May 1, 2003

Gotta Have It

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This is my last article, so I’m taking the easy route and letting my friends write it for me. They have no talent, but they did their best. After their submissions, I’m going to give my take on what they had to say.

Count Viggiford Lavoisier, Esq.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day that read “The more you know, the less you need,” and I cried at the irony. When I came to Cornell, I wanted to graduate with an electrical engineering degree, go work for some big company, and make a lot of money. Years of filling my brain with knowledge have made me want so much more, and completely confused me. Now I want peace, love and happiness, and to do a job I really enjoy instead of one that makes me a lot of money, and that sucks, because they shot John Lennon, so you can’t do that anymore. So remember kids, Ignorance is Bliss.

Viggy “Jonathan” Weinberg is a violent megalomaniac with great cooking skills and the physique of a Greek god. He loves numbers and kittens.

Jesse Blonder

When people ask me what I want out of life, I give them the standard answer. I tell them I want a good woman to love, some children to raise, a criminal record to tell the fellas about, and, time permitting, a job. But is this what I really want? Will I pursue that good woman when she comes along? Will I kidnap those children when I see them unattended in the shopping mall? Will I rob that bank and have the guts to get caught? They say it’s helpful to have a role model — someone whose mentality you can emulate in pursuit of your own dreams. I chose the Cookie Monster as my role model. Now there was a man with conviction. He knew exactly what he wanted. C was for cookie and that was good enough for him: “Me want cookie.” And that right there is all I really want — to crave something so bad and be so enraptured in its pursuit that I don’t even have time for full sentences.

Jesse Blonder is a sixty-eight year old man. We rescued him from a retirement home and have been helping him fit into the college scene. He loves spaghetti and Matlock.

Puke Throw-up

I’ve been thinking about getting one of these “lifes” that everyone keeps talking about. I figure with graduation right around the bend, I might as well give it a shot. Up until this point I’ve pretty much been slumming with the whole “existence” thing, but it’s high time to stop bottom-feeding. Any jerk can just sit around “existing,” and that’s probably why everyone is always telling him to get a life. For starters I believe I’ll join the local 4-H, initiate a Dungeons and Dragons tournament, and take long, drunken walks. This way when someone calls my “existence” pathetic, I can say something to the effect of a Jonathan Bon Jovi lyric: “Hey, it’s my life. Now or never, man. I’m out there doing it everyday … living on a prayer, if you will. So go to hell, asshole.”

Luke Thorpe is covered in warts and recently had his scrotum surgically altered. He thinks he’s cool, but he’s so not.

Rick Weitle

Let me fill you in on something, friends. Most people hate blood! For whatever crazy reason, these germaphobes have a real problem when blood is pouring from your mouth. So wouldn’t this be a disadvantage for most people, you say? Well yes, it probably would. But I can think of situations where it would be distinctly in your favor to be able to bleed on command. Say you and your “Boys” just rolled into “Da Club” in search of some fly pigeons. You set your sights on a pretty girl, and right as you are about to make your move, that girl from biology starts taking about mitochondria. Normally you might be stuck, but with blood capsules you always have a way out. “Yeah, I agree, eukaryotic cells are awesome … argh!!! My God, I bit my tongue off!” Believe me, when that thick red cherry flavored liquid rolls down your chin you’ll be free to travel from party to party as you please. If you still don’t understand why I gotta have blood capsules, you are probably someone’s mitochondria girl, and in that case, no amount of fake blood will ever help you.

Rich Weitle has feet where his hands should be and hands were his feet should be. Also, his ass is in the front of his body and his penis is like a tiny tail.

Christie Ariate

So my obsession with Trading Spaces went a bit overboard when I moved into my apartment this year: I decided I needed a canopy over my bed. Aesthetically, it gave my room the whole Pottery Barn feel, but that definitely hasn’t been the primary purpose of my cream colored oasis. All this year, I have had ridiculously good sleep, as it has calmed my problem set wracked brain and cured my countless hangovers. I’m sure you want one yourself, so here’s how you can make one just as cheap — under $20! — as I did. First, enlist the help of a cool friend (in my case, I had Adam). Next, go on over to Jo-Ann Fabrics and buy about 10 yards of any gauzy fabric from the clearance section. Heck, if you feel like making a horribly tacky canopy and buying a garish plaid or some neon spandex, be my guest. You will also need 2 or 4 dowels, depending on the size of your bed, and a few screw hooks. This last step takes a bit of visualization: to set it up, just hang up the dowels from your ceiling at the head and foot of your bed, drape the fabric over, and there you have it, your own cream colored (or plaid or neon) oasis.

Christie likes to break my heart just about every week. I taught her how to ride a bike and eat with silverware. She loves rainbows and candy canes. That’s all. Later suckers.


Archived article by Adam Matthews

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