Derelicte My FABS

By Robin Bennett (3L)

2009 sucks. Other years have sucked too, notably 32 A.D., 1914, 1929, 1939, 1968, and 2001, but none quite as long or as hard as 2009. Granted, 2009 did not witness humanity’s discovery of the joys of total warfare, nor depression. We crashed precisely zero 767s into zero World Trade Centers, assassinated zero presidential candidates and zero civil rights heroes (unless you count MJ). For that matter, we didn’t even get around to executing any sons of God this year (though in any case, I don’t have kids). No, 2009 sucked for reasons better described by algebra than words: (RECESSION) + (H1N1) = (THE FRIGGING APOCALYPSE).

Enter the Golden Bearristers. Those merry pranksters of doom, in their perpetual quest to put smiles back where they belong, resolved to show their classmates that it’s still possible to look and feel sexy even as the recession vaporizes that final penny they’d needed to put towards their flu-ridden, uninsured loved ones’ end-of-life expenses. The Bearristers’ Exec decided to stage a fashion show in which they’d trace the fall of Western Civilization through the fashions of its peak, decline, and ultimately to the post-apocalyptic era (which officially begins at the closing of the Vancouver Olympics) after which all serious economists predict that “real” clothing will no longer be available on the open market, forcing us all to conceal our junk with, well… junk.

As MC Carter Greschner’s deep, sensual baritone cooed through the speakers like air-born roofies, the show opened with a dazzling display of the finest scotch, robes, and cigars from the prosperous Clinton era. But like the civilization whose tragic tale the Bearristers came to tell, it quickly degenerated into a brutal melee of violence and sexual depravity. Lowlights included two deviant Calgary Flames clobbering a high-risk First Year to get to the front of the vaccination line, and Mr. and Mrs. O’Kurley-Kaukas performing the equivalent in the realm of sexual exploration to Columbus’ discovery of the New World. The delighted spectators were also treated to a demonstration by an Anthony Kiedis look-a-like, who provided several pointers on how to distinguish a latex condom from a dirty cotton sock – surely a valuable skill in these depraved latter days when you just never know what diseases that filthy Bearrister in your bed might have.

The post-apocalyptic portion of the evening’s entertainment exhibited myriad godless perversions of style, among them an anatomically correct Molson two-four, last night’s leftovers wrapped up in Saran, and a grizzly bear dressed as a man with elephant ears in a purple bikini. But surely the climax came when from backstage came an order: “Mister Proudman, tear down this curtain!” At that instant, and with a roar that would deafen a thundercloud, a giant human garbage bin came rifling out of the stratosphere and straight into the eager arms of… a rabbit?!

Ignoring the imminent End, had the Bearristers’ empire lasted a thousand years, people would still have said that this was their finest hour!