For 1st Ward Alderman, Vote for Ed Tivador

You may have heard that Evanston and Northwestern don’t always have the best relationship (read: they’re mean to us so we pee on them).  Apparently they don’t like people who pay no taxes and we don’t like people who take photos of our red Solo cups and email them around behind our backs.

Seems like the kind of irreconcilable difference that will forever doom town-gown relations, rite? Um. No. Wrong.

Indeed, amidst the long shitstorm of hein coming out of Evanston city government there is one lone voice of sanity. One person shouting the reasonableness from the mountaintops. One man who has the stones to say that maybe the bigger issue is that kids are getting mugged at knifepoint, and not the occasional oral-sex-related-hollering.

That man is Ed Tivador, and he’s running for Alderman in Evanston’s first ward.

Besides closing The Keg, what else has Mayor Tisdahl achieved?

At this afternoon’s Political Union in the Northwestern University Norris Center, Evanston mayor Elizabeth “Lizzly the Grizzly” Tisdahl claimed that “closing down The Keg was one of the best things [she had] ever done.”  Needless to say, this inflammatory statement is an affront to any Northwestern student who has enjoyed an otherwise uneventful Monday night at The Keg – let alone the ETHS students who don’t even have other viable outlets to hone their raging skills.  This is the equivalent to Jimmy Carter taking proud ownership of the Iranian Hostage Crisis, or Creed taking proud ownership of their music.  It also begs the question: If this is only one of the best things E-Tizzy has accomplished, then what would she consider to be some of the others?

525,600 p-trips: A look back at Year 1 of the Shermanavian Calendar

We hear founding stories and histories almost every day – “George Washington won this battle,” “Paul Revere made that ride,” “Thomas Jefferson boinked those slaves,” etc.  But today’s founding story is something much more substantial and heroic than most.  So squeeze yourself into that zebra-print speedo, pour yourself a quad-shot of Jameson, and take a seat, because TODAY IS SHERMAN AVE’S FIRST BIRTHDAY!

Look away, Winnie the Pooh. You don't want to see this.

We all remember our first birthday.  Actually, none of us remember our first birthday, but we’ve always just assumed that it consisted primarily of cupcakes and self-defecation.  And here at Sherman Ave, we intend to celebrate our birthday in the same way.  But instead of cupcakes, we have strippers, and instead of self-defecation, we have…wait, just kidding, we will definitely have self-defecation.

However, since our readers span far and wide and not all of them can come celebrate our anniversary with us, we want to celebrate with our readers by reflecting on Sherman Ave’s first year.  Thus, without any further ado, I present to you:  An exhaustive timeline of Sherman Ave’s history!

C. 10,000 BC:  Archaeological evidence points to the first alcoholic beverages.  Although it came about several millennia before any of Sherman Ave writers squirmed out of the womb, this invention would greatly motivate, inspire, and ultimately humiliate the writing staff.

July 2, 1776:  The Declaration of Independence is signed, establishing America’s separation from the pretentious twattitude of the British Empire.  This country would go on not only to host the birth of every Sherman Ave writer (with the exception of Señorita Margarita Puñeta Fellatiata, who was obviously born in Egypt), but the core values of free speech, free press, and free heinousness would create a fostering environment for Sherman Ave.

He's wearing the Demos jersey only as an admirable form of self-discipline.

December 16, 2008:  Morton O. Schapiro is named the 16^th president of Northwestern University.  At this point, little was known about the man’s past, but the whole world would soon know of Morty’s legend: his unthinkable assortment of purple attire, his supreme lordship over the Evanston City Council, and, of course, his massive, massive dong.

October 14, 2010:  On this fateful evening in Evanston, Illinois, Ross Packingham and Evander Jones meet in a way that only true heroes do:  Drunkenly skinny-dipping in Lake Michigan and subsequently running from the police.

January 26, 2011:   Sherman Ave is founded.  What began with a review of an awesome rap hit single would soon evolve into the biggest power-trip that has graced the world since Idi-Amin was in power.

February 14, 2011:  Rebecca Black’s viral music video, “Friday,” is released on YouTube.  While the song wouldn’t go viral for a few more weeks, its existence aided and perpetuated the kind of rampant heinousness to which Sherman Ave dedicates itself.

February 21, 2011:   Professor John Michael Bailey rocks/vibrates/indefinitely turns off the Northwestern student body with a sexual demonstration involving a fucksaw.  While no member of Sherman Ave has yet been fucksawed (“yet” being the operative word – President’s Day is often a gamechanger), this incident was basically a gift to Sherman Ave, and we have made a concerted effort to reference fucksaws in every article we possibly can.

Getting fucksawed? Or having sex dreams about Sherman Ave?

March 28, 2011:  Sir Edward Twattingworth III posts an article about a recent experience encountering Our Lord and Savior Morty Schapiro in Paris.  This event would become something about which Sir T-Worth power-trips on an hourly basis.

July 1-3, 2011:  Evander Jones, Blaise Bernard, Ross Packingham, Sir Twattingworth, Ginger LeatherDream, and their friend Jessica go to Michigan to enjoy a leisurely weekend and soulful celebration of America’s independence.  What resulted from this gathering was exactly what one would expect:

• ·         A three hour time period spent heavily intoxicated in a 100-degree barn
• ·         Recreation of classic American art
• ·         A photograph of Ross Packingham and Evander Jones emulating Jack and Rose from “Titanic”
• ·         Blaise Bernard wielding a butcher’s knife and preparing dinner, despite her inability to form coherent sentences
• ·         Vomit
• ·         The emergence of the word “heinous”

Ross Packingham non-verbally proclaims his love for patriotic cookie cakes.

August 10, 2011:  Evander Jones begins the Sherman Ave Freshman Guide – a series of articles that would corrupt freshmen from all walks of life, and also (more importantly) help Sherman Ave get off the ground by appealing exclusively to an alcohol-deprived demographic.

October 25, 2011:  Generation II takes its place, as Sherman Ave brings on seven new writers.  Sadly, the writers did not know at that point that they were only entering a long and grueling initiation process which may or may not have included facial contact with a 14-inch gummy worm dildo.

January 24, 2012:  Ross Packingham and Evander Jones submit paperwork for what many call an “apartment”; the request would probably not be processed if the landlord had even the slightest notion of what is implied by “Sherman Ave Headquarters.”

Morty, Sherman Ave's communal pet.

January 26, 2012:   Sherman Ave turns one.  Not a big deal or anything.  OH WAIT, JUST KIDDING, WE’RE GOING TO BE POWER-TRIPPING RELENTLESSLY FOR ETERNITY.

Thanks for a great year, readers.  We’ll continue to supply you all with articles, as long as you continue to supply us with narcissistic validation.  Happy birthday!!!

2011 Sherman Ave Reader’s Poll: Results

With 122 responses and a wide variety of exceedingly gruesome responses,* we were absolutely thrilled with the success of this year’s poll. So, after much anticipation (drumroll please), we present to you: RESULTS!

The hanging chad of our generation

Most Heinous Event of 2011
With 24% of the vote, the winner was: Rebecca Black’s “Friday” Strikes Youtube. This is undoubtedly the most atrocious non-majority victory we’ve seen since November 2000.

Best Place to Find and Enjoy a Hookup
Also with 24% of the vote, the winner was: A Frat House. Notable write-ins include “Baby Bash ski trip concert” and “Deer season in Indiana.” Surprisingly enough, nobody mentioned Sherman Ave HQ…

Favorite Sherman Ave personality?
With 30% of the vote, the winner was: Sir Edward Twattingworth III. We at the Ave have not a shred of doubt that this will result in a power-trip of unprecedented magnitude, but with Sir T-Worth, we’re used to it. Anything less than Putin-esque levels of self-aggrandizement would be a disappointment.

Best Song of 2011
With 15% of the vote, the winner was: “Someone Like You” by Adele. This can easily be understood by anyone who has ever been within a 5-mile radius of any intoxicated Sherman Ave writer. Or felt love.

Most Mouthgasms per Bite
With 33% of the vote, the winner was: Hot Cookie Bar. Notable write-ins include “your mom” and “Pippa Middleton.”

DAMN YOU HIPSTERS FOR RUINING THE BEANIE FOR ME!!!!

Best Coffee Shop
With 52% of the vote, the winner was: Kafein. This would probably not go over well with one of the respondents who wrote in the answer, “Hipsters are sub-humans.” Ross Packingham intends to use this landslide victory as a clear mandate to bring his Buddhism-influenced beat poetry to Kafein’s stage, supported by Brother Jürgen and Eleanor Kinkervoss on the bongos while Evander Jones attacks the chastity belt around his waist with a chain saw. Sadly, it will only the fourth-most heinous act on stage at that week’s open mic.

Best Place to Get Intoxicated in Public
With 27% of the vote, the winner was: Cozy Noodles. Among the many notable write-ins were: “Barnes and Noble,” “10am MENU class,” and “sidewalk.”

Best A Cappella Group
With 26% of the vote, the winner was: There is no such thing as a good a cappella group. A ruefully valid statement indeed.

Best Movie of 2011
With 29% of the vote, the winner was: Harry Potter 7.2. Notable write-ins include Twilight: Breaking Hymen and Pippa Middleton, both of which feature Morty Schapiro and Kate Upton in starring roles.

Best TV Show of 2011
With 17% of the vote, the winner was: How I Met Your Mother. Apparently people identify with drunken assholes frittering away the golden years of their lives chasing after unsatisfactory one-night stands. Far and away, the most heinous write-in was: “Is The Hills still on? I pick The Hills.”

Please Describe Morty Schapiro in 10 Words or Less
This one was actually too much for us to emotionally process. Top answer: “Why limit it to fewer words than his penis length?” Maybe once Ross Packingham’s poetry career takes off, maybe he’ll compose a sonnet using only these responses and youtube video comments.

What’s Up the Evanston City Council’s Ass?
With 35% of the vote, the winner was: a 14-inch dildo made of molten gummy bears. If that’s not already true, it can certainly be arranged.

Ever wonder how I got the name "Packingham?"

What is your Gender?
With 58% of the vote, the winner was: Female. AWWWWWW YEAHHHHHH!!!! Hey ladies, how’d you like to spend the night with the fourth-most popular Northwestern-centric blog? No?** Haaaaaaave you met Manua?

What Brings You to Sherman Ave?
With a staggering 70% of the vote, the winner was: Facebook. Needless to say, notable write-ins included “Pippa Middleton” and “all of your fucking Facebook posts.”

In conclusion, a huge thank you goes out to everyone who took this poll. We couldn’t do it without you. We hope that you were pleased with our unnecessary heinousness in 2011, and we will do everything in our power to take it to the next level in 2012. Most importantly, we’re comforted to see in the responses that the people who read Sherman Ave are just about as fucked up as the people who write for it.

——————————————————————————————————————————
*Allowing for a standard error of approximately 69%.
**Fun Fact: The first time Sherman Ave was ever used as a potential pickup line occurred in line for the bathroom at an off-campus party. It was not successful.

Sherman Ave 2011 Readers Poll

Our readers lining up to take the traditional end-of-the-year Sherman Ave Readers Poll

Who the hell are you!? Welcome to the first annual Sherman Ave Readers Poll. In order to better serve the supposed readers of our humbly heinous blog, we thought that it would be a great idea to ask you a bunch of questions. Please take the time to offer your discriminating wisdom on the best music, food, movies, items stuck up the orifices of the Evanston City Council, and moments of the year. All respondents will be entered into a drawing for the chance to win Sir Edward Twattingworth III for a day, and shall also be showered with our love and gratitude.

Take the survey HERE!!!

The Five Flavors of Motherfucker

Indulge your synesthesia. We’re categorizing the most unpalatable people.

An industrial-size salty motherfucker

Salty Motherfuckers
Let me take you back to the diving board at your local swimming pool. You’d jump, swim to the ladder or the edge, climb out, and then get in line, jump, swim, climb, repeat. There’d be a pretty regular line that formed. But then once, you’d do the sweetest cannonbellywatermelopener dive known to mankind — maybe you’d take a little longer getting out of the water, or you’d stop to bask in compliments from your mom. This is when the Motherfucker would strike. You’d just be getting out of the water when out of the corner of your eye you’d see the kid that jumped in after you swimming to the edge with the urgency of the Space Race, yanking himself out of the water, and powerwalking (or even running, the bastard!) with one greedy eye on YOUR SPOT in line, and the other greedy eye checking back to see if you were gonna try and polite-fight him for it.

As if that weren’t bad enough, if he stole your spot, he’d get on the board and spend ten minutes debating what kind of jump to do with his friends (who were probably hanging on the lane line), while inside you’re screaming, “Accept that any way you flip is going to end up as a belly flop, before I come up there and push you off!” At Northwestern, you can identify these bitchwaffles pulling the same maneuver in the stir-fry or hot cookie bar line. This is why they are Salty Motherfuckers: pouring salt onto a wound is not really dangerous in the long term, but it’s pretty damn agonizing at the time. It makes you want to throw that aforementioned metaphorical salt back into their beady eyes, because it is as harmlessly obnoxious as the Salty Motherfucker.

Even her hair-tests came back positive for motherfucker

Savory Motherfuckers
Hey, remember when Oprah Winfrey had a hissy fit because a closed store wouldn’t reopen for her? Remember when Oprah Winfrey took credit for giving away shit that wasn’t hers? Remember when Oprah Winfrey existed? Yeah. Believe it or not, there are people so pampered that they will throw a tantrum when the Pier1 cashier can’t cater to their every whim by returning an item without a receipt or after 90 days. These are the snarky suburban moms who turn PTA meetings into Attack of the Martyrs Episode III because Little Johnny Do-No-Wrong has excessive allergies, and therefore clearly nobody’s parents should be allowed to bring in homemade birthday cakes. Note to readers: if you are someone who complains about the preparation of truffle shrooms at five-star restaurants or demands compensation for the terrible injuries caused by eating subpar lobster, please put yourself down, because you are irreparably broken and probably in constant pain from your delicate sensitivities. I’d suggest that we make astronomically high maintenance a crime, but then we’d have to arrest them and listen to them complain that their cell wasn’t padded enough.

Proceed with caution, as it can be very difficult to discern the difference between motherfuckers and simple guidos

Sour Motherfuckers
They’re assholes and they know it. Anyone who is inexplicably, selfishly, mercilessly malicious should have both their tongues and their genitals removed without anesthesia. Humans have hearts. If you suck as a human being, you do not deserve to contribute to the gene pool for fear that your children will grow up to be the kind of Motherfucker that does terrible things to people without even having to rationalize them. Examples of Sour Motherfucking include using someone who cares about you, sabotaging someone’s lab, lying about an STD, ruining others’ reputations, and touching children where they should not be touched. To be clear: Tucker Max’s shocking shenanigans usually fall under the category of harmlessly unpleasant Salty Motherfucker. The despicable bitch that somehow wound up in your sorority who ran for Recruitment Chair so she could put the freshmen down is a Sour Motherfucker. It’s all about the motives.

Ross Packingham's image of the perfect woman

Sweet Motherfuckers
These are the breed of superhumans whose perfection we will never attain and therefore must criticize. They are effortlessly attractive, intelligent, accomplished, athletic, stylish, polished, and well-spoken. They do not trip over their words. They do not trip over anything. They are the parents who jog with strollers containing the adorably well-trained future polite society of Icelandic Snow Owl benefits. And you know they’re probably good in bed. Arguably the worst Motherfucker, these cuntmuffins won’t even give you the decency of visibly fucking you over so you can hate them. If you express your certainty that there is something “off” about them (the possibility that they are actually a robot), you will almost certainly be met with shock from the believers in the tenured reputation of the android, who will shun you as either insane or jealous. Sweet Motherfuckers are more like aspartame than sugar: fake, carcinogenic, and typically lacking in caloric content. Breathe, fellow fuckups of the world: at least we’re more idiosyncratic.

This Evanston Councilman hasn't smiled in over 17 years

Bitter Motherfuckers
The Evanston City Council says one of their most frequently asked questions is: “What’s up your ass?” Since they cannot diagnose it themselves, Sherman Avenue will: They are Bitter Motherfuckers, the species of Motherfucker so filled with regret that the only thing left for them to do is to ensure that everyone else ends up unhappier than Edward Scissorhands trying to masturbate; that is to say, as unhappy as they are. But it’s not limited to the former premed/prelaw students who resent that their focus and initiative (translation: staunch denial of their own humanity) during their college days allowed them a very comfortable life in WASP’s nests. Other Bitter Motherfuckers include Denny’s waiters, certain unsuccessful starving artists, and (understandably) anyone working in retail on Black Friday. The best way to deal with these Motherfuckers is to maintain high levels of happiness in spite of their best efforts. Yes, it’s hard to do when they’re busy removing kids’ rights to trick-or-treat, cohabitate like sardines, or party like it’s Y2K. But there is no better revenge than the confidence of knowing you have a hopeful future and a pleasant present. Schadenfreude, bitches.

Ask not what heinousness can do for you. Ask what you can do for your heinousness.

Bag Tax in Evanston?

Welcome to the People's Republic of Evanston

Earlier this week, the FWH, or “Fuckers We Hate” (formally known as the Evanston City Council) recently proposed a 5-cent tax on all paper and plastic bags in the city of Evanston. On campus, this has spawned controversy and inspired impromptu musical performances. Additionally, it has prolonged the FWH’s long-standing tradition of controversial taxes, laws, and ordinances; Evanston has managed to legislate something questionable with approximately the same frequency of Northwestern’s defense allowing a third-down conversion. This proposal leads us to wonder: How would a bag tax impact students?

It seems that for most students, a bag tax would have a minimal effect on their daily lives. Consider the stores in Evanston where we most frequently shop.

CVS
Usually students use CVS when they only need to pick up one item, like crayons or Magnums (I’m not referencing the firearm). Generally, the only time students need a bag to carry their items home would be in the case of what I call “Chaserpalooza” – a quarterly event in which four weeks of Kellogg studies are spent on 35-40 2-liter bottles of CVS brand soda, which, incidentally, tastes like fucking cough syrup. But even this is hardly valid as an argument against the bag tax; we here at The Ave know that the only real chaser you need is the palm of your hand.

Do 7/11 Taquitos go well with rum?

7/11
Let’s be honest. The guy who works the register at Sevy Levy (shout-out to Dijay) is undoubtedly stoned out of his mind every minute of every day. I’ve gone there at least five or ten times when he’s explicitly requested that I don’t pay the sales tax. The older guy who works there could attempt to prevent that, but he’s usually too busy singing “Moves Like Jagger.” The point is: Given the 7/11 staff, it seems implausible that a bag tax would actually be implemented at that store. But damn, do I love those employees.

EV1
Just as no student enters Ev1 without a backpack, no student leaves Ev1 with a paper bag. That would look suspicious. Instead, we choose to stuff our small backpacks with our four newly bought handles of Smirnoff and take to the streets of Evanston. That way, we get to maximize the number of awkward encounters we get to have with professors, TAs, and friends’ parents on the walk back to campus when there are clearly multiple conspicuous protruding objects clanging loudly in our bags.

A box of clementines for only $15!? WHAT A STEAL!

Whole Foods
If you shop regularly at Whole Foods, it is quite improbable that a 5-cent bag tax would be a financial burden, and it is even less probable that you would ever conceive of opposing an environmental measure.

We can conclude that a bag tax would not have adverse effects on the majority of the student body. This seems especially bizarre, considering that this ordinance was proposed by the Evanston City Council. And it doesn’t negatively affect the Northwestern student body. Am I missing something? Is there a hidden clause that taxes the verbalization of the word “blowjob?” Did Morty finally kill off the Death Eaters that had penetrated the city council? Only time shall tell how the Evanston City Council has secretly designed this law to completely fuck us.