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In This Issue

• Columbia Dry Humps for Gaia
• Springtime, Nipples Everywhere
• Lerner Daycare Creates Funny Smell
• Letters to the Editor(s)
• Meta-Clubs on Rampage
• Lion's Cock Viable Alternative to Human's
• God to Spend Summer in Boca
• Odwalla Bars Make Us Do Dirty, Dirty Things
• Naked and Loving It
• Has It Been Eight Years Already?
• Shades for a Bright Summer
• Emeritus: Greek for "Fat and Old"
• Horoscopes-A-Plenty
• A Salute to Business-Casual Racism
• THEY Watch
• Wacky Fun Whitey
• The Staff of 17.9
• Take Back the Night - Gone Wild!

Stephen Grant

I've been feeling kind of useless lately. Gone are the days when I would be introduced as "a student at Columbia" to my parents' friends, only to have them say: "Columbia? You must be smart." After a few minutes I would hear about their brilliant sons. Mouths agape, they would say, "You and Stanley are so similar," but their eyes said, "Good birthing hips."

Ah yes, the possibilities of running into the "Stanley"s of this world used to scare the bejeebus out of me, but now I've found a prospect even more frightening: falling short of Stanley's standards. Now the conversation with Stanley's mom goes something like this:

"Oh, you're graduating. What are you going to do with your life?"

"Well, I have this summer fellowship."

"Oh, an internship?"

"Yeah..."

"And then what?"

As I give my job search spiel, Mrs. Stanley is already eyeing me with disgust. "Oh that's nice," she says, but her eyes inform me that Stanley is too good for me, and that she would sooner find him in her bed with a male stripper than catch him having dinner with me.

Gone are the days when I wowed the country club circles with my position as editor-in-chief of the school paper. Of course, the one time my grandmother read The Fed she almost disowned me, but no adult ever asks about the subject of a student paper, so my position remained quite impressive to the matrimonially minded. Ordinarily, when the world abandons me for smarter, more attractive and more productive beings, I could rest assured that I would find solace in the womb of The Fed's offices. As graduation approaches, I cannot even turn to The Fed. I have divided my kingdom among a much more competent and dedicated staff. While we once had to dredge through Columbia's student group leftovers, the people who appear at our door begging to be permitted to join the staff this year have been intelligent, bright, and sometimes even funny. Some resort to frontal nudity in order to join the staff (see page 4- Naked Chicks). But even beyond the staff, The Fed has changed. The quality has improved because we have standards now. In the past year, I have personally seen at least three non-staff people take our little paper out of their mailbox and walk past four garbage pails on the ramps before tossing The Fed aside. People actually write to us. We can't even forge letters to the editor anymore, because under our new "standards," that would be "underhanded," "dishonest," or "stupid".

The saddest news about this new "popular" and "readable" paper is my relative attractiveness. When I was elected Editor-in-chief of The Fed, all the understaff (both of them) professed their admirations. Though the past two editors were self-proclaimed "hotties," I was reassured that I was indeed much hotter than the both of them. But my hotness has since been surpassed by younger, more nubile editors. Of course, the staff still pays me lip service, but I can see what's happening. When I enter the office, the circles fawning over the new editors - young buck Paul Campion and seductress Kate Sullivan - stop their frolicking. Eyes down, they reluctantly come to my side, and yes, there's still nudity involved, but I can tell their hearts are not in it. Oh, where will I go now that the halls of The Fed ring with the joys of new young ingénues and hotness beyond previous measure?

Last year alone I received two marriage proposals. Sure, they were in email format from people I'd never met, but what have I got to show for this year? Zero. Zero proposals has Meghan turned down. The deteriation of my hottness can be seen in the pages of this issue. When I requested a portrait sketched for this article, did I resemble nymphet Katie Holmes? More like Ben Franklin. Woe is me. If The Fed won't have me, where will I turn? Furthermore, where will all the unattractive young students who can't get into acappella groups go? I fear that the list of Columbia's acronyms will grow if the well-versed, attractive and literate staff of The Fed continues to proliferate. With the average sex appeal as high as it is now, I'm sure the staff won't be able to restrain themselves from reproducing. New hot Feddies will soon be toddling by the Fifth floor of Lerner Hall. Oh, I can't save you Columbia. I must move on. My only salvation lies in the general unsexiness of the labor pool. My hope is that when I do get a job, the majority of the people there will be old and fat. Once again, my comparative greatness will shine through. Of course, I too will be old and fat one day, but surely by then I will have exploded my head in my cubicle, and everything will go on as normal.

Please help The Fed prevent the untimely end of it's hottest editor emeritus yet by placing this ad in the "matrimonial hopefuls" section of your hometown paper:

!!!!WANTED TO MARRY!!!!
SWM WITH SKILLED TRADE. PREFERABLY BUTCHER OR LAWYER, WHO WILL PROVIDE EXTENDED FAMILY WITH FREE MEAT/LEGAL ADVICE DURING COLD WINTER MONTHS. HAVE WRY DEMEANOR AND FULL BOSOM. INTERESTED PARTIES PLEASE CONTACT THEFED@COLUMBIA.EDU