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• a college newspaper that’s actually about college •
Volume 3, Issue 1 9/27/12 - 10/3/12
theblacksheeponline.com @blacksheep_vcu
an open letter to the guy outside of mojo’s wearing cargo cutoffs vcu staff wrote this
Dear Guy Outside of Mojo’s Wearing Cargo Cutoffs, How are you doing? I hope the summer went well for you. I assume your endless days of riding fixies, wearing ironic tshirts from businesses that no longer exist, and debating which Animal Collective solo album is best have been great fun, but unfortunately you must, as we all must, return to campus to continue your education here at VCU. I’m sure your art history degree is coming along great. That being said, we need to have a talk: Hide your balls, dude. Put them away, I don’t want to see them. They’re orchestrating a jailbreak and those nuthuggers are a minimum security prison. I am not a prude. I believe that the human body is a beautiful thing to be admired in all its different forms. Tall, short, thick, thin, dark, pale - they’re all wonderful in their own ways. It’s not even that I have a problem with male nudity; I’ve been in enough locker rooms to not be shocked by guys in various states of undress. No, the problem here is that you and your testicles have thrust me into a situation where the sight of your balls is being forced upon me. I get that shorts are breezy and fun and you’re appropriating something traditionally reserved for women, whatever. You’re dressed like you’re on a float in the Hairy Legs Pride Parade, and what once may have been acceptable shorts are now frayed to the point of Daisy Dukesdom. It’s “Not a Good Look” on the level of Zubaz pants or a throwback Raptors jersey. I mean, shit, I applaud your ironic detachment from fashion, common sense, and modesty. Clearly, you give no fucks, and it shows, from your weird Hitler Youth haircut to your freaky mustache. It takes balls to have your gonads front and center, and the cut of your shorts just draws the eye into them. This was not an accident; I refuse to believe a tragedy on this scale simply just “happened.” This was a deliberate chain of events, all designed to get me to stare in horror at your package. You laid it out on a khaki platter like a bird at Thanksgiving, the centerpiece of a disgusting meal of hipster visuals. It was like a
Best Places to Eat… Late Night
yuppie version of Truck Nutz, and frankly, I’m offended that you would just be so cavalier about your family jewels. So, where do we go from here? Obviously, my life will never be the same, knowing there are some ironic exhibitionists freeballing their way through life and smirking their way to American Apparel. Your lifestyle is obviously vindicated, because you managed to get someone to write over 500 words about how they could totally see the outline of your sack and how pissed it made them. Can’t go back to Mojo’s, because what if we recognize each other? More importantly, what if I recognize your boys again? I liked that bar, but I don’t want to risk another
what’s inside
those nights: Where you Went Wrong
run-in with the outline of your twig and berries. Here is what I propose: If you and your balls are reading this, meet me outside Cabell (in some damn pants, you barbarian) and we can discuss a visitation schedule for the bar, because I think shared custody is the best option here. Also if you want, I can help you pick out some pantaloons that don’t shout HEY LOOK AT MY BALLS to everyone in a ten yard radius. Sincerely, VCU Staff
bartender of the week
Greasy grub just seems to get better as the night goes on.
Blame it on the goose, who got you feelin’ loose.
Kristen from Beach House know that everything little thing is gonna be all right.
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