All this business about grade deflation begs the real question: when are we going to stop kidding ourselves and accept the fact that Princeton’s all ABOUT competition? It’s high time we stopped complaining, like girlie-men, and got on with it. After all, we competed to get in here, and once here the competition only got fiercer. We’ve vied for everything from freshman seminars, creative writing classes, Woody Woo Club membership, to senior study carrels. We even compete for the right to socially “hose” each other on the Street when we’re otherwise finished out- muscling each other on academic and athletic fields of battle. So let’s face it.— if we wanted “education” we would have gone to some wimp school like U. of Chicago with no jocks, no clubs, and A’s for anyone who simply masters the material. But we came here. And our grades do mean more— not because we’re smarter— but because we’re tougher. Also, we go to school in New Jersey. Everybody knows the Garden State is no place for picnics. You may not know that the “world’s funniest joke” — according to a website competition of 10,000 submissions — takes place in our home state. It goes something like this:
“Two guys from New Jersey are out doing some serious business when one of them falls to the ground, and doesn’t seem to be breathing. The other guy whips out a cell phone and calls 911. He gasps to the operator: ‘My friend is dead! What can I do?’ The operator, in a calm soothing voice says: ‘Just take it easy. I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.’ There is a silence, then a shot is heard. The guy’s voice comes back on the line. He says: “OK, now what?”
So that settles it. Harry Potter is in for a surprise, because this is Soprano-land and not some Gothic paradise. We play hard ball here. And we play to win. Like Rumsfeld ’54 and Frist ’74, we’ll walk off the battle field with nothing less than total victory. So when that English broom-riding stripper gets here, he’d better beware—this gig is no “Quidditch” game.
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And with that exhortation to excellence we begin another Tiger Magazine tour of dereliction. This will be the 125th year of publication of this humor rag. Unlike the last managing board of the Daily Princetonian which had the chance to embarrass itself with only that one attempt at a “joke” issue, we, the 125th managing board of Tiger Magazine will have the privilege of embarrassing ourselves with each and every issue. In the spirit of competition as championed above, we shall return to the practice of identifying many of the authors of each blasphemous and off-color contribution. But let us be clear: this has nothing to do with “journalistic integrity” or anything as noble and responsible as that. We simply want our contributors to be able to get one step ahead of their fellow applicants to various trade schools, advertising firms and Wall Street jobs. We want them to be able to include their fully attributed calumnies with their applications, on the off-chance that some similarly disturbed soul will pass favorable judgment on them. We hope that this new policy will give our staffers yet another “competitive edge” in that rough and tumble, de-inflated, hose-me-not spirit that everyone outside of New Jersey trembles to associate with Old Nassau.