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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

They are dangerous, like cancer.  They are insatiable, also like cancer.  They are malevolent, which isn’t all that much like cancer because cancer is just a group of malignant cells and doesn’t really have a conscious mind of its own.  The point is that they are like cancer in many ways, and worse in a few.  But does Lance Armstrong fight them?  Do we walk to raise money to oppose them?  No!  You alone can raise your finger and point them out as THEY!

    I. I love alliterations, and that alone caused me to place more than a casual glance at this digital abortion. I assumed I would find an outlet of thinkers who couldn't help but stray from their mundane papers to post about the real philosophical issues of the day. Instead, I learned that there are students here who print off Facebook pictures and jerk off onto them in Butler bathrooms.  Come on, we stopped masturbating to yearbook pictures in ninth grade, at least.  If I were going to make a website with the dual goals of creating a void of thought and draining what little dignity the campus has left, I would create "Bored at Butler."  BORED AT BUTLER = THEY!

    II. Richard III was a marvelous production, and only one thing would have made it better: being plastered while watching it. The beer was available, but my trusty bottle opener was nowhere to be found. My fucking kingdom for a bottle opener! But since I often envision myself as MacGyver, I began to search for anything on which to open my brew. Trashcans, railings, the very buildings themselves all proved to be too soft or too curvy or just generally useless for bottle opening. The limestone of Schermerhorn just peeled away beneath the cap. Would it have been so difficult to design a campus with some decent bottle opening edges?  BLUNT SURFACES = THEY!

    III.  All good things have to come to an end, and that pisses me off to no end. Can't the weekend just roll on forever in a glorious, made-for-TV teen movie special? Can’t we stretch three days of fun into seven of excess? No it all has to end, eventually, on ... SUN = DAY!