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In This Issue

• The Issue of Suicide
• Potential Hobo Camp or Wussy Veldt?
• Choose Your Own Fed-venture
• Letters To and From The Editor
• Thumb-Addled Troglodytes
• Ed-in-Chief Joins Staff Diaspora
• Jesus is a Crappy Dermatologist
• Action Jacksons
• News Briefs
• On Action and the Philosophy of Inaction
• Wacky Fun Whitey Meets a Bum
• Fed Bash a Spanking Success
• Point / Counterpoint: Actions and Words
• Horoscopes Will Keep You Regular
• Revenge for Your Shitty Housing Lottery Number
• Columbia Needs Real Affirmative Action
• News Quiz
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 16.9

Stephen Grant

Stephen Grant

Wielding my visual sense as weapon for most of my conscious life, I have floated restlessly, unsure in my application. Then I did alight on The Fed, and become her graphics editor. Within my new vehicle of power, I let my mania, dementia, and twisted musings froth wildly in the guise of illustration. I protected those beholden to my new periodical from the terrible knowledge within these images; by restricting my associates to half-heard jesting phrases and the occasional paragraph of unintelligible chum from my unconscious, they remained necessarily ignorant of ideas that would devour their souls. I begged off any writing responsibilities; and so long as the idea suited my needs, I was functionally an illiterate.

Change must come. Know that dark, mysterious things jabber and play in the boundaries of things, and ritual is needed to safely trespass the demarcations rendered by time and space. Therefore, now, on the advent of my departure from Columbia, I unleash the sleep-addled and splinter-strewn straw man of my writer's soul. I incinerate this straw man, so that my future will be fertile, and my passage into a greater reality without undue peril.

So, one final postscript to the last annual (and for me, scholastically terminal) hurrah of the holy pages of The Fed:

Sitting in the lazy comfort of my plastic-back college-issue chair, tapping away at the evanescent and fumbling my phrases, I bid a drooling grin and a hearty wink to all who might peruse us.

Thus well into the evening do we stalwart souls sacrifice the sanctity of our kneecaps and the tolerance of our meaner and more visceral bits, all for the sake of our own glorification. And why should we not? For we are the most blessed of ages, the low watery rumble of the gargle of life. The savor of humanity would be lacking the peppercorn spice that The Fed provides should our plant wither for want of proper exposure to the sunlight of public scrutiny.

I am proud to have been a member of this banging headboard of journalistic excess. I am a Fedling, from the airy crest of my scalp to the overwrought and keratinized hobnails on my toes. Gods and martyrs would tremble where these feet have trod; I have stomped in the mud of ages, and it smelled of newsprint. OUR newsprint.

May we all be submerged in The Fed. May we all drink deep of her unholy rivers of blood.

Spirits guide you into the deep evening, O stalwart triweekly. Amen.