FM is a no goodnik. One of the eds was recently nicknamed "erratic assassin" in Wu-Tang lingo, and she may rampage soon if she doesn't snag a summer job--from Let's Go preferably. Another threatened to kill his bubbly co-worker with his leatherman knife. Ooops. Blame it on nicotine withdrawal. Yet another was nearly arrested in the wee hours of Sunday morning after sharing his semi-digested pasta and savory chyme with an imposing 220 pound, goatee-sporting soul at a Bickford's in Braintree. And with the sidewalk. And the car.

Then there was the one who forgets what she did except for waking up alone on her bed decked in a little brown dress and run stockings. What's attracting us to this seedy underworld? Maybe it's midterms, maybe it's spring fever. Whatever it is probably convinced us it was time to run an article on the Realdoll. The tomfoolery continues in New Orleans with a recollection of Mardi Gras indiscretions and a recommendation of where to imbibe on St. Patty's Day.

But we're regulating ourselves this issue too. To calm our bad boy tendencies, we brought in the big guns of HUPD. Riding with them for a weekend as they deal with campus scum has to set us straight. Like the fine young people on whom we now model our lives, we have committed ourselves to learning the joys of racquet sports and wine and cheese fetes. With this therapy, we hope to return to the path of naive innocence. The lewd gestures and excessive cursing must be stopped before higher powers decide we are too crass for company and expel our naughty asses and surreptitious flasks into the cold, wet streets.