Check it: Three girls, one room, two pieces of glitter felt. No do-overs. Leftover week-old weed brownies for the girl who bought her costume the week before. The “Super-Meeeee” super emblem making session was going according to plan, until R burned an iron shaped burn into R’s rug —
R: I don’t know how to explain what happened.
R: Why is your carpet made out of plastic?
– and we were consumed with desire for waffle fries and bacon.
R: WAFFLE FRIES!
We hoped our Super-Meeee costumes would be a vast improvement over last year’s quasi-social-commentarial “Sluts in White Tees” fiasco, which, as you may or may not surmise, consisted only of white tees.
We sat outside CTB, incognito, each wrapped in blankets and R’s face masked by her fedora —
R: It’s a “lady hat!”
— sipping our espressos, discussing the upcoming election, Proust, the human condition and Project Runway. R and R’s political discussions never seem to result in much r-and-r, and this instance was no different.
R: You don’t have to hold me down and spray Fantastik in my mouth every time.
R: That last time was an accident.
At 17, R’s mom bought her her first fake ID so she could go to Vegas on spring break with her friends. A year earlier, another R found herself wandering through the seedy alleys of Chinatown to procure her very own false identification card. Little did they know that years later each R would meet an R much like herself, with whom she would use her trusty ID in good times and bad, until one R’s ID was taken away at Ruloff’s two weeks ago. RIP R’s ID.
Up until that fateful, tragic, soul-crushing night, neither R encountered any challenges in the pursuit of superfuntimes, other than the oft-confusing plight of remembering to pretend to be who our I.D.’s said we were. Interestingly, R’s ID said she was R.
R: Who’s that?
Far above Cayuga’s Waters we sat
Damning our awful procrastination
Uncorking a bottle, we started to chat
Embarking upon our second creation
Oh no! said R, as she spilled the wine glasses
We haven’t yet written a word, and lo!
We drunk’ly remembered our early classes
(And this column was due eight hours ago)
What shall we do? Oh, what shall we say?
R: I’m lost and confused and I have to vomit
Perhaps we should call out some bitches, but nay
R: I think we had better just write you a sonnet
R: This works out well ‘cause you’re a good rhymer
R: How’d you know that?
R: …You told me one timer.
I was walking to class the other day
When I ran into good sir what’s his face
Quickly realized I had nothing to say
If you’re reading this column, you already know. Someone with an immense lack of foresight and an obvious thirst for disaster (WHATUP JULIE?!) has given us the honor of sharing our debatably humorous antics and postulations with all of you. Be forewarned: it’s likely that we may be the only ones to find ourselves so hilarious, along with a smattering of others with dubious taste and questionable humor (JUL-AY!!! WUTUP?!).
“Ya’ll think I come to the college just to do comedy?” Tracy Morgan asked the audience in Bailey Hall on Sunday. Morgan’s much anticipated appearance was certainly not what we had expected. While Tracy’s characters, including Astronaut Jones, Tracy Jordan and Brian Fellows, have always subtly and lovably tackled issues of race and sex, Sunday’s racial slurs and overtly vulgar quips were somewhat surprising.
In light of Morgan’s successes on SNL and 30 Rock, it’s easy to forget that Morgan has a long history of stand-up comedy. The lines between his characters and the typecast actor behind them are frequently blurred. This Tracy Morgan did not don any lip-gloss, tackle goats or pack up his suitcase, but he did bring his own individual brand of comedy.
URGENT — Wednesday evening, Fat Balls, a loyal member of Tracy Jordan’s Morgan’s entourage, went missing. The following note was found this morning, taped to the entrace at Bailey Hall, where Morgan will be performing this Sunday at 7 p.m.
Dear Mr. Morgan,
If you’re reading this letter, you already know. We have Fat Balls. He’s being held at the School of Hotel Administration, and his pants is on real tight. If you ever care to see your heftily-testiculized friend and vital entourage member again, we recommend you comply with our demands. We’ll tell you what’s happenin’ chief … prepare to run away in slow motion.