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As a columnist, I enjoy a certain celebrity status on campus. SafeRides chauffeurs me around free of charge, a VIP exit by Subway gets me my Great Hall meals for free and I spare no expenses on my no-limit account us celebs call Flex. Most of you don’t know what I’m talking about. In fact, most of you don’t know who I am. You don’t know what I look like, and you probably never will.
Hopefully you are all following my epic job search and its less-than-astonishing pitfalls. With no better options, I’ve now been forced to lick the long shaft of HBO. Luckily they have a new show I identify with almost as much as Real Sex. Currently, I am drawn to How to Make It In America, a show that really only shows you how not to make it in America.
As my senior year comes to a close, it is time for me to finally start thinking about The Real World—please MTV, hire me. So far, it does not look good, so I have begun to search for a new calling. If spring break has taught me anything, it’s that I like sex with strangers and I don’t have any money. There seems to be only one solution to this problem. It’s time for me to get involved in the world’s oldest profession.
What word makes everything instantly worse? It starts with a “W” and ryhmes with winter. That’s right, winter. I hate this season. I came to Duke to escape this icy wench, but she’s even colder and wetter here.
Last week I learned my grandma was reading my column. She didn’t know who the author was until the horrifying conclusion upon which she said to my mom, “Susie, I thought Jackie wanted to work for NBC. Sounds like he wants to burn that mother down!” Hey, just cause I’ve dreamt of something my whole life doesn’t mean I can’t defecate all over it.
This just in: Jay Leno was struck by a train when his Model T Ford stalled on the tracks. Witnesses say the conductor had plenty of room to stop but instead chose to speed up and could be heard yelling some obscenity, though it was drowned out by the laughter of the onlookers. He will be survived only by his barren wife and a soulless mechanical litter of offspring—an extensive car collection. Cold and subhuman, they take after their father.
I’m cracked out on Adderall. I just chugged down 40 mg more, and I’m digging in for my third consecutive all-nighter in the trenches baby!
Ever since The Parent Trap, I have wanted to sleep with Lindsay Lohan. Maybe it was the red hair or the freckles or the fact that she was 11. I like to think it was because she was young, ready for stardom and also there were two of her. My editor’s telling me that underage sex jokes aren’t funny, and I agree. The previous statement is actually a serious point from my application for associate director of Duke’s Center for Health Policy. Some guy named Frank beat me out for the job.
With Parents’ and Family Weekend having come and gone, it made me think: why didn’t my parents realize the mistake they had made and “accidently” leave the water running in the bath tub?
In a recession, what industries are the first to go under? Go-Kart tracks? Nope. Street performers? Keep guessing. Back-alley plastic surgery? Alright, stop. It’s the Business of Show that’s dying. Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson and Hugh Hefner. Wait, he’s not dead? He has three smoking new girlfriends? Lucky duck, he’d better thank God someone was able to step in and bail out his wrinkly flaccid body. In fact, a lot of celebrities should be thankful. They’ve been getting bailed out almost as often as citizens of Greenwich, Conn.
It’s no secret that my parents used the television as a babysitter. “Hey, Jack. Look, Sesame Street is on. OK, we’re going to Maui. There are Lean Cuisines in the freezer. See you in two weeks!” I’m not upset about it. I was only four-years-old, but at least I grew up watching appropriate family shows like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and Cheers. Hence, from an early age, I wanted to be black and an alcoholic. That’s why I spent most of my childhood drinking in the sun.
I’ve had quite the vampire fetish for a while now. This was way before True Blood and Twilight, back when my favorite movie was/is Queen of the Damnned. Back when it was frowned upon to hang out at night in a low tree branch in the neighbor’s front yard waiting for their daughter Katie to get home from the mall. The most beautiful girl in the world, she tasted delicious, fruity with an earthy finish. I’d have to defend myself, claiming, “You just don’t get me,” while I picked some neck flesh out of my teeth.
Welcome freshmen, newcomers and old, devoted readers. This is the first installment of a regular column sodomizing social norms and popular culture. It’s nice to have some fresh meat, straight from the slaughterhouse primed and ready to go. Oh you freshmen—young, innocent and from good households. Nothing like Michael Jackson’s kids. They don’t even know who their parents are. “He was the best daddy ever!” Thanks for that sentiment, Paris, but who? Macaulay Culkin? I can’t wait until the media comes out and says, “Michael always thought black was beautiful, so he wanted the darkest man in Hollywood—without left eye ptosis (sorry, Forest)—to father his children. The sperm belongs to Wesley Snipes!” He’s a good source of parental wisdom. Just look at what he said to Woody Harrelson. “You can put a cat in an oven, but that don’t make it a biscuit.” Unless you live at the Neverland Ranch where anything’s possible, Wes. Do you know what it was like to grow up on that property? Have you ever been awoken by a giraffe licking your face? Has there ever been an outbreak of HPV among your friends due to group rides on the backyard carousel? Has your father ever moonwalked into the room, naked with a sack of children over his shoulder singing “Happy Birthday?” Oh, he has? Do you want to talk about it? These kids are going to be so messed up. Doctors will probably have to come up with a new name for whatever psychological disorders they have. They’ll diagnose them with Neverland Ranch Complex or Children of Michael Jackson Disorder. “What’s wrong, Doctor?” “I regret to inform you that your children’s hippocampi are riddled with Thriller and a Bad case of Off The Wall.” “Can we cure it, Doctor?” “No, this is a Dangerous combination, and, unfortunately, it’s Invincible.” At least they’ll be able to get away with anything. “Oh, little Prince was caught smoking crack? That’s terrible, but he did have a tough childhood. Paris couldn’t stop until she got enough...on tape? She must have some real problems stemming from how she was raised. Blanket was just awarded a Rhodes Scholarship? Talk about overcompensation. Who’s he trying to impress, Macaulay Culkin?” We make fun of them now, but we’re all going to be jealous when cops just turn the other way when Prince blows through red lights wacked out on mephedrone. You freshman will learn you can’t get away with anything on this campus. Remember Pop-Up Video? That old show that played music videos and had pop-ups telling you fun little facts? This campus is like that. Just walking down the quad pop-ups come next to you: “Totally took on the two dudes across the hall” (Promiscuous) “Once found blacked out, crying in a Shooters booth.” (Mess) “Totally did coke off a stripper in the kitchen of George’s Garage (R.I.P. like Mike).” (Respect?). We all have our skeletons in the closet—or now, deceased skeletal fathers in the closet. Who are we to judge someone for taking off his pants in the Marketplace? Who are we to judge someone for soiling the bed three times in one week? Because, believe me, I don’t judge myself for doing that. And they say I’ve let myself go.
The other day I was out on my roof looking through the skylight at my girlfriend below. I motioned for her to come up and join me, but the glass prevented her from joining me above the ceiling...
We at recess were hyped and ready. Like screaming teenage girls in line for the opening of Twilight, we could hardly hold in our excitement. It was to be the biggest, most epic rap head-to-head release ever: Rick Ross vs. Jim Jones.
If you remember the yo-yo, Beanie Babies or pogs, think about the fads of the modern day-Uggs, Wayfarers and Japan. Yeah, Japan-the entire country and everything about it is a fad which will one day fade away as it sinks into the ocean, only to be remembered on VH1.
Well, this weekend the Oscars were no surprise. As everyone guessed, Scrabble took home the Academy Award in every category, including best animated short. Scrabble tells the story of a posse of paraplegic blind kids who get arrested for stealing cars and selling drugs. Oh, did I mention they are also inner city youth from broken homes? During their trial, the judge tells them they can either go to prison or they can start-you guessed it-a Scrabble club. After a pep talk from the teenage rebel with a heart of gold, the gang of blind thieving cripples decides to choose Scrabble over lockdown.
VH1 has cornered the market on reality television. With shows like Rock the Bus, Sober House and Confessions of a Teenage Idol, they have made it difficult for other channels to compete. Genius has come out of their creative department the likes of which reality TV has never seen. The problem with being on the top is there is no where to go except down. What could VH1 possibly air next season that would even compare to the "immaculates" (I heard TI say this once) of the first season? Well, here are a number of ideas.
In a genre loaded with world-class heavyweights, My Bloody Valentine 3-D claims the top spot of R-rated horror films.
