Senior Staff Editorial: You Are All Trash


You heard me!
You are despicable, a waste of space at this school. Frankly, we’d be be better off without you because CLEARLY you don’t care about us. You all had a chance to make a difference and failed. 
All we needed was twenty five cents. TWENTY FIVE FUCKING CENTS. CENTS! And only once a year, too. White guys standing in front of starving Ethiopians on TV make you give a dollar, every single day. And all you get is a kid that receives an education, air-dropped grain, and some misprinted  “Buffalo Gills” T-shirts that we can’t sell. With a donation to Golden Words, you could have kept this quality humour publication in business for a few more years. Like keeping an old person on life support. Sure, he might not be able to get up to pee, and keeps calling you “Giselle” when your name is Steve, but hey, he’s still got some good stories left in him. Or her! We could be a her! We can fire all the guys on the staff – they don’t really do much anyway. They’re just dead weight that we can easily dump to move smoothly into a femme-tastic future! 
Oh, what’s the point? It’s all over anyway, nothing we can do now. That twenty-five-cent-raise was needed so we could continue to print this thing on the material-formerly-known-as-rainforest. But now it seems like we might have to make it out of tears. Because you sure as hell can’t make a paper out of a broken heart. 
Think of what you’re doing to the CHILDREN! You never think of the children, do you?! They are our future and they deserve the kind of quality jokes we took for granted as students. But alas, that dream has been shattered by the very institution that was going to be its savior – democracy. We are all Billie Joe Armstrong now – walking this empty street on a boulevard of broken dreams. Which makes no goddamn sense, by the way – how can a street be on a boulevard? But a lot of things in this world never make sense: starvation, genocide, and the fact that we couldn’t convince a group of privileged university students to bum us a quarter. 
So honestly, we should stop blaming you for all of this. Because it’s really our fault. I wish I could find some way to put a funny spin on this whole ordeal, but I can’t. Our role as humorists has always been to ease the pain of the world around us by showing that there can always be laughter. It is one of the best ways of overcoming trauma. But clearly, we have not done enough, because this vote shows your lack of confidence in our abilities. Frankly, all we can do is put our hands above our heads and slowly back away from the laptops, because we are all guilty of crimes against comedy (by the way, if you’re reading this, TV executives, how do you feel about “Crimes Against Comedy”: a show about a team of sexy cops who solve sexy comedy crimes?). We failed you all, and for that we deserve to fade into oblivion. We’re the real trash here. Our editors should probably change the title of this article, but fuck it, who cares anymore. The only ones who will be around in the office next week are the thousands of rats hiding in the walls of Clark Hall. The office is yours now, my vermon brethren.
So, after three years at this paper, it is time to say a premature goodbye. If this were a movie, we’d cue some retrospective of hilarious and clips from our time together, set to “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)”. Man, this article is on a Green Day kick. But this day isn’t green, it’s black, like all of our hearts this sullen Sunday afternoon.
In all seriousness, though, it has been an absolute privilege to write for this paper the past three years. It has been one of the highlights of my Queen’s experience and everyone I’ve had the pleasure of sharing this dank, messy lounge with over the years have all been gems and I wish you all the best in the future. Finally, to our loyal readers – never lose faith in humour. For this last issue, we will do our best to keep you laughing one last time before the lights go dark. As for afterwards – though this paper might be dead, comedy will always live on, sometimes in the most surprising places. Like vaginas – those things get me everytime.
Yours in “journalism”,
Joe “Naked Mole Rat” Craib