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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

While the Columbia undergraduate experience may have a great deal to recommend it, we aren't fortunate enough to have a vibrant on-campus party scene. And why should we? After all, we have classy grownup watering holes to patronize when we want to get drunk enough to claim irresponsibility for our actions. Regrettably, while nobody enjoys a good Soha table dance more than me, all those costly drinks eventually add up to an ugly choice: fewer cosmopolitans or a part-time job.

As you may have guessed, I myself was recently faced with these grimmest of options, and you can damn well bet that I wasn't about to give up my Midori sours. So I scoured the classified section of the Voice hoping to find a lucraive yet undemanding job, with nary a hint of what was in store.

Before too long, I found what seemed like a promising ad. "Golden showers - get paid! High pay, short hours, my place or yours!" Here were the pennies from heaven I'd been searching for; clearly the ad was telling me that this job paid so well I would be able to bathe in precious metals! It would have been nice if the ad had said a little bit more about what the job actually entailed, but I wasn't too apprehensive. Well, friends, maybe some of the more worldly among you know what was in store for me, but I must confess I expected something a bit more wholesome than that golden shower metaphor that a well-dressed 28-year-old begging me to do number one in his mouth. You can't possibly imagine how disappointed he was when I told him I had a shy bladder.

Clearly I wasn't cut out for this kind of work, so my quest for peach martini money was back at square one. Nonetheless undaunted, I gave the clas- sifieds another chance. This time I happened upon what I hoped would be a more agreeable option. "Talent wanted for submission revue," the ad read. Here, I thought, was a perfect opportunity to put my experience reviewing article submissions at this fine paper to good use. When I went to interview, however, they didn't feel my skills carried much relevance, and I didn't really feel like they were doing their part to create a supportive work environment. Although I agree it's important that employees dress professionally, I personally found the seven rubber bands around my testicles to be overly constrictive. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of these thatched-belt, casual Friday, "work should be play" types; I believe in a well-disciplined office, but I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that these people were a bunch of sadists.

Disappointed but by no means discouraged, I continued to look for suitable employment, but without luck. I looked into ads asking for help teabagging, fudge packing, rough riding, felching, monging, even monkey spanking, but it turned out that they had nothing to do with tea production, food processing, horse breaking, fetching (I thought it was a typo), Mongolian barbecue, or animal chastisement.

Sadly, I never did manage to find a decent job, and for a while I was forced to spend my Friday nights drinking my Sex on the Beaches alone in the dark, chatting up the coat rack in my underwear. But don't worry, it all worked out in the end. After one particularly degrading evening of swilling Velvet Crushes and making out with my pillow, I realized I had left my webcam on, and that I had captured the rapt attention of an enthusiastic audience of perverts and art critics who were busily discussing what they considered to be the most arousing commentary on postmodern degradation yet produced by a performance artist working in the electronic medium. Finally, I had a marketable skill! Now I'm back living the high life, my pockets newly filled by the royalties from my hastily created video collection (New York: Drunk On Girly Drinks, only $14.95 on Amazon.com) with enough money to keep me in pucker for a long, long time. And believe you me: pucker I will.

Editor's note: The author is a regular contributor to Playgirl magazine