1.28.08

I’ve gotta be honest. I’m excited right now. There is more snow on the ground. The sky is
somehow raining ice and/or glass. And, when my friend and fellow editor Nick Bailey tried to give me a ride up the hill, his car spun out, unable to make the climb. I was thrown safely from the car, as Nick made a rapid descent, crashing into a telephone pole, providing him with a violent
untimely death. Nick Bailey is dead. Why am I excited you ask? Because this can only mean one thing. SNOW DAY!!!!!!!!!!
Ever since 1st grade I have gone to sleep on snowy nights dreamy of a glorious day off. Nothing excites me more than a snow day, and I will go to great lengths to get one. Before bed, I will do an old native American ice dance. In the morning I will shovel extra snow on to President Knobel’s doorstep. Hell, I’ll even sleep with Mother Nature if it means she keeps this sleet up.
This all got me thinking. Sure, I’ve always been excited about snow days, but I’ve always lived in a wintry climate. What do children do when they do not live around snow? I looked it up on Wikipedia and found some
exciting answers for you all.

-In Hawaii, children hope for the many volcanoes of the state to erupt,
simultaneously. The islands will soon be set ablaze, the fire killing most everyone in its path. The children left standing rejoice on rooftops,
exclaiming “lapule mei ‘okakopa po’aha!” which translates roughly to “though I have lost my family, I have gained a much needed day of relief!”

-In Columbia children go to sleep praying that the local drug czar will find a job as a successful actor and give up the cocaine business. In doing so he will toss bags upon bags in to the street. Frightened that their children might develop a new habit, parents will prevent the youth from
wandering outside. Instead, the high population of stray cats will eat the narcotic. Cocaine’s effect on cats causes the animal to attack authority figures. Days like these usually result in two weeks off from school; a win that American children can only dream about.

-Finally homeschooled children in Florida must take matters in to their own hands. Hoping for an extremely rare appearance from snow is not enough. They spend their entire day in school, as it is their home. Instead, they wait for the darkest night of the year. They then sneak in to the room of their parents, strip them of their clothes, and bound them to the bed using duct tape and twine. Ironically, they then flee to the local school where they are amazed by the large hallways, individual desks, and urine ceilings floors. As a red-headed bully stuffs them in a locker they are known to exclaim “this opportunity is certainly something Father could not provide in his slippers.” A recent study of this phenomenon find that 58% of children die from this experience, most likely due to an over-exposure to children of the same age and interests.

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Dear Denison,
My name’s Amanda Moore, and I lost my camera in its camera bag last Monday. The bag is large (about 12" x 5" x 7") and black with blue lettering (I think it says Ambica or Amico or something). I left it in Curtis dining hall and it was taken to the service center downstairs. I called on Tuesday and was told it was there. I was in D.C. at the time. After standing in the cold for many hours, I ended up sick for the rest of the week. I stopped by Friday afternoon and it wasn’t there. I waited until Tuesday, when the offices were open again, to see if maybe it had been placed in the back. It had not been. So the only possible solution I can see is that it was stolen. If you stole my camera, please read on.

I’m poor and I’m not afraid to say it. My mom works part-time at a convenience store and I never met my dad. I cannot afford to buy a camera. I love photography. The camera you stole was my first digital SLR, the nicest camera I ever held in my hands. It was an extremely expensive holiday present from my extremely thoughtful boyfriend. It cannot be replaced. I’m sure you thought it’d be nice to have for yourself or that you’d make some cash selling it. Please don’t. Please take it back to the service center. Just say you found it somewhere. Or take it to Slayter, I don’t care. Just give me back my camera. Please.

Sincerely,
Amanda Moore
moore_a

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The following is a parody of Tuesday’s Denisonian article, which was titled, “Slumdog a slump, despite raving reviews.” My article is entitled, “Slumdog a slump, despite my enormous penis.”
Upon entering the theater, the manager took my penis wheelbarrow away from me, claiming that it would create an obstruction for other viewers. You must not have seen my penis, I thought but couldn’t muster up the penis courage to say. I was forced to suffer the humiliation of slinging my penis over my shoulder and carrying it with much effort to my seat.
I shoved past most people, attempting to conceal my clearly massive penis, hoping that the handicapped seat in the back of the theater was still available. It wasn’t. Sadly someone with two broken kneecaps had decided that they’re ailment was worse than mine. Hey, don’t apologize to me, weak knees! Apologize to the person in front of me who’s going to be wearing my dick like a scarf! Finally, I made myself at home in the 5th row, and my penis was able to serve as comfortable seating for those forced into the aisles by its incredible girth. Now it was time for everyone to calm down, sit on my penis, and watch the movie.
Slumdog Millionaire is a bank heist film in typical Eurasian style, the endings of which are always fights to the death in piles of elephant bones (see: The Protector). But as the movie nonchalantly revealed itself to be yet another decadent Hollywood bukkake party set to a romantic score, I began feeling uncomfortable with the premise. The protagonist progresses through the story not by his own merits, but by some pure chance that hovers snugly around him like a penis scarf. It was about as believable as Crash. But what seemed to be even more improbable was the fact that my penis had slithered back to the concession stand to buy another large tub of popcorn without asking me first, and in total disregard of the fact that I told him he could get one—just one—snack.
I eventually resolved to ignore my penis (as if that were really possible). But what irked me as I sat through the film’s meandering dialogue was the fact that, at several points during the movie, my penis proved to be a frustrating obstruction to the viewing experience. Midway through one scene, in which characters exposited some important diegetic information about the whereabouts of the film’s titular millions, I noticed that a large shadow had engulfed about a quarter of the screen. The shadow was, of course, cast by my enormous penis. I tried shouting, “Down in front, penis!” But my shouts were to no avail.
For all its flaws, there was a lot to like about the film. There were lots of average sized penises, and a few bigger ones that really gave me hope of living a normal life one day. I won’t spoil the ending, since I didn’t see it. But then, I guess no one else in that theater saw it either. They were all too busy running in fear from my colossal erection.
Grade: C-
Next Week’s Review: The Curious Case of How the Little Button on My Pants Was Unable to Contain My Enormous Benjamin
// Justin Linton