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In This Issue

• What To Do With Books
• Craigslist Finds New Ways to Disturb
• Ovary Mining: Profit In Your Pants
• Letters to the Feditors
• Experience? Uh, no
• Sitting On Babies?
• The Internet = Porn. Porn = The Fed. Logically...
• "Which Came First, the Chicken or the Dregs?"
• Hey, Athletes! Need a Team? Call Me Ishmael.
• Hot Sex? Meh. Mock Interviews? Ooo Yeah, Baby.
• Swipe, Suffer, Suffocate
• From The Desk of Lee "El Cuisinart" Bollinger
• Practice Protectionism in the Bedroom
• Living at the Speed of 2.99x10^8 m/s
• Sensitivity Training Averts Termination
• Congrats, You're Fucked
• The Hierarchy of Columbia
• THEY Watch

Russell Spitzer

A few days ago, a dear friend confided to me that she had not had sex with her boyfriend in over a week. Instead of foreplay, her boyfriend suggested they practice interviewing skills and proper business card etiquette. Flabbergasted at first, I soon realized that I too had spent the last few evenings falling asleep to the hum of the air conditioner instead of the usual post-coital panting. Why, just the other night, I watched as my own boyfriend struggled through our favorite porno, his eagerness to get back into the library or onto his computer overtaking his drive to bend me over the kitchen sink.

    I decided to ask around among my other sexually active friends, and with many I was met with similar tales of lovers with diminished libidos. This mysterious disappearance of mojo had me terribly worried and I began to think of the dire consequences that would ensue if it continued. Without sex, serotonin would dwindle, people would become dull and unable to think for themselves, socialism would flourish, no one would have any money to spend on alcohol, inhibitions would emerge within everyone everywhere...it was all too much for me to think about. With beads of sweat dripping down my brow, I knew I had to get to the root of this problem before our beloved student body went the way of Pepperdine, BYU, and Villa-no-fun.

     Using my finely tuned Carmen San Diego gumshoe skills, I was able to uncover a single characteristic common among said significant others. A cold shiver ran down my spine as I realized that each Columbian, including my own boyfriend, was currently engrossed in this month's investment banking and consulting application frenzy. Every evening, these men and women would frantically sit and complete page after page of application questionnaires while simultaneously reworking and manipulating their pathetic resumes. And as all of this was occurring, their lonely partners were left buying stock in Duracell and donning disguises for their fifth visit to the Pink Pussycat. In my own spare time I have so far racked up hours upon hours of cheap internet porn and recreational showers. For the sake of being carpal-tunnel free and avoiding the Columbia bandwidth police shutting down my pleasure operation in the future, this nightly routine cannot continue.  

    So, ladies and gentlemen, what can we do to bring our partners out of the Career Center and back into bed with us?! Suggestions that have been brought to my attention have included everything from upping the kink-factor a few hundred notches (for instance, applying a strength in numbers method: the threesome/orgy theory), to outright threats of breakups, slander, and arson. My own thoughts have circled around hacking into the server and disabling the ColumbiaTrak website, to venturing down to these banks and servicing the head of the recruiting department (no pun intended) on the sole condition that they hire my boyfriend immediately.

    Whatever course I decide to pursue, it will require methodical planning, an iron stomach, a long cable rope, some carabiners, and maybe a couple of prostitutes. If you have some suggestions or successful stories, by all means, send them into our dear newspaper. Your help saves lives.