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In This Issue

• The Many Temptations of Jesus Christ, CC 20 AD
• Slackers Take a Stand on Work
• Letters to the FEDitor
• From the Archives: Volume 14, Number 1 - February 1999
• David Foster Wallace, 46, Found Dead in Apartment
• Found: Lost Diary of a Sensitive Frat Boy
• ‘Roo 08: The Fed Reports
• Last Nightʼs Study Break on Hartley 5
• Confessions from a Member of God’s Flock
• The McCain/Obama Liveblog From Hell
• The Rime of a SEAS student
• Bra Burning is sooo passé
• Stephan Vincenzo: The Man, The Legend
• Orientation Activities: The Horror, The Horror
• Straight from the White Board of my NSOP Hookup
• The start of a new year...
• And now, two freshmen getting it on.
• Columbia Court
• Secret Oval Office Tapes Exposed! George W. Bush: “Fuck the Economy. And Fuck You.”
• THE FED Presents: A Political Cartoon
• A Public Service Announcement
• THE FED has this to say
• The Staff of 24.1
• THEY Watch

I have never been a political person. I have never joined protests. I have never gotten a warm, fuzzy feeling when seeing clever political bumper stickers. I am now, however, a college student. I am now political. I now join protests. I do, in fact, go weak at the knees when I see Obama's face on the back of a Prius.

Let me paint you a picture. The sexiest political experience I've ever had involved my sweaty fourth grade history teacher and a really shitty biography on James Madison. I am a presidential virgin.

In order to fully embrace my newfound "college activist" attitude, I decided to do what most college students do-hang shit up for attention. In spirit of the McBama appearance at Columbia, my roommate and I thought it would be a good idea to display our mutual dislike of Sarah Palin via lingerie. Roommate's mom sent a lovely care-package containing a gargantuan bra and matching panties. Said bra spelled out "Pro choice. Pro women. Anti Sarah Palin" in massive felt letters. I tried it on for size; I might has well have been wearing a fucking circus tent. This would be epic.

Time rolls by, and Roommate and I approach Low steps. Bra? Check. Granny panties? Check. Balls to do this? Slowly dwindling.

As my roommate is climbing on Alma Mater with the bra in hand, I see her in a new light: insanity. Our photographer friend shows up and wants a photo. Roommate has the bra on Alma Mater's right arm. Photographer friend is having a snap-happy orgasm. "Oh, great! The light is perfect! These shots are going to be amazing! Give me sex!" My roommate then calls me over for help. I will not. I shall not...But wait, she lets me eat all her Ritz crackers and she owns the Brita filter. Oh, I totally have to. Fuck. I have the bra half way on good ol' Alma when the Fuzz sneaks up on me, jowls shaking, his face a rosey pink. "Miss, you need to get off the statue. Please remove the um...um, garment from the statue." I scramble down. The roommate is still trying to hang up the bra. Motherfucker is persistent. "Can I have your I.D?" the Rent-a-Cop asks. Cock stain. My meal plan is on that! I panic: "Can I have that back, sir?!" He looks at me with disdain. The feeling is sooooo mutual, buster. I stare him down. Shit, why the hell am I playing with this dude? I am going to jail. He gets bored with our stare down and hands me the I.D. Thank you Moses! Roommate gathers the bra and flees. Photographer friend is still having photo-gasm. Fail. Just, fail. Well, at least I can still go to John Jay.