Looking out for the Nation

Written by Sara Jane Luley

Now I really don’t care one way or another if you decide to smoke. As long as you don’t do it around me and you’re ok with lung cancer looming in your future…be my guest.

But some people do take on the lofty goal of trying to prevent kids from taking up smoking. While this is laudable, they are going about the task in the completely wrong way. In fact, I’m pretty sure if I had been a more impressionable kid, these movies would have made me want to smoke even more.

Think back to these movies. Little Billy is a fresh-faced young sixth grader, who randomly happens on some shady-looking characters behind the gym. For unknown reasons, the ninth-grade thug tries to get Billy to start smoking. No one knows why, since it was probably pretty difficult for a high school freshman to get his hands on some cigarettes. But he decides to reach out to this little sixth grader and offer him a smoke and some social interaction—because all the “cool kids” are doing it.

The gawky little middle schoolers all identify with the innocent Billy.

WHY would he say no? He could be cool like the ninth grader! Hell, this kid’s probably getting some high-school ass. Why would Billy turn down free drugs and high-school ass? All these movies teach you are that if you want to thug it and be a “cool kid,” go behind the gym in the middle of science class with a pack of Marlboros. (And these days…who doesn’t want to be a thug in middle school?)

What they really need to do is show kids the truth about cigarettes. Not a picture of your lungs, either. I have no idea what my lungs look like.

For all know, my lungs look like that too, simply because I spent too many afternoons on the streets of downtown Pittsburgh.

They have to make videos of what kind of people smoke cigarettes. Because you know who’s really doing it? Not the “cool kids.” Show them a tape of NASCAR fans. Take them to a truck stop. Show them pedophile-looking men with porn ‘staches that hang out in bowling alleys. Hell, give me $200 and I’ll hit up a honky-tonk and make a video that will cut the youth cigarette consumption by half within three weeks.

This industry could even be expanding to other cheesy health class videos. Want to cut down marijuana usage? Two words—Phish concert. Do you really want to be like a Phish fan? Didn’t think so.

Another world problem solved.

NEW SITE, SAME GAMBIT

We have been on a short break from posting, and we appologize. It appears we grew too rapidly and couldnt keep up with the traffic.

With this new, user friendly site now open, the staff of the Gambit looks to make this site a landmark for audiences across the globe.

It may take some time for you to see all the new features which the site now has, and you may come across a few broken links here and there, but dont worry the kinks will be worked out shortly.

Thanks again for checking out the new Gambit, although the site is still under some sort of construction, it is dramatically different and we look forward to improving it even more.

The Opressed Speak Out

Written by Sara Jane Luley

It seems like just about everyone these days is getting their own appreciation month or their own advocacy group. Dammit, I want one, too! You might think that because I'm white and middle class and a college student that I've got it good. But I'm telling you that you only think that because our oppressive society and the media told you to think that.

The truth is, I was born left-handed. Society tries to tell to that this is not normal, that we're somehow "freaks." At last a member of this shunned group has found the courage to speak out. We may have progressed somewhat from the pre-1950s days when teachers would force children to become like "normal kids" and hold their pencils in the right hand, contrary to all of their natural instincts. My grandmother has often spoken of these heartbreaking times to me. However, our quest is not finished.

We still live in a world such that when lefties try to write on the chalkboard they smear all of the chalk off and then people keep making all of these ergonomically designed potato peelers and other small useless appliances that I don't actually use which only work with the right hand. Have you ever noticed that in a classroom if you want to sit at one of the two lefty desks in the room you are relegated to the back corner where you will not interfere so much with the perfect feng shui?

Am I the only person disturbed by the statistic that lefties die 10 years earlier on average than righties? We need an advocate, someone to give us equal rights in other careers besides professional baseball. I was thinking Jesse Jackson, seeing as he's had nothing to do since the sixties, and he's frankly getting a little too rambunctious for anyone to listen to him anymore. Henceforth, I declare January 22nd as National Love Your Left Hand Day.

The Glory of having a neck that's Red

Miles From Nowhere


Living in a country that prides itself on being progressive and diverse, I'm here to celebrate the great American way of the Redneck. It's not just a way of life, it's a culture unto its own. And God Damn It do I love being part of it. Being a Redneck is more than a racial thing; take a trip to South Cakalaki or East Tennecke and you'll meet plenty of whiskey loving, truck driving, African Americans. It's more than Southern thing too; visit the great states of Northern or Southern New Jersey to see some of the finest Rednecks this side of the Mississippi. No, being a Redneck is a Gawd Dang American thing, and for my buffalo nickle, there ain't nothing finer.

I love being called a Redneck by those who look down on it. It's like being called a capitalist by a Soviet. "Your Eff-ing right I'm a Redneck Bubba! I'ma dammed proud American too!" As I sit here in my camo sweat pants and Univeristy of Tennessee hat with a big ol' pincha Skoal, listening to Merle Hagard, a Gosh Darn tear of joy wells up in my eye. I couldn't be happier with who I am. I ain't no metrosexual, ambiguous, [expletive deleted], heathen. Alan Jackson sang "It's Alright to be a Redneck". Nope, sorry Alan, it's tremendous to be a Redneck-

Beer- Don't matter what kind, long as it don't got no fruit flavoring. I do prefer Texas brewed Shiner Bock, which you should check out sometime. "Ain't nothing Finer, Make it a Shiner" Beer is to Rednecks what coffee is to people in Seattle. Get's the motor going.

Tobacco- This country was founded on the stuff, look it up. It's an economic fact. Now I ain't no smoker, though I enjoy a good cigar every now and then. Give me a tin of Skoal or Kodiak, and I'll be one happy man. And I stress Man. Real men chew. It puts hair on your chest.....

Hair- Speaking of hair, I had a tremendous mullet last semester. Got it cut though. Something about looking professional at my new job. Mustaches, goatees, and beards; all proud symbols of the Redneck community. Look at ol' Earl up at the top of the page. He got a real babe because of that Fu-Man-Chu. Like I've said before, mustaches are the most manly part of the male anatomy. God I wish I could grow a mustache.

Guns- Who doesn't love 'em? You know that saying "Give me a museum, and I'll fill it" by Picasso?
Give me a gun and I'll give you dinner, baby.

Music- Who doesn't like Lynyrd Skynyrd?
No, really who doesn't, because you need to get the hell out of my country.

Camo- You have no idea how many games of flashlight tag and manhunt I won by wearing camouflage. It also looks great on everything; shower curtains, seat cushions, wedding dresses, etc.

Trucks- Now I don't drive a truck, yet. I'm what we call "financially dependent on my parents". The only sight prettier than a big Chevy Silverado with a deer in the back bed and a hound dog in the passenger seat is some stripper named Chastity I met at "The Emerald Club" last weekend.



God I love this country.

Napoleon, Hitler, the French and a Flush

Written by Jeff Kelly

Perhaps it was fate that my stack of $320 worth of chips vanished in a single hand to a kid I was burning so bad I had nicknamed ATM, but don't tell that to Jeff Kelly.

For those of you who didn't catch on, I used third person.

For those who did notice, congratulations you've acknowledged me as the true jackass you have grown to love (insert "to hate" when appropriate on your own accord).

Where was I? Ah yes, I was about to indulge on how I, rather Jeffrey Kelly, was seemingly and unceremoniously defeated at poker, a task which a select group of individuals can brag about.

It was a Tuesday night and I was mowing people down so fast and furiously that they called me Hitler. (That previous sentence may have been politically incorrect...I apologize to my Jewish (and French) audience) I had bought in for a mere $15 and had amassed a chip stack that the Donald would have been proud of. I had busted at least four people, and they kept coming back for more. Many people may have taken the money and ran...but I was looking to pay off the rest of my college tuition and the mortgage I'll be taking out on my chateau in southern Italy all in one night. That's right.

We started around 10:00 p.m. and I figured I was on pace to purchase that yacht I've always wanted around 10:30. Perhaps I was being a little generous, over anxious...liberal, or even a little too arrogant with myself.

Strike that, I was on fuckin fire and by the time 11 rolled around my great grandkids were going to be pissing into diamond incrusted chalices.

I was winning with full boats, straights, two pair and even high card. People were forfeiting their hands as they were being dealt. To paint a picture for my audience, try to imagine what France would do if they saw that Orc army from The Lord of the Rings breathing down their necks. (If I have a large French audience, you have probably noticed I have taken several cheap shots at your homeland...I just wanted to point that out again)

My stack kept growing and the natives were growing restless. They were going to make a last stand and like Napoleon and Hitler I became a little too over confident with my conquering.

The last hand of the night was to be played...

I was dealt K 10 and I played it aggressively, I got one call from the kid in the corner I called ATM all night.

The flop was K 9 7. Again, I attacked aggressively...again he called.

The turn showed a 2. Again, I attacked aggressively...again he called.

The river showed a K. Checkmate.

"I'm all in," I declare, ready to rush to the computer and buy a few thousand shares of Google.

"I've been waiting for this all night," said ATM.


I don't remember much from there on out. I woke up the next morning with a tattoo of a Penguin on my thigh and a few hundred strands of beads hanging around my neck. Ok that’s a complete lie.

Jeff tried to rationalize his fall from stardom. It was a financial plummet that MC Hammer would have been envious of. The visions of Donald Trump asking me for permission to exercise his bodily functions were quickly being replaced with visions of me teaching an outgoing monkey to dance on a street corner just to pay for some booze while being a homeless bum in South Philly.

How did I not see that flush coming? How did France not see Germany coming the first time? And the second time 20 years later? (This should be the last poke at the French)

I had two options...I could walk away from the game or learn from my mistakes and avoid being another France. Napoleon and Hitler were not able to learn from their blunders of invading Russia, but I was given a second opportunity to take money from inexperienced rich kids that learned how to play poker by watching ESPN.

Beware of the flush, but most of all, resist being like the French. (Nope I was wrong there was one more in me)

Searching for the Pathmakers

Some are mystified by ancient wonders such as the pyramids, Stonehenge, Bob Barker. Others find their curiosity cravings crunched with natural phenomenon’s such as lunar eclipses, the northern lights, Chuck Norris.

I, on the other hand, am fascinated with the natural wonders which walk among us all. The brave men and women who honor the legacy of Ponce De Leon, Magellan, and that overrated asshole Christopher Columbus. Do not be fooled, brave explorers still exist to this day, and I am going to take a moment and honor these heroes.

I'm never going to forget the moment. It was 7:30 am on a January morning, it had to close to 0 degrees and the ground was blanketed with a fresh foot of snow. I was a sophomore at The Peddie School and faced the long, long walk to the Casperson Science Center to attend class with Donald "Iron Chef" Mott.

I had two options, I could walk on the roads which eventually lead to the science building, for these roads were paved, or I could walk across the snow covered fields.

Being the lazy, 16-year-old Peddie student that was solely motivated to attend class to avoid a date with Melanie Clements, I trekked across the snow. It was this moment I discovered a race of human beings that forever changed my outlook on life.

As I came to the field, I had second thoughts on diving into the snow...and then I saw it. There was a path. There was a path in the snow; a path that I could have sworn must have been created by a higher being.

Who would walk across this field? Who would be the first person to do this? There were no signs of hesitation, whoever started this path said "I'm walking across this field" and they never looked back.

This must be an abnormality I thought; surely this was just some crazy kid from Potter who had taken a few too many oxycodones.

Perhaps Jose "Ice it" Roca needed some snow for his ice palace in the training room.

Or even a swimmer, hell they are nutcases.


...I was wrong.


As more and more snow fell as the winter progressed, more and more paths were created. I actually had options on which route to take to class. It was a sophisticated highway structure that I will swear to this day could handle the traffic of Manhattan.

The Pathmakers are all around us.

They are your jocks, your nerds, your cheerleaders.

They are your techies, your hippies, your slackers and bookwarms.

They are the reason people like me get to class every winter morning.

I salute you, mystery pathmakers.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Thugs

Before the rant commences, let me state my history with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle culture: I loved them, collected every toy, searched for them in sewers and even put green hair gel on my pet turtle in hopes it would grow into the 5th brother which I affectionately named John Kruk Jr.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s begin.

They lived in sewers, had no jobs, ordered pizza (how do you get a signal in a sewer pipe, I cant even get it on my driveway), and once in a while they surfaced to beat the living shit out of New Yorkers.

Now I know they were defeating the Foot Clan, but come on who do you think composed of the gang? Your average teenage New Yorker who needed some stability in his life, that’s who. So should we be supporting a bunch of reptilian thugs who crawl out of a hole in the ground to beat up civilians?

Now let’s focus on Shredder, who is perceived to be the "bad guy" throughout the history of the turtle productions.

Shredder, or Oroku Saki, is providing a safe haven for many young men by developing this Foot Clan, and he should be applauded for his community service. Now, an easy argument to make is that he is much like Osama Bin Laden, recruiting young, vulnerable men and promising to improve their lives by giving them something to be proud of.

Since that is an easy argument, I'm not even going to touch it. You can just brush it off and continue on with the article because quiet frankly, I choose not to go there.

Has anyone noticed that the reptilians who are beating the shit out of the kids are also teenagers? These are kids between the ages of 12-18 going out on the street in the middle of the night getting in gang fights.

Do we really want our children supporting a gang of reptilians led by a rodent (Splinter)?

If we want that we might as well get them involved in politics too.