Exhibit A
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.
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.
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
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 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 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.
As a member of society with an available soapbox, I feel that it is necessary to warn you of a disgusting phenomenon in our society. This little-known gesture of disdain and douchiness has plagued middle schools for ages, but seeing its use among the heinously classy students of Northwestern brings me to my knees.
It is commonly known as “The Shoulder Thing.”
Imagine, for example, a group of friends have formed a circle. They are having a very deep and intimate conversation in which minds are being enlightened and lives are being changed.
A friend or acquaintance overhears snippet of said conversation and wishes to contribute.
However, the shoulders of persons A and B are too close together, and the new member cannot contribute to the conversation.
This is known as “The Shoulder Thing.”
Persons A and B are Motherfuckers because they can hear their friend knocking on the conversation’s door, politely requesting entry with his presence, and don’t move. Person C is also Motherfucker because he is physically looking into the face of the shunned and doesn’t say anything.
So much douchery is implied, and the Motherfuckers don’t even have the decency to outright shun the outsider. They strand him on the outside, disappointed and confused, like a freshmen girl calling Saferide at 3:27 AM when she finally thinks the line won’t be busy only to find that she’s too late and they’re no longer open, and now she’s either got to ask a frat bro she barely knows to walk her all the way south, go alone and risk running into the Smartphone Pirates, or hook up with a guy to get a place for the night.
Typically, circles of Motherfuckers will simply ignore the presence of the outsider, interrupting his stuttered attempts at contribution as if to say, “You are not worth the time it takes me to listen to your comment. You are not worth a momentary pity nod. However, my comment is incredibly important and significantly more valuable than whatever you are going to say.” Seriously, even Kanye, the most narcissistic of disruptive douchebags, was gonna let Taylor finish. Hell, Kanye even let Taylor start.
Here is an illustration of how to properly do The Shoulder Thing. As demonstrated, Persons A and B angle their shoulders so as to be enlightened by the insightful remark about to be made by their acquaintance.
You and your friends are tight. You are tighter than a hipster’s pants, tighter than a nun’s poontang, tighter than Kate Upton in an A-cup. We get it. The inside jokes are enough to make potential newcomers awkwardly excuse themselves from a conversation with a comment like, “I’ll be over there jerking off in your Apple Jacks, because it’s more visibly appreciative of my input.” You probably don’t like the outsider, or you’d welcome them. But you don’t have to be such a Motherfucker about it.
You must be the heinous you wish to see in the world.
Sherman Ave 