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In This Issue

• Get Your Freak On, Dorks
• (Almost) Rejected by Israeli Security
• Beaten by the Retard: Adventures in Drama
• Letters to and from the Fed's Maxima and Co.
• Columbia Hipsters Are So Shallow You Think You’re in High School
• Are You a Terrorist? The Government's Shocking Answer
• Failed Terrorist Herbie Bin Laden Marries Jewish Wife, Dabbles in Scientology
• Poetry.com: Your High School Poems are Waiting for You…
• Bottled Water: Bigger than Jesus, and now Semen Free
• Revolve magazine: The Seventeenth Seal
• I Passed the Oral but Failed the Urine
• Horribly Hassled Hermaphrodites Harangue Humanity
• Trial and Error Your Way to Perfect Genital Design
• Shot Down! : Rejections Made Simple
• Your College Essay, but with less Suck
• New Twenties Bring Back Tired Old Monopoly Money Jokes

The doctor looked grim.  "You have high blood pressure."

"Give it to me straight, how long do I have?"

"Sixty, maybe seventy years."

"Fuck.  Shit."

It was so unexpected.  I am in my prime, only twenty-one.  I adhere to a strict diet of Papa John’s and those complimentary green peppers.  I work out hard, repositioning my body regularly during commercial breaks, and I just caught a 20/20 segment on Pilates.

But I am a fighter.  I wasn’t going to let this beat me.

"What can I do?"

"Exercise, a better diet.  You will probably need a prescription."

I am somewhat of an armchair pharmocologist, having spent the better part of my time at Columbia watching television and encountering a number of vague, utopian prescription medication commercials.  These medicines look so promising; judging from the ads, everybody taking them spends all day mountain climbing, kayaking, throwing footballs through tire swings in their back yards, and coaching the Atlanta Falcons.

Maybe it is time to ask my doctor about Levitra and if it’s right for me.

"Is Levitra right for me?"

"No.  Let’s get a blood test before I prescribe anything, it could be a thyroid problem."

By this time the stench of my impending demise had permeated the room and I could tell that it was taxing the doctor.  I sprayed him with some of the Lysol that is my brilliant wit.

"I do have a bad thyroid, an old basketball injury."

He didn’t smile; he couldn’t.  I realized the tragedy of the situation.  When they make my life story into an ABC family special, this is where they will start playing “Candle in the Wind.”  I will be played by my cousin Colin Farrell, or if he is not available, my other cousin Pharrell.

Waiting for my blood to be sampled, Columbia Health Services thoughtfully provided a diverse selection of periodicals consisting entirely of The Advocate and Family Urology.  Although not gay, I do make urine and hope some day to have a family that makes it too.  So I picked up a copy of Family Urology, which both captivated and scared the hell out of me with all the possible things that can go wrong with my penis.  I was encouraged though by the article “A Very Unusual Case of Chronic Abdominal Pain Caused By a Giant Bladder Stone Formed on a Foley Catheter Left in Bladder.”  Modern medicine has not only discovered ways to increase tire swing aiming accuracy, but also novel means of sticking giant bladder stone inducing devices in orifices God never, ever meant to be penetrated.

They did eventually find the catheter but I am not sure what happened to the giant bladder stone.  The nurse got to me before the end of the article.  She addressed me as – this is true – “Monsieur.”  She had a French accent.  While rolling up my sleeve for her, I was struck by the irony of the situation.  Of course, they are not willing to give their blood for freedom, liberty and American oil interests, but they are willing to take my hard earned blood.  But the vampire wasn’t content to just grab my blood.  Apparently they needed a urine test, too.  She gave me a brown paper bag and a plastic cup.

I didn’t take the bag.  I am not ashamed.  Brown paper bags are for people buying porn and Cat Fancy.  I might not be one of these freshmen with a blood pressure of 110 over 70, but I can sure as hell fill a cup with pee, and I am proud of it. 

I headed towards the bathroom.  The receptionist glanced at me and my unbagged, fresh container.  I gave him a nod.  That’s right, I’ll be back with this full.

Vanity, thy name is me.  I opened the faucet but the tap was dry.  Urinary retention?  Isn’t that a symptom of… oh God, don’t be a giant bladder stone, don’t be a giant bladder stone.  After about twenty minutes of sobbing hysterically in the corner of the stall, I pulled myself together.  I had been beating high blood pressure for the past thirty minutes, I could handle this.  I found the sink, drank and didn’t stop. 

Forty-three minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom.  Although I wasn’t going to win any awards for speed, I carried my slightly less than half full cup of urine back to the French vampire with as much dignity as a man can in that situation,  which is not very much.  This part will be strategically cut from my ABC family movie and replaced with a shot of Colin throwing a football through a tire swing.