Uncovering the jacket racket
What the Shuk?
With another University Students’ Council
election in the books, I tip my hat to our new students’ council
president: John Elway. Millions of youngsters will be impressed
that a football star would retire from the NFL and take the
initiative to improve himself by going back to school. Changing
his name to “Nick Staubitz” (no doubt to avoid
media attention) was a clever move, but we’re onto you,
Mr. Super Bowl!
On a more serious note, now that a new president has been
installed, it’s only fair that the skeletons of the old
regime be expunged from the closet like Ellen Degeneres. We
wouldn’t want President Elway/Staubitz to suffer from
the scandals of the past administration in the manner of how
Jean Chretien and his sponsorship fiasco is hurting Paul Martin,
or how George W. Bush had to deal with all that pesky international
respect and economic surplus left behind by Bill Clinton.
Last fall, I attended a party held at the home of current
USC prez Paul Yeoman. It was a sparkling cultural affair, replete
with tuxedo-clad guests, Duke Ellington on the stereo and fascinating
discussions about culture long into the evening. For example,
one philistine actually had the gall to argue that Tate’s
version of King Lear was actually superior to the Bard’s
original text. I set that troglodyte straight, forthwith.
Oh, and there was also a keg.
But anyway, a fine evening came to a bitter end when, as I
was preparing to leave, I discovered my jacket was missing
from the closet. And this was a SWEET jacket — blue,
waterproof and with its Nike symbol shining brightly like a
beacon in the night. Those kids in the sweatshops must’ve
worked extra hard on that one.
After a long and fruitless search, I was forced to leave without
my beloved jacket, thus opening myself to the dangers of nature.
Had an army of grasshoppers jumped on me, I would’ve
only had one layer of clothing between my delicate skin and
their poisonous jaws.
Voice of Reason: North American grasshoppers aren’t
Shut up, Voice of Reason. And it wasn’t only the grasshoppers
I had to worry about. I had to walk a tormentable half-block
to my car in the frigid 14C weather. The weather took its toll;
I sneezed as I got into my car. Sure, you might argue that
a single sneeze five months ago is not a sign of pneumonia,
but you never know. Those evil pneumonia germs might be lying
dormant in my body, and only Dennis Quaid in a miniaturized
spaceship flying through my bloodstream will be able to save
And so I have this final message for Mr. Yeoman, if that is
his real name. Unless you have Dennis Quaid on your speed-dial,
there is nothing that can make up for the physical and emotional
trauma I suffered that night. Some might remember you for your
accomplishments as USC president, but to me, you’ll always
be the president of the other USC — the Union of Stolen
Coats. Thank goodness we now have a president whose NFL millions
can allow him to buy his own jackets.