Editorial

Here There Be Tygers

In the steamy jungle of campus media, the OC is some sort of incredibly dangerous animal.

I belch...a lot. My farts leave burn marks on sheet metal. I am not a pretty girl. In truth, I am not a girl, except sometimes on the weekends. My only redeeming quality is that I work for the Oregon Commentator, the best student-run publication on campus.

Why is it the best? Why do we routinely leave the other publications home alone in their fancy gowns eating a gallon of ice cream on the proverbial prom night? I'd like to tell you it's our higher level of intelligence, our commitment to excellence, our debauched and alcoholic lifestyles, our unparalleled misanthropy, our superior grasp of the way of the world... but it isn't any one of these things.

It is, of course, all of the these things. When you have the happy coincidence of these characteristics in a few dedicated, capable people, you can do anything. And that is the simple truth behind the success of the Commentator: We are, in fact, better than everyone else.

We are also worse than everyone else, too. We are so good we're bad and so bad we're good; we are both ends of the spectrum; we are the snake eating its own tail--but only after sending our tail back to the kitchen twice because it wasn't done right and bitching the waitress out for not bringing us the really, really hot sauce.

Which is not to say we're the only game in town with players who've glanced at the rules. Nay, gentle sir, there are some notables amongst our sister publications.

Y'know, there are a couple of straight shooters up there at the Emerald. The darn thing's never been great, but usually there are a couple of people who know their stuff and have at least half a spine, although this year even these people don't drink.

At the Insurgent, on the other hand, there are a couple of old hands who do know the virtues of good whiskey and cheap beer, if not the virtues of the free market. And despite the fact that they're apparently much more willing to think globally than act locally, a fella of a different persuasion can have a decent conversation with these cats over drinks. Neither party leaves the table having been substantially persuaded by the other side's arguments, but it's fun to spar.

And of course, there are all those hipsters down at the Voice. Or not. Really, what the hell do those kids do for fun? A brother can only handle so much anime and manga about guys who turn into pandas when they get wet or stories set in bleak futures ruled by technology and/or magic. I'm worried about those kids. Seriously.

Nevertheless, the Voice can boast one or two people who aren't total double fudge doucherinos with an extra scoop of nuts and a cherry on top. Nice.

Of course I'm not going to name these people; that would be like actually singling them out for praise. They may be notable, but I'm not going to feed their leviathan egos.

The point being that while we have our own leviathan egos (ask us some time, we'll show them to you), we can and do recognize others as being... well, not exactly worthy of praise, and really not even worthy of recognition. More like worthy of a good-natured ribbing that reminds us all, in a sibling-rivalry-type way, that while we're not here to agree, or even to get along, we should, regardless, have a little fun along the way.

So to the Insurgent: Boy you guys suck. That eight-to-twelve page wall of text (with footnotes!) that you put out whenever your bowl's cashed is, to be tactful, fuckin' ugly. But, hey, what can you expect from pinkos?

To the Voice: Boy you guys suck. Enough with the goddamned faux-Japanese cartoons. There's a reason corporate America hasn't appropriated that stuff and robbed it of all meaning by mass-marketing it in a dumbed-down format to the Doomed Generation--it's dumb already. And anytime you want a crash course in humor, drop by our place with a case or two of beer and we'll school you. Oh, and bring something for yourselves to drink too, Nancy.

To the Emerald: Boy you guys suck. Sooner or later you will all get tunnel carpal syndrome from re-writing so many press releases. On that day, which will forever after be known as "The Day the Insipid Crap Stopped," we will come to your office and laugh at you. And you will try to strangle the laughter from our throats but your palsied hands will be useless and we will knock you to the ground and then go get a beer.

This issue is dedicated to all of you.