Standard Procedure: Things Get Graphic

I was frustrated. I knew there had to be a juicer scoop at the Rice Standard than the personal ads. I mean, this rag was low. They would publish just about anything to please their advertisers, I thought to myself as I kicked a soda can across the alleyway behind the Mudd building. It was dark with nothing but those god-awful sodium incandescents beating down from poles in the parking lot. I was thinking about what my next move would be. And suddenly it dawned on me-- personal ads are small time. If I could expose the sleazy companies that are really putting big bucks behind the Standard, I'd be a campus hero. Hell, maybe even a voting district hero. And maybe people would realize what I'd known all along.

Of course, the print ads that would be funding the next issue of the Standard would not be sitting on some broad's desk like the personal ads. This was going to take some serious social engineering beyond my scope. Luckily, that's why I have a roommate.

Louie was happy to oblige me in my quest to screw with the Standard. For two days I didn't see or hear from him. Then, on the third night, he burst into the room with his shirt in shreds and his face covered in ant bites. He was obviously very tired and somewhat drunk.

"Put these up, now!" he screamed under a hoarse voice, pushing a memory stick in my face. I snatched the item from his hands and slammed it into my laptop. Louie recoiled in the corner, crying by himself. Poor bastard would never be the same again. I shudder every time I think about what he must have done to get those ads for me.

So remember my roommate's sacrifice as you glance over today's feature...

The Rice Standard's Print Ads!

Libertarians? In MY vagina? It's more likely than you think.


Speaking of Fair Tax... Oh, wait, we weren't talking about the Fair Tax, were we?


Rogues do it from behind. Not that I would understand that joke or anything.


Campus apathy used to make me feel bad, but I just don't care anymore.


Probably a sign of the apocalypse. Or that God exists just to hate me.