How many times have you heard a friend or acquaintance congratulate herself on her ability to bullshit?
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Funny thing: currently, the best-selling book at the U-Store is called On Bullshit.

Knowing virtually nothing about linguistics or etymology, we nonetheless claim the authority, by virtue of fact that we are writing this article and you are reading it, to wax philosophical on the origin of naming.

Music for people who like doing nothing
How are you spending your summer vacation? Ever since students have entered grade school, the question has plagued them, and every time you meet that friend you haven't seen since the end of Reunions last year it comes back to haunt you ...

The Roman emperor Heliogabalus relied on a series of unusual devices to inscribe himself in the portions of popular history devoted to eccentrics, serial killers, and the sexually voracious. At times he fit into each of these categories, frequently all three. He most famously designed a hollow bronze bull in ...

A few weeks ago, I was plugging away at my JP in the Mendel Music Library when I heard the unusual sound of shouting and pounding feet. I looked out the window and saw a small, male redhead running past Prospect House naked, yelling into a bullhorn.

“Passover is passé,” my father said from the passenger seat of my mother’s car. “People don’t have Seders anymore.”
“Passover must come from the same word as passé,” my mother concurred.
In the backseat, I wasn’t sure about the word’s origins. I was having enough trouble ...

Having done my part to help re-elect my class president, I noticed that one of the ongoing projects for 2007’s USG officers was “Working on plans for a new Dillon Gym.” When I saw this, I was extremely excited. There’s nothing I’d like more than to see certain facets of Dillon ameliorated. I couldn’t care less about the basketball court, or the multi-purpose room, or the squash court, or the pool, or the dance studio, or the locker rooms. All that needs to be fixed, in my mind, is the Stephens Fitness Center.

Until a couple weeks ago, I had been greeted every morning by a pair of men’s gray boxer shorts that had been hanging for several months from the bare branches of the tree outside my third-floor dorm-room window.