadow!"\nBut perhaps it's time we ask ourselves: Do these substances really bring us back to nature? Or simply dupe us into believing that we can purchase nature in a can?\nYou see, the problem with these "natural" replacements is that they have begun to alter our perception of nature. We forget the true smell of autumn, the feeling of sand between our toes, the sound of mating crickets ...\nI refuse to blame this problem on the media, though. Television and the internet may be addicting, like electronic narcotics, but we are the crack smokin,' acid dopin' Courtney Love-ish hippies who abuse them. So I suggest, instead of doing these digital drugs, you do some natural ones. Get high on the scent of pinecones and breathe in a big doobie of fresh air! \nReverse the cycle: Bring your indoor activities outside. If you need to study, do it under a tree. If you're walking to class, listen to the sound of birds chirping rather than your friend Tommy telling you over your cell, "Dude, I was so wasted last night! I had 89 shots and woke up half-naked in some guy's fishtank!" I'm not saying that you need to go pull a Henry David and live in the woods for two years. There's no need to be that Thoreau. Just go outside. Open your eyes. Open your ears. Exit instant messenger. Enter the real world. \nSo go ahead ... dangle away! Just remember to tuck in your shirt.
(10/27/04 4:19am)
In 1915, geologist Alfred Wegener made a surprising discovery. By testing various fossil records, he was able to substantiate his theory that all seven continents used to be connected in one large land mass. He named the ultra, super-duper, mighty morphin' mega continent Pangaea -- Latin for "all the land." According to his calculations, massive eruptions in the earth's plates, geological indigestion if you will, first split the land into two separate regions more than 200 million years ago. \nBut now, 200 million years later, it seems as if history is metaphorically repeating itself, for I have begun to notice a similar division taking place in the field of American politics. \nIn the wake of Sept. 11, this country became more united than I have ever seen in my lifetime. It became a national Pangaea, tightly unified with patriotism. However, as the fighting in Iraq continues and the election for president draws nearer, it appears as if the country is becoming more and more divided. Which is why, in the view of political commentator Bill Maher, the Bush/Kerry election "could be the closest election in American history ... split right down the middle." \nAnd split this country is. We're very split. We're a freakin' banana split, we're so split. Unfortunately, as the gap between Bush and Kerry voters continues to widen, so has the mounting tension between Republicans and Democrats. It is for this reason that election debates are beginning to get dirty. Slinging of da' mud and verbal bitch-slapping have now become frequent forms of interaction between voters of opposite parties, both in the media and in everyday conversation. It's like the World Wrestling Foundation of politics. Now, not only are we in a literal conflict with Iraq, but also in a figurative conflict over the battle of the polls.\nSome people are so gung-ho in defending their candidate that it's almost frightening to reveal your own political stance in public. You might end up in the middle of a political feud with people suffering from PMS (Political Meanness Syndrome).\nI found a few people in desperate need of some mental Midol while eavesdropping on a conversation in the Read Center lounge the other day. A group of two boys and two girls were loudly arguing back and forth about the candidacy. As they quarreled, I began to hear them say things like: \n"What kind of loser would vote for Bush? He's a retard." \n"You're voting for Kerry? Go eat poop."\nTheir debate was completely barren of any real substance, and yet went on for nearly half an hour. Their mouths just kept spewing out uneducated waste, like they had caught a bad case of verbal diarrhea.\nNow I'm not trying to say you shouldn't form an opinion, but when you do form that opinion, you should remain respectful of others. Stay opened-minded about other people's political views and well-informed by reading about both candidates. \nIt's time that we begin curbing these "political tectonics" that are causing a rift in American society, because, ultimately, we all want the same exact thing: to help and protect the nation we all call home. We shouldn't think of ourselves as separated Democrats and Republicans, but as ultra, super-duper, mega-morphin' ... Republicrats! (Insert "Thundercats" theme song.) In other words, we must recognize that in a time of such political vulnerability, we should be merging together not splitting apart. It has proven true that "United we stand, divided we fall." Just look what happened to the Spice Girls.\nI beseech you all to heed the words of Simon & Garfunkel and begin to build a bi-partisan "bridge over troubled water." Only then will we have reconnected these now un-United States.
(10/20/04 5:45am)
I recently discovered that "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory," one of my favorite childhood movies, was remade into a porno. In the remake, Willy is a pimp by the name of "Sugar Daddy." The entire film comprises Willy punishing his "naughty Oompa Loompas," shackling them with handcuffs made of truffle and striking their tiny, orange duffs with a licorice whip. Though some of the lines from the original script were retained, such as, "Augustus! Get out of the tube!," they were used in vastly different contexts. The remake was appropriately titled, "Willy's Wonka and the S&M Factory."\nAs radically different as these movies may be, however, they still share one striking similarity: they are both fantasy films. In the kiddie version, children fantasize about seeing juicy gumdrops and getting Everlasting Gobstoppers. In the XXX version, men fantasize about juicy buttocks and everlasting lap dances. Nevertheless, in both films, viewers project themselves into these fantastical situations to obtain a kind of "sweet" gratification. \nMy point is this. Pornography has become a very popular form of "eye candy" entertainment for the male demographic, serving as a one-way "golden ticket" to a man's imaginary Candyland. While pornography is generally used simply for raising a man's ... libido, upon further analysis, it can also be used to raise the following debate: Does pornography positively or negatively affect society? \nHas this outlet for endorphin relief helped to provide gratification to a sometimes unsatisfactory sex life? Or, has this industry begun to corrupt our country, slapping America's revered ideas of morality and virtue with a deviant double-sided dildo? The main question is this. Pornography: friend or ho?\nPornography draws a large amount of "positive" appeal from man's instinctive need to procreate. Sexual drive, after all, is ingrained in human nature, like hunger. Humans have the same urge to feed their loins as they do to feed their stomachs. Thwarting such endorphin release through sexual starvation will result in mounting sexual frustration. Pornography is kind of like Advil for the crotch. Additionally, since we are all born with this sexual instinct, it could be assumed that the only reason porn is considered negative in the first place is because of our society's puritanical background.\nHowever, there have also been a multitude of arguments to the contrary, most of which suggest that pornography's deviance pervades our culture. Feminists, for example, often argue that pornography degrades women, treating them like sex objects. They contest that the woman's act of kneeling sexually before the man symbolizes male dominance over females. I, however, believe that if anyone has the dominant gender here, it is the female. She may be on her knees ... but she's got him by the balls. \nPornography has also been accused of corrupting America's youth, especially via the Web. Within the last 10 years, Internet pornography has become a new platform for sexual exploration. It is now electronically ubiquitous, flooding the World Wide Web with a sea of sexual perversion. According to the Barna Research Institute, 82 percent of teenagers have admitted to downloading pornography. And the other 18 percent probably didn't have computers. \nLet's face it, you could weigh the pros and cons all the live long day, but the decision of whether pornography is positive or negative is ultimately up to interpretation, depending on your personal and religious morals. Porn is archetypal; it has both creative and destructive powers. \nPersonally, I believe fantasizing about sex is natural and perfectly healthy, but a problem arises when we allow this fantasy mentality to breach the real world, regarding sex through this kind of perverted "Wonkavision." Spending too much time in this imaginary Candyland can begin to warp one's perception of reality. It is when this happens that porn addiction and sexploitation become palpable problems in society. \nSo remember: It's okay to indulge in this eye candy, but in appropriate moderation. For, as the original Willy Wonka once forewarned, "Sweet teeth are bound to rot"
(10/13/04 4:16am)
Bush. Kerry. Bush. Kerry. Bush. Kerry. Bush. Kerry ...\nFor the last few months, I have vacillated between the two candidates, playing a repetitive game of political teeter-totter in my head. Despite the fact that Election Day is just around the bend and televised debate is now in full throttle, I continue to waver back and forth about who I should choose. It's just such a difficult decision. \nI mean, on one hand, Bush led America into a fictitious war with Iraq despite the fact that Iraq had absolutely nothing do with the 9-11 attacks and was used as a scapegoat to divert attention away from Osama bin Laden. But on the other hand, Kerry looks like a horse. \nOn one hand, Bush's duplicitous religious beliefs and homosexual paranoia are being heinously used as tools of ignorance to try and construct a ban against gay marriage. On the other hand, Kerry looks like a horse. Hmmm. Decisions, decisions ...\nFinally, after much inner deliberation, I made an executive decision. I'm voting for Bob Barker.\nWhile it's true that he isn't technically on the ballet, just think about how much better the nation, and the world for that matter, would be if the United States was run by America's sexiest, most popular, daytime game show host. He'd kick some serious duff. \nFirst of all, he's already got the premise for an excellent "terrorist elimination strategy." Rather than starting some huge war in Iraq or Afghanistan he'd simply cut down on the al Qaeda population by having all terrorists spayed or neutered, thus cutting the problem of terrorism right in the balls. That way, these maniac men will be unable to reproduce and have wild 'n' crazy, bomb-wielding babies. You go Bob!\nSecondly, with B-squared in office, you will never have to worry about a president dying during his term. Bob, after all, is superhuman -- practically indestructible. He's already 143 years old. And that's not even in dog years. Yet, miraculously, he manages to keep on truckin.' He's like the bionic man, only with creepier hair. A vote for Bob would be like a vote for a Samsung DVD player. He's sturdy, dependable and comes with a lifetime guarantee. And, since he is well beyond geezer status, we don't have to worry about him getting a "Lewinsky" either (because the only way he could get that kind of stiffness is if rigor mortis starts to set in).\nHe's already got a fantastic potential running mate too. Rod Rodey! So what if he's dead. Pish posh. You can be completely lifeless with no expression and still run for office. Just look at John Kerry. He's actually a corpse too. If it weren't for his daily cocktail of "Botox and embalming fluid on the rocks," he'd be a heap o' democratic bones by now. \n"But wait a minute," you might be saying. "What about Bob's environmental plans to protect the rainforest?" Well, he's not really gonna do anything about that. But trust me, pollution and acid rain will be the least of your worries while you're sipping on a "tropical" smoothie in your BRAND NEW CONVERTIBLE!\nThis would be his solution to almost every major national problem: giving away free merchandise to distract people from the political issues at hand. It's brilliant. Just think about it. Poor education in school systems? FREE SAILBOATS! Economic recession? FABULOUS NEW ARMOIRES!\nLet's face it. Bob and the oval office ... it's like a glove I tell you. Perfect fit. So stop playing that game of "Political Plinko" in your head. When the day of the big "political showcase showdown" arrives, make the right choice: cast a ballot for the Barkinator. Because pretty soon, televisions all over America will be broadcasting, "Bob Barker! Come on down! You're the next contestant on 'The Prez is right!"
(10/06/04 5:56am)
The problem with art is that its meaning is totally up to interpretation -- like ink blots for example. These are paintings where artists can get drunk, hop around on a pogo stick, squirt ink onto a canvas with a turkey baster and call whatever comes out "art." And despite the fact that most ink blots just look like a fugly mess, people always overanalyze the meaning (because if you stare at them long enough, you begin to see things that aren't really there). While you might think you see an image of a butterfly or Condoleezza Rice riding a unicorn, in actuality, it's just a blot of ink.\nStrangely enough, it appears as if this form of analysis is in a much larger frame as well, for I have begun to notice a similar trend involving racism in our society. By trying to overcompensate for the racial injustice of our nation's past, our country has developed a serious case of racism paranoia. We are now so cautious about bigotry that we have begun to overanalyze unprejudiced situations, consequently manifesting false cases of racism. \nTake for instance when white people use the term "black." There is always someone who will harshly correct them by screaming, "OMG! It's African-American, not black. You are like so totally a bigot!" Despite the fact that the term "black" is used only for easy identification, it is still considered a racial slur. Furthermore, when a Caucasian person is referred to as "white," it's not considered disrespectful at all. This is a gross double standard. \nThe fact is, black people are given much more leeway with racial jargon than white people. It is for this reason that, "It's because I'm black, isn't it?" is becoming an all too common basis for racial argument. It has become the all-inclusive catch phrase for such "ink blot" paranoia. \nO.J. Simpson even tried to use it. When he was accused of murder in 1994, he actually argued that part of the reason he was being arrested was "because he was African-American." Yeah ... that's right O.J. I'm sure that whole double homicide thing had nothing to do with it.\nBoth in and out of the courtroom, though, race is an extremely touchy issue. So touchy, in fact, I decided I needed to get in touch with a close, black friend of mine, Ian, to get his opinion on racial paranoia. \n"Racism was very prevalent in earlier generations," he said. "But since conditions of equality are getting better and better, claims of racism are getting further and further stretched. Some people are just down right paranoid now and need to chill the freak out." \nIt's so true. Sometimes it's ridiculous how PC some things get because of this paranoia. Like health book covers for example: They're always made to look as super-ultra diverse as possible. There are always a white person, a black person, an Asian person, a Latino person, a handicapped person and some guy in the back with two noses pictured. The book publishers make such a point to embrace diversity that, ironically, they merely exacerbate the mentality that racial fusion cannot happen naturally. \nNow I'm not trying to say that racism doesn't exist. Unfortunately, it does. And will continue to exist ... for the same reason that 12 people are killed annually by vending machines. Some people are just plain stupid. However, it seems that too often people try to overanalyze race-related situations and, consequently, begin to see things that don't exist, like racist apparitions. It is our job as Americans to recognize the difference between legitimate cases of racism and a simple blot of black ink. Oh, excuse me. African-American ink.
(09/29/04 4:17am)
Let's play a game, shall we? First, find a pencil. Did you find one? Congratulations, you won! Just kidding, that's not the game. \nTake the pencil, shimmy your eyes down to the list of objects below and circle the one that doesn't belong.
(09/22/04 4:14am)
I don't tan. Never have. I could get totally naked, lube my entire body in Crisco, lay down on a blanket of tin foil, roast in the middle of the freakin' equator and still not show even the slightest bit of a golden complexion. The anti-albino gene is apparently missing from my genetic code.\nWhenever my skin is exposed to the sun for a prolonged period of time, it goes through two stages. First, it turns red. Not just ordinary red either, but the kind of bright neon red that might be produced if a tomato had sex with a stop sign.\nNext, my skin starts to peel off all at once, causing me to leave trails of flaky dermis behind me wherever I go. Once completely shed, my new layer of pale skin grows in and the cycle continues all over again.\nI've always hated my skin. However, rather than dwelling on my inability to bronze, I have recently decided to take a more mature approach to handling the situation. Namely, hating the tanning industry.\nIn this column, I will elaborate on the three major reasons why I have such contempt for indoor tanning facilities. The first of which, obviously, is because they simply don't work for me. I have been several times before, each time leaving with no more than a roasted behind. UV rays apparently just reflect off my skin. Consequently, the only option I have to get any ounce of color is spray tanning ... which I would never do. All the people I've seen get this done just end up looking freakishly orange, like they were the unfortunate love-child of a drunken Bob Barker/Oompa Loompa orgy. Thus, I have no choice but to remain ultra pasty.\nThe second reason I hate the tanning industry is because, due to its growing popularity, the gap between pale people and tan people continues to widen. Mainly, it just makes me feel bad about myself. I usually get stuck sitting next to über-tan people in class, making me look in contrast like that scary albino guy from the movie "Powder." The problem is, in a society that values dark complexion, pale people like myself are left with no choice but to wallow in our pale inferiority.\nThis brings me to my final point of motivation for indoor tanning hatred. The fact is tanning has become so popularized by our society that people have begun ignoring the danger involved; not only physical danger such as possible cancerous melanoma, but the emotional danger as well.\nThe media has duped us into believing we need to be tan to be considered attractive. But this is simply not true! If you fall in love with someone, they're not going to care about how tan your skin is, they're going to care about how tan your heart is ... or something like that. You get the point.\nSo how do we combat this tanning propaganda? Well, we have two options. First, pasty people could unite and start a pale revolution! We could all protest outside tanning booths while carrying mammoth cardboard signs that say things like, "White is TIGHT" or "Whoah man, no tan!" Then, we could have a huge bonfire, where we'd burn tanning fliers and a whole bunch of crayons that have tannish hues, like "tan" or that stupid "Burnt Sienna" color that nobody ever uses. \nOr, we could do the more logical of the two options: simply learn to accept how we were born. Perhaps the Oil of Olay commercials put it best in their motto: "Love the skin you're in." Amen, Oil of Olay commercials, amen!
(09/15/04 4:37am)
The other day while channel surfing in my underwear, I came across an interesting segment dedicated to the dung beetle on the Discovery Channel. \nAccording to the program, the Larvae Dung beetle, commonly referred to by entomologists as L-D, is one of the most important insects on the face of the earth. Their job, or doody-duty so to speak, is to scavenge the earth looking for animal feces to bury in the soil. They spend their entire lives pushing these gigantic turds up and down hills looking for fertile spots in which to bury them. In fact, it was said that without them, all of America, across fields of grain and fruited plains from sea to shining sea, would be covered in a knee deep layer of rancid animal feces. Yikes! I was aghast. \nIt was after hearing this astonishing fact that I thought to myself, "These beetles keep animals from walking around in their own excrement, and what recognition do they get?" Absolutely none! No "Saving the Nation from Defecation" ribbons or "Poo-litzer Prizes" are awarded to these loyal pooper-scoopers as a token of appreciation. They are taken for granted by selfish and ungrateful animals, animals that recklessly leave their crap all over the place for others to deal with.\nAfter further analyzing such activity, I came to realize these little creatures are actually not so different from us big creatures. We humans, like insects, have a group of elite waste fighters working diligently without recognition and appreciation. There is a special group of unsung heroes that work day after day cleaning up the waste that we leave behind: IU custodians.\nIf it weren't for the custodians, our campus would be like a huge garbage heap. This is because a number of people on campus suffer from a vile case of "littering disorder," commonly referred to by me as having L-D. These are the disrespectful Neanderthals who carelessly toss their garbage out on the lawn.\nWhile walking back from my English class last week, I passed a guy seriously infected with L-D. He took his entire McDonald's bag filled with trash and just chucked it onto the ground. Instantly, I had the overwhelming urge to walk up to this trash-tossin' über idiot and give him a primo bitch-slap. However, being made up of a measly 134 pounds of scrawny meat and brittle bones, I decided to resist. This guy would have twisted me up into Slinky. So rather than picking a fight, I picked up the bag he discarded and threw it away in a trash can … less than 5 feet away.\nIt's unfortunate that some dolts on campus litter regularly, even more so that the litter is usually empty liquor bottles. However, just because these idiots may be trashed doesn't mean our campus has to be. Our faithful custodians make sure of that. The custodial staff does an excellent job cleaning the campus, keeping it practically immaculate. And although I realize that this is their job, I also realize there are responsibilities we as students can help fulfill.\nI would end with a message to those who actually litter, but I realize this would be completely pointless. If these people are stupid enough to litter, they are probably too stupid to know how to read as well. So I won't waste the ink. Instead, I beseech readers to show appreciation for our campus heroes and begin lending a hand. The next time you pass some random piece of garbage, help out a little and pick it up. It's something so small that can make a big difference. IU has one of the most beautiful campuses in the United States … let's keep it that way. Because come on, who wants a campus covered in smelly crap anyway?
(09/08/04 5:43am)
It seemed like only a fortnight ago -- I was staring at a pair of misshapen, disease-ridden testicles. Crippled by my inability to look away from the equivalent of a car crash, I sat in disgusted awe at the nauseating STD pictures shown in my fifth grade sex-ed class. The purpose of the photos was to scare us away from having sex by showing us pictures of private parts that looked like they had lost a fight against a George Foreman grill. \nMs. Gurgle, our teacher, was very passionate about preaching abstinence to the children. Every day during her bombastic "I Have a Condom" speech, she would scream, "Sex is for the devil! The Lord wants your underwear ON!"\nI remember thinking at the time she was completely insane. Now, looking back after all these years ... yeah, I still think she is completely insane. But maybe she had a reason for being so emphatic. Maybe it does take such drastic measures to convince kids today that sex is dangerous. Because now, instead of sex being considered a sin, sex is in. It has become teenagers' primary fixation and has only gotten more perverse and more explicit as we've grown older. \nWhen we were fifth-graders, sex was described to us as "kind of like a sneeze ... only better." But over the years, our exposure to sexual imagery has gone from metaphorically sneezy to just plain sleazy. Teenagers today are lambasted with sexual imagery. Popular television shows like "The OC" and "Temptation Island" are beginning to jam the airwaves. The seedy TV show "Dog Eat Dog" on NBC is a prime example. One of the events on the competitive game show has contestants who answer questions incorrectly remove an article of clothing, like "Jeopardy" striptease, until they are completely in the buff. The contestants do so on national television, leading our anti-intellectual youth culture to believe booty is more important than brains. \nSexploitation isn't just on TV though. It's everywhere. Magazines. Movies. Heck, even Dentyne Ice commercials are turning to sex appeal (because sugar-injected whale blubber is such an aphrodisiac)!\nBut a problem arises when sex is no longer just advertised in the media. I see it popping up on the streets of our campus as well: exposed thongs and boxers, tighter articles of clothing, inappropriate touching, etc. Students exude a similar type of imagery in attempts to attract possible mates. You see, my concern is that we have become so entranced by these sexual images that we have begun to ignore any message of abstinence. \nTo all you virgins out there who feel like the last dinosaur, you are far from being extinct. In fact, according to a February issue of The Washington Times, the percentage of teenagers ages 15 to 18 who have had sex has declined in the past 10 years from 55 percent to 45 percent.\nI realize sex is practically statistically inevitable; however I believe we should all wait until we reach a full level of maturity to experience it. After all, is one night really worth the consequences? Let's weight the pros and cons, shall we? Pro: Sex. Con: HERPES. Pro: Sex. Con: PREGNANCY. Pro: Sex. Con: AIDS. Get the point?\nKeep in mind that one mistake could change your life forever ... because it's hard to climb the uneven stairs of Ballantine Hall while wearing a papoose. Hopefully, this article will help students heed the words of crazy Ms. Gurgle and renew their coveted V-club membership.
