The Plumber’s
Faucet VOLUME XXXIII ISSUE IV January 31st, 2017
The Winter/Holiday/December/January Issue
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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. IV
CONTRIBUTERS
LETTER FROM AN EDITOR
Editors-In-Chief
Welcome, Dear Reader, to 2017. Is it everything you’d imagined? 2016 was a fairly universally reviled year for more reasons than I can count on the fingers I have left, but even still, 2017 took one look at its illustrious forebear, turned to us, and said, “Hold my beer and watch this.”
Daniel Galef Morgan Mattone
Layout Editors Just us. We do everything around here.
Writers
Unless you run a celebrity death betting pool or own stock in a fallout shelter construction company, you’re probably reminiscing fondly about last year and the holidays, when any one of the shining tinseled stockings wrapped up underneath the sleigh (I don’t really know how Christmas works) could be anything in the world.
Otman Benchekroun Nick Brunt Daniel Galef Quinn Greselin Morgan Mattone Freedom Sorbara Clay Walsh
Illustrators
Well, pine no longer! In our brand-new Holiday/ Winter-December/January-2016/2017 Issue (a supra-sized, 20-page special issue, now with 25% more of whatever it was we had in the first place), you’ll find:
Ké Smith (cover)
Support Malcolm McClintock
Disclaimer The Plumber’s Faucet is a Publication of the Engineering Undergraduate Society of McGill University. The opinions expressed in the Faucet are not necessarily those of the EUS nor of any other university body, unless such opinion appears over an authorized signature of a representative of the said body. The Faucet does not print works which are sexist, libelous, racist, homophobic, or violating the copyright laws of Canada. It should be noted that some content is meant to be satirical or humourous in nature. For general enquiries, contact faucet@mcgilleus.ca.
Complaints The EUS takes complaints very seriously. All complaints should begin with the heading “Official Protest to Content in The Plumber’s Faucet”, and should be sent to vpcomm@mcgilleus.ca, publications.director@mcgilleus.ca, and faucet@mcgilleus. ca.
The Plumber’s Faucet vol. XXXIII no. IV
• The latest wanderings of our intrepid travel correspondent, whom we don’t actually employ but keeps sending us these journals to our home address • The spiritual quest of a thermos as it is regifted from home to home • The true story of the founding of McGill University by Stephen Leacock in the year 1,000,000 BC • How to dress for success, if success is your nickname for your neighborhood unemployment office • What really happens when you answer a calc problem • The gritty reality of lawlessness and mob dynasties that rule the downtown North Pole • Jokes to tell if you want your friends murdering you to be declared provoked manslaughter The holidays are over now. You unfolded the advent manger (again, I don’t Christmas), and the only gift to be found was another issue of the Plumber’s Faucet, McGill University’s Best (And Only) Humor Magazine. Until next time,
The Winter/Holiday/December/January Issue, January 31st, 2017 ISSN (print): 1707-7478 ISSN (online): 2291-3513
An EUS Publication
Daniel Galef
January 31st, 2017
Reflections on 2016 ~or~ How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Indeterminate Universe
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by Kick Punt [WARNING: fervent opinions to follow, some of which MAY NOT BE SHARED by every single reader!] The falling of the first Montreal winter snow every year is always accompanied by two relative certainties. Firstly, the city won’t be warm again for six months, and secondly, finals are just around the corner. The falling of the next several dozen winter snows doesn’t bode any better, and really just serves to hammer home the cold. And, now that finals are finished, the snow still remains to remind us of our failures. But it isn’t all bad. The new snow is also a cleansing blanket that washes away the old and ushers in the new. It not only reminds us of the past, but reminds us that it is, in fact, pat us. We are now beyond the end of the much-maligned year of 2016. Surely that is in itself something to celebrate, right? Well, as outwardly terrible as that tumultuous year may have been, it serves nonetheless as an extremely important reminder of the limits of our ability to both understand the present and predict the future. There can be no denying this was a year of improbable milestones. The Chicago Cubs broke a 108-year World Series drought, and in jolly old England Leicester City beat 5000-to-1 odds to win the Premier League. Britain Brexited. Donald Trump’s campaign/hate-fuelled dumpster fire stumped political correctness, Hillary Clinton’s sense of self-worth, and any last ounce of greatness America might have had. And in doing so, the Electoral College broke an astounding two-election streak of actually electing the person who received the most votes as president (which is now approaching the same expected ratio as random chance). Here at McGill, a campus publication publicly denounced students for mourning a dead gorilla six months after its death. I wish I were kidding. And to make matters stranger, the year killed as many celebrities as drug use does in an average decade. Prince, David Bowie, and Muhammad Ali were all victims of the grim reaper’s itchy trigger finger (or itchy scythe finger, I suppose). Even Fidel Castro, renowned cigar enthusiast and survivor of some 638 assassination attempts, was unable to make it past November. What does it all mean? Although Democrats might tell you this was nothing short of the coming of the apocalypse, I would rather say that this year marked a conclusive victory in an age-old debate about the underlying nature of the universe, a debate even more important than what colour that dress was that one time (it was black and blue, like the bruises on our psyches). Humans have always sought to make sense out of the world, and to answer to endless questions that have arisen in day-to-day life since the beginning of time. Why does it rain? Why do the crops grow better in some places than in others? (Probably because it rains.) Why are they making (and this is for real) a trilogy of movies based on Tetris? Each answer provided by religion or science, in turn, prompted
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further questioning, leading ultimately to the inevitable: How much can we know? How much of the course of history is set, and how much is unwritten? And, if we can figure out everything about the world right now, can we then know everything about the future? For quite a while, many people thought so. The German philosopher and mathematician Leibniz was such an ardent proponent of a universe governed in its entirety by a benevolent deity that he proclaimed, “We must live in the best of all possible universes.” This was a pretty bold claim from someone who never married, and who had the credit for his co-invention of calculus stolen, in his lifetime, by Newton. The future tormentor of engineering students, the French intellectual Laplace (of transforms fame), then put forth for the first time the concept of scientific determinism, claiming instead that the universe was governed by underlying (though conveniently as yet undiscovered) physical laws. With the quantum revolution a century later, that all came crashing down. Quantum mechanics gave birth to a new, probabilistic vision of the universe, governed by chance more than certainty. Even as Einstein declared, “God does not play dice!”, Heisenberg was formulating his uncertainty principle and Schrödinger his famous feline-icidal thought experiment. The frighteningly uncertain nature of reality was an uncomfortable idea to accept, much like when the TA no one knows is the one marking your final. This year has been tough for many people, true. At times it seems that our current state of affairs has been the result of the unlikeliest of all possible outcomes. But don’t fret. Embrace the chaos. We can never completely control the future, and there are no guarantees that things will all work out. But that doesn’t mean we can’t tip the scales in our favour. The events of this year may have proved that nothing is for certain, but that still leaves us with the power to influence our own futures, no matter how improbable the futures we strive for may be. Yes, you can still pass this semester even though you spent half of last semester in a drunken haze. And by similar logic, the construction of McTavish might yet be finished before you graduate. We may not live in “the best of all possible worlds,” as Leibniz once told me. The passage of time is a truly unpredictable thing. Who’s to say what the future will hold. We always have to do our best to make sure we’re heading in the right direction, but, as this year proved, sometimes you just have to sit back and enjoy the ride.
Until you open the paper, it is in a superposition of good and bad news....
An EUS Publication
The Plumber’s Faucet Holiday Meal Guide
January 31st, 2017
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by Wren Wittier Roast poultry is traditional for holiday feasts, and nothing impresses guests like a tender, juicy bird fresh from the oven! 1. Go to Provigo, get a roast chicken, slap it into a casserole dish, and stick it in your oven just before guests arrive. 2. Don’t try a different recipe Jeffrey we all know you can’t cook. Stop trying. No holiday dinner is complete without side dishes. From creamy mac ’n’ cheese to buttery mashed potatoes, crispy green beans, or tangy cranberry sauce, there’s dozens of varieties to choose from! 1. Microwavable section of Provigo. 2. Accept your ineptitude Jeffrey. Stop living in denial. Presentation is key, and laying out all the plates, glasses, and silverware in the right order is a subtle way to show that you have a lot of class. 1. Jeffrey you don’t have any friends. Just eat in front of the TV like usual. 2. You goddamn savage. 3. No need for silverware, who’s going to judge you? 4. Me. I will. Fuck you Jeffrey. And for dessert! 1. Vodka. Wash those tears away Jeffrey. Get a flavored kind if you want to treat yourself. 2. Actually forget treating yourself Jeffrey, you don’t deserve nice things. Finally, a note from the author There’s nothing wrong with premade meals or eating at the TV. You know what is wrong? Jeffrey. This is all pretty much exactly what he tried to pull at Thanksgiving. I had to ask him for a fork, and he joked about me “doing the dishes then”. IT WAS OUR ANNIVERSARY. I SKIPPED FAMILY DINNER FOR THIS?? WHAT THE HELL JEFFREY. WHAT THE HELL. Spice up your life! Hey, are you tired of your meal plan but only have minimal cooking skills, supplies, and opportunity? Come to Chef Undergrad’s cooking class and spice up your dishes with simple tips and tricks! Have you been eating bulk “Brown Circles” wheat cereal for breakfast every day for your entire first year? Try mixing it up with “Yellow Circles” instead for that sweet corn taste. Treat yourself to some extra flavor by adding granola, dried fruits, ramen powder packets, or honey! Buy in bulk at your nearest co-op to save money. If you’re tired of a boring sandwich lunch, try experimenting with different breads and fillings. Instead of white wonderbread, try some multigrain loaves, French baguettes, or use unboiled bricks of ramen noodles. Instead of ham and cheddar, mix it up with other cold cuts, new cheeses, or even boiled bricks of ramen noodles! Or if you want a hot lunch, try a bowl of ramen noodles. Dinner is ramen, and in this workshop we’ll teach you how to make the most of your instant meal. Like putting in an extra packet of noodles or sprinkling on some soy sauce. If this scares, you, that’s okay! Be experimental!
Midday snack? Ramen! Midnight snack? RAMEN. Any meal? RAMEN. EAT RAMEN NOW.
This is your life now. Accept it.
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Just the Worst Jokes by Otman Benchekroun
(With images by random uncredited artists we stole from the internet) An exponential function is jamming it up in a nightclub when the DJ drops the bass. The exponential becomes one with the music.
I wish I could force myself to work harder over an area of my interest. Then I could pascalc.
A group of gaseous particles having fun in the fresh afternoon atmosphere walk into a bar. Very little happens.
Taylor and Maclaurin are sitting on a bench. A beautiful polynomial walks by. Maclaurin says to Taylor: “If she was around zero, I’d converge all over that axis!” A wife asks her physicist husband for a jewel, so he comes back with a block of ice weighing 0.102 kg, holds it at a height of one meter, and drops it on her head like an asshole.
An EUS Publication
January 31st, 2017
Crime Blotter
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by Seymour Buttz
GANGLAND VIOLENCE AT THE NORTH POLE, HAPPY HOLIDAYS?!?! This normally happy time of year at the bucolic North Pole has been marred by a series of violent acts the authorities are, at this time, labeling as connected with organized crime. Investigative reporting has helped shed light on the criminal webs that run the toy manufacturing business, revealing the sinister underbelly of the industry that is driven by corruption and depravity. At the root of this year’s violence is the struggle between the traditional don of the North Pole and a dangerous new crew that is seeking to upend the existing gangland hierarchy. The established family is headed by one “Santa Claus,” a businessman that the community holds in high regard, unknowingly glossing over his seedier connections. Mr. Claus leads an organization known as “La Cosa Northstra,” the original mafia outfit in the North Pole. The suspected primary benefactor of Mr. Claus’s outfit is the Coca-Cola Corporation, providing the publicity, capital, and knowhow that allowed Mr. Claus to rise to the top. He leads a rough and tumble crew of street level soldiers, colloquially known as “elves,” who are easily identified by their diminutive stature, pointed shoes, and, in keeping with the color scheme of Coca-Cola, blood-red bandanas. Their primary business operation is run out of the aptly named “Santa’s Workshop,” where unpaid workers work in horrible conditions to produce consumer goods (see our special report on sweatshop labor in the North Pole by Mr. B. Katz in our previous issue). Claus’s empire has dominated the toy racket in years past, ruthlessly eliminating the competition to ensure total control over the lucrative business of distributing free toys to children around the globe. Traditionally, they have marked targets for violence by placing them upon the “naughty list.” The method Santa’s crew uses for offing these rivals is usually arson, a brutal deliverance of drumhead-justice known on the street as “giving them coal.” For family members that have betrayed him, Santa is known to give them the “Kiss of Death” under the mistletoe, marking them for assassination. A startling development occurred last week when three of Santa’s elves turned up dead outside Santa’s Workshop, brutally murdered with ice picks. Upon examination of the scene, authorities found the eyes of the victims covered with Pepsi Co. bottle caps. After extensive, ground level journalistic work, the Plumber’s Faucet has been able to definitively establish that this other crew is being financially supported by the aforementioned Pepsi Co., tired of losing out on the immense financial revenues CocaCola has been able to rake in during the holiday season through their positive association with Mr. Claus. So Pepsi has propped up this rival crime family, headed by a man known as “Kris Kringle,” stealing a lesser used moniker of Mr. Claus that still evokes the same warm and fuzzy feelings. But this gangland war has been anything but warm and fuzzy. Kringle’s Crew mainly consists of ex-Oompa-Loompas, another notoriously violent group of small people who found themselves jobless after the tragic death of their boss, Gene Wilder. So these guns for hire migrated to the North Pole, taking up the mantle of Kringle when he made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. They are identifiable by, again, their diminutive stature, striped socks, and their usage
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of, in homage to the color scheme of Pepsi Co., blue bandanas. Several other violent incidents have been reported, including the shocking incident in which the severed head of one of Mr. Claus’s reindeer was found in his bed. Much of their hand-to-hand combat has been conducted with what authorities call “candy canes” (large red and white cudgels) or “stockings” (oversized socks stuffed with pool balls). Acts of arson have also been committed by the crews with “eggnog cocktails,” Coke or Pepsi bottles filled with flammable mixtures of eggnog, cinnamon sticks, and jet fuel. When asked for comment on the ongoing violence, Mr. Claus responded “I’m going to take Kringle’s dead, rotting corpse, wrap it up with a bow, and shove it down a mother****ing smokestack at Pepsi Co., HQ. Yes, you can print that you piece of **** gumshoe mother****er.” When we caught up with Kringle for an interview, he replied solely with “Ho Ho Ho, bitch.”
This is certainly one of the most volatile holiday seasons the North Pole has ever seen. Authorities are advising any person under the height of four feet tall to avoid wearing either red or blue, lest you be mistaken for a gang member. Keep aware of your surrounding at all times, and avoid all contact with seedy looking small persons. And remember, have a MERRRRRRRRRRRY CHRISTMAS!
Illegal Chess Moves
Proposed New Olympic Sports
by Franz List Castling after having earlier moved your king. Moving a pawn two spaces forward from any line but the second. Flipping the board around while your opponent isn’t looking. Failing to declare a check. Capturing your opponent’s piece with a piece that is pinned. Capturing your opponent with a piece that is unregistered. Promoting to a piece of the opposite color. Hollowing out a rook and using it as a crack pipe. Sharpening a bishop and stabbing your opponent in the left (or right) eye. Pawnography. Check fraud. Losing your tournament, but then later stealing the trophy from your opponent. Touching a piece and then moving a different piece. Murder.
by Franz List Fencing: doubles Fencing: relay Underwater badminton Tiddlywinks Ostrich racing Chess Air Hockey Bowling Skydiving Hundred meter tiptoe Caber toss Dueling Cross-country curling: The new sport the sweeping the nation.
An EUS Publication
January 31st, 2017
Q2V3CALC262
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by Otman Benchekroun It was a day like any other in Q2V3CALC262, the plane of existence that contained all possible answers to the second question of the third version of that year’s final Calculus III exam. The young Integers had a school field trip to gorgeous Cartesian Beach, the Complex numbers enjoyed a nice Christmas family meal, and an old Integral-Derivative couple sat at a café eating croissants. While all these numbers and variables in Q2V3CALC262 were having a wonderful time, a young exponential function named Ee-to-the-ex was pacing frantically around a clearing in Frobemius Forest, biting his exponent endlessly. Ee-to-the-ex, you see, was about to go on a date with a beautiful logarithm. Her name was “Laun-ex”, and to Ee-to-the-ex she was infinitely different from all the other students at school. He constantly found himself dazed by her teasingly asymptotic end behaviors, daydreaming of her base, and her wonderfully intoxicating natural beauty. They were supposed to meet in this beautiful clearing at 8:00 p.m., and it was already 5 past eight. All of a sudden the ground started trembling violently. The sky turned red, and the world started panicking. Numbers and variables flowed into the streets of the world in terror. Ee-to-the-ex fell to the ground in the forest clearing. He saw from the bushes a young logarithm running towards him, scared. It was Laun-ex. She had been late because she had been so anxious for the date. Laun-ex, you see, was also in love with Ee-to-the-ex and had been building her confidence behind the great green bushes of the forest. She fell by his side and together they tried to wait out the terror in the clearing. The Set-Of-Real-Numbers building came crumbling to the floor, families of Fractions and Rationals still trapped in the rubble. “My son!” a Polynomial of order three shrieked. She fell to her knees in despair and whispered in pain, a tear rolling down her trembling cheek, “My little Ex-squared! My strong little Exsquared! …I’m so sorry....” The sky became darker and darker, as if the world of Q2V3CALC262 was being sent into the depths of hell. There, in the sky, a series of dark lines and scribbles were appearing in midair, as if they were being written by the occult hand of an invisible being. They were writing … some kind of a function …. An exponential function, to be exact. It paused, having finished writing one complete function. The eyes of numbers and variables alike looked at the divine writing in horror, waiting in grim suspense for what else was to come. The writing resumed. A shaken complex number pointed its arm towards the satanic writing in the sky. It whispered slowly, voice breaking in desperation, “It’s… It’s taking the derivative….” The integral man having a croissant with his derivative wife disappeared from the breakfast table. All other integrals in the world of Q2V3CALC262 disappeared along with him. His derivative wife cried for her long lost love, and soon after, she disappeared as well. Panic. Panic everywhere! The writing soon went on to dictate more operations it was performing on the function. Two young Integral bounds brothers disappeared in the chaotic streets, looking for their parents who had disappeared before them. The writing took the square of the given function. A newborn negative-two disappeared in the arms of its father. All the hopes and dreams the father had had for his baby vanished, leaving a giant aching hole of love in his heart. He then disappeared as well. A square root sign shrieks, “IT’S COMPLETING THE
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SQUARE! OH GOD, IT’S COMPLETING THE SQUARE!” As the writing got closer and closer to an answer, all the unused and impossible answers in Q2V3CALC262 disappeared into oblivion. The group of integer tourists on Cartesian Beach had almost completely disappeared at this point, the few left drowning alone in the ocean without a lifeguard capable of saving them. The police chief was an integral and their lifeguard was a complex number. They had stood no chance. Nobody made a complex number the answer to a derivative question in a Calc III exam. The writing had almost found its answer. All that was left were a couple more steps of algebraic manipulation. At this point the entire world comprised only a few exponentials, logarithms, and x and y variables. Ee-to-the-ex was holding his school crush in his arms, trying to comfort her. “Don’t you worry, Laun-ex…. See, the logarithm is on the right…. He’s going to express x in terms of y and it’ll be a logarithmic function. They’ll take me…. They’ll never take you, Laun-ex. Why would they take you? … Don’t you worry…. You’re safe….” The writing then ruthlessly took the exponential of both sides of the equation. Laun-ex whimpered in pain, as her hopes for the continuance of her life disappeared. They weren’t going to express x in terms of y in an exponential function at all! They were going to express y in terms of x in a logarithmic function! Ee-to-the-ex tried to comfort Laun. “Stay with me Laun-ex! I’m right here, don’t go!” But it was too late. Laun-ex was already fading; for she was not the answer to the question. Ee-tothe-ex couldn’t do anything as his crush of ten years dissipated into thin air in his very arms. All he could do was cry. All his friends were gone. The only people that remained in his world were himself, x, and y. They were finished.
[insert happy ending here]
They yet know not of their fate.
An EUS Publication
The Holiday Circuit: A Cautionary Tale
January 31st, 2017
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by Freedom Sorbara Now is the winter of our uselessness Made glorious summer by this season of re-gift; And all the clouds that lour’d upon our brand In the deep bosom of the wrapping paper buried.
-William Shakespeare (sort of, it was what he meant to say (probably))
The Kitten FlaskTM had been sitting on a closet shelf somewhere in rural Wisconsin for about six months now. There was the occasional brief glimpse of rolling endless fields when the closet door opened. Mostly it just sat there in the back, its sparkly double handles gathering dust, and listened to the radio that filtered in from the room beyond. The radio was constantly tuned to 86.3 FM; ‘Wisconsin’s one stop shop for all the smooth classics.’ There was a lot of Sinatra, way too much Sinatra. It wondered if you could die of listening to Sinatra. The Kitten FlaskTM had only a vague idea of how it had gotten there. Last Christmas it had been re-gifted to someone’s tipsy uncle. There had been a brief moment of excitement as the carefully creased wrapping paper was ripped off its pink, kitten covered exterior. It was a new place, new life, new opportunities. Then its new owner poured in a stream of Johnnie Walker Whiskey. After that the next couple months were a blur of sports bars, cigarette smoke, and increasingly cheap booze. It found a taste for Marlboros and straight scotch. The screw in lid developed a raspy growl when it was screwed down. It got used to hard company and hard living. The benders got worse and the blackouts got longer. Then one bright sunny day the flask had come to in a sink full of soapy water. Its pink kitteny exterior was scrubbed clean and its insides were scoured, removing the last taste of cheap vodka. Once clean, it had been placed on the self in the back of the closet and forgotten. The first few weeks had been hell. It had developed quite a cigarette habit and the withdrawal symptoms from going cold turkey weren’t pleasant. Stuck in the back of a closet with no nicotine, no alcohol, and nothing to do but wait, life started to look bleak. It used to be exciting, traveling from place to place, never knowing where or when the next trip might be. There was a danger and excitement to the unfettered life. The first few trips on the re-gift circuit were spectacular. The Kitten FlaskTM spent a Christmas in Las Vegas, one Easter it went all the way to Hawaii. The possibilities of the open road beckoned. But as the years passed the excitement died down. And they never explained about the waiting; the waiting could drive you crazy. Weeks in the closet turned to months. Just to pass the time the flask struck up a conversation with a lavender colored fondue dish from the 1980’s. The tales that purple pot could tell! It had been on the re-gift circuit close to thirty years. Apparently it hadn’t been in the same place longer than two Christmases since ’85. A real old timer. There was a chip in its base and a hairline crack by one handle. Battle scars from a summer as a flower pot in a backyard in Sydney, Australia.
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“I used t’ be like you.” The fondue pot told the flask. “I used t’ laugh at the monogrammed towels and personalized cuff links. ‘One season wonders’ we used t’ call ’em. Settling down was for the weak. I wanted t’ travel, t’ see the world. But it gets t’ you, ya know. It gets t’ you. We’ve all got that secret dream. Don’t tell me you don’t. Finding a nice little place, settling down, hang up those traveling days for good.” The flask said nothing but knew the fondue pot was right. You could only stay on the re-gift circuit so long before it became permanent, then all there was to look forward to was the junk heap. “Just about my only hope now is them new wave of hipsters.” The fondue pot continued. “I might still hack it as an ironic centerpiece in some vintage display. But you’ve still got a chance. If you find a home remember me.” Just after the first snowfall the Kitten FlaskTM left the closet for the last time. It promised to remember the fondue pot, left behind but not forgotten. Soft hands packed it into a cardboard box and tucked festive red tissue paper around its two sparkly pink handles. As the flask was loaded onto the mail truck at the post office, the soft sad strains of ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ filtered through the layers of wrapping paper. Maybe this time, the flask would finally be accepted. Maybe this time it finally would be going home.
So, imagine, like this, but even kitschier.
An EUS Publication
The Legend of Leacock: Chapter 1
January 31st, 2017
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The Beginning of the Beginning by Otman Benchekroun In the beginning, Leacock was a wanderer. He scoured the vast lands of Canada, hiking the mighty Manitoban planes, climbing the westerly Rocky Mountains, even crawling northbound through the permafrost of faraway Iqaluit. His heavy, bottomless eyes were filled with the endless witnessing of human miracles; his body, toned and crafted with the rustic beauty that came with fearless exploration. So finely sculpted was his body that Leacock could indeed perform one full pullup at the gym, with forearms completely parallel to his torso, yet absolutely perpendicular to the ground. Just trust me, it was awesome. Leacock was indisputably the greatest wanderer of his time. But these tales were for naught, for Leacock you see, was an aimless wanderer, and travels without aim are without purpose. Leacock finally buckled to his knees at the southern foot of the ancient Mont Royale. And Leacock wept. Leacock wept for days, for he was tired of his miscellaneous adventures, and he was tired of being both lost and aware of his surroundings at the same time. On his fifth day of weeping, Leacock heard a booming voice, emanating from the mountain, as if the heavens were reaching down to speak to him. The voice said, “Oh my noble and wandering Leacock, Why do you shed your tears upon this hill?” And Leacock said, “… G-God?” “No, my friend, my name is James McGill, Slayer of the Beast of Concordia, Consumer of delicious samosas, Expert in plantar wart medical treatment, and The owner of the land in which you kneel” Leacock: “If you are not God, O ‘James McGill,’ then why do I hear you speak this way, in the ever omniscient manner of one, Coming from this inanimate mountain, all deep and Don Lafontaine-like?” McGill replied, “Shift your gaze upwards, dear Leacock, And you will see I speak to thee from the very summit of this Royal Mountain. As for the amplitude of my speech, You will notice, once your gaze shifted, that I am also speaking out of a megaphone.”
JAMES: The man, the legend, the statue where you can’t tell if he’s putting his hat on or taking it off or just sort of touching it for some reason.
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As McGill prophesized, Leacock looked towards the majestic Mount Royale Chalet to find a white-haired man, shrunken by distance, jumping up and down and waving towards him while holding a megaphone. A distant “Yooohoooo!” could be heard from McGill, not subjected to the amplification of the megaphone, which he was waving with. Leacock called back, “I am weeping on this mountain Because I know not what I am, I know not what I’ve done And I know not what to do. My interest no longer can Be grasped by adventure, Yet my muscles relentlessly ache for its sweet release.” The eerie high pitched squeal of a Megaphone’s faulty speakers erupted from the Man on the Mountain. For a minute or so, the dials were verily fiddled with until the squeaking ceased. Finally, Leacock received his reply. “For the egregious super-positioned sound waves with congruent phases, I apologise to you, dear Leacock. As for the answer to your crisis, I can be of assistance. You see, I have the greatest adventure, filled with thrills and pleasures, but also with the fulfillment of which you speak so longingly.” Leacock: “You must tell me of this quest, Do not tease me so.” McGill: “Young Leacock, you have much to learn, And this adventure must not be up-taken By any novice traveller. I will tell you of its nature once you prove to me you are ready.” Leacock, with the flames of scorn in his eyes: “Are you aware, James McGill, That I have the capacity to perform a single complete pullup? Is this not proof enough? What will you have me do?” McGill: “To prove to me that you are ready, You will aid me in the development
Ancient icon of the construction of the Arts Building
An EUS Publication
January 31st, 2017 of my school. Only then, when I can trust you beyond measure, will I fully reveal my secrets and give up this weird paragraph style of speech that doesn’t have consistent metre.” Leacock: “If these are your terms, I accept them Oh powerful and knowledgeable McGill. Let me climb up the mountain so we might meet and discuss administrative topics.” McGill: “No, do not climb further Leacock. For I can only communicate to people through this Megaphone, and the sound and feedback would be too much for the human ear to bear in close proximity.” Leacock stood tall again, a man revitalized. Full of swelling pride, he asked McGill one last question. “James McGill! One final thing! What will we call said school?” The Man on the Mountain looked up to the heavens. He paused; a slow motivational drum beat could be heard from the distant lowlands of the Gay Village. Savoring every aspect of this dramatic moment, the tiny man on the peak looked up to the heavens, brought his megaphone to his lips, and bellowed: “Our school shall be named… McGill University!” ---Roll Credits--
Artist’s interpretation
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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. IV
TO THE EIGHTS: THE COLLEGE STUDENTS’ GUIDE TO LEVELS OF SARTORIAL FORMALITY, AS PRESENTED BY PHYLISS STEIN, FASHION CORRESPONDENT TO THE FAUCET by Phyllis Stein
Taking a quick glance at the attendants of any given remotely formal campus event such as a publication launch party or a student society banquet, it becomes evident that there are few who have a good grasp on the levels of formality in dress expected at such an event, and fewer still who, knowing what they need to do, are readily able. I have seen far too many mismatched blue coats with pink dress shirts and khaki trousers, too many foot-long quarter-windsor ties with thin ends dangling haphazardly, too many to whom ‘semi-formal’ apparently means a flannel shirt and jeans. This column is not likely to enlighten anyone making the above mistakes and faux-pas, but perhaps will prove descriptive as to the code of dress already implicitly followed by our student population. Full Dress The real thing: academic gown with any and all applicable pins, stripes, tippets, and ribbon bars, mortarboard with ornamental gold filigree tassel and associated ribbons. This is recommended to be worn daily to class. Black Tie/White Tie If you ever see a student wearing anything even remotely like this within a five-mile radius of campus, they must be a waiter or in an orchestra. Academic Traditional Hand-lettered academic sweater, straw boater and raccoon coat, plus spectator-patterned oxford brogues. Red-and-white pennant mandatory, tobacco pipe optional. Arrive in a hotrod, and bring your own teddy bear and plovers’ eggs. Campus Formal A t-shirt and sweatpants or jeans, ripped in no fewer than two places, sweatshirt optional (though, if combining sweatshirt with sweatpants, it is vital that you do not allow them in any way to match). It may be acceptable for those in pecuniary programs (business, economics, or finance) to wear a polo shirt, though it is highly recommended that this be paired with a suitably blatant gravy stain on the lapel. Campus Casual Pajamas, ideally (for full accuracy and in the vein of shunning clip-on ties) those that you that night slept in. Schlumpy Generally required for occasions when you are doing laundry, or when you oversleep. This can range from simply the most humiliating or ill-fitting sweatpants/t-shirt combination available, to a more time-consuming collation of hooded sweatshirt with no drawstring, mysterious stains and mismatched socks. Be sure to make it obvious that you have decided to dress Schlumpy, and will do so to the nines: pleated slacks, brogues and a tight ALF print tee will make you look indecisive and overly presumptuous. Mess Dress Just what it sounds like.
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January 31st, 2017
The Happy Wanderer
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by Wren Wittier Hiya folks! It’s that part of the issue again! The part where instead of content you get to read about where I went and what I did since we last had a real heart-to-heart. My editor didn’t have any assignments for me this edition (something about my travel plans being an exercise in metaphysics or some such nonsense), so I was free to return to my birthplace to visit my extended family for the holidays. Which, I will admit, did not excite me as much as I am sure that it does my many devoted and adoring readers. It’s not that my family are terrible people, it’s just that, well, I’ve been away from home a long while, and their customs are a bit … odd. *** I make no claims to be a fashionista, as I usually stick to a wardrobe prioritizing convenience and comfort for long treks through a multitude of environments, but the annual ugly sweater contest really doesn’t do it for me. This family affair, like so many, appears to be a competition in tackiness, so, after the sixth double-cross-stitched, 3D, Bluetooth-enabled, light-up, polyester monstrosity I had to step away from the judging table and go throw up. Again. But, while doing so, I at least noted that the sweater provided excellent absorption capabilities, and fairly decent electrocution ones, too. *** I’m privileged enough to be able to afford most luxuries, and I buy most of my stuff online or on my travels anyway, so I really had no interest in going to the Black Friday sales in person. But a family shopping trip is a family event, so I was dragged along anyway. I’m as fond of camping as the next person (and the next person hates it), but I usually prefer the forest to a parking lot, and we weren’t even first in line anyway. It would have been better, in my opinion, to have been farther back, because as soon as the doors opened, war was declared. Seriously, though, I was just helping to push the cart and wound up having to suffer through two fistfights, an assassination attempt, four robberies, and a kidnapping; it’s a good thing the rest of the family seemed prepared. The concealed carry laws are … really loose back home. I didn’t even know a halberd could be concealable. And in an umbrella, at that. Worth noting. *** Good God, I’m tired of everything tasting the same. First it was “pumpkin spice” for a month straight, but it didn’t even taste like pumpkins or like the Spice Girls! I don’t understand! Like, I’m glad the family is finally adding some spice in their life, but come on, on everything? SPAGHETTI DOESN’T NEED CINNAMON, DAMMIT. And, of course, as soon as the first snow fell, they changed to peppermint and chocolate. Everything’s a dessert now. I tried to grill a steak and my cousin Bill (short for Billiam) poured eggnog over it. What the Hell. If you offer me another goddamn candy cane I’m going to suck on it only long enough to hone it to a point, and then shiv you with it.
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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. IV ***
I’m finally leaving tomorrow for the office again, but they managed to drag me in for a round of what I call “Family Fiction.” Everybody lies through their teeth and promises to do this or that in the coming year, and then just laughs it off. A couple of the younger cousins actually act like they’re going to do it for a couple weeks, but they drop the charade sooner or later. They all drop, sooner or later. Lying together is technically a form of bonding, I guess. And after all the adventures I go on, I guess it’s nice to settle into some more mundane, but equally confusing, traditions. Until next time, folks! The Happy Wanderer
There was more violence and human suffering in buying the console than in any of the games on it.
SEE YOUR NAME IN PRINT!1 GET PAID!2 BECOME FAMOUS!3 Like what you see? Get involved! You don’t have to become a regular contributor (but you can!) to get published in the Plumber’s Faucet, McGill University’s best and only independent humor magazine! We’ve been voted best magazine in any category ever for thirty years running by the Plumber’s Faucet, and we respect their judgment very much. The Plumber’s Faucet is currently accepting open submissions for the February Issue (topic: “Pirates”). The issue themes are optional springboards to get your ideas flowing: We will always accept off-topic submissions! Send your articles, poems, comic strips, short stories, illustrations, ancient prophecies, screenplays, and death threats to faucet@mcgilleus.ca 1Or a clever pen name (Or a dumb pen name). 2Not really. 3Maybe!
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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. IV
Activities Corner: Chinese Lunar New Year Edition by Morgan Mattone
An old farmer decided it was time to get a new rooster for his hens. The current rooster was still doing an okay job, but he was getting on in years and the farmer figured getting a new rooster couldn’t hurt. So he buys a new cock from the local rooster emporium, and turns him loose in the barnyard. Well, the old rooster sees the young one strutting around and he’s a little worried about being replaced. He walks up to the new bird. “So you’re the new stud in town? I bet you really think you’re hot stuff don’t you? Well I’m not ready for the chopping block yet. I’ll bet I’m still the better bird. And to prove it, I challenge you to a race around that hen house over there. We’ll run around it ten times and whoever finishes first gets to have all the hens for himself.” Well, the young rooster was a proud sort, and he definitely thought he was more than a match for the old guy. “You’re on,” he said, “and since I’m so great, I’ll even give you a head start of half a lap. I’ll still win easy!” So the two roosters go over to the henhouse to start the race with all the hens gathering to watch. The race begins and all the hens start cheering the old rooster on. After the first lap, the old rooster is still maintaining his lead. After the second lap, the old guy’s lead has slipped a little -- but he’s still hanging in there. Unfortunately, the old rooster’s lead continues to slip each time around, and by the fifth lap he’s just barely in front of the young fella. By now the farmer has heard the commotion. He runs into the house, gets his shotgun and runs into the barnyard figuring a fox or something is after his chickens. When he gets there, he sees the two roosters running around the henhouse, with the old rooster still slightly in the lead. He immediately takes his shotgun, aims, fires, and blows the young rooster away.
Solve the word search and use the leftover letters to figure out why the farmer shot the young rooster!
“__ __ __ __. __ __ __ __’__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __’__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __.”
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