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In This Issue

• Me So Lonely
• Premature Ejaculation: a Way of Life
• We Get Letters
• Fringes on the Jacket of Humanity
• The Fed Guide to What's What: Points of Interest on Campus
• A Whine-free Welcome
• Columbia Eateries of a Bygone Era, Revived 4 U
• Facebook Travesty Claims Your Social Life
• 30 Things To Do Before You Graduate
• Tips for Keeping Your Room Tidy and Your Roommate Pissed Off
• Quick and Dirty Guide to Campus Bars
• Some Loser Has To Do It - Might As Well Be You
• Attack of the Killer Blowjob
• A Guide for Beginner's to Smoking Cigarettes
• There Is Life After College
• From Yesteryear's Freshmen

Dear Incoming Freshmen,

Let's get something straight, right from the start: I hate you.

Now before you get all in a huff, Mr. Low-Self-Esteem Zoloft-Popper, you should understand that Columbia is dripping with hate. Hate is for Columbia what butt sex is for prison: first it hurts, but then it becomes a way of life (and then it feels real good). And the one thing all of us at Columbia can join together in hating is you bright-eyed freshmen. I was hated when I got here, and all my class did was stink up the place. YOU have Furnald in a year when a majority of sophomores are living with strangers, and a good number of juniors are living in Wien. You must be the most despised class since the year that poorly planned affirmative action law made us accept three hundred Uighers and fifty Laplanders. There's nothing I hate more than Laplanders. Except you freshmen.

Why is there so much negativity floating on this quagmire in Morningside Heights? We were all freshmen once. (Except those GS fossils, who were all quadrupeds once.) We all experienced the first few weeks of coddling from the evil bitch that is Alma Mater. But she dropped us from her metallic lap and now she's got you. (Why won't you return my calls, Athene? I want my mommy back!)

At some point after orientation, good old loving mother will diss you too. All the elements of an abusive family will set in, most notably the massive consumption of malt liquor. So here's what you should expect out of your freshman year: Once the giddy drunken summer camp of orientation is over, and you're ready to start your first real week of college, the rug will be pulled out from underneath your entire semester when the whole world comes crashing down thanks to some heartless jerkoff from Westchester. Don't worry. Just because Tiffany actually fell for the suave charms of Billy Payton doesn't mean there aren't other fish in the sea. Orientation relationships aren't meant to last more than five days, anyway.

Throughout the year, different parts of campus will be under renovation, usually inconveniencing you in the greatest way possible. You may not discover this until you're leaving Butler with a paper due in five minutes (after waiting a half hour for a free computer to print from) and you find that it would actually be quicker to walk to Lincoln Center than to navigate the intricate labyrinth of temporary barriers. (Hint: use twine to find your way or strangle anyone who might stop you from clearing your own direct path). This is all in the name of "Enlargement and Enhancement"; that is, hoping to frustrate your ugly ass into transferring. Gee, thanks, ex-President Rupp!

One last thing you should learn to accept now. You know Furnald Freshmen, those shiny happy people who got singles fit for seniors? Well guess what. They will invariably get them next year, too. Columbia loves them. They are the beautiful ones that

Prince used to sing about. You are obviously not one of them. That's right. Cry, fattie, cry.

So soon enough, the day will come when your parents can't get your tuition back, and you're stuck here with the rest of us. Before that day comes, take this advice: If you have any kind of criminal record, or just generally sketchy morals, transfer to Princeton; they understand your way of thinking there. Otherwise transfer to a nice state school, get good grades, save your money and go to grad school at Yale. If you stay, you will follow generations of bitter Columbians before you into the gaping maw of a demon I like to call ADMINISTRATIO or THE BLACK BEAST WITH SEVEN TITS or THE BASTARD SON OF TOM RIDGE AND JANET RENO. Like the tortured soul in a Bosch painting that you are, you will be shitted out after four years, pretentious and poor, into a real world where you have no employable skills. Welcome to Columbia!

Don't touch me,
Michael Noble