COLUMN: "A Dissertation on Social Life"

From Elizabeth Sernovitz's "One Mall Rat's Meat" in the Spring '92 joke issue! There are a myriad of reasons why this might be so. Some of us have spent five or six years here -- does the University still figure we want to attend keggers at Phi Kappa Psi? (Of course, we're legal and have I.D.) If we choose to amuse ourselves in Center City, we can't depend on Escort Service to bring us back. Pathetic social lives aside, perhaps there are just too many graduate students. Graduate students clog up so many library study carrells that Van Pelt needs an enema. They are the constipation of higher education. On the food chain, they are below both AEPi brothers and Undergraduate Assembly reps and the E coli bacteria in your large intestine. The University could do much more to alleviate the wide chasm between for undergraduates and graduate students in regard to support for student activities. The money GSAC receives pales in comparison to that of the undergraduate Student Activities Council. There is no Spring Fling for graduate students, no "Take Your Teaching Assistant to Lunch Week." And how much entertainment can an independent student get on a measly $10,000 stipend? GAPSA Chairperson Michael Goldstein has himself acknowledged the problem. "Personally, I think the administration -- although they are obviously trying -- could do more to help us," he said. "That is, if they aren't too busy and can spare the time." Of course, Goldstein can kiss my ass -- and so can any other Wharton pre-professional pencil-necked geek. If we are to get rid of any students, they should be the first to go, since they're all a bunch of egotistical buttheads who can't wait to get arrested on insider trading charges so they can form intimate relationships with the guys in Cell Block D. The big, hairy, sex-starved guys in Cell Block D. Yeah, you heard me right. And if any of you whiny snots have the urge to write in and complain, blow it out your tight asses. I now feel more free, more liberated, than I have ever felt before! Ah, the exhilaration . . . I am woman, hear me roar! However, in the interest of liberation, I attended a Robert Bly Sensitive Male seminar seminar last week. After beating drums and getting in touch with my manhood, I realized that perhaps maybe I've been a tad harsh in my columns from time to time. Sincere apologies to the entire student body, Sheldon Hackney -- to whom I once, in passing, regrettably suggested should lay lips on my posterior -- and Mitch Winston, for whom I have nothing but the highest respect. You know, now that I think about it, Smith Hall is actually pretty hideous -- I'm talking butt ugly here -- and I'm sure that IAST will come up with a bunch of really nifty inventions. So with regards to my previous columns: Never mind. Elizabeth Sernovitz was the product of a frightening -- yet strangely compelling -- Wistar genetic engineering experiment gone horribly awry, and quite frankly scared the hell out of us. Shortly after finishing this column, s/he became wildly schizophrenic, and then dissolved into a mass of protoplasm. It still quivers on alternate Tuesdays.