by Jason Bucy

It has been a good year here at VooDoo. I am proud to inherit the leadership of a fine organization of contributors and staff, and look forward to spending a great deal of time and energy at VooDoo. I want to make VooDoo an even better magazine, with rich, profound prose, and comics which continue to elevate that medium to the status of relevant, ornate, true art.

This should be a snap. I mean, I'm finishing off the requirements for my major real soon now, and hopefully I'll never have to set foot in the Green Building again. I can spend lots of time schlepping around the VooDoo office, wishing Newbury Comics would buy an ad, or that Cherry would send us comics, or that James would damn well finish ``One Night'' already.

I'm really sick of this shit. I've been waiting a good year for the end of that damn story, but noooo, the illustrious Mr. Fleming is off texture mapping his trenchcoat at Looking Glass, instead of being back here, where he belongs, writing, laying out mechanicals, and driving to Royal East for us. And Cherry, what the fuck? So Kent gave you a teeny weeny bit of shit, wrote up a fake unfinished cartoon that you had supposedly done, and you spaz. You're a spring term senior, WHERE THE HELL ARE THE COMICS, YOU LAZY PUNTING BINT?!? For crying out loud, Jim punted 21st Century Romance, Jenny is nowhere to be found, and I was probably too strung out from that three-day binge to draw Coriander. Can't you see we need you?!?

Fuck you all!! Fuck you, Hani, you haven't written a word since Crimewatch. Dave Jordan doesn't even send us his twitchy crackhead ravings anymore, and the clip art thingies make me think of mechanized meat tenderizers and oven cleaner tests on bunnies. I don't need you bastards. I can produce this whole fucking rag myself. It's all your faults if it turns out to be an Abbie Hoffman shitting-in-my-pants- 'cause-I'm-to-stoned-to-breathe-right ripoff. Lord knows I'll have plenty of time between my swim test and my 2am Coffeehaus shift to stagger drunk into the office, urinate on some old issues, chop them into small pieces, and make montages of Chuck Vest with that sorority president Beaver Hunt chick. It'll be a real party. Hey, we can even invite Henry, see if he has some raunchy drawings of masturbating rabbit-eared bitches while we sneak acid into his Snapple.

None of you care. You just love to see me suffer. Some of you send me shit and laugh when it gets printed. The rest of you send me nothing and bitch me out when I even suggest actually being an editor and flushing some of this ass-crack nastiness down the toilet. You're all sadistic, racist, bigoted, Boomer, suck-up, poser pedophiles, and I'll have nothing to do with you. I'm burning down the darkroom, I'm boarding over the office door and releasing cockroaches and doped-up flesh eating rats inside. FUCK YOU, BRIAN BRADLEY, TRY TO GET YOUR LAUNDRY NOW. There's a new sheriff in town, and he's hell-bent for leather and fucking your girlfriends. I'm withdrawing all the magazine's funds and going to Guatemala, where I can default on my college loans in peace and help the rebels slaughter the CIA. I'm gonna single-handedly make Senior Haus a grad dorm, hike the tuition 50\%, and turn Steer Roast into a women's event during Rush. You're all going straight to hell in a handbasket, and the 'Tute's landing on top of you, and I'm shitting down the hole.

Yeah, yeah, whatever.