“Hey Jealousy,” “Mr. Jones,” “Glycerine,” “Stupid Girl.” I could continue forever but alas, I must stop. There are few things more shamefully enjoyable than ’90s pop rock. For some reason, every band in the ’90s seemed to have an incredible propensity for hooks and head-bopping singles. Since-shamed groups like Hootie and the Blowfish and Blues Traveler were topping the charts . legitimately. And there’s still something strangely comforting about seeing the Rock Ballads commercials while flipping through the channels on endless Saturday nights. This doesn’t mean you should play these guys at parties, but don’t be ashamed to get your groove on in your room. Just make sure you’re all alone; believe me, you don’t want anyone seeing you.


We didn’t even know who Tila Tequila was, but who cares? She was making men and women eat bull penis to find her true love. We’re over Flava Flav. Three seasons and still no love? You’re done. After Ms. Tequila, nothing can compete. Whipping, lap dancing on grandparents and one giant bed for everyone to sleep in. Add a show like “I Love New York” and that’s some real television. Squealing girls, midgets who can’t swim and hair pulling? Perfect. “Rock of Love” with Bret Michaels and a stripper butchering the national anthem in front of veterans? Priceless. And if you’re a contestant and lose, don’t fret – you’ll get your own show. “That’s Amore!” gives a Tila reject the chance to watch girls in bikinis wrestle in pools of spaghetti. It’s win-win: no one finds love, everyone cries and we watch the “real life” drama. Oh, America.


After several stolen coats, innumerable blackout nights, a shot glass thrown at my head and 45-minute lines, you would think I’d be over this place. Maybe it’s the shark bowls (if you’ve never had one, you’ve never had a real Thursday night,) maybe it’s watching the leaders of campus’s most visible student groups get so drunk they can’t stand or maybe it’s just because we finally respect ourselves too much to party at Pike. Every Friday morning we repent, every Thursday night we return. Fuck you, Rick’s.


We hate Britney Spears. We really, really hate Britney Spears. But for some reason, we love reading about her, probably because her life story is more enthralling than anything Tom Clancy has ever written. And, there’s no better place to read about Britney’s crazed escapades than TMZ.com: the American equivalent of the British paparazzi that killed Princess Diana. And we really, really like dangerous, hounding paparazzi. Drunken driving, infidelity and underage, celebrity drinking – what could be better?

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