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In This Issue

• Happy VD
• I Want to Be A Matzoh, Matzoh Man
• Letters to the Feditor
• Lee Bollinger Asks: Are You Hot or Not?
• I Hate New York. Now More than Ever.
• Ab Electrocution Devices Found to be Shockingly Unsafe
• Waking up Gay On Sesame Street
• Lunchables for a Dysfunctional World
• Bad Places to Wake Up
• Removing Used Sex Partners is Simple & Fun!
• Columbia University, a.k.a. Outkast's Bitch
• Report from the Frontline-Dancing
• Anarchists betray the goals of liberal politics
• In defense of not defending - but instead attacking - TA Unionization
• A Crash Course In Punk
• R.I.P. What Bar
• Damn You, Nickelodeon
• Newsbriefs del Pueblo
• Pulpit Fiction
• Horoscopes? Why, yes. Horoscopes.
• Angry Cell Phone Guy Turns Me On (Real Hard)
• Fruitloop and Dandy
• Another View of The Fed
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 17.6

“I may be smiling, but that’s only because I’d take pleasure in gutting you, boy.”

One bright and sunny day, I was walking past Lerner on my way back to Carman, when I heard someone start shouting behind me, "I want them all fired! All of them!" Considering the current economic slump, I was distressed to hear this and turned around to see what was going on. "I'm the director now, and I want them all out!" A young man wearing an oversized suit that shook with the violence of his rage, was shouting into a cell phone. After letting in a sizable pause for a reply, he continued: "Because they're not my staff, that's why! Fire them all!"

So this was a real heartless executive, right in front of me. I felt sorry for the staff that had just been fired, and I thought to do something to get back at him, but I was intimidated the fierceness of his anger. So instead of kicking him in the shins and shouting, "Down with the man! All power to the Soviets!" or something along those lines, I went up to my room and downloaded a couple of Hollywood movies off of Morpheus. Take that corporate America!

I didn't think of the angry cell phone guy again, until a few days later when I was walking past Butler. Again I heard someone shouting, "George Harrison said, 'Let it be.' Well I say, DON'T let it be! Evil people let it be! EVIL people!" Was he implying that George Harrison was evil? It was then that I realized he must be crazy. I mean, we have our fair share of freaks and schizophrenics around here, but who disses a dead Beatle? And everyone knows that George Harrison didn't say "Let it be." That was John or Paul. You know, one of the important ones. Only a truly demented person would make that kind of a mistake.

I had to talk to this guy. He was so angry and twisted. It turned me on. I imagined him yelling at me over the phone: "I don't have time for this! Don't you think I have more important things to do than talk to you? You're nothing! You're dirt!" Oh, shout louder, baby. I could imagine his face turning all red. So sexy.

Under the pretense of planning to interview an interesting campus lunatic for an article, I enlisted the help of the Fed to get his cell phone number. I cannot reveal our sources, but a week later I had his number in my hand. Sitting at a table outside of Lerner, I watched him.

Engaged a fierce cellular argument, the muscles in his forehead bulged with masculine rage. I couldn't wait for him to finish his call, so I decided to dial his number and see if he had an angry voice mail message. Yum. I called on my cell phone, and to my surprise, I saw him abruptly break off his argument as his phone began to ring. He stared confused for a moment, and then pressed a button.

"Hello?" said his timid voice.

Well, that wasn't sexy. I was disappointed. I had thought he would at least insult me and call me a whore. "What happened to all that anger, baby?" I said.

"What? Who are you?"

"What happened to the person you were arguing with? Have you just been talking to yourself?"

"What? How dare you . . . I'll have you all thrown out on the street!

You'll never work in this town again!"

"Oh, that's more like it. Now tell me something really nasty."

"You don't have the talent for it! None of you do! I'm the only real artist. I played Hamlet in London. You can go to Hell!"

So he was crazier than I thought. This was better than I ever could have hoped. I had to know what made him tick. "What makes you so angry? You can tell me. Take it all out on me, honey."

"Get back in the kitchen, and make my dinner, woman! You people should know your place, in the back of the bus! All you gay fucks make me sick!"

Yikes. He really let it all out. I hardly saw what happened. In a second he was gone, chased across campus by a raging mob shouting for blood, and I was left with a cell phone telling me to please "hang up and try again." Since then he hasn't returned any of my calls. Maybe he wised up and leaves his cell phone off now, so that he doesn't have to take any real calls. It's not fair, though, that all that scrumptious aggression should be wasted on his imaginary friends. I have needs, too. Angry Cell Phone Guy, baby, you can insult me anytime you want.

Fire me, order me around, however you like it. Just call me. Don't leave me all alone.