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In This Issue

• First Aid Failure
• A Recipe for Delicious Choke-O Puffs
• Senior Giving '06 to Fund Expansion
• Letters to the Feditor
• When That All-Night Nominee Still Only Gets a C
• Less Well-Known Choking Placards
• Sexual Perversion in Legoland
• Drink-Or-Treat!
• Minutes from the Debate Between Yes and No
• Silly Catchphrase Spreads Like Plague
• How Fight Club Ruined My Teenhood
• The Green Bodice of My Love
• Can't You Smell That Smell?
• Not Your Average Science Fair Project
• The Adventures of Snakey the Snake
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 21.3

Russell Spitzer

Dear Artichoke,

The other night, I was feeling lonely.  Friends? I have none.  Candy?  I had only one piece: the mini KitKat thrown at my head by a vengeful RA in the dorm lobby.  Booze? I had been drowning my sorrows for quite some time, and that’s probably what led me to you, O Artichoke.

I didn’t know what to expect on what seemed another routine drunken trip to MoWill.  I was planning on supplementing my dinner with some spicy Cheetos or a serving of the market’s wholesome signature veggie lo mein, whose MSG had been inundating my bowels since early September.  Little did I know that that night I would stumble across you instead, my sweet darling artichoke.  

I must admit, I almost passed you by, as I was momentarily distracted by the avocados.  That is, until I recalled the last avocado I bought at Mowill.  I opened it up, ready to make sweet love to it, only to find that it was rotted black inside.  At the market, they were nice about exchanging it.  “Girl! It’s not bad, you gotsta use it in your hair.”  I frowned at my Jewish locks and handed it over to the checkout girl who needed it more than I.  So curse you Mowill avocado, for I have a new lover.

And yes, that night I found myself looking for love in the veggie section of Mowill. I didn’t know what I was looking for exactly, but then again, I don’t think fate lets you in on all of its secrets.

Then I spotted your succulent green bodice in a pile of others just like you.  Your “California Grown” sticker caught my eye.  You had traveled, like myself, from the Golden State to Broadway.  “Ahhh, a like-minded soul,” I mused to the confused old woman next to me.  “Crazy hobo,” she replied, and hit me in the shoulder with her bag of broccoli.  I picked you from the top of the pile.  It was as if the fluorescent light over the vegetables was shining just for you.

I took you home and played with your dry uncooked leaves as the water boiled.  One of my roommates asked what the hell I thought I was doing.  I threw the remnants of my gin and tonic in her face, then moved to place you, my gentle unforgiving love, into the boiling pot.  Refilling my drink, I watched as your leaves turned darker and darker, anxious with anticipation. Thirty long minutes later, I covered both of us in melted butter and devoured you.  As I ate your fuzzy little heart, you took a piece of my heart, dear artichoke.

I love you artichoke.

I love artichoke.

Love came cheap that night, only 99 cents.  You, beautiful artichoke, left me full and satisfied.  There was no need afterwards to look to the other food in my kitchen, though the wasabi peas, mini KitKat, and cold pasta sauce were all together tempting.  Yes, you, and only you, artichoke, know how to please me.

When will we meet again?  Do artichokes and students have the same heaven?  The next artichoke I have will never compare, and neither will the artichoke after that, I swear it.  I feel on the verge of quoting a Ricky Martin love ballad to better express my devotion, but you’re an artichoke, in my stomach, and probably wouldn’t get the reference, clever though it may be.

You make me melt like butta’,
Angela