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Posted: August 2003
In This Issue
- Morningside Heights = Wormhole
- First Year Friendships are for Fakies
- Stupid Shit Last Year's Frosh Did
- Letters to and from the Feditrix
- Meet Columbia's Least Employable Grads
- Drunken Email: Sloshed Slacker Salvation
- A Well-Engineered SEAS Survival Guide
- Engineers Get Jobs, But never Blowjobs
- Thirty Things to Do Before you Graduate
- Tips for Keeping Your Room Tidy and Your Roommate Pissed Off
- Pass that Class with Your Hot Ass
- Attack of the Killer Barnard Blowjob
- Apathy is for Jerks, Imperialism is for Turks
- Student Spends Summer Choking Chickens
- Columbia is Folsom Prison All Over Again
- Get Laid Quick, or your Genitals will Melt
- CUicide: A Proud Tradition
CUicide: A Proud Tradition
Mahnaz Dar
It’s getting painfully obvious that Columbia University is becoming more and more suicide-friendly. Consider the Butler stacks: one nylon rope courtesy of Columbia Hardware, add fifteen minutes of well-lit solitude provided free of charge, and you’ve got a delicious instant death. Or take Lerner Hall, a veritable haven for angst-ridden freshmen. If the prospect of leaping to a quick demise off of the continuous Escher-esque stairways presents the perfect means, then surely those cheerfully vocal elevators, each imbued with the personality of a lobotomized soccer mom, must provide the desire.
It’s clear in which direction the university is heading. Now, at the Spectator, rebellious firebrands that they are, they violently oppose the status quo, encouraging first-years to make the most of their four years, what with their full page ads for Nightline and their hotheaded, "You have everything to live for!" mentality. But we at The Fed are a simple breed. We believe in following our school’s traditions, because as we are so fond of saying, lodging ourselves up Alma Mater’s ass is not only necessary for the survival of our humble paper—nay, it is our duty as CU students.
So, jumping on the bandwagon, we’ve published a useful book for the first year. Just purchase How to Sign Your Name in Blood, and Other Alternatives to Club Night at Orientation Week now on sale at Columbia University Bookstore, and learn to write a suicide note like a true Ivy League graduate with only an Orientation Week’s worth of education. For easy access, find it in the Back to School section, right in between So Your Roommate’s a Schizophrenic and No, Sanchez, Columbia Doesn’t End at 119th Street: Running Your Own Spring Break Drug Racket. Don’t be intimidated by the oversized Columbia crown emblem on the cover. Reputable newspaper reviews have stated that writing with the aid of our book is, "just one step above plagiarism." Indeed, the hardest part about reading it is, "the shock that comes upon realizing that this thick volume is comprised of 325 pages, none of which are blank."
We like to think of our book as a reminder that merely pressing your tearstained eyes to the paper and scrawling a few stock phrases absolving your loved ones of guilt just doesn’t cut it anymore. Learn to draw your readers’ attention away from the fact that you are essentially a Columbia dropout by giving your suicide note an intriguing subject. Let your audience know that your death is linked to a new up and coming suicide cult, or that it symbolizes your outrage at Citibank’s inherently racist policies. With just a little effort, you can soften the fact that you offed yourself before making it to a single class, and simultaneously provide your loved ones with a fascinating theme for an otherwise mediocre eulogy.
The book also includes mesmerizing chapters that cover material you might never have thought of. For the anal retentive student, the section on last minute instructions, warnings, and requests will make life much easier for your loved ones. Those of you with unusual phobias, for example, should include this suggestion: "I am strongly adverse to my corpse being dismembered, sodomized, or violated—it’s cremation for me!" And for you students as non-confrontational in death as in life, we offer sage advice on letting your roommate down easy regarding the dead man’s curve issue. Sure, a 4.0 GPA would be a lovely parting gift for your distraught roommate upon your death. But consider adding the phrase, "To the Dean of Students—my roommate and I might have one day become the best of friends, but I believe the trauma of my passing only warrants straight B’s for [him or her]" as a tactful, yet forthright, way of bringing up the matter.
A few last minute tips round out the end of the book. Never decide upon a public restroom as the place of discovery for your body or your note: amorous couples, foreign cleaning ladies, and hungover first-years are not the intended audience for your work. If you have a flair for the dramatic, remember that in spite of our carefully chosen title, blood is an overused choice of ink—semen, feces, and countless other examples of bodily waste are all equally inspired options. Play your cards right, and the possibilities of your posthumous influence range from the creation of an NSOP session on the dangers of depression, to presenting the Spec’s Roving Reporter with one truly heartfelt and relevant subject.
It’s clear in which direction the university is heading. Now, at the Spectator, rebellious firebrands that they are, they violently oppose the status quo, encouraging first-years to make the most of their four years, what with their full page ads for Nightline and their hotheaded, "You have everything to live for!" mentality. But we at The Fed are a simple breed. We believe in following our school’s traditions, because as we are so fond of saying, lodging ourselves up Alma Mater’s ass is not only necessary for the survival of our humble paper—nay, it is our duty as CU students.
So, jumping on the bandwagon, we’ve published a useful book for the first year. Just purchase How to Sign Your Name in Blood, and Other Alternatives to Club Night at Orientation Week now on sale at Columbia University Bookstore, and learn to write a suicide note like a true Ivy League graduate with only an Orientation Week’s worth of education. For easy access, find it in the Back to School section, right in between So Your Roommate’s a Schizophrenic and No, Sanchez, Columbia Doesn’t End at 119th Street: Running Your Own Spring Break Drug Racket. Don’t be intimidated by the oversized Columbia crown emblem on the cover. Reputable newspaper reviews have stated that writing with the aid of our book is, "just one step above plagiarism." Indeed, the hardest part about reading it is, "the shock that comes upon realizing that this thick volume is comprised of 325 pages, none of which are blank."
We like to think of our book as a reminder that merely pressing your tearstained eyes to the paper and scrawling a few stock phrases absolving your loved ones of guilt just doesn’t cut it anymore. Learn to draw your readers’ attention away from the fact that you are essentially a Columbia dropout by giving your suicide note an intriguing subject. Let your audience know that your death is linked to a new up and coming suicide cult, or that it symbolizes your outrage at Citibank’s inherently racist policies. With just a little effort, you can soften the fact that you offed yourself before making it to a single class, and simultaneously provide your loved ones with a fascinating theme for an otherwise mediocre eulogy.
The book also includes mesmerizing chapters that cover material you might never have thought of. For the anal retentive student, the section on last minute instructions, warnings, and requests will make life much easier for your loved ones. Those of you with unusual phobias, for example, should include this suggestion: "I am strongly adverse to my corpse being dismembered, sodomized, or violated—it’s cremation for me!" And for you students as non-confrontational in death as in life, we offer sage advice on letting your roommate down easy regarding the dead man’s curve issue. Sure, a 4.0 GPA would be a lovely parting gift for your distraught roommate upon your death. But consider adding the phrase, "To the Dean of Students—my roommate and I might have one day become the best of friends, but I believe the trauma of my passing only warrants straight B’s for [him or her]" as a tactful, yet forthright, way of bringing up the matter.
A few last minute tips round out the end of the book. Never decide upon a public restroom as the place of discovery for your body or your note: amorous couples, foreign cleaning ladies, and hungover first-years are not the intended audience for your work. If you have a flair for the dramatic, remember that in spite of our carefully chosen title, blood is an overused choice of ink—semen, feces, and countless other examples of bodily waste are all equally inspired options. Play your cards right, and the possibilities of your posthumous influence range from the creation of an NSOP session on the dangers of depression, to presenting the Spec’s Roving Reporter with one truly heartfelt and relevant subject.