Lampoon and Crimson. A classic pair. A dynamic duo. Like Megabucks and the Daily Numbers game. They go together like shoes and velcro fasteners. Which is better? Lampoon. Don't believe us? Here's a list of each publication's accomplishments to allow you to decide for yourself.

Lampoon: is real rich.

Crimson: makes reporters pay bribes to have stories run on page one.

Lampoon: top administrators come to parties at the castle.

Crimson: reporters get excited when allowed to speak to Archie Epps' secretary.

Lampoon: idea of decadence; breaking plates and dancing on tables.

Crimson: idea of decadence; talking back to Ralph at Tommy's.

Lampoon: houses world's 7th largest circular humor library.

Crimson: located closer than Lampoon to Lamont.

Lampoon: attracts top comedy talent from around the country to accept prestigious Elmer Award.

Crimson: reads New York Times every day.

Lampoon: has been around for 111 years and is oldest humor magazine in country.

Crimson: has been around for 114 years and is real old and decrepit.

Lampoon: has elegant-looking bird atop building.

Crimson: does not have elegant-looking bird atop building.

Lampoon: does not have tight deadline or rigid space requirements and can publish silly things like lists.

Crimson: has tight deadline and rigid space requirements and has to publish huge advertisements for "SHIV in Concert."

Lampoon: has free access to fire extinguishers and can use them to hose down Crimson editors walking in front of Adams House.

Crimson: must collect spit in small paper cups to furnish staff with drinking water.

Lampoon: has neat old building with lots of secret compartments, funky rooms, several stereos and a vcr.

Crimson: has adequate supply of toilet paper in women's bathroom.

Lampoon: really knows how to party.

Crimson: really knows what party to vote for.

Lampoon: staffers blow off classes to inhale nitrous oxide, get high, drink beer and think humorous thoughts.

Crimson: staffers blow off classes to attend and report on Undergraduate Council subcommittee meetings, at which the length of the grass in Harvard Yard will be discussed.

Stanford Who

Have you ever been to Stanford? "Well...no," I hear you say.

I have two ears, one, two. They help me hear, one, two. I have two eyes, and they're both the same size.

But Stanford must exist, I hear you say. Really, I know some people who go there! They're all tall, and blond, and tan, and there's this one girl who...

You're wrong.

Why is this line in italics.

Ask someone where Stanford is. It's a medium-sized city in North Dakota, they'll say. No, South Dakota. But if you ask them how to spell their own middle name, the only reply will be blank stares of ignorance.

Photographs? Preferably black-and-white. The next time you see a photograph of Stanford, look at it. Sometimes photographs come out really blurry or grainy or just plain out-of-focus. It doesn't have to be a photograph of Stanford.

Your "friends" who claim to go to Stanford They don't like you, because you're ugly.

Sure, you can send mail to Stanford. But remember, Stanford is in a different time zone, so you have to amplify stuff for your pen-pal by writing clarifications like "Last night I went to dinner at a keen restaurant (that's late afternoon, your time), blah blah blah" and avoid all references to earthquakes.

Stamps cost 22 cents.

And the next time you're in California, try to find Stanford. Just don't ask anybody who speaks English. Consult a map--as long as it's printed in secret code! If you call Information and ask for Stanford's number, a computerized voice will tell you the answer.

Everybody who goes to Stanford got into Harvard too, but rejected it. Stanford gives away all-expense-paid vacations to the Canary Islands. Stanford's administrators are iguanas. Just kidding!

Oh yeah, Stanford doesn't exist. That's the point of this piece.

Who is responsible for this massive hoax? More likely than not, the print media.

I know this must come as a shock. Tee-hee-hee. Right now, unfriendly eyes are watching you. Meanwhile, Carvel ice cream is made fresh daily. Sure the prices are higher, but you know that, folks.

Turn the page and read something else. Unless your fingers are coated with Super Glue!

vanitas

As I lay resting in the posh basement office retained for the highly influential post of Ibis of the Harvard Lampoon, still cursing myself for failing to massage the buttocks of enough people to guarantee my presidency of the humor magazine, I was disturbed by the incessant noise of our galley-slave dragging his lead ball and chains ever closer to my door.

"Message for you sir, Mr. Oakley," he stated, handing me my traditional caviar and cheese nips along with the daily mail.

"That will be all, Cyrus. Now get back to The Crimson and finish pounding out those license plates, or those movie reviews, or whatever it is that you do, I always get them confused," I commanded and began sorting through the day's missives. I leafed quickly past the rejection letters from humor magazines whom I had told that I was a shoo-in for the presidency. They all tended to read the same: "Dear Mr. Oakley, you told us you were going to be president, but we hear that you were absent-minded and forgot where you placed $100,000 of Lampoon money. Thanks for your interest in our publication, but we don't care how prestigious your organization is. If you can't even massage enough buttocks to gain the presidency, we don't need you working for us. Thanks for your time. Now get lost."

I came next to a letter from some plebeian staff member at Late Night with David Letterman. Most of it was a typewritten form letter, with the usual blank spaces for personalization--like "Dear blank", "thank you for your interest blank", "thanks for your time blank", and "now get lost blank"--except for the handwritten note at the end of the letter, which read "as a result of your application Mr. Blank, we have decided to stop hiring graduates of the Harvard Lampoon until your publication can show that it is capable of producing people who are both funny and can massage Mr. Letterman's buttocks.

The last letter was a tiny envelope with stamps from countries I had never heard of. It was addressed to Wilhelm Orkley, but I assumed it was for me. The return address said it was from some place called Stanford. Having never heard of Stanford, I took the letter to the Lampoon's special Opening Letters That May Contain Bombs Room and soaked it in lamb's vomit before opening it. (For those of you not familiar with the Lampoon, I should explain that we are so rich, we have rooms for everything, and we have such wild parties, that we almost always collect lamb's vomit at them.)

Secure in the belief that this letter contained no threat to the Lampoon's time-honored tradition of having group sex in large vats of fettucini, I opened it.

It turned out to be from some fellow at the not-so-nearly-prestigious institution of higher education which claims to exist in California. The author claimed to be the editor of some humor magazine called the Stanford Chaparral. Fearing another rejection letter, I tucked it into the pocket of my silk robe and commanded one of the rickshaw drivers outside the Castle to escort me back to my palacial suite in Eliot House.

When I arrived home, I noticed that my houseboy Marquand had failed to carry out his orders for the day.

"Marquand, how many times have I told you that you must clean all the lint from the oriental rug and build a station wagon out of it before I get home?

He said nothing and scurried to get my smoking jacket before I could get the blunt instrument with which I usually struck him repeatedly on the side of the face.

I retired to the smoking lounge to select from one of the 267 brands of tobacco that I bought with the $100,000 that I squandered from the Lampoon (don't print this, boys).

In the midst of deciding between Almond Roca and smoked beaver, Marquand interrupted my inner sanctum. "Phone for you, oh financial wizard."

I returned to the drawing room to answer the telephone. "Wilhelm, it's Josh from Stanford. Did you get my missive old chum?" said a voice on the other end of the phone.

"What are you talking about kind sir," I replied. "I do not know of anyone named Josh and I don't recall receiving a letter from you. Is this one of those ridiculous pranks from those losers at the Crimson?"

"Josh" reassured me that he was not a member of the evil empire that publishes daily lies about Harvard and Cambridge, and that he was in fact my best friend in high school and now the editor of the humor magazine at Stanford University.

I reached into my pocket and found the letter which I had earlier soaked in the lamb's vomit. I opened it again and found that the author was the same "Josh."

"Why yes, I did receive a letter from you, old chum," I replied and began scanning the paper quickly. It read as follows "blah blah blah blah, blah, blah." But my eyes lit up when I came to the part that said "I heard you didn't massage enough people's buttocks to become president. Sounds like a shame. I have a great idea for staging a coup to get rid of Cohen, though. If you'd like to hear about it, give me a call."

While I had him on the phone, I asked Josh about his idea for the coup. "Well, it goes like this. I write to Cohen and ask him about producing a joint issue between the Lampoon and the Chaparral. He agrees and we do all the production out here. The issue is a horrible failure, and we at the Chaparral make off with $300,000 of Lampoon money, all because of Cohen's blunder. He will have lost three times as much as you and you'll be sure to be president."

"Sounds great," I said to Josh. "But what do we do if he doesn't agree?"

"Shoot him," said Josh.

"Sounds even better," I said and sprung into action. "At last I could make this place an all male club," I thought.

I invited John Kenneth Galbraith over to my room for a conversation that has nothing to do with this column, but it will allow me to drop his name and suggest that even in the lowly office of Ibis, I command enough respect to have world-famous ecnomists sprinting to my house in their underwear.

He did however give me a bit of advice, which I have retained to this day.

"Bill," he said, pausing several times for effect, "don't eat yellow snow."

That was enough for me.

TRicky IkE

Ike Turner: He is Bad

Ike Turner kicks wives.

Ike Turner didn't send in the $25 he pledged Jerry Lewis last Labor Day.

Ike Turner kept the money he collected for UNICEF last Halloween.

Ike Turner takes the Lord's name in vain.

Ike Turner only owns one pair of underwear.

Ike Turner was upset he couldn't marry his daughter.

Ike Turner taped "We are the World" off the radio.

Ike Turner once winked at Mother Theresa.

Ike Turner doesn't cross at the green.

Ike Turner tells people he's married to Kathleen Turner.

Ike Turner covets his neighbor's wife.

Ike Turner doesn't take no for an answer.

Ike Turner cast a write-in vote for Shaft in the 1972 presidential election.

....Ike Turner gives Larry King phony phone-calls....

Ike Turner once sent Moammar Khadaffy 200 pepperoni pizzas.

Ike Turner is pen-pals with Richard Nixon.