Off Limits

Walk softly and carry a big shtick

Locals were surprised at how hot politics were getting in normally laid-back Evergreen: Over the weekend, a Ken Salazar for U.S. Senate poster that was hung prominently next to El Rancho was defaced with the word "Commie" in red spray paint. And a longtime Evergreen resident, who sports two anti-Bush bumper stickers, had a second anonymous note placed on his windshield. The latest read: "A vote for Kerry is a vote for Al Qaeda." Glad to see informed dialogue is alive in the foothills. As it is in Commerce City, where Pete Coors received a similar thrashing. A row of his campaign posters along Quebec Street were crossed out in red spray paint with the word "joto" -- or "fag," in Spanish slang -- emblazoned across them. Maybe Coors should rethink his stance on gay marriage.

Finally, former U.S. Senate candidate Rick Stanley will be back in court on September 10. But before Supreme Court Justice Joseph Quinn can hand down Stanley's sentence for threatening the two judges who heard a previous Stanley gun-violation case, he'll have to read California attorney Peter Mancus's 42-point brief outlining why Stanley is not only innocent, but a good patriot. Reason No. 25: "Rick Stanley is a patriot with big, bold, gold planted [sic] balls. He is certainly no limp dick. Instead, he is a boner. His Liberty Erection is firm, straight, and vertical. Stanley is a ramrod who stood tall and stands taller despite, and because of, the multiple convictions he has racked up in his pursuit of Liberty that has exposed Tyranny. His Liberty Erection points to an inspiring way to live: LIVE FREE OR DIE!"


What's So Funny
By Adam Cayton-Holland

When I heard a Boulder student yell, "Hey, you fucking faggots, let's get the fucking move on," I realized I was not in Kansas anymore. Up until that point, tailgating before the annual University of Colorado/Colorado State University match-up, my first-ever CU football game, had been pretty much what I'd expected: groups of college friends gathered in celebration, the hypnotic buzz of a rivalry born at the foot of the mountains, the pungent odor of cheap beer and low SAT scores. But then that statement, bellowed as it was by a frat-tastic, shirtless slab of moron in front of hundreds of people, shattered any notion that I'd fit right in with this crowd.

At my liberal-arts college, such a comment -- even if whispered between friends at the campus center -- would have been enough to induce seizures among certain waifish trust-fund hippies. The PC shock troops would have mobilized instantly, sparking protests, sit-ins, hunger strikes and vehement letter-writing campaigns. Offices would have been stormed, tears shed, friendships severed -- and the offender would have found himself at the center of a swirling shitstorm of confrontational sensitivity.

The CU student's friends simply shrugged their giant shoulders and lumbered off with him toward Folsom Field.

Before us was a swarming sea of undergraduates, a black-and-gold-clad army with occasional spots of green, like algae. Some held clever signs that said things like "CU=Guilty" and "Forget Tibet, Free Barnett." For the most part, though, they couldn't even hold their liquor. In a matter of minutes I watched three fights break out. I saw a trash can full of wet garbage bounce off the heads of several nearby CSU students before it was dumped on the event-staff worker trying to restore order. I heard a CSU fan tell a CU fan that he was going to kill him. There were more girls crying than at a seventh-grade semi-formal, and more cell phones than in downtown Tokyo. In front of me, two friends mock-wrestled. The bigger one put his smaller friend in a painful-looking hold, while the smaller one begged him to stop -- and then, in horrific slow motion, the smaller student's shoulder popped out of place. He cried out in pain, burst into tears and ran off, his bigger buddy shouting heartfelt, drunken apologies after him.

"These people are absolutely hammered," my friend Monty said to my friend Gabe. "How are they going to last the whole game if they don't serve alcohol here?"

"I don't know," Gabe said. "Good thing I swallowed that condom full of booze."

Soon my buddies and I were forced to leave our position on the sidelines, one that had afforded us the distance necessary for a lofty air of superiority, and plunge into the writhing bodies. Like the Blob, the mass took on a life of its own and moved us over toward Gate 6. Inside the tunnel, though, our forward motion halted. Angry students began chanting, pointing back the way we had come: Apparently the gate was now closed. Pandemonium ensued as our direction completely reversed. People were lifted off their feet; a child atop his father's shoulders covered his ears; two girls fell to the ground and were nearly trampled. I grabbed one by the arm and helped her up. She smiled at me, then looked at the people who'd pushed her down. "Fuck 'em up, fuck 'em up -- go, CU!"

Despite all the fuss of getting to our seats, once inside Folsom, we found things surprisingly calm. There were the usual "Fuck CSU" chants. (Betsy Hoffman wants you to know that "fuck" is a term of endearment.) There were the brazen CSU fans who waltzed through the CU student section, shouting their support of their school while getting pelted with garbage. But there were no riots, no fights, no fires -- just more drunk kids, struggling to keep their balance.

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