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In This Issue

• Toddler Sex Toy Secrets Revealed
• Belgian Makes Fun of Belgians
• Sobriety: Mardi Gras Withdrawal
• Letters to the Feditor
• John Ashcroft = Scary
• Marauding Interviewer: Ass Virginity En Masse
• Inside the Real ROTC
• Columbia's Just Being Nice to Get You into the Sack
• Unleash the Flood Waters
• Your Local Forecast
• Oompa-Loompas' Fingers Too Short for Shocker
• Portrait of the Masturbator as a Young Man
• And Now, the Fed Translates the Creepiest Ad Ever
• Jacko Makes Cocktail Party Chitchat
• Spring Fashion: Haute Couture in Haute Alert
• At Your Local Supermarket
• Ode d'Orange
• THEY Watch
• Wacky Fun Whitey Wets the Bed
• An Outdoor Conversation
• Roboninja
• Poor Orange
• The Staff

The things that poets oft describe,
Like skies and roses, fruits and sunsets,
Need names the rhyme scheme doth proscribe.
Finding rhymes may stunt one's content.
One way to give your thoughts expression,
Is talk of colors, dreams, and kissing.
How can I polish my profession,
When words I want are all but missing?
In all my days, there stands out one offender,
The harshest barrier 'tween mind and tongue.
Tigers, pumpkins, leaves in late November,
Must all their hue and pallor go unsung.
A revelation long by poets rued:
You want to talk of orange? Ha! You're screwed.