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In This Issue

• Forever Remember, or Else
• 8 Bits of Subliminal NES Perversion
• Letters to the Editor
• $$$ for Golden Showers
• Caliente Cab: Giving Your Stomach the Bad Touch
• My Date with the Fed: So Hot it Set 620 on Fire
• The Absolute Worst of First-Year Quotations
• Get Your Smack At the SmackTastic Supa-Store
• Sleep with Your Professors
• Tired of the Same Old Masturbation Techniques?
• Hentai: Your Mother Is Crying up in Heaven
• Beefcake! Beefcaaaake!
• NSOP Uber Alles

I think it's safe to say that in general, I've had my fair share of nookie. I've even juggled several guys at once. Yet nothing had prepared me for the Herculean task of taking on the entire Fed editorial board as winner of the annual Date With the Fed. Ladies, when your sassy friend says, "Yeah, I was dating five guys at the same time," she doesn't really mean "I was dating five guys at the same time." I, on the other hand, mean exactly that. Actually, it was more like seven guys and three girls, but I like to think of myself as the open-minded type. But that's not the point. "What is the point then?" you might wonder...

The point is that despite my years of rigorous training, dating has always been a daunting task for me. It seems that everyone I've ever encountered always ends up having some weird hang-up that ends up rendering them essentially undatable: extreme love of all things Pokemon, a curious fascination with gay porn, frequent bouts with colitis, and so on. So as one might imagine, my tender spirit had become weary with the seemingly unending search for Mr. Right. Then everything changed. Within the past few days, my life has been transformed by a new love - group love. It's kind of like how the Internet revolutionized retail shopping. Basically, think of the sweet lovin' you can get from one person, and multiply it by ten. This is the joy that is group dating. I've met the clan of my dreams, and it is the Fed.

My journey down love's lane began on Club Day, when fate took my hand and guided me across the broken cobblestones of College Walk to the Fed's folding table, where I entered their raffle for, among other things, a date with the Fed. Later that day, as my destiny unfolded, editor-in-chief Paul Campion's hand dipped into their old baseball cap filled with names, that holy vessel of my corporeal bliss, and my name was pulled. The rest, in a nutshell, is as follows: On Thursday night they were waiting for me at my doorstep armed with chocolates, roses, and several bottles of Neutrogena body oil. After the preliminary meetin' and greetin', we headed over to the fabulous Delbar on 106th and Columbus, where its even more fabulous owner bestowed several gallons of curious Jamaican alcoholic beverages upon us. After a few minutes, with the alcohol coursing through our veins, tongues were loosened, and feelings came to the surface. Our mutual love was confessed as we snuggled together tightly in the establishment's minuscule seating area.

Afterwards I took them and the owner of Delbar back to my room in 620 for a little late-night loving. I won't go into details, but suffice to say that the evening involved several boxes of really good box wine, an inflatable swimming pool, and about four or five cans of sardines. Those suckers sure are slippery. It got a little cramped, all eleven of them plus me in my bed, but such is the price that one must pay for true happiness. The next morning, they made me breakfast in bed, and then gave me a good-bye kiss before making the walk of shame back to Broadway, Woodbridge, Plimpton, Schapiro, Ruggles, and East Campus. But feel not shame, dear Fed, for my love is real, like Lee Bollinger's hair. Tomorrow night, as you struggle to finish that chem lab write-up, I'll be outside your window brandishing my ghetto blaster high above my head, as Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" wafts up to your room.