wore brass knuckles, and Joss Whedon was directing them to do leaping high
kicks. I think [Michael] Bay must have been the one who put a C4 explosive in my satchel.
He always overdoes the pyrotechnics.”
Mafia, a term that causes even the most wealthy and successful of stars to shiver in fear.
everywhere. It isn’t safe.”
Men. “This town’s tough and if a few bimbos get whacked don’t go crying to the coppers.
Lay off the heavy sugar or take a hike, see.”
fetishism. Weiner is its reputed masterminds; Whedon and Bay run its military operations.
An anonymous source warned that for every show cancellation Whedon suffers, he gets
“more and more bloodthirsty.”
“If you can only see one of them, you know the other is about to attack. I’m under
contract to provide them with autographed Doogie Howser DVDs every week for the rest of my life.”
initiation ceremonies in which they were forced to hunt and tag Tisch Film students for
sport. “They took me into the Adirondacks and left me there naked, slathered in chicken
broth, with only a lantern and hiking boots,” said one ’09 alumna. “I wanted to write
sitcoms. They said this was the only way.”
The organization operates out of many shadowy New York City sets and foreclosed studio trailers, but “it all leads back to Jeanine,” explained FBI Organized Crime chief Pete Lawson. “She’s the Queenpin. If we could only nail her, we could bring it all down… but she’s untouchable, because it’s really hard to make her office hours.” Maybe one day a new small liberal-arts school will shove their way to the top; there are already mentions
The Ampersand’s sex experts tell you how and where to put it.
I live in a single in the Butts, so no roommate problems for me. That being said,my nextdoor neighbor is always getting it in. The giggling, moaning, and outright shrieking is starting to get annoying. What should I do?
— Annoying Screaming Sucks
So you hear some noises coming from your neighbors’, and you immediately assume that they’re making “the beast with two backs?” That could be anything. Jazzercize, a bad cold, Monopoly. Stop thinking with your private parts.
Strip down, knock on their door, and offer to join in.Worst-case scenario they have
to think about you in the next room while they bang.
If you were stuck on a desert island and could only eat one sandwich for the rest of eternity, what would it be?
— Much I Love Food
Ham and cheese!
Stuck on a desert island? What is that? Like, wedged inside someone and I don’t have lube? And eat one sandwich? Between two pieces of bread… buns… this is one fucked-up euphemism. Are you asking me which celebrity I would give a rim-job to while being, like, wedged inside him? You’re one sick fuck. Plus, that scenario is definitely impossible. But it’s not like I haven’t tried. Definitely John Stamos.
In what has been described as “Ugh, I should’ve known” by one disgruntled freshman, Wesleyan students are speaking out against Valentine’s Day, arguing that participating in the day traditionally reserved for sweets, flowers, and romantic gestures actually promotes murder and torture by stoning.
Michael “Like Us on Facebook” Thompson ’13, of campus social justice group Students Together Oppose the Needless Ejection of Rocks (STONER) explains,
“STONER was always against stoning, but we hadn’t realized the dangerous effects of ‘Valentine’s Day’ until now. Saint Valentine may have survived the stoning, but we won’t be so fortunate. Stoning is the kind of thing that’s difficult to identify with if you’re not already involved, kind of like parkour. What’s more romantic that reminding your loved one of continued irrational violence in the global south? So next time you fax your significant other, don’t forget to include a topical little note making it clear that both of you are informed global citizens.”
STONER, which has been meeting and operating out of the WestCo basement since the 1970’s, is spear-heading the effort. The student body, while impassioned, seems uncertain as to the goal of the organization.
“I’m all for legalization, but if I’m going to protest for it, I want something to smoke while I hold the sign,” says one disappointed junior. In a desperate plea for action, many students have taken to throwing rocks at their peers in centers of campus activity such as Usdan and the Memorial Chapel.
We sat down with President Michael Roth to discuss the administration’s stance on what has become as dangerous a situation as creative writing classes during drop/add. Roth looks a little worse for wear, his resemblance to a prairie dog exaggerated as he keeps an eye out for stray chunks of airborne granite, and, in an act of martyrdom comparable to that of Saint Valentine himself, contests that the blame is his.
“I knew I shouldn’t have pushed for more Shirley Jackson in the curriculum,” he laments, gesturing towards the Health Center, where a line of bloody students is quickly forming. “This is the sad result.”
The students involved in the protests say they are frustrated by their fellow students’ sedentary (or should we say sedimentary) approach to social action. The students not involved say they don’t want to throw rocks at their friends. All we can say is, in a situation like this, everybody loses. And those poor bastards who want a geology certificate might as well give up.
But it was true. It was so true. When Gregory Steinwitz’s booty ‘13 hit the dance floor, everyone, including Big Freedia zirself, stopped and gasped in reverence. Right here in Eclectic, God was amongst them. In the audience, Pamela ’15 struggled to keep the buttons of her sheer blouse closed. She felt the overwhelming desire to tear off her grandmother’s bed-jacket and offer herself to the Krump Lord to be ravished. She wanted to feel his oversized member, hard as a zeppelin, against her generous thighs as they melted together on the dance floor.
At long last, tickled to frenzy by desire, she danced toward him, her molten amber eyes locking with his. He could see in her hardened face that Pamela was not just another “biddie.” Having been spoiled by the heated, cutthroat dancing at the underground hip-hop clubs of Scarsdale, New York, Gregory had come to Wesleyan jaded and unsatisfied by the weak grinding typical of the WestCo Raves and Psi U Formals. He wanted passion. He wanted fire. And looking at the way Pamela booty-dropped, he knew that she was the one, that he must seize this moment and pounce before that atomic she-devil escaped and he never got to hold her in his strong, scrawny arms.
Seventeen minutes later, Pamela threw Gregory onto her bed, mounting him with the fervor of a rabid jaguar. He ripped off his Morning Benders t-shirt and threw it to the floor of her Fauver dorm room in a flourish. Although Pamela’s roommate, Gladys Merkin ‘15, was by now asleep on the twin bed a mere six feet away, nothing could quell their funky lust. As Pamela throaty and fermata’d moans pierced the ears of the P-Safe officers driving down Foss Hill Drive, the patrolmen could but laugh mirthlessly.
Slavei’s Valentine’s Day concert in the Memorial Chapel was inappropriate to say the least. The erotically exotic sounds of Salvei’s Eastern European repertoire had an unexpected effect on the audience: in time with the foreign ululations and pulsations, multiple members of the audience spontaneously undressed and did sex to one another in our university’s most holy building.
Boris “The Woofer” Vladivostok ’14, known for his impressive Mongolian tonsil flicking abilities, observed, “I didn’t think my woofing would make others woof too.”
Though shocked by the audience’s behavior, Slavei continued performing. Baritone Alexei Leningrad ’12 reports that the sexual acts were in no way the group’s intentions. “We had no idea people were going to enjoy it this much,” said Leningrad. “I always thought harmonic dissonance was kind of a
Alto Yuri Dubra ’13, however, was unfazed. “I am not surprised,” he said. “I do it to Gregorian chants all the time.”
World music is clearly rising to prominence, from two person pregames to fraternity parties. Beta has planned a Naked Gregorian Chant party for the near future. “People can’t get enough,” said Biff Nud ’14. “I got this A$AP Rocky vs. Jgupi Qorali mash-up on permanent repeat.”
The university will certainly take more precaution next time Slavei performs. “This Rusky Red Pinko Commie assault on decency caught us with our pants down,” said one Public Safety official, “as did the return of that naked dude from the Dink-583 MuHo concert.”
This Super Bowl sunday, the Argus scored an exclusive interview with patriots coach and Wesleyan alum, Bill Belichick.
So first off, our readers want to know what your Eclectic initiation was like.
It was wild. They somehow got our meal plans suspended so they could make us forage for food. It was a lot like freeganism, but with more squirrel meat. And every morning for a month, I was up at 7 a.m. refilling the basement kiddie pools with something they called “blood pudding.” It was eight parts Robitussin to three parts red Jell-o.
Was it hard to balance your football career with all of these demands?
Oh, totally. Sometimes I’d be telling the team what the play was and then realize that I was just reciting some lyrics to a Smiths song we had all jammed to the night before. Or I’d be super tired after staying up all night to see if the pattern in a laser-lights screensaver ever changed.
What “position” did you play as a member of the Eclectic Society?
Well, I was an economics major, so I was always great with the financial stuff. Like, accounting for inflation, which would cost more to buy that semester, acid or ’shrooms? That kind of stuff.
So you were their nerd bitch.
What? No. I was a scholar-athlete. There’s a difference.
Do you think your membership to Eclectic helped get you where you are today?
Definitely. When the guys come in for a game looking like death after a Saturday night of who-knows-what, I just get them some tacos and Adderall and they’re good as new. Also, I think what really put me over the edge when applying for coaching jobs was being able to incorporate my plaid flannel into so many different outfits.
Last question. Do you have any regrets about your time at Wesleyan?
I wish I had killed Eli Manning when I had the chance.
Sorry your team lost The Super Bowl!
I am pleased to report that my study abroad experience is, as of this writing, a success! Life outside of Wesleyan is exciting, but boy is it different!
Adjusting to this new climate has been tough; my bone density is decreasing rapidly and I’ve been experiencing some nausea, although I suppose that’s to be expected with my new diet. The food is so different here! My favorite meal is probably “Dried Apricots X510,” although “Corned Beef Sandwich ZZ5” is surprisingly good, especially if you warm it up. They also have American food like pizza, but it’s usually served in cubes. Weird!
The locals here seem pretty friendly; yesterday, one of them attached themselves to my face for a couple of hours. Now my stomach feels strange! My immediate reaction was alarm, but I guess it’s my fault for not learning enough about the local customs beforehand!
According to WesDems, the University’s resident chapter of student Democrats, former Middletown Mayor Sebastian Giuliano is actively seeking to construct a “ray-like device” that will allow him to control the weather.
“We didn’t believe it at first, but we managed to get ahold of the blueprints, and we can say without a doubt that the project has moved beyond the conceptual stage,” said WesDem Harry Blossom ’14. He cited a collection of e-mails from Giuliano the WesDems recently intercepted, which contain numerous references to a “weather machine” that will attack this year’s Spring Fling with massive artificial blizzards. The WesDems have also tried to draw attention to the large, weather-machine-like structure that has loomed over the Middletown skyline since November.
“His recent loss of the position at the Election Commission has, we believe, deepened his insatiable rage,” said Blossom. “Wesleyan kids have thwarted his plans again and again, like that one time he tried to take control of the diamond mine by dressing as a yeti and scaring off all the miners.”
The administration has no response to these claims. “Spring Fling is definitely going to happen,” said President Roth. “Do you want to be the one who tells the seniors they can’t get mad crunk and pass out on Foss this May? That’s a shitstorm waiting to happen, man. Your funeral.”
“What’s worse, a shitstorm brought on by angry seniors, or a literal storm of shit created by a weather ray?” responded Blossom.
When reached for comment, former mayor Giuliano replied, “Gya ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!” and then disappeared in a puff of smoke.
SHITSTORM, page 3
The Secret Weapon
As evidence of the strengthening economy, many formerly unemployed Wes grads are finding themselves in sweet new money positions.
Chet Grundle ’09 has a new job at Dixar, a Pixar affiliate. Grundle recalled his only meeting with the CRC during his senior year: “They asked me if I had any sweet family hookups, and I said, ‘Nah man, I’m from Minneapolis.’ Then they told me they had run out of jobs.” He pursued his only option, an unpaid internship at a casino owned by the local Minnesota Sioux.
But things are looking up for Grundle these days. Upon viewing his viral video “Sh*t Gambling Addicts Say,” Dixar offered him an unpaid internship writing screen- plays for thrilling new sequels such as The Pink Panther: Crossing the Color Line, The Fast and the Furious 6 Hour Energy, and Baby Geniuses 3: Vin Diesel Is Mother Goose.
He has a point. But regardless, America has the proverbial “Open” sign on it and is clearly winning the future — due in large part to Chet Grundle’s plethora of amazing sequels lying on the horizon.
CRC WTF, page 1111111111112
Campus has seen a spike in viruses that, like Banquo’s ghost, bring your sick secrets out of your stomachs and into the light. That’s right, you sick children have been eating poop.
The Davison Health Center would like to take some measure of responsibility for the matter at hand. "We thought you young scholars could keep your hands away from your butts. We were wrong: there’s an outbreak of fecal-oral disease, and you all got it by eating poop."
Although it really should go without saying, please attempt to refrain from gobbling shit during this time.
FUCKING DISGUSTING, page 4
Episode Three: When The going gets Tough, The Tough get...
I was going to go on an adventure today, probably save some kittens forced into work at the old sawmill or chastise a group of youngsters going to PG-13 movies without parental permission. But then I remembered that they closed down the old sawmill because some girl got murdered... no, that was Twin Peaks, wasn’t it? Shit. I gotta get my act together.
Things haven’t been so good in Akron lately. I usually go to a place called Hegel’s Bagels—they have the thesis (cream cheese), antithesis (lox and capers), and synthesis (smoked salmon). But they got closed down by the Akron Health Department, a group of blunt-smoking Bolsheviks so intent on dialectical materialism that they drove all the good places out
of town. All that’s left is fucking Arby’s. I have to drive forty-five minutes out of town to the goddamn Fractured Prune to dig their week- old donuts out of the trash because that’s the only thing that gets me going like before. Maybe I should just start doing blow again.
Those were the days, right? Just me and the boys, driving on the sidewalks, making dogsleds with the K9 team, chugging bottles of syrup, making dogsleds with the fourteen- year-old weed dealers in lock-up, bustin’ a big one into the inside of Officer Miller’s riot mask, replacing the rubber bullets with licorice gumballs, getting astronomically high and dicking around outside the Waffle House, frisking the shit out of the community college girls, blasting KRS-ONE and NWA while driving through the high school parking lot, hiding seized fireworks in the cars we sell at auction so that
they go off in case there’s a pileup— shits and giggles kind of stuff.
But times really have changed. I have seven lawsuits filed against me right now. I’ve been on Dateline so many times that Stone Philips is my emergency contact. I’ve gotten fat as shit. I know all the flavors of Doritos. I was thinking about taking a pilates class at the Y, get in shape, maybe even making some friends, but they revoked my membership when I fired a warning shot into the pool because I wanted to cut the line at the diving board. I arrested all of my dealers. Only Insane Clown Posse plays here anymore. I masturbate so much I don’t even notice when I’m doing it anymore— makes it real fucking awkward for the mailman. It’s gotten so bad I even started thinking about getting a library card. I guess the fun times are finally over.
Jesus Christ, I miss my wife.
My fellow Americans: not that anyone thought to ask, but I’m pleased to report that things are going pretty good for me right now. I recently experienced an economic windfall when I found five bucks in my jacket, resulting in a budget surplus. Of course, this sudden stroke of good fortune comes in the wake of the devastating financial catastrophe that ensued after mom neglected to remove my wallet from my jeans when she put them in the laundry over break.
Speaking of the incompetence of those we thought we could trust, I turn now to foreign policy. The central goal of my administration’s international strategy was to achieve that benchmark widely recognized as the hallmark of a great power. I am, of course, referring to “getting laid.” It was assumed that we were making progress with respect to this objective with Stephanie, the cute girl at Kinko’s. We even managed to have coffee with her, and went to a party with her two weeks ago.
Then, Joegate ensued. Somehow, elements of the Joe Federation obtained access to highly classified materials on our computer systems (pornography and drunkenly composed poetry) and leaked them to Stephanie. When questioned, the Federation’s President Clement tried to play it off as a joke, but we responded with a communiqué indicating that this was not cool, dude. We acknowledge the Joe Federation has given us valuable assistance in the past, particularly that one time in high school when we were so drunk we were puking everywhere and Joe not only drove us home but dealt with mom and dad. However, this most recent action may force us to rethink his status with our nation as “best bud.”
The years ahead are no doubt full of tumult and unease. However, I can say with confidence that we have nothing to fear and there is every reason to remain at ease, as this joint I am in the process of lighting seems to be dank as shit.
According to sources close to the department, Wesleyan’s Russian Literature faculty is still reeling from last week’s shutdown of Megaupload.com by federal prosecutors. The popular file- sharing service, which is accused of costing copyright holders over $500 million in pirated sales, has been integral to departmental operations since late 2006.
The Life and Times of Stern Angus, Akron Police Department
“You know, it’s just how I teach,” explained department chair Natalia Chichikovsky. “You think I actually went out and bought Anna Karenina when I could just leech that shit online?”
According to Professor Chichikovsky, drawbacks of the system are minimal.
“There was a bit of trouble when I realized that the whole last chapter of Hero Of Our Time was missing and replaced with the rape scene from Lolita,” Chichikovsky added. “But, you know, most freshmen didn’t even seem to notice. I think.”
Today, Chichikovsky spends most of the workday refreshing Megaupload’s URL fruitlessly from her third-floor office in Fisk Hall, mourning the loss of a remarkably rich literary heritage
in Wesleyan’s course offerings thanks to one federal shutdown. Privately, though, some suspect that members of the department may have had a hand in bringing about the raid.
“I knew Professor Gogolstoy shouldn’t have organized that IP attack on 4chan or downloaded all that erotic Brothers Karamazov fan fiction,” explained one Russian Lit professor who spoke on terms of strict anonymity. “But, that chapter with the Zosima/ Dmitri/Katerina threesome was totally worth it — I mean, what? No, that wasn’t me.”
In related news, Introduction to Experimental Music has been postponed indefinitely until someone can convince Professor Alvin Lucier to pay money for Vespers.
Like most other kids on Winter break I was listening to a lot of Eazy-E and pondering infinity or something. I was thinking, ‘where does the internet live?’ and ‘why are there no cities under the ocean?’ and most important of all, ‘why do people shit on Mitt Romney so hard?’ Then I Google’d some bodacious words and learned the whole shitty Mitt story.
Nobody likes him because when he was at the very Mormon college of Bigham Choate University (“Big Chode” for short), Mitt was the campus narc. If you had Mountain Dew or pictures of breasts or CDs or a potato-lightbulb you can guarantee that Mitt had a narc form filled out to Big Chode Safety.
It all started when Mitt and his freshman roommate Young Smith, a foreign exchange student from Laos, got in a huge fight about Mitt’s ridiculous BBW (Big Beautiful Women) fetish after a week of Mitt leaving boxes of tissues and BBW mags in Young’s drawers. Turns out Young loved coffee, a massive Big Chode faux pas. So Mitt called up BCS and reported that shit, thus leaving Young in the wind.
Supposedly (this is solely based on Google research) Mitt got five dollars for reporting it. Mitt had this dream of starting a venture capital firm but Mormon law prohibits applying for loans, as well as being gay. So Mitt started narc’ing on people for beer, sodomy, holding hands, and skateboarding, all the while amassing a huge pile of capital that allowed him to put a down payment on winning the future with Bain Capital, the company that steals old people’s personhoods and gives them to Sports Authority, if I’m not mistaken.
Mitt’s narc’ing is still a huge problem in his campaign, according to campaign authorities, because the habit never came full circle and Mitt still has his feverish BBW fetish. Apparently it tends to get in the way of his debates because of Newt Gingrich’s androgynous, pasty features.
I think we all learned something today, and that is when you start the primary season sixteen months before a presidential election, you’re bound to lose your mind.