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In This Issue

• The Colombia Spectador... Online!
• President Bollinger Cancels Barnard
• Locals Don't Care About J.J. Food
• Allegations of Animal Intimidation Rock MEALAC Professors, Laboratories
• Six-Year Old Held in Terror Scare
• Saving the World, One iPod at a Time
• Letters to the Feditors
• A Slow Descent into Health
• Eat Shit and Die - or Learn to Love It
• Cholera Gives Me That Lovin' Feeling, Diarrhea
• An Open Letter to My Unborn Son
• Disorders to Earn You Psych Services' Lovin'
• On Dieting
• Bladder Stones and Other Terrors
• The Life and Times of Deranged Freak Babies
• Is It Abuse, or Is It Medical Care? See for Yourself!
• A Fed Tradition Continues Unfettered
• Johnny Cash Conquers the Martians
• Neverland Ranch v. Pleasure Island
• Marauding Interviewer
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 20.7

Ted Holden

We college students are a superior race. The minute you graduate from scared prospie to scared freshbie, you acquire an amazing superpower: the ability to consume anything. I wondered one day, as I was licking tequila off a whore's stomach, just how I came by this amazing power. I don't remember being bitten by any radioactive spiders. And then it hit me: dining room food! John Jay and Hewitt food slowly poison you until your ability to tell edible from despicable is replaced with the ability to extend the 10-second rule a little more each day. You know you've seen your friends eat things that homeless people would inch away from in disgust. That stale Oreo under your bed was just waiting for someone to find it, right? No, we are no longer human; in fact, we're a lot closer to the cockroaches with which we battle over choice crumbs. In the words of Homer Simpson: "Mmmm, floor-pie."

Most people worry about contracting death when they eat something that smells faintly like a 16th-century back-alley. I worry only when I can't find a tic-tac under my roommate's dresser afterwards, and only then if I have a date that night. I remember one fine day early in the year when I was dragged to some meeting of some club my friend wanted to join. It had to do with community service or saving the world or something equally tedious, so I thought I was in for a long and boring hour. But, lo and behold, I heard the sweet mating call: "Free food!"

It was vicious. There were tears, and blood. I don't know what I ate, only that it was free, so it must have been fantastic. I might have lost a shirt and some dignity, but it wasn't any worse than the rock concerts I've been to. The word "free" automatically makes anything taste better. In fact, it's my favorite flavor.

I remember one fine day when I found a whole birthday cake lying in the study lounge. How can anyone have abandoned such a choice morsel? Sure, it had probably been sitting there for quite awhile, but it was 4 o'clock, and I was feeling British enough to indulge in teatime. I cautiously sniffed my prey. It still smelled faintly like cake, though chimney soot and halitosis also came to mind. I knew I had about as much willpower as a Catholic priest at a Boy Scout meeting, so I took a fistful of cake with "2003" written on it in frosting. I shoved the sweet bounty into my mouth before my brain could process the strange lettering. I heard rustling at the door...someone was trying to bust in to rob me of my precious! My barricade of couches and textbooks would only last so long. I shoved the cake into my mouth, nearly breaking a tooth on my ancient prize. I grinned a feral grin and said to myself, "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. And if it does kill you, you will be remembered as the girl who died of cake, and that's just cool."

You may think this was way heinous, you may marvel at how I could have sunk so low, you may even thank your lucky stars you have not fallen victim to the base scavenger instinct that affects so many first years. To that I say: whatever, bitch! You know you would have done the same.