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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

Kimi Traube

The other day, as I was shuffling home from a ROOTED discussion on how better to integrate pirates and zombies into our community, I noticed a peculiar smell. Startled, I scanned my lexicon of New York smells for a name to match it. Was it bum piss? Rat feces? Decaying corpse? Ol' Big Bolls on a fun run? None of these smells seemed to match. This smell was unfamiliar to me, shockingly sweet, mellow, and non-gag-inducing. Then an image began to surface...I was back in my long-abandoned home state of New England having one of my trademark "stomache aches" (i.e. moxie-that-enables-you-to-face-the-other-children aches), and my mother was trying to entice me out of bed by threatening to put my only friend in the trash compactor. That friend was food, and I just didn't know what to do. I contemplated suicide. High school fucking sucked. But what did that have to do with the strange and unusual smell? Then, in a flash more blinding than sunlight glinting off metal jewelry on a  goth girl falling through space, I had it: maple syrup!

    But why, oh why, had this smell infiltrated our city? Wheels turning, I searched for an answer. Could it be that a giant maple syrup truck had spilled its contents all over Morningside Heights? But I saw no signs of spillage. Perhaps it was some new freshman initiation rite for Gamma Alpha Y? But I saw no signs of sweet, sticky sodomy. Then it hit me: we were under attack! By terrorists from Vermont.

It made perfect sense to me. These "northern invaders," made nasty and godless by their barren forest-dwelling existence and the influence of their evil ruler, notorious America-hater Howard Dean, had highjacked a plane and flown here from their distant hostile clime with the notion of crashing it into Rush Limbaugh, currently playing Madison Square Garden on his "Doin' Drugz, Doin' Bitchez" tour. However, since people from Vermont are both gay and retarded, none of them had had access to the military training needed to learn how to fly a plane, so they crashed it into the Bronx by mistake. They were then forced to swim the Bronx river to Manhattan, getting hungry and eating several of each other in the process. However, not everybody got some, and by the time they got to Morningside Heights, they were starving. Luckily they were just in time for brunch, so they stormed John Jay dining hall and stole a large quantity of that thick, life-giving liquid all Vermonters crave: blood. The freshman population depleted, the tree-choppin' monsters were still hungry, so they stole a bunch of waffles and several large vats of maple syrup. They ran around wreaking havoc on the city, throwing pinecones at Starbucks patrons, chopping down signs advertising the incoming Walmart, and setting every radio they found to Air America. They spilled a lot of syrup in the process, and as they made their way down to Tribeca, they left only this tasty brown trail to commemorate their various outrages. It being unseasonably warm that day, the syrup soon evaporated, but the smell remained. Those gaytard Vermont terrorists, fearful of retaliation, just kept on running until, weighed down by all the human babies they had consumed, they fell off of Manhattan and drowned in the Hudson. As they were moving at warp speed, few people saw them; the process only took a few minutes from start to finish. However, the smell remained for the rest of the day, a testament to the sweet, sweet explosion that happened when they crashed the plane. It was also pretty sweet when they ate the freshman. And that, my friends, is why you should for vote me, Jamie Peck, as president of the cheerleading squad. Seriously, if you don't, I'll kill myself.