Andrew's AUMnibus articles, NOW WITH 20% MORE LIBEL!!!

In a recent effort to stem the flow of students transferring out of AUM, University officials approved construction on a new Taylor Road entrance. The original proposition was to draft plans which would call for an entrance that would be safer for drivers as well as ascetically pleasing with its simple elegance. It seems that this idea was viewed as PURE $%^&ING EVIL and the people who proposed it were promptly burned to death (this is the best explanation I’ve been able come up with). Apparently actually drafting a plan was seen as a waste of university resources, and so they decided to just pull it out of their asses as they went along. The result was a confusing and irritating maze of yield signs and one way streets. However, what may seem like a simple poor planning at first glance, just might be part of a bigger and more devious scheme put in place by the higher powers of AUM.

It is common to knowledge to most in the river region that many students choose to complete the core requirements for their chosen major at AUM and then transfer to AUM’s sister school: Auburn University or The University of Alabama. While this might work out well for the students it is a serious hindrance to AUM since it takes students (A.K.A. money) away from the University as well as cuts down on the size of the graduating classes which in turn affect future alumni involvement (A.K.A Alumni Funding). It’s a vicious cycle because the more students that leave because they don’t feel AUM is on the same level as other State Universities, the longer that perception will persist. So it isn’t hard to believe that AUM would be driven to desperate measures to keep students at the university, ere go: the Taylor Road entrance. Because what better way to keep students from leaving than to actually keep them from physically leaving the campus.

After some serious investigative reporting, we discovered a department at AUM that until this semester had no record of its existence. The new Student Stationing department (or S.S. for short) appears to have had heavy involvement in the “Planning” and construction of the new Taylor road entrance. The department head: Dr. Fredrick A. Heinschlimmer’s signature was on all of the expense reports as well as the construction contracts. Not much information was available on Dr. Heinschlimmer except that he obtained a doctorate in European history from 1940 to 1947 in 1973 from NYU. While couldn’t find any actual explanation on what the department actually does we were able to get a statement from Dr. Heinschlimmer as he walked from his office to the elevator. We asked him if he was indeed trying to keep students at AUM and if he really expected to succeed. To which he replied with a smug smile: “ oh don’t vorry about zat young man, ve have a great deal of experience vith……containment.” He then gave a menacing little chuckle and adjusted his monocle while staring at me with the black soulless eyes of a shark.

Construction on the Taylor Road entrance Is “scheduled” to end in September, where upon work will begin on the rerouting of Senator Drive to run directly through the newly installed Velociraptor habitat. Velociraptors are to be added in late December.

Discussion point: Velociraptors- Most terrifying Christmas present ever?.....or most awesome?

For.......Us

Who are we? We are the kids who got ripped from their childhoods as planes smashed into buildings and cars exploded. We sat transfixed, watching something that no child should be allowed to watch. But the people who should have covered our eyes just let us watch and whispered “no you have to see. You have to know what we’ve done and the way things are. Because only you can fix this, only you can make all of it ok again, only you can help. But first, you must see.” We became children trying to be adults with no clue of how to do it. It was like building Legos in the dark with half the pieces missing. And even though we knew it wouldn’t be easy to face when finished, we kept building.

Who are we? We are hey Arnold, and Dexter’s lab. We are coffee shops and American eagle.we are Birkenstock, Wallabies, Crocs, and classic flops. We are john Mayer and Conan O'Brien. we are N’SYNC and Nickleback, We are Rehab's "sitting at the Bar" because we can sing every word. South Park and Family Guy. We are VH1 and Facebook, “The Dark Knight” and “Inception”. We are American Pie 1 and 2 ( and nothing else) We are Ross, Rachel. Joey, Chandler, Monica, and Phoebe. we are the Chappelle's show and "Anchorman". we are Harry Potter and Twilight. we are "The Hangover". we are September 11th and Toby Keith songs.We are Enron and global warming. we are the gulf oil spill. we are the last stubborn remnants of racism and prejudice in america. We are John Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and change.We are barrack Obama. We are one hell of a decade.

Who are we? We are nihilists and misanthropes. We are the byproduct of two generations of extremists. We were told of the hippies who raged against to system to little avail but who fucked and smoked themselves into near oblivion and whose message for the ages was to make love and not war. We were shown how their children embraced the system and integrated into it. Changing it, shifting it, corrupting it but not for others, only for themselves and their own selfish gain because after all, greed was good. We discovered the system and came to hate it as much as our forbears did, except we saw forty years and two generations worth of failure come before us. We saw two extreme and polar opposite attacks result only in bitter submission. We are trapped, hopeless, and listless.

So who are we? In short: We are screwed.

For The Gentlemen: A Valentines Day Special

Gentlemen, let me begin by saying: Testicles.

Just enjoy that for a moment, and have a nice chuckle. Done? Good. Now, I am afraid that I must be the bringer of bad tidings. That most irritating of holidays is almost upon us.

That one day of the year where we must go out and spend preposterously large amounts of money and time, to buy gifts with the sole purpose of proving to our girlfriends/wives/favorite hooker, just how much we appreciate seeing them naked. And gentlemen, make no mistake, that is exactly what it’s about. You often hear the occasional feminist, snot-nosed brat, or middle-aged divorcee say that, “if women ran the world, there would be a lot less problems.”

Now, this statement, aside from being absolutely adorable, is complete and utter whale crap. For the simple reason that women do, in fact, rule the world.

But men should not be blamed for this opinion; for women have carried on with this little charade with such calculated perfection, that its nothing short of admirable . Or, as the urban gentleman so wisely says: “Bitches be frontin’ ”

But gentlemen, let me ask you one question: what is the one resource all women control? ………..EXACTLY SIR! Sex. it is perfect bargaining chip. They have the very essence of absolute power (boobs) at their control day and night, and women wield this power with a manipulative genius. You see, they know that men will spend any amount of money on jewelry if it means we will get even a short glimpse of -as the rural gentleman says- "them tig ole bitties",and so they invented Valentine’s Day.

Indeed gentlemen, women know full well that Valentine’s Day has nothing to do with love; it's really just a test. A test to see just how much you think they are worth. I’ll pause for a moment, because I doubt you can hear me over the sound of you crapping your pants.

Those of you who aren’t defecating on yourselves should be, because this test is the equivalent of asking an infant the question “how many shoes?” Where the only right answer is “purple.”

So now you’re probably wondering what you’re supposed to do. Well, the only answer is: spend as much money as humanly possible. I’m serious, start shelling out cash like a crack head on payday. You may be asking: “what if she isn’t really that hot?”;well, if you're slumming it a bit this year, then go ahead and spend even more money on her, because life’s gonna be hard enough on that uggo. She deserves something nice for once. However, if your particular wife/girlfriend/Columbian mistress has a wildly disproportionate intelligence/hotness ratio, buy her a plastic ring out of a vending machine from a Mexican Restaurant (you know, that one with the awesome cheese dip that has the peppers, yeah that one) and tell her it’s a new expensive light weight platinum, because let’s be honest, she’s probably not gonna know the difference. And gentlemen keep in mind that you can never win; you only lose less.

Although, if you happen to be single on the week leading up to Valentine's Day, just sit back and relax. Enjoy the bitter sweetness of being alone on Valentine’s Day, and watch your friends go into complete meltdowns. But whatever you do, DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, attempt to begin a new relationship the week of Valentine’s Day. Because my friend, Valentine’s Day does to a blossoming relationship what Miley Cirus does to music: That is to say, it cuts it’s throat, sets it on fire, it then pees on the fiery corpse, while cackling maniacally into the night.

So, gentlemen, I leave you with one thing to remember: "Roses are red, Violets are blue, if you get caught cheating on Valentine’s Day, she will cut it off… I’m serious, there’s no joke here. SHE WILL CUT IT THE F*** OFF."

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Andrew Johnson.

BRAIN FROM "PINKY AND THE BRAIN" SELECTED JOURNAL ENTRIES

JANURARY 5, 1995 12:00 p.m.

The new load of lab rats come in today. I very much hope that I will receive a cellmate with an actual mind this time, not like that imbecilic, and vaguely British cretin, Jenkins that I had to suffer through. I have been in this god forsaken lab for almost two years, and I long for a modicum of intelligent companionship, or at the very least someone whose name isn’t a ****ing adjective Maybe this new gentleman (or lady if he gods choose to smile upon me) won’t be as bad as the last one. He might actually prove helpful to my plans to take over the world. Oh that’s the new colleague coming in now. Wish me luck.

JANURARY 5, 1995 12:15 P.M.

#$%^@

JANURARY 12, 1995

Exquisite diabolical schemes. All of them worked out and planned to perfection. Weeks at a time spent on each of them in turn. I slaved away over every meticulous detail. I poured ever ounce of my substantial intelligence into each one as I crafted them with as much love and care as any mother ever showed her first born. All of this excruciating effort and love and all it takes is one ****ING “NARF!” for it all to go straight to hell. I have come to the conclusion that even if there is a god, he is cannot be loving and is by no means just.

February 21, 1995

I fear that I am taking leave of my senses. After having suffered the intense displeasure of that buffoon‘s company for two months, his mannerisms have become so ingrained in my mind that they irritate me even when he is not present. Just the other day, I was working on my plan of sabotaging the New York Times crossword making it unsolvable which would distract the masses long enough for me to take over the world* when I suddenly heard a loud NARF!. I looked around to see no one there. I returned to my scheming and heard pinky ask me a question to which I responded out of habit: “the same thing we do every…..night…..pinky……pinky?” but pinky was nowhere to be found. Throughout the rest of the morning I continued to hear a faint NARF every few minutes but I just told myself it was the ventilation…I wasn’t convinced.

March 19, 1995

2 hours. I spent 2 hours standing over pinky whilst he slept. In my hands I held a freakishly large food pellet that pinky had found earlier in the week. I was aware of its presence because he intruded upon me in the lavatory to show it to me. I was in the shower you see and- well, I digress. As I stood there watching him sleep, I imagined myself kneeling beside him and forcing that food pellet into his open drooling mouth and down into his throat and holding it there. I could see his eyes as they snapped upon in confusion and fear. I watched as he cried helpless, pleading tears and listened to his incomprehensible grunts and whimpers as his hands grasped at my arms trying desperately to stave off the inevitable. His hands grow weaker as his eyes become dimmer until finally the last bit of life ebbs away and all that’s left before me is the empty shell of a rat. When I snapped back to reality I was still standing over pinky holding the pellet with sweaty, trembling hands. I went back to my bed and cried uncontrollably until I finally fell asleep. I fear that I won’t be able to control myself much longer. There are long periods of time that I can’t remember where I’ve been or what I was doing. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on to my sanity. Someone help me…please

(This April 1 entry is the last. In between the entry above and the one below, there is only page after page of a single phrase repeated over and over: “what we gonna do tomorrow night Brain?” often with drops of dried blood sprinkled on the pages.)

April 1, 1995

What’s that pinky?............ Why, the same thing we do every night pinky......... kill you. He…heheheh …..MWAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA fifi.

This was the evidence displayed at the trail of Brain M. Rat. With these journal entries along with the testimony of the officers who arrived at the scene first (the regaled jury with their chilling account of how brain was found sitting on the floor of his cage, covered in blood, and wearing the skin of Pinky C. Rat and screaming over and over again: “NARF! NARF! NARF! NARF!”) the prosecution secured the death penalty. Brain is currently on death row at san Quentin prison.

* Totally a real pinky and the brain scheme.

BP had “Good hustle out there”

Disclaimer** this was written back before the well was capped but i wanted to share it with you all.**

After four months and billions of dollars spent on the gulf oil spill bp calls it quits after failing to find a solution but calls good hustle anyway. “ you just got to go out there and give 100% and somedays that’s just not enough.” Said BP spokesman Jason Smitherton. “We went out there, took on our obstacles-not the least of which was our own absurd lack of foresight in case of just such an emergency-and we left everything on the field...including hundreds of thousands of gallons of crude oil.”.

Even though the oil well continues to spew into the gulf and will for at least the next couple of years everyone involved will be getting a trophy at the banquet in September. “ because at the end of the day it doesn’t matter if you win or lose or whether you have permentantly and irreparably damaged an entire eco system possibly sending the effected area into a economic crisis, all that matters is that you gave it your best shot.” Said Smitherton while fleeing from an angry mob of gulf coast fishermen.

The Johnson's Comunity Collegiate Dictionary.

Andrew: (an-jrue) 1. noun. name for the accomplishing of a seemingly impossible task through sheer determination and witty charm. usually done under intense pressure and with a time limit that would make James Bond crap his pants. 2. verb. to bend the laws of physics in order to accomplish a seemingly impossible task.

For The Gentlemen II

Gentlemen,tonight I layed in bed (nude) and pondered the human condition. I pontificated over mankind's eternal pursuit of love and acceptance. How man is never satisfied with what he has and is always striving for more.I thought about the fine line between good and evil, and about all the evils of man and how even in the blackest soul of the most evil man in exsitence there always lies the tiniest bit of light and goodness, and how given only slightly different circumstances he could have been the most saintly man imaginable and done more good than any could ever hope to accomplish. Then I thought about fate and wondered aloud ( much to the displeasure of those in my house who were asleep because when i wonder aloud i talk in a very loud and incredulous voice. i also speak with a Swahili accent but thats hardly the point) if man is really in control of his own life. perhaps there really is some higher power directing everything and keeping watch over creation.

Then my mind wandered into other territories such as the world and how I could make it a better place with my few years here ( 56 btw. ive already planned it all out. mark your calenders cause its gonna be one hell of a suicide ). I thought about the actions I could take to improve things if only a litle bit and if only for a short while. I wondered if it would make any difference and if not; then why was I here? (i then wished fervently that it was to be a successful STRAIGHT porn star) I wondered why anyone was here. I ruminated on life, the universe, and every thing, and got absolutely lost within the limitless expanse of my own imagination. I sailed through galaxies and soared alongside comets. I sat awestruck at the vastness of the universe and stared in sheer wonder at it all. And at the end of all this, as I lay in my bed, bare ass naked, a thought came to me. A thought that made all of that seem totally and utterly insignificant. it was a realization of epic porportions and yet it was comprised of just one simple truth. and that thought? that grand nugget of truth and wisdom? THAT METEORIC THUNDERBOLT OF GLORIOUS KNOWLEDGE??????......... Simply this: The Shawshank Redemption is the greatest fucking movie ever made.

-Andrew

Wait....where am i?

1. approximate number of times i have legitimately had to ask the question" where's my pants?" in public situations: 25
2. number of those times where i had a good excuse for not knowing where my pants are: 2
3. avg length of my relationships: one week.
4. chance that these three statistics are related 98%

math is fun

HOORAY FOR HERESY!!!! (the good kind!)

Yesterday morning awoke to find that:

1. it was 6:30 in the morning,

2: no human being should be required to wake up at that hour, and

3: i was pretty freaking hungry.

so, i summoned Jenkins to give me my morning piggy back ride to the kitchen and while he was ambling slowly towards my dining area i pondered what i should fill my expansive gullet with. i was feeling very Jewish but also a smidge rebellious that morning, so i decided upon a bagel and a biseleh of bacon. despite Jenkins's protests that his knee replacement surgery was only two days ago, and that he couldn't go any faster i was able to encourage( and by encourage I mean beat mercilessly) him to move a bit faster and we arrived in the kitchen on time. I fed him a sugar cube and sent him to his sleeping mat next to the back door. As I gazed into the icebox i glanced at my watch encrusted with South African blood diamonds, and saw that i only had enough time for a bagel and couldn't possibly cook the bacon AND arrive at my place plebeian employment on time. It was then that god, in my hour of need, smiled down upon me, and showed me the way....in the form of bacon bits. i hastily grabbed the delicious bits and made my preparations for the bagel. I sprinkled the delicious bits upon my Hebrew breakfast and ate. My friends, let me tell you that even if I live to be 100, no breakfast will ever taste as good as that religious contradiction did on that fateful morning. It was easily the best decision i made all month.

B-I-N-G-OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!

Question: when I say “bingo” what comes to mind? Old people, right? Of course they do. You think of the phosphorescent lights that cast a dim gloomy light over the 20 or so seniors who stare blankly at their bingo cards as they struggle to hold on to the brief moments of lucidity that, much like their remaining family members, come less and less as their last few years slip by. You can’t help but think of their dead eyes that never move, and the slow rattling breaths they take, completely oblivious to the ever present smell of death mixed oh so delicately with that unique fragrance that accompanies complete and utter hopelessness. It’s a smell that fills every nook and cranny of the macabre zoos that are “retirement” homes.

But I’d be willing to bet that you don’t picture a winding maze of slot machines where the air hangs thick with smoke from cheap cigarettes and everyone’s eyes twinkle with the madness that desperation creates. Well apparently, neither does the Alabama Supreme Court.

Sometime last year, (I don’t really care enough to look it up) the ASC changed their stance on what constitutes illegal bingo (the ASC has very strict opinions on games as can be seen in the 1967 ruling in the landmark case Smith v Johnson that established the legal concept of “No Tag Backsies”) which caused a chain reaction that lead to the proverbial “measuring contest” going on now between Gov. Riley and VictoryLand owner: Milton McGregor.

As mind-blowingly asinine as the actual issues are, (and I’ll get more in depth with those later on) right now I’d like to focus on the ASC’s attempt to define bingo. Since I wasn’t actually there, I don’t know for sure just how this issue first came up in their discussion, (or how any issue comes up for that matter. Is there like a secret slot in a door or something? Do they have that oracle chick from 300?) but I like to imagine that it went something like this:

Four robed figures sit around a long lacquered table made of oak….or maybe maple. I’m not really sure. At the head of the table sits-cedar? No, cedar is darker than that. Sorry, sorry. At the head of the table sits a man who looks like he’s in his fifties but it’s hard to tell because he’s wearing big dark aviators and sporting a two day beard that’s flecked with grey. His mane of dark hair is swept back, revealing a tanned and creased forehead. With one hand he swirls the remains of a bloody marry in a scotch glass, and, reaches under his glasses to rubs his eyes with the other. He pushes the aviators onto his forehead revealing blood shot eyes that wearily sweep the room. He takes a deep breath and says in a slow, deliberate voice:

Justice 1: Ok. Just so were clear, everyone agrees that under NO circumstances can a person legally marry a figment of their, or anyone else’s imagination. Right?

Justice 2: And were including ga-

Justice 1: OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, YES HIGGINS. WE’RE INCLUDING GAY MARRIAGES!!! What is it with you dude? EVERY. FREAKING. TIME. Just leave it alone.

Justice 3, a middle-aged woman with shoulder length curly brown hair who sits with a quizzical look on her face and glazed over eyes, says to no one in particular:

Justice 3: Why is this an issue again?

Justice 2 (Higgins): -Ignores justice 3, and points at Justice 1- Now you listen to me Wilson! Gay Imaginary Marriage is destroying-

Justices1, 3, &4 simultaneously: The fabric of the American family!

Justices 1, 3, &4 glare at Higgins

Justice Higgins: Fine then. As long as were clear.

Justice Wilson:-shakes his head in disgusted disbelief- Ok, well, since Johnsons’ still faking his own death and Richardson is still trippin balls from all that bad acid Enrique sold us, - he looks over at a tangled mass of black robes in the corner- hows it goin over there Dan? You tried to peel your face like an orange yet?

Justice Richardson:-stares blankly into space with wild eyes and whispers hoarsely- Nobody move, the unicorn cant read our thoughts if he cant see us. DON’T LOOK HIM IN THE EYES!!!

Justice Wilson: Hang in there buddy. Ok so, all those in fav- no, you know what? I don’t even care. There is no possible way any of you botards could object to this. Let just sign the damn thing and move on. - He signs the bill and passes it around the table to be signed by the others

Justice Richardson: CATH THE GREMLIN!!!! HE’LL GRANT US WISHES IF WE EAT HIS FEET!! Justice Richardson then proceeds to run around the room giggling uncontrollably, bent over with his arms outstretched in an attempt to catch what one can only assume is a magical gremlin.

Justice Wilson eyes the empty bloody marry in his hand and in a fluid motion flips his sunglasses down, turns, and walks toward the bar in the back of the room.

Justice Wilson: Alright then. So how much time have we killed?

Justice Wilson reaches for the bloody marry mix

Justice 3: Its only 10:30 a.m., so……an hour and a half

Justice Wilson’s hand hovers in front of the bottle of bloody marry mix for a few seconds until his head droops and he reaches for the Everclear, and proceeds to fills his glass to the top

Justice Higgins: So, what’s next?

Justice Wilson: - shuts his eyes tight and whispers over and over- Please be important or in some small way meaningful. Please be important or in some small way meaningful….

Justice 4: -Eyes papers and flips through a few until saying: uhh… apparently we have to decide if BINGO should be legal.

Justice Wilson spins suddenly to face his “colleagues” and throws his glass against the wall and with vodka flying from his mouth, screams:

Justice Wilson: OH COME ON!!!

TO BE CONTINUED….

the inner monologue of ghandi two weeks into a hunger strike

DAMNIT I'M HUNGRY!!!!

For The Gentlemen

For The Gentlemen

Gentlemen, let me start of by getting something out of the way: boobies. There. It’s been said and it’s on the table. Just take a moment and chuckle quietly to yourself. Done? Good. Now, on to business; if you’re like me, then there are times throughout your day when your mind just wanders off without telling you where he's going, much like an A.D.D five year old at six flags. During these carefree romps through the trash filled walkways of an overrated amusement park that are littered with cigarettes and empty dip'n dots cups that is the male consciousness, it happens upon things so wild and unimaginable, that no one besides another man would ever understand or appreciate it.

For instance: "If women are such good fashion designers, and gay men are such good fashion designers, then why aren't lesbians some type of super designer?" Now some people say that the two factors cancel each other out, but I disagree. However, that’s a rabbit I'll chase another day. My main focus in this note is that of the morning pee. The male morning pee is as predictable as the sunrise, as ever present as gravity, and as necessary as a meth lab is to a trailer park (If you live in a trailer park and are offended by the last comment, don't be. It’s there; you just aren't tweaking hard enough to sense it). But it’s not just the morning constitution itself that has me so intrigued, it’s that every two or three months you will take a pee so long, that after you finish, you immediately regret not timing it.

This is one of those rare things that are both reminiscent of why life is worth living, and soul crushingly depressing. "But how could I have known that that was gonna be a urination of Olympic* proportions?" you tearfully ask the shower curtain. But the shower curtain in its stoic passivity doesn't answer. "ANSWER ME!" you scream at the towel rack, but something as wise as the towel rack knows when to hold its tongue.

So, lost in the solemn silence of your bathroom at six in the morning as you cry yourself back to sleep on the mat in front of the toilet, completely oblivious to the fact that yesterday you gravely miscalculated you starting trajectory and totally soaked that mat, you find the answer: pickles. Its' not a very informative or helpful answer, but its' an answer nonetheless. And so, as you uncurl from the fetal position and climb in to the shower, you are consoled by the one thought that your still groggy mind can manage to entertain: "The towel rack saw it, he can back me up."

*a little known fact about the Grecian Olympics is that on top of wrestling and running, other events included the 100 meter pee, the long pee, and curling.