Michigan State - Issue 2 - 8/29/2013 by The Black Sheep

The Black Sheep

fr e yo e...li u f ke ou the nd fo on ot th bal es lt ide ick wa et lk .

Vol. 9, Issue 2

The College Newspaper That's Actually About College

8/28/13 - 9/4/13

How To: Tell If

Your Professor is D.T.F. BY: Meg Enter It’s a week and a half into the semester, the magical time when you still kid yourself by attending the majority of your classes. As you sit in a dark lecture hall, the kind that makes one forget an outside world with a solar calendar exists, you cast a cursory glance at your not-so-American TA and wonder how much the language barrier would impede your ability to seduce that awkward little fortune cookie out of her ill-fitting designer wear. But then, as the professor is drawing some sort of irrelevant diagram and discussing what you assume has nothing to do with your life or future, you have an epiphany. Why go for silver when you can go for gold? After all, all a TA is really good for is grading homework. Because The Black Sheep always aims to help sexually ambitious students accomplish goals and realize dreams, we’ve put together a guide so you know when your professor is down to fuck. At this great place of higher learning known as Michigan State University, there is the “foreign professor.” The illustrious foreign prof may appear as the dusky and exotic professor. With the foreign professor you’ll actually have to study the material and not your professor’s body language. If the grades are saying no but the eyes are saying yes, invite your them to your local kegger and get those drunk seduction moves working for you. Worst case scenario he or she says “no,” which we’re 64% certain is the same in every language, no matter how sexy they say it. Next is the cantankerous, old professor who was teaching before your second cousin’s older brother was born. We’re not sure why the majority of Caucasian professors are approximately 65 years old, but our best guess is there is some sort of secret society that stows away young, vibrant professors forcing them to live in dark, moist caves until they are overripe and gray for the molding of young minds (Editor’s Note: It’s called grad school). Given the lack of social interaction this group of professors generally experiences, it is really a toss-up in terms of being DTF. If the professor presents him or herself as the type that is starved for any iota of human contact, there is a good chance that your prof is down. Granted, there is a strong possibility you might have to endure a lecture about French structuralism or statistics in the manufacturing world while performing some crazy

monkey fellatio, but hey, there’s your four point. Unfortunately, if the professor has lived outside the social world long enough, any form of socializing or sexual engagement may be perceived as a threat. In this case office hours and doing your homework are your only option, so give up the dream of getting jiggy with it. The last and best type of professor is the drugged out, close-to-apsychotic-break type that captures our hearts once in our college career. This is the most misunderstood type, so gauging the likelihood of sexual intercourse is a difficult task. The psychotic break

may present itself in a stripping-naked-and–screaming-at-students fashion or just a simple uprooting ones life and permanently moving to an underdeveloped town in a foreign country. Of course, deciphering whether or not that hot piece of professor ass wants your D is never black and white and only the most confident of sexual conquistadors should pursue tapping that. So until you’re positive, keep your king cobra in its cage, and ladies, fasten up those lobster traps. If your professor isn’t DTF, you can always just buy the book and a few Adderall the night before the final.

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The Perilous Plight of Freddie Freshman

The Top 10: Spartan tailgating tips

A man’s pursuit of Freedom and Cans.

Freddie Freshman finds himself frolicking freely.

What Would Coach D do?

Keep Up With Us! @BlackSheep_MSU • theblacksheeponline.com

Willie: Uncanned

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Lamention

Word

The sad moment the morning after a hard night of drinking in which one person recalls an embarrassing, forgotten memory to another person. “Rebecca’s lamention of Sandra’s dance floor pee party caused Sandra to lock herself in her room for the rest of Sunday night.”

of the

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The Black Sheep

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A duo of divas, likely to release “Justify My Love to Love You Baby.” Last Week’s Answer: Harvey Milk and Cookies

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The Perilous Plight

of Freddie Freshman By: Garrison Rasmussen

“Where am I?!” exclaimed Freddie alarmingly, “Why is a sultry female softly slumbering nearby?” Freddie was new to Michigan State, not quite accustomed to the normal order of business in the hustle and bustle of East Lansing. Upon waking, moving around, and recalling that his legs were still of some use, he racked his brain, remembering how he got where he was.

granted entry. Clearly noting that Freddie was like a fifteen-year-old on wine coolers, the ushers were in the act of alerting the authorities when Freddie leapt over the barricade like a gazelle and sauntered off toward the sanctuary of Shaw Hall, his dorm. Upon crossing Farm Lane however, he was accosted by none other than Professor Blake.

It was an average day in ISS. Professor Blake tapped on the board, relentlessly recalling his yesteryears around the university. “Why I never!” stated Professor Blake. “You little shits think college is just about drinking and partying, whipped cream parties and staying up until 4:00 a.m. just to eat McDonald’s breakfast! Well there is more and it is my job...” but Professor Blake was unable to finish. At that moment, a tall, dark, and handsome man selflessly began serenading the “Alma Mater” to all who could hear and jeer.

“Mr. Freshman! You were unable to finish my lecture today,” wailed Professor Blake. “This will cost you dearly... three beers to be exact!” and at that moment, the older, mysterious professor precariously pulled his pocketknife from his pants, punctured a pit in light beer, and proceeded to put back drink after drink until his six pack was depleted. “Well come along boy!” stated the professor as he shoved a can into Freddie’s hands. “Don’t let me put away all the liquid glory by myself!”

“Now is my chance to escape,” thought Freddie, as he quickly ducked out, fearing that death by boredom was his fate. It was Friday, but little did he know that perhaps staying in ISS would have been the safer choice. The football stadium was lively as Freddie approached. The night the Western Michigan Broncos were going to receive a beating so bad that PETA would step in the day after and petition against the animal abuse inflicted before the fourth quarter. Freddie had his I.D. ready to enter the game when Stevie Senior ran up to rev a ruckus. “FRESHMAN, IT’S TIME TO GET MESSED UP,” said Stevie forcibly shoving a beer bong down Freddie’s throat. Freddie had heard this was often an occurrence around campus but did not know it would happen quicker than his first sexual experience. How fortunate he was to be christened into Michigan State lore so soon. After consuming a substantial series of shots, liquors, and of course Hamm’s, he stumbled up to the gate to be

“Professor Blake, is college always going to be like this?” asked Freddie innocently, hoping for the right answer. “Of course!” exclaimed Professor Blake, “So long as you go to Michigan State!” At this moment, they entered their first fraternity where an array of waterfall, riding the bus, horse racing, keg stands, and beer pong awaited them. After a while, Freddie had a bit too much fun and the evening turned to a series of flashes, which included shots with Professor Blake, streaking down Shaw Lane, Sharpies attacking his face, Sausage McGriddles at 4:00 a.m. and a plethora of farm animals running through random homes. As Freddie walked home that morning with a sophomore chick who was way out of his league, he recollected his thoughts and new idea bubbled up in his supple mind. “I could get used to this,” thought he, and his walk home was a tad brighter as he knew his Michigan State experience was going to be breathtaking.

First Week of Classes:

Judgmental I-Spy

The

Top

Ten

Spartan Tailgating Tips By: msu staff

Make no mistake—Spartan tailgating is unlike any other form of tailgating known to man. Here are our top tips to make sure you’re prepared for glory. 10.) If you’re a minor, don’t be a moron: Just because you’re a cute girl or a dude with a beard doesn’t mean the ELPD, MSUPD, or Lou Anna K. Simon herself won’t toss you in the drunk tank. Cops aren’t your friends and never will be, so keep your distance. 9.) Shotgun start: This one almost goes without saying, but if you don’t shotgun as soon as you wake up, you’re tailgating wrong. Whether that’s shotgunning a breakfast burrito, beer, coffee, or all three simultaneously into the toilet, it will be the best start to your Saturday. 8.) Keep your tickets safe: We mean safe, not “somewhere in my pants” or “with my girlfriend.” People lose things—you don’t want to be the person who missed Sparty lay a legendary smack down because your tickets are laying in the middle of Gunson St. 7.) Don’t mix alcohols: Remember that time you started with beer, then had some rum and cider, and chased down with vodka? We didn’t think so. Stick with no more than two different alcohols unless you’re looking to vomit and miss the game.

By: Zoë Kremke The first week of classes here at Michigan State means many things to many different people. To some, it’s meeting that English professor with the slammin’ bod; to others it’s an exciting new opportunity to start fresh and better themselves. We know, gross right? To us at The Black Sheep, it’s a time when you can openly and freely judge people on stereotypes and first impressions alone. And if we’re being honest, that’s the best kind of time one can have while sitting in a class you’ve paid way too much money for. Now, you may say, “I could never judge people in my class before I actually get to know them,” but that’s a bunch of suburban Wonderbread holier-thanthou nonsense spoken by a true idiot. After all, this is college. It’s one of the few times in life that you’re entitled to be a pretentious asshole who thinks you’re better than everybody else. It’s not like we’re discriminating against certain people, we judge everybody with equal cruelty and abandon. So get off your high horse, let’s get down to brass tacks and judge some sons of bitches. The best way to begin your thrilling game of Judgmental I-Spy is to find a seat in the lecture hall in which you can view pretty much everybody. For this reason, it’s advised that you sit as far away from the front as humanly possible. Naturally, you’ve already done this as no one has ever gone out of their way to call you an “exemplary student.” From this ideal lookout point it’s time to get down to the people watching. Let’s start out with an easy one, try to spot the one guy you won’t see again until finals week. He’ll be easy to find. Typically these characters are the jock-type — they’ll stand out in the crowd because they’re seven feet tall, decked out in Michigan State gear, and wearing headphones throughout the entire lecture. Notice how they look around at the room as if they have no idea what kind of foreign land they’ve entered, even though they’re graduating this spring. Take a long look, that guy’s not coming to recitation. You won’t have to worry about accidentally

sitting behind him and not being able to see the notes. The next person to spot is Ms. Overenthusiastic. Despite being the one person you want to avoid completely, you’ll need to at least exchange numbers with her for later when you need all the notes for the month of October. She’s going to be sitting in the front. She’ll be dressed up, since the first week of classes is a big deal to her. It’s on par with her Christmas or the day in the not-so-near future when she finally discovers the cure to cancer. Here’s her last tell: she already has her glasses on, because she needs to be able to completely and totally focus, even though you’re just covering class policies. Spotted, in the first row, three seats to the left of center. Your next target to search for is the person you want to sit next to. Granted, sometimes people are more of a pain than it’s worth to actually socialize with. But if, by tragic circumstances, there’s a group project of some sort to complete this semester, you need somebody who’s going to have your back. By that we mean they won’t judge you when you come to the group meetings drunk, and they will accept the fact that neither you nor they will actually do any real work. When you’re looking for the potential buddy, you want someone sitting at the back of the room, like you. Inevitably you will make awkward eye contact. Do not break your gaze first. It’s the only way to guarantee that you will forever be emblazoned in their mind as the person they want to sit by next week. Good work, you sassy Judgmental I-Spy player. You’ve infiltrated their personal comfort zone in the least creepy way, and are on the road to having that “just in case” project buddy. Pretty much everybody else is just a yoga pantwearing clone or a frathole with a backwards snapback; but, fear not, they will be judged in due time by your scathing scrutiny. You have all semester to find reasons not to like people. You’ll need something to kill time in this hourlong lecture. After all, it’s not like you’re actually going to be paying attention anyway.

6.) Clear your game day schedule: Nothing is worse than being stuck at work on a football Saturday. Make sure you keep this in mind when you pick your fall shifts. If a job forces you to miss tailgating, is it really a job you want to have? 5.) Get rowdy, stay loud: U of M already gives our state a bad rep with their “Quietest 100,000 people on Earth.” There is no room for mutes in Spartan Stadium, so yell until you sound like Bob Dylan. 4.) Wear green and white: This should be obvious, but some idiots will come to the tailgate sporting a “jacket” that’s not green. We get it, it gets cold, do what Spartans do and wear layers. Sure, you may have four sleeveless green t-shirts on, but at least you won’t look like an idiot. 3.) Know the fight song: Nothing will make you the most hated person in your section than belting out the wrong words to our fight song. Also, don’t be that guy who boos Zeke if he misses a Frisbee, he’s a damn wonder dog. Above all, be sure you know when to clap, when you raise your fist, and when to yell “first down bitch!” 2.) Don’t be silly, give your cans to Willie: There are a lot of can men who roam the streets of East Lansing on game day, but there is only one Willie. He’s nothing short of a legend, and for the price of a few cans, he will share his wealth of wisdom with you. Be careful though guys, he’s a known lady’s man and will take your girl faster than you can finish your beer.

1.) What would Mark Dantonio do?: Ask yourself this whenever you’re in a game day conundrum. The keg is tapped and everyone is too broke to go out? Trick play! Hit up the liquor cabinet and whip up some delicious jungle juice. A heinous chick is trying to hit on your best friend, who you know has a girlfriend? Give that beast some Spartan Defense. Your buddy and his balls will thank you. Bottom line: you’re a Spartan. Act accordingly.

Around campus Send us your party pics from around campus to pics@theblacksheeponline.com

on the Streets If you were a mermaid would you rather have your top half be a fish or your bottom half? r D-Po, Senio

“Bottom half, gotta avoid the crabs.”

enior Chuck D., S

“Top half, I need to keep this.” (Points to crotch.)

ior Peyser, Sen

“Top half. No fish sex.”

d e n n a c n U : e Willi

By: Meg Enter

East Lansing — the year 2013. Willie the Can Man has faced yet another can return sign reading, “This store does not accept that brand.” What ever happened to just getting hammed on Hamm’s? Willie thought as several of his panhandling, can-collecting competitors began to filter into the oppressive, low-hanging bottle return room. Suddenly, a wiry-haired gentleman no younger than fifty approached Willie, introducing himself as the prospective Dr. Kurt Shorts. Time was not kind to Dr. K. After beating a codeine addiction, he had become an out-of-touch Kroger can return attendant who believed he was a Canology PhD student, as well as a man on a mission to kill the evil, panhandling monsters of EL. “I can get you outta this, ya know,” Dr. K whispered into Willie’s ear. “You help me take care of a few chores around these parts, and I’ll give you the lot of those aluminum dimes back there to return over and over again. You’ll never have to scavenge for a Bud Light Lime-a-Rita can ever again. You’ll be free.” Willie was a quiet man. He was a contrast to the environment of raucous college students that surrounded him. Willie nodded and agreed to take out some of Dr. K’s panhandling enemies in return of a perpetual supply of cans. Willie began the long journey back to the frat house

couch he was sleeping on that night. He started to dream of a reality where noncarbonated beverage cans were redeemable for ten cents in Michigan, and then he began to dream about even better days with his long lost dog, Brunhildo — his only true companion. According to Willie, a nasty local drunk known as Crusty had murdered his most compassionate canine friend after a long night of brown bagging. Willie woke, startled as he felt Dr. K’s heavy, Natty Ice scented breath looming a few inches above his face. “Time to go,” Dr. K spoke with urgency as he shotgunned a beer. They both knew it was time for vengeance. For Dr. K, Crusty held all the power. He was the big boss, the don, the meathead that exploited powerless employees, night after night. For Willie, it was all about Brunhildo. They approached Crusty, who played manager by night shift, fake “ex-military” panhandler by day. Crusty lived up to his name: He had the thinnest crustache around perched upon his wrinkly, thin upper lip. He reeked of dad cologne and pure evil. They met Crusty at the corner of Clippert and Kalamazoo under the pretext of selling him some highgrade dope. There they stood. Crusty spoke in a jovial, childlike manner, detailing his success at “banging that hot

piece of cashier ass that’s always on aisle twelve.” Brunhildo, covered with ticks and filled with rabies from his neglectful past, detected Willie’s impeccable scent and made a dash for his true owner. Immediately Crusty became suspicious, and witnesses claim it was as if that evil bastard stared right through Willie’s glazed eyes and into his dark, cancollecting soul. Willie looked Crusty in his good eye at the exact moment Dr. K whipped off a fake German beard and awaited recognition from Crusty. Simultaneously Crusty, Willie, and Dr. K drew their empty beer bottles and smashed the sharp shards of glass in each other’s directions. Willie and Dr. K impaled Crusty to “accidental” death. As Crusty bled out Willie quietly said, “I like the way you die, boy.”

Unfortunately, Willie and Dr. K’s work was not over. They began launching shards towards Crusty’s fake panhandling cohorts. There was Gina, who pretended to be pregnant and homeless. Then there was Frank, the panhandling guitarist who went home to his wife and kids in a four bedroom, three-story McMansion every night. One after another Willie released his rage and took them out. Willie and Dr. K walked away from the mass wreckage and broken booze bottles. Within a few blocks, Dr. K went down. He was stabbed badly, but spoke in a weak, strained voice, “Willie, go on. Leave me here. I’m not really a doctor.” And with that, Willie left one of his prized bottle caps atop Dr. K’s orange, tattered bottle room safety vest. He said a German prayer as he picked up Brunhildo, and walked away to another time and another place to truly become Willie: Uncanned.

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Dorm Rage How to Party in the Dorms By: Cody Manthei For once, our parents had it right. When it comes to partying in the dorms, the age of hall-wide ragers and door-to-door booze stops is a thing of the past. No longer are we allowed to store a keg in the community shower room and invite everyone to go ape shit. It just doesn’t happen anymore. We hear our mothers, fathers, and that one weird uncle talk about the good old days and we’re forced to think of our dorms now. Now we have to worry about “rounds” and “noise complaints” and “cops being called because the whole hall smelled like the Cannabis Cup.” But we’re still holding out for our Van Wilder, someone who can throw a bash that kicks this campus back a couple of sweet, sweet generations. This is the year that you could fill the shoes of those downright crazy Spartans that walked the halls of your dorm before you were even the sticky accident in your mom’s uterus. It’s time to flip a big finger to Lou Anna K. and just go for it. When this beautiful incident occurs, you’ll need a solid starting point — assemble a crew that you can trust and with an assorted skill set, much like any heist movie. You’ll need some muscle, a classic John Blutarsky. Next you’re going to need someone organized, someone who can keep the shit together. Search for a pre-law student, they’re driven and know the basics in terms of your rights, as long as you keep them sober enough to talk to the cops when they show up. Next, pick up The Distraction (you’ll learn why he’s called that later). Finally, if you can find a small Asian contortionist, they’re usually handy, even if it’s just to impress your guests. Once your team is assembled, it’s time to start constructing a plan. This will take the bulk of the time but it’s the most important part,

because without a well-thought-out strategy, you’ll end up like a U of M student trying to get laid — rejected. Try and get the RA on duty on the payroll. Anyone can be bought out with the right price. Next find the quietest person on your floor (preferably with the biggest room). This will be your safe house if shit hits the fan. Start stocking up your supplies in advance and in small amounts so you’re not thwarted when you carry 56 cases of beer through the front door. Any Willie the Can Man will buy you booze for a little weed and a return on the cans after shit goes down. When the night of the party comes, have stations set up throughout the floor in different rooms providing different vibes for your guests. Have a rage room, a chill room, a blow room, a stripper room, a room to store the dead strippers — there is no limit to the amount of set-ups you can have, so get creative. We’re talking Velcro-inspired, fantasy football, mud wrestling shenanigans. Oh shit, here come the cops! Luckily, you saw this coming, you dog. The music cuts off in every room except for one — the room that belongs to none other than your distraction man. The cops will hear his music blaring at a million decibels and will knock on his door. He opens up to revel a single person, fist pumping with nothing on but a robe and tighty-whities. But he hasn’t been drinking, no. He’s sober as a rock and has nothing in his room but a six pack of Red Bull and some Magnum condoms. What a fucking man. The cops leave, confused as all hell, and the party goes on. It goes all night until the sun comes up and everybody’s room is as

communal as the damn bathrooms up in here. You untangle yourself from the web of women sleeping around you and make your way to room 219. A light knock as you enter to find the quietest dude on your floor reading a book and drinking a cup of coffee, this is your safe house. You fall into the futon and hand him a beer. He’s hesitant but shows a gratifying smile as he cracks the top. “You know,” you say, “I wish I could be more like you.” “Why?” he asks. “Because I think I got herpes from that girl last night.”

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Bartender of the Week Relationship Status: Single Major: Communications Favorite drink: Rumple Minze Favorite shot: Rumple Minze Disgusting drink: Four horsemen You will celebrate Labor Day with what in your right hand?: Bud Light. If a superhero movie were made about you, what would the villain be named?: Sober Man. What college level class are you most qualified to teach?: Gym.

Curt of The Riv Drinking Game

If you could have something named after you when you

die what would it be?: A WWF wrestler. Grossest thing you’ve ever put in your mouth?: Pickled herring. Favorite old school slang term?: “Jive turkey.” “Sexy” celebrity you find disgusting?: Lady Gaga. Good beer or bad wine?: Good beer. Most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done in public?: It wasn’t in public but I farted during sex once. Why should people read The Black Sheep?: I’m in it!

Recipe for disaster

Frat Party Observations

Oven-Baked 50-Cent Pizza

This week you will encounter a phenomenon that primarily happens at the beginning of the school year. There will be hundreds of them, and they will all suck as much as the next one. We’re talking, of course, about frat parties. You will go to them whether you want to or not, and you will smell like expired, Keystone Light-infused sweat for weeks. To cope with the madness, try this game.

Sometimes you really want pizza but can’t justify spending another $10 at Papa John’s for the third time in a week. That’s okay! Here’s a solution: 50-cent Day Old bread from Jimmy John’s and a couple supplies from the kitchen.

What You’ll Need: Beer, a party, and frat bros and sorority sisters to stare at. Number of Players: One (this game is a bit anti-social and creepy.) Level of Intoxication: Varies from house to house.

What You’ll Need: An oven, a loaf of Jimmy John’s Day Old Bread, one jar of your favorite pasta sauce, shredded cheese, veggies (onions or peppers), garlic, oregano, and chicken/pepperoni/sausage/all of the above Cook Time: 20 minutes Fatty Factor: It’s not the best…

How To Play: - Find a place inside a house where you blend in just enough so some kid wearing an obnoxiously fluorescent “FRAT FRAT FRAT” tank won’t approach you. - Get yourself a couple beers so you don’t have to constantly go over to the tub of pneumoniainducing ice water. Now look. Really look at what is happening at this gathering and drink when: - Someone continues to play beer pong with the ball that has been rolling around the same floor the pledges had to piss all over the night before. - A helpless girl is crying for no apparent reason (there will be four or more). - You spot Sperry Topsiders (if they are a

chalky shade of blue or green, finish your beer). - You witness dancing that would have been illegal 30 years ago. - King “Player” and his “princess for the night” won’t stop sucking face. - A girl in the corner on her phone asks, “Lindsey, where are you? Why did you leave?” - A girl comments on how disgusting the bathrooms are (bonus drinks are encouraged if you politely remind her that she’s in a freaking frat, not her grandparents’ lake house). - When a dude comes up and asks, “Who do you know here?” - That one guy—who clearly practiced flippy cup in his garage all summer by himself— wins the third game in a row.

The Game Ends When: The tub runs dry. Then it’s off to the next house!

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Let’s Get Baked: - Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. - Slice your loaf of Day Old to your desired length and open it up so it lays flat. - Layer your toppings on the bread like you would on a pizza, starting with the sauce, the cheese and any chopped vegetables. - If you’re adding any meat on top, cook it if necessary (either on the grill or in a skillet). - Put your meat on top of the pizza bread and sprinkle on some garlic and oregano. - Place the pizza on a pan and into the oven for 10-15 minutes or until the cheese is melted and the bread is crispy. You can basically toss anything onto this bad boy and it’s guaranteed to be delicious. Plus, your bank account will love it.

nomnomnomnom theblacksheeponline.com

The Least-Anticipated 2013 has been a fantastic year for music. With great new releases from Youth Lagoon, Chance The Rapper, Vampire Weekend, Pity Sex, Major Lazer and The World is a Beautiful Place & I am no Longer Afraid to Die, you would hope the final third of this year of our lord has something great in store.

Hall of Fame Big Sean - August 27th Big Sean is a hack who pairs a massive ego with miniscule rhymes. Dude raps like he has a mouth full of wind chimes and his best song has a Nicki Minaj verse on it. Big Sean is on that CyHi level on G.O.O.D Music where you just wonder why the hell Ye’ still keeps him on there, but at least CyHi has “Ray-Ban Vision” and his verse on “So Appalled.” Big Sean’s claim to fame is the phrase “ass quake.” Next time someone tells you that the Detroit mixtape is one of the best albums of 2012, break their jaw. Big Sean thinks his verse on “Control” (which won’t even be on the album) was better than Kendrick’s or Jay Electronica’s because Big Sean is the EXACT type of pompous jackass who would read how much praise someone besides him is getting on a song he’s on, jealous about the pub, then he says he’s better. He’s the guy who not only will jump off the bridge if everyone else is doing it, but he’ll jump off the Ambassador Bridge, claim that it was cooler than everyone else who jumped off the Golden Gate, and say that anyone who disagrees is a hater.

Prediction: Certified Platinum

Speaking of taking a plunge, Big Sean needs to find a void to fall in, never to return to plague us with rhymes as lame as “Now we out in Paris, yeah I'm Perriering / White girls politicking, that's that Sarah Palin.” Every day, nursing home geriatrics take shits hotter than the best Big Sean verse out there. This album is going to absolutely suck, yet will go platinum, making it a commercial success but an absolute waste of musical talent surrounding Sean Michael Anderson. Not even production from arguably the hottest producer out right now in Hit-Boy, who created the beat for “Goldie,” “N***s in Paris,” and “Clique,” can save Big Sean from audibly tripping over his own feet trying to pronounce a word with more than two syllables.

From Here to Now to You Jack Johnson - (September 17th) Everyone listening to this album will be too stoned or too stupid to realize that Jack Johnson is the worst. Every single Jack Johnson song sounds the same. That sentiment gets used often in music, but never has it been quite so apt. Seriously, go put on Jack Johnson Radio on Pandora or something and try to figure out when one song ends and another begins. We’ll wait. Oh you fell asleep already? Sorry about that. We need another Jack Johnson album like we need another Olive Garden. The parallells between the two are eerie. There are already plenty, and they're all perfectly mediocre and should never be utilized by sentient beings, yet there’ll always be someone convinced to go back for the breadsticks. Or something like that. The next album has just about zero chance to be any different. If Jack Johnson suddenly becomes something other than generic shitty stoner guitar music, it would cause a rip in the space-time continuum, letting in massive terrifying, spliffed monsters that would demand all of our couches and all of our Cheetos. If he drops something that’s not bland guitar and soft vocals, we’d be more frightened than impressed. Expect more of the same, unfortunately. Maybe he will just re-release “Banana Pancakes” and stretch it for like 45 minutes. That’s probably better than whatever this will be.

Prediction: Certified OG Kush

Albums of Fall 2013 Unfortunately, you would be wrong, as there is plenty of music scheduled to be released that is sure to be nothing short of an atrocity. Here are the five albums I’m least excited for in the Fall of 2013. By: Noel Purcell

Nothing Was the Same Drake - September 24th

This Is...Icona Pop Icona Pop - September 24th

Untitled Fourth Studio Album

Stupid Drake. He still has that same monotone drawl that lulls you to sleep, and that same boring, lazy flow that makes him perfect in every generic white girl’s sex playlist on Spotify, nestled in between The Weeknd and “Burn” by Usher. The evolution of Drake has been commercial rather than musical, because in the end he is still exactly what he was when Best I Ever Had dropped in 2009: a soft, shitty, whiny fuckboy.

Man, “I Love It” was a fun song for like ten minutes, wasn’t it? It started getting serious play after being featured on episodes of both Snooki & JWoww and Girls, which is as bad of an omen as there is. It was catchy and fun and easy; it was basically the perfect piece of pop music. Then you heard it another fifty times, and after a while a chorus of sorority girls screaming “I DON’T CARE, I LOVE IT!” and hounding you to change the song for three hours haunts your dreams and you wake up in a cold sweat, longing for the days where you could just say “sorry we don’t have the CD burned for it yet.” This is a song whose single release, in various formats, has produced no less than 21 different remixes. 21. Talk about sucking the fat teat of fame dry.

There is no more boring, yet more universally praised album in 2010 than The Suburbs. “But it won a Grammy!” you say as we laugh in your face because using a Grammy as a measuring stick for the merit of a piece of music is like using the 30-inch rims on a guy’s Escalade as a measurement for his dick size. Remember, LMFAO has two Grammy nominations. Cut it out.

Between the overrated, overstated, and wholly underwhelming cryfest that is Take Care and the absolute trainwreck that is “Started From the Bottom” (a song so soft that white bread suburban teenagers sipping bottles of Moet poolside while the maids clean the house took to it like ducks to water) the odds that we end up with anything more than a Charmin Ultra Soft disc’s worth of music is merely wishful thinking. The album covers don’t bode well for this thing not sucking. That shit looks like what you’d get if you told someone to make a Drake album cover specifically designed to make fun of the other Drake album covers. He took the Nas/Biggie/Weezy route of the baby picture and then, in classic Drake fashion, made it the absolute softest and most uncool shit humanly possible, but 17-year old white girls will be all “Oh my god he’s so sensitive, this is what all hip-hop should be” while they finger themselves to pictures of Matthew McConaughey, watch Gilmore Girls, and search Pinterest to design their dream wedding. Drake has officially earned the crown of the lamest rapper on the planet.

Prediction: Certified Double Platinum

Icona Pop is perfectly harmless as a synthpop duo, which is exactly why we’re not anticipating this album’s release. They say they’re trying new things and that it “Won’t be an album of 16 songs like ‘I Love It’,” which is exactly where they are messing up. True, they caught lightning in a bottle, and true Charli XCX (who was the reason “I Love It” was as successful as it was) is not a permanent member of the band, but if you can make quality, catchy pop music, stick to it. In the end they can either end up as a generic one-hit wonder that more or less encapsulated the spring of 2013, try something new and probably fail, or they stick to their strategy make another successful, catchy pop song. They don’t seem to want to do the last one, so this album will be the beginning of perpetual dissatisfaction for the entirety of the life of this band.

Prediction: Silver Record

Arcade Fire - Oct. 29th

Now, there are plenty of reasons one should be anticipating this album. LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy has been in the studio with Arcade Fire, recording them in his DFA studio! Funeral was really good! Win Butler does cool things with his hair! Wrong, oh so wrong. Pouring hype into this album will just leave you utterly disappointed when you hear 22 songs that sound like “We Used to Wait,” causing you to give up all hope in what you used to call indie music. Before you know it you’ll start listening to Lady Gaga religiously. Arcade Fire is the go-to “real” band for faux hipster girls who like to wear Indian headdresses and roll at MGMT concerts. It takes a lot to make Wayne Coyne think you’re an asshole, and these guys found a way. Enjoy what will surely be a universally-panned, yet ultimately completely mediocre piece of profitable “indie” rock, while you pretend you know who Brian Eno is. This album is going to eat a dick.

Prediction: Certified Platinum

The Seek and Find

This bookstore is filled with 10 stacks of fat cash. Can you find them all? Email your answers to seekfind@theblacksheeponline.com - The first three right get a prize!

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