Published: Monday, March 8, 2010 in The Whitworthian.

Sometimes, late at night, when I’m alone in my room and no one is looking, I lay my head on my desk and sob openly.

Occasionally this is because of some paper on Estonian photography that I forgot was due the next morning. More often, however, it’s because I made the mistake of opening a campus e-mail.

I’ll admit it–this has been talked about before. The layout and design train wreck that are a large percentage of campus e-mails have been the subject of several columns in this paper.

Some might say that well enough should be left alone. Some might say that dead horses are beaten enough in this fallen world.

On the other hand, some people said the moon was made of provolone. Just because some people say something doesn’t make it right, intelligent or nearly as awesome as anything that I say.

I will also admit that this issue has gotten better over the past few years. But every time I click open my inbox to be greeted by subject lines with six exclamation points and messages that contain text that looks like it was written by Roy G. Biv himself, I’m reminded that I still have work to do in this world.

So listen up, e-mail scribes. I’m about to give you a crash course in not causing copy editors to commit suicide.

E-mail has been around for a long time. The first e-mails were sent by cavemen, who worked in groups to pound chunks of iron into meaningful shapes, heat them up in fires and then stab mastodons with them in the hopes that the beast would take off running in the general direction of the recipient. While relatively effective, this method understandably limited the length of messages. Cavemen knew the value of keeping their words short and to the point.

Mastodons are slippery beasts, as everyone knows. Long messages meant more hot iron and higher chances the mastodon would just say “Screw this!” and trample the caveman into primordial soup. This, by the way, is the original meaning of the phrase “don’t kill the messenger.”

Another thing the cavemen did well was conservatism. I’m not referring to the fact that none of them voted for Obama–the point is that they were economical with their e-mails. After all, mastodons don’t just grow magically from cyberspace. A caveman couldn’t just write “SENIOR NIGHT” on the back of every mastodon around and let loose the horde. Everyone would hate him for using all the freaking mastodons. This method, known as a mastodon blast, was heavily discouraged in cave culture.

The use of color was also done tastefully by cavemen in general. It’s not because colors weren’t readily available in the cave world. Take a look at any book with dinosaurs in it, and you’ll see that most of them were bright green, purple and taupe. All a caveman had to do was run up and scrape some off real quick and slap it on his mastodon for the desired effect.

This rarely went over well with readers, however. The image of a rainbow-hued mastodon charging over the horizon toward your cave would be disturbing on several levels. Cavemen realized that just because dinosaurs were colorful didn’t mean their e-mails had to be colorful, too. Words to live by.

Finally, cavemen never wrote e-mails about dating. Because frankly nobody wants to hear about that rigmarole.

The point of all that is writing e-mails tastefully is so easy, even a caveman could do it.
Ha … I’m so punny.

Published: Tuesday, March 2, 2010 in The Whitworthian.

Canada, this is the last straw.

I mean seriously. How long do you expect us to put up with your shenanigans? You walk around up there feeling all northier than us, gnawing on your bacon which is actually ham, laughing in Frenchish accents about how Americans don’t have as many beavers as you. It’s just insulting.

Now, however, you’ve gone too far. Now you’ve beaten us at hockey.

What’s that you say? Hockey is your sport? Apparently you weren’t paying attention when we stole it from under your nose, just like we took pizza from the Italians and pro wrestling from the cavemen. We’re also taking free speech from the Christians, but that’s a work in progress.

The point is that hockey is ours now and you have no right to take back what we’ve rightfully stolen.

Now, I’m a gracious guy. To be honest, I’m a fan of Canada. So I’m going to let you in on what my best friend in the Secret Service told me. He made me swear a terrible oath to never tell, but I like you guys, and I think the idea of being struck by lightning is kind of interesting anyway.

The United States is no longer happy with your performance as our hat. What, you weren’t aware that you were our hat? You are. Grab a world map and take a look.

For the past couple hundred years you’ve done all right, but times are changing. As everyone knows, America has so much money that part of the $700 billion stimulus package is going toward creating landfills just to store the piles and piles of hundred dollar bills we aren’t using at the moment.

In light of this fact, we’re looking to spruce up our image. Hockey was part of that plan, but since you’ve told us what you think of that plan, we’re having to move ahead with plan B.

America is going to annex Canada and paint it gold. Metallic gold. The entire country. Including the moose.

Before you freak out and start launching missiles, think about the positive side here for a second.

What color is Canada now? Well, on most maps it’s a nasty brownish red. Salmon, almost. Hardly representative of your masculine beaver-saving, logger-dude culture. I mean, come on. You guys won curling this year, too. You deserve a better color.
If we painted you gold, your map presence would be improved by several hundred percent. This has many benefits. Picture the family trying to decide where to go for their annual vacation:

“How about Hawaii, honey? I hear it’s nice…”

“No way, baby. We’re going to this gold place right here.”

“What place is that?”

“How should I know, but come on, it’s freaking gold!”

Also, with a bright shiny surface, you would be the most noticeable nation when seen from space. You will be the first nation the aliens notice when they arrive. If they come in peace, Canada could end up as the new capital of the universe. Alternatively they could decide to nuke you first, but hey, a place in the history books is a place in the history books, eh?

This is happening, Canada. I’m giving you the heads up so that you’ll have time to lay down some painter’s tape if there something you really don’t want splattered. But I’m powerless to stop it.

And if you don’t like it, well, you shoulda thought about that before you beat us in overtime. Scumbuckets.

Published: Monday, February 22, 2010 in The Whitworthian.

We interrupt this issue of The Whitworthian to bring you a special report. I have recently been informed of a glaring oversight in our efforts to go green.

Green, as all you alert and environmentally-conscious types are aware, is no longer merely a color, a sickly mixture of blue and yellow, or the pallid shade of Mr. Yuk’s face.

Nay–green has risen from obscurity like an army of furious forest elves to the forefront of our current political and moral attentions.

And rightly so. After all, our planet’s been around for a while now, and it’s about time somebody started making sure it wasn’t broken. Imagine if you let your car go for thousands of years without a tuneup. Would it still be so willing to sit neglected in the Fieldhouse parking lot? I think not. It just goes to show how lucky we are that old Mother Nature is still spinning after so long without somebody telling us not to use hairspray.

But we are pushing our luck. We are asking too much. We are begging for a Captain Planet beatdown.

It seems that in the midst of our tray-tossing, hybrid-driving, DOMA-drinking efforts, we have forgotten something, something that millions of people use and abuse every day. A vast landscape of overpopulation, waste and trash.

The Internet.

Think about it. We have regulations and laws about where we toss our 100 percent recycled napkins when we’ve finished wiping our greasy lips with them, but no such laws exists to protect the poor denizens of Facebook. No one stands up for the rights of those living in “World of Warcraft.” And the ozone is, in stark honesty, a small issue compared to the sheer weight of the trash one can find clicking through the blogosphere.

It’s a tragedy, fellow students. A bloody digital tragedy. And it’s time to step up and do the right thing. It’s time for cyberspace to go green.

The first step is simple: cyber resources must be used more responsibly. Do you keep a blog? Is it contributing to the good of humanity and saving the lives of helpless Norwegian orphans? Or is it just sucking down broadband like a MySpace Hummer?

And don’t get me started on Facebook. You narcissistic snakes in the grass who update your status every five minutes? In a just world, you would be burned alive on a pyre of CRT monitors. Same goes for you, Twitter addicts. Have you no shame? Have you no respect for the horrendous conditions computers are kept in on the server farms that host your 140 characters of self-gratification? They never even see the sun! You monster.

As you can see, I’m not holding myself above you here. I’m part of this problem. The difference between me and you is I feel bad about it. On purpose. Every weekend I chop down a helpless tree and burn it, just to make myself weep inside over the travesties I commit.

If Whitworth, and the United States in general, is really so concerned about protecting the environment, then this must be their next initiative. Stop the inhumane treatment of servers. Cleanse the radiated wasteland of MySpace. Pass several hundred irritating little laws that make life harder for those just trying to go about their business. If we can band together on this, we can change the world. Perhaps not for the better, but certainly for the greener.

Published: Tuesday, February 16, 2010 in The Whitworthian.

Valentine’s Day is over. You can all breathe a sigh of relief. Singles no longer have to wear blindfolds in the Loop to avoid eye contact with couples trying out for the U.S. Olympic PDA team. Couples can stop dragging their starved wallets into Hallmark stores. And those poor souls occupying that weird and shapeless void between dating and single can go back to editing their profiles on eHarmony.

But wait! What’s this appearing in my inbox? Whitmatch? A Whitworth matchmaking service? How could this be? Perhaps Cupid strafed the computer science department; perhaps a lonely junior high teacher hacked into our e-mail system. Whatever the case, the time for rejoicing is now. Valentine’s Day may be over, but love is still in the air.

Caution is warranted, however. This is not your ordinary matchmaking service. This is not a Web site where you can upload a picture of Tim McGraw as your avatar and type in a sexy French accent. To the uninitiated, the inquiries might seem innocuous, even inane.

Stay your mouse hand, you poor naive fool! These questions are not as random as the Richard Simmons-esque color scheme might imply.

Luckily, you have me. Man, if I had a dollar for every time that’s been the case…

I will now guide you through the most perilous of the WhitMatch questions. With this walkthrough, you will be well on your way to a fulfilling relationship of sweet pirate love.

#1: What is your ideal date? Whatever you do, avoid your first instinct. When it comes to romance, your first instinct is always wrong. Following your first instincts leads to things like open communication and long walks on the beach, two things that pirates are completely against. Let your sense of self-consciousness and selfish ambition take over. Tempted to click “Dinner and a movie?” Where do you think that will lead, exactly? A romantic evening filled with sappy eye contact? A pirate craves not these things.

#3: What is your spirit animal? One might be forgiven for thinking this question was a gimme. After all, everyone knows how central spirit animals are to a relationship. But look at the options.

Dragon–do you really want to date the girl with scaly skin or the guy whose breath will singe your sense of what is good and right in the world?

Tiger–they’re big cats; cats eat mice; mice scare elephants; elephants have long memories and will never let you forget the time you forgot their name or their birthday or…whatever.

Eagle–they can spot a fish from thousands of feet in the air. I’m not sure how this ties into relationships, but there’s no way it could be positive.

Walrus–I don’t even want to think about that.

#9: How religious are you? Careful how you answer here. If you answer “not religious,” the Presbyterian Police will hunt you down and expel you. If you answer “very religious,” you may be paired with Whitworth’s lone, reclusive nun.

#13: What would you do during the zombie apocalypse? The correct answer’s not even one of the choices! Clearly the best option is to find the nearest vampire and puncture your jugular with his fangs. Within a day or two your entire body will be so sparkly that no self-respecting zombie will come anywhere near you.

#17: What is your favorite TV show? You are asked to choose between “The Bachelor,” “Big Bang Theory,” “CSI” and “Grey’s Anatomy.”

“Those are the only options?” you may ask. Understandable–you’re probably a sane, mature person of good taste who likes to watch quality shows. But while the truth is you’d rather watch something that won’t melt some portion of your brain into grey putty, what you don’t know is that each of those shows represents a deep and vital character trait and if you answer wrong you’re lying so horrifically that there’s no hope of finding someone who will love you for who you are.

That was a long and convoluted sentence. But not as long and convoluted as your emotional turmoil will be when you’re matched with someone who doesn’t like “CSI.”

#23: What song are you? With options like the Scorpions’ “Rock You Like a Hurricane” and Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” there isn’t an option that isn’t incredibly awkward in some way. Don’t answer this question.

#24: What kind of computer do you have? Whatever you choose, make sure you mark this answer as “very important.” You do not want to be the PC person hooked up with a Mac lover. The Bible warns about unequal yokings.

The other questions are easier to navigate if you follow the basic principles laid out here. Whatever you do, however, do not go pick up your answers. Instead, Google that picture of Tim McGraw and fire up eHarmony, because nobody’s gonna date you if they know you took the WhitMatch exam. Seriously, get a life.

Published: Tuesday, December 8, 2009 in The Whitworthian.

Hark! The herald! It’s Christmas time! A time of family, a time of togetherness, a time of gifts, a time of celebrating Christ’s birth.

But most of all, Whitworth students, Christmas is a time when we sit alone in our rooms with a triple peppermint mocha and an Excel spreadsheet trying to figure out how the heck we’re going to be able to afford to come back in the Spring.

Complaints about the cost of education here are old hat. A Whitworth education is worth the cost of being here. If it wasn’t … well, we wouldn’t be here.

That said, it is still a weight on the old wallet. I’m not going to whine about how broke I am (totally broke); nor will I give you an address to send envelopes stuffed with cash to (student box 2313).

What I will do, like the good merry old soul that I am, is offer up the solution to this crisis.

You may remember in one of my earlier columns I suggested that professors should begin throwing bricks in the classroom to assert their authority.

While this plan hasn’t yet been implemented, I’m quite sure it’s being added to the new strategic plan for the next ten years. However, as brilliant as that idea was, this one is even brillianter: slave labor.

Now, now, put down your thirteenth amendments and hear me out. This slave labor wouldn’t be all that different from anything we’re already doing.

It would be a required set of classes: think Slave Labor 150, 250, and 350. To encourage hard work, each class would be worth 60 credits with a failing grade given to anyone who didn’t whistle while they worked.

The brilliance of this plan is that it is beneficial for both students and faculty, but mostly for students. Students would learn valuable skills while taking the slave labor classes.

Grunting and lifting heavy objects; pain tolerance; in 350 there would even be room for learning how to form a union and rise up against your oppressors.

The truth is, students need to learn how to do mounds of pointless work for no better reason than because the Man wants it done.

Man: Dig ten thousand holes! Then fill them with these huge rocks!

Student: My good man, the existential qualities of anthropology and axiology of the situation…

Man: Shut yer gob! What do you think this is, that other 150 class? Move those rocks!

This will serve the purpose of teaching us how the real world works. Everyone knows that only a very small percentage of us are actually going to get jobs after we graduate. No one is hiring.

The representative for Every Employer in America (EEA) recently sent me a letter saying that while he like what I had to offer, unfortunately his clients are putting a hold on job interviews until sometime in the mid 23rd century.

With this in mind, slave labor classes would teach us the value of the pointless hard work we’ll all be doing in our post-Whitworth years. They would also effectively replace the need for PE class requirements.

The most immediate benefit, however, would be that Whitworth could drastically reduce its overhead. Imagine it, administration! How much money could you save with a constant and renewable slave labor force? Tuition would drop faster than Newton’s apple!

So put those energy drinks away, fellow students, and close those spreadsheets without saving.

You don’t need to play the lottery, get a job, or even ask for Whitworth Tuition gift cards this Christmas. All you need to do is pen a quick letter to Bill Robinson asking him to get behind the slave labor initiative.

While you do that, I’ll get down to coming up with my next brilliant plan to make your lives better. What a guy I am…

Published: Wednesday, November 25, 2009 in The Whitworthian.

To those of you who were in a coma over this last weekend, it is my misfortune to have to inform you that “New Moon,” the latest film in the “Twilight” series, was released on Friday.

Before I begin, I must inform you that despite all evidence to the contrary, I am not a hater. As a fellow writer of fiction, I am forced to respect the feat that Stephanie Meyer has accomplished, in terms of success with her audience and crafting an engaging story. At the risk of my Man Card spontaneously combusting, I will admit that I read the first book. I will also admit that it wasn’t all that bad.

However. There are several things that must be addressed. First of all, there is the sparkliness.

What was Meyer thinking? A story about vampires…that sparkle? Vampires… do not… sparkle! They guzzle the platelets of the living! They rise from the grave in the dead of night to stalk hapless innocents, may or may not transform into bats, have a deadly fear of crucifixes and are creatures of nightmare. Sunlight kills them. It burns their flesh like tissue paper under a blowtorch.

Vampires don’t fear the sun because it might expose them as human disco balls; neither do they fear it because it makes them supernaturally attractive to teenage girls.

They fear it because it will ravage their bodies and leave them looking like that hamburger that Uncle Fred forgot to take off the barbecue on the 4th of July. They most definitely… do not… sparkle.

Neither, dear readers, can they have children. Those of you who haven’t read all the books (or surfed Wikipedia like me) may not know that in the fourth volume, Bella (the girl) marries Edward (the vampire) and they have a child.

There are a few things that all vampires must be in order to be called vampires. Among these things are the need to drink blood, the fear of sunlight, and undeath. Yes – vampires are dead. Dead as doornails.

The vampiric curse that possesses their bodies is the only thing that allows them to walk, talk and suck the human jugular like a straw. Being dead, they categorically, emphatically, positively cannot have children. The dead do not produce life. There just really isn’t any way around this.

Vampires reproduce by biting the heck out of people. Those that they don’t drink dry become vampires. It might be argued that they do all sorts of horrifically inappropriate things in their spare time, but none of it will ever result in a child. If you don’t believe me, retake biology.

Of course, Meyer’s vamp does have a child, but not just any child – a freakish child that somehow is half-vampire and grows at the speed of light. Which might make sense… if it didn’t totally not make any sense at all…

And then there’s the other, smaller ways that Edward commits travesties upon the Vampire legend. He can read your thoughts. He can run faster than Speedy Gonzalez. He has super strength. None of these things are strictly canon.

Worst of all, however, is his propensity to spontaneously strip off his shirt. Admittedly, he does this in the films more than in the book. I can say this authoritatively in spite of the fact that I have not seen the films – he appears shirtless in the previews for “New Moon” alone more often than in all the books combined.

He and some other character will be walking along, making small talk, discussing the deer they’ve recently eaten (instead of humans, like real vampires), and all of a sudden for no apparent reason he’ll strike an evocative pose, cue evocative techno music, and evocatively strip off his top.

It’s rather pathetic, really. Throughout history, male vampires have seduced women, but Dracula somehow managed it without flinging clothing in every direction at the bat of an eyelash.

If we’re honest, we’ll admit that the purpose of these films is to allow countless teenage women to ogle the roided-out pecs of semi-attractive men. They are an assault on all that is good in the world. Things like “good acting,” and “my eyes not bleeding.” Women, don’t fall for this carefully laid trap – Edward is not really a vampire.

The evidence is stacked against him. He sparkles. He doesn’t drink blood. He has a child. He has the powers of Superman. And clothing leaps voluntarily off of his body. He is not a vampire. He is Tinkerbelle’s mother-in-law.

And so, as the Twilight craze rages on, stand firm. Resist Edward’s emo-siren call. Turn away from his fake-vampire allure and read something that will enrich your life.

Like The Muse. Good choice.

Published: Tuesday, November 17, 2009 in The Whitworthian.

Welcome to The Muse, where you can come when you’re not sure what exactly you want out of your newspaper reading experience. Each week, I’ll deliver something off the wall/unexpected/totally bonkers up for your reading pleasure, and you can then write me scathing letters about how I’m contributing to the death of serious journalism.

When I first came to Whitworth University, I was impressed by its academic standards. The students were smart, the faculty factual, the studying studious and the alliterations atrocious.

However, as the years have flown by the seams have started to show. Where once there was harmony, the seedy underbelly of melody has revealed itself. Where once there was knowledge, the crafty misuse of terminology has grown dominant.

In one of the more disturbing and unsettling examples of this, it has come to my attention that there is a disagreement–nay, worse, a full-fledged debate–over the difference between the terms “Nerd” and “Geek.”

There is a grievous schism over the very epistemology of these terms. And thus, it has fallen to me to set the record straight.

I must make one important caveat: I am only addressing the male species in this column. I briefly considered talking about the female analogues to these two categories, but then I realized that it would inevitably be sexist and probably put my life in jeopardy.

Since I am but a man, I will not attempt to understand the confusing mess that is female social grouping.

We shall start with the more distasteful of the two: the Nerd.

The Nerd is fortunately less common on college campuses than he is in the halls of high school, but he still may be observed if one is diligent. The Nerd wears glasses–this is non-negotiable. These glasses must be disturbingly thick and are probably held together by duct tape. Quite often the Nerd is dressed in clothing of a single color, perhaps with stripes, and has hair that could pass convincingly for the nest of a Suessian bird of prey.

The Nerd rarely, if ever, engages in hygienic activities, preferring instead to spend shower time lawling the hours away in front of World of Warcrack, or perhaps painting a royal insignia on the power shield of a Space Marine Terminator captain.

For that is one of the defining characteristics of the Nerd: he is nerdy about something. It can be anything. You can have a tabletop game nerd; a video game nerd; a photography nerd; a collector-of-irritating-Hawaiian-shirts nerd. Nerds come in every shape and size, but they are all incredibly over-informed about some subject that a normal human being would never need to know about.

Normal humans have no desire to become nerds because of the second defining characteristic of the Nerd: he is socially awkward and often downright repugnant. No one wants to be seen with the Nerd; the Nerd, however, is OK with that because everyone else is basically a bottom-feeding plebe with no life, unable to rattle off the stats of a level 80 warlock from memory.

Standing in contrast to this pariah of humanity is the Geek. The Geek shares some things in common with the Nerd–they are both over-informed about some subject or other. There are math geeks, programming geeks, geeks who are really into cooking and nunchucks… the list goes on. The key difference between the Nerd and the Geek, however, is that women will voluntarily talk to them. Geeks may break into a sweat over the latest “Star Trek” comic book release, but they have the ability to hold a conversation about the weather without it turning into a commentary on the effects of storm clouds on zombies.

If you ever just sit around campus people watching, you can pick these people out. Most of the individuals you’ll see are just straight up normals. You’ll know the Nerds and Geeks when you see them.

The Nerds will be wearing their glasses, be dressed in solid brown, or perhaps yellow, somehow moving down the hello walk in a fetal position. There will be a wide bubble void of life surrounding them, as even squirrels don’t want to be seen with a Nerd. Hide behind your newspaper, because if this person comes up to you and starts talking you’ll be stuck in a never-ending conversation about the strengths and weaknesses of Jean-Luc Picard as a leader of men.

The Geeks, on the other hand, will be walking quickly, dressed in trendy fashion, typing away on their geek-device of choice (a Palm Pre or iPhone, probably) while holding a conversation with a beautiful girl.

Ultimately, it is the overarching goal of both the Nerd and the Geek to live life happily ever after with an attractive woman. It can be theorized, therefore, that Geeks are merely higher on the social evolutionary scale than Nerds, having risen above the level of female anathema that is Nerd-ness to something that chicks dig, like Michael Cera or Jim from “The Office.” Geeks know that it’s cool to be over-informed as long as they take showers now and again.

So, to you Nerds out there, take note. Comb your hair, get contacts, and try a deodorant other than Essence of Ork. It’ll do wonders for your social life, and you’ll have to carry about a +20 Stick of Warding at all times to keep back the waves of women begging you for a date.

At least, that’s what the Geeks keep promising me…

Published: Monday, October 26, 2009 in The Whitworthian.

Welcome to The Muse, where you can come when you’re not sure what exactly you want out of your newspaper reading experience. Each week, I’ll deliver something off the wall/unexpected/totally bonkers up for your reading pleasure, and you can then write me scathing letters about how I’m contributing to the death of serious journalism.

Look! Run to your windows! Get out your cameras! Call Grandma and all those children you may or may not have! It’s here!

What is happening, do you ask? Why are the people dancing in the streets? Is there a giant pinata in the Loop? Has Reagan returned to take back the presidency? Has B-Rob decided to stay?

No, no. I am, of course, referring to Windows 7. Yes! It was released last week! I don’t have it yet, but I just know that all of you out there who haven’t been writing me any “letters to the editor” are just saving up your efforts for “Christmas presents for the editor,” so I’m confident I’ll soon have my hands on the 7-fold goodness.

Having participated in the beta test (for you non-geeks out there, that means I got to use it before it was released), I can confidently say that 7 looks like a pretty slick deal, fixes a lot of the frustrations that Vista introduced to Windows users, and even borrows a few of the better ideas that Apple utilizes and makes them better.

Of course, this edition of The Muse is beginning to sound like a review for Windows 7, which it is not. My reviews are published in the Scene section (read them!). It is instead a commentary upon the sad state of humanity and of course, racism.

Now, I know there are a lot of you out there who use those arcane artifacts of dark side power known as “Macs.” They are also known as “Apples,” “Big iPods” and “Those silly things that Jerod doesn’t use.”

I’ve heard scuttlebutt that Mac users are already on the warpath against Windows 7, a scant five days after its release. Bleeding heart analogies about infanticide aside, this is just wrong. And not for the usual reasons. If you wanted usual reasons, you wouldn’t be reading this column.

It’s not wrong because Windows 7 is brand new and you Mac-ites haven’t given it a chance yet. It’s wrong because Macs are white.

In a time and place and culture and campus that is trying so hard to increase diversity, Apple sits on its high pedestal spewing forth its supremacist product. In a world where the PC market is actively promoting incredible amounts of equality with computers of every shape, size, color, configuration, price and complex combination of specifications imaginable, Apple refuses to enter the 21st century and be nice to people. And students are lapping it up!

I mentioned this to Taylor Zajicek, Whitworthian photo editor. He tried explaining some sort of jibberish about how Apple makes black Macs and colored iPods, but I did the right thing and punched him.

I mean honestly. Have you ever seen a yellow Mac? Shouldn’t we be outraged that Apple is blatantly discriminating against the entire population of China? And all those other Asian places? One of my roommates is from the Philippines, and I’m pretty sure that whenever I’m not in the room he breaks down in tears as he types away on his ivory Apple machine of condemnation.

And what about polka-dotted Macs? How do you think that makes heffalumps and people with chicken pox feel? According to the little man who lives in my finger and spits out accurate-sounding statistics, 98.6 percent of everyone is deeply offended over this issue.

My personal computer is a giant thing painted in metallic blue with gaudy blue lights and a big window in the side. I chose these elements in order to show that I’m not racist against certain species of beetles, or the aliens that I’m quite sure are going to rain down from the sky any day now.

Now that I’ve enlightened you all, you’re probably wondering where you can gather for a violent riot. Well, put down your pitchforks and douse your torches, because this technological racism stems from a source much closer to home than anyone realizes.
We could blame Steve Jobs for inventing iPods. We could blame Bill Gates for authorizing really lame commercials. But we know the truth, fellow students. We know that the problem goes much deeper.

Yes. You’ve guessed it. Apple is using iTunes to broadcast nefarious subliminal messaging, affecting the otherwise normal brains of hapless people across the nation. There really isn’t any other way to explain the fact that both Kanye West and Stephen Colbert have held first place on iTunes’ top sellers list.

I implore you, therefore, diverse students of Whitworth University, reject the evil empire. Don’t simply settle for wagging your finger at your Apple computer before you lovingly stroke its bright white keys. Get yourself a PC and a copy of Windows 7 before it’s too late for your soul. And remember to get me a copy for Christmas.