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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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 February 4, 2002
Chuck E. Cheese is Using Child Labor to Cook PizzaThis week's story was unearthed by Vince Melbone of West Virginia, who forwarded it to me. Thank you, Vince—for you've helped shine the spotlight on a crass and cruel exploitation of children, and this time neither Kathie Lee Gifford nor Disney are involved.
The culprit this time is Chuck E. Cheese. Where a kid can be a kid? I think not. Where a kid can be an unpaid source of exploitable labor is more like it. And this doesn't happen in a third world country or Canada where you might expect it, all. This happens coast to coast in Chuck E. Cheese establishments.
I went to Chuck E. Cheese myself to investigate Melbone's claims, and was shocked by what I saw. Well, not all that shocked since Melbone explained it all intricately beforehand, but I was a little surprised to see it actually happening.
Kids, everywhere. Filling an area called the "play place" where they ran about untamed like wild frogs. Kids climbed through plastic tubes lining the roof, kids bounded euphorically into pits full of plastic balls, kids rode on electronic horses and mouse-driven cars all around me.
Without Melbone's heads up, I might have assumed it all innocent. Little would I have guessed kids are being fueled by sugar and run rampant around these restaurant "play places" in order to amass static electricity. Yes, for the price of a small Coke (with free refills) these unsuspecting kids are supplying Chuck E. Cheese with invaluable static...
º Last Column: Corporate America Has Jerked Us Around For Nothing
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This week's story was unearthed by Vince Melbone of West Virginia, who forwarded it to me. Thank you, Vince—for you've helped shine the spotlight on a crass and cruel exploitation of children, and this time neither Kathie Lee Gifford nor Disney are involved.
The culprit this time is Chuck E. Cheese. Where a kid can be a kid? I think not. Where a kid can be an unpaid source of exploitable labor is more like it. And this doesn't happen in a third world country or Canada where you might expect it, all. This happens coast to coast in Chuck E. Cheese establishments.
I went to Chuck E. Cheese myself to investigate Melbone's claims, and was shocked by what I saw. Well, not all that shocked since Melbone explained it all intricately beforehand, but I was a little surprised to see it actually happening.
Kids, everywhere. Filling an area called the "play place" where they ran about untamed like wild frogs. Kids climbed through plastic tubes lining the roof, kids bounded euphorically into pits full of plastic balls, kids rode on electronic horses and mouse-driven cars all around me.
Without Melbone's heads up, I might have assumed it all innocent. Little would I have guessed kids are being fueled by sugar and run rampant around these restaurant "play places" in order to amass static electricity. Yes, for the price of a small Coke (with free refills) these unsuspecting kids are supplying Chuck E. Cheese with invaluable static electricity which is then converted to electricity to cook their pizzas, power their token-sucking video game machines, and yes, even keep the giant mouse singing in his country drawl.
I was aghast, Red Bagel-style. It was there before me the whole time but I never suspected. Signs asking the kids to take their shoes off before playing, kids then scraping woolen socks through these plastic tubes, acting like little generators. And somewhere underneath the walls all that electricity sinking back into the combine that is a Chuck E. Cheese franchise. On top of that, the pizza sucks and that whack-a-mole game is impossible to win.
I've tried several calls to the head of Chuck E. Cheese, but most of these calls are met with responses similar to, "What are you, a nutjob?" That's fine, Mr. Cheese, play coy. I've gone head to head with bigger fish than you, which is not to say real fish, but opponents in general, and I've always come out on top or somewhere in the middle or lower. This will be the same case.
In the meantime, we must combat this aberration in smaller ways. Vince Melbone suggested a nationwide boycott, but those never work, no one has yet to register my boycott of Brian Eno records. Instead I recommend going to Chuck E. Cheese with your children, taking up valuable seating space, but DO NOT ORDER ANYTHING TO EAT. And whatever else you do, DO NOT LET YOUR CHILDREN FUEL THE COMBINE. I cannot stress that enough, though writing in all caps certainly helps.
Also, it is of the utmost importance you do not attempt to play the whack-a-mole game, no matter how enticing it looks. You have to hit the moles like about a hundred times harder than is normal and it still doesn't register what is clearly a whack. I could write a column on that alone. In fact, I may start tomorrow. º Last Column: Corporate America Has Jerked Us Around For Nothingº more columns
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|  January 15, 2007
Public AbscessI am back, good people, and I am 100% as good as before. Maybe even less.
It was a ragged and wearisome climb back to right where I was before, but I made it at last. For the greater part of 2006, the commune stopped publishing, as you and the other guy who reads it might have noticed. If you did, commendations to your amazing perception. I myself continued to show up to the office even when they weren't publishing my columns, and I kept writing them all the way through even when the paychecks stopped coming. In fact, when Red Bagel called to announce he was restarting the commune with the few staff members he had left on payroll, he was kind enough to explain that I had not been receiving any money and none of my columns had been published since early last year. My readers, let me tell you, I was outraged by what had transpired without my noticing.
Well, knowing I had not been making any money for most of 2006 meant I could no longer sit idly by. While most of our bills and the house payment could be suitably covered by my wife's more than ample income (and breasts) as a real estate agent, it didn't mean I didn't need to be top breadwinner in our family. And since all those "Win a Lifetime Supply of Iron Kids'" contests are rigged, I had no choice but to get out there and seek new employment. Last week.
As the ghetto people say, Brother, it's tough out there! Sure, you can find a low-paying job working at a fast food restaurant, or as a...
º Last Column: Reunification
º more columns
I am back, good people, and I am 100% as good as before. Maybe even less. It was a ragged and wearisome climb back to right where I was before, but I made it at last. For the greater part of 2006, the commune stopped publishing, as you and the other guy who reads it might have noticed. If you did, commendations to your amazing perception. I myself continued to show up to the office even when they weren't publishing my columns, and I kept writing them all the way through even when the paychecks stopped coming. In fact, when Red Bagel called to announce he was restarting the commune with the few staff members he had left on payroll, he was kind enough to explain that I had not been receiving any money and none of my columns had been published since early last year. My readers, let me tell you, I was outraged by what had transpired without my noticing. Well, knowing I had not been making any money for most of 2006 meant I could no longer sit idly by. While most of our bills and the house payment could be suitably covered by my wife's more than ample income (and breasts) as a real estate agent, it didn't mean I didn't need to be top breadwinner in our family. And since all those "Win a Lifetime Supply of Iron Kids'" contests are rigged, I had no choice but to get out there and seek new employment. Last week. As the ghetto people say, Brother, it's tough out there! Sure, you can find a low-paying job working at a fast food restaurant, or as a tenement manager, or a bike messenger, or executive administrative assistant, or songwriting bassist, but where, I ask you, are the jobs for political commentators? Where are the positions for the bemused observers who critique the ludicrous foibles of everyday life? Nowhere, I tell you. And don't let anyone sell you on these "guest speaker" positions at colleges. None of them have heard of the commune so they demanded many references to my other previous jobs, and those who had heard of the commune told me they were closing down the college forever starting tomorrow. I'm starting to think maybe it was just a way to politely get rid of me. Which was preferable to the dean who said he would eat all of my children if I didn't get out of his office. Joke's on him, of course—he'll be eating for years. Despite all that early negativity, I did find a job. When all the traditional employer outlets were closed to me, I took a rusty knife and carved out my own place in society's ribcage. Yes, that's right—public access television. You may have seen me already if you live in the Flatbush, New Jersey and surrounding areas cable community. "Rok the Finger" "roks" the broadcast airwaves between 11 p.m. and 5 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, at which point it has to clear the channel for "Kool B's Get the Fuck Up Show." Kool B may have the market corner on reggae-jazz fusion, but it's my show that provides the longest and most in-depth analysis of all things Rok Finger hates, and don't let anyone tell you different. At first, my wife was less than impressed that the new "job," as she says it (she can actually pronounce quotation marks), doesn't pay anything. But then I explained to her by any civilized culture's definition, a job is something that takes you out of the house for more than five hours. Like my previous job, guarding my desk at the commune, or my son Ira's job at Leavenworth Penitentiary. It's only a matter of time before I get myself another job, since that 8 p.m. to 11 p.m. slot is bound to open up when they find out Father Mike from the "Touch Therapy With Kids" show isn't really a priest at all. º Last Column: Reunificationº more columns
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Quote of the Day“the commune is back? All right! Wait, what the fuck is the commune? What? Now I’m going to kick your ass for getting me excited for nothing.”
-Ron TangleyFortune 500 CookieThis is the week everything changes for you. Yep, even those underwear. Go get a spatula. We all agree that your breasts are attractive, but usually a guy needs a follow-up act to really reel in the ladies. Try learning to play the lute this week, just carrying it around isn’t impressing anyone. This week’s lucky fuckers: Fucker G. Robinson (the world’s second-richest and seventh-most-unfortunately-named man), mother, Megan Fox’s boyfriend, and whoever’s sleeping with that hot girl on the Morton’s Salt container (oh get over it, she’s totally grown up by now).
Try again later.Top 5 Issues for Next Supreme Court| 1. | Official legal definition of "fucked up" | | 2. | Arrange long-awaited challenge of man versus beast | | 3. | Discount a minimum of ten urban legends | | 4. | Settle this Lindsey Lohan-Hilary Duff feud once and for all | | 5. | Reverse hundreds of years of progress | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 9/6/2004 Booya, America. I'm not sure what that means, but it seemed appropriate. Whatever sentiment that expressed, you can file it in triplicate because Roland McShyster's in a good mood today. Good? Nay, agreeable! I've seen the proverbial bluebird of happiness and I ate him on my salad this morning. What better time to review some of Hollywood's finest handiwork, September-style? I don't know.
In Theaters Now:
Anacondors: The Hunt for the Blood Orchard
Leave it to Hollywood to make a big-budget fright flick of out of one of my doodles from seventh-grade art class. That's right, it was me, when I was twelve I drew the first half-snake, half-endangered bird hybrid to ever terrify a hot tub full of blonde cosmetics models. I don't have...
Booya, America. I'm not sure what that means, but it seemed appropriate. Whatever sentiment that expressed, you can file it in triplicate because Roland McShyster's in a good mood today. Good? Nay, agreeable! I've seen the proverbial bluebird of happiness and I ate him on my salad this morning. What better time to review some of Hollywood's finest handiwork, September-style? I don't know.
In Theaters Now:
Anacondors: The Hunt for the Blood Orchard
Leave it to Hollywood to make a big-budget fright flick of out of one of my doodles from seventh-grade art class. That's right, it was me, when I was twelve I drew the first half-snake, half-endangered bird hybrid to ever terrify a hot tub full of blonde cosmetics models. I don't have the slightest idea how Hollywood got its talons on my sketch, since I thought for sure my mom had thrown it out. The sad thing is I didn't even get a chance to complete the colored-pencil work, so those Tinseltown hacks had no choice but to fuck it up and make the wings purple, totally defeating the purpose of crossing an anaconda and a condor in the first place.
But how was the movie, you ask? Who asked that? I see you back there. Anyway, it was as good, and as bad, as could probably have been expected. The CGI on the Anacondor was a little weak in parts, and if you've spent a lot of time wondering what a half-snake, half-bird would sound like when it belched, you're going to be disappointed. But I did actually appreciate the movie's plot, about a ragtag gang of reality TV rejects searching for the mythical blood orchard, where once you go in, you don't come out. They never really covered why in the hell anyone would want to find that place, if it had delicious apples or what, but it still made for a pretty wicked tagline on the poster.
The Brown Bunny
Ugly-chic "smoking heroin off a toilet bowl" fashion model Vincent Gallo takes a bizarre tangent in his latest film, The Brown Bunny, Gallo's self-directed and harrowing portrait of the PETA-nightmare and ultraviolent cartoon staple Elmer Fudd. Though not the most obvious candidate to play Fudd on the big screen (I would have gone with either Ned Beatty or Chris Elliot), Gallo brings a edgy neediness to the picture that suits the character well.
Though the very idea seems absurd at first, and the out-of-focus and Blair Witch-like chaotic trailer doesn't help, a film delving into this dark territory seems obviously overdue in retrospect. After all, loveable and dim-witted as he may have seemed in the children's cartoons, who was this guy, really? What kind of sick bastard treks off into the woods to shoot rabbits in the face at point-blank range with a double-barreled shotgun? Did he run out of squirrels to napalm? Chainsaw broke down after he cut that last gopher in half? What kind of woodland beat-downs did this freak suffer as a kid? Leave it to Gallo to ask the question the rest of us were laughing too hard to ponder, to see the tears behind the amusing, murderous rage of this mysteriously befuddled hick.
Suspect Zero
Few things in life would be scarier than spending years on the trail of a serial killer, only to discover at the last moment that it's Billy Corgan from the Smashing Pumpkins. Holy shit. Talk about scary, that guy looks like what would happen if the dude from Midnight Oil got locked in a bakery overnight. And what if the lead investigator, an FBI hounddog with the nose of a man, turns out to be a huge Pumpkins fan? What does he do then? If Corgan's singing that godawful "Tonight, Tonight" song you shoot him, of course. But what if he isn't? Do you try to get an autograph, and then shoot him? What if he won't wait around long enough for you to run home and get your Pisces Iscariot mayonnaise poster? What if your garage band was scheduled to play in the big battle of the bands that night, and your guitar player just called in sick? What then? Definitely a cool set-up for a thriller, though I thought James Iha was badly miscast as James Iha.
Whew, America. That was a workout. I'm definitely feeling it in my pecs. Hope you are too, and be sure to get plenty of Vitamin B or something. Check back in a few weeks, I'll be the big hunk of hunk dishing out the movie reviews for your favorite Internet backwater, the commune. Until then!   |
