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The Black Sheep

Fr e La e... l ns ik in e h g co ow st mu si f y ch ou an 're yth Le ing 'Ve on in E Be ast ll .

• a college newspaper that’s actually about college •

Volume 7, Issue 13 11/28/12 -12/5/12

theblacksheeponline.com @MSUBlackSheep

the black sheep: 1 The state news: $200 ziev, justin and bailey wrote this Earlier this semester we unknowingly used a picture of a P.A.C.E. officer on our cover that belonged to our bitter arch rivals in journalism: The State News. As a result, they told us to cough up $200 or face some legal action for copyright infringement. We may be a lot of things here at The Black Sheep (e.g. degenerates, babies, cowboys), but namely we're NOT infringers. So, naturally, to avoid said legal label, we paid them back with $200 in coins plus interest, assessed by us and paid in the form of other random objects such as condoms, paper clips, and a gentlyused dental dam.

1) We didn't get fancy; we just got finance-y.

2) Hot Tip: Nothing says "I'm hoping you die young" quite like giving someone a Creed CD.

3) It was as exciting as Prom Night for the editors; and, yes, they gave each other some of the toughest handjibbers you could imagine later that night. 4) Team Attractive taking their last breaths of fresh, non-pretentious hot air before entering the State News.

5) Team Attractive members emptying the full load from their sack into a sticky mess all over the State News' front desk.

6) "This isn't money... You guys are sick... I better not see this in your paper."

How the Mitt Sold Christmas

what’s inside

Eli Broad's Art Museum Tour

In the words of Latarian Milton, "It's fun to do bad things."

Honestly, Eli Broad did not spend enough money on pictures of baby animals being adorable.

page 4

page 5

How to Have Fun at The Library

You better either get weird or get out; nobody want to actually study here.

page 7


page three ! k e e W e h t f o c i P word of the week quipster:

A person who uses outdated phrases in an attempt to be amusingly ironic. “What do you mean you think I sound like an idiot? Well how ‘bout you just go talk to the hand, ‘cuz this face don’t wanna hear it?”

BLITZEN GETTIN’ BLITZED!!!!!!!!!!! #HE OLO’d!!!!!

Meet The Staff

(Want to become famous next week? Awesome.)

campus managers Ziev Beresh & Justin Gawel

photographer Bailey Paskiewicz

Advertising ManagerS Victoria Bujny, Andrew Meggert Zach Martin, Michael Zalewsky

campus director Quinn Myers

Writers Alex Everard, Cody Manthei Phillip Keller, Hannah Borland Zoe Kremke, Garrison Rasmusen Andrew Rickerman, Zach Wyrzykowski, Jess Martinelli, Meg Enter distribution manager Cara Stevens

owner Atish Doshi Founders Atish Doshi, Brendan Bonham, Heather Jo Erickson, Jimmy DeBlasio, Jessica Sommers, Quinn Myers, Evan Stone Questions? info@theblacksheeponline.com Advertising? ads@theblacksheeponline.com

Disclaimer The Black Sheep in no way promotes, encourages or supports binge drinking, and/or under-age drinking. This newspaper is designed for entertainment purposes only and does not recommend attempting anything printed in this publication. Please drink...responsibly and legally.

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page 4

How the Mitt Sold Christmas

theblacksheeponline.com

Alex Everard wrote this Mr. Romney sat atop Mount Mitt, with his iPhone 6 and tightly-knit polo sweater Staring down at America, those dimwits and forty-seven percenters He plotted real hard, he plotted with malice—just how to avenge those who cast the wrong ballot He could buy all their businesses, flip them, and sell ‘em for profit! He could drown the whole country with his Marvelous Money Faucet! Alas, it struck him—an idea of pure gold Mitt would steal all their toys and sell China the molds! Yes that would surely ruin this holiday season For all the middle-class kids and blue-color heathens He strapped his dog to the roof of his Porsche Down Mount Mitt he flew, screaming, “Romney SELLS Christmas, of course!” He broke into the houses with their measly two stories And stole the twerps’ toys to reap all the glory He was almost finished, just one more house to rob ‘Twas a house in Detroit, and Mitt laughed ‘til he sobbed “HA! This place; what a terrible city! Would have gone bankrupt underneath Ole Mitty!” He waltzed right in, without even having to knock And said under his breath, “LAWL, too poor to buy locks!” He took all the toys, but as he readied to dash Little Billy Bluecollar appeared, covered in trash “What are you doing, mister? Aren’t those my toys?” Mitt relied on debate strategy to remain calm and coy

“Oh no, little boy, I’m getting them fixed! Only the Chinese can mend this PlayStation disc!” Billy seemed suspicious, but Mitt said, “Blame Obama!” Then he drove his Porsche home and prepared for the drama Christmas Day he awoke early, laughing and stumbling “Oh boy, I can’t wait to watch the middle-class crumbling!” But that didn’t happen, much to Mitt’s confusion Americans seemed sad, but not disillusioned “Oh well,” they all sighed, “Looks like another recession.” “We lost all the toys, but we won’t lose the lesson.” They gathered around the tree in Rockefeller Center And began to sing songs with cheer and great splendor Just then, they say, while we ignored the worst for the best Something strange happened beneath Mitt’s money vest His heart began beating, and beating quite fast His heart beat so much it began to gain mass! It grew and it grew until it could grow no more! Then Mitt shouted, with a tear, “It’s not your fault that you’re poor!” He jumped in his Porsche and down Mount Mitt he shot Throwing toys and wads of money at every spot The kids began yelling, “It’s Ole Mitt, he’s back! I knew he’d fix our toys without any flack!” “Yes, kids, your Ole Mitt saved the day! And I fixed all these toys the American way!” He made it rain in New York, Chicago, and Tennessee

He made it rain on ‘dem kids from sea to shining sea But he made sure to stop in Detroit before he left To see Billy Bluecollar and give him the rest “Here you go, Billy, enough for a billion new games,” And Mitt handed little Billy all the money from Bain “Wow, Mister Romney, that’s millions of dollars!” “Just say thank you, Little Billy, and fix your blue collar.” And with that, he was gone, back up to Mount Mitt Where he still lives lavishly, but learned quite a bit Yes, as the story goes, as all the history books say Mitt Romney’s small heart grew six sizes that day.

Into The Black Sheep’s Vault Zoë Kremkewrote this It’s long been quietly recognized that somewhere, hidden on Michigan State University’s campus, there’s a sacred place, hidden from non- The Black Sheep staff members. This place is rumored to be called the Vault, and it’s the magical location of all the unpublished articles that The Black Sheep keeps locked away for future use. One avid reader of The Black Sheep, and potential (read: confirmed) stalker of the author-flock, had heard the buzz around campus, and decided to dig deeper. Mary had done intensive investigation of The Black Sheep and their vaunted Vault over the entirety of her career at Michigan State. Finally, on the eve of her last final exam as a Spartan, she decided to take action. Laid neatly out before her were her supplies: a shovel, several bottles of mace, every article ever published by the Michigan State edition of The Black Sheep, and a black jumpsuit knit entirely from black wool. “I want Nicolas Cage to play me in the remake of this,” she whispered to her pet lamb, Sam. With Sam on his leash and her supplies in her knapsack, Mary took off in the dead of night across campus. Her stealth skills were undeniable. Nobody saw her all the way to the Library. Mary leapt into the fountain and found the loose piece of stone at the bottom. Turning it three times, she then whispered what she had uncovered to be the secret word through her years of research, “Bah.” The ground beneath the fountain shifted to make a small hole in the corner. Trusting her instincts, Mary threw her knapsack down the hole, and then jumped in after it with Sam clinging to her for dear life. She landed on top of Sam and hurt him on impact. With Sam now bah-ing and threatening to blow her cover, Mary had no choice but to leave him behind—because she’s a terrible person, and you should not like her in this anecdote. Attempting to get her bearings, she started running down a cement corridor. Mary searched for a clue. Her research had hinted that the Vault would be underground, somewhere off campus, where nosy students would never be the wiser. And so Mary wandered the tunnels, for hours, searching every dead end. Slowly, as the night wore on into the small hours of the morning, Mary succumbed to a kind of madness that only stalkers like her exhibit: Ovine Insanity. After hours of searching, Mary sat down against one of the walls. She had grown discouraged, until she saw a small light flashing in the corner. She gravitated towards it, desperate to grab hold of any kind of hope. The light was a black one, it glowed eerily in the dimly lit hallway, then flashed

off at odd intervals. Frustrated by the inconsistent flicker, Mary tightened the light so it shined strongly, and then all other lights in the tunnel went out. On the wall, written in white invisible ink, it said “When searching for heaven on Earth, look no further than down this hall and to your left. Sorry, dude, we’re bad with rhyming.” Elated, Mary sprinted with energy anew to the end of the hall. Sure enough, there was a door. No shovel required. She threw off her knapsack and entered. She looked around quickly, in search of the stacks of articles that she had so long desired to read. Nothing was there. Instead, there were couches. “Where am I?” Mary murmured, mostly to herself. “You’re in the Vault,” said a voice from one of the couches. She swerved around quickly. There was a man with a beard, a hat and an embroidered shirt that read “Cody: Librarian.” But, his beard was oddly shaped. Rectangular. Something was amiss. Sensing her next move, Cody shouted, “Never!” Removing Ziev’s precious laptop from his Beard of Manliness, he roundhouse kicked the bitch in the face. Two staff writers jumped out of the tunnel behind Mary, having followed her in, holding the injured Sam in their arms. Together, they brought her back home and set her in front of her door, because like, they’re nice guys. Never again did she or anybody else try to find the Vault. Mostly because it’s a lot of work. And because nobody is willing to mess with The Beard. Plus the password is super complex.


The Top 10

the black sheep mobile | for iphone & android

page 7

Gifts from Mom Hebrews and shebrews of Michigan State, we’re getting to that time of year when our GPAs are lower than our B.A.Cs and, in turn, we need to be distracted by everything possible to delay the inevitable zeroes on term papers. Enter Christmas: a time of giving. And no one knows this better than Mom. Here are the top ten gifts that she gives us (her unconditional love isn’t a gift because gifts cost money). 10.) Cellphone Charger: Whether you lost it while raging face during Halloween or doing body shots with President LuLu, you’lll need another cell phone charger eventually. Mom knows how dirt poor (i.e. untouchable) you are, so she eases your mind by keeping your main tool of distraction, destruction, and mobile porn fully charged. 9.) Headphones: As the weather turns gray, so does your personality (at least during the week). By sending you some fully functional headphones, Mom keeps your antisocial behaviors alive.

Eli Broad’s Magical Mystery Art Museum Audio Tour hannah borland wrote this For years, museums have been trying to educate low-brow, Cleveland Steamer slinging cretins—like yourself and The Black Sheep’s writing staff—through various means in an attempt to make this country look less Bible-thumpingly stupid and mathematically illiterate to the rest of the world. We moan slightly less when our girlfriends drag us to “get cultured, booboo bear” in an art museum as opposed to the nerd-factory science museum. Perhaps it’s all the errant ta-tas free-ballin’ about in marble, or all the gory, snuff porn crucifixion scenes that pique our interest more than magnets, and how in the eff they work. Fortunately for all of us involved, MSU’s biggest businessman, Eli Broad, has a surplus of titillating artwork, very few rudimentary physics experiments and he doesn’t identify with the fans of the scientifically curious Insane Clown Posse. His shiny new art museum is for everyone, whether they be a sculpture connoisseur or oil-paint-boob-noob, so strap on your headphones and let’s get dem art-smartz. The moist, soft voice of Eli Broad sensually caresses your ear drum and the back of your neck as you stand in front of the first work of art in Broad’s “Fuck France: East Lansing is the New Paris and We’re Going Gorillas Right Here, Edythe” collection: Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper: “Hello, Spartan friends, and welcome to my latest over-compensation project—er, compensation of the Spartan legacy project, that is. This museum contains over 500 works of fine art and astounding human achievement which I collected during the “99 problems but tuition ain’t one” period of my career. Please, direct your attention to the first work of art, The Last Supper. Before Dan Brown took a steaming crap on the Catholic Church with The Da Vinci Code, he claims Leo was squirting fluid poo all over the pope with subtle jabs hidden in his religious pieces. I declare the pope the winner of this celebrity spat, as he takes any and all shits, liquid or solid, in a silk-spun Depends on a golden throne, like I do.”

Caravaggio’s The Calling of Saint Matthew: “You probably can’t tell from the Biblical scene depicted in this painting, but Caravaggio’s night life puts your ‘I’m a wild one, I go out on Thursday nights and buy Jack Daniels at Meijer!’ bullshit to shame, you James Madison blowhard. Until the diaper-clad pope condemns you to death for killing a man in a tavern brawl, forcing you to go on the run and mysteriously die at the age of 39 of what experts say could be anything from syphilis to a straight-up mafia murder, stop acting like holding your liquor makes you street smart. Until you’re willing to throttle your best friend over a game of quarters, Caravaggio politely demands that you commence with fucking off. Ah-hem. On to the next piece.” Michelangelo’s David: “I’d like to take this opportunity to inform you of a rule we have here in my silver seashell. And that is, Politely Expel Non-Interrupting Sounds. See, here at the Broad Museum where we have hired a minimum wage work-study student to be the curator, just F.Y.I., we believe that everyone should be able to enjoy my massive, powerful cockllection in relative quiet. As you stand in front of David and his Italian sausage, remember: P.E.N.I.S. If you feel that you may have difficulty remembering to P.E.N.I.S., please remind yourself by staring Michelangelo’s, non-financial, endowment of David right in the eye. And please, pretentiously shush anyone around you if they distract you from your admiration of David’s peter, I mean, Michelangelo’s David.” At this point the TBS writers were asked to leave from the museum for attempting to tape measure the statues stony parts as well as loudly screaming “doody-bomb.” Furthermore, we have also heard that patrons who complete the audio tour find that it devolves into a grainy audio recording of Broad and his wife attempting to reenact scenes from various artworks, many of which feature Victorian era prostitutes and various kinds of vegetables. Broad has since vowed that his next museum will contain only pendulums, igneous rock, and unsatisfying two-dimensional diagrams of genitals.

8.) Footie Pajamas: As your windows grow opaque with frost, your body turns blue when the energy bill skyrockets. Mom knows you’re too cheap to bump that furnace above sixty, so she sends you footie pajamas, complete with a butt-flap for when you need to drop those “tough mudders.” 7.) Netflix/Hulu Account: We all need a retreat from everyday life. An account on one of these sites gives you access to thousands of hours of movies and TV shows galore; time that you’d otherwise waste by studying, doing homework, or talking to actual friends, not Ross and Rachel. 6.) (Ladies only) Fifty Shades of Grey: We’ve all been there: It’s a Friday night, your roommates are out, and that craving to get grinded on by a meat train of dong at Rick’s just isn’t there tonight. Why not head home, douse the lights, spark some candles, and take a nice steamy bath while reading Fifty Shades of Grey? Be cautious though: Mom may have used the book before you! 5.) Money: From pot to pizza, your needs are endless, and you refuse to work the dish room every day, or at all, so that you can buy those things. By sending you money, Mom ensures that your needs will be satiated, even if only for a weekend. 4.) Herself: Sometimes, Mom knows that the year can get tough and nothing would bring a smile to your face more than gracing you with her presence, all while utilizing a specific set of non-Liam Neeson skills like making mac n’ cheese, changing your garbage, and doing your laundry. Hello, high school-era motherly servitude! 3.) New Accessories: Whether it’s new clothes, Sperry’s, or that kick-ass neon watch that the cute girl in your class would totally dig, Mom knows that our SWAG level always needs to be on the rise If she wants you to find someone to marry to avoid being that creepy uncle at future weddings. 2.) Halo 4/Black Ops II: Nothing blows off steam like trying to shoot people in the head, why, just ask the I-96 Sniper. Mom can’t have her baby be stressed, and video games are far cheaper than therapy! 1.) Booze: Our readers enjoy a certain taste in life, whether it’s Miller Lite or Kraken: Black-Spiced Rum. If your Mom is cool enough to send you booze (and we hope she is), then you’ve made it in life, and need to treat her well next time you see her. And call her for once, so she knows you’re not murdered.

Garrison Rasmussen wrote this


From the Streets

[PartyPics]

Got a question you want us to ask? FTS@theblacksheeponline.com

Where’s the weirdest location you’ve woken up at? "The Psych (Ward) Building at 8 A.M." - Laurie A., Senior

"At the trailer park. With my stepmom." - Stan Z., Freshman

"Wendy's parking lot?" - Luke M., Senior

send your party pics to pics@theblacksheeponline.com

(View and Send Pics from our iPhone & Android App! Search black sheep mobile)


page 7

the black sheep mobile | for iphone & android

How to: Have Fun at the Library Jess Martinelli wrote this

People have been playing silly games since the first fart, so why not employ this idea in the library? Reward yourself for the tens of minutes of actual studying you’ve done by playing mindless games for two hours! Need some entertainment inspiration? We’ve got you covered. Get some friends and start with the classics: Begin with a game of hide-and seek, but take a shot every time you’re found. Or every time you find someone. A game of strip chess can be quietly naughty, and a great way stimulate sexual knowledge. A good ‘ol bathroom stall graffiti conversation is wholesome fun, and all you need is a Sharpie. Go old school: Rock-paper-scissors tournaments are excellent forms of entertainment in the library. Rounds of RPS don’t last long, so when was the last time you played the penis game? If earlier this morning isn’t the answer, it’s the wrong answer. Mix it up this time with a few “labia majoras,” or “gut lockers.” You wouldn’t want to appear sexist now that you’re an educated college student. Boredom setting in? Roll one u:. Nothing is easier to roll on than a desk situated at the perfect height for book reading and marijuana-cigarette crafting. If you haven’t mastered the art of rolling yet—don’t panic. What better place to learn than in a private booth with Internet access in a building dedicated to the stimulating minds? Just remember, as an establishment crammed with more old books than the Hebrew Bible, a library is extremely flammable. Smokey the Bear always reminds us to, “check that your jibber-joint is completely extinguished after you’re totally potted-up on weed before you nonchalantly toss it into a pile of books.” Still not stimulated enough? Get naked: This requires no explanation. If you think it does, then take your clothes off right now. Feel the liberation and walk a mile in my lack of pants, but just be sure not to walk near any elementary schools (avoid the Engineering Building). The most organized way to wreak havoc in the library is forming a flash mob set to explode on a Sunday evening: When Haddaway’s “What is Love?” bellows through the library, funky people with groovy moves will be shaking it down book isles, ending together in the shape of a heart made of humans. Is that not the best study break of all time for anyone watching? Plus, it’s awesome how

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The final activity is one that you’ve probably already thought of; statistically, you’re thinking about it every five seconds:. That’s right, sexing someone in the quietest, most publicly studious location on campus. As to a specific location, options vary depending upon one’s sexual mood. The bathroom is not only overused as a hook-up spot, but those bathrooms are disgusting cesspools containing the bacteria of innumerable amounts of brainy studiers and homeless degenerates. But, hey, we won’t nail you to a cross if you’re into that kind of erotic environment. Any dead-end book isles on the 4th floor of the east side of the building may be more uninhabited than Antarctica, and a perfect spot to hit that spot. However, if you’re feeling especially rowdy and rambunctious, sneak into a librarian’s office and pound that desk into a forever unclean equivalent of a motel mattress in South Lansing There you have it, scholars! Now your time spent at the library will either be studious or time well spent towards achieving great memories. Next time you contemplate strangling yourself with your iPod headphones; just remember all the fun-filled activities you can partake in at Club Lib.

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page 11

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bartender of the week kelsey m. Harrison Roadhouse Pub Major: Hospitality Business Nickname: Fifel Relationship status: Taken by B. Age: 24 Favorite shot: Crown Royal Favorite sex position: Insert abstinence speech here. Personal theme song: "The Scab Man." Best boy band: Boyz II Men

the drinking game

Campus Winter X-Games In a matter of days campustown will be buried under a foot of snow and unprepared students will be forced to trudge across the icy tundra to class. The only thing better than sitting on your porch watching these poor fools struggling is sitting on your porch watching these poor fools struggling with a big glass of Irish eggnog at your side. What You’ll Need: A warm coat, a chair, and some booze. Number of Players: As many people that want to play. Level of Intoxication: The further north you live the drunker you will get. How to Play: Take one drink when: - You see someone grossly underdressed and shivering. - Somebody gets hit with a snowball. - Somebody is wearing an obnoxious Christmas sweater. Take two drinks when: - Somebody is way overdressed. - Somebody is attempting to ride their bike in the snow. - Somebody gets pushed over into a snow drift.

Take three drinks when: -Somebody slips on ice. -Somebody builds or destroys a snowman. Finish your drink when: -You witness a fender-bender. -Somebody mistakes an ice-chunk for a snowball with hilarious consequences.

Game Ends When: Either you get tired of drinking or frostbite sets in.

download our app for all of our drinking games!

Boxers or briefs: Briefs. Who was the last person you drunk dialed: A cab Favorite drinking game: The Shot Game Bar pet peeve: Snapping Dream job: Stay-at-home millionaire Best drunk food: Taco Hell Parties or bars: Da PUB!

Recipe for Disaster

Ooey Gooey Chocolate chief Brownies There’s nothing better than the good old-fashioned brownies that grandma used to make. Well, unless you mix some pot in it, too! Don’t let your conscience or DEA relative stop you from deliciousness. Waking and baking has never been so easy or tasty. What You’ll Need: 1 ounce unsweetened chocolate, 2 cups of pot butter, 2 cups white sugar, 3 eggs, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, and 1 cup all-purpose flour. Cook Time: 35 minutes. Fatty Factor: Eating these might cause you to eat more brownies, you fatty fat. Let’s Get Baked: - Preheat oven to 350 degrees. - Microwave chocolate and pot butter in large bowl on high for 2 minutes or until butter is melted. - Stir until chocolate is melted. - Stir in sugar, eggs, vanilla, and flour. - Spread in greased 9 x 13 inch pan. - Bake for 35 minutes. You should bring these to your family’s Christmas dinner. Wouldn’t you love to see grandma ripped out of her mind? Sure, your mom would be upset, but seriously, can’t we, like, all just chill and get along?

Hungry for More? theblacksheeponline.com


A Party, Carol

(Apologies to Charles Dickens) By: Brendan

T

he show was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The DJ spun haplessly while the security looked onto the vacant dance floor happily. Carol had been to shows like this before, and she knew this one was dead in the water. Oh! But she was a pill-addled sound hound, Carol. She would chase MDMA with ketamine, washing down her cocktail with simultaneous hits from a nitrous tank and a bong. For this Carol was well-known in the rave scene, notorious for her love of intoxicants. Bros and hoes alike would recoil at the ghastly visage of dilated pupils and an ear-to-ear grin.

to tunnel to a pinpoint. “Stay calm,” Carol thought to herself, “Keep breathing, you’ve been through this before.” Sure enough, the darkness retreated from her vision. Standing before her now was a small girl. Carol was concerned, muttering, “Little girl, what are you doing here?” “What are you doing here?” said the girl. Carol was growing suspicious. “I’m allowed to be here, you, on the other hand, it must be past your bedtime. Let’s go find a sec—“

But what did Carol care! It was the very thing she liked. To thrust herself into a crowded pit, with all human reckoning at a distance.

“No Carol,” the little girl said, “what are you doing here? I’d guess a fair amount of MDMA, definitely some cocaine, and…acid?”

She had a dozen hits of acid in her back pocket, a hitter rod, a gram of pure molly, a few bumps of coke and all the beer she could convince these loser boys to buy her. Just then Rob Crotchitch—a freshman whom Carol regularly saw at these events—scampered up.

Astonished, Carol replied, “How…what?”

“You holding?” He asked, hopefully. “I suppose you’re not.” Carol uttered out of the side of her mouth. “If you have a hit—anything, I’ll take it.” “I don’t.” Crotchitch looked despondent, “Well, if anything does turn up, don’t forget about ole’ Robbie.” “Right,” Carol said as Rob scampered back into the fog-heavy darkness. When Carol was certain Rob could no longer see her she dashed to the restroom, set on getting her fix. Locking the stall door behind her, Carol fished in her pockets for her stash. “Get my drugs, will you, Rob?” she muttered under angry breath, “Not on my watch.” With that she swallowed everything in her possession, certain to enjoy her night alone. As she exited the bathroom Carol was shocked to see Rob Crotchitch. “What were you doing in there, Carol?” It was more accusation than question. “None of your business, Rob.” The interrogation continued, “Well then, what’s that white stuff under your nose?” Carol knew she was had. Choosing to drop any pretence of innocence, she came clean. “Yeah, so what? They’re mine. My drugs, my body.” “I’ve—I’ve,” he stammered, jaw on the floor, “I want to take psychoactives and go on adventures in my mind. I want to dance with pink elephants and talk to toad princes, and you, Carol, you’ve taken that away! A bad trip, that’s what I hope you have!” Rob danced back into the darkness. Carol stood for a moment in silence before letting out a cackle, certain to stare at a wall while contemplating the universe’s deepest secrets.

S

ome hours had passed by, loud music crawling over Carol’s body as she danced, blissfully unaware of her surroundings. Then, in a moment her vision began

“Carol, I’m not a child. I’m the Ghost of Parties Past. I’d like to show you something.” Before she knew it, Carol’s vision was again narrowing, pulling back to reveal a sunny day in the back yard of her parents’ house. “Is this - ?” “Yes Carol, it is,” the ghost assured her. “And this isn’t just any old day. It’s July 30th, 1999.” “My seventh birthday?” Just then a small girl ran outside, flitting left and right giggling, smiling, with cake frosting covering her face. “Mom, look! Butterflies!” The young girl squealed.

Carol snapped her head back at the Ghost of Parties Present saying, “That’s me!” before hearing it echo behind her moments later.

“Like I said, two hours. I’m not going to let this wedding go to shit because you can’t get your head out of your own ass.”

“It most certainly is, but look again.”

Carol’s mind started racing. She’d like to have gotten married a little earlier in life, but she couldn’t object to this.

Carol did, and her shock slowly turned to embarrassment. She was staring blankly into the distance, muttering nonsense to an illusion no one else could see. Behind her were boys and girls pointing, sniggering, mocking a girl destined for YouTube shame. The Ghost of Parties Present whispered, “This is what you defend?” “I don’t have to answer to anyone, get me out of—“ Just then her vision began to go dim before snapping back. She turned her head intending to confront those standing behind her laughing. Instead, there stood a withered old woman taking a drag off of a cigarette.

“A

nd who the hell are you?”

The ghost looked sadly at Carol. “Yes, your seventh birthday. Look at how carefree you are. Hopped up on nothing more than sugar and irrational love of butterflies, you’re enjoying life. No drugs, no beer, no vague nihilistic sense that everything is for naught.”

“I’d have thought you’d have this figured out by now,” the woman ashed her cigarette on the floor.

Tears were welling up in Carol’s eyes but she fought them back, defending herself. “Yeah, but things are different now. Life’s different—it’s harder, I have class and work and things are just…different now.”

“Certainly.”

“Yes Carol, they are,” the Ghost of Parties Past said as Carol’s vision again began to tunnel.

A

s Carol regained her vision there was a boy of her age dressed in a white collared shirt and black dress slacks standing in front of her. “And you are?” she asked flatly. She was getting the hang of this. “I’m the Ghost of Parties Present.” “I supposed you’re taking me to see some more butterflies or something, right?” Carol was getting annoyed. “Show me that everything’s still wonderful if you’re willing to just…I don’t know, be a moron who lets out her inner child, or something?” The Ghost of Parties Present remained calmly distant, “No Carol, I’d just like you to turn around.” She did, just in time to see an oddly familiar face saying, “…know, be a moron who lets out her inner child, or something?”

“Well, can you just do the vision thing so we can get this over with?”

Moments later Carol found herself at the doorstep of a large mansion. Perfectly-manicured shrubs nestled up against an ark of a house. She turned around to see a driveway lined with unpronounceable Italian cars. “This doesn’t seem so bad.” The Ghost of Parties Future agreed, “You’re right, let’s head inside.” Carol and the apparition winded through endless hallways for what seemed like hours, never running into another soul. Finally, Carol heard some conversation in the distance. “What? No. I said I needed you to make sure the roses were delivered this morning.” Carol smiled, she loved roses. “Listen, they need to be here in two hours or I’m simply not paying for them.” And he’s assertive. Carol looked at the ghost and smiled. The ghost looked grim. “Let’s keep walking,” she said. Soon they turned a corner. A man in his late forties continued to argue over the phone.

“Yes, the name’s Robert Crotchitch.” Her heart sank. She spun around to confront the Ghost of Parties Future. “Just what in the hell is this? There’s no way I’m marrying fuckin’ Rob Crotchitch.” “I know you’re not, just watch.” Soon enough out strolled a young 20-something woman. Beautiful, tall, lithe, she walked up to Robert and kissed him softly. Rob looked mildly distressed. “Baby, I’m not supposed to see you until the ceremony.” “I know,” the model said, “but I just wanted to say again…” “I know.” Carol looked at the ghost, “What is the meaning of all this?” The Ghost of Parties Future lit up another menthol, sucking in a lungful of smoke. “Earlier tonight you denied Rob Crotchitch anything. Hurt, he left. Walking home he had an idea—a way to improve distribution models for pharmaceutical companies the world over. He threw himself into the idea. By the time he was 25 he was already worth hundreds of millions of dollars. He sold, retired early, and lives his dreams, all because you chose not to give him a hit of acid.” “But—“ “There’s no buts about it, Carol. While you burn out, he burns bright. You helped him get to where he is, no doubt, but he doesn’t owe you a damn thing.” Carol was beginning to panic, “And what about me?” “Not a damn thing…” the words rung in Carol’s ears as her vision again narrowed. When she came to she was lying in her bed. It was morning. “I’m never doing drugs again,” she thought to herself. Moments later she sucked a hit of weed from a bowl, intent on napping away last night’s nightmare. “Well, no more drugs, starting tomorrow.”


the interview

nick waterhouse

Nick Waterhouse, a self-described California rhythm and blues man, knows his roots, and he funks the fuck out of them. On tour in Europe, he happily answered some of our questions about his breed of music. By: Brendan The Black Sheep: When it comes to songwriting, how do you approach it? Nick Waterhouse: I’ve found that some songs begin as larger, vague conceptions, like a fog, where I have this blob of rhythm and sounds, as well as concept or theme. Then I have to squint harder through the fog to figure it out. It’s almost like attempting to “remember” the parts, like I’m remembering something I never knew. It’s very close to the feeling of waking and trying to recall specifics of a dream. Once I’ve sorted that out, I find it’s often the rhythms that come about. I’ll have a rhythm or drum part with notes that often follow those in my mind. It’s the same with fragments of words. Some songs have lines that are years old that I’ve scratched somewhere that take on a different dimension. The material on Time’s All Gone, much of it was being prepared for live performance while I was developing it, so I would approach my musicians and say, “Drums, repeat this bit.” Then I’m having the bass do a figure that makes sense, or giving people chords to fall under. It’s really adding layers and layers after that, and following the changes I had mapped out before involving other people. TBS: When you’re recording a song does it have to be perfect before you’re happy with it, or do little flaws add a certain amount of honesty to the music? NW: Strangers tell me I make really over-perfect music, and strangers tell me I make really flawed music. What I will say is that I refuse to do anything until I feel it’s right, and only I know what that is. I really believe in an organic approach to performance and recording, but having high standards.  TBS: You obviously have a lot of R&B/soul influences, how did you get interested in that kind of music? NW: People talk about how language works in the brain, and what your “native” inner voice is thinking in. I always heard things like Van Morrison, BB King, John Lee Hooker, Aretha Franklin, soul or R&B, whatever you’d like to call it, growing up. I also heard a lot of those sounds reflected in things that were rock and roll, whether it was Elvis Costello, Tom Petty, Kinks, Stones, whatever. You know, when you are 15 and you are fantasizing about performing “Daddy Rolling Stone” in a sweaty club,  and not about winning a baseball game, or shredding guitar, or driving off in a new Mercedes with a babe, it’s the sort of a personal truth that might tell you where your heart is. TBS: Do you ever worry that your music may be - for lack of a better term - too old school for modern listeners? NW: I only worry about it when people want to talk to me about it. I really didn’t care when I made all the music you hear on the record. I really, really didn’t care because I am a modern person and I was making something that made absolute sense to me in the present -- which really had nothing to do with eras, and had a lot more to do with combination of personality, artistry, and craftsmanship. TBS: The “Some Place” video looked like it was a riot to make; any good stories come out of it?  NW: The best part of that video was the fact that we ran out of fake champagne bottles in the rental limo scene, and had to do take after take of me with the real deal. By the end of that shoot it was definitely beyond method.  TBS: For something like that video, is it actually fun to do, or is it work making it look like that much fun? NW: It is work unless you’re getting drunk. But then you’re drunk on champagne, not my favorite feeling, and having to continue shooting as your buzz wears off and the headache sets in.  TBS: Your brand of music translates really well to a live show, but what’s your approach to live music? NW: Every song is a case-by-case basis, and should be performed as such. To me, one disconnect I have noticed is that I cut much of my album very live, so people are thrown by how much I manage to get the same sound in a live setting, almost as if they’ve been conditioned to expect less. The thing is, all the recordings were sung and played 110%, so if you get that live feeling, you shouldn’t feel cheated. TBS: What do you think is the best thing to happen to music in the last 10 years? NW: The internet. TBS: The worst? NW: What everyone did with the internet. The continued perpetuation of the same methods under the guise of liberation. Pitchfork is essentially the Castro regime of music culture -- they represent the largest potential promise of a new kind of society that became a dictatorship as bad as or worse than the one it replaced. TBS: What band did you like as a child that that today you’re like, “Really, Nick? Them?” NW: Reggie and the Full Effect. Adolescence was very confusing. TBS: If you could have a mythological creature as a pet, what would you choose and why? NW: Easy. Mermaid. It would be like I had Bimbo’s 365 club floor in my living room. Slightly erotic, not much cleanup. I’m really an ocean person at heart.

the big three

entertainment-y things we’re all excited about.

Killing Them Softly In Theaters November 30th Based off the 1974 novel Cogan’s Trade, this gangster crime film stars impossibly sexy Brad Pitt as a professional enforcer who investigates a heist that occurs during a high-stakes, mob-protected poker game. Assumedly lots of crime and shady business happens in-between the all star cast, featuring actors continuing to get rich off of Italian stereotypes, James Gandolfini and Ray Liotta. Award season, here they come!

Catfish: The TV Show Monday, December 3rd at 11pm on MTV Nev Shulman’s TV show brain-child (inspired by his own online relationship gone awry) showcases yet another couple who’ve developed a supposedly very real online relationship and are mad in love. In this episode, two young people are fittin’ to meet IRL after two years of hot and heaving texting. Will it be a catfish, or will it be true love?

Ke$ha - Warrior Out December 4th The glittery passed-out Princess of Pop seems to be turning a new leaf on her second studio album, Warrior. Coming off of a spiritual journey where she “just needed to play with animals,” Ke$ha came back to record a magical album that finally shows her relatively decent pipes. Listen to her lead single “Die Young,” and check out her Bob Dylan cover of “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright” to hear those impressive vocals.


Al l nighter l i brary Drinking game You’ll be stuck in the library for the better part of this week. And if you’re not stuck in the library, you’ll be thinking about how you should be in the library studying instead of “taking a break before the next exam” by taking shots of absinthe up the keister. Never fear, with The Black Sheep’s Library Drinking Game, you can pull an all-nighter in the library while taking a booze break at the same time! No more guilt for you, it’s all good grades from here on out!

8 p.m. – 11 p.m.

3 a.m. – 5 a.m.

Take a drink for every fleeting feeling of confidence you have. Take a drink every time you think “I’ve got plenty of time!” Take drink when you think about regulating your caffeine intake. Take two drinks for every video you catch yourself watching instead of studying. Take two drinks every time you catch yourself deep in the random acquaintance area of Facebook. Take five drinks when you realize you’ve been here three hours and haven’t even opened your book.

Take a drink after “one chapter down, nine to go!” Take a drink when you realize you’re the only person in the library. Take a drink when it’s time to get another coffee. Take a drink when you have to “Just get up and walk around a little bit.” Take two drinks when you forlornly look out the window for twenty minutes. Take three drinks while having acidic, molten coffee craps. Finish your drink when you start heading home, then turn around and GET BACK IN THE GOD DAMN LIBRARY.

11 p.m. – 1 a.m.

5 a.m. – 8 a.m.

Take a drink when you finally open your book. Take a drink every time someone comes and goes from your table. Take two drinks if you decide you’ll concentrate better in one of those cube things. Take two drinks every time library security walks by. Take two drinks when you spend 10 minutes organizing iTunes. Finish your drink if you start spending more time asking around for Adderall than actually studying.

Take a drink when you decide it’s nap time, again. Take a drink when you hit snooze, then flip everyone off for glaring at you because your phone just blew up. Take two drinks when you write a “Genius sentence, the real kicker to this paper, the one that solidifies an A” but it’s the only sentence you’ve written so far. Take two drinks when a librarian tells you not to lean back in your chair. Finish your drink when you think “I studied drunk so that means I have to take the test drunk. Because science.”

1 a.m. – 3 a.m.

8 a.m. – test time

Take a drink when you think “Being drunk in the library is actually pretty fun!” Take a drink when you wake up with the pages of your book stuck you your face. Take a drink for every other person sleeping in the library. Take two drinks to wash down the third bag of Hot Cheetos you just bought from the vending machine. Take two drinks every time you start sweating. Take three drinks when you “accidentally” start looking at porn. Finish your drink when you start crafting a sob-story excuseemail to your professor.

Take a drink when you think “fuck school, man, life is for livin’”. Take a drink when the sun comes up. Take two drinks when an overwhelming, albeit false sense of accomplishment washes over you. Take two drinks when you realize there have been other students soberly plugging away for three straight days. Take three drinks when you see someone else from your class. (Four if they’re drunk too.) Take five drinks when you start walking to the wrong final. Finish your drink when your professor grants you permission to miss the final. Really finish your drink when you realize you now have to kill your grandma.


page 15

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Residents Report: Mitt Romney a “Raging Alcoholic” after Losing the Election Meg Enter wrote this

BELMONT, MASS—Only a few hours after the Romney family’s return to their mansion, friends and neighbors began reporting suspicious activity occurring around the residence. Speculation swirled that Romney’s devastating loss in the presidential election led the devout Mormon of sixty-five years to taste his first sip of alcohol, which, naturally, quickly spiraled into a Tracy Morgan-esque bender. A mere hour after the former governor’s return to la casa de Willard, witnesses spotted Romney standing on his front lawn, hanging brain, and swigging from a nearly empty bottle of Maker’s Mark before trying to throw it at a stray cat. Evidence of the former governor’s drinking problem does not stop there. Numerous accounts in the weeks following the election shed light on the sad state of an alcoholic millionaire whose hopes and dreams for the last eight years of his remaining life have been crushed. The same neighbors that reported the initial incident further elaborated and said Romney made a quick trip to Michigan to visit his father’s grave. Mitt was seen at the gravesite sobbing and apologizing to his father for failing to live up to the Romney name. Reports also indicate that the former presidential candidate was drunkenly passed out on the cemetery grounds for several hours. A close male friend of the former vice presidential hopeful, Paul Ryan, has come forward to say that he and Paul have been involved in an steamy affair for several months now, and they are both are growing tired of being awoken in the middle of the night to Mitt’s drunk “I miss you” calls, “I will always love you” texts, and “you up?” sexts. Back in Massachusetts Mitt was spotted several times stumbling around his Bain Hills country club, wearing tighty-whities and a wife-beater like he was pre-gaming

for a Ted Nugent concert. He was incoherently stringing curse words together and yelling at Ann to get back in the kitchen, despite Mrs. Romney being absent from the scene. Mr. Romney was escorted from the country club by security after he reportedly groped and puked down the blouse of a young lady at the clubhouse that “Kinda, I guess, looked like Ann from behind.” Mitt’s affluent neighbors, staunch supporters of his campaign less than a month ago, have become distraught over his recent behavior and loss of distinguished hairstyle. The hairstyle has now taken on a life of its own, appearing not unlike the mop top sported by Ernie from Sesame Street. Meanwhile, Mitt’s wife and his children (Ben, Craig, Josh, Matt, Tagg, and Tugg) as well as his 411 grandchildren are inconsolable, as the head of the household has been missing from family dinners since November 7th. Mitt spends his day loitering around city hall performing crude acts on what appears to be an Obama-inspired voodoo doll. Friends of the family believe Mitt has lost touch with Jesus as a result of the election saying, “God did not favor Mitt on election night. It’s the only possible explanation for his loss.” A White House correspondent has reported that during this tumultuous time for Mitt Romney, President Barack Obama has occupied himself with business as usual, such as banging his lovely wife, watching all the seasons of The Wire, and fist-bumping Big Bird. Undeniably, November has not been great for Mitt Romney, but his community has made it known that with a lot of prayer, this situation is bound to be resolved. In the meantime, the former governor has replaced Jesus with Jack Daniels, as he slips into the subconscious of the collective American mind. Besides, “Romney Style” is so six weeks ago.

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Michigan State Fall Issue 13 - 11/29/12