“Ugh, I’m Such A SWUG,” Announces Girl With a 3.9 And Offers From McKinsey And Nielsen

EVANSTON– Senior Anna Penderson told her friends Tuesday afternoon that she is “officially” a senior washed up girl, according to witness reports.

“Ugh, I’m such a SWUG,” she declared while poring over her econometrics notes. “Like,

20 Reasons why we’re so fucking glad that sorority recruitment is done

1. Now I have 40 more Facebook friends. Can some1 say #popular?

2. Sleep

3. When I speak to people, there can be a natural pause in the conversation and I don’t have to worry that the other person will think I’m weird or awkward

4. Today my alarm went off and I was like oh I should get up and shower and then I was like nah and slept for another 25 minutes

From Wildkittens to Wildcougars: A GIF Journey from Freshman to Senior Year at Northwestern

Dear Class of 2017,

Three short years ago the class of 2014 shuffled at the pace of a dehydrated desert tortoise because everyone’s parents felt the need to take photos every five steps marched through the arch and commenced the drunk, sweaty adventure that was Wildcat Welcome 2010. In a few weeks, we’re really looking forward to sitting on our front porches, drinking beer that isn’t Busch Light, and watching you wander aimlessly as you try to find that awesome party near the corner of Maple and Simpson.

Putting Your Best Foot Forward: Meeting Your BF’s*+ Parents At Dinner (Not at all inspired by true events from last weekend)

Never display fear. Only self-loathing.

In this list, I will pull from my vast^! dating experience to help you conquer one of dating’s biggest challenges: meeting the parents.

Okay, so if you’re all like, “Oh but parents LoVe Me! iM sO FaCKING CharMinGGGG!!@!!@YQ*@ COMM STUDIES FTW!”  then fuck you.  Because nobody’s perfect, and everyone can use some helpful reminders.  No matter who you are, you’re not too good for my FOOLPROOF ADVICE.  Read on.

In Defense of Self-Medication: An Attempt to Cure Winter Quarter Depression

Then again, I’d be depressed if I had to wear that cardigan.

Seasonal affect disorder is a thing. A REAL thing. I mean, the acronym is literally SAD so the shrinks who came up with it were either fucking with us or spent a half hour with a Northwestern student (read: me) and realized Googling “teach me how to be happy” and “people having a worse day than me” on a semi-regular basis are grounds to be concerned about mental stability. And this SADdness infiltrates your life in every way until the only thing saving you from full-blown depression is the knowledge that a repeat of House Hunters might be on later and that maybe the couple will be beautiful and loaded.

Sherman Ave Freshman Guide: Libations at NU

What most intoxicated freshmen look like to us.

So you’re going off to NU this fall, eh? You like to party hard? NO YOU DON’T, HIGH SCHOOLER. Now that we have that aside, let me be your tour guide around the beautiful bar that is the NU campus.

BEER
No shit you’re going to find beer. What did you expect? Prepare for keg beer, Keystone Light, Busch Light, and PBR galore. Occasionally you’ll find something else, but don’t get excited. For the love of God, please do not drink the bottles if you find any in a fridge! That shit is stealing and is uncool. Be thankful enough that NU’s frats don’t charge like asshole state schools. We’re nice like that. Don’t trash the place.

10 Events in World History That Totally Should Have Been Pregamed

There was once a time when history was regarded with reverence and esteem. Then the History Channel aired “Ice Road Truckers,” and since then, it has been hard for anyone to take history seriously. That being said, we still view history as an important part of our heritage that must be studied and understood. And by “studied and understood,” we of course mean “examined to establish which historical events would be funniest if all parties involved were shitfaced.” Here at Sherman Ave, history and drinking go together like, well, Mohawk rum and CVS-brand soda. Thus, we proudly present to you the 10 events in world history that totally should have been pregamed.

And you thought Northwestern students' Halloween costumes were offensive

10. The Travels of Marco Polo
As anybody who ever made the excruciating journey from the Keg to the mystical and foreign land of Burger King can attest, drunk adventures just tend to be more interesting than sober travels. Just imagine if Marco Polo had downed two bottles of wine before setting out from Venice! The young guido would probably embark on a series of raucous adventures throughout his travels, recording everything from his first encounters with Asian fusion cuisine in the land of Joy Yee to an ill-fated attempt to skinny dip in the Arabian Sea in an incomprehensibly ungrammatical text message sent to his roommate at three in the morning. The next day, Marco Polo would be way too hungover to feel dismayed by the revelation that, after being carried like three miles by his friends to the Yuan court, Polo used the sacred oil from Jerusalem entrusted to him by Gregory X to introduce the Mongolian Empire to waffle fries before promptly vomiting on Kublai Khan’s lap.

9. The Storming of the Bastille
On July 14, 1789, a bunch of disgruntled poor French people massed upon the Bastille, a large prison known for holding political prisoners. If you think about it, there are only three explanations for masses of people converging on a public place — they’re angry, they’re drunk, or they’re in the Jai Ho music video. Regrettably, seeing as the French were mostly angry in this scenario; they really should have been drunk. Simply compare the nature of angry public gatherings and drunken public gatherings. Angry public gatherings include Occupy Wall Street, Tiananmen Square, and Nazi book burnings. Drunken public gatherings include Snoop Dogg concerts, St. Patrick’s Day, and the celebration of Osama bin Laden’s death. You decide which you find preferable. Besides, A Tale of Two Cities would just be so much more interesting if Madame Lafarge was vomiting uncontrollably in every scene.

8. The Defenestration of Prague
Like anybody needs much provocation to drink in order to escape the infernal bleakness of Eastern Europe. But I usually do need to be at least a couple of shots of absinthe deep before I defend my religious freedom by shoving Catholics out of a third floor window into a pit of manure. Not to mention, a good pregame would have added a whole other layer to the term “getting shit-faced.”

Foam is beer!

7. The Crusades
Which Crusades? ALL OF THEM. ALL OF THE CRUSADES SHOULD HAVE BEEN PREGAMED. Okay, it’s like a road trip, but you can be as sloshy-slosh as you want, because you don’t have to worry about getting a DUI (unless the Holy Roman Empire stringently enforced horse-riding sobriety). Besides, there is no better instigator of belligerent shenanigans than Pope Urban II’s famous declaration, “God wills it!” That’s just asking to be misinterpreted for fratty purposes. Fifteen shots in an hour? God wills it! Eight consecutive kegstands? God wills it! Seriously, if someone walked up to me tomorrow and said “Hey, God wants us to get incredibly blitzed and then go ride a horse from Rome to Jerusalem,” I would instantly buy the necessary supplies. Then I’d probably proceed to buy a bible, to double-check the whole divine mandate thing.

6. Marx Writes the Communist Manifesto
Alcoholism becomes much easier when it’s supported by a good old-fashioned dialectical materialist ideology. A tipsy Marx after an unlucky game of Drunkopoly would undoubtedly replace his theories of Das Kapital with Das Boot, the class struggle with the timeless struggle for consciousness, and the stateless society the ideal of a pants-less society. His manuscript — hastily scrawled on the back of a cocktail napkin — would ignite rebels everywhere with its message, resulting in a series of idealistic revolutions calling for the redistribution of Miller High Life among the proletariat but rapidly degenerating into a dystopian shitshow of Adele lyrics in the gulag of Fran’s Cafe.

5. Hannibal Leading His Army Over the Alps
When I’m plastered, there are only two things I want: Guacamole and Elephants. I have some doubts about the guacamole rations in the Carthaginian army, but there were definitely some fucking elephants. They’re just so large! In that state of mind, it’s difficult to perceive objects larger than the distance between Burger King and 7/11. An elephant would just be mind-blowing. Furthermore, there are tons of fun activities to do in the Alps: skiing, snowboarding, sledding, making snow angels, having snowball fights with fellow Carthaginian soldiers, walking behind Hannibal and quietly muttering lines from “Silence of the Lambs,” etc. If someone just told me to march over an entire mountain range, I’d be pretty miffed, but if someone had me do a power hour and then said “Let’s go hiking!” I’d take the bait like a middle-aged housewife at Herman Cain’s mansion.

A thimblefull of tequila brings out her coquettish side

4. The Trial of Joan of Arc
Tensions might have ran high in the Rouen courtroom as the Maid of Orléans was tried for heresy, but that’s nothing a little Smirnoff chased by a slap can’t solve! If only the Bishop Cauchon had pregamed, the interrogation would have devolved from religious inquiry to a saucy game of “Never Have I Ever,” with questions mostly pertaining to Joan’s fantasies about the Dauphin and her penchant for cross-dressing. Joan of Arc will then famously proceed to declare to the courtroom, “I do not think I am in mortal sin, and if I am, it is for God and the priest in confession to know that I used the pages of Ezekial 23: 19-20 to roll the biggest joint Charles VII ever saw!” The trial would inevitably end with the pronouncement that the patron saint of France was “one righteous motherfucker” before burning her at the stake and cooking escargot over her smoldering ashes.

3. The Arrival of Cortez in Mexico
I’ll be the first to admit: When I’ve have too much to drink, I’m very friendly. Best friends are inundated with hugs, acquaintances are equally inundated with hugs, and the quiet Korean girl from my Econ discussion probably sustains a fairly serious spinal injury from the amount and magnitude of the hugs with which she is inundated. But even in all of my drunken affection, I very rarely greet a stranger and jump to the conclusion that they are the god Quetzalcoatl. There was that one time, but she had a very oddly proportioned face, and I couldn’t come up with any other explanation for it. Ultimately, Montezuma and his Aztec cronies should have heavily pregamed the arrival of Cortez, if for no other reason than to justify their absurd actions (just think if only Cortez had been entranced by the Aztec’s gold tequila rather than the golden buildings of Tenochtitlan). I’d have to be incredibly trashed to give a stranger the keys to the capital city of my civilization, even though I was once trashed enough to lock the keys in the car at 2:30 in the morning after drunkenly transporting a couch through several blocks of downtown Evanston.

2. The Construction of Stonehenge
Seeing as its pretty easy to build Stonehenge in the opening of Civilization IV, I can only assume that the Druids were pretty far gone when they built one the most complex monuments of the Stone Age. I mean, you’d kind of have to be three sheets to the wind to agree to lug 25-ton rocks from a Welsh quarry to some testament for the enterprising spirit of man. Assuming the Druids were drunk on mead, there are few explanations remaining for the memorial. My guess is that they either built a fast-food restaurant catering to students’ late-night culinary needs, or else a bar with a lax ID policy and stripper poles on the dance floor.

Drink every time a Russian model looks like this by the time she hits her mid-thirties?

1. Russia
You may not have ever thought to pregame an entire nation, but it seems like the only appropriate thing to do. I’d really like to isolate a single event in Russian history that needs to be pregamed more than the others, but that is simply a Sisyphean task. Conclusion: Nothing in or relating to Russia should ever involve sobriety. Therefore, instead of painstakingly listing every event in Russian history, I present to you: “History of Russia: The Drinking Game!”
• Drink every time Russia is invaded in the winter against the invader’s better judgment
• Drink every time a prominent politician is sent to a gulag
• Drink every time Brezhnev’s eyebrows appear in an intricate nightmare of yours
• Drink every time Putin shares an uncomfortably intimate moment with a wild animal
• Drink every time Tolstoy and/or Dostoevsky makes you lose faith in everything, LITERALLY EVERYTHING
• Drink every time Tchaikovsky tries to suppress his latent homosexuality
• Drink every time a Russian leader tries to expand executive power
o Drink twice if it’s Putin
• Waterfall from 1917-1991

–Ross Packingham and Evander Jones

Things That Suck: Coffee

Coffee: Sir Twattingworth's anti-heroin

Fuck coffee.

I feel like a stranger in a strange land. Not because I’m the protagonist of a Robert Heinlein novel, but because I don’t drink caffeine. I’ll pause a moment to let your mouths fall agape as you shout “WAIT WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTT.”

True story. I’ve never drunk coffee in my life. Okay, wait, there was that one time when I was a curious young four-year-old and my dad let me taste his coffee and I was so horrified that I jerked violently and spilled it all over my Charlie Brown pajama pants. But other than that I have usually abstained from the black stuff. And from Red Bull. And Monster, too. Fuck that shit.

Final exams may be over at Northwestern, but I know there are a bunch of other poor unfortunate souls out there who still have to cram months’ worth of learning into their skulls before exams. As a result they may, in all their mortal vulnerability, be tempted to turn to the evil that is caffeinated beverages. I am here to hold up my hand and say the same thing I would say to anyone planning to read Roberto Bolaño’s novel 2666: Don’t do it!

My body is like this temple, in that it is a temple.

That’s a picture of a temple. I included it in this article because, like the Baha’i Temple, my body is a temple. When I stay up till four in the morning writing a six page essay about what Henry David Thoreau would think about the Weather Underground, I do so simply on the sober strength of my own fucking willpower. I understand that if you start thinking about this metaphor, some obvious contradictions might jump out at you like the T-Rex face in my old dinosaur pop-up book. But I’ll remind you that most temples have alcohol in them. You can put wine into a temple without damaging it, and Christians have done so for ages. But something tells me that if you shot lightning at a temple to “give it energy,” you would really just blow up the temple. That’s my visualization of inserting caffeine into a human system.

Shoot a temple with lightning and it will never be intact again. Give me Red Bull and I will never sleep again. I have enough trouble as it is. The first time I stayed up past midnight on a day that wasn’t New Year’s Eve, it was all over for me. Once I crossed that threshold, it became impossible for me to ever fall asleep before midnight again. At night my productivity goes up, and I suddenly remember all the Grantland articles I wanted to read and all the episodes of Dragon Ball Z that I wanted to watch that I somehow forgot about during the daytime. Before I know it, it’s 2:30 and somehow the knowledge that I have to telemarket for three hours the next day doesn’t stop me from looking up YouTube clips of old Martin Luther King, Jr. speeches until my eyelids finally take executive action and shut themselves, only to be jarred awake hours later by an alarm just in time to swallow a mouthful of Cocoa Puffs before huffing it to my French class with all possible speed. No rest for the weary, and I am nothing if not weary.

I am not alone here. I have friends who drink coffee like it’s water. As a result, they go to bed at midnight and wake up at six every day. They think they’re fully functioning modern human beings. I think they’re more like zombie robots in danger of falling apart at any second. I don’t want to see that happen, so I’m finally coming out against the horrid black stuff.

She is hot. Coffee is awful.

That’s a subjective take on the general suckiness of caffeinated drinks, so I’ll throw in an objective approach as well. I feel like I shouldn’t have to mention this, since it is as inherently obvious as the blueness of the sky or the hotness of Kate Middleton, but caffeine is gross. Coffee is gross, and everybody secretly knows it. I’m not just talking about the people who pour mounds of sugar into their mugs to deaden their sorry souls to the fact that they’re drinking liquid poop. I’m talking about everyone. We all seem to have agreed to forget that coffee is disgusting, the way we all agreed to forget that George W. Bush was appointed President by the Supreme Court.

And not just coffee. Red Bull is gross too. I admit, I’ve tasted it a few times, and I’d sooner hang out with Michele Bachmann for a few hours than repeat the experience. But even if I hadn’t been capable of offering this personal testimony of awfulness, surely the list of ingredients – which looks like something Walter White might cook up in his basement to pay for chemotherapy – would probably be convincing enough. 4Loko actually tastes kind of good, but it’s illegal, so that’s a given. I won’t even talk about 5 hour energy drinks until they make better commercials. If my RTVF roommate could make a better commercial than the one you put on TV, you probably don’t deserve to exist, let alone be talked about in the valuable Internet real estate that is this website.

Would you rather drink coffee or eat poop?

I realize that this anti-caffeine argument is difficult. Sometimes the AP curriculum makes it seem as if the College Board just assumes that every AP student is injecting caffeine into their eyeballs (Either that or no one told them about the existence of time-consuming extracurriculars, but either way they’re a bunch of douchemuffins who gave me too much homework in high school). Then there’s the necessity of being a hipster in order to have any social currency in this hyper media-literate world. That means you need to read Pitchfork regularly and wear clothes originally designed for girls Europeans, but it mainly means that you need to spend a majority of your time in darkly lit indie cafes sipping black energy so you’re wide awake and prepared to unleash a shitstorm of ironic Tweets the next time Bon Iver releases a workout video. Caffeine has been so prevalent in our society for so long that we just accept it as a given fact of life. But the fact that people in the Eighties were accustomed to the idea of nuclear Armageddon didn’t make it okay. Nuclear holocaust is never okay, and neither is coffee, and don’t let Henry Kissinger tell you any different.

Society seems to have ordered its priorities like this:
1. Work
2. Sleep

But that is so, so wrong. Our society has forgotten the value of sleep. Let me tell you, there was one Saturday earlier this quarter when I slept until 3 pm. It was the greatest day of my life. We all need sleep to recuperate from the horrid heinousness of everyday life, and coffee prevents that. It sucks. Finals suck. Life sucks too. But you just need to get over it. Do it all natural or not at all, that’s my motto. Sleep well, my friends.

(And for those of you wondering about the fate of my aforementioned Charlie Brown pajama pants: They did not survive their encounter with coffee, and were promptly retired to the dustbin of history. The world is a worse place for it).

Where to Find Your NU Love

With any luck, one day you'll make a heinous rock all of your own.

If you’re like me, a socially awkward alcoholic, you haven’t found your NU love yet. This is probably because the venues you most often frequent have three Greek letters in their names and smell vaguely like Four Loko and urine. Haven’t found any keepers while projectile vomming in the Beta Kappa handicap stall? Keep looking, young freshmen. Take my hand on the magical road of dating: from the painful first encounters and sloppy make outs to the time your suitor hangs your bra on your locker after you left it in his car. Oh wait, this isn’t high school anymore.

It’s time to look for some more obscure places to find your future lover and/or tonsil-hockey teammate. Here’s where to start.

1. A Swanky Restaurant
I suggest Bistro Bordeaux on Church St. Nothing can ever go wrong with a good French meal. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Bristol, I need to find a future lover before I can go to a swanky restaurant. Wrong! Go alone, but inform your waiter that someone else is joining you. Wear a red rose. Pray to God that someone mistakes you for their exponentially-cuter-than-you-looked-online blind date. If no one shows up, cry to your waiter about being stood up. Pray to God the waiter feels sympathetic/gives you their number/accompanies you back to your sex lair for the night.

Too forward for you? Work your way in slowly then. (That’s what she said.)

Yes, I'd like an overnight package please.

2. The Post Office
Guaranteed to generate the best pickup lines:
“Wanna be my priority male?” (Punny, right?)
“I’m here to pick up my package.” [Cast eyes down to genitalia]. (Classic.)
“If you liked it then you should’ve put a stamp on it.” (Because Beyoncé is a goddess.)

3. Dark Parking Garages
Ever feel uncomfortable introducing yourself to a girl in a bar? Wait until she’s walking back alone to her car! Explain that you saw her walking in a dark parking garage that may or may not be chock full of rapists or flesh-eating Republicans and decided to walk with her to protect her from said travesties. At first, she’ll probably pepper spray you, SING at you (solar plexus, instep, nose, groin),* or force you to watch a video of Michelle Bachmann eating a corn dog. But as soon as she realizes you’re just a creepy motherfucker with good intentions, she might just give you the seven-digit password to her pants.

Trolling for some bitches

4. Dog Shows
It works, believe me. It’s like a Cincinnati Cyclones game on $1 beer Wednesday nights, but with wine and trust-fund dog owners on Sundays at high tea.

Perhaps just as important as the places you should go, are the places you should NOT go.

1. University Place or Ridge Avenue
Unless you want to fall in love with a punk in a hoodie who steals your smartphone.

2. The Showers at SPAC
Unless you’re into watching/performing/assisting in self-gratification. Then balls-to-the-walls, young harlots!

3. The Sauna at SPAC
You are not into naked old Jewish women who look like sweaty beached whales. So don’t go in the sauna for love. In fact, don’t go into the sauna at all.

4. Find your NU love/ Flirting for Nerds
I attended both the speed dating event “Find your NU Love” and the seminar “Flirting for Nerds,” more out of irony than desperation. I did not find my NU love, nor did I learn how to flirt anymore heinously than I already do. So unless you want to wince every few minutes when the girl knitting a pair of Eskimo slippers snorts loudly, avoid NU dating events.

You know where to go. Now go and get ‘em, you sexually frustrated bastards.

——————————————————————————————————————————
*Miss Congeniality

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.