John Hagee has perfected this easily accessible, easily consumed version of Christianity at Cornerstone. He has pared down the commitment, time and energy one needs to devote to religion to the barest minimum. You simply show up at 8:30, 11:00 or 6:30 on Sunday and worship. For a little over an hour, you can cleanse your soul, praise the Lord and find peace. And you don’t need to strain yourself, either. The music is simple. The message is alliterative.
But, with the surge in oil prices and the resultant focus on the Middle East, Cairo and Egypt (along with pre-bombed Beirut) became virtual Meccas of Western culture. And, of course, with the Gucci and the McDonald’s came the fitness clubs. Appearing like empty candy wrappers after a night of THC-induced debauchery, these clubs came complete with ellipticals, aerobics classes and muscle-bound personal trainers. Catering to the Cairene elite, the gyms cover all the bases: massage parlors, multiple steam rooms, kickboxing and hip-hop classes and, of course, the smoothie bar
Princeton’s drug culture is like a moon. Once a month it is full, lustrous and can be seen from all over campus. For some, this metaphorical moon is perpetually full and bright while for others the sky above is eternally dark.
It was a dark and stormy night in a town that knows how to keep its secrets. The pavement was slick with forgotten promises and the air rank with dissolution and ambiguous morality.
When Ahmed was born those twenty or so years ago, the world was taking a piss. His mother screamed in agony as his overlarge head forced its way out of her vagina. His father, preferring oblivion to the messy, bloody process that is birth, smoked himself retarded outside the whelping chamber.
What happens to your vomit? Which magical little elves comes and clean it up, so when you groan your way out of bed, you don’t step in it on your way to class? The singularly important responsibility of cleaning up vomit belongs not to elves but regular people—the Princeton Grounds and Maintenance Crew.
Over a lunch of pizza bagels, a fan of this very paper was asked to explain the Nass 100. “The Nass 100 is this thing that the Nass does every year where they like list one hundred things they never want to see again and like 33.3% of them are super funny.” Well, we are pleased to announce a full 67 (round up!) percent of this year’s list is top-form humour! Incremental progress, folks.