Call Now, Operators Are Standing By

As a senior at NC State in the Fall of 1995, I wrote what vaguely passed as a humour column for the TechnicianNCSU’s student newspaper. One day I’d love to do something like it again, but for now, like Charlie Brown’s Dad, reposting them here 10 years later is my form of sitting at the kitchen table, eating bran flakes and looking at old highschool yearbooks

These columns have been preliminarily reproduced here in original form. Printed, they make great bathroom reading material. I recommend HP Glossy Paper. Less chafing.


This week, in a bold, fresh, exciting way, we are taking this column on yet another foray into journalistic excellence. In an unprecedented move, we are allowing you the audience the opportunity to call in and influence the future direction of this column. For only $399.95 per call, you have this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have your voice heard (and my tuition increase paid). We have set up a special hotline center in a elevator stuck between the 8th and 9th floors of D.H. Hill Library, and Milo is waiting patiently with his Casio calculator wristwatch, to record the vote of all 6.5 of our estimated column readers.

We pause here for station identification.

Wait! in yet another unprecedented move, we have the results available in the very same column! (Please note: responses simulated because we couldn’t afford the representative from the accounting firm, and if we really had posted the numbers we probably would have gotten sued for copyright infringement by the Pyschic Friends Network, and, above all, no one was really sure what “foray” meant).

So, without further ado, or even a stray nonny – nonny, here are the results:

5 people said they could honestly care less.

1 person told us where we could go. We aren’t really sure where exactly it was, but it sounded like somewhere in the greater Chicago area.

1 person said keep the swimsuit competition, but only if Milo wears his Casio calculator wristwatch.

The jury is still out on exactly where the other half person showed up from, and what exactly their vote was.

Speaking of juries, we have been asked why we don’t deal with relevant, and serious news topics in this column, like the kind you read in the Weekly World News, The Star, or The News and Observer.

The problem is, the most relevant and serious news story of our day is the OJ Trial, and we have resolved that this column is a “No OJ, None of the time.” column. This is, of course, mostly because we are really sick of the prosecution and the defense insulting each other. But since we try our best here to please the reading audience, here is our synopsis of the OJ Trial in four sentences.

Clark: “Your honor, the defense is a bunch of no-good money grubbing lawyers.”

Cochran: “I know you are, but what am I”

Clark: “I’m rubber and you’re glue, what you say bounces off me and sticks to you.”

Ito: “Contempt of Court! You’re both fined $1000, and (ed. something about going somewhere in the greater Chicago area, but we’re not real sure)”

Jason Young is a Senior majoring in the link between Shakespeare and School House Rock lyrics. He’s currently studying, Hey Nonny, Nonny, Get Your Adverbs here.

Beltline Boogie

As a senior at NC State in the Fall of 1995, I wrote what vaguely passed as a humour column for the TechnicianNCSU’s student newspaper. One day I’d love to do something like it again, but for now, like Charlie Brown’s Dad, posting them 10 years later is my form of sitting at the kitchen table, eating bran flakes and looking at old highschool yearbooks

These columns have been preliminarily reproduced here in original form. Printed, they make great bathroom reading material. I recommend HP Glossy Paper. Less chafing.


I’m convinced that there are two types of drivers: the intelligent, courteous, thoughtful driver – namely me – and the misguided, mean, downright hateful driver – namely everyone else. I base my conviction on the fact that I drive over 400 miles a week on Interstate 40 and so I consider myself a seasoned pro, well-versed in the etiquette and protocol that we Southern drivers are famous for.

I don’t get it, I never rudely honk my horn, I always slow to avoid accident scenes, especially when I can see the blue lights a mile ahead and on the other side of the interstate, and I never ever try to confuse people by using such things as turn signals when I change lanes – I just keep one or the other on for the entire trip. Yet, those misguided, mean, downright hateful other drivers insist on giving me the un-FCC sanctioned hand signals for signalling their desires and/or intentions towards me or my eventual first-born.

I think I have the answer. Look back for a second to your childhood (which is a lot closer than many of us admit, say Saturday at the Virginia game?) and think about your big wheel.

Now I always wanted one of those big wheels with the brake on the side. All the cool kids in the neighboorhood had a big wheel with a brake on the side and they could all do those fancy spins and skids, and could leave really neat black marks on the driveway of Mr. Whippers, the only guy in the neighborhood with a paved driveway. Mr. Whippers didn’t really care much for the black marks left in his driveway by the kids that had big wheels with a brake on the side. He caught me riding my big wheel in his driveway once and I tried to explain to him that I didn’t have a big wheel with a brake on the side, and therefore could not leave any black marks on his driveway. Mr. Whippers – who didn’t have children of his own or even a wife for that matter – didn’t speak KID very well, and the only thing that saved me was the cable company coming by and indiscriminately ripping up his paved driveway as part of some cable “right of way.” Mr. Whippers promptly moved away after that and took his driveway with him.

I think that not having a big wheel with a brake on the side really deprives a child. Forget these studies that supposedly demonstrate the negative effects of war toys, or gender-based toys, or the Mighty Mutant People-Eating Purple Cyber Ninja Bunnies, I say go after the big wheel manufacturers who don’t provide a brake on the side of their big wheels. If I had only had a big wheel with a break on the side, I’m sure that I could have been much more contented with those misguided, mean, downright hateful other drivers.

Better yet, take the big wheel, strap a 357 cubic inch, super-turbo charged, double barrelled, quad exhaust, dual overhead cam Ninja Bunny feeder – also known as a Porsche – to the back and let me at them. I’ll show them exactly why NASCAR has its roots in the South. Eat your heart out Mr. Whippers. But I really doubt that’s going to happen, and besides, the NCSU DOT would probably fine me for improper display of my “My Ninja Bunny beat up your Ninja Bunny” bumper sticker.

Jason Young is a Senior majoring in Foreign Language Avoidance with a concentration in Pig Latin. Ehay waysalay earsway ishay eatsay eltbay.

Learning To Speak Yankee

As a senior at NC State in the Fall of 1995, I wrote what vaguely passed as a humour column for the TechnicianNCSU’s student newspaper. One day I’d love to do something like it again, but for now, like Charlie Brown’s Dad, posting them 10 years later is my form of sitting at the kitchen table, eating bran flakes and looking at old highschool yearbooks

These columns have been preliminarily reproduced here in original form. Printed, they make great bathroom reading material. I recommend HP Glossy Paper. Less chafing.


This week, Jay’s Corner, having its finger fimrly on the societal pulse, makes journalistic and technical history with a conversational column.

Now I know that you are all collectively thinking, “Jay, you ninny, we all know this can’t be a conversation if we are reading something that you have already written!”

Ah, but this is a conversation. I ask you questions, you ask me questions, and I send you a bill in next month’s Technician. If the N.C. State Cashier’s Office can do it then, by golly, so can I.

For example, how many people would actually use the word “ninny” in a conversation?

What? (please note, the responses are simulated because a) I really like talking to myself, b) Milo really didn’t know where to check for the societal pulse, and c) Milo is currently undergoing Home Shock Therapy – also known as Electrical Engineering – and his fingers are really numb from sticking them into all those light sockets).

Never mind, I don’t think I want to know.

We here at the Corner are ever purusing communication excellence and in preparation for this column we have been dilligently studying all of the major foreign languages spoken in the United States today. The Corner readership is a divers and multicultural group, mainly because we have to follow Equal Employment Opportunity guidelines when hiring our readers, so our research was thoroughly meticulous.

We watched “Airplane!” in order to more fully understand the semantics of Jive! We watched “Rocky” so that we could master the are of dialogue. We practiced our rhythm and tuned our pitch so that we could speak in the universal language of music, mostly by watching reruns of “Ren and Stimpy.”

But one foreign language taxed our language abilities beyond that which we could handle.

Hebrew? Nope.

Russian? Nope.

Mandarin? Nope. Nope. Nope.

The language that brought us to our linguistic knees was Yankee.

In an effort to understand more fully the Yankee language, Jay’s Corner recently toke a trip to Massachusetts. Armed with our Yankee-to-English dictionary and braced for the shoke of passing north of the Mason-Dixon line, we had high hopes of bonding with our fellow citizens.

That is, until we found out we couldn’t communicate with them. Nothing worked, not even singing the long version of “You Light Up My Life.”

So inspired by recent world events, we have decided to form the Jay’s Corner Southern Speaking Succeeding Separatist Movement because we happen to be the only region in the country where barbecue is a noun and not an adjective.

If Quebec can do it then, by golly, so can we.

Umm, Jay, the separatists in Quebec lost.

Yeah, but they didn’t have to learn Yankee.

Say didn’t you guys already try this once and lose?

Shut up Milo, you are ruining my plan. I have a chest full of confederate dollars I need to get rid of.

You always could find one kid in the neighborhood dumb enough to trade those green pieces of paper he found in his dad’s wallet for those confederate dollars and a stick of baseball card bubble gum. He’s grown up now and is voting on tuition increases, so this succession thing is my last chance.

The only problem of course, is what to do with all them there carpet-baggers in Hilton Head and Florida.

Feed them chitlin, collards, and grits?

I like your style and if the Braves can win the World Series, anything can happen.

Jason Young is a Senior majoring in Culinary Studies. He’s currently couting the number of licks it takes to get the center of a Tootsie Roll pop.

Men vs. Women, In a Fight To The Finish

As a senior at NC State in the Fall of 1995, I wrote what vaguely passed as a humour column for the TechnicianNCSU’s student newspaper. One day I’d love to do something like it again, but for now, like Charlie Brown’s Dad, posting them 10 years later is my form of sitting at the kitchen table, eating bran flakes and looking at old highschool yearbooks

These columns have been preliminarily reproduced here in original form. Printed, they make great bathroom reading material. I recommend HP Glossy Paper. Less chafing.

p.s. I really did buy that ring in kindergarten, and really did get that answer. Truth is far funnier than fiction.


Last week, Jay’s Corner was on vacation, mostly because I got caught in gridlock with myself about whether or not I should increase my weekly Chick-Fil-A subsidy and I went over deadline and couldn’t afford to pay my 6.5 estimated column readers.

Seeing as how I can’t raise taxes or even tuition, I had to come up with more creative ways of raising money so that I can again write my column (the original handwritten transcripts of Jay’s Corner, sealed in a mayonnaise jar that has been sitting on Funk and Wagnall’s front porch, can be yours for only $19.95, call now and reserve your matching imitation Gucci handbag).

I finally decided to sell 20 pints of plasma, not my own of course, to the local blood bank. Thus proving that Jay’s Corner does indeed go on, especially when the government doesn’t, because Buckwheat would have really wanted it that way.

The time off did give me an opportunity to sit in the kitchen, eat cold cereal, and look through my old high school yearbook. Somewhere between the third and fourth bowl – I was eating a mixture of Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs and the the Really, Really Big Bran Cardboard Fiber Flakes – it hit me. (Pretty hard too, want to see my scar?)

I finally became convinced that there is no such thing as evolution. I say this because men’s brains have not evolved to the point that they can understand women, or that it even can adapt to understanding women. Don’t even begin to tell me that understanding women is some sort of recessive trait that we men are better off having, because you know and I know, and even Buckwheat knows that we would be a whole lot better off if men could actually figure women out.

Case in point, me. I should have learned everything I needed to know in kindergarten. When I was in kindergarten, (I’m not making this up), I decided to sacrifice my weekly allowance to buy this girl I liked a ring from one of those quarter bubblegum machines. The next day, we were on a field trip and I gave Adrienne (name preserved to subjugate the guilty) the ring and asked her to be my girlfriend. She handed it back to me and muttered something about liking some guy in the first grade.

The audience can “aahhh” now, (canned “aahhh” is available from the Jay’s Corner Home Shopping Network for only $19.95, call now and we’ll throw in the boxed “Dis!” for only $9.95 more, as a special bonus, the first 100 callers will receive the matching set of ginsu knife earrings)

This gets rather more complicated and expensive when you decide to sacrifice a whole year’s salary to buy a ring, only to give it to the woman and have her give it back, muttering something about being in love with some guy that plays first base, (or first bass, depending on her particular taste).

Another thing that we men don’t quite understand, but should have by now is the female dictionary. The way I figure it, sometime around 5th grade when they split the boys and girls up into separate gym classes, all the female teachers took the girls off to tell them stories and teach them the finer points of the female dictionary (meanwhile we boys were learning really how to speak in monosyllables and make lots of really neat sound effects).

Take for example, the word “nothing” as in the answer to “What’s wrong?” To the male, that’s exactly what the word means, or if stated with a pained expression, means that we just came back from eating 5 Taco Supremes at the campus Taco Bell.

To the female, “nothing” has a wider degree of usage, ranging from the actual meaning to “I don’t want to talk about it, but you better ask me anyway,” to (if stated with a pained expression) “You just ate 5 Taco Supremes at the campus Taco Bell, didn’t you?”

In retrospect, I should have bought the bubblegum.

_Jason Young is a Senior majoring in financial management. He’s currently being “visited” by the CIA for allegedly selling state secrets, which by the way, can be yours for only $19.95, and come sealed in a red and green mayonnaise jar just in time for the holidays. _

Same Game, Older Age

As a senior at NC State in the Fall of 1995, I wrote what vaguely passed as a humour column for the Technician, NCSU’s student newspaper. One day I’d love to do something like it again, but for now, like Charlie Brown’s Dad, posting them 10 years later is my form of sitting at the kitchen table, eating bran flakes and looking at old highschool yearbooks

These columns have been preliminarily reproduced here in original form. Printed, they make great bathroom reading material. I recommend HP Glossy Paper. Less chafing.


Being a third-year junior (sssh, don’t tell our Legislature) brings one to a certain comptemplational crossroads in their life. Lately I have been contemplating those weighty issues of Life and College and Work and Just How Many Batteries The Energizer Bunny Has Really Used and I have come to the following conclusions:

a) All I ever really needed to know I learned in Kindergarten.

b) College is a really dangerous place.

c) I really could care less how many batteries the Energizer Bunny has really used.

I know, I know, you are all thinking that I’m going to tell some bittersweet story about hand-holding, or plant watering, or crossing the street, or some other sickening sweet Kindergarten-type lesson.

Actually, I’m going to talk about finger paints.

The thing is, the most important lesson that I learned in Kindergarten was to keep the finger paints on the canvas in front of me and off of the person beside me. This becomes a very important lesson later in life when the person beside you is now much bigger and meaner than you and doesn’t particularly care for finger paints.

Another important thing I learned in Kindergarten was how to do the hokey-pokey. I’m convinced that all of the problems that we have with our educational system today can be solved by teaching the hokey-pokey (and bringing the Muppets back to prime-time television). The hokey-pokey gives kids direction (they have to know their right from their left), respect for each other (they have to turn themselves around in close proximity to thirty or so other people), and balance (they obviously can only put one foot in at a time and have to stand on the one remaining, non-shaken but slightly stirred leg).

This balance, direction, and respect for each other is important because college is really a dangerous place. Not only are there big and mean people who don’t like finger paints, but somewhere on campus there is a group that you are really going to tick off no matter what you do. In fact, I even got a letter from SOSUME, the Society Of Small, Underachieving Mild-mannered Earthlings (who don’t like finger paints):

Mr. Young, We strongly protest your characterization of people who don’t like finger paints as big and mean. In fact, it really ticks us off and if you don’t correct it, we are going to send someone over to break both of your legs. Yours, Milo.

Since it would be rather hard to do the hokey-pokey with two broken legs, I try to keep my finger paints away from these big, small, under-achieving, mean, mild-mannered people who don’t like finger paints. In fact, I leave my crayons at home too, just to be on the safe side. So please remember to keep your finger paints away from people that don’t like them and if you do finger paint somebody, by all means invite them to do the hokey-pokey and while they are turning themselves around, poke them in the hokey and run away before they can break both of your legs.

And that is what it’s all about. Got that Milo?

Jay’s Journal has been brought to you by NAPTIME, the National Association of People That ThInk just like ME, and the letter “J”.

Jason Young is a junior majoring in Classical Cartoon Studies, with a concentration on the early Bugs Bunny. He always tries to color within the lines.