Vessel with the Pestle

Award it something

2010-09-29T22:20:00.000-07:00

Space Maverick

2009-11-12T19:18:00.000-08:00

Carl Sagan - 'A Glorious Dawn' ft Stephen Hawking (Cosmos Remixed) from Levo75 on Vimeo.

Carl Sagan deserves a lot more appreciation than he often times gets, so this is the bone I'm throwin' skyward toward his throne in the stars, with a tip of my hat to John Boswell for brilliance and to Jack White for seeing the promise in birthing this musical starchild on a record. If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch...

More Space Science tunes

More John Boswell

Chalkboard characters

2009-05-12T16:15:00.000-07:00

Firekites - AUTUMN STORY - chalk animation from Lucinda Schreiber on Vimeo.

Chalkboards. The canvas is black. and the lines are white. Simple, minimal learning curve, and after you erase, traces of markings always remain. It's like a graveyard for words. I've established some critical points

Intimate Sleepover

2009-04-27T19:15:00.000-07:00

Intimate Sleepover is taking over the Boston University underground scene bro by bro. They've mastered the art of the ukelele in every way possible and they've even thrown in a kazoo for musical glimmer. Thats more than Jay Z's ever done. In the studio they run some perfect tunes but they surprised the fan base recently while performing a flawless live show at the sleeper dining hall this April. Right now they're just an acoustic act, but the brain quivers at the thrilling thought of intimate sleepover with some serious electric shit. Rumor has it that band member Kevin Reuning, the one that likes shorts, is mastering the double kazoo. They've already topped 4,000 plays on myspace and SPRMWHL is a diehard fan. This thing's for real.

Intimate Sleepover - Ignition

Intimate Sleepover - In The Club

Intimate Sleepover - The Thong Song

Download The EP - Balderdash for Free

--><--

2009-04-05T22:44:00.001-07:00

395933-R1-044-20A_023, originally uploaded by nickel_less.

Flick(R)

Plants and ANIMALS

2009-03-18T13:50:00.000-07:00

Three Beautiful men who play music live in such a way as to rival the tamed tunes and tones of their recordings. Together they are a maniacal yet temperate and calculated drummer, who may be possessed, a charming lead singer sporting a Brawny Man mug, with strumming patterns to put dragons to peaceful rest, and a kooky bassist, guitarist, keyboardist, and what have you weaving in his own improvisation to this dastardly and devilishly dexterous trio. Perhaps the best live band to grace one of thousands of small rock venues since some other indie band a few weeks before. If ever you should pass them by give them a listen; lend them your eyes and ears. Together they make up one of those brilliant fusions that delight with both sight and sound.

Plants and Animals - Feedback in the Fields

buy Parc Avenue

Berzerkeley Poetry Slam

2009-03-16T15:33:00.001-07:00

Berkeley is clearly an Arts town, But a poetry slam hosted at a bar named the Starry Plough that gives stage time to the poesy of a 78 year old man stringing together a free verse on government and profits is above all else a dazzling delight. A steady flow interrupted only by smacking lips or shuffling papers; brought to an abrupt end by a startling prophecy..."tuesday is the day that we kill babies." Fitting though it may seem, he wasn't the feature. With speech like gasoline and words like sparks, Christian Drake lit the room on fire with raunchy poems dark and brimming with desire. *snaps*

christian drake

If you can get through the two minute intro and the chuckling gnome...enjoy a random video of christian drake

Hamilton Yarns

2009-03-03T16:11:00.000-08:00

Sometimes things should sound like a charlie brown christmas mixed with a PBS world traveler special and a slider whistle. If a young'un required a soundtrack to accompany his butterfly catching... If parks played theme music...if humans didn't age...if tadpole harvesting was a lucrative side-project...if court judges were jesters and gavels squeaky toys...if forests were backyards...if sofa cushions were forts and tipis...if drawing was writing...if music was anything and everything good at once, then toys would make the sweetest tasty tunes and Hamilton Yarns would be the candy factory

Hamilton Yarns - Future Man / Primal Man

Sita Sings the Blues

2009-02-28T17:54:00.000-08:00

Sita Sings the Blues from İstanbul Animation Festival on Vimeo.

Nina Paley's semi-autobiographical retelling of the legend of Sita and Rama from ancient Hindu lore is inducing exclamations of wondrous delight worldwide. The re-imagining of the lovelorn tale between the ever-devoted Sita and her blue-skinned boy toy is rendered even more poignant when Paley sets it to the tunes of Hanshaw's 20's style blues. Who needs Pixar? Paley gives retro cred to sitting through 80 minutes of beautifully simplistic animation and a triad of inarticulate wisecracking shadow puppets narrating tales from ancient mythology. She should re-do Troy.

watch Sita Sings the Blues in its entirety

Nina Paley

SPRMWHL

2009-02-25T18:03:00.000-08:00

A rooster call means one of two things. If you live on the farm with ma pa and sis, its time to get up and yank on some cow teats for breakfast. If you're lucky enough to walk the fabled red stones of Boston University, it means SPRMWHL's mixin' fowl beats into a party tempest. SPRMWHL's taking the best of the old school and mixing it with new school to make middle school a better experience. Vocals layered like Kanye West and a background choir to rival the school choir of Brick Wall fame, or even the London Bach choir rollin with the stones across motorola commercials of years past. The party sense is shocking and fresh. The semblance of a young JT...uncanny. listen and enjoy... I defy you to keep your bumpin' buns settled.

SPRMWHL - Red Cups

Ziggy Stardust ROUND 2

2009-02-23T19:42:00.000-08:00

David Bowie's classic glam-rock album has just become more glamorous. DJ's mash and re-imagine a pseudo-spaceman's dizzying imagination. A bizarre bowie bonanza breaking banal barriers. its free.

A plus D - Stardust Kids

Slug Life

2009-02-22T20:04:00.003-08:00

Sumptuous cognitive perception seeping from the illustrious imagination of a berkeley collegiate learning fellow

Starfucker

2009-02-21T14:35:00.000-08:00

Plush tunes from the evergreen state's older, more talented brother.

Starfucker - German Love

Buy "Starfucker" on iTunes

Passion Pit REMIXED

2009-02-21T13:54:00.000-08:00

The already immaculate falsetto machine taken to the shop for a revamp. I won't say it's better, but after the sleepyhead groove's been working the needle to the nub for a few hundred listens... even lateral movements are refreshing.

Wallpaper Dio Remix

White Sirens Remix

Elijah's Beat Generation Remix

LOL Boys Remix

JO 307 Gazette

2009-01-22T14:08:00.000-08:00

A collection of news articles written for Journalism 307 at Boston University

BU Film: Developing into Something Else
April 6, 2010

To see a film student operate a 16 mm camera is a foreign experience. As Kyle Sauer loads the film inside the casing, an intricate maze of metal and levers, he handles the film as though it were porcelain. When he flips a toggle and the camera starts to film, the moving parts are more audible than the traffic 50 yards away. A glance through the viewfinder reveals a postage stamp-sized scene more serene than the real thing. He’s only filming for his final project of the year, a three-minute short film, but already he’s drawn stares and comments from around the Boston Commons. The 16 mm camera is a machine at once odd and intriguing, and to see a film student handle it is to be all the more enticed.

“I’m going to see if I can get a hold of one of these at the end of the year,” Sauer said. “You know they’re getting rid of them?”

Kyle Sauer is a 19-year-old film student at BU, and one of the many students who is experiencing a significant change in the way BU teaches Film. This year, in an effort to address a hybrid relationship between the two mediums in the professional world, the department of TV and Film decided to stop using film cameras in all of its courses and added two prerequisites (The History of Film and The History of TV) to both Television and Film students, now united under a single major. The change has been cited as an attempt to more aptly prepare students for the real world of Filming.

Yet, knowing the change was made with an eye on the digital impact on the world of film, some are skeptical of BU’s response, as they see the change as altering the film curriculum for a debatable cause. Sauer is among those angered by the recent curriculum change.

“TV and film are perceivably merging, at least in the sense that film is getting closer and easier to access by TV instead of just through rentals and theaters” Sauer said. “But I still think that they are such separate entities, and that’s why I wanted to be a film major and not a film and TV major”

For Sauer, Film and TV can’t be put under the same artistic title just because they both use cameras:

“TV is much more focused on marketability whereas film, while being able to be marketable, is closer to the idea of art,” Sauer said. “And in technicality, there’s a different group approach to the separate fields.”

Paul Schneider, the head chairman of the Department of Film and Television, has a long career in a professional field where the line separating Film and Television has been significantly blurred. He has made over thirty made-for-television movies and has backed television shows like Hollywood 90210 and L.A. Law. Schneider is a recent addition to the Boston University Faculty, and coming into the position at the head of the department from a history steeped in television, he has effectively brought about a more modern approach to the film curriculum.

“The way the curriculum was divided into film and television as if there were some sort of a wall between the two struck me as strange” Schneider said. “I talked with the faculty about it for some years, and a number of students came to us, especially television students, thinking it wasn’t fair that there were a lot of classes they couldn’t take.”

However, the elimination of the line between Film and TV, while perhaps appeasing the wishes of certain television students, may have only served to estrange film students from a school whose goals seem to be constantly changing.

Kevin Reuning is a 19-year-old sophomore Film student at BU who, like Sauer, is in the final stages of finishing his final film project of the spring semester. As he edits the film on his computer, he starts searching through anthologies for a poem on androgyny, while his friend experiments with an electric keyboard to find the right musical accompaniment to go with the film.

“I don’t want to work for the industry, I just want to make my own films. I want to make art through films,” Reuning said. “At times I think COM is more concerned with job placement than what its students want to learn.”

With the curriculum change, Reuning is now no more certain of where his career is heading than he was two years ago as an incoming freshman.

“Even last year I had a plan in mind as to where I was going but now… its different,” Reuning said. “Had I known I would have declared a film major as a freshman and not had to take these classes.”

These classes weigh heavily on the minds of these two film students because they mean another COM introductory course in the start of their junior year to learn a history of a profession they didn’t consider. Furthermore, the classes take up eight credits, which could have been spent on more specialized COM courses geared to the type of filmmaking they have a passion for making.

Paul Schneider ensures that the basic skill sets universal to both television and film are the only skill sets that have been merged, but this then opens the question of why the department would have chosen to merge at all:

“I could take a TV class if I wanted to. I could learn both, if I wanted to,” Sauer said. “Me learning the history of TV is not going to make it easier for me to get into the world of TV if I don’t also pursue TV video production and studio shooting.

Even so, it’s undeniable with the rising popularity of premium cable channels such as HBO and Showtime that cinema-quality movies are making their way to the public in made-for-TV packages to rave reviews. Meanwhile, television shows like “Lost” and “Heroes,” which snare interest by means of an ongoing narrative have been well received. Both these trends seem to point to a market where television content holds the American public’s attention, which would make it seem as though a joint major in television and film would be desirable.

“They’re [Networks are] looking for something that’s going to be fresh feeling. A television show that isn’t neatly wrapped up,” Schneider said. “But it’s also the fact that networks have realized that times have changed”

Yet this constant search for fresh material that suggests a necessity for a hybrid film and television major may be exactly what film students like Sauer and Reuning are trying to avoid.

Peisin Yang Lazo, a 20-year-old junior majoring in Television at BU is personally less affected by the merging of the two majors, but she is aware of the pressure it puts on film students.

“Film students are more about the art,” Said Lazo. “It makes sense that film students would be irritated because TV is the farthest thing from what they’re looking to get into. Learning about film would only benefit a television student, but Television is about marketing. It’s about finding trends and capitalizing to make a profit. There are countless shows out there right now with endless narratives because someone found the beat, and now its just being reused until it falls back out of public favor. I think film is looking for something more lasting.”

There is an uncertainty among film students about how a double major will turn out after they graduate from BU.

“I’m going to try and make it without going to Grad school,” Sauer said. “But deep down I think I know I’ll have to. People want specialists. Why wouldn’t they choose the NYU film student, who’s had more specialized film classes, over me?

Kevin Reuning feels much the same way about the education he is receiving.

“If you want a specialized education, one where you can choose your career, I don’t think this is the school for it.”

Regardless of what the diploma says at the end of his undergraduate experience, Sauer plans to hold onto his own image of what film is, regardless of what he’s been told about the current state of television.

“Ongoing narratives are much more relatable to the human experience. Life is unfinished,” Sauer said. “The idea that there is a ‘to be continued’ at the end of your TV show means you have another reason to live for the next day. But a movie synthesizes life at that exact moment. TV shows like “Lost” could end at any moment. If you start looking at life like it could end at any moment then you can start to live in a pessimistic world. You can map these trends, but there will always be people who prefer a preconceived and conclusive story.”

Cause Without A Rebel
March 15, 2010

J.D. Salinger’s death brought about a torrent of media attention upon the 91-year old writer’s achievements, bringing to light Salinger’s own seclusion and outward rebellion. Yet the revival also made clear that Salinger’s most memorable character, Holden Caulfield, may be losing his rebellious appeal with the digital generation.

The Catcher in the Rye was a literary anthem for adolescents who first read the story in the 1950’s and for many generations to follow. Caulfield was unlike any other character in literature. He was intelligent and mature, with an uncanny ability to see through the “phoniness” of adults, college students, and more or less anyone invested in American Society.

Peter Forster, a fifty-year-old Real Estate Agent in Ventura, California, sees the book as an emotional keystone.

“Salinger’s book was different” Forster said. “Maybe it was the time I was growing up in [the 1970’s], but every teenager felt Caulfield’s irritability poignantly. Life was so structured back then and the urge to rebel came so naturally. A book like Catcher in the Rye was a reflection. I’ve never felt that kind of connection with any other book.”

Forster grew up in the plush town of Santa Barbara California, where the line between poverty and wealth is boldly defined. As the son of a doctor tried for treason during a national draft for the Vietnam War, Forster grew up in a milieu of rebellion.

“I certainly felt as though my counterculture lifestyle was, in part, a definition of myself,” Forster said. “I was a skateboarder and a hooligan, but too young to be eligible for the draft. My father was keeping kids out of the draft and I was making the government pay the price of my insolence for kids, some that I knew, that still had to go off to war. I knew what my father was doing to be right, and it became a natural thing for me to actively distrust and disobey higher authority.”

Mark Bautzer, a forty-eight-year-old entrepreneur in Los Angeles California, is equally enamored of the book, struck by the protagonist’s witty insight.

“The Catch was the Humor,” Bautzer said. “Caulfield was hilarious in the way a stand-up comedian is hilarious. But it was tailored for us, the kids in the 70’s, not for some self-absorbed adults in a smoky lounge drinking martinis and smirking at cultural references. This kid [Caulfield] saw through everything, and for once we could laugh at adults, because these criticisms were intelligent and spoken in our own vernacular to boot.”

Yet a trend of indifference, even distaste, toward the once beloved character is growing in the digital generation. Mike Hellmuth, a nineteen-year-old sophomore at Washington University, isn’t mesmerized by Caulfield’s counterculture glow.

“Catcher in the Rye is more self-involved and ostentatious than most adults,” Hellmuth said. “Caulfield isn’t leading a revolution; he’s just a pawn in the masses. Who doesn’t rebel? And he does it in a way that’s irritating”

This irritation extends to the writing style, which once held young readers captive in years past.

“Ending statements with ‘it makes you laugh’ and ‘it’s just so stupid’ doesn’t exactly make for brilliant insight,” Hellmuth said.

It’s an unexpected end to what has been an American default for adolescent laudation of Salinger’s novel, but the change is not without cause. Nowadays, teenagers don’t have time for loathing hypocrisy innate to the adult world. They’re too busy trying to find a way to survive in it. Greg Michael, a nineteen-year-old sophomore at the University of California, Berkeley, believes there’s been a shift in focus throughout our youth.

“It’s far more competitive for the youth today. With a growing population, more kids going to college, and less spots for specialized jobs, there’s nothing to be gained from outwardly hating the elders. You want to be making connections with older people so you can secure a future, not pushing them away.”

Yet Michael won’t deny that the sentiments in Salinger’s novel are genuine and even felt amongst today’s adolescents. The difference seems to be circumstance.

“Sure we all feel like Caulfield did, but I think we realize much of his criticisms were exaggerated. When it comes to stories, people like to read about the polar extremes, but nobody truly deals in absolutes. People who deal in absolutes are depressed, and the youth doesn’t want to be depressed; they want to be creative. And they want to be recognized.

Democrats Falter
February 19, 2010

Last night on Massachusetts’s special election day, Republican State Senator Scott Brown shocked the heavily Democratic state and secured enough votes to succeed the late Edward M. Kennedy in the Senate.

Scott Brown, in opposition to Democratic candidate Attorney General Martha Coakley, campaigned with an adverse stance to the Obama administration, stressing his support for free enterprise and his qualms about healthcare reform. Yet, while harboring conservative views throughout his campaign, Brown managed to neutralize his political appearance with an open mind, denouncing gay marriage and abortion, but never rejecting either outright, arguing instead for the states’ right to control such loaded issues.

This stance may have proven critical in winning over independent voters who had expected more from Obama’s first year in office. Carolyn Bova, a sophomore at Boston University and majoring in Public Relations, displayed such sentiments on Tuesday.

“Coakley resembles everything Obama wants. She’s a cookie cutter candidate. One could see why an independent voter would sway toward Brown, especially after a year of considerably less action than promised by the Obama administration.”

The image of Coakley as a “cookie cutter candidate” may have been the cause of her defeat. On most issues, Coakley sits on Obama’s side. She supports the healthcare reform outright and shares sympathetic views with Obama on the revitalization of the economy. Additionally where Brown seemed unique and human, Coakley could seem distant to voters. One voter at the Boston Public Library recalled a personal incident involving his son.

“Coakley visited one of my son’s Boy Scout functions and didn’t meet or shake hands with anyone.”

What Coakley did have, however, was the argument for health care reform and the promise of a Democratic majority in the senate. Both of these elements swayed independent voters in favor of Obama. Another voter at the Boston public Library on Tuesday exemplified this indirect voting tactic.

“I put Coakley on the ballot, but I didn’t vote for the candidate. I voted for necessary health care reform and taxing.”

This added battle for the Democratic majority in the Senate elevated this election to a national level, putting Massachusetts in the spotlight. Peter Forster, a real estate broker in southern California recalled the elections effect on the opposite side of the nation.

“All of the sudden the Massachusetts senate election became the focal point of political news. Every news station was tracking the voting results and it had everyone talking,” said Forster.

“The election itself became something much bigger than either of the candidates”

Rather than a battle between two candidates, the election became an extension of the longstanding debate over health care reform, raising the stakes for both parties, so much so that it prompted Obama to visit Northeastern to speak on behalf of Coakley. But with Brown’s victory, Obama’s bill has hit another significant roadblock, sending Democrats back to the drawing board to redraft.

Dear Nancies

2009-01-11T16:37:00.000-08:00

A comedic advice column co-written with Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer for the Daily Free Press at Boston University

Guest meals

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

|

Published: Thursday, December 10, 2009

Updated: Thursday, December 10, 2009

Dear Reader,

People you haven’t talked to in years are sending you pictures of their children. No one is complaining about the guy who keeps his Christmas lights up all year. “Stuff my stocking” is a socially acceptable phrase. It all points to one thing: the holiday season. Instead of getting them real presents, we’re letting our interns take over the column this week. Be kind to these Guest Nancies; they’re not very good at this.

Forthcomingly,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

The girl I intern with at an international relations office is always sucking up to the employees, showing off all the languages she knows. All we need to do is file papers! How can I get my office’s attention off her and onto me?

-Cry-lingual

Dear Lingual,

When life in your workplace isn’t going right, it can leave you screaming, “Why, why?” But life can get better if you train yourself to scream “почему́, почему́?” Behind speech interpreters and Disneyland monorail operators, figure skating is the career in which being multilingual is most advantageous. I feel qualified to help you out, having made it big in the skating community while only knowing eighth grade-level Spanish. It can seem unfair knowing that you have performed the best Xerox-job in your life while your coworker gets all the praise because she thanked the judges in Russian. I’d understand your frustration, especially if your internship evaluation loses half a point due to your coffee spill, even though your heel didn’t slip.

The point is, you can’t blame the girl you work with for your own flaws. The only way you will get the judges’ — excuse me, your superiors’ — attention is through work. This may entail playing hockey with your brother until you are able to afford your own private language instructor. If nothing else, just wear a flashy sequin pantsuit to work. That always worked for me.

Just don’t take your insecurities out on your co-intern. She has worked long and hard too, and the last thing she needs is a bratty comment after work or a collapsible baton to the knee. With this new outlook, you’re bound to be more confident in your daily routine, and even if your boss isn’t impressed with your Russian, know that the “eight” in your evaluation is a Canadian “10”.

Olympically,

Nancy Kerrigan

Dear Nancies,

Recently we formed groups for our final project in writing. I wasn’t even considered in the election for group leader. It went straight to Jake, and I can’t help being jealous. Is being a leader all that it’s cracked up to be?

-Less than Jake

Dear Less than,

I’ll bet you didn’t think this query would catch the eyes of the nation’s most leader-like woman, but I’ll bet you didn’t think I could be Speaker of the House either. Let me be the first (it’s becoming a habit) to tell you that how you act now will change lives.

Ever since I lost hall-monitoring duties to a dashing blue-eyed boy in overalls, I haven’t looked back. After that, there was nothing I couldn’t do better than any male counterpart. I was guzzling down Gatorades and trouncing Michael Jordans before Mia Hamm even knew “Anything You Can Do” was a song (because she wasn’t born yet; I also did that first). Grow some backbone and take out the patriarch because that leader spot is yours. That’s the mentality that made me the first woman Speaker of the House and now, in a post-Michael Jackson world, the most powerful woman in the United States.

Dominatingly,

Nancy Pelosi

Dear Nancies,

Every day at lunch my friends follow me around like geese, and it’s getting old. I’m tired of being a role model — how can I break away into the freedom of anonymity?

-Whining Star

Dear Whining Star,

At the risk of sounding insensitive, whiner, you don’t know the half of it. Try being the nation’s go-to golden girl. I’m breathtakingly gorgeous, skilled in skills (all of them) and immortal; crack open a Nancy Drew Mystery and you get yourself a Greek goddess fit to make the Hardy boys a little harder. I can do no wrong; I have so much sunlight blasted up my derrière, I don’t use flashlights anymore. I’m doomed to serve as a shining beacon to elementary girls in tents and teenage boys in heat.

But what non-literary girl seeks anonymity? An interesting desire to say the least, and I think I’ve seen this exact tactic in “Nancy Drew: Miami Spice.” You’re looking for advice on covering up a crime. You don’t realize you’re talking to Nancy Drew, and I’m talking to a girl guilty of lunchtime homicide with two butter-knives and a bad attitude. Case closed. Enjoy anonymity in the slammer. I’m heading to the burger joint with Ned pronto. This lightning-fast metabolism doesn’t know the meaning of weight.

Mysteriously,

Nancy Drew

Dear Nancies,

There’s a pair of galoshes Christopher Walken wore in “The Country Bears” on eBay for $650.00. I’m a huge fan, but is it worth it?

-Solemate

Dear Solemate,

Those boots were made for Walken.

Fantastically,

Nancy Sinatra

Dear Nancies,

While working on final papers, my roommate and I discovered we have different strategies for meeting the page requirements. She likes to write more thoroughly, and I like to make the periods bigger, change the margins, etc. They’re both popular methods, but I wondered, what if they fought?

-S. A. Writer

Dear S.,

This is the perfect week for your question: if there’s anything the regular writers of this column know nothing about, it’s things fighting.

Your roommate’s way has its advantages. For instance, a recent study revealed that as many as 15 percent of all college professors enjoy reading their students’ papers. Make the call: is your instructor the one out of every six whose life is so empty he must escape to a world of spelling errors and parenthetical citations? If so, try developing your topic, enriching your original thesis and illuminating new concepts. Be careful: you risk overstating your point or learning too many facts (which can be harmful to a petite female brain).

Making the margins bigger can make a professor feel as if the walls are closing in on him, as if he were trapped in the garbage compactor from “Star Wars” (the film, not the successful and groundbreaking missile-defense program). Eager to escape such claustrophobia, he is likely to give you an A- and move on (Boston University no longer gives As). It’s also entirely possible that making your periods bigger will draw your professor’s attention to them, subconsciously implying that you were on your period when you wrote your essay. If he’s a man, and I’m sure he is, he’ll give you high marks just to preclude your inevitable hormone-addled complaints. Some more tips for increasing the physical size of your paper without saying anything: utilize block quotes, go straight from three to five when numbering your pages, and say “utilize” instead of “use.”

S. A. Writer, your artificial lengthening techniques win this round. Deceiving a professor demands far more creativity, ingenuity and cunning than properly completing an assignment. You should consider a career in politics.

Victoriously,

Nancy Reagan

Dear Nancies,

I want to ask my lab partner on a date, but I feel like after finals week we won’t have anything to talk about. What should I do?

-Petri or not Petri

Dear Kyle,

I am so proud of you for getting your very own column this year! It is always fun to see what you kids are doing and, thanks to Facebook, I am able to see all the way to the East Coast! (Thanks for accepting my request, by the way. How come it isn’t letting me see your pictures?) I was just talking to your mother about my weekly ritual: I watch any of cousin Heidi’s updated cheerleading videos, then read your column, then finish up browsing cousin Jonathan’s homemade jewelry website. He is so talented, as are you and those other boys! Honestly, I am so overwhelmed sometimes while I read. Your insights just knock me out, and you have such a strong voice. I don’t always get your pop culture references (Is CommAve Running Man a rap artist?), but I definitely appreciate your mission statement.

Your grandfather always said, “If someone asks for advice that you can’t answer, point them to someone who can.” I am surprised no one in your family ever told you this — it may have helped you in the beginning of the semester. But whatever you write about in the future, know that I’ll support your creativity and send you boxes from Popcorn.com. Your address is still in Boston College, right?

Familiarly,

Nancy Kissinger (Kyle’s Aunt)

Dear Nancies,

I can’t believe this [crap] gets printed. Every Thursday I open the FreeP hoping for anything but your dreadful, pretentious column. You Nancy boys have no grasp of comedic writing and are nauseating in your verbosity (which I’m sure is straight from Webster’s onto Word). Here’s some advice: for the sake of the readers, stop. Nobody wants to hear your snarky, self-indulgent attempts at clever answers to stupid questions.

Angrily,

BU Junior

Dear Angry Lee,

Thanks for writing. What was your question?

Conclusively,

Julian, Kyle and Nick

The best is Rhett to come

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

|

Published: Thursday, December 3, 2009

Updated: Thursday, December 3, 2009

Dear Nancies,

Have you seen the BU athletic situation? We don’t have a football team! Why can’t we have one so this school can get some classic all-American Hooooo-Rah spirit?

No Sweat

Dear Sweat,

We’re going to make a Colin Powell move here and advise you to place blind faith in your administration, because this football sacrifice was made with you in mind. Multiple opportunities are made available simply because we don’t have a football team. For us, the oft-empty stadium is the forerunner. Can you remember a time at Nickerson when you had to climb over and around patrons at the big game? Nor can we, because neither exist; on weekends during the little games, we like to play a massive “the floor is lava” tournament on all the empty seats. It also loosens up a bit of capital for Rhett to attend to other student demands, like the acclaimed addition of Panera and Upper Crust Pizza on the Western Front.

Boston University seems like the perfect place for a competitive football team, and there’s nothing we’d love more than to hear our marching band blast “Party in the USA” and other relevant pop hits while we holler along with our scarlet-clad brethren, but yours is an uphill battle. Already there’s talk in the town of Football’s decline. After we set the precedent, Northeastern University ditched the pigskin, and it’s only a matter of time before Boston College discovers that there is a way to play Quidditch. With the sport fading into its own twilight, we recommend finding your school spirit within the venues Rhett has graciously made available to you. If that means tailgating an Enrique Iglesias concert, so be it. Take solace in the fact that you did worse in junior high.

Athletically,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

Leaving for Thanksgiving reminded me of all the things I missed about home. How can I get through these next weeks without In-And-Out Burger, Waffle House, Piggly Wiggly, sweet tea, Palm Trees or Wisconsin cheddar cheese?

Homesick and Tired

Dear Homesick,

Universities nationwide recognize that in the three-week period between Thanksgiving and winter vacation, campuses become a hothouse for homesickness, comparable only to the second month of summer camp. But you must find some way to keep your melancholy at bay before the harsher winter sickness seasons bring more serious illnesses like Cabin Fever, Lovesickness or Stockholm Syndrome.

WebMD ignorantly dismisses homesickness as a trivial state of mind. Student Health Services claims that those with contagious attitudes or physical malaise should stay out and get their free condoms elsewhere. CVS refuses to sell enough Nyquil to let you forget your troubles. So in order for you to recover, you must self-diagnose and determine what exactly it is that you miss about home. Are you counting down the days before you are able to reconvene with your parents over a loaded dinner table? Do you long to spend late nights with your childhood friends, eating popcorn and candy until sunrise? From your question, it appears that as long as food is involved, anything that isn’t from Boston will do.

We can’t help but point out some irregularities and contradictions in your nostalgic list; where is home if it contains both Waffle House and Wisconsin cheddar cheese? We’re beginning to think that you’re just a Bostonian wishing for some alternate life where “home” consists of a smattering of select American chain restaurants outside of a reasonable driving distance from Massachusetts. Homesick and Tired, the grass is always greener on the other side — be happy with what you have here, because side-by-side, UBurger and In-And-Out are more or less the same.

Onionringedly,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

I am so sick of the dining hall here, so I think I’m going to try to make my own food from now on. What’s a good recipe for pumpkin pie?

The Slice is Right

Dear Hot and Bothered,

How wise of you to write us just after Thanksgiving. At this time of year, you’ll have no trouble getting a still technically edible pumpkin at a low price. Here’s a recipe for a very special pumpkin pie that our mom used to make us. We call it The Widowmaker — not because it will make anyone a widow, but because we once rode a roller coaster called The Widowmaker, and like that roller coaster, this pie is great.

The ingredients are: Two adult handfuls of pumpkin guts, two eggs, one can of condensed milk (YooHoo will suffice), pumpkin spice and pie crust (for an Italian twist, use a pizza crust instead).

To make, combine the first four ingredients in a mixing bowl. You will have a disgusting, unholy liquid, which, when mixed with rum, is referred to as “Pilgrim Juice.” Pour this concoction into your pie crust (no pun intended). Heat in an oven at 450 degrees or until delicious. Top the pie with orange and brown Lego bricks while it’s still hot for a zany effect. Do not, under any circumstances, leave your pie on a windowsill to cool — in an urban situation like yours, it is likely to fall off, endangering the pedestrians below you.

Tantaliciously,

The Nancies

Nancies on the rocks

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Thursday, November 19, 2009

Updated: Thursday, November 19, 2009

Dear Nancies,

Whenever my friends go clubbing, I’m left out because I’m not 21. Do you support the use of fake IDs? If so, do you know where can I get one?

-Enraged and Underage

Dear Enraged,

If you don’t have the patience to clone yourself and use your clone’s ID when it turns 21, we can’t offer our sympathies. We’ve seen too many friends in the electric chair to condone committing a felony, even for the sake of dancing with your girls.

There are better ways to get into the hottest 21-plus nightclubs—consider the Gopher Method, in which you dig an underground tunnel into your nightclub (like a prairie dog), and then gopher some drinks at the bar. But if, unlike Jay-Z, you don’t want to show up for a night on the town with all that dirt on your shoulders, turn yourself into an object. Not a sexual object — that’s for later in the night. We’re talking about standing very still and pretending to be one of the new decorative lamps the club owner just ordered from Ikea. No one ever thinks to card a lamp. Once you’re inside, feel free to rip off your disguise to reveal a glittery party top which probably looked like a decorative lampshade to begin with.

Enraged and Underage, we just had a moment of confusion. For a second, we thought you were the 2002 hit single from 50 Cent, because you’re totally “In the Club.” Just remember: if anyone catches you, you got your advice from BU Today.

Impeccably,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

I was at a bar this weekend and some guy I was dancing with asked for my number. I didn’t know what to say because I had a fun time dancing with him, but I didn’t want anything else out of it besides a fun two-step. Maybe hooking up with him as we were dancing sent the wrong message. For the future, how can I let these suitors down gently without being a biznatch?

-sexiiDancR

On DancR, on Vixen,

Sometimes when you’re at a dealership with some friends, you want to take a car out for a spin, but that doesn’t mean you’re in the market for a steady cruiser. There comes a time in the joyride when you get a feel for the wheel and notice the tires start to bald; you’re bored and ready for a new ride. It’s natural to feel guilty about sending that revving engine back to the lot, pistons pumping and grinding for an oil change, yet your regret needn’t be the norm. Getting hot ‘n’ heavy with his face may have mixed up some output signals, but you don’t seem all that phased by it, and he’s literally making out like a bandit.

If there’s anything we’ve learned, it’s that hookin’ up is a gift, and gifting a hook-up. Sentiment for possibility gains nothing for either party; drop that kid like an iron anvil on magnets and watch him rise from the ashes as an ill-fated phoenix on the dance floor; half the man, twice as experienced, three times as disillusioned and a total emotional stud. A few more letdowns and he’ll be fronting the next Good Charlotte, and Good Charlotte doesn’t get let down. If he stays down, hand him a pen and paper and let him have at a villanelle or two. Don’t give this potential artist pity, he’ll give it to himself and make you, the naughty dancing demon, his muse. Meanwhile, you just keep two-steppin’.

Vigorously,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

If “going out” means spending at least $6.99 on a drink, I make sure to get something that I will enjoy. So why do my friends, dates and even bartenders gawk when my order is more intricate than typical “manly” drinks?

-Tom Collins

Dear Tom,

Next time you’re at a bar, know that each male is concealing a little facet of his personality. The man watching the game who smiles subtly to himself every time that sappy Humane Society commercial plays in between innings. The dude who assumes a confused look when “She Wolf” starts playing in the midst of his jukebox selections. The guy confined to the bathroom stall, forced to release his poetry on its grimy walls because his cocktail napkins are already coated with sonnets about violets in the summertime. Your disadvantage is that it’s hard to go under the radar when all you want is a stiff Appletini.

Society has a specific set of rules for how men should act at bars. When ordering chicken wings, he should always choose the spicier option. If his girlfriend gets into a bar fight, it is best to let her scratch out her frustrations and work out her own problems. Asking for an alcoholic beverage should be quick and simple. 35 percent of experienced male bar-goers order some form of whiskey on the rocks, while the rest simply waltz up to the bartender and bark “Jaeger!” It is important not to fall into the trap of the everyman. Choking down a hearty microbrewed beer when you’re out with the guys, then cutting recipes for Brandy Alexanders from vanilla Jell-O boxes in the comfort of your home is not healthy for your personality.

Order your next drink with confidence and you may find someone who likes you regardless of what’s in your sugar-rimmed glass. When this inevitably happens, surprise your newfound love on your first date with a Sandy from “Grease”-esque wardrobe change, an Audioslave-themed jukebox playlist and a double shot of aged bourbon from a leather glove. Just make sure to turn away if that Humane Society commercial comes on.

Repetitively,

The Nancies

Tic tech toe

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Thursday, November 12, 2009

Updated: Thursday, November 12, 2009

Dear Nancies,

I’m sick of hearing people’s phones go off in the middle of my lectures. The other day, a girl even took a call while I was trying to teach. Do I need to start showing a “please turn off all cell phones” commercial before my classes?

-Silence is Golden

Dear Professor Golden,

Wake up and smell the ringtones, you shriveled old coot; it’s the 21st century. Just ask your tempting, youthful TA (which originally stood for “telephone answerer”) – texting and getting calls in class is as acceptable as in-class praying or having a pizza delivered during a lengthy office hours visit. This paradigm shift in education, like most, can be attributed to Regis Philbin. The “phone a friend” lifeline on “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” taught millennials across the nation that it’s okay to call for help during a multiple-choice exam.

We sense that your frustration comes not from being interrupted, but from being excluded. Maybe just once you’d like to be the one with a sweet ‘tone (from the Latin sweet ringtone) emanating from your pockets during one of your undoubtedly monotonous Powerpoints. If this is the case, remind yourself that nothing can come from a lifestyle of heavy cell phone usage other than the three BT’s: bad typing, blistered thumbs and brain tumors.

Penultimately, students don’t pay $50,000 a year to sit in a room and not talk on the phone for up to an hour and a half. That’s what prisons are for.

Ultimately,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

My computer science professor brought a robot in to class today. Even though it was small and could only perform simple motor tasks, there was something unsettling about it. How could we humans compete with these technological teachers’ pets?

Weird, Wired and Worried

Dear Wired,

Science has not given us one substantial reason to believe that robots will not one day replace humans. Logic and reason must also agree that the extent of robot dominance over humans is much less refutable than the presence of global warming or the female orgasm. Somehow, over the past decade, computers’ abilities have impressed us enough to distract us from their inevitable conquest. They survived the millennium without incorrectly calculating the date, illuminating the nuclear meltdown charts worldwide and forcing the human race to take refuge in archaic underground temples untouched by the hand of technology. This fact forced us to scrap our robot-apocalypse prophecy and accept those steel figures as Intel-core friends. Since then, we get movies beautifying human-robot relationships like “A.I. Artificial Intelligence,” “I Robot” and “A Beautiful Mind.” Kids are growing up without the fuzzy warmth of a teddy bear and instead learning how cozy the jagged edges to their WALL-E dolls can be. Whether we argue if we are a PC or a Mac, we admit to existing as computers.

We can only anticipate how close robotics will get to our lives; surgery for prosthetic prostates or implanted microchips as not only a convenient survey technique but also a fashion statement. Who knows, C-3PO could take the place of our signature effeminate friend, and R2D2 could replace our token disabled. They’re even developing an App that provides heartfelt and pertinent relationship advice. You shouldn’t be worrying about technology’s inevitable takeover. Instead, worry about how long your professor is planning to keep that toy in your class; the last thing you want is some robot know-it-all setting the curve.

Anabolically,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

I just played my friend’s Wii last night and I have to say, the pictures that move on the screen have way more pixels. But is that really what it’s about? I still like N64 games.

Pixel-jaded

Dear Pixel-jaded,

There’s something about Pong and a good go-around of Mario Kart that really gets our gamer fuel pumping. Modern games are a bit too involved with finger aerobics, leaving gamers with hand cramps. There are even times when seeing a fictional character sweat is as unwelcome as Larry King’s makeup in HD. But digital nostalgia is a rocky road; you run the risk of sacrificing realism for a basic 8-bit setup, placing you a bit behind the technological curve.

It doesn’t take a Bradbury to postulate that in our not so-distant future “Wii Performance Sessions” will be evaluating our med students’ scalpel technique and honing our fry cooks’ tri-patty flip. Nun-chuck and Wii-mote will see to it that the guy on the airport runway with the mini lightsabers won’t be learning the tricks of the trade from his apprenticeship master, and no composer out of Tanglewood’s fabled halls will stand before a symphonic orchestra without first working out the kinks with a Wii wand warm-up. What it comes down to is realistic applicability – a Wii is a good investment. Just stay away from those board game adaptations. The graphics are freaky-accurate.

Tryingly,

The Nancies

The meaning of strife

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Thursday, November 5, 2009

Updated: Thursday, November 5, 2009

Dear Nancies,

I just discovered that the order for registering for classes is based on the last number of our BU IDs. It feels as though my life is defined by numbers. Am I really just another digit within an elaborate algorithm?

Count Me Out

Dear Count,

It really seems that the number craze blew up to monstrous proportions when humanity traded in love, integrity and home cooking for isolation, Dr. Phil and lean cuisine; we think it happened around the time Oprah rose to power. It’s natural to blame technology and unnecessary efficiency as the culprits here, but are they really? True, every deli you visit is going to hand you your numerical alias for the day, and, by God, you will respond post haste when they call out your digits to pick up a honeyed pig. But this relationship with numbers goes deeper than man-made number nicknames; it’s something more natural.

Consider the lilies, and everything else with a symmetrical shape. This is where we name-drop the Fibonacci Sequence, raise our glasses in toast, and marvel at the advising power mathematic theorems wield over our prose. Or, think of yourself as a centipede of numbers; any more segments and you might be a millipede. If you had one more chromosome, your brain would morph. A different combination of nucleotides in your DNA and you become a grizzly bear. If your name were Carla instead of Kyle…well, that’s where it ends. You are more defined by numbers than by the name your parents gave you. Don’t let this get you down, though. We like to think of numbers as people to make the idea of a “number world” more human. It’s rubbish for times tables but sometimes the eight looks quite motherly. And 11…11 has kind eyes.

Mathematically,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

We’re learning about the meaning of human existence in my philosophy class, which is heavy stuff, but the classmates who always say words like “existentially” are even more overbearing. How can I prove my place in this world yet outsmart the douchebag know-it-alls?

-The Estranger

Dear Estranger,

When you accept your admission to a university that Princeton Review has rated #17 for College with the Bestsomethingorother and GQ has rated #18 Douchiest College, you must anticipate the circumstance of an irritating learning environment. Philosophy discussions, especially, are breeding grounds for semi-constructed insights from students hell-bent on fulfilling prerequisites.

Although “existentially” is one of the most versatile, relevant and bull-worthy adverbs in philosophical vocabulary, there are plenty other untapped buzzwords vague enough to apply to everything, yet too exotic for people to question your legitimacy. Using “juxtaposition” is a classic yet more literature-oriented choice and “tenacious” is great, but don’t be surprised if using it evokes Jack Black songs. When all else fails, feel free to come up with your own words, but be sure that your classroom doesn’t contain any laptops or rogue Websters dictionaries. You may find yourself inclined to create fake historical figures (If Einstein and Eisenstein exist, why shouldn’t Eisensteinstein?) but the risk is not worth the reward – in fact, it may make your classroom contribution too convoluted to control.

Rest assured, if in your philosophy class you don’t master the art of BSing, the worst-case scenario is that you are spiritually motivated to break from the crisis of petty existence and do something meaningful with your life. If that doesn’t work, just go to office hours.

Credentially,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

It seems like every week you answer such trivial questions about the pettiest aspects of college life. I want you to answer a big question– the big question. What is the meaning of life?

-Searching for Answers

Dear Hungry for Answers,

Forget what you’ve heard about life being a highway, a box of chocolates or a joyless parade of suffering and conflict that ultimately ends with all of our lifeless corpses rotting in the earth. Life is complicated, nuanced and intricate, like a well-made burrito. Unfortunately, life is not as easy to dissect, nor is it available for just $6.29 at Qdoba locations across the United States.

To us, life is about possibilities. For instance, when you order a burrito at Qdoba, there are over 2,400 different combinations of ingredients, each one delicious and invigorating in its own way. As the poet William “Fresh Mex” Cowper once famously said, “Variety is the spice of life. But so is spice.” Whether that spice in your life comes from a zesty Qdoba ground beef quesadilla or a plate of steaming-hot Qdoba jalapeno nachos is entirely up to you.

While we’re talking about changing things up, try asking about being locked out of your dorm room after a shower.

Qdobingly,

The Nancies

Fear Nancies

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Thursday, October 29, 2009

Updated: Thursday, October 29, 2009

Dear Nancies,

I think someone is playing pranks on me. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, my TV will turn on and start playing “Ghost Dad,” even when there’s nothing in the DVD player. The other day, I came home from class to find the words “The Dark Lord Will Return” written on my dry erase board, and when I turned on the shower this morning, blood came out the faucet, which is weird because usually water comes out of those faucets. How can I catch this prankster red-handed?

-Daily Creep Press

PS: 13 years ago, a group of sexy teens was murdered in my bed on this very night. Don’t know if that helps.

Dear Daily,

References to the Dark Lord, exquisite taste in cinema – signs point to your tormenter being your floor’s resident metalhead, but it’s unlikely. Pulling these stunts would require that he leave his room. It’s far more realistic to assume you’re dealing with a poltergeist.

He’s the disembodied spirit of someone whose life was violently taken from him before due time, but try to think of this ghost as a roommate. He may be annoying, have weird sleep habits and eat out of your side of the microfridge, but you have to share your space with him or risk ending up with someone even worse. Sure, he’s got the mean-hearted sensibilities of the uncles from “Casper”, but if Patrick Swayze’s “Ghost” taught us anything, it’s that you may discover he also has a sensitive, sexual side.

As for the sexy teens murdered in your bed, call Buildings and Grounds and see if they’ll hook you up with a new mattress.

Trickingly or Treatingly,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

My roommate is so unhealthy. Every night he comes back to the room with a West Campus Burger and goes out to the library to work, not getting back till 2:30. Should I step in or let him continue to kill his body?

-I’m with Meathead

Dear Meathead,

Unfortunately, allowing your friend to kill his body won’t resolve much at all; your bunkmate is a zombie, and his body is already dead and rotting. Zombies subsist on rotten flesh and brains, hence the appetite for the West Campus Burger. You should find it more than mildly curious that he finds his way back to Mugar Memorial Library every night. Could it be that he and his undead chums haunt the cubicles to massacre term papers till closing time, siphoning theses from the ripe noggins of unsuspecting BU wiz-kids? We’re also willing to bet he put up a fuss when Michael Jackson disintegrated; MJ was the only undead to come out as a people eater in a music video and still retain celebrity. He’s also prized as zombie-kind’s only flesh-gobbling martyr, known to put his own flesh under the knife.

Slow limping and drawling moans are telling as well, and if he’s hanging with the wrong crowd, take the hint, because zombies travel in packs like large, hairless, anthropomorphic lemmings; I’m sure you noticed that support section at Bill O’Reilly’s guest speech last week. Adverse opinions toward Will Smith, Charlton Heston or any other ghoul hunter should not be taken lightly, and if he’s salivating over Rosie O’Donnell’s meaty rolls, it’s about time you applied for a room change, zombie or not. He’s hungry for that creviced, pink think-sack in your skull; find another room, or better yet, take refuge at Boston College.

Queasily,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

I have an ongoing Facebook chat relationship that I can’t seem to move from the Interwebs. Our conversation is beginning to stagnate, and I’m growing bored. What can I do to rekindle the excitement I felt the first time his chat box popped up, and how can I suggest we move our conversation into real life? Respond quickly, there are needs of the flesh I must attend to.

-Suck Face-book

Dear Suck,

We will cut our usual prologue in which we would offer suggestions to improve upon Facebook’s efforts to meddle in your love life (like a “Crushin’ On,” option for relationship status) because you clearly have a more serious issue than what you lead on. Are we to assume that waiting for a new notification is what gives you this cabin fever, and not the sunlight itself? Is your penname really a euphemism for your aforementioned sexual desires, or a clue at your longing for a different nighttime exploit? And your “needs of the flesh” are as thinly veiled as hints come. You’re a vampire. More importantly, you’re in love.

Facebook by nature will only put lovelorn vampires like yourself at odds with your social network. Its downtimes are scheduled at hours unaccommodating to your nocturnal sleep schedule. It gives your crush the opportunity to haphazardly send bumper stickers glorifying posers like Edward Cullen or Count Chocula. It enables events to take place at fake addresses like “123 Boogie Blvd,” which makes finding your love at a party before the sun rises virtually impossible. And it must be hard to survive as one of those people who only have comics and baseball players as your profile pictures, as you traditionally turn cameras to dust.

It’s time to stick the wooden stake in the circuit board. Since you’re used to self-sacrifice, you must disable your account — this will prevent him from overanalyzing your presumably telltale “about me” section. If this truly is your soul mate, curiosity will inspire him to personally ask you out to Olive Garden. As long as are yourself and order something other than the Garlic Alfredo, you’ll be back at your place sucking neck in no time.

Frightfully,

The Nancies.

Schlepping your qualms

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Thursday, October 22, 2009

Updated: Thursday, October 22, 2009

Dear Nancies,

My parents came up this weekend and did nothing but remind me how much I don’t miss them. They are so restrictive! How can I be a rebel all the way out here in Boston and make sure they feel it all the way from San Diego?

Sincerely,

Rebel With A Cause

Dear Sir Rebel,

Ah, we’ve finally reached that era in which the defiant septum piercing goes unnoticed and underappreciated. The family crest shoulder tattoo is scoffed at because it is passé, not because it suggests membership to a biker gang, and the self-dyed neon hairdo is now expected of wholesome American pre-teen role models (à la Baby Spice). Even if your parents expect you to continue with your traditional Puritan ways, the only way to show them any exterior insurgence would be through some sort of Kodak-sponsored postcard service. Then again, who wants to pay postage?

We live in a society where less is more, more is extravagant, bite-size is unsatisfying, medium is sufficient and the middle is a feel-good pop-rock hit, more or less. Yet living vicariously through James Dean on Hulu will only leave you swooning in your dorm room. The approach to your rebellion must be subdued if you want to hit all those miles home. Try enrolling in a socially frowned-upon course to really tattoo your transcript, like MU456: Beethoven’s Sex Life, or PH323: Philosophy of Gastrointestinal Humor. Or, take the epicurean route by wasting your parent’s hard-earned meal points on feasts of George Sherman Union sushi and Campus Convenience chardonnay. If neither of these suggestions stirs up a rise from your parents, start your own band. That’s the historically successful incarnation of rebellion—just ask the Jonas Brothers.

Betrothedly,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

I live in Warren Towers, and everyone on my floor is getting sick. Any tips on staying healthy while I have to share a living space with two-dozen people?

Sincerely,

Germ Class Hero

Dear Germ Class Hero,

With the outbreaks of swine flu and hockey fever, Boston University is finally starting to gain a deserved reputation as an institution worthy of America’s finest and most tweetable diseases. Germs are everywhere, that’s certain, but what they are and how they spread remains a mystery to BU’s crack team of scientists – if you visit Student Health Services, you’ll get nothing more than a prescription for Vicodin and a shameful handful of condoms (you thought no one was looking? Of course people were looking).

Sure, you could protect yourself from disease by donning a surgical mask and gloves (they come in leopard and zebra prints now), but be careful what you wish for. Do you really want to be the only healthy one on your floor, going on constant chicken noodle soup runs for your floor mates and making everyone jealous of your fully functional respiratory system? Germ Class Hero, share a water bottle with an infected floor mate and let your puny young immune system take care of this one.

Begrudgingly,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

My academic advisor has blown me off thrice already and I’m losing my patience. Should I just take it upon myself to make life-changing decisions or continue to seek out official aid?

Sincerely,

Guiding Lite

Dear Lite,

We commend you for schlepping your qualms Nancyward rather than toward an intellectually and morally-developed BU staff member, but allow us to play devil’s advocate; Advising is a bit more lax than your average nine-to-five. As a startling example, Panda Express brings out countless fortune cookies that are sometimes followed, and sometimes not. There is a chance your advisor, like us, is crushed by the futility of providing oft-not applicable advice that people just don’t take.

Now, you’re young, virile and robust and you’ve got plans that, if shaped, could launch you into NASA’s cubicles. Your future is no variable and success by preparation is your mantra; you’re the passionate rosy-cheeked lovechild of a kindergarten teacher and Captain Planet, and such a pedigree deserves counsel. Yet we’re confident you’ve been preparing yourself for this your entire life: paper or plastic, red or blue, take a chance or play it safe, tell the owner or dump the poor thing in the river. Suddenly Greek History or Marine Archaeology just became a lot simpler, didn’t it? In the meantime, we’ll give the poor advisor a break; in the sense that people ask things of him and expect results, things are hard and this is probably not what he signed on for.

Bodaciously,

The Nancies

The devil’s trail mix

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Thursday, October 15, 2009

Updated: Thursday, October 15, 2009

Dear Nancies.

When I first came to college, I was determined to have a substance-free experience. However, after my freshman year, I’m not sure it’s possible to have fun in college without drugs and alcohol. Help me, Nancies. You’re my only hope.

Sober and Out

Dear Ms. Out,

Many of Boston University’s oldest faculty members will tell you that students had more fun during the prohibition era than they do now. This was no doubt due to the abundance of top hats, twirly mustaches and dust bowls, though the absence of alcohol may have played a small role.

It’s a real shame that college students are literate enough to make sobriety-related puns, yet so under-informed about alternatives to getting medieval on their own brain cells. There’s plenty to do on weekend nights here at BU, both on and off campus. See how many free energy drinks you can take in before you go into cardiac arrest. Add an element of stripping to just about any card game (solitaire included). If you look hard enough, you’ll find that there are myriad ways to avoid alcohol (the devil’s water) and drugs (the devil’s trail mix) while still embarrassing yourself, wasting time and throwing away money. In fact, that was the original mission statement of the College of Fine Arts.

Unanimously,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

Astrology is a big part of my life. Seriously. . . like, I named my dog Astro. I’ve always had this knack for interpreting my sign’s prophecy (I’m a Virgo) and applying it to my life, but lately nothing seems to fit. Advice? Please hurry, I have a big date coming up and I need to know my sexual orientation.

Beam Me Up Scotty

Dearest Beam,

We’re not sure why you’d want to go up Scotty, but we can help you. We three just recently put astrology behind us for Cosmo quizzes and their bounty o’ boons: personal preference, increased applicability, cute shoes, etc.

But our experience with past astrological horoscopes may shed some starlight on the art of application. Collectively, the Dear Nancies are an Aquarius, Virgo and Gemini, translating into a short male, a shortish male and a bearded “that guy.” Definitions vary, but these are the foundations. In preparation for your question, we read our horoscopes yesterday:

Aquarius – You’ve reached a breaking point emotionally.

Virgo – Your power is undeniable today.

Gemini – Today is a fresh new start for you.

Then life happened with brazen accuracy. Our Aquarius fetched a stool and proceeded to reach with all his might for the cookie jar atop our kitchen cabinets (being short. . . such an Aquarius move). Virgo, in typical Virgo form, tried to help with his extra inches. Then Gemini burst out of the cabinets as an elaborate practical joke. Virgo fell on top of Aquarius’s arm and broke it. Gemini fell on Virgo, and Virgo threw Gemini onto the couch. Upon further analysis and extensive depth charts, we’ve concluded that The Virgin broke the Water Bearer and launched twins. Avoid this date,Virgo; having a baby changes everything.

Hopefully,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

I wish I could enjoy college, but I am never able to get any sleep! I study, I have a social life and I am still able to call 11 p.m. my bedtime, so why can’t anyone else?

Sleepless in Sleeper

Dear Sleepless,

Class work by day, homework by night and, somewhere in the middle, free Commonwealth Avenue energy drinks, a relaxing coffee and a few shots of Nyquil coalesce to create one sleep-craving college student. Plenty of students are deprived of their prized beauty sleep, tossing and turning and wondering why they spend so much money on a bed that goes virtually unused in a college environment (excluding, of course, those lucky nights when you use your bed for one of those cool forts).

If you’re like many sleepless beauties out there, chances are you try to go to bed at 11, sporting your neon earplugs and silken mask, but your roommate is busy practicing her Single Ladies dance, so you are forced to migrate to the hallway, where you become the tool of a floor event hall sport, and sick of being burrito-rolled into your blankets, you move to the elevator, whose high traffic and nauseating motion force you to the dining hall, but when Late Nite closes you seek refuge outside, yet, unable to fulfill your REMs while inhaling someone’s midnight cigarette smoke, you attempt to wake up from this whirlwind nightmare until realizing that no, this is not in fact a fantasy land but real life. And then you write to us.

With the amount of money you spend on living in Sleeper in only seven years of college, you could buy a sizable used car. If you really want some good sleep, we suggest a luxury sedan and a queen-sized comforter. If the street corner gets too noisy, just drive your bed-on-wheels somewhere else. It’s too bad no one has thought of this mobile-dorm sooner.

Illicitly,

The Nancies

Pepsi presents: The Nancies

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Thursday, October 8, 2009

Updated: Thursday, October 8, 2009

Dear Nancies,
“I can’t believe I’m doing this online, but oh well …You just seem so different from the other guys, I can’t help thinking that we could be perfect together. Check out my website at www.pepsipresentstiffany.org/levi’s/dunkaroos and comment me.
I hope to see you soon, xoxo, Tiffany”
Nancies, I got this reply to the Craigslist ad I placed. Do you think it could be my next true love?
Sent via e-mail,
HockeyDude2001@comcast.net 

Dear Hockey Dude 2001,
Any college-aged student knows the Internet is a cornucopia of opportunity. We contemplate completing online internship surveys, advertise our bands on the non-trashy part of MySpace and shop for clothing items and medicines too embarrassing to buy in front of suspecting cashiers. But for every opportunity the Internet has provided, it has blazed a trail for perverts, guiding them with chat rooms, auctions and AccuWeather radars – all tools for preying on unsuspecting surfers. Although Craigslist has yet to give us any substantial proof that it is a haven for these shady folk, we implore you to take a deeper look at your true love’s response; it may be peppered with the prose of a poser.
     Let’s look at this love letter optimistically. The first sentence gives her that girl-next-door charm, and her use of “perfect” makes her attitude innocent-esque. Her bad-girl signature, that sultry x-o, left us raring to post our own “Three chill Nancies seeking one cutie patootie.” Seeing that her so-called personal website is littered with ads for açai extract, Frank Miller movie-based diet plans and SARS masks, we’re thinking your future soulmate may simply be an independent Internet-based advertising robot hell-bent on getting hopes up. But hey, robots can get freaky, too.
Parenthetically,
The Nancies

Dear Nancies,
My roommate’s birthday is this week. I’ve only known her since the beginning of the semester, and we’re not very close, but I still feel like I should get her at least a card. Any tips?
Sincerely,
Troubled in Towers

Dear Ms. Towers,
Thoughtful as they may be, a “hApPi BiRtHdAi” text message and an enthusiastic spanking aren’t going to cut it if you want to take your gifting to a college level (or even a MATCH Charter Public High School level, for that matter).
“It’s the thought that counts” only applies if you’re thinking like the parents in an episode of My Super Sweet 16. For the party you’re now in charge of planning, which we expect will go down in history as both “lavish” and “disgustingly overblown,” we can get you a discounted rate on three advice columnists who moonlight as exotic dancers. While it’s not mandatory to buy her a car, it’s expected that you’ll at least steal one.
You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, Towers. But before you get started, are you sure it’s her real birthday? In these rough economic times, where people find cheap thrills in changing their birthday on Facebook and awaiting response, you can’t be too sure. If you get a chance, check her birth date on her driver’s license or any other valid form of government-issued identification. If she has a fake, you’re out of luck. If it’s real, get her a fake I.D.
Voraciously,
The Nancies

Dear Nancies,
I fancy myself an amateur inventor, and I think my latest caped underwear is the cat’s pajamas (Although not literally – I know better), but my roommate begs to differ. How am I supposed to be a worthwhile member of society if my contributions are too commonplace?
Thanks,
Average Low 
 
Dear Low,
The fact is, certain inventions carry more academic zest than others. Who’s to say that a Snuggie doesn’t boast the same creative juice behind it as the telephone? Sure, it’s different juice (Welch’s and wine, respectively) but there’s a time and place for both. The beauty behind creativity is that dumb people stumble upon it too. Think about all the diamonds in the rough out there: coat hangers, pockets, shoe horns, Furbies, etc. These inventions shape our world in a more subtle way.
We need you, Low. To prove it, we ran a scenario between the inventor of the Snuggie and Benjamin Franklin. The two were placed in a room set just below freezing; the challenge: live through the night. Lo and behold, come morning rise, what shape should be breathing? Shivering though it may have been, that of the African Gorilla, creator of the Snuggie, with a half-devoured blanket dangling from his maw. We noted Franklin’s lackluster performance as we carted his coffin back to the graveyard from whence it came.
That’s not to say we don’t understand the thrill that comes with inventing something truly ingenious. We came up with an algorithm to give your caped underwear a more intellectual spin. The result was “Cap sous-vêtements.” We’re having patenting issues.
Flippantly,
The Nancies 

Barbershop foreplay

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Thursday, October 1, 2009

Updated: Thursday, October 1, 2009

Dear Nancies,

There’s a really cute, funny, smart girl in my modern lit class, and I want to talk to her, but every time I try to approach her I freeze up and can’t think of anything to say. Do you have any tips?

Sincerely,

Crushin’ Hard

Dear Mr. Hard,

If you want to change your game from Solitaire to Solitaire: Multiplayer Edition, you’ll need to do more than overpower her with a thick cloud of cinnamon-flavored body spray (though that’s still recommended).

There’s one foolproof secret to making any girl your booty supplier: talk about the weather. It works on so many levels. It instantly gives you something in common, since everyone goes outside (except the weird pale girls). If that’s not enough, it’s also an opportunity for some great weather-based double entendres. The classically charming “it’s snow big deal if you don’t want to, but let’s get hot chocolate” will break the ice, as will “let’s have sex while it’s nice outside” (‘nice’ can be replaced with ‘cloudy,’ etc). On an especially hot day, go for the elegant and understated “I’m in heat.” Weather or not you use that one is entirely at your discretion.

Pull the “For Sale by Owner” sign off of that girl’s face because she’s your property now. Your nights of crying in bed and wishing for someone to love you besides your two co-columnists are over. Make it rain, Crushin’. Make it rain.

Enthusiastically,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies

 I know this sounds paranoid, but I’m positive somebody is following me. Twice I’ve come home to find that my lock and my computer have been tampered with. I’m also missing my favorite underpants. They are my favorite because they have rocket ships. Oh, and I am a girl, so this is creepy.

Thanks,

Hot and Bothered 

Dear Hot,

  First of all, don’t panic. You are in experienced hands; at least two Nancies have been in this exact scenario before, simultaneously and at opposite ends. It is important to remember you are dealing with an unstable freak, meaning he or she feeds on your fear, so bring out the bravado. Every hunter needs prey, not a daring adversary. Leave your door open, don’t draw the blinds and don’t wash your clothing. It is imperative that your admirer knows your smell. Try wearing more provocative garments and spending more time in public areas. Did you know that most predators actually avoid those places? Keep this in mind next time you choose between an assumably followed car ride and a harmless midnight subway ride. Bathrooms are a thing of the past for you now; find a grassy patch and act as though nobody in the world is ever watching. Trust us, as you reveal more information to the stalker, the novelty of playing incognito will fade and this bizarre character will fall away from your life. Also, switch back to Herbal Essences, it makes the smell of your hair linger. Oh, and your friend emailed you about a Nada Surf concert in a few weeks – we know you like that bassist with the stupid dreads.

See ya (After gym),

The Nancies 

       

Dear Nancies,

I’m new to the whole Boston area, and I don’t know where to take my shaggy head to get a haircut. I’d let one of my friends do it, but I don’t really trust them, and it is way too expensive to go to one of the swanky barber boutiques.

Please help me out,

Sweeney Toddler 

Dearest Toddler,

Alopecia patients and novelty cats aside, hair is without a doubt the only way to find a place in society. No longer just a place to store digested cocaine, hair’s history has enlivened barbers and babushka-wearers alike. In the past, the way your hair looked determined your social class. Nobles wore lusterless powdered wigs that complimented their badass broaches, while the peasants sported carefully preened beehives during the roughest winter farming months to centralize body heat (and store honey).

Enough with the barbershop foreplay; here’s our advice. Since legality and morality prevent us from appointing you a trustworthy barber, we can only steer you in the right direction. Avoid places that say “walk-ins welcome,” because they usually aren’t – while you can still get your haircut, you will miss out on the hospitable charm good barbershops possess. Resist boutiques with booming techno; you will leave with a swatch of neon pink hair.

But honestly, it’s what you do with your hair that forms the ‘do. Ancient Chinese proverbs from barbers of the past offer three founding thoughts: “know thy ‘do,” which means to have an image about your head in your head. “Dew the ‘do,” or basically use as much gel as necessary. And finally, “a ‘do in the hair is worth two in the bush.”

Best wishesly,

The Nancies.

Fat, cats and The MBTA

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Thursday, September 24, 2009

Updated: Thursday, September 24, 2009

Dear Nancies,

I’m already starting to gain the dreaded freshman 15. Do you have any tips to help me keep my weight down so I don’t end up a freshman fatty?

Sincerely,

Booty Meat

Dear Mlle. Booty,

Collectively, the three of us lost 200 pounds during our freshman year, thanks to what we call The Nancy Regimen. It’s a lifestyle you’ll have to work yourself into, but you’ll find that a human body can function marvelously even without four bowls of Lucky Charms every morning. But, Booty Meat, put the dining hall aside for a moment; the real secret to weight loss is saying “no” to all the other edibles you’ll find around campus – avoid the siren call of Commonwealth Avenue’s free energy drinks, individually wrapped granola bars and Save the Children binders.

The most important secret to The Nancy Regimen is to remember to pace yourself when you eat your print quota – you can burn through those 100 sheets of paper in just a few days if you’re not careful (we probably don’t have to tell you this, but only eat blank pages. Printer ink is just empty calories.) As they say in the army, “Be all you can be, as long as you’re supermodel thin.”

Diligently,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies

I’ve been left high and dry by the T five times this week. The schedule seems completely unreliable. Are there any guidelines to the system at all or should I start using a scooter?

Thanks,

T’d Off 

Dear T’d,

The T does have a schedule, stored somewhere in a chest below the Hyatt Hotel beneath Martin Luther King, Jr.’s tomb, but years have passed since it’s seen the light of day – 380 to be exact. Legend has it that originally the MBTA denoted a schedule of eight-minute increments between starts during a 19-hour operation period from 5 a.m. to 12 a.m. (back when days were 22 hours long), harnessing a horse-driven armada of ten omnibuses. For every second omnibus, a Native American would be sent on what colonists would call an “express run.” Although meant to be a buffer for fluctuating omnibus speeds, an express vehicle like Little From-Here-To-There would carry a passenger on his back as needed. The Native Americans were often executed come midnight, hence the three-hour off period. The system seemed flawless, prized throughout the region with zeal comparable only to paroxysms of bliss surrounding the Salem Witch Trials. However, the two suffered similar fates: confusion, loose screws and the disappearance of the system’s scapegoat (witches and express runs, respectively). The colonists promptly buried the schedule under the Hyatt ziggurat, forgotten forever by most. A select few kept the memory of “The Schedule” alive by oral tradition. They called themselves the MBTA. In 1964, the group brought it back to the public. But the MBTA, to preserve its secrecy, developed a language similar to English yet audibly unintelligible and spoken only through the train’s loudspeaker, making “The Schedule” a mystery to most passengers. Conspiracy and deceit abound in this shady history, young passionate traveler. And yet, scooters seem passé. We recommend a Segway.

Exuberantly,

The Nancies

Dear Nancies,

I just moved in with my roommates who are just like me. Things were fine until they brought up the idea of adopting a cat. They’re all gung-ho about it, whereas I can’t see why they would want a cat to make our apartment more of a mess. Please help me find some way to level with them.

Sincerely,

Pet Peeved

 

Dear Peeved,

According to the Princeton Review’s Top 20 Topics for Roommate Disputes, “choice of pet” ranks seventh, between “conflicting friend groups” and “cockblocking,” so you are certainly not alone in your dwelling distress. The desire for pet ownership among college students has also risen thanks to the heartwarming pet store scene in “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.” With laissez-faire landlords allowing anything to live in their buildings and Taj Majal-shaped terrariums on sale at Urban Renewals, watching Jim Carrey revive that iguana makes it much too tempting to strut over to the nearest animal shelter and adopt a spotted ferret. But your integrity isn’t swayed so easily, is it? You have the foresight to see that a litter box in an apartment building would be nothing but another excuse to call your place a crap house. You know that the cleanliness of a cat is as much of an urban myth as ResLife room service. You’re not charmed by the enthralling gaze of a calico kitten, or persuaded by the performance of “Memories,” and you root for Fievel and his team in “An American Tail.” From the qualities that we have inferred about your personality, we realize you’re a dog person, so get one of those.

Abominably,

The Nancies. 

Bikes, grammar, heartbreak

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Thursday, September 17, 2009

Updated: Thursday, September 17, 2009

Dear Nancies,

So Im a COM major & Im really angry about the dumb grammar lessons’ that we need too take. Its like, BU is really expensive and it’s workload is heavy enough as it is—why are we burdened by extra busy-work that we learned in highschool? My debit card and PIN number might as well be given to the university and they can spend my money at they’re will- and I’ll just stay in my dorm. Please, please, and please help me out as soon as possible.

-Aggrivated in Myles Annex  

Dearest Aggrivated,      

Where should we even begin? Eons ago, when Thomas Jefferson erected this beloved university, he also set up a few ground rules. He said that the university should be a sprawling campus of learning and virtue, that our mascot should be one that displays the strength and stature of the student body, that our trolley system should punctually connect us with the greater Massachusetts Bay area and that if more than six girls are living together then their residence should be considered a brothel. But above all, he said that our educators should stress the importance of a well-structured sentence.

As the years go on, though, his founding rules have started to unfurl, and the few classes left that offer grammar lessons are the only things connecting us with the founding fathers of our pristine nation. In fact, did you know that the first majors offered at Boston University were actually “Grammar” and “Thinking?” Now, however, it has become easy to forget that the correct placement of commas and apostrophes is entirely necessary for the comprehension of a sentence. People have forgotten what they are referring to when they say “their.” Fellow students glaze over the fact that using symbols or contractions in formal letters to, say, a newspaper, is impolite. They forget that extra hyphens, passive voice and acronym redundancy are directly related to our judgment of them as human beings. So our advice to you is to pay close attention during each grammar lesson, because, damnit, you’re American.      

But, on the reals, we commend you for your Oxford comma use—we have no qualms with those.

Sincerely,

The Nancies  

Dear Nancies,

      It’s my freshman year of college, and my high school boyfriend and I are trying the whole long distance relationship thing. We’ve been together for two years, and we love each other like woah, but I’m worried that being thousands of miles apart is going to take a toll on us. What are your thoughts on long-distance relationships?

-Lovelorn

PS: please reply using only clichés. 

Dear Lovelorn,

      We’ve been down that road before. When the going gets tough, just remind yourself that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and every rose has its thorn. Your boyfriend sounds like the apple of your eye, but we’re not going to judge a book by its cover here. There’s no beating around the bush – there will be times when it seems as if you’re out of sight, out of mind, but that’s only because you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. Just don’t count your chickens before they hatch, and you’ll see the silver lining in this cloud. At the end of the day, it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. We hope this advice helps you help yourself.

Cordially,

The Nancies 

Dear Nancies,      

I hate the bikers on Commonwealth Avenue. I find myself fighting the urge to pelt them with rocks as they pass by on the road or sidewalk. Why can’t they choose one or the other? Am I wrong? Should I succumb to this wretched duality or follow through and open fire?

-Vicious Cycle 

Dear Vicious,      

Bikers are an odd breed indeed, and though it may seem as though they have it easy, blurring the lines and choosing whichever path is more advantageous at the moment, their lives really are a constant battle. These pedaling lifestyles straddles the fine distinction between pedestrian and car, and believe us, the struggle for vehicular identity is not an easy one to overcome. Quite frankly, it seems our society isn’t prepared to accept a transport that “goes both ways” – a “bi-cyclist” if you will. We of faithful allegiance can’t seem to understand: How can they both be equally desirable? Is there truly a symbiotic relationship with both the road and the sidewalk? Or is one just a façade? Is the biker really just a closet runner?  These are all interesting musings, but I think what it comes down to is that ridiculous garb. Everything about this creature is confusing, but the spandex belongs indoors. Open fire, Vicious, this is New England. If we can’t oppress them, we can certainly give them a makeover.

Indubitably,

The Nancies

Thingfight

2008-11-11T13:16:00.000-08:00

Weekly comedy column co-written with Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer for The Daily Free Press at Boston University

Things fight

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, April 28, 2009
column

What if they fought? It’s the question we here at ThingFight have asked rhetorically and answered incoherently every Tuesday this semester. Contrary to what columns with punbelievable titles like “The Young and the Breakfast” and “Burly Temple” would lead you to believe, quite a bit of quality control goes into ThingFight. Every column starts out as a 400-page thesis, complete with parenthetical citations and footnotes, which is whittled down until only the juiciest bits remain. As you throw together your final papers, we thought we’d show you some of our own “come on, you can do better than this” work. Here are a few ThingFights that never saw the light of day.

In what some still say was an impossible ThingFight, we tried to declare a winner in the eternal struggle between rock, paper and scissors. It seems as if the three are designed to be in constant turmoil, with none having what it takes to eliminate the other two. During field testing, Nick was hit in the head with a rock, Julian took a pair of scissors to the eye and Kyle hid under a large sheet of paper. We speculated that paper’s covering of rock wasn’t a “victory” as much as it was “something that happened,” but we were reminded by our lawyers that a legally-sanctioned ThingFight can only consist of two entities, and that column was replaced by the more crowd-friendly “Apples vs. Oranges: Are They Comparable?”

A lifetime of looking at things has given us at ThingFight a keen eye for the ambiguous, along with the realization that things aren’t always as they appear (Don’t give us that look, the lotion by the computer is for our soft hands and baby-skin complexions). Two things have taken the shape of exemplary models for the might-be’s: the inkblot and the common cloud. One is man-made, the other is all-natural. One’s black, the other’s off-white or potentially gray. We needed to bring this fight down to a more basic level: the inkblot is harsh, like a tattoo illustrated by Hannibal, fitting for the back of some sort of poisonous moth; the cloud is much softer and harbors a whimsical shape-shifting demeanor. And let’s face it, oftentimes they’re cute animals. Clouds win, but then again, our shrinks tell us we suffer from severe mottephobia and an uncanny case of sissy pansy-itis.

ThingFighters tend to think that the best things in life are free, especially since we have realized that free things are all we really get nowadays. So it seems fitting to pit two of the heavyweight pro-bono pleasure-givers against one another: taste samples and goodie bags. Every day or so, any amount of granola, small fruits and Americanized ethnic goods are shadily extracted in minuscule increments from groceries nationwide. One could feasibly enjoy an entire meal just meandering through the aisles of a Whole Foods Market. Goody bags are flashy and fun, great for a party, but kazoos and Lego cars aren’t going to keep you alive in this economy. Your best bet is to stick to the shadows. Lurk by the Wonder Bread and leap for the open olives when the night watch moves to the cheese. One day, you’ll land a job as a journalist, seated at a flying typewriter that prints gold. Then you’ll get your goody bags. But not yet . . . not just yet.

The beginning of the year was a time of change: we had a new president, new schedules and of course, new episodes of “One Tree Hill.” In times of change, one thing is always abundant: experimental drug use. We tried out two new street drugs in a ThingFight between angel meth (a stimulant) and baby acid (a hallucinogen). Relying on the democratic process led to a stalemate: Nick preferred the feeling of angel meth, Kyle voted for homestyle taste of baby acid and Julian just kept writing the word “leaf blower” with his own blood. The fight was dropped when, during the typing process, none of us could find our hands.

The food industry is ripe with potential ThingFights, think Pepsi vs. Coca-Cola, baby back ribs vs. Cornish game hens or canned dolphins vs. Whale Bitez. But cereal companies face the most competition within themselves. Among many eerily similar cereals, we chose Fruity Pebbles and Cocoa Pebbles as the closest rivals. They seem to be the same cereal, each originally made in 1969, consisting of crisped rice and artificial flavors and heartily endorsed by the Flintstones. We plugged the pros and cons of each into ThingFight’s Apparatus for the Calculation of Realistically Objective Nonsensical Yelling Matches (A.C.R.O.N.Y.M.), but its circuits overheated, causing a small power issue in Warren Towers. We apologize for the inconvenience.

When books open they should do more than assault your eyes. An additional full-frontal blow to the nose, fingers, ears and hair would be ideal, but Miley Cyrus has yet to release her autobiography, so we’re left with the single-sense focus in literature for now. Let us then consider pop-up books and touch and feel books. The first is perhaps more aggressive; its tendency to “pop out” is often frightening, and the possibility of a paper cut increases tenfold. The latter is a bit more humane; real fur from real dead animal corpses pasted onto thick cardboard eliminates the finger danger that pop-up books only exacerbate, plus it’s great for gaining a few extra seconds of a child’s attention span, provided he’s already drooling from a Ritalin overdose.

During one of several romantic beach picnics we shared this semester, the issue of baskets vs. buckets was brought up. It was quickly dismissed. There are some things you just don’t question.

Let’s move on. Entering buildings is an involved process in a day and age where so many different kinds of doors exist. Consider the automatic door and the revolving door. Clearly there’s great appeal in not doing anything to walk through the threshold. We at ThingFight would like to have a servant chew our food and laugh at absurdly hilarious columns for us, but the child inside all of us screams to run in circles. A revolving door is hazardous; its circular motion is enough to disorient even the most determined employee and send him whizzing out from whence he came; but it’s so similar to a roundabout and merry-go-round that there’s no arguing its necessity. Novelty wins over lethargy any day. Revolving doors it is.

We considered a battle between Lewis and Clark (16th-century explorers and raccoon hat enthusiasts) and Lois and Clark (“Superman” characters and also raccoon hat enthusiasts). We always wondered: which duo had more sexual tension? Lois and Clark flew around Metropolis like T.I. in a private jet with a groupie, but we all know Lewis and Clark shared sleeping bags for more than a few lonely nights on the trail. Ultimately, there wasn’t enough information on the explorers, as they are fictional characters. We forfeit this one to the Superbro and his Superbiddie.

Nature is full of its odd little dramas, icebergs and asteroids being among some of the more involved ones. Iceberg made her “big” debut in the blockbuster hit “Titanic,” acting alongside the up-and-coming hunk of a cruise liner from Liverpool, but the underwater shots were less than flattering on Iceberg’s unshapely figure. Nowadays, the earthbound sibling keeps to the oceans where she can hide her embarrassing spare tire underneath the waterline and nurse her iced heart. The asteroid, Iceberg’s bruiser brother, is considerably less self-conscious, and spends his time heckling the larger celestial bodies, occasionally joining up with his buddies to form a belt around the more attractive planets. Through his sister’s recommendation, asteroid was called upon to act the villain in the instant classic “Armageddon,” narrowly missing an Oscar for special effects. It came down to voting holdup: Nick campaigned for the iceberg, Julian was for the asteroid and Kyle was still hiding under a giant sheet of paper.

You may remember our research assistant, Calvin Kreipiefaise, and our best boy key grip, Adam Alliteration. During an exceptionally lazy week, we assigned them research duty for our “Ice Cream Trucks vs. Bookmobiles” edition of ThingFight. In the spirit of “The Fast and the Furious,” they decided to rent out an ice cream truck and a bookmobile and race them down Commonwealth Avenue. The ordeal ended when Calvin tried to hit the Comm. Ave Running Man for “bonus points.” Needless to say, our interns have been demoted from their already lowly positions. They are now the head editors of The BU Underground.

The final ThingFight: who had more fun with ThingFight this semester, the visibly annoyed public or the ThingFight writing squad? We’re not going to get sentimental here, but never mind, we definitely are going to get sentimental here. We’ve laughed, we’ve cried and one of us has vomited while peeing himself. ThingFight has been an absolute thrill, like the rollercoaster whose safety bar fails right before the triple loop. It’s been a blessing, like the unwanted baby that turns out to be really good at the piano and gets you super rich. It’s been a pleasure, like the analogy you use when you don’t need it but you feel like you have to put in because, in high school, they taught you that to do everything in threes. Stay tuned next semester for ThingFight’s spunky sequel, ThangFight: the readability levels go down, and the sass levels go way, way up.

Love triangles

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, April 21, 2009

After blowing our on-campus housing deposits on back-to-back-to-back screenings of “Fast and Furious”, Thingfight is exploring other options for our secret headquarters next semester. We’re not quite ready to settle down in the family-friendly Ashford area, and all the good College of Arts and Sciences dumpsters filled up in early February, so it’s come down to two locations: a split-level volcano below the Charles River and a three-bedroom Beacon Street pyramid. Normally, we’re strongly opposed to using our Thingfights for personal purposes, but we were also strongly opposed to “Seventeen Again” and that still happened. With an eviction from the Hyatt (Boston University’s personal pyramid) fast approaching, we have to ask – volcanoes and pyramids: what if they fought?

There’s a lot to love about volcanoes. You’ll occasionally see a trashy pyramid-shaped hotel (oh hey, Hyatt, didn’t see you come in) while volcanoes are the centerpiece of every respectable mini-golf course in the greater Jersey boardwalk area. Works of art constantly portray the majestic and powerful volcano — “Dante’s Peak,” the Jonas Brothers and the first draft of “Titanic” are just a few. There’s something for everyone in volcanoes – “the floor is lava” is always a fun rainy-day activity for the very young and the very senile. The incredibly phallic nature of an enormous eruption of burning passion gets the 18-to-24 demographic. And the lava, melting innocent villagers as they try in vain to escape its slow march of death, is a huge draw for the soccer moms. The volcano’s current tenant is the disfigured and disgruntled Greek god Vulcan, wed to the most unfaithful of goddesses, Aphrodite. Unfortunately for mortals, Vulcan blows off steam through natural disasters. Pompei? Aphrodite’s little fling with that pansy messenger boy Hermes. Krakatoa? Stubbed his toe pretty hard. Since the moody Greek took permanent refuge in the fiery depths, the volcano has consistently served as a haven for schemers and evildoers, becoming the symbol of destruction for all mankind holds dear.

Pyramids really aren’t that different from volcanoes – in scientific terms, they’re both brownish, triangly and awesomeful. The main distinction is that volcanoes are made by Mother Earth and pyramids are made by slaves. The pyramid is the pinnacle of upper- class snobbery, the social model that places the rich atop the poor like popular, leggy blonde cheerleaders over the porky heffers. King Tut’s tomb’s inscription of the sun, a dog with a bird head and an ice cream cone, as we all know from elementary school hieroglyphics, translates to, “I guess we made these pyramids way too big so we have to fill them with bowling alleys, an aquarium and an Olympic-sized swimming pool, which is only impressive because the Olympic games don’t exist yet. Can we get a bird-dog with an ice cream cone for a head in that aquarium?” Nowadays, this structure gives rise to clever game shows that send preteens into hidden temples in pursuit of new VCRs and Super Soakers. It’s the beacon of wealth, staring us all down from the back of our dollar bills.

So far, our discussion has only amounted to characteristics that can’t provide a meaningful fight. Lest the structures animatedly rose from the ground and grew combatable limbs made of some mason-and-magic-dirt combo, they can only fight by comparing how human civilization interacts with them. Break the pyramid’s clichéd image of being Egyptian and consider the ziggurat. This Lego-esque wonder has all the same attributes, but with the all-knowing eye replaced by a badass human sacrifice pedestal. This practice was likely a man-made imitation of the stereotypical island nations’ “lava luau,” a sacrificial festival in which a damsel is thrown into a volcano (think a plank walk, only more exotic). Chances are if it was the late 5th century, you lived in a tribal village in South America or Pacifica, and there was an eclipse, you would be in some way affected by a human sacrifice. Volcano sacrifices were usually made to please the Hawaiian god of fire, Zacc’ra E’ffa’ran, involving bamboo latticework to make the death plank and press box. The big finale of the night was usually a simple push into the lava in which the volcano did much of the grunt work. Pyramid sacrifices were a bit more intricate, given in honor of Quetzecourtneycoxarquettezoatle, Mayan god of intricate human death, and involved a colorful preshow of bloodletting, an intermission, a dazzling climax and a concessions counter full of popmaize and Soda Blood.

While you were reading, we signed a lease on our winner, the volcano. Pyramids have an almost StuVi-fied level of appeal, but nothing, not even baking soda and vinegar, can replace the warm feeling of coming home to an active volcano. Sure, there are more than a few risks, but we’re used to that; it’s why we wear flip-flops in the Warren Towers bathrooms.

The beast of our worries

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Think back to the first Disney movie you ever watched. Was it “The Little Mermaid”? “Beauty and the Beast”? “The Fly”? Chances are, the main character was some sort of hideously anthropomorphized monster that was supposed to pass as “lovable.” There are two types of these creatures: those that are half-man, half-beast, like centaurs, mermaids and a certain ThingFight columnist in bed (wink wink, nudge nudge). And then there are those that are all man by day, but transform into all-beast at night, or during a full moon, or for some other weird reason, like werewolves, Shrek and a certain ThingFight columnist who wets the bed (wink wink, nudge nudge, shame). These two types of creatures have coexisted peacefully in our imaginations for far too long. Faithful and attractive readers, you know what’s coming. The inevitable question: what if they fought?

The beastly man-morph is poetry, boasting the melodrama of primetime soap operas and locking it firmly within the eternal struggle between mortal man-boy and feral fuzz-buddy. You’ve heard the horror stories from the right-wing anti-shapeshifter lobbyists, but how could you judge a werewolf based on the fresh liver dripping thick blood down his gaping maw, tinged copper-red? Just look at those glossy eyes and bowed head. That guilt in his countenance screams man-hunk; those eyes are lanterns guiding you home on a dark night in a world that just doesn’t get you. He’s so deep, so guilty. Hell, he’s probably even an insomniac and the lead singer from Joy Division. One man on the frayed edge of society, he’s the pursuit of the FBI and GQ cover stories alike. His bite is deadly, but just wait till you hear him purr. It’s the perfect role for Keanu Reaves (original screenplay by ThingFight, all rights reserved).

At first the half-man half-beast would appear to be the best of both worlds. Mermaids are the ideal. Smart, gorgeous and funny; she’ll even sit through the big game and have a beer or two. But over time, perhaps 20 years (roughly 70 in semi-dog years), the best of both worlds tends to collide and a once gloriously forbidden empyrean bliss spirals down into an existence defined by hellish sexual frustration. For example, save for select Hungarian breeds of mermaids who’ve developed retractable scales to reveal their mid-Atlantic ridge – thanks to natural selection and a little hormonal nudge from Scotland’s hush-hush 1988 Nobel Prize winner Loch Ness – mankind’s shared longing is nothing more than a dream.

Even the lives of land-dwelling hybrids have become estranged from the practicality of a ten fingers and toes contract, and identity loses itself somewhere between the patchy fur and bare pink skin; where the happy trail of human hair and beast fluff mingles into a conspicuously suggestive arrow toward . . . the pubic bone? The hybrid never wears pants because what should be obscenely visible and bare isn’t even there. Call this the real riddle of the Sphinx. How, then, can these hybrids be in such great abundance? Reproduction doesn’t seem to be an option. These poor creatures are hoofin’ a very thin line between adorably weird fantasy friend and sickly mutated creation born from the less mature mind of a young Victor Frankenstein.

A physical battle won’t be necessary this time. There are far too many varieties of these types of creatures to really pit them against each other in battle. Sure, a mermaid could easily take out an Animorph with an expertly placed tail-flop, but a vampire could just as easily swoop in and take out the average polar bear-headed baby (yeah, those are real). Besides, everybody’s sick of brackets at this point.

As per usual, the deciding issue of this ThingFight comes down to one thing: nakedness. If you’re stuck in one weird form, like the Little Mermaid or that goat bro from “The Chronicles of Narnia,” you know what clothes you’ll need to wear when you get dressed in the morning. A centaur can pull on some custom-made apple bottom jeans with the security of knowing that they won’t be torn to pieces during a dramatic morphing montage. But if you’re a transformative being, you’ll either need to plan ahead and wear purple spandex like the Incredible Hulk (we don’t recommend it) or just carry a ton of spare outfits. Either way, people will think you’re incredibly flamboyant. The winner this week is the half-man, half-beast, but we must not forget that both types of monsters are, in scientific terms, freakin’ awesome. Actually, let’s not call them monsters – the only monsters here are the animators at Disney who made the Little Mermaid so damn sexy.

Playing with ourselves

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, April 7, 2009

ThingFight headquarters, located conveniently inside an active volcano below the Charles River, is home to activities you’re better off not knowing about. Forbidden experiments to create a new animal more whimsical than a unicorn while at the same time more hilarious than a kitten dressed as a firefighter. Thousands of monkeys sitting at thousands of typewriters working on the next edition of ThingFight, in addition to one monkey sitting at a typewriter working on ThingFight’s sister column, Thx;w{4n. But perhaps most disturbing of all are our slumber parties. Every Thursday, we here at ThingFight put on the “Mean Girls” DVD, zip up the footed pajamas and have a no-girls-allowed extravaganza.

Our faithful and attractive readers may wonder, “is it really acceptable for three shaggy-haired, adorably attractive college students to have the same hobbies as blossoming thirteen-year-old girls? Also, why are we faithful and attractive readers not invited?” Faithful and attractive readers, we’ll talk about it tomorrow. It’s past your bedtime. For the moment, we have to discuss some of our favorite slumber party games: Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare. The unisex sleepover would be incomplete without both of these games; they’re endlessly entertaining, and they invariably end in at least one ThingFight columnist getting naked. But last week, in a game of Truth or Dare, a pressing question arose, one which it is our duty not to avoid: what if these games fought?

When people at a party grow tired of catching up, eating refreshments, partaking in political discussions and playing Scattergories, they often retreat to one of the most widespread and creatively demanding games, Truth or Dare. More hands-on than Would You Rather and less emotionally draining than Live/Screw/Cliff, Truth or Dare will sate even the hungriest partygoer –– if they’re hungry for embarrassment. In the least sexual days of childhood, when Spin the Bottle wasn’t even dreamed of, you had Truth or Dare to accompany your soirées. It dared you to do the things that you only hoped to do, but never had a reasonable excuse, like take a naked lap around the babysitter’s house or compliment your sister. It prompted us to tell even our medially dark secrets and reshape what we considered “truth.” But most of all, it was a game of strategy.

Take our research assistant, Calvin Kreipiefaise (pronounced “Creepyface”), the temporary fill-in for Alliteration Adam, who was attacked by an alligator. Calvin shared with us a chilling anecdote. He nixed Spin the Bottle due to its gambling nature and instead concocted a premeditated and highly involved scheme to sexually invade his crush’s grill. Calvin bribed his lab partner to dare his crush to give him an Eskimo kiss, also known as a Swedish handjob. He thanks Truth or Dare for this experience, and the fact that his crush couldn’t pronounce the word “truth.”

When we want to stop beating around the bush and get straight to the nitty-gritty, Spin the Bottle steps in to play the catalyst. Lets face it: toward the end of Truth or Dare, you’ve taken off your pants, waggled your wang around on the street and done everything short of showering your prospective spring fling in osmoregulated excretory fluid to fulfill a seventh grader’s rendition of the woodpecker’s mating dance, but you still have nothing to show for your over-sexed preteen libido. Then comes Spin the Bottle. No outs, just guaranteed action, and Suzy’s never looked better with her BubbleSmack lip gloss. This is the tween’s rite of passage, the month-long jaunt through the forest to claim his manhood, crammed into a single wet, sloppy, poorly-performed kiss with flickering tongue and dripping saliva that’s really more of a one-man act; think Scooby-Doo making nasty with Daphne. No time is wasted on constricting rules; there’s only one rule to Spin the Bottle: everyone gets some with anyone. Even the kid with braces (who magnetized the bottle). But when its all over and the Coke bottle shatters, who’s gonna take you home? With your luck, and your age, it’ll probably be your mom, and Spin the Bottle rules no longer apply.

The winner? Truth or Dare, because it can be played even in the most bottle-less situations. Say, for instance, you were trapped inside a volcano below the Charles River and you needed entertainment. Bottles are hard to come by (the Charles River mermaids prefer their beverages in cans), and if you found one, you’d probably rather use it to send out a message that read something like “to anyone on the mainland: I am trapped on an island with three college freshmen who won’t keep their pants on. Please send help, or at least a DVD that isn’t ‘The Notebook.’”

The past and the furious

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, March 31, 2009

We, the three-headed dachshund that is ThingFight, are afraid of almost everyone. Authority figures, people handing out Honest Tea, friends motioning to give us high-fives . . . you name it, we are afraid of it. When we feel threatened we often exercise the classic grade-school threat, “My great-grandparents can beat up your future great-grandchildren. Theoretically.” It’s rated at a threatliness level of “mauve,” and it’s kept bullies and Greenpeace recruiters at bay so far, but the concept behind it has never been put to the test. For years, the Past has tried to shake hands with the Future in a compromise we call “the Present,” but for the sake of our readership, we’ve decided to shred the peace treaty in the proverbial (or is it preverbal?) paper shredder and wonder: What if they fought?

The Past is the universe’s way of saying, “I told you so.” The sweat stains on your deodorant-less pits. The garlic seeping out of your pores after a garlic-infused pizza on garlic bread with garlic slice topping. The collective scream of a set of quintuplets. Your quintuplets. And now, thanks to Facebook, Twitter and robotic carrier pigeons, your embarrassing past is permanent and public. While regrettable, it is at least reliable. Save for a few of history’s mysteries, we know without a doubt what happened; even a Boston College history major is bound to “get the gist of it.” The possibilities abound in the Future, although it always seems to be letting us down. Remember how we were promised that by 1984 we would have government surveillance, doublespeak and Big Brother (the omnipresent overlord, not the sophisticated television program)? Instead, we got “Footloose.” But we forgave the Future and gave it another shot, asking only that by 2001 we could have luxury space travel, meals in pill form and the monolith (now marketed as the iPod Shuffle). Instead, we got “Spy Kids,” a critically acclaimed remake of “Footloose.”

Although we may know so much about the Past, we have to realize that the Past, with its dinosaurs, steamboats and old people, is not nearly as exciting as the Future, with its robo-dinosaurs, speamboats (space steamboats) and Florida-themed moon colonies where they keep the old people. Twelve or more years of history class? Boring. That one class where a weird substitute teacher taught you to make tinfoil hats because you’d need them in 2045 to signal the mothership? Awesome. The History Channel? Probably really good for our brains, but so boring we forgot what this column was even about for a minute. The Sci-Fi channel? ‘Nuff said. But if you enjoy either of these channels too much you’ll probably live with your parents until way after the mothership shows up.

Since Greek references seem to be in fashion recently, let’s remember the titans. Epimetheus and Prometheus, that is. The former, a representative of human hindsight and foolishness, and the latter, possessing forethought and a mean throwing arm. In myth, Prometheus’ careful planning for what the Future might hold brought Man fire, “Pulp Fiction,” fire drills and Planned Parenthood. Epimetheus and his innate backpedalling brought us belated birthday cards, “Memento” and stimulus packages. While each of their contributions is admittedly inconsequential to our existence, their fates may be accommodatingly telling. Prometheus was aware of the Future, a characteristic that scored him a hookup with the sexy and curious Pandora, while Epimetheus’ regrets somehow prompted Zeus to strap him to a rock and have an eagle eat his liver.

Now, if Greece doesn’t cut it for you, lousy with its olive oil and Olympic flames, consider famous philosopher Epicurus, named after his witch doctor-like ability to procure all things epic. He believed that we have no reason to blame death for preventing us to live further into the Future, just as we don’t blame birth for preventing us to be born further into the Past. While we’d love to hypothesize what it would be like to be born in the highly romanticized bubonic plague era or live into a generation that has finally found out what the hell is going on with “Lost,” we’re going to drop this sub-point while we’re ahead and save it for our anticipated “Pre-Birth vs. Post-Death” column, soon to be part of your future past.

We’ll get lost in our own time machine if we go on for too much longer, so we need to choose a winner. Now, we hate to get all nostalgic on you, but our most memorable contestant is the Past, and is therefore our winner. At the beginning of the column you may have been looking forward to the Future. But it’s too late to think about how great this week’s ThingFight will be, because now all you can do is think about how disappointing this week’s ThingFight was.

Scratch-n-win

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, March 24, 2009

If at some point in elementary school you debated who could push the tire swing the coolest, which name will make the class’s gerbil most peer-friendly or why your Meowth totally deserves to be traded for that other guy’s holographic Charizard, you have inadvertently been a part of this week’s ThingFight.

The 1990s was an era of rapidly advancing technology (think the Internet, Razor scooters and Christina Aguilera). But the most prominent new development came from the birth of glow-in-the-dark materials and their less hyphenated rivals, the scratch-and-sniff. Childhood was the golden age of petty arguments and unintelligible persuasion, an era that sculpted the negotiators we are today at ThingFight. And while the subjects of glow-in-the-dark and scratch-and-sniff are often brought up, simple arguments like “it glows in the dark” and “it sniffs when you scratch it” overlooked a deep-rooted, complex rivalry. That’s why today we ask our loyal and attractive readers the age-old question: what if they fought?

In one corner, scratch-and-sniff materials. American consumers have been scratchin’ and sniffin’ the matted postage stamp-sized sticker squares since your parents donned the gaudy vinyl of the as Kenny Loggins. When notorious sticker producer/drug lord Lisa Frank unleashed the first scratch-and-sniff items, the public was less than thrilled. The prototype, a sticker of a cigar-smoking troll that smelled something like a mix of old people and mud, led to the even less successful “Dr. Scratchums,” a dog in a doctor’s outfit that smelled like — you guessed it — dried blood. That’s when the scheming Lisa Frank fine-tuned her formula and found out what Americans of all ages, genders and ethnicities have craved since the dawn of civilization: big-eyed cartoon animals that smelled like a nondescript mix of fruit and flowers. The rest is history: consumers literally went insane, tearing people’s noses off at toy stores to discourage them from buying the high-demand stickers. Many scientists have since speculated that the “sniff” aspect was so appealing because it contained cocaine, while others think the “scratch” aspect contained a new drug know as “fingernail crack.” Since their debut, the smelly frames of faux fragrance have infiltrated every corner of American society, from children’s collections of fruits and veggies to magazine ads of soaps and perfumes to Hugh Hefner’s recent manifesto regarding Playboy’s transition to a completely scratch-and-sniff publication. It’s the Muggle’s answer to Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. It’s the reward behind all that scratchin’ and rubbin’ for that fix of the sniffin’ friction addiction. It’s the Freudian pacifier for the anal retentive. For whatever reason, by the end of the decade, families decided they “probably had enough scratch-and-sniff stickers” and sales leveled off to a measly $26 billion a year in the greater Boston area.

How can glow-in-the-dark compete? Six words: coolest pajamas at the ThingFight sleepover. Since its creation in the early 1400s, glow-in-the-dark has satisfied many needs that mankind did not even realize it had. That faint, otherworldly, yellow-green glow demanded the attention of all the kids in the theater during “Spy Kids 2,” but once alone it took on that eerie radioactive tinge; those bedroom stars that gave you nightmares and outlined the path to your bed like a runway for all the wild things that waited in your closet. Fact attack: before Galileo plastered the Earth’s atmosphere with glow-in-the-dark bouncy balls, we did not have the stars we now take for granted. Don’t believe us? Look at photographs of the sky, circa 1399. Plenty of mythical beasts flying around (before they were all killed by falling bouncy balls) but no stars. Still don’t believe us? Fine, it wasn’t Galileo; we don’t know who it was. We just wanted to impress you. The power of this Kryptonite-like shade is undeniable. The color of choice for the warrior fish of the deep and the official sponsor of Halloween haunted houses nationwide.

In all fairness, we at ThingFight would not want eyes in a glow-in-the-dark-less world, nor would we want noses or scratching utensils in a scratch-and-sniff-less one. But with our winner, glow-in-the-dark, there are still so many unexplored boundaries. Researchers are calling glow-in-the-dark the new stem cell of modern science. We are on the precipice of a new era where glow-in-the-dark books, shoelaces and doorknobs reign. Glow-in-the-dark is the Holy Grail, the cure for paralysis, food for the hungry, world peace and fingernail crack for everyone on the planet.

Schpiel of fortune

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, March 17, 2009

It’s St. Patrick’s Day, and you know what that means: life-changing dilemmas. Perhaps you can’t decide whether you should get your significant other a box of Lucky Charms or a bottle of whiskey, or whether you’d rather wear something green or be groped by strangers. Who are you going to turn to for advice? A Dear Abby column? Too slow. Your real friends? In the immortal words of Shakespeare, “no way, Jose.” You’re going to turn to one of two pseudo-Chinese advice dispensers that have (maybe) been around for centuries: the horoscope and the fortune cookie.

Fact time: the Internet will tell you horoscopes were invented in the nineteenth century, but guess who writes the Internet? That’s right, the CIA, the organization that invented horoscopes in 1964 as a way of sending messages to secret agents involved in what became known as “project Zodi-axe.”This scheme was later released as the feature film “Dirty Harry.” Let’s examine a simple horoscope, taken from a publication not exactly endowed with The Daily Free Press’s level of journalistic integrity: The New York Times. Capricorn: Venus is high in the night sky, suggesting that a romantic surprise will enter your life in the coming days. This may be exciting, but do not take old friendships for granted. This translates in horo-code to: Agent SkyFox, (aka Capricorn): the sexy Russian assassin DeathFox (aka Venus) is preparing an attack on our secret Moonbase (aka the night sky). Your mission is to seduce and destroy DeathFox (romantic surprise). If and when something freaky becomes necessary, your former partner, SteelFox, will be sent as reinforcement (old friendships). If you were wondering, it is a mark of distinction among secret agents to have the word Fox in one’s name, and, yes, “horo-code” is an actual CIA term.

The horoscope often bores the typical high-browser, and therein lies its genius: while a meaningful analysis of your life would deplete valuable “thought points” (a new study totally found these to exist), a horoscope politely beats itself into your tired brain with little effort. Today, according to your horoscope, your amiable personality will rein in new friends from all sides. But how to apply such good fortune? Doesn’t matter, you’ve already been distracted by a picture of Dakota Fanning’s new baby. Life is simple in the perfect ether of the celestial spheres.

The fortune cookie, brought to you by Jared, your waiter/college student from New Mexico, is the culmination of half-assed American ingenuity. Unlike the Slinky or one of the ThingFight columnists, the fortune cookie was no accident. To satisfy the palate of Chinese food connoisseurs (alternative-lifestyle couples on Valentine’s day, business meeting all-nighters, basically anyone non-Chinese) the fortune cookie was crafted by six of America’s most prominent chefs in a more important version of the Manhattan Project. The public needed a mechanical and edible version of the classic fifth-grade cootie tester, but it seemed impossible. Dough-shaping artisans debated alternative shapes, including the Rubik’s Fortune Cube, The Trojan Fortune-Horse and the Nestlé Wonderball. Nothing worked until Bert Weinstein (the Albert Einstein of important things) found the solution: make the cookie not out of dough, but vanilla-laced cardboard. Just like the horoscope, the fortune cookie is technically not edible; while the human body can process a few, a dozen or so can result in blindness or death. This health risk has never been investigated because anyone who would eat a dozen fortune cookies in one sitting probably deserves to die.

But face it: nobody cares about the cookie itself. Most are cracked open, thrown out, then dug out from dumpsters and glued back together in a process known as “rebaking”. The fortune is the real draw, a jumble of hopeful buzzwords like “happiness,” “wisdom” and “relief from indigestion.” We can credit the modern style of fortunizing to a wise old Muppet from a galaxy far away who taught us that wisdom is best expressed backward and ran through an Internet translator. As Engrish majors here at Boston University already know, You will soon achieve prosperity could never be as meaningful as You luxury machines will surround in next week days.

To determine the winner of this week’s ThingFight, we turned to the shamelessly American solution: the magic eight ball. Unfortunately, the coy billiards-themed predictor kept giving us answers ranging from “outlook hazy” to “ask again later.” When we broke open the ball to see if there were any actual answers that weren’t synonyms for “maybe,” we saw a small note that read: Agent ThingFox and Agent FoxColumn: that’s not the real Kyle Sauer! It’s a robot clone sent from the future to kill you! Get out of there now! We had no idea what the message meant, but when Kyle started acting defensive, we decided to cut the column short and declare it a tie.

Heartbakers

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Deep within the crevices of your kitchen, next to the pastry blenders and lemon juicers, the avocado slicers and the kiwi peelers, the ice tongs and corncob grips, there dwells another domestic dynamo. Here, the muffin tin and cupcake liners await their future mates, either a sensual soirée of sugar and egg whites, or the distinguished debonair of flour and milk. Although arising from an unorganized upbringing, Muffin and Cupcake have each done their part to create their own identity and conjure your cravings. At any time throughout the day, you may hear both of them calling “I want to be inside you.” So which one will you answer? You may have thought about it, but you’ve never fought about it, and that’s where ThingFight comes in.

In the social stratosphere of your neighborhood bakery, Cupcake is the slutty prom queen. She was the girl in high school who had the power to turn you into a sweaty, awkward little boy just by looking at you. If you were a girl, she had the power to turn you into a sweaty, jealous wannabe. Your yearbook’s “Most Popular” section will display Cupcake’s ever-changing fashion sense: a plethora of colored frostings, sugary jimmies and nonpareils. And she never forgets her signature drapery, that decorative liner that leaves most muffins looking (and we’ll try not to sugarcoat it) nude. Cupcake tastes so good without going bad. She stays out all night, she lets boys touch her boobs and she’s loaded with saturated fats. While you think her sweetness will never go stale, deep down you know you could never have a lasting connection with Cupcake; she’s just like all the others. Like the makeup-encrusted hotties that made your high school experience a living hell, there’s nothing below Cupcake’s frosted facade besides that moist, delicious, succulent . . . oh, excuse us. The column. Right.

Cupcake’s frumpier sister fills out that new doily ‘til it’s fit to burst at the seams, and that double chin overlapping the collar is hardly Rockette material, but give her a chance to reveal the sweetness inside. When Cupcake’s yeast began to rise and her embarrassing Funfetti began to clear up, all the pastries lost their cool whip, and Muffin turned into the “simmer in silence type.” Every school dance stumble due to her awkward cinnamon bunions: that rejection from the dreamy foreign exchange student Napoleon, those nights Muffin would lock herself in the bathroom and try on Cupcake’s swirly ‘do and rainbow sprinkles; it’s all festered into little tumors of juicy fruity flavor explosions. Sure she’s nothing special, just tampered baked goods, but her time spent in the oven has given her an aged and hardened crust that makes her emotionally softened insides the stuff of nutritional satiation. Real pastries have nerves.

Like all home-style girls, if prompted for a date, Muffin may make you meet her mom. Be warned, her family is anything but well-balanced; her royal aunt, the English Muffin, has no problem showing her crumpets everywhere from here to Great Britain, and her greasy Irish grandfather, Egg McMuffin, has wandered his fair share of streets looking for some easy-baked treats. Muffin’s deceptively unwholesome family may make it hard to work up an appetite, but her on-the-town attire will make your mouth start watering again. Albeit rare, and less flashy than Cupcake’s club wear, Muffin can be seen sporting some sugar crystals or honey bran bunches on special occasions.

Your experience with Cupcake will be much less involved. Expect to wait in her apartment’s lobby while she determines what style sprinkle will best suit the season and what garnish to top it all off. Always unsatisfied, her conversation will be as cold as her icing, and she’ll want to try to get into clubs that even wedding cakes can’t get into. Although you’ll try to savor the night, in no time you’ll be peeling down her decorative liner and left wanting more.

When it comes down to it, people like Cupcake because she is easy. She’s pretty, she’s extravagant and she’s melt-in-your mouth. You can basically expect to have her right after dinner. Muffin, however, has more integrity, more diversity and more whole grains. Therefore, we are going to need to declare Muffin our winner, and our girlfriend. Sure, Cupcake is great for a one-night stand, and the next morning she might even make you breakfast. But Muffin will do one better –– she’ll be your breakfast.

And the award goes to . . .

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, February 24, 2009

In a corporate-office-themed penthouse somewhere in La-La Land, Alec Baldwin is snoozing and dreaming a troubled dream. For as he dozes, two glimmering statuettes begrudgingly share his mantel: a sassy best actor Emmy and a distinguished Oscar, probably given to him from editor Thelma Schoonmaker, who was weighed down with her other two and figured he deserved something for “The Departed.”

This week’s ThingFight delves into a conflict that has been silently brewing for decades: the battle between the Oscar statuette and its deceptively angelic Emmy counterpart. The resentment has been building since Greco-Roman times, when Oscar was the god of art and entertainment and Emmy the goddess of prime time television. The question becomes unavoidable: what if they fought?

A little-known historical insight: it is rumored that the world’s first Oscar statue, presented to the real Benjamin Button for his stunning 1935 biopic, was made by encasing a tiny man in solid gold. From his muffled metal entombment, the man seemed to be crying “Oscar! Oscar!” In actuality, he was crying “oh my god oh my god let me out why are you doing this to me, you’re sick, you’re sick, you’re sick.” The Emmy’s origins are slightly less glamorous: minutes before the first-ever ceremony, the producers realized they had forgotten to prepare any sort of prize. In a MacGyver-esque fit of ingenuity, they rounded up all of their daughters’ (and effeminate sons’) ballet trophies and handed them out to the winners. The tradition has continued ever since, using less expensive, copper-filled statues.

Physically, the two have little in common other than being small, golden and creepily faceless like the minions from the original Power Rangers. The Oscar rests atop a symbolic reel that represents the five spokes of the cinematic collective: money hoarders, child stars, the Wizard of Oz, Eddie Murphy and lighting assistants (though Christian Bale insists on thinning out that last spoke himself). The Oscar, shamelessly displaying his guns, stands composed and regal, as if silently saying “bring it, beeyotch.” Oscar has indeed had his fair share of workout time, if you’ll recall the cover shoot he landed on last November’s Men’s Health magazine for his “Gold Star Diet.” The Emmy, perched on her tiptoes, is poised forward to make her slim body look more fearsome, like that of a panther or female gymnast. She is grounded by her pedestal, a spray painted golden can of cat food filled with the ashes of forgotten best boy key grips.

But their posturing is only half the story –– what they’re holding might be just as important. The Emmy carries the atom, and her head is a little smaller than a tenth of the size of it. She’s already a statuette, how much more insignificant do they need to make her? Now observe the Oscar’s cinematic endowment. Considerably larger, he holds in his hands his glorious Excalibur. The Emmy, an angel, should have understood the significance of that juicy hand candy. Everyone knows the coolest saint is Michael because he’s brandishing some cold, hard steel. Shakespeare knew it, Peter Jackson lived it and Michael Moore may never understand. A little swordplay goes a long way amongst art connoisseurs, and we here at ThingFight are no exception.

Just as the Hollywood sign has the magical ability to illuminate searchlights across Tinseltown, and Ryan Seacrest has the ability to make anyone he interacts with uncomfortable, the Oscar and the Emmy each have their own special powers. Though little scientific background is provided about the origins of each phenomenon, there is still irrefutable evidence. Whenever mortals come in contact with an Oscar, they lose composure and cry like the backwards-aging political activist wrestlers that they play in their films (see Halle Berry). When a winner comes in contact with the Emmy, he or she is inspired to make witty jokes and censored political statements.

As the fight begins, Oscar seems to have the upper hand. Emmy’s arms are raised high in the air, holding some sort of half-finished golden rubber band ball, leaving her armpits completely susceptible to a tickle attack. One would think the Emmy could escape on her golden wings, but alas, the careful observer will note that they are not actually wings but lightning bolts, painfully shooting out of her back. After Oscar’s initial blow, Emmy could use her overwhelming shininess to blind him long enough to counterattack. It comes down to a classic battle of agility vs. strength, David vs. Goliath, Pikachu vs. Blastoise.

The victor? Oscar by a mile. Even out of the context of a physical fight, Oscar has so much more going for him: while most Emmys end up being sold on eBay by cash-strapped boom mic operators, Oscar divides the rest of his year between stunt doubling for the Silver Surfer, donning the uniform of the MTV Video Music Awards Moon Man and, of course, nailing the Statue of Liberty.

Hair to the throne

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, February 17, 2009

This week’s ThingFight has been 4 million years in the making, reaching back into our ancient past to when Neanderthals meandered tall across the earthen crust upon their hind legs, styling their ‘do in such a deceivingly lackadaisical fashion so as to better balance their spines while keeping to that scruffy, bad-boy zeitgeist of the time. Accelerating through eons of mankind’s brilliance and ingenuity; the mohawk, the faux hawk, the mullet, the beard combover, we arrive at the culmination of hairstyle evolution, the dominating victors of mane natural selection: rattail and bowl cut.

If you were ever a boy between the ages of 3 and 13, you had a bowl cut or a rattail. You may be thinking, “When I was between the ages of 3 and 13, I was a girl,” and you may be wondering how you could get away with not reading the rest of this column and live without crushing curiosity as to how this fight will play out. Well, we urge you girls to keep reading because we’re sure that the only thing more aggravating than owning an embarrassing haircut was living with, and eventually developing a crush on, guys with embarrassing haircuts.

In one corner, we have the rattail: a long, stylish strand of hair that protrudes from the back of the head and looks best unwashed. The style is named, of course, after the brilliant rodent scientists who sported the hairstyle in the “golden age” of rodent science. Not to be confused with the pigtail, a curly, hairless mass of skin popular among preteen girls living near nuclear power plants. The rattail can be worn in a number of ways: a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away, a braided rattail was worn by Obi-Wan Kenobi, while a beaded rattail was worn by his nemesis, Darth Beads. Likely, the tamer of this lion of a hairstyle was your schoolyard bully, keeper of your lunch coins and dignity. More likely, he is now your boss, keeper of your present and future. There’s a chance that you might speculate at some point that perhaps he’s God, keeper of your soul. What makes such a hideous hairstyle so appealing? The rattail’s got spunk and attitude; a punk rocker edge to coincide with the little bits dying inside, a social sacrifice made in the pursuit of power, a surge of adrenaline each time its owner catches a glimpse at the reflection. A heart flutter every time the owner hears its name. It’s personal, and it’s deep. It’s more than a hairstyle: it’s love.

In the other corner, we have the bowl cut, also known as the “moptop” or “gentleman’s mohawk.” The term “bowl cut” comes from Native Americans, who believed that when one was given a stupid haircut, the hair should be placed in a bowl and sacrificed to the weird-named gods of Ohio. Coincidentally, the bowl cut often resembles a bowl made of hair being worn on one’s head.

In the 1960s, an experiment was performed to prove once and for all which hairstyle reigned supreme. The two variables in the experiment are commonly known as The Monkees and The Beatles. The American public was told the two groups were “British,” but modern society now acknowledges the fact that Britain does not exist, nor did it ever. The Beatles and The Monkees were actually created in a laboratory as clones of each other, but with one small difference: The Beatles had bowl cuts and The Monkees had rattails. Of course, all evidence of this has since been erased; a Google Images search for “monkee rattail” will only lead to some poorly Photoshopped nude photos of Davy Jones. Decades later, the results of the experiment are undeniably conclusive: The Monkees remain the most popular and celebrated songwriters of their time, if not all time, while The Beatles have accepted their fates as has-beens and crawled out of the public eye to die off, one by one.

And yet history cannot choose a winner for this week. When it comes down to the facts, the word “winner” can only be used in determining which haircut is most easily fixed. While a rattail can easily be procured, just a simple snip away, we must imagine the resulting hairstyle that has been housing the tail: an uneven crew cut. We must, then, declare the bowl cut a winner; not for actuality, but for potential. With a bowl cut, you still have long enough hair to shape and mold to your heart’s content. Even if you manage to end up with a more embarrassing and shorter haircut, remember that there is a simple fact that keeps the world together: hair grows. Be warned, however, for without a haircut, hair grows . . . into a mullet.

Murphy’s Law

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, February 10, 2009

From Shakespeare’s tragedies to the biblically inspired Laguna Beach, many of the greatest dramatic productions have grasped an elusive and incomprehensible concept known as “acting multitaskination.” In most situations like this, guys play chick parts and blonde chicks play other blonde chicks — although few have mastered it quite like Eddie Murphy. Murphy has garnered considerable attention in the last few years for his uncanny ability to make movies in which he plays every single character. And that’s where ThingFight comes in –– as Murphy’s law states, for every movie in which Eddie Murphy plays every role, there is an equal and opposite movie in which Eddie Murphy does not play any role. But which types of these movies are better? While Ebert and Roeper have battled for decades about this very topic, it is our job to discern, without bias, which genre will come out on top.

Ironically enough, Eddie Murphy began his career playing only half a character. On the set of “Saturday Night Live,” Steve Martin often sat on Murphy’s shoulders and wore a large overcoat to make the two of them look like one super tall person. One night, Martin “accidentally” fell from the great height of Murphy’s shoulders, rendering him unable to perform in any sketches. This was a huge opportunity for Eddie, who filled the empty space in the schedule by debuting his “racist veterinarian” character, which later became the basis for “Dr. Doolittle.” From there, the growth was exponential: Murphy went from limiting one-character roles to more challenging, artistically rewarding projects like “Bowfinger,” “The Klumps” and, of course, the critically acclaimed “Norbit” (based on the William Faulkner novel of the same name). Rumor has it Murphy will take it to the next level with his next project, “Being John Murphyvich,” in which he will play every character and most of the scenery.

Perhaps the only feat more impressive than Murphy’s uncanny ability to split his acting roles is his ability to embody multiple characters off the silver screen. Movie actor at times, R&B demigod at others, Murphy has as many Grammys as he does Oscars. It’s enough to confuse even Murphy himself, who morphed his two loves in an epic feat of synthesis to create “Dreamgirls,” the inspirational biopic that birthed a new era of young divas. Unfortunately, all this emotional detachment took a toll on his psyche when a romp with his popular alter ego Scary Spice birthed an illegitimate daughter and an ensuing child support fiasco.

It may be hard to believe, but in the last century, there have also been movies made where Eddie Murphy does not play a single character. Needless to say, they were all terrible. The 1939 flop “Gone With the Wind” was initially written with Eddie Murphy in mind, only to be recast when the director realized Eddie Murphy had not yet been born. Regardless, we can’t rule out the importance of these films –– after all, multi-actorianism is the one quality that is binding Hollywood together. Imagine the looming, not-so-distant future in which all movies have gone through a full metaMurphasis. We may become bored seeing the layout of Eddie Murphy’s house for the fifteenth time when watching an all-new episode of “MTV Cribs.” The Academy Awards would essentially turn into a repetitive nightmare, for no one wants to sit through two hours of Eddie Murphy winning every award, even if it is hosted by Ellen DeGeneres.

While this future could prove devastating to Hollywood, it is interesting to imagine how the quality of past movies could have improved with Eddie Murphy playing more characters. Or take “A Beautiful Mind,” nominated for 11 Oscars and taking home four, but leaving behind the coveted “Best Actor” award. The problem? Russell Crowe playing a schizophrenic haunted by images of people who don’t exist. Impressive, but it lacks artistic integrity. The solution? Eddie Murphy playing himself, haunted by images of himself that don’t really exist. This is just innate method acting here. Bottle Murphy’s daily internal battle between an extensive cast of alter egos and transfuse that energy into solid Oscar gold.

Some major movie studios are starting to utilize a new technology known as “Digital ReMurphication,” in which classic films are altered to fit the directors’ original all-Eddie Murphy vision. By early 2010, movie-renters will have the pleasure of seeing every one of the 101 Dalmations played not by a bunch of dog-shaped-robots-in-dog-costumes, but by 101 green-screened, tail-wagging Eddie Murphies.

The winner? Maybe we’re biased, seeing as all three of us here at ThingFight are actually Eddie Murphy underneath all these prosthetics, but we have to hand it to Eddie Murphy this time. Now be sure to check all of hims out in the upcoming summer hits “The Nutty Professor Goes To Mars,” “Eddie Murphy’s Just Not That Into Eddie Murphy” and “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.”

Textual favors

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

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Published: Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, February 3, 2009

We know at some point your parents have gotten a Christmas card from a far- off acquaintance who misspelled their names on the envelope. Or maybe a letter, clearly written while intoxicated, from your step-uncle who ended up going to jail for that weird parrot-slavery auction he operated out of your neighbor’s tree house.

Similarly, both of this week’s Things — the mass-text and the drunk-text — are deeply rooted in the history of American stupidity. The rise of our cell phone overlords has given us a much more convenient way to display all forms of obnoxiousness. But not until recently were the two phenomena so abundant, and not until today have they fought.

The mass-text is today’s most prominent medium for lame jokes, party invites, and holiday greetings for any day worthy of a special Google logo. The mass-text rarely presents the opportunity for a full conversation: if you dare to thank someone for their “Happy 143rd anniversary of Warren G. Harding’s birthday! <3” text, be prepared for the inevitable “OMG, I didn’t ask for your life story, I just had a few texts to burn. Not all of us have rollover, yuppie scum. LOL.” Ultimately, the role of the mass-text is that of a friendship-o-meter: recipients can be assured they are more than just fleeting acquaintances, but not yet at the stage known as “actual friendship.” Rather, they are in the transitional “Do I say hi when I pass them on the street or not?” phase.

In the other corner of this week’s Thingfight, we have the infamous drunk-text. Personal, heartwarming and meaningful — the drunk-text could be all of these things if it were legible. You see, the central flaw in the design of the drunk-text stems from T9, (or, in snooty phones, Predictive Text) a system which more or less “guesses” what one means to type, designed for the lazy and elderly. Meaning may be lost when “rejected” types out as “selected,” or when referring to a great friend named Steph as “Queri.” A few drinks only complicates the scenario: “This is the best party ever! I love you man!” becomes “This in tie bert pastry dump! I LOUD MYT NAN!” And, in the most serious instance, when being asked one’s preference to party music, one might mean to say, “I hate CHER” and instead textually announce, “I have AIDS.” Coincidence? You’d have to ask Thomas Travis Teetotaller the Ninth, developer of the T9 system. Regardless, rarely does pure honesty pour as openly as it does in the medium of drunk-text. Whether it’s your ex-boyfriend luring you with an elegant, “Come us ot my arpramtment we hot ninentdos” or your mom typing out, “We rae gald oyu ewnt to collllege foot ever come bakc!” you always know what they’re trying to say. And in our fast-paced, stop-and-go, digital-surfing, media-saturated, hot pocket-eating society, that’s more than a little reassuring.

Our faithful and attractive readers may be asking, why not another Thing-tie like last week? How easy and convenient would it be to send and/or receive a mass-drunk-text? Here at Thingfight, it can be said that we are many horrible things, but we could never be called quixotic. Partially, because we don’t know what that means, but also because, realistically, there is no physical way a drunk person would have the timing or coordination to send out a drunk-mass-text. For all we know, studies could show that of all mass-texts sent, 15 percent are sent to the wrong person. In the haste of getting the word out, there is a frighteningly easy chance that one will accidentally send the text message to a contact-list doppelgänger. The risk is heightened to 85 percent when the sender has more than two Appletinis, a White Russian and five-thirds of a Long Island Iced Tea, as a certain Thingfight columnist did last Thursday (thanks for the “f harg gheigl,” you know who you are.) Even if that text were to follow through to its deserved recipients, it risks combining the worst aspects of the two Things. The last message anyone wants is an impersonal and grammatically incorrect invitation to Sunday brunch.

The victor: the drunk-text, out of pure hilarity. In some ways, a drunk-text is farther reaching than a mass-text, for a truly epic drunk-text can be passed on from person to person, generation to generation, ensuring the sender can never forget about it. Ever. And to think, all of this greatness can be achieved with a simple click of an inebriated thumb. In the words of Walt Whitman, “teh apt of art, th glosy me exqdrp pinn cod tie sunshine of tie jight ndletturs, iq simplicity. I LOUD OYU MAN.”

Pegasus vs. unicorn

By Nick Forster, Julian Glander and Kyle Sauer

Published: Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Updated: Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Here’s some disturbing news: a recent poll showed that only 82 percent of American toddlers could properly differentiate between Pegasus (the winged horse who served Hercules) and a unicorn (a horse with a horn atop its head which many speculate is, in fact, magical). That sure doesn’t sound like No Child Left Behind to us here at Thingfight. Some of you may be wondering, “So what? They’re both mystical offshoots of the Equidae taxonomic family of mammals; there’s nothing more to it. Now leave me alone so I can live under a rock and lead a life that is neither intellectually nor spiritually rewarding.”

If we could end the column there, we would, because it literally takes years to write one of these. But, as our faithful and attractive readers of all ages and ethnic backgrounds are surely aware, we at Thingfight have sworn an oath to take some time every week to examine the differences between two apparently similar things, often in the context of a fight. It could, indeed, be stated that Pegasus and unicorns both fall under the deceptively broad category of “things.”

Sadly, even with our colossal research budget, there is no practical way to study Pegasus, or a unicorn. Of course, most academics concede that Pegasus died of old age long ago, and the fossil record indicates that after unicorns were denied entry onto Noah’s ark, they evolved into two separate species to accommodate the flooded earth: in the ocean, narwhal (from the Latin gnarrwall, or “horned beast of the sea that totally used to be a horse”), and in the sky, the majestic but terrifying Eaglecorn. Many speculate that some modern unicorns are actually hiding inside rhinos. But just imagine, what if they were still alive today? And what if, due to some sort of territorial misunderstanding, they fought?

Though he fights alone, Pegasus can’t be ruled out as a contender. He was created by Poseidon as a gift to Hercules. That’s right, Hercules was his boss. It can be inferred that Pegasus was offered an incredible comprehensive benefits package along with this job, including dental and a 401(k) plan. Keep in mind that this was back before last October, when a 401(k) was actually worth something. We’re just spit-balling here, but it seems that financially and health-wise, Pegasus was probably more secure than the average unicorn. When Pegasus passed away, he was honored by Zeus with his very own constellation in the night sky. This is simply not a feasible feat for a unicorn: placed in outer space, whether in the night sky or even the less intimidating daytime sky, a unicorn would run out of oxygen, if he didn’t instantly freeze first. In modern psychology, Pegasus was said by Freud to represent the “primitive scene.” Wikipedia doesn’t have any information on this term, so it’s scientifically impossible to know for certain what it means, but it is generally conceded by the staff here at Thingfight to sound totally awesome.

The unicorns, however, are not to be ruled out just yet. The unicorn (from the Latin unus or “one” and corne or “stabbing horse”) has been encountered by nearly all societies, from ancient Mesopotamia to medieval Europe, and the legend surely will continue onward through present time into the moon-based societies of the future. This leads to the conclusion that unlike Pegasus, the unicorns flourished and traveled in large armies. This is a seeming advantage, but remember that Pegasus could easily lure the entire unicorn species off a cliff and fly away, Wile E. Coyote vs. Road Runner style. Additionally, unicorns have a much broader fan base, ranging from little girls with Lisa Frank unicorn binders to 18-year-old newspaper column writers with Lisa Frank unicorn binders. Undoubtedly, this kind of support gives a moral boost to match or even outdo the support of Poseidon, Zeus and the rest of the cast of the Disney musical version of Hercules. Unlike Pegasus, Freud never discussed unicorns in his works –– because he was too scared of them. You see, unicorns held incredible influence in 20th century psychoanalysis, as they still do today.

So who would emerge victorious from this mystical arena? Here at Thingfight we have a three-way tie: one vote for the majestic and noble Pegasus, one vote for the enchanting and prestigious unicorn and a third vote for another possibility entirely: what if the two beasts put aside their differences and realized just how much they had in common? Imagine, just for a moment, a Pegasus-unicorn love child, a ‘pegacorn’ of sorts (from the Latin peg, or “seriously” and acorn, or “awesome.”) In that scenario, we would all be winners. Actually, we wouldn’t, because a creature as seriously awesome as that would surely outsmart, overpower and ultimately enslave us all.