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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

Edward Rueda

You read the Spectator, or at least you did that one time; I shouldn't have to tell you that Columbia has something sinister in store for you. If you can't even figure out that They are out to screw you (perhaps even anally), I ought to just wish you good luck at state school next semester. But I have uncovered a plot of the most unimaginable evil. It lurks in your inbox and voicemail, piling up new messages every ten minutes, day and night. Housing meetings. Cultural events. Surveys. Pizza "parties." Lecture series. Horny young teens begging for cock, no credit card required.

As if you care. You're a Columbia student. You're here because you hate humanity. Why is the administration so interested in getting you off your grouchy drunk ass to some stupid event anyway? You can't really believe they're actually interested in listening to your endless stream of largely unreasonable complaints. Why would the Student Activities staff encourage involvement in student activities? They have to fill out more paperwork if more people get involved; there's definitely something else going on here. Pondering these and other questions (most of which concerned possible links between the popular children's television show Yu-Gi-Oh! and my reverent fascination with Charles Manson) late one night, I fell into a deep sleep, where the horrible truth revealed itself to me in a dream

I found myself standing on the crowded boarding platform of a commuter railroad stop in Central Jersey. The whistle of a locomotive cut through the filthy stench in the air; slowly a tiny two-car train became visible up the track. The train's size sent my well-honed subway instincts into a panic. How would I escape if one of those singing bums or candy-peddling inner-city basketball clubs got on? Boarding this miniature monstrosity of a train, I could actually feel my penis shrinking in both length and girth.

After a short but frightfully emasculating ride, I disembarked with the other passengers at a location that was, at first glance, quite alien to me. The buildings looked like the runty stone castles of a lost medieval society of dwarves; squirrels black as sack cloth eyed me suspiciously from every treetop. The people, in contrast, were a ghastly white. They smiled widely and vacantly, showing off the pearly white benefits of thousands of dollars worth of adolescent orthodontia. Everything from clothing to tote bags to bottles of water bore the dread word: Princeton!

As I walked across the campus, I experienced horrors too grave for a right-minded Columbia student to imagine. Groups of students were scattered about, making use of campus facilities and socializing merrily. Banners displaying school spirit hung from every open dorm window. Wildly implausible tales of satisfaction with campus life flowed from all parted lips. Thirty five year old particle physics grad students with bad facial hair walked hand in hand with slender and attractive barely legal freshmen girls. The odor of rotting trash which otherwise blankets the state of New Jersey had been covered up by a mellow blend of herbs, spices, and frankincense. I was completing my walking tour at the ivy-covered walls of historic Nassau Hall when I began to notice muffled squeals coming from a window that had been left ajar. I felt that I had to learn the dark secrets of this place; I fearlessly climbed in.

A panel of judges from U.S. News and World Reports stood against the far wall, tails twitching wildly between cloven hooves. Before them were tables at which several hooded admissions officials were hard at work, eagerly sacrificing a score of pre-frosh virgins to their dark gods. Others were being held for the "special interview" later.

I was too overcome with shock to notice the security detachment of black squirrels, genetically modified for ungodly strength and nut-cracking abilities, that had entered the room. First I took out my photo ID, hoping that they only wanted to make me sign the guest book. But as they charged forward, greedily eyeing my nuts, I realized that Toto and I were not in Columbia residence halls anymore. I made a mad dash for the door but alas, the vile rodents overtook me and beat me unconscious, all the while nibbling rabidly on my package. I was then roasted on a spit and devoured by the Tiger Inn Eating Club.

When I awoke, the truth became clear to me. The Columbia administration is brainwashing us into becoming outgoing and involved in campus life so we can be like Princeton students and say nice things in all our surveys (and they can get 17-year-old booty). On the other hand, someday I, too, might become an ugly, socially inept and unemployable (because of the soft economy, of course) physics grad student. And if the administration's plot means that someday I'll have Columbia eating clubs to cruise for some of that sweet poontang too young to drink at The West End, then maybe I should just play dumb like the rest of my classmates.