Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq's your mom, that's a fact

Item 52: Seventeen Magazine’s “Traumarama” column featuring the most embarrassing moments of Ernest Hemingway, Ayn Rand, H.P. Lovecraft, and Batman

clararaubertas — Tue, 24 May 2011 15:51:19 +0000

Ernest Hemingway

I was trying to tell her about the trout. After Caporetto when nothing was clean or dry we plunged our hands into the water and felt them sliding by slowly. Their flanks were round and they made us curl our fingers to feel. The blood streamed off slowly. We thought of trying to catch them, but there are some things that you know you should not do, not because they are wrong or even because you will regret them, because regret is in the future. The future was too pretty to think of, you see. I was trying to tell her. Suddenly a button burst and my stomach was on the table, and the absinthe glasses rattled and one fell onto the floor. I was so embarrassed that I stood up right there and punched her in the face!
Later I left my name at the Hotel Vendome where she knew I knew the concierge. The concierge tells me that when she passes on the street she throws up in her mouth a little. But I do not mind it very much. You see, one comes to understand certain things.

Ayn Rand

Ragnar Manhasset was burly and ruggedly handsome, with muscles like heavy sacks of money attached to his whole body. While his mind was sharp and acutely capable of discriminating logical (and thus also moral) concepts that so many have proven incapable of conceiving in our current morally bankrupt society, in a brief handshake his touch gave a warm, radiant feeling. “Greetings,” I said. “I am a novelist, a philosopher, a thinker, and in some sense a warrior. Ayn Rand is my name, as you probably know. Very likely you know me by my works, those monuments of and to myself that I have left behind me for those who are capable of living a moral life.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of you,” the brute replied. “I heard you were actually, like, on food stamps. I heard nobody likes your works.”
“Sir!” I cried, “You are small! Your mind is small, and you have neither read any of my works nor watched their highly acclaimed cinematic adaptations! You have fundamentally misconstrued my message, which is that in a corrupt society the labors of the intelligent are not appreciated or repaid, but only looked at with bovine incomprehension and a disdain that thinly disguises fear and slavish timidity. You must refrain from making logical statements about my works until you are brave enough to master the art of reading comprehension, you coward!”
Unfortunately for him, he had already begun to walk away halfway through my educational monologue. I laughed and laughed at him!

H.P. Lovecraft

Judged by any ordinary aesthetic canon, Mary Hamwich was more than commonly beautiful; certainly she was a kind of fixture in the cosmology in which I personally ventured, however tentatively, to believe. Yet no influx of admirers thronged about her person; for reasons, if reasons they may be called, which remained obscure to me, she had neither husband nor beau of any kind. Each seventh day I watched her solitary processions back and forth from the little church in the dark glade at the end of the lane on which I then resided. I wished to speak with her, but each week when I searched within myself for courage — courage, a virtue with which I was little enough acquainted, to be sure — I found it not.
On this last Sunday I resolved myself to wait no longer. Rather enduring than suppressing a quiver of trepidation, I stepped out, thinking to make some excuse for detaining her. “E-E-E-Excuse me,” I stammered. “I have long wanted to speak with you.” She made to raise her gaze from the path, where it had been occupied, to my precariously composed visage. O! O! What transpired next can scarcely be described, so utter is its horror!
For when I had dressed myself, such had been my distraction that I had neglected to fasten the buttons at the front of my trousers. It had been such, in fact, that I had neglected to wear any undergarments beneath them as well. And so when her glance once took in the gaping blackness at the point where my body’s trunk bifurcates, she beheld not only that murky blackness which mirrors the soul and fate of mankind. She also saw — the Monster! That horror which has no name known to man — a name it has, but known to only one man, and that man not lief to tell it — that undulating apparition that rose to meet the daylight for the first time!

Batman

The night is dark and cold. In the dark, the lights of Gotham try to provide some comfort. Some hope in the darkness. The lights of the theater were burning brightly, Zorro’s theme playing through my head. My heart wouldn’t slow down. It couldn’t. I didn’t want it to. I entered the night more than just a boy. I was the masked man people feared, I was their nightmare. I was legend. My parents flanked me on either side. The noise and light of the theater faded into the empty Gotham night. My eyes were still wide eyed. I should have been paying closer attention. Should have seen the clues. A cough. A quite footstep. A stillness to the air. But I didn’t. All I saw was another man’s legend as my own.

And then I saw something else. A different man. He was mysterious, dark, as he emerged from the steam filled alley. I couldn’t help but notice his hands, strong, masculine. Yet they revealed so much more about him. A longing, a tenderness, an understanding. They were hands that knew and had seen the world.

I locked eyes with him. They were deep. Never ending. A man of a different age. The eyes of an old soul.

Then he shot my parents.

I was so embarrassed.

Cleanup Time!

nicolle — Mon, 09 May 2011 15:39:24 +0000

The results may be out, but the Hunt isn’t over until HQ is all cleaned up!

We have HQ until Tuesday. Today, we have to get it all cleaned up so we can move out in time. We got some of it done last night after results were announced, but we’ve still got quite a ways to go before it’s presentable again.

This will go a lot faster if we have a lot of you here to help out. So, please come on down to headquarters after work, class, or anything else you have going on today, and pitch in a little bit. It’s not hard work, and we’ve got some snacks and drinks here to keep you sustained through the cleanup.

Besides, your Mama Shaq always told you to clean up after yourself.

Scavhunt 2011 Results

Tucker — Mon, 09 May 2011 03:56:12 +0000

1st – BJ (3322)
2nd – Snitchcock (3259)
3rd – MacPierce (2973)
4th – Max (2646)
5th & 6th – Breck & Scamp (2559 & 2590 in some order)
7th – Blint (2451)
8th – GASH (1876)
9th – Pals (425)
10th – FIST (356)
11th – Rural Jurors (8)
12th – Greeks (0)

Congrats to everyone. GASH did spectacularly considering our size and our approach — I’m really proud. And on a personal note, as a former BJ scavvie from 10 years ago, way to go BJ!

Scav Mama Shaq

nicolle — Sun, 08 May 2011 11:51:49 +0000

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact.

it’s early in the morning. you’re either tired from hunting as much Scav as possible, or you’re feeling bummed out that you could have been hunting Scav instead of sleeping. either way, your energy is flagging. you need a hug. and, who’s always there to give you the hugs and encouragement you need?

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact.

there’s that one more thing you need to get done…you can’t make a bit of sense of what you’re supposed to do, but you know you need to do something, and something at least vaguely relevant. you need help. you wish there were some kind of magic genie who would grant you a wish, and you’d wish for the most awesome response ever to that item that has been plaguing you.

that magic genie is named Kazaam.

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact.

a bit of doubt?

nicolle — Sat, 07 May 2011 14:38:27 +0000

all weekend, we have taken one truism as, well, true:

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact.

along those lines, Grandpa Sam claimed earlier this morning that Mama Shaq not only helped polish off Scav Whiskey #14, but also helps nurse us to sobriety.

i’m really not sure of that. where’s my Mama Shaq when i need her? last night, there were some of us who did good deeds, helping Mama Shaq drain as much of the Scav Whiskey as possible. but, this morning, where’s our Mama Shaq?

we’ve got Dr. Becky and Ashley, cooking us delicious breakfast food. we’ve got SPH and Gerbil, building something unspeakably evil out of Ikea parts. we’ve got John, eating ice cream, bacon, and whiskey for breakfast. and, we’ve got Grandpa Sam, holding down the fort and preaching the gospel of our Mama Shaq.

but, i’m here, i’m somewhere between still drunk from last night and hung over, and Mama Shaq is nowhere to be found. in absence of my mama, i’m taking these matters into my own hands, drinking Gatorade and planning to eat the delicious eggs and pancakes being made by Dr. Becky and Ashley. but, i know what would make me better,and that would be a big hug and a neckrub from my Mama Shaq.

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact.

or, is it?

Mama Shaq’s Shack

buws — Sat, 07 May 2011 14:22:27 +0000

Thank you JIMMY GILMER AND THE FIREBALLS!

There’s a crazy little shack beyond the tracks
And ev’rybody calls it Mama Shaq’s shack
Well, it’s just a gym and a floor made out of wood
Slam dunks feel mighty good
That’s not the reason why I’ve got to get back
To that Shaq’s shack, whoa baby
To that Shaq’s shack.

There’s this cute little Mama, she’s a’dunkin’ there
A black mama shaq and real short hair
I’m gonna dunk a lotta balls, love my dear mama
Make that ma’ love ’cause I got no papa
You can understand why I’ve got to get back
To that Shaq’s shack, whoa baby
To that Shaq’s shack, yeah honey
To that Shaq’s shack, whoa yes
To that Shaq’s shack.

Now that Shaq’s shack is a maternal fact, yeah yeah
Shaq just sits around and serves as a mother to you
Ah, but one of these days I’m gonna lay down tracks
In the direction of that Shaq’s shack
Just you and her yes we’re gonna go back
To that Shaq shack,
Whoa oh
To that Shaq’s shack, yeah honey
To your Shaq’s shack

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact

Gently Baby, it’s Mama Shaq’s Day

buws — Sat, 07 May 2011 13:41:19 +0000

Mama Shaq rocks your world. Mama Shaq deserves her own day, right? We think that since we have already factually established that Shaq is your mom, you should celebrate mother’s day as Mama Shaq’s Day. What do you do for Mama Shaq’s day? Do you get Shaq a basketball? No, Shaq already has a gym full of those. Do you take Shaq out to dinner? No, Shaq can afford personal chefs. Do you contact your Hollywood agent to sign up Shaq for a movie deal with cartoon characters? You bet. We personally suggest Shaq works with Muppet Babies and uses Baby Gonzo for Shaq’s slam dunks. As Shaq dunks Gonzo, Gonzo screams, “Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact!”

Mama Shaq is da bomb!

buws — Sat, 07 May 2011 13:34:10 +0000

Did you hear what happened last night at the awesome GASH Scav party last night? Mama Shaq was the bomb! We started with this year with Scav Whiskey #4. Last night, Mama Shaq helped polish off Scav Whiskey #14, “Go North, Young Man.” Mama Shaq also helped nurse everybody back to sobriety too. Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s you mom, that’s a fact. BOOM!

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact

buws — Sat, 07 May 2011 08:55:02 +0000

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact

Mama Shaq: the ultimate role model

nicolle — Fri, 06 May 2011 17:10:07 +0000

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact.

most of us grow up wanting to be special, and wanting to be the best at something we care about. you’re still finding your way, however, and not quite sure exactly what you’re going to be the best at. you know you’ll get there, though. you grew up with the best of role models, an still have the best of role models today: Mama Shaq.

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact.

Mama Shaq is a dunking machine. your Mama Shaq has four NBA championship rings, three NBA MVP titles, and a regular season MVP title.

and, as the years go by, your Mama Shaq still is a dunking machine. Mama Shaq is not only your mom, but he’s the oldest active player in the NBA.

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact.

but, if you ever thought dunking on whippersnappers half is age is the only thing your Mama Shaq is good at, you were quickly set right. Mama Shaq has released four rap albums, one of which went platinum. your Mama Shaq is responsible for the high point of modern hip-hop music: the opus “Shoot, Pass, Slam”! your Mama Shaq showed his sensitive side with the anthem “Biological Didn’t Bother”; that song serves as proof that your Mama Shaq knows what it’s like to be abandoned, and will never do that to you. you can only aspire to be as dependable as your dear Mama Shaq.

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact.

…and if anyone gets jealous when they find out that your mom is a dunking, rapping machine, there is no need for them to feel bad. hug them, console them, and remind them that they also have the best role model a person could ever have. their mom is a dunking, rapping machine, too. their mom is a pillar of the community, too. their mom is the ultimate role model, too.

everyone can depend on their dear Mama Shaq.

Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq’s your mom, that’s a fact.