This semester is not even half over and it has offered the student body a wide variety of surprises. We returned on January 19th, full of renewed vigor. Our eyes were bright and our tails were bushy. We awaited the oncoming semester like happy children awaiting a train. Well, the train arrived. And it hit us. Crushed our bodies, pissed fuel on us, backed up, and then hit us again.The first surprise was the weather. The coldness reached record lows. For those of us with above-average-sized nipples, this created quite a crisis. My nips inflated like balloon tips and these swollen tips were not made for wool sweaters (unfortunately, wool sweaters make up 95% of my wardrobe). An epidemic of nipple chaffing swept the campus. Shrieks of pain were covered only by the sound of tender teat flesh scraping up against the inside of unfriendly nipple fabrics. And how can this epidemic be stopped? Can we actually be expected to put aside good fashion sense and abandon our beloved wool? The saga continues.I decided shortly after that I would go to the Simpson Store to buy some warm stew to soak my sore man boobs. It was here that I received an even greater shock. First, beef stew tastes even better with a hint of nipple. Second, a machine of epic proportions had entered the waiting area just outside of the store. Dance Dance Revolution Extreme! It stood, looming over me, it’s flashy lights and catchy beats sending my senses into disarray. Finally, the store had spent it’s money on something worthwhile – a disco killing machine to bring about the death of us all! I climbed upon it. It mocked me.”Show me what you got,” it’s metallic voice commanded.I began to dance. It countered. I jigged, it shimmied. The machine knows no limits, my friends. I watched as it took my pathetic dance steps and smashed them into pieces. It is more extreme than I could have ever imagined. I fear this revolution, a revolution in which the machines of the world ban together and use dance against us. “Nice try,” it said, with an air of superiority.It watches us. Waiting to destroy.And the last big surprise was, of course, that infamous display during the Super Bowl half-time show. Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past two weeks, you know what I’m referring to. I’m talking about the indecent, disturbing – urban scruff.What was Justin thinking? I mean, why abandon the clean-cut image that had worked so well for so very long? I stared in agony as he bee-bopped and doo-whopped with a Wolf-man face. Is he unable to grow a beard? Was he involved in some kind of facial hair fire?Mr. Timberlake, I beg of you, consider the children that were watching. How are they going to react to that? When they grow up and want to be in sync with their idol, will they ignore good taste and opt instead for the urban scruffiness? This was a family program, ruined by a sick man.What other surprises lay in store for us UVM-ers? I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. For now, all we can do is sit and watch Justin make a mockery of beards, avoid the blistered revolution, and thoughtfully sip our beefy stew.