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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

(from left) Prairie girl, Quail Man, whore, flapper, cat, and Jedi

Thursday, October 27th heralded in yet another rousing evening of an age-old Fed tradition: Drink-or-Treating. This year, truly, it can be said that a good time was had by most—this includes both Fed members who deigned to attend, as well as a decent percentage of East Campus where drink-or-treating was held

We all arrived in costumes this year that ran the gamut from the more traditional to the truly bizarre, including one that should be appreciated by the old-school Nickelodeon cartoon generation—none other than Quail Man, the original avian superhero. Other costumes included generic Prairie girl (or, if you prefer, Laura Ingalls Wilder), generic flapper, slutty schoolgirl, Rambo, dayglow Kitty cat, and Jedi Knight.

Taking our inspiration from another old and venerated Fed tradition, that of watching films of a gangster nature (If you do not get the reference, you will be sad to know that you missed our incredible screening of The Warriors last Wednesday), we headed into the bowels of East Campus. Finding ourselves among a sea of potential R.A.’s and unlabelled ghost suites, we decided to “bop our way back home” to Fed member Bill McLaughlin’s twelfth floor suite.

Our journey was not without prizes. At one of our first suites, our cries of “Drink or Treat” were met with a half-full bottle of Bacardi rum. After thoroughly emptying the bottle into shot glasses, then gullets, then hearts and minds, we were set. Our now empty bottle of rum was, we concluded, fucking fine looking. So, not only were we somewhat intoxicated, but we also had ourselves a prize with which to have our way. (Regardless of what you might have heard, the Fed is still good at both misogyny and grammar.) And not only did this babe have a damned smooth outside, but its orifice was tight. Well, right up until the now inebriated Feddite Rob Trump banged it, destroyed its glass hymen, and emptied it in the trash like the bitch that it was.

Somewhere along the way, the enterprising members of the Fed knocked on the door of a newspaper journal’s worst enemies: theatre people. The people of the theatre were true to their clan: they forced us to dance for our drinks. And dance we did—incessantly, to the inane ramblings of the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies. As we writhed to this modern take on swing music, Fed ally Chas Carey, a who happened to be attending this suite party, intervened, pouring us the ambrosia that is vodka mixed with orange juice.

After that, we set on again, to a far less familiar milieu: the tenth floor. As the names on the doors became increasingly more Semitic, the faces of the Fed gang became more and more worried. Until we learned a valuable lesson: religious fundamentalism does not always teetotalers make. We were only on the tenth floor several minutes before the evening took a turn from the genre of gangsters to one of fantasy. Our wildest dreams were realized as we were whisked away into a suite that was the Narnia, the Middle Earth, and the Harry Potter-ville of booze. We were entreated to follow some strange, mystical fellows up a staircase into a suite of wonderment and fishes, of chips and dip, where rum and beer co-existed in a state of harmony, and where apparently underage girls had been, so we were told, felt up in the bathroom only the night before.

In this marvelous den of iniquity, where perhaps centuries earlier one would have had opium induced dreams of Xanadu-esque places, we did drink and talk and make merriment. The topic of conversation drifted from our own raw sexuality to the world of science and medicine. Was it true, for example, that ovarian cancer that was spawned in the abdominal cavities unfortunate women that certain distinct smell of sulfur, just as with rotten eggs left too long in the refrigerator? And did that mean that ovarian cancer smelled like rotten eggs? What did lung cancer smell of? We pondered, until our hosts decided that they’d had enough of us, and tossed us out, leaving us to make our way into the cold and lonely world.

We continued to bop our way home to the twelfth floor, along the way, continuing our philosophical conversations. We raised more philosophical questions, such as where are the best places to acquire liquor? do orthodox Jews drink? are dingoes marsupials or mammals? By this time we were back from whence we came, to sober up and feast upon the fine cuisine of Campus Foods. At this point, Quail Man removed the belt from around his head and his outer-underwear, our Prairie girl removed her pigtails, and our delusions of grandeur were gone, as the night drew to a finish.