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The Smart Ass Guide to the United States

Whether you watch the last two minutes of Iron Man after the credits, or you’ve been reading comics for years, you know that Nick Fury has been going through an identity crisis for a while. The now former head of S.H.I.E.L.D. has flipped between races more than Mariah Carey.

Old-school Nick Fury is a white dude with a little bit of grey setting in on the sides; a quasi-Paulie-Walnuts from the Sopranos look. In the “Ultimate” comic series, Nick Fury is actually modeled after Samuel L. Jackson. Marvel confirmed that he was the model and inspiration for the new incarnation of the bad-boy comic legend.

The real question is – which one is it?

I know there are different story arcs and anything goes, but I feel like this is a motivated by a quest to be politically correct. I agree that there aren’t too many bad-ass black superheroes (story to come), but I truly think Nick is a white dude. Think of it this way – in the comics, Nick Fury is one of the most powerful/influential characters in the world. Do you think the Conservative Republicans of the Marvel Universe would EVER let a black dude have that much power? I think not.

Even better question, what about an arc with an asian Nick Fury? WTF?

Nick Fury should:

It was Hell Week. The eight of us had survived late running sessions, massive alcohol consumption, sleepless nights, verbal beatdowns, peeing in bottles because we weren't allowed to use the bathroom and wearing embarrassing X-rated T-shirts around town.

But we hadn't played Don't Screw Your Brother yet.

The game was simple: eight of us lined up in the basement at 4 a.m. We were passed two 64 oz. bottles of prune juice. 'Drink until you can't anymore, in one gulp. If you put down the bottle, it moves on to the next person. Whatever is left, the last guy has to drink all of.'

We weren't stupid: Essentially, if each of us drank one-quarter of a bottle, we'd not 'screw' our last brother, and we'd have an equal amount of plumbing issues to deal with in the morning.

I was fifth in line. The first four pledges polished off the first bottle, so I was starting in on #2. I was nervous: I hadn't been doing well during the week, and I was really tired. Determined not to be a wuss, I put the bottle up to my mouth, leaned back and started chugging.

A minute later, people started chanting my name. I was confused: Had I imbibed my 16 oz. yet? This was taking forever. Suddenly, I realized I had gone through 2/3 of the bottle and I seemed capable of finishing it.

So I did. 64 oz. of prune juice, straight through the system.

I was a hero ' at least to the next three guys in line. And I was fine, until we were forced to go running an hour later. I made it about five minutes before I felt a very uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. 'Pledgemaster, sir. I NEED to use the bathroom.' He said wait. I said, in what most have been a very convincing voice: 'No, I need to go NOW.'

I spent about eight hours in the bathroom that day.

But you know what? I think it was worth it.
' Kirk Miller, University of Michigan,

The four of us were wobbling back to campus around three in the morning when we spotted the semi parked under the dim spot light, in the back of the supermarket parking lot, which was our usual cut-through to return to the fraternity. As we approached, the side of the trailer read: 'Firestone Go-carts.' What? A truck full of go-carts? Dave went to the back door as Andy and I followed reluctantly. Rob and Dennis went to check to see if anyone was sleeping inside. In no time, Dave had the back door open! No lock, no nothin'. Inside, there were dozens and dozens of go-carts, brand new and featuring fiberglass bodies that mimicked famous sports car models.

'Let's grab a few of these,' Dave said, stinking of booze.

'What?!'

'Yeah. Come on, you pussy. These will be great to have at the house.'

'You're nuts,' I said. 'What if we get nailed?'

The other four weren't listening to me; their criminal minds were made up. Two of them were already in the truck, a guy on each side of a go cart, and they were lowering them out to the other two. I was the lookout, an accomplice. Dave closed the heavy door without a sound, and we wheeled our take, three go-carts, into the Michigan woods where we caught the dirt path back to Phi Psi. When we arrived, we went around back and stored them in the basement dining room and called it a night.

The next morning, a Saturday, Dave and Rob were already in the dining room when I entered, with a full set of tools spilled out onto the floor. They were struggling to remove the fiberglass bodies in case the co cart truck driver went alooking for his missing inventory. Soon, the co carts looked like any other go cart: a no-frills chassis, a seat, engine, wheels. They were ready to go. At our school, all of the fraternities are arranged around a long oval-shaped driveway. It was the perfect racetrack. After siphoning gas from somebody's car, we fired up the go-carts. Nothing like new go-carts: start every time. One of the brothers wheeled out a fresh keg onto the front lawn, some other grabbed some lawn chairs and we were set for a day at the races.

Dave, our mastermind, explained that there would be 10 solo time trials. The top three qualifiers would race one another for the crown of that heat. Then we would do it again. Winner would have to go under the tap for 30 seconds. The first three-man race to crown the first champion of the afternoon was hilarious. Dave took the early lead, and Dennis was right behind him, his front tire grinding against Dave's rear tire. Andy, way behind, jumped the curb and drove across the lawn, wide as a football field, to save time, rejoining the roadway just as Dave was approaching. They had a nasty crashed that sent up a roar of approval from the fellas way back out the starting line.

That was just the beginning of it. We did relay races; races driving in reverse; races where the object was to not spill any beer and have the fastest time; races with girls on the shoulders of the drivers; blind-man races. Nutty shit. By mid-afternoon, guys from all the fraternities were outside along the fringe of the driveway, shouting and pounding beers and laughing their asses off. Music was flowing out of frat house windows. We had our own Indy 500 going on. By 7:00 o'clock, the cars were trashed, victims of guys crashing into each other, into curbs, into trees, garbage cans. Frames were mangled, tires were bald or flat; steering mechanisms were shot to hell. A small price for our fun.