Winter Quarter at Northwestern is Amazing and I Don’t Care Who Knows It

(via northwestern.edu)

Listen up, Wildcats. Betches love to complain about winter in Evanston. It’s soooo cold. Rush is soooo boring. I don’t have a date for Valentine’s Day. Nobody will ever love me. I’m going to die alone surrounded by my cats and McKinsey and Company employee of the month awards. The passage near Kellogg is like totally a wind tunnel. I should have gone to Madison, it’s totally not this cold up there. My Wings Over order is taking sooooo long to get here. Where is my Honey BBQ? Where is the Frosbite Express??!??!?

I’m gonna stop you right there. Winter quarter is amazing, you just don’t know it yet. Here’s a rundown of all the reasons why January through March are a wonderful time to be a Wildcat:

An Open Letter to the Northwestern Class of 2018

AHHHHHHYEAAAAAAYYYYY YOU’RE GOING TO NERDWESTERN NORTHWESTERN NORTHWASTED !!!!!

Congratulations. Sincerely. You took 7 or 8 AP exams and scored somewhere 33+ on your ACT* You wrestled away your school’s student presidency from that fucking bitch Katie Taylor and you sacrificed a healthy sleep schedule for that batch of A pluses.

And now,

It’s all paid off.

Sherman Ave Interviews: Morty Schapiro

The Sherman Ave Editors (Evander Jones, Ross Packingham and Sir Edward Twattingworth III) sat down with Northwestern University President Morty Schapiro for an interview.  Why he agreed to let us do this, we may never know, but we sure are happy he did.

“I’m allergic to cats.”

Packingham: If you could make a drink called “The Morty,” what would it entail?

Morty: Oh man. Like an alcoholic drink?

Twattingworth: Wow, interesting that your mind went there.

Morty: Yeah… Well, you know when I drink, like last night–this is really exciting–but one-third orange juice, two-thirds Perrier.

Packingham: Perrier? Is that vodka? Or rum?

Morty: And they have to give me this much wine so I can hold it to pretend I’ll drink it, but I’m not a wine drinker. I like beer when I have Asian food. I like Thai beer, or Japanese beer or something.

Packingham: Like a Budweiser?

Morty: I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those. So I’m not big on like American

The Perks of Being a Wildcat

Dear friend,

I’m sorry I haven’t written to you in a couple of weeks, but I have been trying to “study” like my advisor said. It’s strange because sometimes, I read a textbook and I think I actually understand what I have read. Also, when I write notes, I spend the next two days trying to figure out what I have written in my notes. I don’t know if this is good or bad. Nevertheless, I am trying to study.

In terms of my grades in classes, I am trying to go to fewer social events that I get invited to at school. It’s too late to try and get any A’s or anything like that, but I still try to stay in sometimes and do the work I can. Things like the assigned homework problems that don’t count for points and actually reading the textbook, even if I don’t have a fucking clue what it’s saying.

The Most Deranged Email From Morty You Will Ever Read

I don’t give a flying fuck if you go to PTI about me. I WILL FUCKING ASSAULT YOU.

If you just opened this like I told you to, tie yourself down to whatever chair you’re sitting in, because this email is going to be a rougher fucking ride than your last lonely Friday with your fucksaw.

For those of you that have your heads stuck under the Rock, which apparently is the majority of this organization, we have been FUCKING UP in terms of tour guide stories and general social interactions with prospies. I’ve been getting emails on emails about tour guides LITERALLY being so fucking AWKWARD and so fucking BORING. If you’re reading this right now and saying to yourself, “Oh em gee Morty, I’ve been having so much fun telling all my tours about the fabulous faculty on campus during Wildcat days!”, then punch yourself in the face right now so that I don’t have to fucking find you on campus to do it myself.

A Pep Talk For Your Finals

Are you a Wildcat? ARE YOU A MOTHERFUCKING WILDCAT!?!?

Listen up, kiddies, because this is going to be the nicest damn thing you hear from Sherman Ave for the next three years.

You’re going to rock your finals. Because we said so.

Remember the first house centipede you found on your wall freshman year?  You captured it live in the free purple plastic Northwestern cup with the weird straw, dropped it in the toilet, watched its disgruntlement as it flailingly realized its own mortality, and showered urine and verbal profanity on it before flushing. That centipede was a mild and euphemistic foreshadowing of what is going to happen to your finals this week.

50 Shades of Purple, Chapter One

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.

Holiday Guide: NU Gift Ideas For Your Favorite Wildcat

A yamaka with Pat Fitzgerald's face on it is also appropriate as a Hanukkah gift

So you’ve got to find gifts for the dorm buddies you’ve known less than four months and the friends you haven’t seen since before you lost your innocence. Or maybe you’ve just gotten your early decision letter* and you’re wondering what else you could possibly want in life. Fear not: Sherman Avenue is committed to delivering you new holiday ideas from our sack full of sassy class.

Fucksaw
Admit it: you have those days. You’re hornier than a two-peckered triceratops, but too tired to go all the way up north to flirt your way into some frat bro’s lovestained man-cave and too classy to booty text your “It’s Complicated” on the fourth floor. Hell, you don’t want to deal with people at all. This is why sex toys exist. Remember: nothing says Wildcat Pride like a decently sized purple drilldo.

A Framed Photo of Yourself
Because who wouldn’t want that? You could even pose like the self-photography of 13-year-old girls whose love for MySpace is only second to love of themselves. If you’re really feeling it, make it a poster — the recipient can put it above their bed and wake up self-gratify themselves to it every morning like they did with their Channing Tatum poster in middle school. But this time, they might even have your fucksaw to help out.

A Framed Photo of Morton Schapiro
See above.

Box O’Fun
Not what it sounds like, and a legit good idea. I’m compiling quotations that are inspiring (“Remember, things are never so bad that they can’t get worse”), dorky (“Is your name Avada Kedavra? Cause you’ve got a killer bod”), mature (“I’M STANDING RIGHT BEHIND YOU…made you look”) and thoughtful (“Can I borrow your hair straightener?”). I’m putting them with candy in a small tasteful storage container names-in-a-hat style, and instructing my BFF to draw a quotation every time she needs to de-stress or procrastinate.

Gift Card to Burger King
Let’s be real: after Willard dining hall, this is your friend group’s second-most-patronized food acquisition area in Evanston. Late-night drunchies? Weekend Hinman’s too busy? You give someone the gift of free burgers, and they’re gonna use it.

Would you like that gift rapped?

A Frat Bro
So what if your homegirl’s not rushing? You might still consider getting a talented PMA bro to serenade her. May I recommend Flight of The Conchord’s classic ditty, “Most Beautiful Girl in the Room.”** Because sometimes, we all need our fucksaws to have faces.

Cookies
No matter how incredible hot cookie bar can be, nothing compares to homemade peanut blossoms. Nothing.

Another legit idea: “Cookie mix in a jar.” You’ve seen it. Someone gives out a jar/bag/mug of dry ingredients and lets the recipient do the messy work. But it’s cute.

A Stripper
Give me one reason why not. I dare you.

The Love Professor will see you now

Professor J. Reginald Vandernips
Women love him. Men love him. Parents, pets, and children of all ages love him. He knows more about cooking than Rachel Ray and Martha Stewart put together, regularly fielding obscure questions regarding food science and practicing his skills. He’s slept under lecture tables in Tech and licked objects labeled “biohazardous.” If there is one thing on this list that you choose to purchase for your wildcat, let it be Professor Reggie V.

Keep your friends close and your heinousness closer.

——————————————————————————————————————————
*In which case, CONGRATS!
**Ellie K once had an overnight tryst with a boy who sang her that very song. However, contrary to what one might expect, the full-length serenade did not facilitate the hookup, but rather transpired a significant amount of time later in a location where she was quite literally The Only Girl in the Room. She’s never been quite sure what to make of that.

Morty Schapiro: The Man, The Myth, The Legend

You lookin' at ME?

It is well known amongst Northwestern students that the University’s president, Morton Owen Schapiro, is, for all intents and purposes, a god among mere mortals. Those who admire and fear his clout often whisper his name in secluded corners of the sorority quad or the bowels of the Technological Institute or the basement of Norris, questioning if the legend is true. Did he really spend a summer translating ethnic slurs to Portuguese refugees in Angola when he was 10? Is the wildcat sound effect during Northwestern football games actually a recording of him yawning? Did he actually find Waldo AND Carmen Sandiego? As surely as Francis Church affirms the existence of Santa Claus, I am here to tell you, reader, that yes, Morton Schapiro has accomplished all that you’ve heard. And more.

Grew that beard in 27 seconds after pounding back 3 whiskey shots

After receiving his driver’s license when he was 16 days old, Morty Schapiro kicked the dust off his baby booties and decided to take on the big world. By age 3 he became the world’s youngest professional contortionist while living in an original Adolf Loos house in Austria. During his time there, Austrian tourism shot up by 348%. He was quickly relocated to the United States to serve as a consultant for the Federal Bureau of Investigations and took part in several covert operations with the Mexican government. Four months later he canoed to South Africa with only a can of Cheez Whiz and a ping-pong paddle as an oar. He made it in one day. After tutoring Steven Biko in public speaking and political activism, Schapiro made his way to Angola, and then to Tanzania, where he climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. Twice.

When he was fifteen, he worked in conjunction with the United States 56^th Rescue Squadron in search and rescue missions throughout North Africa and southern Europe. Years later, his expertise in the field allowed him to single-handedly devise a plan to rescue the trapped Chilean miners, which he explained in a single text message. In his spare time, Morty traveled back to the United States to take the SATs, which he got a perfect score on after drinking two Four Lokos.

No kidding, 8-inches

During his years in college and graduate school, Morty spent his free time wooing women with his sensuous oboe and saxophone playing, though he was first chair violinist in the Philadelphia Orchestra on the weekends. In the same night he built a telescope in his dorm room (which was later used as a prototype for the Hubble Telescope), cooked 10-minute rice in 5 minutes, and drew a doodle, which would earn him an honorary degree from the Rhode Island School of Design.  He got a perfect score on three exams the next morning. He read the Count of Monte Cristo and the Divine Comedy in an hour and was the only student in the history of University of Pennsylvania to earn a 4.8 GPA.

#24 even totally let his girlfriend spend a night of mind-boggling pleasure with Morty, just to be a nice guy

While studying abroad in France, he visited every exhibit of the Louvre in a day, and still had time to cook a four-course meal, using only a blender and toaster. He first discovered his love of economics after working with Benoit Mandelbrot on his paper, Fractals: Form, Chance and Dimension. The day before his return to the United States, a parade was held in his honor and he was awarded by President Valery d’Estaing “The Only American Loved by France.”

Morty Cat

In the years since, Morty has never ceased to amaze those who surround him. He has been nominated for two Oscars, a Grammy and every Nobel Prize. He was the source of inspiration for the Old Spice commercial character, plays tennis with Rafael Nadal every Wednesday, and knits onesie pajamas for needy children. He is impervious to Rickrolling. He’s never lost at Risk, is in perfect physical condition, has designed floral arrangements for several celebrity weddings, and makes a mean apple pie. Students revere him, Evanston aldermen cower in his presence, and the weather fluctuates according to his mood.  He is mighty, he is kind, he is refined.

He is Morty.