Thursday, November 30, 2006

Hypnotism - Can It be Used For Good?

In a recent article in the Gource, this writer suggested that the world is divided into two main castes: people who are smart and soon to be in charge, and the people who can't spell "gingham." Despite my numerous and broad examples, I was swamped with e-mails and text messages begging me how one could identify and classify members of these two castes. I thought for nearly five minutes about this before coming up with what I know to be a solid solution.
For centuries, there have been men who walk among us and possess a troubling power over most of us. They are called hypnotists. With mere watches or shiny objects, they can make people think something is not true, even if that thing is true. There is known to be no escape from their guiles, right?
No, stupid. Smart people cannot be hypnotized. As a member of this planet's intelligensia, I can say with complete authority that there is nothing on earth that can make me change my mind about an issue, or misunderstand important facts. I am steadfast.
So I encourage one and all to attend any hypnotism shows they can find. See if you can pass the acid test of intelligence. If so, welcome back. If not, don't feel bad. Take heart in knowing that your role as cannon fodder is completely assured.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Silent Movies – Do They Still Have Relevance to Modern Audiences?

Let’s face it America: we are a world of dialogue. With text messages, e-mails, and instant messaging, it is nearly impossible to get a point across in a sarcastic tone. In fact, irony on the internet is very much dead. To compensate for this, we have developed a culture that relies solely on words and what they mean. No more of this verbal ambiguity that has so marred our literature and music for so long: it is time to use words literally and without any sort of complications.
This is as evident as anywhere in film. One example of film (in fact, the best film ever made), Good Will Hunting, relies almost entirely on dialogue to explain what is happening within the characters’ minds and how they feel about themselves and one another. The reason that this movie was so successful and has withstood the test of time and made celebrities of all its stars is that its use of dialogue makes it the perfect film for our time. Observe:

Consider then, the oeuvre of Charlie Chaplin. His films largely involve men in small bowlers and huge pants, whose moustaches are tight and clipped and who carry a cane. There is also no audible dialogue. Can it be said that any person alive can relate to these characters, or their stories?* The “curse of the silent film-maker” followed Chaplin into his forays into talkies: his “opus,” The Great Dictator, is mostly about an intolerant dictator and a Jewish barber—clearly, Chaplin had lost the ability to make a movie that would make sense to viewers after 1945. Observe:

It would be unreasonable, of course, for us to throw out our entire history in film (with the possible exception of Hope/Crosby Road movies, which are far from being as fantastic as you’d think). The solution to this issue is to dub dialogue into existing silent films. Include lines that apply to modern audiences, such as “I’d better check the internet!” and “O.J. is guilty as sin!” Only by doing this can we maintain a connection to our cinematic past. If we want one.

The Gap Between Rich and Poor – Aren’t There More Important Gaps To Discuss?

Hardly a day goes by without a mild-mannered human being (generally over six feet tall) being bombarded by concerns about the growing gap between rich and poor—these bombardments usually come in the form of pamphlets or crumpled-up five-dollar bills, depending on which side of the gap is doing the bombardment. This is unacceptable, and not just because the Gource stands opposed to any and all persons who wish to inflict their opinions on us. All studies show that the only reason that there is a growing gap between rich and poor is that there are more people alive, and also because of inflation. Know your facts. The rich have more dollars because the dollar is worth less (our damned treasury refuses to give production a rest), and the poor still have no dollars. Thus: the gap. Stop talking about it.
Here is the real gap that is widening in a realistic way: the gap between smart and stupid. Those of us in the former category know more and more information each day, especially if people in this category regularly read the Gource. Those in the latter category, people who seem to refuse to spend the time each day perusing our archives, are getting left behind in this knowledge boom.
Is this a problem? Not at all. It is merely the natural development of a meritocracy. The smarter people are getting the tools they need to lead our society into the next millennia, and the stupider people are getting the tools they need to be cannon fodder in any upcoming wars against Asia (don’t worry, they have similar policies there of weeding out the smarter ones and letting the rest fight our fools).
Now, the Gource recommends that you begin to prime yourself for leadership. Brush your teeth. Learn to do your own tie. Your time is coming, and the Gource is here to ease and expedite the transition.

Ringtones - Why Aren't They All Identical?

Today I found myself face-to-face with something that the average human being hopes to never encounter: a Mario Bros. ringtone. The phone within which it resided belonged to a person that appeared tolerable, even genial. There is a lesson to be learned from my observation (as always): even if you think a person can be dealt with, he or it probably cannot. Be. Dealt. With.
The sort of person who would possess a phone containing a Mario Bros. ringtone is ineffably the sort of person who would drive a 10-speed bicycle on the sidewalk, or vomit in a mailbox. This is a social ill that must be corrected and cured, like polio or poverty or perversion. And I think any reasonable reader of this publication can recognize that Mario Bros. rings are not the only existing ringtones that show their owners’ true colors: popular “hip-hop” song ringtones are often tied to pedophilia and suicide, TV show theme songs have been known to appeal to people who purchase faded denim and cowboy hats.
There is only one solution here. Actually, strike that. The solution I am about to present is one that not only corrects this malady, but also serves to aid and abet the correction of nearly every problem we face as a society: uniformity. How do we stop people from shooting out windows? Force them to act like everybody else: leering at mannequins. How do we stop people from giving birth to children with deformities? Force them to tearily get abortions, like every teenager. And how do we stop people from getting ringtones that bother the average Caucasian? Mandate identical ringtones for all persons, regardless of height.
The ringtone I would humbly recommend is minute seven of “The Murder Mystery” by the Velvet Underground. This suitably gets the attention of anyone nearby, a message that says: “Listen up! There is a person here with important business to attend to! More important than you! Goodbye!” Furthermore: imagine a roomful of people with their cell phones going off. The sweet cacophony would alert all present that we live in a better, less diverse world.

Creativity - How Much is Too Much?

Imagine a world where everyone goes around making sense all the time. Actually, you don’t need to imagine one, because if you’re looking at this webpage and reading closely you’re already in such a world, confined as it may be to words on a screen. Now, imagine a world where everybody goes around thinking outrageous thoughts, spilling paint and dung on canvas and displaying it with pride, writing absurd novels about fantastic worlds where bears can talk or where a spoiled shit of a person who’s always bummed-out wanders around the worst city in the country. It’s a warm world. It’s a world governed by “creativity.” It’s hell.
Let me tell you what brought this on, as my opening statements might be somewhat confusing to someone who isn’t privy to all the facts, and as you know the Grimary Gource is all about aiding people in knowing their facts. This morning I was sitting in one of Gufts University’s many fact-centric classes, taking notes and not doodling frivolous contour drawings of things that don’t exist. All of a sudden I realize that the professor has yielded the floor to some round-faced nosebleed of a human being, and this walking, talking, sushi-eating human aneurysm is babbling on about creativity in classes at Gufts. Apparently he was a member of some group of manicured beatniks (I know – it sounds like a paradox of some kind) called “Writing Fellows” who wanted to conduct a survey regarding attitudes students have about the level of creativity they’re allowed to exhibit in their classwork.
First of all: what the hell? Writing Fellows? Are my tuition dollars going towards a bunch of people who sit around putting words into word processors? Are these people getting paid? Getting laid? If the answer to either of those questions is “yes” then I imagine it’s high time I stopped by the hardware store to pick up a sledgehammer, because it’s clear that some thick-skulled administrator has made an egregious oversight, and God knows we don’t want these people reproducing. Universities are not places to foster creativity. If you want to hone your yarn-spinning skills, (or even your storytelling skills), feel free to walk barefoot in the general direction of the Pacific and join the first commune you find. I came to school to put additional information into my brain in as efficient a manner as possible. Guess what: filling out a survey that asks me whether or not I strongly agree, agree, neutrally agree, disagree, or strongly disagree that I’m given enough room for free thinking is not teaching me anything, all it’s doing is reminding me of what a mistake attending a private institution was.
You see I went to one of America’s Perfect Public Schools – where the rules are many and the curricula concrete. The kind of place where people who wore shirts with inflammatory statements were escorted to the cement slab behind the dumpsters and taught the importance of Newtonian physics with regards to steel-toed boots and their throats. Did we waste time on the vodka-soaked nonsense some Russian epileptic made a narrative out of? Absolutely not. We were taught to tests, and the tests taught us to answer questions we would be asked on future tests. This is a system that makes cold mechanical sense – which, If you ask me – is the best kind of sense. Keep this in mind the next time someone without morals or rational asks you to think abstractly about something. If an answer can’t be reached without doing some kind of metaphorical back flip then the question is probably some kind of godless lie.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Ties - Why Don't You Know How To Do Them?

Look, America. It's time to shape up. Here I am talking to the men (women, take a lap). For too long men have gotten by on not knowing how to do a tie, and that is absolutely ridiculous. This is tantamount to sitting down while peeing, or using a tissue to blow one's nose. With the loss of the doing-a-tie ability follows the loss of any facet of masculinity, until the United States is just an enormous island of Lesbos, where there are women and there are men who can't do ties (women).
Let me cut you off there as you try to announce loudly that women you know are able to do ties. Shut up. This is an abomination. There are plenty of men whose wives or fiancees do their ties for them; there are also plenty of babies whose mommies wipe their asses. Time to grow up and be a man. If your woman is doing your tie, you have completely ceded any sort of male responsibility. Unacceptable.
There was a time when being a man meant doing one's own tie, and hunting animals, and flexing nuts. Historically, men who could do their own ties were 89% more likely to gain political stardom than those who could not. Know your facts. Today, the figure is closer to 760%. Which means that those men who cannot do their own ties create a power vacuum, one that can only be filled by women, children, or animals. Get fucking serious.
This means no more clip-on ties. Even bow ties. Learn to do those, because then you can undo it at the end of a long night and you'd look great. But you have no sense of this, because the closest you've ever gotten to a tuxedo is one of those t-shirts. Throw that out.
Until men can do their own ties with a 100% success rate, they (I am a man, but I can do my own ties, so I need not include myself here) will continue to be relegated to backhoe operation and Chinese food preparation. What a sorry state for us to be in.

Monday, November 27, 2006

NYPD - Isn't It Time They Improved Their Aim?

Recently there has been an uproar over the impromptu execution of a guilty black groom, the classic archetype from crime stories and detective novels. The man, Sean Bell, was felled by two bullets. He was driving with two friends, who took eleven and three bullets, still managing to survive. The car itself was hit twenty-one times. In total, fifty bullets were fired. This is absolutely unacceptable. The NYPD must step up its game if it is to compete in the law enforcement economy.
The Gource will definitely be the only news source to relate this event to several precedents: in 1999, Amadou Diallo was killed by nineteen of forty-one bullets fired by NYPD as he reached for his weapon. In 2003, Ousmane Zongo was hit in the back by two of the four bullets that killed him. Clearly, the NYPD has not learned from its past mistakes and improved its gun-training program.
Need the Gource remind NYPD that it is our tax dollars (well, not the Gource's, thank Christ, but the dollars of seedy New York denizens) that buy their bullets? With this absurd and haphazard program of wasting bullets, the police are throwing away resources that could be used to clean graffiti off the subways and elderly.
Those who have seen the excellent film The Professional know that it should only take one bullet to kill a man. This current practice of basically throwing bullets at every dangerous criminal and hoping for a 50% success rate is ludicrous. The Gource calls for New York to shut down its police department until it is properly trained the methods for subduing violent felons. Until they do this, we will just be flushing our hard-earned money down the toilet on behalf of the world's laziest police service, which is ironically stationed in the city with the most criminals.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Gourcegiving Grouses Part 2: The Meal - Does it Ever Go Right?



Probably not. I have to admit that I have little to no personal experience with Thanksgiving dinner, since the Gonoughan clan is a sensible one, and we tend not to buy into ridiculous pageantry and foolish gluttony. As for my single self, well I’m just not a proponent of meals in any form. However, according to most of the people who’re fortunate enough to know me, Thanksgiving dinner is a very special occasion for a lot of families. This confuses me though, since it seems hard to believe that an annual disaster can hold such a special place in the hearts of the masses.
“An annual disaster? What are you talking about, Guiles?” Dear reader, I’m talking about Thanksgiving. Oh, I know, I’m sure your family’s celebration is always just as Norman Rockwell as can be, but the truth of the matter is this is not the case for the majority of the world. Don’t believe me? Try watching a sitcom for once in your life. Never (and I mean rarely) do these Thanksgiving dinners go off without one to twelve hitches, usually within the space of 22 minutes. Sometimes it’s just a small snag, like the dog dies because the mom fed the dog turkey giblets (all dogs are allergic to giblets). Other times the problems faced on Thanksgiving are greater, like when a boy has to talk to one of his insane aunts, and she is just so terrible to look at. He has to be polite though, because alcoholism isn’t something you’re allowed to get angry with someone over. Which is bullshit. These are the sorts of things that can only happen when everyone from a family is foolish enough to congregate under one roof.
And why turkey? This is a bird that nature has done its best to convince us not eat. It’s flightless, making it not fun to catch and slaughter, it’s brown (nature’s most boring color), and it’s hideous. What more do you people need? Maybe a stone tablet signed by God himself reading, “seriously, stop eating turkeys” would do it. But no, the unwashed opt instead to jam stuffing into the cavity the bird’s innards once occupied. That is seriously gross America.
Finally, I take issue with the giving thanks aspect of Thanksgiving. Thanking someone is admitting appreciation, and if someone knows you appreciate them then they’re bound to stop trying so hard to earn your approval. Is Thanksgiving just one gigantic scheme to get everyone in America to take each other for granted? Probably. The subversive nature of this damnable holiday makes me sick, the kind of sick that has to go sit in front of a TV for four to six hours instead of trying desperately to warn the world at a large about the danger sitting around interacting with their families poses. You’re on your own come next year.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Gourcegiving Grouses Part 1: Air Travel – Isn’t it Tortuous?

Time for something special, Gource fans. It’s a holiday-filled period of the year, which means that hundreds (seriously, hundreds) of people around this country will pack a bag heavy with clothes and passive aggressiveness, hail a cab, and find themselves at an airport on their way to spend time they don’t really know why they have with people they don’t really feel anything for. A key and terrible factor in this ordeal? Air travel. For those paying even a marginal amount of attention it should be abundantly clear that the Grimary Gource hates air travel. However, due to extenuating circumstances (grievously low speed limits mostly) land travel between my two primary residences during the holidays is inconvenient and unforgivably time-consuming. As a result I was forced to travel through the planet’s least reliable state of matter (plasma is actually more reliable than gas) yesterday. What follows are some articulated thoughts that my mind crafted regarding the heinousness of flight.

Airport Security – why bother?

Let’s face facts, America – there are a lot of people who hate this country running around (most without shoes). Unfortunately for us, some America-haters do have shoes, and therefore are allowed into airports around this (mostly) terrible planet. Net result? We’re in constant danger. Does this danger justify giving a college dropout a minimum wage job that revolves entirely around digging through my checked baggage looking for national threats like some kind of truffle-rooting pig? No. I am an extremely efficient and particular person, and when I pack a suitcase I pack it to my expert specifications. When some doltish TSA goon goes and rearranges the innards of my duffel I feel as though my trip has been ruined before I’ve even had a chance to leave the ground. I mean, it’s not like I layer clothing according to a planned order-of-wearing schedule I've formulated while I pack it, so that I will never have to dig through my bag in order to find socks while away from home, is it? Oh wait. It is. If I wanted all my clothes disorganized, wrinkled, and sullied by strange hands I’d just drop them off at a foreign-run dry cleaner. If I have to sacrifice a skyline or two every seventy years to keep some ape out of my personal belongings, so be it.

People Who Sit Next to Me on Planes – what idiot notion drives you to strike up conversation?

I want you to think about the FAA for a moment. This is an agency that handles all kinds of important stuff, like going places and coming from places. They have rules, regulations, and lists of specifications longer than the laundry list of people with three-letter names who I wish were dead (long story). How is it then, that among all these countless codes and lengths of endless red tape there is no simple rule that makes it an arrestable – no – executable offense to bug the blinding hell out of a complete stranger on an aircraft? What’s more, every time I have to deal with one of these clowns they always seem to have some kind of regional accent, as though every airport has a distressingly stereotypical representative whose sole purpose in life is to get on planes, sit next to me, and start throwing around “y’alls,” “down the shores,” “hellas,” or “I am from the Pacific Northwest and want to kill myself’s.” Shut up, shut up, and shut up.

In-flight Entertainment – who’s in charge of this media abortion?

Ever wanted to know what kind of golf club will get a golf ball to go to the place a man in stupid clothes desires it to go? Curious about the faucets and fixtures of the rich and famous? Interested in buying a llama? If you answered “no” to any of the following questions it’s extremely likely that watching the in-flight entertainment on a one and a half to two-hour flight will make you regret color LCD’s ever became an affordable airline expense. Personally, I don’t understand the need for any form of stimulation on an airplane, be it audio, visual, olfactory, or sexual. Sit quietly, look ahead or close your eyes. If you’re feeling adventurous: fall asleep. It seems most people don’t agree with me though, and prefer to have some kind of mindless escape in the form of a glowing rectangle of pixels. I realize that my patience and attention span are far more massive than the average person’s, so I can forgive this need for distraction. What I can’t forgive are the airline’s choices in regards to what ought to be shown on their crafts. Does regular TV programming not work at twenty-five thousand feet? Can nobody affix a couple rabbit-ear antennas to the rudder so I could at least get some local news from “flyover” states? No. I’m forced to endure programs about people who live lives so full of comfort and luxury they can afford special shelves for their platinum-plated croquet mallets. How many people are involved in the production of this stuff? I feel like the amount of technical knowledge required to light, shoot, edit, and distribute this dreck could be better spent aiding the action movie filmmakers of America so I could go to a good blow-them-all-to-hell flick without having to read a Dickensian mass of subtitles.

Finally: a list of airports that had I the power, I would shut down

Dallas Ft. Worth
LaGuardia
JFK
Newark (are there any other airports that serve NYC that I’m not aware of? If so, they go on the list too.)
LAX
Dallas Ft. Worth
Orlando International
McCarren International
Atlanta International
Dallas Ft. Worth

Monday, November 20, 2006

Other Publications - Isn't It Time You Ignored Them?

Here is a nifty bit of publicity for the Gource. We are unfavorably compared to a competing rag by that rag itself; you can be the judge of quality. Whom am I fooling? You can't be any sort of judge. Allow me to be the judge. The Gource is of higher quality than any other Gufts publication. Once you have read the article about us and commented to the effect that we are superior, we strongly discourage you from continued perusal.




Friday, November 17, 2006

High Fructose Corn Syrup - Don't We Need More?

Simply put: yes. This country, and to a lesser extent, this hemisphere, need more high fructose corn syrup. If you’re retarded I’ll answer the question that’s probably meandering through your molasses-thick thought process: high fructose corn syrup is mana from heaven, sweet ambrosia that the gods of food engineering saw fit to give mankind. I’ll tell you how I came to the conclusion that HFCS is the greatest nonlethal invention of this earth, it is a story full of sorrow and joy, memories and exploding futures. It’s also pretty brief.
It all started when I was thirsty. Despite my ongoing attempts to stamp out humanities four main drives (hunger, thirst, lust, growing facial hair) I still occasionally succumb to these reprehensible states. And what, in my thirst, a time of great need and terror, was the only available drink? A Snapple peach iced tea. Now, anybody who gives any mind to the Gource (and God knows you should) knows that I hate tea. But here is what I found as I consumed the Snapple: it was wholly tolerable. Why was this? Because the drink is chock full of HFCS goodness.
Time for some extrapolation. If high fructose corn syrup can make a bad thing tolerable, then it can probably make an already good thing excellent. Take it one step further: a thing that is already excellent can be made divine. Some examples: lobster with HFCS, veal with HFCS, firearms with HFCS bullets, robots powered by HFCS, etc.
I know what a lot of people are probably thinking: “wow Guiles, these ideas are so, so good.” Thank you. Now, I also know what an insignificant few of you are thinking: “won’t putting more HFCS in everything exacerbate America’s growing obesity problem, and won’t incidences of diabetes continue to rise?”
Simply put: no. America doesn’t have an obesity problem; America has a fat children problem. Kids these days are fatter than kids of the past, and they keep growing up into fat teenagers and fat adults. Occasionally these fat adults reproduce, like whales, resulting in thousands of sticky eggs full of fat children that somehow find their way to the ceilings and doors of fast food restaurants across this great nation. The cycle is both terrifying and hideous. As far as diabetes is concerned, I’m all for it making a serious comeback. This might seem confusing to you, but I’ve got my reasons, some of which might involve a desire to see Wilford Brimley back in the spotlight, where he belongs.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Hey, Stupid - Do You Want a T-Shirt?

The Grimary Gource is currently offering some fantastic t-shirts available for purchase. They look like this:











































If you want to buy one, send an e-mail to gource.gurchases@gmail.com, and maybe we'll consider it. Specify size and sex. T-shirts cost $20, and if you want us to put your ugly mug on the front, that'll be another $5. Order today and receive the t-shirt you ordered.

G.E.M.S. - Isn't it Time They Got a Life?

It has recently been brought to the attention of the Gufts Campus, that G.E.M.S., the Gufts Emergency Medical Service, has been socially flat lining. Our erstwhile partiers, who would host the oxygen bar in the ranks of South Hall formerly dubbed the "red light" district, have become to dedicated to their duty. Their universal fobs used to grant us access into any party that could leave you comatose. The G.E.M.S. truck, used to be the love shack, where you didn't need an automated electronic defibrillator to get your heart pumping (if you know what I mean). CPR "Jane" and "Bob" were accused of not having a heart, but they did provide some hot synthetic action for several lonely Guftonians.
Alas, the party paramedics, no longer breathe the social life back into the Gufts campus. Who would have thought that altruism would come to lay low our noble nebulizers? It has been testified, that in the former red light district, the G.E.M.S. were running CPR drills. They must at all times be ready to save a Gufts student from sniffing too much of someone else's Aderol. The Gufts community must truly be thankful, for who else would rescue our roommates from a Natty Light Coma at a quarter to two on a Monday Night in Goddard Chapel? The truck can now be seen mourning in front of Barnum, waiting for a chemical experiment to go terribly wrong. On Thursdays they can also be seen outside the philosophy building, where Gorgias followers, who deny their existence, and fatalists who think that they only slow down the process repeatedly ignore them.
Needless to say, no longer will we see the blood pressure cuff being used as a means for autoerotic asphyxiation. Our prank calls of mortal peril or fratricide, will no longer be taken with a grain of salt. This new squad is more bile-provoking than syrup of ipecac. I for one will no longer be swallowing Clorox in order to get the life of the party to my 20.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Roman Numerals – Do They Mean Anything?

Recently, there has been a movement among so-called “intellectuals” and “blue-collar workers” to integrate roman numerals into normal math and lists. Rather than using our time-honored Anglo numerals (1, 2, 3, 15, etc.), these topheavies want us to rely on using letters instead, apparently just leaving all our good numbers to waste away at the top of our American keyboards.
We must remember that the Romans were the same society that invented sodomy, bestiality, alcohol, and fraternities—all of their contributions to world society have been viciously harmful and largely blundering. Why have we not yet recognized the potentially harmful Roman influence on our American society through their numerals, essentially a theft of letters that previously meant things. MIX means mix, not 1,009. This should be obvious.
This extends to movie sequels, by the way. Like every other human being on earth, I tend to like sequels more than originals, but I am sick and tired of seeing a movie with a title like “Rocky V,” which always makes me wonder if the protagonist has changed his last name to Valboa. Give me The Santa Clause 3 over this unAmerican tripe, every time.

Tape - Do We Still Use This Stuff?

Tape is nearly ubiquitous around a college campus. I am not referring to video or audiotape, both of which went out with Jeff Goldblum and the dinosaurs. Rather, I refer to strips of adhesive used for mending and other activities almost certain to frustrate a skilled craftsman with exacting demands (like myself, or Frank Gehry).
Tape never works. In a recent study done by an unbiased survey company, Consumer Advocates Against Tape, 76% of adhesive tape goes unsticky after twenty-five minutes, and the other 14% was never purchased. It is wise consumers like myself and Ralph Nader who know to avoid tape when putting this back together. There is only one thing that can genuinely get the job done, 100% of the time: Staples.
It is only idiots who cannot properly use staples, and you can tell who they are by the vampire bite-like holes in their thumbs where they got overzealous with a machine clearly too sophisticated for their Rice Krispies-like brains. These are the same Greenstreets who end up severing the top corner of their papers, simply because they are too bumblingly awkward to use staples to keep several pieces of paper in order.
Think about it: staples never die, they cannot rust, and they are unbreakable by all but Samuel L. Jackson. Realistically, there is no reason to use anything but staples to put things back together. This includes marriages.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Punctuality - What in God's Name Happened to it?

Imagine this: you’re on your way to see a movie (for the purpose of this hypothetical the movie does not have Sean Penn in it, so it might actually be good) and you plan on meeting a couple of your friends at the theater because you’re all coming from different places. They’re on the way to the theater from their designated polling place, and you’re on the way from your residence since you, being a well-informed and probably groomed reader of this fine internet-publication are of the mental capacity to realize that voting is mostly stupid since most of the people who do it are dumb. What, given this situation, can you safely assume? The friends that you plan on meeting will be late, you will miss the previews, and the entire movie-going experience will be ruined. Why is this? Because punctuality is dead.
I don’t know when it happened, I’m not a historian nor am I boring enough a person to follow trends and graphs regarding punctuality, but at least I am capable of adhering to schedules. The simple and terrible fact is that more often than not people are getting places later than when they promise to, and this is the sort of thing that makes me so sick that my Pepto Bismol expenditures have gotten a little out of hand as of late. There is absolutely no excuse for this, since the average person now has with them upwards of 5 devices containing clocks at all times – cell phones, watches, iPods, laptops, more cell phones. Granted, only 4% of the population with these things is capable of successfully setting their devices’ internal clocks.
I’ve been thinking about this whole affair for awhile now, and after much deliberation I feel comfortable putting on my finger-pointing glove so that I may place the blame squarely on the guiltiest culprit: the institution of breakfast. For a little while this country was extremely supportive of keeping breakfast brief, clean, and simple, and our economy flourished as a result of it. Think back to about ten years ago – you couldn’t watch TV for ten minutes without seeing a commercial for a breakfast bar, shake, or injection of some kind, one that promised to keep you on time and on-the-go. But at some point all that changed, and America went back to sitting down to heaping plates of food-that-requires-preparation. This results in a morning meal that takes too long (causing immediate lateness) and contributes to this country’s terrifying fat-kid situation (causing long-term lateness). At this rate things can only get worse.
So here’s the solution folks: put down the forks, spoons, knives, and mugs of scalding Columbian bitterness – you won’t need them for the answer to all your future schedule and nutrition-related prayers. Start your day the way I start mine: a 12 oz can of Coke, and a multivitamin. I call it “The American Breakfast,” since it is extremely good for this country. It’s mercilessly efficient and extremely easy to make, especially if you can get a bottle of multivitamins that don’t have a child-proof lid. This will make your life better, this will make the world better.



People with Problems - Why do They Always Want to Talk About Them?

Anybody alive in this era of bit-rates and LCD’s is sure to be under a lot of stress, certainly more than their ancestors who were terrified (but not stressed out by) teletype machines back in 1925. I can appreciate that various changes in the social and political climate since then have given people a lot more leeway in terms of what is “okay” to talk about, but there’s one area of free speech that’s really been getting on my nerves lately: problems.
People it is time for you to stop talking about your problems, and more specifically, talking to me about your problems. It’s not that I don’t understand, or that I’m a compassionless shell of an Adonis of a man. It’s just that having to listen to the lamentations on daily life with which people I know constantly bombard me makes me want to tear their mandible from their skull, leaving their face distorted, hideous, and unable to articulate their vocalizations into such words as “this is the problem I’m having,” or “here’s what’s bothering me.”
“Why such a problem with problems, Guiles?” you ask, your word choice a conscious decision made in an effort to alleviate the gravity of the situation (no dice, nosebleed). Here’s why: often times when people have a complaint they wish to discuss they often want to complain about me. Now, I am highly aware of the importance of complaining, as is self-evident, but when someone has an issue with me two things happen. First: I get confused, because what on earth could someone possibly find to complain about with respect to me? Second: I get angry, because if this person has a problem with me they are obviously unfit intellectually to even engage me in conversation, meaning that whenever I hear their voice my time is being wasted.
Listening to people’s problems that don’t directly involve me is also tortuous, as I’m sure some of you know. These trouble-factories who are constantly whining seem unable to schedule their sob-story-sessions at convenient times. Usually it’s a phone call at an unreasonable time (any hour greater than 1 and less than 10, a.m.) that sets into motion these unpleasant exchanges. And, this being Gufts University, 93% of all people with problems are piss-ass drunk at the aforementioned hours. My avalanche of resentment towards the intoxicated is an entirely different grouse, one that would require more pages than I’ve got years to my name, so I will not go into it now.
The point is this: if you’re having trouble with your love life, your social life, your sense of political efficacy, your family, a medical condition, finances, or whatever, remember that hearing about it only makes me root against you that much harder.



Friday, November 10, 2006

Museums - Shouldn't They Be More Accomodating?

We’ve all been there: The Museum. Of course, as a hygienic and handsome member of society I do enjoy the occasional visit to a museum, or “house of fancy stuff” as the unwashed sectors of the populace refer to them. There’s no doubt that museums serve important purposes, like harboring paintings by dead schizophrenics, keeping hideous modern sculptures out of our public parks and restrooms, and providing a location for dates with women who are always saying that all you like to do is watch action movies and yell at the neighbor’s fat children for no reason aside from the fact that they’re fat, and you need to prove them (the women, not the fat children) wrong when they say you lack depth of character, hypothetically speaking. So, everything’s hunky-dory, right? Not right.
For all their glitz – the columns, the windows, the high school dropout employees wearing suits – museums lack a couple important amenities, like heart, and more importantly, an abundance of comfortable chairs in every room. Once upon a time I visited a gigantic and huge museum in a little town called Paris (I won’t say which museum, I don’t want to namedrop), and I found that I was having a serious problem: the problem of very tired legs and feet that don’t want to walk.
“That problem doesn’t seem too serious, Guiles” you might say. Bullshit. A man cannot effectively absorb culture if his feet are sprouting blisters and his legs are full of aches. What’s more, I find feigning interest in the thousandth painting of an unattractive woman in a state of unerotic undress becomes exponentially more difficult the less comfortable I am.
Fortunately for the world I’ve got a foolproof solution (what else is new?). Every museum simply needs to obtain a fleet of luxury wheelchairs, the kind that people of intellect deserve. Leather upholstery, hydrogen powered, dual cup-holders, and etcetera. This way people like me can enjoy museums under optimum conditions. What’s more, should one find himself driven to sleepiness as a result of the draining strain of cultural intake he can simply roll himself to a secluded corner (museums have lots of these – they’re mostly for making out with people who are under the impression that you’re sophisticated) and have a nap. Think about it, this could change the world. With more cultural knowledge the disparity between the average “Die Hard: With a Vengeance” watching person and the average contestant on “Jeopardy!” will begin to be eliminated, making it more likely that you might win two thousand dollars for asking someone “GĂ©ricault?” when you overhear them talking about tubercular infections.


Thursday, November 09, 2006

Plato's Allegory of the Cave - Isn't It Time Teachers Stopped Using It in Their Curricula?

Recently, ten students (who have chosen to remain anonymous) at Gufts were handed a photocopied excerpt of The Republic of Plato. Specifically, the so-called Allegory of the Cave. Asked to comment, several of these students claimed to have been exposed to this work previously at Gufts, one Jewish male even stating, "My God. If I have to read this fucking allegory one more time I will throw a [Jewish] fit." The Gource, while it does not support Jewish fits, also is of the fact that it is time our educational system jettisoned the Allegory.
First of all, it is widely known that both Socrates and Plato believed in having sex with children. Even by today's standards, this is absolutely unacceptable. When did we start taking advice from pedophiles? Next we will allow alcoholics to hold positions of political power. What if they throw up on a foreign dignitary, or drunk-dial the Big Red Button? Or even Red Buttons?
That aside, even if Socrates had sex with one or more women, like a regular person, the Allegory of the Cave is not fit to be taught in the classroom. First of all, it is not an allegory. Modern research shows that this was an actual event in Socrates' life, the time he was chained up underground, and his passing it off as an allegory is merely a duplicitous attempt to mislead modern readers.
Even if it weren't true, it makes absolutely no sense. Just because a person has never seen the sun does not mean that what they perceive does not exist. Someone standing outside would be observing something different, not necessarily something better. Example: even if you read nothing but The Grimary Gource, it would not mean that it was illusory. In fact, quite the contrary.
That's just fact.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Tea - Shouldn't You Stop Drinking It?

Time to feel guilty, America.
It seems that lately, which is to say within the past few years, the popularity of tea has really started to go up. Okay, first of all: what the fuck is everyone’s problem? Tea, like all hot drinks that aren’t cocoa, is nasty as all disaster. Do you even know how it’s made? A man with extremely dirty feet stomps around in a big pile of leaves somebody raked up during the fall time, except the pile of leaves was moved into a barn and it is now the following spring and the guy stomping on the leaves is eating a burrito that isn’t maintaining its structural integrity. Then they put the leaves and toenails into tiny bags that you soak in water until it smells bad enough to drink. Gross.
Second of all: tea-drinkers hate the American dream. Remember in history class, how you learned about the great Anglo-slaughter of seventeen-seventeen-seven? If you’ve forgotten here’s a refresher: the British Tea Alliance tried to destroy the fledgling colony of Satcheltown, but was repelled by the shirtless American forces, a battle that single-handedly solidified America’s stature as a country nobody wants to fuck with. As a result, most American colonies adopted constitutions that forbade the production or consumption of tea, and for a while this country was great. But things change.
The olde time constitutions no longer hold any “legal” power and haven’t since sometime in the early 1940’s, so tea isn’t a controlled substance per se, but the fact of the matter is that it still carries un-American connotations (like civil liberties do in the south, basic fucking etiquette does in the Northeast, or haircuts do in California). However, tea’s unpatriotic message is universal across this great nation. Or, at least if fucking ought to be. So let’s put an end to this liquid equivalent to flag burning. And by the way, stop burning flags.

Nostalgia – Isn’t It Time We Just Got Over It?

Recently, the Gource has noticed a viral outbreak of nostalgia all over the United States. “Things were so much better then,” people whine, “back when there was courtesy and no cuss words and fifty cents would buy you a tractor-trailer and all you needed was pluck and aspirations in order to maintain a perfect lawn.” There are more people I have heard say this than there are awful, mass-produced bagels in the state of Massachusetts. I have news for these people: things were not better back in the pre-nostalgic days. In fact, it was quite the opposite. They were worse.
Seriously, look at the statistics: 80% of people born between 1900 and 1980 held their hair in place with Bryl-Creme. Elections were held monthly to decide on local dogcatchers. The only illegal drug was Quaaludes. There were only two websites: Yahoo! and shockwave.com. And the soul patch-to-person ratio was 3:1. I am not making any sort of subjective judgment here; there are the facts. Go ahead and interpret them as you will.
Just consider these. It is time to stop being nostalgic. The fact is, there was never any perfect time period. We can only hope to work together and create a uptopia where the Velvet Underground is banned from our airwaves. Where kites shaped like anything but a diamond are summarily conflagrated. And we can cure the common cold. Remember, these ideas ran first here, in the Gource.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Jews - How Long Will You Let Your Noses Do the Talking?

Recently, Gufts Gillel was vandalized with spray-painted pictures of big-nosed Jews. The Campus Jewish Alliance responded by covering over the pictures with even bigger pictures of famous Jews. This took place during the Jewish celebration of Shabbat, an annual grain festival. The Gufts Genate voted to staunchly condemn the acts of the vandals, and swore to take stronger action should this event occur again. The Gufts Genate was dead wrong.
Usually, the Grimary Gource is not a supporter of bigotry or vandalism. In this case, though, the Jews deserved it. If they do not want to be accused of having big noses, it would well behoove them to keep their big noses out of our faces. It's like, hey Jew buddy, just because my nose won't reach yours is no reason for yours to meet mine halfway!
Honestly, it's like the Jews are just aching for acts of anti-Judaism (The Gource does not use the term "anti-Semitism" as it technically refers to all Semitic people. Know your facts.)! When they can just resign themselves to a life like everyone else's, we can peacefully coexist.
Predicted and to be proven.

Cars on Campus - Why Don't They Just Find Their Own Roads?

Imagine this scenario: a typical student (white) is walking around campus, reading a copy of the Grimary Gource, imagining how much better the world would be if the "one strike, you're out" policy were implemented, feeling comfortable enough with his sexuality not to have to look where's going, when suddenly he is mowed down by a car, usually driven by a senior citizen. You don't have to imagine this, because it happens every day. "Sure," you may be thinking, "in a third world country like Portugal." No. Right here. America. Gufts. Learn your facts.
I cannot count the number of times I have seen a car driving somewhere I previously thought reserved solely for foot traffic. This is clearly indicative of problem behavior elsewhere. Allowing cars to be driven in places that should be pedestrian-only just creates a slippery slope to allowing cars to be driven indoors, or through the air. The Grimary Gource will not stand for automobiles clogging up our precious airspace, busy taking high-powered executives from one event to another, allowing them to continue to work in our best interests.
We need to show motorists that this will not stand. The only way to do this is by outlawing the use of cars on college campi. Once we have done that, the number of automobile deaths will decrease drastically. Of course, you won't find Michael Moore advocating a reasoned solution like this, but isn't that what makes the Gource a more trustworthy source of information than any documentary film-maker of greater than 300 lbs.
Undeniable.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Helicopters - Aren't they Ridiculous Contraptions?

Have you ever really looked at a helicopter? I’m not asking if you’ve ever seen one, and I’m not even asking in hopes that you’ll answer, because I don’t care. The point I’m trying to make is that helicopters are a fucking outrageous mode of transportation. It might seem weird, but I feel a lot less comfortable with a vehicle that is not symmetrical. A scientist would probably say that this is because of evolutionary factors that make human beings like things that have lines of symmetry. Helicopters, being the precarious and dangerous crafts that they are, try to warn us humans of the threat they pose by failing to be symmetrical, much like poison dart frogs exhibit bright and garish colors in order to keep would-be predators safe from their deadly poison.
Of course, I haven’t even mentioned the most dangerous aspect of helicopters: they are inexorably drawn to power lines, like flies to honey or meth addicts to run-down areas of suburbia. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel comfortable with aircraft that are so disastrously prone to getting themselves tangled up in high tension cables that frequently have an absurd amount of current running through them.
Here’s what I suggest: everybody should stop using helicopters, forever. “What would we replace them with?” you ask. Easy: hot air balloons. Hot air balloons have so much symmetry it’s insane, and they’re much quieter than helicopters. They might not work as well in windy areas, but it’s important to remember that places with lots of wind are also places you shouldn’t be living, because you never know when wind might turn on you and become a hurricane.

Friday, November 03, 2006

Corduroy - Isn't it the Best Material Ever?

I get accused of being too negative very frequently. Lately I’ve been getting letters, phone calls, and faxes from distraught readers begging me to stop being so hostile in my writing, or to at least occasionally write about subject matter that doesn’t make my blood boil with rage and my throat fill with the bile of a disgusted man. So I will acquiesce. I will write about corduroy.
Let’s get one thing straight right now so there won’t be any confusion down the line: corduroy is the best material that clothes can be made out of, especially pants and especially jackets. I myself own upwards of 10 pairs of corduroy pants, with one corduroy jacket for every two pairs of pants. If you’re one of those people who wear denim I’ll do the math for you, since God knows you won’t be able to on your own. That’s five awesome corduroy jackets for a total of fifteen articles of corduroy clothing, excluding underwear and scarves, the numbers for which are murky at best – hey, I can’t be emptying drawers and counting things every time I write an article, I’m a busy man!
On a tangentially related note the Grimary Gource will hopefully soon be offering finely printed T-shirts bearing our aesthetically pleasing logo and a good portion of my brutally handsome visage. Unfortunately the shirts themselves couldn’t be corduroy, as it happens that screen printing on the fantastic material is “problematic.” Whatever.


Thursday, November 02, 2006

Protesting Things - Isn't it Time it Stopped?

There are a lot of problems in the world today: bacon shortages, uppity Canadians, exploding dolphins, and the rest, but somehow I manage not to go around protesting everything all the time. Lately it seems that protesting has become the new “in” medium of voicing one’s discontent with various meaningless issues. Look here America, I do not want to have to deal with the Causes of the Unwashed. Sure, there are things that bug me about the universe, like why can’t a guy ever get chocolate covered relish-balls pre-made at my local chocolatier instead of having to use the old Gonoughan family recipe. I know that the store-bought iteration of the delectable delicacy would not live up to the handcrafted goodness to which I am accustomed, but it would save me a lot of time. Do I then put on a garishly painted sandwich board and march my way down to the chocolate dealer of my scorn, waving castanets and rattling torches? No. I take a deep breath, count to three, and imagine a river of blood knee deep flooding the city streets. I don’t feel the need to make myself a nuisance to every fucking human being on the planet just because something’s not going my way.
“But Guiles” a reeking and smoking poncho-wearing “dude” protests as I explain to him my views, twigs falling from his mouth as he speaks “the president is bad and the war in Iraq has to stop and what about Darfur?”
“Yeah!” a rich, white, cause-adopting college suburbanite agrees, “don’t forget that we got to boil all the world’s water supply to make sure it’s clean for Palestine.” She wears a poorly screened shirt depicting Palestine in a pot of boiling water, a logo I am sure nobody thought through. I shake my head in frustration.
People please, I just want to be able to walk down the street without some guy with a haircut asking me if I have a few minutes to spare for the environment, or if I am registered to vote in wherever it is I live, or if I have fucking spare change because the answer to all these questions is the same: “No, no, a thousand times no, take a shower.”
Seriously, isn’t it time this stopped? Isn’t it…time?

Music Revue: Cat Power - Why don't you just CHEER the FUCK UP?

Look, it's not that I hate music. Many would say that I listen to it frequently. But the other day, while trying to listen to the soothing sounds of Cat Stevens, I accidentally played some bullshit by a Miss Cat Power (I have a large music collection; larger than yours). I heard her whine all over Moon-eyed Pix, You Are Free to Weep, and The Greatest Sadness the World Has Ever Known (do not even get me started on her "Weeping Under the Covers" album). Through all of this, she just complained about this and that in her whatever life. News flash, Miss Power: CHEER THE FUCK UP.
Nobody wants to listen to sad music. This has been proven. According to an unbiased survey by the Family Protection from Abortion Organization, 0% of all human beings enjoy listening to sad music. Know. Your. Facts. So when Miss Power is ready to sing out and be free, I'm ready to listen, because there's a million ways to be (you know that there are).

Isn't it Time the People of Facebook Friended Me?

Guiles Gonoughan's Facebook profile

Edit: You should also let people know what's what and join the facebook group.Link

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Autumn - Can't We Just Get it Over With Already?

Hear me out, Northern Hemisphere. I like orange leaves and butchered pumpkins as much as the next guy (unless the next guy is an asshole, in which case I like aforementioned things more) but I’ve just about had it with this season. It starts out pleasantly enough, with medium-length days and light jacket-friendly weather, but I am of the belief that Mother Nature should get back to what she does best: being a harsh and brutal mistress. I don’t need to be coddled by the seasons, and I sure as hell don’t need a season that gives people more excuses to buy a fifth fleece pullover in a muted color.
What I need is weather that means business, and days where the sun clocks out at half past three. I want to be constantly reminded that going outside is a bad idea, and that there are forces in this universe that despise comfort and contentedness as much as I do. Let’s hear it for Old Man Winter.
In addition to curbing the distressingly high rates of smiling and public displays of affection, the cold gray hand of winter also plays an important role in the urban ecosystem: controlling the homeless population. Much like the lion of the Serengeti Plain, winter cuts down the slowest and the weakest of the nation’s hobos. Those that survive are hardened, exhibiting fewer symptoms of schizophrenia and hassling me for nickels with less desperation. It’s like Nietzsche said, “that which does not kill me will hopefully take a few homeless people down.” The man had Ideas, people.
Despite the fact that it’s officially November, a month known for its high rates of both slaughtered turkeys and new cases of diabetes in children under twelve (two things that make me smile), my heart is heavy with the knowledge that it will be weeks yet before the trees are bare and the earth is as hard as the concrete I wish covered every square inch of it. I will persevere though, I will always hate this season.

Music Revue: Covers

I was just listening to my iPod on shuffle, and came across a certain Jimi Hendrix's cover of Bob Dylan's song "All Along the Watchtower." What the hell is this? I had never heard Mr. Hendrix play this song before (I have a substantially large music collection; larger than yours) and was frankly disappointed. Is there some reason that he cannot play songs he himself wrote? I for one never get tired of "Purple Haze." Playing songs written by Bob Dylan is just lazy. I'm looking at you, Jeff Buckley.
Actually, not to get off-topic, but Jeff Buckley is another man who thinks he's too cool to actually write songs. Everyone loves Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah," but did you know that it is a cover of a Leonard Cohen song? That's right. Look it up. KNOW YOUR FACTS.
Enough is enough. It's time we stopped allowing whoever these deltoids are to sing other, harder -working performers' songs. You heard it here first. In the Gource.

Ugly People on the T - Shouldn't They Just Walk?

We’ve all been there: you’re riding the Red Line en route to somewhere wonderful – like the movies – and all of a sudden life gets a whole lot more terrible. The cause of this terrible? An ugly person has just boarded your subway car. This is the sort of thing that always happens, usually at throwaway stops like Central or Charles MGH. I don’t know about you, but I hate having to look at ugly people, and one really isn’t given much choice when boxed up in a rattling subway car full of hideousness.
“But Guiles” you say, “ugly people are people too.” Dear admirer you are incorrect. Admittedly ugly people are people inasmuch as they walk around on two legs (sometimes), consume food, have dreams, and read TV Guide. But they differ from Attractive People in a very important way: they’re fucking awful to witness. I swear to God, in this era of sue-happy Americans I’m surprised that nobody’s yet leveled a suit at these public-transportation-using abominations. Think of the damages – emotional, physical (throwing up after seeing an ugly person is an example of physical damages), and spiritual.
I feel that the spiritual repercussions of seeing ugly people are the most significant. If – God willing – you’re like me you’re a staunch believer in a benevolent/extremely vengeful God. Obviously this God loves me (what’s not to love?) and wants me to be a happy guy. Why then would he create creatures of such offensive appearance? Simply by existing these people are waging a hard-to-look-at war on one of my many Constitutionally Protected Freedoms (CPF’s), and quite frankly I just can’t handle this. I realize I can’t just ask ugly people to stop existing, especially with the economy in the state it’s in, but I can ask that they politely find other means of getting from point A to point B, means that don’t involve me having to lay eyes on them. Honestly ugly people, just walk. Do it for me. Do it for the Gource.