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In This Issue

• A Sneak Peek at Barnard’s New Vag
• Teacher's Pet Joins Elite Rank of CC Assignments
• Take a Ride on a Fiction Plane with Rachel Katz
• The Letters to the Feditor Strike Back
• What What (In The Butt): A Debate For The Ages
• Celebrity Beer Pong New To Network TV
• The Room-mate Chronicles
• C.J. Parker vs. Wolverine: Dispatches from the White House Correspondents Dinner 2008
• Columbia and the Perception of Self: A List of Stuff
• If I Were Graduating, I Would Be Thanking the Following People Whom I've Never Met
• Graduate Reflects: “Da faaaackkk???”
• A Message from the Next Chief Judge of the D.C. Circuit
• Don’t Forget to Bring a Towel, Experts Warn
• Therapist’s ADD Cured By Hourly Wage
• A Red Letter Day For the Green-Thumbed
• A Public Service Announcement from the Ad Council
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 23.7

I felt the barrel of a gun pressed into my back. "Act natural," they said. "Did you think we wouldn't find you?" I started to mumble out an excuse-some paper, some final-but my next breath brought the bitter taste of chloroform and the familiar calm of a drunken stupor.

I awoke in the Fed office some hours later, bound with bungee cords and silly string. They pushed me in front of a computer and demanded I write my "Good-bye" article-once and for all. If I can make word quota, they promise to give me some water. They want me to tell you, The Fed is in good hands now.

-Chas Carey, Feditor-In-Chief Emeritus