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In This Issue

• Letter From the Editor
• They Watch
• Alcohol.edu Valedictorian Gets Schwasty
• Student Spots Celeb and Doesn’t Flip a Shit; Friends Doubt Her Sanity
• Columbia College First-Year Picks Worst Chair in Classroom
• Columbiascopes
• Class Clown’s Unexpectedly Well-Conceived Joke Falls Flat in LitHum Class
• Tweets of the Week
• Black Friday: A Nocturnal Dad In The AM
• The First Danksgiving Miracle
• Santa Claus is actually Jewish
• What Do You Think?
• “A Rugrats Chanukah” Cures Anti-Semitism
• The Yellow Term Paper
• #ivyleagueproblems
• If You Tweet in the Forest, Does it Make a Sound?
• New Elder Scrolls Game Released “For Nefarious Pro-Capitalist Agenda,” Crackpot Says
• Dance for me, Millie
• How to Increase the Utility of Your Bathroom When You're Shitfaced
• Adventures on DateMySchool.com
• Decoded
• Ask Mark
• Heart2Heart “Facebook Official”
• Reviews of Movies We Haven't Seen Yet: Jack and Jill
• “American Horror Story” is Actually Crazy
• “Dance Moms”: Small Girls, Big Hair

Homecoming night. I was completely hammered. It was 6 pm. Fuck.

Another year leaving the field, trying to avoid the glances of trustees, running my gnawed claws through my unkempt mane. 

I settled back and popped open another Heiny. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bounded off the field in to do a victory lap, a bubbly cheerleader bouncing on each muscular shoulder. Something like 1961. Fuck. We can’t even beat that whimpy ass puppy bitch from New Haven.

I was feeling real down, so I crossed Broadway to go see this chick I know from way back. She’s a real babe: a dancer. Short tutu, tight ass. When I entered her apartment, she was doing something that looked like soldier boy. Damn, she was a good-looking bear. She looked up as I entered,

“Hey CU! Haven’t seen you around these parts in awhile.  What’s up?” 

“Mills, I need some advice. Ever since Homecoming, I’ve been in a pretty bad place. I need my inner beast back. I thought what with all the strong and beautiful, maybe you could help me out. You know, mascot to mascot?”

She let out a pained growl, “You know I don’t go in for that masculinity stuff anymore. It’s all about gender equality. You’re putting me in a tough position.” 

“Millie, if I thought I could do it on my own, I would. Back in 1892, you would have helped me out.”

“Alright, I see your point.” She briefly covered her eyes with a paw before shooting out an accusatory claw and commanding, “None of this came from me.” 

“Sure, not a problem. Hit me.”

“The way I see it, it’s not about the team, it’s about the atmosphere at that school. There’s a whole lot of studying, a whole lot of critical thinking, getting in touch with your emotions. That’s all fine and well, but it doesn’t leave much room for good old Spartan values. This leads me to my next point— you’ve gotta get kids outta Butler. That place is a hotbed of emasculation. Nothing’s going to take your manhood like sitting around in skinny jeans reading Keats for eight hours. Not a good scene.

Do you still have that ROTC thing still going on? That’d be good. Get more kids in there. In fact, have them all do that before the reading. How do you expect them to understand pietas if they haven’t felled a few in the name of their country?

And get rid of the girls while your guys figure their stuff out. Just send them over here. We’ve got a bunch already, a few more won’t hurt.” She turned away and resumed stretching.

I hesitated, then laughed a little. “That’s a lot of advice. Didn’t know you had it in you really.”

“Gotta know your enemies. Right? But seriously-“ she flexed her muscles, shot an air pistol, and winked at me. 

“Now scat.” She looped her arms in big, backward circles, “I have so much more of my expression to explore physically.”