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In This Issue

• Gilded Age Remembered
• A Dutty-Dance with Death
• Cracking the Porcelein Castle
• The Fed Presents: Lessons in Parenting
• The Dodgessy
• A Collection of Haikus
• The Winter In My Soul
• Sometimes Misinformation Can Be Quite Deadly
• The Potomac’s Constitutional Sewage
• Missed Connections
• Bail-outopoly
• The Short List of Columbia University Clubs
• Beastiality Ever-After
• The Party Doesn’t Stop During a Global Recession
• got meth?
• Getting Ass in Class
• From the Archives
• THE FED has this to say
• They Watch
• The Staff

Caity Sigler

Malcolm Culleton

Waking up to the sound of yet another double-decker bus tour meandering down Amsterdam, I move aside a mountain of history textbooks and a recently deflowered Barnard freshman next to me to check my alarm. It reads 9:00. Shit. Ten minutes to get to class. In a rage, my bellow shatters the alarm clock and the debris knocks unconscious an innocuous squirrel outside my dormitory window.

Unfortunately now is hardly the time for breakfast. After donning garments procured from a New Jersey shopping mall, I exit Wallach Hall and, still disoriented from the previous night's jubilation (I remember three bottles of Southern Comfort and a beach ball), I check my trusty iPhone to see where I am off to this morning. No. It cannot be! The fates are merciless. This voyage shall surely test my spirits-a trek that makes the travel to Pupin seem like child's play. The one and only, MILBANK HALL!

There's no time to waste. I blaze through the campus fields like an ostrich on steroids, so as to avoid the "Go Gaza!", "Boo Gaza!", and "Loud Noises!" groups set up across all traversable parts of college grounds. Mid-stride, I notice that my presence on the Columbia green during yet another "red flag day" has unleashed the fury of a Hydra-like beast known as Columbia University Public Safety.

The creature roars with a bloody thirst and glares at me as if to ask "are you high?" The officer's eyes meet mine; I know that looking away will only result in utter defeat. Despair and ruination are closing in on me before I have barely begun, but I then recall the proverbial words of my forefathers who had previously triumphed against this perennial horror. "Alright, sorry about that. I'll get off." These words successfully render the monster defenseless, and it retreats silently in its hybrid vehicle.

After what seems like long semesters of trekking across "Broadway," the vast sea teeming with yellow cabs and enveloped by the odor of days old "Nuts4Nuts," I finally reach the sacred gates of Barnard. Here I face the infamous Barnard Bear in a duel which shall prove to be the end for one of us. The grisly details of our encounter are indeed too disturbing to express; however, I shall go on for the sake of my audience. The mammoth monster, a gruesome sight more terrible than a Jackson Pollack-inspired wet dream erupts from the deep depths of Barnard (presumably coming from Hewitt, smelling of vegan meatloaf, Kosher brisket, and cheap perfume). Her nostrils flare, purple smoke pouring out of its orifices; my boner readjusts itself within the confines of my jeans. With a thunderous snort, the battle commences.

I unsheathe an official Asian-American Alliance Katana from my waistband and launch into the air, letting out a scream that echoes all the way to Morningside Drive, shattering the priceless china which litters Pres Bo's mansion, and stops at Starbucks to buy a latte. Unfortunately, my flight trajectory is interrupted by some NEXUS construction equipment. Vulture bullocks!

The bear attacks with her magical powers and blasts an intense beam of light from her mouth. I grab hold of the nearest woman available; her protective spell, inspired by her immediate and intense love for me, saves me from the bear's asaults. Exhausted, the bear collapses with defeat. The Dance major collapses in my arms. I know her end soon approaches. With her last bit of strength, she pulls herself closer to my ear and whispers, "I'm horny." Although I was not harmed, the spell causes a badass lightning-shaped scar to appear on my loined manhood. I should ask Alice about that one, and get a 20-foot-tall portrait done.

I finally reach the underground passage that will lead me to my destination. I am presented with a collection of "biddies"; the specter of Martha Stewart appears and warns me that I must choose the Holy Nail of the females in order to proceed. Calling upon my knowledge of George Lucas films, I decide to choose the most humble-looking beauty of them all.

Her name is Mallory. She is a SEAS student (go figure). We make sweet coitus, akin to the sensual battle between yogi masters and Trekkies in a nearby bathroom stall. Martha cries as she witnesses such a beautiful sight, and her tears turn into money.

After forcing my way through the rest of the Barnard tunnel system, stuffing my ears with cotton to help bear the theater majors' singing which resonates throughout the halls, and fighting and cleaning a Wiccan midget, I finally reach the entrance of Milbank. Now, all I must do is reach the 4th floor. But alas, one final obstacle obstructs my path! I reach what I determine is an endless staircase-you know, like that one in Super Mario 64 where you can't fight the third form of Bowser until you get 70 stars. It twists and twists, like the machinations of an insidious mad scientist. So I just take the elevator.

D-d-damn it feels good to be a gangster.