UR Collegian – Jeff Carl.com

Dead Editors’ Final Message: “We’ll See You in Hell”

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

University of Richmond Collegian, April 20 1995

For this final DES column, we included Chris White, who was the incoming Opinion Section editor. All of the “Pebbles” and “Max Vest” jokes were from Caputo. The “piteous sigh” line was from Shepard. I’m proud to say that the line “Here’s to our dark lord Rosenbaum” line was mine. This was our last attempt to collectively say everything we could think of that was funny about the University of Richmond and also massively offensive, since only White would be around to get blamed for it. I think it worked quite well. As the last thing I wrote for The Collegian, it was suitably offensive, hyper-topical, self-absorbed and self-referential to pass as a reasonable farewell. To pre-quote what I want engraved on my tombstone as a summation of my life, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Presenting a whimsical collection of drivel from Collegian Opinion Editors, past and present

Mr. Shepard starring as Mr. White

Mr. Carl as Mr. Brown

Mr. Caputo appearing as Mr. Blue

Mr. White as Mr. Pink

[Editor’s note: Go ahead. Write a letter. This is the last Collegian of the year and we’ll all be gone in a couple weeks. Nyah nyah. P.S. Bite us]

Everyone in the Dead Editors’ Society not named Chris is what the French like to call graduating. (Stage direction: piteous sigh from readers.)

There has been so much to say over the past four years, that we in the Society are proud to have not said any of it, while still taking up lots of valuable Collegian space that could have been used for stories about 9 Divine or something at the Jepson School going wrong. Or whatever.

So we have inducted a new member to the Secret Sisterhood of Deceased Editors. Or whatever. Anyhow, we have much secret knowledge, gleaned in our four years, to impart to our Dead Editor Pledge, Chris. Then we get to spank him. At any rate, we figure now is as good a time as any to let you, the reader, in on all of the valuable information that we have discarded over the years in order to write about the lake and chicken sandwiches. Behold all the bizarre facts about the University of Richmond which we have discovered and should have — had we ever pretended to be real journalists (or even “not total asses”) — let you know.

And boy, will you be sorry you found out. UR Strange But True Facts:

• When logging onto the VAX, do not select the option that says “Global Thermonuclear War” unless Matthew Broderick is around to fix it. Your user privileges can be revoked for this.

• All of the Physical Plant’s vehicles can be assembled to form Voltron, Defender of the Universe. Also, Trabants and Yugos.

• If you ask the library’s computer, “What is the meaning of life?” the disk drive will spit Cheez-Whiz out at you.

• Corrie Spiegel supplements her meager income as Collegian Editor by dancing at the “Paper Moon,” Thursday nights at 10:30. For just a few drachmas more, you can get her to do that thing with the whipped cream.

• All four of us have, just to be popular, dated Sigma Chis.

• Pebbles, D-Hall worker extraordinaire, is in fact Anastasia, lost daughter of Czar Nicholas II, who was made very dead during the Bolshevik revolution. She will reclaim the throne as soon as the fries are done, which should be in two minutes.

• All of the police cars are Autobots, while all of the silverware in the D-Hall are Decepticons. Do not bend them (the silverware, that is) unless staging a protest for the return of Rib-B-Que.

• All major financial decisions of the University must be approved by the ducks. This explains why the purchase “tasty bread crumbs” now takes up over 60 percent of the school’s budget.

• Due to budget constraints, the entire new fine arts building will be held together by secret sauce.

• The real purpose of the D-Hall? Conducting experiments in casserole-based life forms.

• If you play the school anthem backwards, it says in a creepy voice, “Here’s to our dark lord Rosenbaum.”

• Dogs are really, really dumb.

• Swinging a dead cat over your head in the library will not cure warts.

• Max Vest!: the Musical.

• Nostradamus predicted that the dorms would get cable this year. He also predicted that Ticket Lady would be replaced by a horde of evil winged monkeys and that the Anti-Christ would be named “Rope” or “Rupe.” Ha ha. We don’t know anybody by that name. Near as we can tell, he was on crack.

• Snorting “Reddi-Whip” will not give you a buzz. However, snorting mulch will. Go crazy.

• The real WILL director? Darth Vader.

• In the waiting room of CAPS, they play a muzak version of “I’m a Loser, Baby … So Why Don’t You Kill Me?”

• The school’s motto, when translated from the original Latin, reads “Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow, meow meow.”

• The Rape Van was originally The Great Space Coaster.

• The only men’s Rush events worth attending? “Smash your favorite puppy.” The only women’s Rush event worth attending? “Lingerie party night.” Don’t think we don’t know. Well, we don’t know for sure. Okay, we fantasize about it constantly, but it would be worth attending if they did have it.

• The secret ingredient in Pier specials? Soylent Green.

• “That’s What You Think” is used by newspapers nation-wide as an index of regional stupidity. We have often won.

• History professor Martin Ryle was David Hasselhoff’s stunt double during the first year of “Knight Rider.” Philosophy professor Matthew Freytag was KITT’s.

• The secret SATminimum used by the Admissions Office is “dumb as a bag of hammers.”

• Prolonged exposure to secret WDCE-waves causes sterility, blindness and occasional stomach discomfort.

• The Career Development Center sucks. No, really. Do you even know where it is? Neither do we. Let us know when Wal-Mart comes to give interviews.

• The ghost of Weezie Jefferson haunts the Deanery. No one knows why.

• The ghost of David Hasselhoff haunts Weezie Jefferson. We can dig that.

• The Dead Editor’s Society originated in 1968 as a popular rock ‘n’ roll band called Vesticles, but disbanded when only one of its songs, “You Can’t Do That in the Commons,” became a hit.

• If you put six monkeys in a room with typewriters, they will poop. If you put six monkeys in a room with six typewriters and make them type, one of them will eventually produce The Collegian, probably within 15 minutes. If you use six depressed artsy monkeys, they will type The Messenger. If you use six large pieces of zucchini, you will get The Web.

• Next year, the new official language of the school will be Wookie.

• In the early 1980s, the Orientation Program included repeated forced viewings of “Revenge of the Nerds.” During the 1983-4 school year, the curriculum science requirement could be satisfied by watching “Weird Science,” “Real Genius,” or “Our Friend, Zinc.”

• If only one of us can be as successful in life after graduation as Todd Flora is, then life will have been worth living.

• Do not taunt Happy Fun Roop.

• Max Vest took his current position only after the job replacing C. C. Deville as guitarist for “Poison” fell through.

• Bob Jepson is currently making plans to donate millions of dollars to the University to build the first ever “School of Styrofoam Technology.”

• The Student Health Center caused the great Black Plague of 1347, after it advised a student to cure his illness by “just coughin’ all over everybody.”

• The lake is 1/3 Ny-Quil, 1/3 Bourbon, and 1/3 Mountain Dew. It’s fun and it’s flammable.

• 9 Divine is composed of former members of “Warrant” and former members of the Bulgarian KGB. In general, the Bulgarians sound much better.

• We said it before, we’ll say it again. Welcome to Honky Town.

• If you press a button on Paul Caputo’s back, he makes cool laser sounds and explosion noises.

• Those “private functions” that the Lora Robins Gallery is always closed for? Usually either RCSGAcoke parties or human sacrifices to Mithras, god of rich, creamy fillings.

• If you pull the string on Jeff Carl’s back, he says, “I hate you. I quit.”

• If you scratch a penny on Scott Shepard’s forehead, it says, “You win a free order of small fries.” Congratulations.

• East Court and West Court exist, but only as underground prison facilities for girls who are naughty. Ooh lah lah.

• The only Landing event worth attending is the famed but really sick “Donner Party” Landing.

• The new, improved RCSGAPresident Jim Maloney is filled with creamy nougat and chewy caramel. Almonds are optional. Pants are not.

• Never, ever press the big red button.

• “Scott Shepard” is Arabic for “causes genital herpes on contact.”

• Sure, it may look as though they’re building a new fine arts center, but they are actually finishing up a landing pad for spaceships from Jason Roop’s homeworld. We, for one(s), welcome our new ant masters.

• Paul used to have a secret crush on “Moose” from “You Can’t Do That on Television.”

• Chris used to have a crush on “Moose Vest,” from “You Can’t Do That in the Commons.”

• Jeff used to have a secret crush on “Moose” from “Archie.”

• In one of the secret rooms in Marsh Hall is an enormous wardrobe. Beyond the coats and the mothballs one finds snow, and the magical land of Narnia. Alison Bartel Lord lives there, and tries to lure small children to her snow palace.

• Due to budget restrictions, the Shanghai Quartet will be replaced next year by a sixth-grader playing “Hot Cross Buns” on a recorder. Few will notice.

• When we realized that we were leaving, Caputo, Carl and Shepard decided to create a genetically-engineered super-columnist to fill our place. We went to the laboratory, and after minutes of studious mixing, followed by strange incantations and dancing around in rubber yeti suits, created Nimchek. Whoops.

• Shepard lied about Grits. We beat him with rubber hoses, and he admitted it. Grits are really made from people. People like Dennis Callahan. Little Swarthy people like Dennis Callahan.

• The Lambda Coalition, the campus gay and lesbian group, will be joined next year by the Zeta Coalition for people who are secretly heterosexual, the Omicron Rho Coalition, for bisexuals, and the Nil Coalition, for people who just aren’t getting laid at all. President Chris White said, “Well, I thought it was a good idea.”

• All of the current members of the Dead Editor’s Society have starred in pornographic films. Most were made in the mid-70s, before we gained beer guts.

• Parking tickets suck. Don’t pay them. Join Theta Chi. They’re cool.

• This campus used to be cool.

• Max Vest used to be Alison B. Lord.

• Alison Bartel Lord was never cool.

• Seniors: if you go right now and drink enough Canadian Whiskey, you will forget that:

(a) you have no job and will be sitting in back of a 7-11, drinking “Night Train” and muttering about “those damned squirrels” in 30 days.

(b) you went to the B-school, and your life and job will prove meaningless and unfulfilling in 30 days.

• Contrary to popular belief, the Dining Hall does not put laxatives in the food. Rather, ambient laxatives have been injected into the mulch all around campus.

• In a few years, after the dust clears, when we look back on these halcyon days, this probably will still not be funny.

Paul, Jeff and Scott are sure that they have left the Op/Ed section in safely incompetent hands. They would like to tell Chris “keep your chin up, youngster, and go get us another beer.”

Chris would like to thank Grandma Moses for proving that art can suck.

Scott would like to thank the male cheerleaders, for making him look virile.

Jeff would like to thank nobody, except for his invisible friend “Winky.”

Paul would like to thank the campus dogs, for having good attitudes.

So long, and see you in Hell.

Good Night, Sweet Print

By Jeffrey Carl

Jeffrey Carl UR Column — University of Richmond Collegian, April 20 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!

So this is it. It’s all over. My last column. I’m not kidding.

I’m graduating, I’m looking for a job. I’m engaged. I’m starting to get gray hair.

So, what have we learned? I’m not sure. The last two years of my college career were pretty much defined within what I wrote here. Let’s go back and examine some actual excerpts of what I wrote and see if I learned anything:

Jeff Carl’s Greatest Hits

• Editor’s Note: Yeah. Sure. Whatever.

• Of course, I meant “really bites ass” in the strict biblical sense.

• The only conclusion I can come to is that the radio station should be filled in with cement immediately and all of the DJs should be burned at the stake.

• Sorority Life: This revolves primarily around Rush retreats (see HAHAHA above) and scrambling for formal dates. Sorority formals, as previously mentioned, are just like bar mitzvahs, but with sex in the elevators.

• The law school should be razed to the ground and the earth sown with salt.

• Girls do not actually have – as was previously believed – long, spiny wings or small vestigial tails.

• Research was found to cause cancer in laboratory rats.

• Campbell: No. You are on crack. What I was talking about was the primal need for a figure of supreme evil, which would ride around in a little electric cart.

• Q: Are you really as grumpy and bitter in real life as you sound in your columns?

A: Yes.

• Siskel: Roger, when my people come from the stars to enslave this puny planet, you will serve as food for the Giant Slave Worms of Kodos. So I give Evil a “Thumbs Up.”

• 7. Thou shalt not toast cheese in the Holy Dining Hall toasters, for the cheese drippeth much and is disgusting, sayeth the Lord.⁷

• You can get a fantastic buzz if you drink after giving blood.

• INTERVARSITY CHRISTIAN FELLOWSHIP RUSH:

Day 1: Meet Your Maker cookout, 4:30 p.m.

Day 2: Fish and Loaves picnic, 2:00 p.m.

Day 3: I-Found-the-Lord-and-Lost-my-Talent: Christian Rock Night, 7:00 p.m.*

Day 4: Bids extended by the Angel of Death

• a)Replace current Collegian staff with clever trained seals

• The tombstones served to illustrate ROTC’s recruitment slogan, “We kill more students before our 8:15 classes than most people kill all day.”

• Q: Who is Dr. Staff? And why is he listed as teaching so many courses at registration time?

• ENGLISH MAJOR APTITUDE TEST:

Y N 3. I like “unemployment.”

• Well, the “grad school” thing sounds okay, because you could stay and see Dave Matthews every Wednesday night for an additional two or three years. But there’s always the chance that he’ll get big and move away.

• I just quit smoking.

• April 19: The fifth and final “Pray for Revival” campaign ends in disaster as the dead come alive again and walk the earth as zombies preying on the living. Former Chancellor Boatwright is seen in the library, eating Lexis/Nexis terminals.

• Sep. 7: As a publicity stunt, the members of campus band “9 Divine” kill themselves onstage.

• CORRECTIONS: Last week’s column may have perhaps been a little misleading. Okay, I lied like the dog I am. Deal with it.

• The next morning, rushees are given an envelope which contains either engraved fancy official bid(s) or an engraved fancy notice of their new official status as losers and the phone number for CAPS, in case they decide to kill themselves.

• This is my last column.

• Ancient History

1. When Lucy and Ethel got the job at the chocolate factory, they got in trouble because

a. it’s just kooky how things work out like that b. Ethel was distributing Communist propaganda on her lunch break c. Lucy was stoned off her ass

• Must change UR Alma Mater to “We Will Rock You”

• This is really my last column.

• As we did not receive a response within 24 hours (I checked my machine), we are now in a life-and-death struggle with the tyrannical Canadian Empire.

• “Greetings, you, Senator. I am the Arch-villain ‘Frogface.’”

• male cheerleaders: n. Sissy boys.

• Student government presidents should be used for doorstops or paperweights

• All those “cities” that are supposed to be there are actually just one farm house with this guy named “Gary” or “Indianapolis” sitting on the front porch and shucking corn with his one good tooth. I’m not kidding.

• A: Nein! We are certainly not using giant mind-controlled squid™ to develop newer and more virulent Pier Value Meals™5!

• num-chuks (nim’ chek): 1.n. A terrifying Japanese weapon of death 2.n. A terrifying American columnist of Fiat Currency.

• “The Surgeon General has determined that if you’re going to smoke these, you can kiss your ass goodbye right now”

Well, I guess I didn’t learn much.

Yes, I did. I got to be a class clown and try to make everybody laugh. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. But it was always fun to try.

If you read my columns, thank you. If you read my columns and didn’t try to sue me, thank you even more. If you were one of those who wrote to me or just said, “good job,” then you were the reason I did this. Thanks.

To every one of the funny people I got to work with – even Shepard and Caputo – thanks.

This newspaper has been a big part of my life here. I’m sorry to go. But maybe we’ll all meet once more, somewhere down the road. You’ll see me again.

This is my last bow. It was all worth it.

Why? Because we here at The Collegian prided ourselves on being responsive to our readers.

Ettiquette Betrayed

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!

We here at The Collegian pride ourselves on being responsive to our readers. If you are one of the lucky customers who have purchased The Collegian “Books on Tape” series, then let me also say that we are responsive to our listeners. Editor’s Note: Please note that the “Books on Tape” edition carries the full text of this article as well as three bonus tracks, two of which are unreleased: “My Life as a Squirrel” and “Stairway to Heaven (extended live version).”

The point being that we are constantly besieged by requests from readers. Many say, “You go to Hell.” But many others also request that we print things which are of great value to the community and of general interest. These are thrown away.

But recently we have received numerous requests for a guide to what is probably my major area of expertise in life: manners. And your wish is our command, if you staple $20 to it. Today’s episode is part nine of a forthcoming series of mine called “Etiquette Betrayed.”

Etiquette Betrayed IX: Manners and the Arts

When attending arts events at the University of Richmond, there are a few simple rules to observe that will make your experience, and those of other arts patrons, more enjoyable. Unfortunately, most of these rules are not funny and therefore will be disregarded. Here is a quick-and-easy guide to the remainder of them:

When at Art Shows:
• It is rude to ask the artist what sort of drugs he or she was using at the time the work was created.
• Loudly announcing, “This is crap!” or “This is the artistic equivalent of 9 Divine!” will not be appreciated.
• If you can see somewhere that the artist messed up, feel free to take a crayon and correct it for them.
• At pottery exhibits, do not repeatedly ask to see the world-famous earthenware bong collection.
• If looking at a particularly dreadful abstract painting, run over to the nearest gallery employee and demand, “Where did you get these pictures of my mother?”
• It is generally in bad taste to vomit on the artwork. Vomiting on the artists is, however, acceptable.

When at Music Recitals:
• Holding up one’s lighter during sad parts is not generally acceptable.
• Nor is requesting “Freebird!” repeatedly.
• If the music is too quiet, you may play along on a kazoo to help others in the audience hear the tune.
• No one will be impressed if you tell the Shanghai Quartet, “You guys just haven’t been the same since David Lee Roth left.”
• If an opera or hymn is being sung in a foreign language, be helpful and invent English lyrics and sing them so the audience will know what is going on. Be sure to include in the lyrics the phrases “licks me like a hamster” and “I’m your cool cool monkey of love.”
• Although perfectly acceptable at Dead shows, “passing the peace pipe” at Mozart concertos is frowned upon.
• If one of the musicians impolitely begs you for heroin or vomits on you, it is probably just the drummer. Do not be offended, as this is one of their native customs. Feel free to vomit back.

When at Plays:
• Gesticulating with one’s arms and yelling wildly, “WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP” is generally unacceptable, unless it is called for in the program notes.
• Equally unacceptable are “The Chop” and “The Wave.”
• Comments like “Cats was much better than this” are not generally appreciated.
• If there hasn’t been a car chase in the first five minutes, you can just get up and leave.
• If the play is boring, feel free to stand up, wave your arms spastically and yell “FIRE!” to add that fun, free-for-all element of full-bore-linear-panic-in-a-crowd-situation that puts spice into life.
• Unless you are sitting in the balcony, vomiting on the actors may prove difficult.

Dying for a chance to put these new-found mannerisms into practice, aren’t you? Playing Thursday night through Sunday afternoon in the Camp Theater is the famous comedy Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, which one reviewer called “Just like being trampled to death by an army of dwarves, but less fun.” It stars a veritable horde of past and present Collegian columnists – Paul Caputo, Chris Wright, Brian C. Jones, Branden Waugh, Randy Baker and – who would have guessed? – me – which should tell you one thing right away: “Christ almighty, this isn’t gonna be even remotely amusing.” The word is out: it’s “Roop-tastic!” Jeffrey Lyons of “Sneak Previews” said, “It’s the feel-good musical comedy of the ‘90s, except that there is no music and it isn’t funny.” Quite frankly, if you miss it, you’ll be a sad, bitter, lonely failure for the rest of your life! Special guarantee: if you can tell which was Rosencrantz and which was Guildenstern by the end of the play, you don’t get your money back! Act now! And mind your manners.

A Day in the Life: Puff Carpluto’s ‘Things to Do’ List

By Jeffrey Carl and Paul Caputo

University of Richmond Collegian,
April 13 1995

More hyper-topical college humor! We combined our personalities into one to save time. You probably won’t get the “haircuts” joke unless you know that we had just finished the UR production of Tom Stoppard’s brilliant play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead which requires the whole cast to grow out their hair. Either way, I think it’s the best column we wrote at the University of Richmond. That’s probably not saying much, though.

We, Jeff and Paul, are busy people. Busy enough, in fact, that we recently considered merging into one person named “Puff Carpluto,” who would have more than $600 in parking tickets, to save time in our daily chores. We figured that no one would notice, since for the last three weeks we have exchanged identities anyway and each of us pretended to be the other person. Jeff’s girlfriend was reportedly unhappy, although Paul’s girlfriend was elated.

The point is that busy people like ourselves — constantly running about from class to meeting, appointment to interview, accident scene to cheap brothel, etc. — are desperate people. To prove our point, we obtained the “things to do” list for Monday of two local busy people who may sound very much like Paul and Jeff but who in fact are not Paul and Jeff, and so you should sue them and not us if you are offended.

Paul and Jeff [not their real names] are busy people. Busy enough, in fact, that they have an enormous number of things to do on their list of things to be done, which is called their “things to do” list.

Paul and Jeff’s Things to Do:

• Get haircut: This has been six months in the making. We are never acting again. All of our hats fit funny now.

• Find people with long hair, call them freaks: Hey, at UR, that’s a sport. And we can afford to make fun of people with long hair because we’re clean-cut and pleasant-looking. Plus they are, by nature, freaks.

• Kill that screaming kid on the “Sheik” Condoms commercial: This kid needs to die. That kid from the old “Encyclopedia Brittanica” commercials is next.

• Knock down Jepson school to increase parking space: We need parking. Nobody needs a leadership school. It makes sense. If we could knock down cheerleaders to make even more space, we would do that, too.

• Irritate administrators

• Return messages from irritated administrators: We’re columnists. That’s our job.

• Sign up as “Mark Ramos” for credit card offers in Commons, get free gifts: Is it possible to have too many slinkys or water bottles? We don’t think so.

• Offend last three people in school: We noticed that there were three people left at the school whom we have not offended. Those three, chosen at random, are Richard A. Munneke, J. Anderson Screws and John E. Reigle. These people are all lame. Nyah-nyah. Plus “Anderson Screws” is a funny name.

• Hoard thousands of “sporks:” This should be self-explanatory.

• Steal toilet paper from science center bathrooms: Just our way of sticking it to the man.

• Thank Pope for the brownies

• Sell Collegian equipment, pocket the money: As far as we’re concerned, the paper didn’t exist before we started writing and it won’t exist after we’re gone, [see “solipsism,” Scott Shepard, Dec. 5, 1993] so we’re selling all The Collegian’s expensive computers, photo equipment and lace doily collection–cheap— and pocketing the profits, then driving to Mexico.

• Play “Wheel of Term Papers:” We write ambiguous papers that all begin with “Knowledge is an exquisitely problematic paradox,” then pick at random which paper is for which class.

• Feed the fish

• Call “911” to report Honor Code violations

• Visit sweatshop full of underpaid illegal immigrant Norwegian joke writers in basement: Where did you think we get our jokes from?

• Sign autographs

• Call Senior Campaign, earmark our donations for construction of “Gottwald Taco Bell”

• Pay off parking tickets in new Mexican currency, the “Poncharelli”

• Eat whole quart of mayonnaise

• Join the Sirens: We do a delightful duet on “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman.”

• Learn “Gym-kata”

• Publish The Collected Wit and Wisdom of Jeff Waggett: Thus far, some of our favorite examples are “To thine own self be true,” “Being quasi-Greek is like being half Macedonian and half Swedish, but different,” and “The pledge of allegiance sucks.” The book is a weighty six pages, with five and a half pages for autographs from your classmates.

• Steal Senior Gift name-engraved bricks, throw them through windows: We can put threatening messages on them, and the people will blame the person whose name is on the brick.

• Get new nickname, “Sparky” : It sounds much better than Paul’s current nickname, “Pooter,” or Jeff’s nickname, “Dickweed.”

• Win lottery

• Return to NBA after 18-month hiatus

• Make Mike Nimchek honorary member of “9 Divine:” If we’re going to make fun of people, we might as well kill two birds with one stone.

• Call up registrar’s office, declare fake majors: Such as “Hasselhoff Studies,” “VCR Repair,” “Refrigeration Technology” and “Leadership.”

• Don’t be That Guy

• Solve crimes with help of a talking car

• Believe it’s not butter

• Send ransom note for Lindbergh Baby: Hopefully, with our police department, it’ll just send the money before it figures out the case was solved in 1937.

• Come up with slogans for new fine arts building: Our favorite so far is: “They really kinda suck, but Jason Roop sure looks good in tights.”

• Track down and kill people who left Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead during intermission: Don’t think we didn’t notice.

• Return frantic phone messages from King of Canada: It’s something about declaring war or something. We’ll get around to it.

• Tape Quantum Leap and watch it six times

• Go to class: Oops. Well, you can’t do everything.

(Miki Turner contributed to this column. Don’t blame him, though, we forced him.)

Zen and the Art of Noise

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!

We here at The Collegian pride ourselves on being responsive to our readers. Yes, both of them.

Each week, we receive figuratively hundreds of letters asking, “Oh please please please give the world a glimpse of the column-manufacturing process The Collegian uses!” Well, this process is a heavily-guarded state secret, much like McDonald’s secret sauce (Thousand Island dressing) or the secret KA greeting (Sign: “The fat man is doing his laundry.” Countersign: “Yeah, whatever. Go away.”), and under normal circumstances anyone who found out would be killed by the élite Collegian Death Squad (assistant copy editors).

But, hell, it’s my last week as Opinion Editor (Poppy Seed dressing), and I’m feeling a little bitcrazy. It’s time the cat came out of the bag, as it were.

The first recorded column was written by Socrates in 447 B.C. It said, “The Greek system sucks,” which did not make him a popular man in Athens at the time. History tells us that the ancient Egyptians also wrote hieroglyphic columns, which all seem to have been about scarabs, eyes and weird wiggly “Prince”-looking shapes. Mesopotamians of the Bronze Age and Chaldeans of the Tupperware Age are both reported to have written numerous “humor” (Hidden Valley Ranch dressing) columns but were hindered by the low circulation of newspapers and the fact that everybody was still going to be illiterate for another 2000 years.

Columns experienced great popularity in the early Byzantine Empire, but were nearly crushed in the West after Pope John Paul George Ringo IV declared them to be “heretical as well as just plain irritating.” Thousands of unrepentant columnists were tortured, burned at the stake or beaten up by male cheerleaders.

But all was not lost: under the enlightened spirit of the Reformation and the High Renaissance, columnists once again became hunted like the dogs they were, and burned almost continuously. This continued until the Industrial Revolution (Zesty Italian dressing), when cheaper forms of fuel than “columnist-burning” were discovered.

But where – or who – or, really, why – do these columns actually come from? Who are the valiant men and women who strive each week to bring much-needed entertainment to you, the reader, and the other guy? Well, truth be told, they’re all illegal migrant workers.

Each week, hundreds of columns are harvested in the fields of Colombia by Juan Valdez, his faithful burro “Meximelt” and the rest of his literary cartel. From there, they are processed, packed in shipping grease (Hollandaise sauce) and smuggled into the United States, disguised as a shipment of “Pet Rocks.” From there they are sold on the streets, with “pushers” selling Dave Barry columns for as little as five dollars for a one-paragraph “hit.” Some states have enacted laws providing a minimum jail term of 20 years for anyone distributing Mike Royko columns to minors. Possession of “Freedom Betrayed” will get you the death penalty in Malaysia.

Ha ha ha hee hee. Just kidding. Nope, all of our columns are home-grown right here in the good old U.S. of A., except mine, which are flown in from “World Evil Headquarters” (light chicken gravy) in France.

Each columnist has a different “creative” process for writing. None of these are interesting or probably even comprehensible, and, frankly, I really just don’t want to know.

The point is that each columnist produces 750-850 “words” (Vaseline and grapefruit) which thereupon undergo a magical process that eventually ends with you, the reader, throwing the paper away after reading the “That’s What You Think” section.

Every week, each columnist reports to the Collegian office and presents his or her column before the scarlet-clad throne of the Opinion Editor in a formal ceremony. If it is amusing, well-written and intelligent it is discarded immediately, and the Opinion Editor will order his royal guards to flog the columnist and occasionally mildly behead him or her. All other columns are immediately rushed into print.

After columns have been submitted, the Opinion Editor will consecrate the writing by praying to the ancient Algerian God of Columns, “Crapola.” This process used to involve a time-consuming ritual of human sacrifice and burnt offerings, but now can be done electronically by sending E-mail to [email protected]. After that, all of the columns are entered into The Collegian’s giant mainframe Commodore 64 computer. From this stagnant pool of information, the individual columns are processed, translated into Pig Latin, encoded so that the Germans and Japanese can’t read them and run through a cheese grater. This reduces the columns to fragments of about three letters each, which are picked up off the floor and are pasted on the page in no particular order by the Opinion Editor (I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter™). Believe you me, they make a lot more sense that way.

So that’s how it all works. Now the next editor will have to figure it all out. And believe you me, I’m pretty happy to be done with this job. Four more columns to go. Yep, no way I’ll miss it. I’m not kidding.

Cooking with Fire

By Jeffrey Carl and Paul Caputo

University of Richmond Collegian,
March 9 1995

Paul Caputo and I began writing humor columns together for the University of Richmond Collegian at the beginning of my Junior year. Paul had started his term as The Collegian’s opinion section editor that year, or maybe he hadn’t. I don’t really remember. Maybe it was me, or possibly Scott Shepard. I know it happened sometime during college. At any rate, Paul and I started writing together and later with Shepard as well. It was the start of a writing partnership that would last years and ultimately result in no tangible lasting value except for some free baseball tickets. I originally had something much more positive in mind when I started writing this introduction.

with your hosts: Paul “Chef” Prudhomme and Julia Child

All right.

We’ve had it up to here with all these whiny Collegian “The Greek system sucks/the Jepson School sucks/Libertarians rule the universe/ and there aren’t enough sidewalks here” columns. We’ve decided that we’re going to just hand the whole Opinion section over to public access. We figure, being seniors about to be thrust out into the real world where food is not just made for us and slapped onto trays like in elementary school apple-sauce-and-salisbury-steak-with-ketchup-leftover-surprise, the first order of business is food, and how to make it. Damned if we know, but we’ll try to squeeze some cheap jokes out of it. For you’re reading pleasure, here are Julia Child and Paul Prudhomme, with “Cooking With Fire.”Editor’s Note: The persons herein identified have nothing to do with theoretically actual persons who might exist named something crazy like “Julia Child” or “Paul Prudhomme” and so we really hope they don’t sue us. This is called a disclaimer, common to nervous newspapers everywhere.

Julia Child: Welcome to “Cooking with Fire.” Tonight we’ll be showing you how to prepare several fine dishes, most of which are non-carcinogenic. First is soufflé du jambon vert. First we will need three liters of wine…

Paul “Chef” Prudhomme: You need three liters?

JC: The soufflé gets four ounces. I get the rest. [begins drinking]

PCP: I see. Did you drive here?Editor’s Note: This attempt at a humorous look at alcoholism is obviously in bad taste and frankly not the sort of thing condoned by this newspaper ever at all even once even the slightest tiny bit, except during Christmas parties and weeknights. Kids, don’t try this at home. Please continue.

JC: As I was saying, we marinate the jambon vert and add just a dash of thyme … a squirt of vanilla … and a sprinkle of fairy dust. [drinks]

PCP: Fairy dust? What the Hell is fairy dust?

JC: Never you mind. I stole it from those damn Keebler Elves. I won’t even tell you what I had to do to get it. But they won’t be bothering us anymore. Ha ha ha ha. Anyway… [drinks] Then I heat the skillet to 450 degrees and leave some old, oily rags sitting on top of it. While that is cooking, Paul, why don’t you show us something else that you’ve whipped up?

PCP: Well, this in this pot here is called Chicken Pot Pie…

JC: Ooh. Exotic.

PCP: And this is … this can’t be right. The teleprompter here says this is called “Baked Tauntaun.”

JC:What the Hell is a tauntaun?

Teleprompter Guy: [runs, crazed onto the stage and exits] You’ll freeze before you reach the first marker, Captain Solo! I welcome our new ant masters!

JC and PCP: Yeah. Whatever.

PCP: Anyhoo, I have a great little bundle of taste explosion here called Corned Beef Hash O’Brien-style.

JC: And how much sherry do you need for that dish?

PCP: Umm, well, you really don’t need any, I suppose…

JC: In that case I’ll just drink the rest myself. [oily rags begin to smolder]

PCP: Whatever floats your boat … Well, the first step in making an absolutely smashing Chicken Pot Pie is to remove it from the little tinfoil thingy it is encased in …

JC: Ooh. Space-age technology.

PCP: And then you put it into the microwave here, like so…

JC: Really? [chug-a-lugs gin] Never would have occurred to me…

PCP: And then comes the especially tricky part: You’ve got these two settings on the microwave here. It is absolutely imperative that you use “defrost.” If you put it on “cook,” your brain will explode into thousands of tiny, smoking little bits.

JC: Hmm. And that’s an important safety tip for our viewers at home, isn’t it?

PCP: Right-O. So while that’s cooking, let’s turn to the Corned Beef Hash. You take it out of the can like this … and then you just gulp it down right out of the can.

JC: I see. What is the “O’ Brien” part for?

PCP: Not sure. Never got that far. Anyway, this stuff gives me gas like an Exxon station.

JC: Which is a great time for us to turn here to this neat little treat I’m preparing here.

PCP: What’s it called?

JC:“Harvey Wallbanger à la carte.”Editor’s Note: Did you see that one coming? This is what is known in cheap joke terms as a “running gag.” This not only follows federal guidelines for recycling, but also creates humor through repetition as well as freeing the writers from having to make up any new jokes. Please do go on.

JC: And after you add the Sloe Gin you stir, and gulp it all down in one shot. Ignore occasional vomiting afterwards.

PCP: This little tangy taste treat I’ve got here is perfect for accompanying a nice dry white wine or…

JC: Sounds great. [drinks]

PCP: Whatever … Well, it’s called Cream of Wheat. What do you think?

JC: It’s as good as I remember.

PCP: Yes, but wait until I add my secret ingredient.

JC: Vodka? [drinks]

PCP: No, it’s our friend the mongoose! Mongoose, “the other red meat,” is available at your friendly neighborhood grocery outlet, I’m sure, and adds a tangy spice of exotic flavor-splosion-liciousness to the most mundane of dishes! Mongoose paté, anyone? Mongoose and truffles? Treat the kids when they come home from school to a zesty surprise of Mongoose and jelly sandwiches. Plus they make great pets.

JC: Those bastards at the National Mongoose Council got to you, didn’t they?

PCP:You can’t prove that.

JC: OK, look. You know you can’t cook, and I know you can’t cook. So why don’t we just forget about all this “You take the stuff and you throw it in the bowl and put it on the stove” stuff and get down to business?

PCP:What are you saying, Julia?

JC:Ithink that you’re a beautiful, beautiful man.

PCP:Thank you. Stop touching me.

JC: [whispering, with her hand on Paul’s leg] I think Ilove you.

PCP: Thank you.

JC: Are you in a fraternity?

PCP: No.

JC:Oh, forget it then. Let’s get back to cooking. Do we have any Ramen Noodles?

PCP: Well, I’ve got a little surprise I call “Boar for One.”

JC: One?[now searching the cabinets for Ny-Quil to drink]

PCP: Well, the full name is “Boar for one Really Fat Guy.” But I digress. Anyhoo, we need a boar.

JC: In the newspaper? We’ve got several. But I digress.

PCP: Nobody noticed. Anyway, I happen to have a boar here … what’s that smell?

JC: Is it the boar? It’s a wee bit musky.

PCP: No … never mind. [oily rags burst into flame, killing three and wounding six]

JC: So what do we do with the boar?

PCP: We kill it first.

JC: That’s disgusting.

PCP: No, what’s disgusting is when I get really hungry and don’t kill it.

JC: Okay, let me do it.

PCP:Iwas just kidding, we’re not going to … Oh my God … What are you doing?! No!

JC: Ooh! Is that part supposed to be squishy?

PCP:Oh, dear God. Well, we gotta a dead boar here, so we might as well cook it. But just for the record, I was kidding.

JC:I’ll go collect all of its bits. [starts drinking again]

PCP:OK, so you take its … umm … Well, you take all the bits that don’t have hair on them and throw them into a big ol’ pot.

JC:I’ll do it.

PCP:Ifigured. Now, umm … Iguess you should go ahead and boil them.

JC: Whoo-hoo! [passes out]

PCP: We turn now to the Chicken and Bacon à la D-Hall — incidentally this is French for “fiery kiln explosion” — which are being cooked in these two pans. Please note that they are separate entrées. Julia, will you…? Well, Julia is vomiting right now, so I will add the dash of…

JC: [revived] Booooot and raaaaaally! [begins drinking leftover vinegar]

PCP: Gotcha. Anyway, I’m going to sample the chicken, which has been marinated in pepper and acetone, to give it that proper “breaded masking tape” taste. I’ll just take a bit here … and a bit here … Hell, I’ll eat the whole damned thing. Julia won’t notice, she’s funneling spare cooking grease for the alcohol content, and we won’t tell her, will we?

JC: Missss Tessmacherrrrr! Bring me the head of Steve Gutenberg on a silver platter! Marinate it lightly! Damn the torpedoes! [vomits repeatedly]

PCP: Oh, dear. I knew Ishould have thrown away that old Turkey Tetrazzini weeks ago. Let’s move on to another dish. And I mean that in a strictly professional way.

PCP: Well, it looks like all we have time for is boxed mac and cheese.

JC: Takes me back…

PCP: The first step in cooking gourmet mac and cheese is to remove all of the boars’ hair from the boiling water.

JC: I’ll do that. Owwwwwwwwww!

PCP: But not with your hand. Once you’ve done that, you dump the mac and cheese into the water and pray that this segment will end soon. While it boils, you want to stir the mac and cheese noodles with a blunt object, preferrably an old copy of the Web.Editor’s Note: This fictitious journal theoretically called “The Web” has nothing to do with any possible actual publications which might, under certain circumstances, be called “The Web” or something. Please don’t sue us. Now back to the column.

JC: I knew they were good for something.

PCP: Now you want to wait for seven minutes. After you mix the milk, butter and cheese powder in a bowl — if you run out of cheese powder, sawdust makes a fine replacement— you can pass the time watching Knight Rider on USA because, chances are, they’re running that episode with the evil KITT named KARR, and Michael Knight’s twin tries to kidnap…

JC: Shut up, pretzel boy, and get back to cooking!

PCP: OK, it should be ready by now. Taste these noodles Julia…

JC: [Crunching down] Oh, my God, I lost a tooth.

PCP: OK, they’re not quite ready yet. Let’s move on to something else before it’s too late.

JC: We got carrot sticks!

PCP: You can’t cook carrot sticks.

JC: Loooooove me some carrot sticks.

PCP: You’re drunk.

JC: [shouting] Show ’em how to make puddin’! People loooooove puddin’!

PCP: Our next dish is…

JC: Brad Pitt!

PCP:Shut up! OK, we’re going to make a big heap of mushroom-sauerkraut casserole. First you take a handful of mushrooms.

JC: I’ll show you a handful of mushroomsh. Shay … you, the fat guy … you review moviesh or shomethin’, dontcha?

PCP: [swallowing handfuls of soufflé] I think you’ve got me confused with…

JC: Waita shecond. Paul Prudhomme my assh. You’re Dom Deluise! You shon of a bitschhh…

PCP: Oh, dear … looks like we gotta go.

JC: [singing, in her best John Denver voice] Rocky Mountain Hiiiigh … youuu gotta know when to hoooold ’em…

PCP: Seeya next week everybody!

I Lied

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: I’m back.

We here at The Collegian pride ourselves on being responsive to our readers. We also pride ourselves on the fact that we are all ex-members of “Menudo.” We are even more prideful that most of us have never been on a David Hasselhoff Pay-Per-View special. What we do not, however, pride ourselves on is our occasionally tense relationship with the University community. How do we know people don’t like us? When the “Letters to the Editor” written in flaming dog-doo that simply say “Collegian must die ha ha” begin adding up, you just get that feeling.

Furthermore, people sometimes get so irate that they threaten direct action, like beating us up to prove that athletes aren’t big dumb guys after all, or even sending vague death threats with absolutely dreadful grammar. And sometimes, somebody says that he or she is going to sue us.

I do not react well to lawsuits. They make me break out. I’m not going to tell you where. They make me grouchy, irritable and they give me that “not so fresh” feeling. As far as I’m concerned, lawsuits can lick me. So, normally I do everything I can to stay away from possible lawsuits, like degrading, humiliating and insulting everyone I can think of in the newspaper.

So you can imagine my surprise when, a few weeks ago, Iget a message that Ihave been threatened with legal action. And by a fellow columnist, no less. I don’t feel free to betray his identity here, but it was Mike Nimchek. So, anyway, I was informed that he was considering suing me for libel, in regards to scandalous remarks that Imade about him in the midst of a “retirement” column about how nobody has a sense of humor anymore. I imagine possibly that Mike, being helpful and seeing that perhaps not everybody got the point, felt he should be kind enough to illustrate it graphically by threatening me with the possibility of legal action.

This is a dumb move.

Never try to sue me. Why? Because I’m a struggling young college student! Ihave no money! Never sue poor people! If you win, what are you going to get? My soul? My collection of “Squeegees of All Nations?” My three-foot-tall laundry pile/biology experiment? I don’t even have pledges anymore to barter or sell. In fact, if you took me for everything Ihave, considering my current Visa bill, you’d probably lose money. So, basically, “Duh.”

Furthermore, lawsuits (the state sport of Pennsylvania) are such a horribly uncreative way of exacting revenge. If you want to get back at somebody, you certainly don’t want to do it in some way that involves lots of paperwork and Judge Wapner. Consider perhaps the following:

• Pour superglue in their locks
• Using the awesome power of the Death Star, destroy their home planet of Alderaan
• Staple stuff to their foreheads
• Call upon Papa Legba to destroy their loa in the spirit world, or call upon Vito the Fish to destroy their car in the real world
• Blackmail! Blackmail!
• Get everyone to start calling them “Spanky” or something equally embarrassing-sounding
• Kill everyone in their family
• Whenever they approach you, maintain a sullen silence, then when they leave the room, stick your tongue out at them
• Casually invite them to stand underneath a 16-ton weight suspended by a pulley, then drop it on them
• Stage an elaborate set-up brutal triple murder and frame them for it, watch as they are convicted and given consecutive life sentences, and then start sending their cellmate “Huggy Bear” love letters, supposedly from their new roomie
• Trick them into opening the box which they think holds the remote control for detonating the nuclear missile speeding towards the San Andreas fault, but which in reality contains pure Kryptonite, which will kill them
• Make a “peace offering” of brownies made with Ex-Lax
• Casually invite them to stand in front of a particle accelerator, then annihilate them in a 10-billion-degree burst of proton/antiproton collisions
• Clean their dishes, but spit on them
• As soon as you get out of prison, shadow them everywhere, hang on to the bottom of their car when they try to drive away, climb on to their boat, and then sing the entire score of “The H.M.S. Pinafore” by Gilbert and Sullivan to them
• Replace their computer’s processor chips with “Chips Ahoy”
• Vomit on them, or
• Write a snide column about revenge methods. The ball is in your court. Next time you consider suing someone, try doing something a little more creative. Or better yet, get a sense of humor and a life.

Good night and God bless.

Adios, Aloha, Ave Atque Vale, Et Cetera

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 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.