So this past Sunday night, I was flipping through the most recent issue of Life Magazine, watching some good ole’ public broadcast television – and I heard about this SOPA thing. Barbara Calhoun was reporting that if SOPA happened, this thing called ‘The Internet’ would start getting regulated by the government. Now I’m not normally one to judge the government – they’ve never done anything to me. Every day, I wake up and have a bowl of cornmeal in front me so I assume they’re doing their job.

But Mrs. Calhoun seemed pretty riled up about this ‘Internet’ business, and that told me it must be something important – she’s never steered me wrong. So I went to one of those ‘café’ places where all the kids go, and decided to check out this ‘Internet’ for myself… AND HOT DAMN! THIS THING’S AMAZING! Did you know you can read the news on the computer? I finally found the Reagan Issue of Time that I’ve been looking for!!! AND THE PORN!!! I cannot tell you how many times I’ve gotten paper cuts with my nudie magazines. Those things sting like the dickens! But now, that will never be a problem!

We should really spread the word about this whole Internet deal! I can’t even imagine how many people are missing out on this great creation. The government needs to at least give this thing a little bit of trial period before they go and do anything with it, because I sure don’t see anything wrong with it – and if more adults got the chance to see the Internet for themselves, I think they’d agree.

Shortly after making this statement, Mr. McCulloghy was arrested by the FBI for streaming episodes of The Andy Griffith Show. Nobody has heard from him since.

I swept my bangs out of my eyes narrowly avoiding the Maybelline lightning bolt etched onto my forehead. She looked so sexy in that Hermione outfit. This was my night.

I could feel it in the air despite all the Mudblood sweat hitting my face as I approached her. She began to dance on me. Some kind of waltz or something. Things got a little more exciting. Boy, she got me all hot and bothered. Beth wasn’t acting like this at the theater party on Friday. Potter brings out the best in people.

Then suddenly she fell asleep with her arms around my neck. Damn, the bartender must have had some spell in all that ice he was throwing at us. She was so heavy. But so hot. I couldn’t let this get in the way of rounding Diagon Alley and making it all the way to Gringotts tonight. I got her on the bus when we had to leave and she followed me to NMQ where things got raucous. The neighbors complained of shouts of: 10 Points for Hufflepuff, which they heard throughout the night. To my dismay I woke to stubbly-faced Tom. He should have had two shots of Polyjuice to keep the illusion going a little longer. The things I do for horcruxes…

“I remember how stressful it was during the winter, trying to figure out what the hell the website wanted just so I could do something simple like overloading extra classes,” recalls Tan about her most recent experience with the online course enrollment process.  “A few of my friends who were taking three classes were telling me how much difficulty they had, but all I could think was, ‘You have no idea – I have to deal with CAESAR twice as much!’”

Described by her peers as a hard worker and occasionally an “overachiever,” Tan has declared two majors in engineering and seeks a dual degree through Northwestern’s undergraduate BS/MS program. When asked what she considered to be her biggest challenge in pursuing such goals, Tan replied that maneuvering through the “Student Center” portal and class registration probably demanded the most time and perseverance.

In preparation for the upcoming registration, Tan has begun to compile notes and mnemonic strategies to deal with the CAESAR website, which she considers a higher priority than her two midterms next week.  Tan admits that although she is generally a confident student, she feels very nervous as the time to log in to CAESAR draws near.

From those of us familiar with the website, we all wish Cynthia the best of luck.

First, I need to thank the journalists. Your utter complacency and lack of fortitude has allowed me to complete my 22-year tenure without a single earth-shattering revelation of absolute corruption or depravity that could have marred this otherwise immaculate career.

I mean, fuck, people! This is Illinois! This is Chicago! I bought out the last honest politician twenty years ago! Yeah, that’s right, I’ve been skimming funds since day one, but you’re not supposed to let me get away with it! We’ve been doing the same dance since my daddy helped the mafia elect JFK, so why you gotta go and fuck with it now?

I skim enough from the coffers to run a third-world country; you find out and get all indignant that it’s somehow happening again; I spend a couple months in a minimum-security resort-prison; you watch a shitty Lifetime Original Movie about the ordeal, and I get to sail off into the sunset on my 50-foot yacht!

I mean, how could you not get me back in ’04?!? Blagojevich and I made Tammany Hall look like the fuckin’ Vatican! And the whole time; unencrypted emails, phone records, hotel receipts, the whole fucking nine yards! I put my own head on a silver platter for you dipshits, and if even a single one of you had bothered calling the Tribune, you could’ve won a Pulitzer, and I could have finally gotten a break from this goddawful job.

Rahm, if you’re reading this, know that you have my full blessing. May your scandals be discreet and non-treasonous. I’ll see you at the indictment, good buddy. But try not to take too long; I promised my son he’d get to be mayor too.

I was rummaging through the town landfill this morning, looking for some food for today’s meal, when I came across a copy of last week’s New York Times. I saw an article describing how Americans were sad. It said something about rising gas prices, unemployment, a government in disagreement, etc etc etc etc etc.

Let me tell you something, America. CHEER UP!

Who am I, you might ask, to order you to cheer up? Well, America, allow me to tell you a bit about myself. My name is Aden Daar. I live in Somalia. But – perhaps statistics will be more illuminating. I live in a village of 1,000 people. The average size of a house is one room, and the average size of a room is 100 square feet. The average number of inhabitants per room is 12. The average number of calories consumed per week is 300. The average work week is 100 hours. And the average income is $0.

Sometimes I wonder why the government doesn’t help us, with welfare or a stimulus package or something. Then I remember – we have no government. My country is called a “failed state.” The highest government position the average Somali can hope to hold is “pirate.”

I work at a stone quarry. I bang stones with other stones to try to collect stones to sell to rich overlords as gravel for their lawns. I don’t really get paid. I’m supposed to, but I think my employer is dead. I’m not sure.

The commute is 30 miles. I wish I could drive but I don’t have a car, and even if I did have a car, there aren’t any gas stations. And even if there were gas stations, I’m sure there wouldn’t be any gas.

The Times article says you guys perceive your economy as getting worse. Well, let me close with this: at least you have an economy. Americans, it could always be worse.

By Andrew Schneider

Seems I can’t take three steps these days without someone running their yap about the royal wedding. It could just be that I consider myself a true American, with apple pie in my gut and cholesterol in my veins, but I have a truly difficult time giving any sort of a flying fuck about this wedding. Hell, I can’t even stand weddings for people I know, but for whatever reason Brits and Americans have come together to make this the Anglo-Saxon event of the year, at least until Keith Richards’s funeral (seriously, it can’t be much longer now).

Some people have told me they’re watching it for the “red carpet” beforehand; a parade of inbred dukes and earls who may be unaccustomed to daylight, but are quite confident in the fact that they’re better than you. And yes, Prince William may be one of the “good ones”, but let’s not forget brother Harry, the Nazi-dressing, Pakistani-bashing prince. He may seem more redneck than royalty, but remember, folks, there’s about equal levels of inbreeding and incest in both.

And the Brits eat this shit up! They pamper these freaks, getting nothing in return, but rather than go all Bastille Day on their asses, they giggle merrily and talk about how “romantic” it all is! The only question I can ask is: why?

I Dunno, Why Do You Jews Love Circumcision?

By Harry, Prince of Wales

Believe it or not, tradition counts for something, right? People try to uphold the ideals that their parents and ancestors held dear, and even fought for, but maybe you’re on to something. Maybe the monarchy is just a vestigial tail on the body of Britain, and it’s time to slice ‘er up like a Jewish wang. Keep in mind, I never asked to be prince! Why do you think I’ve tried so hard to make the public hate me? Two years ago, I called one of my Pakistani soldiers a “raghead”, and now I’m a bloody Captain? They actually let me fly an Apache, despite my record as a pot-head, all because it reminds them of my grand-daddy!

You love to rag on us whenever we mess up, and maybe we haven’t had the proper exposure to other cultures, but you really can’t blame us for that! After our mom passed on, it was you people who tried so hard to keep my siblings and I sheltered, but then we were sprung onto the scene without any sort of real preparation! I didn’t even have my own press secretary until I was sixteen! How could you expect me to not smoke pot and dress like a Nazi?

So, no, I can’t tell you why they love us, but who are you to go around telling people what they can or can’t enjoy? You vulgar American; it’s so easy for you to judge while you go around lopping dicks off. Fuckin’ savage; you make me sick.

Terribly sorry, just had to get that off my chest.

Listen to this class breakdown and try not to be over-fucking-whelmed by the diversity rainbow. 30 percent Native American, 25 percent African American, 15 percent Asian, 10 percent from countries that haven’t even formed yet.

… Let me pause to give you a second to clean off whatever you just jizzed onto your screen…

5 percent Caucasian, 3 percent South American Indians who have not yet encountered civilization, 2 percent Bora-Bora, 18 percent other.

I have no idea what we are going to do with all this diversity, but I love it.

Just think: the class of 2015 is going to make all other classes look racist by comparison. To those not in the class of 2015, you should feel as guilty as a Japanese nuclear power plant. Political ads and the Disney Channel don’t have shit over Northwestern’s diversity pita-pocket.

With great diversity comes great responsibility. Starting in 2012, we’ll be instating a rule that groups of students walking around campus can’t have more than two people of any one ethnicity. I want Northwestern to be in a constant state of admission-pamphlet-picture-readiness (APPR). If you are in a picture with at least five different races, please tag me. Maybe tag me as the sun because I’m fucking shining glorious equality on you all.

So, Northwestern, we have vanquished the invisible hand and replaced it with one of every color. You know, when you mix all the colors together, you get black—and what looks more diverse than that?

By Clare Roth

OH HELL YES we gon’ party. (Like it’s our birthdays, gonna sip Barcardi like it’s our—wait, hold up those are the lyrics right? Yes? No? That shit was my jam back at the 7^th grade parties)

As you will see by the end of this debate, the answer is clear that we, the winning Northwestern Debate Team, should have a party.

I’ll break it down for you. We never have anything to celebrate.  When is another opportunity like this gonna come up again? After our fifth consecutive weekend away from anything remotely resembling social interaction? Let’s face it, our lives are the reification of what the nerd protagonists in shitty teen movies worry will occur if they don’t lose their V-cards by graduation. We don’t get life-wins often. Let’s not let it slip away.

And do you know what else?  Guess what I got us? Fuckin’ Peppermint Schnapps! A whole half-fifth of it! Do you know what that means? WE’RE GOING TO GET MARGINALLY TIPSY. And Holmes has got that weird DJ set up with the tiny disco ball and light set. It’ll be just like the frat parties. Conditions are perfect.

Now think of the impacts: touching girls’ butts and yelling uncontrollably. 1. You can (accidently) brush right past them in a party setting. It’s so awesome. 2. We can shout and make sense whatsoever. I mean, that’s pretty much what we do in round anyways… but this time we can say shit like “fuckweasel” and “bitchtits” with NO repercussions.

I rest my case. Peppermint schnapps + a couple of double-X chromosomes in the room + old school Usher and R. Kelly =  bitchin’-est time ever.

Resolved: No.

By Andrew Schneider

Okay, this has gone on long enough, assholes. See this right here? Robert’s Rules of Order, bitches, and I’ve got the chair. Now what’s this I’ve been hearing about a party? Oh, sure, it’s not every day that you win a national championship, and it’s certainly not every day that you win a national championship for the fourteenth time, but may I remind you all that we did not become national debate champions by going out on weekends! Now cut the crap, get back to Slivka, and work on your arguments! Make me believe that Governor Walker is a fascist!

What’s that, you say? Just a tiny party? An itty-bitty shindig? What could possibly go wrong? Discounting the fact that our last BYOB party was derailed when fifteen kids brought battle-axes, do any of you even know where to get alcohol? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t!

Oh, listen to this, everybody! Charles “knows a guy”, do you? Too bad the chair didn’t recognize your ass, Charlie. But my foot’s about to, so you’ll shut the hell up if you know what’s good for you. (Oh, and strike Charles from the minutes, would you? Thanks, Eric, you’re a lifesaver.)

Oh, ‘fer Christ’s sake, James, not you too! Yes, I know you’re 21, but need I remind you that the last time you got buzzed, you came to practice and presented a stirring, passionate defense of Muammar Gaddafi? Too bad we were debating J. Michael Bailey!

Okay, okay, tell you what; I’ll meet you halfway. Wednesday night, no alcohol, and an Adam Sandler movie. Not enough?!? Fine, Fine, FINE!

I’ll bring the kettle corn too.

What can I say? You make a pretty convincing argument.

It’s a plaid coat. I’m told plaid is in style, and that it brings out my hazel eyes. Is this true?

It has a poofy fur collar that matches my hair. The fur is light brown, just like my hair. That’s good, right?

Every time people pass me on the street, they smile. I assume they smile because I look so good. But is it because the coat doesn’t look good on me? Tell me the truth, please. I’m a man. I can take it.

I admit that the zipper on my coat is broken. It only zips up half way. So when I have my bright yellow scarf all spread out trying to protect me from the wind, that might look a little silly. Should I get a new scarf?

So my question for you is this: does this coat look good on me? Or does it look bad on me? What I think I am really asking is, will you buy me a new coat?