Image provided by: Texas A&M University
About The Battalion. (College Station, Tex.) 1893-current | View Entire Issue (April 1, 1993)
e PIN-YAWN an iys Thursday, April Fool's Day The Buttalion Stacy Feducia's Bock is Beautiful Page hare of ■ Andl it peers order a -hippis ie door iy evil- id soy- ed into ;ie roll, leveled emeof ids-of- defend agains: Dawn derful i by the ul peo- •thanl ps pro- t. Ian 1 ques- ichCI to this nunch vatives to de- aply to d next WANTED: SANTA CLAUS alias Kris Kringle, St. Nick - known for pedophilia, cultural insensitivity and weird penchant for toys, deer and elves. HO! HO! HO! The Buttalion Idiotorial Bored Steve O'Brien, editor in briefs Jason Loughman, masturbating editor Kyle Burnett, booze editor Todd Stone, boneheaditor Dave Thomas, snooze editor Stacy Feduda, ruler of the known world Don Norwood, AP wire editor Susan Owen, short chick editor Darrin Hill, phallic editor Elvis Aron Presley, king of rock and roll, patron saint, rock vocalist The Buttalion 100 sneers at Texas A&M horn. of% Idiotorial )ry f jldn'i ■merit htthat :kir he 'I dedto cau- nd Don't >! WE es te nd of ! So i ille- iy- ducin world a Regulate Santa Claus Old Saint Nick is dirty old man He goes by a number of aliases: Fa ther Christmas, Kris Kringle, St. Nick, and most commonly Santa Claus. But his real name is Lucas Rhodes. He's a heroin addict, a dead-beat dad, and a convicted child molester who is out on parole. Although it seems an unlikely story, “Santa" may not be who beseems. Underneath that snowy white beard, he's purring when little Johnny sits upon his knee. We all remember our first ride on Santa's lap. But lurking beneath the fluffy beard is a de bauched soul without a conscience or a license. That's right. All you need to be a Santa in America is some prison- issue black boots and a beer belly. In a country where you need a license to ran a trot-line, kids can wriggle on Santa's mag ic lap without his hav ing need for permit of any kind. Presi dent Clinton says it's time for a change, yet he lacks a coherent policy by which Americans can again feel safe to walk through mini-malls of this fine land. The myth of Old St. Nick tell of a man who sneaks around your house in the middle of the night, uninvited, leaving “gifts" for your children. This story gives credibility to perverse be havior exhibited by unscrupulous San tas. Clinton must get the despicable San tas off their merry thrones, out of the shopping malls and into a licensing of fice before they stick another candy cane into unsuspecting little mouths. But let us not stop there. Next time you walk through the Winter Wonder land that is a shopping center in De cember, look at the face of Santa. Do you see the diversity of nationalities that make up this nation? No. Do you see the sharp minds of both sexes? No. Almost every Santa in these United States is a white male. It's time for the Department of La bor to step in. Where has the Equal Employment Commis sion been hiding its head? In times when more and more people are growing sensitive to knowledge that all are created equal, the lone profession of Santa Claus-ing has been left to white men. We need a system where we can pick Santas not based on their sex and gender, but on their knowledge of gift-giving, reindeer, elves, and the North Pole. More Africans. More Na tive Americans. More Middle Easterners. More Asians. And definitely more women. Furthermore, someone needs to in vestigate why their are no Jewish or Is lamic Santas. Do those who hire these masked marauders think a non-Christ ian cannot be as skilled at gift-giving as a Christian? Does a non-Christian Kris Kringle lack the ability to “Ho! Ho! Ho!" right along with the Christian Kris? This lack of diversity is truly a travesty of a nation that claims to be so equal, especially in the holiday season. In these times of change, we need reform. And, in viewing the blatant discrimination in the merriest of ca reers, something must be done. We need Santa reform, dammit. Elvis seen at Bonfire, a hunka burnin' love Every year I get more and more dis appointed with the way our esteemed University handles the "Bonfire Situa tion." With each coming fall, hundreds of doomed trees find their way to Ag- gieland to be placed in one of the great est phallic monuments with the antici pation of a glorious ritual blaze to en sure the spirit of victory against t.u. Yet that is where the glory ends. When will the fools in charge realize that such a tradition needs — nay, de mands a climax of ultimate propor tions. Instead of cautioning Aggies about the evils of drinking and rowdiness, they should be encouraging a total, un bridled, orgasmic release. Let us drink. Let us dance. Let us run naked before the raw power of bonfire. Return bonfire to its pagan heritage. Return the glory to this tradition. John M. Scroggs Class of '93 - 4 - 5 Suspicious minds in bathroom with Elvis The secret of the campus is more un told than that of The Crying Game. It's scourge more awful than the lack of multicultural Santas. Stacy Feducia is a man. Last Thursday night, 1 sat studying on the library's fourth floor. As the clock struck 11, nature called and I re treated to the men s room. As I w alked to the wall of urinals, I saw Ms. Fedu cia with her skirt hiked up around her Elvis sighted on Opin-yawn page College: They call it a trap, and we can't walk out! T he great communicator, Ronald Reagan, almost once said, "If breasts were fish, I would've stayed in school." But, he didn't, and that's where it all begins. What is school? Is it fish? Could be. Tm not talking about freshmen, either. As a matter of fact, what is the rele vance of that nickname? Do we all en ter college with scales, fins and sick, filmy, bulbous eyes? Of course not. That happens about our junior year. And what's the deal with names like Piss Head, Band Queer and Corps Turd? Oh, stop my quivering loins. When Shakespeare said a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, he hadn't considered the full range of possibilities. Buying someone a dozen long stem snodspurts, for example, would not be a big Valen tine's Day hit. Another great communicator, Ross Perot, might have said, "Here's how it is. Elvis — he of hound dog or bulldog fame — took my wife's Caboodles makeup kit along with a pair of her best support hose, made himself up like my daughter, crashed her wedding and tried to marry my son-in-law before someone noticed the sideburns. Now, that's just sad. Sad." So, is school about Elvis? Could be. Look at all the king has to offer. Everything we really need to know about life, we can learn from any of Elvis' greatest hits volumes. I personal ly recommend "Elvis Presley — Our Memories of Elvis, Vol ume 2" and "Elvis — A Canadian Tribute." Take these gems for example. . . "I Got a Peelin' in My Body" — This is a song about how to deal with the ill-effects of consuming too much cheese. "Green Green Grass of Home" — This song was created specifically for those who have trouble with color identifica tion. For those interested, I suggest listening to the lesser-known "Red Red Bloodstains on the Sidewalks of Home" (also a pop ular beer drinking song for those who find themselves in the midst of government housing). And finally, "That's What You Get for Leavin' Me" — After listening to this song, there can be no mistaking its relevance to the current Clinton Administration. Take these lyrics for example: "Everything we have is gone, gone, gone. / Don't you see. That's what you get for lovin' me. / Now don't you start cryin' again. / You should have known how things would end." A lesser-known German communicator, appearing on a special edition of Dieter's 'Sprockets/ unwittingly described the relationship between University administration and stu dents when asked to detail his ideal date: "I push you down. I make you drink antifreeze until you puke. I pee on you screaming, 'House on fire! House on fire!' Then, you wake up in the morning with a size seven poop-shoot." So, is school about dating? Could be. We each have our own horrifying stories of interludes with the opposite sex. But, the dating nightmare can be partially improved by using the appropriate screening techniques for identifying satanic pick-up lines. For your benefit, we'll review a few of the most commonly used lines: * "Are you free around midnight during Summer Solstice? * "Are you a virgin?" * "Do you have an aversion to naked men with large, shiny daggers dancing in circles around your chained body?" * "You know, I think the Satanic Bible is highly underrated as a work of classical literature. Don't you?" * "I'm particularly fond of hooved animals. Would you know of any quaint little out-of-the-way goat farms in the area?" * And finally, the classic, "Hi, Tm Satan. You can call me Bubba." Watch out for this one. It's particularly common at the Chicken. While these pick-up lines may seem quite obvious, more than a few unfortunate souls have fallen victim to a smooth talking devil. Take for instance, Paulina Poritzkova and Ric Ocasek or Madonna and any one of her emasculated con quests. Maybe school is about Madonna. Could be. After all, she is very fond of fish. In fact, it's been rumored that fish were involved when she spent that night with Elvis and Ross Per ot's son-in-law in a seedy Tucson motel room right next to Bet ty Lou Thelma Liz's Red Neck Mother All-You-Can-Eat Cafe. So, just what is college? Some say it's reality. Some say it's dancing naked on the fourth floor of Evans library screaming passages of Dostoyevsky's "Crime and Punishment." I say it's neither. Franny Glass may have come closest to the truth when she said, "I got the idea in my head — and I could not get it out — that college was just one more dopey, inane place in the world dedicated to piling up treasure on earth ... While that may be true, at least it's a better joint than Betty Lou Thelma Liz's Red Neck Mother All-You-Can-Eat Cafe. And that's something we can all be thankful for. Clay is a brazen hussy and saucy tart. TONI GARRARD CLAY Bonehead waist standing naxt to a urinal, peeing. This cross-dressing behavior should not be tolerated. All the queer cross dresser types in the world should be sent to storm that damn Waco com pound and kill that crazy sonofabitch. Sir Fatty Class of '00 Love them tender, Elvis slams writers Being the only sane person around, I have taken it upon myself to slam all you non-ultraconservatives on the opinion page. First of all let me say do ing this hurts me more than it hurts you. I am doing this strictly out of love and concern for you and your welfare. Although I hate all your stupid columns, I still like you. So don't be of fended, I am a friend. After all we don't have to agree on everything in order to get along, right? I've often wondered what happens, though, when you can't agree on anything. Hmm... So maybe I'm not your friend. And maybe 1 hate all of ^btir guts -- and, and maybe I think all your feet stink. (This is the part where, with all the education A&M has provided me and all 23 years of maturity behind me, I proceed to stick out my tongue.) To change yourselves in order to be as PERFECT as I am, I recommend sev eral things. 1. All the guys should shave their heads and wear robes. Joining a monastery is an option for everyone except Matt Dickerson. Sorry Matt you can't. You're married, remember? 2. All the females can remain as they are, that is as gorgeous and beau tiful as God intended. Remember to keep writing touchy-feely columns ex hibiting the grace and compassion only a female can have for the human race. As for Stacy Feducia, I'll address her columns individually. Robert Vasquez, have you consid ered counseling? Honestly, you write about "lobsters crying out." Oh, and I heard about you shedding a few tears at Red Lobster just the other day. Yes, you claim to be a chauvinistic pig but we all know you are the ideal sensitive man of the 90s. Concerning Stacy and her columns: Thank yot^so much for helping us un derstand the human body more. You continually help readers go past soci ety's social taboos, explore new worlds. new galaxies, new civilizations, and boldly go where no man has gone be fore- space. Yeah, yeah, space, space, just lots of empty space. I won't bring up the famous colon columns right now. They say honesty is the best policy. I hope all of you think so after I slammed you. 1 just needed to express myself. Understand? I hope you'll for give me and forget about it. I hope all the 40,000 readers do too. Ha ha ha. Janet Holder Class of'92 Editor's Note: Holder is the president of the Alternative Sex Club. She goes by the alias, Janet "Hold me down" Holder. Ecfitonots reflect the infinite wisdom of Stacy Feducia and her immaculateiy intelligent Opinion Page staff. We take no responsfcility for boneheads who write into the Battalion complaining about Bonfire, homosexuals, dborfion. Repub&cans and Democrats, religion, howdy, MSC grass the Corps, non-regs, Greeks, multicultufafem. od nauseum because they have nothing better to do and. m fact, have no Ives. We believe that these rdividuals were paid by David Koresh to persecute those of us who are their intellectual superiors and that they exist solely to make Stacy's tfe hell by causing her irritable bowel syndrome to act up. Chieftains who habitually rant and rave are ineffective leaders Huns who periodicaSy complain are just being Huns - it is their wav of ridding themselves of momentary frustration. - Attib the Hun. Elvis lives inside of my butt. - Stacy Feducia, ruler of the known world.