A Detailed Schedule for a New Years Spent Alone

This year, I will be spending New Years Eve at home by myself. This is not a choice I made willingly, nor is it the first time that I have found myself in this situation. It’s pretty much the same story every time I come home for the holidays – my friends hang around town for the first week or so, and then jet off to various destinations the day after Christmas, where they typically remain until well after the New Year. This leaves me with three options for New Years Eve:

1) Call up friends from high school that I’ve lost touch with.

2) Hang out with parents and parents’ friends.

3) Stay home alone.

God is Dead, and so is Nietzsche. Kind of.

If you’ve been to the Google homepage today, you’ve seen the bizarre cubist homage to late philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche–better recognized as the guy who killed God and made that kid in Little Miss Sunshine take a vow of silence. Today would be his 169th birthday had he not gone crazy and died of

Ten Happy Study Breaks For Your Finals Week

1. Pop bubble wrap. Alternately, place bubble wrap under a rug in an area with heavy foot traffic and watch.

2. Purchase a stick of your ex’s deodorant of choice. Apply. Sniff your own armpits and pretend you’re not forever alone.

The Sherman Ave Corollary

Exhibit A

Every once in a while, some poor soul accidentally visits Sherman Ave while searching the Internet for content unrelated to an actual Sherman Ave article.[1] The advent of Google Images—a service created to allow users to search the Web for image content—is largely responsible for this heinous phenomenon that brings hundreds of viewers to our site on a daily basis.

In a sense, it is an honor to think that when Google designed a search engine with billions of searchable pictures based on image keywords, link texts, and text adjacent to the image, it was for the sole purpose of efficiently transporting consumers hungry for Jessica Rabbit porn to our humble blog. Apparently there’s been a dearth of images related to Iceland, and we’re always more than happy to fill that blatant-copyright-infringing void.

An Open Letter to my Unborn Grandson Explaining the Sport of Football

Dear Unborn Grandson,

Still waiting for the Houston Texans’ upcoming “Divisional Round Dubstep.”

If you are reading this now, two things must have happened. Apparently, a) I have lived like I died, drunkenly paddling a canoe in the buff down the Chicago River, and b) President Malia Ann Obama has outlawed the sport of football in our once-proud United States of America. Luckily for you, I predicted that such travesties would happen — mostly because canuding through the poisonous sludge that is the Chicago River while belligerently intoxicated can have adverse effects on your health — but also because the sport of football was pretty damn dangerous. What follows is all the important knowledge you will ever need to know in order to preserve the memory and history of the sport of football and ensure that you never ever fall prey to the allure of its metrosexual European cousin.

You see, Unborn Grandson, football was the greatest sport ever invented. The perfect combination of brawn and strategy and cheerleaders. Good God, don’t ever let us forget the cheerleaders.

Speaking of God, Yahweh fucking loved football. Just fucking loved it. Loved the sport so much that members of both teams would pray to God, asking for strength, fortitude, a sturdy offensive line, and a guaranteed contract plus incentives. God rewarded good Christians who couldn’t throw a spiral with an impregnable defense, while punishing other franchises with the likes of Cade McNown and Rex Grossman.

God loved football because football fucking ruled. In America, pro football was more popular than if Justin Bieber and cholesterol teamed up with all other major sports combined. No other game combined savage violence with cunning tactics and celebration dances quite like it. The game induced grown men in Philadelphia to throw D-batteries at Santa Claus, wear slices of cheese on their heads as they froze their asses off in Wisconsin, and even every once in awhile travel willingly to Detroit (this, after all, was before the city was overtaken by the mole people).

The athletes who played the game were revered as gods among men. If, you know, the gods were really great at running hitch and go routes and sending pictures of their junk to women they weren’t married to. Even the kickers, whose sole purpose in life was to — you guessed it Unborn Grandson — kick a ball still got laid, an impressive feat for somebody like Sebastian Janikowski.

Back before Google installed screens in all of our heads, we used to watch this magical sport from early Fall until February on things called “televisions,” which showed us the game and expert analysis of the game and hot women drinking shitty beer during breaks in the game. Sidenote: One day, Unborn Grandson, you might think that drinking Busch Light is “hip,” and “retro,” and “ironically hilarious,” but let me tell you, it’s not. All of your little hipster friends in the year 2063 might think it’s really cool to ironically drink your old man’s beer while you listen to Skrillex mp3’s and wear skinny jeans or some shit like that, but those kids have no idea how painful these things were at the time. Just be advised that my will specifically strips you of all rights to my Pokemon card collection if you are ever found Tebowing.

But yeah, TV was pretty great for football, and at the very end of the season, America held a special sacred holiday called Super Bowl Sunday. For one day the entire nation turned its eyes on the two best football teams of the year, who tried very hard to win the championship game and the ensuing confetti and the pretty metal trophy and the rights to wear rings the size of diamond-crusted nuva rings and to cry into Chris Berman‘s microphone. Halftime entertainment featured the very best aging classic rock stars had to offer, and even the occasional rogue booby or floating Usher.

The only thing better than professional football was college football. The college game was as passionate as Sicilians, and its governing body was as corrupt as, well, Sicilians. The rivalries were intense, and the pregames before a noon kickoff were unseemly in the best possible way.

Now, I’m sure grandpop’s alma mater has made quite a name for itself in the future, thanks to alumni like Ross Packingham (Beer Pong Olympic goldmedalist, 2024, 2028) and Chet Haze (Bratz 3D, Forrest Gump 2: Gump n Grind), but we were once a pretty respectable football institution too. We’re talking, like, the 7th most feared Big Ten team.

College football had things called “bowl games” instead of the Super Bowl to commemorate the end of its season. It worked kind of like youth soccer, where almost everybody got a trophy. I can still remember the thrill of victory when Northwestern won its first bowl game since the Rose Bowl, defeating the South Dakota State Jackrabbits in one of the most thrilling Overstock.com Money Grab Bowl in years. Those were the days. Half of the school erupted into celebration while patiently explaining to the other half what a first down was.

But I can only assume that the goddamn liberals and the socialists and the gays and the concussed NFL retirees will collude together to pressure President Malia Obama to ban the sport from America altogether in the near future. I cannot express how tragic of a mistake this will be, on par with our future decision to defrost Walt Disney or replace football with children fighting to the death for our entertainment.

Alright, Unborn Grandson, I hope this letter has reached you well. Please understand how important the sport of football was to all Americans, and don’t judge us too harshly for our cultural transgressions during the YOLO era. Things like twitter and Four Loko seemed like pretty great ideas at the time.

Well, that’s about it. I hope things are well in the future for you and your Roomba overlords. Are they still making teenage fiction about vampires? Has Christopher Nolan won an Oscar yet? How does your generation feel about the Black Keys?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a river to canude down.

Sincerely,
Evander

5 things to do on Leap Day

You can count on one hand the number of things that occur once every four years: the election of American presidents and Leap Years. Probably some other stuff too, but who cares. Anyway, that means today is a cause for celebration. What’s the best way to recognize this holiday? Here’s how:

You’ll fit right in with Ross Packingham and Sir Edward Twattingworth III

1. Apply to be a Sherman Ave writer
Yes, yes, I know. CTECs are finally up for winter quarter, but lo and behold, I have an even better way for you to procrastinate on your Buddhist Psychology homework: join us! That’s right: for the second time ever, you can apply to work at the fourth greatest NU-centric blog ever created by Evander Jones! If you still need to be convinced (in which case, what?) check out these reasons. See you soon.

Hate A Random Region: The Caribbean

I know what you’re thinking.  “Aren’t you only supposed to violently scrutinize one country, not an entire region of the globe?”  So before I embark on my xenophobic hate journey, allow me to succinctly answer your question: No.

Now, without further ado, let’s get this slander ball rolling.  In rather uncharacteristic fashion, I have organized this rant into an enumerated series of grievances against that pathetic excuse of a geographic region known as the Caribbean Sea.

The Gulf Coast is also great for tourism, assuming you want to light yourself on fire while scuba diving

Grievance 1: The Gulf of Mexico

Remember that scene in the Lion King in which Mufasa explains to Simba that everything the light touches is his kingdom?*  Well, the same goes for The Gulf of Mexico, it’s just different in that everything it touches is unbelievably heinous.  Allow me to elaborate on this disgusting area that kind of qualifies as the Caribbean Sea.

Guys, Newt had an idea!

Genteleman, I have a plan. Let's destroy the Republican Party!

Newt Gingrich recently promised that by the year 2020, the United States would have a colony on the Moon if he is elected president in the 2012 election. Like literally, this was a thing he said. These words came out of his mouth intentionally. Here’s the quote: “By the end of my second term, we will have the first permanent base on the moon. And it will be American.”

Again, and this cannot be stressed enough, this was a thing that he said in an attempt to convince Americans he would stimulate the economy, reduce the size of government, and cut the deficit.

So I thought I’d call up a few of my closest friends and get their reactions to Newt’s new campaign platform.

Mitt Romney: So this is the guy that’s leading me in the polls? He’s actually ahead of me? I just… I really don’t understand what I did to make you hate me so much. I have been so nice to all of you. I considered you friends of mine. I put my life on hold for you fuckers. And THIS is how you treat me?! KAY. COOL. WE’RE OVER. GET OFF MY LAWN.

Ron Paul: Great idea. You first, bro.

The late, great Frank Sinatra: Flyyyy me to the mooooon, you delusional bag of serial adultery.

Zlurg, leader of the Moon People: So help me Thor, if you try to take our lands we will destroy you and everything you love. We will come down there and raze your buildings, burn your wildlands, poison your water, eradicate your air and kill every single one of you. Slowly. One by one. Starting with women and children. Do not for a moment think I am joking. You have one hour.

Rick Santorum: I had the exact same idea! But then I did a quick Bing search– #boycottGoogle, amirite guyz?!—and found out that going to the moon involves science. So, uh, good luck with that! HAHAHAHAHAH SCIENCE HEHEHEHE.

Has he seriously never seen Moonraker?

Morty Schapiro: Do I have a reaction to Newt’s proposal? No. No I do not. Do I have a reaction to Kenan Thompson coming to campus? OOOOWWWWWEEEEE T-SHANE YES I DO.

A lolcat: I can haz moonburger?

Marianne Gingrich, Newt’s second wife: Oh this is JUST like you, Newt. Leave Mother Nature the moment she gets sick for some cooler, younger planet who can do things I never could. That’s it, isn’t it? What does the Moon do for you, Newt? Tell me, I wanna know. Does she tell you you’re so much smarter and sexier than all the other Earthlings? Is that it? Or is she willing to do things I’m not? Maybe that’s it. OR MAYBE IT’S THE FACT SHE DOESN’T HAVE M.S. LIKE I DO. COULD THAT MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, HAVE SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT?!

Barack Obama: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA OH MY GOD STOP. There’s noooo way this is real. You guys, you guys come hear what Newt said! No seriously, come hear this! Yeah, I KNOW! Everyone take the next five months off, I think we got this hahahahahaha.

Newt Gingrich, South Carolina, and the Abortion of My Career in Political Commentary

And I don't think I want to. Except for understanding your disproportionate ability to get laid.

The GOP primaries are like Chicago weather: completely, utterly, and insanely unpredictable.* Just when you think you understand the day-to-day realities of winter in Chicago, BAM!! Thunderstorm in January. Just when you think you’ve figured out the winner of the GOP nomination, BOOM! Newt wins South Carolina.

I mean, what the fuck, Newt? I thought we were done. I really did. I thought Silly Time was over and it was time for some Real Talk with Obama and Romney (or at the very least, an Al Green-themed The Voice-style sing-off). Not so fast. But I guess I should’ve seen this coming.

Here is a Facebook status I wrote a few months ago, when Newt Gingrich was polling in first place while his opponents floundered, as Herman Cain struggled to fight rape charges and Rick Perry struggled to remember things and Mitt Romney struggled to be interesting: “Newt Gingrich is in first place. That’s it. It’s all a farce. Let’s stop pretending that all of this is real. I throw up my hands.”

Newt polling in first was to the GOP race what Sam and Frodo reaching the end of the Shire was for LOTR. We were now farther from political sanity than we had ever been before, and there was no telling where we would be swept off to next.

Google his name. GOOGLE IT!!!

Two months later, Rick Santorum won Iowa.

Rick Santorum! His name has been successfully Google-bombed and EVERYBODY KNOWS IT and he still won Iowa!

I underestimated the GOP. And not in a “wow I underestimated how good this Nutella milkshake from Fran’s would be” kind of way. Oh no. It was a “the 1984 Portland Trail Blazers underestimated Michael Jordan so much they decided to draft Sam Bowie instead of him” kind of underestimation. Half of me understood that the Newt poll meant the Brotherhood of Dada had dragged us into an alternate universe where ‘politics’ was synonymous with ‘freakshow’ and words lost their meaning and anything was possible…but half of me kept thinking that every crazy development (“oops,” Herman Cain’s Pokémon obsession, Ron Paul’s status as the voice of reason) was the zenith of absurdity, that there remained no further depths to which we could plunge.

But you best believe Newt Gingrich always had an answer for me. Once again, for the record, in case you were too busy this weekend dancing to polka music or playing cards with guys who have the Teen Titans tattooed on their arm to hear about it, Newt won South Carolina! Once more for the record: aaaaahhhhhhhhh!

Is this year’s GOP race the result of some twisted alternate earth they dragged us into?

My last article was not only a celebration of the ridiculous hilarity of the GOP campaign, but also an elegy for that craziness, which I thought was about to vanish in a cloud of sanity. I thought Mitt finally had this all locked up after winning New Hampshire, and I was sure we were finally transitioning from Perry-Bachmann-Cain-Paul-Gingrich to Romney-Obama, to real political debates between two sane candidates. But then Newt charged back to metaphorically punch me in the mouth and remind me that America isn’t going to stop being a hot dysfunctional mess anytime soon.

My possible career in political commentary hasn’t even started and I’m already thinking of quitting forever. I just cannot wrap my head around Newt Gingrich. Can anybody? If you thought Rick Santorum was vulnerable to a casual Google search, try taking Newt’s name for a virtual walk some time. Newt probably has his closet bolted shut with a chair against the door and that still isn’t enough to keep the skeletons in. There is absolutely no possible way that Newt can win the GOP nomination, much less the presidency. But if this campaign has taught us anything, it’s that the possible is impossible and up is down and America is fucked up. In the real world, Newt could never win. But I don’t think we even live in the real world anymore.

Newt

My sense of surprise is utterly gone. For the rest of eternity I will believe any story, any event that involves the GOP. Nothing is too nonsensical for a party where Newt Gingrich is a viable candidate. I probably won’t even bat an eye when Bristol Palin wins the Iowa caucuses in four years and becomes the favorite to win the GOP nomination. The Republican Party has moved beyond my paltry comprehension ability.

I think I’m just gonna have to stick to the fiery anti-coffee invective. I can’t do this anymore.

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*And for those of you scoring at home, “Chicago weather” is the third thing I’ve compared the GOP primaries to during my career. The list also includes Doctor Who and NBC’s Thursday night sitcom lineup.