The Pirate Issue

The Plumber’s

Faucet VOLUME XXXIII ISSUE V February 20th, 2017

The Pirate Issue

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

CONTRIBUTORS

LETTER FROM AN EDITOR

Captains

Ahoy matey! Welcome to the newest issue of The Plumber’s Faucet that will surely keep you hooked. Get ready to walk the plank of laughter as you dive into content that will make you bellow YO HO! If the pirate life isn’t for you, then I’m sorry cause you’re ship out of luck. Just kidding, I just really wanted to make that pun. Anyways, if you’re reading this because the Bull and Bear told you we’re the funniest paper on campus and had to read it to believe it, don’t stop now cause I’m sure I’ve put you over the brink with all the pirate puns. Read on and discover all the booty that The Plumber’s Faucet has to offer.

Daniel Galef Morgan Mattone

Bos’n Just us. We do everything around here.

Seamen Otman Benchekroun Daniel Galef Bruno Greselin Morgan Mattone Martin Molpeceres Alex Venditti Zain Virani

Illustrating Ensigns Ekaterina L.-K. (cover) Daniel Galef Jitika Shah Ké Smith Alex 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.

I know what many of you must be thinking, did my parents name me after THE Captain Morgan who stands so triumphantly on the bottle of rum many of you have so regretfully drank? The answer to that my dear readers is… yes, yes they did. On one fateful night, nine months before the day of my birth, my parents decided to indulge in a little Labor Day celebration and decided on that day that if they were to ever have another child, they would name it after Captain Morgan. Now, many of you may still be thinking, did pirates actually even exist?

According to my Eyewitness Book #59, they did.

Pirates come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, whether they be a Johnny Depp, a fellow Somalian trying to hijack Tom Hank’s boat, or even yourself, who most likely has downloaded half the internet illegally by now. Anyways, shiver me timbers and I hope you get a peg-legged kick out of what our writers and illustrators have contributed, it is truly worth an arm and a leg!

Morgan Mattone

The Plumber’s Faucet vol. XXXIII no. V The Pirate Issue, February 20th, 2017 ISSN (print): 1707-7478 ISSN (online): 2291-3513

An EUS Publication

February 20th, 2017

International Pirate Council Bans “Booty” Puns

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by Martin Molpeceres

Santo Domingo—The International Pirating Council has announced that it has approved a moratorium on all booty puns by a vote of 73 to 22 in favour. The ban, which was passed after hours of fierce debate in Mermaid’s Song Cove, the committee’s official headquarters, officially prohibits the use of the word “booty” in all forms of word-play or entendre under penalty of walking the PLANC (Piracy Litigation and Negligence Committee).

“It really was the common-sense choice,” arrghed Whitebeard the Bloody Thirsty, scourge of the Adriatic and head of the council’s licensing department. “Pirates just don’t command as much respect as we used to, and my fellow seadogs and I agree that this booty thing just wasn’t helping.”

The ban was proposed as part of a rebranding campaign by the committee in hopes of attracting more members. “It’s this whole internet thing,” said Captain Juan “Mad Dog” Garcia, the committee’s acting president, when pressed for comment. “Who wants to risk scurvy when you can just pirate stuff from your home? Kids today don’t appreciate a ripe Spanish galleon laden with silver, and all it takes is one cursed fowl mouth to yell ‘Plunder that booty!’ to really take the wind out of your sails, so to speak.”

Garcia then assured that the ban was only in place during official pirating hours. “We don’t want to intrude into people’s captain’s quarters. If you’re bedding a fine wench, or spot a lovely mermaid perched just across yonder horizon, then feel free to use as many ‘booty’ puns as you want. But when you’re on duty please stick to the designated vocabulary.”

However, not all have welcomed the change. Sir Earnest McDonald, captain of the cursed ship Howling Pearl and leader of the ban’s opposition, was outraged by the vote’s results. “Frankly, I think it’s another case of the council sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong. Booty puns are as much a party of piracy as rum and abysmal hygienic habits. I mean, if you’re going to ban the booty puns why not ban eyepatches and peg legs while you’re at it!”

“Squawk! Eyepatches and peg legs! Squawk!” concurred Polly, McDonald’s pet parrot.

At press time no official motions have been filed for the additional ban of “arrgh” puns.

“Man, I’d tap that—pelf?”

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

Gerts: A Review

by Goblin

When Gerts was first recommended to me, I dismissed the idea, wondering who would enjoy eating and drinking in the dark, damp basement of McGill’s William Shatner University Centre. As it turns out, a fuck-ton of people do, and on a regular basis no less. Accepting this fact, I threw my standards out the window and descended down the ominous stairway of SSMU’s evil layer headquarters to Gerts, a student-run bar that has somehow been open since 1974. I was greeted by an unexpected sight:

8:07 PM: Hand-stamped and wide-eyed, I enter Gerts for the first time. Boney M.’s cover of the 1970s reggae hit “Rivers of Babylon” is playing on the jukebox. Tonight is TNT night, $3 for mixed drinks, a half-pint, or a shot.

The bar to my right is packed with thirsty students, and it’s almost impossible to find a seat. The bartenders scurry back and forth filling pitchers and glasses for what seems like an unending stream of people who just failed their midterms. I order a pint of Moosehead (a domestic lager from Saint John, New Brunswick), a pint of Sleeman (a domestic draught from Guelph, Ontario), and a shot of unlabeled, generic tequila. I feel like I’ve been transported out of McGill’s campus and into the bar my neighbour built when his wife left him.

8:29 PM: I’m handed my drinks by a clearly overworked bartender sporting a black t-shirt and a stern frown.

“Fifteen dollars,” she grunts. I pay entirely in loonies and head to an open table, passing the “food corner” on the way. The always-welcome stink of grilled cheese and deep fried pickles enters my open nostrils. I remember the state of the washrooms and gag.

8:30 PM: I’ve downed my shot of tequila, numbing the pain, and I begin to peruse the food menu. If I had to describe it in one word, it would be “confusing.” The cuisine ranges from generic pub food to Eastern European classics. Calling their bluff, I order the Philly-steak grilled cheese, fish and chips, and pierogi bites, with a slice of apple pie for dessert. My total is $21.75. “Rivers of Babylon” continues to play.

8:35 PM: I wasn’t told when my food would arrive, so I figure now would be as good a time as any to get fucking blitzed, and I down my Moosehead as quickly as possible. Light and bubbly, the smooth taste of wet

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February 20th, 2017

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cardboard brings back memories of power hour P.B.R. Being a little more careful this time, I take a long sip of the Sleeman, and I’m immediately overcome with feelings of regret as well as the inclination to make bad decisions.

I miss the Moosehead.

8:50 PM: The food is ready, and I’m starving. I begin with the twelve pierogi bites, which are served with a sour cream dip. After three, I’ve found my rhythm: dip, eat, drink, dip eat drink…and before I know it I’m done.

The firm dough houses a light creamy filling, yet it isn’t enough to make me forget I saw the “cook” take these out of the freezer. I decide to not give these any more of my precious time, and move on quicker than the Daily moves on sensationalism.

Next up is the Philly-steak grilled cheese, better known as the absolute butchering of a tried-and-true sandwich. The American cheese is the bed for a thin layer of tough meat, surrounded by 2 slices of the finest processed bread money can buy (which is awfully close to the worst processed bread money can buy). It almost feels as if I’m eating an artificial emulation of grilled cheese, like something out of the Jetsons. I know I will enjoy digesting this for years to come.

The fish and chips are probably the best thing I have all night. Hot and crispy fries with two light, flaky, yet full-bodied fish fillets served with tartar sauce in a little plastic cup was exactly what I expected, and is exactly what I receive. I am satisfied until I turn the fish over to find soggy, undercooked breading. Overall it isn’t bad, but it reminds me too much of my experience with McGill’s Mathematics Department: Seemingly adequate from the outside, but a god damned mess underneath.

Lastly, the apple pie. I don’t know why I expected this to be good. I knew what I had eaten so far was underwhelming, but for some reason I thought I’d be surprised with a hand-baked slice of flaky crust and sweet, melt-in-your mouth filling. Truth be told, however, this isn’t review of Gerts’ apple pie but rather a review of McCain’s frozen apple turnover, which is what I was ultimately served. I only eat half.

Conclusions: The Ambience: Would be best described as boring. There are hardly enough seats during a packed night, and even then you’ll be elbow to elbow with that guy who doesn’t shut the fuck up in your seminar. There’s a billiards table and a foosball table, as well as a jukebox that barely works. The bar is shaped like a horseshoe. I’m not sure if the theme is “budget” or “things we found on Craigslist for under $100.” Either way, the most exciting thing in the room is the exit.

The Food: You’d be better off spending your money getting drunk so you can eat shit when you trip over the impromptu stairs on McTavish.

The Drink: The selection is ample, with some fine choices on tap such as Quebec’s very own La Fin du Monde (domestic and 10% alcohol) and Sapporo, as well as pretty decent mixed drinks (Gerts makes a surprisingly good Old Fashioned).

Closing Remarks: Gerts is the kind of bar I’d go to on a Thursday night provided I’m still banned from Management wine and cheeses.

Final Score: 2/5 samosas.

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The Plumber’s Faucet - Vol. XX No. XX

Pensive Primate, by Alex Venditti

An EUS Publication

Top Ten Places to Hide Your Treasure

February 20th, 2017

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by Wren Wittier Illustrated by Ke Smith

1. A random-ass island in the middle of God-knows-where. Pros: A classic, very respectable. Cons: You forget which island you buried it on as soon as you sail away.

There are just so many.

2. The closet of your garbage son Jeffrey. The layers of mess have compacted nicely, and the toxic stench will stave off would-be plunderers.

3. On the side of a 90-degree cliff. There are relatively few goat pirates, and those that are still active tend to be more interested in purloining grass than gold.

4. In a sick-ass murder dungeon. You know, with skeletons and shit. That’d be fucking awesome, right?

Pensive Primate, by Alex Venditti

5. Hedge maze. It might seem easy to plunder, but even if they get your treasure, they’ll never find their way back out.

6. The moon. The only people who go there is NASA and they’re broke.

7. A pair of skinny jeans. Not exactly “hiding,” but booty that fine should be shown off (see page X).

8. In your sock drawer. Nobody would ever think to look there!

9. Within the confines of bureaucracy. Nobody is brave enough to sail through all those miles of red tape.

10. Inside a metaphysical concept. People are so cynical these days; they’ll never believe that “friendship is the real treasure,” or whatever. So they’ll never look behind the friendship to see all the rubies and doubloons you stashed there.

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

Top Ten Things to Bury Instead of Treasure

by Wren Wittier and Sir Christopher John Greenleaf

1. Your feelings.

2. The lede, in a newspaper article.

3. A body that you thought was dead but actually isn’t because it’s history times and you don’t know medical stuff and then you hear noises in the graveyard later and invent vampires.

4. A body that was actually dead but forensics haven’t been invented yet so you could’ve just left it in an alley you dingus.

5. 728,000 unsold Atari video game cartridges.

6. Nuclear waste.

7. Ancient, cursèd artefacts of unfathomable power (i.e., unsold Atari video game cartridges).

8. A berry (because homophones).

9. The previous item on this list (because puns are shameful).

10. A seed (because life is a miracle, and apples taste good).

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February 20th, 2017

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Captain Schulich, the First McGillian: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Schu

by Otman Benchekroun Garbled by time is the tale of Captain Schulich. Some legends speak of the captain as an unflappable female warrior, leading a crew of the most heroic pirates of the seven seas on their own private quest for redemption.

Others recount a most dishonourable lady, captaining a ship full of cowards, who would readily flee the call of oncoming battle. Here be the true story:

Captain Schulich was indeed a lady. She was brought up in British luxury in the 16th century, and at the early ages of teenage-hood, she found herself in a high-end school for the high-end children of high-end aristocrats.

One day, after school, Schulich caught a younger boy being picked on by a mean group of kids in the corner of the cafeteria. It was the “Bourgeois Bullies,” a group of French thugs. No doubt they were taking out their middle-class frustrations on the child.

She stepped between both parties and menacingly performed a pirouette, coming within a hair’s-breadth of the villains’ noses. The Bourgeois Bullies were intimidated. They left angrily, exclaiming “Zis isn’t ze last time you’ve heard of us, Miss Schulich!”

“Yeah, keep WALKIN’, bags!” Schulich yelled after them, then turned back to face the kid. (Translator’s note: “Bags” was short for “Baguettes—at the time, a highly offensive slang term for French folk) “Sue’s name is Sue. That’s why they were laughing at Sue. Sue has a girl’s name.” The boy, embarrassed, took a seat and looked away. Schulich eventually realised the boy not only had a girl’s name, but also liked referring to himself in the third person. Schulich had always seen herself as a weird kid herself and, and ever since that day, Sue and Schulich were best friends.

They hung out all the time, and even exchanged their favourite words (a once-common ritual of friendship): Sue liked the word “slick” in particular, as in “slicked-back hair,” or “what’s up, Slick.” In return,

Schulich had given Sue a brilliant new pair of shoes for his birthday. He truly loved them. Everything was looking up … until one dreadful day.

Schulich arrived home from a normal, zany day at school to receive the news that her parents were trying out a new fad called divorce, invente the previous year. Apparently even the king was doing it. After many “It’s-not-your-fault”s and a couple of “You’ll-have-two-Christmases-now, unless-thoseCatholics-have-anything-to-say-about-it”s, she was told she would have to move with her father to Ireland, the infamous Land of Ire. Unwilling to deal with this situation, Schulich ran away.

Thirty years later, Schulich had become the pirate Captain of the Royal Victoria Craft, also known as the RVC, a stolen vessel from the Queen’s fleet. Keeping with her inclusive and welcoming philosophies, her crew was comprised of the most self-conscious weirdoes possible. There was Billy Bob Thornton, a weird man who spoke in a monotone and who was in Fargo, there was Samosa Moose-a, a lady of the night who had antlers and served Samosas to her patrons, and, last but not least, there was Gravy Jones, a half-squid, half-person hybrid who oozed gravy from his mucus-filled pores when he was upset.

Captain Schulich felt good about surrounding herself with these wacky, defenseless crewmates, but, deep down, she was full of regret for leaving her original partner, Sue. Captain Schulich was sitting in the captain’s quarters, reminiscing about her past, when Billy Bob Thornton barged in urgently. “What is it?!” she demanded.

“Captain….” Billy Bob muttered, in horror, “The timbers…. They’re shivered.”

Sure enough, the entire ship was trembling, as if it was caught in an earthquake in the middle of the sea.

Captain Schulich ran onto the deck to see what was

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going on. Right by the RVC, from the depths of the ocean erupted a giant stallion of a ship. Its name was written in giant spooky letters on its flank: “Sue-Eats Life On Deck.” At its bow, with seawater streaming down his face, a bottle of rum in his hands, and anger and vengeance infernal in his eyes, stood no other than Sue himself.

Before Schulich could notice, her entire crew had been taken by surprise, and tied down as hostages.

The “Sue-Eats-Life-On-Deck” crewmembers had already infiltrated the RVC. Looking back at her crew, Captain Schulich realised that the infiltrators were no other than the Bourgeois Bullies themselves! She looked back to see a helpless Gravy Jones, trying in vain to spray his attacker with gravy and succeeding only in creating a meaty puddle. Samosa Moose-a was tied by the antlers to a sail, and Billy Bob Thornton, despite all of his internationally-acclaimed acting prowess, wasn’t strong enough to overpower such a strong member of the upper-middle class.

They both skewered themselves on the other’s swords. There was a single moment of absolute silence in which nothing was heard but the calming ocean wave, crashing into the hull of the RVC. Sue, for the first time, looked into Schulich’s eyes, and whispered “Sue’s sorry too.”

Both captains fell to their knees. Schulich, legend has it, managed to utter one last sentence with her dying breath: “I’ll see you in Strathcona.”

“Sue,” Captain Schulich, full of regret, cried out, “I’m so sorry!”

Sue performed a menacing pirouette that launched him in an arc from the deck of his ship and landed in the RVC. It was very impressive. He was wearing the same shoes Schulich had given him so many years earlier. Upon landing, Sue accidentally dropped his bottle of rum. It shattered and splashed all over his shoes, outlining their black and shiny texture.

Silently, Sue took off his shoes, and threw them in disgust at Captain Schulich, returning them to his betrayer. He’d been wanting to do that for a while.

“I’m so sorry I left, I was—”

“SCHULICH! LICK SUE’S LIQUOR-SLICKED SHOES,” Sue bellowed. He was still speaking in the third person.

“Sue, you don’t need to hurt them, they—” Sue simply drew his sword. “It’s either you or them.” He gestured to Schulich to do the same.

Schulich nodded. “If that’s really what you want.”

Artist’s depiction of Schulich right before the artist was shot.

Both captains pulled out their swords, the Bourgeois Bullies and Billy Bob Thornton watching nervously from the sidelines. Schulich braced herself, and both Captains charged at each other, adrenaline pumping through their veins each and every one of their strides until—

An EUS Publication

February 20th, 2017

The Happy Wanderer (#6)

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by Wren Wittier Avast, me hearties!

This month I’ve been sent to experience a Caribbean getaway, courtesy of our sponsor Water-Based Recreation Incorporated, who have just expanded to cruises! They’ve sent your favorite magazine a voucher for a free trip in exchange for a review, and guess which columnist got the lucky honor! I’ve packed my most flowery swimwear and am looking forward to sharing my adventures with you. *** One week into our travels, the crew exhibited an unscheduled piece of theatre. Another ship (I assume from WBRI headquarters) had been following us for an hour or two, when their crew suddenly swung aboard on ropes and “took over”. How delightful! Most of the guests took off in the lifeboats, probably because their tickets were only valid to this point in the voyage. The new crew waved them off while maintaining some rather uncouth personas. I applauded their theatrical talents, to which they responded by including me in the play! I’m now the head deck-swabber, which on a cruise liner of this size is quite the important task. I do love improv theatre, don’t you, dear readers? *** I must say, this cruise keeps getting better and better. The new crew has deviated from our previous scheduled stops, and we are instead heading to some uncharted ocean in search of, get this, “untold riches”! Those are the new captain’s words, a salty old fellow whose commitment to the role is unquestionable—he even has a real peg leg. Adventure awaits on the horizon friends; I can feel it! *** I never knew industrial rivalry was so vicious! Our ship suffered a brutal attack from what I can only assume was a competing company. Real cannon fire and everything! I myself joined the fracas, and defended myself well.

Alas, our captain was brought down by a stray bullet, and I picked up his cutlass and flintlocks to avenge him. The day was won in the end, and we took the liberty of commandeering the rival ship to add to our little fleet. Having seen my commitment to the company, the crew elected me to lead the rest of the cruise as a new captain! Gosh, WBRI really knows how to treat their guests, eh? *** We sailed to the island the former captain had marked on his charts. There was a big-budget sequence of traps and danger and intense, visually spectacular battle scenes that I won’t bore you with, but, nonetheless, we wrested the island from the savage demon hordes and etc., and now the island is a beautiful non-cursed oasis! I may be speaking too hastily, but I’m sure that WBRI will be establishing this place as a resort island or some such soon. *** Alas, I was needed back at the office, so I bid adieu to the crew, whom I’d bonded with quite deeply, and promised to return to them as soon as I could. They addressed me by the cute nickname I’d come into, “Pirate Lord,” and promised in turn that they would conquer all the seven seas in my name. They really take their themed voyages seriously, and I would highly recommend this cruise line to anyone wanting an ocean vacation.

See you on the high seas!

-The Happy Wanderer

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

Cartoons

by JItika Shah

The Captain had always wanted to be a chef

An EUS Publication

February 20th, 2017

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

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

Activies Page

by Editor’s B*tch

A pirate walks into bar and sits down. The bartender notices that he has a peg leg, a hook for a hand, and a patch over one eye. The pirate orders a beer, and while he’s pouring it the bartender asks “So what’s the story with the leg?”

“Well it were many a year ago,” says the pirate. “I were walkin on the deck a me ship and a rogue wave swept me overboard, and a shark swum up and bit me leg clean off! I swum ashore and were fitted fer a peg leg that very night.”

“That’s terrible,” says the bartender. “What about the hand?”

“Well it were the very next day,” says the pirate. “I were walkin on the deck a me ship and a rogue wave swept me overboard again, and a whale came up and bit me hand clean off! I swum ashore and were fitted fer a hook that very night.”

“Wow,” says the bartender. “So what about the eye?”

“Well it were the very next day,” says the pirate. “I were walkin on the deck a me ship, and I were lookin out fer rogue waves, and a seagull flew over and shit right in me eye!”

“Oh man,” says the bartender. “And that blinded you?”

“Well no,” says the pirate...

Use the letters left over from solving the word search to find out how the pirate lost his eye!

“___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ .”

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