Dear Readers,

Hello! We’re so happy to see you all. It’s been a whole week but you still smell exactly the same and you look only marginally worse. We open our pages to you—you lovely readers who support the little guys so we can support the big guys. (We’re owned by GM.)

We have tried to make this issue as magnificent as possible; not just because that’s the kind of standard we aim for each week, but because we’re pretty sure the world’s ending any day now. We know that’s not a very professional prediction to make, but we’re speaking not from the head, but from the “head” here. That a volcano exploding in Iceland is a serious concern is a serious concern. We’ve had upwards of 240,000 deaths in 2010 from earthquakes. That’s really a lot of deaths. It’s hard to use science to find any real causes of anything, because for every person crying “global warming,” there’s another person crying “not global warming,” so all the facts sort of balance out that way. But all we know is that it’s probably a good idea to live it up soon, because Mama Nature’s kicking us all out any day now.

We know that it’s sometimes a bit hard to live it up here. It’s really not easy on Princeton campus to find new and exciting things to do each night when the eating clubs dominate the social world with their brutal monotony. So we’ve got some ideas for you. In order to shake things up a bit, we encourage you to get out there and give yourself back to nature a bit. Hug a tree. In fact, save a tree by donating all of your most fabulous clothes to our needy and attractive paper. We will either write on them instead of paper, or we will wear them ourselves, which means we won’t have to drive to Paris to get our new wardrobe—less gas! If you don’t have super fabulous clothes, please don’t bother donating, and also feel free to stop reading this paper whenever you feel like it; the jokes are mostly upper-class nose-job inside jokes, so we wouldn’t want you

to feel like, awkward if you don’t understand them or something.

No but lighten up, guys! Come one, come all—we really love all of you the same, and none of this is your fault, we’ve just grown apart—and join us on this thrilling endeavor as we dive into the world of magnificence in order to make our mark on this sweet earth that has treated us so well, even when we pee on her. Read us! Even better, write for us! (Meetings: Thursdays at 5:30pm in the Terrace Library.) Because all we know is that if we’re going down soon, we’d like to go down with pride. No room for mediocrity. No room for gray areas. The only panties we’d like on our heads during those final moments are Cheryl Crawford’s circa 1965, or Brooke Shields circa 2040. Nothing less than that. We’d like people to remember, years later, when everyone’s long dead, that the Nassau Weekly published some real good articles, and they published

them ’til the very end.


The Eds.

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