Have you ever seen the movie Waking Life? If not, you should. It’s one of my favorites. Anyway, towards the end of the movie, one of the characters says she’s trying to stop “being an ant.” By “ant,” she’s referring to the autopilot mental state that people often get into.
You know when you’re waiting in line at Coates to give the Aramark employee your Tiger Card? That’s “being an ant.” How often do you think of the moment as a human interaction instead of an obstacle separating your greasy pizza from your growling stomach? You get to the end of the line, give the person your card, say, “Thanks,” and move on. Or maybe you say, “Tiger Bucks, please.” Or maybe you don’t say anything. But either way, you’re probably “being an ant.” I know I am.
But, like the girl in Waking Life, I’m want to stop being an ant. But it’s really hard. This far into the semester, I always find myself working for the weekend. So often, I think, “Alright, it’s Wednesday: only one more day until Friday.” Every week is a to-do list. The more I cross off the list, the closer I get to being able to live. But even the weekend isn’t immune to ant-mode. I can go through the motions just as obliviously as I do during the week.
What the hell! I only get so many days on this planet! How can I waste a single one as a zombie? I can’t! I have to wake up!
The trick is staying awake. I don’t know what it’s like for most people, but for me, every once in awhile, I’ll read a book, hear a song, or watch a movie, and it will wake me up. Perhaps “Do you Realize” by The Flaming Lips is the ultimate wake up song. Actually, on second thought, it might be “Wake Up” by Arcade Fire. But either way, I try not to over-listen to either of those songs because I don’t want them to lose their ability to wake me up. The same goes for movies like Fight Club or It’s a Wonderful Life.
These things make me stop and think about what it means to be alive. For a day or so, I think about the big picture, but as my routine repeats and the workload increases, I lose the time and energy to think like this. I return to autopilot until something wakes me up again.
So, how can I stay awake? I don’t think there’s an easy answer. Maybe I’ll have to do a combination of a bunch of things. I can put “live” at the top of every to do list. I can aimlessly ride my bike to places I’ve never been. I can do a cartwheel in the library—actually, no, I can’t even do a cartwheel in private—I’ll do a summersault in the library. I can play a prank on my roommate. Whatever. The point is that I do stuff that makes me feel alive.
But I think this important for everyone, not just me. As Smashmouth once said, “So much to do, so much to see. So, what’s wrong with taking the backstreets? You’ll never know if you don’t go. You’ll never shine if you don’t glow.” I don’t know if this is even remotely relevant, but I think it’s a strong possibility. Anyway, I declare the next week “Stop Being an Ant Week.” I challenge everyone to try manually navigating through the next week. Start conversations with Aramark employees. If it’s raining, try catching raindrops on your tongue. Finger-paint. Talk about real things with people on upper campus. Stand up for something you believe in. Park your car in the grass (the ticket is cheaper than if you parked in a visitor spot). Make unregurgitated comments in classes. Whatever. Just live the next week like you’re a human. If we work through this together, maybe we can help keep each other awake.
For some reason, ITS sent me an email regarding some problem with Tmail. Apparently, they sent it to a bunch of other people too because over the last four days I’ve received over 30 emails from people I don’t know asking each other to stop sending the emails. But unless they learn to stop hitting the “reply to all” button, this constant chain of annoying emails will continue until the end of the universe. However, the most irritating part of this email chain isn’t the emails themselves; it’s the fact that over half of them are signed with “Sent from my iPhone.” And one even said, “Sent from my iPad.”
By default, these phrases leech themselves onto every email sent from one of the must-have rectangles. While it is technically possible to replace this phrase with a customized signature, let’s face it, these are iPhone users we’re dealing with—they can’t figure out how to do that.
I’ve got nothing against iPhones specifically. (Besides the fact that they’re made in factories with poor working conditions, use Tin from the Congo—earning armed groups an annual $93 million—and they received a Greenpeace rating of 5.1 out of 10 for efforts in minimizing the use of hazardous materials.) Other phones slap their own expressions onto their emails. “Sent from my BlackBerry.” Or “Sent via DROID on Verizon Wireless.” And these phones aren’t made from much better practices either.
But what are the underlying causes of these inbox-infecting sayings? Above all, they’re advertisements. Every email sent with one of these slogans is a little commercial for the product, there to increase sales. However, unlike most advertisements, instead of the corporations paying for the advertisements, the consumers pay for them.
With the advent of Gmail, the problem of spam seemed to disappear. But that’s not true. Instead of receiving advertisements for Viagra and porn, we now receive ads for phones in the form of these slogans. And we’re the ones sending them. These corporations hijack our personal emails for their own benefit.
But that’s not the whole story. As I said before, it is possible to stop sending these or replace them with your own signatures. True, iPhone users can’t figure this out, but what about the others? What’s their excuse?
I think they like having these parasitic footnotes. For some, it’s a way of showing off. It’s like saying, “Yeah, I can afford an iPad.” Or “Look at my Droid. I’m a hip young urbanite.” It’s a vain attempt at individualism through consumerism.
But for others, the slogan functions as an excuse. Since it’s much harder to type on these devices than it is on a proper keyboard, messages often contain more typos. Therefore, the “Sent from my BlackBerry” is like saying “Look, do you know how small these buttons are? Give me a break.”
But whatever the reason is behind these insipid signatures, they’re bullshit and I’m calling for an end to them. If you’re guilty of these, here are eight alternatives. Some I’ve discovered and some I’ve thought of.
“Sent from my iPad…jealous?”
“Sent from my toaster.”
“Sent from my subterranean bunker.”
“Sent from my pink Motorola RAZR.”
“Sent from my computer.”
“Sent from my iPad…while eating caviar…on a yacht.”
“Sent from your iPhone.”
“Sent from your mom’s iPhone.”
This column was submitted via a modified Nintendo64 in the smoking lounge of a class-B zeppelin from an altitude of 67,344 feet above the city of Urbana, Illinois.
The front page of last week’s Trinitonian featured an article called “ASR misses deadline to submit new proposal to trustees.” As the headline explains, the story covered how the Association of Student Representatives failed to submit their proposal to increase the Student Activity Fee in time. Somehow, this was deemed newsworthy. In addition to the story itself, the editorial was also about the so-called story. It made the outrageous claim that the failure was inexcusable.
But I’m excusing it anyway. Not because they “didn’t have enough time to do everything that needed to be done,” as president, Emmalee Bannon put it. (Which is bullshit; if they had enough time to get 200 signatures for the increase and start a whole campus controversy, they had enough time to submit the proposal.) Not because it was ASR’s first year allocating funds. Not because they’re now allocating some of their own portion of the Student Activity Fee to the other student organizations. No, I’m excusing the failure because it doesn’t matter.
On the most obvious level, it doesn’t matter because I’m a second semester Senior. The proposal won’t take effect until Fall of 2012. But even if they’d submitted it on time, they wouldn’t go through until Fall of next year. Either way, I’m not going to be here. (Additionally, assuming the world ends on December 21, 2012—which it will—is it really worth all this work for just a semester?)
But on a more subtle level, it doesn’t matter because nothing ASR does matters. According to their website, last updated in 2009, the most recent policy voted on was the issue of co-ed housing. They voted in favor of it and recommended “Residential Life implement a pilot program of allowing co-ed suites in the Lighter [sic] dormitory for the 2009-2010 academic year.” (I wonder which dorm is the lightest.) Deciding that only homosexual couples should be allowed to room together, Res Life chose to ignore ASR’s support for Trinity’s heterosexual community.
Or take the issue of Sophomore College. When Res Life designated Sophomore College as mandatory, the majority of students opposed the mandate. And for good reason. The mandate effectively segregated every class of the student body. With first-years and Seniors already sectioned off in Lower East campus and off-campus respectively, Juniors were basically put into their own Junior College. Seeing this, ASR voted against it. But again, the university ignored their vote. ASR may be the voice of the student body, but no one’s listening.
Sure, ASR has gotten some initiatives through, such as the removal of Styrofoam from Aramark’s packaging. They also installed the Frisbee golf course. Good for them. But most of the time, what they say doesn’t matter.
But wait a second. I just realized something. This case is an exception. This is the first time they’ve been in charge of allocating funds to student organizations. Although they still have to submit their proposal for approval, the proposal designates the amount of funding given to each organization. That’s one of the few things that can’t be ignored. So, in this case, their failure’s not just inexcusable, it’s super inexcusable.
Without the increased Student Activity Fee, student organizations will continue to be underfunded. Although it’s true ASR is allocating $3,000 of their own budget to the other student organizations, it’s not nearly as much to make up for the failed increase.
They just missed the deadline? Well, you might think, “Ok, they’re college kids and we all miss deadlines every now and then.” Hell, I even submitted this column two days late. But no, these aren’t just any college kids; they’re the leaders of the student government. They’re the ones who are supposed to on top of their shit.
And it’s not like it was just one or two of them that missed it. All of them missed it! Think about every group project you’ve ever worked on. There’s always SOMEONE who knows the due date; the same type of person who runs for a position in student government.
And so I’d like to take this last paragraph to announce my candidacy in the 2011 ASR presidential election. I may be graduating in May, but I’ll make sure April will be the best month Trinity students have ever seen. I will do this by allocating all of the money to the Party-Dirigible Concert fund.
It is well known that Egypt’s recent uprising has inspired rebellions in neighboring countries, but actually, it’s inspiring revolution everywhere. Even in this very column. That’s right. I’ve had it. I’m sick and tired of this authoritarian student newspaper: The [Tyranous] Trinitonian. Consider this my letter to the editor:
For starters, these headlines are bullshit. In case you didn’t know, reporters and columnists don’t write their own headlines—and that includes me. Let me show you how bad they are.
Take last week’s: “Instead of stripping at the airport, support blimps.” My column was about dirigibles. Not blimps. Obviously, blimps are almost never used for transportation—and even if they were, you’d probably also have to strip at blimp-ports.
Look at the one from the week before: “The time has come to fix the hole in the wall and the broken heater.” Seriously? Or the week before that: “Green movement causes problems for colorblind.” This one sounds fine out of context, but the headline was actually the punch line of the whole column. The same thing happened in my Christmas column when they wrote, “Defending Christmas: it takes a serious set of jingle bells.” That was the only funny part of my column! What’s the point in reading them if everyone knows the joke already? (Not to suggest there’s a point to reading my columns anyway.)
But it’s not just me that gets bad headlines. Look at the headline from the interview Tommie Ethington did with president Ahlburg: “A review of president Ahlburg’s first year.” If you’ve read the article—which you should—then you clearly know the headline should’ve been “President Ahlburg likes ‘reading the columns by Tyler Sanders.’” The fact that we don’t get to write our own headlines symbolizes the unbalanced power structure installed by The Trinitonian.
And it’s even worse for us columnists. Did you know we don’t even get to attend the weekly meetings? Not that I really want to, but still. And to make matters worse, my column keeps on getting pushed to the back of the opinion section. It’s probably there right now isn’t it? Is my opinion less valuable than Thomas Bell’s? So what if his columns are thought out and about things? Or look at the column by Katie Bailey, Finding My Queendom. It has a real knack for steeling the front page of the opinion section, but why? She’s not even here!?
So, that’s it. I’m done. This is my last column. From here on out, The Tylertonian is going to be a whole newspaper. An alternative to The Trinitonian. It’ll be great. We’ll let the writers write their own headlines. We’ll spell people’s names right. And make twice as many religious controversies. (You think it ended at the diploma and intervarsity debates? Think again!)
Who’s with me? Reporters, if nothing interesting is happening on campus, you’ll have the liberty to just make stuff up. Uzman and Bell, I’ll give both of you your own column. Without having to share, maybe you guys could actually agree on something. Probably not. Crocket, you can come too, but you can’t bring the hat.
As for the viva section, we’ll fix that upside-down exclamation mark that always seems to sneak itself in just before the “Viva!” Keselman, you’ll be in charge of sass patrol, just to make sure everyone is sassy enough. And I won’t even make you come to the meetings.
Anyway, you heard it here first. From now on, your #1 source for campus news should be Tylertonian: The Newspaper. Actually, nevermind; this whole column will probably be replaced with some story about cats. Or maybe another edition of Cat Tales.
When I returned for this semester from Chicago, rather than fly, I took the train. Not only did the terrestrial ride last 32 hours, but at $120, it cost as much as a flight. So, why did I choose the train over the plane? Because planes suck.
First, even after you go through the work of finding a ticket, which will always be too much money, you have to figure out how to get to the airport. And let’s face it, the person you always ask is probably getting sick of it. After you get there, you have to make several split-second decisions. Will you wait in the line for your boarding pass or try to extract it from the computer/robot? Will you check your bags or decide to have them not get lost? And if these weren’t stressful enough, take off clothes, you’re going to the security line. OK, you don’t really have to take off all of your clothes, but it doesn’t matter because the TSA will see under your clothes with their x-ray vision. Assuming you survive all of that, you then have to wait at your gate for an hour. Wait…make that three hours. Your flight’s probably been delayed.
Even after you get on the plane, it’s terrible. There’s no legroom, the food tastes like…well, like airplane food, and you’ll invariably have the middle seat between two passengers both requiring seatbelt extensions.
Besides the inconveniences of flying, there are also bigger problems. Not only have U.S. airline companies proved economically unsustainable, they’re also environmentally unsustainable. Planes emit some of the most dangerous greenhouse gasses, and climatologists say air travel is responsible for 4-5 percent of human generated fumes.
So, what is the answer to our air travel troubles? Four syllables: dir-ig-ab-les. Dirigibles. A dirigible—or airship if you’re a nerd—can be a rigid zeppelin or a soft-shelled blimp. And while the golden age of dirigibles supposedly ended in the early 20th century, their obsolescence is only temporary.
As long as I’ve known about the word dirigible, I’ve been fascinated with the lighter-than-air vehicles. But I’d always found myself alone in my obsession. No one seemed to care about them as much as I did. Or so I thought….
A few days ago, when making the overdue addition of dirigibles to my Facebook list of interests, I came across a page titled: “Airship Advocacy – Dirigibles, Blimps, and Zeppelins.” I was not alone after all! According to the page, 46 other people were also airship advocates! Oh, the humanity! I followed a link to their website, and I’ve already downloaded the ever-useful dirigible toolbar for my browser.
Now, you maybe thinking, “Tyler, are you an idiot? Did you not hear about the Hindenburg?” Yeah, I did. And watch who you’re calling an idiot; it wasn’t my idea to attach a cabin of 97 people to a 7,062,000 cubic foot bubble of flammable gas. But that’s exactly what separated the Hindenburg from other zeppelins: its use of hydrogen of the future—like most of the dirigibles of the past—will use helium, which is actually a flame retardant.
Even though the Hindenburg’s use of helium was abnormal, dirigibles have since had a bad reputation. They’re like the Howard Deans of aircraft, destroyed by one small accident. Sure, 36 people died, but more people die in plane crashes every year.
So, why ride a slow-moving phallus over an airplane? Unlike planes, dirigibles don’t need speed to get it up. Moreover, they don’t have the friction of earth bound vehicles. Both of these ingredients mean that dirigibles are able to conserve much more fuel, therefore spurting less greenhouse gasses. Additionally, the ride is way smoother. So smooth in fact, zeppelin passengers used to play a game where they would stand a pen on its top and see how many hours it took to fall.
As the public will overcome their misconceptions about the magical airships, the word dirigible will become synonymous with progress. Won’t you want to tell your grandchildren you were on the side of the dirigibles?
As I write this, I’m surrounded by an assortment of space heaters turned up to eleven. My zebra-print electric blanket tries to radiate all of its heat—and cancer?—into my shivering legs. And my phalanges lurk out of my fingerless gloves, not to type this column, but to search for some sort of heat beneath the cold keys of my laptop.
Now, you may be thinking, “Tyler, stop bitching. Aren’t you from Chicago?” Supposedly… but my house there has heating. Here, my house has an icicle hanging from the kitchen faucet. That’s right, it’s below freezing inside of my house.
Every time I’ve seen my landlord over the last few months, I’ve told her the heat doesn’t work. She always tells me she’ll have someone fix it in the next few weeks. In November that was fine, but now… well, now I’m pissed.
To make matters worse, two nights ago, the door to my bedroom fell off of its hinges. It fell right into my room, knocking my giant model ear off the wall. But unlike most bedroom doors, this one goes to the exterior of my house. Within minutes, a cat had already strolled into my room. I named it Brendan Fraiser. Brendan and I propped the door up against the wall, and rehung the giant model ear.
At first, the broken door was just another comedic element of my dilapidated house — not to mention the doorway to my friendship with Brendan. But as the night went on, the temperature dropped, and dropped, and dropped. (I’m just kidding, I would never write a verb three times for dramatic effect. Nonetheless, the temperature dropped — four times?) And the absence of a door was transformed into a portal for arctic demons.
Things haven’t been the same since. First, I called my landlord. In typical fashion, she said she’d have someone fix it in the next few days. But maybe it wasn’t so bad. I thought, “You’re resourceful, Tyler.
Maybe you can use this to your advantage.” I texted my lady-friend, “Either I need something in my bed to warm me up, or I’ll have to sleep somewhere else…” Well … uh, this didn’t really work out.
Initially, the sleeping sugges-tion was kind of a joke, but as it got colder, it became a real problem. What was I going to do? No combination of space heaters or electric blankets could combat the door-shaped hole in my wall. But then I thought of something.
Now, I don’t normally do this sort of thing, but it was an emergency. Initially, I was just doing my homework on my housemate’s bed, but over the course of the night, I made it clear: I was sleeping there too.
But it was fine. No homo. (Not that I’m homophobic, but I’m just not that into … you know, having sex with dudes.) His electric blanket was wide enough to give us room for Jesus. Then the power went out, and the formerly electric blanket was reduced to an obsolete bag of pokey wires. The only source of warmth left was our own body heat. I was little spoon.
I woke up to his phone’s alarm of techno music. And then I got a call from my landlord. “Someone’s coming to fix the door at 2,” she said. “Perfect, but what about the heating?” I asked. “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I keep forgetting about that. I’ll have someone take a look at it in the next few weeks.”
Ever heard of a cereal called Cinnamon Trackers? They’re tiny cinnamon smothered squares that when mixed with milk somehow constitute a breakfast. They’re basically the same thing as Cinnamon Toast Crunch with two exceptions. First, they don’t claim to have “the taste you can see.” (What synesthesia-inducing drug inspired that slogan?) Second, they purport to be all natural—whatever the hell that means.
Being the tree-hugger that I am, (a.k.a. someone who cares about the possibility of our species living in the future) I was “naturally” attracted to the grocery’s sign, which said, “Go green for breakfast.” As my friend impatiently waited for me between HEB’s towering shelves, I examined the bag which contained the phrases, “All natural cinnamon whole grain,” “75% less packaging” and “We support the use of renewable wind energy.” Clearly, this was the solution to my cereal blues. If only it were made by a local cereal artisan. But like I said, my friend was impatient, so I couldn’t read further.
When I got home, I read the ingredients. While Cinnamon Trackers do contain “whole wheat” as well as cinnamon, there was no mention of anything organic. Just until recently, even 7Up claimed to be 100% natural, despite its use of high fructose corn syrup. The term “organic,” unlike “natural,” actually means something: it’s been certified by the USDA. Although there are numerous problems with the certification system, it’s still better than the meaningless term, “natural.”
But what about the blurb that said, “We support the use of renewable wind energy?” Upon second thought I realized it didn’t actually say they use it; they just support it. Good for them. As for the “75% less packaging,” there was also 75 percent less cereal. Clearly, I’d been schnookered.
This is an example of how the term, “going green” has gone sour. While good in nature, it makes environmentalism seem like a fad—which is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. It may seem good that “going green” is in style, but styles change, and it will just be a matter of time before “going green” goes out of style.
Many people are environmentalists to save the planet, save the whales or save the rainforest, but I’m an environmentalist to save these things called humans. So, for me, having the survival of my species go out of style is slightly troubling.
So, who’s to blame? Sorry, it’s not going to be a surprise. The motto of environmentalism has been hijacked by corporate America and they’re using it as an advertising slogan. While it would be great if corporations actually cared about the environment, profit motive outweighs any concern for the environment — except for when concern for the environment increases profits. However, it’s just the appearance of concern that really matters. In actuality, their attempts at sustainability usually consist of changing a few light bulbs and little else.
Yet they’re “green.” The phrase suggests something is sustainable or it is not, when in reality there are various levels of sustainability. Therefore, if a company does anything remotely environmentally friendly, they feel justified in wearing the “green” badge.
This problem hits the consumer level because it allows would-be-activists to combat their guilt-ridden conscious with acts of consumption, when consumption itself is the problem. It’s like drinking Lone Star Light over Lone Star because you’re trying to sober up. Buying a “green” product doesn’t reverse global warming; it just spurs it less than other products. But my biggest problem with the term “going green” is that I’m red-green colorblind
It’s December and what better way to write my humor column than by making fun of Christmas. Paragraph one: a parody of political correctness. I’ll apologize for not making fun of Chanukah and Kwanza. Paragraph two: Christmas is the best way to pledge one’s allegiance to consumerism. I’ll talk about how Christmas was invented to unload unwanted items bought on Black Friday. Paragraph three: wreathes and trees are the only green part of Christmas. I’ll bring up how humans chop down trees, bring them into their houses to die, and then strangle the remaining trees in energy consuming Christmas lights. And to top it off, paragraph four: mocking your favorite Christmas movies. I’ll unveil my idea for the documentary film about Christmastime romance, “Love Factually,” and then say “It’s A Wonderful Life” is dumb.
But I’m not going to do any of that. Not only is that too easy, but it’s also completely banal. People have been mocking Christmas for so long, Charles Dickens wrote about in the 1800s. Making fun of Christmas is as cliché and boring as making fun of George W. Bush. However, unlike Bush, Christmas doesn’t deserve it. Did Santa lie about WMDs on the South Poll? Not to my knowledge. Sure, Christmas has its flaws, as I demonstrated, but fundamentally, Christmas is awesome.
If the Grinch had fingers capable of typing or holding a pen, he would write columns mocking Christmas. So, instead of writing my usual sarcasm, I’m going to take genuine stand for Christmas because if there’s one time of year to be sincere, it’s now.
It’s because of this change that comes over a lot of people. I’m not kidding; I really believe it. More people donate to charities. More people volunteer at soup kitchens. And in general, people are better to one another. Sure, there are those who fight over the season’s must-have toys and those who invent terms like “the War on Christmas,” but these people are just misguided snowflakes in a blizzard of goodwill. After all, what other holiday has a slogan as badass as “Peace on Earth. Good Will towards men?”
So, why do so many people make fun of Christmas? It’s easier. Most of the time, I don’t think these people hate or even dislike Christmas. They just mock it because it’s the easier thing to do. There’s nothing at stake when making fun of things. But to stand up for something and say you believe in it; that takes a serious set of jingle bells. But in doing so, you let your guard down. You open yourself up to be ridiculed by people like me who have entire columns dedicated to mocking people.
So, now I will use this last paragraph to stand up for something. I’m standing up for Christmas because this change is real. It creates a brief utopia. I don’t care how cheesy it sounds, people start treating each other the way they always should. It’s sad it only happens once a year, but this one moment represents a collective hope. A hope that at some point, goodwill won’t just be at Christmastime, but will prevail through the whole year. Maybe it will take hundreds of year, maybe it will never happen, but this one time of year shows that we have the potential. Merry Christmas.
After a yearlong study, the FDA has finally concluded alcoholic energy drinks such as Four Loko are unsafe. Why this study took an entire year remains a mystery—I could have told you Four Loko was “unsafe” after a single Saturday night. Nonetheless, Michigan, New York, Oklahoma, Utah, and Washington have already taken measures to ban such drinks. But to the outrage of party animals across the country, the FDA’s recent study will likely result in a federal ban. In case you’re unfamiliar with Four Loko, allow me to explain. As the name suggests, the drink is loco. (That’s Spanish for crazy.) And it’s not just one loco—it’s four, so much loco the company couldn’t even correctly spell “loco.”
Four Loko comes in eight flavors including watermelon, grape, and fruit punch. But all flavors pretty much taste like Jolly Ranchers mixed with devil semen. You can’t find Four Loko in real grocery stores. It can only be found in small rundown convenience store/gas stations with names like AmeriTex or ZipTrip. Having the brightest colors outside of the candy aisle, they’re easily spotted, looking like props from PeeWee’s playhouse. One can of Four Loko typically costs around three dollars. This may seem like a lot for just one can, but one can contains the equivalent of three cups of coffee and five cans of beer—in other words, a night’s worth of cocaine. You try riding the white pony for three dollars. However, unlike snow sniff, Four Loko doesn’t cause paranoid delusions, isn’t addictive, nor is it a primary revenue source for Latin American drug lords—yet. So why is the FDA going to prohibit this lurid liquid? According to the FDA’s principle deputy commissioner, Dr. Joshua Sharfstein, “there is evidence that the combinations of caffeine and alcohol in these products pose a public health concern.” But the combinations of caffeine in Red Bull and Vodka, Rum and Coke, and Irish Coffee don’t justify a public health concern?
Unlike alcohol alone, the FDA claims that the combination of alcohol and caffeine induces riskier behaviour. And unlike cigarettes, the combination in inherently unsafe.
But this isn’t the first time the FDA has done something irrational—look at anything they’ve done over the last 25 years. Whether refusing to ban the overuse of widespread livestock antibiotics or dismissing the medical benefits of marijuana, they’ve acted against public interest. This latest study just shows they’re completely loco. Although they’ve yet to ban the combination, Four Loko’s makers have taken a preemptive step, announcing a new Four Loko without caffeine. More like Four Lameo. As soon as I finish writing this column, I’m driving down to St. Mary’s convenience store, filling my trunk with Four Loko, and making a stockpile. It’ll last through another semester, but after awhile I’m going to have to start bootlegging it. We’re entering prohibition 2.0, and I’ll be damned if my house isn’t the most popular speakeasy in South Texas. I’m going to be the Al Capone of Four Loko. What was once my kegorator is now my lokorator. So, grab a dame and come on over. The password is—you guessed it—loko.
