October 23 , 2003  
Volume 97, Issue 30  

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EDITORIAL & OPINIONS

Nothing beats Tim in UCC war

JDB
Jordan Bell

Managing Editor

I always thought I was a special lil' kid.

I could perform a left-handed lay-up when I was in Grade 3. Some WNBA players still can't do that.

I could mash the buttons faster than all my friends during a game of Blades of Steel.

My mommy even said I was Oscar-worthy as a dingo in a Grade 3 play.

Oh, how times have changed. After standing in line at Tim Hortons for almost 15 minutes the other day, I realized I'm not special whatsoever - like everyone else on campus, I'm a slave to Mr. Horton and his wily ways.

Lining up like lemmings ready to jump off a cliff to our impending doom, we eagerly toss our loonies and toonies at his jingling cash register.

How did Tim do this to us? How did he destroy our will to live? The dude's dead and he still owns us like I own your momma (pardon me, I'm just irate).

Is it the delicious croissants oozing with chocolately goodness? Is it the sexy suga' mommas who welcome you at the counter with their seductive gazes and wooing ways? Maybe it's the slimy white liquid that oozes out of the Boston Cream doughnut and all over your face, reminding you of a lonely Friday night watching the Showcase Revue.

Tim Hortons has been a fixture on campus for as long as I can remember. But the landscape in the UCC has changed immensely. Swooping in to try and steal Timmy's thunder is Williams, a brightly coloured, carnival-esque cafe.

Who does this William think he is? If you're going to attempt to break into the Godfather's lair, be prepared to get your ass handed to you on a platter of Apple Fritters.

Did you notice Mr. William hid himself far off in the corner, clearly away from the sight of Tim and his henchmen? I will accept this William is a smart man, but if he thinks he is going to dip into Tim's profits by opening some black market operation, he's sorely mistaken. The FBI and CIA have nothing on Tim's undercover brothers.

There was a time when I questioned my addiction to Tim Hortons, but recently I have come to realize being his slave isn't all that bad. It gives me something to do in the middle of the afternoon when I'm running on empty. It fills my stomach with fat, greasy goodness. And it lets me read The Gazette, The Globe and Mail's main competition, dropped in a big grey box beside the Tim Hortons line.

Tim, I said it once and I will say it again, you complete me.

 

 

 

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