WASHINGTON, DC – Amid great fanfare and excitement, American Press Secretary Jay Carney announced yesterday that the United States of America will officially phase out the usage of the United States Customary Units within the next three years. Carney told members of the press that the government hoped that this move would improve international trade with America. The United States Customary Units (often mistakenly referred to as Imperial units) includes the mile, the degree Fahrenheit, the US gallon and the avoirdupois pound, also known as the havesomepeas pound.

Initially, the announcement met with great praise from the international community. World leaders around the world personally called President Barack Obama to welcome him into the 20^th century. Unconfirmed reports even have Japanese Prime Minister Yoshihiko Noda crying like a little girl on the phone– though it may have been because he was at his father’s funeral. Cantankerous old men across America attempted to lodge a complaint with the government but were unable to figure out the touch tone phone menu on the Federal Government’s complaint hotline.

Later that day, Carney held another press conference to clarify the government’s position. Instead of joining other countries in the use of the SI metric system, America will switch to a completely new system of measurement.

“Where would America be if we gave into international pressure every time we stood in the way of progress? The metric system started in France. Is a meter not just the standard length of a baguette? Is that what you want? Fresh bread on every street corner?” Carney asked the bewildered members of the press.

The new system of measurement in the United States will be known as the Freedometric Measurement System. The name is intended to strike fear in those using the ‘weaker’ metric system. It will replace United States Customary Units in government offices, on road signs, and in meteorological data. The new system will be base 13 (“…because it’s so much more badass then base 10,” said Carney) which will actually be an improvement over the current base whatever-the-fuck-you-want.

Here is the complete list of Freedometric measurements from the usa.gov website:

Of note is the new official unit of length, the parsec. Since a parsec is 30.857×10¹²km, day to day measurements will seem comically small. A typical commute doesn’t seem so bad when it’s a mere 0.000000000005 parsecs. Even though time is the same in both SI and US Customary Units, the Ultimetric system will use the halfsecond. Just to throw everyone off, a halfsecond will be a quarter of the duration of a second. With time moving four times as fast, the government hopes that people will start to move faster to compensate, “one day as fast as Jamaicans,” Carney added. Temperature measurement will no longer involve degrees Fahrenheit. Instead, meteorologists will record the temperature as either Hot or Cold, saving hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars on plastic thermometers from China. The slug unit of mass, which is pretty much only used by early 20^th century engineers, will be changed to the fireslug, finally garnering it the respect it deserves.

Liberia and Burma are now the only other countries not currently employing the metric system. In 2011, the Burmese government expressed interest in joining trading partners in use of the metric system. Currently, they weigh their exports of opium in bushels of rice and rice in bushels of opium. In response to America’s announcement, the Liberian government released a similar statement on state TV yesterday. However, the impoverished nation’s government decided it would be simpler for everyone involved if they stopped measuring things altogether.

The following works are compilations of the most pressing existential quandaries I have sent out into the abyss over the past four years.

Do

Do I have to boil black beans?

Do you think I’m sexy?

Do Today’s Young People Really Think They’re so Extraordinary?

Do you need to put oil in the frying pan when browning meat?

Do you pronounce the “s” in Brahms?

Doctors choose Camels

doctrine of non-action

Dog the bounty hunter

doing speed

dilaudid

dollars and cents

dolly-maker oven

dolphin in a dress

Dom Deluise

Don Juan

Don’t think twice, it’s all right

Dottie the dalmation beanie baby value

Donovan

double-stamp it no erasies!

Doug

Dove ads

down payment for a $30,000 apartment in Montreal

The second time was last week. Yep, just last week I pretended to be bitten by a snake. The lie wasn’t motivated out of love of mischief (which I do love) or even elementary school nostalgia. It was more that no one would believe the real goddamn story. Which is that, while walking home one night, someone stabbed me in the hand with a fork. An unnamed man stepped out of a doorway as I made my drunk, happy, oblivious way home… and thrust a fork at me. Guys. I swear. To God.

It’s the drunk part that gets most people. I was drunk, it was dark, it was late. They’re like, Isabel? Could you not have been mistaken? Don’t you have a tendency to punch stuff when you’re drunk because, “Lol, guys – I can’t feel it!”? You could have punched a fork-shaped object? You could be lying through your teeth?

So, as someone who learns from experience, I revisited a lie I already knew to be effective. Guess what guys? I would say. I got bitten by a snake! People’s reactions changed. There was interest. Concern.

Ohmigod, how?

Well, glad you asked. I was hiking up Mt. Royal getting my daily exercise, something I make sure to do without fail, when I saw an amazingly awesome rock on the ground that I just had to pick up, but there was a snake right near it — you know, just some, like, green snake — and I disturbed it and it bit me! It bit me! Look! Look!!!!

But of course, we are no longer seven years old, and results have been mixed. I think it’s the daily exercise part that gets most people. Isabel? They say. And I burst into tears. Believe me, I sob.

Believe me.

For years, The Plumber’s Crack has cleverly disguised itself as a magazine in order to conceal its more sinister agenda. For starters, the organization has served and currently serves as a think-tank dedicated to biological warfare.  The staff of engineering students who edit the “magazine” not only designed and unleashed the polio virus, but designed and built the first iron lung to treat victims of polio twenty years before the iconic machines were patented.  However, the staff insisted that “human suffering is funny,” and kept the design top-secret.

The publication has been printed consistently since the mid-1800’s but has undergone several titular adjustments.  It was originally a student engineering newspaper, The Plumber’s Pot, from 1860 to 1964. The format changed from a newspaper to a magazine in 1964, and was renamed The Plumber’s Bong as part of the rebranding. After over a decade of people “ripping The ‘Bong” (readers would literally rip copies of the magazine to shreds in disgust of its poor taste), it was renamed again in 1979 to The Plumber’s Faucet, under the tagline “Dripping out nasty crap since 1860.” Most recently the magazine has retitled itself The Plumber’s Crack (1997- presumably forever).

When I decided to join the writing staff of The Plum’— the nickname that the editors think people use to refer to their rag of evil and shame — I was first struck by the staff’s unified political sympathy and cultish reverence towards the late Ugandan dictator Idi-Amin.  If I remember correctly, they all wore “Free Idi” shirts every single day. While the shrine they have dedicated to him in the center of their office is impressive, I was forced to call into question their moral fiber and their loyalty to democracy.

My first assignment was to write a piece about re-grouting the tile in the editor-in-chief’s apartment bathroom.  I was having trouble understanding how he expected me to make the story humorous.  When I asked the editor-in-chief what the angle he had in mind for the story was, he gently explained it to me by forcing me to eat an entire bucket of grout.

New writers were hazed constantly — even when they were no longer “new” writers.  For example, during one trial-by-fire, I was set on fire.  The ordeal would have been a lot less scarring (literally) if I could have “stopped, dropped, and rolled,” but the editors had soaked the office carpet in gasoline.  As they roared with laughter at my third degree burns, they reminded me that “[I am] a pussy,” and that “[I] deserve nothing but flames.”

During my time on the writing staff, I witnessed several kidnappings; more specifically, twenty seven.  I was subjected to medieval forms of torture. I watched a man tickle another man to death.  And in addition to the grout, I was forced to eat the following items: a balloon, a plunger, a three-pound sack of nickels, a balloon (inflated), a toothpaste sandwich and a T-square.  I wouldn’t say that writing for The Plumber’s Crack was a harrowing experience, but I would say that it was the single defining harrowing experience of my life. The Plumber’s Crack continues commit countless other unspeakable horrors and human rights violations. I leave it up to you, readers, raise awareness by handing out this article to every student you know. I would do it myself, but alas, I am too old, too weary and can no longer hand things out, because I no longer have hands from that time I was set on fire.

1)      Everyone Knows Everyone
Now, I hesitate to write this and I await the millions to singles of
emails that say things like “well, I go to Mac and not everyone knows
everyone” or “I’m from downtown and I know everyone”. All those
bristling at the presence of generalizations can stop reading now
because, just like Asians are good at math and Jews control the
world’s finances, everyone at Mac knows each other.
This connectedness causes an interesting problem: It’s impossible to
get anywhere in a reasonable amount of time. Walking from one end of
campus to another in 30 seconds (possible at Mac!) takes 25 minutes,
because you will stop and talk to every person/professor/cow you’ve
ever made eye contact with. Have fun being late… for everything.

2)      Your Program is Obvious
Embarrassingly obvious. These self-imposed uniforms are in place
because there are very few programs and the people in these programs,
myself included, enjoy being caricatures of themselves either for
political or sexual reasons.

Environment
These students wear their major on their sleeves… literally, to the
point that the smell lingers in the air and you start to smell like
their major too. They probably own a djembe and look morbidly anemic
because they haven’t yet mastered the art of vegetarianism.
Dietetics/Nutrition
Uggs and that cross breed of a hairstyle that’s half bun/half Pippi
Longstocking. Then make up and sweatpants worn in a way that makes it
look like it took hours to look like it took seconds. If you enjoy
ballet, you may enjoy final exams just to see the rows of dietetics
students kick off their Uggs and put up their hair in beautiful
synchrony.
Farm Management Technology
Or dips as we call them, since this is the only diploma program
available at McGill. You can spot these ones because they’re in plaid
and they look sixteen. If you hunt animals with tartan fur, come to
Mac to sell the pelts. You’ll be rich.
Others
There are others.

3)      The Ceilidh
Pronounced “Kaylee”, is our campus watering hole. It’s obligated to
play country music because of the many farmers on campus, which makes
for awkward dancing. In that awkward white boys dancing to unfamiliar
music way, it’s similar to Gert’s.

4)      Life is Cheaper
This may blow your minds, especially you New Rez kids, but our
residences cost between $365 and $465. Some still move into town where
they can pay as low as $175 for rent.
However, there is no meal plan, so you learn to cook or try to live
off the only food distribution center on campus. It’s less of a food
distribution center and more of a place where you can spend $7 on a
sandwich that looks like it was beamed here from the future, where
they let it go stale.

5)      It’s a Community
Or even a cult. If you go downtown and you see someone from Mac, you
automatically have a comrade. It works like a buddy system: “this is
where the SSMU building is” and “sure I’ll watch your stuff for you
because here people actually steal things”.
Everyone seems to get along because of a lack of pretension and a
mild distrust of downtown students. It’s hard to be pretentious when
you regularly participate in cow patty bingo (google it). There is
also an intense flair for philanthropy amongst Mac students. I don’t
know if you’ve heard of Moral Fibers or Developing Pictures but those
dudes are from Mac.
And everyone knows them and they know everyone because, hey, it’s Mac.

The undesired tenant was first spotted on a Friday night, scurrying its way across the kitchen floor, into the living room and behind the couch, lodging somewhere between the carpet and my nerves. The rest of the evening was spent in irate attempts to tune out the frivolous squeaks of my flea-carrying companion.

After expressing my nuisance to anyone willing to listen, I discovered that this medieval problem has been affecting students living both on and off campus. I am not alone in my battle against these despicable vermin.

“How long have you been living with it?” I’d ask, in hopes of connecting to other victims.

“It’s been about six months since I first found out I even had it. There were some adjustments, but now it’s become a part of my life.”

Turns out that most of my contacts here at McGill have received a visit from freeloading rodents at some point in their academic career.

In hindsight, I ought to consider myself lucky when it comes to my overall university experience. I have successfully avoided bed bugs in New Res and even dodged the mononucleosis virus that preys on spit-swapping freshmen. When I heard others complain of rat infestations, I listened sympathetically, but secretly cringed, promising myself that such atrocities would never occur in my own home. Yet, here I am, in my polished second-year apartment, setting out mousetraps.

Before my encounter with the bucktoothed villain, I used to think of Ratatouille as a Pixar favorite. I even called the talking rodent cute! Now, when I look back, I no longer see a family classic, but rather a horror film: that thing had siblings! What if my tenant brings its relatives along to live merrily in my cupboards and feast on my sanity at night?! I had reached a point where taking drastic measures was inevitable.

At the beginning of my lease, I signed a contract promising not to bring any pets into the apartment. This was a blatant deceit; the household came with built-in pets. With the agreement clearly breached, I considered writing an ad in the McGill classifieds offering good money to anyone willing to lend me a cat for a few days, as a natural way of letting squatters know that I am no fool.

Cats are brutal killers, and I felt guilty setting a trained assassin on my unwanted guests. I instead chose to go the mechanical route.

If your roommate is a PETA sympathizer who will worry about the “cutie’s” feelings, it might make setting traps around the house a bit of a challenge. Facing such a challenge myself, I had no choice but to purchase “effective” sticky traps from the local Canadian Tire, which effectively gathered dust and leaked yellow sticky shit on my wooden floor that will no longer come out. While some may be concerned with the mousie’s feelings, it is worth noting that effectiveness comes at a moral cost. Another friend, faced with a similar situation, used a metal trap. She actually caught the fucker.

While no actual mice were hurt in the writing of this article, especially since I never caught the bastard (recent evidence has led me to believe that it has emigrated into my neighbor’s home), McGill students all around campus continue to search for ways to handle the stress of housing unwanted guests. Until then, freeloading mice everywhere continue to take up residence in student apartments. Watch out, fellow students, lest you be the next destination on this raucous apartment crawl.

After all, I thought it could never happen to me. I was wrong.

Perhaps a better question is where aren’t we? We’re with the exploited proletariat lacking the protection of a trade union. We’re in every barrel of tar sands oil pilfered from native land. We’re in the quiet dignity of endangered spotted owl nests, perched precariously above logging encampments. We’re in the sense of hope an aboriginal girl feels when she looks in to a drop of polluted rainwater and imagines a universe free of stifling eurocentrism and hegemonic militant oligo-patriarchies. But more specifically, we are in the third-floor men’s washroom of the Shatner building.

Who Are We?

Simply put, we are a radical collective of idealistic student activists who are outraged by McGill’s tyrannical and oppressive regime of tyranny and oppression. After the failure of the James Administration Building occupation, we formed a sub-collective of devoted individuals that truly live the cause. We live the cause enough to endure the administration’s slanderous propaganda. We live the cause enough to endure surviving on donated vegan goo. We live the cause enough to endure the smell of plastic office furniture mixed with damp, ungroomed beards. We are myself and two people I found on Craigslist who came here expecting a ride to Oshawa.

Why Are We Here?

We are here to protect student life at this university from an administration that makes its decisions in an increasingly unilateral and unacceptable fashion. We are here to expose the administrative cabal for trampling progressive causes in order to further the goals of the military-petro-prison-agra-nancial-industrial complex. We are here because the hummus is 30¢ cheaper. Also, some of us were expecting a ride to Oshawa.

What Do We Want?

Our demands may seem harsh, but they are necessary for the continuance of this university:

- Immediate resignation of Deputy Provost Morton Mendelson.

- Recognition of validity of QPIRG and CKUT referenda.

- Recognition that Heather Munroe-Blum is a malicious autocratic cyborg whose prime directives are suppressing student democracy, opening McGill to corporate interests, and reducing the use of bicycles on campus.

- Replace James McGill statue with statues of Karl Marx, Freidrich Engels, and other heavily-bearded gures of historical import.

- Abolition of inherently oppressive cash-based tuition system in favor of bartering (1 credit = 2 jars of vegan lentil soup = 1 square meter of flannel = 1 admission to fisting workshop).

- Once every month, Heather Monroe-Blum must perform traditional Irish jig on Lower Field while Michael di Grappa blows into empty jug.

- Jig only considered official if Principal Monroe-Blum is wearing ceremonial feathered jig hat.

How Long Do We Plan On Occupying the Bathroom?

Until this administration stops hindering student autonomy and starts treating its students like independent individuals who are capable of governing themselves and handling their own a airs. We sincerely hope that this happens soon, because there is pee everywhere in here and somebody needs to come in with a lot of mops and a shop-vac.

I’m old; completely over the hill.  At this point in my life, I think I can say with complete confidence that you are not important.  So I’m going to take a moment, before I put my other foot in the grave, to let you young’uns know what really grinds my gears, and maybe even pass down a little bit of advice.

1) I was once a student like you but now I work for McGill.  And I am paid well to do nothing.  So for the love of HMB (a.k.a. ‘God?’), if MUNACA goes on strike again please don’t ask unionized workers with the equivalent of six weeks paid vacation and thirty three hour work weeks to “hang in there.” I’m looking forward to hearing your position on the issue in a few years when you work fifty hours a week and are groveling for a whopping two weeks off.

2) Stop occupying shit. 90% of people on campus don’t care. Even the highest ranking administrators at McGill would rather watch porn than plot to steal your “rights.” Discuss something of value instead of sitting in front of a livestream talking about how much you hate reporters and cops while secretly wishing that they would interview you/beat you up.

3) That obnoxious guy who sits at the front of your lecture hall and keeps asking stupid questions will almost certainly land the sweet job/internship/graduate school acceptance at [insert: U.S. IVY LEAGUE] that you wish you had.  Butt-kissers like that him will get everything you wish you had

4) McGill being recognized as a top hipster school does not excuse B.O.  Wear deodorant.

5) Dubstep sucks, even if you are on ketamine.

6) There is a tunnel between Redpath/McLennan and the Arts building.  It’s right behind the caf in the basement.  I wish I had discovered this in my first year.  You’re welcome.

Ok, I admit it: I’m only twenty five years old.  I’m not the curmudgeonly ninety-five year old I made myself to sound like.  But that does not change the fact that you are a self-absorbed dweeb.  So enjoy your time while you’re here and rest assured, nothing that you are doing right now matters and you are not as cool as you think you are.

Sincerely,

Anonymous Staff Member.

The Thimble or The Iron: You are someone’s mom or little sister and most likely picked the thimble because you wanted to see if it would fit on your pinky finger or the iron because you wanted to pretend to iron things. You have not paid attention to 75% of the game and, feeling as though you’ve just awoken from an opiate-induced dream, are now being told that you owe $26,000 to your grandma. Monopoly is not your thing and you should probably avoid the business world in general. Unless it’s the business world of jarred preserves, in which case, you’re a shoe-in.

The Scottish Terrier Dog: You are either someone’s uncle or neighbour and you definitely have a moustache. You may or may not also have a Scottish terrier, however, no one at the table wants to know about it. You are most likely also drinking a tumbler of root beer and giggling your secret plan to do nothing but pass Go in the hopes that you’ll come out on top after everyone else has spent all their money. No one is entirely sure who invited you. You may have let yourself into the house during a bathroom break.

The Car or The Boat: You are someone’s dad or grandpa and picked the car or the boat because it reminded you of either your first car or of the war. You play Monopoly purely based on strategy. As a patriarch, you’ve managed the assets of your own family for years, and there is no reason those methods should not work in Monopoly too, god damnit. You are the only one trustworthy enough to be the banker because you once held a man in your arms as he died.

The Wheelbarrow: You are someone’s unmarried or divorced aunt and writing about the reasons why you are playing Monopoly would be too depressing, so let’s just move on.

The Shoe or the Cannon: You are a teenage boy who got convinced into playing Monopoly because you saw several bowls of chips at the table and were too high to realize it was because there was a board game being played. You have been in jail for the past hour, but your main concern is trying not to zone out for too long on your grandpa’s ear hairs.

The Dagger: You are playing Clue and playing it wrong.