Badasses in History: Shaka Zulu

Abs freaking everywhere

Ah Shaka Zulu.

Really, when it comes to warlords of Sub-Saharan Africa, it doesn’t get much more badass than old Shaka. Though not affiliated with Waka Flocka Flame—as their similar sounding names might lead you to believe—the two men do share some key similarities, in that both opposed the killing of animals: Waka by posing nude for PETA, Shaka by advocating the wholesale slaughter of those tribes not willing to submit to his rule.

Known even today as a military genius, Shaka managed to expand his chiefdom from a tribe 1,500 strong into an Empire spanning more than two million square miles and containing 250,000 subjects—or in modern parlance, the size of two Costcos and a Wall-mart.

Born with spear in hand (literally; it was a very very difficult pregnancy, let me tell you), Shaka essentially rebuilt the Zulu culture from the ground-up, transforming it into a militaristic war-machine by introducing the “iklwa,” (a short spear, named for the sound it made entering and exiting a foe’s body) the “assegai,” (a throwing spear; you figure this one out) and the spiked shield to his men. More importantly, Shaka also divided his warriors into smaller regiments, and required all his fighters to learn and understand complicated tactics (supplanting the previous “Run-forward-quickly-and-yell-loudly-stabstabstab” system used by his predecessors). In time, his men grew so fit that they could run up to 50 miles in a day. By comparison, most modern Americans can’t run to and from their fridge.[1]

Unsurprisingly, Shaka bitchslapped any rival tribes, giving the losers two choices: join Shaka and renounce their tribal loyalty, or live out the remainder of their lives in peace.

Oops. Homophones and whatnot. I meant pieces (Generally, this meant “the remainder” was in the ballpark of, oh, let’s say twenty seconds?).

As you can imagine, the second option was quite a bit less popular than the first, and as a result, Shaka is one of the lucky few to have finished a war with more people than he started it with, and is widely regarded as having controlled the most powerful and wide-reaching African empire since Ancient Egypt.[3]

Speaking of the British (read the footnotes, dick), Shaka managed to restrain his homicidal rage long enough to establish peaceful contact (damn, I was hoping for piece-full) and a few trade routes with the old limeys. That said, Shaka was generally more of the kill-first-who-cares-about-questions-anyway type, most notably after the death of his mother. When that happened, Kojak, I mean, Shaka, ordered a three-month period of mourning for all the Zulu people, in which no one was allowed to eat anything (which, you know, you need to do to like, live). Still not satisfied, Shaka went and murdered some cows so that the calves would know what it was like to lose a mother[4], and rounded his grief off by executing 7,000 people who “didn’t look sad enough.”

With no heads, they definitely looked sadder.

Anyhow, Shaka died in 1828, when his crotch-monkey half-brothers bro-ssassinated him with knives. He’s still remembered even today though as a definite badass.

Kind of a jerk though, right?

---

[1] You try running carrying a bowl of mash potatoes, two chickens, and one surprisingly unintelligent dog[^2]

² In that he is trying to eat the bowl rather than the potatoes

3 That English and French colonialism crap doesn’t count. If you don’t have a mountain of skulls, you’re not a warlord. Simple as can be.

4 Modern society’s got him beat on this one. Slaughterhouses, yo.

Other Great Stripping Games Invented by British Royalty

What happens in Vegas shames your family name worldwide

Respectable news sources and TMZ were spinning today as pictures surfaced of Prince Harry, third heir to the throne of England and pompous ass-clown, playing “strip billiards” with a bunch of naked girls in Las Vegas.  While the world attempts to recover from the most aggressive display of royal ginger nakedness since Queen Elizabeth I celebrated her victory over the Spanish Armada in 1588, we’d like to take a look back at history and reflect on some of the best stripping games created in the British royal line.

Strip Marriage (invented by Henry VIII)

King Henry VIII’s affinity for whipping it out was so intense that even Showtime’s “The Tudors” doesn’t have the stomach to accurately portray it.  When he was wed to Catherine of Aragon in 1503, he was wearing nothing but a doublet and a codpiece!  However, it wasn’t until his marriage to Jane Seymour in 1536 that he decided to strip during the marriage ceremony itself, and by the time he married Catherine Parr in 1543, he wore four tunics to the wedding so he’d have four tunics to suggestively rip from his corpulent body.

Richard I, shortly after administering a high-velocity cockslap to Saladin.

Strip Crusades (invented by Richard I)

Richard the Lion-Heart (who, as few people know, was also referred to as Richard the Rhinoceros-Shaft) was remembered for his valiant fighting in the Third Crusade.  However, there is an explicably forgotten aspect of his glorious gallivanting – his tendency to charge into battle while ripping off his clothing and armor.  In fact, some historians postulate that the scarring image of Richard’s flopping dong on horseback is largely responsible for the conservative nature of modern-day Islamic garb.

Strip Taxation (invented by George III)

Many look back on America’s independence as an event catalyzed largely by King George III’s merciless tax policies toward the American colonies.  While there is considerable truth to that statement, history seems to have forgotten another central cause: the colonists’ absolute disgust with George’s genitalia.  In 1768, the king commissioned his favorite artist to paint 1,500 portraits of his wrinkly British scrotum and have one placed in the city hall of every American colonial town.  This greatly displeased the colonists, leading them to revolt against the British under the memorable slogan, “No taxation without taking down the dick pics.”

A rare picture of King George VI, showing him fully clothed and not inappropriately touching himself

Strip Stuttering (invented by George VI)

King George VI, made famous recently in the Oscar-winning movie The King’s Speech, is remembered as being the only king with a serious speech impediment – at least since the reign of King Thtephen in the 12^th century.  What Director Tom Hooper omitted, however, was King George’s tendency to rip off his pants and wave his dick around any time he became frustrated with his speech impediment.  As legend has it, he became especially fond of this tactic during World War II, reportedly making a point of cupping his nuts every time he mentioned the word’s “Hitler,” “Nazis,” or “victory.”

Can’t get enough of those naked British royals?  Like our Facebook page!

The Road Not Taken: Other possible directions for One Direction

This is an insult to America and hoodies everywhere.

We all thought that the era of the boy band was over once New Kids on the Block released this soul-crushing monster of a video. After NKOTB, like many other depressing vestiges of our diaper years, started trying to capitalize on their adolescent success by filming yucky middle-aged versions of themselves hitting on scantily clad women in the early stages of a trophy wife wrinkly-tan, it seemed that the final page of the horrendous pulpy magazine of Boy Band Lore had finally been turned. I mean, no one likes greasy old men without recognizable talent (at least, no one without clinically diagnosable issues).

So the dust had nearly settled on the era of the Boy Band. For a few years there, I could’ve believed in Markwell (ohwaitnoicouldntomgwtfishedoing). One of the three genres of music that I absolutely hate had finally been starved of any sort of positive attention and seemed to be crumbling into a well-deserved oblivion.

BUT THEN.

THIS BULLSHIT.

One Direction is, inexplicably, making Boy Bands a thing again. I picture Dr. Frankenstein reinvigorating the entire sorry cadre of N*Sync (minus JT, who miraculously avoided death by bringing SexyBack) with a single jolt of candy-colored lightning from The Sky, aka the UK version of X-Factor. The “Igor” in this metaphor is some stupid fucking preteen who stopped vigorously masturbating to an Edward Cullen-inspired fantasy fiction blog for long enough to watch a YouTube clip her British cyberpal sent her.

Walking the red carpet to Douche Convention 2K12

So Who the fuck Is One Direction? You may be wondering, if you’re the type of person who has been living in a happy fantasyland matrix where Fleet Foxes string flowers and prayer flags across Pitchfork, Of Monsters and Men’s album has finally broken the top ten, and The boner-worthy Lollapalooza lineup is getting the acclaim that it deserves.

Until a few days ago, I was that person – a blissfully unaware hipster, tuned into my own Spotify and out of the pop culture loop. Now I’m Morpheus. And now that you’re reading this wake-up call you’re Neo.  And since we’re not in the Matrix anymore but rather in a media-saturated music-less wasteland, you should probably wake the fuck up.

One Direction is a British-Irish Boy Band that will probably dominate the cover of TigerBeat and consume the sexual fantasies of the “prepubescent girls with braces” demographic for the next few years. And they are SELLING MORE ALBUMS THAN MOST OTHER ONES RIGHT NOW. This is a travesty that must be halted. The UK has come up with a lot of good things – the Beatles, divorce, and Shakespeare come to mind – and a lot of bad things, like food made out of unappetizing organs and those curly wigs that judges wear. One Direction belongs to the latter category and must be stopped. How to stop them short of methods that would warrant my arrest, dear reader, is a mystery to me. In lieu of multiple-count homicide, I’ve brainstormed a short list of the “directions” I’d like One Direction to take. These choices all constitute satisfying ends for the band, namely, out of my radar, but remember: ultimately, there can only be One Direction for these pseudo-musical turds. Choose wisely.

Possible Direction 1: Into Japan
You may have heard the phrase “I’m big in Japan” from a witty friend as a sort of self-deprecating joke. Or maybe I’m weird and it’s more of an esoteric Tom Waits reference than anything else (THERE’S A T-SHIRT THOUGH GUYS IT’S TOTALLY A THING). Either way, the phrase references the fact that no one really knows what’s going on there, so if you’re big in Japan it doesn’t really matter to people in the USA. Mostly because we’re egocentric assholes, but also because styles like this one are big in Japan and, despite all of her efforts, Snooki hasn’t really reached that level yet. Plus, Japan is an island. And it has way too many people on it. If One Direction isn’t trampled in a freak-Tokyo-subway accident or killed in a haunted house a la The Grudge, at least its members will blend into the crowd of short skinny people in candy-colored clothing. Even if they don’t blend in, they’ll be Big in Japan – and therefore small in every other sense. Lolz.

Possible Direction 2: Down The Mariana Trench
At 6.78 miles below sea level, The Mariana Trench is the deepest place in the world. Nothing lives down there, especially melodic mediocrity and eunuchs with soft hands. I mean, there’s 15,570 pounds per square inch of pressure down in ol’ Mariana – that’s about 50 jumbo jets on the average-sized person, 100 on fatass Rush Limbaugh. The skinny little pricks that comprise One Direction would be boy pancakes. As pancakes, their stupid fucking vocal cords, shiny hairdos, and winning smiles would be incapable of making Simon Cowell gloat anymore. Just like their voices pre-autotune, the boyz of One Direction would be utterly, incomprehensibly flat.

Glad the puppies made it through Satan's anus alright.

Possible Direction 3: Through Satan’s Rectum
Does this last one really require an explanation? Although I am a pretty committed atheist, a girl can dream. And I dream of the possibility of One Direction’s ending as a piece of excrement being pushed through the colon of the Supreme Evil Being. You could say I’m a sentimental gal, I guess 😉

In sum: One Direction is pissing on music more blatantly than Brother Jürgen Taintsdorf pisses on the steps of tech after fratting it up on Friday nights. Heinousness to the heinous power.

The 5 Historical Figures You’d Least Like To See at a Frat Party

Hmmm... why don't you make that THREE kegs of Busch Light

5. Henry Kissinger
I love getting into heated political discussions whilst heavily inebriated as much as the next guy, but there comes a point when you have to draw the line. Yes, Henry Kissinger was one of the greatest political thinkers of the 20th century, but that by no means gives him a place at a frat party. First of all, the guy is older than balls. We must consider the rule of three: If someone has lived to see three presidents die in office, they are too old to set foot in a frat house. Additionally, we must consider the other rule of three: If someone has spent three or more years of their life working under the Nixon administration, they are too heinous to set foot in a frat house.

4. William Howard Taft
Oh, for fuck’s sake! These things are already crowded enough. If we throw a 400-pound man into the mix, we’re completely forfeiting our ability to move. If he was excessively overweight but also cool, like Buddha, then it would be worth sacrificing our mobility, but in reality, he’s just a complete twat. And worse yet, knowing that the presidency didn’t satisfy Taft, and he became a member of the Supreme Court after his presidency, it’s probable that he would not be satisfied by frat parties, and would find it necessary to go The Keg afterwards – another establishment that is already too crowded and doesn’t need yet another morbidly obese man further clogging up the place.

I need a drink, and I need it NOW!

3. Susan B. Anthony
There are some things that feminists simply should not see. The 21st century is one of them. If Susan B. Anthony were to tragically find herself on the 3rd floor of SAE, there are a few possible outcomes. The most likely result is that she would spend about five minutes observing the social phenomenon before her, and then spend the remainder of the party obnoxiously screaming about the oppression of women. However, there’s always the off-chance that she would follow the mold, get unnecessarily trashed, and wake up the next morning on the roof of Swift next to some rando from Pike. Regardless, rather than experimenting with the frat scene, she would be better off where she is now: on the front of gold dollars that stopped being minted in 2001.

2. Charles Dickens
If Dickens couldn’t stand the living conditions of post-industrial England, there’s no way he could stand the living conditions of the DU basement. People go to frat parties to be social, not to watch some elderly British assbag sitting in a corner writing in a romanticized manner about the hardships of being dateraped. However, if Dickens were to experience a frat party, it would very likely have had a tremendous effect on his novels. Oliver Twist would have been ejected from his workhouse not for requesting more food, but for pregaming an 18-hour work shift. Other novels, such as Nicholas Nicklebro and A Tale of Two Titties, would even further deviate from Dickens’ traditional literary style.

Columbus wearing the traditional "party foul" tricorn hat

1. Christopher Columbus
For those of us who have been to frat parties at Northwestern, we know that there are already enough people on power-trips – doormen, bartenders, Sir Twattingworth III, and the like. The last thing we need is some dickbasket walking in, claiming the dilapidated ZBT house in the name of King Ferdinand of Spain, and transmitting diseases to sorority girls (syphilis, PiPhilis, GammaPhilis, etc.). Furthermore, his methods of colonization would hardly work at a frat party; the amount of germs being exchanged is already maximized, and it’s far too hot for anyone to accept a blanket. That being said, there’s something very charming about the notion of three wooden ships landing on North Beach.

Badasses in History: Winston Churchill

Rumor has it that Churchill fathered his successor to the throne of Badassery, Morty Schapiro

The study of history is, in many ways, the study of humanity. From kings and heroes to slaves and cowards, history provides us with an unrivaled view into the inner workings of the human mind.

But never has any historical figure kicked quite as much ass as Winston Churchill.

Let’s start off by investigating what the man had to work with. On the pros side, he was born the grandson of the seventh Duke of Marlborough. Aristocratic blood? Check. He was enrolled in the best schools. Education? Check. He was a brilliant politician. Acumen? Check. Oh, he also beat the Nazis. Awesomeness? Check.

Now for the cons. That school he was in? He hated it and got bad grades. Good GPA? Not check. He was fat…and rude…and a bit of a drunk. Winning personality? Not check. At the time of his political achievements, he faced a weak parliament and a weaker aristocracy. Strong support system for confronting foreign difficulties and interacting with the power-hungry, vicious Nazis? Not check.

The man was born with five-pound jowls

So to recap: Winston Churchill was born rich, but balked at any attempts to civilize him beyond what was required to find and light cigars, and—who could forget?— jimmy open the liquor cabinet. He then went off to the Royal Military College where he had the option of enrolling in either the cavalry or the infantry. He chose the cavalry. Why? Because it had a lower grade requirement and he hated math. Here was a man who had his priorities straight.

At that point, his father asked that he transfer to the infantry, to which I can only presume Winston replied: “Suck it.” Whatever his exact words, he stayed in the cavalry for some time until he got bored—again I can only assume because he was too bitching at everything for his regiment to handle—at which point he became a journalist and war-correspondent. Even more awesome (if such a thing could be possible) Churchill then went to Cuba to follow a conflict between Spain and the Cuban rebels, where he learned about cigars. His response was reportedly to blow smoke in the face of the Spanish General Ramon de Not-As-Mind-Blowing-as-Churchill. As history has taught us, this ended the war then and there.

But while his early life was too grandiose for words, it was Churchill’s later life that cemented his place as history’s greatest badass. You see, Churchill’s greatest quality was this: he was fucking hilarious. Yes, Churchill played a central role in the defeat of the Axis powers and the preservation of Great Britain beyond the bombing of London. But all of that nonsense pales in comparison to his rollicking contributions to insult comedy.

This image was captured moments after Churchill listed off the gut-wrenchingly filthy sexual activities he had engaged in with Stalin's mother

Though Churchill’s insults can — and do — fill entire books, some of them stick as even more groin-grabbingly funny than others. When asked about his opinion of Neville Chamberlain (who some of you may remember as the dickwad who tried appeasing the Nazis as British Prime Minister before Churchill), Old Winston had this to say: “He looked at foreign affairs through the wrong end of a municipal drainpipe.” In other words: “That dude is a shitface.”

On cultured people, tubby had this to say: “Cultured people are merely the glittering scum which floats upon the deep river of production.” What a baller.

Still, as funny as Churchill was in general, he had two particular adversaries with whom he had supreme moments of insulting hilarity: Lady Nancy Astor, member of Parliament and second-class comic, and playwright George Bernard Shaw.

We’ll start with Shaw. Both intellectuals (Shaw of the kind that actually does things of artistic and literary merit, and Churchill of the kind that makes fun of those things), the two often enjoyed exchanging witticisms. Shaw, no real fan of Churchill’s, thought it might be funny to send Winston a pair of tickets to Shaw’s newest play, Major Barbara. Accompanying the tickets was a short note: “Have reserved two tickets for opening night. Bring a friend, if you have one.”

Now, at this point, any lesser man would have accepted the truly hilarious burn at face value. Not Chubby Churchill. He wired back—in a moment where even God himself spit out his top ramen in laughter—”Cannot possibly come first night, will attend second, if there is one.”

Awesome.

Onto adversary number two: Lady Astor. The two had a long legacy of mocking one another, Astor for Churchill’s rampant alcoholism and obesity, Churchill for Astor’s general bitchiness. Who can forget this exchange:

He usually only needed one of those fingers to properly express himself

Astor: If you were my husband, I’d poison your tea.
Churchill: Madam, if you were my wife, I’d drink it.

Again, awesome. But these clashes of wits pale in comparison to a later insult. One particular evening, Churchill came to a party visibly drunk and irate, so much so that a Mrs. Bessie Braddock quite publicly remarked, “Mr. Churchill, you are drunk!” But Winston, drunk or not, knew a challenge when he heard one. After shouting “Challenge Accepted!” he looked the offending woman in the eye (or chest, as Churchill was not one for manners) and said: “Yes, and you, Madam, are ugly but tomorrow I shall be sober and you will still be ugly.”

So yeah, no one rocked the house like Winston.

Some more Churchill insults for your consideration:

• Young man (after seeing Churchill leave the bathroom without washing his hands): At Eton they taught us to wash our hands after using the toilet.
  Churchill: At Harrow they taught us not to piss on our hands.
• [Referring to Arthur Balfour] If you wanted nothing done at all, Balfour was the man for the job.


The British Prime Minister after single-handedly clearing Juno Beach during D-Day

• Churchill: Madam, would you sleep with me for five million pounds?
  Woman: My goodness, Mr. Churchill… Well, I suppose… we would have to discuss terms, of course…
  Churchill: Would you sleep with me for five pounds?
  Woman: Mr. Churchill, what kind of woman do you think I am?!
  Churchill: Madam, we’ve already established that. Now we are haggling about the price.

And now for the winner:

• [Referring to Charles De Gaulle] He looks like a female llama who has been surprised in the bath.

–Josh Kopel