An Average Day in a Northwestern Student’s Hell

Pictured: Hell

7:00 am: You are woken up by an alarm set to the rousing melody of Chet Haze’s “Hollywood.”  You try to change the alarm tone every morning, but in Hell, it automatically resets.

7:15 am: You walk into your bathroom to shower, only to find someone engaging in self-gratification. THAT MEANS MASTURBATION.

7:30 am: Check your e-mail. You have 94 e-mails.
E-mail 1: A security alert e-mail, informing you that a fellow Northwestern student was robbed at gunpoint yesterday at 11:55am while walking from Harris to Kresge.
E-mail 2:  A notification that your tuition must be paid within the next 48 hours.  In Hell, you receive this e-mail every 48 hours.
E-mail 3:  A listing of all the best paid internships, complete with a ballpark estimate of how many people are more qualified for the internship than you.
E-mails 4 through 94:  All from Mark Witte.

8:00 am:  Organic chemistry lecture.  You get your midterm back today.

9:00 am:  You want breakfast, but you don’t have much time before your 9:30am class, so you are forced to eat breakfast in Hinman dining hall.

9:25 am: Wait for the Frostbite Express. It will not come. It does not exist.

How to take down the Happiness Club: A four prong approach

Harmless dosage of zen? OR A PAIN IN THE FUCKING ASS AS I TRY TO ESCAPE LAST NIGHT'S HOOKUP BEFORE HE REALIZES I STOLE HIS ENTIRE COLLECTION OF TOY STORY FIGURINES???

We’ve all been dealing with it for far too long: those smiling people that hand you dumdums or balloons and tell you to have a nice day. Every day it seems like Northwestern students are accosted while trying to get to class by smiling groups of their peers who think that they are making us HAPPY.

You want to make me happy? Then pour a shot of tequila in my mouth and tie me to Morty’s bed where he can whip me repeatedly with a dog leash while singing the Northwestern fight song and rubbing his nipples — don’t give me a fucking cupcake.

Here are some quick and dirty ways TO TAKE DOWN HAPPINESS CLUB:

1. Always carry cayenne pepper on your person, in case they bring out the puppies — take a whiff of that, BITCH.

2. When they ask you if you want a hug, ask them if they want their testicles. Better yet, kick first and ask later.

3. Splash their cups of free hot chocolate into their faces — see how well they can smile with third degree burns.

4. When they go kite flying: bring knives to attach to kites and scissors to snip strings. See how “happy” the people on the lake fill are when they are DEAD.

No I don’t want a free bagel, fuckhead.

Hate a Random Country: Costa Rica

One of the numerous heinous individuals populating this tainthole of a country

A few weeks ago, a member of our presteinous (that’s prestigiously heinous, if you’re wondering) blog was approached at an off-campus party and asked if we would write an installment of our unnecessarily abrasive “Hate a Random Country” series on his home country, Costa Rica. The member of the blog, who was most certainly not Evander Jones, got down from the table on which he was exuberantly belly-dancing and happily agreed to have the article written. That being said, this article is not being written only by request – it’s being written because Costa Rica is home to a massive concentration of twatitude that can be rivaled only by the Seneca Falls Convention.

“Costa Rica” is a country similar to “Democratic Republic of Congo,” in that its name in no way reflects the country itself. Spanish for “Rich Coast,” Costa Rica is truly only rich in two things: Trees and tainthood. I’ll focus mostly on the tainthood.

Red, white, and blue!? BRILLIANT!!!

For those of us who don’t give a flying fuckstick about shithole countries like Costa Rica, it may be a surprise to learn that the currency in Costa Rica is the “colón” – presumably named for either the human colon or Cristobal Colón, a.k.a. Christopher Columbus. After all, who wouldn’t want their currency named after a raging cockbottle who exploited their people? For fuck’s sake, Costa Rica. You don’t see Cherokees running around paying with Jacksons, or Northwestern’s defense running around paying with Anyones. Worse yet, the abbreviation for the Costa Rican Colón is, surprisingly enough, CRC – an acronym that, to Northwestern students, encompasses nearly all the School of Comm’s limitless atrociousness.

Besides their poorly-named currency, the country with a president named “Chinchilla” boasts many more aspects worth scrutinizing. For example, its coat of arms is the feeblest display of culture I’ve seen since Kappa Sig went to the Shedd Aquarium. The image consists of several features:

Contrary to initial beliefs, this is not a 5th Grade Social Studies project

• A landmass.  Presumably representing Costa Rica, the landmass is a strip of land with three unnaturally phallic geographic features.
• Two bodies of water.  Divided by the landmass, they likely represent the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans.  Because clearly, Costa Rica is the only fucking country that borders two oceans.
• Two ships.  Likely representing the Nina and the Pinta.  Or the Nina and the Santa Maria.  Or the Pinta and Santa Maria.  Or maybe just two generic coming-to-totally-fuck-your-people-over ships.
• A banner over the top reading “America Central.”  Apparently, no one ever informed these dumbshits that it’s called “Central America.”

The only thing rivaling Costa Rica's lack of defense is the Northwestern secondary

Perhaps the most unique fact about Costa Rica is that they don’t have a military.  Yes, you heard me.  To show you the full impact of this absurdity, allow me to put it into perspective.  On Monday nights, the backdoor of the Keg is more protected than the nation of Costa Rica.  On weekend nights, Burger King’s line-forming traditions are more protected than the nation of Costa Rica.  Two hammered college students bumping uglies in the basement of ZBT are more protected than the nation of Costa Rica.

You know, you’d think that a country bordering Nicaragua and Panama wouldn’t look too bad. But Costa Rica did it. And to be honest, that’s the one feat of Costa Rica that honestly impresses me. The nation’s four all-time Olympic medals aren’t impressive. The national soccer team’s four visits to the World Cup aren’t impressive. But damn – those Costa Ricans sure do know how to make themselves look like dickbrains. Well done, Costa Dickbrains. Well done.