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In This Issue

• Water On The Knee
• The Annihilator of Mathematics
• Demonic Speak-n-Spell
• The Fed Interviews Jon Voight
• Letters to the Feditors
• Sam Jenning, or: Eating Children For Profit
• Immigrate This!
• Where In Our Hearts Is Carmen Sandiego?
• The Life and Times of Carmen Sandiego
• Redder Rabbit?
• Good Golly Fucking Gumdrops, I Like Candy!
• The City’s New Hot, Sexy, Superhot Nightclub!
• Where's Waldo?
• Logical Journey into Eugenics
• Think Columbia Sucks? It's Your Fault, Doofus.
• A Farewell to Harms
• A Farewell To Bill
• Tracy Briskit, Fed Queen
• Make Your Own Safe Space!
• Columbia Trail: Safe Space, Bathroom in 347 miles
• Cook with Barney!
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 21.8
• The Staff of Volume 21

Alex Aaronson

April 1, 1848
Weather: Sunny
Health: Very Good

    So there I was: John Jay, the start of the Columbia Trail. There were a lot of youngins running around, all probably itchin’ to get on the road, just like I was, and go off to the greener pastures of East Campus.  But first I needed to find a party and some oxen for my wagon.  I grabbed the first four youngins I saw: some sissy boy in tight pants, another sissy boy bein’ all high and mighty what with his literacy and all, and two womenfolk to cook and clean.  Found some good oxen, too!  There were a bunch of ‘em walkin’ around.  I swear to God I thought they was bewitched when one of them said somethin’ about football between grunts, but they sure could pull a wagon good.  An Indian guide pointed me to a general store he called JJ’s.  Food there sure was expensive.  A sandwich here cost as much as a bottle of whiskey and a few nights with a loose woman without the herpes. If we need food, we’ll hunt for it, just like real frontiersmen.

April 5, 1848
Weather: Cloudy
Health: Good

    One of the sissy boys showed me a big glass trading post that he called Lerner. Damn near the ugliest trading post I ever saw, except maybe Crazy Pete’s Tradin’ Barn, which was made out of ox shit and the bodies of settlers that’d died of cholera and typhoid right down the road.  I hoped we could trade one of our magic oxen for some supplies, so I drove my wagon in there.  Inside were a bunch of crazy folk tryin’ to give me things like rubber jewelry and talkin’ about crazy things like Jesus and cancer.  What am I gonna do with jewelry?  Some traders wanted me to give them money for a little piece of cake.  I told them to get away from me unless they had free food or wagon axles, and after that my shotgun was gonna do the talkin’.  We got throwed out of there real fast.  

Morning of April 12, 1848
Weather: Rainy
Health: Fair

    We found our first river today.  I decided to name it Walker’s River, but one of the womenfolk told me it already had a name: College Walk or some high-falutin’ trash like that.  I slapped her a few times and told her to shut up and make me some food.  While she was cryin’ about men oppressing her, she told me that we still didn’t have any food, so I slapped her a few more times.  But I had more important things to do, like get across this College Walk.
    “We’re fordin’ the river!” I yelled as I whipped the oxen.  The sissy boys and the womenfolk all tried to get me to stop, sayin’ somethin’ about caulking the wagon and floating it.  One of ‘em tried to tell me that the Face-book group or somethin’ was only a joke.  What in the gosh darn hell is a Face-book?
    “It’s only 7 feet deep and 40 feet wide!” I reassured those wimps, “We’ll be fine!”

Afternoon of April 12, 1848
Weather: Rainy
Health: Fair

    Three oxen and one of the sissy boys died.  Oops.

April 20, 1848
Weather: Cold
Health: Poor

    Yee-haw!  Stampede!  There was a bunch of folks walkin’ around with signs talkin’ about safe spaces or some other kinda crazy talk.  But, more importantly, it’s food!  I got out my shotgun and did some hunting until there was a big pile o’ meat on the ground.  We could eat like kings!  But no matter how hard I tried, I could only carry 100 pounds back to the wagon. Every time I went out to get more, someone stopped me, sayin’ I had enough food.  I think we could’ve had more if the sissy boy and the womenfolk didn’t all have dysentery.  Those lollygaggers could’ve helped me carry some meat, but they kept complainin’ about the pain and the diarrhea.  The wagon makes an outhouse smell like them bluebells that ol’ Mary Sue used to grow before I dug up her garden and shot her parents for askin’ to borrow some eggs.  But that’s frontier life for you – growin’ flowers and shootin’ people.  It’s rough.  

May 1, 1848
Weather: Rainy
Health: Very Poor

    I think the other people in my party are dying.  One of them stopped moving a few hours ago, but she’s probably just sleepin’.  I’m not feelin’ so good myself, but I’m sure constant vomiting is normal. The Columbia trail is tough going, even though the whole time I’ve seen people passing by on foot who didn’t have typhoid.  It’s lookin’ grim for ol’ Hezekiah.  My diary is gettin’ covered in shit and vomit, so maybe it’s best that I stop writing.
    If I die, my only regret is that I didn’t shoot more people.  Someone should put that on my tombstone.