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In This Issue

• Consent is Sexayy
• You Scan My License, Heights, and I'll Trade Your Margaritas for Drugs
• Club EC
• Barack Obama: Exclusive Interview!
• An Open Letter to the Chick Sleeping Next to Me
• A FED Guide to Celebrity Legal Problems
• Columbia's New Admissions Policy: Fuck All Y'all
• Drawn to Columbia. Quartered Too?
• Top 5 Do's For Next 9/11 (Excerpted from Cosmogirl)
• One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish
• A Tale of Woe and Infinite Sadness
• The Typical Suburban Housewife
• Bollinger's Free Speech Fetish
• The Muppets Take America
• The Priorities of American Media
• The World Leaders Forum is So Gay
• Coming Soon To a Bookstore Near You!
• THEY WATCH
• Got Meth?
• The Staff of 23.1

Michael Bredin

Your wasted Saturday brought to you by...

Hark!

O reader, what a tale have I. A tale of torment, pain, and such savagery as I would not believe had I not beheld it with my own bare orbs. I mean my eyes, wretched pervert.

Know this, then, and know it well. Some weeks ago, the sins of my past found me out. I had, as a consequence of cruel fate or perhaps something more sinister, been elected treasurer of my troupe of heretical theatrical improvisations. I was thus engaged to attend the meeting for student club administrators, which the Activities Board of Columbia (commonly referred to, often as the subject of a blasphemous curse to the heavens, as ABC), in their infinite capacity for mischief, had scheduled for Saturday morning at the hour of nine. What devious soul-snatching witch was it compelled you to do so, O pig-tailed spawns of Cain?

Thus, did they most viciously violate that worn and true dictum of college life: there is no such thing as Saturday morning. Saturday is the Sabbath, the day of rest, which the Almighty, in His infinite wisdom, set aside that we might quell our hangovers with extra sleep and restore our shattered dignities from the shameful and drunken fornication of the night prior.

The sun burned hot and cruel as Grendel’s wrath on the unfortunate Earth that Saturday morning as I emerged from my Hartley cell to meet the day. I disentangled myself from the drooling frame of bare skin lying next to me.

“Wherefore should this ungainly mass be in my bed?” I wondered aloud. Memory then whispered to me through the hangover haze of the gangly, stumbling creature with too little tolerance for drink that I had met at 1020. My drunken fancy had amended her slovenly dimensions to that of a fair maiden and I recalled having invited her up to my room to “watch some Grey’s” whilst chasing my codeine with an Irish Car Bomb. She hiccupped, “Yes, I’d love to!” and hot, green, bilious death evacuated her mouth onto my shoes. It was thus that we departed from that hamlet of debauchery, sin, and insufficient floor space. What transpired between us was lost to the dark of night and the fog of the codeine. Oh, accurséd codeine!

That night, we watched Grey’s no more.

But I have lost the thread of my story, dear reader. When I arrived in Roone Arledge, beginning my descent into the chambers of Inferno about which Dante was too terrified to write, the condemned legions of club leaders stumbled, dumb as stone, into the auditorium, their souls yet overcome by the tremens of delirium. The president of one organization gazed uncomprehendingly at the table of breakfast pastries, mold and rot latent in the destiny of their yeasty flesh.

“I… I do not understand…” he said. And, as the Son of God did at the tomb of Lazarus, he wept. His eyes were a deep shade of crimson, sunken deep into their sockets, his face a mask of sorrow and of defeat. That he were already dead, I thought, would be better. In a way, he was dead already. That morning, we were all, all of us, standing in our graves.

From the back of the food line, we could hear the screams of those ahead. When I arrived at the breakfast table, I understood why. The rows of mini bagels and donut holes lay untouched, arranged rookwise as the tombstones at a graveyard for the dead from a forgotten war. And as the barren udders of aged cows do the destitute farmer, so did the carafes of whole, skim, and two-percent milk drained empty and impotent make us all, stuck with the burning tar sludge that is Blue Java, caffeine-starved as we were, crazed and damned men. Only the soymilk remained; thus, were the vegans content.

Know this, gentle reader: in Hell, the vegans are content.