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In This Issue

• CU Lions Massacred by Ballroom Dancing 77-3
• Sen. McCain: “Just Let Me Retire.”
• From the Archives
• Joey Dʼs Last Word on Not Sweating in School
• Everybody Poops...But How Do They Do It?
• A Scientific Study on the Phenomenon of Pre-Gaming
• A First-Hand Look at the Indigenous Peoples of Butler Library: The Ivy League Gone Wild
• Holiday Greeting Cards
• George W. Bush: The Final Countdown
• CULBA: The Columbia Underground Listing of Barnard Ability
• Donʼt Like Waking Up in Your Own Vomit?
• THE FED’s Reading Week Drinking Games
• Gossip Girl Comes to Columbia University
• Four out of Five Dentists Agree...
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 24.3

Sarah Levin and Nina Pedrad

After traveling in the southeastern tip of Equatorial Guinea for three years and studying the migration patterns of the Mexican red-kneed tarantula, I have decided to apply my skills and findings to observe the human habitat of the Butler Library. These harried post-adolescent homo sapiens enter this rectangular shaped knowledge base to ponder and stare at more rectangular, portable objects filled with papyrus, fixated on deciphering the blackened script in order to gain knowledge about other homo sapiens, and other objects filled with papyrus.

5pm: I arrive at the brisk onset of the crepuscule. One young male has sushi carcasses strewn about, articles of clothing draped over him in an attempt to make himself appear like the men who sit amid the corners of the street—who smell positively horrid. With the surrounding chairs, he has made on his table a wigwamlike structure of worn cylindrical cups now devoid of a browned liquid (the remains of which show on his shirt). It appears as though he has made himself a nesting home for the night. He pulls out of his canvas sac a large container of red liquid labeled “Gatorade” (I assume made from the blood of Caiman crocodiles), along with one other papyrus-filled leaflet marked “Erectile Dysfunction for Dummies”.

He glances around nervously to spot observers – I assume he fears the others will steal his beverage. The specimen gets up, stretches his limbs like a nimble tigress, starts to gait around the room, puffs his chest out like a horny cockatoo in an attempt to attract the opposite sex, scratches a large bulge in his groinal region, but only manages to capture the attention of an elephantus-like woman species, who looks as if she has already eaten her fair share of the evenings capture.

10pm: The mammals convene at the watering hole. The room has mahogany walls and smells faintly of mulch. The females who stand facing the slab of mortar stone are truly barbaric; they grab thin sheets of plastic from the species that stand behind the slab of stone and throw more of those cylindrical cups in their face. Perhaps they are helping my lion king build his nest for the evening.

3am: Two rousing gazelles come busting through one of the opening portals named “Stack A”, strands of hair sticking to their face by a white, creamy substance, smelling positively of foul play and wheatgrass, and they have no drapery around their privates! One runs into the other in a futile attempt to hide from a predator, who reveals himself as an older male of the same species, twirling his moustache; his skin is as dark as the asphalt that covers the outside ground, and he stops at the site of the nude female. His genital region is bearing the same bulge as the fellow in the other room.

Are they members of the same clade? I overhear the nude female mutter, “typical men.” A new species!

What is this I hear? Two of these nocturnal creatures are clawing at each other’s vitals in an attempt to gain access to a puffed seating device. Then one type, whose blue pants sit around his mid-thigh assuredly preventing all circulation to his pedals, begins to wildly thrash in a wretched attempt at a mammalian fight. I do not understand how this creature can fight, as his hair is shellacked to one side of his face, covering the most vital sense of all: sight.

Then four, unidentifiable creatures, with noses as long as the fantastical character Pinocchio, wearing very tight black coverings for their limbs and these foot coverings which are reminiscent of a sheep’s wool, jump into the brawl. Chain metal strings that hang from their neck, each bearing the same “Tiffany” word written, choke them to death and they collapse on the floor. Presumed cause of death: imbecilic vanity. One species’ eyes are like little thin ovals, just barely slits (I believe he has no eyelashes)! His skin of a yellow sort jitters awake with all the commotion. He accidentally knocks a clear, orange bottle of little white circles onto the floor.

Now even more creatures pound down the great steps. They all carry papyrus sheets, hundreds of them, screaming, beating their chests with their fists, throwing their heads back in a hyena-like laugh, bodies moving in rapid motion, all at once, pushing, shoving; in the stampede one man is trampled over. This rectangular home of the “learned” man is shaking; plaster is falling from the walls. It is a stampede! It reminds me of Jumanji! I just took a claw to the face! I am on my ass! I am literally knocked onto my bottom!

The animals! THE ANIMALS HAVE ALL GONE MAD!