Advertisements
Tag Archives: Channing Tatum

19 Times BuzzFeed Made You Want to Drink Excessively to Deal with their Ridiculous Drivel Masquerading as Journalism

5 Feb

1. 13 Potatoes that Look Like Channing Tatum

BuzzFeed's internationally recognized mascot.

BuzzFeed’s internationally recognized mascot.

I once sat across the aisle from Channing Tatum on a plane which yeah isn’t totally relevant but it’s one of my better stories and I want you to think I’m cool he wore expensive looking headphones.

2. 13 Reasons Shakira Should Be President of the World

Listen BuzzFeed editors, it’s clear from the content of your site that you didn’t go to college, but a 4th grade education should have taught you that president of the world is not a real job. And if it were it would go to Beyoncé.

3. 30 Reasons Birth Control Exists

Um. To prevent pregnancy? Continue reading

Advertisements

50 Shades of Purple, Chapter Two: The Battle for the Keg

10 Jul

“At first I was like, ‘You know, it might not be such a great idea to go skinny dipping in the Amazon with a bottle of Patron and the entire San Diego Chargers Charger Girls squad,’ but then I was just like, ‘YOLO.'”
-Morton O. Schapiro

Don’t worry, the sex scene’s coming soon.

It’s a Monday evening, and my roommates are pregaming the pregame for the Keg. I’ve had a pretty stressful day in Journalism 301, filled with lots of hard-hitting pestering of innocent yuppies reporting for my enterprise story, and it’s time for me to kick back and relax. I pop a bottle of Peach Andre and my night has begun.

“How was your interview with Ross Packingham?” asks Beverly Brooke, my roommate and consummate frenemy.

“Intriguing. There’s something secretive about him that I can’t figure out. Is it true he once had a threesome with a Theta and Willie the Wildcat in the library stacks?”

“I heard it was with Stephen Colbert and two theater majors on South Beach while Andrew Bird played in the background,” Beave answers, “But that’s just what I read once on College ACB.”

We finish off our bottles of Andre while watching Say Yes to the Dress and head over to Alpha Delta for the true pregame. The second we step into the basement, our senses are assaulted by skunked beer, bros in tank-tops, and Katy Perry. Lots of Katy Perry.

“WOOOOOOOOOO” shouts Beave as “Teenage Dream” comes on, and immediately begs a frat brother who looks suspiciously similar to an Asian Nic Cage (and almost as belligerent) to let her take a beer pong celeb shot.

I leave to get myself a drink. I pour myself some Mohawk vodka into a solo cup of Busch Light, which I affectionately dub ‘The Bobb,’ because the drink’s always a party and smells like piss.

The Alpha Delta brothers are getting rowdy. Some jackass tries to hit on me by asking which Vice President I’m most sexually attracted to, only to leave the next moment muttering to himself about the similarities between House Republicans and gonorrhea.

“KEG! KEG! KEG!” The Alpha Delta brothers shout. I down my drink and steel myself for the heinous that is to come.

————————————–

HE’S HERE! OMIGOD HE’S HERE!!!

It takes me a little while to recognize the man before my eyes, but after I adjust to the hedonism around me and get over the brief torrent of terror that shot through me as the Keg bouncer took an additional five seconds to ensure that I truly am the 25-year-old Beyonce Lovato from Anchorage, Alaska that my ID said I was, I realize that I really am beholding the elusive Ross Packingham, HERE, in the flesh, at the Keg!

Gorgeous as all hell and with a gleam in his eye, Packingham is freaking the night away with some co-ed like he’s Channing Tatum on ecstasy.

“Carla!” He shouts, “Carla Rossi! Over here!” He’s beckoning me over to join him and his slam-piece on the dance floor, and I head his way.

And then, with a tremendous blast, the door of the Keg comes crashing down. A dark, shrouded figure looms large in the doorway. For a moment everything stops, douchebags freeze mid-thrust where they were dancing, and even that one townie playing pool turns to look. The only sound is that of Ludacris’ verse on “Baby” as Mayor Tisdahl, clad in combat boots, night-vision goggles, and a James Taylor t-shirt, fully armed with a crowbar and flanked by a cadre of Evanston cops, steps into the neon light of the Coors Light sign.

“My sources tell me that there’s been underage drinking in this establishment,” Mayor Tisdahl growls, tossing the disemboweled corpse of an engineer into the stunned crowd. “You can thank this snitch here. Now I’m going to shut this motherfucker down once and for all.”

All hell breaks loose as Elizabeth Tisdahl and her police posse attack.

Intoxicated and sweaty bodies frantically jostle with one another (not unlike the Keg on a normal Monday night) as Tisdahl brutally swings her crowbar with reckless abandon at poor defenseless English majors and ETHS seniors while the cops gleefully cite students for underage drinking by the score.

“That’s for yacking on the Evanston Post Office!” screams Tisdahl as she brains a Comm Studies student with her crowbar as he tries to scuttle up a stripper pole.

“And this will teach you to holler about blowjobs on MY streets!” she adds, sucker-punching a Tri Delt like she’s Michael Barrett squaring off against A.J.

“Say blowjob one more time. I FUCKING DARE YOU!”

I can’t bear the sight of her pile-driving two foreign students through a window, and quickly duck under a booth and pray that God will save me, or at least turn off the Bieber that’s still playing if I am to be summarily executed by Mayor Tisdahl in this den of debauchery.

The Keg has all but cleared out as I cower in fear, watching Tisdahl and her cops methodically pour big cups of Bud Light and handles of Svedka and Wild Turkey all over the Keg’s walls and floors.

Tisdahl shoulders her crowbar and lights a cigarette. Turning with a menacing gait, she addresses the few remaining students.

“Based on what I see here, I think that the Keg has some grave public safety concerns. I’m revoking the Keg’s license,” she flips her cigarette onto the booze-soaked floor, “Permanently.”

The flames erupt immediately, burning away years of sin and memories. Students scream, and Tisdahl laughs, but just as she turns to leave a gallant figure, wearing nothing but an enormous purple cape, bursts through the Keg’s window riding on the back of a dashing wildcat.

“MORTY SCHAPIRO!” everybody cheers as the lionhearted president rushes to their defense.

His body is lithe and stately, glistening in the fiery inferno as his beard bristles with the white-hot intensity of a hundred thousand Pat Fitzgeralds.

“Oh no you don’t, Tisdahl!” cries Morty, slapping the Mayor back with his massive appendage. More cheers from the students. Morty rips off a stripper pole to serve as his quarterstaff (he already has a full staff down below).

“I’m going to give you the Chet Haze treatment tonight, baby,” shouts Morty. “You’ll be white and purple when I’m done with you.”

Then Morty sets to work, fighting off cops left and right with the help of his trusty wildcat. Those police officers who are too foolish not to run away suffer the awful fate of his beard, and Morty and his steed finish them off faster than the NCAA finishing off Northwestern’s March Madness dreams.

Yet somehow in all the confusion, Mayor Tisdahl managed to escape, cursing Morty and swearing that her revenge is nigh. Few seemed to care, however, as Morty ripped open a fire hydrant with his bare hands, soused the Keg’s raging flames, and turned the club into an all-night slip-and-slide.

“Come here,” a voice says gruffly. I turn with shock and look at the man gripping my hand. It’s Packingham. “This way.”

He leads me to the Popcorn machine, raps it three times with his knuckles, opens up the top, and helps me inside. “Follow me,” Ross says, pushing a button and revealing a secret passageway that travels out of the popcorn machine and leads to a mysterious tunnel. I follow, obediently, trusting Ross completely.

“I hereby declare the Keg re-instated!” bellows the victorious, and still mostly-nude, Morty. “I wish the Keg luck with their newly instated Lifetime License to Rage!”

I can barely hear the cheers as I go deeper and deeper down the tunnel, guided only by the mysterious Ross Packingham.

To be continued

Chapter one of 50 Shades of Purple can be found HERE.

How to Not Give a Fuck About Valentine’s Day and Still Get Laid: A Beginner’s Guide to Accidental Pussy

15 Feb

Aw, you and Marcus didn’t work out?

It’s that time of the year again. No, not Black History Month, though props to my dogs. It’s that time of year when it seems like everyone you know is either:

a) in a relationship with a human
b) in a relationship with a cat
c) in a relationship with their hand

But with Valentine’s Day finally behind us, everyone seemed to be able to put aside their differences and focus on one thing and one thing only: SEX. Fornication, coitus, nooky, whoopee, boinking, taking a roll in the hay. Whatever you call it, it’s probably disgusting. I’m gonna go ahead and assume that you, like most of Northwestern’s population, fell into the third category. Fear not, peasant! As always, I am here to help in times of crisis. Stick to my rules and in no time your dick will be sure to be worming it’s way inside many a skank.

Continue reading

Holiday Guide: NU Gift Ideas For Your Favorite Wildcat

19 Dec

A yamaka with Pat Fitzgerald's face on it is also appropriate as a Hanukkah gift

So you’ve got to find gifts for the dorm buddies you’ve known less than four months and the friends you haven’t seen since before you lost your innocence. Or maybe you’ve just gotten your early decision letter* and you’re wondering what else you could possibly want in life. Fear not: Sherman Avenue is committed to delivering you new holiday ideas from our sack full of sassy class.

Fucksaw
Admit it: you have those days. You’re hornier than a two-peckered triceratops, but too tired to go all the way up north to flirt your way into some frat bro’s lovestained man-cave and too classy to booty text your “It’s Complicated” on the fourth floor. Hell, you don’t want to deal with people at all. This is why sex toys exist. Remember: nothing says Wildcat Pride like a decently sized purple drilldo.

A Framed Photo of Yourself
Because who wouldn’t want that? You could even pose like the self-photography of 13-year-old girls whose love for MySpace is only second to love of themselves. If you’re really feeling it, make it a poster — the recipient can put it above their bed and wake up self-gratify themselves to it every morning like they did with their Channing Tatum poster in middle school. But this time, they might even have your fucksaw to help out.

A Framed Photo of Morton Schapiro
See above.

Box O’Fun
Not what it sounds like, and a legit good idea. I’m compiling quotations that are inspiring (“Remember, things are never so bad that they can’t get worse”), dorky (“Is your name Avada Kedavra? Cause you’ve got a killer bod”), mature (“I’M STANDING RIGHT BEHIND YOU…made you look”) and thoughtful (“Can I borrow your hair straightener?”). I’m putting them with candy in a small tasteful storage container names-in-a-hat style, and instructing my BFF to draw a quotation every time she needs to de-stress or procrastinate.

Gift Card to Burger King
Let’s be real: after Willard dining hall, this is your friend group’s second-most-patronized food acquisition area in Evanston. Late-night drunchies? Weekend Hinman’s too busy? You give someone the gift of free burgers, and they’re gonna use it.

Would you like that gift rapped?

A Frat Bro
So what if your homegirl’s not rushing? You might still consider getting a talented PMA bro to serenade her. May I recommend Flight of The Conchord’s classic ditty, “Most Beautiful Girl in the Room.”** Because sometimes, we all need our fucksaws to have faces.

Cookies
No matter how incredible hot cookie bar can be, nothing compares to homemade peanut blossoms. Nothing.

Another legit idea: “Cookie mix in a jar.” You’ve seen it. Someone gives out a jar/bag/mug of dry ingredients and lets the recipient do the messy work. But it’s cute.

A Stripper
Give me one reason why not. I dare you.

The Love Professor will see you now

Professor J. Reginald Vandernips
Women love him. Men love him. Parents, pets, and children of all ages love him. He knows more about cooking than Rachel Ray and Martha Stewart put together, regularly fielding obscure questions regarding food science and practicing his skills. He’s slept under lecture tables in Tech and licked objects labeled “biohazardous.” If there is one thing on this list that you choose to purchase for your wildcat, let it be Professor Reggie V.

Keep your friends close and your heinousness closer.

——————————————————————————————————————————
*In which case, CONGRATS!
**Ellie K once had an overnight tryst with a boy who sang her that very song. However, contrary to what one might expect, the full-length serenade did not facilitate the hookup, but rather transpired a significant amount of time later in a location where she was quite literally The Only Girl in the Room. She’s never been quite sure what to make of that.