• Join The Fed
• Advertise with The Fed

• About Us
• Contact

In This Issue

• Spec: Spectador to close due to insufficient funding
• Spec: Alfred Lerner Hall purchased by Apple
• Spec: Columbia to annex East Prussia
• FEDBASH
• Emo-Kid? More like Elmo-kid. Communist!
• The Complete Idiot's Guide to Tactlessness
• Top 11 Things to Do At Columbia (Fed Edition)
• Roaree Roars and Millie Whores
• The Colombia Daily Spectador (The Fed Version)
• Spec Sports: Gay wrestling, the new ice breaker?
• Spec: Bollinger's Journal, April 1st 2009
• Spec: Jody's Droppings
• Spec: Acceptance letter for class of 2013
• Passover and Easter: A Numbers Game
• Relax, It's Only a Movie
• You Haven’t Seen War Until You’ve Seen it Through the Eyes of a Basement-Dwelling Teenager
• The Fed Within A Pie Graph
• Clothes Hipsters Wear
• THE FED has this to say
• They Watch
• The Staff

Rowan Buchanan and Jacob Rice

I'm a big fan of equations. You know, 2+2=4, James Franco+Butler=Where's my digital camera, Joaquin Pheonix+_____ =disgusting, etc. However, before April showers bring May finals, they bring two magical experiences, and I've never quite been able to add up either: Chocolate+Bunnies=Easter and Horseradish+Raining Frogs=Passover. Figure that one out, Patrick X. Gallagher.

Colored eggs are logically appropriate in many situations: the last CAN'T TURN BACK NOW sign at the local planned parenting, a nice mantle piece, a chew toy while on acid... the list goes on. And yet, I don't understand why Christians paint eggs on Easter. I'd love to sit down for a chat with the guy who decided that Jesus rising from the dead+the end of "I can't eat carbs for 40 days" =a homosexual potential omelet. But this impeccable method of logic doesn't dare stop there. People then hide the eggs in their lawns and make little children go look for them. While this frantic "game" might get them closer to four ant-bites and an elbow full of dog-shit, I'm pretty sure it doesn't bring them any closer to Jesus. Plus, now these Technicolor spheres of Catholicism can't hatch. So really, they're aborting those cute fluffy yellow ducks. Put that in your confessional and smoke it, Pope-man.

But where was Jesus before his Crucifixion, Resurrection, and Ricky's Bunny Costume? Pullin' tricks with Mary M. down by the Collesium? No. Bein' denied by a guy named Peter, not once, not twice, but thrice times? Perhaps. (Note to self: I now understand why the eggshells are rainbow colored.) But where was Jesus really? He was at seder.

While "guy with a stick that turns into a thick cobra"+ "bloody water" usually equals an avoided 7 lb. 6 oz. surprise, Jews believe it to equal recline-able seating and the hiding of afikomen in Grandpa Boritz's pants again. There may have been locusts and boils thousands of years ago, but today the only plagues during Passover are family bonding and bitter-herb breath from Rabbi Schlomo. And yet Passover asks, inherent in its tradition, the ultimate question: "Why is this night different from all other nights?" Well, because on no other evening does one say "Slay the first born" and "pass the gefilte fish" in the same sentence. I would like the record to show that the use of ‘night' as a singular noun is unbelievably deceptive. The holiday (and I use this term loosely) lasts seven nights, which makes sense because I totally get how they derived that number from hundreds of years of building huge pyramids pointier than Madonna's tits and 40 years walking around the Sahara in circles. Yah, now I get it, seven.

I wish I could provide some comfort and say that these two happenings are but the works of April Fools, but I can't because at least two millennia of history would bitch slap me in the face. Clearly attempting to use math to bring truth and clarity to these occasions proves futile, so I have decided to incorporate another subject into my religious contemplations: science. Move over Genesis. if you thought that talking snake was a douche bag, I've got a microscope and a bag of monkey skulls and I'm not afraid to Darwin your ass.