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In This Issue
- Graffiti: High Art with Penii
- War Is Peace, Freedom Is Slavery, Columbia is Friend
- COPS: Keeping You Safe, At Any Cost
- Pigs, Drugs, and Electric Shocks
- Letters to the Feditors
- Operation: Fed Freedom!
- Mike Ilardi: From Carman Mutant to Fed Helm
- Farewell, Mr. Lippert
- The Pope Vs. Katie, Round II
- Pranking Feditor Fades into Archival File Cabinet
- Oodles of Doodles
- The Last Days of Mary-Kate and Ashley
- Gangrenous Jaguar
- The True Story of How the Big Bad Bunny Stole the Easter Animal Election From the Cute Piggy
- What All the Cool Immortals Are Reading
- John Jay Flees, Kids Rejoice
- Arts & Entertainment : Del McCoury Band
- THEY Watch
- Meet the Staff of 20.8
- Get to Know Us!
COPS: Keeping You Safe, At Any Cost
Columbia's Finest Insecurity
Russell Spitzer
Names have been changed to protect the guilty and incarcerate the innocent.
"Yeah, I spend my nights patrolling these mean streets, I bust down those kids without two forms of ID, and when the sun comes up I'm ready to make sure only kids with cards get into the dormitories. I'm not a super-hero, I'm a COPS," says Sam Marquette.
I'm proud to present for all you fine readers the finest in Law Drama: The Columbia Outdoor Patrol Squaddies. I bring you to the scene of the action: smell the floors of Carman, swipe the cards of really drunk freshmen, ignore the vast amount of alcohol they are carrying into the building, feel what it's like to be able to drive on College Walk ... that's not power, that's justice.
For tonight's tale of intrigue we ride alongside Sam Marquette, a Junior level squaddie in COPS. It's Thursday, the OC is just beginning, and so is our adventure.
Our first scene takes place on the second floor Carman where we have some prior information that an illegal heating device is being used. "Using the URH's $100,000 infrared radiation detector we can detect a warming of as few as 5 degrees above room temperature" Sam informs me as he dons his genuine Reflect-o-Sunglasses. "We can actually track each person's movement down to a five-inch margin of error. Why else do you think we always bust in right when you're in the shower? Unfortunately, I haven't been allowed to use that system since the "Stiles" incident so now we're running blind. But enough chit-chat, now we strike." Sam's face turns as resolute as stone as he knocks on the door. From inside the room we hear a slight clicking, and the moment the door cracks open, Sam slams the full force of his body against it. The door swings inwards, smashing a now unidentifiable student against the cement wall. One slightly unnecessary somersault later, Sam is in the middle of the room, gun drawn. A bunch of young students ignore his presence completely and continue an awkward session of floor-cest. On the television screen, the dilemma of whether or not one blonde Calfornian will have hott lesbian sex with another less blonde Californian continues on the television screen. "WHERE'S THE I.H.D PUNKS?!" Sam's voice booms through the room, causing a poor boy's attempt to get to second base to fail miserably. "WHERE IS YOUR ILLEGAL HEATING DEVICE!" Sam raises his gun and fires warning shots into the television and then into the kneecaps of an unsuspecting resident. Through cries of pain and agony, the now stricken student gestures to a Coffeemate sitting in the corner of the room. Sam brings the hurt down on the unsuspecting coffee maker, execution style. It will never roast an innocent bean again.
Before the clean-up crew from the morgue arrives, we vacate. Sam turns to me with a single tear in his eye. "They just don't realize how much that I.H.D. could have hurt them! What would they have done if it had exceeded the temperature required to ignite solid concrete?" (about 600 degrees Centigrade for painted cement blocks/ close to the melting point of silver). "This whole building could have gone up in flames! I did it for the children! WHY CAN"T THEY SEE!!!" Sam crumbles into the fetal position weeps like a little girl. His mascara runs and I feel slightly ashamed to be seen with him. Once his self pity has ended, he quickly rises and notes down one casualty on his record sheet. We walk off to our next conquest for justice.
Apparently HQ isn't too pleased with Sam's casualty record and we are forced to settle for ID swiping for the rest of the night. We hunker down at our desk in E.C., which Sam colorfully renames clinch point alpha, and watch as students file past us as Sam swipes them in. Sam has put on his "happy place music", GWAR, and prepares to relax for the rest of the evening. Then out of the dark night comes a trespasser in the halls of justice: a student from Barnard. She tries to pass off her pathetic Barnard ID but Sam stands fast. "A Barnard ID? Where do you think you are? This shit won't get you through customs and you want to use it here? Do I look like a communications major?" Sam rips off his shirt and displays a long scar in the shape of Snoopy(r) on his chest. "Back in 03' I let one of your type in here and this is what I got for it." Frightened by Sam's scar or possibly his regressed third nipple, the young woman turns and runs out the door. Her bag tumbles to the ground on the way out and Sam is on it in a flash. "BOMB! WATCH OUT!" Heroically Sam grabs the hand bag (Prada $600), and clutches it to his stomach as he throws himself to the ground in an attempt to shield us from the blast. After a tense hour and a half, Sam slowly stands up and announces that it must have been a dud. We thank our lucky stars that everyone is safe and decide to call it a night.
So Columbia, when you're out there, in Morningside Heights, with your friends, carefree, remember that your safety is in the reliable hands of COPS.