kinsey reports....

A letter I received recently from an irate reader:—

"Dear Hon. Sir—I should like to make an emphatic protest at one of the most monstrous atrocities of our Western civilisation. I refer, of course, to the inclusion of raspberry seeds in raspberry jam. This most pernicious scheme, aimed at the destruction of the moral nature of man, is undoubtedly Communist-inspired, but sad to "say, such subversive activities have even spread to our own cafeteria.

I should know—I had a raspberry seed stuck between my back teeth for two solid hours. At first I was not sure of the nature of this anarchistic revolt against the proper nature of things, but when I finally got the b———thing out there could be no doubt. It was bright red in colour, and inscribed with the hammer and sickle. Seriously, though. I think something should be done to rid our hallowed halls of learning of such a menace. How about a Society for the Prevention of Raspberry Seeds? It would be .just as sensible as some societies being formed recently. Actually it's not the annoyance of the seed itself that gets me; it's when you finally get rid of the obstruction to your saliva flow. Your tongue is ridded of an occupation and you are left thoroughly psychologically unbalanced and frustrated.

Yours in all due respect, hoping this finds you as it leaves me, bloated and bitchy."

—Mad Dan.

Ripley: A tale of woe told to me recently by two girls—J. and M. recently tried their luck in a well-known quiz programme. J. is now busy turning out the attic for a new carpet (after all, it should hardly be made public that a history student could misplace the Wars of the Roses by three centuries . . .). And who could have expected them to know the editors of the New Zealand Rugby Almanac? Worse still, M., who never was much good at cards, baffled the compere by describing clubs as "the curly ones." The parting shot —101bs. of tea. and they never touch the stuff ... A friend of mine on Exec, (you didn't think I had any, did you?) admits of being a transvestite—quoth he: "I wore . . . my sister's skirts" . . . There is a person on the Salient staff who doesn't know the difference between constipation, conception, and consumption . . .

And Oi Sez, Sez Oi: Bill Dwyer: "There's nothing dogmatic about me" . . . M.A.S.—, discussing his marks in a terms exam., declared that all he wanted from any lecturer or student was a nought . . . "Are you off?" "More or less"... Heard in a coffee bar. "What do Lesbians do?" "Let's flat together next year" . . . Irate fan at a Record Club meeting: "O'Regan, Dwyer, and Stone leave their mouths permanently open waiting for whoever's speaking to come to the first punctuation mark " . . .

Subversion: Two girls soliciting recently (!) for members for the new Record Club: "Actually you can just look at the covers all night' if you don't like music" incidentally, what a model for how to get signatures by fair means or foul (mainly foul. T feel)—were you coerced? (Probably, since the main protagonists were prepared to go to almost any lengths) . . . When are we going to see the Extrav. accounts? . . . E.S.— says that it's not fair on the underdog, and that we should fight for our rights—what? . . .

Ramblings: Thoughts during a debate: a worker is a person who attended a spiritualist seance in 1848. and observed the spectre haunting Europe ... A certain person (male, obviously) declares: "I dare almost anything, but I draw the line at self-castration" . . . One of our professors admits that the only way to read his handwriting is in a mirror ... A reader wishes to know why the sub-editor uses a blue pencil—well, to cut a long story short . . . J.I.— thinks that double sleeping-bags are too cramping—he doesn't say what he thinks of the single variety

For Better or Verse: Following the joyous news of the disappearance of our Chief Reporter (he has since been found, fishing in Lake Wanaka), a member of Salient staff was moved to commit the following atrocity:

"Who killed Ed. Daniel?

Not I, said the Editor.

Not I, said l he Dean of the Faculty.

Not I. said the President of Stud. Ass.

Not I, said the Publications Officer.

Not I, said the Vice-Chancellor.

Not I, said the Prime Minister.

Not I, said the S.U.B. Custodian.

Not I, said the Captain of the Esmeralda.

Not I, said the Senior Lecturer.

Not. I, said the Common Room Crowd.

I did it, said kinsey."

I have every intention of suing for libel, on the strength of the last line . . .

Hie Humour: Being an account, albeit somewhat disjointed, from one of our better-known social brethren: "After leaving party at Lower Hutt—ended up on a Petone beach—remembered reading somewhere that if you burrow into snow it will keep you warm— thought sand would do the same— dug hole in beach and climbed in— woke up in the early morning to find myself in the middle of the ruddy tide"—what some people will do for alcohol . . .