From April 2005 to December 2006, I wrote a humor column for Youngstown State University's student newspaper, The Jambar. During that time, I took the liberty of hosting the articles on my blog. So, in case you missed out on those 21 months of solid comedy writing, here's a handy index of my 86 published articles.

Note: The titles listed are my original ones and not necessarily the titles these articles were published under.  All original, published art was created by Nicholas A. Daniel, or me, if his signature isn't present (and at times he only digitally colored my finished art).

2005

04/21/2005 - Great Pope-Spectations
04/28/2005 - I Wish I Smoked
05/03/2005 - The Grace and Beauty of Water Slides
05/26/2005 - I, Good Sir, Am Not "Lovin' It!"
06/09/2005 - Hot Rods to Hell
06/16/2005 - Matrimony Schmatrimony
06/23/2005 - Trail of Tears
07/07/2005 - My Hatred for B-List Pundits Continues
07/14/2005 - Mind Wide Shut
07/21/2005 - Let's Mess With Texas
08/30/2005 - How to Succeed at Failure
09/01/2005 - Please Mind the Mencia
09/06/2005 - A Bugman and His Wife: 75 Years of Bemusement
09/08/2005 - Fair and Loathing in Canfield
09/12/2005 - "Manatees" Delivers, Real Manatees Still Useless
09/15/2005 - The Mystery of the Premise-Explaining Theme Song
09/20/2005 - King Me
09/22/2005 - The Trifecta of Self-Absorption
09/27/2005 - To Sleep, Perchance to Slack
09/29/2005 - Console Wars
10/04/2005 - Satan, Mr. Roboto, and Me
10/06/2005 - Quiz: Are You A Sociopath?
10/11/2005 - Two Reasons Nature Hates You
10/13/2005 - Sesquipedalian Like Me
10/18/2005 - Sweetest Day: The Bitter Background
10/20/2005 - Stop Talking About Extreme Makeover (Now)
10/25/2005 - It's Like Living Castlevania
10/27/2005 - Shaq, Bestiality and Chin Butts: One Scary Night
11/01/2005 - In Crust We Trust
11/03/2005 - A Permanent Marker
11/08/2005 - Bird Flu, I Challenge You
11/10/2005 - Dark X-Mas 2005
11/17/2005 - Jim Cramer: The Colonel Kurtz of Television
11/22/2005 - Surviving Thanksgiving
11/29/2005 - The Boondocks: Edgy As Safety Scissors
12/01/2005 - Stay Home: Your Guide to the Holiday Movie Season
12/06/2005 - Take Back the Night: The Fight Against Holiday Ghosts
12/08/2005 - Gravy Claus and Other Failed Christmas Traditions
12/08/2005 - 2005: The Top Five Things That Never Happened

2006

01/19/2006 - Belated New Year's Resolutions
01/24/2006 - Jim Traficant: Worse than Hitler
01/26/2006 - The Jambar: 75 Years of "What the Hell is a Jambar?"
01/31/2006 - Stop Exposing Me to Your Children
02/02/2006 - I'm Not Ready for Some Football
02/07/2006 - A Boy and His Annoying Dog
02/09/2006 - Stopping Sickness Before It Starts
02/14/2006 - Love Hurts, Love Songs Kill
02/16/2006 - History's Greatest Couples
02/21/2006 - (Vice) President Evil
02/23/2006 - Presidential Fun Facts (Believe It… Or Else!)
02/28/2006 - Freedomland: Movie Prison
03/02/2006 - Television Euthanasia
03/07/2006 - Say It Loud, Tall and Proud
03/09/2006 - Spring Break on a Budget
03/21/2006 - Between Iraq and a Hard Place
03/23/2006 - My Beef With the Church
03/28/2006 - A Man for More Seasons
03/30/2006 - The Truth About Bean Bags
04/04/2006 - Where's My Statue?
04/06/2006 - Hate Mail
04/11/2006 - God Libs
04/13/2006 - Snakes on a Plane: Our Star Wars
04/18/2006 - How to Write Like Me
04/20/2006 - American Mythology X
04/25/2006 - My Summer Girl
04/27/2006 - It's Supposed to Be About the Music
05/02/2006 - Severed Heads Make You Smarter
05/04/2006 - Satire 4000
06/01/2006 - Restless Legs Syndrome: A Survivor's Tale
06/15/2006 - The Rules of Attraction
07/20/2006 - I Am A Terrorist
08/29/2006 - Too Cool for School
09/07/2006 - Jambar Retractions
09/14/2006 - "Too Soon" Is Never Too Soon Enough
09/21/2006 - Holywar.com
09/28/2006 - Blogsploring the Blogosphere
10/05/2006 - BandBattle 4000
10/12/2006 - Turn the Page
10/19/2006 - Nerds Ruin Everything
10/26/2006 - Putting the "You" in WYSU
11/02/2006 - Bring Your ID or Go Home, Old Man
11/09/2006 - Return of the Rise of the Last Crusade King with a Vengeance
11/16/2006 - Winter Driving
11/21/2006 - Everybody's Working for the Bleak End
11/30/2006 - If I Did It
12/07/2006 - Thank You for the Ride

This is my last Jambar article ever.

---

There comes a time in every writer’s life when it’s time to put away childish playthings and become a man. Unfortunately, this is not one of those times. As much as I would love to keep writing and receiving paychecks from The Jambar, a certain event next Sunday will prevent me from doing so: graduation. Namely, my graduation. It’s rare that graduation actually prevents a person from doing certain things, but entertaining and angering you with my Jambar articles will be an impossibility once the mortarboard hits the floor. Also, I will have to end my suckling at the teat of sweet lady student loan, an image that would be disgusting if it wasn’t so apt.

So how will I leave you, Jambar readers? Many “final farewell” articles are full of thanks, gratitude, and hope, which makes them about as interesting to read as Atlas Shrugged. I won’t make you suffer through such congeniality; if I’m in your debt, then you know who you are. But – because it’s only fair – I also won’t use this article as a chance to circulate, in print, my comprehensive enemies list, which is nearing completion. I’m just as against being mean-spirited as I am against being thankful. Besides, I’d rather make my enemies list available online in the convenient .pdf format, where it can be distributed at a much higher rate, and also updated when new enemies inevitably cross my path in life.

By this point, many of you are interested in knowing what the future holds for me. First, let’s talk about the immediate future: graduation. The ceremony itself is what I consider to be my biggest hurdle to overcome in my post-YSU years. Why? Graduation ceremonies are known to cause hurricane-strength levels of boredom. I asked my own family to come, but did so reluctantly; they will leave Beeghly Center not full of pride, but full of anger directed towards me for making them sit through such an interminable ceremony. During every commencement, dusty old white guys are wheeled out of closets, where they then proceed to rattle through every platitude they can about “paths in life.” This is immediately followed by the reading of a thousand names, most with far too many syllables. Would you ever want to attend an event of this nature?

The inevitable boredom of graduation is not what annoys me the most, though. What I am deeply offended by is the fact that I was not asked to speak at the ceremony. Sure, a few select people with phenomenal achievements who didn’t take over 5 years to get a B.A. are going to go on for hours, thanking their immigrant families, but can they get a laugh? I don’t think so. In order to correct this slap in the face, I leave you forever with what would have been my graduation speech.

“Friends, families, students, and Mr. James Brown (Note: In this scenario, James Brown just played me to the stage with ‘I Feel Good.’): welcome to the commencement of YSU’s last graduating class of 2006. A wise man once said, ‘All our dreams can come true...if we have the courage to pursue them.’ Unfortunately this man was Walt Disney, who had one of those creepy little John Waters mustaches and was anti-Semitic. But still, some of the meaning of this quote still rings true today. As a child, my greatest wish was to become a raptor and stalk the plains of the Cretaceous earth, leaving nothing but a trail of terror and blood in my wake. It took many years and many visits to a reputable psychologist before I realized that my goal in life was just the fevered dream of a madman. So, at the age of 21, I decided to become an English major, which is as scientifically close to a raptor as you can get. (*Looking upwards*) Guess you were right, Walt.”

(Pause for intense waves of laughter and admiration.)

“Sadly, after that 15 minute break for laughter and admiration, I have very little time remaining. But just because I’ll be leaving this stage doesn’t mean I’ll be leaving you forever. Yes, just like freakish aliens who come to earth and befriend small boys, I’ll always be alive in your hearts. And I hope to stay lodged in your heart like the plaque deposits in your arteries left from the ghosts of past meatball sandwiches.”

“Who would have thought that a plucky young bootblack from the streets of olde Youngstowne could have won your Jambar-reading hearts with nary a journalism class to his name? Who can imagine the unholy terror he will cause to those who wronged him, once he has enough money and resources for ‘Plan A?’ Truly, Phoebus shines down brightly on Bob Mackey today.”

“In closing, I must be on my way to apply for six-figure careers at the English factories that are now as prevalent in the Mahoning Valley as the steel mills were in their heyday. But before I’m done here, I have one final message to leave you with.”

“Let’s tear this fucking place apart!”

---

I got the title of this article from a song at the end of this Mr. Show sketch, and I feel the lyrics are very fitting (watch the whole thing):


Said goodbye to a friend today,
He was off to find some fun.
But when he came back
He never came back,
Because his life was done.
Oh, I don't know why
So many people died.
But I bet if they'd talked to god
They'd say, "Thank you for the ride."
"Thank you for the ride."

Public outcry stopped the publication of O.J. Simpson’s mock confessional, “If I Did It,” but Simpson’s authorial career does not end with this unfortunate book. “If I Did It 2: More Adventures in the Subjunctive” follows America’s favorite murderer on a journey through time as he violently kills some of our most beloved historical figures. The Jambar is proud to present a short preview of O.J. Simpson’s follow-up to his unpublished classic.

To my children: My only regret is that you will not be able to read about how I allegedly killed your mother, or see pictures of the boat that book’s profits would have probably bought.

Chapter One: Emancipate This!

April 14th, 1865. I, O.J. Simpson, known for my roles in famous movies like “The Towering Inferno” and “The Naked Gun 33⅓: The Final Insult” find myself on stage in Ford’s Theater, acting in some sort of play that people in 1865 would act in. Stabby, my holographic counterpart that only I can see, tells me that my first mission on this “quantum leap” (by putting this in quotes I avoid all copyright infringement litigation, okay) is a big one: kill the President. It was my turn to act in the play so I said a bunch of “thees” and “thous” that I’m guessing people said back then but I can’t check right now because Wikipedia is down. The audience is buying it. I try to reason with Stabby about killing the President, but he tells me that if Lincoln died, Hitler would never be born; and if Hitler didn’t exist, he couldn’t start World War II and pull the United States out of The Depression – which might not exist if Lincoln wasn’t killed, but Stabby isn’t sure.

One thing is sure, though: it’s stabberin’ time.

I leap the front row, which is full of men with monocles and opera ladies. The President is laughing, thinking this is part of the show. But there’s one thing that’s missing from the program: his murder. I bring the knife into the solar plexus of Abraham Lincoln in the same way that I brutally murdered my ex-wife (allegedly). The massive 14-foot frame of President Lincoln falls forward, knocking out a support beam and crushing an entire row of men with powdered wigs with his stovepipe hat alone. I emerge from the rubble unscathed, knowing that the future is safe. But it’s time to kill again.

Chapter Two: Ich Bin Ein MURDER!

November 22nd, 1963. I, O.J. Simpson, am now going to stop using the present tense, since my editor says it’s awkward. So I stabbed him – or did I? (Note: New editor, please place the word “if” somewhere in that last sentence.)

So I’m at this book depository, just kicking back and reading The Bible. Stabby went down the street to get hot dogs, because even though holograms can’t actually touch any physical objects, they can still eat hot dogs. I didn’t make that up.

Just as I was getting comfortable with my Bible, I noticed quite a commotion outside. It was none other then President Kennedy, the current President of the United States! Of course, my mission was clear: for the sake of the future, JFK had to die. But there was one problem; I couldn’t possibly get past the crowds and to the motorcade without being tackled - an act that had happened many times during my non-murdering career. And certainly my world-famous stabbin’ knife would give me away!

It was then I decided to use my dangerous mind powers, which I maybe should have introduced earlier. Leaning on the window, I peered out at JFK’s massive pompadour. I focused my psychic energy on powerful Castro thoughts, sending them right into the President’s head. Pop! It was all over. Except for the sanitation workers that would have to clean that up. Stabby walked in, and asked me about what the hell I just did. I told him, and he replied, “You were supposed to kill that guy!” He pointed to Lee Harvey Oswald who was in the corner of the book depository, eating a sandwich.

Whoops!

Chapter Three: Princess, Die!

August 31, 1997. Have any of you ever disguised yourselves as concrete pillars in major Parisian tunnels for the purposes of killing ex-members of royalty? I have. Sometimes my tendencies to showboat get the best of me, and I trade in the old slash-and-stab for something a little fancier. What follows is a graphic depiction of the murder of England’s most beautiful (and therefore most important) woman, and a harsh lesson in seatbelt safety.

But first, can I have some more money? Injustice doesn’t pay for itself!

The holiday shopping season is upon us, and nearly every business is expecting an increase in sales. At the same time, college students are expecting an increase in free time from the countless hours of winter break and not studying for finals. The horrible connection between these two seemingly separate occurrences is that many of you will be making – or have already made – the terrible decision to get a holiday job. And since The Jambar is primarily a source of edutainment, I am required by law to inform you of your many choices this holiday season in the field of month-long careers. Before I started writing, I must that that I, too, had many “real” jobs; they have given me the experience and night terrors to be very informed about the subject of employment.

First, I must offer a disclaimer. If you haven’t started looking for a job yet, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WAIT UNTIL AFTER THIS FRIDAY. Those savvy about retail know I’m talking about the two most dreaded words to minimum wage employees besides “no benefits:” “Black Friday.” Black Friday is the busiest shopping day of the year, primarily because everyone is a jackass. And, being jackasses, they all decide to go out and buy things when they should be spending most of this Friday trying to pass pound after pound of turkey through their bowels.

On Black Friday, stores offer amazing discounts, which makes it one of the few days you can get crushed to death by venturing too close to the hordes of fat women rummaging through bins of discounted panties. Customers on Black Friday are unhappy because they’re stupid enough to think a shopping trip on the busiest shopping day of the year will be less stressful than a tour of Vietnam, and employees are unhappy because they’re stupid enough to be getting paid the equivalent of one value meal at McDonald’s per hour to tolerate 10 times as many people.

Avoid Black Friday.

Now that we’ve discussed the horrors of this very special day, let’s talk about your four employment options for the holiday season. The first is the most popular standby, and possibly the path in life you predicted for all of your enemies in high school: fast food. Here’s my take on the matter: once you’re in college, there are certain things you should no longer do. Fast food is one of them. Think about it, not only is working fast food below you, but choosing the deep fryer will put millions of 14 year-olds and immigrants out of work! And believe me, you will be working the fryer. Entering the workforce of a fast food establishment means that you will be put on the lowest and most painful rung of the lard-covered ladder. My three-week Taco Bell tenure involved nothing but frying, and you know what? I hardly ever washed my hands. It wasn’t to be malicious; I was just too distracted by depression and scalding oil burns to remember this mandatory procedure. Now think of all the people less competent than me, and just try to enjoy your filthy fast food now (Notice: If you got sick from Taco Bell in May of 2000, I am sorry.)!

Retail is another option. If you’ve ever wanted the pleasures of being a salesman without any of the benefits of making sales, perhaps you should apply at one of the many clothing or entertainment stores that make up the backbone of America’s malls? Not only will you experience the high-pressure thrills of offering customers at least eight different fabulous offers at the time of purchase, you’ll also experience the thrills of punching as you get punched! And with absolutely no commission besides “keeping your shitty job,” you’ll never experience a tougher and less rewarding challenge! I personally don’t recommend retail, but these jobs are somewhat important if you’re thinking of dropping out of college because they bring you face-to-face with some of the most despicable and tragic people on the planet: retail managers. Their lack of life outside the store, their speaking nothing but the company line, their incredulity at you possibly wanting a day off, all combined with the fact that these modern-day Willy Lowmans can be fired for absolutely no reason; after meeting a retail manager, you really shouldn’t need any urging to stay in school and finish your astrology degree.

The third, and least humiliating option for holiday employment is prostitution. Hopefully, you won’t be surprised by this proposition after reading the first two options; obviously, prostitution is a better choice in nearly every respect. Did you ever know someone and think, “Wow, he/she really needs to get laid?” Now you can make their dreams come true – and profit immensely. Not only this, but you set your own hours, you don’t have to wear a uniform, and you keep a surprising amount of dignity in comparison to retail and fast food jobs. And for you fans of rap music, you may talk about “pimpin’,” but have you actually done it? Hypocrites.

The final option really doesn’t need to be examined, but I will do so anyway. Some of you probably have wealthy parents or relatives who run their own businesses; because of this, you won’t have to bother looking for a job, and you will be promised cushy employment for the rest of your life. Please note that I hate you with the rage equivalent of the power of 1000 suns. Also, if I run into you in the street sometime in the future, please buy me a cup of coffee and mind the smell. Thanks in advance.

The winter months will soon be upon us, and with them, the hazards of Ohio driving. Sure, the world only cares about our state whenever there’s an election or when the National Guard starts picking off college students, but outsiders just don’t know that a simple 5-mile drive on any Ohio street is more heart-stoppingly exciting than any multi-million dollar Hollywood blockbuster. Maybe if they knew how often we risk our lives just to pick up a gallon of milk or to return an unwatched Ben Stiller DVD to the video store, Ohio would be known as more than “that place with all of the corn and syllables.”

Of course, the bright side of harsh Ohio winters is that these months, combined with the annual flu outbreak, wipe out a good portion of the elderly. At heartless as this opinion may sound, these people are wasting their last years of life spending government money on lottery tickets and porcelain cats in adorable poses; money that could go to the gambling funds and impulse buys of generations to come. And it’s not like they don’t ever take out a few innocent people along with them, whether it’s a sidewalk full of children or the plate glass window of a department store (mistaken for a garage). In America, if someone happens to give you a driver’s license during the 1930s, you can drive FOREVER. This is why all smart young people travel by rooftop until at least April.

But winter travel isn’t always as easy as attaching your grappling hook to a cloud and simply swinging to your destination like common-day batmen. Thanks to a uniquely American concept called “urban sprawl,” the places where you work, play, and live are all bound to be at least 50 to 100 miles away from each other - mainly to destroy the very un-American concept known as “walking.” For this reason, most of you will find it impossible during this season to avoid using the car, or “horseless carriage” to our friends in West Virginia. It is out of pity that I offer the following driving tips for those not looking to burn to death in the twisted metal of a roadside fire.

Weight. It’s by no means a new trick, weighing down the back of your car with bags of cat litter or play sand. What many don’t know is that the discovery of these items can lead to others thinking that you own cats and/or children – completely lame in any weather. May I offer a replacement, abundant especially in the Midwest? Fat people. Not only do you get the added benefit of using them as a methane-based heat source, fat people are so prevalent in this country they almost go unnoticed. I recommend going to a buffet; an American buffet, since you want someone who is both ignorant and intolerant of non-America – they are a special kind of fat. Cici’s Pizza is a good place to start, as they are one of the few pizza buffet chains that offer a free angioplasty coupon for every plate of brownies you can finish. Go in, shout “ICE CREAM MAN!” and watch the fun. You won’t be able to keep them out of your car, and they won’t be able to leave it either (I am counting on diabetes to do most of the work, here)!

Salt. Another old trick. So why am I being paid to give you such useless information? Do I perhaps know a terrible secret about a certain YSU administrator, a bottle of rye, and a little boy who can no longer walk? No matter how I got this job, it’s very important that I tell you salt is your number one weapon in your war against Jack Frost, Father Christmas, and Weird Uncle Winter. But not at all in the sidewalk and driveway sense. A fistful of rock salt is the perfect way to tell an errant driver “Attention: you are a jackass.” I like to keep a fistful or two in my ashtray, for those occasions when people think it’s necessary to maintain a speed of 20 MPH while using a freeway onramp. Just match their speed, give the universal “roll down your window” signal, and pelt them in the face to teach them valuable lessons about pain and merging. Rock salt can also be loaded in most shotguns for a more direct approach to proper driving instruction.

Drive offensively. This is as close as I can get to helpful advice without saying “drive like an asshole.” Besides, is “asshole” a word to be thrown around in an otherwise distinguished publication? I’ll have to get back to you on that. Just remember, in the world of driving, it’s you versus them. And no amount of blind spot checking or slowing down at yellow lights will get you where you need to be safely. Take control of the road; and should you find yourself guilty of vehicular homicide, just remember two little words that will get you off, scot free: “black ice.”

In the past two weeks, we’ve seen the release of the final chapters (hopefully) of two different movie trilogies: “Saw” and “The Santa Clause.” No one asked for them, but these titles have appeared in movie theaters and people actually seem to be watching - or maybe they’re just buying theater tickets for the privilege of ordering a 20 gallon tub (“small”) of popcorn. Take that impoverished, starving countries; the amount of money the average American spends on food in a single movie theater visit is greater than your combined GDPs! 

But our tendency to overconsume may be the source of these unwanted movies. It’s not enough to have a small sampling of Matrix; we want an entire Matrix banquet that will eventual spoil to sub-hobo levels before the release of the second film. And movie studios are more than willing to oblige. After all, a mediocre idea that’s made a few bucks is much better than a brilliant, untested idea. This is the reason “Van Wilder 2” will be coming out next month, or possibly it’s because there’s so much more to the character that needs to be explored.

In the spirit of this madness, I now offer the following predictions of future Hollywood sequels. Please bury this article in your nearest time capsule, and in 50 years you will see that I was right about at least one thing during my entire Jambar legacy.

Pluto Nash 2: Nash Harder – Never heard of the original “Pluto Nash?” This Eddie Murphy space comedy lost astronomical amounts of money (nearly 100 million dollars) and remains one of the biggest failures in box office history. So why would another “Nash” film ever be made? Thanks to a special “guilt clause” – much like in the Versailles treaty – in Eddie Murphy’s “Pluto Nash” contract, Eddie Murphy will be found completely responsible for the bombing of the 2002 “comedy.” The funnyman famous for playing multiple movie roles will face a new challenge in the “Nash” sequel: playing every single character in the cast. And in a further attempt to save money, he’ll also have to perform the tasks of every crew member. You may not like Eddie Murphy, but I can guarantee that he’s hilarious when suffering from dehydration and exhaustion-based delirium. I sure hope the DVD release contains the outtakes where he prays for death!

The Lord of the Rings IV: Tolkientime – Peter Jackson was able to take the meticulous and detail-heavy work of J.R.R. Tolkien and compact it into three movies that are each merely six hours long. And even though the LotR trilogy is responsible for a recent epidemic of movie theater bladder explosions, Jackson did cut out some of the literary fat. Trust me, if Tom Bombadil appeared in “Fellowship” and sang fruity forest songs for thirty minutes, “The Twin Towers” would not have been released and Peter Jackson would still be exiled to the horrible land of New Zealand. “Rings IV” seeks to change this by being centered entirely on all the boring details Jackson cut from Tolkien’s original works. Based entirely on “The Simarillion” (AKA “British Valium”), this movie caters to nerds desperate for interminable details about their favorite fake continent’s fake history. And with a running time of nine hours, it’s a good thing none of them will be bringing dates.

Schindler’s List 2000 – With the war over, the man once famous for his fabulous lists now finds himself out of work and his humanitarian efforts forgotten. Can he make another list to capture the hearts and Oscars of the world? Follow Oskar Schindler as he creates compelling grocery lists, laundry lists, and eventually comedy lists, as he embraces his dark side and becomes the closest thing to a Nazi: a comedy writer. Only time will tell if the moviegoing public will find the Foxworthy-esque tie-in book “You Might Be a Nazi War Profiteer If” to be in poor taste.

Bonus preview: “If you find yourself making enamelware for the Nazis… then you just might be a Nazi war profiteer.”

Back to the Future IV: Liberal Media Deathtrap - Michael J. Fox returns as Marty McFly in his first major film role since developing Parkinson’s disease. Doc Brown beckons once again when he learns that the evil Democrats will be rigging the Presidential election in the far-off year of 2008. Can McFly inform voters that stem cell research is nothing more than snake oil and false hope, or will evil liberal candidate Biff Tannen win the Presidency and enforce his “mandatory abortions” policy on America? You won’t be able to sit still in your seat, much like Michael J. Fox when he’s playing up his debilitating disease for voter sympathy! “Back to the Future IV” is Rush Limbaugh’s first screenplay.

“Bring Your ID.” These three words – a reference to the upcoming midterm elections – are part of an advertising campaign that I’ve seen far too much of lately. Possibly this past lack of bringing IDs has been the main cause of abysmal voter turnout, with eager, enthusiastic voters being turned away from their polling places and refusing to return (out of spite) with the proper identification. This is what I choose to believe, instead of the probable truth that most members of my generation were too distracted by an “I Love the 80s” marathon to vote in the 2004 Presidential election. But I can tell you who is ready to vote with shaky hands, windbreakers, and Styrofoam cups full of coffee on any given election day: old people. And seeing as the majority of the voting public is comprised of the elderly, it makes sense that some reminders are necessary. But is “Bring Your ID” really as vital of a message as “Take Your Pills, Old Man” or “Put Me in the Will if You Want to See Your Grandkids?” I don’t think so.

Old people remember voting procedures as well as they remember to complain about your haircut or how they stopped eating in order to afford their arrhythmia medication: a lot. And in any hypothetical situation where an octogenarian forgets his ID, all I can see happening is an election official stating, “Tough luck, grandpa,” followed by a good-hearted shove down up to two flights of stairs. With such tame consequences, it’s absurd to think that someone is paying thousands upon thousands of dollars to produce billboards, TV ads, and radio ads to get the unnecessary statement of “Bring Your ID” out to voters. And if this campaign exists, surely there has to be much more money available for those who wish to bring further obvious statements to voters.

With this interest in mind, I now present the following essential voting tips:

“Wear Clothes.” You may be thinking, “But I wear clothes every day!” So do I. But, being human, we all forget things, like doing homework assignments or signaling to turn right that tragic day I took out an entire street-crossing kindergarten class with my car. The last thing you want to do is show up at your polling place only to discover that it has a “no shirt, no shoes, no voting” policy. You may not think so, but the act of voting holds just as much dignity as going into a 7-11 to purchase one of their newest movie-themed Slurpees. And from what I hear, Marie Antoinette Mango Madness is delicious.

“Animals Cannot Vote.” Yes, your dog, cat or even novelty pet (ferrets, geckos, et al) may be more well-informed than the average voter, but that doesn’t mean they can make such important decisions such as who will be the next city drain commissioner. And most polling places won’t even let your animal in the building, let alone in the voting booth. I guess if you’re blind and have a seeing-eye dog, you’re allowed by law to trespass where other animal owners can’t, so in this case you can let your dog vote for you. But you can’t possibly be reading this, so you’ll never know! (Note: If you are reading this to a blind person, please lie to them.)

“Voting Booths Are for Voting.” When you enter a voting booth, you may get the urge to defecate or masturbate in your new, confined surroundings. And if you haven’t had these urges, you’re either lying, or some sort of robot; and robots can’t vote. So go home, robot. To get back to the topic, even tame things such as puppet shows are discouraged in voting booths, as they slow down the democratic process from a glacial to sub-glacial pace. You may think the local VFW needs to see the epic saga of Punch and Judy, but when your favored candidate loses, no amount of puppet wife-beating will ever make you laugh again. So if you must use the voting booths for unintended purposes, I have one option for you. Eat lots of beans, cabbage and onions before you vote, and then get in line in front of a member of the opposing party. While voting, produce a horrendous fart inside the booth, and escape as soon as possible. When the person after you enters the booth, hold the curtain shut and laugh maniacally. Bonus points if your stink causes congestive heart failure.

“Voting Matters.” Not to get preachy or anything, but it does. I know the guys from South Park told you it doesn’t, but they’re not always right. You may think that you’re totally edgy and in my face with your mad not voting skillz, but in reality this lack of participation is basically you telling the world, “I don’t matter!” Just ask yourself this: do you know more about the candidates on VH-1’s Flavor of Love than you do about the candidates in the midterm election? If you answered “yes” to this question, you should be ashamed and optionally hurt yourself. And if you don’t vote, yet choose to complain about politics, I will suplex you. For democracy.

And if for nothing else, at least vote for the free “I Voted Today” sticker. Do free stickers mean nothing anymore?

I usually don’t ever mean what I say, so I offer this disclaimer: the following is not satire. This comes straight from the depths of my withered heart, which no wizard from any yellow brick-roaded kingdom has yet offered to refurbish. And everyone knows my stance on wizards: against.

If you’ve ever been radio-surfing, you may have noticed that YSU has its very own station - but it doesn’t exactly cater to YSU’s paying population. Those of you that have accidentally tuned into this station may have almost veered off the road upon hearing WYSU’s genre of choice: classical music. Fact: during my three-week legacy at Taco Bell many years ago, I was forced to watch a training video that stated gang members and other undesirables could be driven away from their precious tacos by switching the restaurant’s satellite radio station to classical music. WYSU’s intent may be to create some kind of force field around Youngstown to repel gang activity – and lowering homicide rates are good evidence – but this benefit comes at the heavy price of boring the pants off YSU’s student body. And once the pants come off, the pornographers start to swarm.

Is WYSU pro-pornographer?

Probably. But this is not a screed against classical music. There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with the works of the world’s greatest composers; I own quite a few classical CDs, including “Beethoven’s Dun Dun Dun DUNN Symphony” and all the Strauss songs from that one Warner Brothers cartoon where Elmer Fudd was the conductor and a transvestite Bugs Bunny seduced a dog. You remember that one? It was like “Fantasia,” but not boring and also not produced by Nazi sympathizers. You can see now that my beef is not with instrumental music of the public domain. It’s just that when there’s so much of it, college students are forced into stealing from the internet in order to find new music. And as we all learned from “very special” episodes of television shows, stealing is wrong and can lead to preachiness.

Is WYSU pro-intellectual theft?

Without a doubt. WYSU is not just about music, though. The station also gives us NPR, the PBS of radio. I make this comparison not because both broadcasters are funded by the public, but because PBS and NPR are the number one programming choices amongst unmarried, 57 year-old liberal arts professors. As an unmarried, 24 year-old liberal arts major who may very well grow up to be an unmarried, 57 year-old liberal arts professor, I have to say that I do find many things on NPR interesting. After all, it is the only news source not wholly sponsored by Satan. And sometimes I want to hear 20 minute long, professionally produced news segments on the history of the didgeridoo. At times, NPR is also helpful in letting me discover just what middle-aged people find humorous or entertaining; A Prairie Home Companion alone makes me wish to be struck down before the age of 30.

But any radio station that inflicts Garrison Keillor on a nation at war should be stopped. That man alone is lulling Americans into a unique mix of drowsiness and unease; his voice nearly puts us to sleep, but lingering questions such as “Was that supposed to be funny?” and “Am I not smart enough to find this interesting?” keep us locked in a horrible nightmare state. And that’s when our tallest buildings suffer the most.

Is WYSU pro-terrorist?

All signs point to yes. The problem is that the majority of WYSU’s underwriters (people with disposable incomes and tote bag collections) are old people- old people who want the programming they pay for. And I don’t blame them. But old people, look at the damage you are inflicting on the youth of America! Do you realize how insufferable every other radio station is? Do you know that you are causing terrible pop music to multiply at an almost exponential rate? I bet that quite a few of the people reading this article have been thinking, “Yes, YSU should change their programming so I can listen to Ludacris on eight stations instead of just seven.” Old people, in a world where you created wars, racism, and the century-long career of Paul Harvey, how can you stand by and watch another one of your problems grow larger?

WYSU, there are so many talented local and/or independent bands that don’t have an outlet, and yet you dare take your programming hostage and demand our money? WYSU, do you know where most of my favorite comedians and comedy writers got started? College radio. Yet I languish here in print. WYSU, how can you stand by and watch those entering adulthood blare obnoxious crap or “morning zoos” from their radios and not feel the least bit responsible? You gave your list of demands, and we should have bargained for more.

Also, the public demands that I have at least an hour of radio time a week. And without me, their voices would go unheard. You’re welcome, everybody.

---

I just want to clarify that the thing about Taco Bell is something that really happened, and not a joke.

Dateline: last Friday morning. I hear from my source of highly vital information - The Blogosphere - that Nintendo’s new console, the Wii, would be available for pre-order that very day. I wanted to leave my house that instant, but then I decided to act rationally- after all, there would be a pre-order waiting for me at my local EB, right? I had a few cups of coffee, played around on the Internet, stole a few identities… Until I remembered one unmistakable fact: this world is full of terrible, terrible nerds. In a desperate panic, I put on as much pants as I could and rushed down to Boardman’s own 224, the Sunset Strip of large, tan housewives. And what did the clerk tell me when I asked to reserve the Wii, just an hour after the store had opened?

“Would you be interested in signing up for our discount card?”

As a former game store clerk, I knew what to do: shake this man until he was out of fabulous offers that I would be a damned dirty fool to pass up. A fool! When this didn’t work, I stuck N64 controllers in my sleeves to form crude and malfunctioning claws; this combined with my natural bear-like posture scared the man to his senses. I also ate a live salmon on a pile of discarded Dreamcasts, because you have to do these things right or don’t do them at all.

And what did I learn? The Wii pre-orders were all taken by people who lined up outside of the store before it opened. Did I say people? I meant nerds.

Please note that I will not be making any jokes about the name “Wii” in this article. If you crave such humorless things, please see every webcomic the day after Nintendo named this product. Thanks in advance.

I was admittedly wrong in underestimating nerds. After all, nerds are most often found in line, be it for a new Star Wars film, pre-registering for a Renaissance Faire, or waiting to be executed by me in a possible alternate future where I decide who lives and who dies. So why wouldn’t they be lining up for the Wii, especially when information about the pre-orders was leaked to the Internet? All people on the Internet aren’t nerds, but all nerds are on the Internet; I’d draw you a Venn diagram if space permitted such a thing. And while I sat at home, enjoying the fruits of my labor (electricity and cat ownership), those nerds sat – probably playing Yu-Gi-Oh or discussing Battlestar Galactica on the cold concrete - waiting to snatch up those precious Wiis.

Admittedly, I am a nerd. I blog, 90% of my iPod consists of video game soundtracks, I have been to anime conventions, and I own DVD after DVD of what scientists call “nerd crap.” But, despite all this, I have a girlfriend! My secret? I keep my nerdiness confined, where it can harm no one. You see, in areas where nerdiness is apparent - large groups of people dressed up as Naruto characters, personal music/DVD collections, the internet - very few bystanders are harmed. But when nerds affect normal people and closeted nerds like me, our nation suffers. Oh, and for the record, I don’t live in my parent’s basement. I live on the ground floor.

That’s a little something we like to call class.

But aren’t video games the realm of nerds? Was I trespassing into their realm of Moogles, enchanted staves, and effeminate, whisper-thin male RPG heroes? No. This is my world as well; my private world. But this world no longer belongs the nerd. With the release of such games as “Halo” and “John Madden’s Fifty Dollar Annual Roster Upgrade,” video games have been overtaken by a majority of casual gamers who don’t even use the internet to complain about things. Can you imagine that? How else would anyone know about the flawed battle system of the “Xenosaga” series? I am glad to have the Internet here to tell me such things.

I obviously have sympathy for the nerd. Six years ago, with the launch of the PS2, I was one of them. Actually, I was much nerdier in reserving that system eight months ahead of time; I was rewarded with 18 months of games that made going blind from a Virtual Boy look more fun. The Wii looks to be much better in this regard, and believe me, I WILL own one on release day. While violence is always an option, everyone is always reminding me that most violence is illegal, especially violence with punching. Instead, I will show up on release day, packing the one thing a nerd fears most.

A girl.

See you November 19th!

You may not know it, but you’re being watched. Thanks to the Mark Foley ordeal, pedophilia is in the air- and yes, that is as disgusting as it sounds. Who would have guessed that the text messaging of an unassuming pervert would put parents nationwide on the defense? It doesn’t matter that children are statistically less likely to be molested by a Congressman from Florida than by a member of their own family. Even the most innocent actions - from picking up a quarter of off the sidewalk in front of a daycare to watching diaper commercials with enthusiasm - can now be misconstrued as the scheming of a sexual predator. It doesn’t matter how clean your record is or how little you enjoy the presence of children: no matter what you do, you’re a culprit. Thanks a lot, sicko.
Although the subject of pedophilia is repugnant to most, when it’s in the news people can’t stop talking about it. Statements by professional morons such as, “I don’t know about you, but I’m against child rape!” claim moral high ground that most of us just take for granted. In fact, these very obvious expressions of morality make up the core beliefs of CNN, MSNBC, CNBC, and CourtTV’s best-known commentators. And these discussions bring up the number one trite solution to prevent these terrible crimes: punishment through retribution. I would like to make this clear: if our justice systems starts hiring state-appointed revenge rapists, I would escape to Mexico quickly and without remorse. I fear for the people working in this system, too: “Sorry, Joe, you’ve been demoted from janitor to rapist- In fact, you’ve got six appointments today! Oh, and keep the broom.” 

That was so terrible I had to stop writing just to vomit. Do you see what you make me do? 

Obviously, the only true pedophilia prevention is self-control. Yes, most of you have never thought about touching a small, beautiful, innocent child – and those that have these thoughts daily are sweating profusely at this point – but the fact that you are large, oily, and can grow facial hair (mostly you men) speaks volumes about your filthy intentions. Who is a jury going to believe- you, with your beady eyes and coffee breath, or little Billy with his missing front tooth and cute little overalls? I bet that little bastard has an adorable speech impediment, too.

The obvious solution to all of this is to avoid children altogether. But the proliferation of children continues for many reasons, most notably the lack of Christian warriors and the upcoming race wars (2008!) spawned by the latest season of “Survivor.” Crowds of children, when encountered, could spell doom for you. Should you find yourself lost in the middle of a sea of them, simply close your eyes to avoid looking at their unspoiled young bodies, and move your arms in a windmill-like fashion. Yes, you will be dealing serious damage to some of the weaker ones, but the punishment for punching a child in the head is just a slap on the wrist compared to molestation charges. If you’re still worried, try to scare them with your bigness while shouting phrases that will fill their little hearts with fear, like “CLOTHING FOR CHRISTMAS!”

But teenagers – technically children – can still work in fast food and other industries; and no matter how much this group is sexualized by The Disney Channel, you still aren’t allowed to touch them. Take my advice: if a teenage clerk serves you while you’re out for a bite to eat, order nothing suggestive. No hot dogs, no sausage, no fish, and certainly no McGriddles (you all know what I’m talking about). In any kind of store, though, it’s important that no part of you comes into contact with any part of the underage clerk; unfortunately, this can make payment a tricky situation. To fix this problem, all you need is a jar and a revolver. When it’s time for payment, put your money in the jar and slide it across the counter to the clerk, having the gun trained on him or her the entire time. When the clerk slides your change back to you, punctuate this event by firing the revolver into the air three to five times. This will tell bystanders, “Pedophilia is serious business!”

Online conversations are the most dangerous trap, as it’s easy to find yourself unknowingly trading salacious words or YouTube videos with minors. Let’s take a look at two ways to handle online conversations. Beware of poor choices such as these:

GuiltyMan: how r u
UntouchedLad557: lol
GuiltyMan: let’s do sodomy
UntouchedLad557: afk

Clearly, the next computer GuiltyMan will see is the fingerprint machine down at the county jail, which doesn’t have Freecell or broadband. The following is an example of how GuiltyMan should have handled this situation:

GuiltyMan: how r u
UntouchedLad557: ;)
GuiltyMan: I find the touch of a child as horrifying as the touch of a woman, but that’s another story altogether.
UntouchedLad557: Good, because I’m from Dateline NBC.
GuiltyMan: brb

See, it’s not that hard. For those who find this advice too hard to follow, there is one alternative. Just live the rest of your life inside of a JoAnn’s Fabric or Dillard’s, where children are never seen. Just be prepared for overbearing suicidal urges after about five minutes.

Attention YSU students: do you have plans this Saturday between noon and 4PM? It’s possible that during this time period you will be recovering from Youngstown nightlife. And if you don’t have stab wounds, perhaps you will be recovering from Boardman nightlife, which is as close you can get to a simulation of actual humanity without being hassled by the goggles and thick cables that come with virtual reality. But you’ll still feel just as empty, and perhaps suicidal if you start thinking of the movie “The Lawnmower Man.”

No matter what your Friday night may bring, sober up, apply gauze and lotion to any affected areas, and drive or scooter yourself to the First Annual YSU Battle of the Bands. Note: this is unrelated to last year’s Battle of the Bandoliers, where 7 men died of musket-related tragedies.

So why do I bring up this event in print? Rest assured, it’s not because I am out of topics to write about. In fact, this very article is pre-empting a hilarious essay on women and their attitudes about the state of toilet seats (up or down, am I right). I feel that – in the interest of self-promotion – I must draw attention to the YSU Battle of the Bands. Why? Inexplicably, I was asked to be a judge this event. Obviously the people in charge have no idea the musical issues I’m most concerned about involve whether the guy who sings really high and the guy who sings really low in doo-wop groups get along. And now that this topic has entered your mind, I doubt if you’ll ever sleep again.

But since I have been deemed a “celebrity” “judge,” (both words must be in separate quotations for obvious reasons) I feel it is important to outline just what I’ll be looking for when I pass judgment on the Band Battle. Don’t take this advice lightly; there are fabulous prizes to be won, and if I am angered, I will secretly shame you in print in a way only I can understand. Would you like to join the ranks of hundreds who have already suffered this fate? They don’t know it, but they got SO burned.

First, let’s talk bribes. The grand prize for this event is 1500 dollars in Guitar Center Funbucks, which I honestly have no use for. While I do play guitar, it’s the kind of hobby where I remove the instrument from the case every six months and experience five minutes of frustration before I put it away for another six months. Take this time now to create your own sex joke. Are you done? Good.

What I’m trying to say is that all bribes of store credit will be scoffed at, as they should be in any advanced capitalist society. However, the second prize - recording and production of two songs courtesy of Mind Rocket Recording – is some I am interested in. Very interested. You see, I have a little project that I’ve been thinking about for quite some time: to bring back the art of the song parody and to unseat “Weird” Al Yankovic from his plush and impossibly wacky throne. Using his method, I figure it takes about five minutes of solid writing to create an album; and two songs will be no sweat for someone who naturally thinks of ways songs can be better by changing the lyrics to food-related subjects.

The issue of performance is a natural - if overlooked – element of Band Battle Satisfaction. Bribery can only get you so far; only a good song can ensure success. Here’s a question: Does your song rhyme rain with pain, girl with world, or hero with zero? Please change these lines to avoid being scored a zero, and optionally stop playing music and take up a field that you can use the most of your creativity in, like being a Subway sandwich artist. You may find that the distribution of mayonnaise gives a greater rush than any stage could provide!

After lyrics, the most important element of a song is just how catchy it is. This is why millions of people still know the Macarena, even if they only know it phonetically and spend the rest of their lives in therapy, trying desperately to not remember this song. Your song should be so catchy that, even at the most dramatic and intense moments of my life, I’ll still be repeating at least the chorus in my brain. The tragic death of a loved one, the birth of my first child, the subsequent mysterious disappearance of my first child; during all of these events I should be tapping my foot and humming something that you probably wrote while on the toilet.

And while I sit here and write my own song, a parody of Justin Timberlake’s hit entitled “SexyBlack(Angus Steak)”, I think I’ve made all of this pretty clear: I can make or break you. It’s true that I lack the expensive black t-shirts and smarmy accent of Simon Cowell, but there’s one thing I’m not lacking - the ability to be a power-hungry madman with no remorse. Also, Paula Abdul won’t return my calls.

Blogs. As stupid as that word is, guesstimates indicate that about 90% of you young college readers have them. And if you don’t, you’re as lame as your parents or those people who are baffled into submission by such simple technology as self-checkout lanes at the grocery store and those tennis shoes that inflate in some way to provide maximum jumposity. Blogs are important in these modern times because they help us use the power of the written word to establish an identity far more exciting than our lame cotton/poly blend covered selves could possibly be in real life. For example, I bet most of you didn’t know that in reality I am a 63 year-old woman who collects pictures of cats with amusing (and sometimes inspirational!) messages inscribed on them.

If you think this is remarkable, the power of the written word once turned a 7-foot tall alcoholic lumberjack famous for his debauchery into a soft-spoken poet who wrote about leaves, grass, and sometimes both. But please, keep the hidden life of Walt “Iron Pelvis” Whitman the secret it deserves to be.

Thankfully, Whitman wrote in a pre-Internet age; his works are in books and can be easily ignored. However, young reader, it is you who has the chance to truly be recognized as the internet celebrity you deserve to be. To grab the brass ring on the blog-go-round! To go for the gold in the Internolympics! To verb the noun in yet another web-related analogy! And I, owner of the World’s Most Popular Blog (Internet Census 2005), am here to help you with these goals.

As I stated before, your new identity will be the first major factor in blog success and newfound popularity. A fancy new Internet name will allow you to ditch your boring suburban name, or even your hard-to-pronounce foreign name. Just choose something that reflects your personality and interests, with a helping of badassery. For example, the words “Mustang,” “Willow,” and “Sephiroth” are all excellent choices; if you can add as many suggestive number combinations to these words, then the more, the better. Obviously, “MustangWillowSephiroth6942080085911” is currently the record-holder for the internet’s coolest name, but this alias has been taken by a 12 year-old boy in Mason City, Iowa. You’ll have to try a little harder.

The next thing to do is to decide where to plant yourself in the drainage ditch full of deer carcasses next to the Information Superhighway called the blogosphere. Consider MySpace if you would also like to annoy everyone with your unique musical tastes, as this blog service’s embedded music feature can force your visitors to see just how much you love The Baha Men. And since MySpace somehow makes sure that this embedded music plays ten times louder than jet engines, The Baha Men will be the last thing your visitors will hear… forever. You also have other options such as LiveJournal and Blogger, should you decide to go a route that involves less sadism.

When deciding the content of your blog, eliminate yourself from the possible choices. No one on the internet cares about your personal life, and most of your friends in real life are waiting for you to die so they can rummage through your closet and discover items that will taint your memory forever. Instead, choose to become cool not by bragging on the Internet about personal accomplishments, but by becoming an expert in a field that no one cares about. Beware: finding untouched areas of disinterest is very hard to do, especially on the internet. Think about something no one could possibly care about, and go much, much deeper. Is there a comprehensive blog about cel-painting errors in Duck Tales? Do people need to know the band on Uncle Scrooge’s hat in the episode “Micro Ducks from Outer Space” was mis-colored at the 13:55 mark? The answer is yes. And remember, constant updates will keep people coming back.

The final step in making a successful blog is what has made shows like MTV’s “Laguna Beach” the vomit-inducing successes they are: drama. A healthy dose of drama will make sure that your readers will hang onto your every word and value you as the unquestioned authority in whatever marginally important field you have chosen. So how do you create this drama? Simply find someone with a similar blog, leave a passive-aggressive comment or jokes about your opponent’s choice of font (contact me for up to 50 jokes about serifs), and imply that your readers should do the same. You could also test the codependency of your readers by threatening to leave the blogging game for good. Just post a message such as, “Folks, I’m taking a hiatus; I need to stop cataloging the guest stars on Green Acres, and start cataloging what really matters: my feelings.” Then, when the waves of pity come in, immediately return the next day. They’ll fall for it every time!

With this information, you should be able to get out there and start “bloggin’ it,” as we say in the blogging circles. But I can’t give away all of my secrets; those are between me and my cats. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my stories.

I never really felt strongly about John Paul II, but in retrospect he’s beginning to look like a little hunchbacked huggabug compared to the toadlike, scuba-faced Joseph “The Pope” Ratzinger. And since I began my extensive career writing about old Ratzy, I think it’s only fitting that I end it that way.

I’m dying.

Actually, I’m not. That was just an infantlike cry for attention, much like Captain Ratz’s recent statement about Islam. And by the way, I plan on nominating that previous sentence for the “Segue of the Year Award.” I hope that you consider it when voting this November 14th.

Back on the subject, here is what Ratz Patrol said:

“Show me just what Mohammed brought that was new, and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached.”

Effectively, Ratz Power just mooned the entire nation of Islam, which is wholly inappropriate for reasons beyond the fact that their symbol is only a crescent moon. With his statement, Ratz Town held up one of those “screwball” signs from a Bugs Bunny cartoon and proclaimed loudly, “Yo extremists! Suck it!” Although it was probably in German, and thus more threatening.

Now, I imagine some of you think that the Pope is not responsible for the actions of Muslim extremists his statements might cause. “But Bob,” a hypothetical reader might be heard to say, “My buddy Frank down at the Quik-Lube has been talking about ‘towelheads’ and ‘Ay-rabs’ for as long as I remember, and I didn’t punch him in the face on September 11th!” First of all, you should never STOP punching this person in the face, no matter what the date. In fact, do it with the wrong side of a hammer. But more importantly, your pal Frank is probably part of a very small circle of intolerance limited to his parole officer and the clerks at the K-Mart Eatery. His retarded thoughts and feelings are not being broadcasted across the world, and even if he could figure out “them internets,” his comments would go no further than NASCAR chat rooms.

Ratz Machine, on the other hand, is part of a very large group of people that many would see in direct opposition to Islam. In fact, this group was part of a little something called The Crusades which had nothing to do with Indiana Jones and everything to do with horrible, bloody warfare. And, when they decided that the Holy Land was hot and full of figs(figs are gross), these people moved their efforts elsewhere and decided that maybe some heathen Indian ass would be easier to kick. It was, which is why we are here and living in Ohio today. And believe me, it’s not by choice.

But I’m not really siding with one religion or the other. Monotheistic religions, on the whole, are wet blankets in a world where partying down is a constant option thanks to pioneers such as The Beastie Boys. And it’s just been a constant back-and-forth between these religions since the very beginning. The Pope will say something stupid, Muslim leaders will refuse to decry the actions of extremists, and meanwhile the followers of these religions can only look on in shame. It’s like going to a fancy dinner party with your dad, who immediately starts masturbating over the punch bowl. Sure, it’s a great story, but do you want him coming to your softball games?

All this bickering can be solved by a simple Holy War, but there are some obvious downsides to this option. Sure, there’d be a winner and no more threat of conflict, but Holy Wars have been known to cause extensive property damage, which can spell nothing but trouble for you homeowners out there. There’s also a problem with non-believers, like me, who may get caught in the crossfire while attending our atheist brunches. And if you think energy prices are high now, just wait until both sides construct thousands of space lasers to rain unending death upon the earth; our quality of life would definitely take a hit.

In thinking of peaceful alternatives to a Holy War, one option seemed almost definite: a drinking contest. But then I remembered that Muslims won’t even drink wine coolers, and that the Irish Catholics would definitely get violent after a few rounds. It was then I remember that we live in a high-tech age where communication is instant and entire seasons of MacGyver can fit in one’s pocket. Why not take the Holy War to the place all important battles are settled today? Of course, I speak of the Internet.

From Counter-Strike to Quake, each side would have various options in the competition. Hell, they might even want to hold a massive player versus player tournament in one of the many life-destroying massive multiplayer online RPGs. And since the battle will have to deal with video games and the Internet, there’s no doubt Wikipedia will provide extensive, million-page coverage on this historic event. And when the 3-D accelerated smoke clears (nice particle effects!), we can all rest easy to know we now live in a world of slightly less bullshit. And, since I came up with this plan, I would also like it to somehow send Nancy Grace to the bottom of the ocean. Thank you.

So here we are, five years after 9-11. Far greater than four and unthinkably better than three, being five years away from the World Trade Center attacks is significant if only because it marks humanity’s love of remembering events where the amount time passed between then and now is divisible by five. Perhaps in some horrible, base-8 world, we’d be concentrating on the wonderful fall programming network television has to offer, but currently in our horrible base-10 reality, we have our phasers set to “mourn.” No doubt by now you’ve watched various specials on the disaster, including Anderson Cooper’s CGI recreation of that fateful day where he uses his powers of 360ing to catch the falling towers in his bear-like grip and gently place them in a barren, unpopulated area, like New Jersey. We love to “never forget,” as long as it’s somewhat annual.

This motto is obvious just by looking at all of the 9-11 paraphernalia (which I have dubbed “terrorphernalia”) that’s been produced over the past five years. I had a feeling that this wave of merchandise was coming the second an issue of The Vindicator included its own flag for home use- because flags to terrorists are like garlic to Draculas. To this day, when I see that yellowed, filthy piece of newsprint still tacked up on someone’s wall or cubicle, I tear up a little and think, “Christ, is that tacky,” and, “I wonder if those propane coupons on the back are still redeemable?”

Perhaps the tackiest example of this wave of terrorphernalia is the 9-11 commemorative coin. One of (probably) many, this coin depicts the World Trade Center towers in all their majesty. But unlike your common penny or nickel with their stationary presidents, the towers can actually be pulled up from the face of the coin for the purposes of recreating that tragedy inside your boot-fit Levi’s. Although, I wouldn’t carry this coin around with you as currency. Clerks and shopkeepers get very upset when you try to use the coin as actual money, and even more so when you claim that the coin is worth thousands of innocent lives (which are priceless anyway, leaving the coin valueless).

But instead of going off on a tangent about why those who lived through the Pearl Harbor disaster don’t carry around exploding battleships in their pants, but I feel that it may be more constructive to present 9-11 merchandise that may just be as idiotic (and profitable) as the 9-11 coin. Attention cheap plastic crap factories: I am taking offers and my contact information can be found at the bottom of the page.

Tragic Moments Figures: The Precious Moments series of adorable figures can be found in the houses of large women who believe in angels and fairies, but who don’t believe in abortions. Let me ask you this: without abortions, where are all of those little baby angels coming from? Yes, you should be terrified. But I digress. The new “Tragic Moments” figures will feature the same dewey-eyed little tykes as the Precious Moments series, except in adorable 9-11 related poses. You have your choice of “The Widdlest NYC Firefighter,” “The Widdlest NYC Policeman,” and the new, exclusive “Widdlest Pwesident.” How can such widdle folks stop that big ol’ disaster? Tragedy addicts will love ‘em, and the figures’ marshmallow-scented heads will fill the air with memories of camping.

Ronco Home Eagle Sanctuary: Yes, bald eagles are our national symbol, but have you actually seen one outside of zoos or spare tire covers? There’s got to be a better way! Using patented Ronco technology, the Ronco Home Eagle Sanctuary will broadcast Toby Keith music on a wavelength that only bald eagles can hear. When these eagles try to kill themselves by crashing headfirst into your front yard - common behavior for any exposure to Toby Keith music – they’ll be ensnared in the included Ronco front yard netting. Now you can enjoy all the pleasures of eagle adjacency; and these large, predatory birds will be too despondent to perform their usual face-clawing behavior!

The Flamplifier: It’s happened to all of us. We think we have the biggest flag on the block, and then some joker down the street outdoes us by just a few square inches. Let the Flag Amplifier (Flamplifier) be the solution to all of your patriotic competition needs! With its series of high powered 500-foot magnification lenses (sold separately), your neighbors will not only be amazed by the size of any household flag, but they will also be able to count thread after patriotic thread. Just be sure to remove any “Made in China” labels before the flamplification!

Constitution Yule Logs: The holiday season is just around the corner, so why not keep warm with the combustion of our inalienable rights? Each log is custom-designed to resemble that dusty old document full of bad ideas from bad men in bad powdered wigs; and no doubt you’ll feel safe, warm, and secure from the burning of the Preamble all the way to the disintegration of John Hancock. Who needs rights when you can be safe? WARNING: Do not burn Constitution Yule Logs near pets, children, pregnant women, women, and non-Christian men.

Microsoft Flight Tragedy Averter 2006: Microsoft’s Flight Simulator series has been the leader in fake flight based action for decades. Unfortunately, it’s possible for terrorists to use programs like these to learn how to fly planes, which has put all of us computer geeks on edge. The new MFTA 2006 expansion pack solves this problem by putting you in the shoes of a terrorist who makes the brave decision to go against his orders, fly around the buildings, and then turn himself in at the nearest police station. Play the 9-11 scenario in the rain! The snow! At night! During the day! The possibilities are endless. All four of them.

Being a journalist is tough. You certainly don’t get into this business to make friends- which really doesn’t matter because most of us here have friendless dispositions, anyway. But after reading about all the bridges we’ve burned in the inaugural Jambar’s editorial, I felt something strange. At first, I thought that it may be indigestion, or maybe I was sitting on a family of cats (when you live next to a pet store, it happens more often then you’d think). But this was a sensation which was completely new to me: guilt. Yes, tearing down people and social institutions has turned me into the highly successful monster I am today, but only recently I realized that printing ugly truths about people – or lies that are hilarious – can damage reputations as well as the skulls and lower jaws of sloppy reporters.

On the first day of journalism boot camp, they tell you that the love and respect for those you care about comes second to reporting. It’s not uncommon to usher figurative Anne Franks out of your attic for the sake of a story. But even though they were sharp dressers, no one wants to be a Nazi about reporting- and ruthless tactics like theirs are why all of our sources scream gypsy curses into the phone whenever Jambar reporters call. So, as part of our new kinder, gentler stance on journalism, this year we’ll be building our reputation and getting our printer to take the edges off every page so The Jambar is finally safe for baby. In the spirit of this benevolence, I now present the following retractions of damaging statements and mistakes I have made in the past:

• The first floor of Ward-Beecher is not a monster creation and storage facility. That was a dream I had.
  
  
• In the article “Lab Fees Funneled to Secret Lobster account,” President Sweet’s name is misspelled.
  
  
• The diversity banners on campus are not meant to act as sails which will eventually lift the YSU campus off of the ground and fly us to some magical world where we can no longer see color, race, sexual preference, or Chrono Trigger enthusiasm. This is very hard for me to accept because of the slings and arrows I’ve taken for my forbidden love… of Chrono Trigger.
  
  
• Arby’s isn’t people, but something far more sinister (if I told you it would be violating the new bridge-building contract).
  
  
• The entire eight-issue career-destroying expose on the education professor who trapped students in a hedge maze and then made keychains out of their body parts (after hacking them apart with a machete) was also a dream I had. But to be fair, this professor hung up on me when I tried to verify these events. People, journalism is a two-way street!

Pathetically, I’ve also used the pages of the Jambar to destroy my high-society enemies:

• It was I who lost the duel with Lord Wensleydale of Brighton.
  
  
• In “The Case of the Crown Jewels,” I framed the butler, who luckily had the countenance of a guilty man.
  
  
• I killed Colonel Mustard in the study with the colonel poison.
  
  
  
• The article “Teenagers Torch Cars in YSU Lot” was a cover up, mainly written to save me from the results of my parking-related anger.
  
  
• The gay and lesbian "safe zones" on campus are not compatible with flashlight or laser tag.
  
  
• All of my February articles were not really written in iambic pentameter, as I had claimed. In reality, I was very, very drunk.
  
  
• The article “Communications Major Goes to Space Camp” is fundamentally flawed. Communications is not a real major.
  
  
• In the article “YSU Administration has Class,” the following sentence is wrong:
  
  “The YSU board of directors – known mainly in their human forms – are, in reality, a group of underground-dwelling gremlins who thrive off of the flesh, pain, and financial stress of students..”
  
  It should read:
  
  “The YSU board of directors – known mainly in their human forms – are, in reality, a group of underground-dwelling gremlins who thrive off of the flesh, pain, and financial stress of students.”
  
  We apologize for the extra period and hope you will forgive this oversight!
  
  
• I don’t really have a girlfriend in Canada.

The familiar sound of bricks crashing through windows can only mean that this semester holds much promise for the staff of The Jambar. We hope you join us!

With the start of another new semester, my Jambar-ing begins once again. I'm only writing once a week now, so you can catch my stuff every Tuesday. Astute readers may notice that my first article of Fall 2005 is very similar to this one.

Nuts to them.

Oh, and welcome, new readers. The fact that you bothered to visit this blog shows that you have more initiative than 90% of all college students. I only ask is for your complete devotion, and three murders of my choosing(relax, it's for college credit).

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Hello, freshman. If you were anything like me back when I first came to YSU, no doubt you are confused, afraid, and damp. But it’s time to belay those fears and find a bathroom hand-dryer to stand under for several minutes. College is a huge step, and given the statistics of YSU, I bet that many of you have come over ten to fifteen miles just to further your education. Even though you can probably see your high school just by standing on one of our campus’s three tallish buildings, the time has come to firebomb your old memories and start acting like a real college student. The second you walk through those ivy-covered gates, your life changes forever. (Note: The building of impressive ivy-covered gates has been postponed until more money can be funneled away from pesky liberal arts programs.)

I haven’t been in college for six years just to accrue massive debt or to receive a medical doctorate, which is usually done in that timeframe. No, I stay here at YSU only because I have worked out a little niche of elusive coolness that costs downwards of 15,000 a year to sustain. And if someone like me can possibly be cool, then no doubt you – paper-holder which I know nothing about – can be cool as well. Using a graphic calculator, I played a quick game of Tetris and then mathematically decided on the most efficient ways that the new student can achieve his or her maximum coolosity. Also, I made the calculator spell out “boobs” because no one can resist that.

Be funny. The creepy old guy from eHarmony.com who seems a little too eager about getting you laid has stated that humor is one of the biggest factors when it comes to attractiveness. “But Jambar! With my strict Christian upbringing, I cannot possibly be funny!” may be what you are thinking. Even if you’ve lived most of your life under a rainbow of shame, being the class cut up is as easy as stealing one of the following free, original joke setups I have listed below.

• It’s time for a test. While the teacher passes the materials out, state loudly, “Can this test be open notes AND open neighbor?” Students will not only appreciate your lighthearted attitude about test-taking, but they will also find your subversive nature mystifying. Even Dr. Professorpants will agree that you make learning fun!


• There’s a lull in class. Instead of sitting there, squirming in uncomfortable silence, it’s time to break out your favorite joke from the internet! If you have a hilarious take on a Chuck Norris joke – or if you just want to appropriate an old one – your peers may confuse you for Michael Ian-Black or one of the many wry commentators on VH-1’s 400 pop culture shows. Friends will flock to you if only to hear your hilarious take on other ironic heroes from the distant past (the early 90s). And if you’re feeling daring enough, it’s never too late to dust off that “all your base are belong to us” chestnut.


• “Snakes on a Plane.” You may be unaware of this fact (as I still am), but this movie is the single most hilarious creation by humanity, ever. So, why shouldn’t you make a creative spin on Samuel L. Jackson’s infamous line from that movie? Here’s an example: “I've had it with these mother fucking Jane Austen novels in this mother fucking Lit class!” With your outburst, class might be cancelled… on account of hilarity!

Be Yourself. If your personality was dependant upon your high school friends who may not have followed your path to YSU due to pregnancy or knife violence, finding out just who you are may be difficult. So I’ll do it for you!

• High school was important; forget what I said earlier. I’m too lazy to delete that part and you’ve probably forgotten it by now, anyway. Everyone should know how cool you were in high school, but it may be hard to carry around a wagon full of trophies without suffering from what medical professionals call “trophy fatigue.” This is why you need to be wearing your letterman jacket AT ALL TIMES. People must know what year you graduated in, your specific sport skills, and perhaps a clever nickname like “Lucky” or “Stinkfist” that may be sewn into the fabric. A common reaction to a letterman jacket is: “Ah, a tiny football. I bet that man played football. I should ask him about Family Guy. Following that, friendship may occur.”


• Drink. Hearing about how wasted you got on the weekend – or on Tuesday – never gets old. It also tells your peers, “I know how to party and I have free time as well as possible emotional problems.” Pay dirt!

Hate college. No one is at YSU because they want legitimate education; they’re just here because going to college is just something you’re supposed to do after high school. All right, I’ll admit there are a few people – let’s just call them jokers – that are here because they enjoy learning, but these “jokers” are a minority and can easily be annoyed by bringing up discussions of celebrities and their genitals in the middle of class. Don’t worry about that old guy in front of the class talking about god knows what; he’ll probably ignore you, and those jokers will eventually leave your classes to do crazy things like get master’s degrees and PhDs. But not you. Just continue blocking everything out, and in four years you will be ready to teach the children of America!

And that’s higher education.

Guys, I’m pretty embarrassed, but I just have to get this off of my chest: I’m a terrorist.

I know most of you saw it coming. Those of you who didn’t have obviously missed the thousands of secret, subversive messages I slip into nearly every sentence of my writing. My confession is due a brilliant move by Ohio politicians which will no doubt end the constant acts of terrorism that have made our humble state into a powder keg of anti-American violence. After all, if you want to cripple a country, what do you take out first? The heart. And what is Ohio shaped like? Well it kind of looks like the end of a shovel, but you understand where I’m going with this.

The reason I’m coming clean today is because of the new "Declaration Regarding Material Assistance/Nonassistance to a Terrorist Organization" I have been asked to sign. (This form was initially titled the “Uncle Sam Puts His Weiner in the Ear of the 5th Amendment” form before politicians realized this upset those offended by the genitalia of historical figures). If you haven’t heard of this form, or haven’t yet been threatened with job termination [because of your failure to sign it], here’s the jist of it:

Two, four, six, eight, what do you appreciate?
_ AMERICA
_ TERRORISM
(Check one)

I was having a pretty good time being anti-American and everything, until this form was in my scheming, terrory hands. It was like kryptonite to Superman, except not nearly as boring. I mean, as a terrorist, I wished for nothing except the violent overthrow of the American government. But lie to my superiors? No way! This is unthinkable to me, and no American would ever lie to their superiors, unless to call in sick, or maybe if they’re hung over, or if there’s a baseball game they want to go to in the afternoon or something like that. This campaign of justice has obviously targeted what we terrorists are known best for: Not our cutthroat ruthlessness, but our guilty consciences.

But even though I was having a hell of a time deciding whether or not to lie, it dawned on me that if I didn’t sign it at all, even if I lost my job I could still be terrifying and the government wouldn’t know a damn thing about it. This seemed like a good idea until I read this section of the Ohio Patriot Act:

… the failure to answer "no" to any question, on a declaration of material assistance/nonassistance an agency provides pursuant to this section shall serve for purposes of this section as a disclosure that the applicant has provided material assistance to an organization listed on the terrorist exclusion list.

Even though I was excited that the government was slowly getting rid of due process and that “innocent until proven guilty crap” (because that would be an awesome police state for my perfect TerrorTown) shock and horror attacked me in alternating bursts when I realized that the government was just going to assume I was a terrorist until I told them that this was, in fact, not true. But it was! So before the “not a murderer,” “not a rapist,” and “not a Democrat” forms could come in, I swallowed my terrorist-style chewing gum and checked yes after yes on that infernal piece of paper.

…And I was doing such a good job hiding this from everyone, too. If only they had known they just had to come out and ask me if I was a terrorist, I would have folded like a deck chair long ago. But it’s clear that the government is on the ball with this stuff. After all, these forms don’t go out to just anybody; it’s mainly students and non-union campus workers that have to fill them out and recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards while walking on a straight line (it’s called the freedom sobriety test). Living in Youngstown, I’m aware that unions give mortal men almost godlike superpowers, so these people must be immune to any type of terrorism. And students obviously have the most money to throw around; just last Friday my grad student friend invited me over to smash diamonds with hammers. For terrorism.

So what were my crimes? For the past five years I have been getting gas from a station that employs men with olive complexions and jet-black hair who at times speak a language that sounds nothing like English(crazy, I know). I was a little suspicious of these characters after September 11th, but when they hung an American flag from the awning I thought, “Hey, these guys are alright and I guess they don’t want me to explode after all!” But it’s always been gnawing at the back of my mind that maybe they DO want me to explode, and the fact that they have clearly not posted the “not a terrorist” forms next to the many different kinds of Slim Jims leads me to believe that they have something to hide besides the new “Mango Madness” flavor of the beef treat. And my suspicions of them only lead me to doubt myself and my love of falafel, beards, and Microsoft Flight Simulator. The writing was on the wall in a distinctly anti-American color, like chartreuse.

It’s sad really. But I guess that’s just one less “not a terrorist” form for politicians to beam over down at City Hall. Sorry, everyone.

Dating has changed greatly since the kinder, gentler 90s with its sock hops, Black Panther rallies, and Africanized Killer Bee migrations. Now that we’re in the 21st century, our innocence has been lost like so many quarters in that broken bowling alley Zaxxon machine. Sure, you can complain all you want, but the most you’ll ever get in return is an order of fried cheese balls which will only console you temporarily until the alley cuisine shuts down your circulatory system. We can never go back, and in retrospect our 1990s concept of love was about as pathetic and misguided as an alcoholic father’s Christmas gift. To be more specific: a September TV Guide errantly covered in a Burger King Whopper wrapper.

Just take a look at the poster children for 1990s romance: Ross and Rachael of the tragically long-lived “Friends” TV series. It may be hard to remember anything other than the fact that the women on the show never wore bras, but the central relationship in “Friends” is emblematic of just how naïve we were a scant ten years ago. Take two of the most damaged and septic people you can find, keep ramming them into each other for ten years, and what do you get?

Sadly, many people found this entertaining and in fact rooted for these star-crossed retards. But when the final episode didn’t end with a suicide pact and a starving Monica feeding like a vulture on Ross and Rachael’s corpses – come on, like you didn’t think that was going to happen – we all questioned our perceptions of love. And it’s this new meaning of love that leaves many of us floating face-down like unprepared toddlers in the swimming pool of life.

Unfortunately, in the 1990s I was raised in captivity by televisions so I had to learn these new rules the hard way. So many times I would just copy what I saw on TV, like taking a girl back to my place and then painting a line down the center of the room (which would no doubt lead to wacky arguments and the inevitable paint fight), or perhaps having some lucky lady try to sneak a horse past my landlord. Much like the viewers of TV Land, these plans were impotent at best. With so much failure on my hands, I sent my crack research team out and they discovered that my generation values the following things the most: 1.) drinking 2.) downloading episodes of “Family Guy” and 3.) drinking while talking about “Family Guy.” But what shocked me the most was number four: not being loved.

In today’s atmosphere of hyper-irony, it’s never been cooler than to love things that are terrible. Hence, it only makes sense for our generation to despise the things we actually would enjoy! This brings me to my main point of understanding this new form of 21st century love: if you like someone, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY THEY MUST NEVER KNOW. I always assumed that people would be flattered if they were valued and others enjoyed spending time with them. The response to this is the same as when people are asked if they remember anything about the first President Bush: “Hell no.” And sometimes “Dana Carvey,” which really doesn’t make sense in regards to the original statement.

I write this if only to warn those who may chase away a future partner with their trenchant enthusiasm. We all know the dangers of smothering and the millions of “this is not a toy” messages on plastic bags around the world only reinforce this fact. But these days a future partner can be scared off by as little as an eyebrow raise or fashioning your hair into a much larger shape to scare away other predators. Interest isn’t the only thing that’s reviled; just showing concern for the well-being of others shares equal enmity. Why, just last week I bumped into a stranger in the hallway, and when I apologized she gave me the whole “You’re a really nice guy, but…” speech. It took twenty minutes and there was a lot of sobbing, but when I remembered the good times I thought, “Maybe it really was her and not me.”

So heed my words: relationships are now a sticky wicket, even for those of us who have never seen a croquet mallet. And even if you are with someone, the new rules of showing interest in the most passive ways possible may make you miserable but in exchange you will retain both your independence and MTV Generation hipness. Eventually, after about six months with someone, both of you should tacitly accept the arrangement and may make such passionate vocal claims as, “I think I may like you in some manner.” But just remember to say this in the same condescending tone as you would say, “You own Tron on DVD.” After all, you don’t want to seem like the John Hinckley Junior to your partner’s Jodie foster, do you?

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I was mainly inspired by this comic:

And events in real life!!!

PS- The last comic in this post is from Neil Swaab who is very funny and has a website at http://www.neilswaab.com!

If you were led here by a link in the print version of The Jambar then congratulations: you have fallen into one of my many identity theft schemes. But that doesn't mean you can't post comments/reactions/overly-descriptive death threats.

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Being the educated man of science that I am, I usually let the television tell me what my problems are. For example, I had absolutely no idea I was sad until I saw that little crudely drawn Zoloft oval on television. Almost instantly, I saw my life of being rained on and my fear of contact with other ovals portrayed in an eerily similar made-for-TV biography. Never mind that I first saw the commercial during the hours of daytime television, when bored housewives are at their most paranoid; this was serious business. I’m better now thanks to Zoloft, but also so riddled with side effects that I can’t leave the house without expensive medical equipment. The silver lining to this story is that my newfound medical oddities unexpectedly make effective icebreakers when meeting new people. Honestly, you’d think no one has seen a colostomy bag being emptied before or at least inside of an Arthur Treacher’s.

So after overcoming sadness, I was more than happy to follow the further instructions of TV. Soon I had the complete Matthew Lesko collection and had eaten quite a few dinners that were “Crumbelievable™.” But during a recent commercial break during “The Price is Right,” I was horrified to find out that I had yet another illness; thankfully, an illness that a faceless corporate giant decided to create a cure for. And since faceless corporate giants have been picking our Presidents for the past 50 years, I think they’re more than a little qualified to decide what goes in my mouth. So now that I am a healthy man again, I must tell the Jambar reading community of a new disease that is ravaging the listless and bored of middle America. Restless Legs Syndrome is no joke.

At first, I didn’t think it could be real. I had noticed my legs moving prior to this, and when I called my doctor he told me it was called “walking” and that I should get lots of bed rest and seek a nearby car. But during one of my daily sits, when I was getting a really good “sit on,” the unthinkable happened. My leg started moving of its own free will and the televised prophecy had come true! Suddenly, I was feeling less Crumbelievable™, like all those women on Lifetime Channel movies who are always finding lumps and being beaten with sawed-off table legs. My hubris was my downfall, but thankfully my “please God, I’m only seventeen” devastation was cured by Requip, the only drug that (optionally) comes shaped as characters from Johnny Hart’s lovable born-again-Christian caveman comic, “B.C.”

Now that I’m no longer suffering from RLS, I can’t help but feel like we victims are being ignored, much like Ronald Reagan ignored the mentally ill until one of them tried to murder him (please note that he went back to ignoring the mentally ill shortly after). AIDS, shmaids, America! While those people get giant quilts, fancy red ribbons, and “very special” episodes of Captain Planet, some of us are forced to sit here with legs that we feel compelled to move; and these horrible appendages that can never be sated. You have no idea the indescribable hellish Eraserhead nightmare my life was before Requip. Multiple times the paramedics have been called to my house, only to find me stretched out on an easy chair and watching “Mama’s Family” while desperately panting, “Legs…won’t…stop…moving!” And let me tell you, those EMTs can be real jerks when you ask them for Oxycontin.

But if you believe things like “science” and “objective empirical studies” you probably think that RLS can be stopped by more than just a mango-flavored pill. Over and over I hear the same bargain-basement answers from science: healthy diet, regular exercise, and mental stimulation. Listen brainiacs, I work 20 hours a week. How am I supposed to better myself when I have that, and all of these DVD box sets to watch? This reminds me of the time when I got a credit card and no one told me that my violently impulsive spending habits would lead to excessive bills that my parents would have to pay off. Then I got sad and needed prescription drugs, starting the cycle all over again. Honestly, since when was I supposed to solve my own problems?

RLS is a sleeping giant, and much like China Syndrome, it can only lead to worldwide devastation and terrible movies starring Jane Fonda. But until we RLS sufferers are recognized as the victims we truly are, I will fervently wait by the TV for news on current diseases I may have. Could I possibly be addicted to hugs? Oh God.

As the curtain falls on another season of The Jambar, our readers will undoubtedly have no idea what to do with themselves. With only a few weekly issues in the summer followed by long, hot, Jambar-less months, I can already hear the sound of thousands, if not millions of loaded revolvers entering mouths campus-wide. To these poor souls I have this to say: you should really consider eating Arby’s as a quicker method of suicide. As an added bonus, it will also help support important American products such as frying medium, and from what I hear, the bacon, beef and cheddar sandwich is like riding with the devil himself. You also won’t spook the people living in Youngstown who are still unused to the sound of gunshots.

But all hope is not lost! The Jambar has lots of upcoming changes that you should be aware of, and since you are probably sitting on the toilet right now (as polls indicate is the most popular method of reading this newspaper), you will probably have enough time to find out how The Jambar has nowhere to go but up!

The key to all of this upcoming greatness lies in corporate sponsorship. I didn’t know this until recently, but the Coca-Cola Company had bought out The Jambar months ago. It’s not so strange when you consider that college football teams receive corporate sponsorship all the time to buy new helmets and to pay off girls who have been “quarterback sacked,” but at one point I wondered why a cola company would have a vested interest in a humble college newspaper. I no longer question my new leaders, but I had my doubts when a bunch of Coke executives stormed the Jambar compound, demanding to know why we haven’t been mentioning their products this entire semester. When we answered that we didn’t know they were in charge and that we also have integrity, the gauntlet was thrown down.

It was later that I found out we never had integrity. Boy was my face red, much like the Coca-Cola logo! Our paper’s pro-Pepsi bias has been so obvious that I did not disagree at all when my corn-syrup peddling overlords said The Jambar is the worst it’s been in a decade. I was then shown many Pepsi propaganda articles that I didn’t think we published this year, but I will admit my ignorance and run corrections and clarifications on these lies in the space I have below:

• Coca-Cola does not cause miscarriages; it saves you hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of 20 years
  
• Obese children should not be refused soft drinks, as they are the farm animals of the 21st century
  
• Diabetes is not debilitating, in fact it gives you the chance to wear fancy new shoes
  
• Bottles of Coca-Cola do not cause African bushmen to go insane; this is merely the gods being crazy

Now that has been cleared up, there’s no doubt you have noticed my new name. That’s right, I am now “Coca-Cola Presents: Bob Mackey with Retsyn.” You’ll find that I now have a strong ideology due to my corporate sponsors, and also the power of retsyn, which will leave your mouths feeling as clean as untouched waters of Lake Erie. You will also be refreshed by my new content and clever segues, such as the one you are reading now.

I’ve come to understand satire is too hard to understand for some people, and can often lead to mixed messages; the kind representatives of Coke let me know this while brandishing lead pipes. Much research was done on my behalf to discover what college students really think is funny, so in the future most of my articles will be about ramen, pizza, beer, and hilarious videos from the internet. Have you seen the one where the fat kid swings a broomstick around like Darth Vader with cerebral palsy? Of course you have, but that doesn’t mean you won’t want to read 1000 words about it! I will also take the liberty of massaging the nostalgia organ by providing references to the past without jokes, a la Family Guy. Remember “Step by Step?” I wish I couldn’t.

Coke, in a bold re-visioning of the newspaper format, also has plans to take The Jambar to places it has never gone, the first of which is underground. The potential for advertising space is almost limitless under the earth’s crust! In an experiment that will be held this summer, The Jambar will be publishing treasure maps of where to find my articles, and distributing digging tools from the office. All of those who promise to drink refreshing Coke products while digging for comedy gold will be granted the right to one official Jambar shovel, and a Coke sponsored canary in case you fall into any of the abandoned coal mines which snake out underneath YSU. You may die cold and alone, but at least you’ll have my humorous ponderings about campus parking to keep you company!

In closing, I was going to give a farewell to Leonard "Lenny" Crist and Katie "Katie" Libecco, but disposing of these two heavy black garbage bags in the Mahoning River as I was told to do this morning really got me thinking. This entire year, they were misleading me! Me, who knew nothing of newspapers, drawn into their vast anti-Coke conspiracy! As the title of the Green Day song that plays at the funerals of dead high school kids says, "good riddance."

By the way, if you two are reading this, do you have any idea how to get out of this large steel cage? Wait, I guess you wouldn't.