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The Daily Cardinal Est. 1892
Saturday, September 30, 2023

Wednesday Morning Hangover: All hail the public spill and remember those Titans

Movie from your childhood that still kicks ass

“Remember The Titans” (1999)—I’ve probably seen this movie somewhere in the neighborhood of 15 times, and for my money, there’s not a more enjoyable movie to reenact when you’re sauced. Friendships have been strengthened by many a bro quoting dialogue from this movie with his other bro while under the influence. Whether it’s a timely-placed “Left side! Strong side!” interjection or a terser “Attitude reflects leadership, captain,” you can’t possibly go wrong. I personally like to channel my inner Coach Yoast: “YOU BLITZ ALL NIGHT! You make sure they remember – FOREVER – the night they played the Titans!” Really gets the people going and allows them to overlook that you’re slurring your words and rapidly losing motor skills.

Shit that salvages an otherwise shitty day

Throughout college, I’ve heard a lot of stories about people embarrassingly slipping on ice and falling in clear sight of several others. It seems like everybody’s due for at least one public slip-up during college—mine happened freshman year during passing time on Bascom. But I’ve always been pissed because I never had the fortune of witnessing the carnage happen, until about two weeks ago. I saw a guy wipe out on his bike, and it was pretty glorious.  He was riding over a big patch of ice next to the Chazen, and just lost total control of the bike and went parallel to the ground, with a bunch of items falling out of his jacket in the process. He ended up checking out OK, but more importantly, I had visual confirmation of what I had only believed, but had never seen. It was as if God was proving his existence to me, through the unexpected disguise of a biker busting his shit. I took a moment to marvel at what I had just seen, then proceeded to Walgreen’s to buy some Doritos.

First-World Hate of the week 

This week’s hate is reserved for people who Instagram their food on social media. Thanks to growing popularity of any number of Food Network or Travel Channel shows that ritually taunt us with their food porn, everybody and their cousin would have you believe that they’re the second coming of Rachael Ray just because they filleted a goddamn salmon and stuck a lemon slice next to it. I have to ask: what exactly is the motivation here? Are we supposed to be impressed that you have such a refined palate compared to the rest of us slovenly college students? Are you in desperate need of validation from your cyberfriends that you’re a talented chef? Are you intentionally hoping to make others jealous to compensate for something else? Are my uses of anaphora an effective rhetorical device? 

No one gives a shit about what you ate for dinner, so stop posting pictures. Jesus, one of these days, I’m going to be a total troll and post a photo on someone’s wall of the nasty, grease-soaked Hot Pocket that I just blew up in the microwave.  “Bon appetit, you guys.”

Song that will make you wet your pants with excitement

“Rhiannon” (Fleetwood Mac, 1975) – My ex-aunt (Is that what you call your dad’s brother’s former wife?) named my cousin after this song, which might be the coolest thing anyone in my family has ever done because this song is phenomenal. Fleetwood Mac is a really interesting band, and not just because they created one of the greatest albums of all time (1977’s Rumours). My fascination stems from the fact that practically each of the five members of the band hooked up with one another at some point. Perhaps the most promiscuous of the lot was Stevie Nicks, the group’s often cocaine-addled lead vocalist. In addition to her passionate affairs with bandmates Lindsey Buckingham and Mick Fleetwood, Nicks was also linked to The Eagles’ Don Henley and Joe Walsh, Tom Petty, Bob Dylan and probably whatever roadie could facilitate her next drug score.  On a more disturbing note, a 1992 magazine profile of Nicks reported that she’s had FOUR abortions. Now, it’s almost always dangerous and dehumanizing to label somebody as a whore, but Stevie Nicks’ vagina probably deserves a separate bust in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It’s kind of a shame she subjected herself to so much public criticism right in the middle of her prime, because when she wasn’t aimlessly fellating every name that appeared in the pages of Rolling Stone in the 1970s, that whore could really sing.

Unedited moronoic facebook status from a kid from my high school

“alrite time to go snow blow while drinking a beer and smoking a cig thats what i call multitasking redneck style lmao pure talent”

Using punctuation while expressing a thought, on the other hand, is one task that’s apparently beyond the realm of human achievement.

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