February 1995 – Jeff Carl.com

Adios, Aloha, Ave Atque Vale, Et Cetera

By Jeffrey Carl

Jeffrey Carl UR Column — University of Richmond Collegian, February 23 1995

Thanks to a bare modicum of writing skill and a more obvious fondness for bourbon which aligned with that of my journalism professors, my putative career advanced rapidly through my undergraduate years. I went from a practicum story writer for the University of Richmond Collegian student newspaper in my freshman year to Assistant News Editor in my sophomore year, then on to Greek Life Editor and IT Manager (I read MacWorld magazine!) in my junior year, and ultimately to Opinion Editor in my senior year.

For some reason that escapes me now, I acquired a humor column during this process at the beginning of my junior year. This column, titled “Over the Cliff Notes,” eventually ran for 22 installments and was over the course of two years was read by literally dozens of actual humans, only most of which where KA pledges I forced to do so. Its literary influence was quite literally incalculable, and I’m just going to leave it at that.

It occurs to me now that topical humor from college campuses nearly 30 years ago does not age well. I’m sure it was absolutely hilarious at the time, though. Enjoy!

Editor’s note: This guy is just a columnist. He doesn’t reflect the opinions of the editors. He’s just some jerk we found in the gutter and chained to a Macintosh and we don’t like him anyway and he smells bad and … hey … wait a second. I’ve been writing these “Editor’s notes” for close to two years now and I just realized … I am the editor of this section. Uh … screw all that other stuff I said before. This “Jeff Carl” person is obviously a damn fine American and it is the firm opinion of the editor that you should bow three times a day, face Apartment 302 and worship him, plus send all your money. Good night and God bless.

We here at The Collegian pride ourselves on being responsive to our readers. Yeah, my ass we do. Anyway.

I hereby quit.

I’m sick of all this crapola [Spanish for “9 Divine”]. This is my final column.

But why, you ask?

In my brief, three-year career in journalism, Ihave been threatened with a lawsuit, been threatened with having “the living s–t” beaten out of me by people I called “sissy boys” [see last week], received stern letters from my professors about using bad words, been damn-near disowned by my fraternity, shot at (okay, so that didn’t actually have as much to do with being a “journalist” as being a “trespasser”), received hate mail from the Westmoreland County librarian, gotten fan mail from the Callao County Medium Security Correctional Facility and been called everything from “a poop-brain” to “a poop-head.”

Being a columnist isn’t all kibbles and bits, you know. Comedy is a serious business. Do you realize how difficult it is to fill 800 words with stupid cracks at 9 Divine whilst overusing the term “a mild cheese sauce?”

Frankly, it’s really not worth it. I’ve worked for The Collegian for three years now, and what has it even given me? Pain! Anguish! Hangnails … Leg cramps … Dogs piddle on me … “Chicks” for some reason just don’t “dig” me … They pay me in stupid worthless beads and shiny bottlecaps just because I listened to Nimchek’s advice and insisted in getting all my pay in “fiat currency” … Chick-Fil-A still refuses to give any sort of “Columnist Discount,” although most liquor stores do … and I still haven’t been named “WCGASenator of the Month.”

Ergo [Latin for “therefore”], I’m giving this crappy [Latin for “like crap”] racket up. Maybe I’ll do something that people respect more, like clubbing baby seals or mugging blind nuns.

Once upon a time I thought that plenty of people here lacked a sense of humor. Well, I believe I’ve spent the last two years proving it.

In that time, I’ve systematically attempted to cheese off everybody there is to cheese – if you haven’t been offended, don’t worry, it was a clerical error, please send in your name and I’ll offend you personally – and you know what? Some people actually didn’t think that my abusing them and dragging their name through the mud was funny.

But, you may ask, aren’t there any benefits to being a Collegian columnist?

No.

But, admittedly, you do get to complain about things. You also have the ability to irritate people on a campus-wide scale, instead of just those in close proximity to you. In fact, you can inspire people you’ve never even met before to hate you.

Also, Collegian columnists have lucrative endorsement deals with Charter Westbrook hospital (“Depressed? Can’t stop crying? Still writing 800 words about ‘9 Divine’ and ‘a mild cheese sauce?’ Get help.”)

Maybe it would just be easier – certainly more lucrative – for all of the columnists here to give up writing and use their new-found fame to market their own products:

• Paul Caputo’s “It’s All Greek to Me” souvlaki and gyros restaurant. All the food is bitter.

• The Scott Shepard Keg-erator: icy cold, inhuman, mechanical and usually full of alcohol.

• Mike Nimchek’s “Sanskrit Translations of ‘Atlas Shrugged’ anthology” : obscure, well-nigh-impossible to read and completely paraphrased from Ayn Rand.

• The Brian C. Jones Safety Handgun: lots of bullets and no points.

• And the Jeffrey D. R. S. Carl Automatic Monkey Shucker: It’s just … strange.

The point of all this being that I’ve had it. “But what you said wasn’t true,” people will say.

Excuses, excuses. If a frog had wings, it wouldn’t bump its ass hopping.

Of course it isn’t true. It’s a joke. Jokes are not real. Do I really think RCSGA senators should be used as firewood? No. Do I really suggest an InterVarsity ChristianFellowship “Rush event” with a “Fish and Loaves Picnic?” No. Am Ian eight-foot-tall marsupial with small vestigial wings and a thick German accent? Well, kind of. No! I make fun of myself more than I make fun of anyone else. Having a sense of humor is not that important. Having a sense of humor about yourself is. You have no right to laugh at anyone else if you can’t laugh at yourself.

I tried to point out how silly it was to take some things seriously (popularity, envy, sorority Rush, scurvy, the Black Plague) by making them seem as silly as possible. I tried to make everybody laugh, regardless of who got their feelings hurt or how tasteless it might have been. I took no prisoners and butchered every sacred cow and served it up as “cole slaw” at The Pier, assuming everyone else would laugh at their own foolishness as easily as I did. I was wrong.

And now I really don’t care enough to keep at it. Truth be told, there’s plenty of other things to do with my free time, most of which don’t involve smelling the asbestos and film developer in The Collegian’s office (proven probably not to always necessarily cause cancer in some laboratory pledges) and none of which involve getting fan mail from prison.

I could take up bungee jumping … learn ritual suicide techniques (for the next time I’m in Indiana) … be a roadie for the 1995 Monsters of Rock tour with Van Halen and Timbuk3 … stay home and watch every hour of the O.J. Simpson trial coverage on E! anchored by Kathleen Sullivan, a fashion consultant and a blob of grayish mold shaped like Walter Cronkite … or just run around campus screaming “Yahtzee!” at the top of my lungs. The possibilities are endless.

And I won’t miss it at all.

The Official University of Richmond Dictionary/Thesaurus/ Encyclopedia and Souvenir Placemat

By The Dead Editors’ Society (Jeffrey Carl, Paul Caputo and Scott Shepard)

University of Richmond Collegian, February 16 1995

This was our brazen attempt to just plain offend everybody that we hadn’t offended so far. I will now admit that I completely ripped off the “Ring Dance is just like a bar mitzvah but with sex in the elevators” joke from P. J. O’Rourke. On one hand, this was a tremendous amount of fun for three callow young aspiring humorists to write: doing our best to offend university administration officials and skewer our college’s sacred cows in the service of cheap laughs for our fellow students. On the other hand, it features (like much of my college-era writing) a pretty astounding amount of casual misogyny and homophobia, which seemed funny and au courant at the time but is terribly embarrassing in retrospect. All my old stuff is here in unexpurgated form not because I’m proud of it, but because I don’t believe in “Han shot first” revisionism – this is what I wrote and how out of date it now seems is part of its historical value.

Mr. Shepard starring as Noah Webster

Mr. Carl as Daniel Webster

Mr. Caputo appearing as That Little Kid Webster

Welcome to the University of Richmond. Now that the school year is nearly two-thirds done, the members of the Dead Editor’s Society thought that, as a service to the community, we would provide an informative yet pointless compendium of terms peculiar to life here in the Spider Web (also known as Valhalla, Nirvana, and Traffic Court). We hope that this compact yet nutritious guide (please feel free to rip it out and hang it on your wall) will prove useful for you as you progress through the hills and valleys of the little college which even West-enders with flags in their front yards consider pretentious.

aerobics (from Greek æros, or “floppy parts,” and bikos, or “a-jigglin’ like crazy”): 1.n. A bizarre ritual somehow involving spandex and Evian. 2.n. A small furry mammal.

Baptists (Bap’ teests): coll. n. A discredited cult formerly associated with the University.

birth control (ging’ rich): 1.n. The fact that the Safety Shuttle stops running at 2 a.m. 2.adj. see Flagboy

brick (You arrr’ bas ket bawl’) 1.n. A building device that the University of Richmond obviously thinks you can buy like it’s Legos. 2. I mean, come on, now, this stuff is expensive. This is our tuition you’re playing with. 3. Oh, I see, you have enough brick to build an entire leadership school, but you can’t spend 30 extra dollars on concrete to finish the tower on Jepson. 4. You make me sick.

CAB (Kabob’): n. An on-campus organization dedicated to making independents with no friends feel worse than they already do. Members of the group can be seen in the top floor of the Commons painting signs that say things like, “No friends? How ’bout coming to see a weak comedian in The Pier by yourself?”

Caputo, Paul “The Fish” (from the French kaput, or “not,” and püter, or “funny.”): The last remaining specimen of an otherwise extinct species. Should be approached with caution, especially if carrying bacon, working for The Web, or responsible for canceling Quantum Leap.

Carl, Jeff (Weee’ zul): n. After being abandoned by his parents at birth, this esoteric, bitter columnist was raised by a small family of campus dogs. After gaining entrance to UR on a minority short guy scholarship, he was taken in by a bunch of KA pledges and taught how to speak and wear flannel.

Dance, Ring (from Latin ringos, or “daddy” and dancius, or “is drunk”): 1.n. A bizarre mating ritual, pretty much like a bar mitzvah but with sex in the elevators. 2.n. A light chicken gravy.

employment (?) noun, maybe? How the Hell should we know. We’re liberal arts majors. Ask the guys in the damned green eyeshades and Oh, and, can you lend me a few dollars?

e-mail (E! Entertainment):n. It used to be that it took days and even weeks to get a message from one place to another, but now, because of technological advances and because the computers are down again, you can’t get it there at all.

Flagboy:

FLAGBOY

Year Games ERA GPA W-L

’91-2 32 4.11 3.23 0-6

’92-3 4 (strike) 82.33 12 0-35

’93-4 29 Yes No 0-143

’94-5 63 3.14 -6 0-Westhampton

• Named to the John Madden All-Flagboy team three years in a row

• Is result of secret Nazi genetic experiments

flange (flange’): 1.adj. Kind of minty. 2.pron. Anything found in the lake.

GDI (God-damned Independent): 1.n. A seldom-glimpsed, usu. hermitlike species often found in Thomas Hall on Friday nights. 2.n. A rare, infectious disease. see also Caputo

Goldberg, Marquis Leonard de: Former bassist for the Grateful Dead, 1971-75. Later founder of the Leonard Goldberg Soul Explosion.

Harwood, Dame Patricia: Dean of Westhampton College and sixth in line for the British crown. Former world crumpet-spitting champion. Known during her ’60s radical days as “Patty X.”

hook up (lay pipe’): 1.v. Well, it’s like when you get together with somebody who you aren’t involved with but when you would, like, go out with them but you wouldn’t go out with them and you certainly aren’t dating, even though you might be together. 2.vavavoom verb. Ba-ka-chooka-wang, ba-ka-chooka-woo 3.pron. Okay, okay, we have no idea personally (except Paul says he has this girlfriend in Canada but Scott and Jeff don’t believe him) but we’ve heard it’s neat.

The Honor Council (Turn’ coats): 1.n. Oh, right, like they never cheated on anything in high school. 2.n. U. Va. wannabes.

intellectual curiosity (in tel ec’ shul kur EEEE’ os it E): n. A discredited cult formerly associated with the University.

Jepson School of Leadership Studies (Jet’ son): n. A discredited cult formerly associated with the University.

Loch Westhampton (Fes’ ter ing Slime’ Pit): n. Home to Jimmy Hoffa and countless KA pledges who did not quite make the grade, this scenic area been the setting for such Hollywood classics as “On Golden Pond,” “A River Runs Through It” and “The Blob.”

Lord Alison: The fifth Earl of Sussex, British Prime Minister 1934-40; former World Gym-kata champion and Reichskommissar of Austria. see also entry on her cousin Lord Alison Bartles and Jaymes

male cheerleaders: n. Sissy boys.

Mateer, Richard M.D.: Won the 1951 Nobel Prize in biology for his discovery of the infamous Vitamin “F,” which was later revealed to just be 7-Up. Also played Sgt. Deedee McCall on the popular TV show “Hunter” for three seasons.

mulch (durt): n. The store of wealth and medium of exchange at the University. The great explosion of mulch stores in recent years has set off an inflation spiral which has result in $1,000-per-year tuition increases for the past five years. see also Senior Campaign

multiculturalism (exac’ tly like it’s spel’ led) n. An intellectual practice currently in vogue at the University. The most controversial such exercise found Protestants and Catholics coming together for mutual understanding at the Chaplaincy. The event was marked by only sporadic gunfire.

9 Divine (Me nu’ do): 1.n. The artists formerly known as talented. 2.n. A mild cheese sauce.

num-chuks (nim’ chek): 1.n. A terrifying Japansese weapon of death 2.n. A terrifying American columnist of Fiat Currency. see entries under Freedom Betrayed, suicide.

Or Whatever: Or whatever. see Yeah, right.

orientation (Al’ ca TRAZ): 1.n. A yearly event occuring in the third week of every August, participants in orientation have often been known to run screaming from the campus to take up employment with the U.S. Postal Service.

pledge (suc’ ker): see serf

RCSGA (RoopColegSchlafGestapoAufwiedersehn): A secret paramilitary organization suspected of involvement with the Bay of Pigs invasion, the Munich Putsch of 1923, the North nomination of 1994 and the naming of “Edible Bites.” Apparently, they also make cool animals out of tied baloons. see Or Whatever.

Roop, Archwarlock Jason of: Neutral-Chaotic magic user. +20 HP, AC -3. Spells of: “Sleep” (level 3), “Magic Fireball” (level 4), and “Really Cool Breakdancing” (level 9). Can only be killed by magic users level 6 and above, or during a full moon by piercing his heart with an arrow-shaped Gardenburger.

Ryland Hall (Throat wo’ bbler Man’ grove) n. The dual-winged building half-way between the academic quad (see also “What?”) and the Hotel Jeter, Ryland Hall houses the University soup kitchen and the unemployment office.

Senior Campaign (Los Señor Campagnöla) n. see also Napoleon’s Russian Campaign, 1812; Hitler’s Russian Campaign, 1941; and Walter Mondale’s Presidential Campaign, 1984.

sex (ro’ op): 1.n. Nothing to see here. Please keep moving. 2.v. A light chicken gravy.

Shanghai Quartet (Som’ i nex) n. A group of four Oriental musicians which the administration keeps locked in the basement of the FAB, brought out to lull unsuspecting alumni to sleep while the administration steals their credit cards.

Shatner, Sir William: Great Shakespearean actor famed for his roles as Hamlet, Othello, and T.J. Hooker. Why is he in here? Your guess is as good as ours.

Shepard, Reichsmarschall Scott von (Kur’ mit the Fash’ ist Frog): intrans. v. A sinister entity bent upon conquering the world and then making everbody eat grits. see also Burn Todd Flora

social security : n. Joining a fraternity.

T. C. Williams School of Law (La Skool’): 1.n. Formerly a breeding ground for lawyer larvæ until it was fumigated. The vacated building now serves as a new Palestinian Homeland. 2.n. The source of plenty of nasty letters after that last crack.

The Collegian (Køleejeeañ) 1.n. A periodical published weekly on Thursdays, the Collegian has been recognized since the demise of Pravda as the greatest international purveyor of Communist propaganda. 2.n. Home of the colossal 1/2 lb. Spiegelburger and Libel Fries, with all the trimmings, for only $3.99. Offer ends soon.

The Fan (The Fan’): n. The guy who actually showed up for a basketball game this year

The Messenger (from the Greek mesan, or “book of,” and garos, “lame poetry”) n. Reputedly a literary journal, the Messenger provides physical evidence that modernity cannot produce art.

The Octaves (Awk’ tayves): 1.n. A group of eight musical notes 2.n. A group of eight or more musical sissy-boys.

The Row (Da Rîu): n. A picturesque garden district on the border between the City of Richmond and Hell, this area has maintained its antique, Victorian architecture and beauty by use of a barley-and-hops-based fertilization system and by extensive use of chattel labor. see also serfs

The Web (The Web’): n. An elite strike force. Its mission: to defeat the evil forces of Cobra and its ally, Destro. see also entry under lame

Trash violation (Noo’ sance): n. Driving around in a big-ass monster truck, watching NASCAR and spitting Copenhagen at the cat and … oops. Sorry, that’s a white trash violation.

University Players (fuh reeks’): 1.n. A group of people who put on gaudy makeup, dress up in the opposite sex’s clothing and say strange things. They also do plays. 2.n. A zesty cheese sauce.

The Virgin Vault (Lo’ ra Ro’ bins): 1.n. Like a haunted house, a rite of passage for young males to see if they can spend the night there 2.n. A dormitory converted from a small castle that used to serve as Cobra and Destro’s headquarters. see The Web

WCGA: Just like RCSGA, but with paint pens.

Writing Center (Dor’ ks): n. A team of students, most of whom wear Superfriends Underoos, whose idea of humor is telling freshmen to rewrite 15-page papers the night before they’re due.

Zip-eh-dee-doo-dah (Zip’ a de doo dah): n. Zip-eh-dee-day.

Playing Yahtzee With the Reaper

By Jeffrey Carl

It occurs to me now that topical humor from college campuses nearly 30 years ago does not age well. I’m sure it was absolutely hilarious at the time, though. Enjoy!

Editor’s note: This one really isn’t funny, so you can probably skip it and go on to “Freedom Betrayed” (page 9). Mr. Carl has assured us that this thing called “having a point” is only a temporary phase and will not happen again. Please excuse our momentary flirtation with responsible journalism.

I just quit smoking.

This should probably not surprise you or me, since this is the 136th time I’ve quit smoking since I started. Each of these attempts began in earnest but unfortunately only lasted until:

a) The Arch-Demon “Nicotine,” like the Arch-Demon “Skip Class and Drink Bourbon All Day” called too loudly for my weak soul to refuse

b) I was no longer visiting my parents or grandparents and could finally drop the pretense of not being a total degenerate, or

c) I got really, really bored.

Ergo, the fact that I have quit is unremarkable in itself, as my attempts to quit smoking were like the tides: regular, short-lived and, like the rest of my life, controlled entirely by extraterrestrial forces.

So why did I quit for good?

It wasn’t the medical evidence. I did not quit because smoking was sure to give me cancer, later in life; my parents would spare me the illness by killing me as soon as they found out I smoked.

I was not swayed by all those gross biological pictures the Surgeon General shows in anti-smoking campaigns (“Smoker’s lungs: Congested. Black. Different.”) or all of the warnings on the back of cigarette cartons (“The Surgeon General has determined that if you’re going to smoke these, you can kiss your ass goodbye right now”). Nor was it the polls which indicate that smoking tobacco is tied with “clubbing baby seals” in terms of popularity.

Nor was it because of a humanitarian concern for the evils of “second-hand smoke.” Second-hand smoke, it has now been revealed, causes Scurvy and The Clap in concentrations of one part per million at 500 paces away, and is apparently the moral equivalent of baking brownies with chocolate Ex-Lax for your friends. I understand how bad all this is, but I was never worried about it because all my apartment-mates deserve to die, anyway.

It wasn’t even because an ex-girlfriend had told me that it made me taste and smell like gym socks. I didn’t quit because I noticed it was starting to make my teeth look moldy.

I did not quit because I had stumbled onto some magic cure for smoking (“New Nick Fitz nicotine patches! Now with the new miracle ingredient, Fraudulin!)

I did not quit because I had given up my tireless fight to clear the name of the good folks at Phillip Morris, Inc (“The mega-corporation with a heart … disease”). I did not quit because I finished my life-long dream of assembling a 1/12 scale model of the Eiffel Tower out of Marlboro packs, including a working elevator.

I quit because my friend died. He didn’t die of cancer from smoking six packs of Luckies a day, he didn’t die after drinking three gallons of Rumple-Minze and driving off a cliff and he didn’t die from gunshot wounds, unprotected sex or any of the other deaths that make such great cautionary tales. He was just sick for a long time from some stupid disease nobody has ever heard of and then he became finally terminally deceased to death.

And he didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t go looking for trouble, snorting Pine-Sol or playing in traffic. He was a strait-laced sort of guy who didn’t exactly cruise seedy bars downtown searching for The Grim Reaper (“Ma’am, the cloaked skeleton at the table there playing chess would like to buy you a drink”).

And now he is just dead. Death is actually a terribly unromantic thing. It’s just … not. Not anything. Eternal nothingness (see “Indiana,” two weeks ago) is probably pretty boring. And while life after death may exist (my friend believed there was), studies show that unfortunately, Heaven does not get cable.

Hell, however, does. “ISHTAR-VISION! The only channel that brings you all Ishtar, all the time!” And also VH-1.

So why does my buddy shuffling off this mortal coil suddenly make me give up cancer sticks, after the combined armies of my ex-girlfriend and the Surgeon General failed to do so?

Probably because I believe in endings now. You see, at my ripe old age of 21, I had a difficult time believing that I or anyone else my age will not continue to exist forever.

I had a difficult time conceptualizing all those things that I’m pretty sure will happen to me eventually: getting married, having kids, buying a station wagon, having a mid-life crisis and trying to trade the kids in for a new Suzuki, getting hair in my ears, pretending I’m senile so I can tell everybody to go to Hell and they won’t blame me and finally telling everyone while I’m on my deathbed that I buried all this gold right over in … aaaarggggh and dying before the last word so they go crazy looking for it, etc. I sorta expected it to happen, but I never really believed any of it would. Especially the “dead” part.

I had never expected to smoke for very long. Usually just until next week. “Next week” took about a year. Time didn’t really pass very fast – certainly not during Orientation Events or night classes – and it didn’t mean much, anyway. I’d be young forever.

But time really does pass. Do what you wanted to do now, or the next thing you know, you’ve graduated and there’s the Wagon Queen Family Truckster in the driveway and then you’re sick of some disease nobody’s ever heard of and then you’re fatally deceased to death. And it’s over.

Which, at worst, means the absolute cessation of existence and the condemnation to the Infinite Void – and at best means being forced to watch reruns of “The Civil War” on the PBS affiliate in Heaven.

So I quit. Aside from the obvious side effects (I’m cranky as Hell, but at least I have an excuse now), it’s not too bad. Unfortunately, I had to find a substitue for nicotine, which means I now drink six cases of Mountain Dew per day. This is fine, except I’m now so wired that I haven’t slept since before Christmas.

So I quit smoking. I think my friend would appreciate the thought. And I hope PBS is having a fund drive, so they show cool “Fawlty Towers” reruns too. I’m sure he’s watching.

The 1st Annual URKEL Awards

By Jeffrey Carl and Paul Caputo

University of Richmond Collegian, February 2 1995

The only thing I recall about his one is that we had to work for a while to come up with an acronym to make “U.R.K.E.L.” After that, I think we wrote this one in a hurry. And it shows! Not in a good way!

We’ve been watching too much TV.

At any rate, it seems that each station has decided to have its own awards. ESPN has the Espys. You have the Golden Globes, the Oscars, Emmys, Grammys, Tonys and the ACEAwards. Even the weather channel is having its first ever “Radar Image” Awards, hosted by Chevy Chase and a zany yet lovable tropical storm heading NNE at 15 mph.

We don’t like jumping on any fad bandwagons. On the other hand, we are fresh out of ideas and we have this half a page to fill. So we are proud to present the URKEL(University of Richmond Kommunity Enrichment Laurels) Awards. Here are your hosts, Boris Yeltsin and Heather Locklear.

Boris: Dobrii pozdotshlavaya, i perestroika Chechnya. [Translation: Hello and welcome to the awards. Exits are here, here, here and here.]

Heather:Oh, Boris. You’re so funny, and pudgy, too.

Boris:Boingy boingy. [Do not touch me.]

Heather: Well, let’s get on with the awards.

Boris: Boingy boingy. [There is baloney in my slacks.]

Heather:That’s right. Our first trophy, the most coveted prize of the evening, is the “Scott Shepard/Ticket Lady Memorial Award for Pure Evil.” Boris, who are the nominees?

Boris: Zhlobny grovitsa, shto Skot Shepardd… [Obviously, Scott Shepard…] i Tikyeta Babushka [and the Ticket Lady…] i tovarischa trotsky glorp Bambishka [and, for no particular reason, Bambi.]

Heather: And — it’s a tie! — the surprise winners are … Alison Bartel Lord and “The Web,” for conduct above and beyond the call of pure evil. Each winner receives a trophy, a free ad in The Collegian, and a parking ticket.

Boris:Da, i nyet Webski Schmebski. [I get the feeling that The Web is really going to clean house tonight.] Et tollanum tyrranicus, sic semper Cæsarium. [Also, I’m completely stoned.]

Heather: Tee hee. [Ha ha.] Our next award is the Jason B. Roop Monolith for savage, ruthless political conflict. Boris Baby — the nominees, please?

Boris: Ich bien ein Hausfrau, und Reichschancellor Morrill… [First is President Morrill, for his execution of political dissenters and Wake Forest saboteurs…] mit der Pebbles ein D-Hallzeitungliebchenschaftbund… [and Pebbles from the D-Hall for her brutal repression of the disturbances in Chechnya…] und der Strudelmeister Oktoberfesten Rommelswagen Prince. [and the artist formerly known as “Prince.”]

Heather: Oh, Boris, you’re a cutie-pie. And — it’s a tie! — the surprise winners are … the evil aliens from “V,” and The Web.

Boris: Steille nacht, heilege nacht! [We have a special award next.] Heureux anniversaire! [Also, I am going to vomit.]

Heather: That’s right, we have the Erik Estrada Award for International Diplomacy. Who are the nominees?

Boris: ¿Donde estás, Señor Butt-head? Mucho Jepsonistas nachos… [First is The Jepson School of Leadership Studies, for its resolution of the crisis in Bosnia…] chilito meximelt pintos chicken soft taco… [and Police Chief Dillard, for this year’s all-time low of campus crime incidents involving the Klingon Empire…] chimichangas su pecho es muy grande. [and, for no particular reason, Phi Delt and SPE.]

Heather: Ooh … toughie there. And — it’s a tie! — the surprise winners are … Henry Kissinger and The Web! That’s funny, what has Henry Kissinger done for world diplomacy?

Boris: Je t’aime plus que j’aime Jean-Luc Picard! Il est le capitáin formidablé! [I have heard that you can suck a golf ball through a garden hose.]

Heather: That doesn’t sound like Russian.

Boris: Suck it up, babe. [Pozhgorodny slovo Kazakhstan, Zhivago.]

Heather: Righty ho. And now, it’s time for the award we’ve all been waiting for.

Boris: Da. [That’s right, sweet buns.] Gort: klaatu, verada, nikto. [It’s time for the ever-coveted Collegian Award for Irresponsible Journalism …]

Heather: The nominees are the “Richmond Times-Dispatch,” for endorsing Oliver North and Pope-abuse … “The Family Circus,” for the “Little Billy is trapped in a Turkish prison” series … and Jeff Carl and Paul Caputo, for offending just about everybody there is to offend.

Boris:Omikron delta kaq YSX!… [Those guys really tweak my nipples! …] oogah-chaka, oogah-chaka, oogah, oogah oogah-chaka. [er … So to speak.]

Heather: And — it’s a tie! — the surprise winners are “The Web” and “The Web.”

Boris: Merde! [Boy, is that zany. Ha ha.] Zhleb. [I destroyed Communism just to get even with all the Politburo members who kept calling me “Spanky.”] Gazhlop. [Also, vote for Mom in the WCGA elections.]

Heather: That’s all for the televised segment of these awards. Stay tuned for the bottom of the page.

Boris: Dobrii nyoch, i Stalingrad. [Good night and God bless. These are the opinions of two deranged people and stop blaming it on The Collegian.] Sayonara. [Also, I’m not wearing any underwear.]