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Illinois Seniors Show Initiative in Extra-Curricular ActivitiesMay 12, 2003 |
Northbrook, IL Girls Gone Lord Of The Flies Plucky young high school graduates share the sheer conformity of a good-old fashioned feces-inclusive hazing.
The "powderpuff football" game held Sunday, May 4, took on a decidedly un-powderpuff nature when the senior girls corralled the juniors into a group and began to splatter them with mud and human feces as part of a friendly hazing tradition. How they knew it was human feces and who identified it was not available information and asking the question only brought angry scowls from Cook County officials.
All girls involved reportedly knew the game would involve a hazing of the future seniors, ...
ccompanied with shock and outrage expressed by nampy-pamby New Age P.C. thugs across the country, the world learned last week of a group of ambitious and driven Northbrook, Illinois high school girls who take a genuine interest in school spirit and extra-curricular activities.
The "powderpuff football" game held Sunday, May 4, took on a decidedly un-powderpuff nature when the senior girls corralled the juniors into a group and began to splatter them with mud and human feces as part of a friendly hazing tradition. How they knew it was human feces and who identified it was not available information and asking the question only brought angry scowls from Cook County officials.
All girls involved reportedly knew the game would involve a hazing of the future seniors, but crybaby juniors alleged they had no idea the level of cruelty would be so high. Apparently kids today only know about initiation what they see on family-friendly high school shows like Seventh Heaven or something. This reporter would suggest girls on their way to a future initiation view fine hazing films like Full Metal Jacket or A Few Good Men. All in all, a typical end-of-school ritual gets a few more bruises and broken bones than planned, but anyone worried about our teens being slackers who let the future of America dribble down their legs while they watch Seventh Heaven found the news of the harsh initiation quite refreshing.
But the reaction of the PTA-whipped local school board and county officials? Criminal charges have been promised for the outgoing seniors involved in the incident. One group, however, has not lost perspective on the incident: Former Glenbrook North High School alumni.
"Sure, everybody knew what happened the last week of school," said Mitzi Burbank, class of 1993 and president of the Glenbrook North High reunion committee. "But everyone looked forward to it, like a rite of passage. Well, the juniors didn't. But they looked forward to it when they were seniors, the year after. It was tradition, and it was just so incredibly important to the students. Well, the seniors."
Class of 1995 Glenbrook North graduate Cindy DeSousa agreed.
"Oh, yeah, it was hell getting through it. I don't think we had any feces involved when I went through 'the gauntlet'… l'see, eggs, whipped cream, silly string—no, I think they missed the feces. But it sounds like a real sharp idea. Those girls really wanted to stand out from past classes!"
Other graduates, while admiring the girls' severe hazing, aren't admiring the incident's severity. Like Sue Gorton, class of 1955.
"I suppose it was bad, by today's standards," said Gorton, "but we had real wars and bloodshed back then, too. Hell, I know three or four juniors who didn't make it to senior year after their initiation—two went missing and one had a severe head injury that kept her in a coma until Woodstock. And we didn't just limit it to incoming senior girls either. We would haze some of the black students as well. They didn't go to our school, but that didn't mean we couldn't haze them."
Current Glenbrook North student and Class Treasurer Taylor Wick expressed support for the hazing as well.
"It's important to the social order to keep the hazing alive. If we don't have traditions to mark the change from underclass to ruling class, then it all starts to fall apart. Pretty soon people wouldn't even care what part of town you live in or what kind of clothes you're wearing. You know what they call that? Anarchy." the commune news also applauds the Glenbrook North hazing, and certainly hopes if video got out of our hazing ritual on Bludney Plud people wouldn't make us quit doing it every Friday evening. Ivana Folger-Balzac is a commune correspondent and occasionally belts people as part of a secret hazing ritual known only to her.
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 July 21, 2003
Saddam Hussein: Dead or Alive 3While your average American gives no thought to the complicated world of politics, concerned more with trivialities such as "Will my job survive the year?" and "How can I afford to keep my family medically insured?" the think-tankers in the upper echelons of the U.S. government are asking only one question: "Is Saddam Hussein alive, and if so, where is he?" Yes, if you check, that's technically only one question, hence the single question mark.
The short answer is: No. But wait! Before you think I've become boring in my old age, I haven't cracked your brain with the baseball bat of conspiracy yet, and I assure you there is more to the Saddam Hussein story than you've considered before. And always more than they're telling you.
The reason Saddam Hussein is no longer alive is that he was never alive. Saddam Hussein, was, is, and always has been nothing more than a computer program. Surprised? Good, I say. You don't think I hold off on telling you all this shit simply because it slipped my mind, do you? I get my jollies watching your jaw drop, friend.
Has anyone ever seen the movie Virtuosity? Of course not. Some would chalk this up to the film being predictable and fairly empty of any real enjoyment, but I say this underestimates the part played by the American government to make the movie go unseen. The film is a roundabout way to propose that many of our society's villains are nothing more than distracting computer...
º Last Column: Roll On, Columbia
º more columns
While your average American gives no thought to the complicated world of politics, concerned more with trivialities such as "Will my job survive the year?" and "How can I afford to keep my family medically insured?" the think-tankers in the upper echelons of the U.S. government are asking only one question: "Is Saddam Hussein alive, and if so, where is he?" Yes, if you check, that's technically only one question, hence the single question mark.
The short answer is: No. But wait! Before you think I've become boring in my old age, I haven't cracked your brain with the baseball bat of conspiracy yet, and I assure you there is more to the Saddam Hussein story than you've considered before. And always more than they're telling you.
The reason Saddam Hussein is no longer alive is that he was never alive. Saddam Hussein, was, is, and always has been nothing more than a computer program. Surprised? Good, I say. You don't think I hold off on telling you all this shit simply because it slipped my mind, do you? I get my jollies watching your jaw drop, friend.
Has anyone ever seen the movie Virtuosity? Of course not. Some would chalk this up to the film being predictable and fairly empty of any real enjoyment, but I say this underestimates the part played by the American government to make the movie go unseen. The film is a roundabout way to propose that many of our society's villains are nothing more than distracting computer creations, and it took a lot of government operatives countless hours to make the film so utterly forgettable as to slip through the box office cracks unnoticed. But there was good reason for all the time spent doing so.
If we open ourselves up to the possibility that one villain is really just a souped-up Atari made to look like Russell Crowe doing a decent American accent, where do we stop questioning everything? Consider this: Have you ever been in a room with Saddam Hussein, the actual man? I didn't think so. That should make it abundantly doubtful a real Saddam Hussein even exists.
Everyone knows Iraq was only targeted by the military for one reason, and that's oil; this is only up for debate by people who enjoy deceiving themselves about everything, such as the government has only altruistic motives, or J.A.G. is a really good show. In fact, whenever you hear a government official say they want to bring democracy to another country, it should automatically translate as they have natural resources vital to our economy and are holding out. Hence we decided to bring democracy to Iraq, in exchange for barrel upon barrel of yummy oil.
Of course, Iraq was a foreign culture and has virtually no strategic value, following that we have no enemy after the Soviet Union dismantled and had no strategy against no enemy. The original leaders of Iraq, looking pretty dopey and smiling all the time like they just squeezed out a silent fart, weren't much motivation for the American people to go to war. So the U.S. war machine created the Saddam Hussein computer program, based an old Abbot & Costello routine beloved by Sec. Jim Bakker. "Who's in charge of Egypt?" "Hussein." "I'm sayin', I want to know." Love that one.
But if you build a computer program too good, as any hack movie producer knows, it can develop its own intelligence and decide to take things over. Which is exactly what happened when we installed the Saddam Hussein program on Iraqi Amigas. Pretty soon we did have a Saddam Hussein threat to overthrow—our own. He even generated independently more pictures of George Bush's Uncle Herb in full Iraqi military guard and had him doing ridiculous Herb-like things, such as waving a shotgun around or reading threatening messages to the U.S. government in great big glasses from his underground bunker.
Keep in mind, I still think the Saddam Hussein program is a threat, and if one mainframe carrying the program survived the Baghdad bombing, the danger remains. But all of this could have been dealt with much quicker and efficiently by planting a virus in the Iraqi intranet, or installing Windows 2000 on one of the network computers. º Last Column: Roll On, Columbiaº more columns
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|  April 5, 2004
Indian Boris Doesn't Not Know HowHello persons holy shits. So much to tell of Boris story, no times for kidding words. So sorry, but Boris will put in funny jokes times two in next time column.
Story does start with Boris living wild life thing on road with Angels from Hell friends, so much fun like road trip and sleepover all rolled inside same burrito. So cool yes, but then Angels from Hell friends does funny thing, selling Boris to this bar as cigar-selling Indian person. Good joke, Hell Angels. Is boring job, to stand outside bar with Indian hat on and do nothings, but is okay. Does give Boris time to think of columns and why come sky is blue when air is white, but clouds is white when water is invisible color. So strange.
Boris does miss Angels from Hell friends sometimes, but now has important job. Because persons does only like to buy cigars from Indians, and Boris is this pretend Indian. No person does know truth of Boris in this thing, them thinking Boris is 100% Indian meat. Only bad thing is persons does always come up to ask Boris "How?" but Boris doesn't not know how. Only real life Indians does know this.
Boris does not see Hell Angels since they did trade him to bar for case of beef jerkys. Like friend Bitch Killer does say, them must ramble on like shark thing that does not want to die. If shark stops the swimming, him does die because then he is eaten by angry fish, and same thing for Angels from Hell. Now Boris does has bad dreams about angry eating...
º Last Column: Flies is Like Eagle in Future
º more columns
Hello persons holy shits. So much to tell of Boris story, no times for kidding words. So sorry, but Boris will put in funny jokes times two in next time column.
Story does start with Boris living wild life thing on road with Angels from Hell friends, so much fun like road trip and sleepover all rolled inside same burrito. So cool yes, but then Angels from Hell friends does funny thing, selling Boris to this bar as cigar-selling Indian person. Good joke, Hell Angels. Is boring job, to stand outside bar with Indian hat on and do nothings, but is okay. Does give Boris time to think of columns and why come sky is blue when air is white, but clouds is white when water is invisible color. So strange.
Boris does miss Angels from Hell friends sometimes, but now has important job. Because persons does only like to buy cigars from Indians, and Boris is this pretend Indian. No person does know truth of Boris in this thing, them thinking Boris is 100% Indian meat. Only bad thing is persons does always come up to ask Boris "How?" but Boris doesn't not know how. Only real life Indians does know this.
Boris does not see Hell Angels since they did trade him to bar for case of beef jerkys. Like friend Bitch Killer does say, them must ramble on like shark thing that does not want to die. If shark stops the swimming, him does die because then he is eaten by angry fish, and same thing for Angels from Hell. Now Boris does has bad dreams about angry eating fish, no good.
Bar place is owned by Mahowney, big person who does smell like pickles all times. Mahowney tells story that Angels from Hell trade Boris because Boris stuffed animal collection does become too big to fit on chopping motorcycle, and no person likes Boris singing Motown all times. So Mahowney takes in Boris to live in little basement closet room with vacuum sucking cleaner and ball for bowling. Is okay, but ball does make shit pillow.
This is good new life for Boris for while, but does get tired of childrens shooting arrows at Indian Boris and Mahowney yelling not to smoke all cigars. So mean sometimes, this boss person, when Boris only wants to show all persons how good is smoking. Also Boris does try to eat cigar like in cartoon but that is such a sick tummy for non-cartoon person, trust Boris.
Soon Boris decide to leave this bar place, to take show on road, when finds out him cannot leave because is like Pinocchio. This is story of boy with real wood, you know the thing. Mahowney will not let Boris go until paid for beef jerkys and so many cigars, such expensive things never to happen because Boris gets paid only coins that persons drop on accidentally and that money is for to buy Runyons and Red Hots for snacking.
But is okay, because badguy Mahowney boss does not know Boris is so smart to burn down bar and escape from basement Pinocchio prison thing. To tell truth, this is accident from Boris smoking cigar in dark closet, but does work also as such smart plan for Boris to run away from capture, so nice.
Now, for what is Boris? Good questioning. Until gets boring, Boris thinks he is railway hobo person for adventure. Yes, Louis and Similar to Skippy dog would be so proud like Mother of Boris. Persons in Homeland who does say Boris is big turd on floor of life cannot see railroad hobo Boris now! Goodbye column. º Last Column: Flies is Like Eagle in Futureº more columns
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Quote of the Day“It is a wise man who makes a career of providing quotes, for the dollar-to-word ratio is fantastic. Eat your heart out, novelists.”
-Beenjammin Lynn-FrankFortune 500 CookieYou! In the yellow shirt! You’re going to have an awful week. Move along now. This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, but your lifetime ban from the municipal aquarium still applies. Those repressed childhood memories you’ve been having about animal abuse and a shady-looking construction site? That was Donkey Kong. Try eating something with at least 17 letters in it this week: mailboxes and Alpha-Bits don’t count. Your lucky dong accessories: ornaments, jingle bells, argyle cock sock, festive wreath, racing stripe, spare donut.
Try again later.Least Effective SARS Protective Efforts| 1. | Stop breathing | | 2. | Fire handgun blindly at coughs | | 3. | Smoking deceased SARS victims | | 4. | Wave hand, say "Don't go in Toronto! Whew!" | | 5. | Drinking imported Hong Kong bathwater | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Turner Volst 2/14/2005 A Time for DeadHis pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers.
"Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself...
His pants were too tight, Spencer Chowheim thought as he attempted to get comfortable in his sniper perch. Should've bought a 33 waist. Harder to find, sure, and seldom available on the discount rack. But at moments like this, the moment of truth, the difference made a difference. Chowheim squirmed inside his slightly-too-tight trousers. "Maybe I'm getting fat?" he thought to himself and others. Hmm. An intriguing notion. Chowheim quickly calculated his up-to-the-minute Body Mass Index, based on his internal sense of blood pressure and the level of resistance he felt from the roof's granulated concrete surface. 28.4, same as always. It had to be the pants. A shame too, since historically, 34% of failed missions turned on ill-fitting couture. He sucked it in, vowing to himself to be the exception. He would admit to friends, if he'd had any, that this was an unusual mission. He thought he'd seen it all during his eight year tenure as a highly in-demand rogue double agent, and one so skilled he'd been able to skip the normal single agent phase entirely, shooting straight into the big time of espionage. But he'd never been asked to shoot a deer before. At first he thought it must be a typo, written with a finger in the dust on his car's passenger side window, the way he always received his top secret missions. He'd figured Deer must be the last name of some deadly ex-KGB killing machine proficient in seventeen languages and Russo-karate. But over his customary eighteen months of research and preparation, Chowheim realized how wrong he had been. This was no ordinary deer. This deer had vital information about nukes in the former Eskimo stronghold of Newfoundland, Canada. A mole deer, a triple agent. A triple agent was the most impressive and complicated thing a spy could be, man or beast, since anyone who attempted to make the leap to quadruple agent invariably got confused and ended up just becoming the regular plain vanilla agent they were pretending to be during the course of their subterfuge times four. When Chowheim thought about it, he realized how perfect the plan had been. Nobody ever expects a deer. National reaction to the Disney film Bambi had been overwhelmingly positive ever since it opened on 1,517 screens in 1942. Entire generations of Americans were ripe for this con. And with a deer's average lifespan of 17.4 years in the Northern hemisphere, there was plenty of time for ample training and invaluable field experience before the serious missions began. Plus, he'd heard deer could run pretty fast. Always a handy trick to have up one's triple-agenting sleeve when in a pinch. Chowheim calibrated his sights again to compensate for the warming early-morning air. It was an odd place to expect a deer, a busy Manhattan street on a Tuesday morning, but double agents thrive on expecting the unexpected, and triple agents thrive on hiding in plain sight. This deer was good. Then he appeared. Casually, by a newspaper stand. Chowheim aimed for the pulmonary aortal junction, the surest kill spot for a male buck deer without rolling the dice on a dicey skull shot. Remembering his months spent in veterinary school and the additional weeks he spent wearing a deer suit in the wild, Chowheim aimed just below the junction, allowing gravity to do some of the bleeding work for him. It was no use taking his chances creating a geyser of deer blood squirting up into the air, which some passing Good Samaritan might catch in a bucket and use to save the rogue deer's life. Chowheim squeezed off a silent round without needing to look, and quickly broke down his rifle. After changing his clothes, facial hair and blood type on his way down the stairwell, Chowheim made a point of weaving into the crowd gathering around the ex-triple agent deer's now-lifeless body. Market research had shown that the last person anyone suspects is the guy with the handlebar mustache walking towards the action. Chowheim cast a quick glance streetward to admire his handiwork as he passed, then froze in his tracks like a glacier hitting a landmine. Something wasn't right. Something very wasn't right. Just then Chowheim realized he'd shot a dog. Not even a particularly deer-like dog, either, it was a French poodle. Shit, Chowheim thought. Then he thought shit again. After a quick calculation of odds, counter-odds, and evens in his head, he realized it was time for Plan D. Quadruple-agency, here he came. For more of this great story, buy Turner Volst's
A Time for Dead   |
