Where’s the empathy?
There is something so basic, so biological, to an eruption of physical violence that it seems implausible for the clothed technicians of corporate rule to possibly negotiate with it.
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There is something so basic, so biological, to an eruption of physical violence that it seems implausible for the clothed technicians of corporate rule to possibly negotiate with it.
Last week, the Australian Classification Board announced it would start banning the sale and distribution of adult films featuring small-breasted women and depictions of female ejaculation .
I believe that persistently validating your heterosexuality means that you feel there is something wrong about homosexuality. Every time I talk about stuffing and mounting a snow leopard, I don’t follow it up with “no taxidermist!” And I don’t think I’ve ever said “no Christian!” after wishing someone a Merry Christmas.
As the byline in this article states, my name is Josh Kraus, and I am a junior majoring in communication and culture. It can benefit you to know this.
Before I even begin to discuss the profound subject matter this article will contain, let me warn you that the word “poop” and all of its derivatives will be used with casual frequency. That being said, let’s continue.
Unfortunately, the recent Fort Hood shooting has provoked one of the nation’s more preposterously asinine causes to resurface: guns on college campuses.
Watching the lifeless proceedings of the U.S. Senate on C-Span can elicit an expected numbness. The committee members discuss what are sometimes monumental social issues with the emotion of drywall. Tailored suits and perfectly bland haircuts seem to shroud the severity of the topics in a cloak of monotony.
While an individual’s capacity to hate can spawn from many social and cultural circumstances, there is one pathetic explanation that is nothing more than a whimpering excuse: “I was drunk.”
That’s right, if our countless unnecessary wars, our hard-ons for assault weapons and the Washington Monument weren’t proof enough, bombing the moon should finally put all questions of our country’s endowment to rest. “Who needs the Olympics?” our political leaders might say. “We just bombed the moon.”
The soundtrack to the first few weeks of the semester is one of jarring ambulance sirens, where alcohol neophytes are frantically rushed from the dorms to the hospital. New students stroll the unfamiliar streets twirling lanyards while cocksure upperclassmen yell “freshmen” from their speeding cars. Freshmen get ripped-off by paying California prices for Indiana pot. Fortunately, most annoyances recede relatively quickly, except for one: students who won’t move to the back of the bus.
There is an irritating phenomenon plaguing our school on par with fixed-gear bikes and “pimps and hoes” theme parties. It is the practice of declaring residence in Chicago, when perhaps you’re really from a distant suburb such as Lake Forest – a mere moon relative to Chicago’s orbit.