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ENTERTAINMENT FOR MEN

FEBRUARY 14th, 2001 • www.themedium.net

Y A G

GAYBOY INTERVIEWS

FRANK MAXWELL THE WHISTLER FROM GUNS ’n’ ROSES’ “PATIENCE” BARES ALL

GAYBOY MANSION EXCITING SCENES & MORE! JUANITA JUAREZ MASTER FEBRUARY LACTATING

MR. WONG

BY MICHAEL RYAN

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vol. 32, no. 4 -- february 14th, 2001

G A Y B O Y THE MEDIUM PRESENTS

VD, 2001. We’ve hit ground zero. We’ve arrived. The lovefest that is Valentine’s Day has come, and Gayboy is here to party.

Party like a bunch of pasty foxes in a heat that puts the Sahara to shame. Party like a pack of wolves at homecoming. Party like your mother and Bronson Pinchot at the Gayboy mansion.

For this issue, we’ve pulled out all the stops. We’ve found the man-boy of your dreams, and forced him to do housework…naked.

We have erotic poetry, to make your cock rock & roll, and an interview with Frank Maxwell, of Guns ‘n’ Roses fame. We have advice for the sexually inadequate, and jokes to get your party started. We have manpussy galore.

Welcome to Gayboy. You’ve come to the right place.

—Christopher “Hef” Taylor

Christopher “Hef” Taylor Editor-in-Chief

CONTENTS 3

interview 8

Jay Postelnik Managing Editor Jessica Chandra Business Manager EDITORIAL Chris “B.C.” DeSarno Opinions Editor Martin Babitz News Editor Mike “Sharky” Ryan GMG Editor Amanda Hoffman Arts Editor

FRANK MAXWELL The furious musician with an attitude to match that helped to launch Axl Rose & Company to superstardom…without credit.

BY MICHAEL MOLINO & CHRIS DESARNO

PHOTOGRAPHY Amy Groark Alissa Strong

pictorials 3

THE GAYBOY MANSION

MODELS Ryan “cute ass” Beckman Mike Ryan Martin Babitz John Minus Chris Taylor Chris DeSarno Mike Molino

We’ve converted an abandoned shack into the hippest party locale since Gilligan’s Island. Our housewarming party, featuring a prominently nude Tiger Woods and an assortment of Rhesus monkey’s, tipped the ball into our court. Eat your heart out, Playboy.

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NUDITY + COMMENTARY = last minute…feast your eyes on these picks of the litter…careful now…they bite.

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CENTERFOLD We’ve taken the “fold” out of centerfold by featuring eligible bachelorette Juanita “Additive Inverse” Juarez, a fresh-off-the-boat honey from Perth Amboy, with a pint of whole milk.

COVER Mike Molino, Chris DeSarno, Amy Groark

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fiction 9

A NOMAD’S BUSINESSMAN SONG He’ll never forget that travelling has its perks…

BY MARTIN BABITZ

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Mr. Wong’s Kitchen A date gone terribly awry…with fecal matter.

BY MIKE RYAN

Jeff Buechner Faculty Advisor Rachel Beckman Personals Editor Ryan Beckman Personals Editor Michelle Salvaggio What’s Shakin’ Editor Mike Molino Online Editor Amy Groark Advertising Manager Alissa Strong Staff Photographer Amanda Hoffman Senior Editor Gayboy Enterprises International, Inc.

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departments 4 5 10 11

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DEAR GAYBOY PARTY JOKES NEWSFRONT GADGETS

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THE MEDIUM is the entertainment weekly of Rutgers University. All articles are the opinions of the authors and are not necessarily shared by THE MEDIUM. Submission and business deadline is Sunday at 12:00 pm. The office of THE MEDIUM is located in the SAC Cubicle N. All correspondence may be addressed to THE MEDIUM SAC Box 78, New Brunswick, NJ 08903 or emailed to naziphallus@hotmail.com. Our phone number is (732) 373-7085.

2/13/01, 5:40 AM

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Sometimes, someone gets herpes. That is every night at the Gayboy Mansion! Can you guess who got it at this Saturday s gala? 1) The Gayboy Mansion, RU Pres. Fran Lawrence s home away from home. 2) Madame Minus and hookers. 3) Pierre Slin and Roman Germaine get their groove on !

4) Glorious Freaks! 5) Huge Teffner and his marvelous bitches. 6) Estelle and Geddy swillin some Olde-E brew. 7) If you guessed Swayze as the herpes recipient you were wrong. He just got AIDS. 8) Well, at least I told her I was wearing one. 9) Ex-con Matt Mehta chillin with Zeke and the five year old alcoholic internet porno fiend.

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Dear Gayboy

Every month Gayboy receives tons of mail. After weedng through the death threats and pornography we find we have one or two letters. We make up the rest. Enjoy!

SOMEONE’S GOTTA TAKE A STAND

SIMPLE QUESTION

I was delighted to read your article featured in the January issue entitled “Killing Retarded Children: Just Don’t Do It!” It is about time someone took a stand on the issue of killing retarded children. Kudos to you.

Frank Billyson

Why do you respond to some letters and not others?

Steve Jerkowski

I like words in January! ! Kill retadeing chirrdrin: no nono. I made poopies in my butt. HEHA! Me president of you. yeehaw.

G. “dubbya” B.

AN ASSININE MISTAKE

In the last issue of The Medium I found the article about the women’s bodies extremely informative.

In fact it helped so much that I was able to figure out why I have been unable to impregnate my wife.

It seems that all these years I was fucking her in the ass.

Tom K. Elding

PERVERSE?

I was talking about your fine publication with a friend one evening and he spoke of an issue I’ve never seen. We were each talking about our favorite copies of “The Medium” and when he told me that his favorite issue was the one where a lot of “perverse comments” were made I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never heard of or read an issue that had anything perverse in it. If such a thing exists could you please tell me the issue number so I may attempt to purchase it from somebody.

Simon Barlow

I have only been with The Medium for a few months and have personally never heard of such a thing. I decided to check with some coworkers who have been here longer than myself.

When they heard my question they all pointed and laughed at me… apparently such an issue does not exist. Your friend is a liar.

I’m glad that for once somebody isn’t lying when they say “I read it for the articles”. I hope you enjoy next weeks article about an autistic crackbaby who has managed to live for 22 years so far… maybe you can find a way to relate to him.

CROSSING A FINE LINE Where do you guys draw the line between art and pornography?

Michael Cagen

Well, one makes you get all hot and horny and makes your penis become erect ... growing and throbbing until finally you can’t stand it any longer and you explode into ectasy leaving a creamy mess in your once-clean trousers ... and the other is ponography.

WHERE THEY BELONG STICKY SITUATIONS

While I savor each page of every issue of The Medium last week’s cover was by far the best thing you have ever printed. The way you carefully masked the model’s nipples with bubble gum reminded me of the days when I had a crush on my grammar school teacher Mrs. Kelly.

Whenever she caught us chewing gum in class she would make us take it out of our mouths and stick it on our bare nipples for the entire class to see. Thanks for the mammaries…hehe get it?

James Fabner

We here at The Medium appreciate both your compliments and that you take notice of all the careful work put into each cover.

However, we don’t appreciate that attempt of a “joke” in the last line. Please never write another letter to the editor and if it is at all possible please stop reading our publication.

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Thank you for printing all these pictures of barely clothed women. My favorite part is the way that each looks nearly impossibly perfect. As a woman I would like to thank you for giving me something to aspire to. One day I would like to be as skinny and beautiful as your models. Being a good wife I have already perfected my cooking and cleaning skills. I thank you for a new goal.

Jane Parkland

It is good to see that there are still some women who don’t mind taking a backseat to men since it is where they belong. Enjoy the photos, knowing that you will go without food until you are as thin as our models warms my soul and lets me know that my job is done.

http://WWW.THEMEDIUM.NET

2/13/01, 3:25 AM

G AY B O Y S PA R T Y J O K E S There were three peanuts walking down the street. assaulted…peanut.

Q: Why did the snowman pull down his pants?

A: He heard the snowblower coming.

Q: What did the boy volcano say to the girl volcano?

A: I lava you.

Two retired clergymen moved into a town and opened up a

One was

flower shop. Business boomed, so the owners decided to indulge their “exotic plant” fetish and open a carnivorous plant room. The jewel of the wo down-on-their-luck friends get placed new additions was a particularly rare speat a panty factory by a temp agency. After cies with an extraordinarily rapid digestion their first day of work, one asks the other : How do you turn a rate. During the first week, a child lost a what he ended up doing. “I am a crotch fitter, sewing on extra material for better ab- dishwasher into a laundry ma- finger to this man-eater. The locals freaked, demanding that the plant be exterminated. sorbency. What are you doing?” “I am a chine?

The owners pacified the townspeople by re‘diesel fitter’,” he responded without explanation. The next day, the crotch fitter : Give the bitch a scrub stricting access to the room to adults. When a second child lost a finger (after sneaking decided to find out what exactly a “diesel into the room) the owners moved the digitfitter” does during his break. He went to board. devourer to the basement. Again the the other side of the factory, where he found his friend retrieving pairs of panties from the conveyer belt at townsfolk were subdued. At least until a collection of curious random and placing them on his head. Confused, the crotch youths’ after-hours visit resulted in a leg loss, after which Mayor fitter went closer. His friend was saying “diesel fitter” after don- Hugh Johnson demanded that the limb-removing plant be dening each pair. “Hey, buddy…” the crotch fitter started, before stroyed, and that the flower shop be closed. The former menhearing his friend say “dies won’t fitter” after trying on a particu- of-the-cloth complied, then left town. The moral: Only Hugh can prevent Florist Friars. larly large pair.

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Joke of the Month

Q A

I cranked up a blank tape in my apartment last night…the mime Q: How do you derace a Chinaman? next door flipped out and called the cops.

A: Spin him around repeatedly.

We took one John Holmes motherfucker, gave him an apron, shaved his man-hair and made him do cook us dinner. Don t try this at home. We now have diarrhea.

I saw Jesus once. He was nude, and wore the wings of an angel. He offered me a taste of his bosom, but I declined, having already partaken of the sacrament on the previous Sunday. his image reminds me of him.

Him and his cannibalistic ways.

Hosanna in the Highest!

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These men enjoy bubblebaths and anal sex. Hooray for Gin & Suave!

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MASTER FEBRUARY

GAYBOY S PLAYBOY OF THE MONTH

PLAYBOY DATA CORNER NAME: BUST: HEIGHT: BIRTH DATE: AMBITIONS: TURN-ONS: TURNOFFS: MY MOTTO:

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Juanita Additive Inverse Juarez 38A WAIST: 36 5 11 WEIGHT: 173 12/19/77 BIRTHPLACE: Perth Amboy, NJ To become the first Caucasian president of NAMBLA. Pink elephants, Rocky & Bullwinkle, Jesus & Iago Aggressive men, amusing jokes, chocolate bunnies Live free and die.

2/13/01, 3:02 AM

by Mike Molino and Chris DeSarno

The Medium recently caught up with Frank Maxwell in his cramp, one-room apartment while he was eating froot loops in his boxer shorts... He was gracious enough to let us ask him a few questions while he watched Judge Judy and scratched himself.

type of stuff take place really early in the morning, like 10 or 11 o clock. getting up that early is a big investment Gayboy: Interesting... That was impressive whistling.

Gayboy: So... uhmm... what do you do that makes you famous?

Maxwell: Yeah.

I ve been practicing my whistling as long as I can. Its a real passion of mine. My first real band was Jethro, before they kicked me out for that flute playing homo Ian Anderson. I auditioned to whistle the melody in Celine Dion s my heart will go on , but they also opted for a flute. It s a tough industry to crack.

Maxwell: I m a musician.

Gayboy: Thank you for your time, Mr Maxwell.

Gayboy: Oh! You re an accomplished musician. Is that hard?

Maxwell: Hey, no problem. You wanna stick around ... Jerry Springer will be on soon.

Gayboy: How re you doing, Frank? I d like to thank you for letting us to do this interview.

Maxwell: Don t mention it, man.

Maxwell: Not really. It can be kinda tough, though. Right now I m between.. err, jobs in laymen s terms.

Gayboy: Umm... no thanks.

Gayboy: What do you think your next project will be?

Maxwell: I dunno. I m just working at Mcdonalds now but I ll probably write a song or something soon. I think the world is getting sick of acts like Britney and Christina. I hope to start the next teen sensation: retarded freakdancing robots. I think it will be a welcome change from big breasted whores.

Gayboy: Can you tell us a little bit about your body of work.

Maxwell: Well, you know the whistling that s at the beginning and end of Patience by Guns N Roses?

VIAGRO



(sildenafil citrus) tablets

Erectile dysfunction (ED) affects over 30 million men to some degree in the United States, including former president and closet dendrophiliac Ronald Reagan. ED (also called impotence) has been shown to be treatable for some men with a daily dose of VIAGRO, letting you get back to fulfilling whatever sexual fantasies you might have.

Gayboy: Yeah.

Maxwell: That was me.

Gayboy: Really? I always assumed that wasAxl Rose.

Maxwell: Yeah. Everyone does. The fucking cocksucker never gave me credit on the album and he cut out all my seens from the video and replaced them with lip-whistling to my track.

This Valentine s Day, let the morning wood lead to something more.

- Ronald Reagan

Gayboy: Did you take legal action?

Maxwell: not yet. Most trials concerning this Fizzer

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A Nomad Businessman’s Song: A Playboy Cliché

By Martin Babitz I, as I approached middle age, found myself driving from airport to airport on the pretext of meeting clients for the Company’s executive line of transportation services. But deep inside I was looking for something else, but at that time I couldn’t have told you what IT was. Whatever IT was, it wasn’t to be found on airplanes. The irony of the situation was that of course the Company wouldn’t dig deep enough to actually fly me around on one of their own Airborne Executive flight packages, so there I was, flying business class on what was just about the shittiest and most generally uncomfortable flight this side of Lockerbie, Scotland.

After a while, the flights just became a series of pointer taps on a hundred Palm Pilot Vs, a noise as vaguely plastic and inconsequential as I began to see my life.

The waitress…excuse me, stewardess…excuse me, flight attendant…had the look of one who hadn’t seen anything but people in suits for the last 30 hours. I noticed with some dismay a small patch of skin irritation underneath her left nostril, no doubt the footprint of her favorite work related tool. We all had our vices… mine just weren’t very interesting. It’s a sad world where you’re biggest vice is masturbating in the shower thinking about Cindy in Accounts Payable. The girl sniffled.

Resolving not to notice, I looked at the solid black nothing out of the window. In that brief moment, I actually prayed to God for a large monster to appear on the side of the plane, to give me an excuse to stand up and go absolutely apeshit. They’d medicate me heavily, and some somber soul would be forced to narrate over my cries. Suddenly I realized that I had laughed out loud at my inner monologue.

Looking up at the girl as she poured my coffee, I noticed her hand shaking. She was looking at me fearfully, with other hand firmly covering her upper lip.

That was when I decided to start driving more. It wasn’t a very good reason, fuck you very much, but I decided that was as much reason as I needed to get out of those gleaming silver coffins. Maybe see some of the wide-open spaces that were promised in just about every folk song of my youth.

Except the difference was that I had forfeited my VW minibus for a BMW M3, and I had forfeited my Peter, Paul, and Mary for Sting. I forfeited conversations about freedom and rights and sex and war for talking about Job Titles and Tax Cuts and SUVs and Day Trading. I had forfeited it all, and it came back all in a flood as I was driving along I-250 through Baker, Tennessee. I pulled off to the side of the road, and I cried. I cried for it all. My suits and ties, my cellular phone, my wife, my kids, my child support, my attorney, the Lovin’ Spoonful, and Cindy in Accounts Payable. I had absolutely lost myself in a complete self-loathing. That’s when Michelle told me to “shut the fuck up.” She was standing there on the side of the road holding a red bag with a college symbol on it. I had pulled off the road a few feet from where she had been hitchhiking, and apparently she thought I had pulled over to pick her up.

So there I was, driving down the road with Michelle, pretending not to remember that I was just weeping like a child on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

She was just looking at me with an extremely subtle grin on her face. There wasn’t a trace of restraint or deception in her face, just pure amusement. I must have attempted to explain a hundred times as we drove down I-250 how I wound up on the side of the road, but as my brain conjured up even the first syllables, the words died in my throat.

And that’s how we drove. Well that’s how we drove until the accident, that is.

It was 2 a.m., and I was attempting yet again to come up with an excuse that would let me keep my pride in front of this complete stranger. What I had failed to do, and this is important, was check the speedometer. I had been driving somewhere in the vicinity of 110 MPH when the front tire blew out and we spun out into a complete 360, winding up in a ditch. When I woke up, Michelle was grinning subtly at me, and half of the driver’s side of the car was submerged in mud. She was stroking the back of my head, slightly below the growing bald spot, and I began to laugh. It was a nervous, frightened laughter, and she seemed not to have heard, or cared as she began to pull her shirt up over her head. She straddled me, and began to undress me as well, and in a flash of salt and moisture, I was inside of her. It was probably short, I can’t remember much about the concrete details of our encounter, but there’s no doubt that it changed me forever. My catharsis was bright, loud, and fast, and it was so absolutely transparent to her, that I may as well have had my saga printed on my head.

That was a number of years ago, but not too many. I had set Michelle loose at the next train station, to go off wherever she was going, and I went off soon after to wherever I was going. The question was, and still is of course, just where that direction points.

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Mr. Wong’s Kitchen

By Mike Ryan I could see that Denise was doing her best to tolerate me. She nervously twisted her black hair around her finger and shoved her food around with her fork. I did not envy her. Her sister had set us up and was sure the two of us were going to hit it off, but the rest of the evening stood to be a mere formality as the two of us seemed sure that things were going nowhere.

It was coming up on 10:30, so we split the bill and hit the road. Denise said that she had a presentation to give early the next day, probably in an effort to preempt the awkward “So, do you feel like doing anything else?” discussion that neither of us felt like having. On the way back to her apartment, however, things began to take a truly uncomfortable turn. The restaurant we went to was a Chinese place that had gotten rave reviews from local food critics, but the vegetable stir fry I had was receiving a less than warm reception from my digestive system. As I pulled up in front of Denise’s apartment, it became clear to me that the situation was

“I watched with surprise as the robe dropped to the floor, revealing every square inch of her white, toned body.” reaching critical mass. “It was nice having dinner with you,” Denise said. “I had a good time, too,” I forced out in a trembling voice. Denise must have noticed the concerned look on my face and the sweat that was beginning to bead up on my forehead. “Are you alright?” she asked. “Actually, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could I use your bathroom?”

The journey from my car into her apartment seemed to take an eternity. She let me in and pointed me to the can. I hurried in as fast as I could and sat down, thinking the process was going to be painful but quick. I was wrong. For about five minutes, the soupy amalgam of partially digested food and gastric juices swirled around inside me, collecting its forces for what was to be an all-out assault on my anus. My rectum attempted to expel all traces of the offending meal, but to no avail. It seized up and then relaxed, releasing bursts of air and a chorus of sounds, from squeaking highs to bellowing lows. The opening shots had been fired, but the real battle was about to begin. I exploded into Denise’s toilet with a sound that rattled the pictures on the bathroom wall. Broccoli, baby corns, and carrots reached velocities never before achieved by members of their respective species as they were propelled from my dilated butt hole into the murky depths. It felt like my ass was on fire. Another filthy tsunami swelled, crested, and crashed upon the porcelain shores. This was no ordinary bout of diarrhea. The watery feces inside me was a living, breathing creature with a soul of pure evil, intent on bringing about my humiliating demise from the inside out. I began to hallucinate from the pain. Seeing before me the angel of death, I prepared to meet his sweet embrace with open arms.

By the time I was finished, my shirt was drenched with sweat, and tears were streaming down my face. My muscles were sore, and my legs felt like they were made out of jelly. Still panting from the ordeal, I got up and helped myself to two generous wads of toilet paper. The battle was over, and Denise’s bathroom was once again a pleasant sanctuary from the harsh world, a far cry from the chamber of horrors it had been just minutes before. I washed my hands with soap that smelled like lilacs, and splashed some cold water over my face. I felt as though an enormous weight was lifted from my shoulders.

Some thirty minutes had passed since I scurried into the bathroom. I came out, expecting Denise to be visibly distraught from having been a captive audience to my Rhapsody in Brown. Instead, she looked quite at ease. She had changed into a dark red silk robe that was drawn tightly around her, showing off her curvaceous figure. She looked at me with a fire in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Still quite aware of where I was and what I had just done, I said, “I guess that makes a perfect end to a perfect evening, huh?” “It doesn’t have to be,” she replied. I watched with surprise as the robe dropped to the floor, revealing every square inch of her white, toned body. She led me into her bedroom. I would tell you what she did to me, but I’ve always regarded graphic accounts of sexual acts as kind of disgusting.

Want to appear in Gayboy? We’re holding a photo shoot in Room 113 of the Livingston Student Center tonight at 7:30. Come alone or in groups, but be sure to leave your heterosexuality at home. For tonight, you will experience true love, love that can only be found in the arms of a naked man. A German man.

2/13/01, 3:49 AM

Gayboy’s

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Sexual and social news from around the campus A Bus Too Far

Magna Cum Loudly

Did You Frat?

An over amorous couple was arrested as they were caught “in the act,” while in transit from College Avenue to Busch. The two lovebirds were noticed as the female party began to perform fellatio on the male party, much to the hooting of the other drunken passengers. “Whooo! Yeah!” commented one passenger, supported by an unintelligible hoot and an energetic pantomime of oral sex coming from another. The couple was released later, after disgusting fourteen police officers with their unwanted shows of affection.

This is a true story. A friend of this girl I know was at this party, and she had to be like put in the hospital for these weird cramps in her stomach, and the doctors realized they had to pump her stomach. So they pump it and they find like over a gallon of sperm in there!

How fucking gross is that??? Yeah it’s a true story. It was in the paper. If I ask my friend, she could probably find it for you. What do you mean an urban legend? Dude, whatever... oh… hold on, that’s my cell.

Um… hello? Oh my god! How are you!?!?

Ralph Price, A nineteen year old Rutgers College Sophomore, was arrested for allegedly date-raping an unidentified eighteen year old Douglass College freshman earlier this month at the EKT frat house on the College Ave. Campus. Price maintains his innocence, but, speaking through his attorney, added, "Bitch, I gets it when I want from who I want, whether they want it or not."

Livingston Student Jennifer Bladaki was hospitalized after complaining of an odd discomfort in her “nether regions” after sexual intercourse. Upon examination, Hurtado doctors found that Bladaki had neglected to inform them that the affore stated sexual intercourse was between her and a GG bus. More surprising, however was that doctors also found in her vagina a missing A bus from when the route was discontinued last semester, and presumed-dead Rutgers College student David Astarita. When asked if they had ever seen anything like it before, doctors said “Those sorority girls never cease to amaze me.

I mean God damn.”

Hey you kids, get off my lawn”

Serving Hard Time A Postmodern Dis-spray Mason Gross Graduate Student Phimo Gonzales caused quite a stir in the local art world, as for his MFA Performance Art project, he repeatedly masturbated into the audience from a tire swing suspended in the Art School’s Gallery ceiling. “I particularly enjoyed how he used his “swinging” as a metaphor for the violent angst in his life…” stated Asst. Professor Claude Dustenden “and the showering us all in his semen… I felt that was more of a statement on the fleeting and spontaneous nature of the most precious essence of life. It was groundbreaking, fantastic. He gets an “A,” without a doubt.”

A Homo of Our Own

Justice was served in the minds of Rutgers University students across New Brunswick, as in a groupunifying moment of absolute solidarity, all students began to urinate on President Francis Lawrence’s front lawn near the Stadium at once, forming a flood of urine so powerful the man was carried away into the Raritan.. Apparently disgusted by years of abuse at the hands of the high-ranking U. staff, the students male and female, black, white, Asian, or Indian alike, aimed their respective pieces and let loose a stream of vengeance. A joyous cry was sounded, and the vile stench of corruption was replaced by the not-as-vile stench of human urine.

“Holy shit,” said officers on the scene.

Students gathered round Voorhees Mall this Sunday afternoon for recreational anal fun. This year’s AnalFucking Fest was kicked off by our very own head bureaucrat, Fran Lawrence with a rumpshake set at 350 degrees to bake. Freshman Wilferd Brimley said, “I am just so turned on by morons, so I found the stupidest boy there and fucked him in his winking sweet browny cake! Shit was off the hizzy, fo real son!”

Other students and faculty partook in the jubilation of anal love. “We are just so gay here at Rutgers that we just want to fuck bear ass boy-bitches all day long.

Holy shit am I fucking stupid! FUCKING STOOPID!!!” Everyone was in a tizzy as the end of this felching free for all was nigh. Nary an unswollen anus was seen in Voorhees Mall come 8 PM. Word.

You got the roach?

Cell Division

The cockroaches of Rutgers were in an uproar earlier this week. A small congregation of the pesky vermin were standing outside of Brower protesting like many fat and greasy feminists have done so in the past. The cause for alarm was apparently that somehow, Brower food had gotten into their own food supply. They were outraged by what they referred to as an infestation of the the most foul kind. At the steps of Brower the chief cockroach exclaimed, “You bitch ass muthafuckas, I’m a kill everyone of you muthafuckin bitches in Rutgers. Fuck that! Shit is on, word.”. With bitches bein under serious heat up in this piece, we await to hear how University President Fran Lawrence will handle this concern.

A cell phone call on the bus not only revealed the most private secrets of her own personal life, but also the fact the sophomore Kelli Gilliano is a complete stupid bitch. Kelli was riding the Livingston bus home after her “stupid, annoying Elementary Algebra class” when the dreaded phone call rang its way into misfortune.

Witnesses say that she must’ve plain old forgotten that she was still in public when the person on the other line brought up her urinary tract infection. She unconsciously responded in a way that informed her neighbors on the bus about her vaginal discomfort by infection. After hours of mindless babbling about boys, clothes, and how fat she is the others on the bus concluded that she was a stupid bitch.

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In an effort to curb Rutgers's crime rate, the New Brunswick Police Department announced that it plans to staff its holding cells with a group of wellendowed homosexual men, who are to serve as professional male rapists. "We're just trying to do what's best for the community," remarked Mayor Jim Cahill.

Cahill, who plans to pump raw the rectums of arrestees as part of the group, also added, "This pony's ready to go out to stud."

A Fecal Matter Tiffany Tubbs, a Rutgers College Freshman, was awarded $50,000 dollars by a New Brunswick court in a lawsuit filed against Frank Homes, a Rutgers College Junior. Remarked Tubbs, "This is a great victory for anyone who has gotten drunk, gone back to Campbell, had sex with a guy, and had the guy shit all over her comforter while she was asleep and run out, leaving a note that said 'It was you, not I who shat all over your comforter.'" Homes could not be reached for comment.

Rutgers, The State Motherfucker of New Jersey President Francis Lawrence attended a ribbon-cutting ceremony for The Oedipus Complex at the former site of the Alexander Library on the College Avenue Campus. The Oedipus Complex, which is scheduled to open in 2003, will be a mall full of stores that sell products and services related to killing one's father (patricide) and having sexual intercourse with one's mother (mothercourse).

A Bit of Bovine Intervention A new farm for genetically engineered cows opened on Cook Campus last month. These cows are smarter, faster, can jump higher, give more milk, and dodge bullets. "We have the tools, we have the technology," said Animal Science staffer Dwight Palooni.

"We figured, what else were we going to do with all that green mutating stuff. It'd be a waste." An unfortunate side effect is that the mutated cows made their first order of business escaping from the heavily guarded campus lab, running amok, and in a bitter irony, devouring many of the campus Vegans.

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2/13/01, 3:17 AM