The Christmas Issue by The Plumber's Faucet

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The Plumberâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

Faucet VOLUME XXXIII ISSUE I September 33rd, 2016

The Christmas Issue

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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. I

CONTRIBUTORS

LETTER FROM AN EDITOR

Editors-In-Chief

Dear Reader,

Daniel Galef Morgan Mattone

It’s official: We’re back, baby. All month, we’ve been laboring to bring this issue to you. “As long as it’s September,” we said to ourselves and also anyone who would listen, “then it’s still technically the beginning of the year. If it comes out in September, then it’s the September issue, and that’s a perfectly acceptable month for a first issue. Perfectly acceptable. Also, do you know if this bus goes downtown?”

Layout Editors Just us. We do everything around here.

Writers David Bailey Otman Benchekroun Nich Brunt Brigid Cami Manon Chiorri Daniel Galef Bruno Greselin Soraya Mamiche Morgan Mattone Ehsan Rajabian Armando Rivas Alexander Venditti

It’s not September. Like the best-laid plans of mice and men and even editors, our print deadline gang aft agley. It gang way aft agley. But in the world of comedy writing, anything goes. If we want to print the September issue in October, we damn well can, and we damn well did. If we want the theme to be Christmas, you know what? Ho-fucking-ho-ho. But another reason this is the September issue is because it’s funny. We like things that are funny. Maybe one day we’ll even print some of them.

Illustrators Armando Rivas (cover) Manon Chiorri Ké Smith Alexander Venditti

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. I The Christmas Issue, September 33rd, 2016 ISSN (print): 1707-7478 ISSN (online): 2291-3513

Here at the Faucet, we always put our readers first. This new issue, the first under Morgan’s and my joint editorship, is full of fantastic content from veteran Fauceteers and new faces alike. Another goal of the Faucet this year has been to bring together the talents of McGill’s various far-flung comedy circles—we’ve received writing from members of TVMcGill, the McGill Standup Comedy Club, and McGill Improv, as well as slightly fewer than the usual number of death threats from the Daily. We are proud to be McGill University’s premier (and only) humor magazine. When the Red Herring folded under mysterious circumstances, we were quick to fill the gap, and now distribute the best damn student publication east of the Rockies all over campus and on the intarwebs, too. And we’re always looking for new souls to add to our collection voices to publish! We are currently accepting submissions in all genres and forms for the October issue, with a deadline of Saturday the 15th. Content does not have to conform to the issue themes, but they will be “Halloween/Spooky” and “McGill Construction.” If you are interested in writing or illustrating for the Faucet, send us your ideas, questions, and love letters at: faucet@mcgilleus.ca

Merry Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night,

daniel galef An EUS Publication

September 33rd, 2016

The Over-Commercialization of Chri$tma$

by sick blunt

In modern times, the start of the corporate Christmas season has steadily advanced forward, past Halloween and nearly even the end of summer. It now seems that the fall of the first leaf of autumn is the starting gun that signals the reappearance of reindeer and wrapping paper in the seasonal aisle of department stores. The Christian holiday has become more and more secular in the past century, true, but it has also become frighteningly more commercialized, a trend that shows no signs of stopping. What can be done to reconcile the alleged spiritual weight and ‘true meaning’ of Christmas with the Christmas marketed to us for a whole third of the year? Amid such unabashedly capitalist appropriation of a religious holiday, how can we fight back against corporate greed without compromising our own ideals? The answer is simple enough: we must attack the root causes of this perversion. What we need is no less than the complete overhaul of our societal and economic attitudes towards Christmas, and also the fall of capitalism. You read that right. Now that I’ve brought up a genuine problem in society, what better way to address it than by proposing the most ludicrously extreme solution imaginable? For far too long, industrial overlords have callously corrupted Western civilization, milking the repressed masses by inventing supposed needs and then advertising the means to respond to them. Big Business, Big Pharma, and the Big Bang Theory all conspire together to wipe clean our minds of autonomy and turn us all into blind conformists to the consumerist status quo. Well, I think this article is proof enough that not all of us have completely lost our grip on reality. Though it may be too late to save the brainwashed sheep addicted to the greed of capitalism, it is not too late to save Christmas. Let us dispel with this fiction that Christmas, the most widely observed annual pine tree genocide, is in its purest form compatible with so-called ‘free entreprise.’ The truth is the exact opposite. The holiday’s true meaning is all about giving and receiving – specifically giving from each according to his ability, and giving to each according to his needs. Think about all the most famous Christmas stories. In the classic It’s a Wonderful Life, George Bailey fights for the rights of the working class against the blatantly bourgeois old Mr. Potter. Try to sympathize with the plight of Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer (red means communism), struggling endlessly for individuality in a society committed to conformity and mindless consumerism. Or consider finally the Grinch, a green embodiment of greed and more obviously the inherent inequality of free market, pursuing his reprehensible quest to subvert a non-violent socialist commune by disrupting the resource equalization process. And don’t even get me started on Santa Claus. Ignoring the fact that ‘Jolly Old Saint Nick’ is inherently patriarchal (Father Christmas, why not Mother Christmas?), this famous symbol of Christmas cheer has been coopted by the food industry to sell milk and cookies – and I’m not talking about all-natural-gluten-free-organically-

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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. I

harvested-with-their-consent almond milk (it’s the evil, dairy kind). We all know that the liquid dependence merchant Coca-Cola created Santa in his contemporary form about 100 years ago, but who do you think he was modeled after? That’s right, the only 19th century man with a big bushy beard: Karl Marx, the enlightened god-philosopher named ‘Sexiest Man No Longer Alive’ by Socialist Weekly for 133 years running. Furthermore, it’s not a coincidence that Santa’s suit is red, of all colours (red means communism). Proletarians, rise up against the plutocracy, against a system that makes a liberal arts education economically unviable! We must defy neo-colonialism and imperialism, and with the combined force of all our Che Guevera T-shirts, tell the world we don’t need iPhones, vehicles, effective medicine, or deodorant. It couldn’t be any clearer: we must radically disengage from the mainstream to refigure capitalist paradigms into newer post-neoliberal and racialized economic structures. But I digress; you know exactly what I mean. Greed has made us weak. Capitalism has made us hungry. With our last ounce of freedom and strength we shall act as one, breaking the back of big business and so eviscerating its systematic injustices that Atlas will be too afraid to shrug (aside: fuck you Ayn Rand). Let us proclaim as one, “We are all individuals”. Our rallying cry shall be Better Off Red! (Red means communism), our mouthpiece the common voice of a proletariat yearning to breathe free and to not pay its rashly accrued credit card debt. Remember: Under capitalism we can never be free. Workers of the world, unite! … I apologize, sometimes I get a bit excited when I write about this stuff. Uh, what was I talking about again? Oh yeah, merry Christmas! To protect the identity of the author, this article has been bravely published under a pseudonym.

An EUS Publication

Things That Stumped Me as an ESL Child by Brigid Cami

September 33rd, 2016

illustrations by KE Smith

The phrase “a watched pot never boils.”

Bough, beau, bō, bow, bow, bow bow, bow, bow, bow, bow, and bow. Do you not have enough sounds?

People that believe in ghosts.

Play dates.

The words “Wednesday” and “February.” The song “Hot in Herre,” by Nelly.

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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. I

The Simpsons. Is it supposed to look like a children’s show?

The song “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” How does the universal knowledge of this song benefit society?!

Premade frozen french fries. Witchcraft. Just plain witchcraft.

Walmart employees whose sole purpose is “to greet.”

Wearing bandanas. Is this the trendy peasant look?

Measuring in “feet.” I just don’t get it. Do you all have the same size feet?

An EUS Publication

Frat-House Pioneer Reveals His Secrets by Otman Benchekroun The Faucet interviews a student innovator revolutionizing the Greek scene whether it likes it or not Derrick Williams, 23, isn’t what you would call your average fraternity leader. He is considered to be one of the most influential pioneers of modern day nomenclature for fraternity and sorority groups alike. Since the ripe age of 15, Derrick has been coming up with new names for new fraternities almost every year. “I don’t know how it works, man” Derrick told me in his newest frat-house, Upsilon-Epsilon (ΥΕ) “I looked around me and all I could see where these unoriginal names that use the same Greek letters like Alpha, Beta, Omega, Zeta…” As he spoke I couldn’t help but feel humbled by this genius (of sorts---literally nothing else Williams has ever done has been notable whatsoever). He spoke with such intimidating hesitancy and buffoonery, the likes of which I’d never seen. He adds, “…So I decided…why these Greek letters. Why not … these [other Greek letters], and why in that order and not in this order…you know?” I truly did know. It made complete sense. “And so I woke up one day with one idea in mind. A name, for my first frat of

all time.” At this point Williams was peering deeply into my eyes, daring me to listen to the words that would come out of his mouth. He said, gravitas pouring out of his voice, “I called it Psi-Phi (ΨΦ)”. It was beautiful, hearing this master dictate his masterpieces, “And then the names just kept coming… like yearly… Psi-Phi-Pi (ΨΦΠ), the classic Epsilon-Upsilon (ΕΥ), and my personal favourite just, Mu-Mu (pronounced: mew-mew, ΜΜ).” This method Derrick Williams has, of not only paying attention to which Greek letter to use, but also the order in which they are written, has been developed and adopted by many contemporary Frats and Sororities. I couldn’t help but wonder: could Derrick Williams, a single, mortal human being, contribute any more to this international movement of originally-named frats? “I’ve been working on a new line of names,” Williams adds, “the basic idea of it is like… naming some frats after like Roman numerals…you know? Like I, V, C, X, D…except we’re gonna say the actual number of the…number…like when we say it out loud.” Incredible, he has truly done it again. Update: Just before we went to print, Derrick Williams has dropped out and is now naming things freelance.

The Leacock 132 Drinking Game by Daniel Galef

September 33rd, 2016

Big lecture theatre classes can be a bore, but spice up your course requirements with this fun pastime to while away the hours.

• The professor uses the words “however,” “naturally,” “nevertheless,” “of course.” (2 shots on first use, then 1 for each successive) • The slide says exactly what the professor just said. (1) • The professor addresses the viewers at home, forgetting that this MOOC he was called in to tape does still have a live audience. (3) • The professor makes a joke that only she laughs at. (1) • The clickers get the wrong answer. (2) • Someone comes in late. (1) • Someone comes in more than ten minutes late. (2) • Someone comes in more than halfway through the class. (3) • The professor comes in late. (2) • The professor comes in more than ten minutes late. (3) • The professor comes in more than halfway through the class. (4) If you actually carry this out, you’ll actually have to be carried out.

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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. I

Movie Review: Rambo III and Full Metal Jacket (the first instalment of “Quality vs. Trash: An Exploration through Cinema)

by Joe Chumpass & brian failface

Welcome, gracious readers, and prepare to feast your eyes, mind, and soul on this symbolic and thematic dissection within the heart of cinema. We’ll be discussing and comparing a great war film to a horrible war film; the evidently great magnum opus that is the masterpiece universally known as Rambo III, and the crap stew of Full Metal Jacket, that pretentious fools have deemed a master-class of filmmaking (hint: it’s not). My name is Brian Failface, and I will, with the help of an old chum, be taking you through the world of these two cinematic experiences. To begin: To understand our complex discourse, let us define the recurring terminology used throughout this exchange. What is a “war” motion picture?

“Were you about to turn the page? Don’t you even THINK about turning that page, maggot!”

Primordially, a “war” film is a depiction of an EXPLOSIVE @#$%^&%$#$ conflict between two parties (usually proud fucking patriots against filthy rat-like commie bastards). Some of the concepts included are themes of friendship, love, violence, deep political insight, muscles, fisticuffs, exotic foreign landscapes, more violence, adrenaline, excitement, camaraderie, and often times, even more violence.

Due to the fact that we desire to end on a high note, we shall first examine the cinematic failings of Full Metal Jacket. What does that title even mean? Nothing, because that is what this so-called “film” is about. They use strange jargon to confuse viewers into thinking this piece has any veritable meaning behind it. News flash: it doesn’t! Now, I pass the baton to my esteemed and revered colleague motion-picture-ologist, former high school student Joe Chumpass: *** Thank you, Brian Failface, Now, to my extreme displeasure, I shall salvage what I can of the so-called “plot” of Full Metal Jacket, rummaged from the two trailers and first 40 minutes that I unfortunately witnessed. This film has no substance. They spend most of the film in a military training camp. This is a profound waste of my time. If I wanted to watch people train, I would just follow my unattractive brother to the gym (no wonder he is single). They also bully a fat kid. I do not remember much else, and I did not watch the rest of the film, but if I did, I am certain that it would be equally disappointing. Nothing happens. There is no symbolism, nor any greater meaning to watching a group of young fellows try to ditch school by joining the army. As a 24-yearold high school dropout, I expect my cinema to be intellectually stimulating. This was anything but that.

An EUS Publication

September 33rd, 2016

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Rambo III is a compellingly powerful journey into the human psyche. It offers a plethora of profound and probing moral questions. Rambo is a soldier, but he tries to find a life outside war. But he decides to go back, because he is bored. Rambo must ponder the fundamental Shakespearian question of “To kill, or not to kill?” Ultimately, after approximately 10 minutes of movie time, he picks the former option. Rambo must eventually decide between killing people with a gun, a bow and arrow, a knife, explosives, a bigger knife, or a tank. Simple-minded fools would not know what to do. Rambo cleverly solves his problem, by killing people with all of the above and more. These are deeply human conflicts that are presented to use via complex film techniques. For example, one scene slows the motion down, allowing the viewer to immerse themselves within Rambo’s confused cacophony. The film is heavily symbolic. Each drop of sweat, running down Rambo’s gloriously sculpted muscle mass, represents one of his victims, weighing down on his conscience, because he is emotionally complex. Such symbolic nuance is characteristic of an anti-Hollywood, underground art piece. It is also acts as a powerful depiction of the gritty horrors of war. This is exemplified by the climactic showdown, in which Rambo rams a helicopter with a tank, opening innumerable questions regarding the ambiguous moral nature of warfare. Also, explosions and more yelling, because Rambo is upset by the terror of war. This is followed by a screaming contest between Rambo and his communist archenemy, General Comrade Marx-ovitch, which again emphasizes the human loss of war. They scream at each other, because they are both sad. But in this decisive moment, as they stare into each other’s vehicles, preparing for the end, screaming at the same time, they reach an understanding, linked by their journey into the heart of darkness. As they face the end, they accept and grow to respect each other. This understanding is represented by them screaming like violent apes. The film’s central message is conveyed through the nuance of Sylvester Stallone’s Oscar-worthy performance. In conclusion, Full Metal Jacket stands alone as the single most biggest, widest absolutest wastes of time. Meanwhile, Rambo III is powerfully powerful story of friendship, love, violence, deep political insight, muscles, fisticuffs, exotic foreign landscapes, more violence, adrenaline, excitement, camaraderie, and--And that’s all the time we had for today. Go watch Rambo III.

Rambo III: Awesome AND politically conscious!

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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. I

Max Casey, Big Man On Campus

by Daniel Galef He tossed the swingest bangers, And flew the flyest flings, But you don’t know what that stuff means, His jargon, slang, and things.

Maximilian Casey, Our great BMOC: You wouldn’t know, you little frosh, But he’s a VIP.

He had the sweetest hotrod, A souped-up V8 hound! He’d drive it to the rallies and Race any cat around.

All the coeds chased him, And snapped his photograph. “The biggest big-shot ever shot”; That always made him laugh.

And when he sat in classes, You shoulda heard the toffs! “The demon of the lecture-halls,” That’s how he did those profs.

He always showed for footer, To bellow “Kick it! Kick it!” The captain swore he was good luck, And bought him every ticket.

There’s no one didn’t love ’im. And if not, zow!, he’d show ’em, Except Dean Sayers, and all them squares. But no one didn’t know ’im.

You shoulda seen his swagger, When he stepped on the quad. He downed his bant like mortals can’t, You’d think he was a god.

You ought to meet Max Casey: A hero, friend, and king! I’d introduce you now, you know, But Max dropped out last spring.

An EUS Publication

September 33rd, 2016

High Society Gothic

the building when you entered, and do not comment. The soup is served in a bowl the size of a thimble, yet they eat it by the spoonful and push it away half full.

by Wren wittier

You don’t think you should be attending this party, but you won a raffle so you might as well go. It’s a lot fancier than you’re used to. Uncomfortably so. For example, you took the metro here, but, here, the poorest park their Ferraris in neat rows. You don’t see a different brand car for three blocks. You see one couple get dropped in a stretch limo so long it wraps around the building twice. Other chauffeurs drive on top of it rather than wait for it to uncurl. Another gentleman arrives at the red carpet on a horse, loudly proclaiming that he’d stopped for a “spot of polo” before arriving. He does not get off the horse, and instead rides it inside, challenging anybody he sees to a quick match. You see someone pull away their tuxedo and call for a horse. One is supplied immediately. You feel underdressed. The men compete silently, fingering lapels and cufflinks, slyly admitting the fine fabrics and precious metals that compose their suits. One says his is made of silk from a country you’ve never heard of, another counters with a designer operating out of a shack in the Himalayas. They all look identical. A man with uranium shirt stud reigns supreme. The dresses the women wear are all the newest trends. Most sport “ugly old things” from fashion weeks set years in the future. One is shamed for wearing a 2016 model and spontaneously combusts. The conflagration is put out in moments. A common enough occurrence apparently. You bump into someone. Her dress is covered in Swarovski crystals. All her jewelry is Swarovski crystals. The white of her eyes glitter; you think she may BE a Swarovski crystal. Her companion steadies her before you can find out if she’d shatter. The ballroom is full. The waiters circle around taking away empty champagne flutes, but never bring fresh ones. Everybody has full glasses though. You see a bar and order a beer. The bartender begins mixing barley, hops, yeast, and water in a cocktail shaker. You leave once he sets a small blowtorch to it. Dinner is served. The chef comes out of the kitchen to explain the dishes. Each ingredient is described in detail, most ethically sourced from deep in the most war-torn subcontinents and protected forest reserves. The rest is grown by the staff on a rooftop garden. You remember seeing a series of helicopters land on top of

One of the courses is seafood, so fresh it’s staring at you. You stare back. It pleads silently. With a jerk of your head, you signal the direction of the door. It slithers away, quickly, fortunately unnoticed by anyone. You think you may have made a powerful ally this night. You wonder with whom. Steak is served. Quadruple-A, fed a mix of grass and extinct flowers, butchered by a samurai in feudal Japan, and aged ever since. It’s actually quite tender. You enjoy it. There are too many courses. You pass out in the middle of one of the salads and wake up during another salad. This one has strawberries. You nibble despondently. Finally, they bring out dessert. The cream is so rich it pays for valet parking. The fruit is individually packaged and it takes you twenty minutes with a box cutter to eat a grape. One of the guests, another raffle winner like you, pockets the gold bars that decorate their chocolate mousse. You frown in disappointment at your baked Alaska. One of the polar bears is crying. You do not have a syringe to pocket the oil. The night finishes off with more dancing. All the couples move in perfect sync. They stare blankly into middle distance. You do not remember the last time you saw one blink. No music plays. You check your watch. It’s late, the sun should be coming out soon. You look outside. The night is just beginning. When you look back, everyone is just settling down for the appetizer courses. You are being ushered to your seat. Fighting does nothing, they are stronger than you. There is no escape. After many cycles, you and the other raffle winners manage to break out. It is a bloody struggle, and you lose many comrades. Those that survive agree silently to never meet again, for fear of the memories resurfacing. You trudge back to your apartment. Your roommate finds you in the kitchen the next morning, eating Kraft dinner with a desperation. They ask how was the dinner. You pause, and answer it was pretty boring. The serving sizes were small. They laugh, that why you’re hungry they joke. You laugh hollowly. If you eat enough artificial flavors you might stop tasting caviar.

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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. I

Tinder in Small-Town Alberta

(the headline that doesn’t need a pun to be funny)

by Faucet Real-World Correspondent, Liquid giggles Lechers and lecherettes, many of you may be wondering what adult life holds in store for you. Will you be able to land that prestigious, well-paid, enviro-charitable-feel-good engineering job in Amsterdam, or will you find yourself programming adblock-proof popup ads from small shop in Hamilton for $16/hour? If these sound unappealing or unrealistic, have no fear – there is a middle ground. If you’re like me, you can chase that dirty oil money from small town Alberta, on the path to a stimulating career that is sure to estrange your more politicallyfervent friends. I moved out to ‘Berta in September, and so far I am loving the small-town lifestyle. Being in an oil-patch community of 8000 people has certain advantages, like being simultaneously close to the great outdoors while also having the availability of 9 bars and 7 liquor stores within walking distance of my apartment. But where my town really shines is the thriving Tinder scene, where you can set your search range to 160 km and make the acquaintances of some of the most genuine ladies you are likely to come across in Canada. I have some examples to share with you, so that you have something to look forwards to for after the post-graduation breakup season when you move out to the Wild West.

Kaitlin – she’s got no room for city boys

Breanne – look forwards to a shotgun wedding

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Samantha – save a horse, ride a cowboy

September 33rd, 2016

Karmin – connoisseur of exotic foods?

And finally, a candidate for the “Super Like” feature: Holly – the perfect country girl for the perfect country guy

The Plumber’s Faucet Glossary of McGill Acronyms, Part I:

by acronimzz.com

• AUS - Association of Unrivaled Sobriety • DSS - Designees of Super-floss & Sanitized-tools • EdUS - Edifiers of Under-appreciated School-stuff • EUS - Entity of the Undoubtedly Sloshed • LSA - League of Silver-tongued Arguers • MCSS - Mystery Campus of Sustainable Students • MESS - Mother Earth’s Selfless Seedlings • MUS - Money Usurping Sharks • MUSA - Metronome Users & Sight-readers Alliance • MSS - MRIs & Sexy Scrubs • NUS - Not-an Underestimated Science • PGSS - Patient Graders & Sensual Scholars • SUS - Society of Unlimited Safety-goggles Printed at Copi-EUS

The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. I

The Happy Wanderer No. 1 by wren wittier

In this installment of the Faucet’s celebrated travelogue column, our globetrotting correspondent the Happy Wanderer accidentally overshoots the North Pole for a seasonal adventure full of snow and slavs Hi folks, today I’ll be talking about my ongoing journey to find the best tree for the winter holidays. Now, everybody knows that the best ones are the ones you find and cut down yourself, so for this task I’ve journeyed deep into the Canadian wilderness to find some untouched forests and a stout pine to decorate my home. Now I say “ongoing” because it’s been two weeks, and I still haven’t found anything good enough. In fact, the tree line has thinned out somewhat, and it is mostly just tundra at this point. These trees are great for you Charlie Brown fans out there, but I’m looking for the classic green and tall. But I shall soldier on for as long as it takes. Persistence is key friends! *** I lost the ax I brought along for this task in a fight with a polar bear (as well as most of my rations and a sock), but a true traveler always has backup! I’ve improvised a rope saw using a shoelace, the chain from a chainsaw I brought, and superglue. *** Friends, let me tell you, as of writing this, it’s honestly a little bleak. I’d been walking a while when I came across a small village. Relieved to finally be able to purchase some supplies and ask for directions to any good evergreen locations, I ran into a bit of a language barrier. As embarrassing as it may be to admit, I am not a polyglot, and Russian is not my forte. Though I left my travel dictionary at home, having not expected to get so far off course, I think I made myself understood. Anyway to cut a long story short, I may have accidentally defected. ой! *** Well, dear readers, a good traveler knows when to quit. It’s been one month (maybe?) since I wandered into the sandy wastes of what is either the Namib or Kalahari deserts. I’ve befriended a herd of horned ungulates who lead me to water in exchange for baking tips and neck scratches. I may be hallucinating the cooking classes though, as my butane supply has remained steady, and I’ve received several head wounds. In any case, we’ve settled down for the night to celebrate the winter solstice, and have just decorated a magnificent bush! Well, cactus clump. It came with its own flowers, but I arranged a few animal bones and pretty rocks on top for further decoration. Ah, I love the holidays, and hope you are all celebrating as well! The Happy Wanderer

Definitely either Finland or Newfoundland.

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by Alexander Venditti and Manon Chiorri

September 33rd, 2016

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The Plumberâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Faucet - Vol. XXXIII No. I

Activities Corner by Morgan mattone Q:

The letters that are left over will reveal the answer to the riddle!

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