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In This Issue

• Students Wrestle for Squid God
• Summer Job Pays to Choke Chickens
• Dolphins: Not Just for Sex Anymore
• Letters to the Feditrix
• The Confessions of a Burgeoning, Fecund Fury
• Suicides Are Fun for Those Who Don't Participate
• Military + Animals = Hours of Deadly Fun
• When Will Columbia Girls Go Not Ugly?
• You Wouldn't Know Hot Ass Even If You Bit Mine
• Necrophilia: Hey, It's Not Like They Mind
• Columbia Hipsters Leave Brooklyn to Strut Stuff
• Want Me!!!!
• I'm Still Drunk After All These Years
• He's Like Larry Flint, but Super Gay
• At Least the Fed Thinks I'm Cool...
• An End to the Planet
• Steve and Cornelius Are Now Chicks, Like to Play with Own Va-Jay-Jays
• Building a Bomb to Put in the Fed's Open Arms
• Oedipus Family Circus
• The Staff of 18.9
• THEY WATCH

As I struggled to piece together the past twenty-four hours I realized that something disturbing had happened. No, it was not the Fed Bash itself: the nudity, the giant homosexual man in a rabbit suit, or the booze. It was, believe it or not, the fact that I didn't get any. For most normal people, the Fed Bash is a sure thing, a hormone and alcohol-filled festival of debauchery. But somehow I managed to miss out. I didn't make it to first or second base; I didn't play tonsil hockey or face wrestle; I didn't get called for goaltending or get a two point conversion; or any other sports-related euphemisms for making out. I did not pass GO. I did not collect $200.

It's not like my thimble on the Monopoly board of life didn't try to get ass from the Community Chest of womanhood at the Boardwalk of parties -- the Fed Bash. I did dance with a very hairy man in a black dress, and drunken upperclasswomen did use me -- for support, to keep from falling over. But the Holy Grail of play remained ever-distant from me, and I felt compelled to evaluate the possible causes for my lack of action.

The answer, of course, quickly became clear. I am simply too good looking.

I know my looks can be intimidating. I blame my parents. When I was born, the doctors asked them if they wanted to scar or deform me so I could fit in -- and those cheap bastards declined. Though I had grown accustomed to the camera flashes and swooning women, little prepared me for the response I received from my mind-bogglingly hideous "peers" at Columbia. Apparently, generations of alumni inbreeding have forced many of us here to further lower our standards. This, coupled with our collective tendency to drink until anybody looks cute can make it quite a shock to see somebody as classically attractive as me.

For an institution that stresses tolerance past the point of reason, discrimination against the beautiful is rampant. The pressure to fit in with the ugly masses has pushed some of the prettiest members of our community to extreme measures. I don't know how else to explain Bollinger's hair. It borders on self-mutilation.

As for me, I've tried many of the classical college routes to make myself as homely as the rest of you. Poor diet, binge drinking, little or no grooming, sloppy dressing. These and other basic principles of the Fed have, apparently, done no good in helping me become acceptably unattractive. The Fed Bash was the final proof that I am too handsome, and nothing will ever change that.

It is with a heavy heart, bordering on despair, that I beg all of you -- Columbia, Barnard, New York City, that guy in Pakistan who has a subscription to the Fed -- to just accept me for what I am: really fucking hot; far more attractive than you.