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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

So you're a first-year Columbia student. Your first term paper was the result of a forty-eight hour caffeine pill and coffee fest. All your knowledge on your last calculus exam came from repeated viewings of "A Beautiful Mind." Your grade is 25% dependent on class participation, and you sit in the middle of a crowded lecture room surrounded by overly-motivated juniors and seniors, a class which you rarely make it to anyway because it starts at the ungodly hour of 9:00 am. Your grade would never be 25% dependent on class participation in a big lecture class. The problem in this paragraph is that it sounds like all of these things refer to the same class. But maybe it would be better to make this about just one class, since all your professors probably wouldn't want to sleep with you.

And yet somehow you're achieving a 4.0 grade point average getting straight A's.

Don't congratulate yourself just yet. Sure, there are those few, rare, hateful people who manage to combine studying, working their night job at the library, writing papers, working their afternoon job tutoring English to crippled ebonics-savvy inner city kids, writing for the Spectator, and singing on three separate Jewish female lesbian a capella groups. But chances are, you're not one of them. So what's the secret of your success? You're not that smart, resilient, or fascinating. Welcome to college: your professor is simply that sick.

Right now, you're probably teary eyed with protests. You made all A's through high school, you got a 1560 on your SAT's, and you'd never stoop to whoring yourself for grades.

Of course, consider that there are quite a few barometeres of professorial sexual desire. Maybe his eyes linger over your body every time you wear that tube top to class. Or maybe he goes for the obvious by leaving those tell-tale cum stains on the edges of your returned midterm.

But don't start dialing the SAFE number just yet. Admit it: it's a pretty sweet deal. You weren't actually planning on studying this semester anyway, were you? And by allowing a little harmless stalking, you're guaranteed to bring back satisfactory, albeit unmerited, grades in at least one class.

Still interested? All it takes is a small investment in a bottle of pepper spray, a whistle, and a good pair of running shoes for you to pull this off with complete impunity. Okay, and a slight decrease in your safety after dark, but if worse comes to worse, there's always campus security.

You might have some nagging concerns about compromising yourself for the sake of your plummeting grades. But wait a few weeks. Any lingering ideas of self-respect will have deteriorated by the time you see the grades that result from your actual academic performance. A few threatening phone calls from home and a talk from the dean, and you'll realize just how little your personal feelings have come to matter.

If, sadly, you're still being respect-fully treated like a human being by your professors, you've got to do something in order to get things rolling. Throw the poor guy a bone. Drop a couple of things in front of him - give yourself an excuse to bend over at least four times in any class. And when dropping by during office hours, asking obviously fabricated questions about his dissertation on the effect of global warming on the tribes of Papua New Guinea to stroke his ego is the best form of mental masturbation.

At any rate, you'll be bringing a lit-tle ray of sunshine into the life of an edu-cator who sits at home in his vacant apart-ment jerking off to term papers, amid his hundreds of unpublished theses. Considering that we're discussing some-one too timid to actually go out and pur-chase a Playboy, you can even rationalize your behavior into a good deed. You're not just prostituting yourself for grades. You're a symbol of hope to the utterly pathetic. You're reaching out to someone in need. In the end, isn't that what the col-lege experience is really about? Aren't you selflessly trying to understand someone else's experience? Well, no, not really. But you're still going to do it, right?