itch. Some say it's what we do best. There's so much to complain about. We seem to be always in the middle of some jeremiad or other, with the same old topics: the meal plan, the work load, the sexual frustration. That perverse pride we hold in our own misery gives a cynical and vitriolic cast to our daily observations and consequent commentaries, or so we think. We imagine ourselves wise and wise-cracking contestants in a game we profess to hate, but really -- deep down inside -- dearly love. We're a little enclave of H.L. Menckens, bruiting far and wide our objections and antagonisms that our beloved ivory tower might evolve for the betterment of all.

Bullshit. On this maiden voyage for the Misery Poker department, and indeed for the entire New and Improved Spike, we're going to push every limit and break every rule to give this campus sharper teeth, to put the quake back in the Quaker. You don't know how to bitch at all. I see you wince at these articles and the tough stances they take: invasion of privacy in the name of investigative journalism in the administrators' trash piece, offense to professors in the name of self-actualization in our Ethical Living department, and provincialism run rampant during Spike's travels abroad. And I won't even mention the haiku; you're just ashamed that you laughed so loud. My own writers balked at the meaner, leaner Spike. Ms. Weedman feared the wrath of Tom Francis and the powers that be when she saw the final draft, and both she and her partner-in-crime, Ms. Oliver, beat a hasty retreat from the harsher sentiments in their articles. They deny -- i.e. chicken out of -- any responsibility for the umbrage of our readers. Naturally, we love them anyway. (Incidentally, however, the origin of the most vicious edits, in particular the unsightly graffito on the face of our dear CP & P chief, remains unclear. We suspect the depraved influence of the infamous Woody Plants '97.)
The evidence for our wussiness abounds. Orwell instructs us to measure the health of a society by the condition of its language. Our institutional language limps like a dog with three legs. Listen up in your classroom some day. Count how many times someone resists saying, "No, you're wrong," or even, "I disagree." You're much more likely to hear things like, "I'm not sure I'm convinced," "I don't mean to be picky," and the most dastardly of them all, "I have issues." You don't have issues. You're pissed off. Or at the very least, you've got a problem. Ergo, they aren't relationship "issues," they're relationship problems, difficulties. "I have issues" has no moral valuation; it does not specify the source of the conflict -- whether the problem is yours or your addressee's -- no matter what the context. The phrase "to have issues" represents a frightening rise of euphemism, a classic sign of a weakening language -- a sign exhibited by every propagandistic totalitarian regime in history. It's the same theory by which the U.S. government in wartime has called murdered civilians "collateral damage."
Of course, I am not advocating the abandonment of civility. Lord knows the modern world is rude enough as it is. But let's not pull any more punches. We're all adults, and therefore the potential benefits of a candid and confident exchange of ideas should outweigh our concerns about possible personal affront. Open-mindedness and toleration, terms bandied about quite liberally on this campus, have more to do with thick skin than with wishy-washy, pollyanna chumminess. Community depends on honesty above all else. Not malice, not crusaderhood, not martyrdom, not antagonism -- all of which Swarthmore has seen in spades -- but unreserved, well-tempered judgment.
Humor, as Mencken, Mark Twain, Dorothy Parker, and others well knew, proves a marvelous mechanism for keeping people honest. Nothing dispatches absurdity faster or more cleanly than an acid tongue. Lewis Lapham, in his eulogy over the grave of satire in the November Harper's, wonders "about the uses of satire in a society that appears to have lost its appetite for objection and dissent."
He adds, however, that the satirist walks a thin line -- that Mencken was often boorish, elitist, and arrogant. At Spike, we walk the same line, and we'll try to stay on the fair side of it. But we're not going to put the kid gloves on for anyone. Trust me, you'll thank us later.
Spineless staff or not, Spike will not be swayed from the path of the truth and the battle against the ludicrous, the stupid, the unfair, and even the slightly silly. Unlike the Phoenix, we won't censor ourselves. We'll name names and call a spade a spade. (We'll also use more cliches in one article than anyone thought possible).
But seriously -- folks, if you deserve it, we'll give it to you. If it's funny, we'll print it. If it's true, we'll stand by it. And if I have to, I'll take the flak alone.
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