- 1:20 pm - Sun, Nov 11, 2012
- 4 notes
Fuck Black Friday
By Ben Donovan
This year, like most years, many of you will leave the house in the wee hours of the Friday morning after Thanksgiving to begin the holiday season in the sort of sick way only Americans could: by lining up outside the countless Best Buys and Targets that dot the surface of this fading Republic for a chance at a discount on whatever shiny trinket happens to be in this season. You will stampede through the doors like herds of wildebeest. People will die, trampled under thousands of Chinese-made sneakers. You will pay no attention; their sacrifice is simply the cost of doing business in a nation hopelessly addicted to the buying and selling of useless garbage.
What the fuck is wrong with you people?
I’m serious. You have a problem, America. On the spectrum of awful, sadistic cultural practices, I’d rank Black Friday somewhere between child marriage and headhunting. Consider this an intervention; I’d like to attempt to let y’all know what complete assholes you’re being.
Think really hard about what you’re doing. Thanksgiving is supposed to be a time to gather with loved ones—to eat, drink, laugh, cry, and, in my case, be lectured by your parents about your ongoing lack of gainful employment. Busy schedules and long distances mean that many of us are afforded precious little quality time with our families; holidays like Thanksgiving offer a rare break from the stresses of everyday life, a chance to forget impending finals and overdue electric bills and relax, if only for a night. You people, however, have turned occasion into yet another excuse to buy shit.
Why? Is there really some product so indispensable that you can’t wait a few hours? More importantly, is the time you spend with your family so trivial to you that it can be bought for a few percent off of a couple of stupid toys? Christ, I’m glad I’m not related to you pricks. The idea that this country really is full of the sort of Philistines who would tear themselves away from turkey and football—sober, ye Gods!—get in the car, and drive to the nearest Wal-Mart, just for a chance at a moderate discount on shit they didn’t need anyway—it’s absolutely sickening.
Just so we’re clear: if it were only your own holiday you dumb goddamn degenerates were fucking up, that’d be one thing. It probably wouldn’t even merit a diatribe within the venerable pages of the Water Tower. But it’s not just your Thanksgiving you idiots are ruining; as it turns out, all the stores you assholes feel the need to patronize at midnight are staffed by people. Real people, just like you and me. These real people, it turns out, have a long and diverse list of things they’d like to be doing on Thanksgiving—and surprisingly, none of them involve standing bleary-eyed at the register of a GameStop at two in the goddamn morning, listening to some entitled suburban sock-sniffer complain about how his copy of Call of Duty isn’t in yet.
Guess what? While you may get the option to go to the mall at midnight on Black Friday, the people who work there don’t. Nobody asks them. They’re there—maybe early Friday morning, maybe midnight, maybe even Thursday evening—because you assholes are. By lining up outside an American Eagle at midnight for half-off a fucking pair of blue jeans, you aren’t just ruining your own Thanksgiving; you’re ruining at least a dozen other people’s. And as someone who has worked in retail, I can tell you with complete certainty that every person working there hates you with a passion normally reserved only for Serbian war criminals and Dallas Cowboys fans.
My modest proposal, then, is this: don’t. Just. Goddamn. Don’t.
Don’t leave the dinner table Thanksgiving night to go shopping. Stay. Sit. Eat. Have some more wine. Watch football. Spend some quality time with your family. And if you must buy shit you don’t need (and probably won’t want six weeks later), do it during normal business hours. It’s not a superhuman feat; it’s just basic self-control. Don’t buy anything until at least 9 a.m. Friday. You’ll survive, I promise.
I can’t even believe I have to write this in the first place. You people make me goddamn sick, every last one of you.
- 1:17 pm
Pro Black Friday
By Kerry Martin
Now, I know that defending the ethical implications of Black Friday is a losing battle. If this were a fair society, there’d be no excuse for interrupting an important national holiday to force retail employees into work to deal with stampedes of toy- and tech-grubbing shoppers. The workforce dreads this shopping day—which starts before dawn on Friday or even at midnight or ten p.m. on Thanksgiving and lasts well into Friday night—even when they don’t sustain routine injuries at the hands of Mommies and Daddies bent on buying that cheap Xbox by any means necessary. Black Friday employees and customers know that this tradition of aggressive commerce can’t exactly coexist with a cozy night at home.
But we live in a world of numbers, and on a day like Black Friday, the occasional crazy mom who peppersprays a whole line of eager customers gets buried under a pile of pure profit. Perhaps the most popular explanation for the somewhat ambiguous term “Black Friday” is that it’s the day when many major retail companies, who operate at financial loss for most of the year, finally make a profit and get “in the black.” And it’s no myth that Black Friday marks a crucial jump in profits for retail every year: since 2005, it has been the biggest shopping day of the year. The number of shoppers during Black Friday weekend has been steadily increasing, reaching 226 million last year; these customers spend close to $400 apiece, bringing the weekend’s national retail revenue to the forty or fifty billions.
And Black Friday only marks the beginning of the Christmas shopping season, during which the average American does one quarter of his or her spending for the year. Department store sales increase by 54%, bookstore sales by 100%, and jewelry store sales by 170%, and retail stores hire an additional 200,000 employees. And these stores have done the math: they expect sales all December long, but concentrating customers’ pent-up capitalist impulses into one weekend helps bring in that holiday cheer (Read: cash-money) all season long. In this recession, these American companies need all the profit they can get.
Plus, what’s so wrong with giving Americans access to cheap Christmas presents? Our country is struggling with the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression, so I see no problem with Americans flocking to the stores to get huge discounts. Parents never want to lose the power to promise their children a fun Christmas, and Black Friday discounts assure these parents that it will never be too difficult to afford at least a couple good presents. Black Friday allows the Spirit of Christmas to weather an economic downturn, and I think that believes an ethical argument back into my economic support of Black Friday. Except for the occasional victim of shopper trampling.
- 1:13 pm
- 1 note
A Weekend in Montreal: 281 dicks (just kidding, only about 8-10 dicks)
By Regina Phalange
My roommate and I decided to escape Burlington for Halloween. However, once we got the hell out, we saw enough naked men to last me until at least Friday. What am I talking about? I’m talking about dicks, the dicks of male strippers specifically. Let’s take a step back (remove your hand from your pants please) and I will explain what’s the deal with all these peens. It all started in Montreal.
We were excited to do fun touristy things and not be in Burlington to witness a drunk Dopey giving a bj to a cracked out Doc. We’ve all seen it. Anyway, we explored Old Montreal, shopped at the underground mall, couch surfed, amused ourselves at the La Ronde amusement park, hung at the male strip club 281, ate at an amazing vegan restaurant, etc. The vegan restaurant was Aux Vivres on Saint Laurent and had a great seitan sandwich, but I want to talk about the dicks.
281 is a male strip club located on Rue Saint-Catherine. Woman of all ages flock to it, as do a few older men who linger in corner booths. 281 was having a Halloween special with prizes for costume winners. Naturally, we assumed they meant creative costumes that took hard work to make and perfect, so we went as Batman and Robin. No, not Slutty Batman and Robin; we were wearing pants—the horror! We forgot that Canadians still celebrated Halloween like Americans. By that I mean without any clothes. Our bad. However, I did want the woman who dressed up as a giant Canadian dick to win all of the cash prizes.
We had planned to go to an ice bar, an oxygen bar, and a female strip club (preferably Octopussy) beforehand, but we couldn’t find the ice bar, the oxygen bar turned into a tattoo shop years ago (and I do not need another tattoo), and Octopussy was under renovation (Really?) So we ended up in line for 281 thirty minutes before it opened.
Because we were early, we were placed at the front of the club, so close that my roommate could touch the stage. We were terrified. Neither of us had been to a male strip club before and here we had no escape. Smoke filled the stage and a dancer emerged. The songs played were old 90s and early 2000s hits like “The Macarena,” “Try Again,” “Shape of My Heart,” and “Sk8er Boi.” Not saying I hated these choices, but I want you to understand the mood.
The first dancer, Slick, began by removing his shirt and putting his hand down his pants. Nice. I figured that would be it and the next dancer would do the same thing. Right? Wrong. My man Slick proceeded to take his dick out and do his “sexy dance” right in front of us. By this I mean he was pretending to jack off and then ejaculate in an audience member’s face. I’m sorry, but what? Does anyone honestly think this is sexy and turns a woman on? Ridickulous.
What scared me most were the lap dances that lonely middle-aged women kept receiving. Each stripper would walk around with a metal stool above his head, solicit different ladies, and set up camp. It’s ten dollars for a dance, by the way. (We all know you were wondering.) Of course by “set up camp,” I mean they pulled their dicks out and waved them in girls’ faces. A woman was getting a lap dance right behind me and I was so scared to turn around to look due to fear of getting dick slapped and then kicked out for inadvertently touching a dancer. I paid twelve dollars to get in and fucking seven dollars for a drink. I would have been pissed if they took my money, dick slapped me, and kicked me out.
I did have a favorite skit one dancer did to introduce himself. The curtain opened, smoke appeared (naturally), and there was a “boat” with “Titanic” written on it. The dancer proceeded to take a woman from the audience, gently placed her at the boat’s mast, and then take a scarf from his crotch and tie it around her neck so she wouldn’t get cold from the wind. How thoughtful. He then rocked the boat while they admired the view—the view being 100 women hornier than a sailor on leave! (Please get the Friends reference.) He turned her around, removed the scarf in a quick motion, tied her hands together, and secured the scarf to the ceiling so that she couldn’t leave even if she wanted to. (She didn’t.) He pretended to have sex with her, showing off his adorable butt dimples. That was it. I haven’t seen Titanic and now don’t need to, since I’m assuming the same thing happens. Right?
And so it went. At the end of the night, I thought about buying shot glasses for friends. Turned out, I could only buy the whole 281 gift bag with a sleep shirt, a thong, PLUS a nail filer and lip-gloss. No thank you. I could shit out a better gift bag.
Would I do it all again? Fucking right I would. If you’re ever bored in Montreal and want to see a little (or big) dick action, then by all means, 281 is for you. It is less than two hours away and Canada. Come on people. Get out while you’re young. What’s that famous saying? Oh right, “The world is your oyster. Paint the town with dicks.”
- 3:47 pm - Sun, Oct 28, 2012
Lately you’ve been on my mind
Living just down the way,
Only I can’t seem to find
The right words to say.
When that smile is on your face
I think only of my dreams
Chock full of a time and place
We may embrace under moonbeams.
You and your puppy make the perfect pair
As you stroll down the street,
And my heart you do ensnare
When you laugh as our playful dogs meet.
So come up and say hello
For my heart you may claim,
You live just a few floors below
But I don’t even know your name.
When: all the time
Where: near our place on Pearl St.
I saw: a cute boy and his puppy
I am: a cute girl with a crush
- 3:46 pm
My sentiments remain unchanged
A glance or two we have exchanged
I don’t want you to feel shortchanged
So get your thoughts all rearranged
Do I make you anxious too?
Cause your sweet nerves to undo?
Does a quickening pulse ensue?
Will you take this as your cue?
Can you craft your words the same?
Write a poem for this dame
Take a guess at her name
Or at least play this game?
When: SASS practice
Where: Dance studio
I saw: Same blondie with square glasses
I am: Same girl who wrote you the first poem
- 12:16 pm - Mon, Oct 22, 2012
The Dog Whisperer in Burly: Pre and Post Game Analysis
Pregame Conference: The Dog Whisperer
Entering its ninth and final season, The Dog Whisperer will surely go down in the dog-training books as the best show. The MVP behind its success is with no debate the whisperer himself, Cesar Millan. Millan has a training average of near perfection as each episode shows his success as rehabilitating the average domestic cretin into loveable Lassie. Millan stands out in the pool of dog trainers, I want to claim, because of his unique understanding of the canine complex. Without fear, Millan faces the most aggressive of the pack with a “calm-assertive demeanor”. You can’t argue that this man isn’t a specialist. This brings me to the big hype of the upcoming event with Cesar Millan at the Sheraton on 10/20.
Personally, this event has got to be the dog-specialist-lecture and Q&A-charity collecting gathering of the year. The hype may be low over this event but it is sure to be extremely informative and pull in a fine penny. Supposedly a portion of the proceeds from the tickets, which might I say packed a mighty punch in price, will be going to the Vermont Humane Society from the Cesar Millan Foundation. Really, this guy has it all. Critics may argue this event is just a waste of two hours to just glorify a TV star, but fuck the critics. They’re just jealous cause they weren’t so graciously given tickets as a present as well. Things to look for at this event: Daddy, fingers-crossed Millan’s long-time furry friend always accompanies him cross-country, “Shh-Shh”, the infamous two syllables that emanate alpha-dog status, and the most avid dog lovers of Vermont. I’ll be sure to be bringing printed of my lil’ mutt, Zelda, along just so that the dog whispering god himself may send some good obedience vibes in her direction. Grab your leashes folks, Cesar Millan is in town this Saturday and the event is sure to impact this season Puppy Bowl.
Postgame Review: Funny and Factual, The Man’s on Fire
We all entered this event expecting the usual loveable Cesar Millan and surprisingly obvious dog tips but this Saturday I’ve gotta say even I didn’t see that coming. Aside from being the charismatic man who loves dogs, Cesar is actually funny. This man was offensively clever and defensively down to earth. Who knew the best jokes are the ones about dog owners and their dogs? I kid you not, folks, no material was off the table for Cesar. We heard Mexican border jokes, impressions of overly-excited humans, cat impersonations, jokes about married life, and he even laughed with the audience at the antics of his stage crew and tech support. You and I both expected your regular run of the mill dog training seminar, but no-sir-ee-bob we were watching South Park clips making fun of the man himself.
Beyond his humor, Millan certainly delivered an informative show for your average dog owner. Although Daddy was not in attendance, two pit bulls were used for demonstrations that were also up for adoption at the end of the show. Talk about heart-warming! The crowd was mixed with animal lovers and hardcore Cesar lovers (the woman next to me being a combo as she toted a picture and stuffed animal-like version of her dog and cried when Cesar came on stage) and were enthralled the entire show.
Hopefully, this will not be the last of the dog whisperer we’ll be seeing in Burlington. If it is, I know it has taught me a lesson in keeping an eye out for the more unique events hosted here. Instead of buying a ticket with the rest of your gaggle to Barstool or paying the cover charge at Lift, find those rare, random and once in a lifetime events. Cesar Millan could not emphasize enough being the leader of the pack. So, go out and use your calm assertive energy to embrace the unpopular events in Burlington because you’re sure to find some unlikely season bests.
- 1:02 pm
- 1 note
The Blind Cafe: A Night of Senses Without Sight
By Laura Greenwood
Finger extended, firmly resting on the cotton shirt of a tall stranger, and the feel of hand on my shoulder for guidance. With trepid steps, we each slowly shuffle into the pitch darkness: our restaurant for the night.
Immediately the darkness of the Blind Café is all-encompassing. In contrast to the stark white walls of the waiting area, it feels as though we’ve been swallowed up into deep, deep cave. Hosted at the BCA, the Blind Café has transformed the usual openness of an art gallery simply by shutting out the lights. As we walked to our table, and with my senses heightened and confused, I tried to create a mental picture of my surroundings. At the end of the night when we actually see the room, this picture will end up being very inaccurate.
And so, surrounded by strangers, and with all of us being strangers to our surroundings, what better thing to do now than eat? As a collective effort, even a simple task like passing bread involved detailed communication and intimate touching. The chef described what was on the plate in front of us, chorused with Ooos and Yums; the Blind Café encouraged us to raise our voices and rely on hearing, smell, and taste rather than our sight. Silverware became feckless in the dark, and so unabashedly I combed my food with my fingers and licked them clean. When else can you ever do that in a room with strangers? The space was filled with our voices, bouncing off the walls, and overtime you recognized your company by their voice rather than their appearance.
The focus of the Blind Café was to put you in the perspective of the blind. The tables were turned as our guide for the night, Gerry, had been blind since birth. The role reversal made me feel vulnerable, uneasy, and even uncomfortable at times because it made me operate completely differently as a person, if only for a few hours. Once the lights were out, there was no pretending to understand or feeling sympathetic towards those disabled. Gerry, myself, and everyone else there were on a level playing field.
Beyond just experiencing blindness, the Blind Café encouraged honest and open dialogue about our feelings and our blind leader’s experiences. It was not your typical dinner chitchat. Each question began with “Gerry, I have a question. This is (name)…” This part of the discussion alone was fascinating, because as much as we joked about raising your hand, it didn’t make a difference. You could have stood and shook your hand violently through the air and no one would have noticed. In the Blind Café, your standard college seminar became more intimate, personal. I gathered someone’s character by their pitch or speed and listened for facial expression (did you know you can hear when someone is smiling as they speak?
The discussion itself was sometimes heavy, like nightmares Gerry had where he felt helpless and vulnerable, or how he managed to park a truck he’d just repaired in so tight of a space he climbed out the back window. This man’s entire life was structured so differently. As a coffee roaster, he heard the beans. When someone frustrated him, he practiced patience. Our conversation was free and casual. The blindness added an emotional connection to our leader and our peers. I’ve sat through many lectures on campus, but none will compare to the story-telling of Gerry.
Our sensory experience culminated with a live performance of music. Often my favorite thing to do at concerts is to close my eyes and sway with the crowd, feeling my environment. Music without the visual aid pulsates through your body. I felt the bow glide across the cello and listened to each subtle chord structure of the guitar. Instead of overloading my senses with an entire picture, this simplified performance had me peeling apart each layer of a song. Although it was certainly more difficult to play an instrument in the dark, it was much easier to perform with a complete emotional connection. As an audience member, songs resonated on a deeper level and made me reflect. It may sound very bohemian and ethereal but the whole experience just felt very honest. When we were encouraged to all sing along, we did. Who cared? I couldn’t see anyone’s shyness nor could they see my embarrassment. All you could do was listen.
As a night finally came to a close and the lights came back, the Blind Café remains vivid in my memory. Without sight, I created my environment in my mind. The experience is meant to be shared with your community, not just to bring awareness to the disability but to inspire connectivity with each other. The Blind Café is also hosting dinner Friday night (7:30) and Saturday (5:00 and 8:30) at the BCA. This is a traveling event and will only be in Burlington for this weekend. I highly recommend you find a date, a group, or go alone to attend. It’s the only night you won’t see, but you’re bound not to forget.
- 12:07 pm - Mon, Sep 17, 2012
Hey catamounts, grab your copy of the newest issue of the WT today!
- 7:17 pm - Tue, Jun 26, 2012
Light Spoilers Ahead- Prometheus by george loftus
Light Spoilers Ahead- Prometheus
Aspiring to be more than just eye-candy, Prometheus is a hard film to nail down. It’s clear the filmmakers had lofty goals, trying to dissect religion, the nature of rape, and the purpose of humanity in a scant two hours. It was all over the place in terms of story, difficult to sum up in anything but the following analogy…
It was like making out with a super attractive woman who knew how to kiss but thought I’d enjoy the dry handjob in the back of her 1983 Volkswagen Beetle: The beginning was great, it all looked fantastic, but the ending was uncomfortable, and at times, painful.
The ambiguous opening scene quickly gave way to a more straightforward narrative that did a good job of questioning the conventions of human belief systems, but a horrible job of even attempting to answer them. The imminent horror laced throughout the film kept the pace brisk and engaging, but all of that good faith evaporated by the hour-ten minute mark. And like Return of the King, there were about seven different endings, pushing an already short space opera into borderline frustrating territory.
The premise of the film is this: identical cave drawings are found at multiple dig sites from cultures that existed at different periods, continents away. The drawings resemble a starmap of sorts, showing people worshipping giants who are pointing to a constellation. In the year 2089 scientists finally track the system half a galaxy away. Once there, they find a structure filled with the corpses of beings they believe to be responsible for the development of the human race, as well as a cache of biological weapons that make what we consider “dangerous” here on earth nothing more than a runny nose. Who are the bodies of these aliens? That’s the driving mystery of the film, why they’re there, what happened to them. The fact that they’re the same as a creature in another Ridley Scott movie is why people got so jazzed for the film in the first place.
Noomi Rapace led an all-star cast that should be commended for acting so organically in a movie that must’ve been 90% shot in front of a green screen. The cast was superb, which makes sense, because they’ve almost all been in some standout features in the past decade; the (Swedish) Girl with the Dragon Tattoo led the cavalcade of great acting along with Stringer (The Wire), Magneto, (X-Men, obvi), Ryan Attwood’s brother (the OC), and the ugly chick from Monster. Honestly there wasn’t a single weak link in terms of cast. Except for the weird old dude, he kind of overstayed his welcome. Until he didn’t. And yes, that part was awesome #bitchslapofdeath.
When the trailer was released and you saw the ship, that familiar ship to sci-fi and horror nerds, it raised a series of flags. I for one thought “Holy shit! That’s the ship from Alien! There was that dude with a burst chest and all those fucking eggs and yeah! This is a prequel to Alien! By the guy who did Alien! And it’s written by Lost’s/Star Trek’s Damon Lindelof!? Sign me up!”
And that was the problem. Lofty expectations coupled with the burning desire to get explanations for that seminal 1979 film made me think I knew what Prometheus was to be about, and my arrow completely missed the mark. Apparently everyone else’s did too otherwise the movie wouldn’t be getting flamed everywhere you look online.
What seemed to be the best part about Alien, the movie that started it all, was that at times it was blatant horror, and at others high-strung science fiction. By tying its cart to both horses, it was conspicuously neither, essentially a happy accident just like your younger brother was. It created a whole new genre for itself and left spectators amazed in the process. Prometheus didn’t really do that it. Instead of being incidentally great it was trying to be purposefully direct, and fell short in its execution.
It asked a lot of questions “Why are we here?”, “what did we do wrong?”, “why did you leave us?”, “where did you go?”. It was a huge commentary on religion and I normally eat that shit up like it’s fried with a side of beer, but they never did anything with it. They presented an imperative to learn the answers to the questions but made no attempt to do anything more with it. If you tell me that God or evolution wasn’t responsible for the start of a human race, but rather some weird, super-jacked alien drinking black shit and then falling into a waterfall (the aforementioned ambiguous opening scene), I want you to at least try to make a statement about it, rather than just sidestep the claim altogether. Not only that, but the explanation of who the aliens were completely spoiled Alien. We’d been waiting 33 years for some kind of explanation as to what that elephant-faced thing sitting in the giant chair was and holy balls did this one fall short. It was the worst kind of storytelling— lazy and detrimental to a past work that’s considered intrinsically important to the genre.
It wasn’t a film without its moments though. The greatest part of the movie was definitely Noomi Rapace’s character, Elisabeth Shaw. While she wasn’t the most fleshed out protagonist in cinema history, she stole the show nearly every time she was on screen. There was one scene in which she **SPOILERS** found out she had been impregnated by an alien seed and had to perform an emergency c-section on herself and holy f**k was that one of the most intense things I’ve ever seen in my life. The only thing that might be more intense than that was her trying to leave the automated surgery machine without this infantile-alien of mass destruction getting to her on the way out. It was one of the most bizarre and frantic film scenes in recent memory, and considering that it was basically an allegory for “are abortions ok if you’re raped” it was handled exceptionally well, and expertly acted and captured on film. The fact that she was previously barren but she could birth this entity that would go onto to become the forerunners to the aliens in Alien and its sequels in some weird ‘immaculate conception’ type situation is weird as fuck and another thing that’s never properly explored, only presented. **END SPOILERS**
Make no mistake, Prometheus is worth seeing. Even at the Roxy where they still use film reels it looked amazing, so I can only imagine how fantastic it looks with digital projection on the T-Rex in Essex. Those looking for a worthwhile prequel to Alien aren’t really going to get one, in fact, they kind of shat on one of the biggest mysteries of the franchise (remember, dry handjob allusion?) but someone who wants good effects, a deep but ultimately ambiguous plot if you go looking for it/actually think about it, would do well to see it, if only to be a part of the conversation. Besides, what else are you going to see before Spider-man or Dark Knight Rises?
- 6:53 pm
…And we’ll love you forever and ever and ever.
- 4:33 pm - Sun, Apr 29, 2012
- 420 notes
Bon Iver must have known I would wear his workshirts to bed while he was away. He left me gifts in the breast pocket of each - a tiny shell, a dried flower, a pinecone.
- 8:52 pm - Tue, Apr 24, 2012
- 4 notes
THE WATER TOWER CANNOT BE SILENCED
This Monday, around 9:30 AM, a Water Tower staffer reported that our stand in Waterman was missing. This was a stand handcrafted by earlier Water Tower writers, constructed of the finest plywood, painted, weirdly, blue, and well-loved by generations of WT readers.
Our issue this week sheds light on the death of the Band’s vocalist and drummer, Levon Helm. It is clear that HOODLUMS, likely the same who stole the Cynic‘spapers early in the week, wish to silence our newsmag. The Burlington Free Press reported that incident, but curiously not this one. Interesting. Perhaps the so-called Free Press is not so “free” after all. Perhaps they are under the control of some external force.
In fact, the Water Tower has uncovered disturbing evidence that Tim Johnson, author of the Free Press’s article about the Cynic was ALIVE throughout 1979 - the very same year Home Depot was founded. Where will we purchase the materials for a new stand? Home Depot. Coincidence?
But why silence the news of Helm’s death? There is only one possible cause:
Scientology. The Illuminati. Damn it. It must be… pinko commies. When McCarthyism was at its height, liberal thinkers, like the Band and others, condemned it. But take a look at Joseph McCarthy:
How could a friendly guy like that be wrong? He can’t be. So Communists are out and about, and they are burying the death of a great musician in order to promote their own agenda. They are likely behind the theft of the Cynic as well.
Those are the facts, pure and simple.
UPDATE: Readers have commented that perhaps these events are just college kids being douchebags, stealing things for fun, or doing the normal-if-delinquent things some people are apt to do. Obviously, this is bullshit, and CONSPIRACY IS AFOOT.