Defense of a Lax Bro

 

At every university there is a diseased interpretation of the lacrosse players or “Lax Bros”. Whether he’s actually a member of the schools team or just happens to be a kid wearing his high school's lacrosse sweatshirt and has longer than average hair, he is automatically roped into this depreciating stigma. He is assumed to be a jerk who considers women to be trophies displayed on the shelf above his bed for all his bros to see. He’s obsessed with his hair referred to as his “flow” and his chin is perpetually fixated upwards coming from a wealthy upper class white family.  This stigma is put best into words by the show Blue Mountain State when, in reference to lacrosse players, stated, “What they lacked in talent they made up for with good looks and daddy’s money.”

That is not the only example of media attempting to cast a shallow light upon lacrosse players. The actions of lacrosse players have been put under a microscope ever since the Duke lacrosse scandal in 2006 where team members were falsely accused of rape. There have been other incidents since then where college lacrosse players have committed crimes and because of their image the media makes sure to run stories on them even though other students commit the same crimes but don’t have their actions broadcasted over major news outlets.

With all of that being said here’s why you should befriend you resident lax bro despite the bad press….

With the mantra of “Win or lose we still booze”, what better bunch of bros is there to hang out with? The persistent coughing fits on the way home from away games will be sure to muffle the cracking of beer cans in the back of the bus although a flask suits just fine for others. No matter what obligations they have in the following days these guys will always find a way to party. They stumble hungover reeking of defeat into the same morning classes that you do after a long weeknight out on the town filled with cheap drinks and loose morals.

Besides the luscious flowing hair there isn’t much difference between a regular person and the exiled lax bros. Yes, often times they do get the girls because it’s why they wanted to play college hockey  lacrosse in the first place, but that doesn’t mean they look down upon you it’s just something that comes with the peak physical performance and finely chiseled jaw lines. It’s the lax pinnie wearing, mid calf sock rockin’, ray ban flashin’ players that give the rest a bad rep that is ill deserved.  The skinny jean dude with the beanie, you can judge him by his cover but don’t be afraid to reach out and expand your circle in college by adding a couple laxers to your arsenal of bros.

Cul De Sac Horrors; The Epic Tale of Dead Batteries, Crazy Cat Men, And Horrible “Policemen”

T’was a cold December night over my first winter break from college. Christmas spirit was in the air as was the spirit of remisnesitence as college children across the nation reunited with friends they hadn’t seen since the muggy days of August. The alcohol was as plentiful as the laughter as old friends told each other how awesome their new university was or wasn’t and how much ass they were or weren’t hauling. But on this fateful night, I stood a sober soul apart from the crowd due to the mono i had caught the previous month (most likely a byproduct of my “Barstool: foam blackout” experience). Despite my inclination to drink, I took the night off for the welfare of my enlarged spleen. But the night went on without me.

Okay so the last paragraph has barely anything to do with the actually story I want to tell but at least the scene is set for another story in another article.

The real story begins when me and a lady friend of were leaving th party somewhere around 1. Surprisingly we had both managed to leave sober, her being the driver, and me with the mononucleosis. And as we arrived at my humble abode i said the ten words that i regret to this day... “you don’t have to drop me off yet you know.” And so began our night of misfortune.

We drove just down the road to a cul de sac with no inhabited houses within 100 feet of the area. We then proceeded to do what kids our age tend to do in the back of cars in abandoned cul de sacs. However, in the middle of our extra curricular activity the christmas music that was playing on the stereo cut out (i was in the christmas spirit alright don’t judge). At the time, i was in no mind set to pay this any mind but little did i know that this cut in audio would foreshadow our doom.

Once we were uhh, done and ready to take the 60 second drive back home my lovely companion attempted to start her engine but was greeted with the dreaded sound of sputtering. And at that moment i most eloquently assessed the situation by proclaiming, “fuckkkk.”  You see, we had made the mistake of leaving the engine on because we wanted the car to be warm... It was cold outside alright.

We took the cold walk over to my house where i took the jumper cables outta my mothers car and looked up how to jump a car on wiki how to as subtlety as possible in order to retain any sort of manhood i had in me. We drove my mothers car back over and i was surprisingly able to jump the car without looking too much like Richard Simmons in an auto repair shop. Mission accomplished. A little harm done but really just a minor inconvenience. I said goodbye to my “bud” and got in my mother’s car. At that moment the handle of her key fell off. I still figured I’d be able to jimmy it on without said handle but to no avail. So with my third grade knowledge of cars as my guide i assumed i had killed my mother’s battery by jumping the other car. Retard. But it seemed plausible. This is when shit starts to get...weird...

As I sat in the warmth of my friends recently jumped car and contemplated how I was going to explain to my parents that they're car was dead on the cul de sac down the road, a car drove up and parked near us. My lady companion was sufficiently creeped out by this, especially when the car flashed a bright light into the car. I got out to see if the guy wanted to kill us or naw. The way the man addressed me immediately lead me to believe he was some sort of law enforcement. His undeserved sense of pride and brash rudeness were a clear give away. This conversation is about verbatim as it gets,

"Hey, what the hell you parked out here for?!"

"Uhh sir I leave right near by-"

"no you don't. I lived here all my life on this road and I've never seen you. What the fuck are you kids up to?"

"I actually do live here, like I said I'm right down the road-"

"look were you smoking pot or something because I think I can smell it and I'll have no problem calling a cruiser down here to get you both."

Keep in mind I did live right down the road. And we were by not "smoking pot."

"No weren't smoking-"

"What other reason would you be down here then?"

Begrudgingly I responded, "because we were messing around sir."

"Huh?"

"That's my girlfriend [i lied] we were messing around. Okay?"

He responded as if he had never even heard of sex let alone considered the possibility of such a Heinous act.

"Oh well, alright I uhh... Uhh well why are you still here."

As I begin to tell the story of our hardships, "well you see we're having some car trouble and-" he once again rudely interrupted,

"You know I'm sure you'll get it figured out. Try not to do that stuff on this road again."

What. A. Dick. Thank god I wasn't drunk.

The douchebag junior cop finally drives away and we think the worst of our stress is passed us... Nope.

Just a few minutes later yet another car came down the road. It turns out someone did live in the house that looked rundown and uninhabited and my mothers car was blocking his driveway. Great. Keep in mind it’s now 3 in the morning, and this guy is coming home now in a pickup truck and it looks like his home could be featured on Hoarders or Suburban Sociopaths (it’s on the history channel). I was immediately concerned about the potential character of this seemingly unsavory individual (i.e was he going to rape me before or after he killed me?). Surprisingly enough this man was very understanding and was even adamant about helping us.. which is exactly what a serial killer would do. He asked me into his house to go get some things so he could look at the car, and, against my better judgement, I went inside because I was willing to do anything for this nightmare to end. Upon entering his house I was greeted by approximately 6 to 7 cats. The man went upstairs to get the shovel he was going to bury me with while I waited downstairs being stared at by more pussy than I’d ever seen in one room. How many murders had these felines witnessed over the years? Had they come to crave the taste of human meat? It became clear to me that tonight was the night I died and at this point, the prospect of death felt relieving (I kid but still). To my surprise catman wasn’t wearing his mother’s dress and carrying a butcher’s knife but rather he came downstairs with a powerful flashlight.

Try as he may Catman couldn’t find anything wrong with the car but i thanked him for his effort.It was pushing four o’clock in the morning and I had enough.  It became clear that I was going to have to leave my mom’s car at the end of the godforsaken cul de sac. And as I said goodbye to my companion yet again, a gentle snow began to fall. All I could do was laugh, you know the type of laugh where you can tell someone has been completely broken, a joker laugh. My friend who had been glassy eyed and on the verge of tears responded with, “This isn’t fucking funny you ass.” But in a way it was.

I woke up at 8 the next morning to try and explain why my Mother’s car wasn’t in the driveway and what ensued was perhaps the most awkward conversation I’d ever had.

“ I just don’t understand why my car is dead on the end of some random road.”

“I don’t know Mom we were just you know...hanging out down there and-”

“Hanging out??”

Ughh. For the second time in 6 hours i was going to have to explain my sexcapaids and this time it was to my saintly mother.

“You know, messing around.”

“JESUS! What is your father gonna say about this.”

Idk but it couldn’t go any worse than this…

As we arrived at the sight of mother’s automobile she got out of my car and was easily able to turn on the car. Is this a joke? Turns out my mother was the only person who knew how to turn on the car with the butchered key that she had. That whole ordeal that was last night could have been solved with just a few better turns of a key. Regardless I was glad it was finally over and nobody else needed to speak or learn of the incident. Well until I wrote about it here of course. 

So what did I learn? I didn’t learn anything that shit sucked. No, I guess I learned, how to jump a car, how to jimmy a broken key, to not leave the battery on for an extended period of time just for warmth, Jr. cops are douches since they wish they had some form of authority but they really don’t so they take it out on young kids who don’t know any better, and not every man who owns more than seven cats is a serial killer, or maybe he just wasn’t in the mood that night. So yeah, learn from this cautionary tale my beloved readers or feel free to read another one of our unfortunate tales.

A Boy and his Whistle: Chronicles of Clueless Referee

I was 18 years old and understandably low on cash. My father had essentially kidnapped me and drove me around the county asking me to enter any establishment in search for employment for my senior spring and the upcoming summer. Despite my eagerness (largely to get the fuck out of the tired mom and pop stores) and my winning smile, I struck out on the small business scene and returned home jobless. With a few half used chipotle gift cards as the only assets to my name, the urgency picked up, and thats when the phone rang. My friend called on behalf of the local 5th grade basketball league in search of a replacement referee. He knew that I needed a job, and he knew that I had always loved and had been involved in sports. Of course, there was one detail I neglected to mention following the godsend of an offer...I knew absolutely nothing about the rules of basketball.

With hopes that the charade could go unnoticed, I met with the league’s boss, gave off the vibe of someone who knew what he was doing, and took the court for my debut. Contrary to what the parents, coaches, and players must’ve thought, I had a whistle with me. And not surprisingly, the “let the kids play through it” philosophy is much more accepted in the NBA Finals than in the 5th grade rec league. During the few instances in which I blew the whistle loud enough for someone other than the scoreboard operator to hear, I froze with all eyes on me desperately searching for some remotely basketball related words to say.

This act went on for weeks and what I quickly learned was that 5th grade fathers turn into a fearsome Bobby Knight Greg Popovich combo in the midst of a tight 18-16 contest in the 4th quarter. Either that or they were frustrated beyond containment that the league they paid to participate in used its money to give $20 per game to someone who probably never watched an entire game let alone participate in one.

Despite the accumulated hours of kids whining for fouls (probably deserved since there were more unnoticed hacks than a Siberian timber yard and the minds behind “Cougar Town” combined) and grumpy 40-something’s questioning my brain capacity, I had made it to the season’s end with surprisingly no written complaints. Perhaps they would have treated any official that way in the heat of the moment. In any event, the final task ahead of me was the All star game (yes, they had an all star game). What I figured would be a nice low-tension conclusion to my fraudulent journey turned out to be my greatest officiating test to date.

The first unexpected twist of the night was the swift elimination of the full court press rule which allowed all offense and defense to take place before the midcourt line instead of  beginning once the ball crossed the middle as I had grown accustomed to throughout the season.  If I had a vote I would’ve stuck to the regular season rules but hey, I guess the anarchist demon children should have their say as well. I did my best to keep up with the quickened pace and fortunately I began to adjust, until things took a turn for the worse when my assistant referee decided to go for an alley oop mid game. Correct, the ref had built enough of a rapport to the point where he could organize an alley oop with the point guard that was met with a chorus of jovial laughter, not to mention the solidification of him as the fun ref. Fuck me. On top of my lackluster officiating abilities and continued dread of being in that sweaty pre-pubescent gym, I had been firmly entrenched as the un-fun referee. Just when the grand finale couldn’t get any worse, I received the ultimate death stare from sasquatch himself, the previously silent coach who stood a hard 6 foot 6. The charges filed? Apparently I was “giving him a nasty look.” Maybe I hadn’t masked my bitterness and disdain quite as well as I thought, but this guy was about to get the business if not for the halftime whistle, and the fact that he could break my face.

I paced around the gym knowing that I either had to call the guy out or at least come up with some fake-ass apology for the nasty look that I didn’t give. I chose the latter and headed over to the monstrous man expecting some more wrath, when suddenly I saw him come towards me. Before I could begin my “I’m sorry” soliloquy the coach exclaimed “Hey bud I’m really sorry for getting angry with you. You didn’t do anything wrong I just haven’t been thinking straight. My mother passed away a couple days ago and its been really hard for all of us.” His mother passed away. Yes I heard him correctly, his mother passed away.  Don’t get me wrong, the human in me was crushed to hear this because the loss was obviously having an effect on the poor guy. But in some sick twisted and shameful way this sorrow ridden apology was the Popeye spinach I needed to fulfill the officiating potential that they saw in me from day one of this entire fiasco. 

The second half began with the heartiest whistle this side of Thomas the Tank Engine, and I proceeded to give the most all-star worthy performance that league had ever seen. The calls were on point, the whistles were clear, and I even found myself smiling in the midst of it all. For those final two quarters that league was mine, and my relentless pursuit of the basketball law helped remove 90% of the guilt I planned on feeling for collecting a $1,000 check in exchange for a fraudulent misuse of authority and unparalleled basketball ignorance. In addition to learning a thing or two about basketball, I learned a lot about myself  throughout the entire experience, aside from the fact that I apparently thrive off of somber apologies from grief-stricken rec coaches. “Fake it til you make it” never proved to be more applicable, and I’d like this to serve as cautionary tale for anyone with a cash flow problem and a natural knack for bullshit.  

Unexpected Outcomes of a New Year

 
With the start of a new year one would expect many things to change. Whether it be an individual's personal mantra, or an overweight college kid looking to trim down for spring break, things are changing or at least people are trying to change or better themselves in one way or another. But there’s a few things about the New Year that the duo of Ryan Seacrest and Dick Clark didn’t tell you about. Don’t fret, we here at Commonz are ready to warn you in advance…

1. Resolution Haters- It’s crazy how fickle people can be. One day they’re telling their friends that Rob has really let himself go and needs to hit up the gym and the next day they’re spewing hate on social media about their disdain for newbes in their precious immaculate gym.  I can’t tell you how many times i’ve seen, “There really needs a reserved spot for all these resolutioners in the gym. so annoying.” Or even, “Telling a Resolutioner to get off the incline press #TFM.” You’d think somebody would show just a bit of support for these poor individuals who are simply trying to better themselves but no. Humans are not only fickle creatures but envious and self entitled creatures as well. Because why should everyone be happy for them going to the gym when i’ve been doing it all along. I’ve been going to this gym for the past 4 months and body fat percentage is below 5 percent so i’m entitled to every crevice of this Gold’s fitness center. It’s a shame because these new gym comers can feel the resentment in the  air and it lowers their already battered self-esteem. While the aforementioned resentment serves as a confidence breaker, it doubles as a prospective gym goer repellent. Which is exactly what the average meat head wants in the first place. Isn’t it a shame to see negative behavior reinforced?   

2. Nobodys Happy-  New year. Fresh start! Clean slate! Anything can happen. Time for change. Time to curl up in a blanket and regret everything you did and didn’t do the year before. Time to head back to school/work with little to nothing to look forward to. Yeah the start of the new year kinda blows. In fact, the most depressing day of the year takes place just 6 days into the year.6! The weather feels like small knives are being plucked into your cheek as you walk outside and it’s time to get back to work and for you to realize christmas time is over. Not too many more things are more demoralizing than undecorating a lovely christmas tree and tossing it into a cold lonesome forest. Time to get your Martin Luther King Chia pet out. At the risk of being redundant, heres the rest of my thoughts on the atrocity that is the month of January. 

3. Nothing Actually Changes- It’s hard to get even more depressing than a paragraph entitled “nobody’s happy” but here i go. The new year is unfortunately just the same shit but in a shitter month. 30 percent of people don’t even try to make resolutions, and the ones that do have forgotten their ode to change about three weeks into the year. No matter how drunk or how loud we sing “Auld Lang Syne” you’re still most likely going to wake up in three months overweight and with the same shitty attitude you’ve had since you got cut from the middle school baseball team when you were 13.

How to Make the Most of a Frat Party; Another List of Dos and Don'ts

Unlike my colleague who attends a bar school, I attend a frat and/or house party school which, as many of you know, is an entirely different beast altogether. Theres an entirely different code of conduct to this sweat filled, mistake ridden, shame generating wasteland. A world in which only the grimiest get a head and nobody has to be good looking as long as the basement you’re in has the standard frat house lighting. Those who are short, claustrophobic, socially anxious, or germophobic will most likely perish. If you’re any of those things i’m afraid there isn’t much I can do for you but feel free to read ahead anyways.

Clothing- Your outfit doesn’t mean shit. It’s most likely going to be so dark you won’t even be able to tell the difference between a nice polo vest and a sleeveless hanes t-shirt. Chances are, there'll be some sort of theme for the event, feel free to ignore it but attempt to gauge the interest in the theme with other party goers beforehand. You don’t wanna be the only dick who didn't even try and make an effort at the theme. Chicks usually don’t like that. And on the other spectrum, you definitely don't wanna be that guy who goes balls to the wall for a theme party. Lets be real, the guy that wears a gorilla suit to a halloween party has never hauled any ass.

Pregame/Consumption- Essentially the same rule applies here for both types of schools, get more than a little drunk before the party because if you thought being sober at a bar was bad, you ain’t seen nothing until you’re at a frat house sober. The only way to tolerate the hot, damp, dark, crowded shit storm that is a frat basement is to be albosultulty trashed upon entry. Granted, drinks should be plentiful and relatively cheap compared to a six dollar vodka and soda at a bar but frats are to never be trusted. Don’t assume they’ll have more than two kegs and never assume they’ll have more than one tap because if you do, you could be waiting in a pack of disgruntled, sweating, freshman waiting 30 minutes have one shitty beer. If you like to live life on the edge a little, it is recommended to rock a flask in the back pocket, but beware of lurking piggies if you have to walk back to campus.   

The Party Itself- You’ve made it in. You paid your 5 and you’re sufficiently shit faced. And as you walk down the old wooden steps of the Phi Psi basement theres only one thing to keep in mind. Be impulsive. If you want something you have to go and get it. This world that you have the unfortunate pleasure of being in is a dog eat dog world. If some chick “bumps” you at the start of the night theres no room to contemplate whether or not that bump was an accident, because the second you hesitate she’ll be against the wall with some douchebag who probably longboards to class.  And if you do manage to be rejected, don't fret, it’s so dark down there that height becomes the new substance for attractiveness. So chances are it’s not because you’re ugly, it’s because you’re 5’7. Back to being impulsive, the only way to stay impulsive and to have a good time is to keep drinking, so be aggressive as you move your way to the front of keg lines, give mercy to no one. It’s recommended you use the girls in your crew to weasel their way to the front and take control on that precious noisiel of keystone.  The point is, if you want to optimize your experience, don't chit chat in the corner with that kid in your FSP about how much your teacher sucks, get out there and make something happen.

So there you have it. Chances are you’ll only be apart of this world for 2 years at most if you’re not an actual member of a frat, so don’t be upset if you suck at these things because truth be told, only the worst type of people get by in those basements. So for a few hours on a Saturday night don’t be afraid to cast aside those morals and do some reckless shit because you paid 5 whole dollars to have a reckless and regrettable night! Don’t get ripped off.

The Angel With a Left and the Devil With a Right

A left handed Angel who captivated a nation, and a right handed  devil with a fatal attraction that sparks the envy of any football-watching poon-chasing males. Two lightning rods of attention have somehow reached the pinnacle of popularity in the country’s most popular sport despite embodying drastically different ideals. Football fans across the country have been unable to turn away from both the virtuous boy next door and the rager who majors in not giving a fuck, and even though both men are adored and loathed for their perceived perfections and imperfections, they’re here to stay.

Think about it, how mind-blowing is it that a self-proclaimed virgin (yeah we don’t believe it either) who’s biggest crime was singing too many christian rock hits in the locker room, and a bar-hopping private jet-flying drake-hanging out with speed demon have both invoked equal admiration and envy? How can a story about Tim spending time with 20 terminally ill kittens and a story about Johnny breaking a local bar’s tequila shots record in one sitting evoke the same warm fuzzy feeling deep within our souls?

The startling truth is that we all have insatiable desires for right and wrong that we have found in great quantity with two of the most legendary football figures in recent memory. What’s more ideal than maintaining an impeccable public image with a winning smile but also fulfilling a life of romping, fucking, driving a benz, and more romping and fucking? The fact is, the American football fan has found its most powerful aspirations come to life in two seemingly antagonizing figures, and the fact that they are each filling out these desires on the public stage helps us indulge in our needs for a life of perfect imperfection.

The left handed Angel’s playing days may well be over while the right handed devil’s pro days have yet to begin, but regardless of what the future holds both men have left their lasting impact on American minds. Much like these two idols, our collective will for perfect imperfection will never truly go away.

How To Have a Successful Bar Experience: A List of Do's and Dont's

So you’ve finally come of age or at least appear so on your newly purchased fake ID and are wondering to yourself “How can I have a successful Bar Experience?”. Well you my friend are in the right place cause our friends here at Commonz have some essential tips for you.

Phase 1: The Outfit

There’s no bigger DON’T of a bar outfit that screams under age than the under shirt. The hanes crew neck t shirt that came in a pack of 6 from your grandma needs to be retired asap along with that shirt you’ve been hoping to grow into for the past 4 years. Always remember Undershirt under age.

DO invest in some nice fitting button downs instead of the hand me downs that got you through high school somehow. Those won’t fly here, like any bar it’ll be crowded, and in crowded places you sweat, so unless you wanna look like Leonardo DiCaprio struggling to hold onto the floating door in the Titanic you need ditch them now.

Phase 2: The Pregame

Probably the most important part of your entire experience boils down to your pregame. This is your sink or swim because no one, and I mean NO ONE wants to go to a bar sober. Have you ever been the only sober one at a party before? Hopefully not, but if you have let me warn you I can only imagine this is ten thousand times worse. During your pregame whether you decide on an entertaining 80’s themed power hour or assorted card games your goal is to get a serious buzz on before heading out for the night. If you don’t God save your soul you reckless individual.

Phase 3: The Entourage

DON’T roll up to a bar, or any event for that matter, in a pack of dudes 6 deep. These may be your boys and all but this mistake could send you chasing after that $20 cab that just dropped you off. It’s unwritten code that your chances of getting into a bar increase by 85.7% when you show up with a group of girls. It’s an incentive for the bouncer to let you in. It’s a way for him to reward you of a job well done. He just may overlook how you’re not really 6’ 3” and your inability to grow facial hair despite the 5, 8, and 10 o’clock shadow in your photo. As long as they aren’t a band of Silverback Gorilla’s you should be in the clear.

Phase 4: The Promised Land

You’ve made it! After several failed attempts you’ve actually made it inside the bar and have reached the 4th and final phase. First things first get a drink in your hand. There’s nothing wrong with the $2 Coors light bottle as long as you DO tip the bartender. If you take care of them they’ll be sure to reward you with some free shots later which will definitely make an impression on that girl you’ve been trying to get with all semester. Next step claim your territory with your friends making sure to have stake in the bar for returning trips for drinks and ample dancing space. When all of this is settled you can venture and scope out the local product while always returning to your safe zone where you’ll be welcomed with open arms and out of key renditions of whatever song the DJ has been playing for the past month.

Well there you have it a comprehensive list of how to have a successful bar experience. If you follow these guidelines closely you’ll be sure to bring home the girl of your dreams from psych 101 that sits one row up and 5 seats over. If you need more tips on what to wear check out our previous article here.

6 Seconds in Glory: The Rise and Fall of Vine

What can you possibly create with 6 seconds of action? That’s hardly enough time for someone to finish a decent sentence, let alone carry out a respectable plot. Despite the clear time related obstacles, the 6 second video app known as Vine was once an interactive outlet for the world’s most creative iphone-equipped individuals. Magic tricks, physical comedy, and the most masterful uses of puns in internet history (my personal favorite). The ideas flowed like a river of innovation, and the users grew exponentially in the app’s first few months. The more users involved, the more opportunities for people to test their time-crunched creative capabilities and produce what they hoped would catch on in the world of 6 second magic. The posts that were deemed the most outstanding would ascend to the “popular page” solely based on the amount of likes the video received from vine users. While every user was given the role of a critic with the like button acting as the sole indication of “shareability”, there was no actual function that let users share their favorite videos. What seemed like an easy fix and a potential gateway for video popularity turned out to be the chief contributor to the app’s demise. Just like the people in I am Legend thought it would be a good idea to release the cure for cancer, Vine released its own zombie inflictive disease. This colossal error is known well as “revining.”

Users figured, why create my own story when I can easily just share my favorites on my own page?! This was the exact type of thinking that opened the floodgates of unoriginality, lack of creativity, and an overall laziness that has rapidly and harshly destroyed the app that we all grew to love. Gone are the days where timelines were filled with attempts of art (some noble some admittedly atrocious), as we are now forced to scroll through dozens of twerks (from DUDES), smack cams, played out black jokes, countless 6 second song covers, sweepstakes for new itouches, and incentive videos (100,000 revines and i’ll chop off my right nut and sell my sister to a french human trafficking kingpin). 

The cautionary tale that Vine presents is that creativity and originality die when users are rewarded for accumulating enough “revines” or shares at the hands of lazy iphone-wielding fools. In other words, creativity becomes impossible when people are told what trends indicate are funny. So the next time you open up vine, try coming up with your own unique brand of humor instead of simply passing along watered down versions of ideas that have been dragged out since the inception of this post-glory days wasteland. Hey who knows? Maybe your creation will gain enough revines to make it to the popular page and see itself mediocrely recreated and watered down tweens across the land. But beware. The perils of falling into vine’s unoriginal quicksand is a cautionary tale on par with the classic German tale of “The story of little suck-a-thumb.”

If you aren't happy with the people on social media sites you might also like this article we wrote a while back

Longboarders, Mother-F*cking Longboarders

 

Longboarders. The menace of any universities walkways.The Soulja Boy of convenient personal transportation devices. These ripped jean wearing boggy- puffin speed demons are so far up their own ass that- that…. that they smell like poo! yeah! But seriously fuck em. Rolling down the wrong direction on the pathways with their sea shell necklace and DMB concert tee, blatantly ignoring the universal hallway antique. You’re probably lying if you don't admit to wanting to clothes-line that guy smoking a cig talking loudly on his phone and rolling passed you on his goddamned mini longboard.I get that it turns your ten minute walk to class to a six minute roll but jesus are you all required to show a valid form of doucebaggery identification upon purchase of that satanic contraption?

“Amazon got your request for one dipshat fireball 300 long board, before we can process your order can you please provide 2 valid  forms of douche bag identification?” Type type type “Thank you. Doing replays of average dunks and missed free throws in NBA 2k and being a fan of both the Miami Heat and Notre Dame qualifies you as a full on douche bag. Congratulations for your new longboard! Can we also recommend purchasing a subscription to tribal tattoo monthly and handbook on what flip flops go best with a nice pair of jeans?”

So the next time you see a soul-patch rockin, no sleeve wearing dude slander into class wearing his sunglasses indoors and with his longboard at his hip, just remember, he’s a total tool and everyone knows it but him. In the words of the famous poet Thomas Gray, “ignorance is bliss, and longboarders are like super gay.”