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In This Issue

• Country of Cuba to be Bought and Renamed
• Frat Guy: Hot Bitches, Not Being Gay Crucial for Success in Next Four Years
• It's a Journal, Not a Diary
• Why Columbia Can't Stand Your Kind
• Magna Carma Libertatum
• Point-Counterpoint: My Roommate Keeps Having Sex in Our Room While I’m There
• How to Succeed in Lit Hum Without Really Trying
• (Taxonomy of) Hot College Coeds
• "Dear Mel"
• Class of 2010: Peer Profiles
• The Thinking Freshmen's Guide to Columbia's Libraries
• The Motorcycle Diaries
• Remembrance of Orientations Past
• A Brief Primer on the Basics of Columbia-Speak
• The Hierarchy of Columbia
• Facilitating Your Future Alcohol Addiction
• Orientalation
• An Illustrated Guide of the Columbia Hipster
• The Adventures of Ice-Bitch
• Points of Interest in Morningside Heights
• A Typical Night in McBain
• Portrait of A Loyal Member of Our Staff
• Get to Know The Fed’s Staff with Two Truths and a Lie

Like anyone who isn't a nameless bureaucratic cog, exploited in the dull confines of a cubicle, I enjoy going on field trips to remote and underdeveloped areas of the third world. This summer, I spent nearly five days with my friends on an exciting adventure that awakened the macho, rural explorer in all of us. It demanded testosterone and strength, a unique, stoic vigor. Alright, so it was a huge sausage fest. But it was one worth savoring.

You have to stay at a rather rudimentary mango farm, located in the northwest corner of a quaint Central American country It is just outside the town where the action happens, so it's both a convenient and challenging spot to be at, mostly because you're too cheap to pay for a hotel. In any case, people travel to this area for the annual local festivities, which honor the region's annexation to the rest of the nation. Much like Texas, this province is massively proud of its poseur autonomy, complete with big parties on the street and a barely credible outlaw attitude. And yes, a lot of crazy shit goes down in these wild plains. There are horses trampling people on the sidewalks, dangerous insects stinging your ass, inebriated natives trying to pick fights with you and unpredictable rains threatening to drown your iPod. Real outlaws listen to vinyl, bitch.

Getting to this place is not exactly an easy feat. The roads are made of mud and potholes, and they are patrolled by apish highway police officers in creaky off-road vehicles. They can be a pain in the ass, but if you manage to slip them a bribe as they pretend to fine you for speeding, then it's all cool. A little goes a long way - hand the guy and twenty and you've doubled his take-home pay for the week. Anyway, you also have to watch out for those potholes, since you'll see a few 1991 Hyundai Excels buried in there. They'll make your tires explode in no time, and maybe even give you tetanus.

Once you arrive to the house on the farm, you have to distribute your 25-member mantourage between two rooms. The dirty sleeping bags on the floor, the absence of female company, and the cries -"Who took my mattress?" or "Who clogged the toilet with a ten-pound turd?"- become maddening. Living in that small shack explains why communist regimes are shit: The food and supplies you brought for yourself usually get "shared," and thus there's a lack of privacy that makes the Patriot Act look like Swiss bank law.

Plainly then, the true men of the group survive the ordeal and the weak ones become pussified beyond comprehension. If you have balls, you'll gladly drink the tap water even though frogs leap out of the sink every now and then. If you're a childish little transvestite, you'll choke on the steak that was prepared on a rusty BBQ made from an old barrel of insecticide. Such a dog-eat-dog condition resembles going to jail with all your friends, minus the risk of dropping the soap... empirically speaking.

When you get past the difficulties of sharing two rooms with a surplus of schlong, it's time to venture into the nearby town where everybody's partying. You have a few beers, mingle with the crowds as you step in the manure, frolic in the festive atmosphere... until you accidentally rub shoulders with a local sugar cane cutter named Jairo. Because he's an angry drunk and he carries his machete everywhere he starts to push you around and demand a fight. You think the people surrounding you will call the police, but they form a circle to see what's going on. It gets even scarier when they start clamoring for blood, as if their circle were the Roman Colosseum. You have two choices: either take a hit and sue the motherfucker for a sack of coffee beans, or say you're sorry and politely walk away. It depends on your tolerance for brutal mutilation at a public event.

Later, back at the ranch, fire ants are gnawing away at your toes while you pour yourself a Scotch and wonder when the hell the toilet paper ran out. But since the toilet is clogged anyway, you opt to venture into the mango plantation to take a dump au naturele. Although it seems awkward at first, it's surprisingly refreshing. That's when it hits you: this is the kind of stuff you can only do when there are no girls around. The revelation elates you infinitely, and your manhood is at last realized as you wipe yourself with some leaves. Along with a rewarding increase in testicular volume, it's impossible to walk away without a sense of accomplishment and euphoria. Once you return home, you'll never need the comfortable life again. Being a crass and patriarchal caveman is the closest thing there is to nirvana, and if you find it difficult, then stick to bidets and spas, you pansy. Only the brave fertilize the plains by themselves and live to tell about it.