Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of The Chronicle's archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query. You can also try a Basic search
11 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
SIR ELTON can’t believe there’s only one week until finals. Coming off a rough family-angst-filled Thanksgiving replete with emotional outpouring and fraternal mudslinging, SIR ELTON isn’t feeling ready to study yet. Sure, SIR ELTON should have gotten over the debilitating stomach ache on Thanksgiving (from lack of eating).
SIR ELTON wants to thank the organizers of the Sudanese refugee camp movement for having such compassion and consideration. Sometimes you people really know how to make an international student feel right at home. With the tents, and the general atmosphere of hopelessness, they could not have captured SIR ELTON's homeland better. Add a neglecting father and an inspiring, crippled mother with an adept tongue for aphorisms, and you've got SIR ELTON going to Main West Quad for Thanksgiving in a few days.
SIR ELTON was thinking of being a total jerk this week, just to prepare for this whole Thanksgiving holiday you Americans have. That’s how it works, right? You don’t thank anyone for anything the whole week before Thanksgiving so you can save up your thanks for that Thursday? SIR ELTON has enough tests and whatnot to keep him unhappy and unthankful this whole week. Plus SIR ELTON is used to his native holiday of Thankstaking, one single day when everyone makes sure everyone else knows they are taking each other for granted.
SIR ELTON was wondering why he talks about himself in the third person, and if that was some indication of him being a Neanderthal and if that was a result of his native country being more primitive than a Tyrannosaurus Rex on Hooked on Phonics. Then he wondered what exactly a Neanderthal was. All this thinking was, of course, to deter him from thinking about the election, which is hard enough to not hear people crying about everywhere. SIR ELTON was about to decide that his country was going to the dark side, but then he remembered that he didn’t care because he wasn’t a Democrat, or more importantly, a U.S. citizen. He doesn’t actually have a right to think the country is going down the crapper. Actually SIR ELTON thinks President George W. Bush has been lying to the American public all along by saying he’s a Republican since the Democrats’ symbol is a donkey, and he’s a giant ass.
SIR ELTON noticed the leaves falling off the trees recently. It got him thinking about the remarkable qualities of the United States, such as four whole seasons and a silly president with enunciation problems. Back home, there’s only one season. Starvation season.
SIR ELTON does not want to draw attention to the fact that no one cares about him, but nothing makes him sadder and more prone to suicide than watching other people celebrate good times and crush beer cans on their foreheads with their parents. One would think that SIR ELTON’s tragic story involved his parents dying in some freak third world accident involving rice and Chechnyan rebels but no; in actuality SIR ELTON’s parents moved to Chapel Hill but were too lazy to take the 10 minute trip to reminisce with their child. But it’s okay, they’re probably hopped up on opium anyway.
SIR ELTON enjoyed dazing through fall break, sitting comfortably numb on his ass while time caressed him and he watched The OC and popped Pringles by the case. SIR ELTON’s not saying that fall break was boring, just that it was horribly, sadly bereft of activity. Oh, yeah, SIR ELTON can climb Baldwin three or four times (he actually did it zero times, as it is hard on back) or tip some benches for good measure, but it just doesn’t equal the excitement of acute starvation and incessant violence that frequents his native home. SIR ELTON’s not bitter about it, but wait, no… yes he is. But it’s okay, because North Carolina is his new home, just south enough to be full of feelings of racism and intolerance (and tobacco use?) without the warm weather come December. Or hurricanes. We could use a good hurricane. As he was reminiscing about the hurricanes, SIR ELTON thought President George W. Bush would do well to name the next twister Hurricane Kerry as a metaphor for the treacherous destruction the flip-flopper will deal to the country if elected. SIR ELTON isn’t saying he’s a Bush fan, but that this is what Bush’s Christian values teach him.
When the week goes by with perhaps zero percent excitement, SIR ELTON has to start pretending like fun stuff actually happened. Did you catch that techno rave in the Bryan Center? It was pretty badass, considering it was free, the X dealers didn’t get busted and attractive girls were present. What about the Outing Club event of bungee jumping out of Duke-funded helicopters? The best part, of course, were the Hi-C juice boxes provided free of charge.
SIR ELTON realizes he loves to talk himself up in this column, psychoanalyze himself for the sake of no other than himself. However, this is the only semblance of therapy he has anymore, because he doesn’t have the tri-weekly therapy sessions he had back home. Because despite the extreme poverty and hunger SIR ELTON has implied he lived in, therapy was plentiful. This is because therapy was the only foreign aid given to them by the United States to help them deal with their starving and hopeless lives. Hey, if it can help Duke students deal with hurricanes, why not? SIR ELTON hopes to give something back to his home country, once he breeds into the US. like a rabbit on Viagra and forces his progeny into a deceitful and strangely satisfying life of politics. Then he can undermine the actual goals of the American government and use tax dollars to feed his home millions in foreign aid, mostly in the form of Hilary Duff films and wholesale toilet paper. Okay, so that idea was mostly stolen from The Manchurian Candidate, but it sounds just as dumb when someone claims that’s what Jews are doing.
It’s another week down and SIR ELTON BRAND, PRINCE OF TENNIS is still in the same classes he was in a week ago. He had no idea these semesters were so long. Back home, a semester was four days long, with the final on the fifth day. The classes usually started off slow, not picking up until the second day. On the third day they usually started winding down, and the last day of class was usually a fun day with games and food and the standard 15 minutes envying and criticizing imperial, plentiful America, where everyone thinks everyone else doesn’t know how good they have it.
As someone that looks important due to his prime spot in the newspaper, where you can just see the headline after the crossword gets ripped out and the rest of The Chronicle gets ignored like the ugly girl in Tri-Delt who brings up the average GPA, Sir ELTON BRAND, PRINCE OF TENNIS is pleased to welcome the class of 2008. As a word of advice to freshman guys from someone who’s been there, offering your seat on the bus to a girl on the way to a party on Friday night won’t get you laid, but when you hit the speed bump you can totally lose your balance (flip-flops aren’t built for stability anyway) and fall into her (because you’re too innocent to do it on purpose).
