Within the past month, drops in donation revenue has caused Colgate to reroute the already perfectly functioning, well mapped cruiser route. Why, you ask? Despite the seemingly bulletproof method of spending money to get money, hundreds dollars in ice cream, RIG dinners, and free bagels have not helped the President’s Club efforts to raise money for the university. After hours of meetings, the administration has crafted a brilliant plan to reroute the cruiser schedule to drum up more donations, pushing the topic of preventing sexual assault on campus to, yes, again, next week!

In an attempt to garner donations from soon-to-be wealthy wall street workers funneled through Colgate, every single goddamn cruiser now make its very first stop at Persson, answering the question, “what else can we do to make the lives of ECON majors on this campus easier?” Answer: make it actually impossible for ECON students to have to walk any distance to their classes ever!

It appears that Chartwell’s has their hand in the pot as well, with all cruisers stopping at Frank dining hall in an attempt to force upperclassmen to buy an overpriced, unpopular, and overwhelmingly average meal plan. Physics majors, computer programmers, and GIS whizzes bring out scrap paper on the back of the bus, using their combined skills to determine if it is physically impossible for a cruiser to stop at both Frank and Gate house in time for them to claim their favorite seats.

As science majors juggling two labs, four classes and pre-med requirements run to the opposite side of campus to make it to class on time, they will surely pass underclassman sporting bagels and coffees to-go, wondering, “Would my life be easier if I had a meal plan?” “No,” they’ll say to themselves, asthma inhalers in hand as they gallop to Olin, “my life would be easier if there was a goddamn cruiser going to Gate house.”

To anyone outside of Colgate, Monday is Monday. But for Colgate students, it’s Jug Night. Or according to John, it’s time to #slay.

A freshman girl smiled to herself in the mirror. She straightened her hair, coated on an excessive amount of mascara, smeared on a fresh layer of lip-gloss, and slid into her Supergas. “I’m ready,” she said to her roommate. Just as ready to #slay and #blackout, her roommate asked, “But aren’t you forgetting something?”

Dumbfounded at her own stupidity and incompletion, the freshman girl stated glowingly, “My fracket!” She pulled out a grey sweatshirt that was once black from her laundry basket, its special holding place. The shoulder was crusted with pizza sauce and the whole thing felt slightly damp from Fraturday’s beer intake. Each stain was a memory, each hole a tribute. She pulled the fracket into her chest and inhaled. She couldn’t wait to put it on.

After two karaoke performances, three gladiators shots, four trips to chat in the bathroom, and five too many Snapchat stories, the girls decided it was time to go home. All too naïvely, the freshman girl skipped over to the corner where she left her fracket. A tear rolled down her cheek and created a streak in her bronzed face. “It’s gone,” she whispered. Her friend pulled her in for a weepy embrace. “Who would take someone’s fracket? Take my Canada Goose, take my Barbour—but my fracket?” She shook her head in disbelief. She clenched her fists in rage. Her friend pulled out her phone and says, “Well, let’s call Campo and file a missing fracket report. Easy. We’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t worry.” And so they called Campo.

Weeks passed by slower than ever. The freshman girl couldn’t even bring herself to go out anymore. It wasn’t the same. She started a group on campus for those who were suffering like she was, for those whose frackets were stolen too. She found comfort in numbers.

Campo searched every day for three weeks. They did room checks, conducted interviews, and started investigating suspects. People hung up fliers, her friends marched down the streets in protest. The freshman girl tried to move on. But no sweatshirt smelled quite like old punch and vomit, and no sweatshirt had that special worn-in feeling.

And then Campo called. An officer stated with excitement, “Ma’am, we’re pleased to inform you that we’ve been successful in our search. We’ve retrieved your fracket along with the others, and we’re sorry you had to deal with such loss for the time being.”

She was shocked and horrified, betrayed and relieved all at once. But the mourning had abated. The tears would relent; the lost sleep would be restored. Her fracket was safe, and her wardrobe complete.

HAMILTON, NY—In the coming weeks, students will begin reviewing their instructors on the popular website RateMyProfessor.com. Because some students feel that SET forms are an inadequate way to properly vent their semester’s frustrations, the website at least provides students a chance to warn the future classes of the impending doom of Physical Chemistry with Professor Crick or Critical Geopolitics with Dr. Pope. However, it can also serve as a guiding light to the saints among the staff. Either way, there are pitfalls students run into whenever they fill out these reports.

If you really enjoyed a professor’s class and you want to share the love, by all means rate him or her well. But again, do not push too far. There is already a chili pepper on the website if you want to rate them as attractive. There is no need for elaborate comments like “his silky voice at 8:20 is the only reason I dragged myself from my warm bed where I dreamed of jumping his bone semi-nightly.” Try your best to limit your comments to that which have to do with in-class experience. No one on the website needs to know about your post-Jug experiences running into a prof on Broad Street.

While it is important to warn those students who follow you about the 65 pages of required reading per class, exaggerating too much will make it seem as though you were the person who was always unprepared and dragging down the class’ progress. Additionally, refrain from calling professors any unwarranted nicknames, even if it is in a positive light. This means no “Stinky McBaldhead” and no “Lady Dudemeister.” Most importantly, do not leave any comment that will single you out as the author. It’s possible you will have to take another class with the professor and if you mentioned that his lectures put you to sleep, he may remember the snoozer next time he sees you.

However, if you’re so pissed off beyond measure and wish to make your professor’s life hell long after you have left his or her class, you can recommend them on www. professorwatchlist.org, a site dedicated to exposing liberal bias in the classroom. Remember that professor whose views on the economy were just to the left of Karl Marx’s? How about that Education professor who wouldn’t stop prattling on? Now you can have sweet revenge by exposing their name to the sort of people who would read a website dedicated to exposing professors who “promote anti-American left-wing propaganda in the classroom.” The possibilities are endless.

In a high-risk operative mission, a Rag reporter infiltrated Beta Theta Pi Fraternity’s 80s party and successfully gathered top-secret gossip from the women’s bathroom this past Saturday night. Stealthily breaking into the restroom at 11:47 PM, our reporter camouflaged herself by curling around a trashcan and groaning every few minutes for two hours.

The night was heavy with sweat, beer, and incoherent shrieks of “Oh my god, I LOVE this song!!!” The stage was set—and an indulgent display of stranger’s love and validation was about to commence.

A freshman girl was slumped against the wall, complaining to her friends in slurred words that she was too sweaty and gross for that guy with the pink neon shorts to hook up with her. Junior Leah Davis shrieked from the back of line and went up to hug the girl saying, “Oh my God, no, that’s crazy! Look how beautiful you are! You’re literally glowing! You don’t need that asshole if he can’t see all the amazingness you are! Anyone would be lucky to hook up with you; he should be on his hands and knees pleading!” The freshman girl looked up at her, eyes brimming with tears, and said, “No way, you are too sweet!” Davis grabbed her into a giant bear hug before the next stall opened and Davis slid in with seven others of the freshmen girl clique.

Around 12:38AM, oozing confidence and poise, senior Kari Lawrence strutted into the bathroom and cut three other girls to snag a stall. Vicious whispers erupted from the other dozen girls crowding the bathroom, “Who the fuck does she think she is?” and “I’ve been here for seven hours, sacrificed my first child for my place in line, and this chick walks in like she owns the place?!” It was a clear low point of the night, and it was hard to see if the women’s bathroom could recover from such a devastating blow. The stall opened a few minutes later and Lawrence emerged in shame. “I’m so so so sooooo sorry, you guys! But I’m about to hook up with this girl I’ve had a crush on for three years though, didn’t want any emergencies!” The room burst into a chorus of “awwww’s” and the crowd enveloped her in warm, welcoming arms.

It was a night full of tenderness, deep affection, and mild alcohol poisoning, fueled by empowered women and punch. To keep up the disguise, our reporter had to feign being blackout when a group of girls confronted her. She was immediately escorted from the party and tucked into bed at home, with a warm glass of milk, aspirin, a backpack so she wouldn’t vomit and choke, and a number to call in the morning to make sure she was okay.