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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

The street rate is now $14 for only 1, outpacing inflation by 200% or more and pricing food-borne bacterial chlamydia out of the typical working-class home.

Helen Buyniski

A friend of mine recently told me that The Fed should have something like the very popular Spectator feature “Roving Reporter.” “Get out there and get people to say wacky stuff!” he told me, “Or ask them wacky questions!” I whacked him upside the head, but later discovered from the Fed upperclassmen that such a feature does exist (apparently it’s called “Marauding Interviewer”). I decided that I really needed to take the innovation a step further. Maybe I could combine “Roving Reporter”/”Marauding Interviewer” with those stupid people who sometimes hand out new free breakfast food – like “Milk and Cereal Already In a Fucking Cup” or “Chlamydia Cakes” or other equally inane products. I decided, drawing upon the unflagging popularity of that “Space Monkey” game where people choke each other, I might create a breakfast food that combines flavor sensations with the rush of almost choking to death.

Actually, that was all made up – I don’t have any friends, and nothing is actually popular about the Spectator; I just wanted an excuse to flex my amateur chef/homicidal killer muscles.

My cereal, I thought, should start with Cocoa-Puffs as a base, because it also makes puns so damn easy. I thought hard about all the ingredients that would give my Choke-O-Puffs (ha, there’s one, get it?) the chokolicious sensation they deserved. At long last, I came up with a recipe.

• 1 box Cocoa-Puffs
• 10 pretzel sticks (apparently kids choke on these a lot)
• 5 full hot dogs (apparently kids choke on these even more)
• 1 human penis (apparently kids choke on these more than anything else)
• 20 razor blades
• 1 full hot dog with razor blades in it
• 1 human penis with razor blades in it
• 1 choke-chain collar
• 3 decoder rings ironically from cereal boxes
• 1 lb. compressed carbon monoxide

Directions: Add everything to Cocoa-Puffs box. Mix well. Salt to taste. Serve chilled.

I awoke early and entered Café 212 to see if anyone was interested in my concoction. I sat at a table by myself, unsure exactly how to go about publicizing my new treat. I ran and grabbed a Spectator to make it look like I was intentionally not sitting with any friends.

Oh, I changed my mind. There’s one thing for which the Spec is popular: pretending like you have a reason for sitting by yourself.

As I gazed blankly at the paper, an idea struck me. In a wild flurry of motion that I hoped would be perceived by others as an accident, I knocked my Choke-O-Puffs with my forearm and sent them flying. The box soared beautifully across 212 and landed, spilling its contents everywhere.

“Mmmmmm mmmmmm!” I declared loudly, “Doesn’t that stuff look good!” Café 212 was silent. Everyone was staring at me. I had two options. I decided not to cry but rather to grab what was left in my box and hurry outside to see if a different audience was more responsive. I positioned myself on the Low Library steps.

I offered my cereal to the first guy with a popped collar that I saw. I figured that even if he didn’t like it, I would be doing the gene pool an undeniable favor.

He accepted my offer hesitantly, reaching his fingers into the box.

“Ow, shit! What the hell is in there that just cut my finger?”

Uh oh. I wasn’t entirely sure how to play this one. “That’s the cereal,” I told him coolly. He removed his hand from the box. A razor blade was embedded halfway into his middle finger.

“What the fuck is this? This isn’t cereal!” he screamed.

“You’re making a rude gesture at me, sir; I’d appreciate if you’d stop. I was only trying to enrich the taste sensations you might experience today.”

Then he beat the shit out of me.

Undeterred, I continued on, pausing every so often to let some blood or a tooth fall discreetly into the cereal box. A girl approached me.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to your face?” she asked.

Shakespearean thought struck me, and I answered her in an iambic pentameter couplet: “My condition is immaterial / But would you like to try some cereal?” I tried my best to beam a romantic smile. I’m fairly sure my visage ended up as rough approximation of that guy holding the Stanley Cup with no teeth. I was cool with that.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m in love with you! Just try my cereal!” Obligingly, but confused, she reached her hand into the cereal and pulled out a hot dog.

“What is this supposed to mean? What are you trying to tell me? Oh my God, why are you holding that cereal box down by your waist! Is there a hole in the back of it?”

“No!” I exclaimed and turned the box around to show her. There was a medium-sized hole in the back of it. Apparently, my popped-collar friend had made some stray strikes and punched a hole in the box.

“And is your fly down?”

“No!” I exclaimed and showed her my fly. It was down. I have no idea how the hell that happened.

I was off running again. Out of the hole in the box flew my wonderful mixture. As a penis erupted from the hole and whipped passed me, I thanked God that my insta-crush had only pulled out a hot dog.

I steamed down Broadway. I decided that if all the Ivy League yuppies were too good to know greatness when it blocked their windpipe, I would offer my Choke-O-Puffs to the homeless. In my broken, battered state, I proffered the cereal to several people sitting under awnings looking for money. They both rejected my cereal and offered me some of their change. Spurned even by the homeless, but willing to accept their money, I was at a loss as to what to do next.

And I ran. I ran so far away. And I couldn’t, I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t get away from my reputation; I hadn’t actually gotten anybody to eat my cereal either, so I couldn’t even really truthfully label myself a “cereal killer.” I was an “attempted cereal killer,” which is a sad, sad, name to have. I needed to escape that name, to reinvent myself.

So I transferred to NYU to major in Grocery Bagging.