Student Group of the Month Attempts
While browsing through the UACS archives, I happened upon this collection of letters from a member of a past UACS executive to one Carissa Reiniger, a past Student Group Coordinator for the Students' Union. Back in the day, our humble organization was apparently concerned for things like "awards" and "recognition", and these letters seem to be proof of said ideals. The correspondence was, to my knowledge, one-way, as no replies were included with the collection.
Is this individual deranged? I believe so. His or her manner of writing is evident of one whose mind has gone sour, and they also used Microsoft FrontPage to compile these letters. Madness, pure madness.
However, it is not my place to judge the sanity of a fellow UACSite. Read on, and savour this nugget of UACS history.
Faithfully yours,
VP Archives
October 2002: "250 Word Cliff"
Hi Carissa, I'd like to throw the UACS colours into the ring for Student Group of the Month; here's some recent history. We were extremely shocked to find one member of our student body had gone missing early last week. Without thought toward personal sanity or safety, our VP Sports jumped upon the back of the stoutest student he could find and promptly rode around the Computing Sciences Center searching for our missing brother. The missing student was eventually found peacefully working in a second-floor computer lab, and was promptly abducted to RATT for stiff drink. He needed it after the harrowing adventure. I promise you this: if we get Student Group of the Month, we will write music pirating software that doesn't suck. Think of it ... if you download an album consisting of twelve songs that are, in acutality, the same song under different names, you will have the option of slapping the other music pirate in the face. This will also work for songs that consist of a five-second sample looped for seven minutes. I don't know, this seems like a good thing to me. Though I run the risk of jumping over the 250 word cliff, I would feel remiss if I didn't mention our astoundingly unsuccessful attempt to get the now-defunct Matthew Good Band to play an end-of-year gig for us last year.
January 2003: "Armadillo Judging"
This month's submission is entitled "How UACS Made a New Friend" or "Are
there Armadillo-Judging Contests?"
It was a snowy December 24th. Our intrepid VP Finance was taking a brief,
and well deserved, break from stopping cars from running over invalid
orphans. As he warmed his wind-chapped hands by the light of a zippo, he
noticed that the grim night had grown quiet. A little too quiet.
Suddenly a flatbed truck burst out of the gloomy quietus, shattering the
pristine vigilance of mother night. Its headlights glaring, and its
stereo blaring, the mechanical behemoth raced towards our startled
financeer.
That is when he sprang. He coiled the sinewy muscles in his sturdy legs
and burst forth with stored potential energy. With will and
determination -- and grace, too -- he tucked into a tight ball, and rolled
safely out of harm's way.
Having completed his roll, he quickly stood again and shook his fist in
anger at the negligent driver. That is when he noticed the projectile
rapidly descending upon him. Thinking that the maniacal driver had
claimed yet another tragic orphan life from this earth, he easily caught
the still body.
But the flying creature was not dead. No. Nor was it human. Nay. It
was an armadillo. Now, the northern lights have seen queer sights, but
the queerest that they ever did see was that night on the marge of Lake
Labarge when we acquired an armadillo baby.
Now armadillos are funny creatures, and are almost -- but not entirely --
different from computing sciences students. Nevertheless, our humble and
virtuous VP Finance nursed the wounded armadillo back to health, using a
diet consisting solely of Diet Coke and Pizza Pops ("Pep 'n' Bacon!").
We adopted the little one as our own, and Randy (as we have named it) can
often be seen roaming the halls and rummaging though the various garbage
cans in the building. I can't wait to see the looks on students' faces
when they see that we have a new friend in the building.
February 2003: "The Lurve Machine"
Hello Carissa, This month is our time, I can feel it in my bones. This month I bring you a tale of love and science. I call it ... "The Lurve Machine" (alternatively, "Why the UACS Rogue Wireless Network Shouldn't Be Overclocked Past 14"). You know, I'm not bragging when I say that UACS knows what day it is. It's true -- some of us have calendars to prove it. This sets the stage for our 2nd year rep noticing that it is getting perilously close to Valentine's Day. Now, the history books will make it seem like the only reason he knew that is because he's married, but that doesn't begin to explain the origins of the phrase that is most-bantered-about in the hallowed halls of the Computing Sciences Center: "that Ken sure does know what day it is". It was one fateful day last week that we found out the truth of that saying. Ken had burst into the office wearing only a towel, and gripped a can of Peps... uh ... Coke Twist so hard that it burst forth its syrupy goodness like a geyser of syrup. "It's January 28th," he screamed. Not one more word was needed; we all made the grim connection. Valentine's Day was upon us. Like in that dream where you're making a speech in front of the UN and you're stark naked and Gandhi is snapping your buttocks with a towel, we realized that we had better do something. Now, we're all dateless losers (except the three guys with girlfriends, the girl with the boyfriend, a guy that might have a girlfriend it's just that no one ever asked, the engaged guy, and the married guy ... ok two dateless losers) who would sooner bitch-slap Gandhi while stark naked in front of the UN General Assembly than talk to a girl, we decided to use Science to our advantage (that, and run-on sentences). Yes, Science. Who could have guessed that even our good chum Science would ever turn on us (except Emilio Estevez circa "Maximum Overdrive", anyone who's ever heard of "Weird Science", and possibly Christopher Walken)? How naive we were. We used Google Technology (tm) and our overclocked UACS Rogue Wireless Network to create an unholy monster. First, we downloaded delicious (it took me four tries to not write "delivious") cookie recipes from the internet. Then, we made a mould and placed it in our Carbon Fibre Kiln (the cookies only went in for the last three minutes of the baking process. They turned out crispy golden good). Little would we realize the horror that we were about to unleash. What we made was so beautiful, so perfect, and so hideous that it defies words. We made a cherub. We didn't make just any old cherub, but a curly-haired, rosy-cheeked, sandal-wearing, arrow slinging, love-making (not that kind ... or is it?) cherub. We created a Cupid. Oh sure, things were fine for the first little while. Little Cupid would wander the halls and shoot the homeless guy, who goes through our garbage and bugs our phone calls, so that he tried to mate with a photocopier. Oh, the hijinx. Oh, the humanity. Love was rampant; I had never seen some of the pathetic meat bags so happy, so deliriously in love. But, you know ... fun's fun and all ... and then sometimes you just get bored. I really started to hate that little bugger. He never blinked, it was really weird. So, we devised a plan to return our building, and indeed our lives, back to the misery that had been so commonplace Before We Decided To Play God. Our Publicity/Propaganda Director snuck up behind the angel bastard with a burlap sack. We were just going to sack him and throw him off the high level bridge and forget about him, but he is quick. He spun and launched a carbon-fibre arrow clean through our Publicity Director's shirt. "Nooooooooooooooooo," I screamed in a manly and melodramatic way. It was a nice shirt. Our Publicity Director assumed the Mantis Position, but when he struck with Open Claw Sunlight x 3 Damage Attack, he merely glanced off the beast's indestructible Carbon Fibre Armour. How foolish we were! As light as aluminum, three times stronger than steel! We had unleashed an unstoppable killing machine into our midst. "Jesus, you could have just said something," said little Cupid as he lit a cigarette and walked out of the building. Then he flipped us the bird and hotwired some guy's car. We never saw him again, and promptly forgot about him. Until now... So, yeah. Forget about all the horrible stuff, we brought Love to the student body. And, I'm told, all you need is love.
September 2003: "UACS Driving Lessons"
Dear Ms. Reiniger, I have happened upon an incredible story, and am told that I should be informing you of it. The weekend was warm and sunny, and I had just mailed spit to Mat "Lyme Disease" Brechtel's SU office when I happened to notice a homeless man. "Now", you're sure to be saying, "Mr. Heretowith-Unnamed Author," (you can call me Dr. Warden) "it is indeed unfortunate that you saw a homeless man, but I am very busy putting commas where periods should be, and I simply cannot afford to spend the time listening to you drone on about Bapu Gandhi's thoughts, and revelations, inre: the homeless, so if you would kindly go away, I would appreciate that very much, thank you." Ah, but I am e-mailing you, not talking to you in person! Silly SU drone! Now, if I can get back to my story -- and please, no interruptions this time! As I was saying, I had just mailed lyme disease to Mat "Spit" Brechtel, when I saw a homeless man. He was hobbling along the street, obviously in pain (I could smell his gangrenous limbs from three city blocks away), and he was seeming to want to cross the road. Well, I did put on my Good Samaritan hat, I did. So there I was, extending my help to this poor blighted soul when a fire-apple red monster truck roared through the intersection, heading right for us! I bravely shielded my new friend against the chrome wrath of the bumper, but the monster truck came to a sudden -- and unexpected -- stop in front of us. Smoke was billowing out of the tire wells like some grim spectre of death. The engine seemed alive as it growled with each spin of the ... fan belt. A door opened, then slammed shut. Through the stench of melting rubber, and the gloom of frying brake pads walked a solitary figure, dressed all in black. "Armin 'Frank' Rasmussen?" asked the figure. His eyes were impenetrable behind shades of ebony. My homeless brother piped up. "Yes, I am." "It is time for you now. Time for you to learn how to drive." The man in black tore off his sunglasses to accentuate his last point, and I saw the flinty resolve in his hardened eyes. If ever there was a man to teach people how to drive, this was a man to teach people how to drive. Armin, though I always call him "Frank" in my head, swallowed forcibly, his Adam's Apple rasping against his parched throat like sandpaper on oak. Nevertheless, Frank steeled his resolve and climbed into the cab. "You. You will accompany us." I was being directed by the unknown driver. I hesitated. "We'll be back in two shakes, buttercup." Who was I to resist such a man? Who, indeed? I climbed into the cab with the grace of an ant loaded to the gills with pseudo-ephedrine. Though the mighty truck was raging on the outside, it was like a tomb on the inside. "The air conditioning just went off, it's constipatingly quiet like death in here," observed the unknown driver, "but don't turn on the radio. We don't want you getting distracted." "Now turn on your left signal, you'll find it on the little arm attached to the left side of the steering wheel. Good. Now shoulder check to make sure that you're clear in the left lane. Good, ok, you're clear to go." "No, don't put one foot on each pedal, just use your right foot. Good. Ok, proceed into traffic." With this one final utterance, we were off. I won't go into detail here, for this e-mail could easily span one thousand pages if I did, but the unknown driver taught us many things that day -- how to check if the radiator fluid level is low, how to double-clutch(rather than granny-shift), how to drift a monster truck in the rain, and how to sew on a button that had previously fallen off. We returned to our point of origin shortly after dusk. Armin detrucked first, then I. The unknown driver rolled his window down with the apparent ease of Gallagher smashing a watermelon in 1983. He once more whipped off his sunglasses and stared us each in the eye. To me, he said "e-mail clubs@su.ualberta.ca and tell Ms. Reiniger that UACS is teaching the homeless to drive." I am not affiliated with that which I can only assume is a student group of some sort, but I gave him my word as a gentleman that I would. To Frank, he just stared. After what seemed like an eternity, the unknown driver just nodded, and put on his sunglasses. "Keep your eyes on the road, friend." With that, the unknown driver pulled a brakestand and roared off into the darkness, his taillights painting a crimson autograph across the city. "Well, there go the lights," I said. Then Frank and I cried. So I've done my part of the bargain. I've told you about that fateful day. But what about you? What about *your* part of the bargain?
October 2003: "Glengarry GlenUACS"
Hello Ms. Reiniger, we meet again. This time, it's inre: the October Student Group of the Month, not as finalists in the furry fan fiction contest -- Edmonton chapter. I'll forever hate Mat "two tails in a bucket of milk" Brechtel for stealing that prestigious title out from under our noses, but I think it was his simple-sugar-and-protein-stained suit that won over the judges. Ah, but I've strayed from the beaten path again. Seeing as how October is Glove Save Month, I've decided to write to you about UACS' latest accomplishments in the field of Science: It was a dark and stormy night, and all the good children had been put to bed. The bad children (UASUS) were painting swastikas on the walls, but that's a story for another time. --- FADE IN: INT. CHEM LAB The shot pans across several bubbling BEAKERS, obviously full of SCIENCE. We find the beautiful DR. PILAU making NOTES on a CLIPBOARD. She looks like FAMKE JANSSEN, only with less clothes. PILAU Whew. I am exhausted from my long day of Science-ing. My inventory is almost complete. I need a bubble bath with lots of gratuitous nudity. Enter DR. VEGITA. He is evil and looks like MAT "I disinter corpses" BRECHTEL; that is to say, as if someone had exploded a NUCLEAR BOMB of UGLY in his FACE. He will be played by CLINT HOWARD. VEGITA My, my. You have been long at work, Dr. Pilau. PILAU Yes. VEGITA It would be a shame if someone ... messed up your inventory ... PILAU You wouldn't! VEGITA HahahahahahahahaHA! VEGITA knocks over the bubbling beakers, spilling scientific research all over the counter like that time MAT "underendowed" BRECHTEL was chasing ten year old boys in Thailand. He LEAVES, by means of the DOOR. PILAU Well, I can pretty much forget about that bubble bath now. The MALE portion of the AUDIENCE now hates VEGITA. PILAU starts to pick up the broken glass with her fingers, and cuts her hand off at the wrist. PILAU I broke a nail! Enter DR. GOKU, played by UACS. GOKU is STRONG and BRAVE and BOLD and VIGILANT and makes excellent SPAGHETTI from such simple things as canned spaghetti SAUCE, and a SPOON. GOKU has a dimple in his CHIN from that time an ANGEL told him a SECRET. GOKU is the pinnacle of PERFECTION; he is all that is MAN. His voice is DEEP, because as many as ten people are playing his role simultaneously. GOKU Why, Dr. Pilau, you're bleeding! Let me apply pressure to the wound ... GOKU picks up PILAU's dress, which had somehow FALLEN OFF during the INCIDENT, and PRESSES it against her STUMP. PILAU (gasping) There's ... there's glass in my dress. And in my hand! GOKU Of course there is. Fight glass with glass, baby. Fight glass with glass. This elicits EMPATHY from the AUDIENCE, and well as establishing GOKU as a man of SCIENCE. Enter CHRISTOPHER WALKEN, playing HIMSELF. WALKEN NO! Children, what have you done? Oh, it's RUINED! (growling) You've MESSED it. ALL UP! GOKU RISES from his CROUCH, DUMPING PILAU on the FLOOR. He JABS his finger into WALKEN's CHEST. GOKU You're washed up, Walken. You're done. Finished. Sure, we've heard it all before; you're a good cop gone bad, framed for crimes he didn't commit. WALKEN Hey, I get results! GOKU Your "results" left us with three dead civilians, Walken! WALKEN But I get RESULTS! You know how it feels? Huh? When the hunter becomes the hunted? And nothing is as it seems? Well this world went sideways a long time ago, and it took you with it! (tenderly) What happened to you, Goku? What really happened on that night? GOKU I ... I don't remember. WALKEN Oh, I think you do. I think you remember just fine what happened ... FADE: INT. SCIENCE LAB FROST hangs on the AIR. ICICLES abound. GOKU FIDDLES with some knobs on a high-falutin' COMPUTAR MACHENE in the middle of the room. Enter BENNETT. BENNETT "Ice" to see you, Herr Doktor. GOKU Bennett. I should have known. Where is the rebar? BENNETT Such a "frosty" tongue for someone so young. GOKU (shouting) I don't have time for this! Where is the rebar? GOKU pulls a MONSTER out of his POCKET BENNETT Where did you get that, Herr Doktor, I wonder? Sally Forth me if I'm wrong, but you've been a busy boy of late, nein? So busy that you did not notice me take the rebar to my secret Nazi moon base! But your wife saw that. She saw everything, so I had to put her ... on ice. GOKU (shrieking) no. No. NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WHY? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE E? GOKU ACTIVATES the MONSTER. The MONSTER devours the screaming BENNETT whole. Cool it, Bennett. FADE: INT. CHEM LAB WALKEN ... and I saw the whole thing, from my secret vantage point behind an icicle. Bennett didn't kill your wife. You did. Just like you killed Pilau in your fit of rage. GOKU No! No, I ... I didn't mean to ... I ... WALKEN (pointing) Look at her. LOOK! SEE what you've become! GOKU turns to LOOK at PILAU's corpse. She looks dead. GOKU sob. GOKU gets a look of DETERMINATION on his FACE, and BITES down on a CYANIDE capsule in his tooth. WALKEN stands over his body. WALKEN See what you made me do? I swear, you kids and your shenanigans. WALKEN takes GOKU's wallet. Enter VEGITA VEGITA ... are you up for a little "break", my dear? Meh mehemhemhemhem ... GASP! WALKEN straightens up to see VEGITA looking in HORROR at the MOUND of dead BODIES on the floor. WALKEN My dear Doctor Vegita, what's eating you? WALKEN unfolds his HAND to reveal the MONSTER from GOKU's POCKET. The MONSTER devours VEGITA whole. WALKEN Heh. Silly me. I guess it was ... that. WALKEN GRINS at the CAMERA and TWO-STEPS his way out the DOOR CREDITS. --- And that's why UACS deserves Student Group of the Month for October.
November 2003: "Why Biscuit Never Comes When I Whistle and Shake His Food Dish"
Here is this month's entry, entitled "Why Biscuit Never Comes When I Whistle and Shake His Food Dish": (I will try to respect your 250 word limit) --- The warm air from the door heater licked my face as I stomped snow off of my galoshes. It was a cold and blustery day outside, and my attempts at cleaning my shoes were for naught -- the floor mats were covered with the castoffs of a thousand snowy footsteps. Actually, on second thought, it was more like a million snowy footsteps. A thousand is actually a small number for footsteps. I clutched my elbows like in those '20s silent movies, and shivered. The cold had indeed stabbed like a driven nail, through the parka's fold. As my eyes defrosted, and my empinkened cheeks returned to their more normal translucent purple colour, I resolved myself to continue my trek to the UACS Office. Friendly people would be in there, ready to ply me with cider in the hopes that I pay off my outrageous tab. I struggled with my steps, for my ponderous quadriceps had not yet acclimatized to the newfound heat. I hung my galoshes in the air. Freed, my feet found their way much more easily. My footsteps thundered down the desolated halls. Only fools and martyrs would set forth on a day like this! And yet, there was UACS -- shining brightly, as a beacon of fair pricing. My journey came to an end as I crossed the threshold. VP Jag whipped around in his chair. "Why doesn't Nicolas Cage get together with Jodie Foster?" he asked me. "I think he likes it dirty", was my reply. My witty repartee was interrupted, though, by the sudden arrival of The Butcher. The Butcher was in fine form that day, all gesticulation and frenetic Danish pronouncements. He swept the piles of old Mat Brechtel Love-A-Thon magazines (formerly, The Gateway) to the ground -- where they belong, I might add -- and climbed atop the computer desk. "Aktivitetsegenskab", he repeatedly shouted, "giv-stafetten-videre, stafet-teknik!" "He's done it!" exclaimed VP-Ex-Tys, translating as he burst into the room. "He has found the key to redux! Redux!" The Butcher, obsessed as always with the female form, had been working on a Rejuvenation Cream. His lifelong goal was to eradicate unsightly wrinkles, black eyes, and "crows' feet" from otherwise vivacious women. With recent advances in Stem Cell research, The Butcher had been inspired. He created a cream that would bring dead skin cells back to life. You know, because wrinkles are caused by dead skin cells. His test subject had been Grandma. The Butcher had been a busy boy, creating new Science, then digging up Grandma and slathering her in this wonderfully viscous goop. And it worked! Grandma's wrinkles vanished visibly, under the pale moonlight. The Butcher let out an excited howl and -- VP-Ex-Tys' translation was cut off by an horrific crash. Now, at this point I would like to pause the story to brag. How many other Student Group of the Month e-mails do you get that are so grammatically correct as to use "an" as opposed to "a" when discussing an horrific crash? We poked our heads out of the UACS Office, only to recoil with horror back inside. Grandma was here, and she wasn't happy. What had been dead had come to life, and what had come to life had an insatiable appetite for ... "BRAINS! BRAIIIIIIIIIIIIINS!" Now, being slightly knowledgeable movie-having-seen guys, we barricaded ourselves in the UACS Office by closing the door. "That ought to stop her" I remarked, dusting my hands confidently. "GLUE! GLUUUUUUUE! GLUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" she howled. Then she began to break through the door. The Butcher screamed in Dutch, while VP Jag went for the implement marked "hammer" that we keep around the UACS Office for just such an occasion. As soon as Grandma broke through the door, VP Jag plunged the ax into her head with a mighty swing. Her brainstem severed by the UACS ax, Grandma fell to the floor. "GLUE! GLUUUUUUuuuuuuuuue ..." She was dead once more. We picked her up and placed her atop the fridge, as a reminder to all those who come in for "Balls" soda that one must consider the consequences of one's actions before one goes about reanimating the dead. We filed out of the office, headed for the snowy din awaiting us outside. As The Butcher turned off the light, he completely missed seeing Grandma blink. The end. Or Is IT?
December 2003: "Of Baby Shampoo, and Dirty Bombs"
Well, they finally did it this time -- my mother always warned me that UACS would bring about the destruction of Western Civilization, and thus the World, and she was right; my mother's mother didn't raise no fool. It started innocently enough. Most major coup leaders will tell you it always does, from Mohandas Gandhi right on down to Johannes Hitler -- who owns a successful Lamborghini dealership in South Beach, and who just happens to be related to Mao Zedong though you'd never know it to look at him. In this case, it started with hemp. Poetically -- and justly -- bleak winter dominated the Dark Oughts, as the sprawl of years following the turn of the century became known. Honesty, chivalry and common sense had long since given way to greed and treachery, and political hubris mirrored the desolate pastiche of snow-strewn wasteland found outside mens' eyes. The snow was everywhere you looked, back then. I remember the ice hanging in the air, the way your throat would sear when you were cursed with the burden of inhalation. It was a funny thing -- the air was sharp with frost, and would cruelly lash your face, but the snow was wet and sloppy. This led to long mornings of sodden socks and soaked shoes, and longer afternoons of frantic hacking and coughing. The weather was cold, but we were so well-cared-for that it needn't have worried us. Our Rulers were beady-eyed thieves and traitors -- real bastards, every last one of them. It wasn't so much that they were Evil, necessarily -- they were more Stupid, and certainly Steadfast. They would stalwartly follow through on whatever fool notion popped into their vacuous heads, blindly pickpocketing their citizenry of every last vestige of freedom. And yet, it was in the midst of this most dark time that one of humanity's brightest lights began to shine. VP Gnolan had been caring for His Plants for as long as he could remember. His apartment was a tropical paradise, lush and vibrant. The air was warm and thick and sweet. Topical birds danced and whirled, carefree amongst the rainforest. Alit on their green perches, the birds would sing glorious hippy love songs -- the sort that would have brought John Denver to his knees -- while Gnolan strummed his lyre. It was during Gnolan's "Squeaky Wheel" beat poetry sessions that I first became acquainted with hemp. I was snapping and bobbing along to the mean rhythms he had concocted, when he abruptly stopped. Gnolan cast his unwashed dreadlocks back from his forehead, and stepped away from his bongoes. His motions were spidery and fluid as he spake: "My brothers and sisters ... I have stumbled upon a new energy source. I call it ... love." With that, he brought forth a taut rope from the dewey recesses of his closet. "Actually, I call it 'hemp'. Think of it ... three hundred times the strength of steel ... all biodegradable ... it's organic ... it's cheap ... and it'll make those fat cat Kings sit up and take notice." We all nodded as he passed the rope around. Its tensile strength was certainly to be commended. I was sold. UACS set up shops selling his rope, but rope was not enough for the clamour of the oppressed. The oppressed wanted muu-muus. The oppressed wanted bracelets. The oppressed wanted hats. "Sure thing, cat. I'll just grow some up for you, dig?" Gnolan would whisper as he cocked a knowing smile. VP Ramrod invented a new kind of automobile that was made entirely of hemp. It was fueled by carbon dioxide, and produced precious oxygen as a by-product -- it literally breathed! The masses were hooked, and couldn't purchase enough of our wonderful products. This was made easy, because we sold them for the low, low price of Happy Thoughts. Dick "Kierkegaard" Cheney was outraged. "These bandits will never replace my precious oillllllllll, AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA", he raved as he blew up Wales. And so it was that Procter and Gamble attempted to purchase Universal Sunshine Inc. away from UACS. Proctor was, of course, Cheney's right arm, and Gamble was Cheney's left leg -- together, they played a formidible game of Twister. But our resolve was much stronger than their stainless steel MurderBots (tm): three hundred times stronger, to be exact. Universal Sunshine Inc. managed to purchase Proctor and Gamble -- for the sound of one hand clapping -- and was renamed Cyclic Karma Ltd. "BLAST!" screamed Cheney as he eviscerated a puppy -- a really cute one, too, with a wet nose and big brown eyes. He put the puppy sac on his head and did that Russian dance where you kick out your legs. The he spiked the puppy whilst screaming "this is for America, take that you Godless pinkos". But Cheney had forgotten that two of his limbs were now controlled by Cyclic Karma Ltd. and he slept very unsoundly that evening, as he was haunted by dreams of Grandmas and cinnamon. In the morning he dove in front of lil' Georgie's toy train set, which was actually Houston Rail (tm). It was around this time that Cyclic Karma Ltd. was approaching its maximum power. The snow had melted, and new life grew boundlessly around us all. The sun even seemed to shine brighter as we basked in its warm, loving embrace. Steel drummers drummed on hemp products everywhere you went, in those days. The calypso beat was infectious, and joy was palpable. We had won. Oh, had we? Nature grew boundlessly, all right. Without the Republican National Guard raining Freedom Bombs upon her sterilized soil, Nature became unfettered -- Wild. Coconut trees began to prey upon the weak and infirm. Blades of grass that had once seemed so harmless became unstoppable Lawn Monsters, gripping you in their vice-like fangs until your spine cracked from the pressure. Then they would drink your juices. We had to abandon the planet, frankly. Our hemp was of no use as a weapon, and all prior weapons had been destroyed during the Smile Crusades of 2027. Gnolan thought that we could peacefully coexist, but the beaches blew sand in his eyes until they were all red and irritated and he couldn't stop rubbing them. So here I sit, chronicaling our journey during the minutes of the first ever meeting of the Martian Republican Army. We are currently researching the development of thermonuclear weapons so that such a travesty will never happen again. We will get around to inventing "water" soon enough. Your scribe, Dr. Warden
January 2004: "Internet Interpretive Dance"
VP Archives' Note: At this point, there was a break in the collection. January 2004 consisted of a link to a page no longer in the UACS web repository, most likely the work of VP Obsessive Compulsive and his infernal Makefile system. Through the magic of the internet archives, however, I managed to take a glimpse of the file; it consisted of several images compiled seemingly at random, coupled by "YOU HAVE TOO MUCH TIME ON YOUR HANDS" repeated several times in 36pt Times New Roman, red in colour. Truly, a UACS way to start the new year.
February 2004: "Ssh.What was that?"
Carissa Reiniger:
I hope this message finds you well, and expediently. I must write
quickly, for I have stolen internet off of a hobo. He is currently
sleeping and, from the sounds of his stirring grunts, will soon waken.
Give February's Student Group of the Month to UACS. This was never of
more importance.
Ssh. What was that?
Only the wind.
Yes, the wind, and nothing more. Where was I? Oh ... I was lying naked
in Cancun the other day when a thought hit me -- this is leap year. I
immediately jumped (leapt?) into the pool ("piscine" in espanol) because
strange men with towels were walking by. I lowered my head so that just
my eyes were above sea-level, and warily watched them pass. They were
on to me.
Then I coughed because I forgot my mouth and nose were under water and I
started trying to breathe. Then the coughing got me choking because I
was still under water, so I took the next plane home.
When I disembarked from the plane, I saw a man in sunglasses holding a
sign that read "Carl". I hit him with a nearby ashtray and took the
sign that had previously read "Carl" but under closer inspection read
"they're on to you. Take the money and hide it under some shirts."
Sincerity. That was the key. Just act normal, warden, and they'll let
you pass. "Have a nice day, Carl," shouted the security guard as I
booked it through the metal detector. Later, a man in a brown suit
came up to me and said "Hi I'm Carl," so I hit him with the sign and
slipped into the boot of his automobile.
When I awoke, I was confused and desperately in need of coffee. I was
in a diner and Carl was blathering on about the Florida Marlins and the
Damn Yankees. I blew on my eggs as I lifted them to my mouth. Carl's
eyes narrowed. I reached for the ketchup. Then Carl removed a mask to
show that he was actually Dinah Shore. I complimented her on her hat
and took my eggs out the door for a walk.
I threw the eggs under the stairs as I descended, and thumbed my way
back to Civilization. A very nice woman picked me up and told me all
about Jesus, who does the dishes at her restaurant. Jesus Parajah, that
was his name. He apparently does a fantastic job. I thanked her, by
shaking her hand, and dove out of the car without any warning.
I was walking down the alley when I saw the hobo urinating behind the
dumpster. I gave him my warm Milk 2 Go and he promptly fell asleep on
the discarded credenza. I purloined his internet to give you this
message:
Give UACS Student Group of the Month for February.
Until then, I remain,
Dr. Warden, LLB
April 2004: "O' that which you hath wrought"
Good evening Carissa. I do hope you are reading this in the evening, because otherwise the previous sentence will not make sense. Please set your inner alarm clock forward twelve hours, just for this e-mail. That is all I ask. Well, that's not quite all. I do ask that you grant UACS the honour of being Student Group of the Month for the Month of April, 2004. You have thus far in your academic career neglected to name UACS the Student Group of the Month for any months, despite our myriad tales of intrigue and adventure. Now, if I were you -- and I'm not; I just did a very thorough self-examination, and I am reasonably sure that all that parts which I have grown accustomed to having are still attached in a rather permanent way -- I would be saying right about now "hold on just a gol' durned minute. I done gave you them recognitions yesteryear." Well no, no you didn't. You see, last year you "done gave" us the rather dubious distinction of being Honourary Student Group of the Month -- and I don't think you even put the 'u' in 'honourary'. Nolan, take a note: check on the U. While we did garner a very nice certificate that probably took a whole ten minutes -- including print time -- to create using Hallmark's Yard Sale Sign-O-Rama software, the heart just wasn't in it. We, your loyal student group, wrote to you with escapade after escapade -- with some real hijinx, like the war with UASUS -- but we were regarded as monthly fools. Well now the joke is on you, Carissa Reiniger. Soon you will step down from your lofty post. Soon the throne of Student Group Coordinator Deluxe will bear another regent. You have but one last chance to rightfully declare us Student Group of the Month. And this is it. Now I know that mere social propriety will not sway you in this matter, else you would have acted much sooner than this, so I have ... shall we say ... taken measures to force your hand. Name UACS Student Group of the Month for the month of April 2004 -- and you're getting off lightly, here ... I should really demand Student Group of the Year -- or I will undo existance. Here's a little backstory. Recently, UACS came into the kinship of one Edward "Miami" Bernstein. He just sort of showed up one day and started cracking jokes and alienating other people, despite his good-natured charm. Well, he was cracking jokes. I'm pretty sure that I was the one alienating other people. Regardless, that's not the point. Now, Miami has a beard so I instantly thought he was Sam Roberts -- as I do of all men with beards. Miami was quick, though, and he tore open his light Springtime jacket (no, it wasn't pastel) to reveal his shirt that simply said "Miami". "See? Miami!" That was when I realized that he was not Sam Roberts. Miami swept back his hair and headed to the freezer, he opened it and went for The Burrito. Six, or so, members of UACS restrained him as he started in surprise. "No, Miami. That is a special burrito. We are saving it for an Experiment." Miami understood. UACS is world-famous, having been mentioned on Slashdot, Fark, and in the mumbled nightmares of Janitor Kim -- former UASUS President, now head dishmop of Greasy Stu's Discount Phlegmatorium -- and Miami knew of our keen interest in Science. Time passed, and exams came closer. I knew that soon you would be leaving for other pastures -- leaving before UACS got its due. So I put our backup plan, Plan B, into action by feeding The Burrito to Miami. At first he was suspicious, and rightly so. This is, after all, UACS. But he checked the expiration date, and was satisfied that he was well within the time alloted. He inspected The Burrito carefully. He poked it. He sniffed it. He gave it a squinty kind of lick with the tip of his tongue, expecting rottenness. What he found was tasty burrito ice. Miami popped The Burrito in the UACS Industrial Strength Overclocked Microwave for one minute per side. When he withdrew The Burrito, it was cooked to perfection, and filled the room with its saliva-inducing scent. Miami bit in to one end, and the goo inside burst forth from its tightly packed wrapping. "Good?" Miami nodded, his mouth full. "Good." Miami kept eating, getting a little nervous that I was watching him so intently. Never one to waste, Miami cleaned the plate of its beany overspillings with the end of The Burrito before popping it into his mouth. "Well, Miami, I'm afraid I had an ulterior motive in getting you to eat The Burrito." Miami looked nervous. He tried to smile, but it came out as an elongated facial tic. Miami looked around for help. "You see, we have not ever gotten Student Group of the Month from Carissa Reiniger, and this is my revenge. Do you know what was in that burrito, Miami?" Miami started to get dry heaves. "Hair?" "No, Miami. Not hair." "Poo?" "No, Miami. Not poo." "Fear?" Miami was near tears at this point. "No, Miami. Not fear. God was in that burrito." "what" Miami snapped out of his snivelling and wretching. Yes, God was in the burrito. He had come to a UACS meeting to help us design the Elephant Fridge (oh, Carissa. You are going to miss a classic with that one), as the physics were frightful. Needless to say, the Almighty was pretty interested in the laser light show. Well, we forgot to keep VP Calgary Petroleum away from the Creator of the Universe. Sure, the conversation started out simple enough -- the brilliance of Seth McFarlane -- but then the conversation progressed to a bunch of philosophers trying to eat spaghetti, then further to really heavy rocks, and one thing led to another ... and VP Calgary Petroleum wagered that God couldn't turn into a burrito that he couldn't eat. Now, I'm not making excuses for the Omnipotent One, but VP Calgary Petroleum talks a mean game and it's easy to get confused and just start doing things when you're embroiled in a battle of wits. So, no sooner did God turn into that burrito than VP William threw him (God/burrito) into the freezer. And, well, we just pretty much saved it in there for a rainy day. Well, Carissa, it's pouring and the old man isn't just snoring -- he's trapped in a burrito. He's trapped in a burrito that is inching its way through Miami's digestive system right now. So far, Miami has been able to hold off but he won't be able to not go to the bathroom forever. And when he does ... good bye Universe. The logic is sound; don't even try to argue it. Now, I can prevent Miami from going to the bathroom. It'll be messy, but I'm a classy kind of guy and saving All Existance is just the sort of thing that I'll do on a Saturday night. I can stop this. It's up to you. All you have to do is say the word. Until then, I remain, Dr. Warden -tick, tock.