Posts by Jacko:
Check out how we ask girls what their (or any) numbers are!
Every spring since last spring, we’ve awarded the Annual Person of the Century Award™ to a person who has displayed outstanding achievement in the past century. This century, we are proud to bestow the illustrious award upon screenwriter/director/actor/all-around comedy legend Buck Henry ’52!
His acceptance e-mail:
Thank you and the Committee? Judges? Board of Governors? – for this honor and the kind words. It is customary for one to say that one doesn’t really deserve it – that it was completely unexpected – and that one’s life has been meaningfully altered by the event. None of this is true so I will leave it to next year’s recipient to say it for me. And I hope to be among the finalists in 2113.
And an entirely unrelated image from Mr. Henry’s first SNL appearance:
Dartmouth Social Cups is a new campus initiative aimed at encouraging students in dining halls to talk to one another. Drinking out of a red cup indicates that you are open to meeting and talking to strangers.
But many college students aren’t looking to just “talk to” and “meet” strangers. That’s why, two days after the debut of Social Cups, we debuted new cups for students looking to cut to the chase and, well, flirt!
DTF cups were a great success, and students got to flirting like crazy! Some of ‘em even fucked!
It’s April 1st. I emerge from my shelter deep underground. The world is still here. It’s over. I survived March Madness. March is a time when the male species is overcome with a sickness of sorts; a sickness that drives them to madness. They cannot do or talk about anything besides basketball. Society as we know it collapses. The world revolves around watching basketball and talking about basketball in the time between games. All other activities are abandoned and the streets appear desolate during game time. I have found that I am immune to the sickness – possibly due to a biological immunity or maybe due to the fact that I find basketball incredibly boring. For me, this month is torture. I wander the lonely streets griped by fear. At any time, I could be called to watch a game, and my only hope is to try desperately to make up an excuse. An excuse that will do me no good, as in their crazed state they will tie my down and force me to watch. Helplessly, I will have to listen to their crazed shouts as the game occurs; like a sort of tribal ritual. At any moment, by anyone, I could be asked my opinion of the game or how my “bracket” is going. Failure to have a vast knowledge of the game can cause me to be shunned from society. I will cease to hold the status of “man” to them. All the while they will look at me with contempt, waiting for the chance to embarrass me in front of the other superior males. At the height of their excitement they will consider sacrificing me to their players, their “gods.” The rivalries between teams can cause fighting in the streets with men fashioning weapons of whatever they can find. My lifeless body would be a symbol of their power and will to win regardless of the fact that they have no control over the game. As such I must lock myself away from society for nowhere is safe. So for the month of March I stay within in a bomb shelter 50 ft below ground. There is no computer as the Internet is a breeding ground for loud, constant sports chatter. There is no TV as the talk of basketball could occur at any time. There is no running water because all the water lines are filled with Gatorade for the month. There is just my thoughts and I. But finally now I am free! The madness is over. Suddenly a strong hand grabs my shoulder. “Hey man want to watch the finals later?” Before I can I answer, him and his buddies are dragging me towards their house. I had forgotten; the games are still going on. I scream. April fools on me.
-Jacob Savos ’16
Check out our new video!
After months of debate and deliberation, we’re finally ready to debut our list of songs that would benefit from the trademark Glee treatment:
- 4 1/2 Minutes of Will.I.Am Having A Violent Fit of Tapeworm-Induced Dysentery While He Grunts “Push Push PUSH (Yourself To Be The Best)” Shoved Brutally Through Autotune Software Like Steve Buscemi’s Lifeless Body Was Through A Woodchipper In Fargo
Gleeks, what we miss? Hit us up in the comments!
by Paulie Clawson ’13
It was January Thirteenth, I was home sick with the flu
When some noises and ash fell from the chimney flue
Someone on the roof was coming a-knocking
Was it Santa Claus? No, it was the man who confuses stockings with stalking.
He winked and smiled at me. Would he give me a present?
But no red coat, white beard, or tasseled hat were present
And why was he crouching on the mantelpiece, never talking?
Oh, I remember. It’s because he’s the man who confuses stockings with stalking.
“I’ve been traveling across the world ever since Christmas dawn
Following people from Peru to Chad to Taiwan.
Because every December, people keep talking about stalking,”
Said the man who bizarrely confuses invasions of personal privacy with Christmas stockings.
“Now, I must slay my reindeer and return to North Poland.
On Dasher! On Dancey-Prancer! On Vixen! On Roland!
On Comet! On Cupid! On Adolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and even Stephen Hawking!
Now fly away — we have to do so much more Christmas stalking!”
Said a crazy man I probably shouldn’t have let into my house,
Welcome to 13W! Here’s a preview of what we have in store: