A typical Whitman weekend night consists of the following: hitting up the Taqueria with pals, deciding whether or not to go out for 40 minutes, getting ready and drinking cement mixers, staying out from 10 to midnight and then going to bed immediately. The Whitman population spends half of the next day complaining about a hangover that they incurred from the four-to-five drinks 35 percent of us had.

Let’s be honest, we only see the “party-going” population of Whitman for two hours each weekend night, and that’s only if you go out twice (which is a rarity).  Whenever someone claims “Whitman goes hard,” they’re probably talking about Beta or making a joke about Phi. But now more than just the need for a “good night’s sleep” has gotten in the way of the general social midnight curfew: the Walla Walla Police Department.

For years, the WWPD has been paid off through a sneaky budget trick designed by President Jorge Ponts that sends $40,000 Turkish lira their way each year (the department organizes semi-annual trips to Istanbul). This agreement allows Whitman students to drink, urinate and fornicate wherever they please and only be given a mild warning by Whitman security (the adults, not the students who are just glorified light-switchers).

But thanks to Ponts’ imminent departure, the Walla Walla Police Department has begun cracking down on Whitman’s party scene (or joke of one) as a warning to the next president to continue the PD’s getaways to the Blue Mosque and Mavi flagship store (WWPD was voted “most stylish Police Department in Eastern Washington” for the last 10 years).

Last weekend the fashionable fuzz showed up at a party at a house known around campus only as “The Best Western 69.” As to why the residents decided to call it that, I have no idea. After a knock on the door, the entire house, which was hosting a women’s fraternity post-initiative event, immediately hushed. One person who was over 21 muttered next to me, “Does being caught drinking in a private residence automatically go on my LinkedIn profile?” I answered in the affirmative and moved in closer to investigate.

The residents of the house were talking to the police on the porch. They agreed that one student needed to get a MIP (Minor in Possession — of alcohol in this case), which would be expunged from his record in 30 days after never testing his urine. Why? To frighten the kids into running away from the party at 10:40 p.m. and to show the new president of Whitman that the WWPD means business.

The police and residents chose Trevor Hueis, a theatre major, who blew a .02 after he had been acting smashed the entire night as an excuse to hit on sophomore Kappas.

I talked to one officer before the staged MIP and breathalyzing took place.

“Sure, we have real work to do, but it’s so funny to see you guys try and party. Whitman parties — where smart kids go to get stupid, and stupid kids try and sound smart. Some guy was making a mess of Sartre’s philosophy when I walked in. I almost tased him on the spot, but then I thought about the deals at the Grand Bazaar. You’re lucky I can haggle like a boss,” said the officer, who preferred to remain anonymous.

After the MIP was issued, kids bolted away from the party liked scared rabbits infected with scary juice. The deed was done, except for a few hangers-on. One resident of the house, Dick Dessmind, went around benignly shouting at people to leave, offering them candy and trinkets if they did. The WWPD had made its mark.

Sophomore Enivronment Studies major Billy Fernandez could barely believe his eyes when he walked into the library for the first time this semester. A self-declared “total dead-head, bro,” he immediately knew that the balloons hovering over the library walkway were no mere publicity stunt. “Sherlock was my drug dealer’s name in Seattle! He had all the hook-ups, from Special K to Ibogaine! He never mentioned any nitrous, though!”

Indeed, inside sources from inside the very insides of the insidious administration (we’re talkin’ insides, people) confirm that the balloons are not filled with helium, but with the dissociate nitrous oxide. Only a few people have tried getting high off the balloons so far, but hopefully this article will encourage the collective body not to wait until Camp Whitman to kill some brain cells.

Dear Backpage,

I feel like a dolphin caught in a six-pack ring. Thank Oceanus I have you guys. Anyway, this girl I’m into acts like I don’t even exist. We were partners in Encounters when we discussed Sartre, so I know she at least knows that. What should I do to get her to notice me? Plz halp.

Advicereciever69

Dear Advice Reciever69,

This is a classic case, one that actually dates to the OG couple: Adam and Eve. As we all know, those two rascals were the first humans, but Eve really wasn’t that interested in Adam. But hey, this was 4,000 years ago. Some revisionist writers have tried to claim that Eve was created “for Adam,” but that’s not what really happened. I learned this all by going through the Whitman Archives. Here’s how Adam got Eve’s attention:

Adam, being a typical heteronormative man, had a big crush on Eve. God had yet to tell Adam that gender was a spectrum. Adam fawned over Eve day and night, but she never even noticed his goat-like body among the trees of the beautiful and bountiful garden.

This was because Eve was a strong independent woman, and didn’t need a man to thrive. She preferred the company of mongooses and meerkats, and she got to know them all very well (not biblically of course!). She would gallivant with her furry pals and gather all the acorns in the garden and make a blazing fire to roast them by at night. This later served as inspiration for the hit television show “Meerkat Manor.” Adam, on the other hand, was stuck hanging out with toads in the swamp, eating over-ripe plantains and singing songs that hadn’t even been written yet. “One is the loneliest number,” he wept. All the toads could do was ribbit. But secretly they were laughing. “What a loser!” they spoke in their secret language that only amphibians could understand. His story would inspire the novel, “The Wind in the Willows.”

Adam realized he needed a plan. Unfortunately for Adam, it wasn’t Plan B. He was sick of his toad pals. First, he tried poetry.

“I am the lord’s ugliest creation — compared to thee. I was made in God’s image, to be sure. But you make God look like my toad pals’ feces after they have too many flies.”

Eve wasn’t impressed.

“Don’t talk about poop when trying to woo a woman. This is day-one stuff, kid.”

Adam thought to himself, “It was actually the first day a few days ago,” but kept that to himself. Next, Adam tried to get super buff to impress Eve. He harvested creatine from the roots of the tallest tree in the forest and drank whey and ox milk right when he got up. One morning, he tried to steal eggs from the chickens who lived in Eden in order to ingest them raw. Adam then ralphed more than Kappas yak in Beta’s urinals, which is quite a bit. He even invented the wheel and flipped it on Eden’s version of Ankeny. He invented American football and made himself the quarterback, which made him look pretty cool, until a bear playing the position of defensive lineman nearly bit Adam’s gonads off in the bottom of a literal doggy pile. Eve and her furry friends just dismissed him as “dumb meathead TKE” (or at least the biblical version of that phrase).

Adam was flabbergasted. He had tried being sensitive and being buff. Was there no winning the woman he wanted?

In the end, Adam never won over Eve. It took them both eating the forbidden fruit and Eve losing all her mongoose friends to warm up to Adam.

Under cover of darkness, on the bottom floor of a dank and poorly lit parking structure, I met a man who referred to himself only as “Cleveland Steamer.” He was an old friend and occasional informant who worked for the federal government and did not like to be called at his office. What he revealed to me blew me away.

“[Whitman College President Jorge] Ponts is going to make a move,” Steamer revealed. “The trustees are sick of all the protests. Oh, and Maclachlan’s family is dropping the murder charges.”

I was aghast. “How is that possible? There were multiple witnesses! I was one of them. And what type of move? I smell something fishy.”

“That’s because I work as a fishmonger for my second job. But that’s beside the point. You need to be prepared to write on this. All the protests on campus have the trustees grumbling. This doesn’t look good for Whitman. Plus the newspaper you work for just compared Whitman to Grinnell. Bad move.”

I grimaced. “This is worse then when Whitman elected to remove “The Odyssey”from Encounters.”

Steamer just looked the other way, and admitted, “It is.” He then handed me a folder full of receipts and papers.

Back at my office, I went through the file. They were all from the federal government. Various military contracts, but most of the documents were censored, except for one order: something called a M1 Abrams. I had no idea what that was and I was too lazy to Google it. Another paper was a letter from the Committee to Re-Elect Ponts, addressed to something called the 1033 program, where they demanded various surplus military gear to fight “hippy-communist anti-gluten activities on campus.” The committee even claimed they had uncovered a plot to blow up the Walla Walla bread company — which I half believed. Because the students’ parents were paying an absurd amount of money for tuition, Ponts could only give them a slap on the wrist, but the committee wanted to take more preventative measures.

The next day, there was another protest in front of Memorial Hall. As usual, I deemed it “politically correct posturing by people without real politics.” This time, the ceremony was a “Dairy Divestment Deluge.” I looked around to make a boob joke but then thought better of it. The Triple-D combined various tactics from previous protests. The ceremony started with two students, both male,  who were married and completely covered in goat cheese, representing Whitman’s refusal to divest from farms that PETA has deemed “somewhere Paris Hilton would not hang out.”

The newlyweds then rolled around in a giant bed of kale and created a salad for the hungry protesters, which was delicious. Then, sorority freshman were forced to drink a gallon of milk in under an hour, and vomited on the steps. This represented Whitman’s gluttonous attitude toward financial aid. Finally, just as the protesters were about to sacrifice a cow, “Apocalypse Now” style, which represented Whitman’s lack of Hindu culture on campus, I heard a giant blast in the distance. Ponts had made his move.

It was the Board of Trustees, equipped via the federal government with surplus military gear through the 1033 program. It possessed a tank, M-16s, and multiple “Fisher-Price Power-Wheels.” The tank read “M1-Abrams” on the front.

I slapped my head into my hands  and thought, “That was obvious. I should have at least Googled it.”

Ponts, popping out of the tank’s hatch, held up a megaphone: “Tanks for vomiting on my favorite building.”

The leaders of the protest cowered in fear. He not only possessed military equipment, but also terrible jokes.

“Disperse!” Ponts demanded.

The protesters held their ground, except for a few who claimed they were “really busy” and had to get to the library to “check their Facebook.”

Ponts fired a warning shot over the protesters’ heads, which struck the clock tower and caused cement blocks to rain down on the protestors. Three were killed instantly and 14 were injured.

“That was your warning,” uttered Ponts. The protesters scattered, if they could even  move. As way of apology, Ponts had gluten-free vegan cookies sent to the library.

As I munched on a chocolate chip one, I figured, “All’s well that ends well.”

Illustration by Lya Hernandez.

Darkness washed down upon the London streets like rain — it was also raining, too, if that was unclear. I mean it was London, it rains all the time there. No wonder the Brits colonized half the world. I would want to get away, too.

But it was also dark, probably because of the location of the sun or something sciencey like that. But science meant little to our heroes as they “accidentally” met under a Soho underpass just as the clock struck midnight. “Dong… Dong…” went the clock 10 or 1 times — I can’t remember. And one could barely hear the sound of the wheels of an automatic wheelchair wheeling like a spinning wheel on the pavement, but I assure you, the sound existed.

Existing, and also waiting at the same time, was a slightly chubby and older version of a hero to many.

“Too many annoying people. Would they just leave me alone!” muttered the man with the slight pudge in his belly, breaking the third wall.

The man was Mark Hamill. He had gotten in a car crash on his way to speak at a comic convention about Star Wars VII. In other words, his land speeder had broken down, and his robot pal was nowhere in sight to fix it… yet. He ha.

“Who are you talking to?” echoed a deep voice beneath an underpass about 50 meters in front of Hamill, “and why are you out here in the rain all alone?”

“Ben?” muttered Hamill, ironically. He knew Alec Guinness’ ghost didn’t hang out in Soho. Hamill began to make out an outline of an automatic wheelchair and could hear its wheels wheeling away. A shiver ran down Hamill’s spine.

“Are you a member of Les Assassins en Fauteuils Roulants? I know how dangerous you are, but I’m dangerous too!” he said.

“No, I’m not a member of the wheelchair assassins, Mark Hamill,” boomed the voice again as it slowly made its way toward Hamill. “I’m not even Canadian! I’m English.”

Hamill took one look and instantly recognized Christopher Reeves.

“But… But… You’re dead… And your voice sounds American,” breathed Hamill breathlessly.

“I’m not you, Reeves, you wanker! It’s me, Stephen Hawking.”

Hamill took a step back as Hawking emerged from the darkness and into the dim light of a street lamp.

“Stephen Hawking. But you don’t have a large booming voice,” he said.

“Indeed, I don’t. That’s my assistant Craig. He does all my voices for me, so I don’t have to sound like a robot.” An anonymous figure emerged from behind Hawking and waved. “We’re connected telepathically, you see, a device of my own invention. I’m the brain, and Craig is the voice and the brawn. But I’m in need of a new assistant now. I had Craig cut the brakes of your car, and we estimated you would crash around here. Let me cut to the chase. Craig here is getting married, and I need a assistant. I’ve seen your work on Batman the Animated series, and of course everyone knows Luke Skywalker’s skill with a lightsaber.”

“…is that sex joke?” interjected Hamill.

“You’re accusing me of having a sense of humor — come on, good lad. I just crashed your car in attempt to recruit you. The world needs saving my friend. Look around. Global Warming.The Islamic State. Putin. I feel as if our combined brain and manpower could finally bring these crises to end and finally define whether the Islamic State is ISIS or ISIL.”

Hamill began to think. His career had become a bit spaced out lately.

“Heck, I could use the gig. Let’s do this, Hawking.”

Eric Idle and his daughter Lily Idle ’13. Photos by Halley McCormick.

The Pioneer: Do you ever sign body parts?

Eric Idle: Only if they’re dead. I don’t like to sign living body parts … What made you say that?

Pio: To me, it seems that celebrities are always signing body parts.

Eric: I’m not really a celebrity; I’m just vestigially left over from doing stuff from before. (Laughs.) I try to not to be a celebrity as much as possible.

Pio: Do you want to give us an idea for what your commencement speech is going to be about?

Eric: No! (Laughs.) I’ll write it next week. I’m finding out the logistics and see[ing] what’s going on. After that I’ll concentrate on it. I’ve never written one before, I’ve never been to one. I have no idea what they’re about…

Pio: Neither have I.

Eric: At least you’re American.

Pio: They don’t have those in England?

Eric: At Cambridge, you have to kiss the vice-chancellor’s fingers. But I missed out on that, ’cause I was doing a matinee. I don’t want to kiss a strange man’s fingers anyway. Only graduations I’ve been to [are Lily’s] kindergarten, junior school and high school. I gave the same speech at all three.

Pio: What was that speech?

Eric: Avoid strange body parts. (Laughs.)

Pio: Perhaps I should talk about cricket.

Eric: I get a degree for this, you know. It’s rather nice of them to do that.

Pio: What are your favorite memories growing up with each other?

Lily Idle: I think that I have a lot of fun memories of the pirate filming.

Eric: She was about this high and we were filming with Leslie Nielsen. We were filming it for Sea World and Busch Gardens; I believe it was called “Pirates 4D.”

Lily: We pranked this guy at the amusement park, too. They were taking volunteers at the amusement park as sort of this interactive thing, volunteer to throw confetti on. We had practiced our timing, so we would count “one, two, three” and I would duck. [And it would go into the audience.]

Eric: Filming a pirate film is always good fun, with ships and indecent clothing.

Pio: What’s your favorite piece of clothing to wear on film?

Eric: Nightgown, toga. Something Roman or Greek.

Lily: You’ve worn a lot of costumes.

Eric: There’s nothing that I haven’t worn. It’s insane. My life has been wasted getting into other people’s clothing.

Pio: What do you think about modern comedy? “South Park” is said to be influenced by Monty Python.

Eric: I don’t like animation. I hate animation, actually. I interviewed Matt [Stone] and Trey [Parker], actually, and I got to ask them questions. I love them deeply because they appeared dressed as J-Lo and someone else [who had worn the same scandalous dresses the year before at the Oscars]. They confessed they were on acid. (Laughs.) They said it was so funny until they got to the Academy Awards. Then they realized they were in full drag. It took them a half an hour to get out of the car. (Laughs.) They’re very good; I like those boys a lot.

I don’t necessarily know much about comedy, I don’t spend a lot of time watching it. Mainly because all my life for about 50 years I’ve had comedy. When we’re here, I like to go see the boys and girls. What are they called?

Lily: Varsity Nordic.

Pio: Did you do a lot of writing early on in your career?

Eric: I still do. It’s about writing for me. Not very fond of improv.

Pio: What advice would you give for writing comedy?

Eric: It’s fun writing, but the secret of writing is rewriting. Throw away and refine, get it down. Then, of course, you have to try it out on people. It’s about the audience and people reading it. Even if you’ve written something for print, I think it’s good to try [it] out on someone because it changes. You can think it’s hilarious and they can tell you it’s not. (Laughs.) And it’s better to find that out sooner rather than later. That would be my only tip.

I got locked into a tradition [at Cambridge] of doing comedy. When we graduated, we were grabbed right into television. I was grabbed straight into the practice of writing comedy. It was all writing and performing. You wrote something in order for you to perform it. There’s no gap between the writer and the performer, which is what I think makes [Monty] Python unique. Five or six people who write Python and five or six who act it. That’s what makes it unique.

Pio: Lily, how do you feel about your dad giving your commencement speech?

Lily: I’m really excited. My friend Tasha, her dad was the speaker at her graduation; I was always very envious. I didn’t know how to go about it: “Hi, we should have my dad be the speaker.” Way better than past years.

Eric: I said I would, but I had to ask her first, because it’s not my day, it’s her day. I didn’t want to be big Mr. Ego walking around. But then they said, “You know, you could give her her diploma,” and I said, “Aw, well, that would be a lifetime experience. I’ll ask Lily and then I’ll get back to you.” I’ve never been to a commencement. Her friend Tasha is Tasha Goldthwait, and her dad is Bobcat Goldthwait and he did a particularly brilliant thing. He just did Oprah’s commencement speech word for word.

Lily: Why, is that [why] you wanted to go to Wellesley-Hampshire college?

Pio: What’s it been like having Eric Idle be your dad? Has it changed from childhood to Whitman?

Lily: It’s been interesting, to say the least. Family gatherings and things were strange. (Laughs.) During the teen panic years I felt a little overshadowed. Then I realized my friends were friends for me, and if anyone has any ulterior motives then they’re not really worth my time. It’s been fun, an adventure. High school with “Spamalot” was a unique experience. I would go hang out backstage.

Eric: One of the reasons we moved to L.A. in the first place [was] so that it was no big deal that I was in show business. We decided if we move[d] to L.A., then everyone in one way or another was involved in it.

It worked out, it wasn’t a big deal. Don’t want to turn into mini-me.

Lily: All he said my entire life was, “Don’t act, don’t act, stay away from show business. It’s the worst.”

Eric: It’s good advice.

Lily: Going to a set, I would be like, “This is so cool, maybe I should do this.” He would say, “No, no.”

Pio: When was the last time you were interviewed by a college newspaper?

Eric: I don’t know, you get interviewed when you’re out promoting something. So, I guess … We went on tour in 2003, so that’s when we talk[ed] to them.

Pio: What was your favorite Monty Python film to work on?

Eric: I don’t think there was one.

Lily: If it was a movie, he probably didn’t like it.

Eric: I hate movies. They’re so boring. So tedious.

Pio: You preferred “Flying Circus”?

Eric: I liked doing live things, and with the Circus we had a live audience. I like doing live things and plays. You can perfect the laugh or extend the laugh, you can get them on a roll. Versus improv, which I hate. Put it all together. They’re more vignettes. Improv makes me slightly anxious because I feel for them.

Pio: Final thoughts?

Eric: I get to be the first doctor in the family [because of the honorary degree they’re giving me].

Lily: I think “always look on the bright side of life” is a good motto.

Last night, on the last production night of the year, the Backpage finally thwarted communism once and for all. Assisted by CIA agents and various members of a dogfighting ring, the Backpage staff members successfully staged a coup against the left-leaning “communist” senior Rachel Alexander and installed junior Shelly Le as the new “editor-in-chief” of The Pioneer. The members began to plan the coup after Rachel proposed “land reform” in the Pio office during an all-staff meeting.

“I don’t even know what that means,” commented sophomore Tabor Martinsen, “and I certainly can’t make a top three list about it.”

Tensions grew as Alexander refused to buy members of the Backpage pizza and beer whenever they wanted. That’s when rumors began to circulate that Alexander was a dirty commie bastard. She denied these claims almost instantly.

“Yes, I am a communist. I am a feminist politics major at a small liberal arts school. Is that weird or something? Half this campus is communist.” Backpage editor sophomore Kyle Seasly began to collaborate with members of the CIA and informed them that a leftover KGB agent could be posing as a 22-year-old woman. The CIA informed Seasly that was impossible, but decided to help overthrow Alexander anyway. At midnight on May 1, the coup began.

Unfortunately, Seasly was run over by a tractor in the crossfire.

“It was certainly a tragedy, what happened to Kyle,” commented Backpage writer junior Tristan Gavin. “That’s why I’m going to be writing a comedy about it in the fall.”

The reasons behind the coup became clear in an exclusive Skype interview with President Barack Obama and Vice President Joe Biden.

Biden stated, “Alexander was a communist, plain and simple. Le, Le will be good. She’s much more stable, and simply not a communist.”

The head of the CIA assistance operation to overthrow Alexander was a man whose codename was “Brett Lerooo.” He declined to comment.

Illustration by Emily Jones

Everyone knows what “4/20” means. And on Saturday, it had a very interesting twist … a keg sneak! Indeed, as everyone knows, 4/20 was the start of the fad that is “Humans vs. Zombies.” The Human team, forever in watch of their zombie counterparts, gathered in an off-campus house dubbed “Humanity’s Last Hope” with the goal of finishing off a keg before the zombies showed up. As soon as the game began, the post on the HvZ forum read: “The sneak is on, zombies!”

Tristan Gavin, a former baseball player, commented, “When I used to play baseball, I thought those guys were pretty big nerds. Now I’m starting to realize—the human side at least—can really party.” Off in the distance an occasional “NERD!” was heard, but at that moment the humans were having their day. And they got drunk. Really drunk.

“It was pretty ironic because then they started getting really drunk and they were the ones acting like zombies. Ironic, right? Guys?” commented English major Bill Seymour.

The Human side had lost control. Some who were unaccustomed to drinking beer began to vomit in the corner; others began to howl at the moon as if they were turning into werewolves. They needed to be reminded that they weren’t that type of nerd. The humans, however, had forgotten that zombies can smell beer vomit from up to three kilometers away.

“It was a classic mistake—nerds drinking too much and attracting zombies all in an attempt to be cool. They should have just stayed in North!” commented Zombie expert Blair Frank.

The Zombies showed up and it was all but over for the humans. Some managed to clutch their stomachs and run away, but others were turned into zombies instantly.

“Pretty horrifying watching that,” commented expert Zombie-watcher Frank Blair. “I haven’t seen a massacre like that since ’81, and that wasn’t as nasty as this.”

The Zombies had triumphed and they finished off the keg the Humans had only managed to drink 12 beers out of, despite their number being 42.

“Finish off the wounded soldiers!” commented Head Zombie Bill Husky, implying to finish all the half-drunken beers lying around “Humanity’s Last Hope.” In an exclusive interview with the Backpage, Husky only commented: “Zombies know how to party; humans don’t.”

All around campus we see posters: “Go to see this mediocre artist who’s not FIDLAR (who the mutha-fuckin gangsta squad is that?) WEB has brought in! Check out this talk that looks vaguely interesting about birds riding on top of various felines.” Yet, there is still a myriad of confusion that is growing among Whitman students. Joseph Ratzinger, an exchange student from Vatican City, posed the question that many are asking: “Jesus Christ, what the hell is divestment and why should I give a poop?”

Indeed, in a recent survey conducted with a grant from Whitman President George Washington Towers, it turned out that 98 to 99 percent of students not involved with ASWC “don’t really give a shit about divestment.” (It was one of the answers they could click, seriously, folks.)

“Why should I care about modern events? It’s actually probably best if people don’t pay attention to them,” noted Ratzinger.

“I think divestment is an old wooden ship,” noted sophomore Buzz Jacobson, quoting a movie that’s 10 years old, and bringing hilarity to all. “It’s like divestment is a word in Spanish … and I don’t speak Spanish!”

Some senior members of ASWC have even grown cynical.

“I just honestly care more about Beta these days than some big word that’s on some posters and has hearings. How come that word gets hearings? I want other words to get hearings, like ‘octopus’ and ‘crawfish,’” commented junior John Zacharyson, working on his marine biology homework. “Wouldn’t you go to an octopus hearing? I mean, free calamari at the end after we decide it’s a witch, right?”

As this reporter was confused and bemuddled by all the references to old movies, he came to his own conclusion, and sat down and decided to watch “Happy Gilmore.” I noted to myself, “If not caring is cool, then call me Miles Davis.”

I’m sick of hearing it around campus, “He’s cool … I mean, she/he is a virgin.” These people are so uninformed. Obviously these kinds of ingrates do not realize that virgins are not people, people.

If you have paid any attention to the Whitman Pioneer Website, any article mentioning boobs, sex or poop has always hit the top of the charts. Why? Because that is what our lives revolve around.

Darwin once said, and I’m paraphrasing, “If you’re not bangin’ mad ladies, then you be trifling.” One could even take his argument a step further and say that if you’re still a virgin in this day and age by the age of 12 or 13, you’re not doing your part to participate in society.

It is your duty and obligation to reproduce, and if you don’t … you’re pretty evil. Yes folks, what I’m saying is, being a virgin is a sin.

Let’s state the facts of  our modern-day world: Masturbation is bad for you; that’s why you feel so guilty afterwards. Our Earth is underpopulated and needs more workers. The blonde gene is dying. Lingerie is sexy. If we take all of these into account, the modern male (or female) realizes that to be a human being, we must have sex.

Countless organizations (i.e. the Church) have rallied against sex. They may feed and clothe the poor, but they’re not out in the world doing the important work that everyday people must do, which is bang each others’ brains out.

If you’re still a virgin, then you’re obviously not super hot and probably don’t even have a Twitter (which is ludicrous). Because you’ve chosen a path different from most—and I’m going out a limb here, folks—you’re not a person.

Our culture revolves around sex, and if you don’t participate, that’s cultural (and sexual) suicide for our society. We must unite, and rid the earth of virgins … forever. That’s why WEB is sponsoring a “cuddle muddle”—where we discuss how to get rid of virgins once and for all.

If you’re a virgin, you’re freeloading. You’re not doing your part to populate the earth. Last time I checked, growth is good, and the human race needs to keep populating in order to achieve.