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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

O Sing Muse of the wrath of dodge!
What vain, glorious sweats and treacherous equipment
             doth cloud my sight,
The three tiered dungeon
forever rakes and claws at my body and soul.

I blindly approached the trainer of the dual arc.
Alas! What manner of beast or breast hath taken
that which I had gone four hours before to reserve.
What a ho!

AS THE waves of my anger doth tremble and strain,
            undulating and thrashing
like a bathroom after drinking much spirit,
that sweeps through peace and leaves behind
a path of utter devastation and colorful death,
calling forth the reaper so grim
who brandishes a sickle so sharp and so sublime
            The RA
bringing intense pain in visions of terror to its victims
so too did the mountains and valleys of cellulite on this massive beast
reverberate to cause a periodic yawning of the machine
under the enormous ripples in her gravitational field.

TELL ME, lady Pallas of the knowledge so deep,
did even the god-like Achilles when facing the
violent violet Xanthus's tide
             under the gaze of the ramparts of fallen Ilium
or pious Aeneas plunging far into the depths of Dis
tremble as I did at that sight?
             Clench their eyes in horror and shame?

She so massive who wore her clothes so tight?
Short soccer shorts and a sports bra she bore.
And allowed a puddle of lard infused sweat
             to drip to the floor.
Her panting sounded like the deep gurgle in the throat
of a starved, rabid
             bloodhound in the brush stalking an unfortunate quarry.
When she lifted her ponderous hands to greet a
fellow demon blundering along the gym's steep track,
the prodigious slabs of adipose tissue under her
arms shook with the force
             of an angry Moltres using Wing Attack
I moved cautiously-as a young fawn in the presence
             of an angry hippopotamus-
and mustered my most glorious war call,
            "GET THE FUCK OFF BITCH!!"
I bowed and offered a prayer in supplication to fair
Artemis that my aim might be true.
My cry of "I HAVE THIS TIME MACHINE SIGNED OUT

            FOR THIS TIME SLOT!"
             rang through the air and swiftly found its mark,
penetrating the ear drums and lodging itself into the deep recesses of the brain,
splattering forth understanding as the demon labored
off the trainer of the dual arc
slipped thus in her sea of sweat.
Crashing down she came and her headphones clattered
            upon her.
Five bottles of cleaner and two staff member later
did I rise victorious, master of Dodge's trainer of the
dual arc!

            Glory be me and the Great Gods of Dodge!