DOODROPPED: FM: A Magazine That Tells Lies

Named after a measure of time, Fifteen Minutes—or FM as it’s more commonly known—is the edgier and slightly retarded stepchild of the revered Crimson, a newspaper that makes the Wall Street Journal read like literotica.com. Thankfully, FM is not quite as boring; indeed, it’s a bit like a similarly named magazine called FHM, minus the boobs and stories about dudes who get blackout and make outrageous bets that usually involve one of them getting breast implants.

Instead of reality TV stars posing in bikinis and push-up bras, each week’s FM features a bizarre full-page spread of chronic masturbators and generally unattractive people acting like complete heathen lords and reenacting scenes from Gorillas in the Mist. Sometimes they are making out, which is sort of like pornography except that it tricks your genitals into thinking you have just gone swimming in Maine. Also, the photographs require no consent so they’re like that creepy—voyeur—porn that scary people buy.

Aside from weird pictures, each issue of FM is sort of like a mishmash of student life, recipes, and one article that is too long to read. When there is a momentous story to be broken, such as Final Clubs, what kind of clothes a bunch of d-bags wear, what happens when you drive around a lot, or which 15 random seniors are more “interesting” than you, the FM staff dispatches one of its star investigative reporters to get in New Yorker mode and produce a mad long “Scrutiny.” Wait, there are some people talking about a fictional women’s center that will probably never get built? Stop the presses!

For those who really like to keep their finger on the pulse of the student body, there is an “Endpaper” at the back of each issue. This is essentially a personal essay in which students describe how ostensibly lame and depressing their lives are and then try to flip the script and claim that they are perfectly content. They generally achieve this effect through flowery prose, self-delusion, and false claims that they “go into Boston a lot.” In other words, if you’re thinking of killing yourself, you should read an endpaper. If these don’t build your self-esteem and make you change your mind, we’ll help you tie the noose.

So there you have it: Fifteen Minutes. While it’s not quite good enough for regular postal mail, it might just make you want to screw your doorbox back on. At the very least, FM’s relatively handsome graphics and generous dimensions make for great wrapping paper. Now all you have to do is remove a CD from the cover of a music magazine and you can check “Mom” off the Christmas list.