• Join The Fed
• Advertise with The Fed

• About Us
• Contact

In This Issue

• Election 2032: In which intrepid itinerant Benway Wharfinger reports his Chronicle of a Most Vacuous Contest
• Partying Hard with Lee Bollinger
• From the Archives: Volume 12, Number 3 — October 15, 1997
• Sarah Palin: The Next Elbridge Gerry?!
• Your Handy-Dandy Schematic for Bailout 2008
• TARGET(TM) Children's Music Festival Probably Enjoyed by Someone. Possibly by Children.
• OUR SCHOOL IS COLUMBIA; OUR LIEGE IS KALI-MA
• John Jay Food Exposed—through Science!
• A Very Sarah Palin Halloween Special
• Do-It-Yourself Particle Accelerator!
• 40s on 40 Through the Ages: A Thought Experiment
• White-Collar Hobos Gentrify Public Parks
• Costumes that Should Not be Sexy
• Non-Voters: The “Other” Demographics
• Playing in a Puddle of Predictions
• Where to Trick and how you'll be “Treated”
• There's No Place Like The GOP
• Partnership for a "Free Drugs!" America
• The Staff of 24.2
• THEY Watch

Sean Zhuraw

Once upon a time last weekend at an unruly Columbia Halloween bash, the garish ghouls and Playboy bunnies came out to play. So, too, did the professors. At first, the party was held in a lowly frat, but after the cops busted a dubious game of bobbing for apples, the partygoers needed a new location. One student mused, “let’s just hit up the spookiest place on campus—the Mathematics building.”

All happily agreed, looking to add some extra scariness to this spectacular all-Hallows eve. Students clamored to an empty lecture hall and rigged the speakers with some Kanye. The party was once again hoppin’. Amidst the smoke screen of sweat, Mary Jane and body heat, several drunk and happy students jumped around screaming “I love glow sticks!” as rap music filled the room.

Meanwhile, at Bollinger’s beautiful on-campus abode, PresBo himself was settling into his Hugh Hefner smoking jacket and a TiVo’d episode of Gossip Girl. Just as he lit a Cuban, given to him by Castro himself, his mind flashed to his date book… which was sitting in the Mathematics building. Irritated, PresBo meandered over to the building. As the elevator reached the sixth floor, PresBo heard the faint beats of Kanye ringing in the halls. He pulled the lecture hall doors open and was greeted by a roaring surprise. Seventy-five inebriated collegiate stars were jumping on chairs and defacing the chalkboards. Shocked and dismayed, PresBo charged to the front and yelled for attention. The room froze and all eyes were on PresBo. “Woah! It’s Hugh Hefner, guys!” yelled a boy. “Nah, man, it’s Bollinger,” another chimed in. Finally, a boy in a pink Power Rangers getup announced with con- fidence, “No, you’re both wrong. It’s someone dressed as PresBo as Hef-

It’s fucking genius!” A raucous cheer of approval filled the room and the drunken buzz commenced. The Pink Power Ranger approached PresBo. “Dude! Where did you find this costume? They did not have this at Party City last week,” he said, approvingly. PresBo admonished, “it’s not a costume, son, it’s the real thing. All of you degenerates are in grave trouble.” The Power Ranger laughed. “Man, you’re even in character. That’s some fucking dedication, yo.”

He then proceeded to grab PresBo by the shoulders, leading him to the beer funnel. Someone thrust the tube into his mouth and shouted “here’s some liquid courage for you, brah.”

All of a sudden, a pretty blonde girl, dressed as a plastic from Mean Girls attacked PresBo with her mouth. It was described by some present as reminiscent of a lion mauling a potato. The man had no chance. PresBo eventually detached himself from the Lohan-lookalike and hollered, “I feel so alive!” and children, that he was.

After hours of debauchery and “interpersonal student-President relations”, the party ended with the night. The ghouls and vampires went home, toting the bunnies and sexy librarians. PresBo awoke to a jarring Backstreet Boys ring tone—his wife was calling. Dazed and confused, he glanced at his surroundings. He had made it to his car, sans smoking jacket and pants. He found his keys dangling from a bra on his rearview mirror.

Thankfully Monday rolled around and PresBo could escape the angry questioning of his wicked witch of a wife. He could just envision her asking, “Where are you pants?” “Whose lipstick is that?” and “What cheap Jessica Simpson perfume do you smell of?”

On his way to the office that day, he held his face low, buried in the collar of his overcoat, lest his colleagues see the purple gash below his left jowl. Fixated on being incognito, he bumped into an unsuspecting girl. “Sorry! My fault,” he said as he looked into her eyes; her familiar eyes. She stared knowingly and gave him a shoulder pat. PresBo turned chalk white and bolted as the words “…want my bra back” echoed as he hurried to his office. If anyone asked, he decided, he would merely say he had spent the evening remembering why he never talked to students in the first place.