An Argument for No Northwestern University Classes on Presidents Day

Fuck yeah. (via deviantart)

In 1776, one country dawned in a time of great uncertainty. The Communists hated the freedoms of this new nation conceived in liberty; the Canadians – the Canadians![1] – would soon go on to defeat this new country in war (twice); the leader of this republic, George Washington, was battling dentures, a vicious, dirty campaign from Frank Underwood (spoiler alert, sorry), and the Germans on the Western Front. But from all of this emerged a beautiful, proud nation. A nation that celebrated its leaders.

Yes, Northwestern University Administration, I am talking about America. And yes, Northwestern University Administration, this nation – OUR nation – beat the odds. From those dark times emerged

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!!!

Hate a Random Country: France

A Frenchman overcoming his existential ennui with wine, bread, and unbridled douchiness.

Have you ever had your testicles sawed off with a rusty butter knife at a Nickelback concert? Although that may sound like the worst possible fate one could suffer, there are over 60 million people in the world who suffer a fate much worse. I’m not talking about AIDS victims, I’m not talking about human rights violations – I’m not even talking about Cubs fans. I’m referring, of course, to the French. Those elitist semensicles are the physical embodiment of everything heinous about the world, which is a substantial claim, given that they inhabit the same planet as other notorious twatbarrels like Iceland and New Zealand.

I’d like to begin this exposè by clarifying one crucial point: The French did not help us to gain our independence. “Historians” may assert that the French came to our “rescue” in “boats,” but we all know that those were just patriotic pirates mistaken for Frenchmen because of their tragic speech impediments.

Don't be fooled by the buxom and idyllic French Lady Liberty

Now, where was I? Oh that’s right – I was talking about how France is the most pitiful heap of Le Scrotum upon which humanity ever laid its sorrowful eyes. The first point of scrutiny is their flag, which boasts the triumphant red, white, and blue color combination, just like the United States. Don’t be fooled, though – while the American flag’s colors stand respectively for valor, purity, and justice, the French flag is merely a white flag of surrender with red and blue bars symbolizing red wine and bleu cheese.

You can't sit with us! That's the second time this week you've worn pantaloons!

France’s history of “leadership” is also notably heinous. Ranging from Louis XIV (who held the title of “Biggest P-tripper” for almost 300 years until Sherman Ave was created) to Nicolas Sarkozy (the only attendant of the G20 summit who could easily double as a cast member on Jersey Shore), the presidency and monarchy of France were never lucky enough to see any George Washingtons or Andrew Jacksons take office. The most successful leader they had was Napoleon, who can only be compared to an atrocious illegitimate lovechild of Danny DeVito and Jim Cramer. Napoleon accomplished some things as a leader, but all of his achievements are effectively canceled out by the fact that his men killed Prince Bolkonsky. Fucker.

To be fair, it was the first French combat victory in quite a long time.

Another hilariously sad aspect of France is its athletic culture. Like most nations that are absolutely rancid, France’s national sport is soccer, or “football,” as known by Brits and hipsters. One of my personal favorite highlights in France’s history is the national team’s 17-1 loss to Denmark in 1908. I don’t think there’s really too much more I need to say here – I’ll just humbly point out how demoralizing it must be to get clobbered by a country whose Queen fucked her brother-in-law. However, an even more humiliating event in the team’s history happened in the 2006 World Cup Final, when Zinedine Zidane – someone who stands out as a douchegargler even among the French populace – found it necessary to blatantly headbutt a member of the opposing Italian team. And then they lost! That’s like being ass-raped and still getting pregnant. Better yet, when the French national team qualified for the 2010 World Cup, they didn’t even make it to the primary elimination round; they were bested by the national teams of Mexico, South Africa, and – I shit you not – Uruguay. That was certainly a gargantuan blow to their ego, but thankfully they have enough ego in just their waxed mustaches that it didn’t do any permanent damage.

Some pansy French guy, probably after finding out how fucking lame the 5th Republic is or something

If you’re looking for more reasons why France is innately inferior, the proof is in the crêpes. Remember that time we landed at Normandy and showed the Nazis that they were not(sy) going to win World War II, while the French were too busy cultivating their fucking grapes? Remember that time the French thought they were going to win the 4×100 swimming relay in the 2008 Summer Olympics, and then American bamf-stick Jason Lezak came from behind like he was Kobe Bryant (not a basketball reference)? Remember that time an American athlete with a trunk only half-full of junk (or half-empty, for all you private-part pessimists) went into France and beat them at their own sport 7 times in a row? Because I remember. So, to all Frenchmen and Frenchwomen (often a difficult distinction to make), I leave you with this last thought: Next time your flagrant self-centeredness convinces you that you’re the best country in the world, you can escargot fuck yourself.

10 American Historical Events That Totally Should Have Been Pregamed

For those of you out there in blogosphere who aren’t familiar with the up-and-coming trend of “pregaming,” it is a term that refers to the act of consuming alcohol before any event; it could be a football game, a musical, or even a 250-student lecture. Unfortunately, this trend of pregaming has only become a common cultural activity in recent years. We must wonder: How would history have been changed if previous generations were clinical alcoholics like ours is? Here are the top ten historical events that would have been infinitely better had all parties involved drained several shots of Jose Cuervo beforehand.

Guess Who’s Back?

To be fair though, there were also a lot of overweight women wearing nothing but pasties.

Hello, Sherman Ave readers. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Why hasn’t Sherman Ave written any articles in the past three months? How have I even made it this long without any new articles from Sherman Ave? Where did this maimed goat come from?” Well, fear not; our ever-victorious writing team is back for the summer of 2011 with more style and fervor than Lady Gaga at a gay pride parade (disclaimer: There were at least 80 or 90 Lady Gagas at Chicago’s gay pride parade). Yes, it was painful for us to take our hiatus, but spring quarter at Northwestern is a grueling journey, and the endless hours we spent studying and upholding Northwestern’s proud academic integrity made it kind of hard for us to be kick-ass journalists on the side.

But there’s no point in dwelling on the past. What matters is that we’re here now to thrust into you with our journalistic prowess. We’re more than prepared to insert our firm, powerful take on current events into your docile, yearning hands. So get ready, dearest audience, because in the words of the immortal pop culture icon Ke$ha, this summer “we goin’ hard, hard, hard, hard, hard, hard.”

Evanston in April

I think we can agree that you all deserve a recap of spring quarter at Northwestern University. Did I say spring quarter? What I meant was SWEET MOTHER OF ASS, WHY HASN’T IT WARMED UP YET quarter. Yes, the sultry skank of a temptress that is Chicago’s climate certainly slipped us a Rohypnol this year, keeping the weather consistently below 60°F. Oh, and in case you were wondering, that “F” doesn’t stand for “Fahrenheit”, it stands for “Fuck everyone and everything.” (Note: NOAA is currently trying to determine if there is a correlation between the cool climate and the absence of new Sherman Ave articles.) Fortunately, the weather did eventually warm up; Memorial Day was a gorgeous, sunny day with temperatures in the mid 80’s, and practically every single student spent the day enjoying the weather. If I had a nickel for every brutally awkward sunburn I saw the next day, I would be well on my way to paying for a single class at this unjustifiably expensive university.

I didn't fight a goddamn war for nothing, you know.

Speaking of classes at this unjustifiably expensive university, another hot topic of spring quarter was the cancellation of the Human Sexuality course for its use of a fucksaw (a word that should be making its way into the Oxford English Dictionary before too long) in a post-lecture demonstration. This puts me in a difficult place, because I really don’t like disagreeing with His Royal Highness Morton O. Schapiro (you may think I use the word “royal” sarcastically, but damn, the man loves his purple). However, I really don’t support the censorship of educational materials, and neither does the majority of the Northwestern student body. I don’t want to blow this out of proportion, but I know that our founding fathers would not have stood for the censorship of an entire field of study based solely on the use of a motorized dildo. Granted, they didn’t have motorized dildos back then, but they certainly had steam-powered ones.

Pre-gaming breakfast with a keg full of mimosa

As much as I’d like to picture Abigail Adams pleasuring herself with a sexual contraption, it’s more important to recount the highlight of spring quarter: Dillo Day. Dillo Day is a music festival at Northwestern that started in 1972, when six students from Texas decided it was necessary to honor the armadillo – an animal widely known for its keg stands, public urination, and drunken hook-ups. Waking up on the morning of Dillo is like waking up on Christmas; you know from the moment you open your eyes that your day will instantly be riddled with little treasures. Except on Christmas morning, those little treasures are wrapped gifts, whereas on Dillo, those little treasures are shots of Smirnoff that you’ll likely chase with a BK Breakfast Muffin. But that’s only the beginning of the day! The great thing about Dillo Day is that when you’re already drunkenly belting The Script at 8:45am, you have an entire day of unforeseeable events awaiting you. This year, we were lucky enough to have such musical artists as New Pornographers (a group I vaguely remember enjoying), Peter Bjorn and John (I don’t know, just Google them), and B.O.B. – a hip-hop artist whose talent is surpassed only by his douchebaggery, and most other people’s talent.

It’s difficult to give a valid account of Dillo Day, because Dillo Day experiences are like snowflakes; they are all unique in their own various ways, but ultimately, they all come together to form one giant clusterfuck that deeply frustrates the Evanston community.

After Dillo Day, we had ahead of us only a measly two weeks. That being said, it was a two weeks of final papers, final exams, final projects, final straws with TAs (I mean really, why the hell would a grad student studying political science be the TA for a Russian literature class?), and final goodbyes for the summer. And that was it! Now it’s time for a summer full of serenading you, our readers, with our brilliance. Prepare yourselves, because Sherman Ave is putting on its skin-tight leather pants and blasting Katy Perry’s “Firework”, and when that happens, God knows what will follow.

–Ross Packingham