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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

Having grown up in New Orleans, I have had to adjust to many of the bizarre aspects of Yankee "culture." The temperature can drop to fifty degrees (or less!), for example, and people will still venture outside in just light jackets or sweatshirts, as if they were impervious to frostbite. Furthermore, I have yet to find a drive-through daiquiri place here. And I thought New York was supposed to have everything.

The strangest thing by far, though, is the way New Yorkers celebrate Carnival. When Carnival began on January 6, I noticed many bakeries weren't displaying king cakes in their windows yet. I didn't give it much thought, though, assuming they had all been bought in the morning king cake rush. But as the weeks went by, I realized I still hadn't encountered any king cakes. I decided to consult a Yankee friend.

"Yankee friend," I said, "we're a month into Carnival, and I haven't had any king cake. What's going on with your messed up region?"

Much to my surprise, she didn't seem to understand. "A month into Carnival?? But isn't Mardi Gras still like a month away? I thought Carnival was just one day. And what is a 'king cake'?"

You can imagine my bewilderment. How could you fit close to 100 parades and millions of tourists into one day? If that was how New York was planning to celebrate, we were in for some serious problems. Besides, you need at least a couple of weeks to get thoroughly trashed. And what did she mean, "What is a king cake?"

"Hey, have you actually been to the Mardi Gras?" my friend said. Umm.

I decided to take emergency action and order a king cake from home. My friends were disappointed at its appearance. "That's it?" they said, looking at the flat oval-shaped cake, splattered with white frosting, sprinkles, and colored sugar.

"Haven't you ever seen a king cake?" I asked, barely containing my contempt.

"I expected it to be huge and elaborately decorated, made with only the finest ingredients," they responded. "It is called a king cake, after all."

"No ... But it does have a baby Jesus inside."

This got them excited, although they seemed to think it was strange for some reason. But really, what else are you supposed to do with little plastic baby Jesuses besides bake them in cakes? You're not going to be able to do it during Lent because it's kind of insulting to Jesus, so Carnival is your last chance. "Couldn't you choke on it?" one of them wondered. Well only if you're stupid. Honest to God, I'll never understand Yankees.

So I started planning for this year's Mardi Gras celebrations. I figured a group of us would take a few coolers of beer and a bunch of Popeye's fried chicken and set up couches and ladders on the neutral ground (or as they call it here, the "median") the night before and camp out. That way we'll be in prime positions to catch the coconuts and beads, and also, our bare breasts will be in clear view of the guys on the floats.

I proposed this to my friends, but of course, they had a whole bunch of Yankee problems with good old-fashioned Mardi Gras fun. First they said that you're not "allowed" to drink beer out in the street. "Who's gonna stop me?" I asked. "It's not like it's illegal or anything." Much to my alarm, they said that it is in fact illegal, and not only that, but it's illegal for me to be drinking at all since I'm only nineteen. I find this hard to believe.

Next, one of them asked, "Can we get fried tofu instead? I'm a vegan." A what-gan? Is tofu Yankee for shrimp? Someone else suggested that I probably wasn't allowed to set up furniture or camp out on the "median." There was that word again: "allowed." Didn't they know that Mardi Gras was when you're supposed to do what's not allowed? The police are aware of this. Maybe when I said "Mardi Gras" they misheard and thought I meant "Lent."

"No," they insisted. "You can really get in trouble for that kind of thing. And if you bear your breasts in public, men will harass you."

"But how will I get the people in the parades to throw things to me?" I asked. "This is what God gave me breasts for. No one can take that away from me."

They looked at each other nervously, then one put her hand on my shoulder. "I don't think there will be any parades," she said gently. No parades? That couldn't be. I knew this was some kind of a sneaky Yankee trick, but I couldn't quite figure it out. "Besides," she went on, "do you really want people throwing coconuts at your breasts?" Hells yeah I do.

So here I am, trapped in this strange land, with no Mardi Gras, no king cake, and no joy. What evil mind has created such a place where drunkenness is banned not only in the dorms but even in the streets! I have to get out of here. I could use a drink, but I can't find the liquor section in Duane Reade. To anyone in New Orleans reading this, have pity on me and send help, quick!