From the editors...
Six pages. Six pages? Wait, we said. Wait just a cotton-pickin' minute. We can't do six pages. That's huge. Gargantuan. Nice papers like ours don't do six-page spreads. Or not on the fourth issue, at least. But we thought about it. That glimmer spread in our brains for a whole week until it seized us, shook us, scrambled our brains until we hardly knew what we were doing. Grease pencils in our hands, primed by a few sips of the old courage juice, we set to work. Time flew. Page after page was pushed beneath our tired eyes. Reams of material. Everybody wanted to write. No, we said. Only the best. And here you have it. The best that Carleton has to offer, in printed form.
Fuck me. When did it get to be nine am? The first issue, we thought we were racy because we were still up at 5 am, brains addled by metaphors and Red Bull. But nobody said anything about staying up till nine in the fucking morning to write a paper. A bullshit farcical, satirical rag that we shudder to call honest journalism. And where the fuck are our lackeys, anyways? Nico's making breakfast right now while I hunt and peck my ass across his aging keyboard. What's the deal? No staff, no lackeys, and I just had to take the skin off my cold coffee with my little finger. But still we edit. Still we split infinitives. Maybe in twenty years we'll be the next William Randolph Hearsts and you'll be camping out overnight to get the latest issue of our newspaper. We'll see.
We'll be back next term. Paid for by the CSA Senate. Endorsed by you, our faithful readers. And taking down the Man, in his many facets. Reed's Heroin is on Winamp, we have class in twenty minutes, and life is good. Take care, kids. We'll see you all in the winter.