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In This Issue

• A Modest Proposal for Iraq
• An Indie-Rocker Falls Into the Gap
• Beware of People Selling Stuff, Except Us
• Women Need to be Vulnerable and Easy Again
• Marriage is the Perfect Career
• All The Cool Kids Are Doing It...
• Girl Sells Soul to Pour Investment Bankers' Coffee
• Wendy's Sells the Fuck Out: Lame With Mayo
• I Used to Listen to Jesus Christ, Before He Went Mainstream
• The Singing Senators: Behind the "Music"
• In Gateway, I Designed a 3-D Noose
• Barnard Woman Tries to Use, Not Give, Head
• Mexico: Taco Bell Without Plumbing
• Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200
• Wacky Fun Whitey Gets a Date
• Colombia Spectador
• Columbia Bookstore's Introduces New "Ghetto-fab" Line of Clothing

Unfortunately, these students' artifical intelligence project failed subsequent Turing tests

There's an ancient Greek poem extolling the virtues of raping boys that goes (and I'm paraphrasing) something like this "Eleven is good/ Twelve is better yet./ Thirteen is great./ Fourteen is better still./ Fifteen, and sixteen are absolutely wonderful,/ But seventeen!/ Seventeen is fit only for the gods, for he'll turn you over and rape you right back."

The joke was related to me by a professor of history and is in many ways analogous to my academic career up until this point. As a naive senior in high school, applying to an engineering school certainly seemed like a good idea: "Well, Golly-Miss-Molly, I can get a first rate engineering education while still attending an Ivy League university in Manhattan of all places!?!" After all, I had dropped trou and violated every math and science class that my high school threw at me; how bad could engineering really be?

Well, it turns out that it could be pretty bad. Not only did it turn me over to rape me, it thrusted itss thorny phallus up my ass, let its barbs catch in place, and has remained there- pulsating, for the duration of my two year stay at SEAS. And so, limping like the bitch I had become, I turned in my transfer application.

The engineering school was probably invented as a means of diverting money away from faculty by cramming SEAS students into enormous lectures lead by professors of questionable ability in which students learn little of any importance and retain even less. "But what about all the money I'm going to make with the six-figure job I'm going to get being a corporate whore after I graduate?" you, the gangly, pimple-faced engineer, may ask. Unfortunately you probably will make a lot of money, drive expensive cars, vacation in exotic locations, and own several beautiful concubines half your age and several times as attractive as you.

I'd like to say that these material possessions won't make you happy, but unfortunately they probably will. I'd also like to say that I'll live a wholly satisfying, simplistic life of intellectual pleasures- pitying your sorry, soulless, money-grubbing, cosmetically challenged existence, but I'd just be deluding myself. Even so, the time has come for me to bid farewell to my lifeless, mechanized alma-mater. Her metallic sheen drew me in like a dog to the oh-so-sweet pool of antifreeze, but I've felt the cruel thrust of her scepter one time too many.

I really did try to be a good engineering student. I resigned myself to a diet consisting exclusively of Ring-Dings and cheetos (for their beta-carotene content). I smeared motor oil all over my face in hopes that it would break out. I only owned one set of clothing that I washed once a month. It was to no avail; I still couldn't get an A in calculus, no matter how unkempt I became.

As a sophomore I made a last ditch effort to become one with my inner engineer- I enrolled in a class in artificial intelligence. The class's final project involved constructing a functioning pleasure robot; the professor was obviously well aware of the sexless plight of students desperate enough to study such a subject. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of giving my sex-bot the gift of sentience and it left me for the jock living down the hall. On the bright side, it managed to pass the Turing Test (the holy grail for artificial intelligence programmers), but only after giving the judges blowjobs.

Beaten, I made my way to the sophomore class center to break the news to my advisor. Surprise! The University had eliminated internal transfers starting with the 2002-2003 school year. The mecha-phallus lodged itself a bit more deeply. And so, I bought an extra-large tub of vaseline and filled out a regular transfer application, placing me in a very large pool of applicants where the odds are very much against me. Now all I can do is wait. The moral of the story? Don't go around raping boys, metaphorically or otherwise.