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ISSUE 66.13 “Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.” JOE BRYANT Editor-in-Chief

RACHEL RUFRANO Managing Editor


Managing Editor


News Director

ANDY KNEIS Sports Editor


Literature Editor & PR


Entertainment Editor & PR



Creative Arts Editor


Culture Editor


CLAY COOPER Art Director

ANDREW LEE Photo Editor


On-Campus Distribution



Advertising Executive



Comics Editor, cover



-Pancho Villa


Disclaimer and Publication Information The Union Weekly is published using ad money and partial funding provided by the Associated Students, Inc. All Editorials are the opinions of the writer, and are not necessarily the opinions of the Union Weekly, ASI, or of CSULB. All students are welcome and encouraged to be a part of the Union Weekly staff. All letters to the editor will be considered for publication. However, CSULB students will have precedence. All outside submissions are due by Thursday, 5 PM to be considered for publishing the following week and become property of the Union Weekly. Please include name, major, class standing, and phone number for all submissions. They are subject to editing and will not be returned. Letters may or may not be edited for grammar, spelling, punctuation, and length. The Union Weekly will publish anonymous letters, articles, editorials and illustrations, but must have your name and information attached for our records. Letters to the editor should be no longer than 500 words. The Union Weekly assumes no responsibility, nor is it liable, for claims of its advertisers. Grievance procedures are available in the Associated Students business office.

Questions? Comments? MAIL : 1212 Bellflower Blvd. Suite 239, Long Beach, CA 90815 PHONE : 562.985.4867 FAX : 562.985.8161 E-MAIL : WEB :



t’s strange to find myself at the tail-end of my last semester as Editor-in-Chief. People talk a lot about college being a life-altering experience, and most of those people are blowhards. And I’m not saying that I’m not, because I can be and I’m sure I have been more than a couple times in this column. But college really has been life-altering for me. Not academia, Lord knows, but this paper. More than just a place to hang out between classes, the Union Weekly has given me, and I’m sure hundreds of others in the course of its 33 years, a means to express myself. A way to grow as a writer and (as corny as it sounds) a way to grow as a person, and I will always be grateful for that. For a place to be myself when I most needed it. It is leaps and bounds more valuable to me than any degree ever can be. I’m not an idiot. I know things get better than this. Life moves on. I have a beautiful fiancé, a little talent, and what could be a flicker of job opportunity at the

end of all this graduation nonsense. But all of that will have to try damn hard to top my experience here. Except my fiancé, she wins by default. Work-wise? I couldn’t have asked for a better staff. Insanely talented and motivated (with little to no pay, mind you), they have no idea how much their friendships have meant to me these past two-and-a-half years. No stuffy office job can compare to the environment of our office, and really, it never should. The paper will always be unique for that. Thank you, Elise McCutchen. You’ve stuck by me through the whole year, with more than enough reason to jump ship, and even said “yes” when I asked you to marry me, for some reason. Thanks Rachel Rufrano and Clay Cooper, my Managing Editors. You’ve made my job easier when it’s been toughest. Thanks Kathy Miranda, the first person in the office that reached out to me. Thank you Matt Dupree, for making me a better writer. Thanks to James Kislingbury, arguably the



office’s hardest worker. When I couldn’t think of exactly how to take someone down a peg in this column, you were there to collabo and help me twist the dagger. Thank you Caitlin Cutt, for yelling at me. Thanks Ryan Kobane, for the introduction to Union debauchery. And finally, a special thanks to Mike “Beef ” Pallotta for the big shoes to fill. Beef, you’re my best friend and the only reason I ever set foot in the office, and for that I owe you this whole experience. Congratulations to Kevin O’Brien, next year’s Editor-in-Chief. You deserve it, bud. Keep the paper strong (actually, fuck that, make it stronger) and I wish you the best of luck. I love the Union and am sad to leave it, but I’m ready for whatever’s next. Well. This is it. Here comes tomorrow. No More Joe.

Direct all well-wishing and plagues upon Joe’s house to



Holy Matrimony Friday Martin Scorsese President Josiah Bartlet Apple Juice McNutty Furloughs Rick Deckard Adam Carolla Teabags Hot Chick Community “Tiny” Lister Hate Mail El Diablo Beef Capcom The Dog House Captain Ahab Ugly Americans Tim O’Brien James Cameron’s Hair

F*King MST3K Archer YoGo! Creations David Cross Army of the Pharoahs Zepeda Sylvana Netflix Xbox LIVE in the office CoD “Act A Donkey” Andy’s Twits (@kneisage) Speech & Debate Old Krueger David Simon Blu-Ray The Onion Tetris Friendships Guns Nic Cage Coco

$15 Map Packs The Int’l Black Cross Activision Tuition Parking Services Teabaggers Carpetbaggers Sbarro Kevin O’Brien (he stinks) Friday Furloughs Congenital Heart Defects Volcano Emperor Hirohito Seattle’s Best Lady Gaga Kei$ha Incontinent Dobermans Ninja Stories Apache Victory Tim Burton James Cameron

Double-Double-Down Chem 111B Steiner Anarchy Brainstormer Trivia Sisqo’s Twitter Blackface ’Niner Dig New Krueger Grown Ups Regal First Look Elective Credit Req. Thank Ewe Floods Cosplay Kevin Smith Senior Citizens Blindside Winter Olympics Hate Crimers NBC


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act: I’m a fan of cute shit. I have been for the past 21 years I’ve been on this earth and I don’t think this vicious cycle is going to end anytime soon. And I’m proud to say that this is an addiction—just like every college boy is addicted to porn, I am addicted to cutesy animal websites. And, just like college boys, I abuse these websites every day. The only difference is that I am willing to go public about it (and my laptop keys aren’t sticky). While the rest of the student body is busy trolling websites like Facebook, Funny or Die, and JustJared, I’m huddled in the corner of my low paying job ogling pictures of hamsters dressed as homemakers, or watching videos of otters holding hands. Most of my friends and family are fully aware of my “problem,” “addiction” or whatever negative synonym they have for my love of hamsters. They are aware and sometimes grossed out by it, which is why I’m here to defend these voiceless miniature teddy bears. A couple of months ago I suggested



to my boyfriend that we should invest in a pet together. After all, we had passed the 9 month mark of our relationship, so I only thought it was suitable to see his nurturing side. However, things momentarily faltered between us when I told him I was jonesing for a hamster and his response was “ewww.” EW?! Are you kidding me? These little fur faces were the cutest thing I had discovered since I found out that Gary Coleman would stay small for the rest of his life. And many of you may agree that these “rodents” are in fact, just that—rodents, small animals that will give birth to more small animals that will soon infest your household. To you they may as well be rats. But this is impossible because we all know that hamsters are way cuter than rats. You may also worry that they might bite off your finger and if that’s the case then you have nothing to worry about because all these suckers do is nibble and once in a while puncture a small hole on the tip of your finger. A hamster bite is similar to a diabetic poking their finger to test their blood

sugar. So if one of these cute bastards happens to bite you, don’t be a pussy and curse at it, just pretend like you’re monitoring your blood sugar. And sure, the only threat of their species being endangered is the fact that they may at times eat their own babies. But that’s, like, rare. People may also be hesitant to get one because they think it would be too much “work.” This is not at all true. Hamsters are kind of like goldfish, they don’t take that much work. Just like having a goldfish, you would clean their cage every week or so and they’re easily entertained by just having a wheel. As for cleaning them? They are practically their own groomers! Their hair doesn’t get too wild (unless you get a long-haired hamster, then you just set yourself up for trouble ‘cause we all know they’re the attention whore of all hamsters) and they clean their own body on a daily basis. They practically pay for themselves! So you like cute shit, too? Check it out:,, dailyotter.



In these last few months of school I have an increasingly difficult time paying attention in class. I sit looking out of the window longingly dreaming of 108 degree weather, sweaty back-thigh flesh sticking to my black leather car seats, weed by the hot blossom moonlight quality of air, sparkler-popsiclephysical-athletic clothing, chlorine smells and everything that is summer. Oh, and Journey. Though in the absence of lackluster compulsory obligations [read: school] I develop a backward set of waking hours. I caution you though, kind reader, against labeling me as a “night owl,” or what my mother lovingly prefers, “a freaking vampire.” You see, this, to me, has become a way of life. There are agreeable aspects that come along with my hours, some of which do not include no one else being awake, and continuous paid programming on TV. I’ve discovered UNION WEEKLY

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some excellent cable movies, some of the best, of course, are rated two stars or less. Like the cult dancing film Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo, which is pretty much the porn of dancing, complete with awful dialogue and unceasing popping and locking. But I digress. This summer I have set for myself one goal: to witness the LA Times being delivered. Last summer, I noticed that, albeit being awake when the paper is delivered, I’ve never heard the slightest hint of the stealthy sunnavabitch who delivers the LA Times. Who is this person? I’ve become increasingly curious to how this all goes down. I’ve never heard a single delivery truck ramble by: surely they must park at the end of the block and sprint by wearing slippers, siphoning off papers from what I imagine to be an oversized fanny pack. I used to wonder how the Union was distributed, that is

until I saw Beef (Mike Pallotta) cruise by on a very yellow cart while waiting for my nine o’ clock journalism class to start. It was an accidental discovery that shouldn’t count. Also the people who deliver the LA Times are fast, lightning fast, it seems as if the paper materializes on my front lawn each morning. I have no concrete proof that an actual individual delivers the paper. My uncle “says” he’s seen him, and when questioned has mentioned leaving him a tip and a bottle of wine for Christmas. But I too, have been guilty of leaving material things around the end of December for a man who delivers things in the middle of the night. So until I see, with my own eyes, how this operation goes down, I have reason to believe that the Los Angeles Times practices sorcery, or has a team of highly trained ballerina fanny pack enthusiasts at their beck and call.


This is my opinion, perhaps my final one here. I sit and type, thinking that a special someone I will not mention is gonna miss me, and that I’m gonna miss that someone. I will. There is certainty I say as I’m off to a lot of maybes going to Europe, a place I should call home. I should do a lot of things that I never will. I’ve been a foreigner my whole life: born a French citizen in Sweden, to a Bolivian father and a Breton mother. I don’t have a home, but I made one here for five years. Goodbye California, I will miss your smiling people, especially the precious few that I love deeply, like Caitlin Cutt, you are amazing, and I think of you especially right now, my favorite so-called Christian. I drink to the Union for allowing me to write my opinions, a special thanks to Simone Harrison, my enthusiastic and tolerant editor who printed things I thought would never be printed. Also, I hope that another of my fellows at the paper finds it in him to accept an apology, I’m sorry. Here is that imaginary border between now and then. I write this for myself, and for you, graduating senior, for you teacher who will be laid off, and even for you graduate student who is leaving, here is a time to surprise yourself. I write this for you, very special person hidden close by my heart, for you. As a child I was taught differences, by my mother, by other people, by the world, and I’ve spent my time well since then, spent it finding similarities, mending the broken. This summer will be well spent asking questions about how to continue. It will be spent at my house in Bretagne, where I will host the artists and friends that I’ve invited to spend their summer there. I will finish my first book, and it will make a difference for someone, it will change the course of that someone’s life. I was about to write something spiteful into this article and my roommate, we’ll call him Carlos (he’s Spanish, so he must be a Carlos), told me something, and it changed my mind. It is my opinion that he made change. California, I’m already in Bretagne dreaming about you, about the wonderful time you’ve given me. I sit on my porch and smoke the last cigarette of the day as the sun lights up the tree tops in my garden and Yves Montand sings Les Feuilles Mortes through my kitchen window. I drink from the glass of wine that I drink to be honest with you, and think that if I complained, I only did it out of love. If you disagreed with me, I just hope it wasn’t because I did something bad. I have poetry in my heart and tears to share with you and if I fight, I fight to defend you. What is an opinion really? I have a high opinion of some wonderful teachers I’ve had, of some amazing fellow students that have killed my ennui more than once, which is really impressive. Americans, you’ve changed my mind, and I hope I did the same for you. And to sum it all up what can I say? Perhaps I leave you with this: a contrary opinion created everything that we call home.






’m 24 years old, going to be a super senior next fall, and my biggest regret—really my only regret—about my collegiate life is that I only just now started writing for the Union. I’ve been interacting with the staff here for a little over a month and that is definitely something in my 4+ years of college I wish I had started a lot sooner. I realized way too late in my education career that this isn’t a race (despite the fact that I dragged my feet a good few years after high school). I was too busy comparing myself to all my high school peers who were already with degree, or in grad programs, to really realize just what being in college is supposed to mean. Being in college is about doing something more than just classes. College isn’t a job, at least it’s not supposed to be. You aren’t supposed to punch your timecard in the morning and punch out after your classes are done for the day. College really is about getting an entire experience: join clubs, volunteer work, apply for scholarships, go to the gym, play sports, do something. Anything. But herein lies the problem: You have to go do this shit yourself. No one is going to come to you and suggest you go join the Unicycler’s Club, or the Juggler’s Club, or their rival the Clammy-Handed


Go-Karters. You have to go and search these things out. And that is a good thing. College is about being independent and taking charge of your own life. Even if your parents pay for your school, your food and your shitty new car, you need to learn to look for things on your own. You have to take control of your life because this is how it is going to be in real life. And while I advocate avoiding real life for as long as you can, you are truly missing out on the entire experience that you can find here on campus. The most fun I’ve had in my collegiate career is being in the Union staff room working on the next issue. It’s new, different and fulfilling. Every club on campus can have this feeling if it’s something you like to do. And trust me, there will be something on campus that you like to do. Even if it’s magic. Not Magic: The Gathering (though I’m sure there’s something for that too), but like real-fake magic. So essentially, stop wasting your time in class, and start having fun doing other stuff on campus. If you work a full-time job, see if you can work around it. If you have a kid, throw him in a Reverse-Lazarus pit. I know summer’s coming up, and that means in the fall semester clubs will need bodies, so get the fuck out there and have fun.




Summer is rapidly approaching. As the temperature increases, there seems to be an exponentially inversed proportion of clothing. I get it: it’s hot, and sweat and jeans don’t mix well together. However, last time I checked, 70 degrees and a little humidity don’t call for dresses that barely cover your ass as appropriate attire for your 8am class. I’ve always been a proponent of the “use what your momma gave you” ideology. If you got it, flaunt it. But honestly, that doesn’t mean I want to see your vagina when you’re walking up the stairs in front of me. It also means that if your momma gave you something I don’t want to see, you shouldn’t be showing it to me. There’s a seriously fat line between being confident about your body and being way, way, WAY too confident about your body. Here are some things I find inappropriate: any top that reveals side boob. Sheer tights or leggings with just a normal t-shirt. Short-shorts that leave a noticeable amount of ass hanging out the bottom; a double offense when worn with Uggs. Skirts you really can’t bend over in. Short dresses that move just enough when you walk that I could probably see your whole world if I


stared long enough. Anything that reveals an ungodly amount of cottage cheese. Wearing only a bathing suit top any more than a mile away from the beach. I could go on for hours, don’t tempt me. I understand the allure of this siren clothing; truly, I do. Guys like to stare, and they’ll certainly do it when you’re wearing the virtual equivalent of nipple tassels and fishnets to get some Starbucks. But what you’ll eventually realize is they aren’t staring because you’re hot; they’re staring because your desperation is amusing and slightly revolting like a car wreck on the 405. All I’m saying is, save the strip-wear for the strip club. This summer, I’m making a statement to bring classy back. I’m all for being sexy, but there is nothing sexier than an upstanding, intelligent woman with a hot ass and some tasteful cleavage. Think about it before you get dressed in the morning for the next three or four months. What ever happened to leaving some things to the imagination? Oh right, hip hop and music videos. Sadly, Long Beach is not a perpetual music video set, and you are not currently participating in said music video. Please put some goddamn clothes on.

The semester is almost over and it’s been real, super extra real. It’s pretty crazy that my first year of college is basically over. This year was filled with many firsts, missed lectures, forgotten assignments, botched labs, lost i-clickers and terrible tests. Of all the things I never thought I might have to deal with is my first fail. It’s a real bummer kids. This upset is coming from the bane of my existence, fucking chemistry. I’ve grappled with this subject since I was a sophomore in high school. It just won’t leave me alone (my favorite sport). There’s plenty of mutual hate involved. I’m absolutely awful at it and the shit is just difficult. Who knew that this would be the thing to haunt me throughout my education? Maybe I should switch majors. Either way, fate is a cruel bitch. Who’s scared shitless and ready to puke their guts out? Borderline grades are the worst. I’m not talking about all you smarty pants who are scared to get a B. Nope, how about the real kids who’re praying to the heavens they pass. So it’s time to frantically start the homework you haven’t been doing so you can literally pass by a point. We could totally perform a sacrifice; I hear they have pretty great results. Anybody have a

goat they’re not using or a human? They usually work better. I’ve been thinking about it though, worst case scenario I fail. That must be what “repeat deletes” are for, the one hard class that you try so hard in for nothing. I take that back actually, it’s not for nothing at least we have the experience. Once you fall flat on your face you know that you can pick yourself up and try again and I gotta tell you my face hurts a lot. That’s life though, you gotta keep it moving. I got mad props for all of the people who continue to go to class even though they’re past the point of no return. So next week I’m hoping for the best for everybody. The over-achieving and mediocre students alike: go get ‘em. I’m especially rooting for those of us that need a miracle to push us just over the edge. If it doesn’t work out at least we’ll be the smart ass students next year because we already went through the bullshit. Academic probation? No biggie after the semester your grade will be replaced with the shiny new grade you get. Just don’t fuck it up next semester. Then you’ll have a double fail on your hands. There’s no such thing as a “repeat start over.” UNION WEEKLY

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[Editor’s Note: Andy and Katy, our resident adorable couple recently took a trip to the zoo with the help of the USU info desk. Here’s what they had to say about it.]

class of 2024 and each of their moms. And it was awesome! Gorillas, giraffes, lions, cheetahs, and, most importantly, BABY ELEPHANTS. It was the perfect gift.

Andy: Okay, here’s a scenario: someone special’s birthday is coming up. What do you do? If you are smart and thoughtful like me, you buy them a ticket to somewhere fun on the cheap from the information desk in the Student Union, and maybe pick up some info on the way. Free of charge! So me and Katy decided to make the most of our furlough day and take a trip to the San Diego Wild Animal Park in honor of Katy’s birthday and our undying love for one another that will surely last forever.

Andy: And I was so full on fun and knowledge, and maybe a little love I didn’t even realize that all I had eaten that day was a couple tic-tacs and some raisins. Even though I was able to save some money on tickets, the information desk didn’t help with the prices of food at the park. The food for the animals was more expensive than I would have spent on myself. 50 cents for a deer snack? Three dollars for lorikeet nectar? That’s savannah robbery! I’m pissed just typing about it.

Katy: Yep, while most people within our age bracket spent May 6th sleeping away their enthusiasm for Mexican independence, Andy and I spent a day at the zoo with the

Katy: You should have told me how hungry you were! Here you are throwing sevendollar hotdogs in souvenir hotdog buckets at me when you’re about to pass out/die. That’s devotion. Thanks. Maybe we should

talk about some animals or something. Andy: Okay, good idea. We saw all sorts of animals, a bunch of birds, baby elephants (as mentioned before) and even some lions up close! And oddly enough, they were all acting a donkey. It felt like since it was a weekday and there were less people at the park, the animals were more energetic, and actually moved around and did things. Most of the time they just sit there and glare as the kids visiting yell at them and call them names like “King Kong” and stuff. Very clever. I’m talking to you, gorillas, and as future teachers, me and Katy feel your pain. Katy: Some of the animals were lazier than others. I didn’t know giraffes had the physical capacity to sit down, but there were three of them sunbathing in the middle of the supposed savannah. And the gorillas literally flinched at the buckets of vegetables being

showered upon them, refusing to eat anything other than carrots. At my house, that sort of behavior warrants a stern talking-to. Andy: I agree. Unacceptable. They were spoiled gorillas, but they look like hairy people with big arms and little legs, which is funny so they get a pass in my book. Anyway, the bottom line is: we had a fun time and it couldn’t have been done without the help of the information desk, which has tickets for all sorts of other Southern California parks that your special someone might enjoy. So there you go, this has been an article about the campus, okay? It’s about the campus. Katy: Sure, it’s about the campus. Don’t forget to say goodbye, Andy. Andy: Don’t tell me my business! I’ll write what I want! YOU’RE DUMPED. JUST KIDDING. Bye everyone, have a nice summer!


“University politics are vicious precisely because the stakes are so small.” It’s obvious that Henry Kissinger was not a student when he said this. If he were, he’d have probably added something about “except when career-minded administrative types decide to fuck with your wallet.” In the midst of deep financial woes—woes that have prevented and will continue to prevent students from getting a proper education—one college is pursuing its own vendettas at the expense of students. Because what are you going to do, NOT pay your tuition? NOT get your degree? Well, actually, you might not. One might hope that the then-dean of the College of the Arts (former music teachUNION WEEKLY

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er Don Para) was lying when he marched into a March 2009 meeting of the film department faculty and declared that they would be “going without” until they could learn to behave “collegially.” One might hope that he at least took a breath before making the acknowledgement that those who will be “hurt the most will be the students,” especially since he recently claimed that supporting faculty in order to achieve student success was his number one priority. But then, you don’t know The Don, a man who lists “trying to move the University Art Museum downtown” as one of his major accomplishments as dean. Right now, the Don has stepped

into some pretty big shoes as the interim provost, but he still carries that special torch for the film department. This year, the film department received a 33% cut in IRA funding, the funding which supports the use of special equipment and projects for class instruction needs. Imagine a fishing class in which only 2 out of 3 students get fishing poles. The IRA fees are paid by students, and then distributed by a student board to purely student-related activities. So even though the student’s were ready to give the film department the requisite 10% cut, The Don stepped in to twist the knife. That’s right, he cut the money paid by students, dis-

tributed by students, for student-related activities. “But everyone has to cut back!” you might say, if you weren’t a music major. Para’s home department received a greater share of its funding requests than it had the previous year, despite receiving the single greatest outside donation in university history. So while virtually every group that receives IRA money took massive cuts, from the Biology Field Trips to the Daily 49er to the tragically still-on-campus University Art Museum; the music department is going tuba-shopping. And so, dear students, consider this quote from The Don, taken mostly out of context with emphasis added, “The future for you could be bright.”






“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.”

bout a year back, BBC film critic Mark Kermode said about Moon that “Good science fiction isn’t about technology or special effects, it’s about ideas.” Blade Runner isn’t just good science fiction, it’s great science fiction, and it’s one of the better movies about ideas that I can think of. While many treat Blade Runner as a meditation on life and all that, I see it as a movie about our society and just how screwed up we are. Beyond all of that is a film so wonderful, so iconic, that it is hard to imagine what a world without Blade Runner would look like. Most of what is memorable about Blade Runner is probably down to the art design. Blade Runner was the third film of Ridley Scott (Alien, Gladiator, Robin Hood), who holds a BA in graphic design, and even then he demonstrates an eye for both designing a world and filming it. Much of the Los Angeles of 2019 was designed by legendary concept artist Syd Mead, who worked on films ranging from Star Trek to Tron. The world on film is a run-down, rainy, polluted, overpopulated mess that looks suspiciously like a back lot with plastic tubes and neon lights drilled to the side of it. Both of these men’s visions (as well as an army of draftsmen, artists, and journeymen) combine to make a vision of the future that, at the time, was utterly unique. Since then the look of Blade Runner, this “cyberpunk” aesthetic, as the nerds have deigned it, is old hat. It’s everywhere. Nowadays everyone knows what the Blade Runner look is without even having seen the film and that’s because it’s a damn good looking film. The reason for this is that instead of calling attention to the set design, costume work, or special effects, the camera shoots around these things. The film benefits from going about things like this. Not focusing makes this world that much more mysterious. It gives it weight. Anything could be around the corner or behind a door. Most importantly though, and more concretely, the camera focuses on

what is important: The actors. Harrison Ford plays the lead as Rick Deckard, a retired cop and “blade runner”—a professional assassin that specializes in the “retirement” of rogue androids or “replicants.” Ford’s Deckard is a mess of a man. He hates life, he drinks non-stop, and his apartment is a dingy, smoke filled hole that inexplicably looks like a Frank Lloyd Wright house turned inside out. In short, he’s the perfect film noir protagonist, with one important distinction: He may or may not be

on screen, as the scheming police inspector, Gaff. My favorite minor role has to go to Hy Pyke, though, as the bar owner/sleazebag Taffey Lewis, whose enunciation is straight out of an Edward G. Robinson film. The actor who holds the film together best, the one who makes it more than just a moody flick about the future, is Rutger Hauer as Roy Batty, the leader of a rogue cell of replicants—tailor made androids used as slave labor. Hauer’s always great, from bit parts in genre movies like Sin City

one of the androids he’s hunting down. Renowned crazy woman and catsuit enthusiast Sean Young (Stripes, Ace Ventura) has a good turn as a young woman who discovers that she’s a replicant. The movie is full of smaller roles from Joe Turkle (The Shining) as Dr. Tyrell, who possesses quite possibly the largest eye-glasses in cinema history, to M. Emmet Walsh (Blood Simple, The Jerk) as a police chief whose drunkenness is only matched by his sweatiness. There’s also the incomparable Edward James Olmos, who is wonderful in the forty seconds he’s actually

or Batman Begins to larger roles, as in the underrated 1986 horror picture, The Hitcher. There’s no better example of his talent than in this film, where he straddles the line perfectly between genius and madman. At the very least, Hauer’s performance delivers one of the best villains on film. Besides the excellent performances, the dialogue (written by Hampton Fisher and David Peoples) is also top notch. It seems like a rare thing for a movie that isn’t a comedy (like Caddyshack or The Big Lebowski) or packed with action (like Predator or Die

Hard) to be so full of quotable moments. From Deckard’s jaded, hard-boiled quips to Batty’s loopy soliloquies, the script is top notch. More importantly, what Blade Runner manages that more bloated sci-fi epics like the Star Wars prequels or Avatar don’t is that the script actually manages to speak to something bigger and more important than what’s happening in the plot—things like free will, memory, and mortality. Admittedly, much like all of the hard liquor and cigarettes its characters go through, the film itself is a bit of an acquired taste. Ridley Scott’s film is a slow moving picture that almost entirely consists of people (and replicants) talking in rooms. It’s safe to say that the trajectory of science fiction has primarily been an adventure heavy one, one reliant on spectacle rather than characters or story. That’s dandy and all, but Blade Runner is about as far from a special effects driven popcorn picture as one can get without watching a European movie (which is, presumably, one of the reasons it tanked at the box office). If anything, the movie is more in line with the brooding atmospherics of Roman Polanski than the swashbuckling speculations of Star Trek. This column has always been about bringing attention to cult films that I really want to share with other people, and as much as I love Blade Runner, it’s probably stretching the definition of the word to call it a “cult movie” at this point. By now, thanks to the release of the Director’s Cut in 1991, Blade Runner is properly appreciated as one of the most important movies of 20th century. That’s because Blade Runner is a move that strives to talk about something more complicated than space mining or magic in your blood stream or vampires or whatever other lame crap is clogging up the movie theaters nowadays. What’s more is that it’s a damn cool movie, maybe one of the coolest ever made. A world without Blade Runner in it is a world that shines a little less bright. UNION WEEKLY

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bout three years ago a British black comedy called Death by a Funeral came out. A few weeks ago it was released again. How the fuck did that happen? It’s not a time warp, it’s remakes, and Hollywood loves the shit out of them. Everything from TV shows to movies have been reprocessed and repackaged, to the chagrin of many. I don’t blame people for being upset when a cult classic is revamped with a shitty cast. It makes for a terrible product, and leaves fans feeling unsatisfied. Because of this, I make it a point to stay away from remakes and gratuitous sequels. I saw the British version of Death at a Funeral and loved it. It had an original plot and was hilarious. Not too long ago I saw the trailers for the remake and a sickness came over me. First, I was angry and I decided that I wasn’t going to see it. Then I realized I would have no justification for telling everybody it sucked. I eventually broke down and went to see the new Death

at a Funeral fully expecting to hate it. Much to my surprise it was actually pretty good. The plot was essentially the same, so was the dialogue. They kept just about everything down to the annoying family friend and the crotchety uncle. What allowed this endeavor to succeed was a plethora of great

actors. That way the pressure wasn’t put on one actor to carry the entire picture, but spread out over the entire cast. The main question I ask when I see another replication of an old idea: Wasn’t it good enough already? If the movie got its message out there in a creative way, why do we need to see it again? What’s the point? Then there’s some remakes that remorselessly spit on the original. I don’t have any respect for those movies. Yet, in some instances I have been proven wrong. When somebody can take an old idea and put a creative twist on it, the product can be amazing. Plus, original movies can be just as shitty as a bad remake. I’ll admit there are some remakes or adaptations that are just as good if not better than the originals. For some balance next time you see an awesome trailer for a revamped idea, go see the original. You’ll get a taste of what the director intended the movie to look like. I’m not suggesting

an outright boycott of remakes, but rather that you owe it to yourself to become a more informed movie viewer. If you’re like me and you’re adamantly against remakes, you should go see one. You might be pleasantly surprised or you might be completely horrified. In the end you’ll live.



When the 24 pilot premiered on Fox in 2001, it more or less redefined the television serial action/drama. Presented in an original real-time format and starring a then-invisible Kiefer Sutherland, the show has set new standards for both the actor and television. Employing split screens, fast-paced and constantly-mutating storylines, and a whole bunch of terrorist ass-kicking, 24 gave us an explosive show about a tragic and flawed anti-hero that appealed to everyone from 18-year-old boys to 70-year-old Republicans. As we learn that this eighth season will be its last, many long-time fans of the show actually find themselves breathing a sigh of relief. While this may not be as intricate an adventure as, say, a show like Lost, main creative forces Joel Surnow and Robert Cochran have turned out some excellently-written seasons of television. . . but even though Jack Bauer and his refusal to play by the rules never fails to make for at least a few weekly moments of badassery, it’s hard to overlook the fact that some of the more recent seasons have been just plain stale. As I recently re-watched the third season (an inescapably awesome one, as Jack deals with a heroin addiction and delves into an UNION WEEKLY 10 MAY 2010

excitingly convoluted deep cover operation), I found myself chuckling at mentions of “opening sockets,” and shouted demands to know “WHERE THE TERRORISTS ARE” with their nuclear device/weaponized virus/dirty bomb/what-have-you. Over time, they’ve just become a laughable cliché—something that one can imagine might be tough to avoid when writing a television series about a government agency dedicated specifically to the thwarting of terrorist threats. Nonetheless, Surnow, Cochran, and company were able to give us five or so seasons of television that really crackled with excitement. We saw Sutherland’s Jack Bauer deal with everything from Presidential assassination plots to a season that involved an actual Presidential antagonist—and this was actually pulled off with a surprising degree of grace and realism. It becomes tough to give the show a pass, though, as we start to see later seasons employing storylines that feel derivative, rehashed, and are sometimes just plain boring. For starters, if you’re any kind of fan of 24 the a question like “How many bad days can one guy have?” has already been asked and answered: It doesn’t matter, provided that we

can keep things fresh and engaging. As we get into the last three seasons, however, the question changes to, “How many moles can CTU possibly have?” “Does CTU ever do background checks? and “How many times does Jack have to go rogue, get threatened with arrest, or yell at someone to arrest him after he’s solved the crisis before the brass realizes that the man simply gets shit done?”

It’s the repetitiveness that’s inexcusable. After knocking it out of the park almost five years in a row, 24 just hit a slump and gave us three seasons of the same shit we’ve seen go wrong, and uninteresting peripheral storylines to boot. This present season is a perfect example: Almost every problem faced has been seen before by at least one cast member. You’d think at this point, we’d know how to nip this kind of shit in the bud. And as the season’s 12th episode rolled around, the story finally exploded in a tense and awesome display of well-placed narrative, but it took half the season to get there. With eight seasons, one made-for-TV movie, and a feature film currently in development (shooting is expected to start in Europe early next year, with Sutherland currently reviewing a script), 24 is a franchise that makes fans glad they’re involved, and is an awesome world for any newcomer to step into. Even when it’s not at its best, 24 still gets a nod for never being afraid to kill off some main characters and become a hell of a page-turner in doing so. So long, Jack. It’s been a pleasure knowing you.





ehold faithful reader, a tourney of champions and heroes! You may have thought the Union as being just another fine, free publication to peruse as you relieve your bowels, but nay, it is so much more. For this newspaper, originally printed on gilded parchment, has served as a means of recruiting the finest warriors that the corridors of CSULB have to offer. Every few years as many of the staff reaches the pinnacle of their capabilities, they are thrown headfirst into the midst of battle by me: the all-powerful, allknowing Mike Pallotta (though I’ve gone by many names in my tenure on this campus: Mike, Beef, Elijah Bates, and so on). Huzzah! This year’s recruits might be the finest yet. I’ve spent years combing the halls, venturing the span of friendship walk, and ogling the most buxom of maidens to find these local champions. Razzmatazz! Once on staff and working under the reign of the mighty Editor-in-Chief Joe Bryant, I let them continue honing their warrior spirit. Little did the staff know that their final issue could possibly mean their demise. You see, this is not just a battle for supremacy along the shore of CSULB, this is a battle to the death. Odin’s beard! Betwixt your fingertips lies the details of this tourney ‘tween the apprentices of the fair-haired Joe as told in their own words. Each staffer to go into battle, 16 in total, was bestowed by me one mystical power and one weapon to use at their discretion. One by one the warriors fell until a victor (not Victor Camba however—oops, spoiler) was crowned the hero of the Union Weekly! Yawp!


JOE VS. CAITLIN Joe’s Power & Weapon: Paper Fortune Teller, Hammerman Shoes Caitlin’s Power & Weapon: Razor-sharp tongue, Blackberry

“I came home from a hard day of dancing in the streets to find Caitlin hanging around my stoop. She was like, ‘Let’s fight.’ My fortune teller told me she was having heart problems. I showed it to her and then she said ‘Can you take me to the hospital?’ and I was all ‘Sure’ and I did because I’m a good friend.” –Joe Bryant

CLAY VS. KATHY Clay’s Power & Weapon: Super Karate, Sword-chucks Kathy’s Power & Weapon: Tickling Eyes, Laser Guns

“Totally killed her. It was cool.” –Clay Cooper



RACHEL VS. JAMES Rachel’s Power & Weapon: Disorienting weed smoke, Munchies James’ Power & Weapon: Changes gender in hot/cold water, Katana

“I was tending to one of my bonsai trees when the putrid stench of Stony McGee aka Rachel Roughmanos descended on me. As a fan of Asian culture, I know I could defeat her in a thousand ways with my well-hewed fists and slightly less wellhewed feet, but striking a woman would bring great dishonor to the Anime Club. Instead, I took a deep breath as Master Yoshi had instructed me to, and I took a sip of my tonic on ice before I poured it all over my mutton chops and impeccably groomed top knot. I then transformed into a hot chick. I was so hot that the super high Roughmanos had her mind blown harder than a thousand Pink Floyd laser shows times a thousand Talking Heads concerts in your bedroom plus Fonzie and James Dean blowing each other on a motorcycle. She died of a bloody nose and all the girls were finally impressed with me instead of those stupid neanderthals that threw my Magic cards on the roof of the snack shack. Namaste.” –James Kislingbury

MERM VS. CHris Merm’s Power & Weapon: Deathly annoying music, Boombox Chris’ Power & Weapon: Photoshop reality, Toolbar

“There we were: Merm, with his boombox, me with my toolbar. Merm blared Creed from his boombox. I broke out the lasso tool to try and trap him, but he was too fast and played ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls.’ Quickly I photoshopped John Cusack’s face over Merm’s! That Peter Gabriel song was the only thing he could play. I used the blur tool to obscure Merm’s vision and I ran up behind him, took out my pen tool and just stabbed the fucker right in the neck. Then I photoshopped a dick in his dead mouth and flattened the image. The world will forever remember Merm as the guy who looks like John Cusack with a dick in his mouth.” –Chris Fabela

VICTOR VS. KEVIN Victor’s Power & Weapon: Obscure nerd knowledge, Ruler-sword Kevin’s Power & Weapon: Power of Attorney, Gavel

“Victor opened the door to my law office and flung his ruler-sword. It stuck harmlessly into my copy of Constitutional Law Interpretation: Volume 7. I put the book down, reached into my suit and grabbed my gavel. Leaping over my desk I beat upon his face as he sputtered incompressible nerd-factdribble, trying to get out a quote from Dr. Who before he bled

out. I beat Victor just enough to cause total and irreversible brain damage. Then in the hospital I visited him and used my Power of Attorney to take all of Victor’s legal rights to life and had the doctors pull the plug. Slowly Victor faded away while I called the city to dispose of Victor’s comic book collection by dumping them into the LA River.” –Kevin O’Brien

ALEXANDRA VS. ANDY Alex’s Power & Weapon: Independent woman, Kangol hat Andy’s Power & Weapon: Crippling Depression, His girlfriend

“My lovely girlfriend Katy picked me up early and we headed off to have the best time in the world at the zoo. All the while Alexandra was living in her den of sin, AKA the dorms. She slept in late because she has no responsibilities as an independent woman. Meanwhile Katy and I were holding hands and looking at elephants and we saw a rhino peeing, together. My crippling depression was magically cured by the fairskinned young lady. The San Diego sun shined on my face and I knew that all was well. The animals perked up. A gorilla winked. Our love was radiating out like a golden sunbeam of coolness and filled the animals with crazy animal rage for anyone that did not reflect this pure and true lifestyle. One absolute truth: the lifestyle of Alexandra was unacceptable and went against the laws of nature. It must be stomped and clawed and it must have those little deer shits that look like coffee beans dumped all over it. The animals busted loose Jumanji-style and flew down the 405 freeway. They broke down Alexandra’s door and righted the balance of nature. The animals ripped her apart, and as the prophecy says, ‘the animals cover her body in all kinds of animal shit. The universe sighs its magical sigh.’” –Andy Kneis

NOAH VS. CHELSEA Noah’s Power & Weapon: Uses blood to bring poems to life, Quill Chelsea’s Power & Weapon: Telekinesis, Endless supply of cutlery

[Editor’s note: This is the poem Noah wrote to defeat Chelsea.] “Sitting lonely on this farm / I’m sure you will do me no harm / Chelsea, I hear you’re like Uri Geller / That is a shame, because I will put you down like Old Yeller I take my quill upon my ashen white skin / And with these rhymes, your end will begin / You toss a spoon, to no avail / You throw a fork, I catch it in my blood pail You can use knives, but I welcome them / I show you my wrists, begin your hem / My power comes from my deep UNION WEEKLY

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dark soul / From no escape this hole You cannot use your mind / This predicament you will find / Trapped in these pages of pain / Your tears will fall like rain Until you feel as though you can go no more / And I will read and read until I am a bore / You will take your invisible hand and knife / And you will score upon your neck, your end of life I will mourn for your loss / As one mourns for their used floss / Because you will have found the easy way out / While I am forced to stay here and pout.” -Noah Kelly

crippling depression! His powers were useless and stupid. ‘Try and make me feel guilty asshole.’ I said. Kevin ran, I waited until the last moment, and pulled out a beer. I cracked it open and sent beer droplets into his mouth. ‘DRINKING ON THE JOB BITCH. You can’t do that.’ Kevin didn’t know what to do. He had his first taste of beer and his first taste of bitter defeat. He realized that no one is above judgment. There is no justice. He broke an ‘in case of fire’ axe and chopped down a statue of Lady Liberty with it out of anger. He couldn’t though, because he’s a weak baby and died from exhaustion.” –Andy Kneis

neck, and hanged myself. Andy saw my swinging corpse and was overwhelmed with sadness, and put his head in the oven and lit a match, blowing up our house in a way cooler suicide. We were both dead and in Hell ’cause it turns out all that Catholic bullshit was right. PSYCH! I’m still alive, what part of magic lasso and Photoshop magic didn’t you understand? As our house lay in a smoldering pile of fire and dead Andy, I turned away.” -Chris Fabela.



Matt’s Power & Weapon: Flight when unseen, Flaming machete Simone’s Power & Weapon: Her sexuality, Whip

“Clay walked up to my regular hang out place, the cardboard box flattened out with a boombox blastin’, and he was all, ‘Hey, I’m an Asian stereotype and I’ve got Super Karate, let’s fight.’ Soon as I saw him approach, I knew we would fight based on his giant swordchucks and stereotypical biracial Asian attitude/demeanor. My shoes spouted the words of the street. ‘Word?’ they asked, as I danced a groove and checked my fortune teller. ‘According to this fortune teller you’re gonna have lots of gay babies that are only okay at karate.’ Clay said, ‘God forgive me for what must be done!’ He then handed over his swordchucks to me in defeat. ‘Please, kill me!’ I had a smirk up all on my face and so did my shoes and we were like saying, ‘Prepare to be cardboard slam-served!’ Then I checked my fortune teller and it said Clay was gonna get danced upon and that’s what me and my magic shoes did. We danced upon his face with the flyest moves and everyone around us was all like ‘Daaaaamn.’ For good measure, I wore his swords as a necklace that dangled down and cut at his nutsack. He died twenty hours before I stopped my jam.” –Joe Bryant

“We met on an abandoned pier. ‘Oh, you didn’t fly? I was hoping you were gonna fly and then I’d like, look at you, and you’d fall,’ Joe. Then I replied, ‘Yeah, I took a cab instead. Flying is kinda scary.’ Joe launched into his magical shoe dance. It was pretty much just a stupid jig with weird shoes. It was pretty cool if you like weird shoes though. ‘Hey, Hammer shoes, your cartoon show was like me with my superpower. We both disappear ’cause nobody’s watching us.’ ‘BURN,’ Joe exclaimed. I misunderstood this and burned him on the hand. ‘You know what, fuck both of you. We studied at the Yale School of Drama,’ said the shoes. ‘More like the fail school of your mama!’ ‘BURN! OUCH! Stop that.’ Joe got burned again. The shoes jumped off Joe’s feet and walked away. ‘No matter, I’ll fortune tell you to death: You will die!’ ‘That’s kinda vague. I mean we’re all gonna die.’ ‘Well this means… hang on let me write it in?’ ‘Here.’ I gave him my machete, he thought it was a pen. ‘OUCH. Both my hands are too burnt to use the fortune teller! I’ll use my mouth.’ ‘Sorry you can’t do that because I stabbed your mouth off with the machete.’ I flew away, Joe was dead and couldn’t look at me.” –Matt Dupree

“Simone approached the forest clearing. I was already there waiting. ‘How’d you get here so fast?’ she asked. ‘I flew,’ I said. ‘Then why are you so sweaty?’ she asked. ‘A hiker spotted me about halfway here so I had to walk the rest of the way,’ I said. ‘You never plan anything out,’ she said. ‘Well why don’t you plan how you’re going to get this tree branch out of your brain when I hit you with it,’ I said. ‘What happened to your flaming machete?’ she asked. ‘I dropped it when I was flying,’ I said. ‘Now I’m really going to kill you,’ Simone replied. Simone pulled her whip from her belt and approached menacingly. Simone whipped at me, but I blocked with my tree branch. The whip tied itself in a knot around the branch. ‘Why don’t you come over here and give me a kiss, big boy…’ I staggered over to her, unable to resist her sexuality. My hands reached out to feel her up. She wrapped her hands around my neck. Suddenly, she smelled something burning. ‘Oh fuck, you set the bush on fire!’ she yelled. ‘Yeah… I’m gonna set that bush on fire!’ I replied. ‘No, you retard, you set that fucking bush on fire with your stupid fire sword. What are you, like eight? WHO SETS A SWORD ON FIRE?! I swear to God, Matt. Sometimes…’ Simone fell to the ground as I swung the tree limb against the back of her head leaving her to die in the ensuing forest fire.” –Matt Dupree


James VS. CHRIS “So there we were in James’ gigantic house. Just then a super sexy fine lady appeared. Entranced by her bodacious knockers, I did not notice her reaching for her katana. Slash! I barely managed to dodge the blow. James was on the attack, flailing his sword like a mad woman. I ran into the kitchen and made for the sink, just barely turning the hot water on and splashing it onto James. He turned back into his sad ashamed man-form. I had to finish this once and for all. I ran into the study, brushing aside the semen-soaked tissues, and picked up James’ homemade comics. “No!” He pleaded, but it was too late. I began to photoshop anime eyes on all the sailors and Irishmen. I then photoshopped out all the curse words. James’ heart exploded. I walked up to the lifeless corpse, and photoshopped a dick in his mouth.” -Chris Fabela

KEVIN VS. ANDY “Kevin stood at the front of a courtroom. The next defendant? Me. The winner (spoiler). The charge? Murder. No duh. Kevin thought he was all high and mighty. ‘Oh, how do you plead?’ and I said, ‘Guilty.’ He said, ‘Very well, I sentence you to a life in prison,’ ‘That felt satisfying,’ he said. ‘Now please leave me be with my boyfriend Jeff Goldblum so we can bask in this moment.’ ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Fucking murder me instead you piece of shit.’ Kevin didn’t know I would enjoy the sentence with my



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NOAH VS. MATT [Editor’s note: Poetry slam, dope as fuck!] “’Twas time to fight, those were his orders / Matt stalked his foe into a Borders / Suddenly, Matt’s heart felt lighter / To see this sad and lonely writer / Matt approached and said, ‘What’s happenin’’ / He raised his sword to strike, but then / The poet wailed, as was his custom / ‘LIFE WHY MUST YOU BE SO GRUESOME?!’ / Barista, why must you be not nice? / I asked for hot, you gave me iced!’ / He held his macchiato out / And Matt answered his mournful shout, / ‘Your rhymes to me seem mighty shitty, / But I’ll warm your drink with my machete.’ / He offered up his drink for heating / But Matt had lied, and gave a beating / The flat edge of that fiery sword / He beat the poet ’til he was bored / Stabbed him once in each armpit / ‘My wrists, my wrists! Please stab my wrists!’ / Matt did not oblige him there / And walked out to the cold night air.” -Matt Dupree


CHRIS VS. ANDY “Rather than roommates, Andy and I were enemies. Andy was sitting in his room, recording a play-along to Rihanna. I had the element of surprise but then Katy showed up. Andy had the upper hand the whole time! Quickly, I grabbed a picture of Andy and Kevin, and photoshopped them making out. ‘He loves Kevin, not you!’ Katy believed the picture was real and broke up with Andy who was still recording his play-along. Katy ran out the door in tears. Andy sensed a disturbance in the depression force. He came out and tried to scream but it came out as just talking, ‘How dare you be depressed, I just lost the love of my life.’ That’s when I saw the magic lasso on my toolbar and its noosey goodness. ‘Looks like I still have one more life to ruin,’ I said, as I wrapped the magic lasso around my




“Chris ‘C-Fab’ Fabela was in his house, photoshopping dicks into his own mouth, when there was a knock at the door.‘Who is it?’ C-Fab screamed. ‘I’m trying pathetically to get some action!’ It was me disguised as the computer police. ‘Sir, there’s been a report of an illegal copy of Photoshop. We need to break all your computer stuff and your hands unless you give me 500 bucks.’ ‘You can’t come in here. I know my rights.’ Suddenly I whipped out a copy of MS Paint and drew black lines over C-Fab’s mouth. He frantically tried to delete the layer, but there are no layers in MS Paint. I used the spraypaint tool to blind C-Fab with two light blue spots over his eyes. C-Fab used the undo, but he could only go back one step, leaving only one eye useable. ‘Watch this,’ I yelled, and turned on a viral video. Suddenly C-Fab’s skin turned into YouTube windows playing a video of a dog chewing ice. I then MS-painted a bright pink rectangular dick onto my flaming machete and rammed it into the black lines where C-Fab’s mouth used to be. C-Fab fell to the ground, pixels of blood and jizz poured onto the carpet. ‘Catch you later, illustrator.’” –Matt Dupree

EPILOGUE And lo, Matt Dupree was crowned the victor! His prize, the title of Winner of the Union Tournament of Champions and Heroes! It’s a resumé builder.

CREDITS: Kathy, Caitlin, Clay, and Rachel: Illustration by Jeff Chang, color by Clay Cooper James, Andy, and Noah: Illustration by James Kislingbury, color by Clay Cooper Kevin, Joe, Chris, Mike, and Matt: Illustration and color by Chris Fabela Card design by Clay Cooper


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CREDITS: Blurbs by Matt Dupree Card design by Clay Cooper



10 MAY 2010



Words & Photo • KATHY MIRANDA, Lady of Culture

n middle school the Renaissance Fair was a bust. It was hot, full of generally unattractive people and less of a historical learning experience than any hyperenthusiastic, single, middle-aged History teacher may have suspected. The fair is still pretty much the same, hot and dusty, but with the important exception of one seemingly simple concoction: cranberry cider. With a “Drynks” booth located every ten minutes or so throughout the venue, the Renaissance Fair is an uproaringly hilarious experience. This time, I found myself chuckling at the relentless sexual innuendos told by slurring drunkards and goofy-hatted merchants. Under the alluring spell of sweet cider, I felt the thrill of voyeurism. It was as if I was peering into this sacred realm of the Renaissance, meandering down a dirt-trodden path, cider-in-hand, Chaucer-style. Of course, the appeal of the cider wears off eventually and you’re left to your own imagination. In this case, I wandered off watching a loyal Renaissance crowd lying comfortably on a hay stack eating cheese and drinking wine—is this really what it was like

back in the olden days?! Sign me up! I also caught burly barbaric men rambunctiously chasing wenches across the courtyard, little lords and ladies shooting each other with muskets and shouting obscenities you didn’t know existed. The Ren Fair is quite a party to say the least. It also helps when your friends are drunk and significantly better at heckling the crowd in Ye Olde Timey-speak than the Ren Fair guys are. If you can woo the Queen enough to get a wink, you’re definitely getting laid, at least according to the standards of the time—I mean, have you seen the women?! Three hours later, as the continuity errors became less and less amusing, I craved a turkey leg pronto. We drank more, purchased magical wands, were hit on a few more times and best of all, we watched a grueling battle between a 909 dirtbag and a nobleman. I guess they’ll think twice next year about having a Ren Fair in the misery that is the Inland Empire. So much for drunk merriment! The Renaissance Fair is located in Irwindale, CA and will be in town until May 23rd on Saturdays and Sundays. Please visit for more details.


10 MAY 2010


Union music snob resorts to self-loathing and unjust prophecy


efore I say anything, please allow me to inform you that everything I’m about to divulge is complete bullshit. And by “complete bullshit” I mean, “the utmost extent of human knowledge you’ll probably ever read.” So, if you wouldn’t mind holding your vomit, this article is about to become so tongue-in-cheek that it will soon begin to resemble a fourteen-year-old boy imitating a violent blow job. A few nights ago while I was whacking off to and listening fervently to Die Antwoord (no, not really, but I just figured they needed more futile publicity), I had an epiphany. I had the kind of epiphany that could only come to enlightened-music-snob-elitists such as myself. You see, Rudy, rock and roll is dead. The only reason I say this is because I’m not hearing anything I haven’t heard before. Yes, rock and roll is dying and it’s playing out its last act like a melodramatic Shakespearean heroine writhing around erratically and grasping at her dagger. There seem to be a lot of people who eat this shit up, but for the rest of us there isn’t much else we can do but find the humor in it. I’m sure there is nothing today’s artists would rather do than pull the final curtain, but the most they can do at this point is relate to our (my) pain—preferably by easing it. This is best done in the form of comic relief. So while you wait around for the musical renaissance to arrive, listen to mediocre music like Radiohead or Muse. And hey, if you just feel like sleeping through it, I might recommend some Sigur Ros, ambient Muzak for people who have tired of listening to Stevie Wonder covers on The Wave. That should tide you over until then. But if you’re anything like me, and chances are you’re not, you should become as territorial and defensive of the music that has actually made some strides to extend the boundaries of modern music. This would include acting like a Nazi when listening to popular music, and as we all know, Nazis love music. First, you can always safely assume that when your friend shows you some new band that they ripped off someone more talented: The Chiffon’s “He’s So Fine” or Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” is always a safe bet. Go ahead, do it, no one will question you, music is subjective anyway, right? If those around you are in doubt, go on one of your awful diatribes about your monomaniacal enthusiasm for some obscure band like Jimmy Kiss and the Kissing Bees and UNION WEEKLY

10 MAY 2010

express violent umbrage when they have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe you don’t feel qualified to pontificate on your (my) exquisite musical taste. In which case, you should give up entirely and settle with the idea that rock and roll is alive and well. Sure, you’ll have to keep correcting people, “It’s pronounced moag, you shmuck,” and “I was listening to them way before they were popular—specifically, before you,” but at least you’ll still have your record collection. Those records will keep you company when you can’t get laid. Those records will, in turn, keep you from getting laid. Unless you’re a woman, in which case you will get laid, but only by guys who previously could never get laid, and women like that have a strange predilection towards guys like that anyway, so it works out. For women. I have few words of optimism, otherwise. Chances are you’ve become that token “music person” already, so no one will talk to you about music in crippling awareness of their own inferiority and will only talk to you under the circumstance that they feel like they know something you didn’t. But you’ll shoot them down anyway because, fuck them, they never would talk to you otherwise. Oh, and by “you” I still mean “I” because what’s the point of talking about music at all unless it relates directly back to myself, right? My point is, sometimes you have to stick your neck out and say, “Rock and roll is like a shark. It has to constantly move forward or it dies. And I think what we’ve got on our hands is a dead shark.” Let me guess—I’ve totally lost you. You feel incredibly insecure and inadequate. Not to worry, that’s what I’m here for. In fact, that was my entire intention. If you’re having trouble with the pop culture references, then you’ve wasted more time than you know. I would actually prefer to alienate everyone who’s reading, since I’m doing the same to music, which I’m sure you feel I’m personally attacking. No really, it’s true, I don’t want you to read this, and I mean that from the bottom of my screaming vagina, often confused for the experimental queefing sounds of the Animal Collective. While I’m at it, I’d like to add these genres to the obituary: punk, grunge, hip-hop, pop, funk, blues, folk, and metal. Pretty much the only genre still remaining is jazz and that’s only because I still don’t get Sketches of Spain. Which is like, really weird because I like, know everything, but it probably has something to do with the fact that I can’t trace its influence back to the Pixies. Actually, I can’t trace its influence period. Kind of like Elvis Presley.




Summer can either be a three-month long party or it can drag on interminably for years. To help you keep your summer squarely in the awesome camp I will pair some of the best new music with the ultimate summer activities. Poolside Barbeque

Driving Down PCH

Beach Day

Late Night Raves

Morning Afters

Toro Y Moi – Causers of This

Male Bonding – Nothing Hurts

Tanlines – Settings

Tie: Sleigh Bells – Treats & M.I.A – TBA

Rangers – Suburban Tours

Any low-key gathering of friends cannot reach its full chillness without Album of the Year candidate Causers of This. Chillwave artists Toro Y Moi have created the iconic hazy goodtimes album. With infectious hits like “Blessa” and “Lissoms,” Causers of This is the rare down tempo album that has the hooks to delight a party. Wash the whole party down with some day-drinking (Pimms, please) and call it a successful summer day.

London’s Male Bonding have crafted an album so raw and full of joy that its mind boggling that this is the band’s debut. Starting with “Years Not Long,” these grunge revivalists may have taken the crown from No Age as the best lo-fi act around. Windows down, fists pumping and on the way to the beach, Male Bonding just makes sense.

Featuring former members of Professor Murder and Don Caballero, Tanlines taps simultaneously into the Beach Boys-ier side of Animal Collective and the “Baleric” side of techno. It’s always convienient for a music writer when a band sounds like their name. Settings is full of playful summer jams reinvented for today’s blog reading music faithful. Pick it up, blast it loud from volleyball till the last s’more is eaten and the fires out.

It’s fitting that MIA has been working closely with Sleigh Bells on both albums as they stand alone atop the summer’s most anticipated bangers. With lead single “Tell Em” joining bonafide jams like “Crown on The Ground,” Sleigh Bells engrossing mix of blown out instrumentals and crystal clear vocals will be all the rage. MIA is a proven winner and the only thing that might hold XXOO back is if she starts to take herself too seriously.

Hung over as ‘eff ’? Still high? Calm down, start whatever hangover cure ritual you swear by (pastrami burgers and a shake) and pop in Suburban Tours by Rangers. This album is patient blissed out and addictive. Rangers has managed to put together a joy of an album. Suburban Tours sounds like a Phil Collins meets surf album that has gotten warped by time and dust.


Throw out any preconceived notions you might have about Deftones, because they are probably just misconceptions. They aren’t nü metal. Even when they were lumped in with all of that, they were still at the progressive forefront of the genre and quick to distance themselves from a lot of other bands—bands that were considered their peers and rose to the heights of mainstream popularity. Sure, Stephen Carpenter uses an 8-string guitar instead of a standard 6, which brings this collection of songs to a new level of heaviness unheard of on previous recordings. Yet one of his contributions to this set of music, “Sextape,” offers up a Siamese Dream-era Pumpkins vibe to Diamond Eyes. While Frank Delgado is often billed as their DJ, he really, more often than not, plays keys at this point and that’s especially true with this release.

Yes, there is screaming from time to time. When it does come, it feels tastefully poignant as if just another part of the instrumentation. Speaking of which, vocalist and lyricist Chino Moreno goes above and beyond his A-game on this album. This is evinced by the title and opening track “Diamond Eyes,” in which we are treated with one of the catchiest ethereal refrains that the man has ever rendered: “Time will see us realign/ Diamonds rain across the sky and shower me into the same realm.” There is a poetic quality to these lines that are extremely less Limp Bizkit and much more King Crimson. Like most bands, the Deftones have been plagued with their share of inter-band drama and infighting. In fact, their previous three albums could have been their last as tensions were high during each visit to the

studio. When their bassist Chi Cheng was involved in a near fatal car wreck and was left comatose, the band had to shelve a record that they had nearly completed with him. In the interim of his recovery and subsequent awakening, the band decided to move forward and call upon their old friend Sergio Vega of Quicksand fame to step in for Cheng. The tragedy actually helped them to write the most cohesive material they have in years. The unity and all together quick turnaround from recording to release is exhibited in this collection of tracks. Vega and drummer Abe Cunningham are quite the deft team as a rhythm section—making Diamond Eyes extremely groove heavy as if they were Black Sabbath if Sabbath had been raised on Sabbath. Stand out tracks that put this on display are the sexy/slinky Floydesque lilt of “You’ve Seen the Butcher” and

“Prince.” The latter song’s verse parts are reminiscent of a track “RX Queen” from their 2000 breakthrough album White Pony, but that is where the similarities end. This record could be written off as a rehash of older elements of their sound. That truly is a face value assessment as it’s more like they culled the best parts of their oeuvre and stripped the fat off to streamline it into a tautly toned version of their previous output. After spending the early part of the summer playing the European festival circuit, the Deftones will be making their way across the States as part of a hydra-like coheadlining tour alongside Alice in Chains and Mastodon. The BlackDiamondSkye tour, named for a combination each of the three bands’ most recent album titles, promises to be one of the most exciting metal package tours in years. UNION WEEKLY

10 MAY 2010



Forgotten Fall by Jeff Chang

HARD Hip Trendy Comics by Andy Kneis


10 MAY 2010



You’re STUCK Here Classic by the ghost of Vic! Perfecto Past

COMICS Garage Sketchbook by elisa

Koo Koo and Luke by Jesse Blake

Cephalopoda by Jolls

Crossword puzzles provided by Used with permission.

Across 1- Ascend 6- Heroic adventure tale 10- Small blemish 14- Toil 15- Actor Epps 16- Et ___ 17- Clear the board 18- Yellow of an egg 19- Dell 20- Capital of Poland 22- Weathered 24- Caliginous 26- Caught 27- Boat race 31- Artful 32- First letter of the Hebrew alphabet 33- Coup ___ 36- Grievous distress 39- At hand 40- Nostrils 41- Franklin D.’s mother 42- Needlefish 43- Unit just above a yard 44- Seizes with teeth 45- Pouch 46- Holy 48- Go to bed 51- Gee preceder

52- Last 54- So far 59- Area of 4840 square yards 60- Remain 62- Hue 63- Air 64- Able was ___... 65- Ire 66- Formerly, formerly 67- Grounded fleet 68- Guides Down 1- Skein of thread 2- Zhivago’s love 3- Support beam 4- Rock clinging plant 5- Width 6- Non-dairy milk 7- Old Testament book 8- Strong winds 9- State of USA 10- Piquant 11- Flat surface 12- Greased 13- Bound 21- Intelligence 23- Cure, in a way 25- Angry with 27- Pealed

28- Zeno’s home 29- Equipment 30- Spring mo. 34- Before 35- Curt 36- Unit of power 37- Pitcher Hershiser 38- New Orleans is The Big ___ 40- Mortification 41- Sloth, e.g. 43- Disfigure 44- Eyeglass having two portions 45- Thoroughfare 47- P.m. 48- Happen again 49- Merits 50- Adlai’s running mate 52- Appraise, charge per unit 53- Fruit-filled pie 55- Completed 56- Pond organism 57- Nailed obliquely 58- Goes astray 61- Affirmative answer

CraBBy Times by JANTZEN Peake


It’s the end. But the moment has been prepared for... e-mail editor Victor Camba:


10 MAY 2010

ByeByes Grunion Editor Rests Leisurely on Laurels, Says Goodbye OP-ED BY SOPHISTICATED BEAR To Wombs It May Concern, It’s the end of an era. A shitty, meanspirited era of hate and fart jokes. You see, I come from a long line of editors who’ve offed themselves at the end of their time as head of the Grunion. Why? ’Cause fuck it, that’s why. It’s time to pass the torch, but before I do so, I’m going to put that torch to my face and go out in a blaze of glory. When I first wandered into the Grunion basement, I was a wild animal scouring the streets for a place to hibernate. The Grunion took me in and let me sleep on their couch while they played NHL 2K3 and talked endless shit on the Pope. It was a dream come true. As I slept on the fold out couch, the staff managed to talk over my snores, conversing about Joe Sakic, Stone beer, John Goodman, rape culture, and the cheese soup at Stone Brewery. Little did I know my sophis-

tication was growing exponentially, until I eventually awoke to Uncle Feeb giving tips on how to properly chomp on a cozy boosh. It was a vile life lesson that I’ve successfully put to use on thirteens of fur-burgers. Sitting up on the couch, the Grunny staff all stared at me and I uttered my first words in months, “Unpopular Teen Explodes Out of Classmates’ Memories.” It was my first piece of satirical news. I donned a cigar and a smoking jacket and at that moment I was deemed Sophisticated Bear, resident cuddler and fuzzy ne’er-do-well. Fun fact: ex-Grunion editor Fancy Lash used to get drunk by doing a handstand and having the staff pour beers down his butthole. Father McKenzie would hold his hair back. Anyways, it’s been real folks. Thanks for reading. Oh by the way, I’m taking Sexual Randy with me.

While he was sleeping, I made him share a heroin needle with an AIDS monkey, then I fucked him, going tail-deep, with the monkey. My only regret is going down on the Frothy Sea. I hope you all realized that she’s a bubbling cunt, a wave of menstruation if you will. Before I end it all, I want to say to anyone who ever sent me an angry email or was offended by anything in the Grunion. Fuck you. Learn how to take a joke you sorry sack of shit. The only thing that’s ever offended me has been people who’re easily offended. Fuck ’em. They don’t deserve anyone’s attention and should be treated like lepers in the 19th century. Oh shit, the tranquilizers are kickin’ in. Goodbye cruel Grunny basement, Sophisticated Bearndfla;’ljojktppp ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp

To Sophisticated Bear, Grunion Editor & High Chancellor of Tuesday Bingo Nights: OP-ED BY THE FROTHY SEA I hate you, always have. There’s not a single goddamned reason for me to keep working here, is there? Look at you. Sitting on your throne of human skulls, unaware that just one desk over I’m staring at you, writing this letter. Hating you with everything I have. I’m not covering the stupid game. Grunion Sports is a terrible idea. You didn’t even tell me what game to cover! It was just, “Hey Frothy Sea, could you cover the game Thursday? Thanks pal.” What game? Ugh. YOU ARE THE WORST. Just last week you had me do a salmon run for you. Do you know how hard it is to catch salmon? It took me three months. Three. Months! Do you pay me by months traveled while on a salmon run? No. It’s by the word, the fucking word! Two cents a word, and


10 May, 2010

do you know how many words I wrote for three months while slogging up some goddamned stream in the mountains, hoping some piece of shit salmon would just—I don’t know—jump into my outstretched hands? Do you know how many? You guessed it: 37. That’s 74 cents. My rent is twice that! That’s right, asshole: Evicted. I’ve been sleeping under my desk in the basement since February, hence the giant wet spot on the carpet. I mean, I am literally a wave of frothy vaginal fluids, what do you want from me? To not be wet? You realize that every time you say, “Frothy, clean up that mess,” that you’re asking a 7-foot tall mass of wetness to somehow mop up a puddle? A puddle I’m part of? And every time I get an assignment, every time you give me a fucking thing to do—something that isn’t a fucking sporting event—you just end up giv-

ing it to Sexual Randy. Randy? Really!? That guy wouldn’t know a news story if it tapped its knucks on his nads. There’s more journalistic integrity in the head of my dick than in his entire body. And I don’t even have a dick, I’m a tidal wave with a pussy on its chest. And I’m a dude. Work that one out, Bear. If you couldn’t already tell, this letter is to inform you of my resignation and yada-yada-yada. I’m going to work for somewhere that’ll respect my abilities and basic rights as a Cunt-WaterAmerican. Print’s dead anyway. I’m taking all the pens, all of them, and I took a five pound dump in the microwave and set it on “Frozen Pizza.” You’re welcome. Sincerely, The Frothy Sea P.S. The reason the basement always smells like ass is because you have shit stuck on your butt fur. Fag.

Here’s Looking at You, Cunt OP-ED BY GAELIC FORESKYNE As a posh, big city reporter in the States, the one ting I’ve noticed is that fer whatever reason, some tings just can’t be reported on. Well, I’m quittin’, so feck all that, I say. The followin’ is all the tings I’ve felt about this fetid hole of a city that fer one raysin or another, I couldn’t report on. Here’s lookin’ at yeh, Long Beach, yeh shower o’ cunts. The followin’ races an’ peoples I bloody hate: 1. Poles. Feck ‘em. Wit’ their cocksure strides an’ inability to fight a war or build a car. They’re like the Italians without money or culture an,’ somehow, less class. 2. Blacks. Yeah, yeh heard me. I hate blacks. I know it t’ain’t “politically correct” an’ it’s “morally reprehensible,” but so is driving a school bus drunk and claiming to be a licensed dentist, but I ain’t knockin’ off either’ve those tings fer no man. But I don’t hate the blacks fer the raysins yeh may be tinkin’. I hate the whole lot’ve ’em because they make being bald look so damn fine. It t’ain’t fair, I say. A sweet little colleen like Sinead O’Connor shave her head an’ she look like a bell end. Michael Jordan shaves his head an’ he becomes aerodynamic. T’ain’t fair at all. 3. Brits. Here’s a sack’ve shitbirds that needs to be drowned in a pond. Yeh can’t handle that, yeh crop of albino, cobblestone feckin’ inbreds? Well come an’ get me. I’ll probably hear yer snaggletooths clackin’ before I ever see yer taught, fish eatin’ faces. 4. Episcopalians. “Quitter Catholic,” says I. A well terrible religion fer well terrible people. They don’t even have the fine traditions that make our mother church so precious, like not wearin’ belts an’ drinkin’ all’ve our sorrows an’ triumphs away until they meld into one, singular amorphous event that lasts from the womb until shortly after the good Lord decides to kill us wit’ exposure in a gutter on the way back from the pub, like real a man. Episcopalians. I spit on Episcopalians. 5. Aliens. Yeh hear that? I ain’t fecking scared’ve none’ve yeh. The whole lot’ve yeh Martian bastards need to stop stealin’ our jobs an’ screwin’ our women. It’s hard enough in this modern, mixed-up world’ve ours to get a date without having to compete wit’ 9-foot tall cat-men an’ their pitch perfect Spanish accents. Yeh’ve been warned. 6. The Irish. The worst’ve the bunch, says I. What good’ve they done fer anybody? Nothin’ fer nobody, that’s what. All they do is crowd up the place and yell at each other ’bout nothing. I’m well aware’ve the irony, so cram it, yeah smart shite, yeh. Don’t like it, then feck yeh. I don’t need this paper an’ I don’t need yer approval. If yeh don’t like what I’ve got to say, call me at (562) 985-7998, yeh feckin’ useless ninny.

OBITUARY: SEXUAL RANDY Found tucked in bed, hair freshly tousled, Sexual Randy has passed away from a drug overdose which authorities are assuming is natural, due to his bizarre hairline and the room’s odor of mayo and Listerine.


This page is satire. We are not ASI, nor do we represent the CSULB campus. Crudbutt. Send rags to

“She’s got crazy shit for brains.”

Volume 66 Issue 13

Monday, May 10th, 2010


EXCLUSIVE: Shocking Revelations from ASI Chamber of Senate Councils ROOSEVELT: Let the record show that BY SHYGUY McFLY & OCTOPUS GIRL Jackie Chan has used the n-word twice. JAMBERSNAPS: Jackie Chan is a rice n-word. ROOSEVELT: Jackie Chan is a billion dollar superstar. The only rice n-word here is Pu Donh. Should we take a vote on this? CHIN: You rice n-word. LONG BEACH, CA – The Grunion at- STANBY: Could we stop calling each other tained an exclusive recording of ASI’s Cham- “rice n-words?” It’s really starting to make ber of Senate Councils bi-annual budgetary me uncomfortable. I would like rice n-word meeting to discuss the upcoming semester’s to be stricken from the record. expenditures. In attendance of the meeting ROOSEVELT: Overruled. were senators Statler Waldorf Roosevelt, JAMBERSNAPS: Let’s call it to a vote— Holden Stanby, Thaddeus Jambersnaps, Hi- Nope, we don’t have quorum. Motion dalgo “Heidi” Hidalguez Sanchez, Pu Donh denied. Move on to next item. Chin and Rutger Washington VI Jr. The fol- ROOSEVELT: [to Chin] See? Told ya. lowing material contained in this transcript IRONSIDE: I’d like to make a suggestion— is unedited and may be offensive towards STANBY: I’d like to change the slogan of certain comedic Kung Fu experts. CSULB from our old motto of “A fine place ROOSEVELT: First on the agenda, we’ve to die for nothing,” to “CSULB, hey, you got some budgetary issues that we need could do worse.” to discuss how we’re going to fix. I’m just ROOSEVELT: Boring. “CSULB, we’ve got a thinking, one thing right now... and I’m just shockingly large amount of blind students.” spitballing here: Krill. CHIN: Yes. That boring. Boring like great [silence] cloud on Crane Mountain that ride on back ROOSEVELT: Filter Feeding. It’s an un- of wise turtle to bring good year like tiger. tapped market. I’m throwing that out there. IRONHIDE: What? My dad started a krill farm off Seal Beach. It STANBY: Complaint! The Union Weekly will totally tap into the whale meat market. It’s is not in braille! We’re not attending to the the next big thing. Bigger than Rush Hour. binocularly impaired students. WASHINGTON: I’d like to point out that ROOSEVELT: Yeah, and why isn’t it availJackie Chan uses the n-word twice in one able in Mexican braille, either? That’s wrong. hour in [Rush Hour]. IRONHIDE: Excuse me, I think that—

An ASI Senate meeting is secretly recorded despite senators giving pledge of allegiance directly to California flag.

WASHINGTON: Don’t need to know how to read to eat tacos. STANBY: That’s racist, Ironhide. IRONHIDE: What? CHIN: Yeah. You racist. HEIDI: Next item on the agenda, who won last month’s raffle? JAMBERSNAPS: Oh, I did. STANBY: Didn’t you win it last month? You rigged it. You’re a rigger. Rigger! Rigger! ROOSEVELT: You dirty rigger. IRONHIDE: I don’t think you should say that word. You people might offend someone. WASHINGTON: What do you mean “you people,” you some kind of rigger lover? CHIN: Ironhide and Jambersnaps sittin’ in tree! R-I-G-G-E-R-I-N-G! JAMBERSNAPS: Alright, these are all very good points. Very cogent points. What we really need to focus on is the fact that we have five thousand dollars. What should ASI spend this on? After that fountain building

spree last semester, we spent a total of 95% of our fiscal budget. So, if anyone has any ideas on how to spend the money, yell it out in three, two, one... [simultaneously] STANBY: Chick-fil-A! CHIN: Jackie Chan Memorial Library! JAMBERSNAPS: More fountains! ROOSEVELT: Krill! IRONHIDE: Cats! WASHINGTON: T-shirts! HEIDI: Hire a crew to excavate under the Pyramid for the lost Gems of the Inland Empire left behind by the infamously deadly desert pirates Mike and Arlene Walter—and use the gems to build a ‘S’ and ‘I’ shaped gyms next to the pyramids so that bastards in Fullerton and Dominguez Hills can see it. ROOSEVELT: I’ve gotta poop. Meeting adjourned [He then limp-wristedley beat his gavel against the desktop for a recorded ten minutes].


Student Filmmaker Losing Light On the first and only day of production for Assassins’ Brunch, a short film about two hitmen having brunch in a seedy bar and smoking cigarettes while talking softly about their homosexuality, student filmmaker Kevin Omaschläge was losing light. “Quickly, quickly, people!” Omaschläge said. “We’re losing light and still have to do the break-up scene where you wittily reference The Bicycle Thief and Captain Kangaroo while getting head from a tranny.”


Couple Enter into Lifelong Journey of Hogging Blankets and Yelling at Each Other Jeremy Wellgood and Cynthia De La Torre decided after coming back from a friend’s party that they are going to get married and yes, they are very sure, thank you. “They’re getting married? What?” said friend and party host Ernst Smithwelle-Higgins. “That is shocking. Shocking, because he called her a c-word and she called him a momma’s boy faggot. That was a good week.” The couple is registered at Gamestop and the Apple Store.


Hey Everyone, a Mash-Up! PAGE 1&2


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