20 Things Northwestern Could Do with $10,000

(via nusports.com)

Northwestern University recently sent out an email with the five ideas proposed for the ASG 10K initiative, a program that gives the student body an opportunity to invest $10,000 to improve life around campus. However, I, the esteemed Reverend Turlington, frankly don’t like any of the ideas very much at all. $10,000 on Christmas lights? Come on. Here are 20 better things NU could do with $10,000:

1. Offer live entertainment in the dining halls
2. Construct a statue of Frances Willard
3. Found a

Top Places to Hang Out with Your High School Friends over Winter Break

It’s finally winter break — a chance to relax, finish up the new Netflix series you weren’t supposed to start watching until after finals week, and reunite with old high school friends. You haven’t seen these guys in less than a month, so it’s important that you spend the valuable time you have together doing a variety of fun bonding activities that will give you plenty of time to catch up with one another on the exciting events that surrounded your reading and finals weeks. Here are a few of the places that may help along the bromancing (or homancing).

Local Razor Announces Plans to Cut User’s Face

CHEHALIS, Wash.–Earlier this morning, a local Gillette razor blade reported that it intends to cut the face of its user, 39-year-old Richard Bowen, in the near future.

The razor, which consists of 5 thin blades and a moisturizing strip, told reporters that its blades were as “sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel” and that they could “deliver quite a nasty wound.”

Sherman Ave Freshman Guide: Everything Else

Deering Forum

So you’ve been accepted to Northwestern. Big fucking deal. So was just about everyone who writes for Sherman Ave AND Chet Haze (who may or may not also write for Sherman Ave). You have accomplished nothing of any difficulty and importance, and this school will spend the next four years reminding you of that fact. So now that you have a little perspective, it’s time to get you prepped on everything you’ll need to know to survive the gauntlet of purple and white!

Soon, the Daily Northwestern, NBN, your parents, and dozens of other sources will be filling you in on the best dining halls, the characteristics of the two sides of campus and what the party scene is like. Even The Flipside will take the opportunity to desperately grasp at readership by printing freshman-oriented pieces.

Since old Uncle Samwise can’t do a better job than the rest at giving you everything you’ll need to know, I’ll have to settle for giving everything else you’ll need to know.

Keg Week 2013: The Eulogy

Tonight, we’re popping popcorn in your honor.

One week ago Sunday, The Keg of Evanston closed its doors for the very last time. Tonight we conclude our Keg Week 2013 with what may–for better or worse–be the very last article we ever post about TKOE.

At this point, more words have been spilled over that shit-hole Evanston bar than Bud Light out of a big cup. Don’t worry, this epitaph will be about as brief as a dance floor hookup, and hopefully a shade less awkward.

Think of all the geographic locations pertaining to Northwestern. The Arch. The Rock. The Frat Quad. The Black House. Willard. Searle Hall. The Lakefill. Tech. Norris. Ryan Field. The Steam Tunnels. Deering. CVS. The Howard El Stop. That One Bench You Totally Made Out On With Your PA.

What Your Favorite (Cheap, Shitty) Beer Says About You

If you’re drinking Old Style, then chances are you’re either too old to operate a computer, or just got ejected from a Cubs game. Either way, this isn’t the blog for you.

It’s that magical time of the year again in Evanston: early March. Nobody has seen the sun in three months, finals are rapidly approaching as all of your friends at other schools gear up for spring break, and it’s so cold that Morty has moved his office to the steam tunnels.

What differentiates March from the rest of winter quarter, you may ask? Baseless hope that spring is right around the corner. Kinda like that scene in Batman where Bane is all like “Yo, this prison is the fucking TITS because being able to see the sun makes bitches go CRAZY.”

True Tales of Stuff: Texting While Walking

Walking was w/e before, lol.

Sherman Ave contributor Gary Brownstein was recently made aware of the concept of Texting While Walking.  After a few practice sessions in the safety of his own apartment, Brownstein hit the streets of Chicago to try out the phenomenon for himself.  Below, he described the experience.

The Top Ten Things That Make Cobra Lederham’s Day

Consult a doctor immediately if this picture does not warm the frigid cockles of your heart.

Presented herein void of context, editorial insight, or drilldo references.

10.)     Waking up to discover I’ve done my dishes while blacked out – Turns out this maid also cooks great chili and likes to piss on the only rug in my apartment.

9.)       Finding that no one stole my bike and/or bike wheels – Every day is a blessing.

Why I’m Super Mad At You Freshmen

Assholes.

Dear Freshmen,

I love you, but you’re bringing me down. Actually, I don’t, but you totally are. How can one love that which is unlovable unknown to him? I didn’t realize you guys were here yet. I even trolled your Facebook group all summer and STILL didn’t figure out that you would be arriving just abouuutt now. See, I live in this magical, far-off place called “off-campus.” You’ll visit this fantasyland someday. It’s the tits. Well, being off-campus, I failed to witness the warning signs of the invasion of the freshmen army (I’ve been trapped indoors gaming and boozing all day. YOLO). From my ivory tower that’s more like an ugly 70’s era building with a blue façade and crappy windows facing another ugly building, I failed to see the smoke rising above Evanston. I could not have known. Or perhaps I did, and wished to forget. It certainly would explain the day-drinking.

It was not until I journeyed into Evanston proper that I witnessed the extent of the devastation caused by YOU PEOPLE. I expected there to be pillaging and plundering, oh yes. After all, such is the nature of the annual sacking of this super pretentious and poorly designed city. But one can never truly be prepared for such a thing. It’s why I dropped out of Boy Scouts — their false promises of being prepared, and the diddling.

My trip to Chipotle and CVS opened my eyes to the chaos. Traffic on the way there seemed normal, at least, as normal as it can be when the roads are torn up and there are no lanes or sidewalks (seriously, who the fuck does that at the busiest time of the year, and for no apparent reason? Good job, Mayor Tisdahl.)

But within CVS I witnessed a maelstrom hitherto unforeseen. The lines for checkout reached all the way to the frozen pizzas (300% markup from Jewel prices! Convenient!) So many confused people, so many mothers asking, “Do you need this?” “Where are the condoms?” and “Who is Chet Haze?” All totally valid questions, all totally answerable, all totally annoying when all I’m trying to do is grab some Zyrtec and Mountain Dew. It was hell.

And at Chipotle, the worst crime yet. I had to WAIT for my food, for, like, a whole minute, at 2:45 IN THE GODDAMNED AFTERNOON (This is breakfast time for me.) How is there a line at such a time? Why didn’t you get lunch BEFORE you went to CVS?!?! You would’ve bought fewer $6 packages of cookies that way! Or you could’ve gone to TARGET!!! Or to a restaurant unique to Evanston!!! ALL OF OUR BARS ARE RESTAURANTS BY LAW!!!!!!!

I wearily departed downtown Evanston, my soul burdened by what I had seen. “Seriously, why did that one freshman girl buy bubble-gum flavored Trident? That shit tastes like ass.” I asked myself this question, and many others, on the long, treacherous, 30-second bike ride back to my apartment. I recognized my strife to be but the first experience of many to come, in which YOU, freshmen, would make my life slightly more miserable because SCAPEGOATING. Seriously, I can’t even imagine how f’d up campus looks right meow. It’s all the fault of Adam freshmen.

Calm the fuck down.

There is no denying your nature, freshmen. You will ask stupid questions in class. You will travel in large groups, fully knowing it is totally unnecessary and obnoxious. You will go to parties, and throw up in the corner, and then not tell anyone you threw up in the corner because oh God the embarrassment of throwing up in the corner. You will do all these things, and many more, and you will be sorry, but also, totally not sorry, because this is college and everyone before you made the same mistakes and who do you even tell when you throw up in the corner?

And we, dear freshmen, we will weep for you, we will curse you, we will roll our eyes at you and give you the wrong directions when you ask where Pancoe is. Because that is our nature. We, the upperclassmen, who are fundamentally no different than you except we pretend to know more and get away with it sometimes.

And yet, we cherish you, freshmen. You guys make us laugh. You give us stories. You fill us with hope that Northwestern will retain its 12^th place ranking for yet another year. For that I thank you. For everything else, I curse you.

Go Cats,
The Commandant

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50 Shades of Purple, Chapter One

For Morty, the master of my universe

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair — it just won’t behave, and damn that Beverly Brooke for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. Ugh. FML. I’m suuuuch a Medilldo.

I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. That’s what she said. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable.

Beave is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d arranged to do, with some mega-brill-brill engineer I’ve never heard of, for The Daily. So I have volunteered. I have finals to complain about, one 500-word article to fabricate, but no — today I have to walk all the way from Pi Phi all the way up to fucking Slivka in order to meet this enigmatic nerd. As an exceptional engineer and son of major Northwestern benefactors, his time is extraordinarily precious — much more precious than mine — but he has granted Beave an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities. What is ASG anyways?

“Does, like, vodka and gatorade get rid of the flu?” Beverly asks.

“Sure it does. It’s a disinfectant,” I answer.

Gathering my Steve Madden bag, I smile at her and head out the door. She’ll make an exceptional journalist for Chillicothe Times-Bulletin one day. She’s got talent.

———————————————————

I knock on the door in Slivka. It slowly opens as a tremendous cloud of weed-smoke funnels out.

“Mr. Packingham is out at the moment,” says my interviewee’s roommate, a man who presumably served two years in the Singapore army and is double-majoring in chemistry and K-Pop Studies. “But feel free to come in.”

I check out Packingham’s room. It looks like a cross between an adolescent’s wet dream and Charlie Sheen’s Tuesday morning. Kate Upton and Pippa Middleton adorn walls streaked with what I can only assume is Dmitri vodka and CVS Gold Brand grape soda. An exotic aroma hits my nose, an exquisite fusion of BK, Busch Light, and man musk. Must be a Comm major. I think I need to sit down.

And then, a man enters.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for a Beave. Have you seen one?”

Oh God. Packingham’s a tool. He’s smiling like a Freshman who just got into The Keg.

“Um. Actually–” I mutter. But such a handsome tool.

“Miss Brooke is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Packingham.” Eyes like Bill Murray. Complexion like Drake. Body like John Shurna. And, most importantly, a beard like Morty’s.

“And you are?” His voice is warm, possibly amused, definitely slurred a bit. I can’t help but notice the portable beer pong table near his bed.

“Carla Rossi. I’m studying magazine journalism with Beave, um… Miss Brooke in Medill.”

“I see,” he says simply. I can’t help but notice he’s wearing a Sig Nu hoodie. That’s… unexpected.

“Would you like to sit?” He waves me toward a green bean bag chair prominently featuring several suspicious stains.

“I have some questions for you,” I say, catching him looking down my shirt.

“I though you might Carla,” he deadpans.

“Well, let’s get started. I’d like to know what you make of allegations that your father’s donations are the reason Northwestern starts so ungodly late in the calendar year.”

“Bullshit,” Packingham replies.

“Okay, how about suggestions that you once banged Mayor Tisdahl on the roof of Swift?” I try.

“I wish,” the swashbuckling sultan of swag replies.

“Do you have any hobbies?” Butter them up with some puff questions. Medill’s taught me well.

“You know, the usual. Chill with my bros. Drunken Sporcle. Skinny dipping in Lake Michigan with my biddies. Hey Carla, did you know that I’m the reason Selena Gomez decided against becoming a Wildcat? Let’s just say she’s no big fan of the hot cookie bar, if you know what I mean. How about you?”

“Me!?” I ask, surprised. “I mostly complain about how sketch the el is on my way to my internship. I just love the city.”

He smiles, seeming to sense something flutter inside me. Shit! Could he possibly have realized that I can name all 151 original Pokémon in alphabetical order? I thought I had kept that hidden since the Kappa rush debacle of 2011.

“Fine. Last question. Can you comment on the prevailing rumors that you are the man responsible for the invention of the fucksaw—”

“I can’t comment on pending litigation,” he cuts me off, quicker than I awkwardly end conversations on Sheridan.

“Dude, want to play the National Treasure 2 drinking game?” His roommate interrupts.

“Yes, yes I do,” he answers. “Carla,” he says as a farewell.

“Ross,” I reply. And the door, Adele poster and all, comes to a close.