Installation Blues

I realize that as our mentally-handicapped Harvard liaison it's partially my charge to deliver the occasional slack-jawed commentary on all the highly intelligent happenings of this here fine institution of brick buildings, international aristocrats, and DisneyWorld-caliber smoke n' mirrors. But I'm the first to admit that I'm not very good at that. Hell, I can't really think about anything right now except how much Moss's last post is begging for some e. e. cummings crack, but I can't bring myself to make it for a variety of bad reasons.

But now I'm wracking my brain, trying to think of what exactly has happened here worthy of note and/or badly worded, uninspired adolescent aspersions. What do I come up with? Something that happened a long, long time ago:

The Faust Installation.

So as you may know already, Harvard recently elected their first ever (supposedly) female president. Her name is Drew Faust, and much like Goethe's famous character of the same name, she's a man.

She's about six-two, has shoulders wider than the freshman beds (proven fact), and has hands that can effortlessly crush the skull of any Columbia football player. She also has a penis bigger than my leg that has been known to eat squirrels that cross her path on campus. Have I myself seen this? I'd rather not talk about it.

Fortunately at her installation she was wearing a huge Jedi robe that covered all her superhuman anatomical endowments, and I think very few people noticed when a huge node of flesh slivered out from behind the podium during her speech. Which I'll get to in a minute.

But first let's talk about the seven thousand introductions. I was in my room writing a paper for most of them, which explains why I still have some modicum of sanity left. It also explains why I have almost no memory of the ceremony.

So here's what happened:

I arrived when Mop-head Petersen was giving his whiny speech. I didn't pay much attention to it, since I was looking around to see if I could find anyone I knew, though I did get to experience that tricolon first hand. So much enthusiasm. Whatever.

Next up was Deval Patrick, or as I like to call him, DeePee. He delivered a speech that couldn't have lasted more than five minutes. It was mostly an anecdote about his time at Harvard. It won more than a few chuckles and a great deal of applause. Afterward a full grown man holding a Harvard umbrella turned around and asked me if I knew who the speaker was. Isn't that great? You know what's greater, though? Just to be an asshole, I said, "I have no idea." Welcome to Massachusetts, assbag.

Who spoke after this? Some old guy, and then some old lady. They both said the same things in different words, all of which meant nothing. Then, finally, Mr. Faust herself came to the podium. A hush fell over the crowd. They were scared of her. She looked so tall, standing there. So powerful. So male.

Her huge, thin-lipped maw opened up above the overtly phallic microphone. Her Adam's apple quivered with excitement. I could only imagine what thoughts were going through her head. She was holding a manila envelope that had been sealed for over fifty years, containing a letter written by a Harvard President during the Cold War, addressed to the first Harvard President to assume office in the 21st century. Its message was one of profound fear and anxiety about the future. It spoke of the tremendous burden that would be lain upon the shoulders of whatever person dared take command of America's oldest and most revered academic institution in the uncertain future. And the first line read, "Dear Sir." You could see the faintest glint in her eye. It wasn't smugness. It was joy. It was the absolutely rock-solid sensation of success, of having finally arrived. She knew she had now broken down a barrier that fifty years ago had seemed insurmountable. She had torn another pane out of that shattered glass ceiling. And now thousands of people from all across the country, and hundreds of the world's most distinguished academics, all huddled together in the rain, eagerly awaiting her first words as the newly-installed President of Harvard University. She was on the verge of breaking the silence--but someone from the crowd beat her to it:

"Show us your tits!"

And that's how I almost got expelled from Harvard.

Atari was so effing sweet.

Today, while attending my second General Chemistry lecture of the semester I witnessed an amazing thing.

In the middle of the lecture a life-sized Pac-Man ran screaming through the bottom of the lecture hall chased by a life-sized ghost. The whole thing lasted about 15 seconds and then the lecture resumed with no further interruption.

This ordeal got me thinking -- quite a remarkable development in itself. Isn't life just a gigantic game of Pac-Man? We are all Pac-Men. Arguably, some of us are Ms. Pacmen, but that really has nothing to do with what I'm talking about.

We are all running from ghosts. All the time. Ghosts are there to consume us, to beat us down. Right now I'm running from the ghost of my exam schedule, the ghost of sickness, the ghost of me wanting to fucking sleep more than 3 hours a night but I can't because I have insomnia and I'm sick and my neighbor plays rap too loud. I guess what I'm trying to say is ghosts=bad.

But we are the Pac-(Wo)Men. We're just running through the maze of life trying to avoid bad shit. Sometimes we eat things. Eating things gives you bonus points and if you get enough of those you get an extra Pac-Man. I'm not quite sure what the real-life parallel to this is, but it probably has something to do with prescription drugs.

We also eat a lot of little white dot things. Some would call this a primal urge to make ourselves whole again. After all, someone did cut a huge wedge out of our faces. Why can't we be circles? Circles are aesthetically pleasing. Admittedly, if we were circles we would have trouble speaking, munching on little white things, and occasionally eating 8-bit fruit, but I'm relatively convinced that in a perfect world these would be unnecessary and forgotten relics of a primitive past.

Oh yeah, sometimes in real life we also have to put quarters in things so they work, just like a Pac-Man game. Some examples of this include washers, dryers, pool tables, juke boxes and Tim's genitals. Sometimes we run out of quarters. Then we can't play Pac-Man anymore, or we just have to walk around for weeks with dirty clothes because I'm just not gonna hand-wash all this shit.

Then again, life might not be like Pac-Man at all. I may have just taken way too much cold medicine. I suppose we'll never know.

Harvard Students Unite! Smoke Crack!

Once upon a time, not too long ago, Harvard students were allowed to get drunk.

I was here in April. Back then I hadn't yet paid thousands of dollars to Harvard, closed the doors on at least six or seven other first-class schools (Brown not included), and agreed to have my life essentially dictated by their whims for the next four years for the sake of gaining a bunch of unscrupulous politician friends and a piece of paper inscribed with the school's name and a bunch of silly-sounding Latin words (cum laude? Bwa!). Needless to say, Harvard went all-out to impress me.

There was booze everywhere. Vodka flowed from the taps in the bathrooms. Tequila sprung from the fountain in front of the Science Center. In the dining halls we used kegs for seats. You know the Charles River? All beer.

I went to a party with seven or eight girls. None of them were particularly good looking. We're talking two- or three-stars here. Mind you, that's out of ten stars. I thought, "I bet Harvard will do something about this!" And Harvard did.

The first great thing Harvard did was remind me that I was surrounded by the most sheltered kids in the world. Kids whose idea of a party was Church, only without the wine, because drinking Jebus' blood is, like, icky. When we arrived at the party the girls took one whiff of the punch and all but two of them ran away, literally crying. This was partially because they were sheltered, but mostly because the punch was actually radiator fluid, and they had just turned their face into one giant sinus. Serves them right for being less physically attractive than they were intellectually promising! I'd also like to add that one of the girls actually called her parents and asked if she could stay with them in their hotel, because, she said, "People drink the alcohols here!"

The other two girls hung around. They were so cool. One said, "I totally know everything about everything." The other one got really drunk really fast and didn't talk about anything at all. I would have fallen in love if Harvard hadn't already taken hold of my entire heart. And how exactly did Harvard manage to take control of everything from my aortas to my pulmonary arteries? The same way they take control of everything: dollars.

How many dollars did I sell my heart for? Sixty-five. And Harvard got a full rebate.

See, I found out at that party that Harvard actually gave money to students to throw parties, tacitly accepting, like any good parent ought to, that the students were going to use that money to buy drugs, and use those drugs to lubricate their sex lives, figuratively and literally.

"Harvard pays for our alcohol? Awesome!! Coming here is like being famous!" That's what I sounded like then. But then was a long time from now...a long time backwards.

More recently, I found out that all that money 'Harvard' spends on our alcohol is distributed through the Undergraduate Council, the student governing body of Harvard. And all the money they have at their disposal comes from a sixty-five dollar surcharge that Harvard adds surreptitiously to every student's term-bill. How much of those funds go to party grants? Eight percent. Where does the rest of the money go? Nobody knows. Some people say Harvard burns it on hookers. Others say Israel. But the most common whispering is that Harvard just burns it all. With fire.

All right, so that's considerably less awesome. It turns out that everything Harvard supposedly 'gives' to its students is actually paid for at great cost--it's just that the students tend not to realize it, probably because its all paid for in advance, all at once, and usually by their parents. Of course, this doesn't really apply to me, because I'm here on scholarship. Whoo-hoo!

So naturally I'm not going to complain about how Harvard wants to use its money, because very little of it came from me. I'm not even going to complain about how put a hidden charge on our bills so they can give us a false feeling of Providence. (I'm not talking about the dirty city in RI, mind you. I'm talking about the Christian idea that God provides. You know...to imply that Harvard thinks it's God. Is that too oblique? Yeah, all right. Whatever. Moving on.)

What I am going to complain about is Harvard's recent crackdown on alcohol.

Our UC President Ryan Petersen made a speech at Drew Faust's inauguration a few weeks ago about Dean Pilbeam's decision to suspend all UC-sanctioned reimbursements for alcohol. He never actually mentioned it directly, but he did say this:

"This process of decisions made behind closed doors, this disempowerment of students, this denial of citizenship must end now!"

Hey kids! Remember ascending tricolon? Here it is again! Petersen thinks he's Cicero. Unfortunately, he's a nerdy Harvard student who looks like a mop.

I'd rag on Petersen more, but I don't really know him, and I guess I sort of appreciate that he's looking out for my desire to be drunk at all times. What I really don't appreciate is how he's trying to argue against Pilbeam's decision in a political way, as if it makes it more principled.

The truth is, students really don't have any legitimate right to whine about Pilbeam's decision. The money was distributed by an official Harvard organization, and was going primarily to purchasing alcohol, which was being distributed primarily to underage students. Pilbeam's got every valid legal point on his side, and Petersen's got nothing but what ultimately amounts to, "Waaaaah! This is unethical, because I say it is! We're supposed to be more entitled than this!"

Well, fuck that. I don't care whether Harvard pays for alcohol or not. We've got enough rich kids around here to foot the bill for almost anything we could want. That really isn't the issue. It's just a symptom of the real issue, which is that Harvard has turned into one giant bitch when it comes to alcohol.

As I understand it, most college dormitories across the country have Resident Advisers, which are really just students who make sure nobody gets raped or chokes to death on his own vomit. Harvard works differently. Our "Proctors," as Harvard calls them, are not undergraduates. They are not young people. They are not our friends. They are mostly doctoral students who, for some reason, don't mind living in Freshman dorms and sharing showers with sexually-repressed teenagers.

These people don't tolerate alcohol. They will come down, bust in on a party, take all the alcohol, and write you up. This could happen at any time of the day. You don't need to be disturbing anyone. You don't need to be doing anything unsafe. All that matters is that alcohol is involved. If you are throwing the party, you will be written up. If you are present in someone else's room when it's invaded, you could be written up. If you're sleeping in your bed while your roommates party, you could be written up.

Harvard Yard is officially dry. You will get kicked out of the college if you get caught more than twice.

So what's a poor freshman to do these days? Go to the upperclassmen houses. That's easy enough, right?

Wrong. First of all, 7 out of 10 upperclassmen are total pricks to freshmen. Secondly, they're the ones who generally take advantage of intoxicated freshman girls. Am I implying that Harvard's alcohol policies increases the likelihood of rape? Yes. Yes, I am.

But, oh, if it were only rape we had to worry about.

Unfortunately Harvard is trying to crack down here, too. For the first time, Harvard is seriously pushing Harvard party-throwers to check the IDs of guests before serving them alcohol. Harvard is posting sentries. They're watching us while we play in the dark.

Meanwhile, outside the gates, the Cambridge Police are ramping things up as well. They've just announced that they're going to be using youths to check if convenience stores check ID properly. They've been running all over town putting store-owners through courses to spot fakes and recognize the signs of intoxication, and nailing their pets to their doors as warnings, should they decide to ignore the law.

It seems that everywhere, some sudden terror has seized the minds of the powers that be. They can no longer sleep at night knowing that college students under 21 might be getting drunk.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THEIR PROBLEM?

Now, I'm not going to try and make a nice principled argument against these people, because those are exactly the tools they've fashioned in their own cause. That's right. They made up principles. They can do that, because they're in charge.

But here's how I see it. If these people are over 45, and most of them certainly are, they grew up in a time when the drinking age was 18. They partied up. In college they went apeshit. They grew up in a time when kids didn't need to wear bicycle helmets, or protective shells covering every inch of their bodies. They grew up back when nobody worried about trans fats. They grew up back when coming home covered in blood was perfectly acceptable. They grew up in Vietnam.

College students have been getting trashed on a regular basis since long before rock music, MTV, and then rap music were around to corrupt their ideals. But for some reason, nowadays drinking is a much more serious offense.

Why? I'm not going to bother looking for an answer. I'm going to assume it's because old people miss their glory days and are apparently unaware, because they grew up in a time of godless hedonism, that envy is a deadly sin.

But I have a solution. If Harvard is so damn worried about us getting drunk that they're going to do everything in their power to keep us from it, then I refuse to play ball. I won't try and circumvent all their stupid rules. I won't get drunk at all. I'll go to harder drugs. Crack. Meth. Heroin. Oxycontin. How about lithium, half a gram, straight to the motherfuckin' temple? It won't get me high, but it will sure as hell scare people!

And that's the point. Because you see, despite all the criticism parents and authorities take for being overprotective and so on, there really are some horrible things out there threatening young people that weren't around twenty or thirty years ago. Compared to them, alcohol is downright friendly.

So here's what I'm trying to say:

Harvard, let me get drunk. The rest of the world does, and you can't shelter me forever. And besides, if you're still worried about alcohol, oh, boy, do I have some fresh terrors for you.

There's no bond like a punch to the stomach

So you've probably heard that Harvard kids can't fight. And if you haven't heard it, well, I'm sure you assumed it. But let me tell you this: you're right.

I've met a lot of friendly blokes around here. Blokes, I call them, because they're actually all British. Did you know that 30% of Harvard students come from the UK? I made that statistic up, but it's illustrative of the truth, which is that there are actually WMDs in Iraq, right under Elvis' sprawling subterranean Pelvis-Scrambling-Funk-Village. Did I type funk? I meant fuck. It's a Fuck Village, and it's perched totally unreasonably against an enormous deposit of uranium bombs. I learned all of this from Hans Zimmer, who incidentally went to Harvard. Remember that awesome battle music from Gladiator? The one that played behind all the scenes that rocked your face back through your brain stem, causing you to actually gag on your own gag reflex? That's the one. Awesome, right? Well, you'd probably think so if you didn't know that Zimmer couldn't throw a punch to save his life. Which brings me back to the English.

English people can't fight. I'm actually calling you all out, right now. I used to think all English people were pansies. This was until I saw several English men lose a fight to a field of actual pansies, choking on their own mucus as they groveled before the flying histamines for mercy. It was one of those moments entirely beyond words. I remember screaming "Blasilhup glanderdaw nuck-nuck-zamboni!" which is really the only way I can describe the carnage without the aid of some sort of visual capture device such as an etch-a-sketch or Mario Paint. I believe it's Urdu.

I got into a huge brawl yesterday. Have you ever heard someone say, "You can't spell brawl without bawl!", perchance? The answer is you haven't, and that's because the two are totally dissimilar and etiologically unrelated. Also, because if someone ever said that, any nearby citizen mindful of the public good would promptly disembowel him, starting with his ovaries.

Here's what I'm trying to say: I got into a huge fucking fight the other day. Fists a-flying, teeth a-shattering, random ladies on the street a-screaming a-bloody murder. It was between me and every black person to ever go to Harvard. It was three against one. They was all like, "Yo cracka can't jump," and I was all, "Bitch say whaaa?" And then the bleeding commenced.

Here's the thing though. I'm sure, since everyone who reads this blahg is racist (Eric "The Jew Hater" Nazar, I'm looking at you) you probably assumed that all black people can fight. This is not true. See, some black people are from England. And all black Harvard students are from England. Imagine that!

What the fuck am I talking about?

Self-Righteous Dieting. (I changed the name, you assholes.)

I would like to draw our readers' attention to something monumental happening currently at Columbia. In response to the recent instances of hate-based vandalism around campus as well as the University's imminent gentrification of Manhattanville, students have formed an "anti-racist coalition." This coalition, upon its founding, produced a rather massive list of demands. The full list can be found on Bwog, but for convenience I will summarize many of them here.

The coalition demands:
- Columbia must hire more advisers for students of color and LGBTQ students
- Columbia Public Safety must report hate-crimes as they happen and compile an annual report of said crimes.
- Columbia must immediately begin hiring 2 full-time professors every year in the Center for the Study of Ethnicity and Race and the Institute for Research in African-American Studies. This hiring will continue until each department has 12 new full-time professors.
- Columbia must create a [section of a?] department devoted to Queer Studies and Native American Studies
- CSER and IRAAS must be given complete autonomy over their hiring decisions. Something entirely unprecedented not just at Columbia, but at any university in this country.
- Columbia must completely renegotiate its expansion plan to meet more the community's demands
- Columbia must create a core class in seminar format which deals entirely with racialization and colonization.

In an attempt to force the administration to meet these demands, nine students have begun a hunger strike. They are camped out in the middle of the quad and, well, not eating. The administration has yet to issue a response.

Now, I was recently alerted to another strike. This one is at UMass. The UMass students support a much more reasonable list of demands, which include the following:
- Student fee rollback
- Funding and accountability for diversity
- Cops out of the dorms
- Student control over student space

The students at UMass are organizing a general student strike, in which students will not attend classes on November 15th and 16th.

Which strike will be more effective? Don't bother thinking about that question for too long, because I'm about to tell you. And as always, I'm right. It's UMass'.

The first flaw in Columbia's strike is the list of demands. Namely, it's absolutely ridiculous. They aren't just talking creating new classes, they're talking creating new departments. Hiring 24 new professors alone is a massive amount of money. Not to mention the fact that such a massive hiring would require a huge increase in office space. Columbia, unfortunately does not have office space because the entire campus is bounded by 114th, 120th, Amsterdam and Broadway.

An increase in office space would require some sort of expansion. If only there were one planned. Oh wait, there is one planned. It's the expansion that's going to kick all the black people out of "SoHa" as it were. Well this is tough because the coalition is also anti-expansion. This stops their demands short before we even get to ask the question "Is it better to teach people about oppression of minorities or actually stop oppression of minorities?" How is the administration supposed to respond to the coalition's demands when they contradict each other? How many hundreds of millions of dollars is the administration supposed to spend on the demands of a few students?

There is also the issue of creating a new core class. The core already takes up a huge percentage of a Columbia student's schedule, making it harder to complete a major here than at any other school. But creating a seminar-style class requires the university to create more than 50 new sections of an entirely new class and subsequently find people to teach these sections. Seeing as two classes of this sort are already required, there is a legitimate question of whether or not this will have a severe negative impact on students trying to complete majors.

The primary reason for the strike's approaching failure, however, is not the demands, but the method. The strike started off with 9 participants. After one day it is down to 5. If nearly half the participants in the strikes could not make it a single day, how is anyone supposed to take the strike's intentions seriously?

The remaining 5 are under strict medical observance. They have made it clear that should any of them drop below a dangerous weight that they will drop out of the strike. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but the point of a hunger strike has typically been to convince the people in power that unless your demands are met you will die. Gandhi, for example, had to be talked down from each of his strikes because he was quite literally teetering on the brink of death.

When the strikers make it clear that they are not willing to take the protest to this level, they are changing the nature of the hunger strike. Instead of generating worry for their lives, they are simply making themselves useless to the institution. This technique is effective, but only on a massive scale. 5 students not attending classes will not cause the administration to blink an eye. 1000 students not attending class will.

This brings us back to the UMass strike. It is a simple general student strike with four simple demands. The advantage to it is that it has the possibility of inspiring thousands of students to skip class. Now, since we've already established that the only thing the Columbia strike is doing is causing five students to skip class, we can make a judgment on which is more effective. Last I checked, any number of thousand is more than five.

And which demands are more likely to be met? The Columbia students have a list of 13 demands. If the administration were to meet them it would require hundreds of millions in funding and the destruction of an entire black neighborhood in the name of "Ethnic Studies", a step which would inherently contradict another one of the coalition's demands. The UMass strike, however, has a list of 4 demands. The administration could easily meet all of them with relatively little spending.

So this raises an underlying question. Why are students at a public school notorious for its apathy so much more effective at organizing a strike than students at an ivy league school notorious for its political activism? I've been pondering this question for nearly 2 days now, and I think, thanks to a discussion with my friend Ruthie, that I have finally come to a conclusion.

Protesting at Columbia means nothing because it is overdone. Every single day there are a few students on the Steps waving banners and screaming into megaphones. How are we supposed to focus on a cause when instead of one large movement we create hundreds of small ones? How is anyone supposed to take us seriously when the most powerful protest we have had all year consists of five people sitting in tents and not eating?

My advice to the students camping outside right now: Go inside, grab a sandwich, rework your demands and organize the rest of campus to boycott classes for the next week. Maybe then you'll elicit an actual response from someone with power.

Alcoholism, and other games to play with your children

When people hear a word like “alcoholism,” they generally respond in one of a few ways. Some laugh derisively, trying to hide the fact that they don’t know what it means, others laugh nervously, knowing they have some troubled past to conceal, and others say, “Alco-what-you-say?” Nobody really understands it.

But here are the facts. Alcoholism affects over five-and-a-half hundred million Americans every year, not including Canadians. Think about that. That’s almost twice as many Americans as exist within America. That means for every person you know who isn’t an alcoholic, that person is actually over five-thirds of an alcoholic. That person is lying to you.

Did you know most people you see in the street are alcoholics? Think about how many people you see in the street every day. Millions, probably. Some of them are walking alone, holding hands, or walking along, buying things, must most are just walking along, being alcoholics. If you’re like most people, you probably thought only panhandlers are alcoholics. But that’s not true; in fact, it’s almost false. These people can’t even afford enough booze to be proper alcoholics. Most alcoholics are rich, and what’s more, most of them don’t even drink.

Not surprisingly, there are still some old-fashioned people who don’t consider alcoholism a legitimate disease. These are the same sort of people who still think that only gay people get AIDS, and that humans aren’t really descended from Galapagos finches. In short, they’re old people.

Alcoholism is not just alcohol addiction. Nor is it merely a symptom of some other psychological illness or infirmity. Nor is it a cultural construct. Nor is it a variety of other things. What is it, then? Just look at the word if you want to know. Alcoholism: a combination between Al (the name of most bus drivers), cholera, a girl named Liz, and the letter m, which is, not coincidentally, the first letter of mendacity.

That's really all you need to know. Now go out and get drunk.

Guide to Flyers (and what they mean!)

If there's one thing Columbia students like to do more than protest and whine about how much work they have, it's print and post flyers. There is not a flat upright surface on our campus that is not covered with these wonderful multi-colored sheets of paper.

Now, flyers have multiple uses. Once I discovered that they could be used for something other than fueling a trash-can fire in my dorm room when Columbia refuses to turn on the heat during fall break even though it's 45 degrees out and I can't feel my fingers, I extinguished the blaze in the corner of my room, took a shot or seven of vodka for warmth and contemplated their various purposes. So, without further ado, I give you a guide to college flyers:


What it really says: The boring black on white text on our flyer matches the soulless peppy personalities in our club. We don't have auditions because we'll take anyone who will openly admit to not only going to Columbia, but also to being in its Glee Club.


What it really says: Hey guys! We're cool! Look! Would we have so many flyers if we weren't so damn cool? I didn't think so! OMG!!! WUTCHU MEAN PRINTING 2 MENY FLIERZ IZ BADZ??!?!?!1


What it really says: This will buy you 4 beers during happy hour at 1020. Only some of them involve physical pain and/or waterboarding. Take your chances. We all need beer.


What it really says: I'm the only person on this fucking campus who has never heard of eBay. Trust my faith in the technology I'm selling.


What it really says: Our advertising campaigns are less than strategic. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure there's a ton of people working for NYPD with $200,000 educations. Well, maybe not a ton, but someone had to come up with the bright idea to advertise police jobs to a group of 4,000 students who are primarily too scared to walk 10 blocks north into the dangerous area known as "Harlem". It's where black people live. Nuff said.


What it really says: We know you cheated your way into an ivy league school... Now you can cheat your way out too! Give us money and people with real intelligence will do your work for you.


What it really says: You never did drugs in high school because you were too busy doing work... but it's never too late to start! Right!?


What it really says: Your liberal Satan-worshiping professors are brainwashing you to think critically. Come, let us indoctrinate you.


What it really says: We're not in denial... Remember 1961!!!


What it really says: Rape is bad. But...fruit is good. You know, I'm really caught in the middle about this one.


What it really says: NYU sucks.


What it really says: Look how cleverly ironical I am! But seriously, printing so many damn flyers is really bad for the environment. I hope you guys are getting this.


What it really says: You may be fighting for a good cause through clever irony, but I'm a grammar Nazi (bitch).


What it really says: This one's pretty straightforward. Columbia students love to pee. Everywhere.