In these uncertain times of almost 50% of marriages ending in death, it can be easy for some to lose faith in the sanctity of divorce. Luckily, hope springs eternal. This is especially the case for local fishmonger and ranch dressing enthusiast Rob Fenderman.

Ever since he can remember, Rob has wanted to meet that special someone, start dating, move in together, get married and eventually (provided the time is right) have that marriage implode in a quagmire of misunderstanding, jealousy and pure, searing hatred. However, despite his noble intensions, things have not been easy for this hopeless romantic.

“I just can’t seem to find a woman who is committed enough to share and then split all our belongings in an emotionally and financially costly  divorce,” he said.

Call him a traditionalist, but Rob wants to get divorced the same way his parents did.

“I might be old-fashioned but I just feel like there’s something missing from these newfangled divorces,” he said. “I can still remember the day my mother roused my father from his drunken stupor with a kitchen knife in one hand, legal papers in the other and an insane glare in her eye which said ‘you fucked your secretary’ so loudly that she never had to. That’s what I want for my divorce. Hell, I may even try to do it in the same spot. I’m sentimental like that.”

Social pressures have not been easy for Rob to navigate. Rob admits that he is the last one out of all of his friends and coworkers to get divorced.

“I mean, just the other day while hawking flounder on  the street corner and pounding enough ranch dressing to kill a small water buffalo, I saw a friend who’s been divorced for almost 10 years now,” said Rob. “I could see the soul-crushing weight that an entire decade of alimony and regret had placed upon his now sad, feeble frame and I thought to myself, ‘I want that.’”

Rob, however, is no starry-eyed idealist. He acknowledges that, if he wants to make his divorce work, he’ll have to put in a lot of effort and get a little bit lucky.

“I mean, It’s scary to think that, in the end, fear of being alone might overpower my sheer disgust with every aspect of my wife’s existence, but sometimes those are the risks that you have to take,” he said.

When examining works of art which define an era, one would be remiss to omit “Coco” by O.T. Genesis. In a style that can only be described as Shakespearean, the poet Odis Flores (better known by his pen name O.T. Genesis) relates the simple story of a man and his forbidden, unabiding love of all things cocaine.

In the chorus, which I’m sure will echo through the annals of history, Mr. Genesis confesses his love for “the coco” to the heavens. He then reminisces on the lack of sacrifice and hardship which he endured to be united with his true love, the coco, by saying simply “I got it for the low-low.”

After all, doesn’t everyone wish that they could acquire such love in their own lives for the low-low?

Now, make no mistake, readers. Mr. Genesis is not simply having a fling or casual affair with the coco. He is prepared and willing to support and care for the coco, nationwide baking soda shortage or not.

This solemn vow can be found in another of O.T.’s Homeric verses. In said verse, he defiantly exclaims “I got baking soda, I got baking soda!”

And woe be unto the man who attempts to separate Mr. Genesis from his beloved coco. In a later part of what can only be described as the culmination of art, lyricism and culture, O.T. informs his audience of the dire repercussions for interfering with the love he has for the coco.

He so eloquently warns, “If you snitching, I go loco, hit you with that treinta y ocho.” Truly, there are no limits to the fury which O.T. is willing to unleash upon all those who wish to challenge his union with the coco.

While I am but a humble Backpage journalist, I cannot help but speculate that with lyrical masterpieces such as “Coco,” “Bandz A Make Her Dance” and the simple but aptly named “Brick in yo Face,” we may be given the opportunity to live through a new musical renaissance.

Now I know that you, the dedicated truth seekers and freethinking mavericks who read the Backpage for its pure journalistic integrity, expect nothing less than poignant, hard-hitting news delivered in a professional and objective manner.

However, that is something that I cannot deliver with this week’s article. Instead, I feel compelled to speak about a problem that, for me, is very close to home.

We’ve all seen them. Their gaunt faces, forlorn expressions and hollow, soulless eyes are enough to bring a grown man to tears. It seems that almost every day these Dickensian street urchins congregate (presumably for warmth) on the TKE porch.

Without even a stitch of shirt to shield their Adonis bodies from the harsh winter elements, these are individuals that Whitman and the rest of the world have forsaken. That is, until the “Tops for Tekes” charity was formed.

Now, thanks to the efforts of tireless volunteers and generous donations, it is estimated that almost 30 percent of the TKE house currently possess shirts while an additional 15 percent have access to a shirt or bro tank. Though this progress is substantial, I dream of a February that sees a shirt on every Teke.

Some say I’m a dreamer, an idealist with unreachable goals. To these people, I respond that I go to Whitman college, where economic inequality is solved with a symposium, sexual assault is prevented by a green circle and a society completely free of fossil fuel dependency is only a sarcastic wedding or two away.

Surely the dream of a shirt-filled TKE cannot be that far away. But I digress.

A shirtful TKE is impossible without your help, dear reader. For only 20 cents a day, you can personally clothe one Teke in need. Or if volunteer work is more your style, you can teach a seminar on proper and safe shirt use or administer shirts to Tekes in need personally.

So let’s all band together in the hope that cruel winter winds will lash the chiseled abs of my peers no longer.

I’d like to preface this article by stating that I, as a responsible and productive member of society, am rarely prone to the sort of excess described in the following piece. But sometimes, duty calls. And called it did on one dark Saturday eve.

I had heard rumors of the so-called “drinking culture” and its prevalence at Whitman, and I, being the dedicated journalist that I am, decided to investigate. However, such an endeavor would surely prove to be hazardous to both my health and outstanding moral compass. That is why I enlisted the help of my good friend and world-renowned Voodoo priest Reid “Leopard Skull” Watson to navigate the perils of Whitman’s drinking scene with me. We met in Reid’s modest Coho mud hut at quarter to 10.

Reid, an aspiring comedic actor with the misfortune of having acquired a taste for pre-med classes, had just returned from play practice and was in one hell of a mood. We began our foray into Whitman drinking culture by imbibing several beers which claimed to be both natural and light but in actuality were neither. After a respectable amount of the heavy and unnatural beer had been consumed, Reid and I felt a drunken restlessness descend upon us. So we decided to go where all regrettable evenings at Whitman eventually lead: the TKE basement.

We soon found ourselves in a strange netherworld fueled by teenage hormones and Busch Light. Suddenly without warning we were approached by some sort of horrible cow demon. And worse yet, the thing seemed to know Reid. I later realized that we were at an animal-themed party and that the woman in the cow costume was a close friend of Reid’s. However, in that moment, I sensed horrible inescapable danger. And so, to save Reid and me from becoming cud for this terrifying beast, I did the only thing I could.

First, I began making cattle noises to lull the creature into a false sense of security. Then, surmising that the strangely feminine minotaur had an aversion to water, I reached for the closest thing I could find (it happened to be a solo cup full of lukewarm mixed drink) and poured it all over the beast’s head. This did not have the desired effect. Instead of melting into a puddle of demon goo or retreating into the shadows, the lipstick-wearing minotaur became enraged and strangely indignant. At this point I decided that it would be best for me to abandon my companion and seek refuge in the upper reaches of TKE. I made my way up to a friend’s room and valiantly passed out on his couch.

If I have one piece of advice to give from my experience with Whitman drinking culture it is this: Excess often leads to regret, and beware of the minotaur wearing high heels in the TKE basement.

As a man who is no stranger to unemployment, I am honored to unveil the Student Engagement Center’s latest attempt to delay my inevitable move back to my parents’ basement. Finally the Whitman student body and I will be able to learn skills which will be useful to us in the job market of contemporary America like how to froth a mocha and look good in an apron.

I am of course referring to the new pre-barista track available to all Whitman students. Those who choose to pursue a pre-barista degree will find themselves on the fast track to some of the most prestigious Starbucks cafés in the entire country (like the one in which Steve Jobs invented the iPhone while getting a handjob behind an espresso machine).

This is not, however, to say that aspiring Whitman baristas will have it easy. On the contrary, those future coffee vendors among us must undertake a rigorous courseload of classes specifically tailored for soon-to-be baristas. These include: Whatever, Man 101: A Beginner’s Guide to Apathy, Sarcasm 220: It’s Such a Worthwhile Class, Nihilism 307: Who the Fuck Cares?, Nihilism 308: No Really, Who the Fuck Cares? and Beginning Acting (often considered to be the start of some of the most illustrious barista careers).

Yet, in today’s competitive barista market, the right classes alone might not be enough to secure even the most promising young Whitman student a job making lattes. This is why the SEC has recently provided grants for internships at local coffee shops. The newly founded Barista Department (motto: id quod plerumque accidit, or “knowledge is overrated”) is already a roaring success, with many students already switching majors in anticipation of not being able to find a job after college.

Well, it’s a new and challenging world out there for many Whitman graduates. However, with the addition of the pre-barista track, many Whitman students will be able to overcome the uncertainty in the outside world with one simple question: “Is that for here or to go?”

Groundbreaking New Poll Reveals That Winter Break Was “Fine”

Readers, I know that many of you have searched far and wide to learn about the quality of your acquaintances’ winter breaks. Well, look no further! A new study funded by the national organization AAST (Americans Against Small Talk) has found conclusively that winter break was “fine.” As a dedicated member of the press, I felt obligated to investigate further. That is why I met with Chet Barker, world renowned iguana breeder and the brains behind the recent poll.

As I made my way to Chet’s office, I was met with the sweet, sweet smell of success (or possibly iguana semen, I’ve always thought the two had a similar odor).

Backpage: So Chet, I’ve heard you’ve finally unlocked the mysteries behind the quality of everyone’s winter breaks.

Chet:  Indeed I have, but it was by no means easy. Why I had teams of dedicated iguanas working around the clock to accumulate the amount of data that I wanted.

BP: Sounds painstaking.

Chet: Yes, it was. However, in the end my team pulled through to bring the Whitman community this groundbreaking conclusion.

BP: And that would be?

Chet: Almost 70% of those who responded claimed their winter breaks were “fine.” This response dominated our other usual top contenders: “good”, “OK” and “ it’s two o’clock in the morning, why the hell are you in my room?”

BP: Remarkable! So what do you see in the future for Chet Barker?

Chet: I’ve got three words for you my good man: illegal iguana racing.

As the stench of what I am now fairly certain was not success left my nostrils, I pondered my interaction with Chet. While I do dislike the inherent disingenuousness in much of small talk, I also believe that, like many things, there is a time and place for it. So though your winter break may have been “fine,” don’t be afraid to elaborate.

Anti-orgy Manifesto Discovered at Backpage Offices

The following is an anonymous letter sent to the back page by a person identifying him or herself only as the “Walla Walla Watcher”.  Our field analysts tell me it is both a follow up to and an elaboration of a post on the Whitman Encounters website(made on the evening of November 19th). The content of the letter is represented here in its entirety, though in the interest of good taste the description of “a bacchanalian fisting-fest” has been abridged.

Dear sex-crazed alcoholic cretins,

I have lived in Walla Walla of my own volition for almost a year now( which in and of itself is a feat of endurance and a possible sign of my mental instability).  This clearly makes me an expert on all of the social microcosms and intricacies of not only Walla Walla as a whole but Whitman as well.  I also frequent a local Safeway(mostly just to purchase cat food, frown at copies “People” magazine and ponder my squandered youth) where I get to watch Whitman college take a big steaming dump on the proud Walla Wallan culture.  Don’t believe me?  There are now so many frat boys and hipsters threatening the indigenous population of this beautiful town that the annual running of the meth heads has been canceled this year.  But I digress.

I think we all know what the real problem with Whitman is….Orgies!  That’s right, I said it.   We need to stop these administration-sponsored, frat-based bacchanalian fisting-fests as soon as possible.  Why just the other day I heard an unspeakable rumor about Georges Bridges, five lusty co-eds and an ill-fated bowtie.  The incident in question allegedly began when Bridges propositioned a gaggle of drunk Kappas saying that he preferred happy endings over new beginnings any day. He then proceed to….(this part of the letter has been omitted entirely as the first three backpage interns to read it went through complete mental breakdowns and subsequently had to be institutionalized after attempting to claw their own eyes out).

So, when these “students” aren’t going to “college” learning how not to use “quotation marks” like an asshole, they are likely drinking, smoking pot or intertwining themselves in a mass of sweaty writhing, granola-fueled passion.  Nothing could be further from my college experience.  I went to a small college in Kentucky (a state famous for its definitely not bourbon) run by the Amish.  After four years of abstinence, pit toilets and piety I was able to obtain a degree in both quilting and butter churning.  Without my education, I would undoubtedly be unable to keep up with the high level of discourse found on Whitman Encounters (Socrates himself could hardly indicate his interest in getting a blowjob from an internet stranger more eloquently).  Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that, while Whitties occupy their time with occupying each other’s orifices, they should really be studying, barn raising or grinding their teeth in sexual frustration (just as I spent my formative college years).

-Walla Walla Watcher

A fierce rebuttal from “Blackout” Bill Feldiland, president of the DFOC (Drunken Frat Orgy Committee) is reportedly on its way as well as a public denial/apology from George Bridges.  As always, the backpage will have more on this story as it develops.

It has been only three months since militant townies first started making an appearance in Beta’s sacred lands. However, since that time and because of some lightning-fast tactical raids, the townies have managed to gain control of the gravel pit, the rope swing and Kyle Seasly’s guitar. Now, I know what many of you reading at home must be thinking: “Beta is a barren, worthless wasteland. Why should we care?” I was of a similar opinion until I was informed that Beta is one of the leading exporters of PBR, American Spirits, cynicism and many other raw materials upon which Whitman society is built. I traveled to this war-torn region of Whitman Campus on a drunken bender last weekend to analyze the geopolitical landscape further.

The night was dark and cold; however, I was warmed by my dear companion Franzia and the prospect of talking with the leader of the struggling beta regime. I met with  General President Admiral Prime Minister Nathaniel Lack-o-doors in a secure bunker deep within the confines of Beta.

BP:  So, your excellency, does the success of recent townie raids trouble you?

NL: Not in the slightest, by the will of the People of Beta, the old regime will triumph over these petty guerillas.

BP:  Well, that may be true.  However, given the history of atrocities which have occurred under your rule, many are wondering whether these lands might be better off under townie control.

NL:  Nonsense, I have run for my position unopposed for the last fourteen terms, and Beta has done nothing but flourish. Why, just last month mattress burnings reached an all-time low, and our bathrooms have never been more hepatitis free.

I could see that talking to Lack-o-doors would get me nowhere in trying to assess the realities of Beta’s political turmoil. So with a heart full of courage and a liver brimming with cheap wine, I left the security of Lack-o-door’s inner sanctum and ventured deep into townie territory.

It was while urinating on a nearby Subaru that I first came into contact with the townie threat (in the form of an irate, baseball bat-wielding ex-marine). He came out of the darkness and inquired as to what the fuck I thought I was doing and whether or not I wanted to receive a thorough ass kicking. Finding myself embrace the ideals of pacifism with new vigor, I elected to answer neither of the previous two questions and drunkenly sprint across Issacs to safety. Feeling a new appreciation for an un-kicked ass, I reflected upon my experiences that evening. While the future of Beta is uncertain, one thing remains clear: Large, angry townies are never beneficial to one’s health.

The sun was high as the Varsity Whitman Privilege-Checking Team made their way out onto the field (the maintenance costs of which alone could have fed a Somalian family for months as privilege checking Defenseman Ray Johnson later informed me). The team looked quite dapper in their uniforms made from composted tube socks and organic hemp (which legend says was grown by Nelson Mandela and the Dalai Lama for their personal stash). The referee gave an apathetic grunt and the game was on.

Now, let me tell you ladies and gentlemen. Those of you who have never witnessed 12 rich white kids yelling at each other in an open field should really re-evaluate your bucket lists. There were tears shed, blood spit and most importantly, privileges savagely checked. The brutality came as no surprise to this seasoned reporter as Whitman and Whitworth have long had a bitter privilege-checking rivalry(reportedly stemming from an incident wherein a drunken Whitworth player defecated upon a tapestry with George Bridges’ likeness on it). It was a close match but victory was finally ours thanks to power forward and first-year recruit out of Bellevue High Gunther Peterson V.

The seminal moment was in the final quarter with mere seconds to spare. Gunther took stock of his surroundings and, seeing a Whitworth player wearing a shirt with “stand against racism” printed on it, made a bold play which would ultimately win Whitman the finals.

With a gleam in his eye not unlike that of a ravenous wombat stalking its prey, Gunther triumphantly bellowed, “Stand against racism?!?! Do you even realize that there are people here who can’t stand?” Gunther shifted his gaze to the audience and pointed at an elderly woman in a wheelchair. “Are you saying she’s a racist?”

I knew the match was over before the baffled apologies and sobs could be heard from the opposing team.

Later that evening I met up with our team at the privilege-checking house (which has recently been moved to a more modest cardboard box under I-12). Gunther was there and in quite a state, but I could hardly blame him. That eco-friendly alpaca wine has a way of putting a fellow on his ass. After watching Gunther writhe amongst the broken glass, used hypodermic needles and adoring fans for a few moments, I decided to conduct my interview with the slightly more lucid privilege-checking Captain Todd Phillips. Now Todd, as I soon found out, is a man of few, but poignant and often alpaca-wine-drenched words. I inquired about the source of the team’s success and was met with a response I won’t soon forget: “Well, we really all just blaaaaaaaach.”

As Todd redistributed the wealth in his stomach all over two unsuspecting homeless men, I reflected upon what I had seen that day. Love it or hate it, Privilege checking is fast becoming a cultural fixture at Whitman College, and as Todd so eloquently put it, “At least it’s better than debate.”